“Don’t ye dare turn him down,” Eithne said, putting her hands on her hips, her brow furrowing. “There’s no reason why ye can’t still work here and do some weaving too. I can get someone else to help me during the day … if ye’re happy to continue working in the evenings?”
Fiona nodded. She was.
“And that way,” Eithne continued, “ye can spend yer days at yer craft.”
She frowned. “But there won’t be enough work here for me, anyway. Beth said so.”
Diarmaid snorted. “Ye won’t know unless ye try.”
“He’s right, ye know?” Eithne added. “Beth could’ve been lying. Why don’t I ask around for ye?” She pulled a face. “Although weaving sacks and blankets won’t be as glamorous as weaving a tapestry, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll commission yer first blanket,” Diarmaid said gruffly. “The one I’ve got is falling to pieces, so I’ll need another before winter.”
Fiona took all of this in, stunned.
With Eithne’s blessing, there really wasn’t anything she could say.
And she liked the idea of continuing to work atThe Shepherd’s Crookin the evenings. The company of the locals warmed her heart, and she’d started to feel part of things here. She didn’t want to be shut away all day and all evening with her loom as she once had.
She realized now that such a life hadn’t always been good for her.
She needed people. Everyone did.
And so, after a brief pause, she nodded. “Very well. Thank ye, Diarmaid. That is kind indeed.”
He grunted as if he agreed and wasn’t quite sure why he made the offer. “Right then, lass,” he said. “Now get me another ale, and I’ll see ye tomorrow morning.”
A windy morning greeted Fiona as she stepped out ofThe Shepherd’s Crook. Pulling her woolen shawl about her, she pushed back a stray curl that had escaped her braid—one always did—and moved down the street. She’d just broken her fast with Ewan and Eithne at their kitchen table, enjoying a wedge or two of fresh bannock smeared with rich wildflower honey and washed down with milk.
There was a freshness in the air this morning, a warning that summer was waning and autumn was on its way. The harvest had ended now, and soon the leaves of the twisted oaks that grew around the village would start to change color.
Ardnacross was a lovely spot. Often, she’d take a walk along the rocky shore in the mornings and watch the crabbers haul in their catch as gulls circled, shrieking, overhead. With each passing day, her sense of belonging grew, soaking into her bones.
She walked with a spring in her step this morning, happier than she’d been in a long while.
Things were looking up.
The night before, she’d lain abed, too excited to sleep, imagining a life where she was able to weave, to gain customers and a reputation for herself. She realized then that it still meant a lot to her.
She wasn’t sure why Diarmaid had been so generous, but at the same time, if his late wife had left a loom behind her, it seemed a pity just to leave it unused. And she would be paying him, so he was getting something out of it.
It was market morning in Ardnacross. The street ahead was filled with local farmers hawking their wares, selling neeps and onions from the back of carts and live fowl that squawked indignantly in their cages.
Fiona smiled and waved to one or two of the local women she’d gotten to know of late, and they waved back.
She’d been so on edge in the village at first. And maybe she was right to be cautious—to let people earn her trust before giving it away so readily.
But her relationships here felt more grounded now. As if they might actually last.
“Does Eithne need ye to pick up two dozen eggs again?” Annie, a local elderly woman, called out.
“She’ll be there shortly,” Fiona called back with a grin. “I’ve got somewhere else to be this morning.”
Annie’s wrinkled face tightened with interest.
“I’ll tell ye about it later,” Fiona said, laughing.
And with that, leaving Annie in suspense, she walked on.
