Well, there had been somethoughts. A few. Several.
Alright, many thoughts. But I fought them off. Most of them.
“Go ahead and leave the last pot,” she instructed. “I have some infusions planned for those. Gregor requested chamomile for his wife to help her sleep and ginger for his stomach.”
“Aye,” Samuel said with all the gravitas a ten-year-old could muster.
“When will ye teach us to make the infusions?” Thomas asked, and then paused. “Or me.” Being two years older, he had more experience than his companion.
“As soon as I can trust ye with filling the bottles without oversight and nae mixing up herbs with poisonous plants, we can start discussing trusting ye with the infusion of them.”
Both boys looked chagrined once more, and Hannah felt a twinge of guilt. They were good workers. They’d been reliable to the best of their young abilities, always willing to do extra chores. But she must do this to be sure that they didn’t put themselves in danger. The risks were just too high.
Taking pity on them, she patted Thomas’s shoulder. “I’ll show ye how it’s done when it’s done this time. How’s that?”
He beamed and nodded his head, and she returned his smile.
Satisfied that they weren’t going to come to blows over the bottles, which would mean she’d possibly be committing murder, Hannah nodded her head and made her way to check the mash.
She was thinking about giving each boy a small amount of the next batch to try their own infusions on as an experiment, when the door of the distillery opened behind her. She heard heavy bootsteps approaching.
“Mistress Leon?” The voice was familiar.
She turned and looked the man up and down. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, and almost as tall as Aiden, which was not insubstantial height. “I recognize ye.”
“I should hope so, lass. Last time ye left me standing on the road looking like a fool.” He grinned at her. “Ye didnae let me introduce meself before. I’m Lucas.”
He had an easy smile, and Hannah couldn’t help but hesitantly return it. She offered a hand, and he shook it, his grip gentle for such a large man.
“How can I help ye, Lucas?” she asked politely, still confused as to why someone from Aiden’s castle would be anywhere near her village, much less her distillery.
For a moment, she wondered if Aiden had changed his mind and had sent his man to pick up the next whiskey bottle, which wasn’t even infused yet. She hadn’t even considered that he would send somebody else to do it.
Now that she considered it, the thought landed like a rock in her stomach, indigestible.
“The Laird sent me here to update ye.”
She hadn’t expected to hear those words. She had been braced to explain that she had a very specific infusion time and that the drink wasn’t ready yet. “Me?”
“Aye, ye.” Lucas ran his hand through his light brown hair. “Three healers have been sent to yer village already. They’re seeing to the sickest among ye. More angelica has come. Attempts to get them to take root havenae been successful, but we’re trying again.” He smiled again.
“Aye?” Hannah said slowly. “Why would Aid—the Laird send ye to inform me of this? I’m nay one of import.”
Lucas looked at her like she was out of her mind, raising his eyebrows. Then he reached into his sporran and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. He held it out. “The Laird told me to see to it that this was delivered to ye, lass. Personally.”
Hannah took it slowly, furrowing her brow. She broke the seal and opened it. Her father had taught her to read, mercifully, so she could keep the books of the distillery. She could hear Aiden’s voice in her head as she read the short missive.
I’ve checked my botany books and sent the healers with some other herbs that may also help with the illness.
Looking forward to the next delivery.
-Aiden.
She read that last line several times and found, against her better judgment, that she agreed with him. She was looking forward to the next delivery as well.
Was that his handwriting? It was rough and careless, a proper man’s handwriting. She briefly imagined him hunched over his desk in the middle of the night, scribbling determinedly. She imagined a lock of hair falling over his forehead, only for him to shove it back impatiently.
Her cheeks heated, and she cleared her throat, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of her apron.
