“Laird MacKenna,” Ciaran greeted.
“That sounds far too polite for a room this high,” MacKenna replied. “Have ye a moment?”
Ciaran gestured to the chair by the wall. “Of course.”
MacKenna sat.
Ciaran remained standing for a second, then thought better of it and took the chair opposite him.
MacKenna looked around once, taking in the telescope, the piano, the books—the room in general. A man like him often missed nothing, Ciaran could tell.
“I came to thank ye properly,” MacKenna began. “Ye took us in without hesitation. I daenae forget such things.”
“There was nothing else to be done.”
“There is always something else a man can choose,” MacKenna countered. “Ye chose well.”
Ciaran lowered his head once and then lifted it again. He had no wish to spend long on gratitude. It made him uncomfortable when offered plainly.
MacKenna seemed to know that already.
“Me maids tell me they willnae have much to do here,” he said, glancing toward the window as if remarking on the weather. “Yer people run a tight ship. They say little will change.”
Ciaran looked at him. “Change?”
The older man’s mouth twitched. “Aye.”
The word hung between them with more weight than the remark warranted. Ciaran heard it clearly enough.
MacKenna had not climbed the tower to discuss mops and folded linens. He was speaking of his daughter’s world entering this castle. His servants. His habits. His daughter herself. How much would change. How much would be allowed to.
Ciaran’s voice cooled by instinct. “Is there something ye want altered?”
MacKenna held his gaze with mild interest. “Is that a problem?”
There it is.
Ciaran knew how to answer blunt suspicion, but this was worse. MacKenna was still being kind, and kindness like this required some kind of care in response.
“Of course nae,” he managed to say anyway.
“I am glad of that.” MacKenna nodded. “Ava likes a room to feel lived in. She always has.”
Ciaran said nothing.
MacKenna looked at the piano, then back at him. “How are things going with her?”
Ciaran felt his shoulders tense. The room seemed smaller than it had a moment before. He could have given the truth, but heknew better. Truth in this matter had become a dangerous thing to hand anyone, most of all his father-in-law.
“We’re managing.”
MacKenna sat for a quiet second with one hand resting on the armrest and the other over his side. His face gave little away beyond simple attentiveness. It made Ciaran feel even more uncomfortable than earlier.
“Managing,” he repeated.
“Aye.”
“And is she happy?”
