“Aye.”
“Good. We’ll get her what she needs.”
Fran sniffs. “As if your bloody size zero clothes would fit the likes of me.”
Islan grimaces. We can’t go back into town, not again. We have work to do, investigations and the like to pursue.
Bryn enters the room on Mac’s arm. “What are we looking for, girls?”
“I need to borrow some clothes, and I haven’t fit anything in Islan or Paisley’s size since I was about ten years old.”
Nan snickers. “For me, I was three years old, so I’m impressed, lass.” She empties her teacup.
“I’ve got plenty you could use,” Bryn says. “Come upstairs with me?”
Fran makes a move to get up, but I shake my head. “Not yet. We’ll get them later.” We don’t have time. I’ll have one of them drop clothes off later.
There’s an awkward silence, but Nan quickly fills it.
“Anyone finish the last Clan Chronicles yet?”
Honestly, Nan.
That didn’t help.
I feel Fran tense beside me, but she doesn’t look at them. Her eyes are focused on the platter of pastries in front of her. She selects a golden brown croissant, and eases it onto her plate.
“Well, I for sure haven’t,” she mutters under her breath. I don’t look at her but keep drinking my tea. “I mean, I haven’t read it.” I give her a sidelong glance. She's acting as if she doesn't want to tell a lie, but she's not really sure how to get out of this now.
The girls discuss the book for a bit, and Cairstina looks a little uncomfortable. She shifts on her seat and catches Leith’s gaze. He only nods at her.
“Was bloody good,” Islan mutters, stifling a yawn.
“Did you finish the paper?” I ask her.
“Paper?” Paisley snorts, but Islan elbows her hard, and Paisley shoves a pastry in her mouth and quickly chews, as if to stop herself from saying anything more. Mum looks at them curiously.
“Weren’t you working on schoolwork last night?” she asks. Islan flushes a light shade of pink. What the bloody hell is that?
“Mum,” Leith asks, his deep voice drawing the attention of everyone. “Do you know anything about Dad’s connections in Wales?”
Fran looks up, and her eyes widen. Islan goes perfectly still.
Something’s going on, and Fran owes me. I’ll get the truth out of her.
Mum places her mug on the table thoughtfully. Her eyebrows knit together, but she doesn't speak yet. This is her way, though. She always thinks before she speaks, unlike my sisters. Unlike me.
“I know that the McCarthy Clan in Ireland had a run-in with them a few years back. I know that they are brutal, that they hold a grudge, and when they make up their minds to seek revenge, decades could pass before they let it go. They let old wounds fester.”
“You say ‘they’ as if they act like a unit,” Islan says. “There are individuals within family units, you know.”
“Of course,” Mum says. “But don’t be naïve about things, Islan. Families have codes of honor and conduct, and you know what’s good for the goose…”
Islan rolls her eyes. “I think it’s unlikely an entire Clan is rotten to the core.”
Is she speaking of us?
I mull over what Mum said about the Welsh.
