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He only grins wider. “In the romantic way.”
We step in.
The morning-room glows with that gentle comfort women conjure without trying. Tea, hearth-smoke, and sweet herbs steep the air—Ma’s quiet alchemy, softening stone and timber until it feels less like a fortress and more like sanctuary.
Ma sits near the window, hands wrapped around a cup. Róisín perches half-sideways on the arm of a chair, too restless to sit proper even when she’s trying. And Ellen—
Ellen sits straight-backed, hands folded neatly in her lap, composed as a portrait and twice as untouchable. Her hair is pinned smooth, not a curl daring to misbehave. Her expression is calm in the way a sea can look calm right before it takes a man under.
And yet she’s laughing. Quietly. A small thing, but real enough to warm me.
Ma notices me at once. Her eyes lift, and something in her expression gentles.
Her gaze slides to Robert and Alex, who—with a neatness that is almost wicked—step strategically in front of me.
The change in Ma is immediate. The warmth remains, but it brightens, quick as sunrise. The corner of her mouth lifts. Her eyes spark with the sort of quiet satisfaction of a woman who’s nudged fate with her thumb. She looks from them to me, and then carefully lets her attention drift to Ellen.
Róisín’s eyes dance. She bites the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to laugh outright, and the effort of it makes her look near saintly for the space of a breath.
Ellen feels it. I can see the moment the air shifts. Her laughter quiets. Her posture firms, and she turns toward the door.
Robert inclines his head, respectful as ever. “Mrs Sinclair.”
Ma’s brow arches, mild and innocent in a way that fools no one. “Aye, Robert?” she says, sweetness laid heavy.
He steps forward, hands clasped behind his back.
“Would you mind terribly,” he says, “if I stole a moment of your time? There’s… something I’d like to show you.”
Ma’s brows draw together, but she plays her part, if only barely. “Show me?”
“Aye,” Robert says, solemn. “Only a moment.”
Róisín makes a small sound, as if she’s swallowing laughter.
Ellen turns her head, the smallest shift, and looks between the three of them.
“And what,” Ellen says carefully, “are ye playin’ at?”
Ma rises, smoothing her skirt.
Robert offers his arm. Ma takes it, and as they move toward the door, she stops right in front of me.
Close enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—years of laughter and worry both etched there, honest as truth. Her smile is small. Her eyes are growing wet by the second.
“James,” she murmurs, low enough that it’s mine alone.
My chest tightens. “Ma—”
She reaches up and smooths the front of my coat with calm hands, as if I’m fifteen again and about to make a fool of myself in kirk.
“You’ll do fine,” she says.
Then, softer—softer than she has any right to be when she’s about to set my whole heart on the table—she adds, “Ask her proper. I’ve waited long enough for a daughter to come home.”
And she’s gone.
Alex doesn’t allow the room to breathe.
