Page 14

“Classification,” I say. “Observation. Appreciation.”

She turns her head slowly. “Of?”

“The flora,” I say. “What else?”

Her gaze drops to my hands. I realise my fingers are tracing the serrated edge of a primrose leaf, gentle as if I were handling spun glass. Her brows twitch, enough to show surprise.

“Ye’re up here for the flowers,” she says. “Truly?”

“I’m always up here for the flowers,” I reply. “Ye’re an unexpected improvement to the area.”

She sniffs and tucks a loose curl behind her ear, more sharply than needed. “D’ye attempt to flatter everyone like that, or am I to feel honoured?”

“Everyone?” I shake my head. “Nae. Only those who greet the dawn before anyone else, gatherin’ Bealtaine dew like they mean to win a contest that isnae bein’ judged.”

She scoffs. “It’s tradition, and some of us take tradition seriously.”

“Of course.”

“And we’re right to.”

“Undoubtedly.”

She shoots me a sideways look. “Ye’re mockin’ me again.”

“Am I?”

“Aye, you certainly are.”

I consider that. “Perhaps a wee bit, but only because ye’re wound so tight, and I fear ye’ll crack clean in two if someone doesnae make an effort to lighten you.”

She sits back on her heels. For a long moment she just watches me—as if deciding whether to be offended, amused, or utterly apathetic.

In the end, she chooses none of the three.

“Ye’ve always been a touch different,” she says quietly. “Most of the men are boastin’ about the games they’ll win later. Ye’re hidin’ in the birches to coo over blossoms.”

“I’m no’ hidin’,” I state. “As mentioned before, I’m… strategically absent.”

“That’s what you call avoidin’ work?”

“I live on this land, Ellen. We’ve been preparin’ for Bealtaine all week. I hauled half the byre on my back already this mornin’.” She doesn’t need to know I’m exaggerating.

“Ah, that’s generous of you,” she says dryly.

“Which is why I think that affords me one tiny reprieve—” I nod at the flowers, “—which you promptly interrupted.”

She lifts her chin. “Ye’re welcome, then. Someone had to put an end to yer scandalous idleness.”

I answer her with a slow, unabashedly dashing smile as I pluck a primrose and lay it in her basket as though her rebuke hasn’t dented me in the slightest.

“What are you doing?”

“Helpin’,” I say easily. “Or tryin’ to. Ye’ll tie these over doorways, aye? Stables, byres, the main hall?”

I brush a thumb along the bloom’s stem before letting it fall into place. “And there’s no finer flower for the centrepiece than a primrose.”

Her brows lift a touch. “Aye, that’s why I came up here. They’re my favourites.”