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I crack one eye open. “I’m appealing to higher powers.”

“And you’ll summon half the glen if you keep at it,” she says. “Do you want a larger audience?”

I clamp my mouth shut, jaw tight.

She hums, satisfied. “That’s better.”

I exhale through my nose, quieter now, and mutter, “This day is determined to humble me.”

Her smile sharpens.

The cold creeps higher, and I cross my arms tighter, which does little for warmth. “I’m shamefully asking you to assist me in brandishing something to wear... unless you’re prepared for me to mad dash out of this water. The cold is making aggressive decisions on my behalf, and I’ve had all I can take.”

That gives her pause. The laughter fades, replaced by something gentler, more attentive. She wipes her eyes and looks down at herself, then gestures broadly. I know deep in my bones that she’s about to turn pert.

“And how, pray tell, do you imagine I’ll do that?” she asks. “D’ye think I keep spare trousers tucked away under here for emergencies?”

“I was hoping, little Rosie, that you’d be able to think quickly in such a situation.”

She snorts. “Ye’re lucky I like you enough not to leave you to the cold and the crows.”

Then, dry as anything, she adds, “I should make you earn them. Properly.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I say. “Not my sweet little menace.”

She scans the bank now, laughter replaced by purpose. She steps carefully along the edge, skirts gathered, eyes sharp. I watch her without meaning to. I always do. There’s a steadiness to her movements, a confidence that reassures me even now, when I’m wrapped in nothing but cold air and regret.

She bends and tugs free a length of oilcloth caught among the stones. Muddy. Weathered. But intact.

“Please,” I say, teeth beginning to chatter despite my best efforts to remain composed, “make haste. I’m freezing in ways I did not previously know were possible.”

She hesitates, oilcloth in hand, and turns back with a wicked glint in her eye. “What?” she says. “I don’t get a wee show for my effort?”

I let out a groan. “Do you think Alex Junior is in any kind of condition to be shown off right now? I’ll be lucky if I can father offspring at this point. The cold has seen to that.”

She guffaws outright. “Ye’re so dramatic,” she says, tossing the cloth my way. “Wrap yourself in that in my absence. I’ll fetch clothes from the old quarter cabin.”

“I thought it was mostly empty.”

“Empty of people,” she corrects. “They stocked it for the mill-hands back when the quarters were down here, before everyone moved closer to the castle.”

“Sounds like you’re about to come back with nothing… and somehow it’ll be my fault.”

“Men are incapable of clearin’ out something as simple as a cupboard,” she says lightly. “And since Maeve and I were not the ones tasked with emptyin’ it, trust me. There will be something left behind.”

I glance toward the cabin, then back at the water, then at her. “Awfully cocksure, don’t you think?”

She shrugs, already turning. “Just attentive… as you should have been when you were choosin’ a branch.”

I roll my eyes, and she pauses long enough to add. “Now don’t move.”

“Where would I go?”

She chortles. “Nowhere. I wanted to rub it in. But, I’ll admit, you are surprisingly inventive, Yankee Doodle. I’m sure you could surprise me.”

I manage to tie the oilcloth around my waist, though not with any grace worth mentioning. “You’re very kind,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “But know… this will cost ya.”