By the time I reach the bridge, I’ve almost walked off my temper. I pause at the peak and look down into the river. It’s flowing as fast as ever; little wonder no one’s noticed anything is wrong with the loch. I watch a pair of moorhens flirting and smile at them. Then my smile falls, as I remember the feis samhaid is tonight. The whole village will be out and about.
Instead of taking the main path and risk running into just about everyone, I duck behind a row of cottages and follow the outskirts around, listening to the bustling crowds homing in on the centre of Ormscaula. Already I can smell roasting meat and onions, and it makes me hungry; fool that I am, I didn’t grab anything from my cottage before I came down. My stomach rumbles aggressively, emphasizing that I’m an idiot.
Deciding to take a chance, I make a turn and head towards the bakery, hoping to buy a roll to tide me over. But of course, it’s closed, a sign hung from the silver horseshoe above the door, saying the Campbells will be serving food at the feis. I sigh in annoyance.
“Alva?”
I whirl round to see Gavan Stewart standing there, a bunch of keys in his hand.
“You came,” he says, smiling.
“Oh,” I say, confused. “No, I just wanted a roll.”
Gavan holds up a set of keys. “You’re in luck.”
His grin widens as he steps past me and slips a key into the lock, opening the door.
“The Stewart Pastry Kitchen and Cook Shop is open for business,” he says. “Come on in.”
NINE
I follow him inside, and he disappears into the back of the store, behind the curtain. I walk over to the counter and hoist myself up, sitting on it and kicking my legs.
“Here.”
I turn and catch the small cloth bundle Gavan tosses at me. It fills my hands with warmth, and I unwrap it to find a fresh crusty roll, topped with cheese. I used to love these when I was little. I tear a bit off, dropping it into my skirts when a string of still-molten cheese burns my fingers.
“It’s hot,” Gavan says, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Thanks for the warning.” I blow my sore fingers and retrieve the fallen piece, eating it carefully.
Gavan disappears again, returning with a huge basket, the contents covered with a cloth, before he goes back and gets a second. He leaves them both near the door, then reaches in for a roll, juggling it in his hands as he comes to sit beside me.
“Why do you have the bakery keys?” I ask, chewing.
“Mhairi Campbell needed someone to come and take the rolls out of the oven and Wee Campbell has vanished. I volunteered.”
Of course he did.
“Well, I’m glad,” I say, before popping a fluffy chunk of bread in my mouth.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Gavan says sincerely.
I have no idea what to do with that, so I shove the last of the bread in my mouth. I need to find Ren and get back. I’m about to hop down, thank Gavan and be on my merry way when he turns to me, his expression sly.
“You see, I can’t take both baskets at the same time. I was hoping you’d help, now I’ve sated your hunger with a nice cheese roll.”
The sneaky little… I fell right into his trap.
“Come on.” He widens his brown eyes at me. “There’s more food in it for you. Mhairi Campbell is going to pay me in roast pork. I’ll get some for you. You can’t say no to that, fresh off the fire.”
It’s like trying to say no to a baby cow. He just keeps looking at me, all soft faced and hopeful, long eyelashes batting.
Say no. Alva Douglas, say no. Say no.
“Fine.” I jump down and march to the door.
We each take a basket. Gavan locks the bakery diligently behind us, and then leads the way, winding down towards the square. I’m already sweating, my stomach cramping with nerves. It’ll be seven years since I’ve seen some of these people. I can’t imagine I’ll be a welcome sight.
“You all right?” Gavan calls back over his shoulder.
I swallow instead of answering.
It feels like every face in the square turns to us as we enter. In the middle is the huge pyre I saw them building the other day, not yet lit; they’ll wait for sundown to do that. To the left is the Staff, loose ribbons fluttering in the breeze, waiting for the dancers to come and take a strand and swaddle the Staff to sleeping. Lining the outskirts are stalls selling spiced cider, whisky, ale and birch wine, juice for the kiddies. I scan each one for Ren, knowing it’s not likely he’ll be there, but hoping that, like me, he’ll have braved it today. The sooner I see him and apologize, the sooner I can go back to the cottage. There’s no sign of him, though. No hint of blond among the browns, blacks and reds. No devilish laugh causing old crones to cross their chests.
At the far end of the square, Iain-the-Smith – not to be confused with awful Auld Iain – has been co-opted by the butcher into turning a huge pig on a spit, while the butcher himself is carving another into thick slices and tossing them into a tray. Mhairi Campbell, the baker’s wife, is beside him, at the end of their production line, cramming meat into a dwindling supply of rolls.
“Looks like we’re just in time,” Gavan calls cheerfully.
I stay close behind Gavan, keeping my head down as I follow in his wake, trying to stay out of sight, both for his sake and mine. I stay so close that when he stops I walk into his back.
He turns, amused, and takes the basket from me, handing it to Mhairi.
“Thanks, lad, you’re a lifesaver,” she says, wiping her forehead with an apron. “Here you go.”
She stuffs a roll and hands it to him. Then her gaze falls on me. She stills, fork held aloft.
“Alva helped,” Gavan says, seemingly oblivious to the tension that’s suddenly rolling off Mhairi in waves. “I promised her a roll too.” He gives her the kind of wide, bright smile that would charm the birds from the trees.
But Mhairi just stares at me. I lift my chin. I won’t cower. I can feel the gazes of everyone nearby on us, waiting to see what she’ll do.
Without breaking her stare, she stuffs a second roll and holds it out to me.
“Thanks, Mhairi, that’s kind of you,” I say.
“That’s Mrs Campbell to you,” she snaps, and turns away, aggressively filling more rolls, pretending I’m no longer there.
“Come on,” Gavan says, tilting his head, beckoning me to follow.
It seems that Mhairi’s decision to turn her back and ignore me has decided everyone else, because now it’s as if I’m not there. As we cross the square, skirting around the pyre, people call out to Gavan, greeting him, slapping him on the back and chatting with him, but their gazes slide from me like butter off a hot knife.
Being ignored is somehow worse than their dagger eyes, and I chew my roll with vigour, taking my frustrations out on it, throwing myself on to the wall outside the tiny village gaol, kicking my legs against it angrily.
“Don’t mind them,” Gavan says. “They don’t mean any harm.”
He’s lucky my mouth is full of food.
“They just don’t know you,” he continues. “Come on, Alva, you know what it’s like here, everyone in everyone’s business.” He looks at me, those big eyes miserable, and I soften. This isn’t his fault.