“As if I care what some Sassenach thinks of me,” Hattie says, spitting the insult at him.
“Whisht, you mardy coo,” Ren says, thickening his accent to mimic Auld Iain’s thick Highland brogue.
I laugh as Hattie’s neck flushes beet red and she stalks off.
Ren picks up one of the mugs of cider Gavan left and holds it out to me.
“Here. Waste not, want not,” he says. “Happy feis samhaid.”
“Same to you. Thanks for standing up for me just then.” I take a deep breath. “Ren … I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He stops me. “Neither of us were at our finest yesterday, and if you say sorry, then I’ll feel obliged to say it back, and I really don’t want to. So let’s just agree we had a mad moment and there’s no harm done.”
But I still don’t feel absolved. “Ren, it was more than a wee mad moment. I—”
“Do I need to tell you to whisht too? I said forget it. Know when you’ve won. Or lost. Or both.”
I shake my head and drink my cider, both hands around the mug, until it’s gone.
By now the light is starting to fade, and people are drawing closer to the pyre, waiting for it to be lit, but we stay back, outside of it. Though for once I don’t feel outside. I suppose that’s the difference between standing alone, and standing with someone else.
“Do you want another drink?” he asks, holding his hand out for my cup.
“You’ve not finished yours yet.” I nod to the other tankard, still sitting on the wall.
“I don’t like cider,” he says. “I’ll get something else.”
“All right,” I reply. “You owe me anyway. I paid Mack for your apple juice.”
He smiles wickedly, canines denting his lower lip as he bites it. “So you did. Can I tempt you with a birch wine?”
“Go on, then.”
He starts towards the square, then turns back. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” I raise my brows. “Just do it,” he says.
I do as he says, cupping my hands before me and shutting my eyes.
He places something solid in them and whispers, “Count to ten,” in my ear. I feel him move away.
I start to count, feeling foolish. Once his footsteps have faded I stop, and heft whatever he’s handed me cautiously in my palms. I hear rustling – paper – and feel small, solid objects within. I open my eyes and peer into the brown bag in my hands, and it’s full of pine candy.
Oh.
TEN
By the time he returns, my face is a normal colour again, the sweets tucked into my pocket.
“Thank you,” I say. “For these.” I pat my pocket, not meeting his eye.
“I owed you, if I remember right.” He hands me a wooden cup of sweet birch wine. “My lady.”
“Thanks. Again.”
Across the square we watch as Giles Stewart lights the pyre. The dancing will begin now. Gavan stands with Cora, James and Hattie, close to the Staff, waiting to snatch up the first ribbons and take their spots. Hattie and Cora have their arms linked, though Hattie is pulling her red hair around her finger, gazing at Gavan with naked adoration. He doesn’t seem to notice; he’s laughing at whatever James is saying, who in turn keeps glancing at Cora, as if to be sure she’s noticed how funny he is.
And from the looks of things, she hasn’t; her attention is occupied by subtle glances over at Ren. Well, I never. Cora Reid, from one of our finest and oldest families, has a yen for Ormscaula’s black sheep. Her mother would have her hide if she knew. Maybe that’s part of the attraction.
“Do you mind?” Ren asks.
“Mind what?” I watch Cora scowl as Ren leans closer to me.
“Not being part of that crowd any more?”
“I was never part of that crowd,” I scoff.
It’s not true, though, not quite. We were friends, once. I was always closest to Gavan, but I’d had tea at Cora and Hattie’s a couple of times, me the awkward third point of their triangle. In a place the size of Ormscaula you don’t have much choice; it’s pals or pariahs. And then there’s the uncomfortable truth that you’ll probably end up marrying one of your classmates. We have to keep records of every marriage, to make sure we’re not too interbred. That’s why Duncan caused so much excitement; he wasn’t related to any of us.
“You were,” Ren says. “So… Do you?”
“Yes. And no,” I say. The musicians are starting to tune up; I hear the warm hum of the fiddle, the boom of the drum. Ruairidh Cross will be somewhere with his pipes. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you mind when they call you ‘Sassenach’?”
“Yes. And no.” He repeats my words back at me. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Only half. Your father’s from here.”
“Is he? You’ll have to introduce me sometime,” Ren says. “Because as far as I know my mam and me are the only Rosses in Ormscaula. Unless you see someone out there that’s the spit of me.”
We both look out across the square at the villagers, gathered around the fire, which has finally taken hold of the pyre and is burning merrily. Ren’s mam came here just before he was born, claiming his da was a villager, but he’s right – there are no Rosses here, never have been. Only Liz Ross knows the truth of Ren’s father, and she swears blind he’s a Ross from Ormscaula and that’s why she came.
“I think,” he continues, his voice soft, “the truth of it is that my mam met some man who said he was called Ross and from some place called Ormscaula. And after he was done with her, he vanished. Then she found out about me, and came here looking for him. Though I can’t account for why she stayed, because it’s certainly not the friendly neighbours.” He smiles ruefully. “It would be the last place I’d run to.” He gives me a pointed look. “It’s more somewhere you’d run from.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the cup in my hand.
He throws back his drink, leaving the cup on the wall. “Come on.”
“What?”
Ren grabs my hand. “We’re going to swaddle the Staff. We two outsiders.”
“Oh no we’re not,” I hiss, but he’s already pulling me towards the square. “Murren, I don’t want to dance!”
“Of course you do.” He turns and grins. “Just imagine the looks on their faces when they have to make room for us. Don’t tell me this hasn’t been your dream since childhood.”
I’m spilling wine everywhere, dragging my feet as he pulls me towards where everyone is pairing off. But he’s right; a teeny, tiny part of me does want to dance. Growing up I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn to take my place among the older boys and girls of Ormscaula, ribbon in my hand and music in my heart. I’ve never done it before. I won’t ever get to again.
“They won’t let us,” I protest.
“Like they can stop us.”
In the fading light he looks wild, his blue eyes alight with glee. Like he’s from another world, some sprite or puck sent to tempt me into behaving stupidly.
“Ren…”