He stops. “Do you think I can’t?” He gestures down at his leg.
He would have grown up watching the older kids swaddle the Staff too. I bet he’s never danced it before, either.
And he’s right. It’ll put an itch in the knickers of every single one of them to see us taking part in their precious festivities instead of hiding in the shadows. I’m not ashamed to admit the thought of it makes me giddy.
“To hell with it,” I say, tossing the cup to the ground and picking up my skirts, pulling him behind me this time. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”
He whoops, which is enough to make some on the outskirts of the crowd turn, their jaws dropping as they see the two of us pelting towards them.
“Coming through, mind yourselves there,” I announce, slipping between people. Soon enough we’re standing behind a furious Cora and James, frozen in the act of reaching for a ribbon. “We’re in too,” I say, locking eyes with Rhona Logan, Hattie’s mother, as she glares at us from her lofty position as mistress of the dance.
“There’s no room,” she says immediately.
“I see two ribbons right there,” I say, before I can think better of it.
“I’m holding them for…” She peers over my shoulder, casting about for anyone she can rope in. “For… Ah – there they are. Aileen!” Mrs Logan bellows at her eldest daughter. “Come on through, you two! You’ll miss your place.”
Sure enough, there’s jostling behind us, and Aileen and Connor Anderson, who danced last year as newlyweds, are pushed forward. I look down at Aileen’s heavily pregnant stomach, ballooning under her apron, and then at the look of confusion on her face.
“Of course,” I say, stepping back, and gesturing for them to step forward. “After you.”
Connor makes to take a ribbon, only for Aileen to whack him in the arm.
“Connor, I cannae swaddle the Staff any more than I can see my toes,” she hisses. “You try heaving this weight about.”
“So, can we?” I ask. “If Aileen and Connor can’t.”
“There are others waiting for a turn,” Mrs Logan says. She is gripping the ribbons tightly, scanning the crowd behind us for anyone to prove her right, when Gavan speaks.
“Murren can have my spot, if he likes. And I’m sure Hattie will give hers to Alva, won’t you, Hattie? We don’t mind.”
Hattie looks as though she’s never minded anything more, but nods and holds her ribbon out without looking at me.
There is a pause. “No,” Mrs Logan snaps. Loath to lose a chance to throw her daughter at the son of the richest man in the village, she shoves the ribbons in her hand at me. “It’s fine. I suppose seeing as they’re so keen, they can have them.”
I snatch them before she can change her mind, and pass one to Ren. “Thanks,” I say, slipping past her and following my ribbon to its spot, aware the whole village is watching. Suddenly I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.
Ren follows me and we stand, back to back.
“Have we made a terrible mistake?” he asks in a low voice.
“I expect so,” I reply grimly. “Can you remember how this goes?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.” It’s been seven years since I last practised. “Just make sure you take out Hattie Logan first.”
He laughs as the music starts up, and the drum counts us in. To my surprise my body knows what to do, my muscles remember even if my mind doesn’t, and I put my left foot out, tilting at the ankle before swapping to my right.
I flash a quick smile at Ren as we begin to orbit the pole, kicking our legs in time to the drumbeats, weaving in and out past the others. Gavan gives me a radiant smile as he passes me, and James Ballantyne ignores me completely, but I don’t care, suddenly filled with the joy of the dance. I skip past Ren and hear him laugh.
Each circuit brings us closer and closer to the Staff as we swaddle it, the ribbons crossing over and shortening, so we have to take care not to knock into each other. In a flash of foresight I know what’s going to happen just before it does, but too late to do anything to stop it.
Hattie Logan moves to the side, as she should, so I can go around her, but she puts her foot out at the last second.
And I trip.
I grip the ribbon so hard in a bid to stay on my feet that my arm is almost wrenched from the socket. Ren slams into my back, and I fly forward, almost smacking into Tam Reid, one of Cora’s brothers, as he makes to cross beside me.
The music falters, but I keep dancing, determined not to give them any more reason to stare or mutter. I throw myself into it, eyes on the middle distance, teeth gritted, until the pipes finish with a flourish and the dance is over. As the village begins to clap and whistle, we all take our bows. Gavan is looking at me with pity, and Ren steps closer, maybe to keep me from flying at Hattie and murdering her.
But just then there’s a commotion from the back of the square.
“Help! I need help!” a voice cries, and the people part to let Fergus Brown from the Ballantynes’ stables stagger into the centre.
He bends double, wheezing, but trying to speak through it.
“What is it, man?” Giles steps forward.
“Someone’s let all the horses out of the stables. They’re gone.”
Ren nudges me. “Let’s get out of here,” he says in a low voice as Jim Ballantyne pushes through the crowd.
“What do you mean, gone?” Jim asks.
“I heard them carrying on from the hostler’s cottage, sounding afeard, so I went to look. But when I got there the stalls were all open, and they were gone.” Fergus stands upright and looks his employer in the eye. “The fences are all bust. Whoever took them just smashed clean through them, didn’t even bother with the gates. I followed the tracks as far as the forest.”
“Who would do this?” Jim Ballantyne spits. “Who would dare?”
“Come on,” Ren says, reaching for my hand. “Alva, if there’s trouble it’s best we’re not in sight.” He’s right, and I let him draw me away from the square as everyone crowds around Fergus.
He drags me all the way to the bridge. We stop then, drawing breath. He stands and looks at the village for a while, then turns to face me.
“Listen, Alva… I was serious the other day. I want to come with you when you go. I’ll be useful; I’ll get a job. And I’ll watch your back – I know you can take care of yourself,” he adds hurriedly, when my eyebrows shoot north in outrage, “but people will try to take advantage of a lass on her own, you know that.”
“And who will you be to me, Ren? My guardian? My brother? My husband?” I ask. He’s been planning this, trying to sweeten me up – literally, I realize, remembering the bag of pine candy.
“I wouldn’t expect—”
“I’d cut your balls off if you even thought about it,” I snap, wrenching my hand from his.
I step right up to him, in his face, lowering my voice. Ren tenses, watching me, the moonlight washing him into black and white.
“Hear me, Murren Ross. I like you well enough, but I’ll not be your wife, pretend or otherwise. If you want to leave Ormscaula, leave. But you’ll not come with me. Do you ken?”