“There he is.” Fergus waved his thanks to the fisherman and, taking Roger’s elbow, steered him farther down the pier.
The “he” in question was a small, nimble-looking boat with a single sail that had just appeared from the far side of Marsh Island.
It was a fishing boat, bringing in its catch—a single fish, but a fish that caused everyone nearby to drop what they were doing and rush to see it as soon as the boat lowered its sail and drifted alongside the wharf.
It was an enormous shark—quite dead, thank God—and longer than the boat; the great gray body buckled in the middle, head and tail protruding over prow and stern, the dreadful head—for it was a hammerhead shark—goggling like some horrible figurehead. The boat rode so low in the water that the wavelets from the quay lapped over the sides from time to time. The crew—there were only two men, one black, one of mixed race—were swarmed, both by gapers and by fishmongers bent on acquiring the prize.
“Well, this will take some little while,” Fergus remarked, displeased at the hubbub. “On the other hand, it will perhaps render Monsieur Faucette communicative—if he’s not too drunk to talk by the time I am able to get him alone.” He exhaled audibly through his nose, thinking, then glanced at the sun and shook his head.
“It will be hours. You’ll have to go, if you are to have time to change your clothes before you meet the press-biters.”
“The—oh, aye,” Roger said, hiding a smile. After all, what else would you call the members of a presbytery? “Well, then …” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a folded handkerchief, concealing the gold slips inside it. “Gesundheit. Er … I mean, À vos souhaits.”
“À tes amours,” Fergus replied politely, delicately wiped his nose and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Bonne chance, mon frère.”
69
More Entertaining Than Laundry
BRIANNA PULLED THE LEVER—Da had been right; it did take a good bit of force—and watched the paper flatten on the inked type. She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out deliberately as she pushed the bar back. Marsali raised the frame and smiled at the page with its clear black letters.
“There ye are,” she said, with a nod to Brianna. “Never a smudge. Ye’re a natural.”
“Oh, I bet you say that to all the printer’s devils.” Notwithstanding, Brianna felt a faint glow of accomplishment. “This is fun.”
“Well, it is,” Marsali agreed, peeling the paper off and carrying it carefully to the cords that crisscrossed one side of the room, where fresh sheets were hung for drying. “The first hundred times or so. After that …” She was already laying a fresh sheet of paper in place. “It’s still more entertaining than laundry, I’ll say that much.”
“And you with a nearly grown son and a husband who’s an ex-pickpocket. I’ve seen some entertaining laundry, turning out men’s pockets … Jem had a dead mouse in his, just day before yesterday. He said it was dead when he picked it up,” she added darkly, pulling the bar again. “Speaking of laundry—do you know where Roger and Fergus have gone? I’ve just brushed and sponged Roger’s black suit so he can wear it this afternoon, to talk to the elders, but he needs to be back in time to change.”
Marsali shook her head.
“I heard Fergus say something about ‘milord’s guns’ to Roger Mac, but nothin’ about where he meant to find them.”
Bree’s heart gave a quick bump at the word “guns.”
“I hope Fergus doesn’t get Roger defrocked before he’s even ordained,” she said lightly, hoping it sounded as though she were joking.
“Dinna fash,” Marsali said comfortably, stretching up to hang another freshly printed sheet. “Protestant ministers dinna wear frocks to start with.” They both laughed, and the fresh sheet, caught by a breeze from the door, suddenly wavered, came loose, and doubled on itself, just as Bree pulled the lever.
“Horsefeathers!” she said.
Marsali leaned over and plucked the crumpled damp sheet out of its frame with two fingers.
“There’s one for the kindling,” she remarked, dropping it into a large basket, half full of ruined sheets. “Does it ever seem strange to ye, to be marrit to a priest?”
“Well … yes. I mean, I sort of didn’t expect that. Not that I mind,” she added hastily. “I mean, it’s not as though he was going to be a—a—”
“Thief?” Marsali suggested, and her smile widened. “I kent what Fergus was from the start—he told me—and it didna matter a bit. I’d have had him if he’d said he was a highwayman and murdered folk on the road for their coin.”
Brianna thought her mother had mentioned that Fergus had been a highwayman at one point, but it seemed more tactful not to say so. After all, he wasn’t doing that now—so far as she knew.
“Mind,” Marsali said, drawing a new sheet of paper from its quire and sliding it into the press, “I was no but fifteen at the time, and besides, he was helpin’ Da, and I didna mind him bein’ whatever he was. Ken, now I know what the two o’ them were doing in Edinburgh, I’m no sure it wouldna be safer for him to have kept on smuggling liquor, instead of carryin’ on with the printing. Though I suppose either one can get a man hanged, these days.”
The press was a solid thing, but the satisfying thump when she pulled the lever sent a vibration through metal and wood and straight down her backbone.
“We call that the devil’s tail, did ye ken that?” Marsali said, nodding at the lever. A peep from the twins’ big cradle by the hearth made both women glance at it, suspending their motions for an instant, but no further noise came, and they resumed the rhythm of their work.
Marsali smiled when Félicité ran in from the backyard, apron strings flying and full of giggles, closely pursued by a red-faced Joanie, shouting things in a mix of French and Gaelic, and Mandy, screeching happily as she brought up the rear. They disappeared through the front door into the street, and Marsali shook her head.
“Dinna ask questions ye dinna want to hear the answer to,” she said in reply to Brianna’s unspoken look. “Nobody’s bleedin’ and I dinna think the house is afire. Yet.”
“Da told me the ink pads are made of dog skin,” Brianna said, obligingly changing the subject. “Is that true?”
“It is, aye. Ken dogs dinna sweat?”
“Yes. Lucky dogs.” She was sweating freely, as was Marsali. Even though it was September, the air was thick as a sodden blanket, and her shift clung to her like glue.
“Well, so. Ye’ve got wee pores in your skin, what the sweat comes out of, and since dogs dinna sweat, they havena got those, so the skin is finer and smoother, so better for puttin’ the ink on.”
Brianna turned one of the big ink-stained buffing pads over to look, though having never seen an implement made of human skin, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell the difference. The thought made a ripple of gooseflesh break out on her forearms, though.
“It’s important?” Marsali asked, fixing the fresh page in place. “This meeting Roger’s going to? I mean—he’s been ministering to folk for some time now, on the Ridge—surely they wouldna make him stop?”