“Well, and why wouldn’t they be, clot-heid?” she said. “Mam thought ye’d maybe met a boar in the wood, or been taken by gypsies. She scarcely slept until they found out where ye’d gone,” she added, frowning at her brother.
Ian pressed his lips tight together, looking down at the ground, but didn’t answer.
She moved closer, and picked disapprovingly at the damp yellow leaves adhering to the sleeves of his coat. Tall as she was, he topped her by a good six inches, gangly and rawboned next to her trim competence, the resemblance between them limited to the rich darkness of their hair and a fugitive similarity of expression.
“You’re a sight, Ian. Have ye been sleepin’ in your clothes?”
“Well, of course I have,” he said impatiently. “What d’ye think, I ran away wi’ a nightshirt and changed into it every night on the moor?”
She gave a brief snort of laughter at this picture, and his expression of annoyance faded a bit.
“Oh, come on, then, gowk,” she said, taking pity on him. “Come into the scullery wi’ me, and we’ll get ye brushed and combed before Mam and Da see ye.”
He glared at her, then turned to look up at me, with an expression of mingled bewilderment and annoyance. “Why in the name o’ heaven,” he demanded, his voice cracking with strain, “does everyone think bein’
Jamie grinned at him, and dismounting, clapped him on the shoulder, raising a small cloud of dust.
“It canna hurt anything, Ian. Go along wi’ ye; I think perhaps it’s as well if your parents havena got so many things to deal with all at once—and they’ll be wanting to see your auntie first of all.”
“Mmphm.” With a morose nod of assent, Young Ian moved reluctantly off toward the back of the house, towed by his determined sister.
“What have ye been eating?” I heard her say, squinting up at him as they went. “You’ve a great smudge of filth all round your mouth.”
“It isna filth, it’s whiskers!” he hissed furiously under his breath, with a quick backward glance to see whether Jamie and I had heard this exchange. His sister stopped dead, peering up at him.
“Whiskers?” she said loudly and incredulously.
“Come on!” Grabbing her by the elbow, he hustled her off through the kailyard gate, his shoulders hunched in self-consciousness.
Jamie lowered his head against my thigh, face buried in my skirts. To the casual observer, he might have been occupied in loosening the saddlebags, but the casual observer couldn’t have seen his shoulders shaking or felt the vibration of his soundless laughter.
“It’s all right, they’re gone,” I said, a moment later, gasping for breath myself from the strain of silent mirth.
Jamie raised his face, red and breathless, from my skirts, and used a fold of the cloth to dab his eyes.
“Whiskers?
“Do you want to go and shave yourself before we meet Jenny and Ian?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“No,” he said, smoothing back the hair that had escaped from its lacing. “Young Ian’s right; bein’ clean won’t help.”
They must have heard the dogs outside; both Ian and Jenny were in the sitting room when we came in, she on the sofa knitting woolen stockings, while he stood before the fire in plain brown coat and breeks, warming the backs of his legs. A tray of small cakes with a bottle of home-brewed ale was set out, plainly in readiness for our arrival.
It was a very cozy, welcoming scene, and I felt the tiredness of the journey drop away as we entered the room. Ian turned at once as we came in, self-conscious but smiling, but it was Jenny that I looked for.
She was looking for me, too. She sat still on the couch, her eyes wide, turned to the door. My first impression was that she was quite different, the second, that she had not changed at all. The black curls were still there, thick and lively, but blanched and streaked with a deep, rich silver. The bones, too, were the same—the broad, high cheekbones, strong jaw, and long nose that she shared with Jamie. It was the flickering firelight and the shadows of the gathering afternoon that gave the strange impression of change, one moment deepening the lines beside her eyes and mouth ’til she looked like a crone; the next erasing them with the ruddy glow of girlhood, like a 3-D picture in a box of Cracker Jack.
On our first meeting in the brothel, Ian had acted as if I were a ghost. Jenny did much the same now, blinking slightly, her mouth slightly open, but not otherwise changing expression as I crossed the room toward her.
