After supper, he cleared the table and washed the dishes, insisting that Frae and Mirin entertain Adaira by the hearth. He listened to the women talk as he dunked the plates in the wash barrel. Frae proudly displayed her slingshot to Adaira again before pointing upward and saying, “See all those divots in the rafters overhead? Jack made those.”

He thought it was a good time to bring out the pie and set a pot of tea to boil.

“Did they teach you how to serve tea and cook at the university?” Mirin asked with amusement, watching Jack handle the kettle.

“They didn’t,” he replied, pouring a cup for Frae and Mirin. For Adaira. “But mainland fare is quite dry. So I asked the cook one night if I could use the kitchen after hours, to make my own food for the next day. He agreed, and so I began to cook for myself whenever my lessons gave me a moment to breathe. I remembered everything you taught me, Mum, even though I once disliked cooking. Cream and honey?” he seamlessly asked Adaira as he handed her a cup.

She was sitting on the divan beside Frae. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the tea, but her eyes were wide, as if she were battling shock, watching him serve tea. “Just cream,” she said. He walked to the buttery in the corner of the kitchen to get the chilled glass of cream, then brought it to her.

“Jack? Jack, the pie!” Frae whispered between her fingers.

He winked as he returned to the kitchen for one of the two pies he and Frae had baked together that afternoon. One for them, and one for the Mitchell family. At first it had felt strange to bake for people he didn’t know, until he remembered the old ways of the isle. For any event, be it joyful or sorrowful—a death, a marriage, a divorce, a sickness, a birth—the clan rallied and prepared food to express their love for those involved. Cottages became gathering places for hearty, comforting food whenever tears or laughter flowed. Jack had forgotten how much he liked that tradition.

He served Adaira the first slice and grinned when she cast a wary look his way.

“You made this?”

“Aye,” he said, standing close to her, waiting.

Adaira took her spoon and poked at the pie. “What’s in it, Jack?”

“Oh, what all did we dump in there, Frae? Blackberries, strawberries, pimpleberries—”

“Pimpleberries?” Frae gasped in alarm. “What’s a pim—”

“Honey and butter and a dash of good luck,” he finished, his gaze remaining on Adaira. “All of your favorite things, as I recall, heiress.”

Adaira stared up at him, her face composed save for her pursed lips. She was trying not to laugh, he realized. He was suddenly flustered.

“Heiress, I did not put pimpleberries in there,” Frae frantically said.