“Oh, sweet lass, I know you didn’t,” Adaira said, turning a smile upon the girl. “Your brother is teasing me. You see, when we were your age, there was a great dinner in the hall one night. And Jack brought me a piece of pie, to say he was sorry for something he had done earlier that day. He looked so contrite that I foolishly believed him and took a bite, only to realize something tasted very strange about it.”

“What was it?” Frae asked, as if she could not imagine Jack doing something so awful.

“He called it a ‘pimpleberry,’ but it was actually a small skin of ink,” Adaira replied. “And it stained my teeth for a week and made me very ill.”

“Is this true, Jack?” Mirin cried, setting her teacup down with a clatter.

“’Tis truth,” he confessed, and before any of the women could say another word, he took the plate and the spoon from Adaira and ate a piece of the pie. It was delicious, but only because he and Frae had found and harvested the berries and rolled out the dough and talked about swords and books and baby cows while they made it. He swallowed the sweetness and said, “I believe this one is exceptional, thanks to Frae.”

Mirin bustled into the kitchen to cut a new slice for Adaira and find her a clean utensil, muttering about how the mainland must have robbed Jack of all manners. But Adaira didn’t seem to hear. She took the plate from his hands, as well as the spoon, and ate after him.

He watched her swallow, and when she smiled at Frae, telling his sister it was the best pie she had ever tasted, Jack felt a stab of vulnerability. It disquieted him, and he turned away with a frown and sought refuge in the kitchen. Mirin was there, viciously cutting into the pie.

“I can’t believe you did such a thing to the laird’s daughter,” she murmured, mortified. “People must think I let you run wild!”

The truth was that Adaira had never exposed him as the pimpleberry culprit, and so he had gone unpunished. Mirin had not known, because Alastair and Lorna had not known. Only he and Adaira.

“Go spend time with your company, Mum,” he said, carefully taking the knife from her. “And if you’re not completely ashamed of who I once was, enjoy a piece of pie.”

Mirin sharply exhaled, but she softened as she watched him prepare two plates for her and Frae.

He remained in the kitchen, rewashing a few of the dishes, as if he had overlooked them earlier. But he listened as Adaira and his little sister laughed; he listened as Mirin told a story. This was how isle evenings were spent—gathered by the hearth, sharing lore and tea and laughter.