“A gang? You want to start a gang?”

He looked surprised at that.

“Aye. Had ye not heard that word before, Sassenach?”

“I have,” I said, and sipped from the cup of wine, in hopes of inducing calm. “But I didn’t think you would have.”

“Well, of course I have,” he said, lifting a brow at me. “It’s a Scottish word, no?”

“It is?”

“Aye. It’s just the men ye gang oot with, Sassenach. Slàinte.” He took the cup from me, lifted it in brief salute, and drained it.

15

Which Old Witch?

MANDY AND I STOOD on either side of the table—she standing on the bench—looking down into the small yellow bowl between us with intense concentration.

“How long, Grannie?”

“Ten minutes,” I replied, and glanced at the silver filigree chiming watch that Jenny had lent me. “It’s only been two. You can sit down; it won’t happen any faster just because we’re watching.”

“Jes it will.” She made this pronouncement with a calm confidence that made me smile. Seeing that, she tossed her head and said, “Jemmy says you gots to watch hard or it gets away.” Realizing that she’d taken her eyes off the bowl, she thrust her head forward and glowered sternly into it, forbidding the yeast to slither over the side and crawl away.

“I don’t think he meant yeast, sweetheart. Probably rabbits.” Still, I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. I sniffed the air over the bowl, and Mandy did the same, with great vigor.

“I’m sure the yeast is good,” I said. “It smells … yeasty.”

“YEEeeestee,” she said, nodding agreement and snorting.

“If it wasn’t still active—still good—” I explained, “it would smell bad.”

I’d wait the full ten minutes, so I could show her the foam that active yeast makes when you mix it with warm sugar-water, but I was sure in my own mind that the yeast was all right—and felt relieved on that account. One could make raised biscuits with soda ash, but it was a good deal more complicated.

“We’ll put some of the yeast in milk,” I said, spooning a large dollop from the small crock in which I kept the starter into a clean one. “To make more for next time.”

Jamie’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Will ye lend me the wee lass for a minute, Sassenach?”

“Yes,” I replied promptly, grabbing Mandy’s hand an inch away from the full—and open—sack of flour on the table. “Grandpa needs you to help him, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” she said affably, and stuffed one of the raisin cookies we’d made earlier into her mouth before I could stop her. “Whaffoont, Gmp?”

“I need ye to sit on something for a moment.” Jamie’s long, straight nose twitched at the scent of butter and raisins, and his hand snaked out toward the tray.

“All right,” I said, resigned. “One. But eat it in here, for God’s sake; if the boys see you with that, they’ll be in here like a swarm of locusts.”