“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—”