“But I chose his name,” she said, ignoring the muddy paw prints on her skirt. “He’s called Skénnen.”

“Which means?”

“Peace.”

116

In Which New Friends Are Met

BY THE TIME WE reached the dooryard, I had so far recovered myself as to have devised a plan of action. And a good thing, too, as the door opened and Bluebell shot out, barking as though an invading army had just arrived. Not far from the truth, either, I thought, climbing down from the wagon. I paused to shake as much half-dried mud as I could from my skirts, then shooed everyone up the steps.

“Jenny, will you take everyone through to the kitchen? Fanny will be here in a mo— Oh, there you are, sweetheart! We have company, and all of it is hungry. Will you and Agnes rummage the pantry and the pie safe and see if you can find at least bread and butter for everyone? And have you put on anything for supper yet?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fanny said, casting an interested eye over the serried ranks bunching up at the front door—and lingering speculatively on Prudence and Patience—and then the new puppy, which squatted at her feet and made a puddle.

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” she cried, and forgetting everything else she squatted down herself to pet Skénnen, with Bluebell lurking behind her, nosing her elbow with discontented grunts.

“Kitchen,” I repeated to Jenny, who was already marshaling everyone. “Except you,” I said, catching Young Ian by the arm.

“I’m only goin’ up to see Uncle Jamie,” he protested, gesturing toward the stairs.

“Oh, good,” I said, and broke into a smile. “That’s what I wanted you to do. I just want to be there when he sees you. Wait just one second, though—” The quilt was covering the surgery door, and I didn’t hear voices on the other side. I lifted the quilt far enough to put my head in and saw the captain, apparently dozing on the table, and Elspeth asleep in my big chair, her head fallen backward and her long gray hair undone from its pins and reaching nearly to the floor.

Poor things, I thought, but at least they could wait a few moments.

The bedroom door was shut, and I rapped lightly. Before I could open it, though, a firm male voice from the other side called out, “I’m havin’ a pish, Frances, and I dinna want help with it! Go up to the springhouse and fetch down some milk, aye?”

Young Ian turned the knob and opened the door, revealing Jamie, who was sitting on the side of the bed in his shirt, the bed linens rumpled and shoved aside. He was in fact not using the chamber pot, but was pale and sweating, fists pushed hard into the mattress on either side, apparently having tried to rise but been unable to gain his feet.

“Lyin’ to wee lassies, is it, Uncle?” Ian said with a grin. “Ye can go to hell for that sort o’ thing, I hear.”