“I daenae even supply all of Thrums,” Archer’s voice chimed, and Emilie whirled to look at him.
The corner of his mouth was ticked up in a smirk, his eyes shining as he watched her stare around the space, taking it all in.
“What do ye mean this doesnae supply all of Thrums?” Emilie parroted, the shock flashing through her.
If Sister Nancy could see her right now? The old woman’s heart might very well stop.
An image flashed through her mind of the nun, seeing the way the old woman would hold on to the edge of her habit and clutch her rosary when she was nervous.
She would certainly be doing that now.
Emilie crossed herself, glancing around at the barrels before her eyes landed on her husband once more.
“I daenae understand it,” Emilie said, shaking her head to try to clear it of all the thoughts racing through her mind.
Her palms had begun to sweat, and she flexed her hands, trying to get rid of some of the jitters.
“It’s a business,” Archer explained again, walking forward as he held her gaze. “Just like any other. I distill the whisky and distribute it. It is part of the reason why me family has been so wealthy for all these years. And why we’re able to use the money to help our people. It helps us keep our taxes cheap, and cover for those who cannae pay their dues.”
Emilie just stared at her husband. None of his words made sense.
He’s using the money to help people? Using the money from the liquid sin to help the people he governs?
She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. How was something like that possible?
Archer gave her another knowing smirk and then walked toward the man who managed his distillery. He had told Emilie his name when they’d arrived, but she could not remember it, not with everything else that was currently swirling in her mind.
While they talked, Emilie walked farther in between the shelves. She reached out and touched the barrel; it felt cool and rough to the touch.
It seems innocent enough. I cannae feel sin seepin’ through the wood. I cannae feel the temptation that the nuns so often talked about. And how is it that somethin’ the nuns claimed was so evil, could be used to do good?
Emilie’s mind was racing, recalling one night at dinner when the nuns had begun giving them a lesson. Sister Nancy had talked about a crisis of faith, and how when the novices finally took their vows and began to occasionally experience the outside world for their duties at the abbey, they might begin to have one.
Sister Nancy had explained that a crisis of faith was something that made someone doubt their teachings, made them wonder if their vows had been right. And Sister Nancy had warned that it was an affront to God.
Is that what Emilie was having now? Was she having a crisis of faith?
Those words, ‘crisis of faith’, resounded in her mind, ringing through until it reached every single cell within her body. She couldn’t focus on anything else.
Archer’s meeting with his distillery manager seemed to fly by, their conversation falling away to a mindless drone behind her. And before Emilie knew it, Archer was at her side again, leading her through the distillery, out onto the streets, and finally, to the carriage.
Emilie felt like she had merely blinked and they were there, the carriage jostling to and fro as it drove them back toward Castle McGregor, back toward home.
Her eyes landed on her husband, finding him sitting with a straightened spine, his eyes watching her with obvious interest.
“Ye’re quiet,” Archer grunted the moment he realized he had her attention. “Want to tell me what ye’re thinkin’?”
Emilie gritted her teeth and shook her head. She didn’t want to talk to Archer, not right now.
“Was it all the whisky?” her husband continued, speaking truth to what was in her mind. “I cannae imagine that was easy to deal with. Probably safe to assume ye havenae been around that much alcohol in yer life.”
Emilie huffed, mad that she’d seemed so transparent. Before she turned and looked out the window, she could have sworn she caught sight of a flicker of amusement playing along the corners of Archer’s mouth.
Thankfully, he seemed to take the hint, allowing the conversation to drop. By the time they arrived back at the castle, it was midafternoon, the sun shining high and merrily above them.
“We’ll be goin’ to the drawin’ room,” Archer explained the moment that the door was pulled open.
He didn’t wait for her to respond before climbing down, marching toward the castle with self-assured strides.