* * *
The hour before a wedding, Isobel had always understood from other women’s accounts, was meant to involve a great deal of stillness and solemnity. Reflection. The quiet composing of oneself.
She spent her time sitting on her bed while Jane sewed a tear in her chemise, and Lady Branwen told her a story about her own wedding that grew more alarming toward the middle, with Lady Sarah standing in the doorway eating an apple and offering commentary on everything.
“The part with the goat,” Sarah questioned. “Was that before or after the vows?”
“During,” Lady Branwen replied without missing a beat.
“I daenae understand how durin’ is possible,” Jane said, through a mouthful of thread.
“Ye underestimate what a determined goat can accomplish,” Lady Branwen said.
“Was it a large goat?” Isobel asked.
“It was a medium goat with the energy of a large goat,” Lady Branwen said. “Which is the most dangerous variety.”
“What did the priest do?” Jane said.
“He continued,” Lady Branwen said. “He was a pragmatic man. I always respected him for it.”
Sarah had stopped eating her apple and was staring at her grandmother. “Ye have never told me this story.”
“Ye never asked,” Lady Branwen said.
“I am askin’ now,” Sarah said.
“The weddin’ is in an hour,” Lady Branwen said. “There isnae time.”
“There is time,” Sarah said.
“There isnae time,” Lady Branwen said again, and the finality in her voice closed the matter entirely, which Isobel was starting to understand was something Lady Branwen could do at will and used judiciously.
Isobel was laughing, trying not to move, because Jane was still sewing and the needle was very close to her shoulder. “Was the goat invited?” she managed.
“The goat was nae invited,” Lady Branwen said. “The goat had opinions about this and expressed them.”
“What happened to it?” Isobel said.
“It became supper,” Lady Branwen said, entirely placidly. “Which was justice, I felt.”
Sarah finished her apple and threw the core out the window with the casual accuracy of someone who had been doing it since childhood. “Alasdair’s nay worse than a goat,” she said. “Marginally.”
“You should not say such things about your brother,” Isobel giggled. “He is soon to be my husband, and I may just have to tell him everything.”
Lady Sarah snickered. “Tell him whatever ye like, Isobel. I’m nae afraid of Alasdair.”
Jane pulled the needle free and tied off the thread. “Done,” she said.
She looked at Jane’s bruised cheek, still dark from the night before, and felt the familiar pull of guilt.
“Jane,” she said.
“If ye apologize again, I’m puttin’ the needle back in,” Jane said.
“I was going to say thank you again,” Isobel said.
“Ye already said thank you,” Jane said. “Twice.”