"What's he like. Here. On his own island."
Sigrid was quiet for a moment, in the way of someone choosing words with care.
"He's nae easy," she said finally. "But he's honest. And he daesnae ask anythin' of anyone he wouldnae dae himself." She paused. "The men follow him intae anythin'. That tells ye somethin'."
"Aye," Matilda said. "It daes."
The laces came free.
Sigrid helped her into her nightgown with the brisk warmth of someone who had decided practical help was worth more than commentary. Then moved around the room checking the candles, pinching out the ones too close to the curtains, leaving the rest burning.
"The bannocks," Sigrid said, pausing at the door. "Cook makes them at dawn. Get there before the men or ye'll get the end of the batch."
"Are the end of the batch nae fine?"
"They're fine," Sigrid said seriously. "But the first ones are better. I'm just sayin'." She looked at Matilda with the direct, uncomplicated gaze of a woman who had decided something. "Ye need anythin' in the night, me room is two doors left. Knock hard, I sleep deep."
Matilda looked at her. "Thank ye, Sigrid."
"Aye." Sigrid opened the door. Paused. "He isnae what they say, ye ken. The stories that travel." She said it plainly, no softness around it, just fact. "He's nae that."
She left before Matilda could answer and the door closed with a loudthwack.
Matilda stood in the amber room and looked at the candles burning in every corner, all the dark pushed back, all the shadows dealt with. She realized with a start that her fingerswere no longer curled into the tight, defensive fists she’d carried since Kinlochaline.
She thought about a man who had slept upright outside her tent all night without being asked, cut a hole in his own canvas without comment, and told his housekeeper to keep the candles lit before he'd seen to his own horse.
She thought about the two weeks, announced to half of Mull at the supper table. The memory of the nearby women’s stares still stung, but the weight of Ivar’s promise felt like a solid floor beneath her feet.
As she climbed into bed, she thought about the almost-smile she kept almost-seeing.
The room stayed lit, and outside the window Mull settled into its dark.
Matilda lay on her back and looked at the amber ceiling and listened to the unfamiliar sounds of an unfamiliar place, the creak of the keep, the distant sea, the wind finding the gaps in the stone.
Strange. Uncertain. Entirely unfamiliar.
She reached for the fear that usually lived in that combination and found it quieter than it should have been. It was still there, cold and dormant, but it was held at bay by a dozen small flames and a laird’s rough, deep voice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Ye're late fer the bannocks."
Matilda opened her eyes.
Sigrid was at the door.
The candles had burned low but none had gone out, for she'd replaced them in the night, quietly, without waking her. The room was amber and warm and outside the window the sky was the pale grey of very early morning.
The steady and rhythmic the sound of steel coming from outside was and impossible to ignore.
"What time is it?" Matilda said.
"First light." Sigrid nodded toward the window. "He starts at dawn. Every mornin', rain or nae." A pause. "Ye can daewhatever ye like with yer mornin'. Come, lass. Bannocks. Kitchen. Now, or the men will have them and believe me ye’ll regret it."
She left but not before seeing Matilda’s smile.
Matilda lay on her back and listened to the steel.