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That is the longest fucking kyrie I’ve ever heard. It’s only got three syllables, dude; it’s not supposed to take a full minute to get out of your mouth.

At least she mostly understood the Latin bits; her Gaelic was still too limited to grasp much. She could tell the priest had started freestyling on the theme of darkness, at least. Dorachadus an hoo-hee, or however it was spelled. Something about wicked men, she thought. Dark wickedness and wicked darkness and come on, it’s Christmas. Gaudete, the running of the deer, the boar’s head in hand bear I.

Although when she thought about it (she had plenty of time to think about it), some of the old carols were a bit wicked-y and darkness-y themselves. Wounds bleeding day and night; Adam lay ybounden, bounden in a bond – but at least that one ended in a Deo Gratia, even if it wasn’t much of a hooray.

At least Leoch had benches to sit on while they got homilized at.

Then they knelt for the last time, and she made a little noise herself when they rose, her carefully-stuffed wool no match for Leoch’s stones and Father Bain’s drones. She could see little Hamish starting to flag; he half-slumped against his mother when they sat, though her slightest nudge had him straightening up again. Eleanor looked like she’d fully dissociated, or figured out how to sleep with her eyes open.

Margaret . . . she was tired; they all were, but if she were feigning interest in the mass she at least made a good show of it, not even a little weakness in her shoulders. There’s a great comfort in it, if you believe, Leah thought, watching her with weary fondness. Some people can find it, and the rest of us just muddle through. It was Margaret that Eleanor leaned against, so minutely that Leah only noticed the crush of one girl’s sleeve against the other’s.

And if even Margaret swayed a little, when it was all over, who could blame her? Leah took her hand from Dougal’s arm and gave him a nudge. “They’re asleep on their feet,” she murmured, when he frowned down at her. “Let them have their father’s arm.”

And if he made that face, that impatient one where he didn’t quite roll his eyes, he did at least step forward and take his daughters by the elbows, steadying them on the way up the stairs to blissful slumber.

Two hours of blissful slumber.

It was probably more, by the clock, but the clock could fuck itself when Ceana tapped at the door and brought in the pitchers of water and ale. Poor girl; she’d have had even less rest than Leah, and Leah was currently yanking a pillow over her head and making enraged badger noises as Dougal pulled back the bedcurtains and rose.

“I am not,” she finally got herself together enough to say. “I am not getting up. This is inhuman.” But her face was still buried in the pillow, so Dougal heard little more than “Nuh. ‘M nuh g’up. S’nhmn.”

“Ye’ll no’ sleep through the Yuletide breakfast, lass,” he said, entirely too awake for her liking. “Or Mrs. Fitz will drag the new Beaton up herself to tend ye.”

Leah had glanced at his book of remedies; the thought of woodlice brought anywhere near her had her up and moving.

Well, it had her upright.

Mostly upright.

“I’d sell my soul for a coffee,” she muttered. “Cuban espresso directly into my veins.”

If her words were at all intelligible, Dougal either didn’t hear or chose to ignore them, pouring them each a cup of water.

“Letitia will have tea, won’t she?” Leah asked with desperate hope.

Dougal gave her a look that said he never once considered his sister-in-law’s beverage choices, and Leah flopped back down, drawing the blanket back up over her head –

– and whining loudly when Dougal ripped it away. “Make yourself seen, mo bhean,” he ordered, grabbing an ankle and giving it a tug. “Then ye can rest again until midday.”

She kicked half-heartedly and he pulled again, sliding her down the bed with little effort. The cold air hit her backside as her nightshift rucked up to her waist, and she felt him pause, hand still wrapped around her ankle.

“If I have to be seen,” she muttered, reaching for her glasses as he gave her a speculative look, “then I’d better get dressed. In layers and layers.”

“Aye,” he agreed, running a hand up her calf.

She leveled a Look at him. “If I stay in this bed, I’m going back to sleep.”

His eyes flicked toward the table, but she was already moving, yanking her leg out of his grasp and hopping across the cold stone toward the dressing screen. At least the shock was enough to wake her fully.

Someone ought to turn them onto the idea of brunch, Leah thought, trying not to down the scalding tea in a single gulp. A very civilized practice. Much better suited to a midnight holiday.

Colum was taking his breakfast alone again; Leah could hardly blame him for it. Even Hamish was only picking at his food, when he’d usually wolf it down and then try not to wriggle until his mother turned him loose for the day (well, turn him loose to go with his tutor until he could escape out to the stables or something). Letitia took pity on him much earlier than usual, and he slumped off about ten minutes before she excused herself.

There was no work today besides that necessary for living (and feasting), no ledgers or planning (she’d been informed of that very strictly by Annie); they’d taken small baskets to the local tenants on Christmas Eve and given alms on the last Sunday of Advent; until the midday feast there was little required of them, except –

Shit; I forgot the apples!

But Dougal was drawing the little bundles from his coat pocket and setting them before the girls’ plates, real casual-like.

“Here,” he said, voice gruff as he nodded at the bundles. “Your mother always made sure ye had these at Christmas; best ye have them this year, too.”

Leah just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Well, shit – let’s not make it sentimental or anything. Let’s not make them think you care about them.

But Margaret’s face softened, her lips curving as she untied hers and saw the mix of apples and nuts. “Thank ye, Father,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing the red edge of an apple.

Eleanor hesitated, her gaze flicking between Leah and Dougal. “Ye remembered it?” she asked, more cautious than challenging.

Leah found an intense interest in the bottom of her teapcup, and missed whether Dougal had any type of look on his face.

“I did,” he said, and at least he didn’t sound offended.

Well. He remembered that I’d reminded him. And I guess that’s better than I did, anyway.

Leah watched Eleanor pick up a bundle out of the corner of her eye. “Thank ye,” she said quietly, almost grudgingly, her eyes darting back to Dougal before settling on the little present.

“Mother would have appreciated it,” Margaret added softly, and Eleanor opened hers at last, her mouth curving just the slightest bit.

“Ye’ll want this, too,” Dougal said, pulling out a clever little brass nutcracker with a flat screw that could press the nut into the solid base until it snapped. Big enough for the walnuts, too, Leah noticed; she hadn’t even thought of that. But Eleanor’s eyes brightened when her father held it out to her, and as she set about destroying the first of her treats, Leah brushed her little finger against Dougal’s and smiled.

If Leah thought Eleanor’s eyes had sparkled at the nutcracker, they were shining bright as a harvest moon as she danced with the steward’s apprentice – well, technically she was dancing with him, but with the way a country dance worked, she’d only held his hands about a quarter of the time. He’d crossed hands with Annie more often.

Now that young lady had come into her own. Leah watched her affectionately, Annie’s shy little voice darting through her memory. She’d been so curious, the first of the maids to speak to Leah at all, the first to ask her anything (she could hardly remember what Annie had asked, too nerve-wracked and lost to pay much attention), the first to offer advice. A very soft wing to be taken under.

A little less soft, now, Leah thought wryly, sipping her wine. A little more willing to just straight-up say “No, Mistress MacKenzie, ye cannae do that” (hide in the library, skip the Advent masses, wear seven layers of cloaks inside, tell Mrs. MacVinish to jump in the well). More willing to laugh without looking like she expected a scolding – although in fairness, they were almost always in Leah’s chamber or drawing room; it’s not like they had an audience. But still, more confident, more purposeful, more grown.

And now the apprentice – she ought to learn his name, at some point – was bowing to Annie directly, and Eleanor had clasped hands with one of the tacksman’s sons, and there was Margaret dancing, too. All her ducks in a row.

Those are not your ducks. They have their own . . . what are mama ducks called? Daisys? No, she was just an aunt.

Wait. Were Daisy and Donald married?

Be less weird, Leah.

She heard a crack of male laughter from her left – Dougal was there, and Colum, holding up better than she might have expected, with Ned and a half-dozen or so tacksmen and Leoch hangers-on. Colum was bearing up well; his voice strong at the midday toast and his shoulders only a little slumped, only one degree off their usual rigid straightness. He had a glass of brandy in his hand now; a bit early in the day for that, but it was a holiday.

Hell, we used to get hammered watching Hallmark Christmas movies. Drink when someone gets stranded. Drink if there’s a tree-buying scene. Drink for every interrupted kiss.

She eyed her husband thoughtfully, relaxed and laughing and a bit tipsy – loose, at least – and felt something warm spread through her chest.

That’s a fine braw man. That is my fine braw man.

Ok, maybe I’m a bit tipsy. She turned back to the ladies’ conversation and tried to put him from her mind.

She was watching the dancers, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight like jasper sparked against steel. They’d opened the dancing, hands clasped in the first reel, and he’d felt a moment of regret that she didn’t fall into him like she had the first time, on the green at Kilcoy. But he’d had to send her off to bed alone that night, himself angry at the redcoats’ interruption and half-aching for her, though he could hardly admit it then. She might move with more confidence now, but he’d dance her right beneath him this night and she’d come to him with a smile. It fueled a man’s pride, to have a wife so wanting of him.

And if she were still a bit unsteady on her feet, best that Rupert take the stomping, Dougal thought, watching his friend cross to her and nod, holding out his hand to pull her into the dancing. He turned back to Colum, listening to him managing a pair of tacksmen who’d inherited a horn-locked grudge from their grandfathers, their sons bound to take up the fight after them. At least they had the sense not to draw blood by their laird’s hearth, although Colum might draw some from them both, if they couldn’t settle themselves.

He heard her laugh, a canty wee sound cutting through the din, and found himself scowling at Rupert as if the man had wronged him. Foolishness.

Still. He’d have her next dance.

She’d never danced so much in her life than at Leoch.

The club, to no one’s shock, hadn’t been her milieu. School dances were worse; she could still feel the cold terror of a sixth-grade dance where the DJ called out for all the girls to pick a partner, and it took about two seconds to realize she’d be better off sidling into the shadows than subject herself to a miniature Sadie Hawkins humiliation conga.

She might have carried that memory a little too long.

But she’d run out of breath before she ran out of partners at Leoch, and if some were men currying favor with Dougal, and some were trying to clasp hands with a girl already on the floor, and some were just glad to dance with a wedded woman instead of a young lass everyone would expect them to court, she could hardly mind.

And when a hand pulled hers from Iain’s (that was the apprentice’s name), who’d danced a set with her after Bryce (of the missing-sheep scandal months ago) who’d taken over from Rupert (and she hadn’t stepped on him even once), and she looked up (and up) to see her husband’s eyes and his infuriating little smirk, well. She might as well run out of breath with him.

Book Three; Chapter 3.6: And Bright drops on Sunday, July 26!