Kate nodded. “All right.”
“Can ye cook, please, Kate?”
She seemed to straighten her back a little as he said that. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank ye.”
“What should I cook?”
Ian scratched his head. He’d never had to entertain guests, and he didn’t remember what was usually served at wakes. “Please ask Manning, and once ye’ve decided, tell me what I should buy in the village or hunt for.”
“Okay. And how many people?”
“I dinna ken how many will come. I think about fifty.”
Her eyes widened. “Fifty? But it’s just the three of us: Manning, Cadha, and me…”
“Aye.” Ian massaged his forehead. “Ye’re right, I’m putting too much on ye.”
“No,” she said and straightened her back even more. “No. Don’t worry. We’ll manage. I’ll think of something.”
He felt her eyes on him, but he didn’t look back at her.
“Don’t worry,” she repeated. “Just concentrate on your dad’s funeral. I—we’ll take care of the food. You won’t even notice a hiccup, I promise. I won’t let you down.”
He glanced at her sharply. The soft golden light of the candles Cadha had set on the table for him played on her pretty face. The mixture of resolve and uneasiness in her features choked him, scraped at old wounds. She would clearly be making a big effort, mayhap bigger than she could manage after what she’d been through.
And he didn’t deserve her.
“Nae,” he said. “Dinna do more than ye can, Katie.”
Her features smoothed in surprise. “I can. I can.” She stood up. “Everything will be ready. Everything will be great. You have enough stuff going on, Ian.”
She didn’t let him contradict her but walked out of the hall, leaving him alone in the deafening, dark loneliness of the empty walls.
He’d been wrong. This wasn’t home. This didn’t feel like home. Not without Father.
Torn between the memories of the monstrous deeds he’d done and the emptiness of what he’d thought would bring him relief, he needed to forget. To numb the desperation that tore at the ragged wound that used to be his heart.
And he knew only one way to do that.
He went into the storage room and filled his waterskin with uisge from the barrel.
That night, the numbness took him even before he went into the bedchamber that used to belong to his father and was now his. It still smelled like his father—steel and leather, the tang of wool grease, and alcohol. Before Ian fell into oblivion, he dreamed of his father scolding him.
Chapter 11
Two days later…
“What are ye doing?” Manning yelled.
Kate studied the dead chicken hanging upside down in her hand.
“What am I doing?” she said. “Trying to pluck it.”
Manning scoffed and threw the dough he’d been kneading onto the table.
“Tryin’? Have ye never done this before?”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “I have no clue.”
Although this was technically true, she had a feeling she hadn’t. Her hands didn’t know what to do with the chicken, unlike when she’d made the pie for Ian.
Manning’s face grew red, his mustache moving. “How can ye nae ken? If ye’re a cook, ye must have plucked chickens.”
“I—” Kate opened and closed her mouth. The thought of removing the bird’s feathers made nausea rise in her gut. And Manning’s growling made her hands shake.
“Ye’re useless!” he yelled. “I need twelve chickens plucked and then roasted. The wake is tomorrow. Do ye think ye could do anything useful? Or are ye going to stand around opening yer mouth like a fish?”
Kate glared at him. She hated that he was right. And his words hit too close to home, in a spot that radiated a familiar pain.
“There, there ye auld fool,” Cadha said as she wobbled into the kitchen. “I could hear ye yelling from the cowshed. What is the matter?”
“The matter is, the lord has hired a worthless impostor. What kinda cook doesna ken how to pluck chickens?”
Cadha propped her hands on her hips and marched up to him. She flicked him on the forehead. “The lass doesna remember who she is, ye bullhead. How would she remember how to pluck a chicken?”
Manning’s eyes bulged, and his face reddened even more. Kate suppressed a smile. Cadha had her back, and that made something melt in Kate like butter on a hot croissant.
“Here.” Cadha took the chicken from Kate’s hands and walked to the cauldron of boiling water. “This will loosen the feathers. But dinna hold it there for too long or ye damage the skin and the meat. Aye? About the time that takes ye to drink a mug of ale.”
“No idea how long that is. Thirty seconds?”
Cadha threw a confused glance at her. “Whatever a second is, lass. Dinna fash yerself. Ye’ll ken how long. ’Tis called scalding.”
She put the bird in the boiling water and held it. After a short time, what felt like half a minute to Kate, Cadha removed the steaming bird and put it in a big bowl.
Manning was back to kneading the dough. “Ye’re wasting yer time, Cadha.”
“Ah, dinna growl, Manning,” she said.
“Do ye even ken, how to roast a chicken, lass?” Manning asked. “Or make a normal pie? Nae yer strange one with too much butter.”
Kate’s shoulders sank, her arms as weak as noodles. He was right. She didn’t know if she could roast a chicken. And just because Ian liked her pie, it didn’t mean that others would. What if her pie was completely strange for them?
“I—”
“I dinna have time to busy myself with teachin’ ye. We have fifty guests comin’. Cadha shouldna take trouble, either. She has the whole house to clean and her back is painin’ her.”
He glared at Kate and stabbed a finger at her. “Ye’re a liability. Ye’re a burden.”
Cadha gasped and burst into an angry tirade, but Kate didn’t listen anymore.
The word “burden” echoed in her mind in another voice that said the same thing.
A female voice.
Her mother’s voice.
An image flashed in Kate’s mind, unraveling into a movie.
She was older now, and she didn’t feel good. Her throat felt as though it
