“They’ll have food ready for us. Ready? Don’t worry about speaking. Lorcan said you had trouble with some words. I speak enough for all of us!”
He grinned, thrilled at her understanding. Fingin crouched next to Bran and whispered, “You stay outside, Bran. I’ll be out with food for you later. Understand?”
“Of course, I understand. Why are you speaking so softly?”
“Because other humans don’t know you can understand my words.”
Bran cocked his head in confusion.
“Just stay here.”
He cocked his head to the other side, but he sat and watched as Fingin walked into the roundhouse.
The bright daylight dimmed to darkness inside. He blinked several times to adjust his vision to the low light. The ceiling seemed odd because he’d never been inside a two-story roundhouse before. No peaked thatched roof here; a flat ceiling of wooden planks formed the floor of the upper story, changing the expected shape of the great room below. In the center, though, the normal hearth burned, larger than his own. A long, wooden table creaked under the wealth of food upon it.
A gaggle of people resolved itself into two distinct groups. The younger three boys, including Lorcan, stood to the left of the table. The tall blond man must be Aideen’s husband, Faelan.
She brought Fingin forward. “This is Fingin, the young man who found our Lorcan for us the other day. Please, Fingin, be welcome in our home. May you have both bread and salt. May you never thirst and never starve.”
The eldest son, Ségán, offered a wooden tray with a small chunk of bread and a mug of milk. Fingin accepted it with a nod of thanks, and took a token bite of the bread, washing it down with a sip of the milk. The ceremony complete, Aideen introduced her family.
She stood next to the two boys. “Lorcan you know, of course, and this young lad is his brother, Lugaid. They were born but a winter apart.”
Next she moved to two blond boys, twins, one of whom had been the screaming boy earlier. “This is Niall and Muirchu. Never mind if you can’t tell them apart. Neither can they, most of the time.”
The redhead came next. “This tall man is my eldest, Ségán. And this is Faelan, my husband.”
The tall, burly man with long blond hair regarded Fingin with a hooded gaze. His warrior’s braids appeared ragged, and his paunch belied a life of fighting. Still, no man would dare wear the braids of the Fianna without earning them. He must have once been of the famous warriors. As such, a man to be wary of, no matter what shape he had.
Fingin bowed to the father, according him honor. The man grunted in response and shuffled off to sit at the head of the table.
Once he sat on his stool, the others all fell to the benches along each side of the table. Faelan took a ladle of lamb stew for himself and passed it to Ségán.
Once the family passed the bowl of stew, next came vegetables, bread, and a sweet fruit tart. Fingin stared at the pile of food before him and hoped he could eat it all. He daren’t insult his hosts, but he hadn’t had a meal so huge since he left home.
He ate slowly, trying to savor each bite. Aideen certainly had greater cooking skill than he did, as well as more herbs available from her garden. He closed his eyes when he crunched a clove of roasted garlic, the spicy tang flooding his tastebuds. The lamb melted in his mouth, and crunchy bits of roasted turnip rounded out the flavors.
Fingin took a drink from his mug, cool spring water. His stomach already bulged, but he needed to taste everything. The berry tart glistened with strawberries covered in honey, catching his attention. Even with his recent acquisition of a jar of honey, this sweet remained a luxurious treat, as he rationed it tightly.
“It smells delicious. When do I get some?”
Fingin smiled at Bran’s mental nudge. He had already palmed a big chunk of lamb and wrapped it in a small piece of cloth. Small conversations among the family flowed around him. He’d expected more curiosity about himself, but perhaps Aideen had cautioned her children not to ask him questions.
Once he’d mopped up every savory drop from his plate, he picked up the tart, examining its glistening beauty in the dim afternoon light streaming through a window. Aideen had sliced the pale red berries, arranged in an overlapping circle, covered in a glaze of golden honey, and hemmed in the confection with a sweet, crunchy wheat crust.
In an ecstasy of indulgence, Fingin bit into one side of the tart, careful not to let a drop of the honey escape. He licked his fingers and lips, chewing each sweet bite with relish.
He'd found the berries in the woods as he foraged, beating the birds to them. He knew wild berries were often more tart than sweet unless served with honey. The sweetness of this tart was a rare delight.
His head buzzed, and his skin felt itchy like he needed to rub it away. He shifted on his bench and realized everyone was watching him. He became self-conscious, bowing his head over his half-eaten tart.
Aideen laughed. “No need to feel shame, young man. Seldom has any cook received such obvious praise for her efforts. Enjoy the tart and welcome. There’s even a second one for you if you saved room for it. Ségán, pass down the tray, will you? The boy must be half-starved for sweets.”
Faelan scowled but said nothing. Ségán passed the tray, which held three remaining tarts, to his end of the table.
Should he finish the first tart before taking a second one? He wanted to take his time eating it and not bolt it down. He glanced
