“Och, f’r nontwell armble!”
Grisel stopped humming as they all turned to the eldest of their group. It was impossible to determine how old Seonag truly was, because her skin had weathered into the kind of durable leather Evangeline suspected carriage-makers used for benches in coaches. Her voice was gravelly, and she was rarely seen without the stump of that horrid pipe clamped between her teeth, whether it was puffing foul-smelling smoke or not.
This would impede understanding of her words, if anyone could understand whatever in the world it was she actually said in the first place.
Willa, bless her, patted Seonag’s arm and— as if she alone knew exactly what the old woman had spoken—whispered encouragingly, “That’s a verra interesting viewpoint, Grandmother.”
“For the love of geese, woman! Why can ye no’ learn to speak the Queen’s English?” snapped Broca.
Seonag just bobbed her head. “ ’Twin by righ agan soonuff.”
“’Tis no’ even Gaelic,” snarled their worst-natured Godmother, “much less English.”
Broca was never satisfied with anything.
“Grandmother’s speaking her own dear little language,” bubbled Grisel happily. “Let her be, dearie.”
Seonag rarely reacted to anything said around her, but now she popped her cold pipe between her teeth, leaned far to one side, and picked up a carpetbag. It made a satisfying plunk when it hit the table. “Bidness.”
Well, at least her meaning was obvious this time.
Clearing her throat, Evangeline straightened. “Yes, well, sisters, Seonag is correct.” She inclined her head regally to the older woman, whom she thought might be grinning, but couldn’t be certain under all those wrinkles. “We do have business. The time has come—”
“For the Oliphant girls?” Grisel interrupted with a happy squeal.
“They’re all Oliphant girls,” grumbled Broca.
It was difficult to deny most of the recipients of their Godmothering had thus far been Oliphants, or at least members of the Oliphants surrounding clans, but these girls…
“The Oliphant Inn has been a landmark for generations,” Evangeline began, “but it has recently fallen into the wrong hands.”
“The widow of the owner—”
“Who remarried the best engraver in the clan and has since been widowed again.” Glaring at Broca for daring to interrupt her, Evangeline struggled to find the thread of the story again. “We know she has two daughters of her own, the daughters of the inn’s original owner, but months ago, we decided it is the stepdaughter we should start with.”
“The drudge,” whispered Willa.
“Exactly.” Smiling encouragingly, Evangeline inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Sisters, tonight is the night.”
“Is the cowboy ready?”
Only Broca could make something as exotic and exciting as an American cowboy sound like a slug.
Evangeline raised a brow in Grisel’s direction, as the American had been her responsibility. “Sister?”
“Och, aye. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. The Princes have been wining and dining him for weeks, making him as high-falutin’ as they are,” she said, though without malice of course. “Tonight’s ball will be his official welcome to the clan and to the engraving business.”
Months ago, their sister chapter in Wyoming had written with notification that a young man would be traveling to the Highlands under orders from Andrew Prince, the owner of Prince Armory and manager of the Oliphant engraving industry, which engraved his custom firearms. Tired of overseeing such an empire, he had appointed young Maxwell DeVille in his stead, and the gentleman had arrived in Oliphant territory several weeks ago.
After tonight’s ball, he would officially begin his tenure as manager of Oliphant Engraving and would be a permanent resident of the Highlands.
And, if things went right, he’d soon have an extra reason to stay.
“Broca, is everything arranged for our client?”
“Aye,” the woman confirmed with a scowl, “but I dinnae see why ye must call her a client, all high-and-mighty like that, just because ye went to London for school.”
“I call her a client, because that is what she—” Evangeline stopped her sudden spill of irritated words, then forced herself to straighten in her chair and take a deep breath. “Sisters, we determined Ember Oliphant would meet Maxwell DeVille tonight at the ball. They will fall in love. Is everything prepared?”
Rolling her eyes, Broca propped her elbows on the table. “Ember’s borrowing a dress from that fancy stepsister of hers, Vanessa. The girl’s no’ all that bad, although the dress is hideous. Stepmother doesnae ken she’s going, of course, or the wicked ol’ bat would prevent it, but her sisters are planning to sneak her into the castle.”
“Good, good. Of course, we all know Baroness Oliphant—her cruel stepmother—will do her best to foil the plan.” Evangeline pictured a mental checklist, knowing how these stories tended to go. “She’ll either destroy the dress, or lock Ember in her room, correct?”
“Or both!” Grisel declared cheerfully. “Although I suspect, in this case, she’ll no’ destroy the gown, since ‘tis her daughter’s.”
“Hmm, good point.” Evangeline crossed that option off her list. “But we’re all agreed Baroness Oliphant will manage to discover and overturn the girls’ plans to attend the ball?”
“Och, aye,” growled Broca. “Narrative causality.”
Grisel and Willa nodded. “Narrative causality,” they intoned.
They’ve been reading The Book. Excellent!
“Have we prepared the mask?”
“Whez! Ye canna h’ a bi’ o’ fripping do allnat, can ye?”
Evangeline opened her mouth, but then she considered Seonag’s incomprehensible words and closed it again.
Willa patted the old woman’s arm. “’Tis a masquerade, Grandmother,” she whispered. “The masks are a verra important part of the night.”
“Indeed.” Evangeline did her best to regain control of the conversation. “And the one we’ve picked out for Ember will be certain to grab the American’s attention, no matter how many other beautiful women are there. I assume the gown is prepared as well?”
“Och, aye, and a fancier bit of fluff I’ve never seen.”
Evangeline grinned at the rare praise from Broca. “Indeed. I’m quite proud of it.”
The other Godmother scowled. “Twas nae a compliment.”
Grisel
