Author's Note Part 1: Sorry for the long break between chapters! I'm actually moving soon to start a grad program and new job so I'll likely have to continue having a bit of a gap between posts. Sorry for my past, present, and future slowness! I'm totally committed to finishing, though, and have the whole story mapped out.

AN Part 2: I listened to a lot of traditional Scottish and Celtic music while writing this to get a feel for what Maggie and Jamie would have been hearing. I also ended up listening to several more modern takes on the traditional music and wanted to share some of those with you. Obviously, I listened to the original Irish version of "Be Thou My Vision" while writing that part. "Volcanic Jig" by Natalie MacMaster was helpful while writing the dancing scene and "Never Be the Sun" by Dolores Keane was helpful for the stargazing scene. I also listened to "Traveller" by Shaun Lochalsh on repeat while writing and the song inspired the general ethos of the chapter. All these songs are on Spotify and YouTube. If you're interested in hearing about songs that I feel connect well with the chapters, let me know and I'll keep sharing them (but I'll be briefer). If you don't like that kind of thing, let me know that too.

Chapter 10

Maggie did not see much of Jamie for the following week. The whole castle was busy preparing for the Christmas Eve festivities and there was finally plenty of work for her. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, and kneading, only leaving to sweep the great hall and the passageways leading to it—a task Mrs. Fitz insisted be undertook the week before Christmas, even though each meal set the floors right back to their original, dirty state. Without the option of meeting Jamie at his now off-limits chamber door, the only time she was able to see him was at dinner in the great hall and she had been electing to eat her meals with the women in the kitchen.

The previous week's snow stayed on the ground and the day before Christmas Eve brought yet more snow. Maggie took a short break from the hot kitchen to taste the crisp coldness of snowy air, finding an appropriate pretense in her claim that she was taking Broden and some of the other children outside in order to get them out from under foot. While ducking a snow ball thrown at her by an especially tiny little girl, she saw Jamie in the stables tending to the horses, their eyes meeting briefly across the distance, but chose not to go talk to him, quickly looking away and busying herself with resolving some dispute between the children.

It wasn't that she was mad at Jamie for what he had said. That wouldn't be fair, especially given that the idea that they shouldn't visit each other's bedchambers had come from Murtagh. She was, in fact, quite struck by the correctness of this statement and, as the initiator of these visits, terribly embarrassed. She realized she had become too familiar too quickly and the thought mortified her. Best to keep her distance, for now at least. At the same time, she didn't want Jamie to think she was cross with him—because she wasn't—or that she was avoiding him—although of course she was. Luckily, she was far too occupied by work to spend much time ruminating on her past impropriety, or to even think much about Jamie at all, or so she told herself.

The morning of Christmas Eve, Maggie rose early. She had always found it hard to sleep the night before, too filled with excitement about the merriment to come. Back home, Christmas had been her favorite holiday. Her family could not afford to put on much of a celebration but they enjoyed sitting around the table together, often eating a fish that her father had caught in the river—salmon if they were lucky, served with potatoes. During times of relative prosperity, they'd invite over any neighbors facing leaner times than they. When Maggie's family experienced hardship, neighbors would sometimes include the family in their evening meals. As poor harvests were usually shared by all in the region, there were quite a few years when no one was prosperous enough to feed his neighbors and they all went hungry, comforted by a mix of church and strong drink. Even these years brought joy, however, providing a time when everyone was allowed, perhaps even required, to forget about their struggles and pray for a better year ahead, truly believing, if only for a day, that God would provide it for them.

Maggie's favorite Christmas memory came from one of these lean years. Their neighbors' old cow had fallen sick and died, depriving the family of milk and cheese to feed themselves or trade at market. Without a larder, the family was not able to salt and preserve the meat well enough to last them through the winter. As such, they decided to invite the entire village to their home to share the meat before it spoiled. Everyone brought what they could—potatoes, greens, milk, cheese, fish, alcohol—hoping to leave some of it behind at the end of the night to aid the family as much as possible. The meat was tough and flavorless but the conversation was lively and the usual scarcity of any kind of meat made the meal a rare treat, regardless of the actual taste. After the meal, everyone stayed at the family's home, helping to clean and then all joining together in quiet prayer, something that each family traditionally did privately in its own home. At midnight, they all walked to the candle-lit church together. Maggie remembered the flash of the candles reflected in the gleaming eyes of each person, all seemingly keeping the fear at bay, graced by momentary serenity. After Mass, the peaceful spell had been broken but replaced not by fear, but jubilation, and—if she was being entirely honest—a good deal of drunkenness. At the end of the night, close to dawn, Maggie's mother stood up and began to sing. The room feel silent as her clear, straight tone filled the air.

"Bí thusa mo shúile a Rí mhór na ndúil," she sang in Gaelic.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;

Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,

Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;

I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;

Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;

Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

At the time, Maggie had felt herself wrapped in the words, comforted by them not just because she believed them, but also because they came from her mother. Everyone it seemed had breathed the music in and out, trying to consume it and hold onto it for the coming year, a year in which they all suspected they would have a special need of God's guidance and presence.

Maggie had grown up listening to her mother sing in the privacy of their own home, but, until then, she had never heard her mother sing in public and her mother never sang at any gathering after that either. Maggie supposed her mother must have known how much their neighbors needed those words. Perhaps, she needed them as well. Maggie had certainly needed them since. Never being much of a singer, she had spent many a cold night outdoors over the past two years humming it to herself, remembering the words and clinging to their promise.

This year, her future seemed more secure than it had in quite some time but, in a world without her mother or father, she still relied on the song for comfort. She woke up before dawn with it ringing in her head, knowing she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep but not minding. Stretching her arms up and leaning to her right, she tumbled out of bed, then made her way downstairs to see if she could be of any assistance.

It was still dark but already the kitchen was filled with more women than it could reasonably accommodate. The walls reverberated with the hard snapping sound of vegetables being chopped and the soft, steady rhythm of dough being kneaded. Maggie stood in the doorway, looking for an empty space or open knife and finding none. Eventually, Mrs. Fitz's head popped up from the throng around the fireplace, her always frizzy red hair now bursting out from under her cap in voluminous spider-leg tendrils.

"Nothing for you yet, dear," she said to Maggie. "Come back at eleven."

Maggie nodded and happily left, glad to be out of the hot, humid room. She ran back to her chamber, grabbed her cloak, and headed outside. Since coming to the castle, she had been spending a good deal more time indoors than she was accustomed to. At first, she had been thrilled, eager to leave behind nights spent in barns and forests for the guarantee of a warm bed, but ultimately she grew bored of living between windowless, stone walls and longed for more tastes of life outside.

As she walked out the door, the sky was brightening slightly, cast a light blue shine over the snow. Her mother used to tell her that silently taking in the nature around oneself—a gift from God—was one of the most prayerful things a person could do. She tried to quiet her mind but failed as thoughts of Mass and the coming feast and her mother—and even Jamie—stubbornly pushed their way through. She turned instead to trying to come up with the English names for her surroundings, drawing on a combination of Jamie's lessons and her own independent study. She had excitedly asked him the name for snow and he had also taught her the English words castle, horse, stable, hill, and mountain—although she could never remember the difference between the last two. She wandered about, practicing sentences such as, "My name is Maggie," and "I live at Castle Leoch," until the sun rose, calling more people out of their beds and to their chores.

By the castle walls, she encountered a man chopping firewood and noticed two more chopping blocks and axes next to him. After watching him with fascination for a while, she decided to approach.

"May I help you?"

The man looked up, seemingly surprised to see her.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asked.

"No." There had never been enough trees in Donegal to ever considering burning them. "But I'd love to give it a try."

"Go ahead then," the man said, returning to his work.

Maggie took a log from the large pile beside her and balanced it on the block. Placing both hands at the end of the axe handle, she lifted it over her head.

"Hold up," the man said. "Grip it closer to the head with your right hand. Wouldn't want you chopping off your foot."

"Thank you." Maggie nodded at the man.

She adjusted her hands, lifted the axe back up, and brought it down on the log, bringing her whole body with it and almost losing her balance as she fell forward. Righting herself, she realized that the axe had not gone clean through the log and was lodged inside it.

The man glanced over. "Hit it again."

She picked up the axe and the log attached to it and hit them against the block. Nothing. She tried again, harder this time, and felt the axe bury itself deeper inside the log. She let out a muffled sound of frustration, causing the man to walk over, take the axe from her and bang it and the log against the stump, splitting the log clean in two. He nodded at Maggie, then returned to his station, picked up his axe, and continued with his work.

"I'm sorry," Maggie said. "I'm probably being a nuisance."

"No," the man said, not even pausing as his axe arced through the air.

"Ah, good." Maggie set another log on her stump, lifted the axe, and pitched herself forward. Her arms shook slightly as the axe stopped half-way through the log yet again. She took a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the way her corset limited the expansion of her chest and stomach, and slammed the log down onto the stump as hard as she could, feeling the axe split through the wood. She smiled and reached for another log.

"This is a sight, isn't it, Angus?"

Maggie straightened up to see Rupert and Angus standing in front of her, their arms crossed. She noticed Rupert's eyes locked on her chest, following the movement of her body as she stood up.

"You have women working for you now, Ealair?" asked Angus, chuckling.

"I wouldn't have to if you two roused yourselves early enough to come help me, as your laird expressly asked you to."

"Christ, Rupert, I think we've made him angry."

"Must have," Rupert said. "That's more words than I've heard Ealair speak since last Christmas."

"Hmmf." Ealair set a log on his stump and went back to work. "Go on, Mistress. Show them how it's done."

"I doubt she could do that," said Rupert. "She looks like a magpie pecking at the ground."

"Or like one of those little French monks, bowing before the Lord."

"Or like a baby first learning to walk and absolutely muffing it."

"Or like a whore giving an especially enthusiastic—Ah! What did you do that for?" Angus rubbed his arm angrily, where Rupert had punched him.

"That was too far," Rupert said. "She is a lady after all, even if she doesn't act like one."

"All I know is she's a better worker than you lazy dolts," Ealair said.

Maggie felt her cheeks redden as the men talked about her like she couldn't hear them. Determined to prove her competence—and ability to defend herself to all of them, even Ealair—she swung the axe again. It refused to cut all the way through the log but this time Maggie knew what to do next. She hit the log on the stump, staring at Angus as she did so. The log split cleanly in two.

"Good," Ealair said. "Now, as you swing, slide your right hand down the handle."

Maggie nodded, lifted the axe above her head, slid her right hand as she swung it, and brought it down half a foot to the right of the stump, where it became stuck in the ground.

"Daingead," she muttered as Rupert and Angus laughed.

She tried again, this time focusing more on the log than the men around her. She steadied her arms and swung the axe straight through the log in one clean sweep. She let out an involuntary squawk of excitement.

"Look. She's so pleased with herself," Rupert said, smirking at her. Then he added, "Well done, lass."

"Aye." Ealair nodded at her.

"Now it's time to let the men take over," Rupert said, rolling up his sleeves.

"When I've just learned how to do it properly?" Maggie said. "I think not."

"What do you expect us to do with ourselves then?" asked Angus.

"Whatever you normally do during your idle time. I try not to expend too much thought on your leisure activities, Mr. Mhor, especially after I've just eaten my breakfast."

"Now, you listen," Angus said, approaching with his finger pointed threateningly at her.

Maggie raised the axe casually and held it in front of her, smiling sweetly but also pulling her shoulders back to emphasize her full height. Angus stopped, his eyes on the axe. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Instead he turned his back to her and brushed her off with a dismissive wave of the hand. Rupert performed a mock bow before hurrying after Angus.

"Always a pleasure, Miss Ó Broin," he called over his shoulder.

"Hmmf." Ealair shook his head and went back to his work, Maggie following suit.

Hours later, hundreds of split pieces of wood lay by their feet, ready for the fire. Maggie's shoulders, arms, and back ached pleasantly, reminding her of days on her family's farm. She rolled her shoulders, thanked Ealair for his instruction, and headed inside to see what worked waited for her in the kitchen.

She spent the rest of the day plucking pheasants, stirring soup, sweeping, and generally attending to any needs that arose. A few hours before the feast was set to begin, Maggie wondered aloud when they'd all be attending Mass. She had assumed the village would hold a midnight Mass but there didn't seem to be any planned break in the feasting to allow for this.

"We won't be going to Mass, dear," Mrs. Fitz answered her.

Maggie furrowed her brow. She had not regularly attended Mass since leaving Donegal and had felt too shy to enter the village church after so much time away but she had never missed a Christmas Mass. "Is it tomorrow morning, then?" she asked.

"No." Mrs. Fitz looked puzzled. "It's outlawed."

"Outlawed? By who?"

"The Kirk, the English, the government." Mrs. Fitz shrugged her shoulders. "To be Catholic is illegal here and the Kirk looks down especially on Christmas celebrations. They think it's too pagan." She paused. "And papist."

"That's horrible."

"Aye. It's not right but most folks here have never known any different." Seeing the downcast look on Maggie's face, Mrs. Fitz added. "Dougal MacKenzie holds a bit of a service Christmas day."

"Really? I wouldn't have thought of him as an especially religious man."

"He's not. Just stubborn as a mule. He's usually still drunk from the night before and there's less talk of God and the birth of the Christ and more talk of English oppression. Silly of me to even mention it. It's really more to be avoided than sought after. Or so I advise during private discussions such as this."

With this last line, Mrs. Fitz leaned in conspiratorially, indicating her desire to keep any less than complimentary mentions of the laird's brother out of his earshot.

"I appreciate the guidance," Maggie said. "And I'll be sure to be sparing in who I share it with."

Mrs. Fitz nodded, then turned her head toward some commotion by the fire. "Mrs. Drummond, what are you doing to that pig?"

At eight, the feast began in earnest. Maggie poked her head into the hall to see it illuminated by giant circular candelabras and, she was proud to see, a roaring wood fire. Men and women milled about the tables, the men dressed much the same as they always were with perhaps more elaborately tied plaids. The women, on the other hand, looked quite different, most of them wearing skirts that Maggie found comically full—she wondered how they even sat down—but overall quite elegant, with their well-styled hair and slightly brighter hues of green and blue. Maggie blew a frizzy strand of hair out of her eyes, shuddering to think of what she would look like compared to these women. As the night progressed, course after course passed beneath her nose, making her mouth water. She found the opulence of the feast both exhilarating and somewhat grotesque, considering how many people throughout Donegal, and she had to assume the Highlands as well, were struggling to feed themselves. With that mild resentment in mind, she grabbed an apple garnishing a tray holding an entire pig before it made its way out of the kitchen and bit into it.

"My dear," Mrs. Fitz called to her from across the kitchen.

Maggie quickly hid the apple behind her back and tried to discreetly stop the juice that was running down her chin with her tongue. Mrs. Fitz laughed.

"Goodness me. I'm not angry. Give yourself a few minutes rest to enjoy the food."

Mrs. Fitz helped herself to an apple as well without pausing her own work and nodded as Maggie went over to join a small group of women gathered around a roasted pheasant and tray of parsnips. One of the women handed Maggie a tankard, which Maggie drank from heartily assuming it was water. A slight burning sensation travelled down her throat and she coughed. As some of the women turned to look at her, Maggie said somewhat stupidly, "That's not water."

"No it's not," said one of the younger women in the circle.

Maggie took a smaller, more tentative drink, this time tasting a blend of bitterness and sweet honey and enjoying a muted, pleasant warmth settling in her chest.

"It's mead," said the younger woman. "We make it ourselves."

"While the men out there drink the laird's fancy wine or their own, terrible ale," added another.

"Thank you," Maggie said.

When she had eaten her fill and her tankard was empty, she handed it back to the young woman and moved to return to work. The woman, however, stopped her by refilling the mug and presenting it back to her.

"Thank you, but I can't. I need to get back to work."

"You can drink while you work, no?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, go on," she said, forcing the mead into Maggie's hands. "Nollaig chridheil." She winked at Maggie.

"Nollaig chridheil," Maggie repeated. Merry Christmas.

By the time Maggie had downed the second tankard, her ladling out of the fig and barley pudding was becoming a bit sloppy. Her mother had never allowed her to drink alcohol when she was growing up, not even after she reached fifteen, and her father, who starting sneaking her drinks on her fifteenth Christmas, had only allowed her one glass of ale at a time. She also suspected that this mead was a fair bit stronger than the ale to which she was accustomed. After she had finished her haphazard portioning out of the dessert, she scanned the kitchen for further cooking tasks but didn't find any. Lively fiddle music began to drift into the kitchen and Maggie went to the kitchen door to see that many of the guests had stopped feasting and were now dancing in the center of the hall. Mrs. Fitz sent out some of the young girls to collect dishes and cutlery while instructing the rest of them to begin cleaning the kitchen. Some of the women started dancing and spinning one another as they worked, no doubt infected with the cheer of the festivities, as well as the livening of the alcohol. As the night wore on, Mrs. Fitz sent the mothers home to put their children to bed, leaving just herself, Maggie, and a few girls left to tidy up. Walking by the door while sweeping, Maggie spotted Jamie dancing enthusiastically with a small, blonde girl. Mrs. Fitz must have noticed Maggie lingering because she wandered over to watch the dancing as well.

"Who's the girl with Jamie?" Maggie asked, watching as both the girl and Jamie threw their heads back in laughter.

"That's the tavern owner's daughter, Aileen. Nice girl, very pretty. Isn't it nice to see the lad so happy after all that's happened?"

"Aye, it is."

"Don't worry, lass. I'm sure he'll come looking for you next."

"What?" Maggie tore her eyes away from Jamie and Aileen to look at Mrs. Fitz. "I'm sure I would never expect such a thing."

Mrs. Fitz raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything, leaving Maggie to steal surreptitious glances at the dancers as she swept around the rest of the kitchen. On her third pass by the door, Maggie was almost run over by a clearly inebriated Rupert and Angus who stumbled in looking for Mrs. Fitz.

"Come dance with us," Rupert said, grabbing at Mrs. Fitz's hand.

"Oh, I couldn't. There's too much work to be done here."

"You work too hard, woman," Angus slurred. "Why don't you let us show you a bit of fun?"

"Oh no," Mrs. Fitz protested but Maggie noticed for the first time that evening that Mrs. Fitz's usual bonnet was gone, replaced by a delicately balanced mass of curls. She was also wearing a deep purple dress, a wardrobe change that had somehow escaped Maggie's attention amidst all the activity in the kitchen.

"Go on, Mrs. Fitz," she said. "I can finish up."

"You're sure?"

Maggie nodded.

"All right, then." Mrs. Fitz turned to Rupert and Angus and allowed herself to be practically carried out into the hall. Maggie smiled watching Mrs. Fitz dance with Angus, laughing until her face turned as red as his.

The other girls slowly trickled out one by one as various young men came calling for them, eventually leaving Maggie alone with the remaining mess. She didn't particularly mind. The dirty plates had already been taken out back to the well and washed and she had swept the floor so much she was no longer sure what she was seeing was actually dirt and not bits of stone the bristles of her broom had worn away. She began scrubbing the large stone slab before the fire when a man clearing his throat behind her made her turn.

It was Jamie, wearing his tartan draped across one shoulder, his red hair slightly tamer than usual. Maggie jumped, startled to see him despite the fact that he had clearly made his presence known.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's fine. You didn't."

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Jamie said taking a step closer. "Why aren't you out enjoying the festivities?"

"I was needed here. I have to earn my keep, seeing as this is the only time I do any work around here."

"I wouldn't say that." Jamie paused. "The thing is, Maggie, I'm beginning to wonder if you may have been avoiding me."

"You think I'd stay hidden away during a feast just to avoid you? That's ridiculous. I've had real work to do."

"Glad to hear it. I wasn't necessarily thinking you were avoiding me, more just concerned since we haven't spoken in a while."

"Well, there was no need to be concerned," Maggie snapped, the harshness in her force surprising her. "I'm sorry. I'm being difficult."

Jamie smiled. "I've come to expect nothing less."

Maggie tried to be stern but found herself smiling as well. "If you must know, I think I was avoiding you. A bit."

"Why?"

"Well, with what you said about us not going to each other's chambers, I was so embarrassed, I—"

"I'm sorry," Jamie cut in. "I never should have said anything. Forget I did."

"No, you were right."

"Ah, I'm not so sure. Anyway, I've brought a peace offering." Jamie raised his right hand, in which he held a glass bottle filled with a deep purple liquid. "Colum's rhenish."

"What's that?"

"Wine and very strong wine at that. You have to be careful with it but I thought you might like to try it."

Jamie poured two glasses and raised his. "Slàinte."

"Slàinte."

The rhenish was even sweeter than the mead but also smoother. Maggie found it hard to believe that it could really be that strong.

"Is everything you Highlanders drink sweet?" she asked before realizing she probably shouldn't reveal the women's secret brew.

"Do you not like it?"

"Oh no. I do, very much."

Maggie reached for the bottle, filling both of their glasses up to the brim. Jamie frowned slightly but immediately began to smile as Maggie very carefully slurped up the top contents of her drink.

"I didn't want to spill on myself," Maggie said.

"Go easy or you'll be spilling on yourself no matter how hard you try not to."

They both looked at the door as the musicians began a new, particularly uproarious tune.

"Have I sufficiently appeased you?" Jamie asked.

"That depends. Now that I'm no longer avoiding you, could we have another English lesson soon?"

"Aye. We'll start tomorrow morning."

"And I was never angry, Jamie."

"Ah, good. Well then, let's go dance."

"I can't. There's too much to do here." Maggie surveyed the empty kitchen, such a mess hours earlier, now miraculously tidy, making for a less than convincing claim. "Besides," she added, "I don't have anything appropriate to wear."

She was wearing the new skirt and bodice Mrs. Fitz had given her but it was no match for the voluminous skirts and neatly arranged dresses of the women in the hall.

"You look fine," Jamie said.

"I don't." Maggie looked down to see her skirt was covered in flour and her bodice was spotted with various sauce stains.

"Would you dance with me here in the kitchen, then?"

"I don't know how."

"Ah, there's the real problem then."

"No," Maggie said. "The real problem is that I have chores to do and my clothes are dirty and I'm not ladylike enough for any of this."

"I'll teach you," Jamie said excitedly. "Not how to be ladylike, I wouldn't pretend to know, but how to dance at least. You're already learning English, might as well take one step further toward civilization."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said, downing the rest of her glass and refilling it. "But I'll need more of this."

"All right then," Jamie said moving out into the middle of the kitchen. "Well, first we want to stand facing each other like this. Then we dance toward each other with a kind of shuffle step. First the left leg out and then back together and then lead with your left again and then switch and do that with the right."

Jamie skipped toward her but Maggie stayed still, her arms crossed in front of her.

"What?" he asked.

"You look ridiculous."

"I look exactly as I'm supposed to look. Come on, let's try it again."

Jamie backed up and then began the shuffle step toward her with Maggie joining in.

"Then, we join hands in the middle and turn in a circle. Ordinarily, there would be another couple and we'd switch partners but, as it's just us, I suppose we'll just do another circle and then return to our places."

Maggie complied, biting her lip to keep from giggling.

"All right. Now we do the same steps back to meet each other in the center and then we link arms and do another turn."

Maggie tried to execute the shuffle step. It looked simple enough but her feet betrayed her, refusing to do as she directed them. She had to keep pausing to get the pattern right and she knew she was no longer in time with the music.

"Jamie, this is too ridiculous."

Jamie threw his hands up in air. "Do people not dance in Donegal?"

"They do but it's not as ordered as all this."

"How would you dance if we were in Donegal, then?"

Maggie thought back to the last wedding she had attended at home. It had been in the spring and, while the air was still too chilly to comfortably hold an outdoor party, the bride's family had insisted on it anyway. They had all danced feverishly to stave off the cold, their arms on each other's shoulders as they danced in a circle, one of them occasionally jumping into the middle to perform his or her own improvisation. That was dancing, not this regimented stepping.

"First," Maggie said. "There'd be a good cluster of people. And we'd all gather in a circle and just dance around. Each person would do whatever they felt called to."

"I can't imagine that being much more dignified than what I just showed you."

"Exactly," Maggie said, reaching for her third glass of rhenish. Or was it her fourth? She had lost count. "That's the point. It's much less dignified, which is why it's so much more enjoyable."

She began prancing around the room, her arms and legs moving with wild abandon but this time somehow managing to keep pace with the music. During a particularly frenzied twirl, she spun herself right into Jamie, who threw his arms out to catch her. Her head stayed pressed against his chest for a bit too long. He smelled like earth and grass and sweat. When she drew her head back slightly, she noticed the brooch he wore to secure his plaid. It was different from the brooches she had seen the other men wearing. Jamie's featured a stag's head, encircled by the words, "Je suis prest."

"What does it mean?" she asked absent-mindedly.

"What does what mean?"

Even with Jamie looking down at her, Maggie had to crane her neck to see into his eyes. Neither one of them took a step backward.

"The words on your brooch."

"Je suis prest," Jamie answered. "I am ready. It's my clan's motto, Clan Fraser, that is. Murtagh had it made for me. I suppose the one my father gave me is somewhere back home."

Jamie blinked quickly.

"You can go back and get it someday," Maggie said.

"Aye. I hope so." Jamie's eyes looked far away. He shook his head, as if to shake away the unwanted thoughts, and smiled. "All right, Maggie. Will you teach me how to dance your way?"

"There's nothing to teach," Maggie said, taking both of Jamie's hands in hers, raising them above both their heads, and spinning herself underneath their arms. "Now you."

Jamie sheepishly strolled under the bridge they had created.

"You're tremendous at this," Maggie said.

Jamie scoffed.

Still holding onto one another's hands, they spun and leapt around the room, Maggie leading a somewhat perplexed Jamie along. Eventually, he relaxed and the pair practically galloped, moving in step with one another and with the music, laughing hysterically. Hours or minutes went by. Maggie couldn't be sure which. When the musicians went home and the hall began to quiet down, Maggie let go of Jamie's hands and lay down on the cool stone floor.

"What are you doing?" Jamie asked.

"It feels so refreshing," Maggie said, "To lie against the stone."

"You've overindulged."

"I have not."

"You have."

Maggie let out a puff of air. "Perhaps. That rhenish is very good, though."

"It is indeed," Jamie agreed as he picked up a wet rag and began scrubbing away at the stone by the fireplace.

"Oh no," Maggie said. "I'll do that." She made no effort to get up and instead slowly shut her eyes, focusing on the steady movement of Jamie's broad shoulders before closing to black.

"Maggie, Maggie, wake up."

She woke up to find Jamie kneeling beside her, a hand on her shoulder. She blinked rapidly, trying to bring his face into focus. The room was moving too quickly around her and all she could clearly see of Jamie was his red hair, brightening her line of vision like the rising sun.

"The world is spinning."

"I think it's time to retire," Jamie said, helping Maggie to sit up.

"No. There's still one thing we need to do."

Maggie hopped to her feet with surprising agility.

"If the world is spinning, Maggie, I really think you should go to bed."

"The world's always spinning, though," Maggie said. "My mother taught me that. My father never believed it but I think it's true. Do you?"

"I do." Jamie smiled. "You're very clever, aren't you?"

"Yes. We've discussed this already."

Jamie shook his head. "So, what is it that we still have to do?"

"We have to go look at the sky."

"Why?"

"Because it's Christmas."

"Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense."

"It does, though."

It was a new moon and the world in front of Maggie was completely black, none of the orange glow of the castle escaping its walls. She reached for Jamie's hand instinctively, worried about losing him in the dark.

"I can't see anything," she said.

"Look up."

She turned her head upwards and was immediately met by so many points of light, she wondered how the air around her was not set aflame. In between the dots of white ran blue and purple streams, like ink bleeding from a garment.

"Do you see the bright star straight ahead?" Jamie asked.

"They're all so bright."

Jamie let go of Maggie's hand to come stand behind her and point up at the sky from her vantage point. He leaned down until his head was almost on her shoulder and whispered, "That's Polaris, the North Star."

Maggie followed the line of his arm and saw a star shining more brightly than the others, hot white lined with cool blue.

"If you look down and to the left," Jamie said, "That's Orion. See his bow?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "And below him is Canis Major, his dog who follows him everywhere. Above it all, that crooked line, is Cassiopeia, the beautiful but vain queen of the Greeks. Or, Anu, if you like, the mother goddess of the Celts."

"I didn't know they all had names."

"Aye. My father taught them to me when I was a boy."

Maggie heard a catch in Jamie's voice and tried to look into his face but it was too dark. When she felt a tear fall on her and heard Jamie clear his throat, she reached a hand back to find his.

"Who else do you think is looking at the sky tonight?" she asked.

"Likely many people," Jamie said, sounding confused. Then, after a moment, he whispered, "I bet Jenny." He swallowed. "When I was young, I went to live with Dougal for a year at his home in Beannachd. It was my first time away from home and I missed Jenny and my father so much. But before I left, he told me whenever I got homesick to look up at the stars and know he and Jenny were looking up at the same ones and thinking of me."

Jamie had told her this story already, the day he had learned of his father's death and they had sat telling stories of their families for hours.

"I know," Maggie said. "That's why I brought you out here. I hope it was not wrong of me."

Jamie didn't answer for a while. "No, it was not wrong, Maggie." He squeezed her hand. "Not at all."

"Do you suppose our parents are watching the sky as well? Their souls I mean."

"I don't ken what Heaven's like but if it's how they say, they'd have to be watching this. And watching us as well."

Maggie began to shiver. With cold, fatigue, grief, happiness. Looking at the North Star, she sent a message up. Nollaig chridheil, màthair, athair. You don't need to worry about me anymore. I think I've found my place.

"Let's go back in," Jamie said, touching her trembling arm.

The light of the kitchen had dimmed but it still shocked Maggie as they entered. Both she and Jamie rubbed at their eyes, adjusting to the brightness and wiping away stray tears. Maggie knelt down by the dying fire, studying Jamie as he leaned against the stone tabletop. Loud footsteps and laughter interrupted her reverie and she and Jamie turned to see an unsteady man and women clutching at each other, the man holding a flask.

"Pardon me," the woman giggled. "Didn't realize this room was already taken."

Jamie and Maggie exchanged looks, breaking out into laughter as soon as the couple had left the room.

"They thought we were…" she began.

"They certainly thought something," Jamie agreed.

"They were drunk," Maggie said, rising from the fireplace but losing her balance and ending up back on the floor.

"Pot, kettle, Maggie."

"What?"

"That's like the pot calling the kettle black."

"Pots don't talk."

"Yes, of course. It's a metaphor. An expression. Meaning, you're accusing them of being something that you also are."

"Are you suggesting that I'm drunk?" Maggie asked, carefully standing up, gripping the mantel for support.

"I am."

"See, I'm not, though. If I were, I would have understood what you meant. It's a," she searched for the right word, "a false assumption. I'm not entirely uneducated. I would have understood."

"All right then." Jamie yawned. "I'll walk you back to your room."

"But, Jamie," Maggie said with mock seriousness, "Wouldn't that be improper?"

Jamie shook his head. "And you say you were never mad." He held his arm out for her to lean on and Maggie took it gratefully, feeling the hard stone turn mushy under her feet.

"We'll postpone the English lesson," Jamie said when they reached her door.

"Why?"

"I expect you'll be feeling a bit—well, have you ever been drunk before?"

"I'm not drunk now."

"Right. Well, I don't expect you'll be feeling too scholarly in the morning."

"I always feel scholarly. I love to learn. I'm the most intellectual vagrant you've ever met."

"Christ," Jamie said. "I should not have let you drink so much."

"You couldn't've stopped me. I'm my own woman."

"You certainly are," Jamie said, opening the door for Maggie and ushering her inside. "How's this then? You come find me when you wake up tomorrow, if you're feeling up to a lesson. I'll likely be with the horses."

Maggie nodded in agreement.

"Merry Christmas, Maggie."

"Merry Christmas, Jamie."