Hello!

This story has been on my mind for a while and I've written enough to post at least a chapter every few days or so until I have to write anything more. As of now, it's not supposed to be a romance between the OC and Jamie, but who knows where the story will go.

As a side note, any words and sentences in italics will, in the story, be Norwegian. Personally, I like to know what characters are saying when reading (as opposed to reading at the end of a chapter) so I decided to simply use italics to indicate that it is indeed supposed to be another language. The wording might be a little strange or odd, as I wrote it to be as close to Norwegian while still being understandable in English.

Also, please don't hesitate to correct me, as English is my second language.

Hope you enjoy the story!

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It was a busy day.

Though, all days were busy days. Always something to alter and repair, something to order and sell. Sometimes she would be busy drafting a pattern at the work table. Today, however, there was nothing to draft, no pattern to retrieve from the fitting room nor any silent grumbling as she sewed something. No, today she stood by the display table and calculated the total sum of several ells of Scottish bobbin lace while other customers were looking around at the various fabrics, laces and ribbons in her shop.

She wanted to scream at herself for not being any good at math until she at least had calculated the same number twice.

"That will be 2 shillings and a halfpenny."

Mairead, a lady's maid who was a frequent customer on behalf of her lady, nodded and plucked the coins from her purse. She couldn't help but smile at the weight of the coins as they found their way into her hands. Mairead's lady had finally been convinced not to rely on credit. Ladies who paid with credit, more often than not, simply tried to avoid paying. At least she wouldn't have to hold the laces hostage this time. Her friend had been caught in the fire the last time.

"Thank you. I hope Lady Glencoe will find it to her liking."

She gathered and cut the desired ells of bobbin lace as she smiled at Mairead. If anything, she would be insulted if the lady did not like these laces. They were delicate, highly feminine as all the patterned fabrics the lady usually bought and soft enough to be directly sewn onto sleeves, bodices, gloves and even handkerchiefs. Yet she had to be cordial to some degree, so she kept the smile on her face as she wrapped the bundles of lace in a shawl she had just finished. Free gifts were always highly appreciated by the ladies after all. Free gifts was a good way to ensure their loyalty to her.

"Certainly. My Lady is never disappointed by any of your wares, Mistress Olsen."

Mairead's eyes narrowed with her smile as she received the wrapped shawl and put it neatly in her basket. Then the courteous smile shifted into a tightly contained one as she looked around. While there were several other people inside the shop, though the two of them were relatively secluded in the lace corner. So she looked back at Mairead and leaned closer, ready for the newest news on the citizens and visitors of Edinburgh.

"A new printer has set up shop a few streets from 'ere. Name's A. Malcolm, he's unmarried-"

"When did the art of printing catch your eye, Mairie?"

Mairead sushed at her. Then placed a hand on her elbow and pulled her closer as her eyes roamed over the customers in the shop. She couldn't help herself and used her hand to hide the chuckles that tried to escape. The news had to be riveting for Mairead to be this impatient.

"A former soldier, they say. He cannae been anything but by his physique I say, but that's not all. A wee birdie told me he fought 'gainst the redcoats."

Edinburgh's small birdies. When Mairead mentioned these birdies, they were only ever one of two kinds. The kind with word of who slept with whom despite both being married to other people or who had said what. In other words, innocent if not exciting news of the local people and the higher class. Then there was the kind that would be able to recognise a former Jacobite, the newest smugglers and where to find the little something to rid oneself of an unwanted child. Or husband. She had never understood how Mairead knew such a large variety of people, but her lips would remain sealed nonetheless.

Especially since it was through people of the latter variety that she had met Mairead in the first place. The world was merely a mixture of grey paints, no stark specks of white or black anywhere to be found. There was also the fact that most of her fabrics came into her hands through deals with Mairead's little birdies. She looked around, then pulled Mairead into the empty fitting room.

"Oh? A former Jacobite soldier?"

"Not only a soldier I've heard. He was supposedly at the Prince's side while he was in Scotland."

"I suppose I'll pay him a visit then. See if there's anything he might be in need of."

Mairead looked at her, eyes narrowed as tongue poked into her cheek. Then nodded. It was dangerous to be a former Jacobite. Even having connections to them was enough to hang. Yet, the fact that this man was not imprisoned spoke either of high connections to the Crown's side or a high price on his head. If it indeed was high connections, they had not been detrimental to the cause as he hadn't been touted as a righteous subject of the Crown. The connections were most likely personal and most probably secret, at least to some degree. Though this didn't cancel out the probability of a price on his head either. She sighed, rubbing her forehead harshly.

"Though I do suppose I can't simply walk in and question him. I won't involve you. It's still far too dangerous."

"Am I not already involved, Martha?"

Her hands lifted, before falling uselessly. The basket still remained in the corner of Mairead's elbow all the while. Marta wanted to sigh. While yes, the news had reached her through Mairead, it would still be quite different from actually making contact with the man. If it all went to hell it could be said that Mairead was simply gossiping, not knowing anything more than what a devious rumour told her. And she knew as much.

"And I can't convince you otherwise. Well then. I'll search in those taverns for any trace of him and tell you what I've found when we meet again."

"Good. Though you were directly involved, I was the one giving you the contacts. This shop wouldn't be here if I wasn't involved."

Marta chuckled and shook her head. Then placed her hand on Mairead's, sealing the deal and silently thanking her for the umpteenth time. While she had never been involved in the Jacobite cause, she had aided Mairead who was a fervent believer in it. She had and still did owe Mairead a huge debt, one large enough to aid her in any way she could. It didn't help that her own country wasn't independent either, so the thought of contributing if only in the vaguest sense of the word, had been too much for her to resist.

She sighed at the thought and squeezed Mairead's hand, before making her way back into the shop-front. There were customers to attend to after all. A smile and nod were all that was exchanged between the friends before she was approached by some ladies who wanted to buy some muslin.

And so it had suddenly become an ordinarily busy day again. Despite all the thoughts that continued to occupy her all the while.

There was a former high-ranking Jacobite in the city. A man who went by the name A. Malcolm, though that was surely a fake name. The whole situation was dangerous. Approaching the man could very well be the end of her if she didn't word herself correctly and the man for a second thought she was trying to threaten him or give him in. Helping him once contact had been established could also very well be the end of her if she wasn't careful.

Six years ago, before the failed rising, she hadn't yet established a shop. She simply went where she was summoned with a load of fine fabrics, laces and ribbons obtained through the right connections with the right folks. Ladies of means always gossiped, forgetting about the servants and mantua makers that were in the room. As an established mantua maker with a shop, however, she wasn't as unknown as she once had been, a simple change of name wouldn't suffice. If rumours of this Mr Malcolm and his connections to the actual rebellion became known, it would be hard to remain uninvolved if she had made contact.

Yet she couldn't let the man pass her by without even trying to contact and help him if needed. It was very likely he needed help, whatever form that help might take.

As the sun started setting, she drew the thick dark curtains and locked the door behind her. Making sure she had actually locked the door, she pushed the keys into her pocket and made her way home. Even if she couldn't meet him right away, she should check around town to see if she could find out more about him. As a woman, she could hide behind the reason of being infatuated with him. No one would question a widowed woman asking questions about a seemingly eligible bachelor.

Shaking her head, she reached back into her pocket as the door to her humble apartment appeared in her vision. But she stopped as the sound of shouting boys reached her. Turning her head, she could immediately pick out the head with the curliest and darkest brown hair that was her son. Placing her hand on her hip, she turned her entire body to the running group.

"Sander! What have I said about being out this late? Get yourself over here now."

The head stopped abruptly at the words, before separating from the flock. His dark eyes were already downcast before he simply whimpered out his goodbyes to the other boys. The thought that she was a terrible mother hit her once more as she saw his dragging feet as he made his way to her. Sighing, she put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him towards the door. The keys jingled louder than usual as she looked down at him, then unlocked the door.

He made his way up the steep staircase as she locked the door behind them, though she could hear how they quickened at the smell of their dinner. She couldn't help but smile then, happy she had decided to cook her own favourite dinner. Though cooking couldn't really be applied to the hours-long boiling that didn't even need supervision. All one really had to do was cut the lamb and cabbage. Luckily the boy liked it just as much as she did.

Running up the stairs, she turned the corner and felt the smile that forced itself onto her face simply because of the smell. Though the look on Sander's face as he almost drooled over the large pot was enough to make the smile even wider. She opened the cupboard and got out two plates and two knives, noticing he was opening the jar of lingonberry jam. At least he was somewhat Norwegian.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you Sander."

"'Is fine. But mama I told you to call me Alex, not Sander."

"Alright, but can we speak like this, when it is only us two? I would like it if you didn't forget it."

"Fiiine mamma. I will speak like this then."

"Thanks, little you. And I will not say Sander while outside."

"I'm not 'little you' anymore, mamma. I am seven."

"'Troll' then? Or maybe 'Sanderladden'?"

She couldn't help but laugh as they began eating. Careful not to stain their clothes with the red and brown mass of delicious fat drenched in red jam. His face scrunched up in disgust at her last suggestion. She had made sure he grew up on the same fairytales she had been told, one of those being the reoccurring character of Askeladden.

"No mamma, anything but that."

Yet even he couldn't help but laugh as she referenced her favourite tale of Askeladden, motioning that she slit her own stomach open. Though gruesome, the tale itself was quite fun. How Askeladden's two older brothers had failed felling trees because they were scared of a troll. Askeladden however, with his innovative wit, managed to deceive the troll into an eating contest, gloating that he could eat so much because he had cut his own stomach open. The troll, who was stupid like all the trolls in fairytales, believed him and died after cutting his stomach open and Askeladden returned to his family with all of the troll's riches.

"How was it today? Class with Father Lorne, I mean?"

"Like always. I do not know how you can say he is the least strict priest in Edinburgh."

His Scottish lilt, much stronger than hers could ever be, contrasted strongly against the soft language they were speaking. It hadn't been until she came here that she had realised just how soft and song-like her own language was. Though she admittedly had a soft spot for the Scottish, as well as Irish, dialect. Shaking her head, she took a large bite of the bread.

"He is. I made sure to check. That is why you have to walk so far. Father Glas would have been a nightmare for both of us to deal with."

"You checked? Can one even do that?"

She nodded, plucking all the bones and throwing them back into the pot. There would be enough for several days and any and all bone and bonemarrow simply made it even better. He looked at her, his brows furrowed until he shook his head turned back to his food.

While she felt terrible, he had grown up knowing she needed it to be quiet after work. He had seemingly decided they had talked enough for her to be tired, and the fact that it was true made her feel even worse. So she sighed in both disappointment at herself and relief. The quiet always made her feel tired. So much more tired than she had felt throughout the day. And she enjoyed it so much. Not needing to put on any pretences or happy smiles.

Yet she had to leave to get information on this mysterious A. Malcolm.

Dinner was finished in silence. So was the cleaning and undressing just after the last light from the sunset vanished.

She pretended to sleep until the sound of Sander's breathing indicated he was deeply asleep. Climbing out as carefully and silently as she could, despite knowing the boy wouldn't wake up unless violently shaken, she dressed once more. This time, she choose the plain old clothes she had worn when meeting contacts before the failed rising. Then a plain yellowed cap over her tight bun and a full basket. Looking at herself in the little mirror, she smiled. She was ready.

Locking both doors after her, she walked through a tight ally that was mostly blocked with barrels, stones and things she was happy she couldn't see. It led her directly into the neighbourhood where her mission was going to start. Walking into the tavern at the corner, she looked around until she saw a barmaid she knew. Making her way over to the woman, she tapped her elbow and smiled softly at the surprised face that turned towards her.

"Maura?"

Nodding at the soft address, she glanced over at the men in the room. All too busy drinking to pay attention. Marta found a halfpenny in her pocket and gave it to the hands of Keavy the barmaid. She smiled and leaned against the bar counter. Then rummaged through her basket.

Keavy joined in on the pretence, picking up a few handkerchiefs and fichus. It had been a long time since she had done this, even longer since she had come here to talk with Keavy. Yet it still felt natural, pretending to be a poor woman who got money by selling her sewing to any and all women she encountered. Keavy was even more natural than herself, picking at embroideries as if there was something wrong or not to her liking. Taking a fichu with forget-me-not embroideries, she smiled politely back at her.

"There's a printer, A. Malcolm. Does he come here?"

"No, but I can ask the other girls. I can point you in the right direction though."

Nodding, she made a show of rearranging the things in her basket. As if they were discussing the price, she shook her head a few times with a frown on her face. Keavy answered with a few frowns and shook her head as they spoke.

"Canongate Kirk, down Wilson's. It's 'round there, though I cannae say exactly where."

"Thank you, I'll come back in a few days."

Keavy got out a coin, clearly giving it to her. She herself made a clear show of the gratefulness she felt, clasping their hands together and squeezing hers. While doing so, she gave the coin back and smiled. Keavy nodded and looked around as a man shouted out for more ale. Bowing her head, Marta then made her way over to the over barmaids. She made a show of trying to sell them handkerchiefs and fichus, even selling two more before she walked out of the tavern.

The night air was colder than before, yet it only calmed her as she turned towards the church. Making sure to repeat the process in every tavern she passed, despite only knowing a single barmaid. During the trip, she learned how he looked. A tall man with curly red hair who wore glasses when reading. So she smiled and hurried along the way to the church. Then turned down Wilson's and smiled as she finally found the shop. A brick building with a metal sign that read A. Malcolm. She had found it.