In Love And War

The fire is almost entirely controlled by the time I make it across the yard. The sheer number of helpers practically guaranteed an effective response, I'm sure, but it is still surprising to me just how quickly the men of Leoch responded to the emergency. I don't know if it is because they've dealt with such things before, or if the workers here really are just that much of a team, but either way, it was quite something to witness, particularly after just having watched two sets of them literally beat each other with sticks.

At least a dozen men had led the advance on the flames, wielding extinguishers with practiced ease, while a score or more followed behind with buckets of water and shovelfuls of soil. There are clouds of smoke and steam wreathing themselves around the stable dooryard, the smell of which is thoroughly new to me, being part wet earth, part scorched barn paint, and part sharply chemical extinguisher foam, all overlaid with a generous spicing from I have no idea how many animal's droppings.

A few bits of ash drift upwards on the air, riding the warm draughts from the still-crackling core of Marc's fire. Piles of faintly blue extinguisher foam surround the windward side of the firepit, quivering in the sharp breeze that threads between the farm buildings, the pale bubbly surface liberally spattered with crumbs of soil from the arc of earth that now contains that whole edge of the fire. But the central coals have maintained their ever-shifting gold, orange and red, and the great caldron of pig feed is still steaming away like nothing has happened.

The drifts of foam continue on from there, over nearly the entire dooryard, to the huge lump I assume used to be the haystack, and up and across the two positively enormous three-meter tall sliding doors that open into the stables proper. A few flat, black smears of soot are visible across the red-painted wood panels, and there are some tufts of black stubble poking through on the haystack, but beyond that, there doesn't appear to be much damage.

The response was so quick and effective, in fact, that the dozens of people who streamed into the stables to remove the animals are mostly making their way back outside without them. There are a few men and animals in the yard – I see both Harry and Murtagh leading a horse with each hand, and Alain and Peter tending to one horse apiece - but all of them are headed back into the stables, muttering words of relief and thanks.

Personally, I wonder if the danger wasn't just a bit exaggerated.

Fire is not a common threat aboard the Skycities. Or, at least it wasn't until the war, and the subsequent invention of Blueblast bombs. And even those never threatened fire so much as threatened nearly instantaneous incineration. Before that though, I can only recall three fires of any note on Skycity 15, and only one that did damage to a residence. That one was a case of bad wiring and a dining table set too close to an electric stove. No one was hurt, and our Central neighbors had an exciting story to tell for the rest of their lives. The other two fires I know of were started by lightning strikes, and even then, the only damage was to outdoor market stalls. Save for those whose livelihoods depended upon the racks of scarves, and the packages of dried fruit, those fires were of little threat to anyone.

I realize the buildings here are made of far more flammable materials than we generally use on Skycities, but the stables are such a lanky, sprawling construction, I find it difficult to believe such a small point of contact like that haystack could become a threat to the entire building. I know it must have been, or else the response would not have been so urgent, but I just cannot see it, in my own mind. Eventually, I have to admit to myself that I just don't know enough about fire, in any of its forms. And I know even less about stables. . .

I pick my way past the vat of pig feed, braving the sharp nip of the wind in my curiosity to see more of Marc's domain. He, Gil, Murtagh and Harry work around here on a daily basis, and in just a few days, we are all going to meet to discuss plans, situations and concerns.

I still know so little about this world yet, and much as I've been learning about Leoch, whenever I think of myself as Farm Manager here, I still feel like a shamefully jumped-up imposter.

Little Claire Randall, North-3 housewife and career farm tech, a manager? The manager, of a large and diversified farming concern? Oh, I'd once dreamed of working for GenTech's crop development labs, but I wasn't innovative enough for that, nor were my gene-manipulation skills brilliant enough in their own right to let me coast through on flash alone. I'm a conscientious tech, open minded and generally skilled, but everything about me and my life is plain, sturdy, serviceable, and utterly ordinary. I'm nowhere near management material, or so I've always thought. And in all my years of work, I've been mostly content with that.

If ever there was someone less prepared for being landed right smack dab in the middle of the impossibly extraordinary, that was me a month ago. . .

Beyond the stable dooryard is a wide, sweeping field of a similar bleached and pale brown as the shinty field, the spare, uneven grass spiky, dry, and rigid in the wind. A long wire fence bounds it on all sides, but it is broken with many gates, and lined with an impressive collection of troughs and buckets.

The stables make a large L to my right, bordering that side of the field almost halfway, with large, red-painted sliding doors spaced widely but evenly all along the length of it. These seem to line up admirably with the gates to the field, and at last I can visualize the danger of fire to this place. It is all too easy to imagine horses and men streaming out of every portal, and huddling here in the field, trying to get away from licking flames and acrid smoke. . .

But there is only one figure in this large, wind-whispered stableyard at the moment, and that is Dougal, who is speaking so low and so intently to an obviously frightened horse that he doesn't notice me. The horse doesn't notice me either, being far too busy rearing his head back and forth in search of spooks. Dougal grunts, hums and mumbles, either in the Gàidhlig or in some private language of his own, firmly holding the animal's head-rope and stroking soothingly down the sides of its neck. Eventually the creature settles, and very gently rests its head on Dougal's shoulder. His arms come up then, to scratch the horse's ears and affectionately pat its head and neck. And all the time the timbre of his voice doesn't change, his words all soft and gentle, cooing, almost purring, caring in the extreme.

I turn away from the scene, more than a little shaken.

Every time I think I have Dougal figured out, either for good or for very, extremely ill, yet another layer of his personality is revealed to me that upends my previous image of him.

Perhaps to those who have known him for years it means nothing, but to a newcomer like me, that Dougal can be so kind and gentle to a lesser creature means, if not everything, then very nearly so.

The rapacious, power-hungry tyrant of yesterday, and the slimy, sneering manipulator from this morning seem to have vanished at the call of fire. Even the snarling, vindictive asshole from the shinty game was immediately replaced with that caring, gentle, outgoing man, with a kind voice and a tender touch.

Then my shoulder twinges, and I pause for a moment. I don't know if Dougal meant to send Jamie hurtling at me specifically, but the fact is, he did do it. Does his sincere care for one horse really mean all that much, in the end? Vicious, murderous men have been known to have their affections, after all. That Dougal can find it in him to be kind and gentle to an animal doesn't mean he hasn't been unkind and violent to me and others. If placed in varying circumstances, he shows himself to be more than one man. So what? Most men are, and most women too.

And yet. . .

No matter how much evil I have seen in him, how much good is that man back there capable of? A very great deal, I feel sure.

Enough to counter all the wrong he's done to me? For some reason I have no doubt at all that he is. But is he capable of enough good to counter any of his other sins? I don't know, but after all, that isn't for me to say. Only one thing is for sure. That sight back there has resolved me. I will carry out my full offensive, not just for Jamie's sake, nor for mine, nor for the people of Leoch, but for Dougal himself. There is a man in him that is worth fighting for, and perhaps if I battle him properly, he will come to see the value of that tender, caring part of himself - that lovely laugh and mischievous gleam in his eye that I've seen and heard from him so rarely, but each time immediately makes some part of me want to follow him, either into adventure, danger and war, or into plain, humble, honest labour.

Somewhere in him, hidden deep though it may be, there is a spark of the same sweet, boyish, effortless leadership that Jamie wears like a shield, and I am certain it could be just as charming and effective in Dougal as it is in Jamie. I'll fight him for a chance to hold a mirror up to that man, yes, no question I will.

Of course, I might fail. Or maybe he will fail me. There's more than a good chance he'll end up quashing that part of himself like a bit of dirt under heel, never to be missed. Perhaps he will never be my ally. Perhaps the war between us will all be for nothing.

But, I'm convinced it will be worth the attempt.

Now I just have to figure out how. . .

I crouch down next to the leeward side of the caldron of pig feed, and take up a stick to poke at the coals a little. This side of the firepit is fringed with half-burned pieces of kindling and tree bark, as well as spent coals, coated in a thick layer of ash. I poke one of the round, livid chunks of cinders, and watch as the soft, dark grey stuff flakes off in tiny puffs of dust, and the hard, central lump of black is revealed. Then I hit it back into the middle of the fire, as though my stick is a caman, and the coal a ball.

As if my dilemma is a game of shinty. . .

It is one thing to have the beginnings of a workable battle plan, and one thing to resolve to fight those battles, but it is quite another to know what moves would be best to make.

I could start at the top, I suppose, but I am reluctant to lean on Colum this early in the conflict, given that he is going to be so pivotal to my end game as well. No. I need a way to begin that is smaller, more personal, and closer to the bone. My opening gambit must be sharp, for I have to cut quickly and precisely, drawing the least amount of blood as possible, but leaving a thorn embedded so deeply, it will be almost impossible to remove until my offensive is concluded. And it must be done in public, openly, yet so subtly the blow will be unrecognizable for what it really is to anyone but Dougal and me. And perhaps Jamie.

I allow myself to debate whether or not I should bring Jamie in on it all yet. Last night proved that he can be an incredibly effective ally even when only half-informed of my intentions and needs, and that intuitive support of his will be highly valuable to me in the coming weeks, I have no doubt at all. But bringing him in on the planning stage sounds even more effective to me. I may be good at strategy, but I'm not strong enough at tactics to make flying solo any sort of attractive option at this point. I might be able to pull through alone if I had to, but the simple fact is, I do much better tactical thinking when I have some good solid backup. Jamie proved his wits and steel last night, not to mention this morning, and I already know he would make the perfect foil to bounce ideas off of. So why not? Above all – he knows Dougal.

That last point decides me. I need Jamie's knowledge of Leoch and its people far more than I need his uninformed intuitive support.

Next time we're alone, I'll bring him up to speed.

I've been absently stirring the ashes piled around this edge of the firepit, watching the bits of coal and cinder disintegrate into flat, cheerless grey. But occasionally, a larger chunk surfaces, and slides out of the ash onto the stones of the yard. Just now, my larger stick dislodges a smaller stick, and it lands at my feet with a surprisingly metallic tinkle. I pick up the tiny half-burned twig, smiling as it sparks a rush of warm memories.

Frank's hobby might have been power panels and energy salvage, but that was not his passion. He could hold forth with the best power-salvagers when it came to energy-grades and specialty silicates, of course, and he was thoroughly invested in the pastime, but only I knew the real reason why. In truth, he was only interested in it because fully licensed power salvaging was and is practically the only legal hobbyist activity on Skycity 15 that is at all likely to net you a supplemental income.

Which he needed, if he ever wanted to afford his art supplies.

Art grade paper, artist's erasers, blenders and other tools, and artist's charcoal – like the tiny stick of black currently residing on my palm – are toys of the rich on New Oxford. Far out of the reach of sanitation workers and farm techs. Frank knew that as well as anyone, but he was determined, even obsessed, with fighting our status quo. There was no small irony in the fact that my marrying him prompted me to fully break with my incredibly rich parents, but he had fully supported the move, saying we were both steady and quite respectable workers, and therefore, we deserved our leisure time, our opinions, and our passions. What we couldn't afford, we would earn, whether those Central snobs liked it or not.

I remember falling even more in love with him the first time he told me that.

For years after that, every time Frank pulled in his power panels, he delighted in providing us some extra food, or buying our house some new curtains or a tablecloth, or getting us a new book download from Central Publishing. But part of the profits always went into a special fund, and once about every six months, he would splurge solely on himself, and buy a Black & White Artpack from Central Market.

Over the following months, still-lifes would emerge, or landscapes, or abstract patterns so surreal there are one or two that still haunt me to this day. Or, if he was truly inspired, he might bring forth a portrait. He didn't draw faces often, calling them "ten pounds of effort in an five pound bag", but when he did, there was something truly magical about them. He captured several of our neighbors in ways I still cannot fully comprehend. He drew a self portrait once, and managed to capture the very twinkle of bright, boyish goodness in his eyes that was the first thing I was ever attracted to about him. He drew me, much more than once, and each time I rediscovered that I'm not actually indifferent about my hair, or my lips, or my skin, I only seem to be, until someone else shows appreciation for them. Then self-consciousness takes over, and I never quite knew how Frank conveyed my blushes in black and white, but nevertheless he could catch them, and set them down on paper, showing the very instant of my transformation from blissful ignorance, to roused bewilderment.

He would use every square millimeter of the paper in those Artpacks, not just the few sheets of crisp, textured art paper either, but also the back of the thin cardboard packaging, and even the blank brown paper wrapper that enclosed the kneedable eraser. And he would use up that eraser too, turning it from pale grey to deep, useless black while obliterating any drawing he didn't like, just so he could have the space to try again.

There were days, he sometimes said, that thinking of what he would draw that evening was the only thing that would get him through the day.

Those days were the only times I envied him.

Before leaving Central, my hobbies had been the histories of earthbound sciences. There was botany, of course, but I had also had great interest in geography, geology and such, as well. Living with Frank in North 3, for all practical purposes, meant giving up those things, at least as amusements. The botany I used every day at my farming stations, but there was no way to continue my other interests once I did not have daily access to GenTech's seed library, or Central's World History Museum. Frank occasionally bought me books on scientific history, and we sometimes visited Central's Museum Mile on dates, but all in all, we really could only afford one rich-man's hobby. And so, of necessity, I became interested in his interests. Power salvage and charcoal drawing became my hobbies too, and I maintain I could have done far worse, particularly after the war.

The problem was, of course, that I am not, nor ever have been an artist.

Power salvaging I could get into and understand, even if I held no emotional attachment to it. But Frank's imagination, passion and joy of creation were all utterly alien to me. At least when it came to roughly textured art paper and small sticks of half-burnt scrapwood. I was glad he had those things – was thankful he did. But I was sometimes jealous of the fact that there was a place he could go, free from the cares and worries of war, and the bleak mundanities of life. A place he could go, where I could not follow. Eventually, I think, he felt my discontent, even if he didn't understand it, and like the good, loving husband he was, made the one suggestion he could think of that might balance the score between us again.

That we ought to try and have a baby.

I shake away the memories of those subsequent days – we were so happy in our utter defiance of conflict, war and death. . .

But no matter how envious I ever got that he had his escape and I had none, it only made me love the pictures he drew even more, made me see greater and greater genius in them the more his talent progressed. One of my greatest regrets is that I was unable to save any of them from the fire. Yet I still I hold every one of them in my heart – every expressive stroke, every smoothly blended detail, every miraculous tiny masterpiece is with me, even now.

The little fragment of charcoal lays in my hand, not even reaching all the way across my palm.

Strange, how I am finding so many lost pieces of my future, here in the past.

"Weel, come along then, Sassenach," says Jamie's voice, as he comes up next to me, "All's well heer now, an' ye need a real sling fer that shoulder, oor ye'll have it right out again, sure as shootin'."

I smile, and close my fingers around my bit of lost beauty. I stand to look at him. Wordlessly, he offers me his arm, and I take it, just as silently. Then he drives us to his workshop, with three or four other runabouts following us, for reasons I cannot fathom. But it is made clear when Jamie starts applying burn ointment and distributing bandages to everyone. No one seems particularly hurt, and more than half the men leave mere minutes later - their minor burns soothed, their lunch awaiting them at the main house, so they have no compulsion to linger.

Jamie takes his time over the last few, being especially meticulous with a combined burn and scrape that shows long and ugly along Peter's elbow. He has to remove several splinters before dressing the skin, and he wraps it very carefully, giving a lot of instructions about keeping it clean.

Finally, he hands him a small pot of salve, and Peter makes his escape.

I watch him out the door. Just as he is leaving the gate, he passes Dougal, stomping his way in.

I turn away, so that I'm not looking at him when Dougal enters the workshop.

"D'ye have any of that burn ointment for the horses, laddie?" he demands without preamble.

I see Jamie clench his teeth a little before answering. "Aye. I'll get it in a moment." He bends over Alain's wrist, not deigning to look his uncle in the face.

Dougal shrugs, and removes his cap, tossing it carelessly on Jamie's desk. Then he shoulders his way past Murtagh, and with a loud snap of the sliding door, shuts himself into the cottage's little toilet station.

Jamie, Murtagh and I all share a fleeting, half-bewildered look.

With lots of instructions and another pot of ointment, Jamie sends Alain in to his meal. He nods and gives a pleasant "Thanks Jam!" before leaving briskly.

Jamie pauses a long while after he goes, then claps Murtagh on the shoulder, and gestures into the cottage's other room – "Heer, a goistidh – I'll give ye the horse's burn salve, and let ye help Dougal out wi' whate're bee he's got in his bonnet this time."

"Och, thanks an' nae thanks fer that! Ya wee plague. . ." Murtagh grumbles, but still follows him into the workroom, leaving me here, in Jamie's office, alone.

The sudden silence closes around me like a wide, heavy blanket.

A bee in his bonnet. . .

I look down at the piece of charcoal still gripped in my hand, and a horribly mischievous idea comes to me. I need an opening gambit for my offensive, yes, but this. . . it's terrible. Every kind of bad. And while it doesn't technically break any rules, it certainly isn't noble warfare. I absolutely should not do it.

But it does happen to fulfill all my requirements for an effective opening move. . .

And if I follow it up with the right words and reactions, then, perhaps. . .

Perhaps.

But I still shouldn't do it. . .

My shoulder twinges again, and I recall the pained expression on Leticia's face as she watched me realize that the father of her child was slowly and deliberately bringing about the demise of her husband.

I prim up my mouth in a common Central expression of disdain.

Even duty and honour fall away when it comes to the demands of love, she'd said.

What's that old saying? All's fair in love and war?

Well, perhaps not all, but close enough.

I make my mind up quickly, carrying out my idea so fast I don't have time to think better of it, then sitting down on the couch again, so when all three men return almost simultaneously, I am silent and detached, innocently paging though an old magazine Jamie had on his low table. It's called Modern Farming, and I'm finding the cover article on this era's crop regulators genuinely interesting.

There's some grumbling, and a few murmured words in Gàidhlig, but Jamie manages to send Dougal and Murtagh off back to the stables with relative ease. When he comes back in, the first thing he does is go digging for something in a cupboard in the far corner of his office space. I can't see what, nor do I ask. Then, he bundles himself into the toilet station, closing the door with a subdued click.

I shrug, and go back to my article.

I'm unsure how many minutes later it is, but surely not many, when I'm brought out of my sharply focused reading by a soft yet heavy something being laid on the low table in front of me. I look up. It's Jamie's kilt. I catch half a glimpse of him going into his workroom area, and I see he's wearing trousers now. I look back at the neatly folded pile of tartan, and reach out to examine a corner of it.

It's the first time I've given this kilt any close attention. At first glance it seemed much like the MacKenzie tartan, only slightly more complex in pattern. Now, seen closer to, I notice that the blues are brighter, the grays are warmer and richer, and where the colours merge there is an added line of softly-toned lavender. Most importantly, there is a thin stripe of red running through the heart of the pattern, like veins on the back of a hand.

"Tha's the Fraser tartan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, his arms full of bottles and bits of cloth and some things I can't immediately identify.

"It's beautiful," I say, dreamily.

"Aye. It's no' quite as comfortable as a belted-plaid, mind, nor as useful, but it's good, genuine Fraser tartan, I'll say tha' much fer it."

I snicker, wryly, "Jamie, are you trying to tell me your kilt is a bit pants?"

He stutters to a halt, then gives a huge guffaw, "Aye, I suppose I am, Sassenach. Jus' a wee bit." He sets down most of his armload of stuff, then gestures at my shoulder. "Tek off yer shirt."

I scoff a little at his uncustomary bluntness.

"It's a good job I like you. . ." I say, twisting up my mouth. Then, carefully, I begin to remove my jacket.

He pulls himself up for a second, then has the decency to look abashed, "Aye, sorrae – 'tis only that I wan'tae fix ye up, ken?"

"Oh, I ken."

Our eyes meet with a twinkle of mutual understanding, and then I turn so he can more easily reach my shoulder.

He unbuckles me from Rupert's belt, pours a bit of oil into his palms, rubs his hands together, and then wraps them both gently around my right shoulder.

The oil smells citrusy and sweet, and his hands are incredibly warm. Massive amounts of tension I wasn't aware I was carrying release with a completely unexpected wave of relief.

"Mmm," I sigh, "That feels good."

Softly, rhythmically, he starts smoothing the oil into my skin.

"Agch, Sassenach," he chuckles, "If ye'ed wanted a massage, all ye hadtae doo is ask nicely, ken?"

I smile at his teasing, somewhat ruefully. A hard, painful blush comes up on my cheeks, "I really should apologize to you, Jamie."

"Hmphm," he grunts, still gently working at my shoulder, "An' what for, exactly?"

"Well. . . everything, really. Yesterday. Last night. This morning."

"Sae ye'ev remembered it all then?"

"Yes. Or nearly all of it."

"Alright. Soo let me ask ye again – what are ye apologizin' for? Be specific now."

He runs two fingertips very precisely up and down my right arm. He does it twice, then shifts the place and does it twice more. It isn't a caress – it's something medicinal that I don't understand. Then he returns to my shoulder and starts applying firm but gentle pressure on some very specific points. Some of them burn a bit, and all of them throb with a very unpleasant soreness, but it is nevertheless a good ache. Paired with Jamie's healing touch, I don't care that I can't understand all of it. It's making me feel better, and that's what matters.

"Well. . . I. . . I suppose I'm apologizing for. . . only thinking of myself. For assuming that I would be the only one who might have anything to. . . well, to forgive. I completely disregarded the fact that you might have been offended by my actions, not just me by yours. . ."

I can't see it from this angle, but I can feel him smile.

"Apology accepted, mo ghràidh," he drops a gentle kiss on my left shoulder, "Bu' I wasnae offended. Jus' so ye ken."

Another previously unnoticed knot of tension within me relaxes, "You weren't?"

He hums softly, "Nae. Slightly annoyed, mebbe. Agitated. . ." he leans closer to me, and runs the tip of his nose all along the rim of my left ear, "Aroused. . ." he whispers.

A wave of warmth runs though me, and it has only a very little to do with his hands.

"Oh?"

He hums again, his breath warming the back of my head, "O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn."

He has said those words before, but the repetition does not dull their intensity, nor does it mean I can understand them any better.

But I don't have to understand the sudden rush of air in my lungs, nor the insistent pounding in my blood. That Jamie has caused them is enough.

He lifts his hands from my shoulder, and I feel the loss more keenly than the cold.

"Ye need a hot compress now, Sassenach," he says, wiping his hands clean, and taking up a small, slender sack that looks like it's full of grain. He puts it in the small wave-heater that's beside his refrigeration unit. Then he pokes a few buttons, and the thing beeps petulantly, before finally turning on. "Only reason I keep this auld thing around," he says, thumping the top of it, carelessly but affectionately.

"For warming hot compresses?"

"Aye. No' usually for such a lovely lady, a'coorse."

"Oh no?"

"Nae. Usually they're fer horses."

I smile mischievously, "Well. I'm glad you don't put me in that category."

"Och, I would nevar," he rolls his eyes and grins exaggeratedly.

I laugh, so comfortable around him that it doesn't even matter I'm stripped down to my bra, or that his hands were massaging my skin while he admitted that he was aroused the last time we touched. . .

Or rather, it isn't that these things don't matter, it's that they're so natural at this point, there isn't even a vestige of awkwardness about them.

Which is something of a miracle, all things considered.

The device beeps again, this time to signal it has finished, apparently, because he turns to remove the little sack of grain. I see it is gently steaming now, and the whole room smells of fresh bread. He balances it very carefully over my shoulder, then drapes my shirt and jacket over my back.

"Covar an' let steam fer fifteen minutes," he says, cheerfully teasing, "Feelin' any bettar, mo ghràidh?"

"Mm. Much." I nod.

"Good."

Suddenly, my stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loudly.

He looks at me reproachfully, "Have ye been skippin' meals again, Sassenach?"

I wave off his concern, "After last night and this morning, I wasn't hungry until now."

"Mmphm," he hums, dubiously, "Tha' isnae an excuse, mo nighe-"

"Oh? 'I wasn't hungry' isn't good enough for you?" I snap, temper flaring, "So what would be an excuse, then? Quadruple amputation? But oh, no, they could still wheel me into the dining room on a gurney, right? God forbid I miss one of the constant onslaughts of calories the kitchen dumps into my lap for free every day, as if there won't always be another meal waiting in just a few hours anyway, all gussied up on a silver platter!"

Jamie stares at me, jaw slack, totally bewildered. It occurs to me that he hasn't seen me really angry before. I desperately try to calm down. There's no way he knows what a hot button food is to me. . .

"I. . . only wish tae take care of ye, Sassenach," he says, very quietly.

"Fine," I exhale sharply, "But don't you dare patronize me while doing it, do you understand me, Fraser? I'm not an infant. I know what I can handle and when. Informing you of that is not an excuse. It's a reason. I'm allowed to make my own choices, Jamie."

"Aye, so ye are," he says, face blank, eyes wary.

"Besides, missing a meal has never killed me before, I doubt highly it's going to start now."

"Aye, ye'ev said such before. . . " he draws his brows together seriously, "May I assume tha' mean's ye. . . weel. . . that there have been times when. . . when there wasnae always another meal waitin'?"

I am thoroughly unprepared for how completely this question shatters me. All of my anger collapses into something dark and horrid that I don't want to acknowledge exists inside my mind. I can't even speak for a minute.

It takes many long seconds for me to find my voice again.

"These past eight months. . . they haven't been easy, Jamie." I press my knuckles to my lips, living again some of my worst days out on the Rim – cold, lonely, depressed and starving - "I know what real hunger is, yes. And missing one meal doesn't bring it on. Missing two meals doesn't bring it on. Real hunger is living off of potato peelings and corn husks scraped off of random compost piles, and praying to god you're not eating chicken shit."

"Christ. . . did ye no have friends there in Oxford, mo chridhe?"

I huff a tiny humourless laugh, "What friends I had did whatever they could. They bought things when I had something to sell. Helped me make and keep my connections within my trade, for all the good that did. But they tried. And some threw work my way when it was there to be had." I meet Jamie's sober, steady blue eyes, "But friends like you? Friends who insist on taking care of me so much they make a nuisance of themselves? I haven't had a friend like that since Frank died, Jamie."

A half-dozen expressions cross his face, so rapidly that I can't follow them.

"Ye'ev. . . really eaten corn husks?" he asks, with a tentative smile.

I shrug with my free shoulder, "Yeah. They don't taste too bad, but they aren't very nutritious. And they're mostly roughage, so they're decidedly less pleasant on the way out than they are on the way in."

His smile morphs into a mildly disgusted grimace of understanding.

"It's nae wonder ye c'n face Dougal head-on, then. Ye'ev already faced far worse than aught he c'n doo tae ye."

I nod, slowly, "That's. . . certainly part of it."

"I'm sorrae I talked down tae ye, Sassenach," he says, looking at his hands. Then, he meets my eyes, steadily, "Wilnae happen again."

"See that it doesn't," I say, mildly, "And I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Ye had th'moor reason. . ."

"Maybe." I pause, thoughtfully, "But, speaking of Dougal. . ."

"Aye?"

"Do you think he did this on purpose?"

"Yer shoulder?"

I nod, and he shakes his head and shrugs at the same time, "I dinnae ken. I gave him a piece of my mind right after he did it, bu' if he had any previous intentions, then I'm the last one could get him tae admit it."

"He fouled you during the match, too."

"Aye," he grins, triumphantly sly, "An' I fouled him right back – ye didnae see that, did ye?"

"No, I didn't."

"Because I c'n do it bettar than him, an' I dinnae let him forget it. He called me a cheat, tho'." He shrugs, "I said I'd learned tae do it from him, an' asked what he'd think of me if I didnae fight back wi' all I had. He said 'No' much'." He runs a hand over his chin, still rough with stubble from yesterday.

I mull that over for a minute. "Well, that's all the declaration of intent I need. You?"

Jamie sits back down next to me, and removes the hot compress, then helps me on with my shirt, "What are ye on about, Sassenach?"

"He wants a war, Jamie. What say we give him one?"

His eyebrows go up, "Over a few fouls during a shinty match? Agch."

"No, not for that, silly," I gesture at my shoulder as gently fits my arm into a sling, "For this. And for trying to blackmail me and using you to do it. And for spying on Colum. And exploiting Letitia. And lying to Hamish, come to that. Let's fight him for being a user. For only taking, when he has so much to give."

"Ye wantae fight a man for that?"

"Can you think of a better reason?"

That brings him up short, and he pauses for a long minute.

"Now ye mention it. . . nae. I cannae."

I nod. Then, slowly and deliberately, I outline my ideas for a general battle plan, making it clear that half of my reasoning stems from wanting to protect the residents of Leoch from any reprisals.

"Reprisals?" Jamie gasps. "Sassenach, ye'el have the fox in amongst the chickens wi' all that, right enough!"

I fight back a pang of discouragement, "You think it's too much?"

"Tha's no' even the question. Et's. . ."

"Yes?"

He scrubs his hands over his face, then sighs in frustration, "Ye really intend tae make the Gathering yer endgame?"

"I do."

He leans back against the couch cushions, face pensive. "It isnae a bad plan, mo chridhe, only rough an' ready a' the moment. It needs refinin', ken?"

"Well, I did only think of it this morning."

"Aye. D'ye play chess, mo ghràidh?"

I shrug, wondering what that has to do with anything, "I used to, years ago. I don't know if that counts."

"Aye, it counts well enough. Is there a set in yer rooms? There is in most guest rooms, but some dinnae have them."

My mind flies to the pair of shelves full of colourful boxes in my front sitting room, "Why yes, I believe there is. A little carved wooden thing, painted red and white."

"Weel. Mebbe we can hash it all out over a game taenight?"

I grin, "You do ask me on dates in the strangest ways, James Fraser. But would a chess match. . . help?"

"Aye. Chess is the only war I ken. But give me a game, a glass of whisky, an' time tae think, an' I'll help ye figure it out, sure enough."

He helps me zip up my jacket, and I fiddle with the zipper tag for a few seconds before saying, slowly, "That sounds good. . . but it might be a bit late to change the plan entirely. . ."

He snaps his eyes to mine, "Why? Wha' have ye done, Sassenach?"

I tell him.

It takes a few seconds for him to get over the shock, but then he nearly explodes with incredulous laughter, eyes wide, mouth open, "No! Ye didnae!"

I smirk, "Oh, I very much did."

"D'ye have any idea how they'll all react? How he'll react? He'll be at tea taeday - they'll all be at tea taeday, 'tis a Saturday. An' Jesus, Mary and Bride, it's tea. Sometimes there are tourists in for Leoch teas at th'weekend. It'll be carnage, Sassenach, utter carnage." His face is a most disconcerting blend of savage glee and fierce consternation.

"But. . . I mean. . ." I fumble a bit, afraid I might have indeed gone too far already, "Are you sure they won't be a little bewildered first? They won't be shocked and wonder what's up at all? There won't be any grace period?"

"Och, aye, there will be, bu' what good can fifteen seconds - at most - do ye when we're talking about something like this?"

I relax at once, "Fifteen seconds? That's a lifetime with something like this, Jamie. It can change the whole impact of the thing, if I say the right words in between."

"Ahgch. Words again," he sighs.

I nod, "They're my weapon of choice, yes."

"Alright," he gestures broadly, "Tell me what ye're plannin' on saying, an' I'll guard yer back as best I can."

I tell him this, too. Once my meaning sinks in, he sits up straight, confusion all over his face.

"Wait. . . he was? He did?"

"He did. I saw him."

He laughs, sharply, "Nae'un else did."

"I know. That's why I think I can swing this around. With your help, of course."

He blows out his cheeks, and hums thoughtfully, "Weel. It'll be quite an opening punch if we can."

"Except if we're successful, it won't look like a punch to anyone but Dougal."

"Aye, I'm a bit vague on that point, Sassenach," he draws one finger along his lower lip, "An' I think it may have something tae do wi' one bit ye didnae explain this mornin'."

"Oh? What's that?"

"What is it ye want from Dougal, in the end? What is yer goal?"

"You don't know? I thought you might have figured it out by now."

He cocks an eyebrow, dubiously, "Weel, I have a few guesses, but. . ."

I take his nearest hand in mine, "Jamie, all I have ever wanted from Dougal Mackenzie is to be his ally."

"Tha's it?"

"That's it. The sum total. He and me, on equal terms, facing the same direction. That's all I want. I wouldn't say no to a friendship developing from there, but I'm not counting on it. Though he is capable of it, I know that. So, if waging war with him is the only way to convince him, well, then, so be it."

He shakes his head, "Puir beggar didnae ken wha' he was getting' inta when he brought ye heer, did he?"

"No. But I can hardly blame him for that."

"Except ye can." He jumps up, and begins to rapidly put away all the things he got out to treat my shoulder.

"I can?"

"Aye. Any man of sense would'ha stopped underestimatin' ye sae badly the minute ye fixed the Rover, stood up tae th'lot of us, and ate a plateful of haggis wi' nary a qualm. Especially if he thinks ye'er a spy. I blame him verrah much for nae knowin' a'least part of what he was getting' inta by then, I do."

He reaches out to take my hand, then, and for the first time I notice the thin red line of a small burn across the back of his palm. "You're hurt too!" I say, unreasonably shocked he didn't say anything.

"Och, nae, it's no'thin'." He pulls his hand away, and gives it a critical look, "I've had worse. I'll bide."

I can't cross my arms, one of them being in a sling, but I narrow my eyes at him, "Are you really telling me that you mean to take the best care of me I've had since my husband died, and you mean to deny me the pleasure of reciprocating?"

He blinks, "Weel, when you put it like that. . ."

I grin in triumph, then practically run over to his worktable, and scoop up one of the pots of salve like those he was giving out to the farming staff. Its little metallic gold label flashes in my hand, showing a small white logo that, surprisingly, I recognize. This brand of first-aid products still exists in my time. Even better. . .

"Nae, dinnae use that one, Sassenach!"

The urgency in his voice brings me to an abrupt stop, and I look over at him, confused, "But. . . why not?"

He sets his jaw, and strange tension forms around his eyes, "Smell it."

I open the small jar, and smell the iconic lavender and aloe ointment this brand makes, and apparently will make for hundreds of years. It's perfectly normal.

"Mmm. Smells just like it should," I look questioningly at him, "Doesn't it?"

"Aye. Just like lavender."

"And. . . ?"

"An' I cannae stand lavender, Sassenach."

"But you used it on all the farm hands. . ."

He nods sharply, "Aye, they're a simple lot, most of them – I ken they're moor likely tae take proper care of the burns if they feel like they're "official" on-the-job injuries, an' bein' treated by a professional. They wouldnae feel so if all I gave them was my oon homemade ointment." He takes up a little hand-labeled glass jar from the other side of the worktable and presents it to me, "Heer. Ef ye mus', use this'un."

I take it, smiling softly at him, and begin to apply a thin layer to the little burned spot, "Okay. But what I meant was, you used the stuff you don't like on the men, Jamie – if you can't stand it. . . how did you do that? Why did you do it?"

He shrugs, blandly, "Professionalism, I suppose."

His voice is dismissive. He clearly doesn't want to talk about it. I don't push the issue.

It takes a bit of finagling to do it with only one hand, but eventually I manage to fix a small plaster over the area, "There. Now, let's make you happy by getting me a meal, and make me happy by having you there when the shit hits the fan with Dougal." I put the little pot of salve back where he keeps it, then go to wash up. When I come back out, I plant my free hand on my hip, and look up at him, "Deal?"

"Aye. Thankee, lass." He kisses me on the lips, quickly but softly, and offers me his arm, "Let us go in tae tea, mo nighean." He links our arms together, and gestures us out of his workshop.

I haven't had tea in the dining room here yet. Lunch is usually a hasty meal in the kitchens, if the staff eat anything at all then, and it has no set time for us in the offices and outbuildings, for Mrs. Fitz usually sends us out in the morning with ample things to eat whenever we want. But tea is different. Often, it is the most substantial meal of the day, to the point that I've noticed most of the farm labourers don't even attend supper.

But weekends are special, and the dining room runs on a slightly different schedule, regardless. I know from Mrs. Fitz that a Saturday tea in the dining room will be served buffet-style, and will be fairly well varied, but nothing like supper last night. I expect a hearty meal enough, but probably somewhat lighter than Mrs. Fitz's standbys of macaroni pies, mince and skirlie, and clapshot.

I smile at the number of food terms I've had to absorb in so short a time here at Leoch. And I once thought tea with Lamb was a learning experience!

Jamie has kept me entertained on our way into the house with many funny tales of shinty games past – like the one time Edan performed a midair somersault to avoid a tackle, or when Jerry tripped over his own caman and landed face first into some horse apples. They are encouraging stories one and all, because it means I'm hardly the only one to have sustained an injury at a Leoch shinty match, and I certainly won't be the last. That I'm a woman and a was bystander instead of a player won't matter - "That time Wee Jamie ran into the Sassenach" will make a good story, I feel sure, for many generations of Leoch shinty players to come.

That the whole thing was Dougal's fault will be conveniently forgotten, of course.

The dining room is much less formally laid out that it was last time I was here. Instead of one long table and a High Table, there are eight smaller tables laid in a grid down the room. There is still one High Table set crosswise at the head of the room, but with the multiple lower tables, it loses something of its imperious presence. And of course the long side table with the food laid out on it encourages mingling, and conversation between the tables.

The more casual atmosphere carries over into what behaviour is acceptable, for Jamie and I walk right in, and go to the back of the buffet line without any ceremony at all.

I immediately see what Jamie meant about tea in the dining room being "for tourists", because not only is everything already pre-portioned into bowls and plates – the first time I've seen any kind of portion control since Leaving Skycity 15, in fact – but each dish is actually labeled. Little cardboard signs list ingredients and declare names like scotch eggs, sausage rolls, Cullen skink, cream of chicken stew, panakelty, stovies, and rumbledethumps. Over on the dessert table there are things called cranachan, fly cemeteries, and fern cakes. I smile, not just at the whimsical terms, but at the comforting feeling of not having to ask too many questions for once, even though the only thing I even vaguely recognize is the chicken stew.

Jamie helps me manage my plates and bowls, and we go and sit at one of the lower tables, close to where Murtagh, Harry, and several of the other men I met last night are sitting.

"Sae I see ye'ev already forgi'en oor wee Jamie fer slammin' inta ye sae hard?" Harry teases, as soon as we are comfortably seated.

I quirk my lips, and look at Jamie askance. The sexual overtones in Harry's voice and words are impossible to miss, and with what I am hoping will happen with Dougal in a few minutes in the forefront of my mind, I'm feeling remarkably mischievous.

"Yes," I say, saucily, more to Jamie than to Harry, "I mean what else could I do, really? No man has ever thrown himself at me like that before."

Jamie's eyes widen a bit before he joins in on the laughter around the table.

"Popp't yer knobbin' right oot a'joint, did he?" Harry drawls.

"Oh yes," I say, drily, "And put it back in again. Very effective."

Most of the table descends into helpless laughter at these exchanges, and I share another look with Jamie. He's far from unhappy with the direction the chatter has gone. He regards me from behind the large chunk of crusty bread he's holding, his eyes all warm and soft, their expression half flirty and half incredibly sweet. Then he breaks off a piece of the bread, and dunks it in his soup. He got the Cullen skink, the same as me. It's made with cream and fish and onions and leeks, and honestly, I've scarcely ever tasted anything so good.

I take up a fork to try a bit of potato from the panakelty, and while I'm there, a steal a bit of sausage from Jamie's nearby plate of stovies. He's about to teasingly slap my hand away when he suddenly stops, and looks back and forth between us several times.

"Tha's odd, Sassenach," he murmurs.

"What is?"

"Ye'er left-handed."

I look down at the fork I'm using so easily, without a trace of awkwardness, despite my right arm being all wrapped up in a sling.

"And so I am. What's odd about that?"

"Nothin'. It's only. . . I am too."

With mild surprise, I see his spoon is indeed in his left hand.

"Oh. So you are," I say, pleased, but far from shocked, "But there's not a lot odd about that, either. . ."

"Maybe no' the fact of it, no," he says, stirring his soup contemplatively before taking a bite, "Bu' when I'm around som'un else kippy-handed, I almost allus notice. Usually in the first few minutes. Tha' I have'nae done so wi' ye. . . tha's what's odd."

I nod, thoughtfully, because he's very right, "Yeah. I usually notice other leftys right away too, come to think of it. I guess our minds have been pretty focused on other things. . ."

"Aye. Tha' mus' be it. . ." he starts, and trails off, clearly unconvinced. He wrinkles up his forehead, and speaks downward, toward his soup, "But. . . et's almost as if we. . . we didnae need tae notice, mo chridhe. Like we kent it already. Like we've always kent it. Somehow."

I know it's hardly the time or place, but I am seriously considering broaching the subject of the waking dream we shared while on the dance floor last night, when there is a mild stir in the general conversation behind me. Jamie looks up, and I can tell by the look on his face that Dougal has entered the dining room.

I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale.

Here we go. . .

It takes all of my willpower not to turn around and stare at Dougal while he assembles his tea. I do glance quickly at Jamie, and the small nod he gives me tells me everything I need to know. Dougal is still wearing the boots, cap, and belted plaid he was during the shinty match, regardless of what he's been doing since.

Mechanically, I force myself to eat, my senses on such high alert that I barely taste the things that were so savoury and good mere moments ago. No matter. Dougal enters my peripheral vision, and I see him sit down at the High Table, his posture as casual as I have ever seen it get.

Perhaps he won't do it. . .

But no. Force of habit. He's sitting at a table, having a meal. He has to. It's the polite thing to do. . .

It is only a second or two, but it feels like a lifetime before he raises his hand to do what I knew he would do, and in exactly the way I've seen him do it several times now.

He raises his hand to remove his knitted woolen cap. He slides it off in a deliberate, subdued manner that always runs the cap's headband straight across the entire dome of his head. It's one of the first of his mannerisms I learned, and now, it's come back to bite him.

Dougal is perhaps the most confident and assured bald man I've ever met. There isn't a speck of shame in him regarding his hair, or the lack of it.

An attitude which amplifies his current state tenfold.

While that same woolen cap had sat alone on Jamie's office desk, I had applied the bit of charcoal I was still holding to the inside of headband, rubbing it into the cloth so it would leave dark smears wherever it made contact with the skin.

At the moment, Dougal looks like he is wearing a cheap, ineffective, utterly ridiculous hair piece. And given the way he habitually removes his cap, it also looks like a shockingly clumsy comb-over. In deep, coal black. On a man whose hair is a clean, respectable silver.

My first charcoal drawing. And it is one which I think Frank would be proud of. . .

It's such a stunning sight, it takes the room a good bit more than the fifteen seconds stipulated to fully absorb what it is seeing. Slowly, table by table, conversations stop, people cease eating, and look up and stare.

"Mhac na galla. . ." I hear Murtagh breathe, so stunned he falls back into the Gàidhlig.

Very quickly the room metaphorically shakes itself, and tries to get back to its interrupted meal, but the sight of the still-oblivious Dougal is there, and simply cannot be ignored. I hear first one, then two people stifle a wild laugh. In five, six more seconds, it will be pandemonium in here, Dougal's reputation forever shattered, and what little control over Leoch he ever had blasted to smithereens.

I desperately try not to smirk.

It's time to turn the tide. . .

I attempt to affect nonchalance. I'm unsure how well I do, but everyone is so baffled by what they're seeing, they probably aren't paying much attention to me.

Yet. . .

"Why is everyone staring?" I ask, I hope casually, "It's just soot. He probably picked it up while he was getting his horse out of the way of the fire.

Murtagh blinks, and comes back to himself, "Wha's that, lassie? Nae, couldnae be. He wasnae there in the stables wi' us fer that. Dinnae ken what he was doin'."

There are nods all around the table.

"But he was. I saw him. In the back stableyard. He was taking care of one horse in particular – dark brown, but with a light coloured mane. . ."

"Baroque?"

"If that's the horse's name, sure – he was spooked something awful. It took Dougal a hot minute to calm him down."

"Tha's Baroque right enough. . ." grunts Murtagh.

"Aye, an ye ken Baroque doesnae like caps," says Harry, "A'coorse he'd tek it off fer that."

I give a very brief glance at Jamie. His eyes twinkle brightly at me. It's going far better than either of us could have hoped for.

"Bu' how did the soot get inta it then?" asks Leo.

"Who knows?" says Harry, "Who cares? It was fer the horses, tha's what matters – an' the Sassenach says he was there."

"He talked wi' Marc after, I think," says Peter, "Mebbe it happened then."

Mebbe. . . mebbe. . . mebbe - the word flows and echoes around the room, followed by - But the Sassenach says. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach says. . .

All laughter has left the room. Now, all that remains is wonder, curiosity, and respect.

By this time Dougal has noticed the strange ebb and flow of conversations around the room, and is giving a sharply confused glance around. I very deliberately do not make eye contact with him yet.

A man in kitchen livery approaches the High Table then, and delivers a tray with a small pile of steaming hot, damp cloths. The man speaks in Dougal's ear, privately and urgently.

Dougal sits bolt upright, and grabs the top wet cloth so fast it would be comical if not for the stricken look that momentarily mars his features.

For a split second, I feel bad. This isn't how I wanted my relationship with Dougal to go. . .

But it's all for a good purpose, I remind myself. Besides, the die is cast. There is absolutely no going back now. . .

The moment Dougal's head is free of charcoal, the room reacts in perhaps the last way I expected.

They cheer.

It is, unsurprisingly, the last reaction that Dougal expected either, and after a wave of his hands and a bewildered sitting half-bow, he returns to his tea, ferociously stabbing at the food on his plate, more confused than I've ever seen him. Very gradually, I see the confusion subside, and a strange half-sneer appears on his lips. He's starting to suspect. . .

Then, and only then, do I turn my head to fully face him, allowing our eyes to lock.

His expression freezes, save for a barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes.

I give him a small, deliberate, even respectful incline of the head.

It's all he needs. He understands. Or, at least, he knows. We're at war, and I've just struck the first blow. But he doesn't understand what I've hit, or where I've hit it. Not yet.

He breaks eye contact with me, pushes his plate away, and folds his hands in front of his chin. His eyelids are lowered, but not closed.

He might be praying. But I know he isn't. I've just delivered the opening volley in an offensive he means to win. This is the look of a man fully determined to beat me, at my own game.

Here's to hoping Jamie and I can beat him at his first.

Speaking of Jamie, he gets up then, leaving his empty plates and bowls scattered around the table, and goes over to the buffet again. He returns with a plate heaped high with sausage rolls, and a small bowl with three fern cakes in it.

"Our supper, lass," he says, smiling, "Mos' like we willnae wantae break fer it. Best take it with us now."

"Sae ye have plan fer taenight then?" asks Murtagh, not at all subtly. He's asking if we're sleeping together, in everything but words.

"Aye," says Jamie, openly, "Claire's done me the great honour of agreein' tae have a game oor twa o'chess wi' me taenight.

Murtagh rolls his eyes, dismissively, "Och, ye an' yer chess. I might'ha knoon."

"Aye, ye might have, mo goistidh," he gestures with his head at me, "Weel, let's be going then, Sassenach."

I can't help but smile, and with a cheerful goodnight to everyone at our table, I follow Jamie out of the room.

We're halfway to my rooms before he speaks again.

"Sae it wasnae exactly true then, was it?"

"What wasn't?"

"That ye havenae played a game of chess in years. Tha' was one o' th'best matches I've evar seen, mo nighean, an' I was in Paris for Briggs vs. McCullough."

I blush a bit at his praise. It means an awful lot coming from him. "Thank you, Jamie," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "So you really think we can take him on?"

"Now I do, aye," he smiles, hungrily, "Ye wee lioness!"

I unlock the door to my rooms, and usher him in. He sets our supper on the low table in front of my favourite couch, and goes over to my shelves to find the box with the little wooden chess set. A moment later, and he's setting it up, deftly arranging the pawns and rooks and bishops.

"Soo. . ." he says, contemplatively, "The White Queen took the Red King's Knight, then?"

I smile, readying myself to be speaking in chess metaphors all evening. "No."

"No?"

"No. The White Queen's Castle took the Red Queen's Knight. And then the White Queen gave him back. Only the Red Queen's Knight knows he was captured at all."

He shakes his head, eying me teasingly, "Are ye shure ye ken how the game is played, Sassenach?"

"Of course I do. The game is played however the players say it is."

"Tha's no' chess," he snorts, "Tha's Double Cranko."

I have no idea what game that is, but I shrug nevertheless, "Whatever it takes."

He's been laughing at me, but suddenly he sobers up gravely.

"Aye," he nods, jaw jutting in a way I would not like to see set against me, "Whatever it takes, mo nighean."

Primarily, it takes several hours, some long debates, and much less actual chess playing than either of us wanted, but by the time midnight rolls around, we've hashed things out, and my vague, impulsive ideas have become a coherent, supportable battle plan, with Jamie backing me up one-hundred percent.

"What with all that's happened taeday, who would ha' thought that it would only be Step One, eh?" Jamie grins as he kisses me goodnight, "Be careful, mo nighean donn – 'tis a dangerous life ye lead."

"I know," I nod, and kiss him back. And I do know, all too well. "I will be."

I watch him out my door and down the hall, wanting desperately to tell him to be careful too, but knowing he also knows that, and suspecting he would appreciate my saying so unnecessarily just as much as I appreciated him chiding me for not eating.

I sigh, and go in to get ready for bed. He's quite right. It's been a much longer day than I expected it would be.

"Step One complete." I murmur to myself.

As I drift off to sleep, I am busily planning Step Two.

Goistidh – godfather

"O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn." - Oh yes, I love you, my brown-haired lass.