Mrs. Bug, Ellen, and Mama carry the pizzas to the table, the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and toasted crust drifting through the room like a promise. Ellen pulls out her Swiss Army knife with a triumphant grin.
"This should do the job since we don't have a pizza cutter." She says, flipping out the blade and getting to work slicing the first pie into eight even pieces.
Brian presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. Around the table, the Bugs, Fergus, Marsali, and Da lean forward with wide-eyed fascination, murmuring quiet "oohs" and "aahs" as if Ellen's performing a magic trick. Who knew pizza would be such a spectacle?
It had been Ellen's idea. She'd declared she missed pizza and wanted to try making some—well, the closest thing they could come up with in this century. Brian and Roger had backed her immediately. What followed was a sort of summit around the kitchen table—Ellen, Roger, Mama, and himself—hashing out how to recreate the dish with what they had. Sheep's milk cheese makes the cut, since it melts better than the hard wheels they usually keep on hand.
Da had stood nearby during the planning, trying to make sense of it all. He'd repeated the word "pizza" a few times, suspiciously, and it had come out sounding like "peesa." Brian nearly choked laughing—almost as good as Da's attempts at "gerrrms" and "murrrrderr."
Fortunately, they grow their own tomatoes, basil, and garlic—the last of which Mama mostly uses in her surgery, but she's willing to spare a few cloves. Da and Brian had gone up to the distillery earlier in the day and rolled down a barrel of cider they'd made a few weeks ago to pair with the meal. Ellen takes charge of the crust, while Mama gathers the rest of the ingredients. It had come together better than any of them expected.
Brian's glad to be part of it. Since that first breakthrough with Roger and Ellen, he's been slowly making small progressions in speaking with his parents too. His throat is still sore, and some days his voice gives out entirely, but he's talking again—carefully, quietly. Marsali has been particularly relieved and vigilant, often stepping in to remind others not to push him too hard. Brian knows it's because she's afraid—afraid he'll backslide again, disappear back into silence and it'll be all her fault. She doesn't say that out loud, but he feels it in her carefulness.
Roger has been steady as ever—never reacting with pity, never flinching at the rasp in Brian's voice. Just listening. That alone makes it easier to keep trying. With less pressure from the rest of the family, and Roger's unwavering presence beside him, Brian feels like he's finally got both feet under him again.
He's even agreed to go survey the land grant—5,000 acres adjacent to Fraser's Ridge. He and Roger have gone out with stakes and rope, measuring distances, and marking boundaries. Brian still doesn't see the point of it—not like he has a family of his own—but Ellen had shrugged and said, "You might as well do it." And she's right. He might as well.
Tonight, it's a full house: Da, Mama, Ellen, Roger, Fergus, Marsali, the children, and the Bugs. They've made at least five big pizzas to feed everyone, and judging by how fast the slices are disappearing, they probably could've used a sixth.
Mama takes a too-big bite and nearly chokes, laughing as she fans her mouth from the heat. Da, cautious as ever, nibbles the tiniest bite Brian has ever seen, then nods in satisfaction and finishes two full slices in quick succession.
They eat and drink until nothing's left but crumbs and oil-streaked wooden plates. Pizza has clearly won the Ridge over—Brian's sure this won't be the last time they make it.
Everyone has a glass of cider in front of them, the golden liquid catching the firelight. The children have milk, of course—though Brian's caught Da letting them sneak sips of cider more than once. Da never seems to think it's a big deal, even when Mama scolds him.
As the meal winds down, Fergus leans toward Roger, launching into a bawdy ballad he picked up during his street-rat years in Paris. The women drift to the hearth, arms full of baby gowns, wool, and knitting needles. Marsali's suspected third pregnancy and Lizzie's recent engagement mean birth stories are flying—some funny, some outright terrifying.
There's other good news, too: Jenny has finally replied to Da's many letters. For months, ever since Ian had joined the Mohawks in Roger's stead, Jenny has steadfastly refused to communicate with her brother. The silence from his Aunt is always defined by the fact that Uncle Ian's sporadic missives with additional notes from Young Jamie and then a line from Maggie, Kitty, Michael, or Janet. But the silence from Jenny is so deafening as to drown out all other communications.
It pained Brian to see him carry that guilt day after day. The guilt of Ian's disappearance had been gnawing at him already, but Jenny's silence made it worse. She is closer to him, more important to him, than anyone in the world—save, perhaps, Mama. She has shared his heart and soul since the day he was born—until the day he lost her youngest son. Or so she plainly saw it.
Brian had tried to understand that. And he does. But he still couldn't help but feel some small resentment toward his Aunt. Ian isn't dead—not so far as they know. She alone could absolve Da, and surely she must've known it.
Brian doesn't know what the letter said, but he notes a difference in his Da, a shift so subtle he hadn't realised it was missing until it returned. Lighter shoulders. Quicker laugh. A kind of stillness behind his eyes. He wonders if the news they'd received from Ian the previous fall had anything to do with Jenny's apparent forgiveness.
Through the agency of John Quincy Myers, they had received a ratty paper letter written in clumsy Latin—one Brian couldn't hope to understand. But it gave them the only concrete evidence they had that Young Ian was still alive and well. The letter assured them he was safe. Happy. Married "in the Mohawk fashion" (which Brian assumed meant he shared her house, bed, and hearth, and she let him). Ian was expected to become a father "in the spring." And that was all.
Spring had come and gone with no further word. Brian knows Da has kept the note. To give it up would've been, in some final way, to relinquish him to the Mohawk. Ian isn't dead, but he was the next thing to it. The chances of them ever seeing him again are remote. Still, it is something.
The night ends in a roar of laughter as Fergus belts out the full version of the prostitute's ballad, arms stretched wide like he's on a stage. Da and Germain keep time on the table, pounding out the rhythm with their hands.
It's loud. It's warm. It's chaotic. And for the first time in a long time, Brian feels like he belongs in the middle of it.
—
A/N: So, I just want to let everyone know that Ian will be turning up later like in the books rather than in the TV show so they'll be a couple of things that Ian was involved in that will be happening without him.