A/N: Thank you to everyone who has followed and favourited this story.
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Brian sits at the desk, brow furrowed as he tries to focus on the papers before him. The numbers swim together in a haze, meaningless and distant. His parents, Mama and Da, have been trying to distract him from the horrors in his mind with these mundane tasks, but it's not working. His thoughts are a tangled mess, and no amount of ledgers or trade goods can untangle them. Still, he focuses on the task at hand, his eyes skimming over the details of their trade plans with the Cherokee, where they trade spare honey for sunflower oil. Mama's soap and shampoo-making plans—one where the soap and shampoo they use is no longer smelling like a dead pig soaked in lye—no more hands reeking of dead pig fat!—but sunflower oil or olive oil in place of suet—though both very expensive.
It's a plan—a plan where the soap and shampoo will, hopefully, in turn, excellent prices—Da is unsure about given it'll take months to come to fruition, if they can dispose of honey for immediate profit and if he sees for sure that the soap and shampoo will bring much more than the raw honey, though, there will be no difficulty in getting her way.
The immediate financial demands aren't going to wait ten years. Beyond the possibility of a gunsmith's shop for Manfred McGillivray and a modest dowry for Lizzie, there are the normal expenses of farming, livestock maintenance, and an ambitious plan to provide ploughshares to every tenant, many of whom are still tilling by hand.
And beyond their own expenses, there is one very burdensome obligation. Laoghaire. She isn't precisely an ex-wife, but she isn't precisely not an ex-wife, either. Generous to a fault, though, Da has agreed to pay a large sum to her in annual maintenance, plus a dowry to each of her daughters. Marsali's dowry is being paid gradually, in land and whisky, and there is no news of Joan's (his other sort of step-sister/sister-in-law—does it count when it's his brother and her sister?) impending marriage. But the money to keep Laoghaire in whatever style she keeps in Scotland is falling due—and they don't have it.
Brian sets the ledger aside for a moment and rubs his eyes. The task, the numbers, even the trade goods—none of it seems to make the weight in his chest any lighter. Alone with his thoughts, Brian feels a deep sense of shame about his voice, unused for so long, and the overwhelming attention it brought. And now with the dealt card, can he go back? Or is he permanently changed?
It's hard, so damn hard, to focus when his mind keeps slipping back to what happened with Marsali and the cards. It had taken a few days and a talk with Roger before Ellen had calmed down and was no longer hashing out with Marsali. His poor sister-in-law has been trying to make amends by offering her opinions and help with finances and his building projects, to offering to let Brian name the baby that's expected to come in late spring next year. Thankfully, everyone has pulled her away from him every time she's tried to 'help'. He doesn't blame her, truly, but he'd rather not confront it now.
The sun outside has set to a burning glow beyond the chestnut trees, and he can hear the noise of women and children in the kitchen; Mrs. Bug is starting to lay the supper, helped by Ellen and Marsali.
"Do you think he's… all right?" Ellen's voice carries through the crack of the door, just loud enough for Brian to hear. "Da, it's been days, and he's barely said anything since or at all."
Brian closes his eyes, wishing he could block it out, but it is impossible. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, trying to focus on the papers again. But the voices from the hall keep intruding. They are talking about him.
Brian doesn't hear what his Da says, but he knows what he's thinking—what everyone in his family is thinking. It lingers in the air—the expectation that he'll speak again, that he'll heal.
He hasn't wanted to speak, hasn't wanted to disappoint them with the weakness of his tone. Their relief, their smiles, their praise—they all mean well. But that card game with Marsali just reminded him of how his voice sounds thin, and fragile, as though it isn't truly his. He hates the way it feels, the weakness in the sound. He can't bear it. He recalls how happy and good he felt when he spoke with Inga for the first time and wishes he could go back to that instead of this deepening shame.
Brian's lips part, but the words don't come easily. His throat feels tight as if the muscles have forgotten what it's like to speak. "Y–you... d–damn fool." He mutters weakly, the words rasping as they leave his lips.
The soft padding of paws on the floor draws him from his thoughts. Adso, the cat, wanders into the room, tail twitching with mischief. He drops a half-chewed dragonfly at Brian's feet, looking up at him with wide, expectant green eyes. It's as though the cat is offering him a gift, though it's hard to tell if the offering is meant to comfort or entertain.
"Thank... you." He whispers again to the cat. It's barely audible, the sound of it is more felt than heard. Adso, however, doesn't seem to mind. Other than Keziah, the cat is the only one who never judges. He simply blinks and nuzzles against Brian's leg, purring softly—steady, soothing, without any expectation. There's no need to explain himself to the cat. No need to speak at all. Adso simply accepts him as he is.
He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his hand, trying to steady himself. He startles when Adso leaps up onto the desk, knocking over a stack of papers in his quest for more hors d'oeuvres. Brian winces as the papers scatter, grasping the inkwell protectively, but the distraction is welcome. For a brief moment, his mind is away from the crushing weight of his own trauma, the lingering fear of his own voice. Deprived of prey, Adso strolls to the edge of the desk and sits on the stack of letters, tail waving gently as he pretends to admire the view. Brian lets out a croaky laugh at the cat's attitude.
"N–no." "N–no." He pokes at Adso with the sharp end of his quill. Adso's big green eyes widen as they fix on the tip of the moving feather. He twiddles the quill tantalisingly, and Adso makes an abortive swipe at it with one paw.
Knowing mayhem could ensue, he reaches out, lifting the cat from the desk and cradling him in his arms. Also, lets out a surprised and indignant mirp! of protest before he nestles into Brian's chest, purring loudly. Brian lets out a quiet, shaky breath, his hand absentmindedly stroking the cat's fur. With Adso curled in his arms, Brian doesn't need to force the words unless he wants to. And he does really. Just needs some confidence. And no help from Marsali.
"M–maybe," he whispers to the empty room, his voice raw and unsteady, "Maybe tomorrow w–will be better."
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