Geordie attacked ye?”
“Aye, but my cats got to him first.”
He looked down at the cats flanking him. “I didnae let them out.”
“I ken it. Sweetling can open the door.” She smiled faintly. “He does so when something catches his interest. I kenned he couldnae open the garden gate, however.”
“Ah. I came hoping ye could show me the garden so many talk about, but when ye didnae appear after near half an hour, I decided to meander through it on my own. ’Tis weel laid out, and the wall that encircles it is a fine tall and stout one.”
She nodded and started to follow him as he resumed walking. “It took many years. Some was done by the Keith women, some by their husbands, and some in return for food when harvests were poor or destroyed.”
“And your harvests have ne’er been poor or your crop destroyed?” He paused by some blackberries growing near the wall and plucked a few ripe ones.
“My harvests have been hurt at times, but my garden is weel planned, the wall shields it from damaging winds as weel as from intruders, and I have plenty of water close at hand. We dinnae have large fields to protect, and o’er the years we have done all we can to protect what grows here. Some of the people have accepted our ways, if their own gardens are small or in one small area of the larger fields they plow and plant. At times, the fact that our garden still grows whilst others falter and fail has caused us trouble. ’Tis mostly good planning, its size, and ample water within these walls that makes it flourish.”
“And what makes it so, weel, comforting?” Adair moved so that Rose was standing between him and the trunk of an apple tree. “I should like to scorn its effect upon people, but I cannae. Nor can any others. ’Tis the one thing they all agree upon.”
That was a question Rose heartily wished he had not asked. She knew the food from her gardens did something other food did not, most people calling it a comforting, a soothing, even saying it gave them a sense of peace. Her mother had never truly explained that. Flora Keith had spoken of a blessing by the fairies and that, some day soon, she would tell Rose the whole tale. Sadly, death had stolen her mother’s chance to speak. Sir Adair was not a man who would accept talk of fairies, however.
“ ’Tis just good food, the fruit plump and sweet, the vegetables and grains hearty and strong. Nay more,” she said.
“I think ye believe there is more than that. I think ye believe there is magic in this garden, just as so many others do.”
“Ye think a great deal,” she muttered. “Mayhap ye need more work to do.”
Adair popped a blackberry into his mouth to halt the smile forming on his lips. He savored the softening that happened within, that continued blunting of the sharp edges of his dark memories. It was impossible to deny what food from Rose’s garden made him feel, but he did not want to attribute it to magic. Something in the water or even in the soil was causing it. That was his preferred explanation. Adair knew he would not cease to eat anything she allowed him to, for he ached for the calm the food gifted him with, the growing ability to look at the past with more understanding and acceptance.
“For now, my work is to discover why the food from this garden affects what people feel,” he said, stepping a little closer and placing his hands on the trunk of the tree to either side of her head.
“Why is that so important? It is what it is. It does what it does. It harms no one.”
“It harms you.”
“Nay, it—”
“It harms you. It causes talk, dangerous talk. Dark whispers of magic and witchcraft.”
“Not everyone thinks such things.”
“Not now, but we both ken that, at times, such whispers have gained strength, roused the people, and put the Keith women in danger. I want the whispers stopped. I dislike the thought that I might be dragged from my bed some night because some fools have gotten themselves all
“Aye, but my cats got to him first.”
He looked down at the cats flanking him. “I didnae let them out.”
“I ken it. Sweetling can open the door.” She smiled faintly. “He does so when something catches his interest. I kenned he couldnae open the garden gate, however.”
“Ah. I came hoping ye could show me the garden so many talk about, but when ye didnae appear after near half an hour, I decided to meander through it on my own. ’Tis weel laid out, and the wall that encircles it is a fine tall and stout one.”
She nodded and started to follow him as he resumed walking. “It took many years. Some was done by the Keith women, some by their husbands, and some in return for food when harvests were poor or destroyed.”
“And your harvests have ne’er been poor or your crop destroyed?” He paused by some blackberries growing near the wall and plucked a few ripe ones.
“My harvests have been hurt at times, but my garden is weel planned, the wall shields it from damaging winds as weel as from intruders, and I have plenty of water close at hand. We dinnae have large fields to protect, and o’er the years we have done all we can to protect what grows here. Some of the people have accepted our ways, if their own gardens are small or in one small area of the larger fields they plow and plant. At times, the fact that our garden still grows whilst others falter and fail has caused us trouble. ’Tis mostly good planning, its size, and ample water within these walls that makes it flourish.”
“And what makes it so, weel, comforting?” Adair moved so that Rose was standing between him and the trunk of an apple tree. “I should like to scorn its effect upon people, but I cannae. Nor can any others. ’Tis the one thing they all agree upon.”
That was a question Rose heartily wished he had not asked. She knew the food from her gardens did something other food did not, most people calling it a comforting, a soothing, even saying it gave them a sense of peace. Her mother had never truly explained that. Flora Keith had spoken of a blessing by the fairies and that, some day soon, she would tell Rose the whole tale. Sadly, death had stolen her mother’s chance to speak. Sir Adair was not a man who would accept talk of fairies, however.
“ ’Tis just good food, the fruit plump and sweet, the vegetables and grains hearty and strong. Nay more,” she said.
“I think ye believe there is more than that. I think ye believe there is magic in this garden, just as so many others do.”
“Ye think a great deal,” she muttered. “Mayhap ye need more work to do.”
Adair popped a blackberry into his mouth to halt the smile forming on his lips. He savored the softening that happened within, that continued blunting of the sharp edges of his dark memories. It was impossible to deny what food from Rose’s garden made him feel, but he did not want to attribute it to magic. Something in the water or even in the soil was causing it. That was his preferred explanation. Adair knew he would not cease to eat anything she allowed him to, for he ached for the calm the food gifted him with, the growing ability to look at the past with more understanding and acceptance.
“For now, my work is to discover why the food from this garden affects what people feel,” he said, stepping a little closer and placing his hands on the trunk of the tree to either side of her head.
“Why is that so important? It is what it is. It does what it does. It harms no one.”
“It harms you.”
“Nay, it—”
“It harms you. It causes talk, dangerous talk. Dark whispers of magic and witchcraft.”
“Not everyone thinks such things.”
“Not now, but we both ken that, at times, such whispers have gained strength, roused the people, and put the Keith women in danger. I want the whispers stopped. I dislike the thought that I might be dragged from my bed some night because some fools have gotten themselves all
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