Aingeal stood in the doorway with Donal beside her. “Do you think it will hold?” she asked.
“The grain or Nessa’s temper?”
She glanced at him.
For once, he looked almost innocent.
“The grain,” she said.
“Some of it.”
“You are a poor liar when the matter is barley.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I save my skill for grander subjects.”
The words were light enough to pass as humor, but both of them felt the shadow beneath them.
Aingeal’s smile faded.
Donal saw it happen and looked away first.
A boy darted past with an empty basket. Nessa shouted after him to slow down before he scattered more grain than he saved. The ordinary noise of work filled the doorway between them.
Aingeal drew in a breath and chose the safer ground of action. “The farmers will remember this.”
“They will remember that you replaced their loss.”
“They will remember that you saw the answer before any of us.”
“No.” His voice was quiet now. “They will remember that when they accused you, you did not punish them for fear.”
Outside, thunder rolled low beyond the ridge.
Tomas appeared at the far end of the passage, moving quickly. His expression had lost all irritation and kept only concern. “Aingeal.”
“What is it?”
“A trader from the south is in the lower hall. Rathmore, he says. He brought wax and salt from the road markets.”
Aingeal felt it before she saw it: the sudden change in Donal, the way breath and body seemed to withdraw without moving. She turned slightly. “Rathmore?”
Tomas’s gaze moved from her to Donal. “So he claims.”
The brewhouse noise continued behind them. Boys turning grain. Nessa scolding. Fire breathing low in the hearth.
“Bring him,” Aingeal said.
The trader was a narrow man with a weather-burned face and three bolts of cheap wool under one arm. He bowed low to Aingeal first. Then he looked at Donal and hesitated. “Lord O’Raida,” he said. “You are far north.”
“I am where duty brings me,” Donal answered.
“Aye.” The trader’s eyes moved to the ring on Donal’s hand. “I dealt more often with your steward than with you, my lord, but your aunt Orla never let a man leave Rathmore without hearingher opinion of the roads. She would have cursed the roads for bringing you through such weather.”
Aingeal felt Tomas go very still beside her.
Donal’s face changed by no more than a breath. “She was fond of cursing roads.”
The trader frowned. “Was, my lord?”
