Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“For you? Now?”
“Yeah, why not? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
I know I’m being a little pushy but I’m curious; anyway, he said the day was mine.
He thinks for a second, then goes to the door and looks out at his garden. He picks rosemary and lemon balm and brings them in and sets them on the wooden table. He goes to a stone larder room I had not seen and comes out with butter and a small piece of cheese wrapped in linen and a loaf of bread that he says he baked two days ago—he fucking bakes—setting all of it on the table and standing back as if to say, tada.
“Bread and cheese?” I ask, trying not to offend.
“Aye. With the herbs.”
It’s not exactly cooking.
“You know I can also make myself bread and cheese.”
“I’m sure you can. But I’m going to make you bread and cheese the way I would make myself bread and cheese. Sit.”
I sit on the bench at the wooden table and watch.
He toasts the bread over the fire on a long iron fork, browning each slice slow, then cuts the cheese into careful slices with a knife so old the handle is worn to fit his palm. He puts the lemon balm on the back of the hot bread and layers the cheese on top until it melts slightly, then adds sprigs of rosemary on top. He puts the small open sandwiches on a rustic glazed plate and sets it in front of me. Then he uncorks a small bottle of amber liquid and pours it into two tiny crystal glasses. Then he sits across from me on the bench and watches me eat.
The bread is incredible. So is the cheese, with a subtle smokiness. The rosemary is the right amount, and the lemon balm leaf he has tucked under one slice is the small bright note that makes the rest of it come together.
“Oh, hell, this is good,” I say, trying not to moan.
“It is.”
“No. This is literally the best bread and cheese I have ever had in my life.”
“Aye, foxglove. I know. Your face doesn’t hide much.”
True that. I eat the second piece slower because I want to savor it. He watches me eat and has a sip of his drink.
I do the same and I’m in for another surprise. The sweet tang of honey hits my lips, exploding on my tongue.
“Mead,” he explains, seeing my wide eyes. “Wine the way we do in the Highlands. Comes from heather honey. Very good. Might give you a headache if you’re not too careful though.”
It’s too late for that; I’ve already downed the heady liquor. He promptly refills the small glass.
“So, Iris. Tell me what you’ve been doing today.” He asks this like he’s genuinely curious, and is not just saying it to be polite and make conversation. By now I can tell he’s never one to talk for the hell of it.
“I drew sage,” I say before I take another bite of the bread. “Two studies. The first one was bad. The second one was less bad.”
“Will you show me, one day?”
“If you want. I mean, you’ve already seen my sketches on the kitchen table.”
“I meant, I want you to show me how you work. I want to see all of what you make, Iris.”
“Alright,” I agree shyly. “But I think we need to continue the tour.”
The afternoon goes along with certain ease. He shows me other rooms. A small chapel that has not been used as a chapel in a long time, the altar gone, but the cracked stained glass still in the windows, casting blue and red on the flagstone floor. A music room with an old piano, and a harp and bagpipes in the corner that he tells me he has not played in years—and I’m unsure if he meant the bagpipes or the harp. A small study with yet another fireplace and a polished desk stacked with books and papers, maybe the most chaotic part of the castle so far, and one room that seems recently used. I wonder what kind of work Alasdair does at the desk. I don’t see a computer in sight. Actually, I haven’t seen any technology at all.
By late afternoon, we are back in the main room with the tapestries and hearth. He pours me whisky now because the mead is finished, and we sit in the leather chairs across from each other as talk about this and that. Plants. The loch. The books he has read recently. Everything he says, every piece of information about himself he offers me, I take it like I’m starving, eating every piece of him up.
He tells me a story about a winter when there was so much snow he couldn’t leave the castle for days. He tells me about a fox that lives in the wall on the east side of the keep that I will probably see if I come often enough (though I really hope it’s not missing a jawbone). He tells me about the loch in October, when the light goes copper-bronze and the herons come down to fish before the season turns, and how he thinks it’s the most stunning time of year.