Rose Sutherland

and then Jo would catch Jean’s feet between her own to warm them up.

Jean could be outside hanging laundry to dry, and the fox would be rolling around in the dust of the road not ten feet away, neither minding the other at all. It felt companionable.

Jean could be outside hanging laundry to dry, and the fox would be rolling around in the dust of the road not ten feet away, neither minding the other at all. It felt companionable.

Jean could be outside hanging laundry to dry, and the fox would be rolling around in the dust of the road not ten feet away, neither minding the other at all. It felt companionable.

The back of her hand tingled, as though Muirin’s touch had left behind a ghostly echo of itself, and Jean rubbed it as if it were a smear of ash that could be erased, wiped away with a wet thumb.

Funny how the sea could do that, wear off all of a thing’s too-sharp edges. Jean wondered how long she would have to be rolled about in the waves to smooth out her own.

“I think I managed to put some cheer back into her.” Jean couldn’t help the cheeky lift of her chin as she added: “You were right, Tobias. I didn’t need so many words.”

She rather hoped they’d heard the rumor Laurie’d told her, about her being a witch, and were waiting to see if she’d explode at the first mention of Our Lord and Savior.

“He’s jealous? Because you don’t smile for him? And you played him, for a trip to visit me—Muirin, you’re too much!”