Hes all right, Roger told her.
Well, good, she said, not particularly mollified. What do you think theyve been drinking? Beer?
Roger leaned forward and sniffed at his offsprings red-stained lips.
Cherry Bounce, at a guess. Theres a vat of it, round by the barn.
Holy God! Shed never drunk Cherry Bounce, but Mrs. Bug had told her how to make it: Tak the juice of a bushel o cherries, dissolve twenty-four pound o sugar ower it, then ye put it into a forty-gallon cask and fill it up wi whisky.
Hes all right. Roger patted her arm. Is that Germain over there?
It is. She leaned over to check, but Germain was peacefully asleep, also smiling. That Cherry Bounce must be good stuff.
Roger laughed.
Its terrible. Like industrial-strength cough syrup. I will say it makes ye very cheerful, though.
Have you been drinking it? She eyed him narrowly, but his lips appeared to be their usual color.
Of course not. He leaned over and kissed her, to prove it. Surely ye dinna think a Scotsman like Ronnie would deal wi disappointment by drinking Cherry Bounce? When theres decent whisky to hand?
True, she said. She glanced at the cooperage. The faint glow from the hearth fire had faded and the outline of the door had disappeared, leaving the building no more than a faint rectangle of black against the darker mass of the forest beyond. How is Ronnie dealing with it? She glanced round, but Inga and Hilda had taken themselves off to help Frau Ute; all of them were clustered round the food table, clearing things away.
Oh, hes all right, Ronnie. Roger moved Jemmy off his lap, placing him gently on his side in the straw near Germain. He wasna in love with Senga, after all. Hes suffering from sexual frustration, not a broken heart.
Oh, well, if thats all, she said dryly. He wont have to suffer much longer; Im informed that Frau Ute has the matter well in hand.
Aye, shes told him shell find him a wife. Hes what ye might call philosophical about the matter. Though still reeking wi lust, he added, wrinkling his nose.
Ew. Do you want anything to eat? She glanced at the little boys, getting her feet under her. Id better get you something before Ute and the girls clear it all away.
Roger yawned, suddenly and immensely.
No, Im all right. He blinked, smiling sleepily at her. Ill go tell Fergus where Germain is, maybe snatch a bite on the way. He patted her shoulder, then stood up, swaying only a little, and moved off toward the fire.
She checked the boys again; both were breathing deeply and regularly, dead to the world. With a sigh, she bundled them close together, piling up the straw around them, and covered them with her cloak. It was growing colder, but winter had gone; there was no feel of frost in the air.
The party was still going on, but it had shifted to a lower gear. The dancing had stopped and the crowd broken up into smaller groups, men gathered in a circle near the fire, lighting their pipes, the younger men disappeared somewhere. All around her, families were settling in for the night, making nests for themselves in the hay. Some were in the house, more in the barn; she could hear the sound of a guitar from somewhere behind the house, and a single voice, singing something slow and wistful. It made her yearn suddenly for the sound of Rogers voice as it had been, rich and tender.
Thinking of that, though, she realized something; his voice had been much better when he came back from consoling Ronnie. Still husky and with only a shadow of its former resonancebut it had come easily, without that choked note in it. Perhaps alcohol relaxed the vocal cords?
More likely, she thought, it simply relaxed Roger; removed some of his inhibitions about the way he sounded. That was worth knowing. Her mother had opined that his voice would improve, if he would stretch it, work with it, but he was shy of using it, wary of painwhether from the actual sensation of speaking, or from the contrast with the way he had sounded before.
So maybe Ill make a little Cherry Bounce, she said aloud. Then she looked at the two small forms slumbering in the hay, and contemplated the prospect of waking up alongside three hangovers, come morning. Well, maybe not.
She bunched up enough hay for a pillow, spread her folded kerchief over ittheyd be picking hay out of their clothes most of tomorrowand lay down, curling her body round Jems. If either boy stirred or vomited in his sleep, shed feel it and rouse.
The bonfire had burned down; only a ragged fringe of flames now flickered over the bed of glowing embers, and the lanterns set around the yard had all gone out or been thriftily extinguished. Guitar and singer had ceased. Without light and noise to keep it at bay, the night came in, spreading wings of cold silence over the mountain. The stars burned bright above, but they were pinpricks, millennia away. She closed her eyes against the immensity of the night, bowing to put her lips against Jems head, cradling his warmth.
She tried to compose her mind for sleep, but without the distractions of company, and with the scent of burning timber strong in the air, memory stole back, and her normal prayers of blessing became pleas for mercy and protection.