Caitlin nodded. “He sculpts, and you can imagine how encouraging his father was over that.”
“Even worse than with Rory’s musical instruments?”
“To Uncle Patrick, musical instruments had some use, and we Scots do like our music. But purely decorative sculptures? They were totally unacceptable.” She met Gregory’s eyes. “Hamish learned to keep his inner artist locked away. I’m hoping our last stop will break that lock and have him actively considering what he truly wants in life.”
He read her eyes, then nodded.
Hamish was walking back to them, a thoughtful expression on his face.
When he looked up, Caitlin smiled brightly and waved him out of the studio. “On to our last stop—the forge.”
They walked into the forge to find Henry bludgeoning a horseshoe. He saw them and grinned and plunged the shoe into a cooling bath. “That’s done, and I’m glad you’re here, Caitlin. We’ve run out of tacks for the Clydesdales. We need the longer ones.”
Caitlin introduced Hamish, and the two big men—much the same size—eyed each other for a moment, then both smiled and shook hands. Henry offered, “Always pleased to meet one of Caitlin’s family.”
Gregory exchanged a nod with Henry, then, leaving him and Caitlin discussing tacks, led Hamish deeper into the forge.
Blackie was shaping a new plowshare. He greeted Hamish with a cheery grin, showed him his work, then went back to it.
With Gregory, Hamish approached the third worker in the smithy, a fully aproned, gloved, and visored figure standing at an anvil set to one side of the forge, hammering a much finer piece of metal into an intricate shape.
The figure paused, grasped the complicated spiral with small tongs, and pushed back the visor—displaying a mane of copper-red hair.
Hamish jerked to a halt as he realized the figure was female. Then his gaze went to the piece that Madge, unaware of them, was holding up to the light, squinting as she examined her work for flaws, and as if the piece drew him and he couldn’t hold himself back, Hamish walked on.
Madge sensed someone approaching, glanced at Hamish, and smiled. “Hello. Who are you?”
Hamish nodded in greeting. “Hamish Fergusson.” He waved toward where Caitlin was still talking to Henry. “Caitlin’s cousin.”
Madge blinked and, still smiling, glanced briefly at Gregory, then switched her gaze back to Hamish. “She has more than one? Are you Rory’s brother?”
“Aye, there’s four of us, and she has other cousins, too.” Hamish studied Madge’s face, then switched his gaze to the metal she held. “What are you making?”
Madge sighed. “It’s part of an armillary sphere. A very large one.”
“Do you get much call for that sort of thing around here?”
“You’d be surprised. There are a good many country houses around about, and once a lady sees one of my spheres, well, she simply must have one for her garden as well.” Madge laid the piece on the anvil. “Unfortunately, each one wants something special, and that often translates to bigger.”
“May I?” Hamish gestured to the twisted metal limb.
“I think it’s cool enough, but do be careful.”
Madge watched as Hamish lifted the piece to eye level, then rotated it to view it from various angles.
From a pace away, Gregory watched, too, and Caitlin, having finished with Henry, joined him.
Hamish lowered the piece and pointed to a section. “That’s out by a few degrees. Will that make a difference to how it fits together?”
Madge reclaimed the piece, studied it minutely, then huffed. “Yes, it will. Thank you.” She looked up at Hamish. “You have a really excellent eye. Do you draw or sculpt, too?”
Hamish looked bashful. “A bit.” He hurriedly added, “But not with metal.”
“Oh?” Madge studied him. “With what, then?”
“Stone,” he mumbled.
Gregory glanced at Caitlin and saw her eyes light. He lowered his head and murmured in her ear, “Is this why the forge was last on our list?”
