"Stir," Mother commands, bristling at my distracted, lazy efforts. "More briskly."
Mother's ale is the best in the county. The best, Da says, in the whole of the country.
"Why do the royals not take the ale?" I ask.
Mother's head shoots up as she glares at me. "Don't be daft. You know the royals drink wine brought in. Stir."
If Mother suspects I disappear at night to be the prince's servant of pleasure, she never lets on. But Mary watches me from across the room. She's always been a light sleeper.
Liam comes into the ale house, delivering malt, picking up yeast. He is tall, and broad, with hands as large as my head. His dark eyes always smile.
A sword presses into my heart when he looks at me and nods in a sweet sort of acknowledgement. Mother and Da go still, watching. Mary turns to the fire, exhaling a deliberately long breath.
"Good morning sir," Liam says to Da, and then nods to Mother. "Ma'am."
He ducks out of the building and Da turns to Mother, his proud smile spread across his face.