Page 27 of The Highland Ghost’s Virgin

"I heard fabric," Isobel announced. "I am nae missing fabric."

"Ye werenae invited," Greer said, without looking up.

"I invited meself. It's more efficient." Isobel reached across the table and plucked up a swatch of deep russet wool, holding it against Grisselle's hair. "Oh, that's good. That's very good. Greer, look at that against her coloring."

"I have eyes, Isobel. I already saw it."

"Well, I wanted to see it too." Isobel set the swatch down, satisfied, and reached for the next one. "What's this, then? The clan colors?"

"Herston plaid, aye. Ye'll want it somewhere in the dress, even if it's only the sash. The clan expects it."

"I don't know the first thing about what the clan expects," Grisselle admitted.

"Then it's fortunate ye have the two of us," Isobel said cheerfully. "First rule, never let old Fergus MacKay anywhere near the whisky before the vows are said. Second wedding I've been to where he got into it early, and he wept through the entire ceremony and then proposed to the officiant."

"He did not."

"He absolutely did. The poor man had to explain, in front of God and half the parish, that he was already married." Isobel grinned at the memory. "Fergus doesnae remember any of it, which is possibly for the best."

Greer made a small, disapproving noise that wasn't quite a denial. "The man's harmless. Just keep the good whisky locked until after the vows, same as always, and he'll behave himself well enough."

"What about food?" Grisselle asked, partly to steer the conversation somewhere she might actually be useful, partly because she was curious. "What does the clan expect there?"

"Venison, for certain," Greer said. "And plenty of it. A wedding with thin meat is a wedding folk talk about for the wrong reasons. We'll want the whole hog as well, and bannocks enough to feed twice the guests we're expecting, because half of them will bring cousins nobody invited."

"That seems needlessly complicated."

"It's Highland hospitality, Grisselle. Complicated is the whole point." Isobel reached for an oatcake from the tray Greer had apparently brought along for exactly this purpose, taking a bite before continuing. "Also, absolutely no fish. Nae one course, nae even a garnish."

Grisselle blinked. "Why not?"

"Bad luck," Greer said, entirely serious. "A Herston bride served fish at her own wedding three generations back, and the groom drowned inside the year."

"That seems like an enormous coincidence to build an entire rule around."

"Aye, well, ye're welcome to test it," Greer said, "though I'd advise against it, given who ye're marrying."

Grisselle set down the swatch she'd been holding. "Point taken. No fish."

"Now." Isobel dusted the crumbs from her fingers and reached for a fresh sheet of paper, apparently having appointed herself the keeper of the guest list. "We'll need the MacKays, obviously, and the Frasers from the glen, and Father Iain, and…" she paused, pen hovering, "do we invite the MacCarrons?"

The table went briefly quiet.

"That's a question for yer brother," Greer said carefully.

"Me brother willnae answer it. He'll grunt at me and walk away, same as he does with every question that requires him to think about something other than the sea."

"Then leave it for now," Greer said. "There's time yet to sort out who we're feuding with this season."

"We're always feuding with the MacCarrons. It's practically a hobby at this point." Isobel wrote something down regardless, though Grisselle couldn't see what. "Right. Flowers, then. Grisselle, what do ye want?"

"I hadn't thought that far."

"Well, think now. It's yer wedding."

Grisselle considered it, turning a swatch of pale blue linen over in her hands. "Something simple. I don't need an armful of hothouse roses shipped in from England to feel married."

"Good," Greer said, with evident relief. "Because ye'd be waiting until spring for hothouse roses, and I doubt the Laird has that kind of patience once he's finally set a date."