Page 20

Chapter 4

Jamie

Glenbrae, Scotland

1786

The whisky tasted different. Jamie took another sip while the men worked around him. It wasna the same as the last run, the difference sat on his tongue clearly enough to bother him.

Most men in the glen would have tasted it and pronounced it fine as they reached for another cup without complaint. But the sweetness from the previous run had faded, and the finish, which should have lingered with grain and smoke after the first heat passed, disappeared too quickly.

The low room had been stifling since dawn, with steam clouding the single small window and their linen shirts sticking to their backs. The copper pot still occupied most of one wall, darkened around its belly from years of flame and bright along the neck where countless hands had polished it smooth. Buckets crowded the floor beside sacks of malted barley, and the tub against the wall needed fresh cold water often enough to keep two men moving back and forth between it and the burn.

No one stood idle for long, Alasdair certainly didna. He’d spent most of the morning praising the barley, which was nothing unusual, as he’d been making whisky for longer than Jamie had been trusted to hold a knife. In Alasdair’s opinion, every good run proved that he alone had selected the best grain, while every poor run revealed some failure committed by the weather, water, cooper, farmer, apprentice, or Providence.

Alasdair looked over. “You’ve been frowning at that cup long enough to sour it.”

Jamie looked over. “I’m thinking.”

“That explains the trouble.”

Ewan laughed from beside the mash tub.

“Where did ye draw the water?” Jamie finally asked.

Alasdair’s hands slowed. “From the burn.”

“Which one?”

“The upper.”

That had to be it. Jamie set the cup down on the worktable.

“Was the spring was slow?”

“Aye.”

He thought for a moment, trying to make sure of what he’d tasted. “It was slow yesterday as well.”

Alasdair scratched at his cheek. “And today the burn was running fine.”

Jamie glanced toward the wall as though he might somehow see through two feet of stone to the hillside beyond.

“After two days of rain.”

Fergus, the youngest of the men working the mash, became deeply interested in whatever was happening inside the tub. Ewan leaned one shoulder against the wall with the expression of a man who was waiting for the entertainment to begin.

Alasdair folded his arms over his chest. “The water is the same as always.”

Jamie looked back at him. “Aye.” He took another sip as Alasdair waited.

The old man’s beard was mostly white now, though his shoulders were still broad and his hands were strong. Jamie had learned half of what he knew in this room from Alasdair, who had taught him by correction, insult, demonstration, and occasionally letting him make a mistake large enough that he never repeated it again.

“And yet,” Jamie said at last, “the taste has changed.”

“The barley could be different.”

“You’ve spent the morning telling us the barley is perfect.”