His English waistcoat was a startling contrast to the blood colored mantle, leather gloves and mask, and deep red boots. Fearchar blinked, dumbfounded, the skin on the back of his neck crawling.
“Eoin! Guid mornin’!” Widow Magaidh waved the man in. Fearchar followed the cloaked person’s movements warily. The masked figure flowed across the floor, confidence in his shoulders. Whoever he was, he did not stoop like the little old men of the villages who claimed to cure the people’s ailments. He was lean, and though his frame did not take up much space, his presence made him fill the room. Fearchar heart tried to escape his throat.
Eoin’s hands motioned across his mask. “‘ ‘ullo to y’too,” Widow Magaidh beamed, mimicking the movement back. Eoin slipped into a chair between Widow Magaidh and Fearchar. He smelled of exotic herbs, dry heat, and leather. The cloak was worked to a soft hand. The man had to be absolutely boiling surmised Fearchar. The heady scent eased his nerves though. “T’is Fearchar a’ the MhicFhionghain clan. ‘e’s the grandson of my sister’s friend Rut, Eoin,” Widow Magaidh made the formal introductions. “Fearchar, t’is my doctor, Eoin Impundulu Niloofar,” she made the statement brief. “I ken, Eoin. Fear’ll be able ta ‘elp ye with that little proposal of yer’s ye penned me about,” she winked at him.
Fearchar offered his hand. Eoin gripped it firmly, shaking it in greeting. ” ‘aven’t word f’r the ‘auld lady nabbin’ ye’re paid ‘elp?” Fearchar smiled amiably, his eyes barely hiding his revulsion.
Widow Magaidh laid a steadying hand on Fearchar’s grip. “Eoin’s been mute f’r years, Fearchar. Don’nae mean ‘e’s doaty,” she chastised. Fearchar looked at the beak mask in surprise and embarrassment. He saw a slight motion and looked down to see Eoin rudely motioning to him under his cloak so that Widow Magaidh couldn’t see. Fearchar dropped Eoin’s hand, hissing.
“Y’er clan’s nae MacDonald, aye? I’d nae get ‘tween ye ‘n William f’r aw the mony!” he blustered.