Page 55 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Those are the stills,” he said. “We brought them here from Perth. That beery smell is given off by malting barley, and the smoke is the peaty sweetness of the low fires in the drying room next door. The malt house, the drying rooms, the still house are all connected by covered passages. Over years, the odors have permeated the whole place.”
“It is a comforting sort of smell.”
“Some dislike it.” He was glad she appreciated it. He rested a hand on the warm copper shoulder of one of the stills proudly, cognizant of the challenges of bringing the huge stills here and building the place up from a cluster of old cottages. For several years, he and his brother Will and their cousin, Darrach, with the help of a few others, had worked tirelessly to create what he had finally licensed as a legal distillery.
Soon after, his brother and cousin were killed. Then the secrets they had kept from him had emerged as the crisis that altered his life and that of his friends.
He had done all he could to right things, but at a cost. Now he must reclaim his life and rebuild Glenbrae into what it could be. But he was beginning to realize that he needed something else, too. He glanced at Ellison.
“Ronan MacGregor?” She watched him.
He liked the way she said his name, a Highland way. He moved away from the copper still to usher her through a doorway into a connecting room.
Donal was standing beside a man who was elderly and ropey thin, swathed in a shabby plaid and bonnet. Beside them was a metal tank fitted with brass pipes, and a large glass box banded in brass and set on a pedestal. A stream of liquid was channeling through the pipes into the transparent box.
Donal waved. “Good as gold, sir. Auld Rabbie Muir has been watching it.”
“Ronan!Fàilte air ais gu Gleann Bràigh!” The old man grinned.
“Rabbie,tapadh leat!It is good to see you,” Ronan continued in English.
“And you! We heard you was taken, lad!”
“But I am here now, come to see for myself the excellent work you have done while I was away. This is Miss Graham,” he said. “This is Robert Muir, who has been making whisky in Glenbrae since my father was a lad. Or was it my grandfather,” he added with a chuckle.
Rabbie tipped his cap. “Miss, welcome. I was a lad with this one’s Grandda, to be sure.” He winked. “And I taught his Da and himself, here, to make theuigse beatha,our water of life, our whisky. Ronan took to the art of it young, and had a gift for the brewing. He has made our whisky into a very fine thing that makes our glen proud.”
“How lovely to meet you, Mr. Muir.” She held out her gloved hand, which he took in both of his. “It is a very nice place and a very bonnie glen.”
“Och aye. But not near as bonny as the lass Glenbrae brings with him today.” He gave her an impish grin. She laughed.
“Enough charm, sir.” Ronan tapped the glass lid. “How goes it?”
“We expect a fine brew from this. It goes in the casks soon. See, Miss Graham,” Rabbie explained, “this is our spirit safe. It collects vapors from the barley mash that is fermented in another room. It is heated and stirred again and again, and the vapors are the gift of the spirit, see. What escapes into the air during the distilling and the aging of the whisky, well, that we call the angel’s share.”
“Angel’s share,” she repeated. “How lovely.”
“It makes for good luck, you see. We store the liquid in casks where it ages to become the best whisky. It takes time to make the best water of life,” he went on. “It takes good barley and Highland water, peaty smoke from the fires, and the flavor of the water too, influenced by rocks and flowers along the burn that runs through here. Needs it all.”
“It takes a love of the craft, too,” she said.
“Och, aye, love and care, time and patience, to make the best whisky we can. And skilled hands too. My grandsons work with me. They are out and about,” he told Ronan.
“I saw them recently,” he murmured. Rabbie nodded.
“From here it goes in the casks? Where are those kept?” Ellison looked around.
“The liquid essence captured here,” Ronan said, “is transferred and stored in oak casks, the older the better to add richness. The best casks have held either whisky or Spanish sherry. They rest and mature for years in another building.”
“Years, aye,” Rabbie said. “The longer it rests, the better it is. Ronan MacGregor has the patience for it, and the love, as you say, Miss. It makes all the difference.”
“You’re an auld poet,” Ronan drawled.
“We Gaels are an ancient race of poets, are we not, and our whisky carries the heart and spirit of Scotland in it. Do ye take a sip now and then, Miss? Some ladies will and some will not.”
“I have on occasion. It is invigorating.”
He laughed, then turned to Ronan. “I do not know where the girl was born,” he said in rapid Gaelic, “but this one is a Highland lass in her soul.”
