"Bridget's making cocoa, as you should be able to smell," Tara retorted.
"It's made," the young woman entering the room said, going straight to Sue and handing her the steaming mug.
Sue traded her whiskey glass for it, wrapping her hands around the mug to warm them and taking a deep breath of the chocolatey steam, while her hosts gave Angus the story.
When they were done, he looked at her curiously, with a half-grin. "Your name's a familiar one, lass."
Sue returned his smile. He knew who she was, but he didn't seem inclined to spread his knowledge, if she chose not to reveal herself; he got points for discretion. "It's a common enough name, sir. I don't believe we've met before."
"No; I'd remember if we had. It's an honor now, though, and I'd be pleased if you'd call me Angus."
"The honor is mine, Angus." Sue smiled at him again, briefly. "Perhaps, under more formal circumstances, things would be different. At the moment, though, I'm just an unlucky pilot."
"And so you are, lass." Angus nodded once, then turned to their hosts. "Well, now, this is supposed to be a party. Tara, may I have the next dance?"
"Indeed you may!" Tara—Sue guessed her to be Donal's wife—called across the room. "Geordie, some music!"
Sue felt herself relaxing as warmth crept back into her, and she automatically evaluated her surroundings. They were nothing like what she was used to: a small living room, festively decorated but obviously not rich—more homey, she thought, than anything else. Bookshelves lined one wall almost completely, their ranks broken only by two small windows and a holoset—on, but being ignored; she couldn't tell what the program was. A five- or six-person table held food and drinks; it looked too heavy to move easily, so this was probably the dining room, as well. Wall decorations were mostly stitchery, though a crucifix held a place of honor above the mantel.