Prologue
FORTY YEARS AGO IN A FOREST NEAR A RUINED KEEP...
Thefreshly laid wood crackled and popped in the hearth, a fitting accompaniment to the rain falling softly against the roof. A heavy black cauldron hung on a hook over the flame, full of something that steamed as it simmered. A woman leaned close, sniffed, then cautiously tasted what she’d tossed into the pot earlier that morning. She considered, then nodded. It would do well enough for supper. If nothing else, there was plenty of it.
When one wore the title of MacLeod witch, one learned to be prepared for any number of unexpected guests.
Moraig MacLeod continued to stir her stew, happy at the thought of something hot on a chilly fall evening. She imagined her visitor who had yet to arrive might feel the same way. She had no idea who that soul would turn out to be, but she’d felt a shift in the world earlier in the day. She’d had enough experience with that sort of thing to know what it usually meant.
She hadn’t always lived in the little house she occupied at present, and she hadn’t always had a gift for knowing what was coming her way. Time had taught her many things and led her in paths she never would have anticipated in her youth. Then again, her youth, whilst tolerable enough, was something she tended to leave in the past, where it belonged.
She reached out and pushed a hearthstone back into a spot it seemed determined to liberate itself from and gave thought to the events of the past pair of days.
She didn’t often have any sort of commerce with the soulsin the village—they were happy enough to leave her alone with her thoughts in the forest—but she’d had occasion to encounter a handsome young man at the grocer’s shop the McCreedys had just opened. He wasn’t a local, which had perhaps worked in her favor. He’d been a polite lad and apparently unafraid to carry a sack full of tinned goods home for her. His courtesy had extended to chopping a decent amount of wood as well before he’d joined her for a bit of last week’s stew.
She’d been thoroughly delighted to listen to tales of his life in the Colonies, including his recent eluding of his father’s clutches long enough to come to Scotland for a few months. And who could blame the boy? Whilst she had heard tales of New York and its glittering finery, who with any romance in his soul wouldn’t want to spend as much time as possible where dreams and forests and heather were reflected on the surfaces of still lochs?
The lad had promised to return in a pair of days with materials to shore up a few things in her home, and she hadn’t refused the offer. Her skills lay with midwifery and herbs, not hammer and nails. Any help with a bit of repair work on her ancient abode was very welcome indeed.
She gave her supper a final stir, then straightened and walked over to her front door. There had been no knock, but there had been no need for one. The shift in the air had been enough. She opened that door to find a young woman standing there on her front stoop, soaked to the skin and looking profoundly terrified.
Moraig understood that, more clearly than she supposed she would ever admit.
“Sanctuary,” the girl pled hoarsely.
Moraig studied her visitor for a moment or two. The gel couldn’t have been more than ten-and-five, though it was clear those green eyes had seen more than they should have for one so young. “Who are ye, lass?”
“Ceana Fergusson.”
Moraig lifted her eyebrows briefly. If that one was a Fergusson, then she was a McKinnon. She opened her door widely. “Come in.”
The girl didn’t move. “I tried the keep,” she said, lookingas if she had just paid a visit to hell instead. “The stones... and the walls... the roof—”
“Bit of a storm,” Moraig said, because that was a simpler tale for the time being than the truth. “Took the roof right off.”
“That was a mighty storm then.”
“So it was, lass.”
The girl looked at her. “Are you the MacLeod witch?”
Moraig smiled. “I am.”
The gel paused. “Would it offend you if I made a sign of ward against you? Just to be safe?”
Moraig laughed before she could stop herself. “Of course not. Do what you must.”
Ceana Fergusson did so, then whispered a prayer as she stepped over the threshold. Moraig shut the door behind her, then walked across the rough stone floor toward her sleeping nook. She rummaged about in a trunk for something suitable, then handed it to her guest.
“There you are, lass. Perhaps not stylish, but dry.”
Ceana’s hands were trembling badly as she took the simple dress. Moraig might have felt justified in suspecting that the cold had gotten to the girl, but she was who she was and she knew better. With the way the child was examining the fineness of the cloth, Moraig suspected questions would come sooner rather than later.
She went back to tending her stew whilst Ceana changed into dry clothing, then she saw the girl seated by the fire before she scooped out a bowl of something strengthening. If Ceana looked at her spoon as if she’d never seen anything so fine in her life, well, what was to be done?
Moraig understood.
She made herself at home on her own stool and waited until her guest had finished her first bowl before she offered more. She added the accompaniment of a large mug of ale because it looked as though Ceana could use the same. It was a pewter mug, as it happened, because Moraig had learned from the former MacLeod witch not to hand guests anything made of pottery. Too fragile for the sorts of conversations that were inevitably had near that stone hearth.
