“Come!” he bellowed.
The door’s hinges creaked, then it closed with a quiet thud.
“She is ready, I suppose,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the blanket of gray clouds hanging low with the heavy threat of snow.
“Who is ready?” asked Ferris, second to Gryffe in command of the Highland Defenders and first commander of Clan MacStrath’s guard.
Gryffe turned. “I thought ye were Inalfi.”
Ferris rumbled with a low laugh that sounded more like the throaty warning growl of a wolf. “Since when do I resemble one of the Fae, especially that tiny maid?”
“She is due to fetch me.” Gryffe tipped a nod at the cabinet in the corner. “Help yerself, but mind the smaller bottle in the back—the one with the ruby stopper. Mrs. Thistlebran keeps the spirit cabinet stocked with wolfsbane for unwelcome guests.”
Ferris glanced at the cabinet, then shook his head. “I’ll stick to me flask, thank ye verra much, in case I’ve happened to fall on the wrong side of yerself or Mrs. Thistlebran.”
Gryffe turned back to stare out the window. “Ye’ve nay fallen on the wrong side of me, old friend,” he told the burly guard who could set his shoulder against any mountain and move it, if he so wished. “Ye are one of the few I trust.”
“Then tell me what has ye so vexed.” Ferris moved to stand alongside him. “I have heard the rumblings, but I prefer the truth from yerself.”
“Nicnevin sent another.”
“That is not what I heard.”
Gryffe hazarded a side-eyed glare at his friend. “Out with it, then. What word has spread through the keep?”
“That this lady is yer elusive one. Sent to ye by the goddesses themselves—for the good of the Veil and the good of yer future generations.”
Gryffe squared his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath as if doing so would protect him from the claim. “I would know if she was the woman from my vision. Lady Emily is not.”
“How the devil would ye know? Ye said yer vision was wrought with darkness and shadow.”
“I would know, damn ye.”
Ferris shrugged. “Makes me no nevermind, but if this is one of Nicnevin’s pets, send her away just as ye did the others. In fact, why have ye not already done so? Ye never hesitated to do so before.”
“She was injured.” Gryffe resettled his footing like a hen scratching for bugs. “I know well enough that I am considered a hard-hearted bastard, but I’ll not send anyone anywhere when they are injured.”
“Then why are ye taking her to Seven Cairns today?”
“And how the bloody hell did ye know that?”
“The wolf in me hears everything in this keep. Ye know that well enough.” Ferris snorted. “There be many a time when this hearing of mine be more a curse than a blessing. Why do ye think I sleep in the woods on the other side of the loch?”
Gryffe scrubbed his face with both hands. “She is part Weaver and means to return to her proper place through the portal at Seven Cairns.” A heavy sigh groaned free of him. “I canna stop her. She is determined to go.”
“From the way ye’re behaving, seems to me yer lady is not one of Nicnevin’s traps.”
“She has to be.” Gryffe swallowed hard, willing himself to believe that. “’Tis but a stronger glamour this time. Ye know how determined Nicnevin is for a MacStrath grandchild. She loved my father more than any other—or at least, came as close to loving him as is possible for her black heart.”
“Why are ye so afraid for this Lady Emily of yers to be the one?”
“Because her place in time and reality pulls at her to return. I see the longing in her eyes. I canna compete with what she would be forced to leave behind if she chose me.”
“Ye said she was a Weaver. She can visit her time whenever she chooses.” Ferris snorted again. “Yer argument makes no sense.”
“Her blood is not pure. She might be descended from a Spell Weaver, but her bloodline has diluted so much that whenever she attempts a spell, she sets things on fire.”
Ferris tapped on the window pane. “Mighty handy, considering ye need more fires in the winter.”
