“She is right, me Lady,” Pamela spoke up, a smile in her voice, before stepping back to the door. “Shall I fetch yer cloaks, Lady Ava?”
“Aye,” Ava responded. “And thank ye.”
Pamela left them, and the room lapsed into silence again.
Emma met her twin’s eyes in the mirror, her reflection framed by the soft candlelight. “Daenae pick a fight with any man tonight,” she urged.
“I daenae pick them,” Ava scoffed. “They find me.”
“Ye push them along,” Emma retorted. “Please. Just try to rein it in tonight, all right?”
Ava let the silence stretch out for a few seconds before giving her a brief nod. “Fine. Whichever bastard acts awful toward me tonight gets a pass.”
Emma drew a steadying breath and rose to her feet. “Ye ken that isnae what I mean.”
“‘Tis what I heard,” Ava countered.
Together, they left the chamber and took the low passageway toward the stairs. Soon, they climbed into the carriage and rode out of MacFinn Castle and into the night.
The hall where the cèilidh was held was much brighter than Emma had expected. Hundreds of candles burned in bronze sconces. The floor shone like glass, and the dancers at the corners trod on it as if it was nothing. The music was loud and carried across the hall, causing the floor itself to feel alive under her feet.
Ava leaned close, breaking her out of her reverie. “Mind ye breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Emma said.
“Too much, perhaps,” Ava drawled.
Emma narrowed her eyes at her sister but said nothing in response.
They were barely two steps into the hall when the first man approached, a fine lad with trimmed hair and a hopeful smile.
“Lady Emma,” he greeted with a stiff bow. “May I have the next dance?”
“Oh, MacAllan. Perhaps later in the night, if luck is on yer side,” Emma replied, sweet as honey.
He blinked, recovered, and stepped aside. Another lad came, older and broader, palm out, mouth ready with charming words.
“Another time,” Emma responded, smiling so he could not take offense.
A third tried with a compliment to her dress, a fourth with a claim of friendship to her uncle. She turned them all down, her voice soft and her eyes steady.
“One of these days,” Ava murmured as the fifth man to ask her for a dance walked away, “ye’ll have to pick a man, Emma.”
“Maybe later,” Emma said. “Nae now.”
“Are ye looking for inspiration for another poem?” Ava teased.
“Nothing here is inspiring enough to write about,” Emma muttered.
“Perhaps ye’ve nae looked hard enough.”
Emma let the corners of her mouth lift. She did not say that the only thing she had wanted to write about lately was air and how it felt when it reached the bottom of her lungs after a run through trees, or that she had found water incredibly fascinating these past few weeks and wanted to write about the feel of being in one. Instead, she let the moment pass as they walked further into the hall.
“Do ye think we can get some wine?” Ava asked, adjusting her bodice.
Emma looked around the hall and was about to respond when silence fell. It was sudden and sharp and had scared a tiny part of her. She exchanged a confused look with her sister and opened her mouth to speak. But then an unfamiliar male voice rose from near the front of the hall, sharp and unyielding.
“He stands where steel meets storm,
