The courtyard lay grey beneath the window, and rain held to the clouds like it meant to fall and never end. Torches spat in their brackets along the inner wall.
Kristen sat in her chair and watched the stones darken one patch at a time.
One year.
One more year since Neil walked out and the world went quiet.
One year since the last rumor died in someone’s throat.
One year since any word had reached the gate.
Bootsteps sounded in the corridor. Not one man, but several. Her stomach knotted, and she rose. But then forced herself to sit again, her hands folded tight.
Two footmen came to the door, their caps held by the brim.
“Me Lady,” the older footman said. “We extended the search again.”
Kristen gripped the arm of her chair. “And?”
The footmen exchanged a look, their faces drawn.
“There is still nay sign of him,” the older footman replied. “Nay tracks and nay witnesses and nay word.”
The room tilted a little, but Kristen kept her chin up. “Aye. Thank ye. Ye may go.”
The footmen bowed and left.
Silence swept in and crawled along the stones.
A few minutes later, Davina slipped inside, her eyes soft and tired. She shut the door gently and came closer.
“Kristen,” she began. “Perhaps it is time to admit that he might be?—”
“Nay,” Kristen interrupted, before clearing her throat. “Nae until I see proof. Until then, he lives.”
Davina swallowed and looked down. “Lachlan barely looks at me anymore,” she whispered. “Sometimes I fear he will send me away.”
Kristen rose at once and took her hands. “He willnae. And if he does, I will drag him by the ear and make him beg. Ye will see.”
Davina tried to laugh, but it came out feeble. Before she could answer, a maid stumbled through the door with her apron twisted in her fists. Her breath came fast, and her face was pale.
“Me Lady,” she wheezed.
Kristen caught her by the shoulders. “Breathe, lass. Slow. Tell me.”
The maid dragged in air, then let it out. “There is something ye must see.”
They left at once. Skirts swished around ankles as they hurried down the corridor. The stone floor echoed their steps, and the air cooled as they reached the entry.
Lachlan stood rigid in the entrance hall, his jaw tight, his broad figure partially hiding the light drizzle beyond the open front door.
“I cannae believe this,” he muttered.
“What?” Kristen prompted.
He stepped aside.
A wicker basket sat on the threshold where wet stone met dry, a thin cloth draped over it.
