“How is Selene?” the man continued lightly, as though asking after the weather. “Still at the estate, I wonder. Or has she been sent elsewhere, dae ye reckon?”
Elsie’s fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, her nails biting through linen. She kept her face composed with an effort that left her trembling under the surface.
“You will tell me who you are,” she said, and it was not a question, but rather a demand.
The man tilted his head, considering her. “That isnae important.”
“Why you are doing is,” she replied, her voice sharpening despite her fear.
The man leaned closer, just enough that the firelight failed to reach his eyes. “If ye wish tae keep yer sister safe,” he mumbled, “ye will meet me at midnight, behind the tavern. Alone.”
The word slid into her like a blade; a threat dressed as instruction.
Her breath caught. “And if I do not?”
The man’s smile widened by a fraction. “Then I fear ye may nae like the consequences.”
He straightened before she could speak again, already stepping back into the press of bodies. Within seconds, he was gone, absorbed by music and movement, by the careless joy of people who had no idea what had just been loosed among them.
Elsie stood perfectly still. Her heart raced, her skin prickling with cold despite the fire. Around her, tankards clinked, voices rose, someone laughed loudly at nothing at all. In the distance, Halvard shifted, his gaze pinned on her, his expression pinched as if he could tell something was wrong.
She did not turn to him; not yet. Her gaze drifted instead toward the horizon. The sky had deepened to ink, the wind howling along the street.
Midnight.
The word pulsed in her mind, heavy and inevitable.
Whatever had followed her from England had finally found her; and it knew exactly where to strike.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Elsie forced her feet to move. Each step back toward the table felt wrong, as though she were walking deeper into water when every instinct screamed to turn and run. The tavern seemed louder now, harsher—the scrape of benches against stone, the bray of laughter too sharp at the edges, the crackle of the fire like something burning out of control.
She slid back onto the bench beside Halvard, her movements careful, deliberate, as if nothing at all had happened.
But inside, she was unraveling.
Then I fear ye may nae like the consequences.
Elsie pressed her lips together until they ached.
Halvard spoke to someone across the table, his voice low, calm, utterly unaware. The ease of him—so solid, so capable—madethe secret burning in her chest feel heavier still. Telling him would be the sensible thing; the right thing.
But the man’s voice echoed again, smooth and merciless.
Alone.
Fear coiled tight around her ribs. If she disobeyed, if she brought Halvard into it, what would they do to Selene? How quickly could harm be done, how quietly? England was far away, and power moved unseen.
But for all she knew, maybe Selene wasn’t in England at all. Maybe she was already there, in Raasay, taken by an enemy hand.
Her hands trembled. She folded them in her lap, her fingers locking together hard enough to sting.
She felt eyes on her. Not the warm, curious looks of villagers celebrating but something sharper, measuring. Elsie glanced up, her pulse quickening. Two men stood near the far wall, their conversation muted, their attention drifting too often in her direction. Another sat alone near the door, his hood pulled low, his gaze flicking toward her and then away.
A chill crept down her spine. Halvard shifted beside her.
She felt it the moment his posture changed—the way a hunting hound stills when it scents blood. His voice lowered as he leaned toward her.
