Lydia’s eyes filled instantly. Before she could say anything at all, Iris squeezed her hand. “Come on,” she said gently, already smiling. “If we’re doin’ this, we’ve a great deal to do.”
Lydia let herself be led. The small chamber beside the kirk had been prepared carefully, transformed into a quiet, sunlit space just for her. Pale light streamed through a narrow window, catching dust motes in the air. A simple wooden table held a silver-backed brush, ribbons, and a small vase of fresh heather. A gown lay folded neatly on the bed.
When Lydia saw it, her breath caught.
It was ivory wool, soft and finely made, with long sleeves and delicate embroidery at the cuffs and hem, with tiny vines and flowers stitched in pale gold thread. The waist was gently shaped, forgiving, designed with care and thought. Nothing about it felt forced or ceremonial for show.
It felt like love.
“Och,” Lydia breathed.
Iris shut the door behind them, giving them privacy, and leaned back against it for a moment, just watching her sister. “He did well,” she said quietly.
Lydia laughed shakily. “He did.”
Iris crossed the room and rested her hands on Lydia’s shoulders. “Sit,” she instructed, all gentle authority. “Ye’re shakin’.”
Lydia obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair as Iris picked up the brush. When the first stroke passed through her hair, Lydia closed her eyes.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet felt old and familiar, the kind that had existed between them when they were girls, sitting together by a window with a shared book or lying side by side whispering in the dark.
“Ye ken,” Iris said eventually, softly brushing through a knot, “I used to imagine this… helpin’ ye get ready.”
Lydia’s throat tightened. She imagined Iris all alone at her own wedding, not knowing what awaited her in her future, and her heart ached with it.
“I wish I could have done it for ye.”
Iris paused then resumed brushing, her touch steady. “Ye couldnae,” she said gently, “but we can make up for it now.”
She braided Lydia’s hair slowly, carefully, weaving in a thin ribbon the color of summer grass. When she finished, she pressed a kiss to the crown of Lydia’s head, just briefly, as if sealing something precious.
“Turn,” Iris said.
Lydia stood, and Iris helped her step into the gown, lifting the fabric with practiced care. She fastened the buttons along Lydia’s back one by one, her fingers quick and sure.
“Ye look so bonnie,” Iris said, her voice thick with emotion.
Lydia turned to face her, tears slipping free at last. “I wouldnae be here without ye.”
Iris smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Ye would have found yer way. But I’m glad I could walk beside ye for this part.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a small silver pendant, simple, worn smooth with age. “This belonged to our grandmaither,” she said. “I want ye to have it today.”
Lydia gasped. “Iris?—”
“Take it,” Iris insisted softly, fastening it around her sister’s neck. “She would be proud of ye.”
“She would be proud of us both,” said Lydia.
They stood there for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other in, but then a knock sounded gently at the door.
“Ready?” Kieran’s voice came through, a little hesitant, as if reluctant to disturb the two of them and their time together.
Lydia looked at Iris, who nodded, eyes bright with pride.
“Aye,” Lydia said, smiling through tears. “I am.”
As Iris opened the door and Lydia stepped forward, her heart full and steady, she knew, without doubt, that this time, every memory she made would be one she cherished.
Lydia stepped out of the chamber, and the soft light of the kirk spilled across her face, making the gold embroidery of her gown catch the sun. The room was filled with familiar faces—friends, family, and the few trusted men of the castle who had fought and suffered alongside Kieran. In their finery, their eyes were warm with relief and joy.
