Warmth washed over Hazel once more. She cut her attention back to the path through the trees, wishing Maclean didn’t fluster her so much. “I’ll think about it,” she murmured.
The Isle of Ulva
West of the Isle of Mull
Hamish Macquarie walked through the gates to his holding and took the path that would lead him down to the shore.
Above him, his tower house rose stark against the summer sky—grey stone weathered by centuries of storms. Below, the sea churned against Ulva’s western coast, white foam hissing over black rocks.
Briny air—the scent of salt and seaweed—filled his lungs. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries harsh and mocking.
He’d been avoiding this visit for weeks. But the dreams had grown worse. And when Hamish dreamed that he was falling into a deep, dark abyss three nights running, he knew better than to ignore it.
Passing through the rambling garden beyond the walls, he spotted his wife and daughter among the herbs. Moira knelt between rows of sage and thyme, her greying hair covered by a simple kertch. Beside her, Isla plucked weeds with the same quiet diligence she brought to everything.
“Father.” Isla straightened, brushing dirt from her kirtle. Her smile was tentative. Hopeful.
“Daughter.” He nodded curtly, not slowing his stride. “Yer mother keeps ye busy, I see.”
“Aye. She’s teaching me which herbs to use for simple remedies.”
“Good. A wife should know such things.” He was already moving past them, down toward the beach path. Behind him, he heard Moira murmur something to Isla. Soothing words, no doubt. His wife had always been too soft with the lass.
But Isla would be Lady of Moy soon enough. She’d have servants to tend her gardens then. All that mattered was that she gave Craeg Maclean sons and strengthened the alliance between their clans.
Hamish’s son appeared ahead on the path then, long legs eating up the distance between them. His hair was an untidy mop, his lèine was damp with sweat, and his cheeks flushed. At eighteen, Cameron was tall and gangly, all awkward limbs and uncertain movements. Nothing like Hamish had been at that age—already seasoned in battle, already commanding respect.
“Where have ye been?” Hamish demanded without preamble.
“Practicing swordplay with Fergus on the beach,” his son replied. “He’s helping me with my footwork.”
Hamish grunted. At least the lad was trying. Though God knew if he’d ever amount to much. His gaze went to the wooden sword tucked into his belt. “One day, ye’ll have to swap that toy for a steel blade, Cam,” he muttered. “I hope ye are ready for it.”
Cameron’s face flushed red. “Aye, Da.”
Pushing past him, Hamish continued down the path. He had no time for the lad’s wounded feelings. Not today.
The trail grew steeper as it descended toward the shore. Wild thrift bloomed pink among the rocks, and patches of sea campion clung to crevices. Behind him, sheep bleated. Wool and mutton were the mainstay of his clan’s income. Shepherds and cottars lived in squat bothies behind his tower house, the wind-blasted hills of this isle dotted with sheep. The sun beat down on his shoulders, unusually warm for Ulva. Summer had been kind this year—good weather for the harvest. Fine weather for forging alliances and securing his clan’s future.
Below, the beach opened up—a crescent of white sand studded with black rocks. At the far end, where the cliff curved inward, a dark mouth yawned in the stone.
The crone’s cave.
Hamish’s jaw tightened. He’d first come here as a young man, seeking guidance after his father’s death. The crone had been ancient even then—wizened and bent, her eyes milky with cataracts. That had been thirty years ago. She should be dead by now.
But she wasn’t.
Crossing the beach, he ducked beneath the cave’s entrance. The temperature dropped immediately, cool and damp after the summer heat. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. His boots crunched on shells and dried kelp.
Then he saw them.
Bones and feathers hung from the cave ceiling—hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Crow and gull feathers, fish bones, and sheep skulls, all strung together with sinew and hair. They formed a curtain, a barrier between the outside world and whatever lay beyond.
Gritting his teeth, Hamish pushed through. He hated coming down here, but the dreams made it necessary.
The grisly curtain clattered against him, clicking and rustling. A sheep skull swung into his shoulder. Feathers brushed his face, soft and unsettling.
And then he was through, into the inner chamber.
