“Erica—”
“It is true, Maither.” Erica’s voice was clear and distinct. “We cannae keep hoping and praying that the next person who comes through the door isnae looking to conquer the castle. We need to do something about it. This is me doing something.”
“And what happens if ye daenae find someone to bring home? What then?”
Erica laughed. “The event is reserved for almost every laird in the Highlands. Daenae worry. I’ll find one.”
Her mother went inside without a word and came back with a basket covered with a cloth. She pressed it into Erica’s hands and fussed with the cloak ties as if they might come loose in a breath.
“‘Tis a long journey to the festival. We cannae have ye coming back looking skinny,” she said.
Erica laughed once. “That would be impossible.”
Hilda came to the yard with her sleeves rolled and her hair pinned up. “Ye plan to ride alone?” she asked, voice low.
“Aye.”
Her mother turned to her maid, a wave of surprise and realization crossing her face. “Of course ye ken about this. She tells ye everything.”
“Maither—”
“Then listen to me,” her mother continued. “Keep yer face plain and yer words plainer. Take nay cup ye didnae watch poured. If ye must sleep there, sleep near the lights.”
“I will,” Erica said. “Keep the castle steady and help the men on the wall before dusk. Lock the east store. Send two boys to the south fields if ye have to, and if riders ask for me, ye daenae ken where I’ve gone.”
“Aye, me Lady,” Hilda said, and there was no question in it.
Erica swung up, smoothed her dress, and nudged the horse toward the gate. She did not look back.
The road ran clear, and the wind continuously lifted the edge of her cloak. Fields gave way to heath and then to pine. She rode with a purse of coins sewn into her belt and a small knife in her boot. The knife would stay sheathed if the festival turned out to be what she hoped it was.
The cold night air was close when the first banners appeared. The festival spread over a low rise and the meadow below it. Fires burned in safe rings, and music rose in steady beats. Masked figures moved in groups and pairs, all enjoying the laughter that came and went.
She drew rein at the outer rope, where stewards checked weapons and tied peace bands.
A steward stepped up with his palm held open. “Name,” he said. “Or a borrowed one will do.”
“A borrowed one,” she said. “Call me Rika.”
He nodded. “Hand.”
She gave him the knife. He wrapped the sheath in linen and sealed it with wax, then tied a simple braid of red thread around her wrist.
“Nay feuds,” he said. “Nay blades drawn. Nay blows struck. Claims made before witnesses hold when the week ends. If ye are pressed, stand in the light and call a witness. The rules reach further than the meadow. Do ye ken?”
“Aye.”
“Mask,” he said, and pointed to a table where plain pieces lay in rows.
She chose a half mask that covered her mouth and cheek, and tied the ribbon tight. The world narrowed to what she could see right ahead, and for some reason, it seemed to calm her.
The steward gave her one last look before letting her inside.
Soon, she found herself in a whole new world. The crowd was larger than she had imagined. She moved along the edgefirst, taking in the rhythm. A ring of dancers turned near a set of crossed swords as nearby vendors passed with meat and oatcakes. A circle of elders spoke in hushed tones, while younger men watched them and waited to see who they greeted first.
It would be easy to disappear here.
It would be easy to do nothing and tell herself that coming had been enough.
