“What did ye do to the witch?” Guinn asked.
Suddenly, voices stirred at the edges of my mind, as if mention of the witch had summoned the ghosts. I pushed the voices back, focusing on how to explain what I’d done as a cautionary tale that would not scare the lasses overly much.
“I wronged her,” I said simply. “My friends and I… we took something that was nae ours to take. And the witch Morgana cursed us for it.”
“What did ye take?” Bess asked.
“A magical goblet,” I replied.
“So ye’re a thief?” Munro said, his tone sharp from my left.
I met his gaze. “Aye, that night I was. My mama was dying, and I was desperate to save her. We’d heard a tale that if we took the witch’s goblet and drank from it after dipping it in the waters of the fairy pools, that we could make a wish and it would come true.”
“And did yer mama live?” Munro asked, much to my surprise. But then I saw in his gaze the very desperation that had driven me that night, and I thought immediately of his dead wife.
“Aye,” I said, the voices growing louder. “But magic requires balance,” I said, using Morgana’s words almost exactly as she’dsaid them. “And for saving my mama’s life, another life was lost. And that is why I’m cursed.”
Bess tugged at my skirt. “Are ye really cursed?” she whispered, eyes wide.
“Aye,” I said softly.
“That’s enough of witches, magic goblets, and curses,” Munro said, our gazes clashing. “Do nae fill the lass’s heads with stories of fancy.”
“’Tis nae a story of fancy,” I replied. “’Tis a cautionary tale.”
His eyebrows notched upward, and he gave a shake of his head before striding ahead once more to continue my tour. The girls and I talked easily, but every time they answered a question about themselves, Munro’s posture got stiffer, his stride faster, so that I knew he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with each revelation from his daughters he barely knew. I suspected each new snippet the girls shared was like a blow to the wall he’d resurrected around his heart.
We came to another winding staircase that twisted sharply upwards. Each step was worn smooth in the center, undoubtedly from centuries of Ross feet climbing them.
“Mind yer step here,” Munro said, his voice echoing in the confined space. “The stones are uneven.”
I nodded my thanks, noticing how he spoke the warning to me alone, not to his daughters, who had skipped up the steps without hesitation, clearly already familiar with them once more. They had learned to navigate their home without their da’s guidance, and the thought brought a pang of sadness to me for all three of them. I may have come for selfish reasons, but I truly did want to help repair their broken bond.
We emerged onto a long corridor that ran along the cliffside of the castle. Narrow windows cut into the thick stone revealed glimpses of churning sea far below, where white-capped wavescrashed against jagged rocks. The wind howled through cracks in the mortar, a mournful sound like a ghost in torment.
“The view is breathtaking,” I said, pausing to look out one of the windows.
“Aye,” Munro replied, his voice suddenly distant. “Isabella—my wife—she loved this passage. She said it made her feel happy.”
The raw pain in his voice was unmistakable and gut-wrenching. The girls, who we drew near to, went quiet. Guinn’s small hand found Bess’s as they exchanged a look laden with unspoken understanding. These children knew grief as intimately as they knew their da’s absence.
As we continued down the windswept corridor, a whisper tickled the edge of my consciousness, faint at first, then more insistent.
Tell my wife I loved her. Tell Martha.
I pressed my lips together and focused on the stone beneath my feet, trying to push the voice away.
“This part of the castle is the oldest,” Munro was saying, his voice mercifully drawing me back to the present. “It was built by my granda.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak as another whisper brushed against my mind.
The heather still grows where I buried the silver. Tell David.
I nodded, feigning interest in the ancient stonework while silently rebuilding the walls around my mind. We turned a corner, and Munro paused before a carved wooden door, his hand hovering over the latch as if unsure whether to proceed.
“This was… this is Isabella’s solar where she came to escape,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve kept it as she left it.”
He pushed the door open, revealing a room bathed in sunlight. Unlike the rest of the castle, which carried the faint air of neglect, this chamber had been preserved with carefulattention. A tapestry depicting a hunting scene hung on one wall, the colors still vibrant. A chair had a blanket dropped on the seat, and I could imagine Munro’s wife sitting there as she sewed.
