“Now what?” Bess asked, looking up at me with wide eyes once the stall was empty.
“We look for loose floorboards,” I explained, dropping to my knees on the straw-covered floor. The straw was damp and smelled faintly of urine, despite having been recently changed. I pushed it aside, running my hands over the wooden boards beneath.
Bess knelt beside me, her small hands mimicking my movements, though her nose wrinkled at the smells. “Is the ghost here now?” she whispered. “Watching us?”
I paused, listening for the voice that had guided me here. “I do nae ken,” I admitted. “Sometimes they speak and then are gone. Sometimes they linger.”
“How many can ye hear?” Guinn called from where she stood with the mare.
“Too many to count,” I said, my fingers catching on the edge of a board that shifted slightly under my touch. “Wait. I think I’ve found something.”
I dug my fingernails into the gap between two boards, pulling upward. The wood groaned but gave way, revealing a shallow space beneath filled with damp earth. Bess leaned forward eagerly, her breath warm against my cheek as we both peered into the hole.
“I do nae see anything,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.
“We need to dig,” I replied, plunging my hands into the cool earth without hesitation. The soil packed beneath my nails as I scooped handfuls away, my heart pounding with a strange excitement. This was nothing like my careful, planned approach to life. This was wild, impulsive, and somehow exhilarating.
Bess joined in, her small hands becoming as filthy as mine. We worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the horses’ occasional nickering and the soft squelch of wet earth between our fingers.
My knuckles struck something hard, and I gasped. “I think I’ve found it,” I whispered, more to myself than to Bess. I dug more carefully now, brushing away the soil until the object was revealed: a dagger in a leather sheath, both encrusted with years of dirt and rust.
“Is that it?” Bess asked, leaning close to see. “It looks old.”
“Aye,” I said, lifting it carefully from its hiding place. Despite the rust and dirt, I could tell it had once been a fine weapon. The hilt was wrapped in leather that had stiffened and cracked with age, and there were remnants of what might have been decorative metalwork around the guard.
The ghost whispered again in my mind, clearer now that I held his treasured gift in my hands. “Take it to Fergus. Tell him I kept my promise. Tell him I did nae mean to leave him without a farewell.”
“Who’s it for, Murieall?” Guinn asked, stepping closer, the mare’s reins still in her hand.
I stood, my knees protesting after kneeling on the hard wooden floor. “A man named Fergus,” I replied, still wiping dirt from the dagger’s hilt. “His da left this for him before riding to battle. He never returned, and Fergus did nae ken of the gift. Do ye ken a Fergus who works in the stables?” I asked, already moving toward the stall entrance.
Guinn nodded eagerly, leading the mare back into her stall. “Aye, old Fergus! He’s been with the horses since before we were born.”
My heart quickened. The voice had been guiding me true, then. “Where might we find him at this hour?”
“The tack room, most likely,” Guinn answered. “He’s always mending something or other.”
We made our way to the back of the stable, the musty scent of hay and horse growing stronger. The tack room door stood slightly ajar, and through it came the soft sounds of someone working leather. I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. How was I to explain this strange gift to a man who’d likely think me daft?
“Shall we go in?” Bess whispered, her small hand finding mine once more.
Drawing strength from her touch, I nodded and pushed the door open. Inside, hunched over a saddle in need of repair, sat an older man with shoulders broad from years of hard labor. His hair and beard were more grey than brown, and deep lines etched his weathered face. He looked up at our entrance, his expression shifting from surprise to gentle warmth at the sight of the lasses.
“Lady Guinn, Lady Bess,” he greeted them, his voice gruff but kind. “What brings ye to my humble workshop?”
“We’ve found something for ye,” Guinn announced without preamble, gesturing toward the dagger in my hands.
Fergus looked at me properly then, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “I do nae understand.”
I stepped forward, my throat suddenly dry. “Are ye Fergus, son of Dougal?”
His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Aye, that I am. Though my da’s been gone many years. How did ye—”
“Yer da left something for ye,” I said, extending the dirt-encrusted dagger toward him. “Before he rode to battle. It’s been buried beneath the floorboards of the third stall all this time.”
Fergus stared at the dagger, his weathered hands frozen above the saddle he’d been working on. “That’s nae possible,” he whispered, but there was desperate hope in his eyes that belied his words.
“He wants ye to ken he kept his promise,” I continued, the dead man’s words flowing through me. “He did nae mean to leave without saying farewell.”
