The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night and my own ragged breathing. Had I failed? Were Isabella’s brief whispers all I would ever hear from her?
Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes. I had been so certain that if I opened myself to the voices, if I embraced my curse as a gift rather than a burden, Isabella would speak to me again. Had I misunderstood? Or was there some other task I needed to complete, some other proof of worthiness I had yet to provide?
As my thoughts spiraled toward despair, the air in the chamber seemed to thicken, grow heavier, as if gathering itself into a presence. A faint scent of roses wafted around me, a scent I hadn’t encountered before among the voices of the dead. Myheart began to pound against my ribs, my skin prickling with awareness.
“Isabella?” I breathed, scarcely daring to hope.
After a long, breathless moment, her voice came, making me jump, because it was not in my head but behind me.
I did nae jump from Pike’s Point.
I glanced over my shoulder, but there was nothing to see, and yet, I felt her. She was in this room with me. I knew it as certain as I knew the sun would rise tomorrow.
Chapter Seventeen – Munro
I stared at the untouched food on my trencher, moving the meat around with my knife, but finding no appetite to consume it. The great hall buzzed with conversation and laughter, but my thoughts remained fixed on Murieall and her confession this morning. What was I to do with her? The question circled in my mind, unresolved.
I had opened myself to her, shared my bed, my pain, my secrets. And she had used me, manipulated me for her own ends. Or had she? The memory of her face this morning, tears streaming down her cheeks as she confessed, haunted me. There had been truth in her eyes, or at least what looked like truth. But how could I trust my judgment when it came to her?
My gaze drifted across the hall to where James sat among my warriors, laughing at some jest. Uncle Gordon’s words from earlier gnawed at me. Could James truly be conspiring with Murieall to undermine me and make the clan believe I was unfit to lead? The very thought turned my stomach.
Uncle Gordon and Aunt Magdalene sat further down the high table, deep in conversation, their heads bent close. What counsel were they sharing now? More suspicions about James? More warnings about Murieall? My head throbbed with the weight of distrust that now colored my every thought.
A burst of childish giggles drew my attention to my daughters, seated at my right. Guinn leaned close to Bess, whispering something that made Bess’s eyes widen with excitement. Despite my dark mood, a flicker of warmth kindled in my chest at the sight. Since Murieall’s arrival, they seemed more like the children they should be, rather than the solemn shadows they’d become after Isabella’s death.
Another pang of guilt twisted in my gut. I had kept my daughters at arm’s length for two years, drowning my grief in wine and meaningless couplings while they suffered their own loss without the comfort of their remaining parent. No wonder they’d latched onto Murieall so quickly, so fiercely.
“Can we help Murieall find more ghosts tomorrow?” Bess whispered, her voice carrying just far enough for me to catch the words.
My hand froze, the goblet halfway to my lips.
“Aye,” Guinn replied, equally hushed. “She said she needs to help as many ghosts as possible.”
The goblet slammed onto the table with more force than I intended, splashing wine across the wood. Both lasses jumped at the sound, turning guilty faces toward me.
“What did ye just say?” I demanded, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the ambient noise of the hall.
Guinn’s eyes widened, and she glanced at her sister before answering. “I did nae say anything, Da,” she said, dropping her gaze to her plate.
“Do nae lie to me, lass,” I said, leaning closer to them. “I heard ye speaking of ghosts and Murieall. What foolishness has she been filling yer heads with?”
The lasses exchanged another look, this one heavy with unspoken communication. My patience stretched, so I inhaled a steady breath. The last thing I wanted to do was scare the lasses, but I needed the truth. “Girls, the truth, please.”
Guinn nibbled on her lip for a moment, then said, “We promised nae to tell,” to which Bess nodded vigorously.
“Promised who?”
“Murieall,” Guinn admitted reluctantly. “She’s been helping the ghosts, and we promised nae to tell anyone about it.”
Fury at Murieall rose like a tide. How dare she involve my daughters in her madness! How dare she extract promisesfrom them to keep secrets from me! The anger that had been simmering all day threatened to boil over. I clenched my teeth, struggling not to let my anger with Murieall seep into my tone with the lasses. This wasn’t their fault, but they needed reminding that truthfulness mattered. “Ye are only as good as yer word, girls,” I said, trying to gentle my voice. “If ye do nae strive to be truthful, there may come a time people will nae believe what ye say. I ken I’ve nae been the best da since yer mama died, but I also ken she expected ye lasses to be truthful.”
Bess’s face flushed crimson, her small hands balling into fists at her sides. “Mama watches us,” Bess said, her voice rising enough that silence fell upon the dais. “She kens we made a promise to Murieall, and Murieall is helping the ghosts to find things and keep promises so Mama will talk to her again.”
The hall seemed to fall away around me, sounds fading as if I’d been plunged underwater.
“What did ye just say?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Murieall can hear the dead,” Guinn answered, emboldened by her sister’s outburst. “They tell her secrets and messages for people who are still alive. We helped her today. We found a dagger for Fergus, and a recipe for Nessa, and—”
