The forest blurred by me as I continued my pleas, and then I broke into the open space and drove my horse to near inhumanspeeds. Moments later, the courtyard stretched out before me in a blur of stone and scattered clansmen, their faces turning toward us as I thundered through the gates. Shouts echoed off the walls, but I paid them no mind, my focus solely on the woman in my arms and the desperate need to reach the healer. People dove out of our path, clearing the way as my destrier’s hooves pounded against the cobblestones right up to the healer’s door.
I slid from the saddle before the horse had even come to a full stop, Murieall cradled carefully against my chest. Her breath was shallow, her face far too pale. Blood stained her gown and my hands, a stark reminder of the violence we’d left behind in the forest. I kicked open the door to the healing room, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, the healer was already preparing her instruments, her face grave as she looked up from her table and motioned me inside. James stood, looking as helpless as I felt. I laid Murieall on the healer’s table, my heart pounding in my chest like a battle drum. The healer moved swiftly, her practiced hands cutting away the fabric to reveal the extent of the ugly gash.
“The dagger missed her heart,” the healer announced, her voice grave as she began to clean the wound with a steady stream of water from a nearby basin. “But the danger of fever and corruption remains high.”
I stood frozen, watching as the healer worked to stitch the wound closed, her needle moving with practiced efficiency. Each pass of the thread through Murieall’s flesh made my stomach churn, a mix of guilt and fear roiling within me. I had done this to her: my blindness, my stubborn refusal to see the truth. James stood nearby, his eyes dark with worry, but there was no comfort in his presence. The weight of what had transpired in the woods pressed down on me, suffocating me with its enormity. If Murieall died, I would never forgive myself.
The healing chamber stood silent save for Murieall’s shallow breathing and the occasional pop from the hearth fire. I’d lost track of how many candles had burned down to stubs since we’d brought her here. The days had blurred together in a haze of fear and desperate hope as I sat beside her, watching for any sign that my uncle’s blade had not stolen her from me.
I shifted in the hard wooden chair that had become my home, my muscles protesting the movement after so many hours of stillness. My plaid hung askew, crusted with Murieall’s dried blood that I couldn’t bring myself to wash away. It felt like a penance, a reminder of how I’d failed her. The stubble on my jaw itched, and my eyes burned from lack of sleep.
“Ye’re a stubborn lass,” I whispered, reaching out to press my hand to her forehead. “Most would have given up by now.”
Her skin was still hot with fever despite the cool compresses we applied regularly. The wound itself was an angry red beneath the poultices of herbs the healer changed twice daily. Each time the bandages were removed, I held my breath, searching for signs that the corruption was receding rather than spreading.
“I was a fool,” I said, taking her limp hand in mine. Her fingers were slender, almost delicate compared to my calloused palm, yet I knew the strength they contained. “A blind, stubborn fool who could nae see what was right before him.”
The silence that answered me was awful. I wished she would ramble or murmur as she had that first day when she’d lain unconscious. I’d pieced together the treachery, lies, weakness, and murder committed by Uncle Gordon and Aunt Magdalene from the words Murieall spoke from wherever her mind was. It had seemed Murieall had to get it out to rest, but now I worried in the utter silence, if she’d told the tale from the depths of hersleep, so that I would know the full truth, because she would not be returning to tell it.
“I was so sure I kenned the truth,” I continued, my thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “So certain that the dead did nae speak to the living.” My voice broke, and I had to pause, swallowing against the knot in my throat. “I was wrong.”
I stood, my knees protesting after so many hours seated, and moved to check the fire. The logs had burned low, leaving mostly glowing embers. I added fresh wood, watching as the flames licked hungrily at the new fuel before turning back to Murieall.
“The healer says she thinks ye can hear me,” I said, returning to my chair and leaning forward to brush my fingertips along her fevered cheek. “I hope that’s true, because there’s something I need ye to ken.”
The blanket covering her had shifted, exposing one shoulder. I gently tucked it back around her, taking care not to disturb the bandages visible at the neckline of her shift.
“Isabella spoke to me in the woods,” I whispered, still scarcely believing it myself. “After I pulled my uncle off ye, I thought I’d lost ye. The blood…” I closed my eyes against the memory. “I begged ye to live, and that’s when I heard her.”
“She said she’d saved yer life, and now I must give ye the one ye deserve. The one we both deserve.” I lifted Murieall’s hand to my lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.
The candle nearest the bed guttered, casting strange shadows across Murieall’s still face. In the flickering light, she looked both vulnerable and somehow ethereal, as if she might slip away to join the spirits she communed with.
“Ye came here to make me feel again,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “And ye succeeded, though nae in the way either of us expected.” I carefully brushed back her hair, letting my fingers linger against the warmth of her scalp. “I feel everything now,mo chride. The grief I tried to drown, the joy ofreconnecting with my lasses. And love, Murieall. I feel love for ye.”
Something in my chest constricted as I spoke the word. It felt both familiar and terrifyingly new, like picking up a sword after years away from battle.
“But ye must come back to me,” I pleaded. “Ye must fight this fever. I can nae lose ye now, nae when I’ve only just found ye.”
Behind me, the door creaking alerted me to someone entering. I glanced over my shoulder to see James standing in the doorway, his face grave in the dim light. He hesitated there, as if uncertain of his welcome after all that had passed between us, before stepping inside and closing the door with deliberate care behind him.
The tap of his boots against the stone floor seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber as he approached. His eyes moved from me to Murieall, assessing her condition with a practiced gaze that had seen too many wounded warriors on too many battlefields.
“Any change?” he asked, his voice low.
I shook my head, rubbing a hand over my face to chase away the fog of exhaustion. “The fever holds, and…”
“She has nae awakened,” James finished for me.
“Aye.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I felt the weight of our shared history in that touch—years of friendship, of battles fought side by side, of trusts both kept and broken. I’d nearly destroyed all of it with my suspicion and rage, yet here he stood, loyal as ever.
“I bring news,” he said after a moment, his grip tightening slightly on my shoulder. “Magdalene is dead.”
I looked up sharply, searching his face for details his words hadn’t provided.
