“And ye do?” he demanded.
“Better than ye,” I replied. “Every instinct I possess tells me she will nae even hear my plea if ye are with me when I make it.”
“Fine, but if she threatens ye,” he said, grasping me by the hand, “whistle, and I’ll come right away.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure he could aid me against Morgana if she wished to do me harm, but if I told him that, he’d not let me meet with her at all. He released me with obvious reluctance, and I moved toward the cave. “Morgana,” I called, my voice echoing faintly off the stone. “I’ve come to speak with ye.”
The air shifted as I stepped into her home, and she emerged from the shadows as though she’d been there all along, her silver hair loose about her shoulders, her eyes glowing a faint violet in the dim light. She regarded me with a calm that made my heart race.
“Still making plans, I see,” she said.
I flinched. How could she know of my need to always plan everything? The night we’d taken the goblet was one of the rare times I’d deviated from my carefully planned life. I did not think she’d willingly answer my question, and I fretted how long Bruce would allow me to remain alone in here, so I said, instead, “I need yer help.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “Ye always did.”
I drew in a steadying breath. “I stole the goblet to save my mama’s life. We should have asked ye, but I was desperate, yesee.” When she simply remained silent, I continued. “Please,” I said, my heart now hammering, “the curse—” My voice wavered despite my efforts. “It is costing me everything I planned for. My betrothal has been broken. My future—” I had to pause to swallow the lump that had lodged in my throat. Tears burned my eyes, and I blinked them away. “I just want the voices gone,” I whispered. “I want my life back.”
Morgana’s gaze sharpened. “The voices are nae yer enemy,” she said. “They are truth knocking where lies have kept the door barred.”
I shook my head. “They bring pain.”
“So does love,” she replied. “So does living.”
She raised one pale hand, and the air thickened, pressing in on me. “Ye fear pain more than death, Murieall Buchanan. That is why ye plan. That is why ye endure. That is why ye silence the dead.” Her eyes locked on mine. “But safety will nae free ye from the prison ye have created for yerself from the loss of yer sister.”
An image rose unbidden of Lisette’s small hand slipping from mine. The crack of ice echoed in my ears as dark water swallowed her. A sob escaped me as the ghosts stirred in my head. They were not clamoring, but simply reminding me they were there, waiting.
“To break what binds ye,” Morgana said, “ye must seek the wickedest Scot in the Highlands, a man who has survived by nae feeling.”
My breath caught in my chest.
Morgana stepped close to me, swallowing all the space between us. “Make him feel again,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And when the time comes for ye to choose, for mark me it will come, choose truth over comfort. Courage over caution. Choose the life ye can nae plan for.” Her lips curved faintly. “Only then will the dead loosen their hold.”
Silence followed, heavy and complete. “Who is he?” I asked hoarsely. I could not make a plan without a name.
She offered a knowing smile, as if she knew just what I’d been thinking. “Munro Ross,” she said. “Go to him. Tell him ye need his protection.”
“Protection from what?” I asked.
“Be inventive,” she said, with a chuckle. “Make a plan whilst ye travel to him. Now,” she said, her voice growing in volume, “be gone.” With that, she flicked her hand in the air and disappeared.
I turned back the way I’d come, rushing out of the cave as my thoughts raced ahead of me, chasing solutions. I feared that convincing my brother to take me to Ross Stronghold would be impossible. He’d brought me here because it was temporary, because it fit within a tidy span of days, because he could tell himself he was only indulging my desperation long enough for it to be soothed. Taking me north—to Ross Stronghold—was another matter entirely.
I tried to assemble a plan as I made my way to him, but I could not see how to convince him. He had to return to the king’s castle, which meant he didn’t have time to accompany me, and if he returned me home, Mama and Da would never let me go to Ross stronghold to try and make a stranger feel again, so that my curse would be broken.
I needed a plan of escape. That was what I needed. After we started home, I’d tell my brother I needed to relieve myself, I’d take my horse with me, and I would head north to Ross stronghold. There, I would discover how to make the man Munro Ross feel again, and then my curse would be lifted, and I would go to Liam and prove it. Then, my life would be back where it was supposed to be, where I’d planned for it to be. The path curved sharply, and I stepped into the small clearing whereBruce awaited me, prepared to lie and say the witch had denied my plea.
I came to a halt, taking in my brother. He lay slumped against a tree, his cloak pooled around him, his head tipped forward unnaturally. The horses were down the trail where we’d left them, still tethered to the tree.
My heart lurched. “Bruce?” I whispered, hurrying toward him. I dropped to my knees beside him, my fingers trembling as I reached for his shoulder. His breathing was deep and even—too even. Like a man sunk into a dream too heavy to escape. Fear crawled up my spine.
I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. I released a shuddering breath, but it caught on a certainty. Bruce’s sleep was not natural. A chill swept over me as understanding took root.
Morgana.
I drew back slowly, awe prickling my skin. She had done this—not to harm him, but to remove him from stopping me. Did she want me to succeed? If so, then why not simply remove the curse? My gaze lifted to the dark canopy above, the branches tangled like a web. I didn’t have the answers, nor did I have any plan for convincing Munro Ross to feel, but once on my way, I would concoct one.
I looked at the narrow trail leading away from the clearing, the one that would carry me onward alone. My pulse hammered as I rose to my feet. Morgana had her own designs, it seemed. Threads were drawing tight to form a pattern whether I liked it or not.
