The caretaker appeared in the doorway again, smiling vaguely. “Find what you were lookin’ for?”
Heather managed a nod. “Pieces of it.”
Outside, the church bell tolled once, soft and hollow. Flynn’s hand brushed hers. “Come on, lass. Before the weather catches us.”
As they stepped into the wind, Heather looked back at the church.
If the thistle endures, follow it home.
Was home a destination… or a warning?
Chapter 30
Fiona Cameron—The Isle of Skye, 1747
Flora shut the door with her heel and turned the key, sealing the small back room off from the rest of the croft.
“Come,” she said. “Let me look at ye.”
Fiona hesitated.
She’d worn finer things before; borrowed bodices at weddings she wasn’t meant to linger at, dresses adjusted too quickly by aunts who tugged and judged in the same breath. Clothes that asked her to stand still and behave while the world carried on without her.
This felt different.
Flora lifted the dress from an old trunk and shook it out.
Fiona’s breath caught.
The fabric was an emerald green wool, softened with age and care, the kind that held its shape without stiffness. The bodice was fitted. Not tight, but shaped, meant to follow a woman’s form rather than disguise it. The sleeves were narrow at the wrist, opening slightly at the shoulder.
Practical. Elegant. Rustic, but not plain.
“This is… yours?” Fiona asked.
Flora snorted softly. “Aye. Been waitin’ for the right body to fill it.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasnae meant to be.”
Flora stepped behind her and began loosening the ties of Fiona’s everyday dress with practiced fingers. Fiona stood still in her shift, heat creeping up her neck from the strange vulnerability of being handled by a woman such as Flora MacDonald, without armor on.
“Since I’ve met ye,” she said quietly. “Ye look… braced… like someone’s always about to knock ye sideways.”
Fiona swallowed. “That’s because they usually are.”
Flora hummed and guided her into the new gown.
The fabric settled over Fiona like it had been waiting for her.
Flora laced the bodice snugly, then stepped back. “Turn.”
Fiona did—and stopped short.
The woman in the small mirror startled her.
Her hair had been brushed loose, the wild red curls softened but not tamed, framing her face instead of being bound back for riding or fighting. The dress skimmed her waist and hips, shaping her without apology.
