Harris grabbed her arm. “We need off the island.”
“Aye. I ken.” She jerked her chin sharply. “Follow me, quickly.”
They descended a narrow deer path between cliffs, the mist tightening around them like a noose. The ocean roared below, restless and black.
The path opened to a rocky cove no patrol would think to search. A lone fishing skiff bobbed in the surf, lantern dimmed.
A gruff old fisherman stood beside it, glaring like he regretted being born.
“Ye owe me for this, Flora.”
“Aye,” she muttered. “I’ll bake ye a tattie scone.”
He snorted. “Make it two.”
Fiona tightened her grip on Harris’s hand. “Where does this go?”
“Mainland,” Flora said. “First tae Raasay. Then tae Applecross. No watchposts. No soldiers. Just wind and sheep.”
“And once we’re across?”
“Ye head East,” Flora said, eyes burning. “And dinnae come back tae Skye—not for a long while.”
Something in Fiona cracked open.
She hugged Flora hard.
Flora froze, then crushed her in a fierce embrace, as if she’d been holding herself together for months.
“For Scotland,” Fiona whispered.
“For yer bairn,” Flora murmured back.
Fiona’s breath hitched.
Flora nudged them toward the boat. “Go.”
As the fisherman shoved the skiff toward the waves, he cast a wary glance at Dubh.
“Yer horse’ll balk,” he muttered. “Creature looks carved from thunder.”
“He won’t,” Harris said.
Dubh immediately bared his teeth.
Fiona raised her brows. “Aye. Picture of obedience.”
“It’s a short crossing,” Harris murmured, tightening his grip on the rope. “Sheltered. He can manage it.”
Fiona eyed the churning channel. “That’s what folk say before funerals.”
The fisherman crossed himself.
Harris led Dubh into the shallows. “Easy, laddie. Just a wee swim.”
Dubh snorted, stamping a massive hoof, as if deeply offended at the suggestion he couldn’t do something.
Then, with theatrical resignation, he waded in.
