The moment the door closed behind Harris,
the moment the echo of the soldiers’ boots faded down the hall—
Fiona’s knees simply broke.
She fell.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
Her body folded to the stone floor as if grief itself struck her down.
A raw, animal sound tore out of her chest.
It wasn’t a cry.
It was a shattering.
Her newborn daughter startled awake in her arms, wailing as if she felt the rupture through her mother’s bones. Fiona curled over the tiny bundle, gathering her close, rocking, shaking, clutching the baby as though holding tight enough might bring Harris back through sheer force of will.
“No—”
Her voice cracked in a way she had never heard.
“No, no, no, no, dinnae… dinnae take him… Harris—Harris—”
Mairi, the oldest maidservant, arrived first.
She froze at the sight.
Then rushed forward, skirts sweeping the floor, whispering, “Oh lass, oh sweet lamb—” as she wrapped her arms around Fiona from behind.
But Fiona fought her.
Fought everything.
Her grief was a storm in her limbs.
“They cannae have him!”
Her breath heaved.
“He’s mine! He’s ours! They cannot—they cannae—”
The baby’s cries sharpened, frantic.
Fiona pressed her daughter to her chest, tears dripping onto the infant’s soft auburn curls.
Two more women arrived—Elspeth and young Caitriona—both white-faced, trembling. They knelt on either side of Fiona, trying to steady her shaking hands, murmuring prayers, apologies, desperate comforts.
But none of it reached her.
“Please—” Fiona sobbed, forehead pressed to her child’s swaddled head. “Please dinnae take him. He promised…he promised he’d always come home…he—” Her voice buckled beneath the truth. “He always came home—”
But this time, he wouldn’t.
Not tonight.
