Flora’s tone softened, but not in a comforting way. More like steel cooling, still dangerous to touch.
“Tonight,” she said, “ye rest. Tomorrow, the world will demand more of ye than ye’re ready for.”
Fiona bristled, stung. “I’m ready for anything.”
Flora only gave a faint, knowing smile, as if she saw through the bravado to the moment Fiona had swallowed hard.
Her shoulders sagged. Her knees wobbled. Her eyes burned with the sting of a day spent clinging to fear and fury.
Flora noticed. Of course she did.
“Come,” she beckoned, hand warm on Fiona’s elbow. “I’ll show ye where ye can lay that stubborn head of yours.”
Fiona followed Flora down a narrow corridor that smelled of peat smoke, lavender, and something faintly medicinal. The walls were whitewashed, hung with framed sketches—boats, deer, the silhouette of the Cuillin—each one precise and spare, like the hand of someone who understood survival better than sentiment.
Flora pushed open a low wooden door with her hip.
“This one’s yours.”
The room was scarcely larger than a cupboard; just a narrow bed tucked under the eave, a small chest, a basin, and a single tallow candle flickering against the wall. But it was warm, clean, and quiet in a way Fiona hadn’t felt since before the rebellion went to ruin.
She stepped inside, fingertips brushing the quilt. Handmade. Patched. Soft from years of washing.
“It’s… lovely,” Fiona breathed, surprised by the crack of sincerity in her voice.
Flora leaned her shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, studying Fiona with a gaze that could read bones through skin.
“You’ve had a hard road,” she said.
Fiona huffed. “Harder than most.”
“Aye,” Flora agreed. “And ye handled it better than most.”
Fiona blinked. Compliments had never felt quite so much like being inspected for weaknesses.
Flora’s expression shifted: still sharp, but not entirely unfriendly. “Harris said ye saved his life.”
Fiona snorted. “He fought me the whole time.”
“That’s what gratitude looks like on men like him.” Flora’s voice held dry amusement. “They scowl and pretend they’re immortal. But he doesnae trust lightly.”
There was an unspokenand he trusted you, but Fiona didn’t know what to do with it.
Flora straightened from the doorframe. “Rest. I’ll fetch ye water.”
Fiona nodded. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray something—relief, exhaustion, pride—none of which she wanted Flora MacDonald to see.
Flora touched her arm briefly, a gesture that might have been warmth or warning, and stepped out.
Fiona sat on the bed, letting her breath settle, her muscles unclenching by degrees.
Until she heard them.
Voices outside.
She rose and crossed to the small window, pushing aside the wool curtain.
Harris stood near the shed where Dubh had been led. Flora faced him, wind catching her braid, her cloak snapping like a banner. They talked quietly—too quiet for Fiona to hear, but not too quiet to understand.
