Page 34

He tosses a wink toward Dealla, whose cheeks flush instantly pink, and then strolls off with that smug Sinclair swagger—as if he isn’t the embodiment of mayhem.

The second he’s out of earshot, I turn to her, eyebrows raised. “Did Casey just make you blush?”

“Oh, shut it! He did not!” she protests, even as she presses her fingers to her flaming cheeks. “My cheeks are naturally rosy.”

I smile, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her squirm. She groans and hides her face in her hands.

“Stop staring at me like that!” she mumbles.

“What? I’m just admiring that sudden complex change of colour you’ve got.” I bite back a laugh.

Dealla peeks out from between her fingers, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “I swear, Caitríona, one more word, and I’ll throttle you.”

Looping my arm with hers, I grin. “Come on, before you start daydreaming about my brother.”

Dealla’s jaw drops, and she pulls away, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Caitríona Éireann Sinclair, stop while you’re ahead!”

I double over, laughing, clutching my side. “I’ll take it back when you stop blushing like a lovesick bairn!”

“I’ll have you know I could never indulge in such thoughts about your brother,” she huffs, crossing her arms but failing to hide her smirk.

“Good. Keep it that way. I couldn’t look you in the eye ever again if you fell for Casey,” I say, still laughing.

“You and me both,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as we walk off, the sound of our laughter echoing behind us.

I pause at the door, one hand braced on the frame, and for a moment, I think about not going in. About turning around, walking back out into the fresh air and pretending Casey hadn’t told me to come and see her.

But I relent. Because I know there’s no avoiding the inevitable.

The door to my mother’s bedchamber creaks open, revealing her silhouette by the hearth. Her face is half-shrouded by the dim light of the fire, and her eyes seem unfocused, as though she’s somewhere else in her mind. For a moment, I linger in the doorway, watching her fingers tugging at the loose threads of her shawl. She’s carrying a quiet, unshakable worry that colours her every move.

As I step closer, she glances up, her eyes sharpening slightly—but not enough to conceal the lingering shadows that shroud her.

This is so unlike my mother—a woman whose steady hands seem to hold the world together. Always so sure, always composed, with practical answers at the ready, even when they aren’t the ones I want to hear.

Now, there’s a fragility in her I don’t recognise. As if something inside her has quietly come undone. Her eyes are shadowed with a sorrow I can’t name, as if she’s burdened by memories too heavy to speak aloud.

She has avoided my every attempt to speak with her—each time I’m met with a smile too thin to be real and a well-orchestrated deflection

‘Dinnae fash, mo nighean bheag’ she says, brushing off my concern as if it’s a leaf on her shoulder.

Her expression changes, hardening into the calm and commanding presence I often relied on as a child. I can see right through it now, though, and it’s disorienting. It feels like trying to hold water. Every lingering glance, every evasive answer deepens the chasm between us.

Finally, she speaks, her voice breaking the silence. “Triona,” she says, almost cautiously. “I’ve been meanin’ to speak with ye about Marcus.”

Of course it’s about Marcus. The irritation flares, but it’s not just him. It’s her evasion, her dismissal of the things I’m desperate to understand. I feel my body tense, an instinctive prick of annoyance rising. “What about him?” I ask, keeping my voice measured.

“He’s quite taken with ye.”

“You’ve only seen us together once, Ma,” I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

Her gaze is steady, her eyes intent as she crosses the room to stand closer to me. “He’s a good man, Triona. Strong, respectable. Ye’d have stability with him, someone to depend on.”

“I hear what you're saying, Ma, but what I cannot see is the point?”

“I think ye need him,” she says, her voice steady but firm. “It’s high time to consider that.”

“That’s what you think I need? A man to ‘depend on’?” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t bring myself to soften them.