Page 6

Casey, the middle child, is a gust of wind in a stagnant room—chaotic, refreshing, impossible to ignore. Where Callan constrains, Casey liberates, turning arguments into laughter and competition into camaraderie. Our closeness is effortless, woven from playful jabs and whispered conspiracies. He admits, in rare moments of honesty, that Edinburgh has awakened something in him too—a yearning for more, for the stories we’ve read to become places we see with our own eyes. Only a year apart in age, we share a competitive streak that often turns playful. We bicker constantly, but Casey has a way of turning every argument into a joke, leaving me laughing and forgetting what I was mad about to begin with.

A sharp knock on my door snaps me back to the present. Deidre’s unrelenting spirit will be the death of me.

Another sharp rap rattles the door, insistent. I groan, making sure she hears my suffering. “Triona isn’t here! Try again later!”

The floorboards creak—my only warning before the door swings open with force. Deidre storms in, her presence as commanding as ever. “Caitríona Sinclair, get out of that bed this instant, or I’ll fetch a pail of cold water!”

I bolt upright, rolling off the opposite side of the bed to escape her wrath. Deidre’s warnings aren’t idle threats. She gives one, and only one, before following through. It didn’t take many incidents for me to learn that the hard way.

Raising my hands in surrender, I let out a resigned huff. “All right, you win this one.” A playful smirk creeps onto my lips, but Deidre just rolls her eyes, muttering, “gods help me.”

She crosses her arms and surveys the room with a critical eye, her gaze narrowing as it settles on me. “Were you up late reading again? This chamber looks a bloody disaster!” she declares, gesturing dramatically, as if the room were in shambles.

The scene is far from the chaos she describes. A few scattered papers lay on my desk, a shawl hangs casually over the chair—but the rest of my belongings, meticulously gathered over nine months, sit neatly packed away.

“Triona, the necessity for departure is—”

“It’s hardly chaos!” I protest. “Callan’s training and your relentless studies have left me utterly spent. You loom over me like the Abhartach, draining the life from your victims!”

A sharp scoff escapes her, disbelief etching itself into her features. Amusement bubbles within me, threatening to spill over, but I bite the side of my mouth to stifle a laugh. I’ve overplayed my hand, and I know it. Her expression shifts, the faint trace of humour evaporating into something far darker.

“The bloodsucker, is it?” she muses, lips pursed as if seriously considering my accusation.

Then she moves—one step, then another—rounding the bed with purpose. My eyes widen, the humour draining from me as quickly as it had come. “Deidre…” I warn, my voice trailing off. Whatever her intention, I’m certain it won’t bode well for me.

Shite.

To escape her advance, I roll over the bed to the other side—a nearly impossible feat in a shift—as she narrowly misses whipping me with a towel she’s holding. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I run for the door, unsure where I‘m going.

I make it only a handful of steps before I crash into a solid, immovable surface.

Casey.

His hands land on my shoulders to steady me, his gaze already full of suspicion as he gauges the source of my giddiness. His eyes shift over my shoulder, and I can only imagine the sight awaiting him. A grin spreads across his face, warm and infectious—the very image of our father’s smile. Behind me, Deidre sighs, her tension dissolving into exasperation.

“Good morning, piuthar. Trouble so early in the mornin’?” he asks, his attention still fixed on Deidre, as if awaiting her account of the unfolding chaos.

“She’s going to kill me,” I whisper under my breath.

“She likened Callan and me to the Abhartach,” Deidre replies, her tone dripping with theatrical flair. “You know—the bloodsucking fiend that drains the life from its victims. It seems this poor maiden—” she emphasises the word with a flourish—“has been so cruelly worn to the bone. Perhaps I’ll inform Callan he’s finally bested her.”

My jaw drops as I turn to face her. “You wouldn’t dare—”

Casey cuts me off with a booming laugh, turning me around before I can hurl an ill-advised retort. I caught a fleeting, mischievous glint in Deidre’s eye before my back was to her once more. She looked as if she has a secret she wasn’t sharing.

“That’s not a fair match, Triona,” Casey teases. “Ye’re far too kind to our dear brother.”

We laugh, Deidre included, and as if summoned, Callan enters the hallway from behind Casey. He appears just as tense as Deidre, no doubt eager to seize the day ahead.

Callan’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms, while his usual partial topknot secures part of his dark-brown hair, as the rest cascades over his shoulders in effortless waves.

It looks as though it simply fell into place that way, without a thought. Here I am, battling the elements so my hair doesn’t resemble a bramble bush after a stiff breeze. I have to bite back a sigh of irritation. How is it fair for him to look like that?

Casey steps aside, giving Callan a clear view of me. “What’s all this banter about? We’re leavin’ in the next—” Callan stops mid-sentence, his expression freezing as he curses under his breath and turns abruptly toward the wall.

From my vantage point, I see Casey’s brows knit in confusion as he glances between Callan and me. A strange stillness settles over Casey’s face, his eyes widening before he groans and shields his own vision.

“Gods, Triona!” he bellows, voice half-laugh, half-horror. “You might as well be in the scud, like the day ye were born!”