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She nods. “So, ya feel confused. That’s fair.”

“I’m unsure if I can trust my feelings. Then there’s the actual reality that Ma and Callan are asking me to choose two very different things.”

Saoirse squeezes my arms gently, her expression warm. “It’s not their expectations that have ya upset, though, is it?”

I shake my head. “I think I surmised that during my blowup at Finn… I’m afraid of disappointing them. I let shame in the decision I made overcome all reason.”

Saoirse’s eyes soften, and she pulls me into a quick, reassuring hug. “Listen… whatever happened with Finn, it’s not as broken as it feels right now.”

I pull back, biting my lip. “You didn’t hear what I said to him. I practically told him he’s a bother in my life. That he clings to people because he’s too afraid of being alone. And he just… walked away, silent.”

She winces, but quickly covers it with a small smile. “Och, Triona, ya know, for all the stubbornness and fire that Finn has…he’s not one to hold grudges, especially not with his ‘Little Doe’. He’d never hurt ya—”

“—in the same way I just hurt him?”

She blanches. “My apologies, love. Should have thought that sentence through.”

“No, you’re right, he wouldn’t say those things.” I glance out the window, where Eamon is fastening Shadow’s bridle, Finn standing nearby with an unusually stoic stance. The sight sends a pang through me. “I don’t deserve his forgiveness, not for this.”

“Then do something about it,” Saoirse says, her tone brightening as she nudges my shoulder. “Go down there, apologise, make it right. Tell him what ya feel, not just what ya think he wants to hear.”

“And if he doesn’t forgive me?”

She arches a brow. “Then ye’ll know, won’t you? But… Triona, I’d put all my winnings on him forgiving ya.”

“I almost hate when you’re so incredibly right.”

Saoirse’s laugh carries like a tune. “You’re lucky Dealla isn’t here yet. There’s no telling what she’d be spilling in your ear.”

“Thanks, Saoirse. For being here, for…understanding.”

She squeezes my hand and steps back. “Go on, then. Before he rides off and ye’re left sittin’ here all day, wonderin’ how he’s feelin’.”

With one last look, I turn and make my way down to the stables, my heart racing as I step outside.

I call out for him, but he’s already mounted on Shadow, his broad back stiff as he spurs the stallion forward, the sound of hooves muffling my voice.

“Finn!” I call again, louder this time, the urgency spilling out. But they’re already moving faster, the gap between us widening. My voice dissolves into the cool morning air.

A pang of something sharp and hollow settles in my stomach. Did he really not hear me? Or…did he choose to ignore it?

I stand there, rooted in place, feeling the weight of what I’d said this morning pressing down on me. I turn toward my father’s garden, intent on heading there to walk through it, but I’m met with a troublesome glare from Colina. The intensity in her eyes bothers me immensely. A prickling unease settles at the base of my neck, creeping down my arms like icy tendrils.

As I lift my hand in a tentative wave to ease some of the discomfort of the moment, her face darkens, and her eyes narrow with a look that borders on antipathy. Without a word, she pivots on her heel, leaving me standing there with my hand still raised.

The silence she leaves in her wake feels heavier than words she could have spoken. I let my hand fall, watching her retreat—each step echoing louder than it should against the stone path, as though the world itself refuses to soften her departure.

I swallow, unease settling over me like a shroud.

“I just need to wander through Da’s garden.” I say out loud, as if I weren’t alone.

The fondness I feel as I lose myself in the natural beauty of the garden is unmatched. It feels like a sacred haven of the old world. Its tranquility is unmatched—a place where time seems to slow down.

But the moment I set foot among the familiar flowers, a wave of foreboding crashes over me, making the air feel weighted. The awaited hum of life muted, and the usual rustling leaves and swaying flowers are eerily still. This place, my sanctuary, now feels foreign, as though something unseen has crept into its heart.

I weave through the garden, my steps quickening as I near my favourite corner, where delicate flowers sway in the breeze. The air hums with the scent of earth and blossoms, each one thriving under my father’s careful hand—except one.

My chest tightens as my gaze lands on a single primrose, its petals curled inward, edges tinged with decay. Its stem bows under its own weight, lifeless amid the riot of colour around it. A stark contrast.