Page 116

“I’ve made no promises to ye,” she says, cool.

“I ken.”

“And yet ye behave as if⁠—”

“As if ye matter?” I cut in, voice low, edged. “Of course I do.”

Her lips part, then close again. She looks away, jaw working.

The wind stirs the rowan leaves overhead. A few red berries tremble, bright against grey.

I reach into the basket, fingers closing around the small wrapped parcel that’s tucked beneath everything else.

My heart thuds once, hard.

“Open this,” I say, and hold it out.

Ellen’s gaze drops to it. Her expression turns wary.

“What is it?”

“A gift.”

“I dinnae need⁠—”

“Ellen,” I say, and something in my voice makes her stop.

Slowly, cautiously, she takes the parcel, and peels back the cloth.

Inside is a bottle no bigger than her palm, clear glass with a narrow neck, sealed with dark wax. A simple ribbon is tied around it, Sinclair tartan, the colours deep and unmistakable.

Ellen stares down at it.

Her throat works once before she speaks.

“What is this?” she repeats, gentler now, as if she already knows.

“It’s primrose scent,” I say.

Her eyes flick up, sharp. “Primrose?”

“Aye.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s not. Not with a wee bit of patience.”

Her brows draw together, and she looks younger than she means to, wholly surprised and unable to hide it beneath the polish.

“I’ve spent months on it,” I tell her. “Gatherin’ blossoms. Soakin’ them. Pressin’ them. Over and over until I had enough for a wee bottle.”

Ellen’s grip tightens.

“Months,” she echoes.

“The entire summer.”

Her thumb moves over the wax seal again. “Why?”