Page 48

Thursday, 28 June 1798

Keiss, Scotland

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara

Rain needles against the panes of Da’s study. Ma’s cooking drifts in through the open door, warm and familiar, the sort of smell that ought to make a home feel safe. Tonight, it only hangs there, uneaten comfort, while we wait for the knock we’ve been dreading.

Da sits at his desk with papers spread in neat stacks. He tries to read, but every few lines he goes still, listening. He straightens a pile already straight, taps the wood once, then forces his hand quiet.

Robert’s pacing the narrow strip of floor by the bookcase, lost in his own mind.

Alex and I lounge in chairs nearest the hearth with the lazy posture of men determined not to appear bothered. Alex almost manages it, except his foot keeps time against the chair leg.

Then the knock comes. Not loud, but urgent, swallowed by the storm.

Da is up before it finishes.

“That’ll be the courier,” he says, already halfway to the front door.

Robert hesitates only a heartbeat before following as if he can’t help himself.

Alex flicks a look at me. “Look at him racing off, as if the door will open faster for him.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. It dies quickly.

The rumours out of Edinburgh have carried no humour with them. Raids. Arrests. Men lifted from their beds before dawn. Plans coming apart before they’re even carried out.

“If what folk are sayin’ is true,” I say quietly, “whatever’s about to come through that door willnae be good.”

Alex’s amusement drains away, leaving him watchful. He gives a small, reluctant nod, like agreement is the only honest thing left.

“Ye’re late,” Da says, loud enough to carry into the study. There’s no real bite in it, but the worry is plain underneath.

A voice answers him, strained and breathless, and even without catching the words, I can hear trouble in it.

Da returns with the man in tow. He steps aside and gestures him and Robert in, then nudges the door shut with his heel.

“Go on and sit before ye fall,” Da orders, pointing him to the bench by the hearth. “Get warm. We’ll speak more once ye’ve caught yer breath.”

The courier obeys at once. When he lowers himself down, he does it carefully, as if his legs might not hold. “Truly came as fast as I could, sir.” He swallows, then adds, “Roads are half-washed out. Nearly lost the horse at the lower ford.”

Da lets out a low breath. “Easy, Davie, ye’ve done well. It’s alright.”

The man fumbles inside his coat, drawing out a bundled packet wrapped in oilcloth. The edges are damp, and when he sets it down, it lands with a heavy thud.

“I’ve kent ye and the missus a long time, sir,” he says, voice low. “I ken yer ties to Ireland. If what they’re sayin’ is true… then I’m sorry.”

His throat works. “And I’ll say this plain: no one will hear from me ye’re sympathetic. Not a soul.”

Da’s hand closes on the packet. “Thank ye. Truly.” He tips his chin toward the hall. “Go through to the kitchen and get yerself a plate of whatever Madam Sinclair has made.”

Davie hesitates.

Da’s voice firms a touch. “Go on. We’ll speak again before ye leave.”

That’s enough. Davie nods once more and goes, boots soft on the boards, as he slips out.

“Right,” he says, low. “Now.”