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Then she’s gone.

The kitchen stays the same on the surface: the fire low, the air warm with it, rain still worrying the pane. But the quiet no longer presses so hard. A pressure inside me has eased, and for the first time in days, I don’t feel as though I’m holding all of it alone.

The shape of things between Ellen and me has changed.

Not affection. Not yet.

Respect.

And it doesn’t sit on me like praise. It settles like a hand at the back of my neck, steadying. Like breath after a long hold. Like the first clear thought after hours of noise: that whatever comes next, I can bear it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JAMES

Sunday, 15 July 1798

Keiss, Scotland

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara

Ma has kept me busy all morning, chasing tasks that can wait—twine I could have fetched yesterday, jars that don’t need filling yet, a latch she has tolerated loose for a month—while her stillroom remains, quite conveniently, out of my way, almost as if the point of the errands was never the errands at all.

I’m halfway ashamed of how easily I’ve lingered near the corridor that leads there, as though I might catch some scrap of understanding through wood and stone, and the longer Ma keeps me moving, the more certain I become that she’s doing it on purpose.

So I give in to the temptation to question her motives.

I’m already halfway down the corridor toward the stillroom when my attention catches on Ellen, as it almost always does these days.

She’s standing partway along the passage, paused as if she’s forgotten why she came there, her posture composed but held too carefully.

Then Róisín appears, all quiet purpose, and goes straight to Ellen, leaning in to murmur something at her ear.

Ellen’s chin dips in a small nod.

Róisín slips her arm through Ellen’s and guides her toward the stillroom door as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. It’s only when I hear the side door inside the room open that my irritation falls away, replaced by a sudden, heavy understanding.

Ma ushers a cloaked woman inside, her voice lowered to a murmur meant only for the space between them, her body instinctively angled to shield her from the rest of the room.

The woman pulls her cloak tight despite the warmth of the house, her head bowed, her hands clasped together so hard the knuckles stand out white against her skin.

Ma doesn’t announce visitors when discretion is the point. She turns slightly and finds Ellen and Róisín with a softened, maternal gaze.

“Ellen,” she says, low and steady, “go to the herb garden and gather tansy. Only what you can carry unseen.”

Her gaze shifts to Róisín without her voice changing.

“Róisín, have Charlotte start a bath in my chambers. Bring warmed gin as well,” she adds, as if she’s listing ordinary comforts. “And if anyone asks, ye’re⁠—”

“Fetchin’ for a fever, aye,” Róisín says, like she’s said it a hundred times before.

Ma lets out the faintest sigh and fixes Róisín with a look of quiet exasperation.

“Sorry,” Róisín says at once, lips tilting into a half-smile. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Ma’s mouth softens despite herself. She gives a small shake of her head and flicks her hand in dismissal. “Go on with ya then,” she says, already turning back to the woman.

Róisín moves first, quick and sure. Ellen’s feet follow a beat later, as if her body’s doing what it’s told while her mind lags.