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“I’m fine, Rosie,” Alex says automatically.

“Hold still.”

There is enough blood on him to make her tremble.

Her hand closes around his forearm.

Alex hisses.

She leans closer, and when she sees the source of the pain, sees how deep the cut goes, her face loses the last of its colour.

“Ye’re not,” she says, and the quiet certainty in her voice is worse than shouting. “Alex⁠—”

There’s a flicker of light on the upper landing. Maeve and Taskill step into view at the top of the stairs a moment later, candles in hand, looking as though we roused them mid-romp.

Maeve takes in the scene in a single glance—the muck, the blood, and Róisín with her hands on Alex like she’s trying to keep him upright by will alone. The candle in her hand dips.

“My boys,” she says, voice already breaking. “What in the Gods⁠—”

“We’re fine,” James says quickly, too quickly. “Truly. No one’s dyin’ tonight.”

“That’s fresh blood,” Maeve says sharply, already moving, Taskill not far behind. She’s down the stairs and crossing the room in three long strides, stopping in front of me. The candle lifts as her eyes sweep over my tunic, my sleeve, the places I’ve been careful not to look at myself.

“Don’t tell me ye’re fine,” she adds, voice hardening. “That’s not fine.”

Taskill’s gaze is sharp and searching. “Ye lads had better fess up to what’s happened, lest ye wake up that fiery spirit in her.”

“Pretty sure the fiery spirit’s already awake,” Alex mutters under his breath.

Róisín pinches the uninjured part of his arm.

He lets out a quiet hiss.

“Grand,” James says. “Now there are two of ’em.”

Neither woman looks amused.

Maeve folds her arms and fixes us all with the sort of look that has sent grown men scurrying from a room.

I open my mouth and realise I have no idea where to start.

“Well, we went to look for tracks from the lost ewes from that tenant’s farm, as you asked,” I say finally.

Róisín stares at me for a long moment.

Then she looks at Alex—at the blood soaking his sleeve, at the gash on his arm.

She whirls back to me.

“You mean to tell me ya came back like this because of a few sheep?”

James scrubs a hand over his face. “No. That’s just it. We didnae find the animals.”

Maeve’s eyes narrow. “Did ya take the charm bags?”

The question seems absurdly out of place, given the state we’ve returned in. Alex and I are bleeding, and we’re all streaked with mud—yet Maeve looks as if this matters most.

James’s head snaps toward her. “What? Ma, why the hell does that matter right now?”