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When Destiny reached Sorcha’s wrists, Sorcha’s breath caught. The skin there was red and bruised where the man in the forest had twisted her arm.

Destiny’s eyes darkened.

Sorcha tried to pull away. “’Tis nothing.”

Destiny’s gaze snapped up. “It is not nothing.”

Sorcha looked away, unable to bear the anger on Destiny’s face. It should not be Destiny’s anger. Destiny should not have to spend her life defending Sorcha from men’s cruelty.

The moment Destiny touched her neck, grief surged so violently Sorcha couldn’t hold it back. Her breath hitched. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Oh,” Destiny whispered. “Sorcha . . .”

Sorcha’s chest shook as the sobs came, silent at first, like choking, then louder as the grief broke through the dam she had built inside her. She lifted both hands to her face, trying to muffle the sound, but she could not. She had held too much for too long.

“It’s gone,” Sorcha whispered, barely able to speak. “It was all I had left of her.”

Destiny set the cloth aside and wrapped her arms around Sorcha again, pressing Sorcha’s head to her shoulder as if shielding her from the world.

“They took it,” Sorcha sobbed. “They took it as if it were nothing. Like I was nothing.”

Destiny rocked her slightly. “Nay,” Destiny whispered fiercely. “You are not nothing. You are not.”

Sorcha clung to Destiny’s sleeve, shaking. “It was my hope,” she whispered. “It was everything I had left. I thought if I still had that, then maybe I could still fund a future.”

Destiny stroked her hair gently. “You will,” Destiny said.

Sorcha laughed brokenly through tears. “How? I have nothing.”

Destiny pulled back, framing Sorcha’s face with both hands. Her own eyes glistened. “You have me,” Destiny said simply. “You will always have me.”

Sorcha’s sob caught in her chest.

Destiny kissed Sorcha’s brow, swift, fierce, with unashamed tenderness, then stood abruptly, wiping her cheeks.

“Now,” Destiny said, voice steadier, “you are going to bathe. You are going to eat. And you are going to sleep in a warm bed.”

Sorcha tried to protest weakly. “Destiny—”

“Not another word.” Destiny’s eyes softened. “You cannot fight the world on cold bones.”

A bath was prepared quickly. Sorcha was led to a chamber where steam fogged the air, where the scent of soap and herbs curled through the warmth. Destiny dismissed the maid after a moment and helped Sorcha unfasten her cloak with hands that did not hesitate at torn seams.

Sorcha’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as Destiny saw bruises beneath the wool and linen—purple shadows blooming along Sorcha’s shoulder and ribs.

Destiny’s jaw tightened. “Those beasts.”

Sorcha stared down at her own skin, feeling as though she were looking at evidence of weakness. “I should have fought harder.”

Destiny’s hands stilled. “Sorcha,” she said quietly, “you are alive.”

Sorcha’s throat tightened again. When she slid into the hot water, she nearly cried out from the pain of cold-wounded flesh. It felt like needles stabbing her hands and feet. But the heat soothed too. It softened the rigid knot in her chest. For a few moments, she simply breathed.

Destiny sat on a stool beside the tub. “Your mother loved you so fiercely.”

Sorcha’s breath trembled. “I miss her.”

Destiny nodded. “I know.”