Page 20

It was a normal morning for everyone but her. She dressed quickly in the gown Destiny had lent her, her fingers clumsy with stiffness. The fabric was too fine, too clean—another reminder that Sorcha did not belong here. Her fingers strayed to her throat, seeking her mother’s necklace, only to find the aching emptiness it had left behind. Sorcha swallowed the grief down. She could not afford it this morning. Not when every heartbeat was borrowed.

William’s face rose in her mind. She saw her twin’s stubborn jaw, his bright, angry eyes, the boy who used to race against her along the riverbank and swear he would always win. Now he sat in stone and iron, with enemies knotting a rope.

Sorcha pressed her hand against her chest, as though she could steady the grief tearing through her. William had brought this ruin upon himself, yet he was still her twin, still the boy who had once stood between her and every childhood fear. Hold on, William.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Sorcha?” Destiny’s voice.

“Come in.”

The door opened, spilling a sliver of lamplight. Destiny stepped inside, already dressed, her hair plaited neatly and a shawl drawn around her shoulders. Her face looked pale in the early hour, but her eyes were bright and intent. As if she had been awake for hours already, thinking, praying, worrying.

Destiny carried a bundle in her arms. “I brought you a cloak,” she said quietly.

Sorcha stared at it. It was made from thick wool, dark blue and lined. Not extravagant, but more than Sorcha dared to hope for.

“I cannot take that,” Sorcha whispered automatically.

Destiny’s gaze sharpened. “Aye, you can.”

Sorcha shook her head. “’Tis yours.”

Destiny stepped forward and placed it in Sorcha’s hands as if she were placing a weapon. “You will freeze in Dingwall without it,” Destiny said. “And if you freeze, you cannot fight.”

Sorcha’s throat burned. “Destiny . . .”

Destiny’s mouth trembled. “Please do not cry. I am only holding on by a thread.” She handed Sorcha a linen pouch.

“What is this?”

“Bread, a bit of cheese.” Destiny’s voice lowered. “And a little honey cake.”

Sorcha blinked hard.

Destiny touched Sorcha’s wrist gently. “You are going into a hard house,” she whispered. “So eat when you can. Sleep when you are able. And do not carry every burden alone simply because men expect you to.”

Sorcha’s chest clenched painfully.

Destiny’s eyes softened. “And . . . this.” Destiny reached slowly to the chain around her own neck, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted it free. For a second, she looked down at the small silver cross resting in her palm, its surface worn smooth with years of touch and prayer.

Sorcha’s breath caught.

Without a word, Destiny stepped closer and pressed the necklace gently into her hands. “Take it,” she whispered. “You need it more than I do now.”

Sorcha stared at the necklace.

Destiny’s voice trembled. “It was mine before I came to Foulis, before Cameron, before everything. It brought me luck. May it do the same for you.”

Sorcha shook her head, shocked. “Nay.”

“Aye.” Destiny closed Sorcha’s fingers around it. “You lost your mother’s necklace. I cannot give it back, but I will not let you go to him with nothing to comfort you.”

Sorcha’s eyes filled.

Destiny’s voice turned fierce again. “You will hold on. Do you hear me? You will hold on. Whatever he says, whatever he makes you do, do not let him turn you into someone you do not recognise.” Then she straightened, wiping at her eyes. “Cameron is waiting below. He insisted he would escort you.”

Sorcha’s stomach tightened. “To protect me?”