Page 57

Instead, he turned towards Sorcha. “You will tell them where it should rest.”

The men nearby stilled. It was a small gesture, but not small at all.

She stepped forward, steady despite the weight of watching eyes. “In the courtyard first,” she said. “Let it lie where it can be trimmed and cut down, and so that all may see it before it is brought within. Yule is not a private fire. It belongs to the household.”

Gavan did not hesitate. “You heard her.”

And just like that, it was done. By late afternoon, the log rested against the courtyard wall, its bark still damp with snow. Children ran fingers along its ridges before being shooed away so the men could trim the log down to size. The household buzzed with quiet excitement.

Inside, Sorcha knelt before the hearth in the great hall.

The stone had been scrubbed clean that morning. Fresh evergreen lay waiting in baskets. Rowan twigs, protective against ill will, rested beside them.

Gavan stood nearby, arms loosely crossed, watching.

“You may still change your mind,” she said without looking at him.

“About?”

“Letting a Sutherland woman bless a Munro hearth.”

His jaw tightened. “I do not let you,” he said evenly. “I ask you.”

She looked up then and saw that he meant it. Slowly, she rose as the household members gathered—Mrs Jacoby, Elsie, two other maids, two stableboys, six guards, Colin; even the estate manager lingered near the back.

Sorcha stepped closer to the giant hearth that had been set with firewood for the evening. “The hearth,” she began, voice calm, “is more than fire. It is where bread is shared. Where wounds are tended. Where children learn what safety feels like.” Her hand rested lightly against the cold stone. “It is where we decide who belongs.” The words were quiet, but they carried.

She closed her eyes briefly. “May this hearth burn long through winter. May it soften anger before it hardens. May it remind those who gather here that strength is not found in standing alone, but in standing together.”

A stillness fell over the hall. Even the firewood seemed to wait. Gavan stepped forward then, without prompt, and took one of the rowan twigs. He laid it gently upon the hearthstones.

“For protection,” he said.

Sorcha’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

The gesture was small, but it was participation.

The servants exchanged glances. Something had shifted. Lemlair did not feel divided in that moment. It felt joined.

Gavan met her gaze. “You have brought something back to these walls,” he said quietly.

“Tradition?” she offered.

The hall still held the hush of the blessing. And evergreen scented the air. The hearth, newly laid, waited for flame. A few servants lingered, reluctant to break the quiet.

Suddenly, a sharp pounding exploded against the doors. All heads turned. The doors flew inward on a rush of wind and snow.

Two guards staggered in, breathless, cloaks dusted white and wet at the hems. “My laird!”

The calm of moments before shattered. “What is it?” Gavan demanded, already moving.

“The east outbuilding, the storage shed near the lower paddock. It burns.”

A murmur surged through the hall.

“Was anyone within?” Gavan’s voice cut clean through the rising noise.

“No, my laird. The lads had finished stacking fodder before noon.”