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Gavan turned to his captain of the guard. “Take only men you trust. Secure every door before you enter, seize whatever papers or goods you find, and bring them to the court at first light.”

*

Gavan and Sorcha walked in silence back to his residence. The door closed behind them with more force than Gavan intended. The quiet inside the room felt different now, as though the tide had turned.

Snow light filtered through the shutters. The hearth had burned low, embers glowing faintly. The world outside still argued and speculated. Inside, there were only the two of them and their soft, measured breathing.

Sorcha removed her gloves slowly. “You did not need to do that,” she finally said, breaking the silence.

He knew what she meant. He did not need to stand beside her at the possible cost of his own position.

“I did,” he replied.

She turned to face him fully. “You could have stepped away. I would not have blamed you.”

“Aye. I could have.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Why did you not?”

He almost crossed the space between them before he consciously decided to. “Because I will not allow a man like MacLeish to decide who stands at my side.” The words were low, yet beneath them was something far less controlled.

Her hand rose, resting against his chest. “You risked your authority and your role as provost.”

“I risked perception.”

“Is that not the same thing?” she asked with a frown.

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Authority built on fear is unstable. Authority built on fairness holds.”

“And the thing that is happening between us, what is it built on?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer immediately because what stood between them was not law. It was choice.

His hand came to her waist. “What is between us,” he said softly, “is built on truth.” After a short pause, he said, “Come, let me make you some supper.”

“You can cook?” she asked with a hint of amusement.

“Nay. But I can rummage through the supplies. Come, let us see what Mrs Jacoby left us.”

Sorcha and Gavan were able to pull together a simple supper of cold ham, cheese, and thick slices of bread. The fire’s glow filled the chamber with a steady warmth, softening the edges of stone and shadow, turning the provost’s lodging into something quieter and more contained. The sounds of the town still murmured beyond the walls, but here, within the circle of firelight, the world felt held at a distance.

Sorcha knelt near the hearth, beside a basket of festive green decorations that had been left for their use, adjusting the foliage along the mantel. Pine and holly curved in soft arcs, their sharp, clean scent filling the room. She worked with quiet care, as though the act itself mattered.

Gavan watched her for a long moment before speaking.

He noted a copper-coloured curl that had slipped loose from her plait as it gently brushed her cheek. “You would prepare for Yule,” he said quietly, though his voice carried something rougher beneath it, “even now?”

She glanced back, her gaze meeting his. “Especially now.”

Something tightened in his chest. Outside, the world shifted and plotted. Inside, she lit candles.

He watched the flames highlight the contours of her face before she rose, crossing to the table where she retrieved more pine boughs and holly. Her fingers traced the curves of a holly leaf slowly, absently, as though she felt the texture rather than merely touched it.

Then, suddenly, her gaze lifted to his. “Would it be all right if I blessed this hearth the way I did at Lemlair?”

“You would still bless the hearth,” he said at last, his voice low, threaded with something quieter, more curious. “Even though the fire is already lit?”

She nodded, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “Especially because it is already lit.” Then she turned back to the hearth, her fingers brushing lightly over the mantel before she bowed her head with intention. “In my father’s hall,” she said softly, “we would bless the hearth before the flame took hold.” Her voice lowered, intimate in the quiet room. “Here, I think, it matters just as much after.”