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He was doing what anyone would have done in his position. It was the right thing to do.

Outside again, Colin said nothing until they had turned the corner and the tailor’s shop fell out of sight behind them.

Only then did he speak. “The town will notice if the tailor is suddenly buried in new commissions.”

Gavan kept his gaze forward. “Anyone could have placed the order.”

Colin’s mouth twitched faintly. “Aye. But few would. And fewer still would order gowns of that quality without it being remarked upon.”

Gavan said nothing at first. Snow crunched underfoot as they moved down the street, the chill air carrying the scent of smoke and dampened wool. His thoughts were already circling the inevitable consequences because Colin was not wrong. The people of Dingwall watched everything. A sudden order of fine gowns, quietly delivered to the provost’s lodging, would invite questions.

“Nothing will be completed before the end of the day,” he said at last, his voice measured. “And with luck, by then the trial will be behind us.”

Colin let out a soft breath through his nose. “With luck.”

But the unease did not leave Gavan. It shifted, settling deeper.

Because what unsettled him was not the possibility of gossip; it was the possibility of how Sorcha would receive the gowns. He did not intend this as charity, and he would not have her think it pity. He would place the gowns before her as something deserved, as the recognition of who she was, and who she might yet choose to be.

And still, doubt pressed in, unwelcome. As they turned towards the courthouse once more, the bell began to toll, summoning Gavan to his duty. The day would demand judgement.

But beneath that hard reality, something quieter had taken root, an intention he did not yet dare to name, and a fear he could not yet silence. If justice cost her too dearly, he might lose not only her presence, but the rare, unexpected ease he had felt this morning along with the sense, however fleeting, that he was no longer alone.

*

On the third morning, the courtroom was fuller than it had been on either of the previous days. Word had spread well beyond Dingwall now. Merchants crowded the rear wall shoulder to shoulder, while clan representatives filled the benches with grim attention. Calder men lingered near the entryways in tight knots, their expressions hard and watchful.

Outside, snow continued to fall across the burgh. Inside, the air felt tight enough to fracture.

Gavan took his place at the bench without ceremony. He no longer needed to command silence immediately. The room quieted the moment he sat.

William stood under guard near the front of the chamber. Though fatigue shadowed his face, he no longer looked like a man awaiting execution. Sorcha saw it clearly now. Fear remained, aye, but something steadier had begun taking root beneath it.

Gavan’s gaze swept the courtroom once before settling upon William. “This court resumes inquiry into the forged correspondence and the motives behind its circulation.” His voice carried evenly through the chamber. “William Sutherland has admitted to forgery. That fact stands.”

William lowered his head once in acknowledgment.

“But forgery alone does not explain the scale of harm unleashed throughout the Highlands.” Gavan’s gaze shifted slowly towards the gathered merchants, then finally towards Hugh Calder himself. “Nor does it explain who stood to gain most from that harm.”

Silence deepened.

Gavan motioned towards the clerk. “Present the recovered correspondence.”

A sealed bundle was carried forward and placed upon the table before the bailies and Gavan. Not rumour now. Not accusation alone. Ink. Parchment. Drafts recovered from the warehouse raid the night before. Tangible proof.

The clerk unrolled the first document carefully.

As the contents were read aloud, a visible tension spread through the room. The language within the letters no longer sounded like simple warnings between rival clans. It read like strategy. Certain trade routes targeted repeatedly. Certain clan alliances deliberately provoked. Crown inspections encouraged where instability would cause the greatest disruption.

Andrew MacLeish stood rigidly near the rear benches as the drafts continued to be read. His composure thinned further with every line.

William lifted his head slowly. “That phrasing came from merchant drafts,” he said quietly. “Not from me.”

MacLeish surged to his feet. “I advised on vulnerable trade routes. Nothing more.”

“You advised on where fear would spread fastest,” William replied bitterly. “Where clans would strike one another hardest.”

A murmur moved through the chamber.