Brigid leaned closer and clutched her sister’s hand. "The vision," she said softly. "Our death. It comes upon Mabon. Surely, ye recall that much—aye?"
Overhead, a lone bird wheeled across the sky, calling sadly to its mate, the pitch so mournful perhaps it did not expect an answer.
At last Bella shook herself and forced a smile. "Myvision revealed nothing of the sort. Though truly, can it matter so much, when we cannot knowwhichMabon? This year, or ten years hence. Perhaps we’ve a hundred summers yet to live."
"Ye know that's not true," Brigid cut in. "The vision showed us as we are now. Young. And it will happen when we travel south."
Bella cut short any further argument with a slicing gesture. "I will not speak of it again," she said flatly. "And Iwillbe goin' south. Stay home if ye wish. Thomas and Torquil will keep me safe."
The discussion was over. There was no use trying again. There might be no stopping Bella from heading south, but Brigid had never once abandoned her sister, nor hidden from Fate when it leaned close and whispered promises. They belonged together, all the days of their lives. No matter how many days that meant.
“If ye won’t postpone the journey until spring, then that is that. Ye can stop pretending ye’d truly leave without me.”
Bella’s stubborn chin lowered and her scowl melted into a grin. “Of course I wouldn’t, fool. Who will carry the needle and thread?”
Brigid rolled her eyes, then stood and brushed dirt from her knees. “I'll come," she said quietly. "I'll come and I'll pray that we age slowly, aye?"
“By all means,” Bella said, laughing as she went inside.
Brigid shrugged off her worries in favor of the golden summer’s day. She set aside the mending and went into the garden to let the burgeoning life refill her heart and her soul. Densely tied rows of silver-leafed mugwort moved softly in the breeze, fanning out among valerian and the wound-healing blossoms of celandine. She stroked gentle fingers across feathery fennel fronds and inhaled the pungent aroma of rosemary, strong enough to clear away any dread lingering in her mind.
Aromas of angelica, vigorous and stubborn, drew her closer and rewarded her when she ran her fingers through their leaves. And farther back, delicately stemmed horehound, and the strangely beautiful clusters of deadly nightshade—all thriving in the dark, magic-rich earth that gave the Black Isle its name.
Soon, the seasons would change along with this garden, and she and Bella would journey a path that would take her very close to the walls of Todlaw and the man she should force herself to forget.
She brushed back a wavy lock of hair in a move that mirrored pushing Flanders Leesborn out of her mind, lest her sister catch one of those tender thoughts. But the query lingered—when they reached the southwestern edge of the Red Hills, would her path cross his again?
Bella’s low chuckle and taunting voice came from the cottage doorway. “If it is a man who inspires such mooning, Brigid, perhaps our travels south won’t be such a hardship to ye after all!”
* * *
Flanders stood on the ramparts,his gaze fixed on the distant hills, though in truth, he saw nothing of the night-cloaked landscape. The cool air tasted of heather and pine and reminded him of that Mabon night four years past when he'd encountered the Muirs with Gerts, outside Gallabrae.
Or rather, he remembered Brigid.
Her name whispered through his mind like a puff of air. He could still see her face in the dappled moonlight, those eyes that caught and held his attention. That half-smile meant just for him. The delicious thrill when she'd laid her fingers on his. And that impossible moment when her voice had slipped into his head as easily as his own thoughts.
Laird Stephan is not as powerless as ye believe. He need not leave home to bedevil ye.
He'd heard her clear as day, and she'd heard him. The chiming of her private laughter was a memory he cherished like a laddie with a treasure.
Flanders closed his eyes now and leaned on the cold stone of the parapet. He focused on the words and gathered his intentions behind them like so many arrows before letting them fly.
Brigid Muir, hear me!
He quieted his breathing and waited, listening without his ears.
Nothing.
Again, nothing. Just like the hundred times he'd tried before. How far away was she? Did distance matter in such things? Or was it simply that she chose not to hear him?
"Bloody fool," he muttered to himself, opening his eyes to stare at the stars. "Perhaps I dreamed the whole cursed thing."
But he knew he hadn't. The connection had been real—brief but undeniable. He could never have imagined what it was like to be touched inside his own head. The very idea couldn’t have come from him.
He rubbed his forehead now, a habit that repeated whenever his thoughts turned to her, as if he could pull out those memories and examine them with his eyes.
The moon hung low in the sky, a waning crescent marking time. How many days until Mabon? Twenty? More?
