Prologue
1340
Isle of Mull, Scotland
Every man had a weakness, and for Laird MacQuerrie, his had been his wife. His chest ached something fierce, as if he were the one who’d been stabbed through the heart two days ago and not his sweet Agnes. He could hardly believe she was gone, but the proof was his crying bairn, Ada, whom he cradled in his arms. Ada had never cried when Agnes had held her. He was doing it all wrong; he was certain of it. He loosened his grip and stared down at his daughter. So fragile. So innocent.
So red-faced and loud.
Her fresh wail echoed throughout the packed great hall as Father Dorian sprinkled the holy water on her forehead. His clanspeople stood still, their grim expressions mirroring his feelings. They’d loved Agnes, too. He ran a soothing finger over the soft, plump skin of Ada’s wet cheek, and his chest squeezed with loss.
Agnes… Ye should be here, Wife.
Big, gray eyes looked up at him, eyes the exact color of the sky before the rain broke through.
Make certain Ada remembers me.
It had been Agnes’s one plea before she had succumbed to the knife wound she’d sustained. He gritted his teeth. If only she hadn’t come to the rescue when a murderous swine had attempted to relieve a fairy of her pouch, which purportedly held magical dust…
Of all the places in Scotland, why did his island have to be saddled with those two featherbrained fae, Hortense and Portense? They hadn’t even had the ability to save themselves from the men who’d attacked Hortense. He clenched his jaw, shoving down his anger at the fae. Agnes would not have been pleased with him. She had adored them, and the fae were forbidden by their own law to harm a human, even one attempting to hurt them.
Oh, Agnes. Why did ye get involved?
“Laird.” A tap on his shoulder accompanied the softly spoken word near his ear.
He frowned at the interruption of the Blessing, but it had to be pressing for them to have done so. Turning, he took in his first-in-command, Connely. “Aye?”
Connely swept a hand toward the great hall door. MacQuerrie sighed. Hortense and her sister, Portense, stood just inside the entrance to the great hall.
“Laird,” Hortense called, dipping a curtsy beset with the awkwardness of a fairy not used to doing such things. “We’ve come to give Ada a gift.”
His first instinct was to deny them entrance, but he knew deep down it was not their fault Agnes had died. She would have wanted him to allow them to bestow what they wished upon Ada. He nodded to Connely, who waved to the guards to let the fae pass.
They seemed to glide just above the rushes that covered the floor of the great hall. As they moved down the center of the path formed by the two long lines of MacQuerries, the clanspeople’s heads swiveled to follow the fairies’ progress. When they reached him, Hortense gave him a sad look that made the ache in his chest flare hot.
“I’m so sorry, Laird MacQuerrie,” Hortense said. She opened her mouth to say more but looked uncertain.
“We wanted to bless Ada with gifts,” Portense jumped in, filling the silence left by Hortense, “in our gratitude for Agnes’s sacrifice to save my sister.”
Hortense nodded enthusiastically. Portense snapped her fingers, and a pouch appeared. “’Twas my idea,” the fairy said, to which Hortense gasped. “I told Hortense to be watchful down by the water, but she did nae listen and now…”
“I am watchful.” Hortense scowled at her sister. “And us coming here wasmyidea. I feel horrid that Agnes gave her life for mine.”
MacQuerrie’s throat was too tight with raw emotion to speak.
“Ye should feel horrid,” Portense said in a chastising voice as she opened her pouch and dipped her fingers inside. When she withdrew them, her fingertips shimmered silver. “Hold the bairn away from ye, if ye please.”
Unsure, the MacQuerrie glanced to the priest, who shrugged helplessly, a shocked look upon his face. Agnes’s voice filled his head again:The fae are good and kind.He sighed. His wife had never been one to give trust easily. Knowing this, he stretched out his arms so that Ada was not pressed against his chest anymore. She splayed her arms and scrunched up her face. Her tiny hands balled into fists as she cried.
Portense set her hand to Ada’s forehead, and when the child immediately stopped crying, he relaxed. The fairy smiled knowingly at him, then fixed all her attention upon Ada as Portense held her fingers above his daughter. “I give to ye the gift of beauty,” she announced in a loud, sure voice. When Hortense scoffed at her sister’s pronouncement, Portense frowned. “Is there something wrong with my gift?”
He wanted to know the same thing. He was half-ready to snatch his daughter away from the fairies. Hortense elbowed her sister out of the way and now stood in front of him. The gesture triggered a memory of Agnes laughing at how humanlike the fae were in how they argued as human siblings did.
“Yer gift,” Hortense said, her voice dripping with scorn, “is nae a real gift.”
MacQuerrie instinctively started to pull Ada back to protect her, but Hortense stopped him with a hand to his arm. The power radiating from the warm touch of her fingertips upon his skin rendered him unable to move. She smiled reassuringly at him. “’Tis nae a harmful gift.” She smirked at Portense. “Just a useless one. Beauty fades and will nae protect the bairn.” Hortense held out her arms. “Give me the bairn to set things right.”
Immediately, he could once again move, but he was reluctant to do as bid. Yet, despite his hesitation, he found himself handing Ada over without even realizing what he was doing until it was done. When she started to cry, her nursemaid, Esther, came to Hortense’s side and cooed at Ada to quiet her, which immediately worked. Hortense dipped her fingers in her pouch, which appeared out of nowhere, just as her sister’s pouch had. This fairy’s fingers also shimmered silver when she took them back out.
