Chapter 1
SEVEN YEARS LATER
She had grown thinner in some places, stronger in others, since the day she had arrived in the small northern village.
Hard work had shaped her shoulders and steadied her hands.
The freckles across her nose had darkened under summers spent outdoors.
Her bright red hair was braided tight against her head now, practical and unremarkable.
Iona Pearson had learned to move through a crowd without drawing notice, to lower her eyes without lowering her mind.
And she was bone tired.
The path to the small cottage at the edge of the village was slick with mud. The air carried a damp chill. She kept her cloak drawn close and her head down out of habit, eyes scanning shadows as she walked.
The cottage door creaked when she pushed it open.
Heat greeted her first, thick and sharp.
Then the smell of burning salt.
“Erin?” she called, already shrugging off her cloak.
The elderly healer stood before the hearth, back straight despite her years, a fistful of coarse salt scattering into the flames.
It hissed and snapped, sparks leaping high.
Her grey hair hung loose around her shoulders.
She muttered under her breath, the Gaelic rolling fast and low, too quick for Iona to follow every word.
“Erin,” Iona repeated, stepping inside fully.
The old woman did not turn at once. She reached for a small wooden bowl on the table beside her, dipped her fingers into water clouded with crushed herbs, and flicked droplets toward the doorway.
Cold flecks struck Iona’s cheek.
“By the saints,” Iona muttered, wiping her face. “What are ye about?”
Erin turned then, pale blue eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. Without answering, she strode forward and began sprinkling the herb water directly over Iona’s head.
“Stand still,” Erin ordered.
“I have just walked half the village and served half the county ale. I willnae stand still while ye soak me like a wet hen.”
“Stand. Still.”
There was a tightness in Erin’s voice that stilled her protest.
Water dripped down her temple. The scent of rosemary and bitterness clung to her skin.
“These are warding rites,” Iona said quietly as understanding settled in her stomach like a stone. “Protection.”
“Aye.”
The word was clipped.
Her pulse began to thrum. “Protection? From what?”
Erin set the bowl down slowly. For a moment she simply stared at Iona, the lass she had taken in seven winters ago, the lass who had arrived hollow-eyed and shaking with a small child clutched to her skirts.
“A lass is gone,” Erin said at last.
Iona’s fingers curled at her sides. “Gone?”
“Missing these three days. No trace. Her mother swears she only stepped outside to fetch water.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
“People are saying wolves,” Erin continued, voice low. “But wolves leave signs. There were nae signs.”
Iona swallowed.
“And that isnae all,” Erin added.
“What else?”
“Strangers.” Erin moved back toward the hearth, tossing another pinch of salt into the flames. “Men asking questions. Riding through. Nae from here.”
Iona felt the blood drain from her face.
“What sort of questions?” she asked carefully.
“Names. Who lives where. Who came to the village in the past few years.” Erin’s gaze slid back to her. “Who might be new.”
A cold tremor worked its way up Iona’s spine.
Seven years. She had lasted seven years without being found. She had been careful. Always careful. Kept her head down. Changed cottages when needed. Took only modest work. Raised her child quietly.
“Did they ask about me?” she forced out.
Erin thought for a while before answering, which was always answer enough.
Iona pressed her lips together.
“They didnae have a name,” Erin said at last. “But they are looking. I can feel it.”
Iona let out a slow breath through her nose, steadying herself. Panic would serve no one.
“Men pass through villages all the time,” she said, though her voice sounded thinner than she liked. “Perhaps it is coincidence.”
Erin snorted softly. “Coincidence doesnae make me bones ache.”
The fire crackled in the silence. Outside, the wind scraped against the shutters.
Erin stepped closer again, lowering her voice. “A change is coming, Iona. I feel it in me marrow. It willnae pass us by.”
Iona ground her teeth in frustration.
She had built her life on the fragile belief that if she stayed small enough, quiet enough, fate would forget her.
“What kind of change?” she asked.
“The kind that doesnae ask permission or wait until ye are ready for it.”
Her hands clenched at her sides.
In the corner of the cottage, a small wooden toy sword lay abandoned near the hearth. Jamie must have left it there before stepping out to play. The sight of it grounded her.
Nae for me, she thought. Never for me.
She would endure whatever storm came. She would run again if she had to. She would lie. She would fight.
“I will be careful,” she said, lifting her chin.
Erin nodded once. “See that ye are.”
Iona moved toward the small table and sat down slowly, exhaustion forgotten. Outside, somewhere beyond the trees, dogs barked in the distance.
Her fists tightened as she tried to rest them in her lap. For the nth time in the two years Erin Dawson had been letting them stay under her roof, and Iona wondered if she was a coward for keeping the truth locked behind her teeth.
Erin moved about the room with deliberate purpose, tidying without truly tidying. A broom leaned untouched against the wall. A stack of folded linens remained where she had placed them. She kept glancing toward Iona… almost knowingly.
Iona knew what.
The truth pressed at the back of her throat. It always did when the nights grew quiet.
Tell her, a voice urged. Tell her what ye did. Tell her who is hunting ye.
If she spoke it aloud, it would become real again. It would stop being a story she held at bay with work and routine and vigilance.
Erin paused near the hearth, then turned and leaned one shoulder against the mantel as if she had all the time in the world. “Ye’ve got that look again,” she said.
“What look?” Iona asked, though she already knew.
“The one that says ye’re walking a cliff edge in yer head.”
Iona let out a breath that sounded too sharp. “I am fine.”
Erin’s brows lifted. “Aye? Then why are ye gripping that cup like it insulted yer mother?”
Iona swallowed a smile. Erin had a way of disarming her even when dread sat like iron in her chest.
“I keep thinking,” Iona began slowly, choosing each word, “that I should tell ye everything. So ye ken what danger ye might be in for keeping us here.”
Erin’s expression softened, the sharpness in her eyes easing into a small degree of tenderness. She pushed away from the mantel and crossed the room, her steps quiet despite the years in her joints.
She rested a weathered hand on Iona’s shoulder. Warm. Steady.
“Lass,” Erin murmured. “Ye daenae have to force yerself. I have kent fear. I have kent the sort of fear that makes ye swallow words until they turn bitter. If ye’re nae ready, then ye’re nae ready.”
Iona’s throat tightened.
Erin gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “All I want is for ye and Jamie to be safe. That’s it. I didnae need the rest to do what must be done.”
The simplicity of it nearly cracked Iona open.
Iona nodded once, hard, because if she spoke she might weep and she refused to do that tonight. “Thank ye.”
Erin huffed. “For what? For having sense?”
“For… giving us a home,” Iona said, and the word home landed oddly on her tongue, as if it belonged to someone else.
Erin’s gaze held hers. “This is a home,” she said firmly, as though willing it to be true.
Iona managed a small smile, but fear curled beneath it.
Because homes could be taken away. And safety could vanish in a single night.
Her mind slid, unbidden, to a memory she kept buried deep.
A different room. A different fire. The weight of a man’s arm around her waist as morning light spilled across rumpled blankets.
The solid warmth of him. The steady beat of a heart beneath her cheek.
For one breath of time, she had felt… held. Protected. Not hunted. Not alone.
She had slipped from that embrace like a thief.
Now, years later, the echo of that warmth flickered through her chest at the worst moments, not as longing, but as a reminder that safety had once existed. That she had tasted it and then survived without it.
Erin’s voice drew her back. “Ye’re pale,” the healer said. “When did ye last eat?”
“I ate at the tavern.”
“Then why do ye look like ye swallowed stones?”
Iona opened her mouth to dismiss it. To say it was nothing. To pretend she was still the lass who could endure any storm so long as she kept moving.
But she was nae alone anymore.
That changed everything.
Iona’s gaze flicked toward the curtained doorway that led to the small back room they shared. A sudden, sharp need rose in her.
I need to see Jamie. Just for a moment.
It was ridiculous. Jamie was likely outside with the other village children, or curled up somewhere with a book Erin had pressed into small hands, or simply asleep after a day of mischief.
Yet the thought of strangers asking questions, of a missing lass, of Erin’s salt and murmured blessings, had set something trembling inside Iona that would not settle.
“I should check,” she said, already pushing back her chair.
Erin watched her. “Check on what?”
“On Jamie.”
Erin’s expression did not change, but her eyes sharpened again. “Aye. Go.”
Iona moved quickly through the cottage, her boots barely making a sound on the packed floor. She brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the back room.
The bed was neatly made. Jamie’s small cloak hung on its peg. The toy sword still lay by the hearth in the main room, abandoned as if the child had meant to return in the next breath and simply… had not.
Iona’s stomach tightened.
“Jamie?” she called softly.
No answer.
She crossed the room in two strides and peered into the corner where a small bundle of blankets sometimes became a fort, where Jamie liked to hide and jump out with a triumphant grin. The corner was empty.
“Jamie,” she said again, louder now.
Still nothing.
A cold rush swept through her limbs.
No.
Nay.
It is fine.
Jamie was just outside.
She turned sharply and went back into the main room. Erin was watching her, still as a carved figure.
“Have ye seen where Jamie went?” Iona asked, trying to keep her voice even.
Erin’s brows knit. “I thought I saw Jamie go out before ye came home.”
Iona felt the cup of fear tip over inside her, spilling fast and unstoppable. “Jamie always comes in when it is near dark.”
“Maybe Jamie is over at a friend’s cottage,” Erin offered, but there was a note in her voice that said she didnae believe it.
Iona forced herself to think, to recall the day.
The tavern shift had been long. The sky had darkened by the time she left. Jamie had promised to stay close to Erin, to help gather herbs, to daenae go near the river. Jamie had rolled bright eyes and said aye with a mouth that always made promises too quickly.
Iona grabbed her cloak from the peg and threw it around her shoulders. Her fingers shook as she tied it.
“Where do the children go?” she demanded, already moving toward the door.
Erin was behind her at once, surprisingly fast, grabbing her arm. “Iona,” she said, voice low. “Breathe.”
Iona’s chest rose and fell too quickly. “I am breathing.”
“Nay, lass. Ye’re panicking.”
“I should be,” Iona snapped, then instantly hated the bite in her tone. She swallowed hard. “I should be. A lass is missing. Strangers are asking questions. And Jamie isnae here.”
Erin’s grip tightened briefly, grounding. “We will look. Together.”
Together. The word steadied Iona for half a heartbeat.
Then the terror surged again.
They stepped outside into the damp evening. The village lay quiet beneath a low sky, thin smoke curling from chimneys. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a door shut.
Iona’s eyes swept the path, the small, fenced gardens, the lane leading toward the trees. Every shadow looked like it could be someone waiting.
“Jamie!” she called, voice sharp enough to cut the air.
A few heads turned. A woman carrying a pail paused and stared.
Iona did not care. “Jamie Pearson!”
She strode down the lane, Erin keeping pace beside her. Mud sucked at her boots. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.
She checked the small gathering green. Empty.
She checked the edge of the woods where children sometimes dared each other to go. No laughter. No rustle of small feet.
She went to the nearest cottage and knocked so hard her knuckles stung.
An old man answered, blinking. “What is it?”
“Have ye seen Jamie?” Iona asked, breathless.
The man frowned. “Jamie? Nay, nae since about midday.”
Midday.
That was hours ago.
Her vision narrowed.
She moved to another cottage, then another. Each answer was the same. Nay. Nay. Didnae see. Thought Jamie was with ye.
The world seemed to tilt.
Erin touched her elbow. “We should check the river,” she said carefully.
Iona’s stomach lurched. The river was exactly where she had forbidden Jamie to go.
They hurried toward it, the path narrowing, trees closing in. The air grew colder near the water. Iona’s breath fogged before her.
“Jamie!” she shouted again, voice cracking now. “Jamie, answer me!”
Only the rush of water replied.
Iona stumbled down the bank, scanning the stones, the reeds, the dark line of the current. No small footprints. No cloak caught on branches. No sign of movement.
Nothing.
Jamie was nowhere.