The Heather Wife

Prologue

MacAlasdair Keep, Glenbrae

The Heather Girl- Age Ten

The numbers blurred together like midges on the page.

Sorcha MacAlasdair sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap—for now, at least. Across the table, her mother moved a quill over parchment with the same calm, measured grace she applied to all things: firewood tallies, herb stores, the names of tenants owing tribute.

"Attend, Sorcha," Lady Moira murmured. "A true Lady of the Keep must ken every corner of her domain. Every sack of grain. Every hand that bears it."

"I'd rather carry it than count it," Sorcha muttered, just under her breath.

Her mother didn't scold. She merely looked up, one red brow arched with quiet amusement. “When ye’re the one in charge, will ye lift every barrel, too?”

Sorcha didn't answer. Her gaze had drifted toward the open shutters.

Beyond them, wind rippled through the heather on the hills.

Somewhere beyond the wall, her brothers shouted over steel—training again, no doubt.

She could hear the thud of boots, the crack of wooden training swords, the laughter that always followed when one of them landed in the dirt.

She shifted on the bench, slipping a hand beneath her skirts. Her fingers found the scrap of cloth, worn soft with handling. Hidden inside: a blade. Small. Old. The hilt bore the bite of rust, but it was hers.

She'd found it nearly a week past, dropped behind the stables and left for forgotten. She'd cleaned it, wrapped it, and kept it. None knew—not even Tavish, her eldest brother.

When she held it, even still and hidden, she felt steadier. As though she possessed something that was hers alone. Not a duty. Not a lesson. A blade.

Her mother was speaking again. "...and you must always ken who eats at your table, even when you are not seated there."

Sorcha nodded, feigning attention. But she wasn't thinking of tables. She was thinking of steel. Of her brothers. And of how daft it was that boys learned to defend, while girls were meant to measure and mind.

That was when the horn sounded.

It cut through the air sharp and sudden—like lightning split the sky.

Lady Moira was on her feet in an instant, the ledger forgotten. "Sorcha. The alcove. Now."

"Mam—"

"Now."

Sorcha obeyed, scrambling behind the heavy tapestry that cloaked the wall. There was a hollow there—narrow and dark—just wide enough for a child to disappear into. Her mother pressed a kiss to her brow, then drew the cloth closed.

"Stay hidden," she whispered. "You don't come out unless I call. D'ye understand?"

Sorcha whispered her assent, her throat tight.

"I love you."

Then her mother was gone.

She heard the outer door crash shut. Then came shouting. Boots. Screams.

Her heart thundered in her ears. She clutched the cloth-wrapped bundle tight. The blade warmed in her grasp.

Time twisted. The cries grew louder. Closer. Something shattered. A man bellowed. A woman screamed.

And then—

A voice. Her mother's. Choked. Cut off.

Sorcha moved before thought could catch her.

She tore free of the tapestry and bolted down the corridor barefoot, breath ragged, smoke stinging her eyes. A shadow passed ahead—and then she saw her.

Lady Moira lay on the ground, half-propped on one elbow, a tall man looming above. His hands were red. A blade glinted in his grip. He turned toward Sorcha with a snarl.

She didn't think. Didn't breathe.

She drew her knife and lunged—wild and trembling, all fury and fear. The man laughed—until she drove the blade into his side.

He stumbled. Gasped. Fell.

And then— silence dropped like a stone

Sorcha stood over him, shaking, her small hands stained, knuckles white on the hilt. Her mother's eyes were wide—not with fear, but something like wonder. She whispered Sorcha's name before her head dropped back.

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Shouts. Tavish. More voices. Her father.

They found her there, still clutching the blade, standing over the man she'd felled.

They called her brave. But she had not been. She had been afraid.

Still—none ever left her behind again.