14. The Last Dawn of Innocence
The Last Dawn of Innocence
T he morning air bites against my skin as the as the sky above bruises with the first light of dawn. Still rubbing away the haze of sleep, I step outside, pulling my shawl closer.
And there he is.
Standing with his back to me, silhouetted against the silver-washed fields, his stance as unmovable as the mountains beyond.
Something in me exhales. Relief rises—unexpected, quiet, and sharp.
In the hush of morning, with everything still unsettled, his presence feels like the only thing that hasn’t shifted .
“Finn,” I call out, my voice barely a breath in the lingering fog. He doesn’t turn, but I follow the weight of my own words, unwilling to let them die in the mist between us. “I wanted to say something. About what you might have seen last night.”
He tenses and looks over his shoulder, gaze sharp as broken glass. “Triona, you owe me nothin’.” The tone of his voice holds none of his usual warmth.
“But—”
“But nothin’, Triona. Leave it alone.”
His words are rough and cutting. My cheeks flush with something akin to shame. The ache rises sharp in my chest, but I press on, even as his coldness sets me on edge.
“Finn, please,” I murmur, my words catching like brambles. “I only want to explain—”
“Enough!” His words hit like a lash. “I’m not yer brother. I’m not gonna speak on who you should or shouldna talk to, even if I agree with Callan.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “It sounds as if you do have issue with my happenings that need discussing.”
“Triona,” He warns with a voice as biting as a winter’s breeze. “I said to leave it alone. Stop tryin’ to provoke an argument.”
But—stubborn as ever—I don’t listen. “Marcus provoked Callan, but if he’d stop looking for a fight every time Marcus so much as breathes, it wouldn’t have got so out of hand!”
“Out of hand?” His voice is a low growl, simmering with an anger that seems to shake the ground beneath us. “You think yer brother was just lookin’ for a reason to pick a fight in front of all of those people?”
“Well, no—”
“Open yer eyes. Callan’s not just pickin’ fights for the sake of it, and he damn sure isnae doin’ it for selfish reasons!”
I cross my arms, feeling a chill settle in my expression. “Callan’s never approved of Marcus; he’s always jumping to the worst conclusions. Marcus is respectful. Kind.”
Finn’s fists clench, every muscle in his body pulled taut. He draws a slow, deliberate breath, as if wrestling down something volatile.
“ Respectful ?” he echoes, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “That’s what you think?”
The silence that follows crackles, brittle and bruised .
“You didnae seem so fond of him when we spoke the other day—and look how quickly that changed.”
I open my mouth to speak—to tell him he’s wrong, that he didn’t see what he thought he did, that I’m not fond of Marcus, that none of it was what it seemed—
But I don’t get the chance.
The moment the anger overtakes him, it swallows everything else.
“You think so highly of a man who takes liberties with you in public not once, but twice . Ye’re so blind to him—it’s as if you dinnae ken yerself anymore.”
Finn’s face is taut with frustration, and his voice is filled with unmistakable disappointment.
“And the way you talk about yer brother? Against yer brother… All I hear is someone who’s blind to how lucky she is.
Yer family loves you, given you everything—protection, a home, love—and yet here you are, soundin’ as if it’s all some burden, because they want the world for you. ”
Shame and regret are all I know at this moment.
He’s relentless, his gaze hard. “Ye’re actin’ like a wee bairn , Triona.
Throwin’ their care back in their faces like it’s something to be ashamed of.
I’d have given anything to have parents half as decent as yers, and I’d have been grateful for it every damned day. ”
A fierce defensive anger fuelled by embarrassment spurs me into action before I can stop myself. “You’re just like Callan. It’s why you’re both alone—because you can’t stand the idea of anyone not needing you, so you smother people under the farce that it’s for their own damn good!”
My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. I can’t .
“You both need to find other ways to occupy your time that doesn’t involve being completely and unabashedly unnecessary.”
His face drains of colour, the weight of my words pressing down like stones.
I open my mouth to take it back, to say anything and undo the damage, but the words won’t come, tangled in the knot of my regret. As he looks away, his regard distant, it’s as if he is already pulling himself out of my reach. I feel a sudden, hollow ache in my chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously soft. “If that’s how you feel... then all this talk is cheap, and I’m done . I’m done tryin’ to make you see it. Maybe one day ye’ll realise what ye’ve got before it’s too late. ”
He turns on his heel, his steps firm and unhesitant, the lines of his shoulders tense as he walks away, every step widening the space between us. There’s no hesitation, no glance back—just a finality that settles in the silence, heavy and unforgiving.
I stand frozen, the space between us filled with everything I wish I hadn’t said, and every word I wish I could take back. It feels as if I’ve just rebuilt the walls between us, stone by painful stone. Walls I may never break through again.
A sinking horror grips me as I realise that I’ve wounded him in a way that echoes back to the time before he came here.
During a time when a frightened, lonely child spent years wondering if he’d ever feel the tender touch of a hand, instead of the biting strike of a drunkard.
Before he knew the love my parents pour into these halls.
Before he felt the bond of brotherhood with Callan and Casey.
Before us—our heartfelt friendship we spent so much time nurturing. One we’ve shared so freely. One I felt getting stronger.
He isn’t unnecessary. He never could be.
Telling him otherwise—seeing that devastation in his eyes—might be a cruelty I’ll never forgive myself for.
Finn
I find myself alone; the silence pressing heavily against me. Her words echo painfully in my mind: ‘You both need to find other ways to occupy your time that doesn’t involve being completely and unabashedly unnecessary.’
The words strike in the worst way imaginable because of the truth that I desperately avoid at all costs .
I close my eyes, a bitter laugh escaping as I press a hand to my face.
I’d lost control, let my frustration and protectiveness tear out of me without thinking.
It didn’t matter that she pressed me. I hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t meant to imply she was na?ve or incapable of understanding reason, but in my anger, that’s exactly what I’d done.
And like the fool I was, I backed her into a corner.
Now I’m left wondering if I’ve shattered something between us I can’t mend.
I exhale slowly. “ Eejit ,” I mutter to myself.
I want to protect her, but I’d been too forceful, too… possessive. She didn’t need me trying to dictate her choices, even if I know—I know —Marcus isn’t what he seems.
I enter the stables, thoughts in a haze, to find Eamon sporting a wearisome face as he stands just outside the largest stall reserved for the sick, injured, or foaling mare.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Aisling,” Eamon says, his voice low with concern. “She got out somehow—probably someone feckin’ about. I found her before first light, grazin’ in the patches of rich grass.”
I move closer, my chest tightening at the sight of her. She looks worse for wear.
“I don’t know what we’re dealing with, Finn,” Eamon continues. “She’s in a bad way.”
I nod grimly. “We’re supposed to meet at the still today, aye?”
“Aye,” Eamon mimics. “But Callan says he’s stayin’ behind—said something about needin’ to be here for Triona?”
Thoughts of our recent spat come rushing back, and I get lost as I replay every glaring mistake.
“Finn.” Eamon says, pulling me from my thought spiral. “Did ya hear me?”
“Sorry, Eamon. I have a lot on my mind. What did you say?”
“I said, ye’ll have to take Shadow. Maybe ask Triona—”
“She’s busy, and we’re short on time. This needs to be handled before midday.”
“Why the rush?”
“Last night, they told me the last of the product was… compromised.”
Eamon’s brow furrows. “How do ya mean?”
I relay what was said to me in the study.
Eamon ponders for a moment, his features darkening as realisation strikes. Fear flashes in his eyes. “So someone… ”
I nod. “Properly distilled whiskey burns with a golden flame. But when Callan lit the top of the glass, it burned a deep, intense blue. We’re lucky Callan had the sense to bring the 3-year-aged barrel.
His quick thinkin’ saved this family from a lot of trouble.
The other batch would’ve poisoned anyone who drank it. ”
“What does this mean, then?” Eamon asks, brow furrowing.
I shake my head. “Someone tried very hard to ruin the Sinclair name—tried makin’ it look as if they made a big mistake. It was a calculated attack.”
“Why wait until now?” he presses, echoing the very question I’d first asked.
“I think they wanted to inspect things before causing panic,” I explain.
“I’ll have Saoirse watch over Aisling for the day. She needs monitorin’.”
I glance at where the mare is sprawled out on the ground and kneel to stroke her head.
“A bit of fresh air might actually do Shadow some good. Every time Aisling has made the tiniest sound today, he’s started neighing like his heart’s broken. Real mournful sound, it is.” Eamon says.
I glance up at him with a crooked smile. “D’ye speak the language of a horse now?”
Eamon rolls his eyes. “Take this serious for just a beat. Something’s wrong.”
He’s right, something is wrong.
“All right,” I say, standing and placing a hand on his shoulder. “If the stubborn auld man’ll let me, we’ll head out now. Let’s get him ready to leave.”
Triona