Chapter 18 #2
By midday, the final wagons had been packed, the ledgers verified twice over, and the clansmen and supplies were all ready.
Standing at the edge of the village square with her hands tucked into her sleeves, Alba felt a quiet, solid sense of achievement settle behind her ribs.
Her people were prepared not only for the months to come, but for the year to come; she had made sure of it.
Every cellar was inventoried, every roof thatch repaired, and every trade agreement with the MacKenzies signed and sealed in ink.
But the completion of her work only brought the looming reality closer. The seven days had come and gone somewhere between Margaret's arrival and a kiss neither of them had spoken of since. No one, not her, not Sebastian, had said a single word about what that meant.
To keep the silence from settling into her bones, Alba forced herself into motion immediately upon returning to the castle, helping organize rooms, directing the confused servants, and talking with everyone she passed.
She found herself lingering by the weaver’s loom, checking the weight of the wool blankets, and staying a moment longer to ask after the blacksmith’s youngest daughter.
Walking through the Lower Corridors, she felt a strange, aching confusion knotting in her throat.
How did this cold castle, and these very people who had looked at her with such bitter, resentful hatred when she first took her husband’s seat three years ago, become her people?
Now, as the hour of her departure drew near, she could not seem to let them go.
Busy hands left less room for dangerous thoughts, but the castle was only so large.
Brian attached himself stubbornly to her side again the moment he spotted her crossing the Lower Ward, his small leather boots scuffing determinedly against the gravel to match her long, hurried strides.
He did not say anything for the first three corridors, simply holding onto a fold of her green mantle as if he were a permanent fixture of her dress.
“Uncle Sebastian says I should learn sword drills today,” Brian announced suddenly, breaking his silence as they reached the turn for the buttery.
Alba stopped so short that the boy nearly ran into her knees. She looked down at him, her face twisting into a look of horror. “Ye’re six.”
“Aye.” Brian puffed out his chest proudly, his chin tilting up to a stubborn angle. “Apparently, I am very fearsome.”
The sheer absurdity of it. The tiny boy, still smelling faintly of the morning’s porridge, speaking of slaughter and iron, shattered the heavy weight hanging over Alba’s mind. She laughed despite herself, a bright, unburdened sound that seemed to surprise even the passing laundry maids.
She reached down, her fingers closing gently around his small, flour-smudged hand, her thumb rubbing a reassuring circle against his knuckles.
“Come help me terrorize the kitchens first,” she teased softly, her eyes dancing as she looked down at his proud face. “The Laird’s army can wait until we’ve properly cleared the Cook’s table of lard cakes.”
Brian’s fierce warrior persona vanished instantly at the mention of lard cakes, his small fingers tightening around hers with a fierce, trusting grip.
Walking down the dark timber stairs to the kitchens, the warmth of the boy’s hand felt like a branding iron against her conscience.
She would miss Brian. She would miss the way he shadowed her through the drafty corridors, the way he listened to her stories of ancient kings as if they were gospel, and the quiet, fierce way he had decided she belonged to him.
If only she could stay without his uncle’s extortion. If only she could walk into her own Great Hall without the Beast of Blackthorn tracking her every movement.
They reached the heavy oak door of the kitchen, the thick, rich scent of roasting beef and wood ash rolling out to meet them.
Morag, the castle's housekeeper, stood over the great iron pot with her sleeves shoved past her elbows, overseeing the Cook's ladle. She looked up with a scowl the moment the door creaked.
“Ah, the Lady and her shadow,” Morag grunted, though she did not miss the way Brian’s eyes immediately locked onto the cooling tray of sweet cakes by the window. “Come to steal me provisions before the MacKenzies eat us out of house and home, I take it?”
Alba let out a soft, conspiratorial hum, sliding onto the corner of the low wooden prep table and pulling Brian up beside her.
“We are here on official Clan business, Morag. The future Laird requires sustenance if he is to survive his uncle’s drills today.
He claims he is fearsome, but I think he looks rather hollow. ”
Morag snorted, wiping her greasy hands on her apron as she picked up two of the largest cakes and dropped them into Brian’s waiting palms.
“He looks like a MacGregor, which means he’ll eat until the larders are bare and then complain about the draft.” Her eyes then moved to Alba. “And ye look like ye havenae slept since the rain started, lass.”
Alba caught her breath, her hand dropping to Brian’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the wool of his tiny doublet. “I am well, Morag. Just... busy.”
“Aye, busy,” Morag murmured, turning back to her pot with a heavy stir. “The whole Castle’s busy.”
Alba did not answer. She watched Brian happily stuffing his mouth with cake, his small legs swinging from the edge of the table, entirely oblivious to the silent, suffocating choices tearing at the woman beside him.
She did not want to leave. And that was the most terrifying realization of all.