“You have no choice.” Callum’s voice was harsh.
“We always have choices,” she echoed Mirrie’s sentiment from earlier, appreciating the full truth of it. “I am here to set you free.”
Callum let out an anguished sound. “Then I will hunt Tristan down and you will come to hate me.”
“Nay,” she interrupted him quickly, “you will not. You will leave Ember Hall and never return.” She swallowed down her pain at the thought. “Not unless you wish to cause the execution of your men, Andrew and Arlo.”
He blanched as if she had struck him. “Andrew and Arlo.”
“Aye.” She nodded once. “If you harm Tristan in any way, I will have them both killed.”
Callum’s brown eyes bore into her soul. “You could not do such a thing, Frida,” he said softly. “You are no killer.”
His words reverberated around the empty room like the tolling of a bell. With a growing sense of dread, Frida realised that he was right.
I am no killer.
But without the lives of Arlo and Andrew to use as leverage, her plan had no foundations.
She swallowed, keeping her back ramrod straight. “I will do what I have to do, like we all must, in these turbulent times.” The candlelight flickered as if doubting her sincerity.
Callum shook his head. “You know in your heart that you cannot bring harm to anyone. I watched you nurse Arlo back to health. Do you truly expect me to believe that you could give the order for a blade such as that to slit his throat?” His eyes flickered towards the dagger she still held.
Frida’s breathing faltered as her imagination played out such a scene. She saw Arlo’s trusting face turned towards her, his young eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope.
Her stomach rolled with nausea. But the face she showed Callum was devoid of all feeling.
“I expect you to believe it,” she said calmly, drawing strength from the full range of emotions she felt as a daughter, a sister, awoman. “I expect you to believe that I would do whatever it took to ensure the safety of my beloved brother.” She paused, giving her claim extra weight. “To keep my family complete.”
A beat passed. Callum’s face was in shadow and she could not properly read his expression, but she sensed that her words had landed.
“Very well.” His voice was tight. “I believe it.”
She did not give voice to her relief. Instead, she walked steadily over to him and indicated with a nod of her head that he should turn away. When his all-too-distracting eyes were fixed on the plastered wall, she began to cut through the bindings on his wrists. As she worked, she was overly aware of his height and width, of the lines of muscle over his back and the sinewy strength of his calves.
Aye, this man would be a threat to her brother for as long as they both lived. Tristan was a skilled knight, but Callum was a warrior in his own right. Either one of them might kill the other in any number of scenarios, meeting in a battlefield far from here, months or even years in the future. Frida could not do anything about that. All she could manage was the here and now.
Her Sight, which once might have shown her every outcome and how to avoid it, was gone.
She stifled a sob as her blade cut through the last of the rope and Callum gave a slight moan of relief, flexing his wrists and clasping his hands together.
“Will you sit while I free your ankles?” She kept her voice expressionless.
Callum hesitated and she thought he would refuse, but then he sank gracefully to the floor and stretched out his long legs before him. In the dim light, she saw him wince and she remembered her earlier intention to check his wounds.
Frida got to her knees and started to work on the second binding. This one was looser than the first, freed no doubt in the beating Callum had received earlier. She closed her mind to thoughts of this. All that mattered was that he left Ember Hall before dawn.
This time it was Frida that exclaimed out loud when the blade sliced through the rope. Callum rotated his ankles but otherwise stayed still. She could feel his eyes fixed on her, burning the back of her neck.
“Thank you,” he said. “I should have said it before.”
“’Tis nothing.” Her reply was automatic. She rose awkwardly to her feet and fetched her basket, bringing the candle closer and setting it on the floor by Callum’s feet. “Wait while I check your ankle.” Carefully, she removed his boot, rolled his breeches up over his bulging calf and probed all around his ankle joint. His flesh was hot to the touch. “I do not believe it is broken,” she declared. “I shall pack it with dried comfrey to bring down the swelling.”
She half expected a protest, but his response was soft. “Thank you.”
She worked quickly, tying a clean bandage around his foot and ankle and replacing his boot. All the while, he stayed still and quiet, his eyes burning into her.
She could not avoid his gaze as she turned to face him, and her breath vanished from her lungs as their eyes met in the candlelight. Callum’s stance was passive, but his expression blazed with feeling.
