Granite stone.
He blinked to better focus his vision, leaning back to take in the outline of a large, rectangular stone jutting out of the earth to the height of his shoulders.
What monolith was this? His racing mind recalled his mother’s tales of witchcraft and superstition in these parts, but he was too tired to be much afraid. When the moon slid out from behind a cloud, he made out an oddly-shaped circle of similarly shaped stones. He rested his arms and forehead against the cold granite as he caught his breath.
If this was a place where witches met and cast their magic, then so be it. They could do with him what they wanted. ’Twould be a more interesting fate, at least, than the one awaiting him at the point of Tristan’s sword.
Slumped against the stone, Callum felt the last reserves of his strength drain away. He was chilled to the bone, bruised, battered and bereft of hope. He turned his head to the side, wishing for a glimpse of Ember Hall, where Frida slept safely in her bed. Only then did he realise the enormity of his error.
His footsteps were clearly visible in the snow.
Footsteps that would lead Tristan’s men, e’en Tristan himself, directly from the felled guard to Callum’s current position. It did not matter if he found the strength to run or the luck to stay from the edge of the cliff—they would find him. If he wished to live, he would need to take action—erase the footsteps, lead a false trail, do something to protect himself. But he could not find the energy to move at all.
He had no strength left. And his luck had clearly run out.
Callum allowed his knees to buckle and he sank to the cold, slushy ground thinking that at least he had kept his word to Frida.
Much good it would do him.
*
When Frida creptback inside the hall, she did not think she would sleep. How could she, when her mind still raced with all that had passed? When her body still hummed from his touch and her heart grieved his departure?
She was weighed down by such grief as she was sure would never leave her. But she could bear it better by far than the overwhelming despair of seeing her lover executed by her brother.
Frida crawled beneath her covers, still dressed, and pulled the blanket over her head. She could not allow those terrible thoughts to stay inside her mind, for they would drive her to a form of insanity. She had done all she could.
And she had known what it was to be loved. By a man she loved in return.
Holding onto that, she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Mirrie woke her soon after dawn. Frida opened her gritty eyes to find her friend kneeling beside her bed, shaking her urgently.
“You must get up,” she was saying, her hand gripping Frida’s shoulder.
Frida blinked. Her bedchamber was still half in shadows, for the sun was not fully up. Pale pinkish light was all that filtered through the shutters.
“You must prepare your story,” Mirrie urged. “Tristan is already up and raging. If he sees you like this, he will know.”
She struggled to sit up. “Know what?”
“That you were the one to free the prisoner,” Mirrie whispered.
The memory flooded back to her. Last night, she had cut Callum’s bonds and urged him to leave Ember Hall. And now, she must face Tristan’s inevitable outrage over the loss of his prisoner.
Tristan would be determined to find him.
Frida must put him off the scent.
Fully awake now, she flung back her covers. “Help me to dress,” she gasped. “I must change into something clean.”
“And dry,” supplied Mirrie, already rooting through the wooden chest at the foot of Frida’s bed.
“Aye.” Frida made no attempt to argue, standing passively as Mirrie wrestled her damp and crumpled gown away from her.
“Oh.” Mirrie paused, her arms full of fabric.
“What is it?”
