"Eidith says it's practical," Mairi said, holding it out with the ceremony of a queen offering a crown. "She said she simply had extra cloth and couldnae bear the waste. She told me to tell ye that specifically."
Her eyes were dancing, bright with a delight she was trying very hard to suppress. "She also said if ye make a face about it, she'll assign ye the north wall inventory for a month."
Catriona took the dress.
She held it for a moment, the wool soft and substantial under her palms. She felt the time that had gone into those stitches, the quiet acceptance sewn into every inch of the border. Her throat tightened again, closing over a sudden, sharp well of gratitude she wasn't prepared to navigate.
"Tell her," Catriona said, her voice carefully level, "that I find it entirely practical."
Mairi beamed, the light in her face rivaling the sunset.
The courtyard was a sea of gold by the time she descended.
The sun had dropped to the serrated edge of the western hills, laying its last light flat and warm across the cobbles. It caughtthe torch flames and turned the gathered plaid of the clan into a rich tapestry of deep reds and forest greens.
The sky above McArthur had turned the color of a dying ember. Deep gold at the horizon bleeding into amber, then fading into the first faint violet of the Highland evening. The keep walls, usually grim granite and shadow, held the light against them like a long-held breath.
She stopped in the keep doorway, her heart giving a slow, heavy thud.
The clan stood in a loose, wide circle, giving the center of the courtyard room to breathe while staying close enough that the collective warmth of them was a physical presence.
She saw faces she recognized now. Donal, with his massive arms folded and his jaw set in that rigid way that meant he was feeling something and had decided to endure it like a man. The kitchen lad stood nearby, his face split by an unrestrained grin. Two of the guardsmen who had been at the gate on her first morning. The ones who had watched her sink her teeth into their Laird's arm, watched her now with a look of wary, newfound respect. Old Seumas was at the front, wearing his best coat.
And there, near the outer edge of the circle, she saw Annabeth first.
Dark-haired and warm-eyed, Annabeth watched the courtyard with a look of complete, quiet satisfaction. It was the healer's gaze. The habit of watching the way a person held theirshoulders or favored a limb, but now it was directed at the whole of the keep.
She looked like someone watching the final piece of a very long puzzle click into place. Beside her stood Marcus Reid, Laird of MacLennan, broad and steady as the hills. He didn't say a word, his hand simply resting at the small of Annabeth's back, his presence a solid anchor.
Annabeth's eyes found hers across the golden light.
Catriona held the gaze, her breath hitching.
There was no word for what passed between them, no conversation that could hold the weight of it. The chain of events, the specific shape of a life changed by a single name spoken in a distant hall.
Annabeth had known. She had sent Anthony not to a list of names, but toher, trusting something instinctual and deep.
Catriona pressed her palm briefly to her sternum and dipped her chin in a silent, profound acknowledgment. Annabeth smiled, slow and certain, and dipped hers back.
James suddenly blurred past, nearly taking out Annabeth's knees as Fox skidded by Marcus's heavy boots.
Marcus looked down at the near-miss, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth, and placed a broad hand briefly on the boy'sshoulder as he spun past. It was a single, natural gesture, but James leaned into the contact for a heartbeat before sprinting off again, shouting to Fox about the tactical importance of speed.
She was still watching the boy when the air in the courtyard shifted.
The attention of the clan turned as one toward the keep entrance, subtle as a change in the wind. Catriona turned with them.
Anthony stood at the top of the steps.
He wore his good coat of dark wool, the MacArthur plaid pinned at his shoulder with a silver brooch. He hadn't done anything grand with his appearance, but he had the look of a man who had made a quiet, painstaking effort. He was looking directly at her, wearing the version of his face he usually only showed at three in the morning.
Unguarded, present, and terrifyingly honest.
He descended the steps and crossed the stones toward her. The gathered clan fell into a dense, expectant silence, the kind of quiet that recognized a moment as sacred.
He stopped two paces away.
His eyes traveled over the green dress, lingering on the border at the hem. A single, tight contraction moved in his jaw, the telltalesign that he was managing a surge of something he couldn't quite contain.
