She stood in the doorway with a candle and her hair loose and her shawl pulled tight and the sleep still in her eyes. The sight of her—soft-edged and glowing in the candlelight—made his breath hitch. She was looking at him the way she looked at everything, like she was already deciding what it meant.
How long was she standing there?
He didn't ask it. Asking would confirm there was something worth asking about. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and grating in the silence.
"Ye should sleep," he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended. He didn't fix it.
"So should ye."
He had no answer to that, so he gave none. He merely shifted his weight, his eyes tracking the way the candlelight danced in her red hair.
She crossed to the far side of James's bed without waiting for permission. She never waited for permission; he had stopped expecting it. He watched her move, his gaze lingering on the way the shawl slipped slightly from her shoulder.
She pressed two fingers to the inside of the boy's wrist. Her eyes went to James's face, then to his chest, then she straightened and looked across the bed at him. Her eyes were dark and searching, and he found he couldn't look away.
"He's well," she said.
"Aye." He let out a slow, cautious breath.
She smoothed the edge of James's blanket. The gesture was unnecessary. He noticed that she did it anyway. Her fingers were pale against the dark wool, her touch lingering.
"Ye do this often," she said.
Not a question.
Every night since the fire.
Every night for six years, at least once, sometimes twice.
Every night I lie in that room at the end of this corridor and listen for the sound of him breathin' wrong, and when I hear it, I come, and I sit until he settles.
"He has bad nights," he said. He felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach.
"He isnae havin' one tonight."
"Nay," he said. He looked down at the boy, his jaw working. "He isnae."
The fire shifted, a soft collapse of ember. Outside the narrow window, the Highland dark was complete. No wind, no sound, just the cold pressing itself against the glass as it had done every winter of his life. The silence between them felt heavy, charged with things unsaid.
"The first week I was here," she said, low enough not to disturb James, "I heard footsteps in this corridor every night. I thought it was the keep settlin'."
He said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on the dying fire, his pulse thrumming in his ears.
"It wasnae the keep settlin'," she said.
He looked at the boy. At the line of James's shoulder under the blanket. The dark hair damp at the temples, the small face that carried his brother's mouth and his mother's eyes, andsomething that was entirely and stubbornly its own. He felt a wave of fierce, protective love rise in him, nearly choking him.
"How long has he had the bad nights?" she asked.
He weighed the question.
It wasn't a clinical question. She had all the clinical information she needed, she'd asked the right questions in the first week, and he'd answered them. This was something else. He could feel her waiting, her presence a warm weight in the room.
"Since he could walk," he said. "He'd wake coughin' and couldnae settle on his own. The old healer used to sit with him until it passed." He kept his eyes on James. "She's gone now." The words felt heavy, like stones he was dropping into a deep well.
"So ye sit."
"Someone has to." He shrugged, a jerky movement that betrayed his unease.
