Perhaps he doesnae care.
The thought lodged below her sternum, sharper than the iron of the shackles or the damp cold of the stones seeping through her boots.
She had told herself, through all those quiet evenings in the herb room, that she knew the terms of her stay. She was useful. Useful was the arrangement. She had told herself she wasn't foolishenough to build a hope on a foundation that had never been offered.
She stole a glance toward the gate.
The track ran north and empty, a ribbon of wet mud and silent heather under the grey sky. No rider appeared.
She looked back at the cobbles before anyone could catch her looking.
"In the meantime," the elder resumed, "the healer will be secured. For her own safety as much as the people around."
"Her own safety," Catriona repeated. She didn't file the sharp, jagged edge off her voice this time. "Aye. Of course."
From the steps of the keep, Moira MacLeod descended two stairs. She moved slowly, with a careful grace, and when she spoke, her voice was a flute-note of enormous gentleness.
It was, Catriona realized, her most lethal weapon.
"I take nay pleasure in this," Moira said.
She addressed the council, her hands opening at her sides in a gesture of practiced helplessness.
"I have prayed since last night that there was another explanation. That what I witnessed, the speed of the child's recovery, the animal that fears nothin', the remedies that work where learned physicians failed, that all of it was simply skill."
She paused, her dark eyes drifting to Catriona with a look of pained reluctance that made Catriona's stomach turn.
"I pray it still. But I could nae in conscience remain silent when a good man's cattle lie dead and a charm sits in me hand that I cannot explain."
"Then let me explain it," Catriona said. Her voice had dropped low, the fury compressed into a cold, hard precision.
"I didnae make that charm. I daenae make charms. Me grandmother taught me herb lore and the patience to learn what a body needs and give it exactly that. She taught me nothin' else, because there is nothin' else, there is only work and knowledge. I have used both for six weeks for a child who could nae walk ten paces without gaspin', and he is breathin'. That is the whole of it."
She stared at Moira, letting the silence stretch thin. "If that frightens ye, me lady, I cannae help ye. Fear finds its reasons."
For a fraction of a second, something broke across Moira's face. It was so fast Catriona almost missed it. A flicker of something raw and exposed behind the mask. Not guilt, but something sharper.
Then the performance snapped back into place. Moira dropped her gaze, obviously not happy she had been somewhat challenged. Catriona could see that she felt insulted.
The crowd wasn't quiet anymore.
The words,witch, curse, burn, had begun to grow, feeding on the tension. The elder raised his hand, but the noise only dampened slightly. The guards' grip on Catriona's arms tightened until her shoulders ached.
"Take her inside," the elder commanded.
"Ye'll wait," Donal barked.
He took two heavy steps forward, planting himself between Catriona and the heavy oak doors of the keep. "Anthony MacArthur is the Laird of this clan, and this woman stands under his protection. Nae one of ye moves her one inch until he's standing in this courtyard. Am I plain?"
The movement stopped. The courtyard held its breath.
Somewhere behind her, barely audible over the wind and the snapping torches, Catriona heard a sound.
A quick, bright note, a fox's bark, alive and stubborn. Her throat closed up.
She did not let a muscle in her face move.
She stood in the middle of the courtyard with the rope at her wrists and Donal's broad back three feet in front of her. She straightened her spine, took a breath of the smoke-thick air, and did not look at the road again.
