“Perhaps ye had a point about enjoyin’ the weather,” she replied as she stood next to him.
Darragh began to respond to her but went silent before he could get the first syllable out. At first, Amelia braced herself for the worst, following his gaze. Her breath caught as she spotted a figure emerging from the mist.
“What…” she whispered as the figure took shape.
It was elegant, its neck long and sleek. The deer, snow white, turned toward them, its ears twitching with cautious interest. It looked as though it were carved from bone and light.
Amelia froze when she realized what it was. It wasn’t the first, nor even the second time she’d seen it. Most recently, she’d mistaken the creature for a fox. But the first time was most prominent in her mind.
It’s exactly like the paintin’ in the attic.
“Incredible,” Darragh muttered beside her.
She barely registered his presence. The creature in front of them didn’t feel real. It looked as though it had stepped out of a story. And it didn’t feel like a coincidence that she’d seen it three times.
As the deer dipped its head down to graze the low grass, Amelia murmured, “I dinnae realize it truly existed.”
“What was that?” Darragh asked, shifting slightly.
She could tell he was looking at her, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the animal. Softly, she said, “The white deer. I found a paintin’ of one in the library attic. It was a white deer and… a golden wolf beside it. I thought it was just a tale that someone had painted because it was beautiful.”
Darragh’s gaze drifted back to the animal. For a beat, he said nothing. Then, keeping his voice low as if he were worried about spooking the creature, he said, “They’re rare.”
As if sensing that it was being talked about, the deer lifted its head. It didn’t move, just watched Amelia and Darragh. When it decided they weren’t threats, it leaned back down, beginning to graze once more.
Amelia tore her focus away from the deer, finally glancing at Darragh. His face was softer as calm settled over his sharp features. She committed it to memory, the gentleness that seemed to surround him in this moment.
“Ye’ve seen it,” she realized, her gaze shifting back to the animal.
“Aye,” he confirmed. Then, he took a slow breath, his next words coming out measured. “Me parents died when I was nineteen. Fever took them both within the same winter.”
She went completely still, too afraid to move and break this fragile moment. It seemed as if he were holding himself steady, too. The air grew heavier, and it felt like even the trees were holding their breath, leaning in to listen.
“I became Laird before I’d learned how to be a man,” he continued, unable to conceal the emotion of the memory sitting beneath the surface. “I had a sister then. Charlotte. Younger by eight years.”
When Amelia finally brought herself to glance at Darragh, his gaze was fixed squarely on the deer. His head was held high, but there was a vulnerability to him that was brand new. She waited patiently, willing to stay quiet as long as it took for him to share.
“I was meant to raise her,” he said finally, his jaw working slightly. “One autumn, she rode out before a storm turned. The wind came harder than anyone expected. We searched through the night.” He paused, swallowing hard. “We found her the next mornin’ after the storm passed. The river had risen. She was trapped in the mud near the bank. Breath gone.”
The deer took a step out of the mist, watching the two of them as it did. Then, it lowered its head to graze once more.
“That winter, I saw this one for the first time,” he said, nodding toward the creature. “Standin’ just there, actually. It comes often since then. Sits and stares. Same place. Always.”
Amelia took a deep breath, her eyes tracing over the deer. She realized now that it was a girl. She didn’t have antlers, nor was she a fawn. And she seemed so much wiser than other creatures.
“It’s her,” Amelia said quietly, her voice reverent as she marveled at the soul standing before them.
Darragh didn’t answer, but she noticed he didn’t attempt to deny the claim either. He was so absorbed in watching the doe that he didn’t seem to notice when she shifted her full attention to him.
The sun lit up the pale gold of his hair and turned the hard lines into something dream-like. His lips were slightly parted, the curve of them illuminated. And his eyes… That brilliant, clear blue was still as alert as it always was.
He reminds me of the painting. Like he’s meant to be the opposite of the white deer.
“Ye’re the golden wolf,” she breathed.
Darragh looked at her then, truly looked at her. Her heart pounded as his eyes swept over her, something unreadable passing through his expression. It looked so close to the vulnerability from earlier, but it was more fragile.
“Ye’re the one who painted that picture,” she said, having her second earthshaking realization of the afternoon. “That paintin’ in the attic.”
