"I cannae do this again," Margaret said at last, her voice dropping into the quiet space. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, burning around the words. "I gave him time. I gave him patience. More patience than I even kent I possessed." A weak, ragged breath escaped her lips. "And every single time it matters most, he pushes me away as though I am somethin' dangerous to his survival."
Isobel watched her, her dark eyes filled with a heavy, sorrowful pity.
Margaret looked down at Lilly. The child slept peacefully now, one small, perfect hand curled loosely against Margaret's chest, completely unaware that her world was fracturing.
"She deserves better than this uncertainty," Margaret whispered, her eyes burning with unshed tears. The words hurt worst of all because they were an absolute truth. Not only for Lilly. For herself.
Isobel crossed the room slowly, her skirts rustling against the rushes. "What happened out there, Margaret? What did he say?" she asked softly.
Margaret laughed once under her breath. A sharp, terrible, humorless little sound that cut through the room like broken glass. "He told me I was a distraction."
Margaret looked away, staring blindly at the dark window. "The fire started, and suddenly it was as though everythin' between us vanished in a single breath. Every moment we shared in that bed. Every promise. Every touch."
Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. "I stood there tryin' to help him, tryin' to stand by his side, and all he could see when he looked at me was a weakness that had compromised him."
"That isnae what he meant, Margaret. Fergus is a soldier; he handles fear with a sword."
"I ken."
She understood Fergus far too well now. She knew the brutal words had come from a place of raw terror, from guilt, from a man who still fiercely believed that love and vulnerability were fatal luxuries he could not afford to survive. But understanding the mechanics of his fear no longer made the blade hurt any less when he drove it into her chest.
"It doesnae matter anymore what he means," Margaret said quietly, her voice hardening. "Only what he does. And he leaves. Or he drives me away."
Isobel's eyes softened so completely that Margaret felt herself wavering, her throat tightening under the unexpected weight of that kindness. She quickly crossed the room, moving toward the small writing desk by the narrow window before she could totally lose her fragile composure.
"I need paper, Isobel."
Isobel didn't argue. She didn't offer empty platitudes. She simply went to the drawer, pulled out a clean sheet of parchment, and handed it over along with an inkwell and a quill.
Margaret sat down with stiff movements. Lilly stayed peacefully asleep against her shoulder, a heavy, warm weight. She dipped the quill into the black ink. The candlelight flickered slightly across the page, casting jagged shadows over her hand. Or maybe her hand was the one trembling. She could not quite tell anymore.
The words came rapidly, bleeding onto the page once the ink touched the fibers. Not because they were easy to write, but because she had already spent months swallowing them, choking on them in the quiet of her empty rooms. When she finished, she didn't read them over. She couldn't. She folded the letter carefully.
She stood up and handed the folded parchment to Isobel. "Please give him this when he returns from the ridge."
Isobel accepted the letter slowly, her fingers brushing Margaret's cold hand. Then she looked properly into Margaret's eyes,reading the finality written there. She understood. This wasn't an act of petulant anger. It wasn't an impulsive tantrum. This was a departure.
"Where will ye go?" Isobel asked quietly.
Margaret hesitated only briefly, her jaw setting. "To Alba."
"Yer cousin?"
Margaret nodded once. "She is widowed now. Livin' alone on the southern MacLaren lands. It would be good for both of us." Her voice steadied slightly as she forced her mind to focus on the practicalities, pushing the howling grief back into the dark. "It is less than an hour's ride from here if the lower paths remain clear of the smoke."
Isobel frowned faintly, looking toward the window. "Margaret, the fire is still spreadin'."
"The wind has shifted north, away from the southern valley," Margaret said, hoping she sounded far more certain than she actually felt. Truthfully, she did not care very much about the physical danger at the moment; the numbness inside her was too vast. That realization frightened her a little, but she pushed it aside. "Alba will take me in," she continued quietly. "And Lilly."
Her voice nearly broke on the child's name, the sudden fracture catching in her throat. She looked down immediately, blinkingrapidly against the burn behind her eyelids. Lilly slept on, blissfully unaware of the storm.
"I ken I have nay right to her," she said, the words coming out low and precise, as though she had already argued this with herself and lost. "She was left at his door. She is his ward. He is her guardian in law and by obligation. I ken all of that."
She looked directly at Isobel. "But he has spent nine months learnin' to tolerate her presence, and I have spent nine months learnin' her. Who she is. What frightens her. What makes her laugh before the sound even comes. I ken every sound she makes in her sleep." Her voice thinned to a thread. "I am nae askin' for permission, Isobel. I am askin' for time. If he wants her back, he kens where to come."
Margaret closed her eyes briefly, a phantom ache tearing through her womb. Leaving her, even for a few hours, felt physically unendurable. But she knew she could not ride fast enough or safely enough carrying an infant through uncertain, dark mountain paths while smoke spread across the hills.
"I'll go ahead first," Margaret said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Alone. I'll prepare Alba's house for us. Then, please, Isobel... arrange a covered carriage and bring Lilly after me tomorrow mornin', once the roads are safer and the smoke has cleared."
