Isobel stared at her, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Ye shouldnae have to do this alone, Margaret. Let me send a guard with ye."
The deep tenderness in her sister-in-law's voice nearly shattered the last of the fragile control Margaret held together. She looked away quickly, focusing on the dark wood of the door frame.
"I have done everythin' else beside him," Margaret said, the profound ache finally slipping fully into her voice. "This I must do for meself."
Silence filled the bedchamber.
At last, Isobel exhaled a long, shaky breath. Then, she nodded once. "I'll help ye."
Margaret nearly wept from the sheer relief of it. Instead, she crossed the short distance between them and embraced Isobel carefully, tilting her body so she wouldn't crush Lilly between them.
Isobel held her tightly, her arms strong and reassuring.
When they pulled apart, Margaret moved quickly. She knew with absolute certainty that if she stopped moving now, or even sat down for a moment, she would collapse onto the floor and never get up again.
Within minutes, Maisie was called, her eyes wide with shock as she quietly packed a small travel bag of essentials. Isobel slipped out of the room to arrange for two trusted, tight-lipped stable hands to prepare Margaret's favorite mare at the south gate, away from the chaos of the main yard.
Margaret donned a heavier wool riding cloak, her fingers numb and clumsy as she fastened the silver clasp at her throat. Every familiar object in the room suddenly appeared completely different to her. Temporary. Alien. The heavy oak bed where she had lain in his arms just an hour ago. The chair beside the hearth where he had left his boots. The neatly folded little linen gowns Lilly had already outgrown.
A life. Half-built. Left unfinished in the dark.
Lilly woke just as Margaret fastened the leather hood of her cloak. The child blinked sleepily up through the dim candlelight, her tiny face screwing up before she immediately reached her small hands upward, her fingers brushing against Margaret's cheek.
Margaret gathered her close, burying her face in the baby's soft neck. And that finally hurt enough to crack something open deep inside her chest, a physical tearing sensation that made her gasp.
"Oh, me sweet love," she whispered shakily, her tears finally overflowing, hot and fast against Lilly's skin.
Lilly pressed her face into the hollow of Margaret's throat with complete, uncritical trust.
Margaret held her tighter, her heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. For one terrible, weak, entirely selfish moment, she thought about abandoning the entire plan. Staying in the castle. Waiting in the great hall until Fergus returned from the fire, hoping for just a crumb of his affection.
But then, Fergus's cold, level voice returned to her mind, cutting through the weakness like a broadsword.
Ye are a distraction to me.
And beneath the pain of the memory lived something even worse: fear. A deep, sickening fear that one day Lilly would grow old enough to look at her adoptive father and hear something similar. A fear that Fergus would spend the rest of his life loving them both from behind a high stone wall, forever convincing himself that love itself was a weakness that would cost him. She would not let Lilly learn that survival meant accepting coldness.
Margaret kissed Lilly's forehead, her lips lingering on the soft skin. Then, with a brutal effort of will, she carefully handed the child over to Isobel.
The physical separation felt completely wrong, like tearing flesh from bone. Lilly immediately frowned, her small brow furrowing in the candlelight as she realized she was being moved. A small, distressed, questioning sound escaped her wet lips.
Margaret's hand hovered in the air, her fingers trembling. She almost reached back.
Almost.
But she knew that if her fingers touched the child again, she would never find the strength to walk through that door. And if she stayed tonight, she might stay forever, slowly turning to ash.
"Only for a little while, me lamb," she whispered to Lilly, her throat burning so intensely she could barely breathe.
Isobel adjusted the child gently against her shoulder, rocking her rhythmically. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, carefully: "He may come for her, Margaret. He may come before mornin'."
"I ken." Margaret pulled her cloak closed at her throat, her fingers steady now in the way that follows a decision made past the point of grief. "If he comes for Lilly and nae for me, then at least I'll have me answer."
A pause, her eyes dropping briefly to the child's face. "And I will give her back to him without a fight. She is his. She has always been his."
Isobel's eyes shone. She said nothing. She simply nodded.
Margaret nodded once, her jaw clenched tight. She could no longer trust her voice to form words. She turned, threw open the door, and walked out.
