That wee stone, etched with memories of Maddie and Alex Grant, gave her the courage to tiptoe across the island toward the cave where the bairns were hidden. She would help free them, though she wasn’t sure exactly what she would need to do. Her thumb rubbed the surface of the stone again until it sang to her, giving her the courage to move forward. A puffin had told her it was her destiny.
Instead, just before she entered, a man came from the back of the cave, moving slowly toward her, reaching for her, his hand nearly touching hers as he tried to speak to her. But just before she was able to touch his fingers, a rat-like creature with bats on its head dropped in front of her, snarling with a deadly warning. “Stay away or die!”
She bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs as sweat trickled down her brow and into her eyes. She wiped it away with a trembling hand, struggling to steady her breath. What in God’s name had she been dreaming?
Pox on the devil’s backside. Another one of those wretched visions. Nay, not a dream, but a true nightmare that left her shaking.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe slow and deep, as her mother had taught her, summoningEmmalin’s soothing voice to quiet the terror coursing through her veins.
This was not the first. These visions had plagued her for months, seizing her senses so completely she often woke with the urge to scream to the heavens, though she never knew what to cry.
Help.
Aye… that was it. Someone must help her make sense of them. These haunting images of bairns crying, hidden away in dark places, clinging to one another, their souls pleading for aid that never came.
Who were they?
Out of habit, she climbed out of bed and reached into a small box where her favorite items sat and pulled out the stone in her dream. Her thumb rubbed across the warm surface as she recalled the story she’d told many times over.
“Ailith?”
She jumped and kicked her stone behind the nearby chest so the visitor wouldn’t see what she was doing. Aware that it was a childhood ritual that she should have given up long ago, she kept the stones away from judgmental eyes.
Her mother stood in the doorway, her head tipped in that knowing way she had when trouble stirred. “Are you hale? I thought I heard you cry out in your sleep.”
Ailith rubbed her eyes, buying herself a moment before lowering her hands. The truth pressed in, unwelcome but undeniable. Her mother, for all her wisdom, could not help her here.
Her fingers closed into tight fists as tears threatened. She stared at them.
“Another one?” Emmalin whispered, crossing the chamber to brush back the dark curls clinging to Ailith’s damp face. “Those green eyes tell me you’ve had a fright.”
“Aye.” She drew in a steadying breath. “Mama… I think I must travel. To see Dyna. Or Sylvi, or Tora. Someone who understands what these dreams mean.”
Her mother sat beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her brow. “We’ll speak with your da. See if he’s willing to make the journey across the water again. Finish your ablutions and come below stairs. We’ll talk with him to see what he thinks.”
Ailith nodded, though her breath caught. Once her mother left, she shut the door and leaned against it.
This dream had been worse.
The others had come before. Bairns screaming, a darkness closing over them, wee ones locked in vast cellars, sometimes caged, sometimes clinging to one another with hollow, staring eyes.
But this time… something had changed.
In this vision, the creature had pointed a crooked finger at that man.
“Your fault, your fault, your fault…”
She knew neither creature nor man.
Shoving the thought aside, she washed and dressed in a dark red gown, replaiting her long, unruly waves with nimble fingers. She hurried because this was exactly when she needed her father the most.
He was the strength she needed so desperately. To stand beside the tall, dark-haired Highlander was to feel, if only for a moment, invincible. Where her mother was calm amidst the storm, her father was the storm’s answer.
Moments later, she entered the great hall of Grant Castle. Alasdair Grant sat near the hearth in quiet conversation with his uncle Connor. Her mother was nowhere in sight.
She crossed to them at once.
Both men rose, her father kissing her brow and guiding her into a cushioned chair at his side. Her gaze drifted upward, settling on the sword above the hearth, the very blade her great-grandfather had wielded against the Norse at the Battle of Largs.
