Marissa almost told her that his getting a headache was also something she was worried about. She’d seen the way he’d succumbed to it the day before. And while she was glad that she’d been able to help him, she wanted to prevent him from feeling that poorly again.
She did not want to be the source of any pain for Arthur. Not if she could avoid it.
“Stop movin’ yer head,” Freya huffed, giving one of her curls a quick tug and bringing her eyes back up to the mirror.
Marissa fell silent for a moment, watching as Freya and Ayla worked in tandem. As she watched, she realized what they were trying to do.
Her hair, which was typically a short, unruly tangle of curls that fell just past her chin, was being yanked into an intricate series of braids. The two women worked seamlessly, as if they’d been doing it for years, even though they had met barely an hour ago.
“Amara,” Ayla piped up, drawing the girl’s attention. “Will ye go and fetch mine and Marissa’s dresses? As well as yer own? I have a feelin’ we’ll all be gettin’ ready in here.”
Amara flushed, scurrying out of the chambers to do what was asked.
Freya and Ayla continued to work in companionable silence. Soon, gentle snores filled the air, and Marissa had to choke back a laugh.
“She could sleep through anythin’, that one,” Freya murmured, nodding her head in Abigail’s direction.
Sure enough, as Freya shifted, a gap appeared between the two women’s bodies, allowing Marissa to glimpse beyond them. Abigail’s head was leaning against the back of the reading chair, her mouth slightly open as she snored.
Ayla giggled, drawing Marissa’s attention back to them.
“I always wanted sisters.” She beamed, meeting Marissa’s gaze in the mirror. “I think I’ll quite like me braither bein’ married to this one.”
Marissa beamed at her just as Amara swept back into the room with a mound of fabric in her arms.
“Everythin’ is here!” she announced a little too loudly.
Abigail snorted, her eyes blinking rapidly as Amara’s voice jolted her awake. “What happened?” she asked.
Her eyes were glassy and unfocused as they darted around the room, taking in the women still at the vanity and Amara holding the three dresses.
“Why are ye carryin’ so much fabric?”
Amara flushed but said nothing as she disappeared into the bedchamber.
“I’m goin’ to lay them out in here so they dinnae get wrinkled!” her voice called out cheerily.
There was a rustling sound—no doubt she was tugging the fabric of the gowns to lay them out straight. She appeared a moment later, smiling softly at them all.
“Everyone is goin’ to look so bonnie.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and then Freya and Ayla returned to the task at hand. It wasn’t much longer before they’d worked Marissa’s unruly curls into dual rows of intricate, tidy braids.
A tartan ribbon had been intertwined with some of the strands, leaving it to dance in and out of the plaits in a flash of dark blue.
“The council willnae be able to deny that ye’re perfect,” Ayla assured, giving her a quick, encouraging smile.
Marissa flushed with pride before rising from the chair, waving for whoever was next.
It was Amara who fell into the chair next, and Marissa waved Freya off to get some rest. Her sister shot her a grateful look, hand on her belly as she waddled over to one of the reading chairs and sank into it.
“Freya,” Ayla chimed in as she and Marissa began working on Amara’s copper locks, “Marissa told us that ye’re a healer?”
Freya nodded. “Aye. I’ve done it ever since our parents died. Taught these barmy lasses everythin’ they ken.”
She nodded her head toward Abigail and Marissa. Abigail scowled sleepily at her oldest sister, but Marissa couldn’t help but flush with pride.
“Was yer maither a healer? Or did ye learn on yer own?” Amara asked, drawing Marissa’s attention once more. “Marissa was able to cure the Laird’s headache the other day, and I cannae think of how helpful someone with that knowledge could be to the clan.”
