Before anyone knew she might be sick again, she would go out and find angelica root.
20
The next morning, before first light, Violet dressed before anyone crossed the upper passageway.
She chose a plain gown of dark wool and a shawl without bright trimming.
Nothing about either garment declared herLady Moore, which was the point. A woman in fine clothes would raise questions. A woman in plain wool could pass through a village market, buy what she needed, and return before the castle fully woke.
The buckle clicked when she fastened her shoe. She froze and waited for the better part of two minutes. There was no step outside her door, and no maid called out. No guard came to ask why the Laird’s wife was dressed in gray before dawn.
She fastened the other shoe more slowly, then pinned her hair beneath a simple kerchief with hands that refused to stay steady.
“I am going to the village,” she whispered. “Women go to villages. It ishardlytreason.”
Her reflection in the small mirror looked unconvinced.
She took her purse, tucked it beneath her shawl, and opened the door. The passageway held the thin chill of early morning, and somewhere below, a servant coughed. Further off, guards changed watch with low voices and the scrape of boots on stone.
Violet went first to the nursery.
Moira slept in the adjoining room, or so Violet hoped. The fire in the grate had burned low, and John lay warm in his cradle, his face turned toward one tiny fist. He slept peacefully, as if no one he loved would ever leave without farewell.
Violet stopped beside him. She did not touch his cheek. If he woke, she might not have the heart to leave. Instead, she drew his blanket higher over his little chest and tucked the edge near his shoulder.
“I’ll be back before ye miss me,” she whispered, the words hurting worse once spoken.
She straightened quickly. She was not leaving him. She was going to find the thing that might let her stay. This was necessary and was the only reason she could make her feet move toward the door.
For some reason, the castle made escaping a bit difficult, which she resented and appreciated in equal measure. At least that meant no one would be able to take John away so easily.
Thank God.
A guard stood near the main stairs, so she took the narrower servants’ passage. A maid was carrying folded linen across the lower corridor, and Violet waited behind the corner until the woman disappeared. Near the side entrance, two stable lads were speaking over a bucket, and she slipped out through the kitchen yard while they argued about a lame pony.
The gate should have stopped her.
It did not.
The guard there knew her face but not her clothes, and she chose the moment when another guard called to him from the barbican to slip past with her shawl drawn close. She kept walking until the castle shrank behind her.
The road to the village was damp beneath her shoes as the morning mist sat low over the fields. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke from houses below. She lifted her dress from the mud and walked faster than comfort allowed.
She had walked roads before.She had carried fabrics from village to village, slept in crowded inns, bargained for bread, andspent whole mornings deciding where she would go next without asking any man’s leave.
Her hand tightened around her purse.
Now it was no longer the same. Now, she was a laird’s wife and mother to a baby boy in every way that mattered. As she made her way to the market, ignoring the voice niggling at the back of her head, she felt like the dirtiest liar in the world.
The village had begun to stir by the time she reached the market. Stalls stood in rows along the square, and a baker set warm loaves beneath a cloth. Hens complained from wicker cages while a boy argued over bruised apples and women fingered fabrics and argued down the price.
Near the center, bolts of fabric hung from a rail, blue, russet, brown, and a yellow so cheerful that Violet slowed down despite herself. The seller noticed.
“Fine eye, mistress. Good wool, that.”
“It sits well enough,” Violet said, stepping closer before she remembered why she had come. She touched the fabric and rubbed it once between her forefinger and thumb. “The weave is tight, but the dye will fade if washed too often in hard water.”
The man blinked, then laughed. “Ye’ve handled fabric before.”
