Violet stood where he had left her. Her cloak lay near the bed, the small bag waiting beneath it. She covered her mouth with both hands and cried as hard as she could.
It was clear now—staying would be the most selfish thing she could do.
27
The castle had barely begun to stir the next morning when Violet entered the nursery dressed for the road.
Her traveling gown was plain brown wool, chosen because no servant would remember it, and her cloak lay folded over one arm. The small bag in her hand carried little more than a shift, her purse, and the rest of the angelica she had gotten from the market, all wrapped in cloth.
She had left every fine gown Connor had given her behind. Taking them would have made her departure look permanent.
John slept in the cradle near the banked fire. His fever had gone down further during the night, though a faint flush remained across his cheeks. One small hand rested beside his head, fingers curled around nothing. The blue cloth lay folded near his shoulder.
Violet set her bag beneath the chair and approached. She had spent the previous dark hours building some sensible reason in her head as to why she was leaving.
MacBain Castle was close, and the healer could examine her there. John would have Moira, Connor, and every servant in the castle watching him. Distance would protect him until Violet knew whether the old illness had returned.
All those reasons seemed weak when she saw his face.
She touched the back of one finger to his wrist. His skin was warm, no longer burning. John stirred, turning his head toward the contact, and his fingers opened.
“I love ye,” Violet whispered. “More than I kent I could love anyone. I hope ye can grow up to ken that.”
His hand found her finger and closed loosely around it. The action made her throat tighten. She leaned over the cradle, bringing her cheek to the blanket beside his head. She would not kiss him. Lachlan’s warning had rooted too deeply in her for that.
“Daenae wake up, little love. I am trying to do the sensible thing, and ye will ruin it if ye look at me.”
John gave a soft, sleepy sound, and Violet closed her eyes.
“MacBain Castle isnae far. I will come back when I ken I am safe to be around.” Her voice faltered over the promise. She pressed her cheek harder into the blanket. “Ye may scold me then. I expect a very serious scolding.”
At that moment, the door opened behind her. She pulled her hand free and straightened, clearing her throat before turning around. She had been expecting Moira or some maid, and was thinking of ways to deflect whatever questions either might have about her cloak.
Except it wasn’t a maid.
It wasn’t even Moira.
Lachlan stepped inside. His coat hung open, and his hair had escaped whatever effort he had made to smooth it. He pushed the door shut with his heel, and the lock clicked.
His gaze moved from her traveling gown to the cloak on her arm, then to the bag beneath the chair.
“Leaving?” he asked.
Violet swallowed. There was no point in hiding anymore. “Aye. For me sister’s castle.”
Lachlan nodded slowly. His eyes were bright, though the light filtering through the narrow window was weak. “Ye are doing the right thing.”
The answer cut through Violet with cold precision.
John’s father agreed that she should leave. A small part of her had hoped someone might call her fear foolish before she crossed the gate. Lachlan had taken that hope and crushed it without effort.
Then he looked toward the cradle.
“Perhaps it wouldnae be so terrible,” he said, “if everyone in this castle died.”
Violet’s fingers tightened around her cloak.
What?
