Graham set down his tea and pulled me into his arms as though he just couldn’t stop touching me. “For what it’s worth,” he said against my hair, “I think you’ve always belonged here. And by here, I mean in my arms.As for the rest of it? Bloody hell, Agnes, stop underestimating yourself. You were born for this. Whateverthisis. Whatever may come. Because you’re a warrior at heart, darling, with one of the most compassionate souls I know. I have zero doubt that whatever comes next, with the Order, or anything beyond that, you’ll have any issues navigating. But might I make one small suggestion?”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe just be a touch faster on asking for help next time? Bloody hell, but we could have cruised along with this whole curse thing if you’d let the lot of us dig in and help.”
Guilt hit me and I frowned. He wasn’t wrong. Annoying, aye, but he wasn’t wrong.
A knock at the door interrupted us, and Sophie’s voice came through the wood.
“Agnes? It’s time.”
I took a breath and then let it out slowly.
“Coming,” I called.
“Och, Sophie,” Graham called as I moved toward the door. Sophie opened it and peeked inside.
“Hi ya, Graham. Glad to see you less near death this morning.”
“Aye, you and me both. Say … have a look at this bonnie lass of mine. That Agnes Wright, she’s a belter, isn’t she?” Graham’s grin stretched ear to ear, his face glowing with pride. It literally warmed me straight through until my toes curled in my socks.
“Soon to be Agnes Kincaid, if you can manage to drag her down the aisle.” Sophie was positively beaming.
“I figure I’d let you get through the ritual and all that. We’ll have it next weekend.”
Sophie squealed and grabbed my arms while I gaped at Graham.
“We will not?—”
“Don’t you have an ancient ritual to get to?” The last thing I saw before Sophie dragged me from the room was Graham’s laughing expression.
It was a far cry from the deathly pallor on his face the day before, and I realized, it really didn’t matter when we married, so long as I could keep him smiling like that.
Sophie dragged me down the hallway, talking so fast that I could barely keep up, and once she mentioned bridesmaids I just tuned her out completely. My brain, quite simply, could not fathom planning a wedding next weekend. Surely the man was joking.
Hewasjoking, wasn’t he?
The women of the Order had gathered in the castle’s formal garden—a walled space behind the main building that was Archie’s pride and joy. Though it was winter, and the garden was resting, it was still impossibly beautiful. Ancient rose vines climbed the weathered stone walls and a rowan tree stood at the center, its berries bright as drops of blood against the grey sky.
Would we be taking a blood oath today? I really had no idea what the ritual would look like.
Hilda and Archie were waiting beneath the rowan, a massive leather-bound book open on a stone pedestal between them. The book was old, older than anything I’d seen in the archives, its pages yellowed and fragile, its binding cracked with age. But the script inside was clear,written in a hand that seemed to shift and shimmer as I watched.
“The Leabhar na Fìrinn,” Hilda said as I approached. “The Book of Truth. It contains the original rituals of the Order, written by the founders themselves.”
“How old is it?”
“Old enough.” Archie’s voice was reverent. “It’s been in my family’s keeping for as long as we can remember.”
I was quite literally vibrating with the need to read every last word in that book but now was not the time. Still, I lingered, easing closer, hoping to read a few more words.
“Och, just look at them, Archie.” Hilda leaned into Archie, her eyes warm and dangerously shiny. “Our wee flock has come into their powers.”
“Aye, that they have.” Archie cleared his throat, his voice gruffer than usual, and I cast a look at him in surprise. Were his eyes a bit shiny as well?
“Don’t give me that look, lass. Just a wee tickle in my throat.” Archie glared at me and I smothered a grin.
The other women gathered around the rowan tree. Sophie stood tall and steady, her crows perched in the branches above. Lia was beside her, traces of flour still visible on her apron. Knowing her, she’d likely been comfort-cooking since dawn. Willow stood wearing slouchy jeans, chunky boots, and a leather bomber jacket with a high collar, looking impossibly chic for a magickal ritual. Orla, dressed in her favorite overalls, was talking shop with Kaia. Murdoch sat on her shoulder, his dark eyes seeing everything. Shona was surrounded by the faint green shimmer of her garden magick, the vines around her seeming to lean toward her presence. Faelan stood slightlyapart, Gloam at her feet, and watched patiently while Liora whispered to Bracken who was chittering on her shoulder.
