Eva listened, her fingers tightening in Connor’s sleeve as the man intoned.
“Let us pray for peace among the livin', that bloodshed may end here.” The words felt heavy, as though spoken directly into the rift between the clans.
Michael stepped forward when called, his voice shaking as he spoke a few halting words.
“He raised me,” he said quietly, “and for that I will always grieve him, though truth be a cruel companion.”
Some McKay women wept openly, while others stared hard at Connor, their grief edged with fury. Eva felt torn between sorrow and fear.
The kirkman lifted his hands once more. “Lay to rest, Laird McKay,” he said, as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
A McKay elder spoke next, his tone clipped as he thanked those who had come, his eyes never leaving Connor.
“May the dead rest,” the elder said, “and the livin' choose their paths wisely.”
Connor inclined his head, accepting the words without flinch.
As the final prayers ended, the wind picked up, scattering heather petals laid upon the grave. Eva felt Connor’s hand find hers, grounding her amid the murmurs and shifting stares.
“It’s done,” she whispered, unsure if she meant the funeral or the long shadow of Jack’s deeds.
“Aye,” Connor replied softly, “and now we walk forward, whatever comes.”
They turned to leave, Michael lingering a moment longer before the grave. Eva watched him place a small stone atop the mound, his jaw tight with grief and resolve. When he rejoined them, she offered a small nod, one of shared endurance. Together they walked back toward the carriages.
She watched Connor walk beside his brother, her heart tightening at the sight of the lad’s bowed head. Michael’s shoulders were hunched as though the weight of the world pressed down upon them, his youth no shield against such grief. His face was pale and drawn, eyes fixed on the ground with a sorrow too old for fifteen years. Eva felt a deep ache for him, knowing no words could mend such loss.
She stepped closer to him as they walked, her voice gentle.
“Michael,” she said softly, “are ye alright?”
He lifted his gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears, and shook his head.
“Nay,” he answered, his voice rough, “I daenae ken how to be.”
He drew a breath and spoke again, the words tumbling out as though long trapped. “I mourn me faither, for he raised me, though he did terrible things,” Michael said. “But I’m lost as well, for I daenae ken who I truly am.”
Eva nodded, her chest tightening, and said, “It’s a cruel tangle of truth and grief ye’ve been given.”
Connor slowed his stride and turned to face Michael, his voice firm yet kind.
“Ye daenae need to decide anythin’ this day,” he said. “I want ye to stay at Castle McLaren, with me. Ye are of Clan McLaren and it is yer home. Ye are me brother, whether ye believe it yet or nae.”
Michael swallowed hard and nodded slowly. “I’ll stay, then,” he said, “for I cannae return to the Welsh home, nae after this.”
They resumed walking, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as the carriage came into view. Eva felt the tension ease just a little, replaced by a fragile sense of shelter forming around Michael. She admired Connor at that moment, the quiet strength he offered without demand.
“Ye’ll find yer place,” Eva said softly to Michael, “even if it takes time.”
Michael gave her a small, grateful look. “Thank ye, Eva,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The driver opened the carriage door, and one by one they climbed inside. Eva settled onto the cushioned seat, smoothing her skirts as Michael sat across from her and Connor beside her. Outside, the guards mounted up, ready to escort them home.
As the carriage lurched forward, Eva glanced at Michael again. He stared out the small window, watching the McKay lands slip past as though memorizing them for the last time.
“It’s strange,” he murmured, “leavin’ a place when ye daenae ken if it was ever truly home.”
Eva nodded slowly. “Home is more than land,” she said, “it’s the folk who choose ye.”
