Morning had not yet fully broken. The chamber held that pale, waiting chill that came just before first light. Somewhere below, the castle had that strange, living energy it always wore before great events, as though even the stone understood this day would be remembered.
Today, she would marry Reginald FitzUrse. The thought moved through her without fear.
Not without weight. Never that. Too much lay behind them. Donal O’Raida had gone home to Rathmore under honor and prayer. Mael Ruadh waited in chains for judgment by men who no longer wished to claim him. The gate still bore new timber where old wood had cracked. Fintan’s little girl still wore bandages on her hands. Reginald still woke sometimes with Canterbury in his eyes and silence on his tongue until he remembered he had promised her truth.
But he remembered. That mattered more than ease ever could.
Étaín entered without knocking, which was less intrusion than tradition by now. “You are awake,” she said.
“I have been accused of it.”
“Good. I was prepared to drag you from the bed, and it would have put me in a mood before breakfast.”
Aingeal turned her head against the pillow and looked at her cousin. Étaín stood with a gown draped over both arms, hair already braided and eyes too bright for the hour.
“You are going to cry all morning,” Aingeal said.
“I am not.”
“You are already doing it.”
Étaín blinked furiously. “The room is smoky.”
“The hearth is not lit.”
“A mysterious smoke, then.”
Aingeal laughed. The sound surprised her still, sometimes. Its ease. Its return.
Étaín’s face softened so suddenly that Aingeal had to look away.
The gown was blue wool softened with silk. Simple in its cut and all the lovelier for it. The sleeves ran close to the wrist and opened gently over the hands. Pale gold embroidery wound along the cuffs and hem in small leaves rather than courtly flourishes.
Étaín helped her dress, and when she laced it, her fingers were steady until the final tie. Then they trembled.
Aingeal covered her hand. “I am not leaving you.”
“I know.” Étaín’s voice wavered. “But you are going somewhere I cannot walk ahead and test the stones first.”
Aingeal turned and drew her close.
For a moment, they held each other as they had in grief. This time the embrace did not need to keep either of them from breaking.
“Do you regret it?” Étaín asked quietly.
Aingeal looked toward the small polished mirror propped near the shutter. For one heartbeat, she saw the younger woman she had once been: the girl who feared marriage because it meant surrender, the girl who thought being chosen might heal something old and wounded inside her.
Then that image faded.
What the mirror held now was not innocence restored, but a woman who had been deceived and broken open and had still found the courage to choose. A woman who knew exactly whom she was walking toward. “No,” Aingeal said confidently. “I do not regret him.”
Étaín nodded, and this time she did not pretend the tears were smoke.
The hall had been transformed.
Winter greenery had been woven along the beams and around the great doors. Ivy. Rosemary. Holly. Laurel from the southern side of the grounds, where frost bit less sharply. Candles burned in long lines against the walls and across the dais, their light turning the stone gold. Fresh herbs had been scattered with the rushes so that the whole floor gave back a clean scent underfoot. The great hearth blazed.
The banners overhead were not arranged as they had once been intended to be. No rival southern crest hung beside hers now.
