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Camden’s composure faltered. He dragged a hand through his hair, voice cracking with raw urgency.

“I have searched for her. She is hurt because of me. I should have protected her from this… from Moyra… from all of it. For too long I have allowed Moyra to remain close because I didnae wish to hurt her feelings. It was my mistake.”

He swallowed hard, eyes burning. “If ye believe me guilty, say so. Strike me if it eases ye. But I beg ye help me find Anne. Let me set things straight before she closes her heart to me forever.”

The forge crackled behind them.

Gowan studied him long and hard. Slowly, some of the hardness left his eyes. “I have known ye many years, Camden,” he said at last. “And I have never seen ye look so undone.”

Camden exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders.

“I cannae say I like the sound of any of this. But neither do I think ye a man who would toy with my sister’s heart.”

Relief flickered, fragile and brief.

Gowan continued, firm again but not hostile. “Anne will listen to me where she might not listen to ye just now.”

He reached for his coat. “I believe to ken where she would go at a time like this. I will speak with her.”

Camden nodded, gratitude and fear warring in his chest. “Thank ye.”

Gowan paused before leaving, fixing him with a steady look. “If ye speak true, and I believe ye do, then we will see this set right. I cannae say if my sister will be willing to believe ye. That will be up to her.”

Then he stepped past Camden into the fading daylight, heading toward the mill.

Camden remained behind for a moment, shoulders sagging. His hope was thin, but alive, and he clung to it with everything he had left.

Camden left Gowan’s shop with a heaviness in his chest that no words of reason could lighten.

The conversation had been civil enough, Gowan had agreed to speak with Anne, yet hope felt fragile, thin as frost on morning grass. Camden knew too well how deeply trust could be wounded. Once broken, it rarely returned whole.

And if Anne believed what she had seen. He drew a slow breath that did nothing to steady him. He could not go back to the apothecary. The walls would press too close. Brae’s questions would weigh too much. He needed space, distance from watchful eyes and sympathetic glances.

Without truly deciding, his steps carried him toward the forest.

The village sounds faded behind him: hammering metal, laughter, livestock calls. Soon there was only the hush of wind moving through leaves and the soft give of earth beneath his boots. The familiar scent of pine and damp soil filled his lungs, grounding yet hollow all at once.

This path again.

He let out a humorless breath. “A fine place for foolish men,” he muttered. The deeper he walked, the dimmer the light grew, filtered through tangled branches overhead. Moss brushed his fingertips when he passed too near tree trunks, cool and damp against his skin. Somewhere distant, a crow called, harsh and lonely.

At last Camden stopped in a small clearing, exhaustion overtaking purpose. He dragged a hand over his face and sank onto a fallen log. The wood felt rough beneath his palms, grounding him in the present when his thoughts threatened to drift.

Anne’s smile. Her laughter. The quiet trust in her eyes when he spoke of love.

He swallowed hard. “I have ruined it,” he murmured to the empty air.

He had been given a chance, rare and precious, and through no intention of his own, it had slipped beyond reach. The ache of it settled deep in his bones.

For a long while he simply sat, listening to the forest breathe.

Then something shifted.

At first he thought it a trick of his tired eyes, a faint glow threading between the trees. Soft. Pale. Unnatural.

Again. The glow.

Camden frowned and straightened, pulse stirring.