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“I bought that whistle for two copper pennies,” Sheona murmured, her eyes drifting toward the green courtyard below. “He blew it in me ear three times before we reached the shepherd’s pen. I thought me eardrums would shatter.”

Mairi snorted, pinning the end of the braid tight. “Well, he’s snorin’ like a forge bellows in his bed now. But ye… ye look like ye slept three hours at best, me Lady.”

Sheona’s hands tightened over the woolen cloth in her lap. The memory of the bonfire—the heat of Brodie’s heavy cloak draped over her shoulders, the weight of his broad hand brushing the tear from her cheek—flashed so sharply behind her eyes that she could almost feel the rough calluses of his thumb against her skin.

“I slept well enough,” Sheona said quickly, standing up before the older woman could inspect her face too closely. She pulled a dark woolen shawl over her shoulders, smoothing down her green bodice. “Come. An elder was muttering yesterday about the salt pork turnin’ sour in the east vaults. I want to inspect the stores meself before Cook starts throwin’ good meat into the slurry.”

Mairi shook her head, though a small smile touched her weathered lips. “Always lookin’ for work to fill yer hands.”

They left the warmth of the upper solar, their leather soles clicking rhythmically against the spiral stone steps of the tower. The keep was already awake and breathing around them. A young page boy scuttled past carrying a heavy armful of dry pine kindling, his nose smudged with soot, bowing his head in a hurry as Sheona stepped aside to give him room.

Down in the lower corridors, the cool draft blowing from the courtyard carried the sounds of daily castle life—an iron pot clanging in the kitchens, guards calling out words along the upper battlements, and the distant, steady thud of an axe chopping firewood.

They stepped into the pantry vaults, where the air grew cool and thick with the scent of dried rosemary, coarse salt, and damp stone.

Old Jamie, the storekeeper, was crouched over a low wooden crate, counting winter turnips with a stub of charcoal and a piece of scrap parchment.

“Good mornin’, Jamie,” Sheona said, stepping around a stack of woven grain sacks.

The old man flinched, turning around and quickly tucking his parchment under his leather belt. “Ah! Lady Sheona. I… I was just tallyin’ the winter roots.”

“Murdo mentioned the east vault,” she replied, walking past him toward the tall wooden barrels near the back alcove. “He claims the salt pork is spoilin’.”

Jamie followed two steps behind, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “The Elder sees ghosts in every shadow, me Lady. The salt is holdin’. See here?”

Sheona stopped beside the nearest barrel, resting her palm against the rough oak staves. The wood was cool, damp with brine. She reached out, lifting the heavy wooden lid. The thick layer of white sea salt inside was dry and clean, encrusting the pink cuts of meat buried deep within the barrel.

She dipped her fingers into the brine, bringing it to her nose, then testing a single grain against her tongue. It was sharp and clean, without the sour stench of decay.

“The salt is fine,” Sheona stated, wiping her fingers on a clean linen cloth Mairi handed to her. “Murdo likely smelled the old fish barrels left by the drainage trough last week.”

“Aye!” Jamie beamed, visibly relieved. “That’s what I told him! But he doesnae listen to an old storekeeper.”

“Well, he will listen to me, I hope,” she said quietly. “Move the dried beans away from the floor drain, though. The autumn rains will seep under the stone door before November, and we cannae afford to lose the pulse crops to rot.”

“At once, me Lady. Right away.”

Leaving Jamie to his barrels, Sheona and Mairi stepped back out into the main stone passage, turning toward the kitchen larders. The heat hit them first—a thick, buttery wave of warmth pouring out from the massive open hearths where two huge iron cauldrons hung bubbling over the flames.

Cook stood at the long wooden prep table, her sleeves rolled past her fleshy elbows, aggressively kneading a massive mound of dough.

“Mairi’s mother tried to tell me her oatcakes took first place yesterday,” Cook barked without looking up from her flour-dusted board as they entered. “Lopsided, burnt, the lot of ‘em! I heard ye gave her a prize nod, Lady Sheona!”

“She tried her best, Cook,” Sheona laughed softly, leaning against the edge of the table and picking up a dried apple slice from a wooden bowl. “The crust was a bit dark, but the honey inside saved it.”

“Bah! Honey hides a poor oven!” Cook grunted, though her stern mouth twitched with hidden pride as she slapped the dough flat. “Next year I’ll enter me own sweet loaves. See how the village likes proper bakin’.”

“If ye enter, nobody else will bother turning up,” Mairi chimed in from the doorway, earning a loud, satisfied laugh from the old cook.

Sheona wandered toward the wide kitchen window that looked out over the inner courtyard. Outside, two guards were sharpening broadswords against a grinding stone, the rhythmic whir-click echoing off the high stone walls. A flock of pigeons scattered as Angus, newly awake and still messy-haired, dashed across the cobbles with his wooden sword raised, chasing a stray hound toward the stables.

Standing there among the smell of rising bread, the quiet chatter of the servants, and the steady rhythm of the morning work, a strange, quiet calm settled over Sheona’s chest.

Sheona took a breath of the warm, yeasty air, turning back to Cook with a small, quiet smile. “Show me how ye set the yeast for the sweet bread, Cook. If I am to judge next year’s fair, I ought to ken every secret ye have.”

As the old woman began measuring the flour with practiced, flour-dusted hands, Sheona stepped closer, watching the process. Yet as her fingers dusted over the coarse wooden table, her mind slipped back to the bonfire — to the moment Brodie had pulled his heavy cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her without a word, his hands settling it into place at her collarbone as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. The weight of the wool still carried his warmth.

She caught herself staring absently into the bowl of frothing yeast, her thumb pressed against her own cheekbone where his had been.