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Chapter Text

3 January 1770

Cìosamul Castle, Isle of Barra, Scotland

CAILEAN POV

It was a cold, icy January day, but the fires inside Cìosamul Castle were burning and crackling. The stone walls of the castle kept the heat inside, but the people from Eriskay weren’t as lucky. They were always on Cailean’s mind. Some had opted to go to the Colonies, but Cailean couldn’t allow them to potentially risk coming across vile winter storms and only agreed to send them on their way in the spring. Ships still came and went, though, despite the warnings of an icy winter ahead of them - one of the coldest in the last century - and on one ship was a letter from his beloved daughter, Caoimhe. Cailean was seated at his desk with his glasses resting comfortably on his nose so that he could read the letter he had received from his daughter:

17 October, 1769

Daddy,

I do miss you terribly, although I must say that I am happy here. Auntie Cat has taught me so much and we now have so many tenants that there’s always healing to be done. And Cousin Elton is quite clumsy, so he’s always in need of healing as well. Though he might be clumsy, he is quite a genius! Just last month or so, he created a device that works just like a sawmill, and it doesn’t require water or a water wheel! Instead, it works off of steam - quite ingenious, I must say!

I do have grim news to share as well. It seems that both Cousin Brèagha and Cousin Maevis find themselves with child. Brèagha claims to be married to a man called Rory Mackenzie, although I have never met him. Both Elton and Maevis speak highly of him, though. Maevis, however, was violated in Wilmington and does not know the father of her child. Unfortunately, Uncle Jamie mistook Rory for Maevis’s attacker, beat him senseless and sent him away, so now, he, Elton, Auntie and Cousin Ian are going north to look for him while the rest of us go to River Run. I do not know when they will return, or even if, but until they do, well… I wish I could see into the future. I just hope, for Bree’s sake, that this Rory is well.

I hope you are doing well, and I do hope Barra is doing well as well. I miss the celebrations at Barra for every harvest and midsummer, but we have our own wee celebrations here, as well. I miss you, Daddy, and I hope that we will see each other again someday soon.

Your loving daughter,

Caoimhe

Christ… Brèagha and Maevis were both pregnant? And it was Maidie’s son who impregnated Brèagha? Cailean should have known he was trouble… Why didn’t Elton protect his sister? Granted, the lad was a wee bit strange…

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and startled him a little, and he sighed, folding up Caoimhe’s letter and setting it aside again. He would have to address it, and the other letters sent with it, later. “Come in,” he called to whoever was knocking, and the door opened to reveal Calum. “Calum! Come in! What can I do fer ye, lad?”

“Just directin’ a visitor, Da,” said Calum, stepping aside to allow the red-coated man standing behind him to enter. Ah, shit. What was a redcoat doing here? The redcoat bowed politely to him as Calum left the study, closing the door behind him.

“Good day te ye, sir,” said Cailean, standing up and motioning for the redcoat to sit. “What do I call ye?”

“Major Alexander Campbell, sir,” said the man in a thick Scottish accent, although it sounded like it came out of the isles. He was easily close to Cailean’s age, if not a little older, and Cailean raised a brow curiously at his Scottish accent. A Scottish redcoat?

“Have a seat, Major Campbell,” said Cailean, motioning for him to sit down again, and Major Campbell nodded before sitting down across from Cailean, who also sat back down. “Can I offer ye tea?”

“No, I thank ye,” said Major Campbell as politely as he could muster, but it seemed the man already had a bee in his bonnet about something.

“So… What can I do fer ye, Major?” Cailean asked, wanting to get down to business and not dillydally any further.

“‘Tis best if I simply give ye this letter from my commander,” said the Major, producing a letter, which he then gave to Cailean.

“A letter, aye?” asked Cailean, accepting the letter, and then he broke the wax seal and opened it:

To Mr. Cailean Fowlis, Lord of Kisimul:

It may interest you to know that the British government is interested in plots of your land to farm sheep, specifically an English landowner by the name of Lord Henry Pelham-Clinton, 2nd Duke of Newcastle-under-Lyne. He has already paid a great sum and your tenants living on the land will be compensated.

Yours,

Commander William Anderson of the 4th King’s Own Regiment of Foot

“My tenants livin’ on the land will be compensated?” Cailean asked, looking up at Major Campbell, and he chuckled awkwardly. “Why… This sounds as if the purchase has already been made.”

“It’ll please ye te ken that it has,” said Major Campbell, and Cailean scoffed.

“It’ll please me? I’ve no’ sold ye any land,” Cailean told him, setting down the letter. “And I’m no’ plannin’ on sellin’ any land. Ye can pish off if ye think I will.”

“Ah, Colonel Reynolds said ye might give me a wee bit of trouble,” said Major Campbell.

“Colonel Reynolds?” Cailean asked him sharply. “He’s a colonel now? Tha’ bastard can come and speak te me in person and no’ send a… Scot in a red coat.”

“Colonel Reynolds deemed me perfectly capable, sir - and I did ask te come,” Major Campbell told him a bit sharply.

“Aye, did ye? Ye wanted te come and betray yer own kind, aye?” Cailean asked him, and Major Campbell slammed a hand down on the desk and stood up.

“My ane kind were slaughtered in the days followin’ Culloden whilst I was away at sea!” Major Campbell shouted at him. “Were it no’ fer those like you, my wife and my bairns would still be alive today!”

“I… I am sorry fer tha’, Major… I’ve lost a wife myself, I ken the pain, but… tha’ was over twenty years ago. Many of the people ye are castin’ out of their homes werenae but bairns when Culloden happened, if they were even alive,” Cailean said to him firmly.

“Aye? The fact tha’ my children were only bairns didnae stop their murder, did it?” Major Campbell asked him harshly.

“So tha’s what this is. Revenge te feed a twenty-year-auld grudge against yer own damn people,” Cailean said harshly. “I watched people I loved die, too. I kent tha’ any man I killed had a family tha’ would miss him, but if I didnae kill them, then surely, they’d have killed me. I cannae speak fer the actions of others… but what I can say is the murder of yer wife and children was on the order of Billy the Butcher - Auld Geordie’s son, ye ken. The same government yer servin’ now. Do ye think they care aboot ye? They think us Scots are nae better than dogs. Why do ye think we rebelled in the first place?”

“‘Twas no’ yer decision. There will ne’er be a Papist on the throne again,” growled Major Campbell.

“Campbell, ye said yer name was?” Cailean asked him calmly. “Any relation te the murderous Campbells who committed the atrocities at Glencoe?” Major Campbell narrowed his eyes at Cailean before standing up straight.

“Ye’ve a week te tell yer tenants te leave,” Major Campbell said sharply, and then he turned to leave.

“Dinnae do this, man. Yer fightin’ fer the wrong side. The English dinnae give two shits aboot ye, only tha’ ye serve them blind!” Cailean shouted after him, and he stopped in the doorway.

“The English may hae committed the murders… but ‘twas the Scottish who signed their death warrants,” said Major Campbell coldly. “Scots like ye… Black Fowlis.” With that said, he left the study, and Cailean let out a heavy huff, sitting back down and looking at the letter again. Who the hell was this Duke of Newcastle anyway, and who the hell did he think he was? How could he legally have bought the land without having been sold it, anyway?

The Highland Clearances… In school, the Clearances were frequently mentioned and were a sore spot for the Scottish people. Innocent homeowners, crofters, farmers, people simply trying to live on land that their families had owned or rented for centuries were forcibly removed from their homes and told to try their luck elsewhere. There was nowhere for those people to go. The cities were already bursting at the seams and the Colonies were an impossible dream with so little coin to their name. Their best bet was to sell themselves into indentured servitude and serve someone who could pay for their passage for years, sometimes ten or more. Their homes were destroyed and so were their livelihoods. The Clearances occurred from a little after Culloden for as long as a century afterwards, well into the nineteenth century, and it wasn’t just the Highlands that were affected, it was the isles, too, probably more so than the Highlands.

Cailean glanced up at the portrait of his grandsire, then let out a small sigh. “What am I te do, Grandsire? We tried so hard, but… I suppose we’ve just delayed it. The Clearances are here on Barra now… and somehow, I think it’s my fault.”

5 January, 1770

Castlebay, Isle of Barra, Scotland

CILLIAN POV

There was shouting and wailing in the streets, and Cillian ran down the road to join the crowd protesting the burning of cottages to clear land for sheep. “Ye cannae do this!” Cillian shouted fiercely above the other shouts around him. “This is illegal!”

“‘Tis perfectly legal, boy, now go back te yer mother’s breest,” snapped the Major, shoving Cillian back into the crowd, but Cillian threw the Major’s arm off of him.

“No it isnae. Ye’ve just taken land, land tha’ doesnae belong te ye!” Cillian snapped back at him.

“‘Tis the land of the Crown, isnae it?” asked the Major, and Cillian spit in his face.

“Damned traitor!” he snapped, and the Major fiercely grabbed Cillian and threw him to the ground, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

“Ye willnae disrespect the King’s Guards, ye wee brat!” spat the Major furiously.

“How do ye not see this is a crime against humanity?” Cillian growled with strain. “‘Tis an atrocity! And yer committin’ it against yer own kind!”

“Culloden was an atrocity - ye can ask yer father all aboot tha’, safely away in yer castle,” snapped the Major, using the butt of his gun to hit Cillian in the face. For a second, it blinded him in that eye, but he slowly sat back up, watching the Major’s back retreat through a swollen eye.

“Have we no’ paid the price fer Culloden ten times over?” Cillian shouted after him. “When will we stop payin’ fer Culloden?”

“Perhaps ye never will,” snapped the Major, and with his gun, he started pushing people back. “Away wi’ ye! Go te yer homes!”

“How long will we be keepin’ our homes, aye? What’s yer father te do aboot it, lad?” shouted someone in the crowd at Cillian. Ignoring that remark, he stood back up and brushed off his coat, spotting a little bit of blood on his vest. He sighed; Madge was not going to be happy about this.

“Fer Bride’s sake, Cillian. Think before ye bloody act!” snapped Madge when Cillian returned home. She had sat him down and cleaned his wound, finishing up the stitches to close it up. “Yer damn lucky they didnae throw ye into a burnin’ cottage.”

“They shouldnae be burnin’ cottages,” said Cillian irritably. “Where do they expect all these people te go? They’ve barely been given any coin fer their homes! And we’ve scarcely got room for the people from Eriskay, let alone our own folk.”

“Some people in the town have opened their homes te them, and yer father’s set aside space in the castle fer the larger families,” Madge told him.

“They should be in their own homes… Homes tha’ shouldnae be burnt te the ground,” Cillian growled. “How can the English continue te punish us so? Do they hate us?”

“Have ye ever kent the English te love the Scots?” Madge asked him, and he huffed.

“Other places have been Lords sellin’ the land… I ken well my father didnae sell any of his land. This is discrimination, it is. Ye ken he fought at Culloden, aye?” Cillian asked his wife, and Madge sighed.

“I’ve heard ye tell me the story only a thousand times,” she replied. “Surely, this cannae be retaliation fer tha’?”

“How cannae it be? My father all but got away wi’ rebellin’ against the Crown. I mean… we all thought he got off easy. I suppose we… ow… should hae seen this comin’,” Cillian said, grimacing as she made another stitch. “Sometimes, I wish Culloden never happened. It was doomed te fail from the start.”

“I know, m’eudail… If it werenae fer Culloden, my parents would still be alive,” Madge told him. “Or at least, my father… Yer auntie said my mother died in childbirth.”

“Ye also might no’ be here,” Cillian told her, looking up at her, and he sighed. “Through all the horror’s stemmin’ from Culloden… kennin’ yer alive because of it makes me hate it just a wee bit less.”

“Only a wee bit?” Madge teased him, and he chuckled softly.

“Still… Culloden isnae done killin’ people yet, is it?” Cillian asked her softly.

“It wasnae the moor’s fault,” Madge told him as she applied a bit of alcohol to Cillian’s wound, and he hissed softly. “‘Twas ‘Bonnie’ Prince Charlie doin’ the murderin’. No’ so ‘bonny’ now, is he? Wonder what he’s been up te?”

“My cousin said he came across the bastard in Paris a few years ago,” Cillian answered her. “Said he wasnae lookin’ too well. He’s probably drownin’ himself in drink, but I ken it isnae sorrow at all the destruction he’s caused. ‘Tis only loser’s guilt.”

“Aye, he certainly left Scotland in quite a mess, didnae he?” Madge asked him, finishing up, and then she sat down beside him and took his hand. “My love, I beg ye no’ te pish off the English any more than ye already have. ‘Tis bad enough they dinnae like yer father. Yer set te inherit his title on his death. Dinnae make them try and prevent tha’ like they did him.” Cillian scoffed lightly.

“Some arenae even English,” he said. “The bastard who did this te me was a Scot.”

“I’m no’ surprised,” Madge told him. “There’s many Scots wearin’ red coats now. Scotland’s been left in such poverty since the uprisin’ tha’ they’ve been given no choice.”

“My father says they ought te suffer out of spite fer the English,” Cillian said with a heavy sigh, glancing at the room that the children were napping in. Cillian and Magde had two young children who relied on them for everything - food, clothing, shelter, warmth… Everything to survive. He tried to imagine what would happen to them if he was in a poor financial situation. Poor wee Gilda would certainly not have her sweet pretty dresses or her favourite poppet, and Patrick, who was born frail, likely wouldn’t have even survived. “Personally, I dinnae blame them. I just wish circumstances were better.”

“Dinnae we all?” Magda asked him. “Do ye think there’ll ever be peace between the English and the Scots?”

“So long as Scotland remains under England’s thumb?” Cillian asked her, and then he sighed heavily. “No… I dinnae think so.”

10 January, 1770

CAILEAN POV

The door opened to Cailean’s study and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a red coat, then sighed heavily. “Ye cannae just barge into my home, Major. Ye dinnae occupy the castle,” Cailean said to him irritably.

“Accordin’ te the law and yer oath te the King, ye’ve given up that right,” Major Campbell said to him bitterly.

“Aye. So that oath makes me the King’s bitch, doesnae it?” Cailean asked him, looking up at him from his desk. “What brings ye here, Major? Come te demand more land, burn more homes? Beat my son again?”

“Yer son has quite a mouth on him. One that I assume he inherited from ye,” said Major Campbell sharply. “As a matter of fact, I have come te inform ye that I have been summoned te the Colonies regardin’ a traitorous group.”

“Traitors turn ye on, dinnae they?” Cailean asked him sarcastically, and Major Campbell narrowed his eyes at him.

“Colonel Reynolds will be in contact wi’ ye,” Major Campbell told him. “I am told that the Duke of Newcastle will desire te make a second purchase of land in the near future.” Cailean let out a frustrated huff and stood up.

“Punish me, then. Take my land, my home, my title, I dinnae care,” Cailean said to him. “Ye cannae punish the people, who have lived on these lands fer centuries, fer somethin’ that I did twenty-five years ago that has nothin’ te do wi’ the Isle of Barra.”

“I firmly believe ye are bein’ punished,” Campbell told him rather vilely. “What punishment can be worse than yer tenants endurin’ Hell fer what ye’ve done?”

“Ye truly are a cruel man, arenae ye?” Cailean asked him with narrowed eyes.

“Whatever it takes te make yer people hate ye as I do,” Campbell told him harshly. “Although, it isnae up te me. All I’ve done was remind the Duke of Newcastle that ye are a damned filthy Jacobite.”

“Reformed Jacobite,” Cailean spat back at him. “I did my time, I’ve paid my dues te the Crown and yet, I am still treated as a second-class citizen.”

“Ye are scarcely third-class,” Campbell spat at him bitterly, and Cailean scoffed.

“A bitter man wi’ a vendetta fer a man who once tried te save Scotland… What would yer wife think if she saw ye today? Yer bairns? Would they be afraid of ye?” Cailean asked him.

“Do not dare assume what my family would have thought of me!” Campbell growled at him sharply. “Ye didnae ken them!”

“And ye dinnae ken the people who’s homes yer stealin’ and burnin’ down!” Cailean shouted back at him. “I intend te fight this wi’ everra right that I have. Whatever it takes, I will see ye sent away as far from civilisation as I can.”

“As yer sister and good-brother tried te do te Captain Randall?” asked Campbell, and he chuckled maliciously at the look on Cailean’s face. How did this bastard know about Randall? “Colonel Reynolds apprised me of yer quarrel wi’ the late Captain Randall. Circumstances are different. The man was cruel te a land and people that had yet te bite the hand of the Crown. But Captain Randall is dead, and so soon will be Scotland.” With that said, he turned and left the study.

“Bloody coward! Yer a traitor te yer own people, yer own land!” Cailean shouted after him, but Campbell didn’t respond. Furious, Cailean kicked the leg of a chair, sending it sailing across the room, and then he let out a fierce growl and a huff. He would get that son of a bitch hanging from the end of a rope if he could. He would make damn sure of it. But Campbell was leaving Scotland, and therefore would no longer be Scotland’s problem - he would be America’s. Jamie was in America. Cailean needed to write to Jamie and warn him of that horrid bastard. But he must choose his words carefully. He couldn’t encourage Jamie to kill one of the Crown’s soldiers, especially not a Major. If he did, or if there was a chance he could be accused of such a thing, then there would be no limit to what the Crown could do to his land or his people.

Chapter Text

18 April, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

I put the last of my herb jars up on the shelf and stepped back to admire it. I had worked hard to alphabetise my collection and expand into all of the new space, and even had space for more herbs, as well, like ginkgo leaf and that cramp bark Caoimhe had told me about years ago. Everything had its place in my new Surgery, and now, I could open up for business. I glanced over at Caoimhe, who was checking off things on a list as she looked at other items in the Surgery, and she glanced up at me when she felt me looking at her. “Everrathin’ there?” I asked her.

“Looks te be,” she said, looking over the list one last time. “I cannae believe ye have yer own Surgery now, wi’ a bed and everrathin’.”

“We have our own Surgery,” I corrected her. “I’d say yer beyond just an apprentice now.” She smiled slightly.

“Really? Ye’ll trust me te do things on my own now?” Caoimhe asked her.

“What do ye mean I will? Havenae I already?” I asked her playfully. “Ye safely delivered my grandchildren, even handled a potentially dangerous situation on yer own… I’d be wrong te not allow ye te tend te patients on yer own.”

“I still dinnae have the knowledge ye do, Auntie, so I will likely be askin’ ye fer help still,” Caoimhe told me.

“I wouldnae expect a twenty-two-year-auld te have the knowledge of a forty-nine-year-auld,” I told her. “But dinnae fash, I’ll do what I can te teach ye everrathin’. There’s still trepanation te teach ye, after all.” At this, she raised a brow.

“Trepanation? But all the books describe that as ancient and barbaric,” Caoimhe said to me, and I scoffed lightly.

“Everrathin’ I do now is considered ‘ancient’ and ‘barbaric’ in my time,” I told her. “Aye, trepanation itself wi’ the wee tool might seem barbaric, but it has merit when needed. When ye have encephalitis or a possible brain bleed, it’s useful in reducin’ the pressure around the brain and can truly save a life. But ye do have te be careful, else ye might damage the soft tissue under the skull.”

“Have ye ever done trepanation before?” Caoimhe asked me. My face fell a little as I recalled some of the last times I had done it. The Battle of Edinburgh came to mind, when the city was being destroyed and people were being brought to me in the hospital. When Glasgow was bombed, and the residual radiation was causing swelling everywhere, including the brain. We had to wear lead aprons and could not have an inch of exposed skin, lest we be affected by the radiation coming off of the patients. And then Bloody Bush came to mind… A form of trepanation was the last thing I was doing before the hospital was bombed.

“A few times,” I told her softly. “Quite more than a few, actually. Only we didnae do it manually. We had electric drills.”

“Ah. I wouldnae ken that, then,” said Caoimhe, looking back down at the metal table. “Why isnae this in wood?”

“Because metal is easier te sterilise,” I told her. Mr. Carlyon had been kind enough to build it in his forge, but I supposed that he learned to stop questioning things from us after Elton kept going to him for parts for his steam-powered sawmill. Elton had a special relationship with the Carlyons, mostly as an inventor and a builder. In fact, Mr. Carlyon had recently been giving Elton his own two cents about improvements to the device, which Elton took into consideration when building his second one. “Yer mother’s surgery was on a metal table.”

“Ye mean the one where ye fixed her?” Caoimhe asked. “That… allowed Cillian and I te be born?” I nodded.

“Isnae as comfortable, but I cannae have a room made of metal, so a table will have te suffice,” I told her, looking around at the wooden room. There were two parts to this Surgery: an office space where I kept my books, and the main Surgery itself, where my herbs and tools were. In that part was also a small bed in the corner, where I could have post-op patients rest before sending them on their way. On the metal table were some of my old notebooks, some of which had been written years ago. I flipped one open and landed on a page where I had discussed possible ideas relating to an antibiotic known as penicillin:

Penicillin comes from either P. chrysogenum or P. rubens, both of which commonly grow as mould on food. It can be identified by its paintbrush-like appearance. It is the secretions of this organism that penicillin comes from. Discovered by a Scottish (!!) scientist in early twentieth century. Can I do this too?

Could I? I already had the knowledge of what penicillin was and where it came from. I knew relatively what it looked like, and even had a rough drawing of it in this notebook. I glanced at the date of this entry - 6 June, 1747 - so around the time I was working with ether. Perhaps my thought process was if I could develop ether, then I could develop penicillin. Hmm… I had the means and the time. All I needed were a few bell jars and perhaps I could grow the mould needed. The chest with all the surgical tools that Jamie gifted me a few years back - which once belonged to a Dr. Rawlins - had a microscope, so what was stopping me from doing so?

“Caoimhe,” I said after several moments. “Do ye happen te ken if my ether notebook is here?”

“Ether?” Caoimhe asked, pausing to thing. “No, I dinnae think I’ve ever seen it mentioned in these notebooks.”

“Hm,” I said. “I’ll have te write te yer father te see if Thora still has it, and if she does, if she could send me a copy of my notes.”

“But dinnae ye want the original?” Caoimhe asked me.

“If it’s helpin’ her, then she’ll need it, too. I’ve everrathin’ else, just not my notes on the ether. Wi’ that, we could do so much more te help the people of the Ridge. We could do surgeries and such,” I said to her, looking down again at the notebook in front of me. “But one step at a time. Fer now, why dinnae we work on another lifesavin’ method?”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Penicillin,” I told her. “It’s an antibiotic secreted by mould.”

“Mould?” she said, scrunching up her face in disgust.

“Aye, mould. Life-savin’ mould. Eventually, I’m goin’ te run out of the nanomed pods, but I cannae even use them on anyone outside of this family. If I had penicillin, though, I most certainly could use it on them,” I told her.

“How do we get it?”

“We have te grow mould, first,” I told her. “Mr. Carlyon’s eldest lad is good wi’ glass, isnae he? Perhaps he can make some bell jars fer me.”

“Young Ross? Aye, he’s verra good fer a lad so young,” Caoimhe told me, and I raised a brow.

“How auld is he?” I asked her.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Aye, tha’s right, all his children are on the younger side,” I said, thinking back to last summer when one of his elder daughters, a bonny young thing named Morwenna, died suddenly of a fever. She had only been twelve, and apparently was the third child that the Carlyons had lost, according to Merri Carlyon, who was the elder Ross Carlyon’s wife and mother of their children. She was much younger than me and was maybe now in her early thirties.

“Clesek is expressin’ interest, too, in glassworkin’, but he’s too young,” said Caoimhe. “He’s the younger son, though no’ the youngest. Tha’s Pascoe.”

“How ye manage te remember everraone’s names is remarkable,” I said to her.

“I only remember because they’re no’ Scottish names, they’re Cornish, and there’s no one on the Ridge wi’ names like them,” she told me. “Morwenna, Isolde, Clesek, Pascoe… Though the youngest one’s name I cannae recall. The one born the year they came.”

“Eleanor,” I told her. “The English form of yer grandmother’s name… My mother.”

“Oh, aye, tha’ was it,” she said. “The wee boys love Maevis. In fact, all of the children do. She attracts them te her like flies on honey.” I chuckled softly.

“I wish I could say somethin’ aboot that, but I only knew her when she was a child… I ken Ginnie adores her, though, and Elton. She likes te follow him around,” I said with a small chuckle. “Speakin’ of Maevis, where is she? I thought she wanted te start her trainin’ soon.”

MAEVIS POV

“In my mind, I’m going to Carolina…”

Her fingertips caught the soft tops of tall grass as she passed by, brushing them like soft paintbrushes do a canvas.

“Can’t you just see the sunshine?

Can’t you just feel the moonshine?

And it’s just like a friend of mine to hit me from behind…

Yes, I’m going to Carolina in my mind…”

She was alone, and she liked it that way. Ever since she had given birth to her two daughters, beautiful as they may be, a dark cloud seemed to follow her everywhere she went. But when she was alone, that dark cloud stayed behind, and the sun shone again. She missed the warmth of the sunlight… It was cold under that dark grey cloud.

“Maevis!” called her sister, followed by the sound of an infant crying. And there it was again; her unwanted companion. When a voice that didn’t belong to her sounded in her ears, the warmth of the sunshine that enveloped her let go, the frigid chill of the shadows of that great dark cloud pushing icy fingers down the back of her neck. When she wasn’t alone, she was cold and miserable. “Maevis!”

“I’ll be there in a minute!” Maevis called back. She hadn’t left her new room in the Big House much, so Mama insisted that she join Brèagha and Ginnie for a walk with the babies. Lizzie joined them, as did young Maggie Abernathy, who was Lizzie’s age and was serving the Fraser family for a job at the insistence of her father, and they were holding Wren and Lark, while Brèagha held Donnie. Maevis had slipped away for a moment to walk through the grass, only wanting even a moment of sunshine, but it seemed that she could not have even that. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, enjoying one last minute of the sun’s warm kiss before she turned and went back under the shadow of the dark cloud.

Lizzie was holding Wren, while Maggie was holding Lark. Compared to Lizzie’s dark hair, Maggie was fair-haired with a soft gingery hint of red reflecting in the sunlight. Maggie’s face was peppered with freckles, same as all the red-haired Fraser children. Ginnie, the only dark-haired of the Fraser children, was throwing breadcrumbs into the woods and watching the birds and the squirrels go after them. “Birdies!” she cried, pointing to them. She was holding onto Lizzie’s free hand.

“Aye, Miss Ginnie, ‘tis lots of birdies!” Lizzie exclaimed happily to the young child. Lizzie was good with children, and Ginnie absolutely adored her.

“Och, there ye are!” Brèagha said to her, beckoning Maggie to come forward with Lark. “Yer daughter is cryin’ fer ye.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” said Maevis, stepping back a little when Maggie approached her.

“I practically brought up my wee sister, Miss Fraser, and I can assure ye, yer bairn’s wantin’ fer her mother’s milk,” Maggie told her, trying again to give Maevis her child, but Maevis didn’t take her. Instead, she crossed her arms awkwardly across her abdomen.

“But I don’t have any milk,” she said. “I stopped producing weeks ago.”

“Ye dinnae have any milk?” Brèagha asked with surprise, and Maevis shrugged. “Does Mama ken that?”

“She’s the one who confirmed it,” Maevis told her neutrally.

“Ah,” said Brèagha, and then she let out a small huff and switched babies with Maggie. “I’m still producin’ milk, and a lot of it. I’ll feed her fer now.” She went to sit down on a log, putting Lark to her breast and allowing the crying infant to suckle. “He’d think Mama would have mentioned hirin’ a wet nurse… How’ve the lassies been feeding’?” Lark’s cries were reduced to a small cooing as the infant fed, and Maevis looked away, not wanting to see it.

“Are ye all right, Miss Fraser?” Maggie asked her, noticing the sour look on Maevis’s face.

“I’m fine,” Maevis said to her, looking up at Lizzie, who was trying to fix Ginnie’s dress with her one free hand. “Here, I’ll take Wren.”

“Och, thank ye, Mistress,” said Lizzie, handing Wren to Maevis. Wren was easier to look at than Lark was. Wren had Maevis’s red hair and facial features, as well as Mama’s grey Fowlis eyes. She didn’t resemble the horrible monster of a father that she had, but Lark… Lark was much harder to look at. She was fair-haired and had Stephen Bonnet’s snake-like green eyes. She had his nose and his facial shape, but Maevis’s eye and mouth shape. While Wren didn’t resemble much of her father at all, Lark was a harsh reminder that Stephen Bonnet had raped Maevis nearly a year ago. If she resembled only Bonnet, it would be different, but there were features that Maevis recognised in her own, a reminder that she was half of Maevis and half of Bonnet. She cradled Wren in her arms, who looked up at her with her little grey eyes, and Maevis found it in her to smile just a little.

“Hello, baby,” she said to her daughter, and little Wren cooed at her. Of course she loved both of her daughters, there was no question about it. However… she couldn’t deny that it was easier before she saw them - saw Lark. When they were inside of her, kicking her womb from the inside, pressing on her bladder and more, it was easier to forget that they were the children of a rapist. But now that they were here… “I… I think I’m a bit tired,” she told the girls and her sister, who looked up from feeding Lark. She was readjusting her shift, indicating that Lark had finished feeding.

“Already? We’ve only just gotten here,” said Brèagha.

“You have someone to take care of your one baby with,” Maevis told her a bit impatiently. “I have no one, and I have two. But you guys don’t have to come back with me.” She handed Wren somewhat abruptly back to Lizzie, who seemed confused by this action. “I’m going to go and lie down for a bit.”

“Aye, Mistress,” said Lizzie, and then Maevis left, wanting to get as far away from them as possible.

9 May, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

When a jar shattered suddenly behind me, I whipped around, narrowing my eyes at the little black menace standing on my shelf. “Ye wee little shite,” I snapped, grabbing Juniper, Maevis’s cat, from the shelf and taking him down. He mewed at me, and I huffed slightly and pet his little head. “Yer nothin’ but trouble, are ye? But yer so damn cute… I cannae be angry wi’ that wee face.” I looked down at the broken glass and the few bay leaves that were now scattered on the floor among the glass shards. “Right. Out ye get, go and find yer Mam, aye? I dinnae want yer wee paws te get cut. I’m a human doctor, not a veterinarian.” I put the little kitten outside of the Surgery while I collected a broom and a metal dustpan, sweeping up the glass. I heard the door open and the sound of boots walking in, then I stood up to see my husband standing across from me with a letter in hand. “Jamie,” I said with a smile, and then I took note of his face. “Everrathin’ all right?”

“Aye,” he said. “My aunt is gettin’ marrit.”

“Marrit?” I asked, turning around to dump the broken glass in the wooden rubbish bin I had requested. “Te who?”

“Te Duncan,” said Jamie, and I turned around with wide eyes and my brow raised.

“Innes?” I asked.

“Aye,” said Jamie, making a face indicating mild disapproval.

“Hmph,” I said. “No wonder we’ve seen so little of him as of late.”

“I agree,” he said in response. “She wishes te marry him at the Gatherin’ at Mount Helicon.”

“Ah, the Gatherin’… The one she’s been tryin’ te get us te go te since we arrived,” I said. She had first invited us in 1767, but I had just given birth to Ginnie and she ended up not going, either, insisting on staying behind to help care for me. In 1768, we were invited again, but declined because we were building a home for ourselves and our tenants, wanting them finished before winter. In 1769, we were again invited, however, we had wanted to remain home, as Maevis, Brèagha and Elton had only just arrived.

“Aye, and this time, she’s insistin’ that there’ll be a Catholic priest there,” he told me.

“A Catholic priest?” I asked, mildly alarmed. I couldn’t deny that this made me uneasy. Religious disagreements between Catholics and Protestants had, for the most part, toned down since the 1750s, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t still issues. Technically, practicing Catholicism was outlawed in England and the commonwealth until almost the end of the eighteenth century, and we weren’t quite there yet. Those who preached Catholicism were often jailed, and so were those found to be practising it.

“Aye, we can have the bairns baptised properly, and have Brèagha and Rory marrit properly,” Jamie said to me, and I let out a small huff.

“A Protestant service will be fine fer them,” I told him. “Jamie, ye ken exactly how dangerous it is te even be near a Catholic, let alone be one. If yer found out, we could lose the Ridge and everrathin’ else! Ye ken one of the stipulations fer gettin’ this land was that ye werenae Catholic!”

“Aye, and that was a lie, wasnae it?” Jamie asked me slyly. “One of yer wee white ones.”

“I’m bein’ serious, Jamie,” I told him firmly.

“Aye, and so am I,” he said back to me. “I’ll be discreet, I swear it.”

“Then I want nothin’ te do wi’ it,” I told him. “Leave Bree and Rory out of it, get the bairns baptised as ye please, but fer Bride’s sake, dinnae get caught. I’ve only just gotten settled, I’d hate te have te move my things again.” I referred to the fully stocked shelves of my Surgery - save for the jar that Juniper had knocked over.

“Aye, settled indeed,” he told me, admiring my work. He briefly glanced back down at the letters in his hands and I realised there was another one with different handwriting on it, and I raised a brow at him.

“Somethin’ else?” I asked him, and he sighed softly, sifting through the letters until he found another one.

“Jenny,” he said. “She’s writin’ te me aboot her family… Aboot wee Janet wantin’ te marry an English redcoat. She’s upset aboot it.”

“What does she have te say aboot Ian?” I asked him, and he made a face as if he’d had something sour.

“I… havenae told her yet,” he said.

“What?” I asked, my eyes wide. “Jamie!”

“How do I explain that I left her son wi’ the Mohawk?” he demanded from me.

“Ye didnae leave him, ye fool. He chose te go! Ye cannae just not tell her where her son is!” I said back to him. He huffed irritably and moved to sit down on the bed in the corner of the Surgery, holding the letter in his hand.

“I ken it’s wrong te say nothin’,” he said to me softly. “But what can she do aboot it? She will do nothin’ but worry herself sick aboot him. It will give her peace of mind te not ken he’s wi’ the Mohawk.”

“And how will ye explain the lack of letters from her son?” I asked him, leaning against the counter behind me and crossing my arms across my chest, and he sighed.

“I dinnae ken,” he said to me.

“It’s better te just tell her, Jamie,” I told him. “She may be angry wi’ ye, she might worry until her head explodes, but at least she’ll ken where her son is. That’ll give her peace of mind more than anythin’. As far as we ken… he’s safe. We ken where he is.”

“Aye, a slave fer the Mohawk,” Jamie said bitterly. “It should hae been me.”

“We dinnae ken that,” I said, and then I sighed softly. “If ye’d like, I can write and tell her. She hates me already, it’ll be no skin off my teeth if she hates me more.”

“No, it isnae yer duty,” Jamie said to me. “I am his foster, I must be the one te do it. I just dinnae ken how.”

“All ye can do it just say it,” I said, and then I sighed softly. “I hope he’s all right… He’s a different sort of man than Rory. He was sayin’ before we arrived tha’ the Mohawk sometimes will integrate outsiders into their tribe. Perhaps they did that wi’ him.”

“Hm,” said Jamie in response. “It still should have been me.”

“I think Ian needed it te be him,” I told him. “He was always so restless, in need of adventure. Sooner or later, I thought he might have gone off te join the natives anyway.” We were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door and we both looked up. I had to steel my face when I saw that it was Clara at the door, her small frame looking even smaller in the grand doorframe. She was a bonny lass, sure, but just knowing that she was married to my darling wee lamb… “Clara,” I said neutrally.

“Good day te ye, a nighean,” said Jamie, standing up and smiling at his daughter-in-law. He and Clara had a fair relationship, and Jamie was already treating her as if she were his own daughter. I, on the other hand, just found it difficult. This girl wasn’t my daughter, nor was she someone I ever thought would be. She was an upper class English girl raised in an upper class English life, the kind that would turn her nose up at the way of life of people like us. A couple of times, she had already done so, and whether she intended to or not, it bothered me that she could even think that way about the family she married into. If she didn’t want to get dirty, then she shouldn’t have married into a homesteading family.

“What brings ye here, Clara?” I asked her a bit shortly.

“Oh, I… haven’t been checked yet, except by Caoimhe,” Clara told me, touching her swelling belly.

“I’ll clear out, then,” said Jamie, standing up. He gave Clara a smile before he left the Surgery.

“Caoimhe can do a fine job,” I told her, turning around to readjust the jars to fill in the gap where one was missing, also searching for a spare empty one.

“She said you could do it better,” Clara told me a bit meekly, and I sighed quietly.

“I’ve taught her all I ken aboot it, but I suppose I’ve more experience,” I said, pulling out an empty jar and stuffing the homeless bay leaves into it. “Lie down on the bed, then.” I grabbed a jar of almond oil and brought it over to the bed, where she was laying down. “Spread yer legs, knees te the side, far apart as ye can get.” She obeyed me, and I then lathered my hand in almond oil. I checked her inside, and she seemed good, and then I cleaned my hand off and picked up the piece of muslin with marks in centimetres that I used to measure babies and pregnant bellies. I lifted her skirts to give me access to her belly and measured it, marking it with my thumb. “Looks like yer aboot… twenty-one weeks along, so five months.”

“Five months? Oh… That’s further along than Caoimhe said.”

“She’s still learnin’,” I told her. I happened to notice her hand resting on her belly, and on her ring finger was a ring that I was used to seeing on Caoimhe’s finger. I brushed it aside while I continued my exam. “Generally, the fundal height, which is the distance between the pubic bone and the height of the uterus, can tell ye how many weeks along ye are. Yers is twenty-one centimetres, so approximately twenty-one weeks.” I stood up to get my penaud, which was made of copper, and pressed it against her belly to listen for the heartbeat, which sounded stable. “Heartbeat sounds good. I’d put yer due date somewhere between the last week of September and the first week of October.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, adjusting her skirts and sitting up. “I’ve heard old wives’ tales about telling the sex…”

“There isnae a way te tell the sex of a bairn save fer when it’s born,” I told her, packing away my equipment. “Yer ankles look a wee bit swollen, so ye’ll need te rest more. I’m sure ye willnae have a problem wi’ that.”

“Oh, I would. I can’t help with the cooking if I must rest,” Clara told me, and I scoffed quietly.

“Ye dinnae need te do the cookin’,” I told her. “I handle it fine, along wi’ Lizzie.”

“I know, but I really do like being useful,” Clara told me.

“Listen, a uircean, ye were there when Maevis had her bairns. Swollen ankles can mean pre-eclampsia. Ye dinnae want te mess wi’ it, and I dinnae have the same means I did back on Barra when Caoimhe’s mother had it,” I told her.

“But Maevis was fine, wasn’t she?” Clara asked me.

“Maevis had late onset pre-eclampsia and was verra lucky that she was so close te her due date. At five months, it’s different,” I told her. “Yer bairn wouldnae survive if it was born now, so ye must rest and try te stave off the symptoms fer as long as ye can.”

“All right,” said Clara with a small sigh. “What was that word you said? Ooth…”

“Uircean,” I said, pronouncing it as ‘oyth-khen’. “It’s… another word fer ‘dear’.”

“Oh, I see,” said Clara softly. “All right, I suppose I shall go and rest.”

“There’s books now in the library te keep ye entertained, or we can fashion ye wi’ some yarn if ye want te knit,” I told her, putting my bag of midwifery equipment where it belonged. “I ken it’s May now, but winter sneaks up on us, we could always use more socks, gloves, sweaters, scarves…”

“Knit? I… don’t know how to knit,” said Clara meekly.

“Perhaps one of the girls can teach ye,” I told her. “When they’re no’ carin’ fer their own bairns.”

“That would be great,” she said to me. “Thank you, Mrs. Fraser.” I didn’t say anything, but I did listen for when her small footsteps disappeared out the door.

It was later in the day when I had company in my Surgery again, only this time, it was Archie. I had been reviewing my notes on mould and trying to recall how to properly isolate the penicillin when his heavy footsteps came into the room, and I glanced up at him and smiled, but his brow was scrunched up. “My wee lamb,” I said happily. “What brings ye here, Archie? Are ye hurt?”

“Why did ye call my wife ‘piglet’?” he demanded from me irritably, and I lost my smile.

“Is that what she told ye?” I asked him, scoffing a little.

“She said ye called her ‘a uircean’, which, ye and I both ken is the Gaelic word fer ‘piglet’,” he said to me firmly.

“Aye, what of it?” I asked him, thinking little of it.

“What of it? Mama, ye said it was another word fer ‘dear’!” he exclaimed.

“Ah, I see what is happenin’,” I said, sighing softly. “In my time, it can be a term of endearment.”

“Ye said it meant ‘dear’, not ‘a term fer endearment’,” Archie corrected me.

“Well, I meant it that way. It was what my grandsire called me when I was a wee lass,” I told him nonchalantly, and he scoffed.

“Grandsire never called ye that!” he shouted.

“I have more than one grandsire, Archie,” I replied. “In our time… there’s a… wee drawn character named Piglet and he’s this adorable wee thing. My grandsire called me that so I didnae see anythin’ wrong wi’ it.”

“I just find it strange that of all ‘terms of endearment’, ye chose the one that equates my wife te a wee pig,” said Archie, clearly annoyed with me. “Of all people, I thought ye would embrace Clara. I understand why ye might be upset fer a wee bit. We eloped wi’out sayin’ anythin’, but it’s been long enough, Mama, and ye still dinnae get along wi’ her!”

“What do ye want me te say, Archie?” I asked him, leaning against the counter.

“What I want is fer ye te see my wife as yer daughter, same as ye see Rory as yer son,” he told me firmly. “I dinnae understand this behaviour! It isnae what I would have expected from ye, Mama!” I sighed softly, closing my eyes for a moment before opening them again.

“I never got te raise any of my children,” I told him calmly. “Te me, ye were all wee children and then all of a sudden, yer… grown and… off startin’ families wi’ others. It’s hard fer me te accept, Archie.”

“It didnae seem so hard when ye accepted Rory,” he told me.

“It’s different wi’ ye,” I told him. “Ye were my first, born alongside yer verra sickly brother. And then I lost him, and… I dinnae ken, we just… bonded in a way that I never did wi’ yer sisters. It’s just… it’s so much harder fer me te see ye growin’ up and… leavin’ me.” It was true - seeing Archie grown and going off on his own, holding another woman close to his heart and soon, having his own child… I had tears in my eyes as I thought about cradling that small, tiny infant that Archie had once been on that cold December night in the middle of the woods. My firstborn… The first infant that was mine that I held, that made me fall in love with being a mother. And now, my darling wee boy was grown, and it happened so fast, I wasn’t prepared at all for it. It was shocking, for lack of a better word. And even when I returned after fifteen years, Archie and I were so close, it was easier. But now, that was changing, and frankly, I didn’t like it. It was then Archie’s turn to sigh, and he approached me and took me into his arms.

“Dinnae cry, Mama,” he said softly, losing all anger in his voice. “I suppose I can see how me gettin’ marrit might upset ye… I’ll always be yer wee lamb, Mama, but I’m not a lad anymore.”

“I ken that,” I said softly, pulling away and wiping my eyes. “Yer a man now… Ye dinnae need me anymore.”

“I’ll always need my mother, Mama,” Archie told me, smiling a little. His smile was unchanged from the time he first smiled at me when he was only a few weeks old. “I can understand why ye might… dislike Clara a wee bit… But I cannae have my mother and my wife at odds, Mama. Will ye promise me ye’ll get along better wi’ her?” I nodded subtly.

“Aye… I’ll try,” I said softly. “I’ll start wi’ this.” I reached into the pocket of my skirt, where I still kept the ring that Tom had given me when we were married. Somehow, it felt wrong to part with it. We never officially divorced, even though I no longer loved him and left him for another man - four hundred years in the future, no less. However, now felt like the right moment to do so. I placed the ring in Archie’s hand, and his eyes widened a little. “This ring… has caused a lot trouble. Take it te Mr. Carlyon, have it melted down into a ring Clara can be proud of. And give yer cousin back her mother’s.” Archie chuckled softly.

“She gave it te me willingly, but all right,” he said. “Thanks, Mama. I’ll do that as soon as I can.” He bent forward to kiss my forehead.

“I love ye, my wee lamb,” I told him. “I want ye te be happy, I do, just… be patient wi’ me.”

“I love ye, too, Mama,” he told me. He smiled at me again before he left the Surgery, and I let out a small huff. Getting along with my new daughter-in-law, who essentially stole my son away, was going to be difficult, but for Archie, I could at least try. The girl just… bothered me. Everything about her seemed to bother me. How Archie could fall in love with an English girl escaped me, after everything the English have put our family through… I know it wasn’t Clara’s fault directly, but every time I heard her English accent, I felt a small ounce of fear creep its way into my mind and my stomach, the same way it did whenever I heard any English accent. Not every Englishman had wronged me, but the worst things that have ever happened to me were because of the English, and I found it hard to trust any of them.

15 May, 1770

“Christ, Elton, what have ye done now?” I asked my younger son, who was brought to me by Young Ross Carlyon holding a dirty and bloody rag over his face.

“He fought a losing battle with his steam creation, Mrs. Fraser!” Young Ross said to me.

“I thought ye’d already worked out the kinks of it?” I asked my son.

“I tried te make another one out of glass, fer experimental purposes. The glass was too thin,” he said with a firm huff. “We’ll try a half inch, next time.”

“I’d rather there not be a next time wi’ glass, Elton,” I said, sitting him down and removing the rag. I grimaced at all the blood on his face and the little pieces of glass still stuck in his skin, and then I turned to Young Ross. “This’ll be a while. Why dinnae ye go home? Ye can come back and visit him tomorrow.”

“Aye, Mrs. Fraser. I’ll see yee tomorrow, Elton,” said Young Ross, leaving my surgery. I sighed when I looked back at Elton, then grabbed my tweezers and started picking pieces of glass out of his skin.

“Yer lucky ye didnae lose an eye, Elton,” I told him.

“I wasnae close enough fer that,” Elton replied.

“If ye were close enough te have wee pieces of glass embedded in yer forehead, then ye were close enough te lose an eye,” I said a bit firmly. “Luckily, I ken tha’ facial wounds bleed a lot, otherwise, I’d be afraid ye might have lost a lot of blood.”

“Even if I had, there isnae a way te get more, is there?” Elton asked me, and I sighed softly.

“Well… maybe, although it certainly wouldnae be as safe as it is in our time,” I replied. “I’m the universal donor - type O-negative. If need comes, I can always give blood without havin’ te worry aboot rejection.”

“I’m B-positive,” Elton replied. “I learned that after Glasgow.”

“Tha’s handy te ken. Maevis is B-positive, too, so yer father must be B-positive. That likely contributed te me feelin’ so rotten when I was pregnant wi’ ye both,” I told him. “If I cannae give enough blood, then it’s good te ken that he can. However, I dinnae ken Archie’s or Bree’s, Caoimhe’s, Ginnie’s, or anyone else’s, so only I can give te them.” Elton hissed softly when I dabbed at his bleeding forehead with alcohol, and suddenly, I really wished I had started my penicillin experiment. Honey did have some antibacterial properties, so once I cleaned his wounds with alcohol and then again with salt water, I rubbed honey salve over the wounds and bandaged his head with gauze. “I’ll change these again before ye go te bed, but fer Bride’s sake, Elton, dinnae play wi’ glass again.”

“Glass can be verra useful fer my pistons, though!” Elton tried arguing with me. “And it’s more readily available than aluminium.”

“Aye, but heat also makes glass expand, hence the explosion,” I told him. “Why dinnae ye try ceramics next time? It’s less volatile.”

“I suppose I can,” said Elton. “Mr. Carlyon was sayin’ he wants te build another forge, perhaps I can convince him te make a kiln instead.”

“Tomorrow. I want ye te rest,” I told him a bit firmly, and I bent forward to kiss his forehead. “Dinnae give me another wee heart attack like this again, please.” I was nearly startled by the sound of a squeal outside and my head shot up to look towards the window above the bed, and even Elton turned around to look.

“Who’s that?” he asked, and I looked out the window to see Brèagha embracing someone who had arrived in a wagon. I saw a dark-haired figure with a tricorn hat jump down from the wagon, and then Brèagha pulled away from the woman she was embracing, revealing her to be Marsali. I gasped softly.

“It’s Marsali and Fergus!” I said with a joyous laugh. I went out to greet them, and when I saw a small bundle in Marsali’s arms, I made a noise of surprise. “Marsali, Fergus! Och, is this the brand new addition?”

“Aye, wee Joan,” said Marsali with pride, showing me her bonny dark-haired daughter. “Joan Laoghaire Catrìona Fraser.” I smiled softly at the honour of this darling wee girl being named after me, then embraced my daughter-in-law happily.

“Ye didnae write te us,” I heard Jamie say to Fergus.

“Oui, we wanted it to be a surprise, Milord,” Fergus said to him in response.

“We wanted te come earlier, but I had te wait fer this weeun te be born,” said Marsali, referring to her daughter in her arms. “I understand there’s a few wee bairns aboot the hoose?”

“Aye, Wren, Lark and wee Donnie,” I told her. “Maevis had two daughters and Bree had a son.”

“And he’s the handsomest wee thing ye’ve ever seen,” said Brèagha proudly, holding Germain on her hip.

“This home is big, but we do not wish to impose,” Fergus chimed in.

“We’ve had a cabin built fer ye since we settled the Ridge,” Jamie told him happily. “I’ll show ye the way, if ye’d like.”

“Would ye like me te give Joan a wee check up?” I asked Marsali, who nodded.

“Aye, tha’ would be wonderful,” she told me. Wee Joan was the healthiest bairn I had ever seen. She had been born on the 15th of April, and Marsali and Fergus waited a good amount of time before leaving Wilmington for the Ridge. Now that they were here, our family was complete, and I no longer had to worry too much about any of my children, both adopted and blood. They were now all within my reach, no more than an hour’s walk or a twenty minute ride away. With our family complete, the Ridge officially felt like home, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt like it was going to be all right.

Chapter Text

8 February, 1770

Castlebay, Isle of Barra, Scotland

CILLIAN POV

It was cold, and there were so many people who still didn’t have a home. Cillian was doing his best, along with Cousin Archie and other women of Barra, to provide wool blankets, wood for fires and food to those who couldn’t find room indoors, but there was only so much that he could do. The fact that he couldn’t do more infuriated him, as this shouldn’t have happened in the first place. These people should not have been forcibly removed from their homes, of which they and their families had lived in for generations, but greed got the better of land owners. What infuriated Cillian even more was that his father couldn’t stop the English from stealing his land, as he could be arrested for going against his oath to the King. If only he hadn’t fought in that damn uprising…

“Thora says people are too cold, tha’ they’re losin’ fingers, toes and the like,” Cousin Archie told him, and Cillian let out a firm huff.

“Ask around, see if anyone has even an inch of extra room. We cannae allow these people te freeze te death,” Cillian told him, and Archie nodded before leaving Cillian’s side. The castle itself was full as well, and his father had given up every room he could to those in need, but there were still too many. New homes were not being built fast enough, and the weather had turned sour so often that construction had halted entirely.

“Cillian,” came Madge’s voice, and Cillian looked to his wife, who was wrapped in a warm wool arisaid. “Three more have died. Children.”

“Christ,” said Cillian softly. “I need te have a word wi’ my father. These people cannae live like this anymore. They cannae stay here, tha’ much is clear. We simply cannae help them.”

“Where will they go?” Madge asked him.

“The Colonies, I suppose. Where else can they go?” Cillian asked his wife.

“Passage is so expensive,” she said, and Cillian sighed.

“Aye, I ken. I’ll have a word wi’ my father, see what he thinks,” he told her. It was so cold that the bay was frozen. The ice was thick enough that he could walk right across the bay, which was the only option, considering a boat couldn’t pass through the ice. It was a twenty minute walk on the ice, and Cillian rubbed his gloved hands together for a bit of warmth. Once he got into the castle, he was a little warmer, but the stone walls didn’t insulate the corridors much. Straw had been strewn out about the floor and the windows had been covered with muslin, but it wasn’t enough to keep the cold out. He went into his father’s study, where Da had been sleeping along with Step-Mama. They had given up their bedchamber to a family of seven, so they moved into the smaller room and were sleeping on straw, essentially. Inside the room, Step-Mama was stoking the fire while Da was at his desk, his glasses balanced carefully on his nose. His salt and pepper hair seemed in a bit of disarray, and there was a bleak look in his eye when he looked up at Cillian.

“Dinnae say it. I can already see from yer face,” Da said to him. “How many this time?”

“Three,” Cillian told him. “All children.”

“Damn it,” said Da softly.

“These people cannae stay here, Da,” Cillian told him.

“Thank ye, Captain Obvious. I ken that,” said Da irritably. “I cannae afford te send them all te yer auntie in the Colonies, and what few I can afford te send willnae be enough.”

“Lord MacDonald didnae help much sendin’ the people from Lochmaddy in Uist, either,” said Cillian, and Da scoffed.

“The bastard sold those puir people out, sellin’ his land te the damn English,” he said bitterly.

“At least he sent them somewhere they could be cared for,” said Step-Mama.

“Can they? Be cared fer here?” Da asked her. “We can barely care fer our ane folk, let alone all of these refugees from other isles. No’ te mention, our reputation as Fowlises of Barra precedes us. They dinnae trust us.”

“Perhaps an arrangement can be made wi’ Lord MacDonald,” Cillian said to him.

“And ask him fer money te send his people te the Colonies? The bastard didnae even send his son te bring them here,” Da replied, and then he let out a heavy sigh. “The only option is indentured servitude.”

“No, Da, ye cannae do that!” Cillian exclaimed. “At least wait fer Calum te come back from Edinburgh. Maybe he was able te find someone who can fight fer us!” Two weeks ago, Calum had gone to Edinburgh in an effort to find a solution to this problem, but so far, all pleas for help had fallen on deaf ears.

“We dinnae have that kind of time, Cillian,” Da told him firmly. “People are dyin’ everra day. I’ll not hear of another child dyin’ from the cold wi’ an empty belly. They need a home, and if it means servin’ a family in the Colonies fer a few years…” Riona appeared in the doorframe, her red hair plaited in a single plait draped over her shoulder. “Not now, Riona.”

“But Daddy, there’s a man here te see ye,” she said to him, and Da sighed heavily.

“Tell him I dinnae have the room fer more,” Da told her, turning back to face his desk.

“I did, but he says he needs te speak wi’ ye, Daddy,” Riona told him, and Da sighed.

“Verra well,” he said.

“I’ll go and check on the people in the dining hall,” said Step-Mama, standing up. She nodded to the man that entered the study, ushering Riona out of the room. “Come, duckling. Why don’t you help me make some stew?”

“Okay,” said Riona, and the two ladies disappeared down the corridor. Da turned to face the man who had entered the study. He seemed a little older than Da, but was likely around the same age as him. Da raised an eyebrow when he saw this man, but Cillian didn’t recognise him.

“John MacLeod of Talisker,” he said with disappointment. “What the hell are ye doin’ here?”

“I hope ye’d be willin’ te put our past behind us, Lord Fowlis,” said John MacLeod of Talisker with some discomfort. “I come seekin’ peace wi’ ye.”

“It wasnae peace ye were after twenty-five years ago,” Da said to him. “I never understood how ye could side wi’ the Bonnie Prince, yet treat his people so cruelly.”

“I was a different man then,” said MacLeod. “Circumstances bring me here. I was sent by my half brother, who has heard word of ye takin’ in people in need.”

“Havenae ye see the village?” Da asked him. “I dinnae have an inch te spare fer another.”

“So I did see,” said MacLeod. “My brother wishes te provide assistance fer passage of his people te the Colonies, and te yers, as well.”

“MacDonald wants te help people?” Da asked him, raising a brow.

“We have many who have been uprooted as well,” MacLeod told him. “Please, if ye dinnae mind hearin’ me out.” Da eyed him suspiciously, then let out a small sigh and gestured to Cillian.

“My son, Cillian,” said Da. “He’s been instrumental in helpin’ te provide fer the people we’ve taken in.”

“Yer servant, sir,” said MacLeod, bowing his head to Cillian.

“I have people from Eriskay and now Uist, in addition te my own people who have lost their homes,” Da told him, gesturing for the man to take a seat. “It costs five pounds per person te cross the Atlantic.”

“My brother has given two hundred pounds. That shall be enough fer his people, as well as some of yers,” said MacLeod, and Da nodded, glancing up at Cillian.

“If I match that, it’ll be more than enough te provide food and passage fer the refugees from Eriskay and Uist, as well as those of our own who wish te go,” Da said to him.

“Aye, I believe we can afford it,” Cillian replied.

“If I accept yer offer, what’s in it fer MacDonald?” Da asked MacLeod.

“Nothin’ of value, save fer the safe passage of his people,” MacLeod told him, and Da scoffed.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Our people have been starvin’ and freezin’ te death, same as yers,” MacLeod told him with mild irritation.

“Aye, and MacDonald hasnae cared fer years. Skye has been facin’ the Clearances fer a decade now,” Da told him.

“Aye, and he’s had a change of heart. I dinnae ken what more I can say,” MacLeod told him.

“Hm,” said Da, looking up at Cillian again. “Regardless of whatever consequences tha’ may come wi’ accepting’ MacDonald’s offer… I dinnae ken if we can afford not te.”

“I agree,” Cillian replied. “I can arrange a ship.”

“A ship has already been provided,” said MacLeod. “All ye must do is provide payment fer the passage of those ye wish te send te the Colonies.”

“Ye hear that, lad? A ship’s already been provided,” said Da with disbelief, and then he sighed. “Verra well. And are ye te accompany them te the Colonies, MacLeod?”

“I am te return home te Talisker,” said MacLeod, and Da snorted softly.

“Verra well. I’ll write te my brother-in-law, explain the situation te him,” said Da.

“I shall return te my brother and inform him ye have accepted his offer,” said MacLeod, standing up.

“Aye, ye do that,” said Da, nodding to MacLeod as the man left. “What a bleedin’ snake.”

“Ye dinnae trust him?” Cillian asked his father.

“Ye just met the man who was sent te arrest Flora MacDonald,” Da told him. He grasped a piece of parchment and began to write on it. “This’ll be quite the letter te yer Auntie and Uncle. I hope they have the room fer all of these people, otherwise, I dinnae ken where they’ll go.”

“We shouldnae even have te be doin’ this,” said Cillian bitterly. “The Crown shouldnae be takin’ advantage of ye like this, Da.”

“What choice do I have, Cillian? That damn oath all but made me the Crown’s bitch,” said Da, equally bitterly, and then he sighed. “Had I kent what takin’ that oath would cost the people of Barra… I dinnae ken if I’d have taken it.”

“But then ye’d have been sent back te prison, and what would have become of us?” Cillian asked him.

“I dinnae ken,” said Da with a heavy sigh. “I’ve learned in my days tha’ some battles cannae be won, and this is one of them. However, that doesnae mean the war cannae be.” At this, Cillian raised a brow.

“What do ye mean?” he asked him.

“I didnae send yer brother te Edinburgh in search of funds,” Da told him. “I sent him te find a lawyer sympathetic te our cause. I intend te fight this, tooth and nail. Whether I can even win, I dinnae ken, but it’s better than bowin’ te them and lettin’ our people take the fall.”

3 June, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CAOIMHE POV

Caoimhe was carrying a basket of freshly dried clean linens across the yard, leaving Brèagha and Marsali to finish putting the wet ones on the line. As she made her way towards the house, she spotted a familiar-looking figure, and she couldn’t help but smile. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is tha’ Geordie Severs I see?” she asked the young man, who turned when he heard his name, and young Geordie Severs smiled kindly at her before twitching uncontrollably.

“H-h-hell-oooo, M-Miss Fowlis,” he said, trying to redirect his tics into his foot.

“What on earth are ye doin’ here?” Caoimhe asked him, balancing the basket on her hip.

“Oh, I-I… need to sp-speak with M-M-Mr. Fraser,” said Geordie, and Caoimhe raised a brow curiously.

“Is everrathin’ all right wi’ Auntie Jocasta?” Caoimhe asked him, wondering what on earth Geordie was doing so far from Cross Creek.

“Oh, y-yes! Yes, Mrs. C-Cameron is fine!” Geordie said to her. “Only it’s… s-something I’ve done.”

“Somethin’ you’ve done?” Caoimhe asked him. “Why dinnae ye come inside? Uncle Jamie’s in his study workin’ out the financials of the latest quarter.” Caoimhe led Geordie into the Big House, hearing him click his tongue and whistle behind her, and she knocked on Uncle Jamie’s study door.

“Come in,” she heard him say inside, and she pushed the door open with her free hand, finding Uncle Jamie with an open book in front of him and his glasses balancing on his nose. “Ah, Caoimhe. What can I help ye wi’, lass?”

“No’ me, but another auld friend,” she said, stepping aside to allow Geordie into the room.

“Geordie?” Uncle Jamie asked with surprise. “Is everrathin’ well at River Run?”

“A-Aye, sir,” said Geordie a bit awkwardly. “I h-have a l-letter from my father, s-sir.” He presented the letter in question to Uncle Jamie, who raised a brow at it curiously. He slipped his glasses on so he could read it, and then raised both of his brows.

“Ye set fire te the drapes of a Mr. George Underwood?” he asked with surprise.

“Ye did what?” Caoimhe exclaimed, looking at Geordie. George Underwood was a self-proclaimed enemy of Archie’s after he and Clara had eloped, and though Geordie was a known friend of the Frasers, he had no reason to commit such a crime.

“It w-was an a-accident!” Geordie defended himself. “I w-was invited to-to Mr. Underwood’s al-long with my family, a-and I saw a c-candle and the demon inside m-me just-just made me grab it and s-set it t-to the drapes!”

“Ah, yer Tourettes, as my wife calls it,” said Uncle Jamie, looking down at the letter again. “Given yer friendship wi’ my son, yer father worries Mr. Underwood might see it as a personal attack, and hopes ye’ll be safer elsewhere.”

“A-aye, sir,” said Geordie shyly, his cheeks turning pink.

“I’ll write te yer father, tell him ye’ll most certainly be welcome here, lad,” Uncle Jamie told him, giving him a small smile and patting the lad on the shoulder. “Yer good wi’ work, and we’ll certainly be needin’ an extra hand, when my next grandchild is born.”

“Clara’s due in a few months, and Archie’s been hard at work building their home,” Caoimhe explained to Geordie. “Maevis will certainly be glad te have ye here.” Geordie’s cheeks turned even pinker.

“And h-how is M-Miss Maevis?” Geordie asked them both.

“Doin’ fine, and so are her bonny wee bairns,” said Uncle Jamie with a kind smile. “Come, why dinnae I take ye te my wife? She likes te have a look at everraone who lives here at the Ridge te get an idea of their health.”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Geordie, being led out of the study. Caoimhe followed them down the hall, pausing to hand Maggie the basket of clean linens, and when she heard footsteps on the stairs, glanced up to see Maevis coming down them.

“Guess what, Cousin?” she asked her, and Maevis glanced at her curiously. “Geordie Severs has come te stay.”

“Geordie?” Maevis asked, raising a brow. “Why?”

“He set fire te Mr. Underwood’s drapes,” Caoimhe replied. “Accidentally, of course.”

“Oh,” said Maevis, glancing up at the door.

“Oh? Tha’s all ye have te say?” Caoimhe asked her playfully.

“What else do you want me to say?” Maevis asked her a bit defensively, and Caoimhe sighed softly.

“Nothin’, I guess. Just thought ye’d like te ken,” she replied, and then she left Maevis to return to Brèagha and Marsali outside.

CATRÌONA POV

“This new, more concentrated blend should at least tone down the stutterin’,” I said to Geordie as I readjusted his herbal blend, and I smiled softly at him. “I’m glad ye’ve come. I can treat ye easier here.”

“I-I’m glad you can h-have me h-here,” Geordie replied a bit shyly.

“Set fire te Mr. Underwood’s drapes, aye?” I asked, glancing at Jamie.

“Accidentally,” Jamie told me.

“I’m sure the drapes deserved it,” I teased, writing down my notes on a piece of parchment. I had created makeshift folders in an empty chest, and inside of those folders were the residents of the Ridge alphabetised. I had each of them cataloged with their various conditions and treatments, as well as what days I saw them and when I started their treatments. It was the most effective way I could keep track of our growing population on the Ridge and keep track of their health, diseases that come to the Ridge, and my own herb supply. “How’s yer family, a leannan?”

“V-very w-well, Mrs. Fraser,” said Geordie happily. “Oliver did m-marry M-Miss P-Prudence Lawrence a-and Lizzy did have h-her second child.”

“Oh, did he, now? I recall he was engaged te Miss Lawrence fer some time,” I said. “When did Lizzy have her bairn?” Lizzy was the youngest surviving daughter of the Severs family. Their firstborn, Mrs. Kitty Andrews, was older than Archie, and Martha Severs had told me she had had another daughter, Mary, and a son, Alexander, who had both died young, before she had Oliver, who was also older than Archie. After Oliver, they had another daughter, Charlotte, and a son, Arthur, but both had died in childhood. After Arthur came Lizzy, who was the same age as Caoimhe, and Geordie had been a wee surprise for Martha and Alexander Severs, as Ginnie had been for Jamie and I. Lizzy had married the Cross Creek butcher’s son, Ebenezer Mercy, and had one son called Elias, but I had heard she was expecting another.

“M-May,” Geordie told me. “Another b-boy called N-Nathaniel.”

“Braw name fer a braw lad,” I said. “Jamie, we have room fer Geordie te stay wi’ us, dinnae we?”

“Aye, I suppose we do,” said Jamie, giving me an odd look suggesting he didn’t want Geordie to live with us, but where was the lad going to live? If he was going to work for us, he needed to live close by, and what better place than our own home? “I’ll find a place. Are yer things in yer wagon?”

“I d-didn’t c-come with a wagon,” said Geordie. “O-only the mule.”

“Ye came here wi’ just a mule?” I asked him with surprise, and he nodded. “Blessed Bride, ye must be exhausted! I’ll have Lizzie start a bath fer ye, the heat will do ye good.”

“Oh, y-you n-needn’t worry y-yourself, M-Mrs. Fraser!” said Geordie, his cheeks turning pink.

“Nonsense. Ye deserve it after walkin’ all this way,” I told him, leaving him to order the bath from Lizzie.

6 June, 1770

Three days, Geordie had been with us, and one would think he had lived on the Ridge all his life. He learned our routines quickly and learned when and what to feed the animals, when to spread the hay for the horses and even where to dump the horse shit that was shovelled out of the stables. When I came across him as I left the Big House with a basket on my arm, he was chopping wood with the assistance of Rory, who was loading it onto a wagon to take back to his home. “Mornin’, Rory,” I said to my son-in-law with a smile. “How’s Bree doin’ today? And wee Donnie?”

“Both are doing wonderful,” said Rory with a kindly smile. “I was thinkin’ of building a loft in the house, so we could have our own space, but Bree isn’t sure she wants te sleep on a different floor.”

“She grew up in a castle, I imagine a smaller home is a blessin’ in disguise,” I said with a small chuckle. “Has Donnie gotten over the colic yet?”

“I think so,” said Rory. “He isn’t cryin’ so much anymore - not as much, I mean.”

“Good. If ye need more of the tonic, send word and I’ll make up some more,” I told him, touching his arm lightly with affection.

“I will,” he said with a smile. “I’d best get this wood home te her, then.”

“Give her a kiss fer me,” I told him, watching as he got up on the wagon and urged the horse forward. I turned my attention to Geordie next, who was chopping another block. “And how’re ye doin’, Geordie? Have ye noticed a difference yet wi’ the herbs?”

“I have,” said Geordie with much more stability than before. “There’s s-still some stuttering, but nothing like it w-was before! I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Fraser!”

“Everrathin’ ye do fer us is thanks enough, lamb,” I told him with a kind smile. “How’s the white sow today? Have ye seen her?”

“I couldn’t convince - stupid white biiiitch - Christ, forgive me, I couldn’t c-convince her to c-come out from under the house,” said Geordie with a sigh. “I think she likes it under there.”

“Aye, I think so, too,” I said, matching his sigh. The white sow was gifted to us by Jocasta a couple of years ago, and the plan was for her to be Christmas dinner that year, but she had other plans. She wouldn’t let anyone near her without threatening to attack them and she was always breaking out of her pen. Finally, when she was moved to the Big House, she decided that her new home would not be the pen that the other pigs and her own piglets were perfectly happy in, but underneath our house. I suppose I couldn’t blame her - we did have a trash chute that I would occasionally drop scraps of food into that deposited them under the house. In addition to that, it was likely warmer and well protected from the elements. The white sow was certainly living large. “Suppose I’d best leave ye be, wee lamb. I’m grateful fer all yer help,” I told him with a smile, and as I was about to leave him, I was stopped by Archie’s voice calling to me from the house.

“Mama!” he called to me, and I stopped and turned. “Have ye seen Da?”

“Probably in his study goin’ over the financials again,” I said to him, a bit perplexed. “Is everrathin’ all right?”

“I dinnae ken,” he told me, scratching his head a bit awkwardly. “There’s… Well, there’s… probably close te two hundred people that have just arrived from the isles.” I faltered. Did he just say close to two hundred people? From the isles?

“Two hundred people?” I asked him with disbelief.

“Maybe more,” said Archie casually, and my eyes widened even more.

“More?” I asked him with shock. “Where the hell are we goin’ te put more than two hundred people? Where did they come from?”

“The isles,” Archie told me.

“Of Scotland?” I asked him.

“Aye,” said Archie. “Remember tha’ Major Campbell bastard? He’s accompanied them from New Bern.”

“Blessed Bride,” I said softly. “Go and get yer father. I’ll speak te him.”

“Aye,” said Archie, doing as I asked, and I sighed heavily and glanced at Geordie, who was standing there with perplexion plastered on his face.

“Blessed, blessed Bride!” his Tourette’s repeated.

“Aye… Never a dull moment at Fraser’s Ridge,” I said to him, and then I made my way to the front of the Big House, where over two hundred concerned, frightened, confused and even excited faces suddenly turned to look at me, their chattering softening to a dull roar. I looked to Major Campbell, who hadn’t bothered to get off his horse, and bit back a remark about it as I approached him. “Major Campbell.”

“Ah, ye mus’ be Mrs. Fraser,” said Major Campbell, looking down at me over his snobby nose. “I’m lookin’ te speak te Mr. James Fraser.”

“Ye’ve got Mrs. James Fraser fer now,” I told him, my hands on my hips. “What’s the meanin’ of this? Who are these people?”

“Settlers lookin’ te settle yer land. I’m told by Governor Tryon tha’ ye dinnae have many,” said Major Campbell firmly, and I scoffed lightly.

“We’ve enough, but we’re always lookin’ fer more,” I said, glancing at the people behind him. “We dinnae have homes built fer them.”

“They dinnae have hames where they come from, either,” said Major Campbell.

“Burned ‘em, did ye?” I asked irritably.

“Major Campbell,” came Jamie’s voice from behind me, and I turned to see him and Archie coming down the stairs of the Big House. He paused when he saw all of the people behind him, then continued approaching the man. “How can I help ye?”

“A letter from Governor Tryon,” said Major Campbell, handing the letter to Jamie. “It contains a request te house these and others comin’ from Thurso-”

“He can read,” I said, watching as Jamie opened the letter. A man from the crowd approached and cleared his throat, removing his hat from his head and nodding to us.

“Good day te ye. Ye must be Mistress Fraser, sister te the Laird of Cìosamul,” he said to us - or rather, me specifically. “Andrew Gillies, ma’am. We’re kin, through yer grandsire, Eairdsidh Ruadh Fowlis.”

“Are we?” I asked him, raising a brow at the man curiously. I’d probably seen the man before, but I didn’t remember his face, although I could see some resemblance in his grey Fowlis eyes.

“Aye, my great-great-great granny, Sorcha, was sister of Hamish Fowlis, yer great grandsire,” said Andrew Gillies, and I raised my brows in recognition.

“Aye, my grandsire’s aunt,” I said, recognising the name, and I accepted his hand to shake it. “Good te meet ye, cousin.”

“We’ve met before, albeit a long time ago,” he told me. “Ye delivered my two eldest. My son, Raibeart, and my daughter, Patsy.” He stepped aside and gestured to a woman, whom I did recognise. “My wife, Elizabeth.”

“Mrs. Elizabeth Gillies! Aye, I do remember ye now! It certainly has been quite a while!” I exclaimed when the name came back to me. Major Campbell cleared his throat.

“May we get on?” he asked irritably.

“Aye,” said Mr. Gillies, who would be my third cousin, once or twice removed. “I come wi’ a letter from yer brother, the Laird. I volunteered te deliver it personally when the Laird was lookin’ fer volunteers from Barra te leave.” He produced the letter in question.

“Volunteers from Barra?” I asked with my brow raised, accepting the letter. I broke the seal and opened it, finding the letter written in Gaelic:

9 February, 1770

Dearest sister,

Happy birthday, firstly. I know this’ll reach you after, but I wanted the chance to poke fun at you for being forty-nine, you auld bitch.

I rolled my eyes at this part. Yer not much younger, arsehole, I thought to myself, knowing that Cailean had turned forty-seven the day before I turned forty-nine.

Secondly, I’m sure you’re confused as to why there’s a hundred people at your doorstep, so allow me to explain.

A hundred? There were definitely over a hundred here, maybe close to two hundred. Then again, Major Campbell did say something about Thurso, which was a coastal town in the Highlands, not the isles.

Some of these people are from Eriskay, some from the Uists, and some from Skye. As I’m sure you can guess, they were rendered homeless as a result of the Clearances. I fought tooth and nail to prevent the Clearances from affecting us, but unfortunately, they’ve come, which is why some of the refugees are also from Barra. Unfortunately, my history as a Jacobite made it inevitable. In January, a bastard by the name of Major Campbell came and burned some of the cottages on the outskirts of Castlebay.

I glanced up at Major Campbell, narrowing my eyes slightly before returning to the letter.

Mr. Gillies volunteered to take his family to America, freeing up his own ancestral home for someone else who cannot leave. Did you know they’re related to us? Distant cousins by Grandsire’s aunt. Two other Barra families also volunteered their homes, and it turns out, they’re kin as well. Distantly related, of course, but all descend from grandsire’s cousins. I think the grandparent we all have in common is our great-great grandsire, Calum Fowlis, the 5th Laird of Cìosamul.

Anyway, I digress. Because we lost so many cottages, our own people were displaced, and then I received refugees from Eriskay and Uist who had nowhere to go. I couldn’t just turn them out, so I tried to house them in the kirk, the town hall, even the castle, and the people of Castlebay even opened up their homes, but it still wasn’t enough. Lord MacDonald, too, agreed to fund passage for his people from Skye as well as some of mine, and I funded the rest.

I know it is a lot to ask of you and Jamie, but I know that you have ten thousand acres. Barra itself is not even one acre, nor close to it. I have provided money to pay for food for them for at least two months. These people have been farmers, fishers, crafters and more, they will know what to do. I trust that they can provide good work for you on the Ridge. They have nowhere else to go.

I cannot thank you and Jamie enough, not only for seeing to the care and education of my daughter, but for taking in these poor people, who were forcibly ripped from their homes that they and their families had lived in for centuries. I know you will be sympathetic to their cause. If I was not desperate, I would not ask this of you.

I hope you are well, and I look forward to being chewed out for thrusting this on you unexpectedly. Please give my daughter a hug and a kiss for me, and give a hug and a kiss to my nieces and nephews, as well.

Your loving brother,

Cailean Fowlis, Laird of Cìosamul

“Blessed Bride,” I said, looking up at all of the people. They looked rugged, tired, uncomfortable and hungry. These poor people were affected by the Clearances and had no choice in the matter. I knew, too, that if Cailean hadn’t funded their passage, they likely would have had to sell themselves into one step above slavery - indentured servitude, the freedom to call themselves human, but their souls belonging to those who could foot the bill for their passage. While yes, it was an unsettling surprise, I couldn’t fault my brother for the goodness of his heart. It was in the right place, and we certainly did have the room. I glanced up at Jamie, who met my eyes after reading his own letter regarding the people from Thurso, and together, we looked at the fisher folk from the highlands and the isles.

“We’ll take them all,” Jamie said to Major Campbell, and then he looked at me again. “Suppose we’d best start buildin’ cabins.”

It took me several days to go through everyone that had come - two hundred and thirty-three people in total. About half of them came from the places that Cailean had described in his letter, while the other half came from Thurso, a fishing village located in Caithness, one of the most northernmost regions of the mainland of Scotland. I took down every name, age, date of birth and malady that each of these people had, with the help of Caoimhe, Brèagha and Marsali. Clara, too, had wanted to help, but I had ordered her to stay in bed - it was best if she stayed out of the way for all involved. Many of the fisher folk didn’t trust us, and especially didn’t trust Jamie, but because I was from the isles and some of the folk from Barra knew me, they trusted me enough to not be so frightened of me.

Andrew Gillies had brought along with him his wife, Elizabeth, his three children, Raibeart, who was twenty-two, Patsy, who was twenty, and Madeline, who was eighteen. Also with them was Andrew’s sister, Isobel, who was unmarried and had a daughter named Anna, who was twenty and had been born out of wedlock. The story went that Isobel fell in love with a sailor, who never returned, leaving her with a child to raise on her own. Her story reminded me of my own daughter’s situation, only Isobel’s had a much happier start.

Another distant cousin of mine was the MacIntyre family. Elias MacIntyre was the grandson of my grandsire’s first cousin, Griselda, who was the daughter of the youngest brother of my great grandsire, Hamish Fowlis, the 6th Laird of Cìosamul. With him was his wife, also Elizabeth, and their two children, Alexander, aged twenty-six, and Griselda, aged twenty-two. Griselda was engaged to a man called Peter MacNeil, who had no family left in Barra and joined them. Elias’s mother, Laurel, who was the elder Griselda’s daughter, had also accompanied them.

It turned out, there was another family that was related to me as well, but this family was descended from Griselda’s older sister, Annella. This was a widower by the name of Fergus Mackenzie, the grandson of Annella Fowlis Mackenzie and great-grandson of the younger brother of my great-grandfather. Mr. Mackenzie was accompanied by his widowed daughter, Mrs. Euphemia Cameron, and her three children, daughters Elspeth and Hadley, aged twelve, and son Roger, aged seven. Fergus’s son, Calum Mackenzie and his wife, Claudia, also came, accompanied by their two children, Wee Fergus, aged three, and Anne, who was only six months old. Unfortunately, the matron of the family, Mrs. Hadley Mackenzie, died and was buried at sea on the journey from Barra.

I was especially surprised to see three of the children of Ronald, my grandsire’s second cousin and former bodyguard (basically), whom I had met when I had first arrived on Barra. His eldest son, Angus, aged eighteen, came accompanied by his brother, James, aged fifteen, and sister Emiliana, aged thirteen. “Ma couldnae part wi’ Pa,” James had told me when I was checking them over. Ronald had died some years ago, leaving his wife a widow. She was devastated when he died, I’m told, and visited his grave daily. “We all wanted te come, but Archie didnae want te leave her, nor did Janet, and Collin and Rabbie didnae want te come wi’out Ma.”

“I wanted te come wi’ Auntie Emily,” said Angus, referring to their older aunt, Mrs. Emily MacInnes, a widow who had never had children of her own. She had been Ronald’s older sister, and her age was so great compared to her nephews because Ronald had been nearly thirty years older than his wife, Emiliana, who loved him dearly.

“I lived alone, in the hame my Duncan once shared wi’ me,” said Mrs. MacInnes. “I couldnae stay, kennin’ sae many didnae have a hame.”

“Tha’ was verra noble of ye,” I told her as I checked her over. I was amazed she had survived the journey, as she had a nasty cough.

“We’d be glad te work fer ye, Cousin,” Angus said to me next. “Whatever we can do, we’d be glad of it.”

“I think we can find somethin’ fer ye,” I told them, sighing softly as I glanced around at the people around me. “We have some cabins free, but no’ many. We’ll need more built. Thank Bride it’s summer.”

“We can do that,” said James, smiling excitedly.

“I’ll put ye in touch wi’ my son, Elton. He’ll be in charge of that project,” I told them, knowing that Elton would be the best man for the job. If anyone could get such a monumental task completed, it was Elton - our own house was a testament to that statement.

The Clearances were devastating for Scotland, but they were rough on the Colonies, as well. More people meant more mouths to feed, and homes to build, and more money that needed to go around. It also meant more people that I needed to keep track of as the resident physician on the Ridge, and while I inevitably expected that, I had expected the increase in my patients to be gradual, not all at once. But I had faith in my family, as well as the spirit of Scotland that still burned brightly in all of these people, despite the horrors they had had to endure. So long as a hundred of us remained alive, Scotland and her people would find a way to persevere.

Chapter Text

Time Unknown

MAEVIS POV

Her bed was warm, soft, and more comfortable than she remembered. Outside her window, she could hear the soft sound of city traffic. Huh. That was strange. She had grown accustomed to the outside environment being so quiet, and now, it was so loud… Wait. Why was it loud? She jumped and sat up with urgency when the door was kicked open suddenly.

“Wake up, bitch!” came Gaia’s loud, sharp voice, followed by the sound of her banging two metal pans together. Gaia had always been a brash, loud girl. She looked just like she had when Maevis had last seen her - dark hair cut in a modern wolfcut style, a small silver ring hanging out of both of her nostrils, and her brown eyes done up to look dark and tired. “Sleepy time’s over!”

“What the hell?” Maevis demanded from her irritably, and then she looked around her room. It was a room that seemed both familiar and unfamiliar to her… It was her room, all right - she could tell by the retro decor, which included old vinyl records on the wall, a waterfall of ivy above her bed and retro 1970s-style posters and tapestries hanging up. It was the typical indie teenage wasteland bedroom that she would have designed for herself, featuring posters that she had owned for quite some time and had seen both in her room at Stephanie’s house and her dorm room at Princeton University. However, the room itself was unfamiliar. Had she been in some sort of coma for so long, she’d forgotten moving into a house with Gaia and Lilibet as they had always talked about?

“Let’s go, we’re seeing Suri in concert today, remember? You’ve been asleep for too damn long,” Gaia told her sharply, leaving the room with the pans in hand.

“Gaia! Don’t be a cunt!” came Lilibet’s squeak from somewhere in the depths of the house.

“I can’t help it, I am what I eat,” said Gaia’s voice as it faded away.

“Concert?” she asked, looking around the room again. She gasped again when she heard the sudden sound of a rock song emanating from under her pillow:

‘You do it to yourself, you do

And that’s why it really hurts,

Is that you do it to yourself, just you,

You and no one else…’

She found the source of the song to be her phone playing an old song by a band called Radiohead, which had been set as the ringtone. She didn’t recognise the number on the screen of the little device, so she raised a brow as she accepted the call and held the phone to her ear. “H-Hello?” she asked softly.

“Hello, Queen Maeve.”

No… No, no, no. If she was back in her own time, there was no way he could have found her. He’s been dead for four hundred years! No… it couldn’t be… it couldn’t be… it couldn’t be…

“Maevis!” came a familiar voice, knocking sharply on the door. “Are ye all right? I heard ye shoutin’!” It was Mama. Maevis looked around at her surroundings, finding that she was no longer in that indie teenage wasteland bedroom, nor did she have a phone… nor was Stephen Bonnet on the other end of the line. But she wasn’t in her time, she was still in the year 1770, and the stark cries coming from the nursery reminded her that her nightmare was still as strong as ever.

“Yeah,” Maevis said back to her mother. “I… I’m fine…” But she wasn’t fine. No, she was far from fine, and she knew that, but acknowledging how much she wasn’t ‘fine’ wasn’t going to make her any better. “I… just saw a bug… that’s all…”

15 August, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

I dropped my medical bag into the wagon next to the crate of empty jars, which I intended to fill by purchasing more herbs, medicines and the like while at the Gathering at Mount Helicon. We would be leaving shortly, and it would be a five days’ journey to Mount Helicon for the gathering, which would go on until the end of August. We were all ready to go, prepared to journey along with those of our settlers who would also be travelling to the Gathering. Not everyone would, of course - it was intended for Scots, so the Cornish Carlyons would be staying behind, and a lot of the fisher folk would be, as well. The Gillies and MacIntyre families would be coming, and so would Jamie’s Ardsmuir men. We had a small train of wagons, horses, mules, cows, pigs and chickens in crates ready to go for the gathering, as well as goods for trade. The Abernathys had new pairs of shoes in varying sizes made to sell, the Carlyons sent us with some metal tools and crafts to sell, and we even had our own supplies - baskets, linens, embroidery, Elton’s steam-powered sawmill and my own pre-made tinctures and herbal teas for various maladies. Bree was even bringing her painting supplies to paint portraits for people.

“Ye should do those caricature drawin’s they do at festivals and the like,” Elton said to her, amused with himself, but she only raised a brow at him.

“A… caricature?” she asked him, having absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“It’s a wee drawing where the artist exaggerates a feature of the subject,” Rory explained, chiming in. “I don’t think they do it so much in these times, save fer in papers and the like.”

“Ah, I forget yer no’ from our time,” said Elton casually, his cheeks turning a little pink.

“I dinnae think the people of this time would appreciate that, either,” I chimed in playfully, smiling at the two of them.

“Oh, I didnae think of that,” Elton said to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Archie assisting Clara down the stairs of the Big House, and I turned and raised a brow at them. Clara was already getting ready to burst and had her hand supporting her back, which was evidently giving her trouble. She wasn’t coming with us to the gathering, was she?

“What are ye doin’?” I asked them.

“Gettin’ Clara situated in the wagon,” Archie told me as they approached.

“I dinnae think tha’s wise,” I said, not with a judgemental tone, but looking back, I could see how it could be perceived that way. Archie let out a small huff and sat Clara down on a crate.

“Wait here a moment, a ghràidh,” he said to her, bending down to kiss her forehead, and then he motioned for me to follow him, which I did. “What are ye doin’?”

“What do ye mean, what am I doin’?” I asked him, genuinely confused.

“Ye dinnae want Clara te come te the gatherin’,” he accused me, and I scoffed. I couldn’t care less if Clara came or not, however, I was well aware of her situation.

“Clara is heavily pregnant, Archie, and at risk fer complications,” I told him. “As her physician, I dinnae think it wise fer her te travel so far from home this late into her pregnancy.”

“If Clara doesnae go, then neither do I,” Archie said to me firmly.

“And were it me, yer father would do the same,” I told him, equally firmly. “Ye can do as ye like all ye want, but I genuinely dinnae think ye should be draggin’ a heavily pregnant woman through the mountains like this. She could go into labour, and the woods are no place fer a bairn te be born.”

“Ye had me in the middle of the woods,” he said back to me.

“Aye, and it wasnae safe!” I said to him. “Ye were born two months premature! I was chasin’ yer father through the Highlands while seven months pregnant and I went into early labour. We could have died, both of us, but are verra fortunate we didnae!”

“Clara wants te come, and she’s been feelin’ better as of late. She’s well enough te come!” Archie snapped back at me, and I huffed.

“Fine, dinnae listen te the one who kens what she’s talkin’ aboot. Do as ye like, both of ye, but if somethin’ happens, I willnae be held responsible,” I told him, turning on my heel to leave.

“I hope ye will help me keep an eye on her,” Archie said after me, and I stopped in my tracks.

“I’m still a physician, whether or not I agree wi’ my patients’ decisions,” I told him, and then I continued on my way back to the wagon. Truth to be told, I didn’t want Clara to come. My relationship with Archie hadn’t been the same since she arrived, and perhaps that was my fault, but at the time, I blamed her for it. She was the new variable, and the new variable always changed the outcome of the equation. But in this case, it was genuine concern for her well-being that drove my opinion on the matter. Whether I liked Clara or not, she was still my son’s wife, and if something happened to her, it would shatter his poor wee heart. She insisted on coming, though, so I informed Caoimhe privately that we needed to keep a close eye on Clara and monitor her and the bairn for any signs of distress.

With our children and grandchildren loaded up on the wagons and the house being left in Geordie’s care, we left for Mount Helicon, hopefully not returning with one more bairn than we left with.

20 August, 1770

Mount Helicon, North Carolina

The sound of the bagpipes filled the air - a sound we hadn’t heard in years. Jamie and I exchanged a brief look and smiled softly, remembering our youth in the days before the Uprising. There were Scottish families all around us, some even wearing kilts, and I laid my hand over Jamie’s. “Ye should have brought yer kilt,” I said to him softly.

“I did,” he replied, smiling at me a little. “I’ll put it on when we set our tent up.”

“Ye’d better,” I told him, and then I leaned into him to whisper. “I cannae wait fer the… ease of access.” He chuckled softly in response.

“Why are the men wearing skirts?” I heard Clara ask Archie in the wagon behind me. I tried hard not to roll my eyes - she had been born after the Uprising, and therefore after kilts were banned - not to mention, she had also been born very far from Scotland and raised by a man who hated Scots - so of course she wouldn’t know what they were.

“They’re called kilts, a ghràidh,” Archie told her. “It was what Scottish men wore before… Well, I’ve told ye all aboot that, havenae I?”

“I’ve my auld Fowlis of Barra tartan, lamb,” I chimed in, turning my head to look at him. “If ye want te wear it.” His eyes widened a little.

“Really?” he asked me, and I nodded. “I’d love te! I never got te wear a kilt when I was a lad!”

“Ye’ve been wrapped in that tartan, lamb, many times,” I told him. “Includin’ the day ye were born.”

“I’ve got my father’s, too,” said Caoimhe, having already wrapped it around her shoulders. After the bairns were born in March, Maevis had given Caoimhe the tartan, as it had belonged to Cailean and still had his name stitched into it. That tartan had been through a lot - the rebellion, Culloden, Cailean’s adventures in Norway, Amsterdam and Ireland, Hy-Brasil, and then it went with Maevis to America. He’d been wearing that tartan when he met with Bonnie Prince Charlie many times, when he dug up and stole a red tulip for a prostitute in Amsterdam, and when he met and married Saoirse. And now, here it was, back in America and living its second life with Cailean’s daughter. It had some wear and tear, of course, as did mine, but given all it had been through, it was holding up fairly well.

We set up camp on an empty plot of land and put up six tents - one for myself and Jamie, one for Archie and Clara, one for Brèagha and Rory, one for Caoimhe, Maevis and Elton, one for Fergus, Marsali, Germain and Joanie, and one for Lizzie, Ginnie and the bairns. I had hoped that Maevis would want to sleep in the same tent as her daughters, but when she went into the tent that housed her brother and cousin, I realised that she wanted to be as far away from her daughters as she could get. I sighed softly when I noticed this, then ducked into my own tent. When I stood back up, I was slightly taken aback by the sight of Jamie in his old Fraser tartan. I was brought back to a time when a much younger Jamie wore this very same kilt every day. I glanced down, where a repair had been made near his thigh. He’d been wounded at Culloden, and the only reminder of that wound was the scar on his thigh and now the scar in the fabric. It would never fade, always serving as a reminder of the battle that blew our lives to hell. “Wow… it’s… been such a long time since I’ve seen ye… like this,” I said, clearly taken aback by his appearance in a kilt. He smiled softly, then stepped closer to me and took me into his arms.

“A reminder of days long gone?” he asked me, and I nodded.

“A reminder of… all that once was, and could have been,” I said. “Ye could have been the Laird of Lallybroch, and Archie would be yer heir.”

“Aye, I could have been,” he said to me. “But think of all tha’s come because I wasnae the Laird of Lallybroch.” He smiled softly at me. “Our home… our children, grandchildren… I wouldnae have it any other way.”

“Ye dinnae think of it sometimes?” I asked him. “Of how different things might have been?”

“What use is there, thinkin’ of things that are not?” he asked. “I am happy where I am today, and I will not have it any other way.” He bent forward to rest his forehead against mine, and I closed my eyes. “What’s on yer mind?” he asked me quietly, and I sighed.

“Everrathin’,” I said. “Nothin’s been the same. Everrathin’ changed all of a sudden.”

“Ye mean wi’ Clara?” Jamie asked me, and I huffed and pushed away from him.

“Not you, too,” I said a bit sharply, turning away from him and crossing my arms across my chest.

“Archie mentioned ye… dinnae get along wi’ her verra well,” he continued, and I scoffed.

“This feelin’ isnae anythin’ te do wi’ my feelin’s towards Clara,” I told him a bit sharply, and then I sighed. “It’s Maevis I’m worrit aboot… She’s grown more and more distant wi’ Lark and Wren. It’s like… she doesnae want them te exist.”

“Aye, I’ve noticed somethin’ like that,” Jamie told me with a small sigh. “I’d been meanin’ te speak wi’ her.”

“Ye wouldnae understand,” I told him, not looking at him. “She’s traumatised from bein’ raped. Lark looks… just like Bonnet. It must be so hard fer her te look at her sometimes.”

“Aye, and I’ll be glad te kill the bastard if I ever set eyes on him again, but Lark isnae just Bonnet’s,” Jamie said to me. “How can she look at her own bairns wi’ disdain?”

“As I’ve said, ye dinnae understand,” I told him, turning to look at him. “It’s one thing te be raped, but it’s another te have te look at a reminder of it everra day.”

“So what do ye propose we do?” Jamie asked me, and I sighed.

“I dinnae ken,” I said to him. “Only thing we can do is try speakin’ te her again, remind her that she isnae alone. It’s the only thing I can think of.” Jamie was silent for a moment before he softly cleared his throat.

“When Randall… raped me… havin’ my sons was the only thing tha’ kept me from meetin’ God,” he told me.

“Tha’s different, Jamie. Brian and Archie werenae Randall’s. They didnae look like Randall, nor did their existence remind ye of what he did te ye everra day because their existence had nothin’ te do wi’ him. But Wren and Lark… They wouldnae be here if Bonnet didnae rape Maevis,” I said, and then I sighed again. “I need te spread word that I’m a physician and can see te people.”

“Catrìona,” Jamie said to me, but I turned to face him.

“I’ll be back later,” I told him, stepping out of the tent before he had a chance to stop me. I didn’t want to talk more about Maevis if Jamie was unwilling to understand. Perhaps he never would. Rape for a man and a woman were just… different. For men, there were no visible scars unless his rapist physically harmed him, but for women, even if they weren’t physically harmed, there would always be a visible reminder if her rapist’s sperm just happened to fertilise her egg.

RORY POV

Rory had made his way to the river that ran down from the peak of Mount Helicon, which towered above them on the grand open field where the gathering took place. Bree had asked him to fetch some water that she could boil so she could clean up Donnie after he had what Rory could only describe as an explosive shit bomb, so that was what he was doing. On the other side of the river, not too far from the wooden bridge that had been built to bridge the gap between that side and this one, Rory caught sight of a large fire that had been built by a couple of families, where they were keeping warm, cooking meals, drying clothes, and doing the general things that one would do around a fire. It was certainly a little crisper up in the mountains, so the need for a fire was justified, but whenever Rory saw a fire as large as that one, all he could think about was Father Ferigault.

It had been nearly eight months since Rory had caused the man’s death. Father Alexandre Ferigault had been condemned to die with hot flames beneath his feet by the Mohawk for refusing to baptise the daughter he had conceived with a Mohawk woman, and Rory had sped up the man’s punishment. He had thought he was saving him by throwing water on the flames, but instead, he had thrown alcohol, which made the flames burn even higher. To make matters worse, the mother of Father Ferigault’s daughter had walked into the flames, taking her own life and burning along with him. As the flames of the fire that the Scottish families had built licked the air higher and higher, Rory swore he could almost see their charred bodies inside the flames…

“Hello, Rory,” came a feminine voice, and Rory gasped lightly as he was slightly startled. He looked to see that Caoimhe Fowlis, Brèagha’s cousin and Cailean Fowlis’s daughter, had joined him, and she was smiling warmly at him. Her smile faded a little when she saw the look on his face. “Sorry, didnae mean te frighten ye,” she said as she dipped a bucket into the water to collect some. “Are ye all right?”

“Yeah… I’m fine,” said Rory softly, dipping his own bucket into the river to collect water.

“Ye ken, since yer mother marrit my father, tha’ makes us brother and sister,” Caoimhe told him. Some months ago, Rory’s mother had married Cailean Fowlis, which she mentioned in a letter to him. Morgan had said in another that it was a little weird, but that she knew Mum and Cailean had had a brief fling when they were younger. Now that they were both widows, there was no reason for them not to get married if they still felt that spark. Mum had even once described Cailean as ‘the one that got away’ before they had gone back in time. “That means ye can tell me anythin’, ye ken,” Caoimhe continued after Rory didn’t answer her.

“There’s nothing te talk about,” said Rory, glancing up briefly at the fire again. Caoimhe’s eyes followed his, and then she looked at him again.

“Somehow, I dinnae believe that,” she told him. “I mean it, Rory. Ye can tell me anythin’.” He didn’t answer her, and she sighed softly. “Brèagha tells me ye have a wee sister, Morgan. Maevis said ye grew up together in New Jersey. Ye must miss her.”

“Yeah,” sighed Rory. “She could be a pain in my ass, but I do miss her sometimes.”

“All little sisters can be,” said Caoimhe with a smile. “And I verra much intend te be. Ye ken, I’ve never really had a big brother. I guess in a way, Archie counts, but he’s my cousin, and I’ve always kent that.” She paused for a moment as she looked down. “After my mother died, we were all we had. My father wouldnae come out of his chambers, and Cillian cried fer hours on end until he fell asleep. Brèagha locked herself away in her studio, so Archie kept me company.”

“I suppose that was me fer Morgan when my father died,” said Rory. “Only… she didn’t know our father. She was very young when he died. She doesn’t remember him.”

“Same as Riona doesnae remember our mother,” Caoimhe told him, looking up at the fire again. “What do ye see when ye look at that fire?” This time, Rory was silent for a moment before he sighed.

“Something awful that I’ve done,” he said. “I killed a man. On accident.”

“I did, too,” Caoimhe told him, and Rory looked at her with a raised brow. This little thing beside him killed a man? “I didnae mean te kill him. We were in Jamaica. He’d tied up Auntie Cat and struck Archie so hard, he was knocked unconscious. I guess I hit him perfectly where the bleedin’ and swellin’ killed him.” Rory nodded subtly, looking back at the fire.

“When I was in the Mohawk village… there was a man who was being kept prisoner with me,” he said to her. “He’d had a child with one of the women and the Mohawk chief wanted the child baptised, but… he didn’t believe it would be right te do so. I told him te fake it, but he just couldn’t do it, so he was put te death. They had him stand on flames fer days until he died. He told me to escape while I could, so I did, but… I heard his screams, so I went back to try and save him. I saw a barrel full of water, so I grabbed it and threw it on the flames, but… it wasn’t water. It was alcohol. The flames engulfed him, and… then the woman he’d had the baby with walked into the flames with him. So I killed two people with my stupidity.”

“I wouldnae call it stupidity,” Caoimhe told him. “Ye had good intentions. Ye intended te save him. It just… wasnae meant te be.” She sighed softly. “The Reverend wasnae the only person I killed… Him I killed accidentally, but there was someone I killed on purpose.”

“Who?” Rory asked, now looking at her again. Her silvery eyes were locked on the flames of the fire.

“Mama said her name was Geillis Duncan,” Caoimhe told him. Geillis Duncan… That wasn’t a familiar name to him. “It was also in Jamaica. The same night, actually, in a cave. There was a… doorway… te yer time, and she was goin’ te use it te find Maevis and… and kill her. She had te be stopped. I had a machete, and I was the closest te her. I thought that if I didnae, then she would go te yer time and kill Maevis, so… I struck her. Nearly cut her head off.”

“Do ye… feel guilty fer it?” Rory asked, but Caoimhe shook her head.

“Not at all,” she told him firmly, looking at him. “If I didnae do it, she might well have succeeded. Knowin’ Maevis is here, alive and well… I dinnae have any regrets. The woman was pure evil.”

“Then… I’m glad ye did it,” Rory told her. “Maevis has always been like a sister te me. Now, she is legally. Or will be, once Bree and I are married for real.” Caoimhe nodded, smiling subtly.

“Ye started wi’ one, and now ye have more sisters than ye can count,” she told him, teasing him lightly, and Rory chuckled a little. “She doesnae need te ken aboot that, so if ye dinnae mind not mentionin’ it te her, or te Bree…”

“Of course not,” Rory told her. “Your secret is safe with me… sister.” Caoimhe smiled again.

“Thank ye… brother,” she replied.

CATRÌONA POV

“Right, I’ll not lie te ye, this is goin’ te hurt,” I said to a young lad who had a rotting tooth that needed to be pulled. He nodded with his mouth wide open while I grabbed the tooth with my pliers, and using my foot on the barrel he sat on as an anchor, I pulled with all my strength until the tooth came out. He let out a cry of pain and grimaced horribly as the blood came pouring out of his mouth, and his middle-aged mother screeched and fainted.

“Ma!” he exclaimed.

“Och, yer all right, and so is she,” I told him, reaching into my bag for smelling salts and handing them to the young lad’s younger sister. “Wave these in front of yer Mam’s nose, hen.”

“Am I dyin’, Mistress Fraser?” asked the young lad with a frightened expression.

“No, laddie. Mouth wounds simply bleed a lot,” I told him, pulling a jar of powdered yarrow out of my bag next and sprinkling a little on the wound. “This’ll help. I’ve some gauze here, keep it in yer mouth fer a few hours, and periodically wash yer mouth out. Try te avoid anythin’ too hot, as it’ll affect the healin’ process.” I stuffed his mouth with gauze and he nodded as I spoke, listening intently. Once he was finished, I tended to his mother next, pouring her a cup of water and giving her a slice of bread. “Easy, lass. Yer all right,” I told her. “Sit fer a bit, have some bread and water. Ye’ll feel better in no time.”

“Aye, Mistress,” the woman said to me tiredly, accepting the water and bread. I then left my tent to rinse my hands off in a bucket of water I had outside, shaking them dry. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me, and when I smelled the familiar scent of musky man and horse manure, I let out a small huff.

“Jamie! Ye nearly scairt the shit out of me!” I scolded my husband lightly, turning my head to look up at him.

“I’m verra sorry, mo nighean. I simply couldnae stand the thought of ye bein’ angry wi’ me,” Jamie told me as he held me close and kissed my cheek, and I sighed.

“I’m not angry wi’ ye… Just stressed, is all,” I told him.

“Aboot Maevis?” he asked, and I sighed again.

“Nevermind it fer now,” I told him. “She’s safe, and so are the bairns. She’s got plenty of company te keep an eye on them.”

“We cannae not mind it forever,” Jamie told me.

“I ken. We’ll mind it when we return home,” I replied, looking up at him and smiling softly. “What have ye been up te these past few hours?”

“Lookin’ fer the priest that my aunt said would be here,” he replied. “I found my aunt, and Duncan. They have their own wee camp along wi’ Phaedra and Ulysses.”

“Duncan, too? With her?” I asked him, and Jamie chuckled softly.

“Nearby,” he said. “He’s ever the nervous groom.”

“And yer aunt?”

“Te be expected.”

“Ah, so her usual self,” I said, briefly peeking into the tent to check on the family.

“I actually found Duncan among auld friends,” Jamie continued. “Robin MacGillivray and Geordie Chisholm, two more of the men imprisoned wi’ me at Ardsmuir.”

“Really?” I asked, turning to look at him with my brows raised. “Did ye invite them te the Ridge?”

“Aye, and their families,” said Jamie, chuckling a little. “His mother is wi’ them as well. Geordie and his wife share five bonny children, all lads.” My eyes widened a little.

“Blessed Bride,” I said. “Poor woman, wi’ not a daughter te spare.” Jamie chuckled softly.

“A lucky man,” he said, clearly teasing me. “Their names are Charley, Geoff, Thomas, Anthony and Toby. Wee hellions, the three younger ones.”

“Wonderful,” I said sarcastically, and I sighed softly. “I’ll pay them a visit wi’ my notebook, check them out before we all head back. And what if the other man? Robbie, ye said?”

“Robin MacGillvray,” said Jamie. “Did ye ken he lives in Cross Creek? He’s the gunsmith.”

“Cross Creek? And we’ve never seen him?” I asked with surprise.

“Archie has, but they didnae ken each other,” said Jamie. “He, his wife, and his four bairns - three daughters and one son - wish te come in early Spring. He says he still has a contract wi’ Mr. Underwood until then.” I scoffed lightly.

“Does that man own all of Cross Creek?” I asked, mildly irritated. A throat cleared behind us, and we both turned to see a man dressed in a red coat and what looked like the old Black Watch kilt, which somewhat resembled the tartan of Clan Fowlis of Barra but was darker. On this young man’s head - and by ‘young’ I mean somewhere in his thirties - was what I could only describe as a golfer’s hat, as it was a hat that would someday become associated with golfers. He had a rifle strapped around his shoulder, and insignia that suggested he was involved in the British military. My eyes widened a little and I looked at Jamie in his own kilt, but he didn’t seem all that perturbed.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, ma’am,” he said, gesturing to first Jamie and then me. “Is it possible that ye are James Fraser, sir?”

“I am,” Jamie said to the young man, narrowing his eyes a little, as if he recognised something about this man.

“Is that a Black Watch tartan?” I asked, unable to help myself, and the young man looked at me.

“Aye,” he said. “Though we dinnae call ourselves the ‘Black Watch’ any longer, nor are we as despicable.”

“Glad te hear it,” I said, knowing that the Black Watch used to be known for their treacherous ways.

“Can I help ye, Lieutenant?” Jamie asked, evidently recognising the insignia as that of a Lieutenant.

“In a way,” said the young man. “My name is Archie Hayes. I’ve heard ye… kent my father.” I raised my eyebrows at this and looked at Jamie, who’s expression had changed from one of distrust to one of recognition.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Ye dinnae mean the same… wee laddie I last saw at Culloden? The wee lad of Gavin Hayes?”

“Aye, the verra same, a Sheumais Ruadh,” said Archie Hayes, taking me aback a bit. I hadn’t heard anyone address my husband as ‘Red Jamie’ in… oh, close to a quarter of a century now. It was somewhat shocking, to say the least. Hayes looked to me next, smiling softly. “I was just a boy when we met last, a bhan-bhuidseach dhearg.” The Red Witch, a name I hadn’t heard myself referred to as in a while, either.

“I last saw wee Archie Hayes on Culloden Moor,” Jamie said to me rather amicably. “He was shot by Murchison - the same one who died in Wilmington.” The man Maevis shot, albeit accidentally. “My memory fails me a wee bit of those auld days…”

“Ye recalled I was shot by Murchison,” said Hayes, looking at me next. “A modest man, yer husband, Mistress Fraser. Has he never told ye his heroics on tha’ dreadful day?”

“Neither of us… really recall much of those days,” I told him a bit meekly, not wanting to remember them any more than I had to, or already did.

“Och, I dinnae remember much, either, I must confess. But this is one action tha’ I shall never forget,” said Hayes with a joyous chuckle. “Surely, a Sheumais Ruadh, ye recall how ye struck Murchison across the head, just as he was set te bayonet me on the ground? And then ye picked me up and carrit me from the field, away te a wee well nearby?”

“The Well of the Dead,” I said a bit softly. “I’ve heard stories of it. They say Alexander MacGillivray of Dunmaglass led a wee drummer boy te drink and it was there where he died.”

“Aye, and this was after,” said Hayes. “MacGillivray lay still on the grass and some of his men were bathin’ his head in the water. Someone tended te me…”

“Cailean Fowlis,” said Jamie a bit stoically, and my eyes widened even further.

“What?” I asked him.

“I… handed the lad off te Cailean, when we reached the well,” he said softly.

“But… I thought Cailean had gone into the wood? He said he woke up and the battle was over…” I continued, confused about this new hole in the story.

“He didnae stay long, jus’ long enough te see me safe,” Hayes said, continuing his story. “Ye wished me well in the name of Saint Michael, then went back te the field. Ye looked… fair wild, man. There was blood runnin’ doon yer face and yer hair was loose in the wind. Ye’d sheathed yer sword te carry me, but ye pulled it again as ye turned away. I didnae think I should see ye again, fer if ever I saw a man set te meet his death… Och, but nevermind it. I did hear ye had survived.”

“How did you? Survive?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“When yer guid brother saw me safe, he told me te head fer the isles, stow away on a ship,” Hayes told him. “I lived, fer a time, on the streets of Boston before joinin’ the military when I was sixteen. I fought in the war wi’ the French and the Indians.”

“I see,” I said.

“I was disheartened te hear of the massacre in Boston, until I learned it wasnae a massacre at all. Simply… a dramatised version of events meant te paint the soldiers who tried te keep the peace as villains,” Hayes continued, and my eyes widened again.

“Boston?” I asked him. I had heard of the Boston Massacre, but hadn’t recalled when it occurred. I supposed that it already had, meaning that the gunpowder in the keg of the Revolution was starting to smoke.

“Aye,” said Hayes, and then he looked at Jamie again. “I’ve a letter fer ye, a Sheumais Ruadh. From His Grace, Governor Tryon.”

“A letter?” Jamie asked, watching as Hayes pulled the letter out of his coat and handed it to Jamie.

“Buidheachas dhut, a Sheumais Ruadh… and may Blessed Michael defend ye,” said Hayes, nodding to us both. “There’ll be blood spilled soon, and I do hope that blood doesnae belong te any of yer friends or kin.” Jamie didn’t say anything as Hayes turned and left, and then he looked at the letter in his hand. He sighed softly and stuffed it into his own jacket.

“Another time. I’ll no’ fash aboot business wi’ the Governor just now,” he said a bit irritably.

“I hope it isnae anythin’ serious,” I said with some unease. “The Boston Massacre happened already… It was a crowd of unruly colonists who were protestin’ the taxes the English dumped on them, and an unknown English soldier fired into the crowd, startin’ an attack. Five men were killed.”

“Ye’ve let yer tongue slip,” Jamie said neutrally. “Ye heard Archie Hayes. Not English - British.” I scoffed.

“The day I call myself ‘British’ will be the day I forgive Randall fer killin’ my family,” I said bitterly. “Surely, Hayes cannae be here because of the Boston Massacre?”

“I doubt it. Somethin’ must have happened,” said Jamie, taking out the letter and his eyeglasses and opening it. He scanned over it quickly, then I watched as his eyes widened in surprise.

“What? What is it?” I asked him.

“The Regulators… There was a riot in Beaufort,” he said to me. “A small one, but there has still been violence. Tryon wants me te form a militia.”

“Already?” I asked him.

“By the end of the year,” said Jamie with some unease. “He all but wants me te frighten the people of the backcountry.”

“Blessed Bride,” I said softly as Jamie folded up the letter again and stuffed it into his coat.

“When we return te the Ridge. Fer now, I wish te keep politics out of this wee… holiday… as ye called it,” Jamie said to me, correcting his face and brushing off the letter as if it were nothing, and then he forced a small smile. “When can I expect ye back at the camp?”

22 August, 1770

MAEVIS POV

It was night, and the Frasers were sitting around the fire at their camp enjoying dinner. The babies were all sleeping and Lizzie was sitting near the tent to keep an ear out for them, but for the most part, was focused on Rory’s singing. He had brought a guitar and was singing songs to accompany dinner, and there were several other people that were hovering around the campsite listening happily.

“She wouldn’t have a Lowland Laird,

Nor be an English lady;

But she would go with Duncan Graham

And roll her in his pladdie,

My bonny Lizzie Baillie!”

There were cheers around the circle as he finished the song, but Maevis couldn’t bring herself to cheer. Instead, she was pushing food around on her plate, little appetite to spare. While the sun shone on everyone else, Maevis was always cold and cast under a shadow. While everyone else could laugh, smile, sing and be happy overall, Maevis could only frown. She had stopped giving even false smiles about a month ago, and she was starting to wonder if she could even remember how to smile.

“May I?” Archie asked, gesturing for the guitar in Rory’s hands. He was dressed in Mama’s Fowlis of Barra tartan, and though it was strange to see, it was clear that Archie was a natural in it. Of course, it was the only Fowlis of Barra tartan, and he did get a few strange looks from the older crowd, but for the most part, he was proud to wear it.

“Sure, if you think ye can manage,” said Rory playfully, handing Archie the guitar. For the last few months, he’d been teaching Archie to play the guitar.

“Git,” said Archie, also playfully. Archie claimed he’d never touched an instrument before, but one would certainly never know it by looking at him. He was a natural, gifted both vocally and musically, and had a particularly skillful talent of being able to repeat a song on the guitar after hearing it just once. He positioned the guitar on his lap and played a few rifts of a song, and Rory’s eyes widened in recognition.

“I know that one,” said Rory, smiling at Brèagha beside him.

“Do ye? Perhaps ye can keep up then,” Archie said to him, and then he smiled at his own wife beside him. Clara’s cheeks turned pink as Archie began to sing a soft, loving ballad to her:

“The lousome sang o’ love’s a doolfu’ sang

Yet bonny tirls the tune sae loud and lang…

Wha’ maunie daur tae dream we dreamed sae rarely,

Noo hallie beats the heart that beats its lane…”

Rory joined him on the chorus of the song, the two men singing to their respective loves, who were both young blushing brides.

“She said, ‘fer aye my heart is thine, bonny laddie…’

But fer aye’s a lang, lang time, bonny lassie…

Where the breeze has brunt and died hings a smoke tha’ bleers the eve…

And noo fer aye I’ll mind on she, bonnie lassie…”

Maevis couldn’t look at their happiness for a moment longer. She put her plate down and stood up, excusing herself and walking away from the camp. She crossed her arms over her chest as she walked into the night, fighting off tears that dared to well up in her eyes. She would never be happy again. Stephen fucking Bonnet took that away from her. The bastard had no right, taking what he wanted from her and leaving her with his… with his…

“Maevis?” a voice said behind her, and she huffed. It was her father, who must have seen her walk off and followed her. “A nighean…”

“I want to be alone,” she said a bit sharply, but her voice was shaking.

“Och, mo nighean ghràdhach…” he said as he approached her.

“I don’t know what that means! I don’t speak Gaelic!” she snapped at him as the tears began to fall, and she felt his hands on her shoulders as he forcibly turned her around and held her in his arms. She tried to push him away, but eventually, gave in and began to cry in her father’s arms.

“Shh…” he muttered softly. “It means ‘my darlin’ girl’.”

“I’m… n-no one’s… ‘darling girl’,” she spat rather bitterly through tears.

“Yer mine, whether ye like it or no’,” Da told her, pulling back to look at her. He smiled softly at her, then gently wiped the tears from her cheek. She sniffled, looking anywhere but up at his face. “What is it, my darlin’?”

“What is it? What do you think it is?” she asked him, pulling away to continue walking the path she had started.

“Aye, I thought so,” said Da, following her. “I swear te ye, Maevis, I will kill him fer what he’s done.”

“Well, that doesn’t help me now, does it?” she asked him irritably. “We don’t even know where he is!”

“But we will find him. I will find him, if it’s the last thing I do,” Da told her, but Maevis scoffed.

“And if he kills you, then what? Then we’re back where we started!” Maevis said with exasperation, and Da sighed softly, falling silent for a moment.

“I only wish there was somethin’ I could do te ease yer pain,” he said softly.

“There’s nothing that anyone can do,” she said to him. “I just… I just want to be alone.”

“All right, a nighean, but I must ask of ye te no’ wander far,” Da said to her, giving up on this obviously failed attempt to comfort her.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said as she continued without him. “I wouldn’t want to get raped again.” But truth to be told, she was starting to not care what happened to her. A man had already had his way with her and ruined her life because of it. What more could anyone else do? What could be worse than having to live with the constant reminder that she was no more than a used, broken object that one man had already discarded? Sometimes, one man’s trash could be another man’s treasure, but not in her case. She was simply every man’s trash, destined to be alone with Stephen Bonnet’s spawn for the rest of her miserable life. She should have never come to this time. She should have never tried to find her mother. She should have just stayed in the damn future and continued going to school for medicine. What she was missing before was nothing compared to what she had gained.

23 August, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

“Mama! Mama!” Archie exclaimed as he shook me awake. I was very groggy and looked around my tent to find it was still dark, and I felt Jamie stir beside me, still naked from our actions from the night before.

“Archie, what in God’s name?” Jamie demanded from him tiredly.

“It’s Clara! Her pains have started!” Archie exclaimed, and that woke me up. Her pains? That meant that she was in labour. But it was too early! At least six weeks too early! This could be bad.

“All right, all right, Archie! Calm down! I need ye te remain calm!” I exclaimed, sitting up and grabbing my glasses. “Go and start some water fer boilin’. Now!”

“All right!” Archie exclaimed, running out of the tent.

“I thought ye said ye didnae actually need boilin’ water?” Jamie asked me sleepily as I sat up and started getting dressed.

“I dinnae, save fer sterilisin’ my tools,” I told him. “It’s just te get him out of my hair. Firs’ time fathers are a nuisance.” I collected my medical bag and left my tent, making my way to Clara and Archie’s, where I could hear Clara moaning in pain. Caoimhe was already up and poked her head out of the tent.

“Auntie Cat! I think it’s time!” she said to me with wide eyes.

“I’d be shocked if it was, she’s verra early,” I said as I approached her.

“But didnae ye say it was possible wi’ her condition?” Caoimhe asked me, and I sighed.

“Let me just have a look at her,” I said, ducking into the tent. Clara was on the ground on her hands and knees groaning in pain, and I knelt down beside her with my hand on her lower back. “Clara, it’s Mistress Fraser. How’re ye feelin’?”

“Awful… Just awful!” she cried through gritted teeth.

“When did the pains start?” I asked her.

“About… an hour ago…” she said softly. “I woke Archie… when they got bad…”

“Have yer waters gone yet?” I asked her, and she shook her head. “I’m no’ surprised. Yer early. Let me have a look at ye, aye? Turn over on yer back and spread yer legs apart, I need te see how far along ye are.” Caoimhe and I assisted her as she turned onto her back and Caoimhe held her hand while I lubricated my hand in almond oil to feel Clara’s cervix. It was firm and completely closed, and I sighed heavily. “False alarm, I’m afraid.”

“What? What’s that mean?” Clara asked me with distress as I pulled my hand out and wiped it clean with a rag.

“It means yer havin’ false contractions, Clara. Ye arenae in labour yet,” I told her rather matter-of-factly, and she let out a cry of distress.

“But the pain…” she groaned.

“The pains of false contractions can be verra strong and feel like true labour, but I’m afraid in this case, ye arenae in labour yet, thank Bride,” I said as I dug around in my bag.

“That’s… a good thing?” Clara asked me.

“Aye, early bairns have a higher chance of dyin’,” I told her as I picked up the bottle of laudanum and poured some into a small glass cup that I had, and then I handed it to her. “Here, take this.” She accepted it and made a face when she drank it, groaning again through another pain.

“Laudanum?” Caoimhe asked me when she saw me cap the bottle.

“Both te calm her body and ease the pain,” I told her. “Ye’ll need te rest, Clara. We dinnae want te trigger early labour. Keep an eye on her until she falls asleep, Caoimhe.” I nodded to my niece, then stood up and left the tent right as Archie was returning with the bucket of water.

“What’s happened?” he asked me, his face as pale as the moonlight above.

“False labour, I’m afraid,” I told him. “Sorry, lamb, we dinnae need the water.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked me.

“It means she isnae in labour,” I told him. “Sometimes, the body can create intense practice contractions, but this isnae the real deal yet. Hopefully, her body holds off until we return home, at the verra least.”

“So… No bairn today?” he asked me, and I shook my head.

“Sorry, my wee lamb,” I told him, touching his arm gently. “I gave her some laudanum te ease the pain and relax her muscles. She’ll be out of it fer most of the day, but she needs te rest, aye?” He nodded.

“Aye, I’ll keep an eye on her,” he told me, heading back to his tent.

BRÈAGHA POV

Today was the day. Tonight, once darkness had come, she would officially be married to Rory. Da had found a Catholic priest by the name of Father Kenneth Donahue who would officially marry them and baptise Donnie, Wren, Lark, Germain, Joanie and Ginnie. She was excited and couldn’t wait to officially be Rory’s wife, even though they had been living together, laying together and raising a child together for the last few months already. Technically, their handfast had run out on the second of July, as handfasting was good for a year and a day, but she had still been recognised as Mrs. Mackenzie. Mama had come in to help her with her hair, and she was braiding the back of her hair in what she described as a traditional Hebridean style.

“Ye look so bonny,” Mama said to her softly, a small smile on her face. “I cannae believe I’m aboot te see my wee girl marrit.” Brèagha smiled softly and chuckled lightly.

“I’ve been marrit fer over a year now, Mama,” Brèagha told her.

“Not officially,” Mama told her, and then she sighed softly. “I only wish it could be like a traditional weddin’. In my time, brides wear all white and they look like goddesses. They’re walked down the aisle by their fathers and there’s a grand celebration afterwards.”

“Yer father didnae get te do that, did he?” Brèagha asked, already knowing the answer.

“No, hen,” Mama said a bit sadly. “No, he… was already gone when I marrit yer father.” She was silent for a moment as she continued braiding Brèagha’s long, thick red curls. “My hair was done by a stranger. I wore a velvet green weddin’ dress tha’ was bought off the owner of a whoore house, a dress she had had fer twenty years, by that point. I was ‘given away’ by a man who was all but keepin’ me prisoner at his castle. And I’d only kent yer father fer aboot three weeks, if even that.”

“Ye kent ye loved him already?” Brèagha asked her, and Mama sighed again.

“At the time… no,” she confessed. “We didnae love each other, or at least, we didnae ken tha’ we did. Our marriage was arranged because we’d been caught snoggin’, and because the chief of Clan Mackenzie wanted te use me te forge a union between Clan Mackenzie and Clan Fowlis of Barra. No’ that it mattered in the end. Castle Leoch was destroyed after Culloden, and clans were all but obliterated.”

“But ye did come te love Daddy?” Brèagha asked again, and Mama smiled softly.

“Aye, I did,” she answered her. “I came te love him so much, I gave up everrathin’ I kent te be with him. We… certainly hit some bumps over the years, but I dinnae regret a single day of our marriage.”

“Do ye think my marriage te Rory will be like yers?” Brèagha asked her.

“Ye’ve already hit a rough patch, and if ye can survive that, ye can survive anythin’,” Mama told her with a smile. She added some final touches to Brèagha’s hair and placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “I’m finished here, so if yer ready, then let’s get ye marrit te the love of yer life.” When Brèagha came out of the tent, she was surprised to see her brother, her father, and Caoimhe already waiting for her. “Marsali, Fergus, Maevis and Elton accompanied Rory and Donnie up there already. We’re te meet them there,” Mama told her.

“All right,” said Brèagha, a grand smile plastered on her face. Da approached her and embraced her warmly, pulling back to look at his daughter with a look of pride on his face.

“My bonny lass,” he told her happily. “Ye look perfect.”

“Are ye ready, Daddy?” Brèagha asked him.

“As ready as I’ll ever be te give my daughter away te another man,” said Da with a soft sigh. Mama came out of Lizzie’s tent with Lark in her arms and Lizzie followed with Wren, while Ginnie tagged behind carrying a little stuffed bird that Brèagha had made for her.

“Ready te go?” Mama asked them.

“Aye, let’s,” said Archie, leading the way.

“I’m goin’ te stay here wi’ Clara, but best of luck te ye, Cousin,” said Caoimhe, embracing Brèagha tightly. “I’ll see ye when yer officially Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“Hopefully, ye’ll be next,” said Brèagha, teasing her lightly. “With Mr. McCullough, maybe?” Caoimhe’s cheeks turned pink.

“One weddin’ at a time,” said Caoimhe, stepping back to allow Brèagha, on the arm of her father, to make her way to her groom-to-be.

CATRÌONA POV

As unsettling as it was for me to know my son was grown and married, it was equally as unsettling to see my daughter doing the very same. When I had last seen Brèagha before the events of Hy-Brasil, she had been this bonny wee lassie of age five. She liked scribbling with charcoal on parchment, she liked to ride on her father’s shoulders with her arms spread out like wings, and she liked to annoy her brother by forcibly hugging him. Now, she was fully grown, no longer a little girl, but a woman. She was a mother, an accomplished artist, often described as the most beautiful woman in all of North Carolina by many who had seen her. I had already grown used to her not being around often and living on her own, but now, it was hitting me as I watched her excitedly prepare to marry the love of her life. All was well with the world - until we saw Archie come running towards us with his eyes wide with alarm.

“Archie! What is it?” Jamie asked him firmly.

“Father Kenneth has been arrested, Da!” Archie exclaimed, and Brèagha gasped.

“What?” she demanded. “But what aboot our weddin’?”

“Shh, hen, everrathin’ will be all right. We’ll figure it out,” I said to her, trying to give her comfort.

“Where is he?” Jamie asked Archie sharply.

“There,” said Archie, pointing down the hill at a large tent. “The tent of a Mr. Lillywhite, a magistrate in Hillsborough.” Another figure appeared from the wood running towards us, and I realised that it was Fergus.

“Milord! Milord!” Fergus called as he approached us.

“Easy, lad,” Jamie said to him as Fergus huffed and puffed.

“What are we to do? Father Kenneth has yet to perform the baptisms!” Fergus exclaimed. He was also planning on getting Germain and wee Joanie baptised by the Catholic priest as well.

“I have an idea,” I chimed in as I looked at the tent. “I’ll go back te camp, fetch my bag and tell the guard tha’ the priest is ill. Ye lot will go around and sneak in under the tent.”

“All of us?” Archie asked me.

“But who will distract the guard?” Fergus asked me.

“I can do it,” said Archie. “I’m no’ gettin’ marrit or seein’ my child baptised.”

“Thank ye, lad,” Jamie said to his son, and I huffed a little.

“Forget marriage, there isnae time,” I said to them.

“Mama!” Brèagha exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, hen, but we willnae have time. The bairns can be baptised and tha’s all we’ll have time fer, I’m afraid. Wi’ marriage, we have other, more legal options,” I told her, and Brèagha huffed.

“When can I get marrit fer real, then?” she demanded from me.

“Back at the Ridge, by a Protestant priest,” I said, and I cut off Jamie before he could open his mouth to protest. “Ah! Ye kent this might happen. Ye ken tha’ practicin’ Catholicism openly is illegal in the Commonwealth. Ye will bite yer tongue and allow yer daughter te be marrit by a Protestant priest. I’m allowin’ ye time fer the bairns te be baptised but I cannae tend te him fer longer than that.” With that said, I turned and headed back towards the camp, plotting what I would say to the guard in my head.

I approached with Maevis at my side, as she would be ‘assisting’ me as I ‘tended’ to the priest. It was clear by the look on her face that she didn’t want to go, but she bit her lip and came anyway. “Just let me do all the talkin’, hen. We’ll see yer bairns baptised,” I said to her.

“What do I care? I’m pagan just like you,” Maevis said to me softly.

“Then fer yer father’s sake,” I told her. We approached the guard, a ‘nasty fat man’, as described by Marsali back at the camp once she was apprised of our plan. She was carrying Joan, while Fergus had Germain, Rory had Donnie, Brèagha had Wren and Jamie had Lark and Ginnie, and they were all waiting for Archie’s signal. Archie was nearby ready to distract the guard once Maevis and I went inside.

“Good evening to you, ma’am,” said the guard, eyeing me carefully.

“Good evenin’,” I said. “Yer the sheriff, arenae ye? I’m Mrs. James Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge, and this is my daughter, Maevis.”

“David Anstruther, Sheriff of Orange County,” said the sheriff, nodding to us both. “Yer servant, ma’ams.”

“From what I’ve been hearin’, yer entertainin’ Father Kenneth Donahue,” I said rather nonchalantly. “I’m his physician, I’ve come te see him. I’ve been treatin’ him fer scrofula.” It was the only condition that was well known enough by the general public. Sheriff Anstruther eyed me curiously, his brow raising.

“A woman for a physician?” he asked me.

“Aye, we exist,” I told him. “May I?”

“I’m not so sure I should allow this meeting to occur,” said Sheriff Anstruther. “The clerical gentleman inside is under arrest.”

“Is he?” I asked casually.

“A priest under arrest?” Maevis asked, trying to distract the guard even further.

“Perhaps you are unaware, madams, that it is illegal for anyone other than the clergy of the Church of England to undertake his office within the colony of North Carolina?” Sheriff Anstruther asked us with one brow raised. “And practice, as well?”

“Aye, I’m well aware. Have no fear, we’re no’ Catholic,” I said to him, which absolutely wasn’t a lie. “Surely, ye ken tha’ Scrofula is often a condition that, if allowed te go untreated, results in death? Surely, ye dinnae want a dead priest on yer hands who would otherwise be alive, if only his physician were allowed te treat him?”

“Hmph,” said the sheriff.

“While it may be illegal fer anyone te practice Catholicism… surely, ye dinnae want a riot on yer hands?” I said to him rather sternly, raising my own brow. “Ye forget, yer surrounded by hundreds of Highland Scots, many of whom were sent here after the Uprisin’ in ‘45?” The sheriff’s brow raised a little as he looked around at the people on the open field, then huffed a little.

“Very well,” he said, stepping aside. “But do be quick. Mr. Lillywhite is to return shortly.”

“Will do,” I said, ducking into the tent. Inside, the priest could be found sitting at a table scribbling away at a document by candlelight. He looked as if he’d been roughed up quite a bit - looked like I would be treating him after all. “Father Kenneth,” I said as I approached him, surprising him a little.

“May I help ye, my dear?” said Father Kenneth as I set down my medical bag on the table and Maevis moved to watch the entrance to the tent.

“My name is Mrs. Fraser, I’m the wife of James Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge,” I told him, taking his face into my hands to inspect his wounds. He had a nasty bruise forming under his eye and several cuts, and his nose appeared to be broken.

“Ah… It’s verra kind of ye te… think of me, Mistress Fraser,” said the priest. “I was… writing my will, just now.” I set my hands on either side of his nose.

“Quick now, one, two, three,” I said, snapping his nose back into place, and he let out a small startled cry that was nearly masked by the loud crack of his nose slipping back into place.

“Goodness!” he cried out with alarm.

“Sorry fer that, but I needed te straighten yer nose,” I told him, wiping the blood from his nose off on my skirt. “Och now, there’s no need fer writin‘ wills. Ye’ll be fine,” I said to him. “Where else are ye hurt?”

“Och, ‘tis nothin’, my dear,” he said to me tiredly as I sat down and took out some gauze and alcohol. I glanced briefly at the wall of the tent opposite of the entrance, where my family should soon be emerging. “‘Twas only that I made the mistake of resistin’ when the sheriff arrested me. I didn’t do a small bit of damage te the puir man’s bollocks, and him only doin’ of his duty, may God forgive me.”

“Still, ye dinnae want te let these cuts go untreated. Ye dinnae want an infection,” I said, lightly dabbing at the cuts with an alcohol-soaked cloth, and he hissed a little in pain.

“Mr. Lillywhite… did tender me a most gracious apology… fer the hurt,” said Father Kenneth, and I scoffed lightly.

“I suppose tha’s better than nothin’,” I said, continuing to clean his wounds.

“Archie’s there now, Mama,” Maevis said to me from the door, a slightly uncomfortable look on her face. “Should I give my signal?”

“Aye, might as well,” I said, and Father Kenneth raised a brow at me.

“What is this ‘signal’?” he asked me.

“Ye’ll find out in a minute,” I said to him as Maevis crossed to the other side of the tent and stuck a burning lantern under it. “Why ever did Mr. Lillywhite have ye arrested?” I asked him, trying to pass the time while I began to stitch his wounds.

“He claims it was… in the interest of Mistress Cameron,” said Father Kenneth. “I suppose… word got out that I was te tend te the marriage of her and Mr. Innes.”

“Ah,” I said. “Cannae have her marryin’ a Catholic by a Catholic priest, huh?”

“The woman is Catholic herself,” said Father Kenneth.

“Aye, I ken,” I replied, cutting the thread of the stitches. “She’s my husband’s aunt.”

“Ah, yes. Your husband did ask me te tend te marriage of his daughter as well. And I suppose, by extension, yer daughter as well? Is this the daughter?” asked Father Kenneth, referring to Maevis.

“No, that would be my other daughter,” I told him. I heard the sound of hushed voices outside of the tent and suddenly, the wall lifted and a bairn was passed underneath the tent to Maevis - it was Lark, and I saw Maevis make a small face when she realised which bairn was passed to her. Jamie then crawled under the tent, and Father Kenneth made a sound of surprise.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed with surprise, and I grasped his hand and shushed him.

“Shh, ye dinnae want te alarm the sheriff,” I said to him in a hushed voice.

“Father Kenneth,” said Jamie, standing up fully as Maevis assisted the next person through the tent, which was Fergus with Germain. “I hope we didnae startle ye too much.”

“Whatever is this?” asked Father Kenneth.

“I do hope ye’ll pardon the intrusion, but I did hope that ye might consider performin’ a baptism on my grandchildren,” Jamie said to him, turning as Brèagha was helped under the tent flap next, Wren nestled in her arms.

“A baptism? Now?” asked Father Kenneth, looking at me with a rather perplexed expression on his face. “I dinnae have holy water at my disposal.”

“I’ve water here, if ye can bless it,” I said, pulling a wee glass bottle of water out and resting it on the table. I, personally, didn’t care much for having the bairns baptised, but it meant a lot to Jamie, so I was being the best supportive wife that I could be.

“Ah, indeed ye do. And do ye have the salt?” Father Kenneth asked me, and I raised my brow in confusion.

“Salt?” I asked him.

“I have it, Father,” said Jamie, producing the salt in question, and Maevis and I exchanged a small confused glance as Father Kenneth began to bless the salt.

“Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth,” he started to say. “O salt, creature of God, I exorcise ye by the livin’ God, by the true God, by the holy God, by the God who ordained ye te be poured into the water by Eliseo the Prophet so that-”

“Truly forgive me fer interruptin’, but cannae ye speed it up a wee bit? I dinnae ken how long we can keep the guard distracted,” I said a bit irritably and also nervously, glancing at the entrance to the tent.

“Verra well,” said Father Kenneth mildly irritably, setting aside the salt and focusing now on the water. “Is this water untainted?”

“I got it from the river, if tha’s what ye mean,” I said to him.

“It’ll have te do,” said Jamie, also ushering the Father on.

“O, water, creature of God, I exorcise ye in the name of God the Father Almighty, and in the name of Jesus Christ His Son, our Lord, and in the power of the Holy Spirit. I exorcise ye so that ye may put flight te all the power of the Enemy, and be able te root out and supplant that Enemy wi’ his apostate angels: through the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who will come te judge the livin’ and the dead and the world by fire. Amen,” said the priest.

“Amen,” muttered everyone but myself and Maevis.

“Present the first child te be baptised,” said Father Kenneth as Fergus stepped forward with Germain.

“Mon fille, Germain Alexander Claudel Fowlis Fraser,” said Fergus, giving Germain’s full name.

“Hi!” said wee Germain, waving at Father Kenneth, and Father Kenneth quickly dipped his finger in the holy water and anointed Germain by drawing the cross on his forehead.

“Germain Alexander Claudel Fowlis Fraser, I baptise thee… Jerome, fer Saint Jerome Emiliani, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” said Father Kenneth as Fergus crossed himself.

“Amen,” he said, lifting a confused Germain from the table.

“Bye bye!” said wee Germain as Marsali stepped forward with Joan.

“Our daughter, Joan Laoghaire Catrìona Fraser,” Marsali told him, and Father Kenneth repeated the cross on wee Joanie’s forehead.

“Joan Laoghaire Catrìona Fraser, I baptise thee… Margaret, fer Saint Margaret, Queen of Scotland, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Marsali, taking Joan and stepping back so that Rory could move forward with Donnie.

“Er… This is my son, Donald James Fraser Mackenzie,” Rory told him a bit awkwardly as Father Kenneth began to baptise him as well.

“Donald James Fraser Mackenzie, I baptise thee… David, fer Saint David, Bishop of Mynyw, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“A-Amen,” said Rory, crossing himself as he saw Fergus and Marsali do. Next, it was Brèagha’s turn with Wren, but she beckoned Maevis over. Maevis had handed Lark off to me rather quickly, and when Brèagha tried to give Wren to her, her eyes widened a little.

“Maevis, ‘tis customary fer the parent te hold their bairn,” she said to Maevis, and I glanced at my daughter.

“It’ll be all right,” I told her, touching her shoulder softly. Maevis nodded, then stepped forward and accepted Wren. She cleared her throat softly as she carefully approached the Father.

“Um… Th-this is my daughter… Wren. Wren Brianna Fraser,” she said softly.

“Wren Brianna Fraser, I baptise thee… Cecilia, fer Saint Cecilia the Virgin Martyr, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Maevis didn’t say anything as she handed Wren back to Brèagha, and I stepped forward to pass Lark to her next.

“Dinnae forget, ye’ve another,” I said to her quietly. Maevis looked up at me, meeting my eyes for a moment, before looking down at Lark with a neutral expression. I could hear her release a very soft, quiet sigh as she accepted her fair-haired daughter, not looking at her face as she turned back to Father Kenneth.

“My… daughter… Lark Elizabeth Fraser,” said Maevis with some strain.

“Lark Elizabeth Fraser, I baptise thee… Monica, fer Saint Monica, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Maevis nodded subtly before quickly handing Lark back to me. Lark fussed a little in my arms, so I gave her my wee finger to suck on while Jamie approached the Father with Ginnie.

“C’mere, my wee lass,” said Jamie as he picked her up and stood her up on the table.

“Wee!” said Ginnie excitedly, and Jamie shushed her sweetly.

“Shh, mo nighean, we must be verra quiet,” he said as he kissed her cheek quickly, and she giggled and put her finger to her lips. “This is my daughter, Virginia Liberty Carolina Fowlis Fraser.”

“Ginnie!” said Ginnie, as if to correct her father.

“Aye, we call her ‘Ginnie’,” said Jamie.

“Good evenin’ te ye, Ginnie,” said Father Kenneth, and then he dipped his finger into the water and drew a cross on Ginnie’s head. “Virginia Liberty Carolina Fowlis Fraser, I baptise thee… Milburga, fer Saint Milburga, Abbess of Wenlock Priory, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Jamie, crossing himself.

“Ay-men!” said wee Ginnie.

“Good lass,” said Jamie, kissing her head as he put her back down on the floor.

“Milburga?” Marsali asked with a raised brow.

“The patron saint of birds,” said Father Kenneth. “I baptise in the name of the Lord, and it is He who directs me. Now, is there another?” asked Father Kenneth, looking at all the newly baptised bairns.

“Er… Is Maevis baptised?” Jamie asked me, and I looked at Maevis.

“Me?” she asked, and then she looked at me next. “I don’t know, actually.”

“We… never got around te it,” I said. “Wi’ the… war and all…”

“Come, my dear child,” said Father Kenneth, beckoning for her to approach. Not wanting to say no, she awkwardly approached him, and I cleared my throat.

“Our daughter, Maevis Anne Bridget Fowlis Fraser,” I said to him.

“Maevis Anne Bridget Fowlis Fraser,” repeated Father Kenneth, drawing the sign of the cross in holy water on her forehead. “I baptise the… Joan, fer Saint Joan of Arc, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” I heard Jamie mutter softly. Saint Joan of Arc - the patron saint of France, of soldiers… and of rape victims. But she didn’t know that, of course, and unless she asked me, I had no intention of explaining.

“Joan of Arc,” said Maevis with a small half smile - only because she knew the name. “I’ve heard of her before.”

“A fine saint in our faith, my dear,” said Father Kenneth proudly, and Maevis then looked to myself and Jamie.

“Who are your saints?” she asked us.

“Er, Saint Alexander, companion te Saint Epipodius,” Jamie said to her, and she looked at me next.

“What about you? Are you baptised, Mama?” she asked me.

“Of course she is,” said Brèagha, but the small look in her eye suggested that she wasn’t entirely sure about that.

“Aye, I was,” I said. “My father was Catholic, and he saw us all baptised. My patron saint is Saint Brigid.”

“Saint Brigid,” Maevis repeated. “Like…” I nodded, knowing she was thinking of the Goddess that we both believed in and worshiped.

ARCHIE POV

“Truly? Tha’ must have been a battle te see, Sheriff,” Archie was saying after listening to Sheriff Anstruther tell him a story about the Seven Years’ War.

“Indeed, quite a battle!” he said. “I was stationed next at Fort Niagara, protecting it from the French.”

“And where is Fort Niagara?” Archie asked him curiously.

“Oh, far north, up close to the Canadian territories,” the sheriff told him. “I have never known such cold!”

“Clearly, ye havenae been te Scotland,” said Archie with a casual chuckle. “It’s been quite cold there many times.”

“Ah, Mr. Lillywhite!” said the sheriff, and Archie’s stomach dropped and he whipped around as he saw the Hillsborough magistrate appear. “The prisoner’s physician is inside tending to him.”

“The prisoner’s physician? I didn’t order any physician to come,” said Mr. Lillywhite with a brow raised. “Who is this young fellow?”

“Er… Archie Fraser, sir, of Fraser’s Ridge,” said Archie a bit nervously, glancing around for Elton. Elton was supposed to come to his rescue if things went south, and so far, Elton was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, you’re the son of Mrs. Cameron’s nephew,” said Mr. Lillywhite. “The one who eloped with Amos Ainsley’s daughter, who was engaged to a Mr. George Underwood of Cross Creek.”

“Aye, that would be me. I see ye’ve heard of me,” said Archie a bit awkwardly.

“How could I not? Mr. Underwood has been very vocal about your transgression against himself and Mr. Ainsley,” said Mr. Lillywhite, giving Archie a suspicious look. “Had it been my daughter… Oh, but never mind it. I need to have a word with the prisoner.”

“Wait!” Archie exclaimed, drawing further suspicion from Mr. Lillywhite. “I… was possibly interested in becomin’ a… magistrate… Do ye have any advice on how I could do such a thing?” At this, Mr. Lillywhite let out a harsh laugh.

“You? A magistrate? After what you did?” he asked him, and then he scoffed. “Dear boy, you should stay far away from politics of any kind. Politicians have a way of dredging up the past, and yours certainly is very colourful - and I believe so is that of your parents, as well.”

“My mother is a respected physician and my father an established landowner,” Archie told him, narrowing his eyes a little at the man.

“And are they not both pardoned Jacobites?” Mr. Lillywhite asked him, raising a brow at Archie, and Archie didn’t answer him. “So I thought. If you’ll excuse me…”

“But sir!” Archie exclaimed rather loudly, hoping to alarm his family inside of the tent, if they were still there.

“Mr. Lillywhite!” called another voice all of a sudden, and Mr. Lillywhite let out a firm huff and turned to face this new person who was interrupting him.

“Whatever can it be now?” demanded Mr. Lillywhite, and this surprise rescuer stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the lanterns, revealing himself to be…

“Cousin Seàrlas?” Archie asked with shock, staring with wide eyes at the middle-aged bespectacled man with thinning red hair who had approached. Seàrlas MacBean, Mama’s cousin and the other surviving grandson of Eairdsidh Ruadh Fowlis. He recalled Seàrlas had left Barra when Archie was nine, shortly after Mama went back to her time and Cousin Beitiris died, but he hadn’t expected to run into him in the Colonies, of all places. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, honestly, especially at a Scottish gathering.

“Archie?” said Seàrlas, recognising Archie almost immediately. “Christ, ye look just like Grandsire…”

“So I’ve been told,” said Archie with a soft chuckle.

“Can this reunion not occur elsewhere?” demanded Mr. Lillywhite.

“Um, actually, I’ve come te ye fer yer services, sir,” said Seàrlas, clearing his throat. There was a soft look of controlled anger in his eyes. “Ye see, a rape has occurred. A young lass was attacked by an unknown assailant. We dinnae ken him, and he willnae give us his name, but we have him in custody.”

“I see,” said Mr. Lillywhite. “And who is the victim of this rape?” Seàrlas was silent for a moment, seemingly biting his lip as he spit out bitter words.

“My daughter, Beatrice,” he said, fire lighting up his eyes, and Archie’s own eyes widened.

“Christ,” he said quietly.

“I am sorry to hear, sir,” said Mr. Lillywhite, giving a hefty sigh and looking to the sheriff. “I shall return shortly. Lead the way, Mr…”

“MacBean. Seàrlas MacBean,” said Seàrlas, glancing briefly at Archie before turning and leading Mr. Lillywhite away.

“Poor girl,” said the sheriff, clicking his tongue.

CATRÌONA POV

After I watched my family slip back under the wall of the tent, I left Father Kenneth with some boneset tea to help his pain and Maevis and I left the tent. I was surprised to find Archie still there with the sheriff, and I raised my brow at his concerned expression. “Archie, what is it?” I asked him.

“It’s… There’s been a rape, Mama,” he said to me softly, and I heard Maevis gasp softly behind me. I took a deep breath and steeled my expression, trying hard not to be unsettled.

“Who?” I asked him.

“It was Cousin Seàrlas’s daughter,” Archie told me, and I raised my brow.

“Cousin Seàrlas? Seàrlas MacBean?” I asked. I hadn’t seen my cousin since before Hy-Brasil, so to run into him in the Colonies of all places… Oh, it wasn’t important right now. A lass had been raped, and therefore was in need of my services. “All right. Take yer sister back te our camp. I’ll go and see te her.” I turned to look at Maevis, who was quiet behind me. Her eyes had glassed over and she looked numb, so I gently rubbed her back and urged her to go with her brother. “Take care of her,” I whispered to him. “Ask Caoimhe fer skullcap and lavender tea. And tell yer father.”

“Aye, Mama,” said Archie, clearly unsettled and somewhat angry by this news. I watched as he led Maevis away, then I glanced briefly at the sheriff before turning and heading for the field, where the majority of camps were settled. There was a crowd centered around one tent, and as I pushed through the crowd, I heard shouts and cries of ‘Rapist!’ ‘Hang the bastard!’ and the like.

“Excuse me, I’m a physician,” I said, pushing my way through, and when I finally got to the front, I could see my own cousin standing outside facing the tent, his arms crossed and one hand supporting his chin. I lightly touched his back. “Seàrlas.” He quickly turned, and his expression of concern and worry didn’t change when he saw me, despite the last time being nearly twenty years ago. “Archie told me. Can I see te her?” He nodded, gesturing to the tent.

“She’s inside,” he said softly, and I nodded and stepped inside. The young girl was sitting on the floor sobbing in her mother’s arms, and the brown-haired woman was shushing her and rocking her gently. She looked up as I knelt down beside the two of them.

“Can I help ye?” the woman asked me, eyeing me curiously.

“My name’s Catrìona Fraser, I’m a physician,” I told her softly. “I’m… Seàrlas’s cousin.”

“Are ye?” she asked me. “Sioned, and this is my daughter, Beatrice.”

“Hello, Beatrice,” I said to her, very gently touching her shoulder.

“Bea, Mrs. Fraser is goin’ te help ye. She’s a physician,” Sioned said to her daughter, who nodded a little and looked up at me. She looked just like Beitiris, her aunt, but it was clear that she was Seàrlas’s daughter. She had her father’s red hair and freckles, and the Fowlis grey eyes.

“Hello, wee darlin’,” I said, smiling softly. “Can ye tell me how auld ye are?”

“I-I’m… fourteen…” she said softly.

“Fourteen,” I said, confirming what she had said. “Now, I ken this’ll be hard, but… I need ye te tell me what he did te ye, so I know how ye treat ye.”

“D-Do I have te?” she asked, sniffling.

“In yer own time. I can stay as long as ye need me te,” I said to her. Outside, all of a sudden, there was a high pitched scream and numerous shouts, and then there were gunshots. My head shot up along with young Beatrice’s, and she cowered back into her mother’s arms. “Stay here, I’ll have a look.” I stood up, leaving my bag in the tent as I went outside to see that the crowd had moved, although some were still outside of the tent. Suddenly, I saw Elton standing in the crowd, so I called to him. “Elton!” He looked at me, then ran over. “What happened?”

“The rapist broke free of his restraints, Mam,” he told me, looking back at the crowd, who sounded quite vicious. “I think… I think he was shot.”

“Where’s Seàrlas?” I asked, looking around for my cousin, but I didn’t see him.

“Who?” Elton asked me.

“The father of the victim,” I told him.

“Oh, him. He tried te stop the crowd, but they wouldnae have it,” Elton told me. “He’s speakin’ wi’ the magistrate.”

“Great,” I said with a soft sigh. “Stay outside of the tent and when he returns, tell him I’d like te speak wi’ him.” Elton nodded, and I touched his shoulder before I went back into the tent.

It was nearly dawn when I came out and found Seàrlas sitting on a log outside of the tent, his back to me. Leaning on him was a brown-haired girl who looked to be asleep, and sitting across from him was a brown-haired lad who was watching the fire. Elton, Archie and Brèagha were also by the fire, and they looked up at me when I came out of the tent. “Mama,” said Brèagha, standing up and hugging me tightly. “Archie told me what happened. When I heard it was Seàrlas’s daughter, I had te come. Is she all right?”

“She’ll be fine, hen,” I told her, though I was definitely disassociating a little. “Ye should go back te yer son. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Are ye sure?” Brèagha asked me, and I nodded, looking next to my two sons.

“Ye both should, too. I’ve got it from here,” I told them, and they both stood up.

“All right, Mama,” said Archie. I watched as my three children left, and then I sat down at the fire beside Seàrlas.

“She’s grown te be verra bonny, Brèagha,” said Seàrlas softly as he looked at the fire. “And Archie… He looks just like Grandsire.”

“Aye, he truly does,” I said, looking up at him. Time had definitely touched him, but I could tell that he was still the same Seàrlas, only this time, he was carrying a heavy weight. “She’ll be all right. I… gave her somethin’ te… prevent a bairn.” He nodded subtly, then looked over at the lad across from me.

“This is my son, Seumas. He’s sixteen,” Seàrlas said. “Lad, this is my cousin, Catrìona Fraser.”

“A pleasure te meet ye, ma’am,” said the young lad.

“And ye as well, Seumas,” I said politely.

“And this is my younger daughter, Ceitidh. She’s eleven,” Seàrlas said, referring to the sleeping girl beside him.

“She’s verra bonny,” I said. “I have two more children as well. Ye met my son, Elton, but I have two more daughters, Maevis and Ginnie.” I paused for a moment. “I have Cailean’s daughter wi’ me, too. Caoimhe.”

“Aye? I take it Cailean’s the Laird now?” Seàrlas asked, and I nodded. “Liùsaidh wrote te me when Grandsire died. The letter arrived in the summer, but… he died the same day Ceitidh was born.”

“I… wasnae here when he died,” I told him, and he understood what I meant.

“Yer husband mentioned ye’d gone back,” Seàrlas said softly. “Once ye left and… Beitiris died, I… couldnae stand te live on Barra any longer. My mother was furious wi’ me, wanted me te stay… Then my Da died and she blamed my leavin’ fer it.”

“I’m sure it wasnae yer fault,” I told him, and he sighed.

“No, and I ken that. Da said he’d never left Scotland and encouraged me te do so. He said Barra was too small, tha’ I’d be condemned te the life of a farmer or a sailor if I didnae leave. He said I was the grandson of a Laird and meant te do much more than that,” he told me. “Ma hasnae written me since. Liùsaidh still writes, but Ma… She willnae respond te my letters. It’s been fifteen years.”

“Maybe I could try writin’ te her,” I said, and he scoffed lightly.

“She thinks ye abandoned us, too. I dinnae think she’d take verra kindly te that,” he replied, and I raised a brow.

“Really? She seemed civil when I saw her a few years ago,” I said. “I went te visit Barra and she seemed happy te see me.”

“Tha’s Ma, good at puttin’ on a facade, but the second ye turn yer back…” He sighed. “Ye met my wife, I’m assumin’?”

“Sioned, aye. She’s verra kind,” I told him.

“We met in Philadelphia,” he said. “It was when I had first arrived. She was the daughter of a Scottish landowner and a Welsh Quaker who lived in a town called Bryn Mawr. It was love at first sight fer us.”

“Bryn Mawr? I’ve heard of it. Yer quite far from Pennsylvania,” I said next.

“Aye, well… Her parents died of illness and her brother inherited the land. He never liked me much, but tolerated me fer his sister’s sake. I knew quickly it was time fer us te leave, but we had nowhere te go. Still have nowhere te go… I’d heard of a gatherin’ of Scots in North Carolina and thought, what better place te find a home than among my own kind? Never thought I’d run into you.”

“Then it’s a good thing ye have,” I told him. “I wish it were under better circumstances… but it is what it is. We have land not too far from here. We call it Fraser’s Ridge. If ye’d like… we’d love fer ye te settle there.”

“Are ye certain? Even wi’ this trouble we’ve now brought?” Seàrlas asked me.

“Of course, yer family,” I told him. “And… one of my daughters, Maevis, was… raped as well. Last summer. She’s now got two bairns.”

“Christ… I’m sorry te hear of it,” Seàrlas said to me with genuine concern.

“She’s all right. She kens she isnae alone, and Beatrice willnae be, either,” I told him, smiling softly. “I hope ye’ll come wi’ us when we return home.”

“We’d be glad te, Cousin,” said Seàrlas kindly and gratefully. “I cannae thank ye enough, fer all ye’ve been doin’… We’ve scarcely been reunited fer a day.”

“Time kens no limits,” I told him, and then I sighed softly. “I’ll return in a few hours te check on Beatrice. It’s been a long night. Ye and I both should try and get some sleep.”

“I dinnae ken if I can,” said Seàrlas as I stood, and I placed a hand comfortingly on his back.

“It’ll get better,” I told him. “Dinnae blame yerself. You, Beatrice… Neither of ye are at fault fer this. The only one at fault was the bastard who hurt her.”

“I never even found out his name,” Seàrlas told me, and I sighed softly.

“Perhaps it’s fer the best,” I said. “Sometimes, I wish I didnae ken the name of my daughter’s rapist.”

25 August, 1770

Given the events of the last few days, we decided ultimately to leave the gathering early and head home. As we finished packing up our camp, Jamie approached me accompanied by an older couple whom I had yet to meet. “Catrìona,” he said as he approached me. “I’d like ye te meet Mr. Arch and Murdina Bug.”

“Oh, a great pleasure te meet ye both,” I said kindly as Mr. Bug accepted my hand to plant a polite kiss on it, and I was taken aback by the fact that he was missing two fingers on his right hand. “Oh, goodness, what happened te ye, sir?”

“Och, auld injury,” said the man kindly to me.

“Mr. Bug is a veteran of the Battle of Sheriffmuir,” Jamie told me. “He was an archer.” At this, my eyes widened with interest.

“An archer? Ye dinnae say?” I asked with surprise. “I’ve been an archer myself since I was young.”

“And she’s a damn good shot,” said Jamie with a soft chuckle. “I’ve offered the Bugs a piece of land on the Ridge.”

“Oh, have ye?” I asked him. “We’ll be glad te have ye.”

“I verra much look forward te it, dear,” said Mrs. Bug in a kindly grandmother-like fashion.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Bug te serve as our housekeeper,” Jamie told me.

“Then I’d be especially grateful te have ye,” I told them. Jamie then introduced them to Archie, who helped them get situated, and then Jamie approached me again.

“Is yer cousin comin’?” he asked me.

“Aye, he agreed te come,” I told him. “Perhaps Beatrice isnae well. I can go and check on them.”

“Aye, best if ye do. I want te be as far from here as possible by dusk,” Jamie told me. As I was preparing to head back to Seàrlas’s tent, I found that I didn’t have to, as he and his family were on their way up the hill towards us.

“Forgive me fer the delay. Seumas thought he could store away the tent on his own,” said Seàrlas, and the young lad’s cheeks turned a little pink.

“Seàrlas,” came Jamie’s voice as he approached my cousin.

“Jamie! How is it ye still have a full head of hair?” Seàrlas asked him playfully, shaking Jamie’s hand with a smile. “It’s good te see ye, Cousin.”

“And ye as well. We’re glad te have ye join us on the Ridge,” Jamie told him.

“And we’re glad te have a home,” said Sioned. “Sioned MacBean, Seàrlas’s wife.”

“James Fraser, Catrìona’s husband,” Jamie said to her with amusement. “Ye’ll both find tha’ we’ve settled a bonny piece of land.”

“Aye, verra bonny. It isnae Barra, but the Ridge is unique in its own way,” I said to them cheerfully.

“Then we look forward te this new chapter in our lives,” said Seàrlas with pride. Having Seàrlas back in our lives brought back a little bit of the life we knew when we lived at Barra, and I think it was good for us both. Both Seàrlas and I had been through hell and back since we parted nearly twenty years ago, and nothing was even close to the way it had been back then. Things had changed in both a good and a bad way, but having each other as even a small constant was the best way we could retain a small bit of who we used to be.

Chapter Text

8 September, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

“Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,

And oh, te be lyin’ beyond thee,

And sweetly, soundly, well may he sleep

Tha’s laid in the bed beyond thee.”

I sang a Robert Burns song to Ginnie as I brushed out her bonny brown hair before bed, pulling it back into a plait while she brushed her stuffed bird. She looked up at me and giggled sweetly, and I smiled at her as I continued to sing.

“But Ginnie, say thou wilt be mine,

Say thou loves none before me,

And all my days of life te come,

I’ll gratefully adore thee.

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,

And oh, te be lyin’ beyond thee,

And sweetly, soundly, well may he sleep

Tha’s laid in the bed beyond thee.”

I bent down to kiss her wee nose as she giggled again, then I tied off her plait and kissed the top of her head. “Right, my wee chickadee, it’s time fer bed fer ye,” I told her, pushing her lightly to stand, but she resisted.

“I no want bed, Mama!” she said to me, and I gave her a look.

“Ginnie, ye must. We’ve a big day tomorrow. ‘Tis Bree’s weddin’! Ye need te be well rested, else ye’ll fall asleep before the celebrations,” I told her, glancing up at the door when I heard a soft knock and saw Mrs. Bug when the door opened. “Go on wi’ Mrs. Bug, a leannan.”

“Come, a muirnean, I can tell ye another wee story if ye like,” said Mrs. Bug, holding out a wrinkled hand to Ginnie, who jumped up excitedly.

“Yeah! Story!” she said excitedly, taking Mrs. Bug’s hand, and Mrs. Bug led her out of the room.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Bug!” I called before she closed the door, and then I sighed softly, looking up at Jamie. Jamie had been reading a book on the bed - or at least was pretending to. Actually, his eyes were staring out the window and there was a melancholic look on his face. “All right, speak up. What is it?” I asked him, standing up and moving to the bed. He looked at me for a second, then sighed softly, returning his gaze to the window.

“I’m no’ ready te give my daughter away,” he said to me softly.

“Ah, I thought it might be that,” I said. “Ye ken, she’s been all but marrit te Rory fer months now, livin’ wi’ him as his wife. All tha’s doin’ tomorrow is makin’ it legal.”

“I ken that fine,” said Jamie a bit sharply. “I accepted it, but I didnae like it. I could look past it, but now… it’ll be real.”

“It’s been real,” I told him, and then I sighed. “But I get it. I still find it difficult te accept tha’ Archie is marrit and out of the house. When the bairn is born and their home is finished… I dinnae ken what I’ll do, or how I’ll feel. Heartbroken, perhaps, but… we kent this would happen someday when they were born. We kent they’d grow up, leave us, start families of their own…”

“Aye, I kent that, too,” said Jamie, turning his head to look at me, and then he took my hand in his. “All of our bairns grew so fast, it seems, and we missed out on so much of it. It doesnae seem fair.”

“It most certainly isnae,” I said to him with a sigh. “One minute, they’re wee and need us fer everrathin’ and the next… they’re cradlin’ their own bairn in their arms, and we’re standin’ off te the side auld and grey.” I let out another sigh. “At least Ginnie still needs us.” Jamie chuckled softly.

“And in a week, she’ll be auld enough te leave us, too,” he said. “Tomorrow will be difficult, but… I am glad Brèagha is happy.” He smiled. “It seems only yesterday, I was meetin’ her fer the first time. That bonny wee thing, so small… I could cradle her head in one palm.”

“She didnae feel so wee when she was comin’ out of me,” I said with amusement. “She grew so fast. Of course te me, she went from this wee thing tha’ was scarcely three feet tall te verra nearly six feet tall.”

“I regret that ye missed out on so much of her life,” Jamie told me, giving my hand a small squeeze.

“Aye,” I said softly. “Well. She’s here wi’ us now. She’s home, she’s safe, she’s happy and loved.” I started singing another song to him.

“Then let us pray that come it may

As come it will fer all that,

That sense and worth o’er all the earth,

Shall bear the gree and all that.

Fer all that, and all that.

It’s comin’ yet, fer all that.

When man te man the world o’er,

Shall brithers be fer all that.”

9 September, 1770

BRÈAGHA POV

Her grandmother’s pearls were placed delicately on her neck, adjusted so that they appeared elegant and beautiful, but didn’t take away from Brèagha’s face. Mama came around and adjusted the shoulders of her beautiful cream-coloured gown with hand-embroidered thistles on the bodice. The bespectacled mother and her bonny daughter shared a small smile as the mother licked her thumb and brushed back a flyaway red hair. “Ye look perfect,” Mama told her. “Ye make a bonny bride… fer real, this time.”

“Look what I’ve got!” came Caoimhe’s voice, and she came in with a tray of items, setting them down on the table next to them. “Auntie said ye already had somethin’ auld, so I went aboot findin’ all the rest.” She picked up a small seashell bracelet and Brèagha held out her hand as Caoimhe tied it around her wrist. “Here’s somethin’ new. I wrote te Daddy months ago askin’ him te send me wee shells from Barra.”

“All of these are from Barra?” Brèagha asked as she admired the little seashell bracelet, and Caoimhe smiled and nodded.

“Everra one, collected by Riona,” she said to her. “And Clara provided this, which she wore at her weddin’ te Archie.” It was a sheer veil, which she handed to Mama to place in Brèagha’s hair. “Somethin’ borrowed.”

“Ah, it’s so bonny,” Mama said as she pinned it into her hair. Brèagha saw her reflection and smiled at the sight.

“And here’s somethin’ blue,” Caoimhe said next, picking up a flower crown made of blue cornflowers.

“Oh, they’re beautiful!” Brèagha exclaimed as she took the flower crown, placing it on her head.

“Yer just missin’ one thing,” Mama said, reaching into her pocket for the final thing, and Caoimhe’s smile fell.

“What? What am I missin’?” she asked her with mild alarm, and Mama pulled out a coin.

“A sixpence fer yer shoe,” she said, and Caoimhe laughed a little.

“Of course!” she said, taking the coin and bending down to put it in Brèagha’s shoe.

“What do ye think, Maevis? Doesnae yer sister look beautiful?” Mama asked Maevis, who was sitting in the corner staring out the window. When she heard her name, she glanced up at them, taking a moment to look at Brèagha’s dress before looking away again.

“She looks fine,” said Maevis without emotion, and Brèagha sighed softly.

“I must ask ye te refrain from yer gloomy mood, sister. ‘Tis a happy day,” Brèagha said as she adjusted her dress a little in her reflection.

“Then I’ll just go back to my room,” said Maevis in response.

“Girls, enough,” Mama said to them both, glancing at the door and sighing. “I hope Sioned comes soon. She’s runnin’ late.”

“Sioned? What’s she doin’?” Brèagha asked her mother with a raised brow.

“A secret. Ye’ll see,” Mama said to her. “Come on, let’s get some tea and biscuits in ye. Ye dinnae want te faint at yer weddin’ - I verra nearly did and it wouldnae have been a pretty sight!”

RORY POV

Rory was in his own home that he had shared with Bree for the last few months getting ready for his wedding day. They would be married by a Protestant priest, but that would be perfectly fine for Rory. Bree had been brought up Catholic, though, and had hoped for a Catholic priest, but Rory suspected she simply wanted to be married in the eyes of God already and didn’t care if a tortoise married them, so long as they were married.

With him in his house were Elton and Archie. Archie was dressed in his mother’s Fowlis of Barra kilt, while Elton was drawing something in a sketchbook. “Ye mind not working today, Elton? It’s supposed to be a day of joy, isn’t it?” Rory asked him, teasing him.

“It’s fer yer loft, man!” Elton exclaimed defensively.

“I’m only jokin’,” said Rory, rubbing whatever the eighteenth century version of shaving cream was on his face. Bree had commented on how he was getting prickly, so he wanted to be cleanshaven for their big day.

“Ye dinnae have te have that finished now, a bhràthair,” Archie chimed in, glancing up at Rory. “Ye ken how te use one of those, Rory?”

“What, ye mean this deadly weapon I’m about te put against my throat? No, not at all,” said Rory, glancing at the straight razor with a weary expression. “No, in the future, we mostly use electric razors. Easier, and ye nick yerself less.”

“Aye, it took me some gettin’ used te straight razors, too, but I think I’ve mastered it,” said Elton from the table.

“Just yesterday, ye went te Mama’s surgery wi’ a big cut on yer hand sayin’ ye lost a fight wi’ a blade,” Archie teased him, and Elton held up his still bandaged hand with a small sigh.

“Well, I’ve nearly mastered it,” Elton replied. “At least it isnae my face.”

“I’d prefer it not to be my face when I marry yer sister,” said Rory, and Archie approached him, taking the razor from his hand and giving him assistance.

“Best let someone who actually kens what they’re doin’, then, else ye’ll lose yer head,” he said as he began to carefully shave Rory’s cheek.

“Aye, well… They don’t call it a cutthroat razor fer anything,” Rory said with a bit of unease as Archie effortlessly shaved his face.

“Wha’s the matter, brother? Nervous, are ye?” Archie asked him, pulling his head up so he could shave Rory’s neck.

“About what, the day ahead or that ye have a blade te my throat?” Rory asked him, and Archie chuckled a little.

“Bree can be a force te be reckoned wi’, but I’m sure ye ken that already,” Archie said with amusement.

“Oh, yes, that she is,” said Rory with a chuckle as Archie let go of his face. “I am a lucky man.”

“So says everra man in the county,” said Archie, finishing up Rory’s other cheek before wiping the blade clean. “There ye are, man. Clean yer face off and yer good te go.” Rory sat up and wiped his face off with a towel.

“How’s Clara?” Rory asked him. “She’ll be due any day now, aye?”

“Aye, and I hope it isnae today,” Archie told him, a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “She’s on strict bed rest, as Mama says the bairn isnae ready yet. She’ll be at the weddin’ and early celebrations, but I’m te take her straight te bed after.”

“Yeah, it’s for the best. Even four hundred years into the future, it isn’t safe for a baby te be born early,” Rory told him. “Such fragile wee things, babies. I never knew how fragile until I held Donnie fer the first time.”

“Aye, so I learned as well,” said Archie with a soft smile. “I was there te help Maevis when she had her bairns.” Rory nodded subtly.

“And how’s she?” he asked, and Archie shrugged lightly.

“I dinnae ken, she doesnae talk te me,” Archie told him, and then he looked up at Elton. “Ask her twin.”

“She doesnae speak te me, either,” Elton told them both. “I’ve asked, but she doesnae want te speak, so I just leave her alone. She doesnae want te be bothered anyway.”

“No one wants te be bothered when they’re upset,” Archie replied. “Tha’s why ye have te bother them. Then they cannae stew over it in their heads and can eventually feel better.”

“Er… I dinnae think it’s that simple?” asked Elton, raising a brow. “Is it?”

“I can’t even begin te imagine what’s going through her head,” said Rory, biting his lower lip. “I should have been there. We were supposed te go through the stones together, but she went on her own.”

“It isnae yer fault, Rory. She’s as headstrong as both of our parents,” Archie told him.

“No,” said Elton from the table. “It’s my fault, actually. I was the one who ignored her, pushed her te act drastically…”

“You had been told that not only were ye given up for adoption, but yer birth mother didn’t know ye existed and she was living four hundred years in the past. I thought Maevis had lost her mind when she told me, and I’d known her for years,” Rory told him.

“Och, what’s done is done,” said Archie, interrupting them both. “Today is a day te look forward te the future, which ye will share wi’ my wee sister. ‘Tis no use dwellin’ on the past.”

“I know, yer right,” said Rory with a sigh. Archie went to collect three glasses, then picked up the whisky decanter and poured about a shot’s worth into each of the glasses. He picked them up and gave one to each Elton and Rory, then held up the glass.

“Te a bonny future,” said Archie. “Slàinte gu sìorraidh. Health everlastin’.”

“Slàinte gu sìorraidh,” Elton repeated, raising his own glass before drinking it. Rory sighed softly.

“Slàinte gu sìorraidh,” he said, and then he downed the whisky, pursing his lips in disgust. Jamie needed to age his whisky longer.

BRÈAGHA POV

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean te be so late!” came Sioned MacBean’s voice, and she came into the parlour carrying a box under her arm with her younger daughter on her heel. “Puir Bea’s fever hasnae let up.”

“I’ll have a look at her as soon as I can,” Mama said to her.

“Mammy, can I give it te her?” asked young Ceitidh, looking up at her mother.

“Oh, all right. Ye know I can’t say no when ye give me that look, Ceitidh,” said Sioned, giving the box to Ceitidh, and Ceitidh skipped over to Brèagha and handed her the box.

“Here ye are, Miss Brèagha! Ye look very beautiful!” Ceitidh said to her, and Brèagha smiled sweetly at the little brown-haired girl.

“Thank ye, Ceitidh. Yer lookin’ adorable today,” Brèagha told her, accepting the box, and when she opened it, she gasped lightly. Inside was an embroidered sash of the Fraser tartan, and holding it together was a circular pewter ring with a pin decorated with the head of a deer. “This… This is… so beautiful. Where did ye get this, Sioned?” Brèagha asked with surprise in her eyes.

“From yer father,” Sioned told her with a smile. “He asked me te cut a piece of his plaid fer you.”

“Oh,” said Brèagha, feeling a tear in her eye as she held the fabric in her hand. “I… I never had my own…”

“Here, let me put it on ye, dear,” Mama told her, taking the sash from her and putting it on over her head.

“It doesnae feel right… I’m not goin’ te be a Fraser anymore,” she said softly.

“Ye’ll always be a Fraser, so long as ye are yer father’s daughter,” Mama told her, and then she looked up at her with her silvery eyes. “Same as ye’ll always be a Fowlis so long as yer mine. Now, Caoimhe, Maevis, why dinnae ye help me do one final sweep of the seats? We need te make sure we have enough fer all our guests.”

“Aye, Auntie,” said Caoimhe, smiling at Brèagha one more time before following Mama.

“Och, I forgot te tell you, some of the ribbons fell. I’ve pins te put them back up. Come along, Ceitidh,” said Sioned, also leaving with Ceitidh on her tail. Maevis let out a sigh and stood as well, silently following everyone out of the room.

“Jamie,” Brèagha heard Mama’s voice say in the hall. “Wait until ye see her.”

“How is she?” Da asked her. Neither of them were visible to Brèagha, but knowing they were talking about her, she couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“Nervous, I think, as any bride would be, but I ken she’s happy,” Mama told him. “What is it?”

“I… I dinnae want te give her away,” Da said softly. “I feel as if I’ve barely had any time wi’ her.”

“I ken the feelin’,” said Mama with a sigh. “We kent it would happen someday… but at least we’re givin’ her te a man she loves, and who loves her.” There was a pause in the conversation. “What? Do ye doubt his love?”

“Did he no’ doubt it himself?” Da asked her, and Brèagha’s brow furrowed.

“I dinnae think he doubted his love,” Mama told him. “He only doubted himself. But he’s here now, and he loves her.”

“Maybe tha’s what I fear,” said Da. “I ken what love can make a man do. Gives ye courage, but no’ the sense te go along wi’ it.”

“And I ken what love can make a woman do,” Mama told him.

“The man is a scholar. I imagine his area of expertise doesnae cover the dangers of the backcountry,” said Da with some firmness. “I dinnae ken if I like the idea of my daughter bein’ cared fer by a man so ill-prepared.”

“Have no fear. Brèagha is our daughter. If we could manage, so can she,” Mama replied with confidence. “And what she cannae teach him, you can, and I can, and so can Archie. Now, go and see te yer daughter. I need te see aboot fixin’ some ribbons.”

“Aye,” said Da softly. There was another pause in the conversation, and Brèagha turned back to face the mirror as she heard Mama’s footsteps disappear, pretending she wasn’t listening in on the conversation. She heard Da’s heavier footsteps enter the room, accompanied by a soft gasp, and Brèagha turned and smiled at him a little.

“Daddy,” she said to him. “Is it time?”

“Almost,” Da told her, a small smile forming on his face when he saw her. “Ye look… so bonny, my wee girl. Though ye… arenae a wee girl anymore, are ye? Yer a woman now, and a mother… and I wasnae there fer any of it.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Brèagha said to him as he approached, leaning against him as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her head. “It isnae yer fault… and it took me way too long te realise that.”

“Yer anger at me was justified,” Da told her. “All ye wanted was yer father, and I couldnae be there fer ye. When I was young, I cannae deny tha’ I was a wee bit angry at my mother fer dyin’. I was still just a lad, and I needed my mother.” He picked up the pearls between his fingers, smiling a little. “Yer grandmother’s pearls… I wish ye could have met her. Ye truly do look so much like her.” Brèagha smiled a little.

“Aunt Jenny said that, too, and tha’ she was an artist like me,” Brèagha replied.

“Aye, she was,” Da told her. “I have a wee present from Murtagh.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver necklace, fastening it around her neck for her.

“How beautiful,” said Brèagha as she admired her reflection. “I’m sorry he cannae be here today.”

“As is he, but ‘tis safer fer him te stay away,” Da told her, resting his hands on her shoulders as he met her eyes in the mirror. They had the same eyes and the same face, the father and daughter pair. There was no mistaking that Brèagha was her father’s daughter. She had his looks, his spirit, and, according to her mother, his Highland temper.

“I’m so glad ye can walk me down the aisle, Daddy,” Brèagha told him, turning to look at him again. “I worrit ye might never do so.”

“Were I dead, I would still be there by yer side, in spirit,” Da told her, giving his daughter a loving smile, but then it faded. “‘Tis a blessin’ te have ye as my daughter, Brèagha… but havin’ just gotten ye back, must I give ye away so soon?” Brèagha covered his hand with hers as she met his eyes.

“No matter where I am, or who I’m wi’, I will always be yer wee girl, Daddy,” she told him. Da smiled again, then leaned forward to kiss her head. He then turned to pick up a decanter of whisky and poured it into two cups, one for each of them, and then gave it to her.

“Are ye ready, a leannan?” Da asked her, his free hand gently touching the Fraser sash around her shoulder. Brèagha looked down at it and smiled, looking back up at him.

“Je suis prest,” she replied. They each sipped their whisky, and Brèagha made a face. “Ye need te age yer whisky more, Da.” Da let out a chuckle.

“Perhaps we can send it through the stones,” he said with some mild amusement as Mama stuck her head into the doorframe.

“All’s ready te go, and the groom is patiently waitin’. Are ye ready?” she asked them.

“Aye,” said Da, looking at Brèagha. “As ready as we can be.”

JAMIE POV

Jamie walked his daughter down the aisle with pride, smiling at every face who looked in awe up at his daughter. Brèagha was radiant as she held onto her father’s arm, and when they arrived at the altar, she kissed Jamie’s cheek as he let her go, fighting back a tear in his eye. He sat down beside Catrìona in the front row and she rested a hand on his knee, which he covered with his.

“Dearly beloved,” the Protestant priest began. “We are assembled here today in the presence of God. Let us therefore reverently remember tha’ God has established and sanctified marriage fer the welfare and happiness of mankind. I charge ye both before God that if either of ye ken any reason why ye may lawfully not be joined together in marriage, ye do confess it now.” Had Brèagha ultimately not decided to convert to Protestantism, there would be a reason. When Jamie heard that, he would have been glad to die so he could roll in his grave. Her reasoning was that she was sick of her marriage not being legal and wanted no further barriers, and that included the fact that she was Catholic.

“None, Father,” said Rory, who stood in front of Brèagha with her hands in his.

“Rory Donald Tanner Mackenzie, wilt thou have this woman te be thy wife, and wilt thou pledge thy troth te her, in all love and honour, in all duty and service, in all faith and tenderness, te live wi’ her and cherish her accordin’ te the ordinance of God in the holy bond of marriage?” the priest asked him.

“I will,” said Rory, smiling at his blushing bride.

“Brèagha Ellen Mackenzie Fowlis Fraser, fer ye be well and brave face, darlin’…” the priest began.

“‘Tis brave as I can muster give that it’s no’ in Latin and conducted by a Catholic priest,” Jamie muttered softly to Catrìona. “Where did we find this priest?”

“Jocasta brought him,” Catrìona replied. “He was the same priest who marrit Archie and Clara.”

“Archie didnae convert. He was fine wi’ that?” Jamie asked her, raising a brow.

“Shh, we’ll discuss it later,” she shushed him.

“At least he’s Scottish,” Jamie replied.

“…te live wi’ him and cherish him accordin’ te the ordinance of God in the holy bond of marriage?” the priest continued.

“I will,” said Brèagha happily.

“Who giveth this woman te be marrit te this man?” asked the priest, and Jamie stood up.

“I do,” he said with pride. “Her father, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.” He sat back down, tuning out for some of the Protestant readings. All he could focus on was his beautiful daughter there on the platform, her eyes lovingly looking into the eyes of her beloved. It was a look that Jamie’s own wife hadn’t given him on their wedding day, but gave him now. Though they did not choose each other then, Jamie and Catrìona chose each other now. He looked at her, giving her hand a small squeeze, which she returned as she glanced at him. Time had certainly aged them, and they both had white hairs at their temples and wrinkles around their eyes and mouths. They would have the fortune of growing old together, something neither of their parents would have, and something they hoped that all of their children would have.

“I, Rory Donald Tanner Mackenzie, take thee, Brèagha Ellen Mackenzie Fowlis Fraser, te be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward in plenty and want, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health as long as we both shall live,” Rory vowed to her.

“I, Brèagha Ellen Mackenzie Fowlis Fraser, take thee, Rory Donald Tanner Mackenzie, te be my wedded husband, te have and te hold from this day forth, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live,” Brèagha vowed in return. “In rain or sunshine, I shall always treasure ye and love ye.” Rory smiled at her softly.

“I now pronounce ye man and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie,” said the priest, and the audience clapped for them as they leaned in and kissed each other. Jamie couldn’t help but look away from this, turning his attention to his wife, who smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss him.

“A heartfelt congratulations to you, Colonel Fraser,” came a familiar voice after the crowd began to get up for lunch, and both Jamie and Catrìona turned in their seats to see Governor Tryon.

“Yer Excellency!” Jamie exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. “Forgive me, I didnae ken ye were comin’!”

“I hope ye’ll forgive us, Governor, but we dinnae quite have the accommodations,” Catrìona said with some discomfort.

“No, no, attentions are where they should be today, when in fact, His Majesty has equipped me with pavilion tents to rival some of the best houses in the Province,” said Governor Tryon.

“Ah, I’m relieved te hear it,” said Jamie, letting out a small breath of relief. “Come, why dinnae I equip ye wi’ some of my finest whisky? I’ll be wi’ ye in a bit, Catrìona.”

“I hope yer lenient on yer definition of ‘finest’, Governor,” Catrìona teased him, and he chuckled and kissed his wife’s cheek before leading Governor Tryon to the house.

“This has been a fine ceremony fit for a prince in the days of yore,” said Governor Tryon as they walked. “I expect you’ll be planning a hunt in celebration?”

“Ah… the groom isnae much fer huntin’,” Jamie said to him a bit awkwardly as they went up the stairs and into the house. “He sings like a bird, but isnae one fer shootin’ them.”

“I see,” said Governor Tryon, following Jamie into his study, where he poured them each a glass of whisky. “To your daughter. May her marriage be filled with nothing but fortune.”

“Slàinte,” said Jamie in response, and they each drank the whisky. Governor Tryon tried to mask a face at the taste, but Jamie didn’t comment on it.

“I have a man with me,” said Governor Tryon once he had overcome the strong taste of the whisky. “Well, it is a platoon to be precise.”

“I hope yer men enjoy themselves,” said Jamie, silently offering another glass, but Tryon shook his head to decline it.

“It is business that brings them here, not pleasure, unfortunately,” said Tryon with some discomfort.

“Here? Te the backcountry, ye mean?” Jamie asked him, pouring himself another glass of whisky.

“All manner of things can grow from fallow soil, as you’ve intimated in your letters… and there certainly seems to be an abundance of that out here,” said Tryon, and Jamie raised a brow at him.

“Aye, enough te keep a good number of men busy, includin’ myself,” Jamie told him.

“I must ask you,” Tryon began. “Is the man who delays paying his landlord more or less of a thief than, say… the letter writer who is parsimonious with his words?” Jamie eyed the man curiously.

“When I write, Yer Excellency, I aim te provide simple facts,” Jamie told him cautiously.

“And I can’t help but feel myself robbed of the satisfaction of seeing one particular story being brought to its conclusion,” Tryon said to him. “I like to see a villain get his comeuppance.”

“Ye mean… Murtagh Fitzgibbons,” Jamie said, and then he sighed. “The man hasnae been spotted in these parts, Yer Excellency. He hasnae been seen in months. Last he was seen was near Wilmington, which is out of my jurisdiction.”

“Indeed,” said Tryon. “And I assume you have been busy with your daughter’s wedding.”

“Aye, and I’m te have a new grandchild soon, as well,” Jamie told him. “My son, Archie. His wife is due any day now.”

“Ah, the daughter of Amos Ainsley. I have heard all about them,” said Tryon, glancing out the window. “Hmm. I am keeping you from your guests. We shall speak again shortly, I hope.”

“Aye, that we will,” said Jamie, watching with caution in his eyes as Tryon left his study.

RORY POV

“Easy, now!” Rory exclaimed as Ginnie, Germain, and a few other children ran past him.

“Sowy, Uncle Wowee!” squeaked little Germain.

“And where do ye think yer goin’?” said Brèagha to her little sister, tickling her sides as the little girl giggled and picking her up.

“Oh, look at ye, Ginnie! Ye look so pretty!” Rory said to his new young sister-in-law, trying to push a brown tendril of hair from her face, but she swatted his hand away.

“No! No touch!” she cried, fixing her hair.

“Ye daft wee thing, why not?” Rory teased her.

“Daddy says ye has ticks!” squeaked the little girl, and Rory raised a brow and exchanged a look with Bree.

“Ticks?” he asked, and Ginnie nodded.

“What are ye talkin’ aboot, ticks?” Brèagha asked her.

“Daddy says that-that all Prebby-taries have hair ticks,” said Ginnie, and Brèagha sighed softly and set her back down on the ground.

“All right, off ye go. Go and play,” she said, ushering Ginnie off to play with the other children.

“So yer father thinks I’m a heretic,” Rory said to Brèagha, who scoffed lightly.

“He thinks anyone who isnae Catholic is a heretic,” she replied. “Even me, now, fer convertin’.”

“Does he have any idea your mother and sister are pagan?” Rory asked her, and her eyes widened with surprise.

“They’re what?” she asked him, evidently having not known about this piece of knowledge.

“Ah, there they are!” came a familiar voice, and Brèagha turned and smiled when she saw a strange man that Rory didn’t recognise approaching them with a smile on his face.

“Lord John! Oh, I’m so glad ye could come!” Brèagha exclaimed as she accepted a hug from the man who Rory assumed was her friend.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Lord John kindly. “Ah, I don’t believe we have had the pleasure of meeting yet, Mr. Mackenzie. Lord John Grey.”

“Pleasure to meet ye, sir, and please, call me Rory,” Rory said to him. “Bree was tellin’ me you saved her from Mrs. Cameron’s forced marriage?”

“I wouldn’t say it was quite that way,” said Lord John, his cheeks flushing a little.

“It verra much was,” said Brèagha with a smile. “Ye’ve yet te meet our son! Caoimhe had him last, I believe…”

“I should very much like to,” said Lord John kindly.

“Brèagha, my dear!” came another voice, and this one Rory recognised as belonging to Jocasta Cameron, who was on the arm of her faithful servant, Ulysses. “Oh, forgive me, Lord Grey. I only wish te speak te my niece fer a moment.”

“Of course,” said Lord John. “Ah, there is your mother. I shall speak with her for a moment.”

“A happy couple, I’m told ye both look,” said Mrs. Cameron to the young couple, a sly smile on her face. “Ye have my many congratulations. Wed at last.”

“Aye, te the man I’m meant te be wed te,” said Brèagha. “Thank ye, Auntie.”

“I wondered if yer husband would be so good as te speak with me in my pavilion before I leave,” Mrs. Cameron asked them.

“Aye, of course. Will ye be leaving tomorrow?” Rory asked her.

“Aye, I will be,” Mrs. Cameron replied.

“We wish ye could stay, Auntie,” Brèagha told her.

“‘Tis harvest season, so I must return te River Run as soon as I can. There’ll be much to deal with,” Mrs. Cameron told them. “I must go and seek out yer father. Enjoy the dancin’, both of ye.”

“At least yer aunt likes me,” Rory said to Brèagha as Mrs. Cameron left them alone.

“Mama likes ye, too,” Brèagha told him, smiling up at him. “And I like ye.”

“I hope that, at the very least, my wife likes me,” said Rory with a chuckle, taking his wife into his arms and planting a kiss on her lips.

CATRÌONA POV

“Mrs. Fraser,” came the voice of Lord John, and I turned to see him approaching me. He’d been coming from the general direction of Brèagha and Rory, who were now speaking with Jocasta.

“Lord John,” I said calmly. I still wasn’t overly fond of the man, and he probably wasn’t overly fond of me, either.

“Congratulations on the marriage of your daughter,” he said to me, and I nodded subtly.

“I didnae thank ye fer yer part in this,” I told him. “Had ye not faked yer engagement te Brèagha, she would have been forced te marry someone else.”

“Ah, I don’t believe your daughter would have allowed that to happen,” said Lord John with a soft chuckle. “Where is your husband?”

“Wouldn’t ye like te ken?” I asked him, and he sighed softly.

“I only wish to greet an old friend,” he told me.

“He went inside wi’ Governor Tryon,” I told him. “Where’s Willie? He’s no’ wi’ ye?”

“Back in England for school,” Lord John told me. “I miss him every day.”

“Will he follow in yer footsteps? Don a red coat, wield a gun?” I asked him.

“He wishes to, but I simply wish for him to focus on his education,” Lord John replied. “I would, of course, support him if he did decide to join the military, but it is my wish that he refrains from doing so.”

“They say the military makes a man,” I said. “If he gets an education, at least he can be an officer right away. Could keep him away from most of the fightin’.”

“That didn’t stop Captain Randall from dying at Culloden, did it?” Lord John asked me, and I raised a brow at him.

“What do you ken aboot Randall?” I asked him.

“Not much,” Lord John replied. “I only know that he had a certain… distaste… for you and Jamie.”

“Hm. And tha’s puttin’ it nicely,” I replied. I glanced up at the house, where I saw Archie going up the stairs with his hand on Clara’s back. “If ye’ll excuse me, I need te check on my daughter-in-law. She’s due te have her bairn any day now.”

“I had no idea she was expecting. Congratulations, Mrs. Fraser,” said Lord John, his eyes widening a bit. “Archie must be thrilled.”

“Aye, ye can ask him all aboot it,” I told him. “Excuse me.” Pulling myself away from the conversation, I made my way back to the house. Now that Clara had been up, I needed to check and make sure that everything was still in order with her condition.

CAOIMHE POV

“Step we gaily, on we go,

Heel fer heel and toe fer toe,

Arm and arm and row in row

All fer Mairi’s Weddin’

Plenty herring, plenty meal,

Plenty peat te fill her creel,

Plenty bonny bairns as well,

That’s the toast fer Mairi.”

Caoimhe was dancing happily along with her cousins, friends she had made on the Ridge, her aunt and uncle, and pretty much everyone on the Ridge. She clapped her hands joyously along with the song as everyone danced in large circles in ceilidh-style. When they went into pairs for the final verse, Caoimhe was surprised to be paired with none other than Allan McCullough, and she gasped lightly.

“Mr. McCullough!” she exclaimed as they danced arm in arm. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“My mother and I were invited te yer cousin’s weddin’, of course!” Mr. McCullough shouted over the noise. They pulled apart and clapped their hands together as part of dance.

“I thought ye were too busy fer such things!” Caoimhe shouted back at him as they went into the circle again.

“Step we gaily, on we go,

Heel fer heel and toe fer toe,

Arm in arm and row in row,

All fer Mairi’s weddin’!”

As the song came to an end, everyone began to clap for the musicians, then scattered. Some continued to dance as another song started playing, but others went for food, mead or a seat to catch their breath. “I need a dram. Will ye have one?” Caoimhe asked him. “We have wine, too.”

“Wine sounds delicious,” Mr. McCullough told her as they made their way to a barrel. Caoimhe fashioned them each with a glass and took a heavy sip before speaking again.

“So how’re things in Cross Creek?” she asked him.

“The same, almost,” Mr. McCullough told her with a small sigh.

“Almost?” she asked him with a raised brow.

“Aye… Taxes keep comin’ and prices keep goin’ up,” Mr. McCullough told her. “People who could afford meal fer their bread last week cannae do so this week, and Mr. Underwood is callin’ in debts.”

“Do you have debts wi’ Mr. Underwood?” Caoimhe asked him.

“No, we bank wi’ the Ainsleys,” said Mr. McCullough. “If yer cousin didnae marry Mr. Ainsley’s daughter and the banks merged, I might have had my debts called in as well.”

“So I guess ye could say Archie saved ye, in a way,” Caoimhe teased him, and he chuckled lightly.

“Aye, I suppose so. Me and a few other merchants,” he replied, a small smile forming on his face.

“Och, my throat’s dryin’ oot!” shouted someone from a crowd nearby, and Caoimhe glanced up at the circle of people. “Who’s next, then?”

“I’ll go!” came the voice of one of Uncle Jamie’s Ardsmuir men. “I slit a sheet a sleet I shit- Och, no!” There were gruff guffaws, and Caoimhe smiled.

“Come on, let’s see what this is aboot,” she said to Mr. McCullough, and they went over to the crowd as another man was shoved into the circle.

“C’mon, Morton!” shouted the man that shoved the young man.

“Time waits fer no man!” shouted another, followed by drunken laughter.

“Aye, all right,” said Morton, who was visibly drunk. “Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers!” There were rough guffaws from the crowd and then another man stumbled into the crowd.

“Peter pecker plucked a pluck…” he said, stumbling immediately, and the crowd shouted and roared.

“Forfeit! Forfeit!” they cried, and the man gruffly growled and waved them off. Fergus was next in the circle, and Caoimhe stuck her fingers in her mouth to whistle at him.

“Pucker pecker pickled…” he began.

“Forfeit!” shouted the crowd again, and Marsali came into the circle and grabbed his arm with a laugh.

“Ye would have more luck in French, my love!” she said to him lovingly.

“Ye go, then! Come on, Marsali!” Caoimhe shouted at her, and she was joined by gruff cheers.

“All right, all right!” she said to them all, and she cleared her throat. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers!”

“Quickly, think of another, Mistress Fraser!” shouted one of the men in the crowd.

“Else ye’ll face a forfeit!” shouted another.

“No, my mind is blank!” Marsali shouted back at them.

“Come on! Yer a better writer than anyone I ken!” Caoimhe shouted at her, and her cheeks turned pink.

“Oh, heavens, all right! I’ll go!” she exclaimed. “Hmm… I have one, though… ‘Tis mebbe a wee bit vulgar fer a lady.” She crossed herself. “May the Lord forgive me.” She cleared her throat, then confidently started walking around the circle. “There was an auld pheasant, and he’s not too pleasant, and though I’m not a pheasant plucker, ooh, I’ll be pluckin’ pheasants till the pheasant pluckin’s done!”

“Aye!” shouted some of the men in the crowd as Marsali looked around all proud of herself.

“Yer turn, Caoimhe! Since ye threw me in!” Marsali shouted to her, and Caoimhe scoffed.

“Who, me?” she asked.

“Go on, then,” said Mr. McCullough, and Caoimhe smiled gently at him as she entered the circle, catching the wee ear of corn Marsali tossed at her.

“Verra well,” she said. “I’ve got one. One my father taught me. And if ye thought Marsali’s was vulgar…” She rolled up her sleeves and cleared her throat. “Mrs. Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt. Not a punt cut square, just a square cut punt. It’s round in the stern and blunt in the front. Mrs. Puggy Wuggy has a square cut punt.” There were cheers and whistles from the crowd Caoimhe laughed as they roared at the vulgar nature of her tongue twister. Tongue twisters themselves were fairly innocent, but if one slipped up while saying it… Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Lord John sitting on a log with a tankard of ale in his hand, then tossed the ear of corn at his feet. “Come on, Lord John!”

“Goodness,” said Lord John with amusement, and then he stood up, looking around at the people around him. “Er… Some Shakespeare, anyone?” There were groans around the circle.

“Forfeit!” shouted one man. Caoimhe laughed as she turned to face Mr. McCullough, raising a brow at him.

“Will you give it a go?” she asked him.

CATRÌONA POV

“Archie!” I heard Jamie say to our son, who was sitting beside me. He was dressed in the Fowlis of Barra tartan that I had given him, and seeing him in it gave me an odd sense of nationality and patriotism. “Have ye forgotten that yer a Fraser?”

“Ye mean my plaid?” Archie asked him, chuckling a little. “I’m a Fowlis, too, and if ye want me wearin’ a Fraser tartan, then fashion me wi’ one, aye?”

“Ye could have worn yer father’s today,” I told him, taking a sip from my wine.

“It reeks of him, Mama,” Archie told me, scrunching up his nose at me.

“Aye? And how often do ye think I wash the plaid yer wearin?” I asked him.

“More than Da washes his,” said Archie, teasing his father, who lightly whacked him on the head. “It’s true! Yers stinks!”

“Perhaps I’ll ask Clara what yer shirt smells like,” Jamie teased his son.

“Aye, I should probably go and check on her,” Archie said, turning to me again. “‘Tis a shame she cannae join in the festivities.”

“It’s fer the best. Better she rests than put herself at risk fer early labour. Ye’ve two sisters remainin’ and a cousin, there’ll be another weddin’ someday,” I told him playfully. “Bring her a plate of food, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

“Aye, I will,” said Archie, standing up and kissing my forehead before heading off back to the house. Jamie claimed his seat next to me and looked around a little awkwardly before leaning into me.

“I need te tell ye somethin’,” he said quietly, and I raised a brow at him.

“What is it?” I asked him curiously.

“I spoke wi’ John. He said Bonnet’s been spotted in the Province,” Jamie told me, and my eyes widened. Stephen Bonnet?

“How… I thought he died,” I said softly, but Jamie shook his head.

“The bastard has an ungodly way of escapin’ death,” he said to me rather bitterly. “Maybe Hell’s too good fer the bastard and the devil willnae let him in.”

“We cannae allow Maevis te find out,” I told him, glancing across the way at Maevis, who was sitting beside her twin brother looking positively glum. She hadn’t cracked so much as a smile all day, poor thing. She had always been such a smiling, happy child and now, I barely recognised my daughter. She was a shell of who she used to be, and I had no idea how to reach her.

MAEVIS POV

“Mister Elton! Mister Elton!” came the voice of young Isolde Carlyon, running over to the two of them. “Will yee dance with me, sir?”

“Me? Dance?” Elton asked, looking at Maevis with his eyes wide before looking back at Isolde. “Um… I’m… not much of a dancer…”

“Oh, please, oh, please?” Isolde begged him, clasping her little hands together and practically begging him. It was kind of cute. Isolde was around twelve years old and seemed fascinated by Elton ever since he arrived on the Ridge, but Elton was, for the most part, oblivious to this fascination. He looked at Maevis, who shrugged, and then he sighed and stood up.

“All right. One dance. I’ve two left feet,” he told the young girl, and she grasped him by the hand and dragged him to where the dancers were. Quickly, they joined in, and Elton looked to be having a blast as he spun young Isolde around. Maevis sighed again, watching the dancers all spin in circles together, until she felt a presence beside her. She looked over at the now claimed seat and noticed that Geordie had sat next to her.

“Er… Good evening, Maevis,” he said to her softly. “H-How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she said, looking away again.

“W-Would you like to d-dance?” Geordie asked her after a moment, and she huffed lightly.

“Sorry, but no. I’m really tired. I think I’ll just go to bed,” she said, standing up, and Geordie jumped up with her.

“C-Can I walk you to your house?” he asked her.

“I’d prefer to be alone, actually,” she told him, walking past him. She heard him sigh, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything or anyone anymore, not even herself. Even when she was alone, the sunny days were starting to fade. As she walked into the darkness and away from the crowd, she held her arms across her torso and began to cry softly. All she wanted to do was lie down in bed and hope no one noticed her.

She couldn’t have peace in the house, either. When she arrived, she could hear crying upstairs and the shushing sounds of someone comforting a crying infant. She could never escape those cries… Maevis put her hands on her ears and closed her eyes, but the shrill sounds of the infant’s screams just continued to penetrate through. She let out a huff, then went back outside and into the woods, hoping for nothing more than peace and quiet. She’d slept in the woods before. Thankfully, it was a warm summery night still.

RORY POV

“L is for the way ye look at me…”

The night had been long, but finally, Brèagha and Rory made their way to their own cabin, started their first fire as man and wife (legally) in the hearth, and sat down to enjoy a night to themselves, as Donnie would be staying with his grandparents and cousins at the Big House.

“O is for the only one I see…”

Rory broke out his guitar to serenade his wife, who smiled and blushed shyly from her spot on the bed.

“V is very, very extraordinary,

E is even more than anyone

That you adore can love

Is all that I can give te you,

Love is more than just a game for two…

Two in love can make it,

Take my heart and please don’t break it.

Love was meant for me and you…”

“I love ye, Brèagha Ellen Mackenzie Fowlis Fraser Mackenzie,” he whispered to her when he’d finished his song, taking his wife into his arms and holding her lovingly. “God, that’s a mouthful. And yer ‘Mackenzie’ twice.” Brèagha giggled in response.

“It was meant te be,” she said to him. “I love ye, too, Rory Donald Tanner Mackenzie.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him in for a kiss, then rolled him over so that he was on his back and she was on top of him. “I’ve been waitin’ a verra long time fer this…” She untied the laces holding her shift up, allowing it to slide down off of her milky white shoulders.

“Have ye any… method… te prevent us from giving Donnie a wee sibling?” Rory asked her. “I mean, I can… pull out… but it isn’t very effective… as Donnie’s very existence proves.” Brèagha chuckled warmly.

“Dinnae fash, Mama gave me somethin’. Some seeds she says have worked wonders fer her,” she replied, and then she pushed him back onto the bed, falling down onto it with him.

CATRÌONA POV

The house was full of crying infants, so we were trying to be as quiet as we could. However, it seemed as if our own sounds could be masked by that of the bairns, so we wasted no time in getting undressed. Jamie’s boots were scattered across the floor and I nearly tore through his shirt trying to get it off, so he pulled it off over his head to allow me access to his chest. “God, I love ye,” I growled through gritted teeth as I unbuttoned his breeks. “I want these off of ye now.”

“I can say the same,” he muttered as he untied my shift, shoving it down my shoulders so that it would pool at my feet. “Yer so beautiful…” He kissed me firmly, pausing to remove his breeks, and we collapsed on the bed together. We took no time to crawl under the covers, as we were desperate and hungry for each other. He entered me in one stroke and I bit my lip to keep from crying out too loudly, knowing that Mrs. Bug and Lizzie were both in the nursery across the hall. I bit down until my lip was nearly white as my husband thrust into me, my fingernails digging into his back. I had to direct the pressure that would be released by moaning into something else, so the bedsheets and his back would simply have to do.

We fell apart together, Jamie collapsing on top of me and I practically gelatinous underneath him. I held him in my arms, breathing heavily as I caught my breath. Slowly, I looked at my husband in bliss, smiling at him and pressing my lips against his. “Ye ready fer round two?” I asked him quietly.

“Need I remind ye that I’m an auld man?” he asked, teasing me. “Give me ten minutes… and I’ll please ye all ye like.” Those ten minutes couldn’t come quickly enough.

10 September, 1770

RORY POV

After a long night of lovemaking, Rory remembered that Mrs. Cameron had asked to speak with him, and with a heavy sigh, left his wife slumbering in bed while he got dressed and went in search of Mrs. Cameron’s tent. He finally found it by identifying Ulysses standing beside her, and noticed that she was having breakfast. “Choosing yer breakfast, Mrs. Cameron?” Rory asked her, startling her a little.

“Mr. Mackenzie, Mistress,” Ulysses announced to her.

“Oh, ye startled me, lad,” said Mrs. Cameron with a small laugh.

“I hope ye’ll forgive me,” he said, his cheeks turning pink.

“No harm done, laddie. Will ye join me, Mr. Mackenzie?” she asked him, and Rory accepted her offer and sat down beside her. “Will ye have some eggs?”

“No, I’ll have breakfast with my wife,” Rory told her, and Mrs. Cameron blindly smiled at him.

“‘Tis the cock that crows but the hens that lay the eggs,” she said, and Rory raised a brow. “A marrit man ye are now, come home te roost. Will ye at least have some coffee?”

“Sure. That I can do,” said Rory, accepting some coffee from Ulysses.

“Did my niece tell ye that I meant te make her heiress te my property?” Mrs. Cameron asked him, and he raised his eyes.

“Um… No, she… failed to mention that,” he replied.

“I cannae make Archie heir due te the scandal he brought upon us, elopin’ wi’ Mr. Ainsley’s daughter… Maevis, too, cannae be made heiress due te the shame upon her as well,” Mrs. Cameron continued.

“My father-in-law declined?” Rory asked her.

“Aye, due te the influence of his wife,” said Mrs. Cameron with a hint of snideness. “So with no other option, my heir must be Brèagha.”

“And not Elton? Or Ginnie?” Rory asked her.

“Elton doesnae have the mind te own such a property, and Ginnie is just a bairn,” Mrs. Cameron told him. “Brèagha is a clever woman, much like her father. She would do good as heiress te River Run.”

“Um… I’m sure she’s most conscious of the honour, Mrs. Cameron,” Rory said a bit awkwardly, knowing nothing about this.

“Is she?” Mrs. Cameron asked with a light scoff. “I shouldnae have thought so, te hear her talk. Och, well… Ye ken her mind better than I do. Be that as it may, I mean te tell her that I have changed my own mind.”

“I see,” said Rory with some discomfort. “Well, I’m sure she’ll-”

“I told Gerald Forbes te draw up a will, leavin’ River Run and all its contents te wee Donald,” Mrs. Cameron told her, catching Rory off guard.

“Wh- to Donnie?” he asked her.

“Ye’ll doubtless ken that a woman’s property becomes her husband’s once she’s wed, and I ken also that Protestants are partial te divorce,” said Jocasta with a chuckle, which only irritated Rory. “I thought if ye cannae love the lad fer himself, ye might treat him well fer the sake of his prospects.” Did this old bitch just say he didn’t love Donnie?

“I beg yer pardon?” Rory demanded from her. “Are ye sayin’ I don’t love my son?”

“I didnae say as much,” said Mrs. Cameron.

“Oh, you’ve said a great deal,” Rory spat back at her, standing up. “How dare you imply such things te me?”

“Ye did have yer doubts, did ye not?” she asked him, looking in his general direction.

“I came back te her. Is that not enough for you lot?” Rory asked her.

“I offer ye my apology, Mr. Mackenzie,” Mrs. Cameron said to him.

“Yer apology be damned,” Rory snapped at her. “I may not have any property or money, but I have time, and I will give it all to Brèagha and Donnie.” He got up close to her so she definitely wouldn’t miss how angry he was feeling in that moment. “Let me put this very plainly. I do not want your money. My wife does not want your money, and my son will not have it, so cram it up yer hole.” With that said, he stormed away. He knew the old bitch wasn’t sorry for insulting him, she meant every word. He’d heard stories about her from Caoimhe and Brèagha and heard that she could be quite a crude woman. Well, crude indeed.

Hell, everyone’s been crude about him. Everyone doubts his abilities to take care of his wife and son. Well, he would prove them all wrong.  He would prove to them that he could take care of Brèagha and love her and Donnie unconditionally. He didn’t have to do it, but he wouldn’t allow his wife to be the subject of sick, unnecessary gossip.

Chapter Text

24 September, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

Clara’s time was approaching ever so quickly, but she still wasn’t quite ready yet. I had to admit that I was very nervous that the birth wouldn’t turn out to be as fortunate and safe as we all hoped, so I wanted to make sure I was prepared for anything. I held daily meetings with both Maevis and Caoimhe about what to do in case things turned south and quizzed them both on what needed to be done, which they both answered expertly. “Auntie, we could each write a book aboot the birth if we needed te,” Caoimhe told me as I prepared to question them again, and I sighed.

“I need te make sure,” I told them both. “I’ve seen many a mother die in childbirth. I just, ugh… I wish I had my notes on ether. I had the perfect formula figured out and it took me months te perfect it. I dinnae have the time te do it all over again.”

“Too bad we don’t have anesthesia,” said Maevis with a small sigh. She was having a rare sunny day - not smiling, not happy, but more cheerful than she had been in previous weeks. I didn’t know what caused her attitude to change, but I wasn’t going to question it.

“‘Tis the lack of the ability te feel pain, aye?” Caoimhe asked her.

“Yup,” Maevis replied.

“Aye, it’s a combination of drugs. Propofol, analgesics, suxamethonium, isoflurane, other combinations of similar drugs. Knocks the patient right out and keeps them out. They dinnae feel a thing and wake up after wi’ no memory of the procedure,” I told her, leaning against the table behind me. “Ether, at the verra least, knocks someone unconscious. I’d give other things fer the pain. If things do go sour, I do have a few large doses of nanomeds.”

“You have nanomeds?” Maevis asked me, and I nodded. “How?”

“When I came through, I was out in the field in Edinburgh. I had a whole pack wi’ some supplies, a syringe, penicillin capsules - of which I’ve now run out of - 10% lidocaine spray, bandages, gauze, and several cases of both large and small doses of nanomeds,” I told her.

“What exactly is a… nanomed?” Caoimhe asked curiously.

“They’re like these… small little creatures, I guess, that are taught to know what the human body is supposed to look like and can treat you,” Maevis explained to her in a way she could understand.

“Christ, yer makin’ me hot, cousin, lookin’ at ye in those sleeves,” Caoimhe said with a scoff, fanning herself off with her hand. “Arenae ye hot?”

“Um… I’ve actually been kind of cold,” Maevis said softly, pulling her sleeves down and crossing her arms across her abdomen.

“Aye, autumn is in the air,” I said, brushing something off of my skirt. “‘Tis already, as of the twenty-first. It was also Riona’s birthday, aye?”

“Aye,” said Caoimhe, nodding. “And… the day Mama died.”

“Oh, aye,” I said softly, thinking of Saoirse. “Thirteen years, now.”

“Aye,” said Caoimhe softly, looking down at the ground, and then she sighed and picked her head back up. “Right. If things do go south and we cannae save her, then what?”

“Then we’d have te cut the bairn out of her,” I said, thinking now of Magda MacLaren, whom I had found in the Highlands on the run from the English. She had died in an abandoned church and I had no choice but to cut her bairn out of her. I moved over to where I kept my blades and pulled them out, then raised a brow curiously. One of the smaller blades was missing. “Huh. One’s missin’. Do either of ye ken where it might be?”

“Huh?” asked Maevis, looking up at me. “Um… No… Maybe it was left somewhere?”

“Aye, maybe,” I said. “Or maybe wee Juniper knocked them over and ran off wi’ it. It’s so wee, it’s easy te lose. Hopefully, the wee ham didnae hurt himself.”

“I havenae noticed any unusual bleedin’ from the wee hellion,” Caoimhe chimed in. “Hm. We’ll find it, Auntie.”

“Aye, I hope so. Tha’ blade’s verra useful fer arteries and such,” I said, standing up straight and carrying the box of blades with me. “Right. Now let’s start from the top. If the bairn is breeched…”

29 September, 1770

ARCHIE POV

“Tha’s it, easy now, a ghràidh,” Archie said as he helped to lower Clara onto the bed. She had just gotten out of a warm bath, which was very soothing on her sore body. “Feelin’ better, then?”

“A little, yes,” said Clara softly, smiling up at her husband, which he returned. “Goodness, I’ve been so sore lately. Any day now.” She looked down as she rubbed her swollen belly. “I just want you out of me, little one.”

“Aye, stop causin’ stress te yer Mama,” Archie said as he, too, touched her belly. He felt a small little pressure under his hand and smiled wider.

“Oh,” said Clara, her smile fading a little.

“What? What is it?” Archie asked her, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Just a pinch, in my back,” she told him. “Doesn’t feel any different than those… practice contractions your mother told me about. Oof…”

“Aye, but she also did say that the closer we get te October, the more likely it would be actual labour,” Archie told her, and he stood up when she took a sharp intake of breath. “I’ll go get my mother.”

“No,” Clara told him, grabbing his wrist. “I’ve already… bothered her enough with this… Every night this week, you’ve barged into her room saying I’m in labour.”

“Aye, because ye might have been!” Archie exclaimed.

“But I wasn’t,” she said to him a bit sharply. “Oh!” She suddenly stood up, turning around to look down behind her, and when Archie’s gaze fell upon what she was looking at, he saw a wet spot on the bed where she had just been sitting.

“That didnae happen the other times!” he exclaimed with alarm.

“I don’t even know how that could have happened!” Clara cried with embarrassment, and Archie was quickly on his way to the door.

“Mama!” he shouted loudly, waking the whole house. “Mama! Caoimhe! Her waters have gone!”

“Archie!” Clara cried, her face red with mortification.

CATRÌONA POV

“Take this, go have a look at her,” I told Caoimhe, handing her the bag of my midwifery tools, and she stepped past Archie as he entered the surgery.

“Why are ye sendin’ Caoimhe? Why aren’t you goin’ up there?” Archie demanded from me.

“Archie, relax,” I told him, detecting the alarm in him. “Caoimhe’s just havin’ a look te confirm, but she probably willnae give birth fer several hours.”

“So what do ye plan te do in the meantime?” Archie asked me.

“It’ll be business as usual until she’s at least seven centimetres, and that can take hours,” I told him calmly, and he scoffed. “What?”

“Ye ken what,” he spat at me irritably, and then I huffed. “Dinnae be like that! Yer always by the side of everra other labourin’ mother fer everra second!”

“Everra labourin’ mother on the Ridge has had a bairn before. The first bairn always takes the longest,” I told him firmly. “I ken what I’m talkin’ aboot, Archie. I’ve been doin’ this fer a long time. And in case ye’ve forgotten, I’ve got firsthand experience as well. Do ye have any idea how long I was in labour the first time?”

“How long?” he asked me quietly.

“Three days,” I told him, and he raised a brow at me.

“Three days?” he asked. “In the woods?” Shit.

“Er… aye,” I lied. I hadn’t meant for that piece of information to slip out. “I’d had pains fer days, and yet… I still wasnae ready. So I went aboot my day as usual.”

“Hmph,” Archie replied, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Dinnae pout at me, lamb. This has nothin’ te do wi’ yer notion that I dinnae like yer wife,” I told him, and he scoffed.

“Notion? Ye mean the truth?” he asked, and I narrowed my eyes at him. “Ye ken it’s the truth. Ye’ve never liked Clara and yer pissed at her fer marryin’ me. I am not a child anymore!”

“I ken that fine!” I snapped back at him.

“Do ye? Because I dinnae think ye do!” he snapped back, and I scoffed.

“If that’s how ye feel, then why do ye still live here? Why do ye push yer wife, who I apparently dislike so much, under my nose all of the time?” I asked him angrily.

“Because ye promised me ye would work on yer relationship wi’ her!” Archie shouted at me.

“I said I would try!” I shouted back at him.

“Try,” he repeated quietly. “Well, clearly, ye didnae try hard enough. Ye can stay away from Clara then. I’m sure Caoimhe will do fine by herself.”

“I dinnae think that’s a smart idea,” I told him firmly.

“No? Ye say all the time that Caoimhe’s just as good as ye,” Archie spat back. “Dinnae come up. I dinnae want te see ye in the room when the bairn is born.” I scoffed.

“This is my Surgery, and my house!” I snapped at him angrily.

“Aye? And this is my wife, and my bairn! Not yours!” he growled at me again.

“What is goin’ on in here?” came Jamie’s loud, sharp voice, and both Archie and I reared on him, our silvery Fowlis of Barra eyes raging with flames. “That’ll be enough out of both of ye! Archie, yer mother is the greatest healer around. Ye’ve said so yerself. If anyone is te save Clara if things go wrong, it will be her.” Archie scoffed at this. “Catrìona, ‘tis time fer ye te accept Clara as yer daughter. She is and always will be whether ye like it or no’, and as ye’ve learned tonight, ye’ll tear a rift between yerself and Archie if ye dinnae do so, so do it.” I scoffed at that, and Jamie shook his head. “Like mother, like son…”

“All right. All right,” I said, and then I sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Archie, truly. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I suppose yer right, I… didnae try hard enough.”

“No, ye didnae,” Archie said to me firmly.

“If ye’d like, Caoimhe can lead the birth. She delivered yer nieces safely… but Clara needs an experienced hand at least nearby, and… I have tools that Caoimhe doesnae ken how te use that may verra well save both Clara’s life and yer child’s,” I told him, and he huffed and looked away from me.

“Fine. But let Caoimhe lead,” he said bitterly, and I sighed.

“All right,” I said. “I will. In the meantime, I’ll put a pot of tea on fer her. Jamie, if ye dinnae mind askin’ Mrs. Bug te make some bannocks, Clara will need them te keep her strength up.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, looking between the two of us as I went to put the kettle on the fire. “And when yer finished sulkin’, ye should both apologise te each other.”

“I dinnae owe her an apology,” Archie growled at him. “If anythin’, she owes Clara one.” I rolled my eyes at this, my back turned to both of them, and bit my tongue before I said something I would regret.

30 September, 1770

It was now dawn. The sun had come up slowly, and I watched as it came up from the porch wrapped up in an arisaid to keep out the cold. In my hand was a hot cup of tea that Caoimhe had brought me not that long ago when informing me about Clara’s condition, which was progressing very slowly. Well, that was to be expected. First bairns always took the longest, and could sometimes take several hours or even days. I’d told Archie that mine had taken three days…

I was pulled from my thoughts when I heard footsteps approaching the porch and then Elton came out, leaning against the railing facing east and taking a deep breath. For a moment, I watched him in silence. He wasn’t as tall as Jamie or Archie, but he was fairly tall. His red curls had grown out and he let them hang loose, similar to how Jamie wore his hair some thirty years ago. If he were taller, I could easily mistake him for a younger Jamie, as he truly did look nearly identical to his father. The only feature of his that Jamie didn’t also possess, however, were the freckles that dotted his face. I smiled softly at my grown son, who was now twenty years old, and when I thought of his age, my smile faded ever so slightly. I met my grown son when he was nineteen, which only happened because Tom Randall was a coward and couldn’t look into the face of the man I left him for.

“What brings ye out here so early?” I asked Elton, and he gasped a little and startled, whipping around to look at me.

“Oh, Mam. It’s you,” he said, taking a deep breath, and I chuckled softly.

“Sorry, lamb. I didnae mean te startle ye,” I told him.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I like te watch the sun come up. It… sort of reminds me of Aberdalgie.”

“Aberdalgie,” I repeated softly. “I’ve never had the pleasure of visitin’.”

“It’s a bonny wee town,” Elton replied. “Not a lot of people, but we like it that way. The church I attended growin’ up actually hasnae even been built yet. It will be in a few years. Crazy te think that… Oh, and there’s also a castle. Duppin Castle - well, it’s sort of a castle. It’s more of a hoose now… It was destroyed by a fire in the nineteenth century, or… will be… Oh, and the regent fer Mary Queen of Scots used wood from Aberdalgie durin’ the Battle of Pinkie in 1547.”

“Really?” I asked, genuinely intrigued by what he was telling me. “Ye sound verra proud of yer hometown.” He smiled.

“Aye, ‘tis a bonny town,” he said, but then his smile faded. “I miss it.”

“I imagine ye do,” I said a bit sadly. “I miss Barra, too. Dinnae get me wrong, I… I love the Ridge. It’s my home now, but… ye can never stop missin’ the town where ye first took root.” I sighed a little. “Ye must… miss yer parents, too.” He didn’t answer me at first, but then he nodded. Upstairs, we heard the muffled sound of Clara moaning in pain, and then he spoke again.

“Aye, I do miss them,” he said. “I miss Mam’s cookin’, and I miss workin’ on the tractor wi’ Dad. I miss gettin’ picked on by my sisters, and I even miss their annoyin’ cat that hated me.” He chuckled to himself. “I miss our house, my room, the cludgie tha’ would run until ye jiggled the handle after flushin’ it.”

“Aye, we had one like that, too,” I said, smiling to myself. “My father would always clog the toilet in the mornin’s and my mother would always scold him, but then he’d sing her a wee song he made up and she’d just start laughin’, and then he’d go and fix it.” My smile faded a little, and I looked back up at him. “Will ye go back?”

“Te the future?” Elton asked me. He fell silent, looking first down at the ground and then he turned and leaned against the railing again, looking out at the horizon as the sun rose above the distant mountains. “Whenever anyone who kent my dad growin’ up… they’d say te me, ‘Yer McGinty’s lad? Ye dinnae look anythin’ like him!’. And then I’d go home and I’d look at my parents, my sisters… I’d notice how their noses were all a wee bit bulbous on the end, and how Dolly’s hair would curl in a way similar te Mam’s, or Ashleigh would twitch her nose like Dad did… I’d notice how they would sweep wi’ a broom in a similar manner, even. They’d have the same eyes, the same smile. I’d look at them and… it’d be like one of those puzzles that asks ye which object doesnae belong.” He paused for several moments. “But here… I look at you, and Dad, and Archie, Bree, Maevis, Ginnie… even Ian, Caoimhe, Uncle Cailean… and I see myself. I see myself in all of ye. I see the way my eyes slant in Dad’s, I see the same shade of blue in my eyes as I do in Maevis’s. Archie and I have a similar laugh, Bree and I both cannae sing while Archie and Maevis can. Bree and I both draw well, and Maevis can, too. Dad and I both have an interest in architecture, and you and I even have a similar manner of speakin’. I dinnae feel different here. I feel… I feel as if I belong.”

“Ye belong wherever yer heart takes ye, lamb,” I said. I set down my cup of tea on a nearby table, then stood up and approached him. I rested one hand on his upper back and rubbed it gently, then rested my other hand on his arm and let out a small sigh. “I ken what that feels like. Goin’ from bein’ different from everraone te findin’ yer place among yer own kind. After Culloden, I went te Barra not kennin’ what it would be like, not sure if they’d accept me, throw me out or even kill me… but they accepted me right away. Before, I… never kent my grandsire, or my grandmother. I had some cousins, but they were aulder and didnae come around much, but my cousins in this time were close wi’ me. They were like the brother and sisters I didnae have, that… that I lost.”

“I never hear ye speak aboot yer brothers, save fer Uncle Cailean,” Elton told me, and I sighed softly.

“Aye, well… it hurts, lamb. It hurts because I never really had the chance te get te ken them the way I did Cailean. They all died so young,” I told him. My smile faded even further. “When I came te this time… I had nothin’ waitin’ fer me back in the future. Tom, maybe, but he moved on rather quickly. He didnae need me. But you… Fergus is my adopted son, and I love him as if I’d given birth te him. Not kennin’ where he is… not kennin’ if he were alive or dead… I was worrit sick aboot him everra night. Did ye… Did ye not think of this when ye came here? Of what yer parents would think if they never saw ye again?” He let out a heavy sigh.

“Honestly… no. No, I didnae think of that,” he confessed. “I did tell Tom te tell them I died in some secret mission if I didnae return within two years.”

“Oh, Elton,” I said, clicking my tongue once.

“They’ll be sad, but they’ll move on,” he continued.

“Ye never move on from losin’ a child, Elton,” I told him. “When yer a parent one day, ye’ll understand.”

“Are ye tellin’ me I should go back?” he asked me, and I sighed a little.

“I want te be selfish and say I never want te let ye out of my sight,” I replied. “I just… I cannae help but feel as if I’m stealin’ ye away from yer parents.”

“Yer not,” Elton told me. “You are my mother. I belong here.”

“I am verra glad ye want te stay here wi’ me and yer father,” I told him, embracing him with one arm and kissing his cheek. “Kennin’ all my bairns, both born te me and not, are here under one roof… ‘Tis all I can ask fer.” And so we stood like that for a bit, my head resting against Elton’s shoulder, the two of us watching the sun rise above the mountains.

ARCHIE POV

Archie stood awkwardly in the corner looking away as Caoimhe checked Clara again, letting out a sigh as she sat back up. “Still only three centimetres,” she said, and Clara let out a soft cry.

“Still?” she asked. “Something must be wrong!”

“No, it’s just that first bairns can take a long time, as Auntie Cat said te Archie,” Caoimhe told her, trying to calm her down. “I’ll go and update Auntie Cat and I’ll see if she has any suggestions.”

“Shouldn’t she be here as well?” Clara asked Caoimhe as she stood up. “Archie, why isn’t your mother coming?”

“Dinnae fash, a ghràidh. Everrathin’ will be all right,” Archie told her, sitting down beside her and taking her hands, but Clara was too stressed.

“No. No, everything is not all right. Something is wrong and your mother should be here,” Clara told him, and Archie sighed softly.

“Caoimhe, is there anythin’ ye can give her te help calm her nerves?” he asked his cousin.

“Aye, there is somethin’. I’ll go and get it,” she said, leaving the room.

“I mean it, Archie! Why isn’t your mother coming?” Clara demanded from him.

“Because I asked her not te until it’s time fer the bairn te come,” Archie told her, and her eyes widened.

“Why would you do that?” she asked him. “This is frightening enough! I need someone who’s experienced!”

“Caoimhe is experienced, Clara,” Archie reminded her.

“But not like your mother is!” she exclaimed, and Archie sighed again.

“Let’s see how ye are in a couple hours or so and if there’s still no change, then I’ll ask her te look at ye,” Archie told her. He was still mad at his mother for her treatment of Clara. Sure, she knew a hell of a lot more about childbirth than he did, but she never took anything about Clara seriously, nor did she care. Of course, Archie wasn’t going to tell Clara this, as she was stressed out enough as it was.

When Caoimhe returned, she brought the cannabis herb that she had given Brèagha when she was in labour, which seemed to numb her pain enough to allow her to fall asleep. “Maybe if she rests a bit, she’ll dilate more,” Caoimhe said to Archie, shrugging a little. “Why dinnae ye get somethin’ te eat? Mrs. Bug made turnip stew, and it’s really verra good. I’ll keep an eye on Clara.” Archie nodded, thanking her quietly before stepping out onto the landing. Downstairs, he heard what sounded like Brèagha’s voice, so he descended the stairs to find her talking to Da and Rory. Wee Donnie was bouncing happily on Da’s knee, while Lark was sitting on Brèagha’s lap and Wren was on the floor playing with a rolling toy that Rory had carved.

“Ah, there’s the father to be!” Rory said when Archie entered the parlour.

“How is she, lad?” Da asked him.

“Progressin’ verra slowly,” Archie said with a small sigh, rubbing the tiredness out of his eye. He hadn’t slept since Clara went into labour, so he was quite exhausted.

“Ye look tired,” Brèagha said to him.

“Thank ye, Captain Obvious,” Archie teased her, and she scoffed lightly.

“How far along is she, ye wee arse?” she asked him.

“Is that te do wi’ the whole dilation thing?” he asked her. “Caoimhe says she’s three centimetres. She has been fer hours now.”

“Puir thing,” said Brèagha. “Though by this point, I’d already had Donnie. This is takin’ a long time fer her.”

“Aye, tha’s why I’m a wee bit worrit,” Archie told her.

“Has yer mother been te see her yet?” Da asked him.

“Caoimhe’s doin’ fine on her own. She kens what te do,” Archie told him, skirting around talking about his mother again. Where was she, anyway? Archie hadn’t seen her since their argument in her surgery.

“I’ve seen yer mother do some fairly remarkable things, lad. Miracles, even. Ye should let yer mother have a look at her,” Da told him, and Archie scoffed.

“Well, it doesnae matter now. Caoimhe just gave her cannabis and she’s sleepin’,” Archie said a bit irritably.

“Cannabis?” Rory asked, his eyes a little wide.

“Och, that herb is a blessin’ from above,” said Brèagha a little dreamily. “I could actually get some peace wi’ that fer a bit. I could still feel the pains, of course, but it felt like I was flyin’.”

“Aye, marijuana will do that to ye,” Rory told her with an amused chuckle.

“I’m grabbin’ a bit of stew and then I’ll go back up te Clara. I’ll let ye all ken if anythin’ changes,” Archie told them, leaving them in the parlour to go into the kitchen. He came across Mrs. Bug, who smiled kindly at him and touched his face.

“Fatherhood’s a good look on ye, laddie. Though ye need te find time te sleep,” she told him. “Little ones do tend te keep ye awake.”

“Do ye have any children, Mrs. Bug?” Archie asked as she prepared him a bowl of stew.

“Och, no. ‘Twasnae in the cards fer Arch and I,” she told him, handing him the bowl with a kindly smile on her face. “But we’ve done fine. Yer mother, though I havenae kent her long, is like a daughter te me, and yer father like a son te me.”

“So I guess that makes me yer grandson,” said Archie, attempting to be more lighthearted.

“I suppose that does,” she said kindly. “Best ye return te yer wife. I’ll bring her a bit of broth in a wee bit.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Bug,” said Archie, and then he returned to Clara.

CATRÌONA POV

It had now been several hours and it was mid-afternoon. I was in the Surgery treating one of the Ridge residents for a broken arm when Caoimhe came in looking heated and stressed. Her hair was up, but sticking out all over the place, and her face was flushed. “Are ye all right, hen?” I asked her as she came into the Surgery.

“Where’s Maevis? I thought she was supposed te help me,” Caoimhe said with mild irritation, and I sighed.

“She seemed te be distressed by Clara goin’ into labour so I sent her te the Bend te check in on the fisher folk,” I told her, and then I turned my attention back to my patient. “Leave this in the sling fer at least four weeks. I’ll see ye back here again next week te see how it’s healin’, aye?”

“Thank ye, Mistress Fraser,” said the young lad, hopping off of the table and leaving the Surgery.

“Ye sent her te the Bend? I need her here, Auntie. She was supposed te relieve me if Clara’s labour went on fer this long,” Caoimhe said to me irritably.

“Aye, I ken. I didnae think she would be much help,” I told her with a sigh. “If Archie would just let me up there…”

“Why won’t he? Because ye dinnae like Clara?” Caoimhe asked me, and I closed my eyes and took a deep sigh before opening them again.

“Tha’s his belief,” I told her.

“It’s true, isnae it? Ye dinnae like her?” Caoimhe asked me, her hands supporting her lower back.

“It isnae that I dinnae like her,” I said, leaning against the table. “I dinnae like tha’ she marrit Archie.”

“And? He’s an adult, isnae he?” Caoimhe asked me.

“Unless ye’ve been in my situation, ye cannae understand, Caoimhe,” I told her. “I was away from my son fer fifteen years. He was seven years auld when I saw him last and when I returned, he was an adult. It’s been… difficult fer me te accept that.”

“Then perhaps ye just should,” she told me. She collected some more tools and herbs and placed them in the bag that she had. “It shouldnae be Clara ye take this out on. She had nothin’ te do wi’ ye bein’ away from Archie.”

“I know that,” I told her firmly.

“Forgive me, Auntie, but it doesnae look that way,” Caoimhe replied, and I looked up at her. She scoffed lightly as she made for the door. “Dinnae give me that look. ‘Tis yer relationship wi’ yer son that’ll suffer if ye dinnae change yer ways.” She left the Surgery, and I let out a small huff. She was right, of course, but to hear it again just annoyed me. I turned around, flipping open my notebook irritably to document the treatment of the patient I had just seen.

It was nearly midnight now. I was in my Surgery creating another blend of tea for Clara when I heard a soft knock at the door, and I turned around to see young Lizzie in the doorframe. She appeared distressed, her face as white as her cotton apron, and her hand was pressed firmly against her abdomen. “Lizzie! Hen, come in! What’s the matter, darlin’?” I asked her with a tone of urgency, leading her into the Surgery.

“Oh, Mistress Fraser,” she sobbed, using one hand to wipe tears from her face, and I gave her a handkerchief to blow her runny nose into. “S-Somethin’ awful has h-happened!”

“Whatever could it be, lass?” I asked her. “Here, sit down. What are yer symptoms?”

“I… I be b-bleedin’ from…” she said as she sat down on the bed, and then she made an uncomfortable face, as if she didn’t want to say. She lowered her voice. “…down there.” Ah, I knew exactly what that was. I let out a small breath of relief, then pulled over my stool and sat down across from her.

“I see,” I said. “Lizzie… How auld were ye, when yer mother passed?”

“Oh, she… she died when I was born,” she told me, wiping her eyes again. “‘Twas only me and my… my father.” I nodded subtly. This poor lass had only ever had her father, who wouldn’t have known a thing about the menstrual cycle or when it would have even come. Lizzie was around fifteen now, so a little older than I would have expected for her first period, but she likely wouldn’t have ever even heard about it. Her only experience with vaginal bleeding had been when Maevis was raped, and after Bree and Maevis had their bairns. She probably thought bleeding only occurred when there was trauma to the vagina.

“What’s happenin’ te ye, hen, is perfectly normal,” I told her, and she looked up at me with wide eyes.

“Normal? But…” she said softly, and I reached over and laid a hand on her arm.

“It happens te everra lass,” I told her, giving her a soft smile. “When they’re around yer age, their bodies start what’s called menstruation. It means yer body is ready fer ye te start havin’ bairns.”

“What?” she asked with a shocked tone, and I chuckled softly.

“It doesnae mean ye have te,” I told her. “I was a wee bit younger than ye were when I first started my courses.”

“Courses?” she asked me. “Tha’s what that means?”

“Aye, and it’ll happen te ye everra month from now on until yer in yer fifties,” I told her.

“Everra month?” she asked again. “Och, I dinnae ken if can handle such a thing. Oh, my stomach is in such pain…”

“Cramps,” I told her, sighing softly. “One of the many banes of bein’ a woman. Dinnae fash, hen, I have somethin’ fer that.” I stood up and went to my herb shelf, grabbing mugwort, peppermint, lavender and Caoimhe’s cramp bark. I made a small blend of tea, then gave it to her in a small glass jar. “Here, make this into a tea whenever ye feel the pains come on. Go and have a lie down, as well. Yer excused from any duties ye have, and I’ll tell Mrs. Bug that myself.”

“Oh, thank ye, Mistress Fraser,” she said to me, now relieved that she wasn’t in any danger. I smiled softly at her, brushing a wee brown tendril of hair out of her face, and then I sent her on her way. I sighed softly as I watched her leave.

I hadn’t been there for my own daughters when they got their periods. Both of them had someone else to help them with it. Brèagha would have had Thora, who was quite knowledgeable on the subject as I had taught her myself. Maevis would have had whoever she was living with, probably a foster mother or something. Ginnie would have me, of course, or at least I hoped she would, but I couldn’t shake the pain of knowing that my older daughters had ascended into womanhood without me. When I had gotten my first period, I wasn’t overly frightened, as my mother had prepared me for it. I had been eleven years old and gotten it the day after I turned eleven, and my mother was quick to show me how to take care of it and contain it. My plan would have been to do something similar for my daughters - prepare them when they were around the age that they would have gotten theirs so that they wouldn’t be frightened thinking something was wrong. But I didn’t get to do that, because I wasn’t there.

I heard Clara crying out in pain upstairs. She would have had her mother when she got her first period, but now here she was enduring one of the most frightening experiences of a young woman’s life… all alone. Well, not alone alone. She had Archie, but he would never understand the way she needed him to, despite all that I had taught him leading up to this. He’d never birth a bairn, his life would never be endangered by the multitude of complications that could arise during childbirth. Clara must have been frightened… All I wanted when I gave birth to Archie and Brian in the woods that cold Yule evening, and Brèagha on that dark Samhain night, and Maevis and Elton on that warm but frightening Midsummer day, and Ginnie on that horribly hot Lughnasa day… was my mother. All I wanted was my mother there to hold my hand and tell me that everything would be okay. All I wanted was to hear my mother sing to me, comfort me, wipe the sweat from my head and give me her strength when I needed it the most. But my mother was dead, and I had to go through those births without the one person who would always, always, love and support me unconditionally, who knew the pain and fright that I endured when enduring childbirth. Clara didn’t have that person, either… but she could.

I went up to their room, where Clara could be heard groaning and moaning in pain. I paused for a moment, knowing that I was likely pushing against my son’s boundaries, but needing to do this. I knocked softly, then pushed open the door. Caoimhe looked fatigued, having barely slept, if at all, since Clara went into labour now almost twenty-four hours ago. Archie looked up at me from his place beside his wife, who looked horribly tired and miserable herself. “I’ll take it from here, Caoimhe. Ye’ve worked long and hard, ye should and get some sleep,” I told her.

“She isnae ready yet. Caoimhe said she’s only six centimetres ten minutes ago,” Archie told me, somewhat coldly.

“Yer cousin’s been workin’ far too long, Archie. She needs te be relieved,” I said, and I looked at Caoimhe again. “Go, hen. I’ve got it.”

“All right,” Caoimhe said to me tiredly, and then she looked at Clara, who was watching her closely. “Auntie Cat’s goin’ te take over, Clara. Trust me, she’s a better midwife than I am.”

“‘Tis only a matter of time. I simply have nearly thirty years on Caoimhe,” I said, smiling subtly. Caoimhe left, closing the door behind her, and then I moved to Clara’s other side quietly. Archie watched me with caution in his eyes, although I could tell he hadn’t slept and was too tired to argue. Clara looked up at me, her brown eyes curious as to what I was doing there, and watched as I sat down beside her. “How’re ye feelin’, hen?” I asked her quietly.

“Scared… t-tired…” Clara whispered back to me breathlessly.

“Aye, I imagine,” I told her, picking up a wet rag and dabbing her forehead with it. “Ye’ve been in labour fer aboot twenty-four hours. ‘Tis an exhaustin’ thing.”

“What are ye doin’ here?” Archie asked me, and I was silent for a moment.

“All the times I was in labour… all I ever wanted was my mother at my side,” I said, still looking at Clara. “She died, when I was fifteen. I was… twenty-two when I had Archie. I never had her fer any of my bairns. I imagine all ye want is yer mother by yer side?”

“So terribly…” she said softly, squeezing her eyes shut as a single tear escaped. I wiped that wee tear away with my thumb.

“She cannae be here, so I will be,” I told her. “After all, I’m the closest ye have just now, aye? As yer mother-in-law.”

“M-Mrs. Fraser…” she whispered softly.

“Shh, call me ‘Mam’, hen,” I told her. I glanced up at Archie, who’s cold look had faded, and I smiled softly at him. “Why dinnae I give ye somethin’ te move this along, aye?” I reached into my bag and pulled out a vial of water treated with Claviceps purpurea (ergot fungus) and a syringe that I had brought with me from the twenty-second century. I measured out a small dose of it, then cleaned a spot on her olive-toned thigh with alcohol. “Yer goin’ te feel a wee pinch, but I promise it’ll help ye,” I said, and then I inserted the needle into her thigh, met with a small hiss of pain from her. I rubbed it to spread it around, then pulled the blanket to cover her legs again.

“What was that?” Archie asked me, the coldness having left his voice.

“Ergot,” I told him. “It’s a fungus found on rye. It can be used te induce contractions, and given how long this wee bairn is takin’, I’d say we need te speed them up, dinnae we?”

“How much… longer…” Clara asked me tiredly.

“Shouldnae be long now, hen. Another hour, I’d say, and then soon, ye’ll be holdin’ yer wee bairn in yer arms,” I told her with a smile.

“An hour? Oh… I… I don’t have the strength,” she said, and I reached for her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Ye have mine,” I told her.

“And mine,” said Archie, holding her hand in his and giving it a kiss.

“Why dinnae I sing ye a song? Archie sang te me when he was sittin’ by my side when I had Ginnie,” I told her, and she nodded tiredly. I cleared my throat a little, then sang to her softly.

“I’ll walk in the rain by yer side…

I’ll cling te the warmth of yer tiny hand…

I’ll do anythin’ te help ye understand…

I’ll love ye more than anybody can.

And the wind will whisper yer name te me.

Little birds will sing along in time.

The leaves will bow down when ye walk by,

And mornin’ bells will chime.

I’ll be there when yer feelin’ down

Te kiss away the tears if ye cry.

I’ll share wi’ ye all the happiness I’ve found;

A reflection of the love in yer eyes.

And I’ll sing ye songs of the rainbow,

Whisper all the joy that is mine.

The leaves will bow down when ye walk by,

And mornin’ bells will chime.”

“That’s… such a sweet… song,” Clara told me quietly.

“My mother sang it te my wee brothers and I when we were wee,” I told her, a small smile forming on my lips. “I… wanted te sing it te my own bairns, but… it pained me too much te be reminded of her.”

“Ye sang us some songs she taught ye,” Archie said to me, and I nodded, a sad look in my eye.

“Aye, but not that one,” I told him. “That one was… more personal, I suppose. But it shouldnae be. I suppose my mother’s death was still fresh te me, still stung. Now, I… I’m aulder than she was when she died.”

“I… I would like to… sing it to my child… if that’s all right,” Clara said, and I smiled warmly at her.

“Aye. I’ll teach it te ye,” I told her kindly.

1 October, 1770

“It’s been so long!” Clara cried out as the pains increased, and she began to sob. “Please, make it stop!”

“Mama, what’s happenin’?” Archie asked of me, now awake as fright took over his body.

“I’m tryin’ te find out what’s goin’ now, wee darlin’s,” I told them both, going inside to feel her cervix, and when I felt something that most certainly did not feel normal, my stomach dropped. “Shit…” I whispered to myself.

“What?” Archie demanded from me. “What?”

“I need… I need…” I said, trying to think as I pushed against the head of the bairn in her womb to keep it from crushing the umbilical cord that was presenting towards me. We were dealing with what was called a cord prolapse in which the umbilical cord was protruding from the womb ahead of the bairn. If the bairn passed through the birth canal with the cord still in it, it could compress the cord and suffocate itself, so I needed to think of a way to get the cord back in. “A chair. I need a chair. Archie, go and get a chair. Quickly! Clara, I need ye te raise yer hips as high as ye can!”

“I don’t… have the strength…” she moaned, crying out as another contraction took over her body.

“Yer gonna have ye find it, hen, or we might lose the bairn,” I told her. I helped her as best as I could by shoving my knees underneath her bum, using my hands and arms to hold her up against gravity. Archie returned with Jamie, who was carrying the chair, and his face turned beet red as he entered the room.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, lass,” he said shyly.

“There’s no modesty in childbirth. Bring it here, now!” I exclaimed, and Jamie brought it over and helped me position the chair underneath her to lift her hips in the air, although it was difficult because he refused to look at what he was doing. “Jamie, I appreciate ye tryin’ te be modest, but fer Bride’s sake, now isnae the time!”

“I heard shoutin’. What’s wrong?” came Caoimhe’s voice from the doorframe, and I looked up to see her standing in her shift.

“Caoimhe! Come quickly. I’ve got a prolapsed cord,” I told her.

“But ye said that never happens!” Caoimhe exclaimed.

“I said it almost never happens, now hurry! Jamie, step away!” I snapped as Caoimhe joined me in boosting Clara’s lower half up into the air. I reached one hand inside to feel the cord. “Higher. I cannae push the cord in.”

“She’ll be upside-down!” Caoimhe exclaimed.

“Better upside-down than an oxygen-deprived bairn,” I told her as we pushed the chair up higher.

“Oh!” Clara cried with discomfort, and Archie did his best to support her back and shoulders so that all of her weight wasn’t on her neck.

“Any luck?” Archie asked me.

“Not yet. Wee bit higher,” I said, and we boosted the chair even higher. Suddenly, Caoimhe stumbled, as she wasn’t nearly as tall as I was, and fell forward, jolting Clara’s body.

“Agh!” Clara cried.

“Ìosa Crìost!” cried Caoimhe loudly.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” I heard Jamie exclaim from the corner of the room.

“It’s slipped back! It’s slipped back!” I shouted, and we quickly set Clara carefully back down on the bed. “The birth canal is clear, now we need te get this bairn out. I dinnae get ken if there’s already been damage done. Clara, a leannan, I need ye to push now! Push wi’ all yer strength!”

“I can’t… I can’t!” she cried, tears streaming down her face.

“Yes ye can, my love,” Archie said to her firmly. “Ye can, because yer one of the strongest women I ken, and ye have two more of the strongest women I ken who are goin’ te help ye and bring our bonny bairn into this world, Clara. Ye can do this. I ken ye can. I have faith in ye, I love ye, my beautiful Clara.” With whatever strength she managed to muster, Clara pushed, and she pushed, and she pushed. It was about five minutes before I finally had the bairn’s head in my hand.

“Yer doin’ so well, Clara! Just a wee bit more now, aye?” I said to her. “Ye can do this, a leannan. Just one more big push! Caoimhe, help her by pushin’ on the mons pubis.” Caoimhe did as she was told, and Clara gave one more big push, and when the shoulders of my new grandchild were exposed, I grasped it by the shoulders and pulled that slimy, squealing wee thing out and laid her flat on her back. “She’s here! Ye have a daughter, Clara!” I exclaimed with joy.

“A daughter? Clara, my love, we have a daughter!” Archie exclaimed, his own eyes glistening with tears as a happy smile took over his face. “Can we see her?”

“Just a moment,” I said as Caoimhe handed me the clamp and the scissors so I could cut the cord. “Hand me a blanket?”

“Wrap her in this!” Archie exclaimed, grasping my old Fowlis of Barra tartan and tossing it to me. I smiled softly, wrapping my new granddaughter up in it nice and snug. She settled down, and I could see in her features that she looked just like her father. She had my Fowlis nose, Jamie’s slanted eyes, and Archie’s bright red hair, but possessed Clara’s olive-toned skin from her Cherokee ancestry.

“Welcome te the world, weeun,” I said to her, and then I looked up at my son, who was staring at me in awe. “Here she is, my lad. Yer daughter.” I gently placed her in his arms, and at first, he didn’t say a word as he looked down at his wee daughter.

“Christ,” he said after a moment, sniffling and smiling at the little girl. “Hello, my beautiful wee girl…”

“Let me see…” Clara said softly, and Archie turned around and laid her down in her mother’s arms. “Oh… She’s so beautiful…” She, too, began to cry tears of joy, and I watched as Archie laid his forehead against hers, the two new young parents pouring all their love into their bonny newborn bairn. “I love you, Archie.”

“I love ye, too, Clara,” Archie said back to her softly.

It was dawn. I had taken my new wee granddaughter outside for her first breath of outdoor air so her parents could sleep a little. They were both exhausted, having been up for over twenty-four hours, and I had left them both sleeping peacefully about a half hour ago.

“By yon bonny banks and by yon bonny braes,

Where the sun shines bright on Loch Laomainn,

Where me and my true love were ever wont te gae,

On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Laomainn…”

The wee little lass slept peacefully in my arms as I sang quietly to her. This wee thing was a piece of me - twenty-five percent, half of my son and half of the daughter of another. I could see my own face in hers, and when she opened her little silvery eyes to look at me, I could see that she even had my eyes. And the tartan she was wrapped in had swaddled now three generations of Fowlis bairns. It was my father’s tartan, and when I was born, I had been swaddled in it as well. I had swaddled Archie in it the night he was born in the middle of the woods, and now, Archie’s daughter was swaddled in that same tartan. For all I knew, maybe my father had been swaddled in that same tartan, too. I smiled at her warmly, then bent forward and kissed her wee head. I heard footsteps approach behind me, and I turned to see a very fatigued-looking Archie standing in the doorframe.

“I’ll need te apologise te Clara when she’s awake,” I told him as I looked back at my granddaughter. “I shouldnae have been such a bitch te her.”

“Aye, ye were a wee bit of a bitch te her,” Archie replied, and I sighed softly.

“It was so hard, comin’ te terms wi’ the fact that my wee bairn wasnae so wee anymore, nor a bairn… But that isnae an excuse. Yer an adult, and free te live yer life that way. Those fifteen years lost are…”

“Behind us now,” he finished for me, and I turned to look at him. “We cannae get them back, no matter how much we lament on it. But we do have many years ahead of us.” I smiled a little, sniffling.

“Ye’ve grown so wise,” I said to him. “I guess I… felt as if the cycle was repeatin’ itself. My father was young when he gave up everrathin’, his family, his friends… My parents both died when I was still just a lass. And you grew up without yer parents, too.”

“Aye, but the greatest things in my life have still yet te come,” he said. “Of course, some have already. Fallin’ in love wi’ Clara, havin’ my first bairn… Ye didnae miss those.” I looked back down at my granddaughter in my arms.

“No… I suppose I didnae,” I said softly. “Have ye picked out a name fer her?”

“We have,” Archie told me, standing next to me and cradling his daughter’s head in his hand. “Victoria Eleanor Fowlis Fraser. Victoria fer the victory we share in bein’ together, and Eleanor fer Granny.” I smiled, loving that my son was giving my mother such an honourable tribute.

“Have ye… seen her lately?” I asked him quietly, and he sighed.

“Somethin’s goin’ on in the… spiritual world. I dinnae ken what, and I willnae even pretend te understand… but I havenae seen her since March, when the bairns were born,” he told me, and I nodded.

“She should be here,” I said. “She… She’d be young enough te see the birth of her great-grandchildren, I think. Maybe… She was aulder when I was born, I suppose.”

“Such is life,” said Archie, and I nodded.

“Such is life,” I repeated. “Ye ken, the song I was singin’ te her when ye came up… I sang it te you, not long after Brian had died. We were on our way back te Lallybroch. Ye were cryin’, likely heartbroken over the loss of yer brother… Ye’d cried nonstop fer days, and… when I sang ye that song, ye settled down. It was the first time ye smiled at me that wasnae gas.”

“Did ye?” Archie asked me quietly. “What… What’s it called?”

“Loch Lomond,” I told him.

“O, ye’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road,

And I’ll be in Scotland a’fore ye,

But me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Laomainn…”

Chapter Text

4 October, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

The sound of childish giggling came from the parlour, and curiosity getting the better of me, I had to go and see what was causing the bairns to giggle so much. As I walked down the corridor, I was somewhat surprised to see a wee bubble floating past me, and when I looked at the doorframe of the parlour, a couple more bubbles floated out. As I peeked around the doorframe, I could see Elton sitting on the floor with Wren in his lap blowing bubbles from a wee circular wire, which he was dipping in a soapy bowl of water. Jamie was sitting in an armchair with Lark on his lap, bouncing her on his knee as she giggled and grabbed at a bubble, and Ginnie was dancing around in circles trying to catch the bubbles that were floating above her head. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched her jump up and down to grab at them.

“What is goin’ on in here?” I asked with amusement.

“Bubbles, what else?” asked Elton, who was equally amused as the girls were, and he blew more bubbles. Wren let out a sweet little chirp and a hiccough, giggling again as she tried to reach for one of the bubbles. She tumbled forward onto her knees and to our shock and surprise, began crawling to go after the bubbles.

“Blessed Bride!” I exclaimed, going into the parlour to pick up my granddaughter. “Look at ye, crawlin’ on yer own! And at only seven months, wee darlin’!”

“Shouldnae bairns be crawlin’ anyway?” Elton asked me with a brow raised.

“Well, by nine months, they ought te be. But Lark isnae crawlin’ yet!” I said as I tickled Wren’s wee belly, and she giggled again. I kissed her wee red hair, which was pin straight like Maevis’s, and balanced her on my hip. “Granny is so proud of ye, wee girl! Mammy will be so excited!”

“I’m not so sure aboot that,” said Elton, blowing more bubbles for Ginnie.

“I dinnae ken aboot that. She’s been a wee bit more cheerful, as of late,” I said, but both Elton and Jamie made a face, each of them exchanging the same look with each other. “What?”

“Since it is Wren, maybe,” said Jamie, bending forward to kiss the top of Lark’s head and giving her his finger to play with.

“I dinnae think even that will excite her,” said Elton. “Lizzie says she hasnae touched Wren in days.”

“Great,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll go and talk te her. Maybe she’ll surprise us all. Come on, wee darlin’, let’s go and tell Mammy yer achievement!” I took Wren out of the parlour and carried her to the porch, where I knew Maevis was. She’d been sitting out there a lot lately, especially when autumnal rains came through. It was raining today, and she was sitting on a swinging bench with what looked like a hurdy gurdy in her lap. “Is that a gurdy?” I asked her, startling her a little. “Wherever did ye get that?”

“Um… From a guy who was on the ship I came here on,” she told me, getting uncomfortable when she noticed I had Wren. “He died and left it to me.”

“It’s a bonny instrument. I havenae seen one in a long time. My father used te play, and I might remember how te play it as well,” I said, adjusting Wren on my hip. “I have some good news fer ye.”

“Oh?” she asked me, raising a brow.

“Wren started crawlin’ just now!” I exclaimed happily. “She was goin’ after bubbles yer brother was blowin’. Isnae that amazin’?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer. My smile faded and I sighed. “C’mon, Wren. I’m sure ye want te be playin’ wi’ Uncle Elton again.” I looked down at Maevis, who had looked away from me in shame, and then I silently went back inside.

ARCHIE POV

Archie lifted his crying infant daughter out of the cradle, holding her wee head in his palm and balancing her on his arm. “Oh, shh, shh… ist, mo phèarla beag. Daddy’s here…” he muttered softly to her, cradling her in his arms against his chest, but she still continued to cry.

“Give her here, Archie,” he heard Clara say from the bed sleepily. She had been sleeping peacefully, and when Victoria had started to cry, he wanted to comfort her before Clara woke, but he was not successful. He sighed, then laid her gently in Clara’s arms.

“I was tryin’ te comfort her. I guess I’m just no’ verra good at it,” Archie said, sitting on the bed beside her.

“It’s not you,” Clara told him. “She’s hungry, and you don’t have the right parts.” Archie looked down to see her feeding Victoria from her breast, and his cheeks turned bright pink.

“Oh… I sort of… forgot they did that,” he said a bit shyly, and Clara chuckled softly. “Christ, she’s so perfect…”

“She is, isn’t she?” Clara asked him softly, looking up at him. “She looks just like you.”

“I think she looks like you,” Archie replied, and Clara chuckled as she turned her attention back to their daughter.

“Not according to your mother,” Clara told me. “Yesterday, when she was checking Vicki and I over, she said she looks like you did when you were born.”

“Aye, well… I suppose she’d ken what I looked like,” said Archie playfully, and as Clara laughed again, Archie kissed the side of her head. “Everrathin’ is so perfect… You, me, our wee victory… I dinnae ken what I’d have done had I lost ye.”

“There’s no need to dwell on that,” Clara told him, a strange look on her face, and then Archie’s smile faded. Of course it would be a sensitive topic for her. The decision to turn her back on George Underwood meant that she was turning her back on her family. Her father had disowned her, and she’d likely never see her family again.

“Aye. Never the matter. We’re here, we have our beautiful daughter… Nothin’ can go wrong,” said Archie, smiling again at his wife, and she smiled softly without looking at him. She yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“Goodness, I’m so sleepy,” she said.

“Why dinnae I take Victoria downstairs and ye take a wee kip?” Archie asked her.

“I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Clara, smiling softly as she fixed her nightdress and handed Victoria back to Archie. “I should probably sleep as much as I’m able to.”

“Hello, my bonny wee girl,” said Archie as Victoria fussed a little. “Oh, shh… My wee girl, yer all right…” He bent forward to kiss her forehead, and when his lips touched her forehead, he heard the sudden sound of a screech outside. Archie whipped his head around to look out the window, but there was nothing there. The sound sounded like it had been right there. Perhaps it was a bird in the tree outside? He heard it again; Definitely not a bird. It sounded like… a woman crying?

“What is it, my love?” Clara asked him, drawing his attention back to her.

“Did ye… not hear that?” Archie asked her, and she raised a brow at him.

“Hear what?” she asked him. Archie heard the screeching sound again and looked back at the window.

“That,” he said, standing up.

“No, I’m not hearing anything,” Clara told him as he made his way to the window. Outside was an old woman walking towards Mama’s Surgery. She seemed to be crying, but was in no rush. Archie couldn’t tell who it was because her head was draped in a black veil-like cloth. Was it Mrs. Bug? Or maybe one of the fisher folk? “Archie, are you all right?”

“Aye,” said Archie, shaking his head as he glanced back at Clara. “Just an auld woman goin’ te Mama’s Surgery.” He chuckled gently to himself as he looked back out the window. “I swear I must be…” She was gone. Where did the old woman go? There was no way she could have made it to Mama’s Surgery in the mere moments that Archie looked away from the window.

“Archie?” Clara asked him after a moment, and Archie cleared his throat.

“Och, dinnae fash, a ghràidh. Get some sleep, aye? Ye need yer rest,” Archie told her, crossing the room to her side and bending down to kiss her forehead.

“Is that your way of telling me I look awful?” Clara teased him.

“Ye could be covered in horse shite and I’ll think yer the most beautiful lass in the world,” Archie replied, kissing her lips. “Sleep, a ghràidh. Ye deserve it.”

“Oh, all right,” Clara told him. Archie, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, left her with a smile on his face, dropping it as soon as the door was closed. With Victoria cradled in one arm, Archie made his way down the stairs and to Mama’s Surgery, hoping that he wasn’t losing his mind. When he arrived, she was with a patient, and he breathed a sigh of relief until the patient spoke.

“I can’t thank yee enough, Mrs. Fraser,” came the voice of the elder Mr. Carlyon. “‘Twas a loose ember that caught me shirt aflame.”

“Well, it’s a good thing ye have water on hand, or this could be a lot worse,” Mama told him. “I’m sendin’ ye wi’ extra gauze and burn salve. Reapply the salve and change the bandages tomorrow, and please try te keep the bandages dry. I’ll send Elton te help Young Ross wi’ the forge until ye recover, Mr. Carlyon. I’ll come over myself in a couple of days te have a look at this.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank yee again, Mrs. Fraser,” said Mr. Carlyon. As he made his way out, he removed the hat on his head with his free arm and held it against his chest when he saw Archie. “Congratulations to yee, Mr. Fraser. What a pretty babe yee have.”

“Thank ye verra much, Mr. Carlyon,” said Archie as Mr. Carlyon took a look at the little girl in his arms, and Archie gave him a nervous smile. “Her name’s Victoria.”

“Victoria? Judas, what a pretty name for a pretty girl,” said Mr. Carlyon kindly. “May God hold yee in the hollow of His hand, little one.”

“Thank ye,” said Archie, nodding to Mr. Carlyon as he bid Archie a good day, and then Archie went into the Surgery.

“Feasgar math, mo eunan,” Mama told him in greeting. “What brings ye here? Is everrathin’ all right?”

“Can’t a man visit his mother from time te time without somethin’ bein’ wrong?” Archie asked in an effort to be playful, but the look on his face gave him away. When he saw Mama’s concerned expression, his false smile faded and he sighed. “Did ye… happen te see an auld woman come in?”

“An auld woman? Hmm… Not today, no. All my patients were my age or younger,” Mama told him, unsettling Archie even further.

“Are ye sure? She was cryin’ fairly loudly, and… she had a black cloth over her head,” Archie told her, and she raised a brow at him.

“Archie, what is it?” Mama asked him, and Archie struggled to come up with something to say next. What should he say to her? That he thought he saw a banshee and wanted to know if it was coming for his newborn daughter? After learning about how Brian had died… Well, needless to say, Archie was fairly uneasy.

“Can ye just… have a look at Vicki, please, Mama?” Archie asked her.

“Has she been unwell?” Mama asked him, and Archie sighed.

“No, just… I just want te make sure,” Archie told her. “Ye ken, after… Brian and all…”

“Brian was born unhealthy, lamb. Victoria was born quite healthy,” Mama told him, and then she let out a small sigh. “However, I remember first bairn jitters verra well. Come and set her down on the table and I’ll have a look at her.”

“Thank ye, Mama,” said Archie, setting his wee daughter down on the table. He watched as Mama pressed her stethoscope - the one that she had brought with her from future - against Vicki’s chest, and the wee infant fussed at the cold of the metal against her skin.

“Oh, shh… Ist, my wee darlin’,” Mama told her sweetly as she listened to Vicki’s heartbeat. She then moved the stethoscope to different parts of her chest, then removed it from her ears and folded it back up. She then felt Vicki’s sides, her abdomen, arms and legs, smiling down at the wee girl. Vicki responded to everything Mama did, and Mama wrote all of those responses down in her book. “She’s fit as a fiddle, my lamb. Perfectly healthy. There isnae a thing wrong wi’ her,” Mama told him with a smile, picking Vicki back up and laying her in Archie’s arms. “What’s on yer mind?”

“Hm?” Archie asked her, looking up again.

“Well, judgin’ by the look on yer face, ye dinnae believe me,” Mama told him, and Archie sighed.

“I just… cannae shake a bad feelin’,” he told her with discomfort.

“‘Tis new parent jitters, my lamb,” Mama told him, touching his arm gently. Somehow, Archie didn’t believe that it was just these ‘new parent jitters’, whatever those were. He occasionally had bad feelings, and more often than not, they had turned out to be true. God, please… Let this be one of the times that Archie’s bad feeling was wrong. “When are ye plannin’ on… movin’ te yer new cabin?” Mama asked him suddenly, pulling Archie out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” he asked. “Oh… Er… Clara wants te stay a bit longer, until Vicki’s a wee bit aulder.”

“Not a bad idea,” Mama told him. “Considerin’ ye have all the free childcare ye need.”

“Aye, and Clara’s still so tired,”  Archie told her, and then he sighed softly. “Yer sure ye didnae treat an auld woman?”

“Positive, lamb. Maybe yer cousin did in the Village, but there’s no auld women in my book today,” Mama replied, and Archie nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Thank ye, Mama, fer everrathin’.” Archie kissed her cheek lightly, then left with Vicki in his arms. She cooed ever so gently in his arms, and though he ought to be satisfied with her clean bill of health, he couldn’t help but remain uneasy.

6 October, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

Jamie had been holed up in his study since before I woke up, so I dressed myself, made us both a cup of tea with tea leaves I started growing in my herb garden, and then made my way to his study. I knocked on the door before opening it, and he glanced up at me over his spectacles from his desk. “Hey,” I said, smiling warmly at him as I carried two mugs of piping hot tea to his desk. I set one down next to him, then bent forward and kissed the top of his head. “Ye’ve been holed up in here all mornin’. I was deprived of the sight of ye when I woke up.” He chuckled softly.

“I’m sorry, a nighean,” he said, and though he smiled, I could tell that something was bothering him.

“Right, dòirt,” I said, urging him to speak his mind. “What’s on yer mind, mo ghràidh?” He sighed, looking back down at the letter in front of him.

“There’s been a riot in Hillsborough,” he told me, and my eyes widened a bit.

“A riot,” I repeated. “Cannae say I’m surprised, given all tha’s already happened this year.”

“Aye, and if it couldnae get any worse, Murtagh was involved,” Jamie told me, and I let out a sigh.

“So Tryon’s chewin’ yer arse off fer not catchin’ him,” I said.

“I couldnae have said it better,” Jamie replied a bit bitterly, sitting back in his chair. “He wants me te leave fer Hillsborough the moment this letter reaches my hands.”

“What for?” I asked him a bit incredulously.

“Surely, not fer anythin’ good,” Jamie replied, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead. I set down my mug and placed both of my hands on his shoulders, pushing into the muscles with my thumbs. “Mmm… Ye’ve always been good wi’ yer hands.”

“I can be better,” I told him in a soft, seductive tone, and he chuckled.

“I wish I had time fer them,” he said with disappointment. “I should report te Hillsborough straight away. I’ll take Archie wi’ me.”

“Oh, Jamie. He just had a bairn, and Clara needs him. Why dinnae ye take Elton instead?” I asked him.

“Elton doesnae have a mind fer these sort of things,” Jamie told me.

“Then take Rory,” I replied, and he scoffed.

“That lad has even less of a mind fer these things. What did he say he did? Teachin’?” Jamie said with an incredulous tone.

“He taught history at a secondary school in Princeton,” I said. “He’s a clever lad. He’ll figure it out! The best way fer him te learn is by watchin’ the expert, no?”

“Hmph. Dinnae flatter me,” he said sarcastically, and then he sighed. “Fine. If ye willnae let me take our eldest son, who kens all this from experience, then I suppose I will take Rory Mac.” 

“It’ll be good fer ye te bond,” I told him, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll go and inform Bree myself.” I kissed his head again, then grabbed my tea and made for the door. “Oh! I nearly forgot. Would it be possible fer ye te… inquire aboot an indentured servant in New Jersey?”

“What are ye needin’ an indentured servant in New Jersey fer?” Jamie asked me curiously.

“Not fer me, fer Lizzie,” I told him. “It’s her father. She said he’s contracted wi’ a family in New Jersey, but doesnae ken any more than that.”

“What’s the man’s name?” Jamie asked me. “I may have te buy his contract.”

“Joseph Wemyss. It’ll be worth it te reunite a father wi’ his daughter again,” I said, giving him a knowing look. “I know you ken what it feels te long fer yer wee lass.” Jamie sighed.

“All right, all right,” Jamie told me. “I’ll make inquiries. In the meantime, ensure that Rory Mac doesnae delay.”

“Ye have my word,” I told him, winking at him, and then I left his study.

“Auntie!” Caoimhe exclaimed, startling me a little and causing me to jump away from my microscope.

“Fer Bride’s sake, Caoimhe, careful aboot terrorisin’ me, will ye?” I asked her a bit irritably.

“Oh, sorry, Auntie,” she said. “I heard Uncle Jamie was goin’ te Hillsborough. I’d like te go with him.”

“Go with him?” I repeated. “But I need ye here, hen.”

“Ye have Maevis,” Caoimhe replied. “Besides, I can replenish our more exotic herbs there.”

“What are ye wantin’ te go te Hillsborough fer anyway?” I asked her, my brow raised.

“Exactly that, Auntie. I swear te ye,” she told me.

“And nothin’ te do wi’ the riot that just occurred there?” I asked her.

“It was two weeks ago, Auntie. I really just want te get more herbs,” she told me.

“And see a new place,” I said to her. “I see it in yer eyes, hen. It was the same look yer father got whenever he heard we were goin’ te a new place. Yer antsy, arenae ye?”

“I wouldnae say ‘antsy’,” she said a bit awkwardly. “I do love it here… but aye, the charm of a new environment does interest me.”

“Verra well,” I said. “But bring back herbs, and look around fer new lenses fer a microscope. Preferably somethin’ wi’ more magnification.”

“Aye, Auntie,” she told me, making to leave.

“Hold on,” I called after her. “Do me a wee favour. Make sure yer uncle doesnae frighten Rory too much.”

“Rory’s goin’? Not Archie?” she asked me with surprise.

“Archie needs te stay here,” I replied. “Aye, Rory’s goin’, and yer uncle isnae too thrilled aboot it, so perhaps someone te mediate between them will help.”

“I’ll do my best,” Caoimhe replied with a small sigh. “I cannae say I disagree wi’ Uncle Jamie. He’s my brother now, but Rory is a Protestant. They used te kill us, Auntie.”

“Used te. They dinnae presently kill Catholics, ye wee fool,” I told her. “Right, on ye go. Dinnae let yer uncle get into any trouble, either.”

“Now, that I cannae promise,” Caoimhe replied with a chuckle, and then she was gone, off to start a new adventure. I knew that Caoimhe had an adventurous soul the moment she learned how to walk. She was always exploring new areas and went missing frequently when she was a wee lass. Because of that, I knew we couldn’t keep her under our roof forever, and I suppose Cailean knew that, too, when she stowed away on our ship. Perhaps her adventurous spirit could be quelled by little trips to nearby towns, for now.

I stood in the doorframe watching Jamie pack a bag with clothes, unable to stop the heavy sigh coming out of my mouth. He paused, then sighed himself. “Yer angry wi’ me,” he said neutrally.

“Not you,” I told him. “Wi’ Tryon, aye, but not you. Demandin’ ye te go te his everra beck and call… Who does the man think he is?”

“The Governor of North Carolina,” Jamie reminded me, turning to look at me. “And the man who gave me ten thousand acres of land through the kindness of the Crown.” I scoffed.

“Kindness,” I spat out bitterly. “When has the Crown ever exhibited even an ounce of kindness te us?”

“Besides givin’ us land where we built our home? Have our family?” Jamie asked me, and I scoffed again.

“I dinnae mean te sound so ungrateful, but the Crown has fucked us over too many times fer me te just start trustin’ it now,” I told him. “Look what the English are doin’ te Cailean and our kin on Barra? Look at what they’ve done te yer family? Jenny and Ian have come on hard times, thanks te them. Our nephew’s wife’s parents were killed in the days followin’ Culloden. We were separated from our children because of them… Just because Tryon gave us the land where we made our home doesnae mean I’m goin’ te start trustin’ him and the rest of the English.”

“I ken that,” said Jamie with a heavy sigh. “As the years go by… I find myself thinkin’ of that Revolution ye speak of.” Ah, yes. The Revolution. The sparks were already starting and the keg was ready to blow. The Boston Massacre had already occurred, so what came after that? First, political attempts to fight back against the English and their ridiculous taxes, and then… war. Another war. War was all I ever would know, apparently. Would I ever know peace? I felt uneasy, too, when I remembered that this war won’t go down as a war against the English… it’ll go down as a war against the British. The English, the Welsh, and the Scots. There were Scots on both sides of the war, of course, but we were so divided after the events of the Jacobite Uprising that soon, it would be brother against brother, kin against kin, friend against friend.

“I dinnae want te think of it,” I told him, knowing what we faced. If we went against Tryon, he could take our home and everything away from us, brand us as traitors and have us arrested. If we remained on his side, we would be branded as Loyalists, and I’m not quite sure if our fate at the hands of the Colonists would be better or worse.

“It’s years away, fer now. Best we keep the peace fer as long as we can before we’re forced te choose a side,” Jamie told me. He crossed the room to me, touching my arms ever so softly. He raised one hand to my chin and pushed my face up, then pressed his lips firmly against mine. I gave in as I always did, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my forehead against his. His warm breath fogged up my glasses, but my eyes were closed anyway.

“I dinnae want ye te go,” I told him quietly.

“I’ll return te ye as quick as I can, mo nighean. I promise ye,” he said back to me. He kissed my forehead, then embraced me tightly. “Take care of our grandchildren… and our daughter, as well.”

“She’s been doin’ better,” I told him, but he and I both knew that something was off. She was pulling away from us and her daughters more and more each day, retreating into her room and not coming out for hours. She looked as if she were wasting away, as she barely touched her food and I almost never saw her eat anymore. “I’ll… keep an eye on her.”

“Good,” Jamie told me, giving me a soft smile before kissing me again. “I’ll come home te ye soon. I promise ye.”

“Ye’d better, and ye’d better not kill Rory and claim he was taken by the Mohawk again,” I teased him, and he chuckled.

“Wi’ Caoimhe watchin’ me closely, I dinnae think I’ll have the chance,” he told me playfully.

9 October, 1770

It had been a couple of days since Jamie, Rory and Caoimhe left for Hillsborough, and for the most part, events on the Ridge had been rather uneventful. We had the first snow of the season the day after they left, and I couldn’t help but worry that they were cold and wet, but I was sure that Jamie and Caoimhe put together a good shelter, and hopefully taught Rory a thing or two. Brèagha, in the meantime, was staying in Caoimhe’s room so that she wasn’t alone, and Donnie took up residence in the nursery with his cousins.

I went upstairs to go to Archie and Clara’s room, as I was checking her and wee Victoria daily for the first couple of weeks, considering her birth was a bit traumatic. I couldn’t help but feel a bit of unease in the back of my mind, which Archie had unknowingly planted when he asked me to check her more thoroughly. She was as healthy as could be and honestly one of the healthiest infants I had ever seen. She was gaining weight as she ought to, she was latching and feeding perfectly, she was having regular bowel movements and her heart rate was perfect. She was the picture of infant health, but Archie had always had a sort of… intuition about things that no one else I knew had. If he had a bad feeling, then so did I. I knocked on the door and was greeted by Archie, who smiled warmly at me.

“Ah, Mama, I’m glad yer here,” he said happily, still glowing with new fatherhood. He embraced me tightly in greeting, then stepped aside to let me in.

“And how’s mother and baby?” I asked Clara, who was sitting upright in a chair and holding Victoria in her arms.

“Like a little cherub,” Clara answered me a bit sleepily. She looked good, save for the fact that she was exhausted, but that was a look that every new mother had - at least, new mothers that actually physically cared for their child. Her smile faltered a little as she grimaced slightly, then she let out a breath of air. “Me, on the other hand…”

“The bleedin’, is it?” I asked, and she nodded. Archie, who stood beside her, turned a little pink when we mentioned her courses.

“It’s so much. I would have never have expected it to be so much,” Clara said to me as I knelt down beside her and set my bag down.

“Aye, well, yer womb has been buildin’ up its linin’ te cushion wee Victoria fer nine months, and now it’s all got te come out as the uterus shrinks back te its normal size,” I told her, pulling out the small little pocket watch that I had. I took her wrist and felt for her pulse, watching the seconds tick by on the little clock before setting it down and writing it down in my book. “Yer heart’s a wee bit fast today,” I said as I took out my small thermometer and stuck it under her tongue. I watched as the mercury inside of the little glass tube rose to read thirty-eight degrees Celsius, and I clicked my tongue softly and wrote that down in my book as well. “Yer a bit feverish. Are ye feelin’ all right?”

“A little tired, maybe. And a bit warm,” she said, wiping a little bit of sweat from her forehead.

“I was sayin’ this te her this mornin’. And when I went te embrace her, she cried out in pain,” Archie told me, and Clara sighed softly with embarrassment.

“Pain?” I asked her. She glanced at me for a moment before looking up at Archie.

“My love, do you mind leaving your mother and I alone for a moment?” Clara asked him.

“Oh. Er… Aye, I suppose. Want me te take her?” Archie asked in response a bit awkwardly.

“Yes, please,” Clara told him, handing little Victoria to her father.

“Come, my wee girl,” he told her, kissing her little forehead, and she fussed a little. “I’ll be right outside, a ghràidh.” Clara waited until the door was shut before she looked at me again, and I realised that her cheeks were pink, and not from her fever.

“I have… a little bit of an issue,” she told me, clearly embarrassed.

“What is it, hen?” I asked her.

“Oh, ‘tis so mortifying… but you are a physician, and a woman as well, so I imagine… you may have dealt with it before,” Clara told me. She untied the front of her shift, lowering it to reveal her breast to me. One of her breasts was more swollen than the other and an infuriating red. “It hurts to touch, and it’s… warmer than the other.”

“Ah, and the source of yer fever,” I said. I touched it gently with my hands and she hissed in pain, so I pulled back and wrote this down in my book. “‘Tis a bout of mastitis - inflammation of the breast tissue. It verra well could be a blocked milk duct. Has Victoria been feeding from it?”

“I haven’t let her. It’s been painful since last night,” Clara told me.

“I see,” I said. “Ye can cover that back up, if ye like.” She gladly did so modestly. “So what we’ll do is have ye press a hot compress te yer breast fer a bit and I’ll give ye somethin’ fer the pain. The only thing we can do is treat the symptoms, at the moment. If it gets worse, I may have te drain an abscess, but hopefully, we dinnae reach that point. I’ll go and make ye a hot wet towel and tea right now.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Mrs. Fraser,” Clara said to me gratefully.

“I told ye, ye can call me Ma if ye like,” I told her, giving her a soft smile. When I stepped out of the room, Archie went to ask me what was wrong, and I simply raised a hand to calm him. “Just… give her a bit. Take Victoria out fer a walk, I need te treat her fer an infection.”

“What sort of infection is it?” Archie asked me, and I sighed softly.

“An infection of the breast,” I told him. “I dinnae have anymore antibiotics, so I’ll need te treat the symptoms and hope it doesnae get worse.”

“What aboot those orange things? Those… nanomeds?” he asked me quietly.

“If I have te use one, I will,” I told him, lowering my voice. “But people can have negative reactions te them. I’ll not put her at risk fer that unless I absolutely have te.” Archie nodded subtly.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour, then.”

“Good lad,” I told him, touching his arm and giving my granddaughter a wee kiss on the head before going back downstairs. When I went into the Surgery, Maevis was there looking through my herb journal, familiarising herself with the herbs and their uses. When she saw the frustrated look on my face, she raised a brow curiously.

“Is she okay?” she asked me, and I sighed.

“She will be,” I said. “She’d be better if we had bleedin’ antibiotics. She has a mild case of mastitis. I’m goin’ te give her a hot compress and some herbs fer the pain.”

“Like… white willow bark?” Maevis asked me.

“Aye, and a bit of lavender wi’ honey. Honey has some antibacterial properties,” I told her. “Do ye ken any other herbs that we might be able te use fer her infection?”

“Um… Calendula?” she asked me.

“Aye, calendula would be a good one te use. It’s good fer fever. I was thinkin’ a bit of Syzygium aromaticum and Allium sativum,” I told her, and she raised her brow in confusion.

“Um…” she said, not quite grasping the Latin names of the plants yet.

“Clove and garlic,” I told her. “Clo-mheas agus garleag in Gaelic.”

“Ah,” said Maevis, clearly a bit disappointed in herself.

“Dinnae fash, hen. It takes years te have it all memorised. I’m still learnin’ new ones everra day,” I told her as I went to my herb jars to make the tea blend for Clara. “I’ll put a wee bit of clove and garlic salve on her breast as well te help wi’ infection.”

“That’ll smell nice,” said Maevis sarcastically.

“Aye, but the relief is worth it,” I replied, pulling down the salve I had made in question. When I opened it, I made a face, as it truly did have the worst smell imaginable, and I scooped out some into a small jar for Clara to use daily. “I’ll bring this up te her. It does work, but it’ll never be as strong as a true antibiotic.”

“If only they were invented sooner,” said Maevis.

“They can be,” I replied. “I have the bell jars I asked Mr. Carlyon fer. I can grab some bread or cheese from the kitchen. We can grow mould, use the microscope te identify it, then make our own.”

“But… won’t that mess up history?” Maevis asked me.

“Not if we keep it te ourselves,” I told her. “No one will ken how te make it except fer you, me, and Caoimhe. Tha’s all who needs te ken, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Maevis a bit softly. “Um… Do you need help?”

“I think I’ve got this, hen, but I thank ye,” I said to her, giving her a smile. “Why dinnae ye take yer girls fer a walk? Despite the snow the other day, it’s a fairly nice day today.”

“Maybe,” said Maevis, looking away from me and back down at the book. I sighed softly, then got back to work on Clara’s treatment.

10 October, 1770

CAOIMHE POV

“How could ye not ken somethin’ so basic as startin’ a damned fire?” demanded Uncle Jamie from Rory irritably.

“Well, it’s not like I have much use for starting a fire in the woods in twenty-second century New Jersey!” Rory snapped back at him. Caoimhe, who was gutting a fish that Uncle Jamie had caught for dinner, rolled her eyes and huffed at the two of them. They had been squabbling since the moment they were out of Auntie Cat’s earshot, and Caoimhe had just about had it with them.

“I cannae believe ye have no survival skills whatsoever! How do ye expect te take care of my daughter and my grandson?” Uncle Jamie demanded.

“Exactly the way I already have been!” Rory snapped back.

“Will the both of ye hush up fer five minutes?” Caoimhe snapped at them both, startling them into silence. “Nonstop, ye’ve been at each other’s throats. Now, fer Christ’s sake and all things holy, shut yer mouths if ye cannae say anythin’ nice te each other!” Both Uncle Jamie and Rory stared at her wide-eyed, Uncle Jamie more taken aback than Rory. Caoimhe huffed, then tossed the fish down in the pan waiting at her feet, stood up and made for the river to get more water. However, because it was finally quiet, she sat there for some time, just enjoying the sweet sound of silence.

For some reason, her mind drifted to Allan McCullough. Would he be in Hillsborough? Probably not. Why did it matter if he was or wasn’t, anyway? It wasn’t like Caoimhe was attracted to him. He was a nice bloke, but there was a small fear in the back of Caoimhe’s mind that if she were to ever find herself in a marriage, she might meet a similar fate to her mother. No, Caoimhe wouldn’t be getting married, nor would she be having children. Not if she could help it. Mr. McCullough was nice and all, but he would probably make some other lass happy. She let out a huff and stood, bracing herself to make her way back to the inevitable squabbling that was awaiting her.

13 October, 1770

BRÈAGHA POV

Brèagha sat in a rocking chair outside with Donnie in her arms as he nursed. She smiled down at his sweet wee face, but he was busy feeding, so he wasn’t all that interested in her. She chuckled softly, then let out a content sigh. Here she was, a wife to a wonderful man and a mother to the perfect little boy. She looked over at her brother, who was standing nearby and bouncing his wee daughter in his arms. Seeing Archie with a child of his own nearly brought tears to her eyes. He’d always been so good with children, and now he had his own to love, spoil and cherish.

“I dinnae think I’ve ever seen ye so happy than I do now wi’ yer daughter in yer arms,” Brèagha told her brother fondly, and he chuckled softly.

“I dinnae think I’ve ever loved somethin’ so much,” he replied, not taking his eyes off of his sweet girl.

“She’s perfect, Archie, really,” Brèagha told him. She looked over at Lizzie and Maggie, who each were holding Wren and Lark. Cousin Seàrlas’s daughter, Ceitidh, was also with them, playing with Ginnie and wee Germain with a stick and a metal hoop. The two wee ones were giggling incessantly, while Ceitidh rolled the hoop down a hill for them to chase.

“Go on and get it! But dinnae fall!” Ceitidh called after them as they ran down the hill.

“I dinnae think they’d care if they did,” said Lizzie with a soft giggle, bouncing wee Wren on her knee.

“‘Tis too bad Maevis cannae come out te sit wi’ her daughters,” said Brèagha softly. She was trying hard not to be judgemental of her sister, but it was hard not to. Here Maevis was, essentially blaming her daughters for their own conception and birth. She still was of the opinion that Maevis should have been more careful and shouldn’t have put herself on the position to be raped, but she knew, too, that had she been the one in Maevis’s position - from a time that, according to her siblings, husband and mother, saw women as equals coming to a time that saw women as barely more than dirt, and then getting raped and essentially blamed for it. Brèagha didn’t blame her, of course, however, Brèagha was well aware of the horrors of the world outside of their home. Perhaps Maevis half expected the men of this century to be more like the men of hers.

“Aye, I did hope she’d warm up more,” Archie said with a soft sigh, also looking at the girls sitting on Lizzie and Maggie’s laps. “Lizzie mentioned tha’ Maevis never looks at Lark, and now is barely lookin’ twice at Wren.”

“She should be treatin’ her daughters equally,” said Brèagha.

“Aye, but I suppose I cannae blame her. Wren looks less like Bonnet,” Archie told her softly, and then he looked at his sister. “Ye didnae see him the way we did, Bree. The man was cold. If evil had a face, it would belong te Stephen Bonnet. His eyes were uncarin’ly cold, wi’ no ounce of kindness or love in them save fer the desire te be well off and feared. He claimed te befriend us, then mercilessly attacked us and even murdered one of our friends. I cannae imagine how he looked when he… attacked her.” Brèagha sighed softly, looking away from him.

“He seemed so damned charmin’ until he imprisoned us in our quarters on the ship. I dinnae think I ever want te set eyes on the monster ever again,” she said, adjusting her gaze to look at Lark. The little girl looked up at her aunt, her little green eyes lighting up as she smiled and giggled. “Maevis said Lark looks like him...”

“Aye… She does,” Archie replied, now looking at her. “‘Tis hard, sometimes… te look at her knowin’ she shares the eyes and the face of that monster.” He paused for a moment. “But I ken she isnae him. No, unlike that bastard, Lark will be loved and cherished. She’ll never be allowed te follow in his path. She’ll be raised properly and safely. She may share his gaze, but she isnae him. I just wish Maevis could see that, too.” As if on cue, Brèagha caught movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up to see Maevis heading towards them with a basket of herbs. She must have been foraging in the woods for more, and when Brèagha spotted her, she motioned to Archie to shut up as Maevis came up the stairs.

“Good day te ye, sister,” Brèagha said to Maevis as kindly as she could. “How’re ye doin’?”

“I’m fine,” Maevis replied quietly and without emotion, pausing to speak to her brother and sister.

“‘Tis a fine day. Why dinnae ye join us?” Brèagha asked her. “Yer bonny girls are lovin’ this fine day.” Maevis glanced up at the two little girls and her demeanor instantly changed from that of simply unhappy to one of discomfort.

“Um…” she said, tugging at her sleeves nervously.

“Is that… a bit of blood on your sleeve?” Archie asked suddenly, and Brèagha’s attention was diverted to the cuffs of Maevis’s sleeves. Before she could see anything, Maevis pulled her arms up and tucked them in so that they couldn’t be seen. “Are ye hurt, a phiuthar?”

“I… probably scratched myself on a branch. I-I… I’m fine,” she said rather quickly, moving to go back inside the house.

“Maybe ye should see Mama aboot it, just te make sure it doesnae get infected,” Archie called after her, but she was already gone. Brèagha raised a brow at this strange behaviour.

“Huh… I wonder what that was aboot,” she said curiously.

“B-Begging your pardon,” came the meek voice of young Geordie Severs, having appeared from around the corner. “Was that… Maevis?”

“Aye, ye just missed her,” Brèagha said to young Geordie.

“How-How is she?” Geordie asked her, wringing his hands a bit awkwardly.

“Seems te be fine,” Archie replied, though Brèagha could tell both by his tone and by the look in his eye that he wasn’t all that confident with his answer to Geordie. “We appreciate the concern, though, a charaid. Dinnae fash aboot her, we’ll take care of her.”

“But it’s sweet of ye te ask,” Brèagha told him, smiling gently at him. It was obvious to Brèagha that Geordie was in love with Maevis, or at least had what Mama called ‘a wee crush’ on her. Archie and Elton both thought that he was simply being kind, but of course, Elton was blind to the love blooming between Rory and Brèagha on the journey to the Colonies, and they were confined to a single room for the majority of the trip. Maevis was completely blind to Geordie’s feelings for her, and probably wouldn’t even want to see them if she wasn’t. She seemed to have no interest in finding a father figure for her two wee girls, perfectly content to live in her own little world where she could ignore the gossip that was going on behind her back. It was unusual for a young single woman with children to remain unmarried - at least, in this century. Brèagha didn’t know how it was in Maevis’s time.

“Oh. Oh, all right,” said Geordie, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Er… i-if there’s anything I can do…”

“We’ll send fer ye,” Brèagha told him kindly. He nodded subtly, and then he left, making his way towards the stables silently. “Puir lad.”

“Puir lad? Whatever for?” Archie asked her, and Brèagha just shook her head.

“Men,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Sometimes, not all bitin’ snakes in front of ye are visible.”

15 October, 1770

JAMIE POV

“I cannot help but express my discontent, Colonel Fraser,” said Governor Tryon to Jamie as he met with the governor in Hillsborough. “Murtagh Fitzgibbons was, again, leading yet another riot against the good people of this colony!”

“I must beg yer forgiveness, Yer Grace. Hillsborough isnae in my jurisdiction,” Jamie said to him somewhat uncomfortably, masking his discomfort. “I have been keepin’ an eye and an ear out fer him in the backcountry, however. I have scouts regularly searchin’ the perimeters and questionin’ travellers. I fear I have no information te report.”

“Then perhaps it is time for you to form your militia,” said Governor Tryon, his brow furrowed as he looked up at Jamie irritably from his table, where a map of North Carolina marked with the locations of all Regulator uprisings that had occurred rested in front of them. Jamie glanced down at it, noticing events in and around Wilmington, New Bern, the backcountry, and now Hillsborough.

“I… have no weapons te arm my men. Only enough fer myself and my sons,” Jamie said to him, hoping to delay the formation of a militia for as long as possible. “Not te mention, they’re farmers, no’ soldiers.” Governor Tryon closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a soft, frustrated sigh before opening them again.

“Very well. I shall have a shipment delivered,” he said. “They shall arrive before the New Year, and when you are armed, I expect news of a formation. Train them how you see fit, but they must be prepared for battle.” Jamie bit the inside of his lip uncomfortably, but nodded.

“Yes, Yer Grace. It shall be done,” Jamie said to him. He had a little bit of time, but soon, he would have to go after his own godfather. He had to think of a way to warn him. With Fergus now living on the Ridge, he’d lost his connection to Wilmington, but perhaps he could send Fergus and maybe Archie out to find news of Murtagh. He would have no other choice. Murtagh needed to leave North Carolina - or better yet, America altogether.

CAOIMHE POV

Caoimhe had finished collecting her herbs, so she looked next at the list that Auntie Cat had given her. Auntie Cat had asked for some more supplies like cloth for gauze, a new bone saw, a newer pair of forceps, and any new lenses for her microscope. Caoimhe didn’t know where she could find those, so she walked around the market looking for someone who might be selling tools of some type.

“I’ll tell me Ma, when I get home

T’e boys won’t leave t’e girls alone.

Pulled me hair, and stole my comb,

But t’at’s all right till I go home.”

Caoimhe glanced up as she passed a group of Irishmen singing a song outside of a tavern, and when they saw her, they all smiled giddily.

“She is handsome, she is pretty,

She’s t’e belle of Dublin city,

She is a-courtin’ one, two, t’ree.

Pray, can ye tell me, who is she?”

“Not the belle of Dublin city, I can tell ye that much,” Caoimhe said to them playfully, and two of them whistled at her. “Haud yer weesht. I’m Scottish.”

“Och, a bonnie wee t’istle!” said another. “Pray, tell us yer name, bonnie wee t’istle!”

“Who’s askin’?” she asked them.

“Tommy Ryan, Miss!” said one of them, taking off his hat and bowing to her.

“And ye can call me Paddy O’Brien!” said another, pushing aside Tommy Ryan and bowing to her.

“Ye can call me Declan O’Hara, Miss,” said a third, pushing both Tommy and Paddy aside and bowing to her.

“Aye, and I’m Cillian Ó Conaill,” said the fourth, a redhaired lad with an equally red beard.

“Aye? Tha’s my brother’s name, Cillian,” Caoimhe told them, and the other three teased this Cillian with chuckles and whoops.

“And what do we call ye, Miss Sister o’ Cillian?” asked Cillian Ó Conaill.

“Caoimhe Fowlis,” she answered them.

“‘Tis an Irish name! What’s a Scottish t’istle doin’ wit’ a wee Irish name like t’at?” asked Tommy Ryan loudly.

“My mother was from Ireland,” Caoimhe told them.

“Ach, so ye are an Irish lass!” exclaimed Paddy, and Caoimhe chuckled gently.

“Only half,” she told them with amusement.

“Half? All it takes is a wee drop o’ Irish blood an’ yer Irish!” exclaimed Declan, and Caoimhe rolled her eyes, still amused.

“So tell us, Miss Caoimhe, which of us do ye fancy?” asked Paddy.

“None of ye,” she told them in Irish, and they all whooped and hollered again.

“And she speaks t’e mot’er tongue! Ach, ye put t’e heart across me, Miss Caoimhe!” exclaimed Tommy.

“Caoimhe, there ye are!” came Rory’s voice from behind her, and the Irishmen cackled.

“Ach, is t’is yer husband, Miss Caoimhe?” asked Declan.

“At least he isna English!” said Cillian.

“Piss off, the lot of ye!” Rory said to them, and they only laughed.

“Och, it’s fine. They’re not botherin’ me,” Caoimhe said with mild amusement.

“Ye see t’at? She said we’re not bot’erin’ her, a chuach!” said Paddy.

“Funny, in Gaelic, we say ‘a chuthaig’,” Caoimhe replied.

“Gaelic? Ye mean Gaelic, surely!” said Tommy, pronouncing it as ‘gay-luck’ instead of ‘gah-lick’.

“Ye Scots get yer tongue from us!” said Paddy, and Caoimhe rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Rory. Lá maith agat, a amadán!” she said, wishing the fools a good day in Irish as they walked away, the sound of the Irishmen’s cackling following them until they were out of earshot.

“What does ‘a chuthaig’ mean?” Rory asked her. He knew some Gaelic, but wasn’t fluent, and that certainly wasn’t a word he knew. Caoimhe smiled to herself.

“Och, dinnae fash aboot it. They dinnae ken what they’re talkin’ aboot,” she told him. The word meant ‘cuckold’. Shortly after, they came upon Uncle Jamie, who looked very distressed. “What is it, Uncle?” Caoimhe asked him, and he only let out a firm huff.

“I’ll tell ye later. Fer now, let us get the hell out of this town and back home,” he told them, leaving Rory and Caoimhe both confused and concerned. Whatever had happened, it must have been bad if it unsettled Uncle Jamie.

Chapter Text

18 October, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

“Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly,

Blow the wind south o’er the bonny blue sea;

Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly,

Blow, bonny breeze, my lover te me…”

I rubbed Ginnie’s back gently in an effort to get her to nap while singing an old Scottish lullaby. She was always fussy when nap time came around, and then irritable later because she was tired. I couldn’t blame her - I hated nap time, too, at that age. However, I was by myself, as Brèagha was busy with Donnie and both Archie and Clara were still adjusting to having a newborn bairn to care for, and Ginnie was my responsibility, being my youngest. However, I was also responsible for ensuring Wren and Lark were cared for, seeing as Maevis seemed to have completely given up on motherhood. It was frustrating, to say the least, and when Brèagha casually mentioned Maevis’s wrists being bloodied, I couldn’t help but harbour feelings of anger. I knew she was dealing with a serious case of postpartum depression, but the stress of everything was really starting to get to me, and finding out that Maevis was deliberately harming herself was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Oh, is it not sweet te hear the breeze singing

As lightly it comes o’er the deep rollin’ sea?

But sweeter and dearer by far when ‘tis bringin’

The barque of my true love in safety te me…”

I noticed that Ginnie’s back rose and fell with a gentle rhythm, indicating that she had fallen asleep. She was like me in this sense, as I often felt more comfortable sleeping on my belly just as she did. The rest of our children slept like their father on their backs, but Ginnie and I shared this one wee thing in common. I smiled gently at her sleeping form, then slowly bent forward to kiss the top of her head before sneaking out of her wee room. She’d been upgraded to her own room once Victoria was born, as the nursery was becoming too crowded and she was being frequently disturbed by her infant nieces and nephew.

I let out a sigh and my smile faded, then I made my way back down to my Surgery. When I arrived, I found that things were not quite as I had left them about twenty minutes before. Things were moved around, put in places they didn’t belong, and, worst of all, my bell jars were empty. Several days ago, I had placed bread, cheese and fruit in the bell jars with the intention of allowing them to grow mould, and just as they were starting to, they disappeared. I let out an enraged huff. “Mrs. Bug!” I shouted into the house, trying not to sound too angry. “Mrs. Bug!”

“Aye, a muirnean?” the auld woman asked me innocently as she came from inside the house.

“What have ye done wi’ my experiments?” I asked her, and she raised a brow at me.

“Beggin’ yer pardon?” she asked me.

“The bread, cheese and fruit I had in my Surgery. Where are they?” I asked her a bit irritably.

“Och, they were goin’ te mould! They had te go,” Mrs. Bug told me, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Mrs. Bug, I’ve asked ye many times te leave my Surgery te me. I’m verra particular aboot where I keep things. Ye do a lot of other things fer us, but ye do not need te worry aboot my Surgery. Aye?” I asked her calmly, but firmly, and she huffed and placed her hands on her hips.

“Ye keep it a pig’s sty!” she said to me. “If ye dinnae mind it, yer bread and cheese will go te mould, as it did!”

“That was the intention, Mrs. Bug. I can make a verra important medicine out of a verra specific mould, but I need te grow the mould and look fer it,” I said back to her. “Please, fer the love of Brigid, leave my Surgery alone. I will clean it.” She huffed again.

“Verra well,” she replied sharply, and then she was off. I let out a heavy sigh, frustrated that I would have to start my experiment all over again. I turned around and looked hopelessly at my now empty bell jars, then went to my journal and ripped out the page I was taking my notes on, crumpling it up and throwing it on the floor in frustration. I’d pick it up later, but I was annoyed that my experiment had been carelessly discarded. Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me, then out of the corner of my eye, saw Maevis appear in my peripheral vision. I startled her immensely by suddenly grabbing her wrist and yanking up her sleeve, taking notice of the bloodied gauze that she had poorly wrapped around her wounds.

“What are you doing?” Maevis demanded from me, trying to yank her wrist away, but my grip was strong.

“No, Maevis, what are you doin’?” I demanded from her, pulling the gauze off and unwrapping it to reveal several scabbed over meticulously cut lines on her wrist, and some that looked fresh. She growled at me and yanked her arm away, turning her back to me. “So tha’s where my missin’ blade went!”

“Leave me alone!” Maevis cried.

“Have ye any idea how dangerous it is fer ye te do somethin’ so stupid, Maevis? Especially now, in this time!” I shouted.

“I’m not bothering anyone!” Maevis shouted back at me.

“Yer botherin’ me!” I shouted. “Yer hurtin’ yerself! Of course yer botherin’ me!”

“It’s none of your business!”

“None of my business? Ye stole my blade and yer usin’ it te slice up yer wrists! What do ye mean, it isnae my business? Ye could seriously hurt yerself!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” We glared at each other with the same fire in our eyes, huffing and puffing heavily as we each paused to look at each other. At the same time, that fire faded from both of our eyes, and I let out a sigh as I felt tears well up in my eyes.

“Oh, Maevis,” I said to her, and she broke out into a sob. “Oh, come here, my darlin’ girl…” I pulled her into my arms and held her, brushing my fingers through her soft red hair as she cried into my shoulder. “Me sweet girl… I knew ye were hurtin’, but… I didnae ken ye were hurtin’ this much…”

“I-I-I can’t s-sleep… all I s-see is… him…” she sobbed.

“I understand,” I told her, but she shook her head.

“No… N-No you d-don’t!”

“I do, darlin’. I do… More than ye know,” I told her softly, pulling back to look at her. She looked up at me, her blue eyes red and puffy and her cheeks glistening with tears. “Shh…” I wiped her tears away with my thumb, then held her in my arms again and kissed the top of her head. Out of all of our children, save for Ginnie for obvious reasons, Maevis was the only one who was short enough for me to do that, standing at about five-foot-seven compared to my five-foot-ten (I’d lost about an inch over the years). “C’mon, let me treat yer wounds. But ye have te promise me ye willnae do this anymore, okay?” She nodded, pulling away to wipe her eyes. “Do ye want te talk while I take care of ye?” She shook her head. “All right… But ye know I’m always here in case ye do, aye?” She nodded again, but she didn’t look at me. “All right, have a seat.” She had several cuts on both wrists, and she must have been doing it for some time because there were some scars that were at least several weeks old. I simply tended to her wounds silently, cleaning them and wrapping them silently. Thankfully, none of them were infected. Once I had finished, she pulled my small surgical scalpel out of her pocket and handed it to me, and it was relatively clean. I didn’t say anything as she stood up and quietly walked out of the Surgery, sniffling along the way.

Once she had left and I was all alone, I couldn’t stop myself from silently crying. My daughter was hurting so much emotionally that she had resorted to physically harming herself, and it felt like there was nothing I could do to help her. I could barely reach her now, but how much longer would it be before I couldn’t reach her at all?

19 October, 1770

I was folding laundry when I heard the familiar sound of a horse’s bray, and I looked out the window just in time to see Jamie jumping down from his horse. Should I tell him about Maevis? No, he wouldn’t understand. Of course, keeping secrets was what got Rory beaten and sent to the Mohawk, but this one was different. That secret had been that Stephen Bonnet had raped Maevis, and that had been known by basically everyone in the family, but this was different. This was more personal, and I had a feeling that only Maevis and I knew the extent of what was going on. Brèagha had suspicions, evidently, but I didn’t believe that self-harm was what came to her mind when she mentioned her sister having blood on her sleeve. The idea of harming oneself in that way was more of a modern one, so it likely wouldn’t be something Brèagha would suspect. No, Jamie didn’t need to know. He would only be upset, and Maevis didn’t need anyone else yelling at her.

I went downstairs just as Jamie was coming in and Mrs. Bug was taking his coat, and I forced a smile when I saw him. “Jamie,” I said, and he smiled softly when he saw me. He bent forward to kiss me and then embraced me tightly, but when he pulled away, he had a peculiar look on his face.

“What is it, a nighean?” he asked me, raising a brow curiously. Damn it, how did he always know?

“What do ye mean?” I asked him with a bit of discomfort.

“Ye dinnae want te tell me,” he observed, and I sighed.

“I’m just… tired, is all. I dinnae sleep well when I dinnae have ye by my side,” I said to him, hoping it would be enough. I knew it wouldn’t be, but he knew that it would have to suffice. “How was Hillsborough?” He scoffed, then let go of me and made his way to his study while I followed behind him. “I take it nothin’ good?”

“Tryon asked me te form a militia,” Jamie told me once we were in his study, and he closed the door behind me.

“A militia? Already?” I asked him.

“He’s lost his patience wi’ me,” Jamie replied solemnly. “He’ll be sendin’ me weapons te arm my militia wi’. They’ll be here before the new year.”

“Yer jokin’,” I said, and then I let out a huff. “We still dinnae even have the trust of the fisher folk. Some of them dinnae even speak English! How can we ask them te give up everrathin’ they ken te potentially give up their lives fightin’ fer someone they dinnae even trust?”

“I dinnae ken. Tha’s why I’ll need ye te speak wi’ them,” Jamie told me, and I was taken aback.

“Me?” I asked him.

“Aye, you,” he told me. “And Caoimhe. They trust ye both more than anyone else here.”

“Ye want me, a known Jacobite, te ask them te fight fer the English under another Jacobite?” I asked again.

“Yer no’ a Jacobite. Yer a former Jacobite’s wife,” Jamie replied.

“I fought fer the cause, same as you did. Risked my life and all,” I told him, crossing my arms. “Fine. Ye want someone they’re convinced is a witch te tell them te fight fer the English under a former Jacobite?”

“They ken us all as British,” Jamie replied. “And they dinnae have the same pains as the Regulators. The Regulators are fightin’ taxes, this lot were evicted from their homeland.”

“Somethin’ the English imposed on them both,” I told him.

“The British,” Jamie said again. “It isnae Scotland against England any longer… It’ll be Scots fightin’ as redcoats, as well.”

“Dinnae remind me,” I said bitterly, looking away. “My whole life has been England versus Scotland… It’s difficult te accept tha’ now, we’re ‘united’ - by force, might I add.”

“Aye, I ken the same, only in a verra different way… Ye’ve seen a free Scotland, though. I havenae,” he reminded me, and I sighed.

“It wasnae a peace that lasted verra long,” I told him. “Even though Maevis, Rory and Elton said we won the war, I cannae see it as peace everlastin’.”

“No peace is ever everlastin’,” Jamie told me, and then he sighed, plopping down into his chair and putting his glasses on to look at the small pile of letters that had been placed on his desk. “A letter from John. I suppose he’s heard of what’s happened in Hillsborough by now.”

“When yer up the Governor’s arse, ye hear everrathin’,” I muttered softly, and Jamie chose to ignore that remark. He opened the letter and scanned over it, sighing softly and setting it back down.

“Aye, he has… He sends his regards,” Jamie told me, and I scoffed.

“How nice of him,” I said, sitting down on the settee.

“How’s Maevis?” Jamie asked me, and I felt slightly startled. I glanced at him briefly before glancing away.

“She’s fine,” I said, but he knew that I was lying.

“Catrìona,” he said, but I shook my head and stood back up.

“I’m handlin’ it,” I told him. “She will be fine.”

“What happened?” Jamie asked me, and I sighed.

“We got into an argument… but we’re fine. We’ve gotten over it,” I told him.

“All right,” said Jamie, still not fully believing me.

“I should go fill in Caoimhe on what’s goin’ on. Have ye told her anythin’?” I asked him, and he shook his head. “We’ll need te tread carefully. These people dinnae trust us already. They need me fer their medical care, I dinnae want them te lose their trust and stop comin’ te me.” I turned and left the study, bound for the Surgery where I assumed Caoimhe had gone.

21 October, 1770

“It’s very important that we help to make this new world that we now all live in - whether it be by choice or by force - safer for our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren, and all future generations to come,” I was saying in Gaelic to the fisher folk. “We all live and work hard today so that we may make a better world tomorrow.”

“Why should we care about tomorrow?” asked one of the fisher folk, a man I knew only as Mr. Dunbar. “If we don’t have food today, we won’t even live to see tomorrow!”

“Do you have children, Mr. Dunbar?” I asked him.

“Lost them all on the journey here, including my wife!” Mr. Dunbar replied.

“And I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Dunbar,” I told him, and he scoffed.

“And what does ‘sorry’ do? It will not bring them back!” he shouted back.

“I know,” I told him. “I know… I’ve lost children myself. I thought I lost my husband after Culloden, and then again some years later. We were very fortunate to have found each other again, but I know not everyone is as fortunate as we were.” I paused for a moment as I looked at everyone. “I know looking to tomorrow can be hard… Often, we aren’t even here to see tomorrow. There have been many times in my life when… I had no idea if I would see tomorrow. But I knew that somewhere, someone would. Someone would be here tomorrow, and they would carry on into the next day, and the next, and so on for so many generations. No matter what happens today, there will always be a tomorrow. Which is why it is so important to fight for tomorrow.”

“What do we get for it?” asked another man by the name of Mr MacKinley. “Surely, the Crown doesn’t expect us to give our lives for nothing.” I scoffed lightly.

“The Crown expects everyone to blindly bow down to them,” I told him. “But this isn’t for the Crown. I mean, in a way, it is, but only because it benefits the Crown as well as our futures. If the Regulators continue on, things will get much, much worse for us as the Crown attempts to crack down on them.”

“Tha’s a good reason, Auntie,” said Caoimhe, raising her eyes wide. She had been against fighting the Regulators, but didn’t stop to think of what might happen if we didn’t put down the rebellion.

“You’ll also be offered half a crown for your service,” I told them. This seemed to capture the people’s interest. “However, the militia must be men who are fit to serve. Men who are between the ages of sixteen and sixty.”

“Ridiculous!” shouted one man in the crowd.

“I have two boys who are twelve and fifteen! I can barely afford to feed them!” shouted a woman.

“Aye! I’ll not go away!” said another man - one who was of age. Other men around him started to agree with him.

“All right, all right!” I shouted, calming them all down. “Perhaps we can find a way to extend the boundaries… If it were up to me, no one younger than eighteen would serve, but it isn’t. I will see what I can do… but those of you who do not apply to these rules and regulations will be compensated in… some other way that I promise I will figure out!”

“Auntie,” Caoimhe said, pulling me closer to her. “We cannae afford te give each of these people half a crown!”

“I didnae say we would give them all half a crown,” I told her in English quietly. “Jamie will agree with me. He’ll want te support his people in some way, so we will… We’ll just have to figure it out later.”

“Ye promised we would compensate them if they cannae send their sons or husbands?” Jamie said with exasperation. “Catrìona, we can scarcely afford our own taxes, let alone pay our servants. How do ye expect us te give them compensation?”

“We dinnae have te give them money, then. We can give them food!” I told him.

“Food that would otherwise be sold or go te us,” Jamie told me. “The harvest is over. The wild game is already startin’ te retire fer winter.”

“Then we’ll make sacrifices, but Jamie, if ye want a militia that Tryon can be proud of, then ye must do what ye can fer yer people,” I told him. “Some of the men who are of age were already saying they willnae go te war.”

“It isnae a war. We’ll be puttin’ down a rebellion,” Jamie said to me.

“But it will be a war,” I told him softly. “This is only the beginnin’… If we care fer our people now, show them that no matter what happens, we will see them well, then their loyalty te us will be unquestioned. What’s goin’ te happen will divide the country. We cannae have it divide the Ridge, too.” Jamie nodded solemnly in agreement, and then he let out a sigh.

“What day is it?” he asked me quietly.

“Er… Sunday, I believe,” I told him, and he pursed his lips for a moment.

“Wednesday, I want te see everraone in the wheat field. In the meantime, I need te speak wi’ Elton and Brèagha,” he told me, standing up from his desk, and I raised a brow at him. “And I suppose Archie and Rory Mac as well…”

“What are ye plannin’?” I asked him curiously.

“Tryon claims te want a Scot leadin’ the men of the backcountry,” he replied as he made his way to the doorframe, and then he paused for a moment before looking at me. “So I’ll give him a Scot.”

24 October, 1770

It took a lot of effort, but I was able to convince the fisher folk to join our tenants in the field, and I was just as surprised as they were to see a large Celtic cross made out of sticks. In front of it, Archie, Rory and a few other people with musical talents were singing in Gaelic, with Archie leading with his voice and Rory following with his guitar:

“Beir soraidh gu h-Alasdair liath;

Às do chruadal gun earbainn deagh-ghnìomh;

Dar a thèid thu gu buillean

‘S do nàimhdean a dh’fhuireach,

Gu cinnteach bidh fuil air am bian.”

It was an auld Jacobite song from the 1715 uprising, ‘A Song to the Battle of Sheriffmuir’. Clara was sitting on a log on the perimeter of the big circle that had formed around the wooden cross, wee Victoria in her arms, and beside her was Brèagha with Donnie on her lap chatting away with her. On another nearby log were Caoimhe, holding Wren, and Lizzie, holding Lark, and Elton was standing behind both of them as he watched his brothers perform. I watched as Marsali, holding Joan, joined Brèagha and Clara on their log and greeted them happily, which was gleefully returned, and then she joined them in conversation. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fergus chasing both Germain and Ginnie through the crowd. They passed by Seàrlas, who had an arm around his eldest daughter, Beatrice, and Sioned was trying to plait Ceitidh’s hair while Seumas muttered something to his father beside him. The Gillies family, who were distantly related to me through my grandsire’s sister, were there as well, and I could even see the entire MacIntyre family, also distant kin, who were accompanying Ronald’s three children. The Mackenzie family, who were also distantly related to me and possibly Jamie as well, were on the other side of the circle. I could see the widow, Euphemia Cameron, scolding her young son, Roger, and trying to tell him to behave. Even Maevis was there, standing close to Mr. and Mrs. Bug and being offered a hot mug of tea by Mrs. Carlyon, her family standing not too far away. Geordie, too, was there, glancing ever so cautiously at Maevis, who didn’t even see him.

But with all these people present, there was one person I didn’t see - Jamie. I searched the circle for him, meeting dozens of pairs of eyes, but not one of them belonged to my husband. I looked back at the house and thought I saw a shadow pass across the curtains of our shared upstairs bedroom, so I made my way into the house. I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up just in time to see Jamie descending the stairs, almost surprised to see him in his kilt outside of the Gathering. “Oh,” I said, my eyes widening, and he approached me and placed in my hands my own Fowlis of Barra tartan, which I was surprised to see.

“Shouldnae… Archie be wearin’ this?” I asked him, and he shook his head.

“Archie will soon be wearin’ his own Fraser kilt,” he said, and I accepted the Fowlis of Barra tartan.

“Shouldnae I have one, then? Am I not a Fraser, too?” I asked him.

“Ye are, but te the fisher folk, yer a Fowlis of Barra,” Jamie replied. “Let them see a notorious Hebridean clan unitin’ wi’ a Highland clan. Perhaps it’ll sway their views more in our direction.” I nodded subtly, and he helped me wrap the tartan around my waist and across my chest, similarly to how his was fashioned. He then offered me his arm as we faced the door, nodding subtly to me when I took it, and together, we walked outside and to the field. As we approached, the crowd that had formed parted like the Red Sea, and I saw more familiar faces like the Abernathys, the Lindsays, the MacKays, even Duncan Innes, and then we were in the circle, standing in front of the large Celtic cross. Archie, Rory and the musicians had rejoined their families, Archie relieving Clara of Victoria for a moment, and the crowd began to fall silent. I watched as Elton brought a lit torch over to Jamie and handed it to him, and I raised my brow again.

“What’s goin’ on, exactly?” I whispered softly to Jamie, and he cleared his throat.

“In the Highlands,” Jamie said loudly, projecting his voice across the field. The faces were lit by lanterns or torches, as night had fallen. I could hardly see them, but from what I could see, everyone was intently listening, “when a chieftain sets himself te war, he’ll burn the fiery cross, sendin’ a sign throughout the lands of his clan.” Ah, so that’s what the big cross was for. “It was a call fer his men te gather their weapons, come prepared fer battle.” He paused for a moment as he looked among the people. “We are friends, neighbours… countrymen. We come from different parts of the same homeland. My wife comes from the Isles, and I from the Highlands. We each ken verra different parts of Scotland, yet unite our love fer our homeland through our marriage. We - the people of Fraser’s Ridge - arenae a clan. I’m not yer chief… but we share a land, of which I am its master. I hope that, if the time comes, ye will all stand by my side. We cannae say what might befall us, but we must not only be willin’ te make oaths te our wives and loved ones, but te our brothers in arms in this new country. And as my wife said…” He turned his head to look at me. “We live today fer a better tomorrow.” We exchanged a small smile, and then he looked back at his people, extending his hand in the general direction of our children. “Archie Fraser, son of my blood… Be a shield fer yer family.” Archie handed Victoria back to Clara and stepped forward, kneeling down in front of his father. He accepted a dagger from Jamie and pressed it against his forehead as he looked down at the ground.

“I swear by the cross of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and by the holy iron that I hold, te give ye my fealty, and I pledge ye my loyalty. If ever my hand be raised against ye in rebellion, I ask tha’ this holy iron pierce my heart,” Archie said loyally, and then he raised his eyes and kissed the cross of the dagger. “So help me God… Amen.” Jamie offered his hand to his son and helped him to stand, and Jamie pulled him nearer and pressed his forehead against Archie’s.

“May God protect ye, fer the sake of yer wife and child,” he whispered to Archie, and then he kissed Archie’s forehead and stepped back again, taking the blade back. “I name ye Captain Archie Fraser.”

“I accept this duty wi’ honour,” said Archie, bowing his head to his father, and then he turned to return to Clara.

“Elton Fraser, son of my blood!” Jamie called, and Elton, a bit surprised and startled, looked up, then repeated what Archie did when he realised what was expected of him. He approached Jamie, then knelt down awkwardly as Jamie handed him the dagger. “Have ye ever sworn fealty te someone, lad?” Elton shook his head, his eyes wide with wonder. “Repeat after me.” Jamie repeated the oath, which Elton followed as he held the blade up.

“I swear… by the cross of our Lord, Jesus Christ… and by the holy iron that I hold… te give ye my fealty and… I pledge ye my loyalty. If… ever my hand be raised against ye in rebellion… I ask tha’ this holy iron… p-pierce my heart,” he said, stumbling a little on the last part. Jamie then gave him his hand and helped him to stand, repeating what he had done with Archie.

“May God protect ye, my son, fer my sake and that of yer mother’s,” Jamie whispered to him, and then he kissed Elton’s forehead and stepped back. Elton nodded a bit awkwardly, then turned to head back to his spot. He paused halfway and ran back to Jamie, his cheeks red with embarrassment as he gave Jamie the dagger back. Jamie chuckled softly as he watched Elton return to his spot, and then he cleared his throat. “Fergus, son of my name and of my heart,” Jamie announced again, and Fergus, urging Germain and Ginnie to behave themselves, made his way towards Jamie. He knelt down, accepting the dagger and bowing his head against it.

“I swear by the cross of our Lord, Jesus Christ,” he said, “and by this holy iron, I give you my fealty. If ever my hand be raised against you in rebellion, I ask that this holy iron pierce my heart.” Jamie gave him his hand and helped him up, then repeated the same action as he had done with Archie and Elton.

“May God protect ye, fer the sake of yer wife and yer children,” Jamie whispered to him, and then he kissed his forehead and stepped back, accepting the dagger from Fergus before Fergus turned and returned to Marsali, who was struggling to get Ginnie and Germain to stop playfully slapping each other. I gave Ginnie a firm look, which Marsali pointed out, and then Ginnie stood stiff. “Rory Mackenzie,” Jamie said again, and Rory startled at the sound of his name and looked up at Jamie, who held his hand out to him. He pointed to himself, and Jamie nodded. Brèagha gave him a light shove to urge him forward, and he made his way towards Jamie. “Son of my house… Be a shield fer yer family and fer mine.”

“S-sure,” said Rory softly, and then he was handed the dagger. He knelt down, as he had seen Archie, Elton and Fergus all do, and held the blade up to his forehead. “Um… I-I swear by the cross of… our Lord, Jesus Christ… and by this holy iron, I give you my fealty… and I pledge ye my loyalty. If… ever my hand be r-raised against ye in rebellion… I ask that this… this holy iron… pierce my heart.”

“Good lad,” Jamie said to him with some pride, and he gave Rory a hand to help him up. “I want ye te ken that this act we’re undertakin’ forms a bond between us. Just as ye gave me yer word, I give ye mine. I will serve ye, as ye are swearin’ te serve me.”

“I understand,” said Rory, nodding his head a bit fast.

“I’m glad ye do… Captain Rory Mackenzie,” Jamie told him, and Rory’s eyes widened again.

“Captain?” he asked.

“Aye,” Jamie told him. He accepted the dagger from Rory, nodding to him to return to his place, before Jamie addressed his people again. “I swear, by the ignition of this holy cross, that I will serve ye all as ye serve me. I will see that yer families are cared fer, in the event that ye fall. I will see that ye dinnae starve. I will protect ye wi’ my life and my heart. And if ever I raise my hand te ye in harm, may this holy iron pierce my heart.” He turned around, letting go of me to bend down and place the torch at the base of the cross. We both stepped back as it ignited quickly, and the flames ate up the twigs and climbed the cross until it reached the top. “I will not light the cross again until it is time fer us te do battle. Alba gu bràth, agus an duine aige suthainn!” Scotland forever, and her people everlasting.

The cry echoed across the people of the Ridge, our own clan outside of Scotland. Not all clans were blood, and not all blood was kin. After all, Clan Chattan was formed of many clans - MacBean, MacGillivray, and many more. However, the unification of our similarities and differences meant that we were the clan of Fraser’s Ridge. Finally, Jamie raised his dagger in the air, then grasped my hand firmly. “The Frasers of the Ridge are here!”

Chapter Text

Time Unknown

MAEVIS POV

It was a sight unfamiliar to her. Cold stone all around her, bars on the window. She stood from her bed, still ornate enough, as it housed a queen, but still, no queen was deserving of this.

How often has she gazed from castle windows all

And watched the daylight passing within her captive wall,

With no one to heed her call…

“Help!” she cried, pulling on the locked door. “Help! Someone, please!” She backed up, stumbling over a small wooden stool, and shivered in her shift. What queen could be condemned to such a fate? And it only got colder. As daylight began to fade, she grabbed the thin wool blanket that was barely enough to keep her warm. She looked to the hearth, where the last embers of the fire meant to keep her warm were fading fast. She got down on her knees and began to blow, but to no avail. The cold was setting in, and the darkness was overtaking the small stone room.

The evening hour is fading within the dwindling sun

And in a lonely moment, those embers will be gone…

And the last of all the young birds flown…

She was alone. She was cold. She was miserable. She was frightened. The sense of impending doom was eating away at her, and she pulled the blanket even tighter. Where was she? Where was she to go? She stood up, making her way slowly to the window in an attempt to try and familiarise herself with her location. She gasped slightly - there, in the courtyard of this cold stone castle, was what looked like a chopping block, the executioner’s blade glistening in the evening sunlight as he sharpened it. She covered her mouth and stumbled backwards, backing against the wall. She looked up at the wall, feeling the marks of lines etched into the wall, marking each day that had passed. How long had she been here?

Her days of precious freedom forfeited long before,

To live such fruitless years behind a guarded door,

But those days will last no more…

She sat huddled in the corner of the room beneath her blanket for hours, unable to sleep. She knew, she knew… that chopping block was meant for her. At dawn, the guards came and collected her, silently and wordlessly dragging her down the cold stone steps and into the morning air. It was even colder out here than it was in the castle, and she had no protection from the elements, save for her shift. She was pushed down to kneel before the block, her hands tied tightly behind her back with a rope that burned her wrists. Her charges were read, but she could not hear them. What was she being executed for?

Tomorrow, at this hour, she will be far away

Much farther than these islands…

“Please… Why are you doing this? What am I… being executed for?” she begged the executioner. He only chuckled, and her stomach clenched when she recognised the familiarity of that chuckle.

“For bein’ unpure,” he said. “And for hatin’ my children.” Her eyes widened as the executioner lowered his hood and revealed himself to be her greatest fear - Stephen Bonnet.

“No… No, y-you’re wrong! I-I don’t hate them! I hate you!” she shouted back at him, but he only cackled.

“Don’t look like it, darlin’,” he said to her with that menacing smile. “Look at ya… on yer knees, beggin’ me for more.”

“No! N-No, I’m n-not!” she cried, tears starting to run down her cheeks.

“Oh,” said Bonnet, clicking his tongue, and he took her chin in his hands and forced her to look up at him. “Don’t cry fer me, Queen Maeve. We’ll see each other again, where sinners go… in Hell.” He dropped her face, then looked her square in the eyes, raised his axe, and brought it down…

…or the lonely Fotheringhay…

31 October, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

ELTON POV

Elton was busy working on the blueprints for a new forge for the Carlyons on the new land where it would be built. The old forge was causing too many issues and falling apart too much, as it was hastily built to accommodate their arrival, so a new one was being built for them, and the old one would be taken down. There was a slight chill in the air, and Elton shivered a little before returning to his work. Behind him, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps, and he turned his head to see young Isolde Carlyon carrying a basket. “Good day te yee, Mr. Fraser,” she said to him. She was a pretty young thing, with chocolate brown hair and kind blue eyes. Freckles dotted her little face as it peered out at him underneath her bonnet. “Ma sent yee some stew. Says yee need to keep warm.”

“Tell yer mother thank ye,” Elton said, turning back around to look at the table in front of him. Isolde set the basket on the table, then peered curiously down at the blueprints of the new forge. She scrunched up her face - her nose wasn’t squished up like a young child’s, but she was fairly small. Perhaps she was just short for her age. He thought Mam mentioned she was around eleven or twelve. “Do ye like the design?” he asked her. “Do ye… think yer father will like it?”

“Oh, ‘tis a lovely forge, Mr. Fraser,” said Isolde, and Elton made a face.

“Please, call me Elton. Mr. Fraser is what they call my brother and father,” Elton said to her.

“Aye, sir,” said Isolde, her attention focusing on the letters of the title. She reached down and touched it gently, her finger tracing the letters. “What does it say, sir?”

“It says ‘Carlyon’s Forge’,” Elton told her. He continued for a moment, and then paused. “Ye… dinnae ken how te read?” He slowly looked up at her, and she smiled subtly and shook her head.

“There ain’t no use for readin’, sir,” she told him. “The priest reads us the Bible. Pa don’t need no words te make tools.”

“Well, no, I… suppose not,” Elton said a bit meekly. He tried to return to his work, but he couldn’t. He was instead distracted by the fact that this twelve-year-old girl didn’t know how to read. He sighed softly, then pulled a blank piece of parchment out from behind the blueprint and wrote the upper and lower case letters of the English alphabet on it, then turned it around to face her. “Start wi’ this. I’ll tell ye what all these mean… and tomorrow, I’ll start teachin’ ye words.” He pointed to the first one. “This is the letter ‘A’. When it’s at the start of the sentence, or the first letter of someone’s name like… Anne or Alice… or the start of a town name, like Aberdalgie, then it’s this big one.”

“Where’s Aberdalgie, sir?” she interrupted him.

“It’s a town in the Highlands of Scotland,” Elton told her. “It’s… the town I grew up in. But anyway… When it’s in a word like ‘cat’ or ‘Carlyon’, even, it’s this little one. It sounds like ‘ah’ or ‘ay’.”

“Ay,” she repeated, looking at the letter. Elton then picked up the pencil, holding it in his left hand, and showed her where to place her fingers.

“What hand do ye use te… pick up a broom or eat yer food wi’?” he asked her.

“This one, sir,” she said, showing him her right hand. Elton took her hand and placed the pencil in it, then adjusted her fingers so that they wrapped around the pencil.

“Now… copy those same letters underneath, where I left space,” Elton told her, not looking at her. “Write them, I mean.”

“Write?” she asked him, and Elton nodded, raising his eyes to meet hers for a moment before looking back down and tapping the blank spot on the parchment. Slowly, she used the pencil to draw lines mimicking the letters Elton had drawn, though they were messy, almost like Ginnie’s handwriting. She gripped the pencil awkwardly, as if she had never held one before. He supposed she never had held one before, actually. If she couldn’t read, he doubted that she had ever written something before. “Like that, sir?”

“Aye,” said Elton, nodding a little as she looked up at him, and then he pointed to the next one. “This one… is the letter ‘B’. It sounds like ‘buh’ or ‘bee’.”

“Like… bumble bee, sir?” Isolde asked him, and Elton nodded.

“Aye, like bumble bee,” Elton said, nodding to her. He taught her all of the letters and their sounds, then told her to copy them down and sound them out to herself. A couple hours later, she came to the Big House excitedly and handed Elton a note with two names written on it: ‘E L T O N’ and ‘E S O L D’. Elton couldn’t help but smile and chuckle slightly, his cheeks turning pink when he saw her beaming at him. “Um… Actually, yer name starts with an ‘I’, and there’s actually a silent ‘e’ at the end of it,” he told her, taking the pencil out from behind his ear and correcting her name on the paper.

“Oh… ‘I’… Wait, sir. Letters can be silent?” Isolde asked him, one brow raised high in surprise.

“Aye. And wait until ye learn aboot ‘Q’ and ‘U’,” Elton told her with an amused look on his face.

1 November, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

“Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you, 

Happy birthday, dear Brèagha,

Happy birthday to you!”

“Right, make a wish and then blow it out, my wee girl,” I said as I set the homemade vanilla cake down in front of her with six small candles on it. Given how flammable everything in our house was, I didn’t want to put too many on the cake, so I put two in one group and four in another to represent her age, twenty-four. She smiled and closed her eyes for a moment, then blew out the candles, and I stepped back as Mrs. Bug took the cake to cut it for our family. I had been only a year older than she had been when I’d had her, and here she was, taller than I was and twice as beautiful as I could have ever hoped to be. She was brilliant, beautiful, talented, she was an amazing mother and wife, a fantastic daughter and a wonderful sister. It seemed so strange to me that she had once been a little girl… The same little girl that I had once left behind.

Everyone told me to put it behind me. ‘She and Archie had forgiven me, and that was all that mattered.’ But it went deeper than that. They might have forgiven me, but I could never forgive myself for it. Even if it was the only option I had… Even if staying meant that I would have died when I had Maevis and Elton… I would always regret leaving my two eldest children behind, no matter how many times I was reassured that I did the right thing.

Speaking of Maevis… Where was she? I looked around the room, finding Archie and Clara with Victoria, Rory holding Donnie, Caoimhe with Wren and Lizzie with Lark, Maggie, Ceitidh, Seàrlas and Sioned with Beatrice and Seamus, Geordie, Mrs. Bug, Elton who was surprisingly in the company of young Isolde Carlyon, Ginnie and Germain, Marsali and Fergus with Joan, and Jamie. Everyone who should be there except for Maevis. I could see by the confused look on Geordie’s face that he, too, was surprised that Maevis was missing, so I excused myself and went out into the hall, thinking she might have slipped away. Actually, I hadn’t really seen her at all that day… I heard a heavy footstep upstairs and my head darted up, my nose pointed in the direction of the noise. It came from approximately where Maevis’s room was located, so I lifted my skirts and climbed the stairs. All had fallen quiet, but then I heard what sounded like the crash of a heavy book hitting the floor, followed by the clinking of a spoon against the wooden floor. I knocked on Maevis’s door. “Maevis?” I said, but she didn’t answer. I knocked again. “Maevis. Are ye in there?” I heard a muffled response from inside, which was unlike her. Maevis had always spoken so clearly. “Maevis, I’m comin’ in.” I turned the knob and opened the door, finding her tripping over her own feet and collapsing into a chair. The room reeked of stink and alcohol, as if her chamber pot hadn’t been emptied in a few days and she hadn’t bathed. Maevis herself looked very unkempt, poorly wrapped in a flimsy wool blanket and sweat stains on her once white shift. “Maevis, what the hell?”

“I’m ffff… fffine,” she slurred, and I narrowed my eyes and let out a huff.

“No, ye are not fine,” I said firmly, finding a nearly empty decanter of Jamie’s whisky. I grabbed it, much to her protest, and capped it, holding it well out of her reach.

“Nnnno, don’t… take it…” she said very drunkenly.

“Ye’ve had enough. More than enough, judgin’ by the look of ye,” I said to her. “Clean yerself up, fer Bride’s sake. Take a bleedin’ bath, ye rink of stink.”

“I’m fffine,” she hissed back at me, and I scoffed as I made for the door.

“Clearly,” I said. “I’ll send Lizzie up te help ye. Ye clearly need it. Yer not te leave this room unaided until ye sober up. Do ye hear me? I’m goin’ te make ye a black coffee.”

“I don’t need… that,” she belched, and I only rolled my eyes.

“Christ, Maevis… This is so unlike ye. How could ye do this te yerself?” I demanded from her, and she looked up at me, her blue eyes glassed over. Even though her pupils were dilated and her eyes were glossy, I could see the pain behind them, and the redness from many nights of missed sleep. I sighed, all anger and annoyance melting away. “I can give ye somethin’ te help ye sleep… It’s better than this. And it doesnae make ye feel like shit afterwards.” She rested her head in her hand, closing her eyes as she leaned against her arm in silence. I sighed again. “I’ll make ye some coffee, get ye some bread… Tonight, I’ll give ye what I can te help ye sleep.” She still didn’t answer me, so I closed the door and left her alone. I couldn’t find it in me to smile again when I returned to the party, which Jamie picked up on immediately. He watched me ask Lizzie to go and keep an eye on her, then approached me after I had taken Lark and balanced her on my hip.

“What is it?” he asked me quietly, pulling me aside so no one could hear.

“Maevis is drunk,” I told him softly. I caught Archie’s eye and gave him a look, which he seemed to understand immediately. “I cannae blame her. She cannae sleep… Whenever she does, she has nightmares of… of him.”

“Do ye want me te talk te her?” Jamie asked me, and I sighed again and nodded.

“It cannae hurt… I remember you were in a similar state after…” After Randall. He knew that that was what I meant, and he pursed his lips and nodded.

“Aye… I’ll speak wi’ her,” he said softly. “Tomorrow. Let her rest, fer now, and I’ll take her on a walk wi’ me.”

2 November, 1770

JAMIE POV

Jamie had managed to coax Maevis out of her room, but she clearly wasn’t feeling well. Catrìona had made her black coffee with a bit of honey in it and had her eat something plain, but Maevis was still feeling poorly. She walked beside him quietly, her eyes hidden beneath a bonnet and her arms crossed around her midsection, holding a blanket around her shoulders. Jamie didn’t even know how to start the conversation with his daughter. Should he tell her how he had felt after Randall raped him? He hadn’t slept properly for months after and when he did, he relived the horrors that Randall had put him through. Of course, Maevis’s situation was entirely different. She was a lass, and she had conceived, carried and given birth to the children of her rapist. For Jamie, that wasn’t biologically possible. All he had to remind of that horrific night, save for a few nightmares that lurked in the shadows of his subconscious, were a few scars and the stiffness of his right hand.

He flexed his hand, feeling the memory of the broken bones. Catrìona had injected his hand with those… wee beasties that could fix him, but on especially cold days, he still felt the ghost of the injury. His hand had been shattered beyond recognition, and it was a miracle that she was able to save it at all. He hadn’t wanted her to, but she had, and because of it, he had retained full use of his hand. He didn’t feel that he deserved it, some days. Fergus’s hand had been cut off, and he deserved to keep his hand. He had just been a child…

A sniffle from Maevis pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned his head to look at his daughter. Her red hair looked a bit unkempt underneath her bonnet, but it was pin straight and didn’t tangle as easily as his or Catrìona’s did. “How’re ye feelin’, lass?” Jamie asked her softly. She didn’t answer him verbally, but only shrugged. He sighed softly. “Yer mother… tells me ye’ve been strugglin’.”

“What else has she told you?” Maevis asked him softly and neutrally, no emotion present in her voice.

“No’ much… Whatever secrets lie between ye remain so,” Jamie confessed to her. It bothered him a little, but he and Archie had their secrets as well, and he and Brèagha did, too. Every child had secrets between themselves and one parent that the other didn’t know. When Jamie was just a wee lad, he hated going out to feed the pigs because they scared him. Those beasts could eat men whole, if inclined, and they scared him half to death. But if his father knew that, he would have beaten the fear out of him, so it was a secret that lay between himself and his mother. She always found him something else to do and left the feeding to either Jenny or Willie, just Jenny when Willie died. But when his mother died, he had no choice but to get over that fear, and now, the pigs feared him. He looked at his daughter, and then he sighed softly. “A nighean… Yer mother told me she found ye drunk yesterday.” Maevis scoffed. “I can tell ye from experience… alcohol doesnae chase yer demons away.”

“No, but it makes you forget about them for a little while,” she replied.

“Aye, that it does,” he told her. He paused to think. Should he just tell her? Would knowing that her father went through something horrific himself make her feel better about what had happened to her? Jamie had felt so alone, and even the knowledge of Catrìona’s own rape when she was younger didn’t bring him comfort. If anything, it enraged him that he couldn’t stop it… But he was Maevis’s father, not her husband. Perhaps understanding the depth that Jamie felt her pain would help her through hers. “Ye cannae sleep, can ye?”

“Nope,” she said casually.

“Ye see his face behind yer eyes everra time ye close them,” Jamie said to her. “Feel his… cold hands on ye, where they ought not te be. Feel… things bein’ done te ye, things ye have no control te stop.” Maevis didn’t say anything, but she did cock her head towards him a little to listen. “The things that… Randall… put me through… At the time, I said he had broken me. He… knew me in a way tha’ only yer mother should. And I couldnae stop him, because I agreed not te, fer the sake of her life.”

“That’s different. I was forcibly grabbed and raped,” Maevis told him, looking away again.

“He branded me… All but said I was his. I asked yer mother te cut it off fer me, and she did, but… the scar remains, and I’ll always ken what it means,” Jamie replied, and she scoffed again.

“At least you only look at it when you see your reflection,” Maevis told him firmly, and then she stopped. “I gave birth to the constant reminder that Stephen Bonnet raped me! And I have to look at it every damn day! I have to listen to it screaming at me!”

“I know that, Maevis!” Jamie snapped back at her. “Do ye not think that eats away at my verra soul everra day? I want te go and hunt down the bastard and kill him myself! I will not rest until the bastard is dead!”

“I thought you said killing Randall didn’t make him leave you alone. I thought you said you were still haunted by him!” Maevis shouted.

“I am! Of course I am!” Jamie told her. “Killin’ the man will never make what he did te ye go away.”

“Then why does it matter? Why does anything matter?” Maevis cried, her voice filled with pain and misery. Hearing that pain in Maevis’s voice broke Jamie’s heart, and he had to fight to keep tears from welling up in his eyes.

“Maevis… Ye have two bonny girls te live fer,” he told her, but she didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned to face the trail again, looking towards the woods.

“I want to be alone,” she told him quietly.

“Darlin’… Can I do anythin’ te help ye?” Jamie asked her helplessly, but she only shook her head.

“Unless you can invent a Time Machine and prevent this from ever happening… No,” she told him softly, and then she started on the trail into the woods. Jamie sighed, understanding her need for being alone.

“Just be home before dark, or yer mother will worry,” Jamie told her, but she didn’t respond. He watched as she shrank, disappearing into the woods, and sniffled. He wiped a small tear from his eye. Was this how Catrìona had felt when she tried to reach him, but couldn’t? Was this how helpless she had felt? Jamie clenched his jaw, his heartbreak turning into anger. He needed to find Stephen Bonnet, and he needed to do it now. He turned on his heel and stalked back to the house, prepared to write a lengthy letter to John demanding to hear of any news of Bonnet as soon as it reached American shores. He didn’t care where Bonnet stepped foot on this land - wherever he was, Jamie would meet him there, and he would kill him.

11 November, 1770

GEORDIE POV

Geordie whistled a little tune he heard his father whistle from time to time. He thought it was called ‘The British Grenadiers’, but he honestly had no idea. He hiccoughed, kicked his foot up in the air and snapped his fingers, quickly regaining control of himself so that he didn’t drop the pile of wood he was carrying towards the Big House. He dropped the wood down by the stairs leading up to the porch area that crossed between the house and Mrs. Fraser’s Surgery, then wiped a bit of sweat off of his forehead. It wasn’t necessarily hot outside, but in the sun, it was warm, and he started to break out into a sweat. He had rolled up his sleeves and placed his hands on hips, looking up at the house. Suddenly, he remembered the letter in his pocket that had been given to him by Mr. Archie Fraser earlier that morning, and he pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was addressed to him in his father’s handwriting, so he broke the seal and opened it to read it:

30 October, 1770

My son,

I dearestly hope you are well. I am very glad to hear that Mrs. Fraser’s remedies are helping you control your condition. That was another reason I wished to send you to Mr. Fraser’s land - I knew that Mrs. Fraser would cure you of your affliction! She is certainly a most excellent physician, the best of any in all of North Carolina. Perhaps it is because she is a woman - men just don’t have nurturing in their nature.

Your mother wishes you well. She has been meaning to write, but she has had many requests for new dresses, as the wedding of Mr. George Underwood and Miss Marielle Beauchamp will be in a few weeks. I imagine you are surprised by this news - I do not require you to return to Cross Creek for the event. Given the events of this past spring, I think it best if you stay away from Mr. Underwood, even if you are better. The man has not taken kindly to the breaking off of his engagement to Miss Ainsley - forgive me, Mrs. Fraser - and appears to be taking out his anger on the people of Cross Creek. I am fortunate that he has yet to call in our loans, but when he does, I have been setting aside money to pay them. He has already put Mr. Abernathy, Mrs. Rodgers and Mr. McGuinn out of business, and your mother and I do not intend to be, as well.

Nathaniel, your nephew, is growing as well as he ought to be. He is quite the charmer and already a favourite of Cross Creek. Mrs. Mercy dotes on her grandsons dearly. I have more good news - Prudence is with child, and Oliver is quite excited to be a father. Your mother asks if you have any good news for us, perhaps? From my understanding, the young Miss Fraser is still unwed, and Kitty says you are sweet on her.

Geordie’s cheeks turned pink as he read his father’s letter, not having known that Kitty even knew about his feelings towards Miss Maevis. She had Mama’s perception, that was for certain. However, Geordie would have to disappoint them once more by saying that he was most certainly not engaged to-

“Hello, Geordie!” His head jerked to the side a bit and he clicked his tongue, looking up in surprise at the porch to see Miss Wemyss standing on the porch holding one of Maevis’s beautiful little girls. She was holding the fair-haired one - Lark, he believed her name was, like the bird - and he smiled a little awkwardly.

“Er… Hello, Miss Wemyss,” he said, taking off his hat and nodding to her. “Is that Miss Lark you’re holding?”

“Oh, this wee’un?” Miss Wemyss asked, giggling as she looked at little Lark, who smiled up at her and raised her little hand. “She’s such a pretty wee thing, isnae she?”

“Aye, she’s beautiful. Just like her mother,” said Geordie, and then he caught himself and blushed furiously. “Um… Er… How… H-How is Miss Lark doing t-today?”

“Oh, she’s doin’ fine. A wee bit fussy, mebbe, but the Mistress says ‘tis the colic,” said Miss Wemyss. She made her way down the stairs to Geordie, adjusting Miss Lark on her hip. “Would ye like te say hello te Mister Geordie, wee bug?”

“Oh,” said Geordie as Miss Wemyss forced Lark into his hands. “Why, hello there, Miss Lark!” He remembered watching his brother-in-law, Ebenezer Mercy, toss his elder son, Elias, into the air, and did the same with Lark. She giggled, and Geordie smiled in return, feeling more confident and comfortable with Lark now that she was a little bit older. “You are s-such a pretty girl! Yes, you are!” He balanced her on his hip and gave her his finger, which she took and squeezed before making a happy noise and shaking his hand.

“Oh, Maevis!” cried Miss Wemyss, and Geordie whipped around to see Maevis quickly making her way past them, possibly hoping not to be noticed. When she was, she let out an audible huff, and redirected her path towards the two of them. “‘Tis such a fine day! I thought Miss Lark might enjoy the warm weather!”

“That’s nice, Lizzy,” said Maevis a bit coldly.

“Wh-why don’t you join us, M-Miss Maevis?” Geordie asked her suddenly.

“I have somewhere to be,” she said as she made her way to the stairs.

“Erm… Are y-you well, Miss Maevis?” Geordie asked her, noticing that she was clearly on edge and nothing like she had been in the past.

“I’m fine! Why does everyone have to ask me that! Just leave me the fuck alone alone, damn it!” she snapped fiercely, startling both Geordie and Miss Wemyss, who covered her mouth with her hands and gasped; Lark began to cry. She stormed into the house, slamming the door behind her.

“Shh, it’s all right, Miss Lark,” Geordie said to the little girl, trying to give her comfort.

“Crivens,” Miss Wemyss muttered softly, still stunned by Maevis’s behaviour. Geordie couldn’t help but be worried for her. This wasn’t like her at all. The Maevis Fraser he knew was kind, caring, sang gentle songs and seemed to love everything about life, but this… This Maevis was just a shell of who she used to be. Was there anything he could do to help? Even if there was, she wouldn’t take any help from him… She never looked twice at him. Despite that, he would still always be there behind her, ready to catch her if she falls. He only hoped she didn’t fall too hard, for her sake.

19 November, 1770

JAMIE POV

A plant of some sort dangled in front of Jamie’s face and tickled his nose, and he growled softly and waved it away. “What are ye doin’?” he asked his wife as she giggled and tried to dangle the plant over his head again.

“It’s mistletoe,” she told him. “Dinnae ye ken the meanin’ of mistletoe?” She had a teasing tone to her voice as she held the wee plant over his head, and he glanced up at it and pursed his lips. Oh, he’d heard of it all right, but he wasn’t in the mood for his wife’s antics with wee plants.

“Aye,” he said a bit coldly, pushing it away again, and Catrìona sighed.

“All right, what is it?” she asked him. “Ye’ve not touched me in weeks, ye always say yer too tired when we go te bed. Jamie, what is it?” She got a strange look on her face for a moment. “Is it… me?”

“Dinnae be daft,” Jamie told his wife, whom he thought the most beautiful woman in all of past, present and future. Catrìona was an enchanting goddess of beauty to him, more beautiful than sparkling diamonds or Highland sunsets. She could be ancient and covered in age spots and wrinkles and Jamie would still think her the most beautiful woman in the world. He loved her more than anything… and long ago, he had promised to be honest with her. If he couldn’t be, then he wasn’t deserving of her beauty. He sighed heavily. “I… I told Maevis aboot… Randall.” She raised a brow at him.

“Randall?” she asked.

“In an effort te reach her,” Jamie replied. “It didnae work.”

“What… What all did ye tell her?” she asked him with discomfort.

“No’ much, only… I explained in a wee bit more detail how I kent what she was goin’ through,” he told her. “How I… had nightmares, was… haunted by him. Still am, sometimes, though… no’ nearly as much as I once was.” He looked up at his wife, who’s silvery eyes were slanted in sympathy. “It didnae help. She was right te say we dinnae have the same experiences… Though we were both… She has te see the consequences of Bonnet violatin’ her everra day. Her reminder cries fer her, begs her te love and care fer it, whereas mine can be hidden by cloth.” Catrìona sighed softly and looked away, biting her lip a little in a way to show that she was thinking. Something was clearly on her mind, but she only shook her head and looked down at the ground.

“I’m scairt fer her,” she said softly. “I’m worrit… she cannae be reached.” She met his eyes again, and Jamie could see that they had glassed over a little. “Ye have te promise me ye willnae breathe a word of this te her… but aboot a month ago… I found she was… hurtin’ herself, deliberately.” Jamie raised a brow at her.

“What do ye mean?” he asked her.

“It’s hard te explain,” she said with a sigh. “In my time, it’s more common, but… sometimes, people who are depressed, they… find relief in… self harm.” Jamie’s brow raised further. “She was… cuttin’ her wrists, Jamie.” At this, his eyes widened. She was harming herself?

“What?” he asked with shock.

“Ye cannae say a word te her,” Catrìona replied firmly. “I handled it. She willnae harm herself again. But Jamie, this means she was in so much pain internally that she sought te relieve some of it by inducin’ pain externally. I dinnae ken how long she’s been doin’ it, but she had fer long enough.” It was terrifying to hear that his daughter was harming herself, and not only did Jamie not know it was happening, but it was happening for long enough before it was noticed.

“Did… Did she say somethin’?” Jamie asked her as he tried to recover from his shock, and Catrìona shook her head.

“Bree told me,” she replied. “She noticed blood on Maevis’s sleeve. Any other person might no’ have thought anythin’ of it, but… in my time… lots of people do it.”

“Cause pain te relieve it,” Jamie said with a huff, and she made a face at him.

“How many times have ye hit a tree out of anger?” she asked him. “Did it help ye in the moment?” Jamie sighed again.

“Aye, all right. I get yer point,” he said with a small huff. “What can we do te help her?”

“I dinnae ken,” she replied with a sigh. “I never had the chance te do a rotation in psychiatry so I only ken the basics.” That was more than Jamie knew what to do, considering he didn’t even know what that meant. He only sighed, then looked down again at the letter that Governor Tryon had sent him:

The shipment of weapons you were promised has arrived. Do come at once to New Bern to collect them. They are being stored until you arrive to claim them.

What a terrible time to have to leave for two weeks, at the very least, given the time of year. Considering they were in the mountains and there was already snow, it would likely take him closer to three weeks to get to New Bern and back. “What?” Catrìona asked him, but it seemed that she already knew. “Dinnae tell me the shipment’s in.”

“Sorry te disappoint ye,” said Jamie, and then he sighed. “I dinnae want te go, but I must. If I’m te keep Tryon appeased…”

“Why cannae ye write te him, tell him it’s an emergency?” Catrìona asked him.

“I’ve found tha’ if an ‘emergency’ doesnae concern him, he doesnae care,” Jamie told her. “I’m sorry, Catrìona… but I must.” She huffed irritably.

“Damn bastard,” she said. “What am I te do aboot Maevis?”

“Ye think she might…” Jamie replied, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He could scarcely even bring himself to think about the possibility. What if he returned and… and she was gone? His wee girl, who hurt so badly that she could hardly bear to keep living? He now understood, from a different perspective, why Catrìona was so desperate for him to live in the days following Randall’s assault on him.

“I dinnae want te even think of it,” Catrìona said with strain in her voice. She sighed again. “Just… go. We’ll be no better if we dinnae have a home. I’ll let Caoimhe ken and she can help me keep a close eye on her. I’ll tell Maevis I dinnae want te sleep alone. She can sleep wi’ me in our bed.” Jamie nodded.

“Aye, I think that wise. I’ll go tomorrow. She must have a close eye kept on her at all times,” Jamie agreed.

“Take Archie wi’ ye this time. Rory kens her, maybe he can speak wi’ her,” Catrìona told him.

“Aye,” Jamie replied. He sighed again. “What is happenin’? Things were so… peaceful fer a time…”

“What’s happenin’?” Catrìona repeated, her brows raised. “Fer all we’ve done… Do we even deserve peace?”

Jamie couldn’t sleep that night as he distressed over his daughter. Should he go to her room, comfort her, hold her while she slept to protect her from her nightmares? When Jamie had been haunted by Randall in those early days, his nightmares were so horrid that he could hardly sleep at all. His were a frightening thing to bear alone, and he had, because he had clammed up and didn’t wish to burden Catrìona with his night terrors. She had just had Archie and Brian, and Brian had been so sick that Catrìona was already worrying herself over the bairns. She didn’t need to take Jamie on as a burden as well… And yet, she had. She took on the burden of his nightmares and trauma along with the stress of adapting to new motherhood, and she took on his burden with a strength he had never seen in anyone.

Not wanting to wake his sleeping wife, whom he admired so deeply for all she had done for him over the twenty-seven years that they had been married, he gently slipped out of bed and quietly padded his way out of their bedchamber. He started to creep down the stairs quietly when he all of a sudden heard the sound of sobbing and whimpering. Jamie’s head shot up in the direction of the sound and found that it wasn’t coming from the nursery - it was coming from Maevis’s room. Jamie rushed into action and was at her door in two steps, flinging the door open to find his daughter thrashing and sweating on the bed, crying out in horror as she was trapped in the frays of a nightmare. He rushed to her side and lifted her up, shaking her shoulders gently. “Maevis! Maevis, wake up, my darlin’! Maevis!” he said to her loudly and firmly, and it took a few shakes for her blue eyes to shoot open. She panicked for a moment and pulled away from her father, then realised that she was no longer in whatever dark place she had just been. “Shh, shh, mo leannan, ist…” Jamie whispered to her as he took Maevis into his arms, and then Maevis began to cry as she embraced her father and buried her face in his shoulder. He softly kissed the top of her head, then rubbed her back to soothe her as she sobbed. “Yer safe, Maevis… Wherever ye were… yer no longer there. Yer here wi’ me, yer father, and I’ll keep ye safe…” She didn’t say anything, but she did eventually calm down. She pulled back a little to wipe her eyes, and Jamie wiped the tears from her cheek. “Do ye want te tell me what happened?” he asked her quietly, but she shook her head.

“N-No,” she muttered through tears.

“Do ye want me ye lie wi’ ye fer a bit?” Jamie asked her next. And she seemed to pause for a moment, but then she nodded. Jamie smiled gently - he had finally reached her. Somehow, some way, he had broken through her hard shell that she had built around herself, and she was opening up to him. Everything was going to be okay now. He kissed the top of her head, then she moved over so he could crawl into the bed beside her. When Jamie was settled in, Maevis laid her head on his shoulder, her body shaking a little as she sniffled and hiccoughed. Jamie rubbed her back gently, pressing his cheek against her soft red hair. “Yer safe, Maevis… So long as my heart beats, I swear te ye… Yer safe. No harm will come te ye. I willnae allow it.” She still didn’t say anything, but she was clinging to him tightly, as if she were afraid she’d fall into the shadows again if she let go of him. They stayed that way until dawn, and though it pained him, Jamie had no choice but to leave for New Bern.

20 November, 1770

ARCHIE POV

“She just won’t stop crying!” Clara said to Archie with a little bit of distress, a very unhappy Vicki in her arms. “It’s like she knows you’re leaving for a fortnight.”

“Aye, maybe. I wish I wasnae,” Archie told her with a soft sigh, taking Vicki from her. He cradled the wailing infant in his arms, but she continued to cry and thrash a little. “Have ye tried feedin’ her?”

“I don’t know, have you?” she asked him a bit irritably, and then she sighed. “I’m sorry… I did try, but she wasn’t hungry.”

“Aye, and she’s dry as a bone,” said Archie, checking her cloth nappy, and he sighed. “There was a song Mama used te sing te me when I was upset…” He cleared his throat a little to sing the gentle song.

“Oh, Vicki, can I tell ye a story?

I can, ye know I can.

Oh, Vicki, can I tell ye a story?

I can, ye know I can.”

Vicki’s sobs began to soften, but she was still whimpering and whining. Archie smiled softly at his little girl, who looked up at him with her mother’s pretty brown eyes.

“I’ve got a silver piece te put under yer pillow.

It’s got a magic chain tha’s ten miles long.

It’ll be there in the mornin’ when the sunlight wakes ye.

It’ll leave and be there, Vicki, when I’m gone…

Oh, Vicki, are ye gettin’ kind of sleepy?

I am, ye know I am.

Oh, Vicki, are ye gettin’ kind of sleepy?

I am, ye know I am.”

“You’re such a natural with her,” Clara said as little Vicki gave a small little coo in response to her father’s voice, and Archie chuckled softly.

“I guess ye can say she’s Daddy’s wee girl,” he replied, and then he bent his head to kiss her little forehead. “Daddy will be back soon, my wee girl. I dinnae want te leave ye, but duty calls… Be good fer yer Mammy, aye? Can ye do that, darlin’?” She cooed in response, reaching her little hand out to grasp Archie’s finger, and he chuckled and kissed her head again. “Tha’s my good girl… Daddy loves ye, darlin’. I always will, no matter where in this wide, wide world I am.” He then looked at Clara, smiling at her. “And I love you, too.” Her cheeks flushed and she smiled, leaning forward to press her lips against his.

“I love you, too,” she told him. They kissed again, and then Archie gently handed Vicki back to her. “Hurry back to us, all right?”

“As quickly as I can,” Archie told them. He kissed both of his lassies’ heads one last time, and then he joined his father on his horse to head towards New Bern.

Time Unknown

MAEVIS POV

Darkness… Cold… Silence. Her feet were ankle deep in icy, murky water. She reached out her hands, but she could not extend them far before both hands hit the cold stone circular walls around her. She looked up, finding a faint source of light above her. Wherever she was, safety and warmth seemed miles away.

“Help!” she cried, her voice echoing helplessly off the narrow round walls around her, but no help came. The silence was suddenly broken by a rumble of thunder, and then raindrops began to fall. She felt the cold stinging droplets on her face and heard them pelting the filthy water at her feet. The rain grew heavier and louder, and she quickly realised that the water at her feet was starting to rise. Thank God! She could swim her way free! She went to take a step, but realised her foot was trapped. She pulled and pulled, but the chain that held her down at the bottom of the well remained firm. “No… No! No! HELP!” she cried.

All around her, suddenly, was the low rumble not of thunder… but of laughter. Bonnet’s laughter. He maliciously laughed at her, mocking her from the safety of wherever the hell he was.

“Help! Help!” She cried as the water reached her waist.

“No one will help ye, Queen Maeve…” came Bonnet’s mocking tone. She looked around rapidly, unable to see the devil incarnate. The water rose higher, and her skin, which once felt like pins and needles, went numb from the cold. The laughter continued, and she screamed out and cried as the water rose to her neck, but she was unable to free herself.

“Please… Please…” she begged one last time, but he continued to mock her.

“I’ll see ye in Hell,” he said, and the water engulfed her. Overcome by dizziness of the world suddenly spinning, she held her breath for as long as she could, but when darkness began to cloud her vision, she had no choice. She closed her eyes…

…and she let go.

25 November, 1770

GINNIE POV

A toddler’s mind was so free and so innocent. Anything could appease the little girl, but of course, her favourite thing was birds. Wee Ginnie stood on the stool and pressed her face against the window, watching the birds come and go from the feeder that her big brother, Elton, had built for her and hung from the tree outside her window. There were red birds, brown birds, yellow birds and white birds. There were so many birds all landing on the little sticks and taking seeds from the feeder. Ginnie had names for each and every one of them: Winky, Dinky, Cake, Weekie, Dooby… The list went on. Ginnie even had a wee book where she wrote the names of all her feathered friends. Daddy always asked her how she could tell the birds apart, but Ginnie just knew. She could always tell her friends apart.

“Oh, arenae they just sweet, a ladhran?” came a voice behind her, and Ginnie turned around on her stool to see a lady standing behind her with a kindly smile on her face. She looked like Mama, but this lady looked different, somehow. She wore an apron like Mama did, but she wore breeks like Daddy did. Kind of. They were looser around her legs than Daddy’s breeks. She also had a napkin on her head. Why did she put a napkin on her head? That was silly. “Hello, darlin’. It’s so nice te finally meet ye,” said the woman with a smile. Her hair was orange like Mama’s and Daddy’s and Archie’s and Brèagha’s and Elton’s and Maevis’s and Wren’s and Donnie’s, but her eyes weren’t like Mama’s. They were green, kind of like Ginnie’s were.

“I don’t know ye,” she said to the woman. “Mama says not te talk te strangers.”

“And yer Mama’s right,” said the woman. “But I’m not a stranger.”

“Yer not?” asked Ginnie, tilting her head to the side as she looked at the woman.

“No, darlin’. I’m yer Granny - yer Mama’s mama,” the woman told her.

“Wren and Lark and- and Vickie and Donnie and- and Germain and Joanie call Mama ‘Granny’,” Ginnie told the woman.

“Tha’s because she is,” said the woman, approaching Ginnie and kneeling down in front of her. “Your mama is the mama of Archie, Brèagha, Fergus and Maevis, and Wren, Lark, Vicki, Donnie, Germain and Joanie are their bairns, but I’m your granny, and I’m the great-granny te Wren, Lark and all yer wee nieces and nephews.”

“Oh,” said Ginnie, still a little confused. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s downstairs, wee hen,” Miss Granny told her, her face going all weird and her mouth looking like a straight line. “I have a verra important job fer ye.”

“What is it, Miss Granny?” Ginnie asked her excitedly. She loved it when Mama or Daddy or Elton or Caoimhe or Mr. Geordie gave her a job.

“I need ye te tell Mama te come upstairs, quickly,” Miss Granny told her. She had a look on her face that said she was not joking, like when Mama was talking to a patient. Suddenly, there were footsteps on the stairs, and both Ginnie and Miss Granny looked at the open door. “Better yet, go te Maevis’s room and open her door. Can ye do that fer me, wee hen?”

“Why?” Ginnie asked her.

“There isnae time te explain, dear. Just go and open Maevis’s door. This is a verra important job I need ye to do, okay?” asked Miss Granny, and she smiled when Ginnie nodded. “Good girl. Run along now.” Ginnie hopped down from the stool and toddled across the room, crossing the landing to Maevis’s door right as Bree came up the stairs.

“Ginnie! What are ye doin’, a leannan?” Bree asked her as Ginnie reached for the handle and tried to turn it with both hands.

“Miss Granny says I have te open Maevis’s door,” Ginnie told her, and Bree made a confused face.

“Miss Granny? Who is that?” Bree asked her.

“The lady in my room,” said Ginnie, and she successfully opened the door and pushed it open. “Maevis! Miss Granny says I must-”

“Miss Granny…?” Bree said, following Ginnie. Ginnie gasped.

“Oh no!” she said, grabbing Bree’s hand when she came into the room. Bree, too, gasped, and then she screamed. “Is Maevis sick?”

“Maevis!” Bree cried, running to Maevis on the floor. There were red puddles by her hands and her mirror was broken and she held a piece of the broken mirror in her hand. “MAMA! MAMA!” Bree screeched, and Ginnie covered her ears as Bree cried and screamed.

“Yer gonna wake her! Shhh!” Ginnie tried to shush her sister, but Bree wouldn’t listen. Loud footsteps came up the stairs, followed by another set, and then Mama came into the room.

“MAEVIS!” Mama shouted, and Caoimhe gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Mama ran to Maevis on the floor. “Oh, thank God, she still has a pulse! We have te get her downstairs, now! Bind the wounds tightly! Put pressure on them!” Mama said loudly. Why was everyone being so loud? Maevis was sleeping, and they were going to wake her, and when they did, Maevis wasn’t going to be happy.

Chapter Text

25 November, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

“Right here, right here! Quickly, quickly!” I snapped as Elton carried his pale and limp twin sister down the stairs and into my Surgery. He had heard us shouting from outside and he and Geordie both ran inside to help. I was absolutely horrified, but there was no time to be horrified. If I didn’t act fast, Maevis would bleed out and die, and I couldn’t let that happen. I forcibly shoved down that motherly need to panic and replaced it with my trauma surgeon persona. Remain calm… Remain calm… ye cannae work if yer panickin’. Remain calm…

“Can I f-fetch you anything, Mrs. Fraser?” Geordie asked me urgently.

“Hot water,” I told him, and off he went. “Everraone, masks on. We need te keep ourselves and the space as sterile as we can.”

“Brèagha, ye were supposed te be watchin’ her! What the hell?” Caoimhe snapped at her cousin while I quickly grabbed my suture kit.

“I was gone fer two minutes!” Brèagha snapped back. “All I wanted te do was check on Donnie!”

“Tha’s what Lizzie and Maggie are for, ye daft dolt!” Caoimhe shouted at her, pressing down firmly on the gauze that kept Maevis’s life blood from spilling out. She had lost so much, easily two pints. She had sliced clean through her radial and ulnar arteries on her right wrist and I hadn’t even had the chance to assess her left wrist.

“Tha’s enough! I’ve got damage te the median nerve, radial and ulnar arteries, and the flexor muscles. What aboot you, Caoimhe?” I said loudly, as if I were back in the A&E in the twenty-second century.

“Um… Definitely one of the arteries, I think the one on the right side…” she said, trying to recall her anatomy, but now wasn’t the time for lessons.

“Ulnar. And the radial?” I asked her as I shoved a stone bowl into Elton’s hands. “Fill that wi’ hot coals from the fire. I need te heat my cautery iron.” I didn’t hear his response, but he did as I asked.

“Nicked just a little, but not cut,” Caoimhe replied.

“Good, cauterisation will be fine. How aboot the flexor muscles?” I asked her. I took my pre-made jar of saline water and mixed it up, and then using a custom-made top similar to those used in bars for liquor bottles, poured some into the field to clean it of blood. “Blessed Bride, this’ll be a difficult repair! What the hell did she use?”

“It… it… it was a… a p-piece of…” Brèagha began to sob.

“Speak clearly, Bree. We dinnae have time fer sobbin’,” I said to her firmly, as I was fully in my trauma surgeon mind that I had developed from years of practicing medicine during wartime.

“Her m-mirror! How can ye be s-so calm? Maevis is dying! She’s yer daughter!” Brèagha shouted at me.

“Because if I let myself panic, she will die!” I told her sharply. “If ye cannae handle this, go and sit outside and if ye can, then compose yerself, get yer shit together, get over here and help me clear my field!” Brèagha sniffed, then wiped her eyes and stood up to stand next to me. “Wash yer hands wi’ alcohol first.” She nodded and did so, then picked up the jar of saline.

“Can I get help clearin’?” Caoimhe asked me as Elton returned with the bowl of hot coals.

“Elton, put the cautery iron in the hot coals and then help Caoimhe,” I ordered my son. “Bree, pour some saline on her wrist. Gently, please.” Brèagha cleared my field for me when I asked, then I picked up my sutures and needle and began to put small stitches in the artery. “This artery is too narrow fer this thread, damn it… I need another hand.” As if summoned by the mere mention of needing a hand, I heard footsteps in the hall and then Clara came into the Surgery out of breath.

“What’s happened? I heard…” she began to say, and then she froze as she saw Maevis’s bloodied arms and clothes on the table. “Oh, God blind me…”

“Clara, I really need ye te fetch me some sewin’ thread just now,” I told her firmly. She turned around and vomited onto the floor, then dry-heaved for a moment before standing up and delicately wiping her mouth with a handkerchief.

“What… Whatever you need,” she said to me, and then she was off.

“Sewin’ thread? But that willnae hold,” Caoimhe said to me. She was a bit more distressed than I was, but was somehow managing to keep her composure. She was very pale in the face from panic, but kept herself together.

“It willnae hold fer long, but it’ll hold long enough te cauterise the artery,” I told her. I was basically holding Maevis’s arteries together with my hands. My daughter’s… No. Do not panic now. Do not remind yourself that this is your child. No. No. No. Do not look at her. Do not-

I couldn’t help myself. I looked up at Maevis’s face, which looked at peace, as if she were sleeping. Her lips were pale, her face was ghostly white, and her red hair and eyebrows looked like blood spots on her face. I could feel the fear starting to well up inside of me at the sight of my daughter, dying before me on my surgical table. I had to bite my lip, and I felt the stinging of tears in my throat.

“Mam?” Elton asked me, noticing I had frozen in place. “Are ye all right?”

“Brèagha,” I said softly without looking up at him. “Cover her face, please.”

“Cover her face?” Brèagha asked, and both Caoimhe looked up at me, raising a brow.

“Please, just do it,” I said calmly, and she did as I asked, putting a thin muslin cloth over Maevis’s face. Clara returned with the thread, pausing and gasping softly when she saw our patient’s covered face. “Clara, I need ye te thread my needles fer me,” I said as I looked up at her. She seemed to see the look in my eyes and then her expression changed. She nodded, then came to help.

Time Unknown

MAEVIS POV

It was… quiet. Quiet and bright. There was no darkness, no sounds, no cold, no thoughts… no pain. There was only a sense of… peacefulness. Had she succeeded, then? Was this… Heaven? She’d heard stories about Heaven, read the words of survivors of near-death experiences. They say they saw a bright light, saw their family beckoning them towards them, or heard someone telling them that their time hadn’t come yet. But there was no one here.

Maevis was completely and totally alone.

There were no angels with little wings flying all about. There were no golden gates or trumpet calls. There were no clouds or warm sunlight. Just… white.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of running water. She looked around, unable to find the source, but there it was, clear as day, as if she were standing right beside the creek. the water running gently over the rocks. Then came the birdsong. A soft, warm, summery breeze lifted her hair. As she turned around, the world seemed to materialise around her, the white ground turning into soft green blades of summer grass, patches of sandy soil contrasting with the green. The bank of a river of some type began to form, or a lake, and then came the source of the running water. The water cascaded down the worn down stone of the old dam, but it wasn’t just any dam - it was Carnegie Lake.

Carnegie Lake was a reservoir located in Princeton, New Jersey, and it held many fond memories for Maevis in her later childhood and teenage years. Stephanie and her late husband, Paul, used to take her, Rory and Morgan fishing there before Paul died of cancer when Maevis was twelve. Would he be here to greet her? Maevis liked Paul quite a bit, and he was almost like another father to her, but like every other father figure she had, he was gone from her life before it mattered most. Well, all except for Jamie. She hadn’t even met him until after the worst thing that had ever happened to her happened.

She looked out at the dam, suddenly seeing a younger version of herself and her friends jumping down from it when they were fifteen. There was Gaia, back when she went by her birth name, Sadie, and Corrie was there, too. Corrie was another close friend she and Gaia had before she went to London to study music performance after high school. Then there were two other girls who were more casual friends, Annoraleigh, who went by Annie, and Ravenne, who was more Gaia’s friend than anything. The girls’ laughter echoed in the distance, and the memory faded into yet another. It was a young sixteen-year-old Maevis and Colton Pierce, the boy who gave Maevis her first kiss. He was a handsome biracial boy with the softest and most beautiful black coily hair. He was Maevis’s first boyfriend, although they didn’t last long because Colton and his family moved to Arizona that summer for his father’s job. But it was a sweet summer love, while it lasted. Maevis smiled softly, clutching her arms close to her body as she watched the memory of that first kiss on the dam play out, and then it faded. Was this her life flashing before her eyes? Her memories from her happy place calming her soul as her body died?

Her smile faded when she remembered why she was here. Brèagha had been sitting with her in Maevis’s room when she left to check on Donnie. He had started crying, and unable to resist the temptation of her son, she left Maevis alone. That was her chance, as a close eye was kept on her at all times. She quickly picked up the copy of Book of Herbal Remedies and smashed the mirror above her vanity, picking up what looked to be the sharpest shard and slicing through her wrists. She was in so much pain, and so miserable… Every day became harder and harder to live as she was haunted by the sound of Stephen Bonnet’s voice, by the reek of Stephen Bonnet’s smell, by the mere presence of Stephen Bonnet. She couldn’t escape him in life, so she resorted to the only place she knew she could get away from him: death. So determined in her mission to escape from Bonnet was she that she hadn’t stopped to consider the ripples her suicide would create.

Brèagha would probably be the one to find her first. She was the one who had been babysitting her at the time and would return to find Maevis on the floor. She’d probably scream and cry for Mama, who would exhaust every effort to save her life, but would fail. Caoimhe would probably help her. Clara wouldn’t be too far behind, and maybe Elton, Lizzie and Maggie, perhaps Mrs. Bug as well, would be involved. After the immediate members of the household learned of Maevis’s death, then the news would fall upon the ears of those surrounding the house. Geordie would hear of the news fairly quickly… It pained her to know that he would be so heartbroken over her loss, as she had a feeling that he had come to care for her deeply. But Maevis couldn’t bring herself to return his feelings, not when she was so broken. It would be so selfish to offer her heart to someone when she could barely keep it herself, nor could she place the burden she carried on another.

But wasn’t she doing that anyway by taking her life and leaving her two girls behind? They were pretty little things, Maevis had to admit… Even the one that looked like Bonnet, but she had already admitted that physically, he wasn’t the most unattractive man around. She wanted him to be hideous. She wanted his external appearance to match his internal hideousness. She wanted his personality to bleed out onto his external appearance to warn her of the rot inside. But it didn’t. He appeared to be a handsome, charming man, and that helped him fly under the damned radar.

“Hey there, Queen Maeve.”

God damn that bastard! If she couldn’t even escape him in death, then how could she be free of him? She was now furious. She had tried everything - literally everything - to escape Bonnet and still, she had failed. So what now? What the fuck else could she do? She huffed and balled her hands into fists, then turned with her face red with heat and her jaw clenched to find Bonnet casually sitting on a boulder behind her. He looked exactly as he had when she last saw him in the gaol, with his fair hair all disheveled and his clothes a mess. She stared at him with angry narrowed eyes before speaking.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded angrily from him.

CATRÌONA POV

It took about an hour, but we were able to stop the bleeding from Maevis’s wrists. I fixed the nerve to the best of my ability, but she would likely have some issues with her hands for a while - at least with her right hand. Luckily for her, just like her father and myself, she was left-handed. I taught Caoimhe how to repair the muscles and tendons next, but there was still one final issue: the matter of blood loss. I had Elton go upstairs and estimate how much blood Maevis had lost, and he estimated about two pints coupled with what she had lost in the Surgery, which added maybe three quarters of a pint, so she needed blood badly. But we weren’t in the twenty-second century, we were in the eighteenth, and there was no safe way to give blood to a person in the eighteenth century. There was no way to clean the blood, no way to screen it, and forget about blood groups. Those wouldn’t even be discovered until the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. We had found a way to get fluids into her blood, and Caoimhe was actually adding more water to the glass jar above the cleaned intestines of a piglet that had died, which I was using as a tube.

“She doesnae look any better, Auntie,” Caoimhe said to me, and I let out a small huff as I sat on a stool beside Maevis on the surgical table.

“Is she goin’ te die, Mama?” Brèagha asked me a bit meekly. She was sitting on the bed next to Rory, who had come back from checking on the Village. He was holding her hand tightly in comfort, as he was horribly distressed by what had happened. Actually, he hadn’t said a single word in all the time he had been in the Surgery, but his eyes hung heavy.

“Not if I can help it,” I said, and then I stood up. “Caoimhe, fetch the rest of the intestines, and my syringe, if ye dinnae mind.” I pulled up the sleeve of my dress and searched for a strip of cloth.

“What are ye doin’?” Elton asked, seated on Maevis’s other side.

“She’s lost too much blood, and pumpin’ her wi’ fluids only willnae help. What she needs is blood,” I told him calmly.

“But… Is that safe?” Elton asked, looking between Caoimhe, Bree, Rory and myself. Clara had gone to comfort Lizzy, who was absolutely distressed by the news, and I sent Geordie to tell Marsali and Fergus.

“Aye,” I said, accepting the needle from Caoimhe and taking the plunger off of my syringe. I attached the tubing to it by stretching it out and sealing the end against the glass, although because it was a modern syringe, it was fairly thin. “I’m Type O-negative. I can give te her safely.”

“What’s that mean?” Caoimhe asked, having absolutely no understanding of blood groups.

“Everraone has a certain kind of blood,” I told her as I placed the other end of the tube into a jar I had just swooshed with alcohol. “I, for example, am Type O-negative, which means my blood has no receptors fer the antigens of blood types A or B.” I grimaced as I inserted the needle into my arm, allowing the blood to flow freely into the jar. Elton’s eyes widened at this, and Bree had to look away. “Maevis has Type B-positive. I know this from tests from our time. Blood types are also genetic, meanin’ that any of you lot will have either O-negative or B-positive - O-negative from me or B-positive from Jamie.”

“How do ye ken he’s B-positive?” Elton asked.

“Because she just said it’s genetic, ye fool,” Caoimhe told him. “If Maevis is Type B-positive and Auntie’s Type O-negative, then then tha’ means Uncle Jamie is Type B-positive.”

“Oh, right. Biology was never my strength,” Elton said a bit shyly. “What aboot me?”

“Do ye ken yer blood type?” I asked him, watching the blood pour into the jar. I was already starting to feel a little lightheaded.

“No,” he replied. “I thought because Maevis and I are twins, we’d be the same.”

“No’ necessarily. Yer fraternal twins, so ye were formed from two different eggs,” I told him, which seemed to baffle him even more. “Do ye ken anythin’ aboot the female reproductive cycle?”

“Um… L-Like I said, biology was never my strength,” he said a bit awkwardly.

“A lesson fer another day, then,” I told him.

“Wait, what do ye mean ye can give yer blood te her safely?” Caoimhe asked, watching as I pulled the needle from my arm. I quickly stopped it with an alcohol-soaked piece of gauze, then looked up at Caoimhe.

“Switch the saline wi’ this and I’ll tell ye,” I told her, referring to the jar of my blood, which I measured by eye to be about a pint or so, maybe a little more. I had the strength to make more blood, Maevis didn’t. I sat back and watched Caoimhe switch out the jars, then saw the blood come down the tube via gravity and into Maevis’s arm. “The reason blood groups are different is because some are incompatible wi’ others. I’ve told ye tissues and blood are made up of cells, and the cells of Type A blood have Type A antigens. Antigens are foreign substances in the body, so fer example, foreign blood from another person. Then there’s also Type B, which Maevis has, and it has Type B antigens. Type O, my type, has neither A or B antigens, and Type AB has both A and B antigens. But it isnae tha’ simple, otherwise anyone wi’ Type O blood could give te anyone, but only my blood type, Type O-negative, is what’s referred te as the universal donor. It’s called O-negative because it doesnae contain the Rhesus protein. Maevis is type B-positive, so her cells do contain the Rhesus protein.”

“And what does that do?” Caoimhe asked me.

“It’s just how blood evolved,” I told her. “Just one of the wee differences between humans… but it certainly makes givin’ blood a wee bit harder. Someone wi’ a Rhesus-positive blood type can take either positive or negative blood, but someone like me wi’ a Rhesus-negative type can only take the blood of another Rhesus-negative person. Me bein’ Type O-negative, I can only take blood from another person wi’ O-negative blood, but I can give te anyone because I dinnae have the Rhesus protein and I dinnae have A or B antigens. Maevis can take blood from someone who’s Rhesus-positive or negative, but were she Type B-negative, then she can take from either B-negative or O-negative.”

“I’m AB-negative,” Rory suddenly chimed in. “Learned this from an appendex removal.”

“Good te ken. I’ll put it in yer chart,” I told him. “I also might be able te compare all of yers against mine and Maevis’s. Tha’ might help, in case of somethin’ serious.”

“Huh,” said Caoimhe. “What aboot that AB type ye mentioned?”

“Type AB is a wee bit more complicated,” I said. “Type AB-positive can take blood from quite literally anyone and are kent as the universal receiver, but AB-negative can take from only A, B or O-negative. Ye cannae give Type A te Type B and ye cannae give Type B te Type A, and ye also cannae give Type A or Type B te Type O.”

“I see,” said Caoimhe. “So ye’d really best not lose any blood, aye?”

“Probably not a good idea fer me,” I said with a sigh. I then looked at Maevis, seeing her colour start to pink up a little on her arms and fingertips. I picked up her heavily bandaged hands and squeezed her fingertips to check her capillary refill, which looked good in both hands. I laid her hands back down and moved to her shoulders and head, half afraid to take the cloth off that was covering her. Slowly, I lifted the cloth, finding her once ghostly white face to be pinking up. I breathed out a sigh of relief, then smiled softly. “Thank Bride…” There was happiness all around, joyous that Maevis had survived, but I exchanged a slightly nervous expression with Caoimhe.

We had gotten her through the worst of it, and now, she had to heal, but there was another battle that I was worried about next. We’d won against the clock, but would we win against the tiny microscopic beings that were likely causing an infection inside of her?

The Unknown

MAEVIS POV

“What the hell are you doing here?” Maevis demanded from Stephen Bonnet angrily. “This is supposed to be my happy place. My heaven! So what the hell are you doing here? Have you not tormented me enough?” Bonnet only laughed in response, which made her angrier.

“I ain’t here te taunt ya, sweetheart,” he said to her.

“So then why are you here?” Maevis asked him with anger, but also curiosity.

“Because ye have te learn to live with your demons, sweetheart,” Bonnet replied nonchalantly.

“I don’t want to ‘live with my demons’. I just want you out of my life! I want to be free of you! I just want peace!” Maevis cried, tears coming to her eyes, and Bonnet sighed a little.

“Well… You ain’t ever goin’ te be free o’ me, sweetheart, whether ye like it or not,” he told her. “I’m here forever. Not physically, but always right up here.” He tapped his head with his finger. “Lurkin’ in the shadows, comin’ up when ya least expect me to… A figment of your imagination.”

“So what? I’m going crazy now? You’re ‘the voice inside my head’?” Maevis asked him, but he only shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “I’ll always be a memory. Ye’ll always see my face in the eyes of yer pretty babes, sometimes feel my hands on ye when you lie down in bed. And the next time ya get close to a gentleman…”

“Don’t say it,” she snapped at him. “Can’t you see? I don’t want to live like that! I don’t want to half expect to find you around every corner! I don’t want to know that you’re lurking just out of my view!”

“Tha’s fine. We all want lots of things. Hell, I’d like ta be a king,” said Bonnet with a chuckle of amusement. “That wish certainly ain’t bein’ granted, is it?”

“If your job was to tell me I need to learn how to live with you, then you failed. I won’t do it,” Maevis said to him. She thought she saw bright lights appearing in her peripheral vision and she turned around, finding a bright light at the other end of the dam. She heard Bonnet move and saw him standing up in front of her, and he motioned to the light.

“Fine. Go on then. Go to the light, as they say,” he told her. For a moment, she just stared at him, not sure what he was trying to do. Did he want her to die? She figured out from this that she was in some in-between place. She didn’t want to live in a world where Stephen Bonnet lived… She knew that if she went into the light, then Bonnet could never reach her. After all he had done, he’d never be allowed to pass into the light.

“Gladly,” she said, turning to face the light again and smiling softly to herself. No more pain, no more bad dreams, no more Stephen Bonnet…

“And so, the cycle repeats itself,” Bonnet said behind her as she stepped onto the dam. She tried to ignore him as she crossed the dam to the light. “Circles are neverendin’. They go on and on forever, no start, no end. Tha’s why they fascinate me.” Maevis stopped and groaned to herself.

“Will you please just shut up?” she demanded from him. “I just want peace…”

“Then what’ll your little girls have?” Bonnet asked her. She scoffed.

“What do you care?” she asked him.

“Suppose I don’t. But I know you do,” he replied.

“You don’t know me at all,” Maevis told him a bit firmly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You wanted them babes before they were born,” Bonnet reminded her. He was right; she did. “I like ta think… my mother wanted me, before she died.”

26 November, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

We had settled Maevis onto the bed in my Surgery, and it was now night. I took her temperature and it was very high. I could see redness rising from both of her wrists, meaning there was an infection in both. I let out a firm huff. How was I supposed to stop this infection when I had no antibiotics at my disposal? We had yet to successfully find penicillin mould, and I had Caoimhe looking through the various samples of mouldy food to look for what might be penicillin. Previously, I taught her how to identify its spores under the microscope. “Any luck?” I asked her, and she sighed.

“Not on this loaf,” Caoimhe said. “No wee paintbrushes here.”

“Damn it,” I muttered. “She definitely has an infection. So far, it’s only cellulitis, but if we dinnae treat this soon, it’ll turn into sepsis.”

“How did they treat that condition in this time, Auntie?” she asked me, and then it was my turn to sigh.

“They didnae,” I told her. “Ye might get lucky wi’ herbs that helped fight infection, but most people, if they got an infection, either… lost a limb or their lives.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking down solemnly. “I guess I’ll keep lookin’.”

“It’s all we can do,” I said, looking down at Maevis. I covered her bandaged hand with mine, careful not to upset the stitches. “The best thing we can do is keep tryin’, never givin’ up… That way, if we fail, we can at least say we tried, that we didnae go down without a fight. ‘Tis the Scottish way.” It was starting to hit me again, that this patient on the bed wasn’t just any patient, it was my daughter. My daughter was dying on this table of infection as a result of her suicide attempt, and if I couldn’t make the antibiotic that could cure that infection, she was going to die, and there would be nothing I could do to stop it.

“What about those… things? The wee beasties ye were tellin’ me aboot?” Caoimhe asked me.

“The nanomeds, ye mean?” I asked. “They dinnae fight off infection tha’s this advanced. The antibiotic that they contain isnae strong enough fer this. They also cannae revive dead cells or give her blood more oxygen, they cannae speed up blood cell production and they cannae reverse organ shut down. They’re meant fer small internal repairs, but the shard of the mirror she used was so ragged, the nanomeds wouldnae have been able te repair the injuries in time.”

“Oh,” said Caoimhe a bit sadly. “I understand, but it might help a little anyway.” Several moments of silence passed between us as Caoimhe changed the slides, but before she looked at it, she looked at me. “Was this really all because of the rape?”

“Everraone reacts differently,” I told her without looking at her. “When it happened te me, I wanted te die, too. But I was at war, driven by the need fer revenge fer the murder of my family. It was a distraction. As fer Maevis… Well, we grew up verra differently. She was even younger when her whole world changed. She didnae get thrust into the middle of a war. She was raised in a safe environment, far away from the war, and yet, it still fucked her up. I’m no’ sayin’ I’m tougher, but that we were raised so differently. As I said, I had a distraction. She had te bear her rapist’s children.” For a moment, Caoimhe was silent.

“I… was twelve… when it happened te me,” she said. I lifted my head. She had been raped? At age twelve?

“Who?” I asked her softly.

“I dinnae remember his name… He was an English redcoat,” she told me. “He left not long after, and my courses hadnae come yet, so it doesnae matter.”

“Does yer father ken?” I asked her.

“…no. And I dinnae want him te. It wouldnae do him any good te ken, either,” she told me. I nodded subtly.

“‘The past can hurt, but the way I see it, ye can either run from it or learn from it’,” I quoted. “It was from a movie my brothers and I used te watch in our time. The movin’ portraits I told ye aboot. And… Maevis and I watched it, too, when she was wee. It was called ‘The Lion King’, and I guess the story sort of… resembled Hamlet. Just a wee bit.”

“Hamlet, aye? Hmm… It sounds like it teaches a verra good lesson,” Caoimhe told me, leaning forward to look at the slide under the microscope.

“It does,” I said. “Or it will. I wish I could bring it here. The bairns would love it.”

“Auntie,” said Caoimhe suddenly with a bit more volume. “Ye said… it was like wee paintbrushes, aye? Or like little feet wi’ lots of toes?”

“Aye, tha’s a good description of it,” I said, and then I turned to look at her. “What did ye find?”

“I think I found it…” she said, and then she stood back up and motioned for me to come and look at it. I came over and peered down into the microscope, finding Penicillium chrysogenum looking back at me.

“Blessed Bride,” I said, and then I let out a happy laugh. “Oh, thank Christ! Which one did ye find it on?”

“It was the green mould on the bread in the third jar,” said Caoimhe happily. “Is this really it?”

“Aye, it is!” I said excitedly as I ran to the bell jar containing penicillium. “We’ll need te take a sample te grow more. Go and sterilise a liter jar fer me, if ye dinnae mind. I want only pure penicillium, nothin’ else or else it may be contaminated.” Caoimhe went to sterilise a jar, and I went to my journal and flipped to the page on making penicillin, reading through the steps carefully:

When found, it must be recultured. Thinly slice some potatoes and place them in 1-L of distilled water. Place in a pot and boil for thirty minutes.

Allow to cool. Strain contents through a cheesecloth into a second sterilised jar.

Add 20g of sugar and 20g of gelatin to the broth.

Fuck. Did we have gelatin? I had made some sheets over the summer from animal bones and used some of it for other salves and such, so I needed to double check to see if I had some left over.

Add distilled water until the total volume is one liter. Pour into dishes and cover to prevent contamination. Allow to cool.

I had commissioned twenty thin glass plates with lids from Mr. Carlyon’s son, Young Ross, and all of them were absolutely perfect. They were all going to be dedicated to growing a penicillin culture.

Streak the mould spores onto the plates and let grow for seven days.

Well, I didn’t have seven days. I had two or three, at best, damn it, so I would have to make it work. I’d dedicate some to be used in two or three days’ time, and a few more to be used after a week, if the infection didn’t go away.

Identify penicillin, then isolate in a sterilised jar. Add a 1 tsp each of the following:

• Glucose Sugar

• Yeast

• Citric acid Lemon juice

• Powdered milk

• Sea salt

Add 100-mL of water. Sterilise a wire loop, allow to cool, and add penicillium spores to flask. Cover the jar. Let flask sit for at least seven days. Do not add spores to hot plate or they will be killed.

Well, fuck. There was no way I could make penicillin in time to help Maevis. Well, I sort of could. I could incubate the jar over fire for a couple of days, that might speed it up. In the meantime, I’d have to use other antibacterial methods. Perhaps I could use one of the smaller nanomed dosages just for the antibiotics they contain… It isn’t a lot but it might stave off the worst of the infection for long enough.

The final steps included separating the liquid broth containing the penicillin from the solid substrate that would form at the bottom of the jar. Once that was done, I needed to adjust the pH using hydrochloric acid, which I made from vinegar and salt. This then needed to be further extracted using ethyl acetate, which I had also already prepared knowing I needed it while waiting for the penicillium to grow (I had written all the complicated steps on the next page of this journal and gave Caoimhe a quick crash course in organic chemistry). The ethyl acetate would be added to the liquid containing penicillin, which would dissolve it, and then I could add sodium acetate to the mixture and then leave it to vent. The ethyl would evaporate, and boom, pure penicillin. All in all, the process would take easily two weeks to do it properly. Well, I didn’t have time to do it properly. My daughter had an infection now, and it needed to be treated.

Caoimhe returned with the sterilised jar, and then I let out a soft sigh and went back to the top of the page in my notebook. “Right. Let’s get started wi’ the potatoes, then,” I said, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t run out of time.

29 November, 1770

GEORDIE POV

Geordie was doing his best to keep up with his work, but knowing that Maevis, whom he knew now he loved more than anyone on earth, was dying, he couldn’t focus. He nearly cut his foot in half with the axe as he tried to cut the wood for fire, so he let out a frustrated groan and threw the axe down into the ground. He needed to go for a walk to clear his head. He found himself walking to the Village, where he knew Miss Fowlis was tending to the sick, and Mr. Elton was helping to build the Carlyons’ forge. He didn’t come across either of them as the snow fluttered down slowly, like the ashes of a large fire.

“Fanny, did ye hear? The Fraser’s lass is deid!” he heard one woman whisper to another, and Geordie sucked in a breath of air and froze. What? She died? Her companion clicked her tongue.

“Ye fool, she isnae deid, but she wan’ed te be,” said the woman called Fanny.

“She wan’ed te be? Ye mean she tried te take her ane life?” asked the first, and Fanny nodded.

“‘Tis such a sin,” said Fanny, clicking her tongue. “If she dies, it’ll be Hell she goes te.”

“Òbh òbh, caileag bochd,” said the first. Geordie had no idea what that meant.

“Puir lass? She did it te ‘erself, she did! And te leave those two wee bastards she has… Nae faither, nae maither… ‘Twill be whores, the both of ‘em,” said Fanny. All right, Geordie had had enough. He balled up his fists and clenched his jaw, then wheeled around to stalk over to the two busybodies.

“Th-that’s enough!” he exclaimed. “Miss F-Fraser is not dead, and y-you have have n-no right to speak of her or her b-beautiful daughters in s-such a horrible way!”

“Och, we didnae mean it, a ghòidh,” said Fanny a bit snidely.

“S-sure you didn’t,” Geordie spat back at her. “You know n-nothing of what M-Miss Fraser is g-going through! So you’d b-best keep her name out of your m-mouths, and l-leave her be!” He turned and stalked away, trying hard to ignore the stupid giggling behind him as he passed through the village. He paused when he saw Miss Fowlis coming out of a house with a basket on her arm, watching as she rubbed her hands together and blew into them to warm them. “M-Miss Fowlis!”

“Oh, hello, Geordie!” Miss Fowlis said to him with a kindly smile as she approached him.

“Please tell me, h-how’s Miss Maevis?” Geordie practically begged her. Miss Fowlis’s smile faded, and she sighed gently.

“She’s… doin’ as well as she can be,” Miss Fowlis told him, and then she gave him a comforting smile and laid a hand on his arm. “My aunt will see her well, so dinnae fash one bit. She’ll be well again.”

“I h-hope so,” said Geordie a bit shakily. “P-please… Give her my b-best.”

“Ye ken I will. I’m on my way back te the Big House now. I’ll pass on yer message. I imagine she’d be grateful fer it,” Miss Fowlis told him kindly. She went on her way, but her words were of no comfort to Geordie. He was terrified not only for Maevis’s life, but for her soul. Those two nosy busybodies were right, Maevis’s soul could not be saved if she died by her own hand. As if this tragedy could not get any worse… Please, dear God, have mercy on her soul. Spare her, and if you cannot… Please do not turn her away.

The In-Between

MAEVIS POV

“I like ta think… my mother wanted me, before she died.”

Maevis was left standing in the middle of the dam, which served as a bridge between what she was leaving behind and the bright light that would take her to the beyond. Behind her, Stephen Bonnet was standing there casually, a strange look on his face that had never appeared in any of her dreams before. Curiosity got the better of her, and she turned around and took a few steps towards him again.

“Are you trying to say that because your mother died, you’re… this way?” she asked him, and he shrugged.

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. But we won’t know, will we?” Bonnet asked her, and Maevis huffed.

“I thought my mother had died and I didn’t turn out anything like you,” she told him sharply. “My mother lost her mother, too, and look at her. A dead mother is no excuse for what you’ve done.”

“You was seven years old when you left your mama, and your mama was fifteen when her mama died,” he told her, and she was a bit taken aback.

“How do you know this?” she asked him.

“I know everything about ya, sweetheart,” Bonnet told her, raising his hands in a false surrender. She narrowed her eyes again.

“No, you don’t. You don’t know anything about me,” she growled at him.

“Fine, fine. I know nothin’ about ya,” he said again. “But I do know that I was just a babe when my mama hanged herself.”

“Oh,” said Maevis, understanding now why Bonnet was telling her this. Or rather, ‘Bonnet’, because the real Bonnet was still alive, unfortunately, so she had no idea who this figure was that had taken on his image and was trying to talk her out of dying. But whoever or whatever it was, it was trying to tell her that Bonnet’s mother had died by suicide… much how Wren and Lark’s mother would, if Maevis moved on. “I… I’m sorry to hear…”

“I didn’t know ‘er. Never met her, save fer when I was a babe. She left me in the care of a group o’ Catholic nuns who weren’t no good to me. Ran away from ‘em when when I was seven,” Bonnet explained. “I learned real fast what a shit world we live in. Maybe things would be different, had my mama lived. Maybe we wouldna be here, huh?”

“You think you might not have raped me if your mother had lived?” Maevis asked him with suspicion, and he shrugged again, sitting back down on the boulder.

“Maybe. Who knows? She died,” Bonnet told her, and Maevis huffed.

“Are you using this to tell me my daughters are going to turn out to be bad people if I die?” she asked him, crossing her arms across her chest. “My parents can take care of them, or one of my brothers or sisters.”

“Your parents ain’t gonna live forever, and your brothers and sisters got their own families. They don’t need ta be feedin’ yours,” Bonnet replied. “Your parents are, what, in their fifties now? They ain’t gonna live much longer.”

“You’re acting like they’ll die tomorrow. They’ll be fine, they’ll probably be around for another thirty years or so,” Maevis replied, and he chuckled.

“We never know what tomorrow’s gonna bring, sweetheart,” he replied with amusement. “A fire could rip down that house o’ their’s just like that.” He snapped his fingers. This suddenly reminded Maevis of the newspaper clipping that Rory had found.

It is with grief that the news is received of the deaths by fire of James Mackenzie Fraser and his wife of a conflagration that destroyed their home on the settlement of Fraser’s Ridge…

They wouldn’t have another thirty years, not if that notice was true. Not if they didn’t avoid the house that day. And even so… Bonnet was right. Anything could happen to them. A venomous snake could bite one of them. They could fall into the river, hit their head on a rock and drown. They could be overrun by pigs or stampeded by horses, shot by natives or lost in the upcoming Revolutionary War. Then what would come of Wren and Lark?

Maevis would be lying if she said she didn’t love her girls. She did love them, more than anything in the world. She was with them for nine months as they grew in her womb. She felt their first kicks, heard their first cries, listened to their little heartbeats… If she died, she would miss out on everything. Their first steps. Their first words. Their favourite things, their fears, their hopes, their dreams. She would miss out on the day they join womanhood, she wouldn’t be there to advise them on the changes that were happening to their bodies. She would miss out on their first loves, their first kisses, their weddings, their first children… And then the cycle would repeat. She would never know how beautiful Wren and Lark would grow to be, and they would never hear their mother sing to them to give them comfort.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.

There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

And a time for every purpose under heaven…

One of her favourite things about her relationship with her mother was the songs Mama sang to her when she was little. It was the one thing she missed most about her mother when they were separated. Not being able to hear Mama’s soothing voice when she had a nightmare, or when she was sad, or when she was frightened by a storm that was passing over the Isle of Barra. She missed her mother’s warm and comforting hugs that would accompany her songs, songs that were passed down to her from her mother, which maybe came from her mother or grandmother, and so on… And if Maevis died, the cycle wouldn’t repeat. It would stop. There would be no passage of ancient songs from mother to daughter.

Break the cycle… Break the cycle of losing mothers young, having no one to turn to when they’re needed most. Mama was away and missed all of Maevis’s hardest moments. Mama’s mother died and missed all of her hardest moments. Mama’s father left the time his mother was left in and she would have missed all of his hardest moments. Her mother had also died when she was young. If Maevis died, this cycle would repeat again and again and again, and the trauma would continue.

“No… No, we… we don’t,” she muttered softly. She turned her head to look at Bonnet again, but he was gone. “Huh?” she asked aloud. She ran off of the dam to search further for him, wondering where the hell he had gone off to now, but he was nowhere to be found. Damned bastard… She turned one final time and gasped, startled to see a little girl looking at her from the ground.

This little girl was about seven years of age. She had bright blue eyes and her straight red hair was braided into pigtails. Little freckles dotted her face, and she was wrapped in the green Fowlis of Barra tartan. She looked frightened as she held onto a teddy bear given to her before she stepped onto a plane that would take her to a future unknown, from a life that she knew so little of already. This little girl had so many hopes and dreams, and all of them dried up the moment that bomb hit Glasgow; evaporated into thin air.

A time to be born, a time to die,

A time to plant, a time to reap,

A time to kill, a time to heal,

A time to laugh, a time to weep…

Cycles had seasons, and Maevis found herself in the midst of a cold one. But circles didn’t just end, they went on forever. Someday, the cold season would end, a warmer season taking its place full of sunshine. And someday, the cold season would return, and with it the darkness. But the world didn’t end when it slipped into winter… It continued on, until the world began to wake once more from its frigid summer and the sun stayed in the sky for longer and longer. Some days, there was rain, others, there was snow… Some days, there would be sunshine, and other days, there would be wind. Some cycles went on like a sine graph, an endless wave of highs and lows. When a low was reached, there would always be a high to follow. That was just how life was - a mix of happiness and heartaches. The hope for the warm, sunny high days made life worth living.

2 December, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

The penicillin was taking as long as it was supposed to, not as long as I wanted to. I wouldn’t have enough. I treated Maevis’s infected wounds with the same salve I used on Clara’s mastitis, and also injected her wound sites with two doses each of the wee orange nanomed capsules, then hoped and prayed to whoever the fuck was listening to me now that my daughter would live. I had a small sample of purified penicillin, but considering a single dose for a condition like strep throat is over a hundred milligrams every eight hours, it wasn’t nearly enough. She was feverish and going pale again, and I was forced to admit that I didn’t know what to do next. After exhausting all treatment methods, I resorted to the one thing that always made Maevis feel better when she was little: singing.

“To everything, turn, turn, turn.

There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

And a time to every purpose under heaven…

A time to build up, a time to break down,

A time to dance, a time to mourn,

A time to cast away stones,

A time to gather stones together…

To everything, turn, turn, turn.

There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

And a time to every purpose under heaven…

A time of love, a time of hate,

A time of war, a time for peace,

A time you may embrace, a time to ref…”

I trailed off when I heard a soft groan from Maevis and gasped lightly. I quickly put down the guitar that Rory had loaned to me and jumped up, kneeling down on the floor beside the low bed and laying my hands on Maevis’s arms. “Maevis?” I said softly, so as not to startle her. She groaned again, then I saw the fingers of her left hand moving just a little. She hadn’t woken up in days, having likely fallen into a coma while her body tried to heal. I stood up a little and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her as her eyelids twitched, and then she gently opened her eyes, revealing her reddened and tired sky blue eyes. “Oh, Maevis…” I said with a sigh of relief, and then I picked up her left hand and kissed it gently. “My wee girl…”

“Hmm,” she muttered back sleepily. “Huh…”

“Shh, take a moment, a leannan. Ye’ve been out fer days,” I told her, using my free hand to brush a piece of red hair out of her face. “Would ye like me te fetch ye a bit of water? We’ve been givin’ ye fluids, but I imagine yer throat is parched.”

“Hmm-mm,” she replied weakly, and I stood up to fetch the jug of water, pouring some into a glass. I helped her to raise her head a little and gave her a little bit of water, which she drank hungrily.

“Tha’s it…” I said softly. When she was finished, I set the glass aside and wiped her mouth dry with a handkerchief, as I had done many times when she was wee. “How’re ye feelin’?”

“Hmm… sleepy,” she muttered groggily.

“Aye, well, I gave ye a wee bit of laudanum fer the pain, and te keep ye restin’,” I told her, covering her hands again with mine. Her eyes looked down at her bandaged hands, and then she sighed and began to sniffle.

“I… I’m so sorry,” she said, tears starting to form at her eyes.

“Shh, a leannan…” I said, wiping her tears away. “Shh, no tears, darlin’… Everrathin’s goin’ te be okay.” At least I hoped it was. Here she was awake now, still fighting off that godforsaken infection, and I still had no cure. It was a week away, at least, from being ready, and if Maevis’s body couldn’t fight off the infection in time, then she wouldn’t live to see it. “But I have te ask ye… What were ye thinkin’? Have ye really been hurtin’ so bad, ye thought this was the only option ye had?” She closed her eyes to suppress more tears, then nodded. “Why didnae ye tell me how bad it was? I could have helped ye. There’s herbs that can be used fer depression.”

“Because… I didn’t think you’d understand,” Maevis told me quietly. “I felt… so alone…” I sighed gently. There was a stain on my past that I preferred to forget about, which occurred when I was about sixteen years old. It was something that I had pushed to the back of my mind and almost forgot about, until my daughter was raped. I looked down at the floor and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.

“I told ye once that… I understand ye more than ye ken,” I said softly, and then I opened my eyes. “A long time ago… somethin’ happened te me that I didnae even tell yer father aboot. The only ones who really knew aboot it were… Tom and Maidie.” Maevis was silent, so I looked up at her to see the curious expression in her fatigued face. “I didnae even tell yer uncle… I couldnae. I was… so ashamed, and terrified.”

“What happened?” she asked me. I looked away again, closing my eyes tight in shame, and took another deep breath to stabilise myself.

“I dinnae remember the rape,” I told her. “All I ken is… I was young and naive and I was told there was a wee gatherin’ in one of the other lad’s rooms. They said it would be fun te get te ken each other, since… we’d be fightin’ beside each other. I didnae disagree, I’d lost all of my friends and everrathin’ I kent the moment the English burnt my home te the ground and killed my family.” I paused for a moment. “I was such a fool te believe them… They asked if I wanted anythin’ te drink and I said sure. They gave me a glass of water.” I paused again, this time for an extended period of time. I clasped my hands together and shifted uncomfortably, then sniffled and wiped my nose with my sleeve. “Sorry, it’s… hard te talk aboot.” I cleared my throat. “The first thing I remember was bein’ in a haze…”

“…need te take photographs fer the rape kit.”

“Do whatever you have to do. I want whoever did this to her to rot in jail for the rest of their damn useless lives.”

Click. Flash. Click. Flash. Light pressure on my inner thigh, my leg moved. Click. Flash.

“I woke up two days after. Tom was there… He said I was found outside by the dumpsters,” I continued. The memories of those awful few days were excruciating to recall.

“There was rohypnol found in your system, Cat. And something else, but they couldn’t identify it.”

It was identified later. Black Viper, they called it. It was a stronger form of scopolamine, derived from belladonna, or deadly nightshade. It was odourless, tasteless, colourless… Basically undetectable. However, they found traces of it on my teeth and around my lips, as well as on my clothes, so they said I must have spilled a little on myself. “My rape was the case that got the drug identified,” I told Maevis. “It… caused a sort of mind alteration, basically made ye prone te suggestion. I did whatever they wanted me te do, and the rohypnol ensured I didnae remember a thing. But anyway… That was the part tha’ was easy te forget. I didnae even ken what happened. I kent that somethin’ happened te me, but it was easier te hide from. However… that wasnae the end of it.”

“Did… Were you…” Maevis said, and I bit my bottom lip… then nodded slowly.

“Everrathin’ was fine fer aboot… eight months, or so,” I told her. “Still had my period everra month, just as irregular as always, and as painful. Then one day, I bled more than I usually would, and the cramps were horrific. Eventually, Tom brought me te the A&E. Cailean was overseas fer a specialised trainin’, and by this point, I was trainin’ te be a medic. Tom was all I had, and I had only recently just met Maidie. They did an ultrasound te see if maybe my appendix burst, or if I had another issue…” I paused again. I felt tears stinging the back of my throat and threatening to spill out of my eyes, so I took a deep breath and forced them back. “They said… that I was eight months pregnant, and aboot te give birth.”

“What?” Maevis asked me quietly. I couldn’t look at her, but I knew that she had a shocked expression on her face… likely similar to the one on mine when I had heard that news at sixteen years old.

“There were complications. They wanted te do a caesarean, but I refused. I… didnae want the scar te serve as a reminder of what had happened te me. It was… the most painful experience of my life,” I told her. “Physically and emotionally. I was forced te relive what had happened. I hated those men all over again, after I had finally forgotten them… But the bairn was born wi’out issue.” I paused again - this was the moment of my life that I was most ashamed of. “Before they could say anythin’, I told them I didnae want te ken the sex. I said I didnae want te see it. I told them te… take it away, that I never wanted te remember this moment.” More silence passed. “They did just that. I signed what they told me te, and then I went home te forget it all.”

“Did… Did you ever… know anything about it?” Maevis asked me quietly. For a moment, I remained silent, reliving yet another memory that crossed my mind.

“Not fer years,” I confessed. “I forbid Tom from ever mentionin’ it. Maidie was around, and she knew never te bring it up as well. But… in the days followin’ the attack on Glasgow…”

10 August, 2154

Tom was driving me home from the hospital after forcing me to leave. I had been working nonstop since Glasgow was bombed, so finally, he came and he put his foot down. He said reinforcements were on their way, that I needed to go home and rest and that Maevis needed me. So reluctantly, I complied, safe to leave the painful screams from radiation burns behind for the quiet of my home. Silence had befallen pretty much all of the world as they lay in shock at the atrocity that England had committed against its neighbour, and that silence echoed viciously in the car. Tom cleared his throat, breaking that silence.

“Cat, um… Do you… remember that baby that you had-” Tom had begun to say, but I immediately cut him off.

“I told ye I never wanted te speak of that day again,” I said harshly, leaning my face on my hand and my arm on the window of the passenger seat. It was raining, so the window was up, and I watched raindrops race down the glass.

“I know,” Tom said with a sigh.

“So why are ye bringin’ it up?” I asked him. 

“I'm sorry,” he replied. He fell silent for another moment, and then I heard him sigh. “I couldn’t help myself. I… kept track of… the baby.”

“Tom,” I said sharply.

“It was adopted by a family in Glasgow,” he told me quickly and a bit loudly, and I didn’t say anything. “I checked yesterday… They never left.” The child died in the bombing, he meant. I didn’t say a word when we got back home. Maevis greeted me at the door and I embraced her tightly, then Tom offered to help bathe her and make her dinner so I could go and lie down. I went up to the top floor, which was the attic, and I opened the window. I climbed out onto the roof, which I had done many times as a child when I wanted to see the stars. The rain was cold and the skies were dark, but I held my knees against my chest and silently cried in the rain. I was numb to the warmth of the tears, which could not overcome the cold of the rain.

“That child would have been twenty-two,” I told Maevis softly. “Perhaps they… had a life. Perhaps they were a student, studyin’ who kens what. Perhaps they found the love of their life, marrit them, started a family… But now I’ll never ken, because I wasnae strong enough te even try te raise my rapist’s child.”

“You never asked Tom about the baby?” Maevis asked me.

“No,” I said quietly after a moment. “I couldnae bring myself te live wi’ the shame if I put a name or a face te it.” I let out yet another heavy sigh. “It’s cold at rock bottom, Maevis. I remember the bitin’ chill, and I’ll never, ever forget it…”

Chapter Text

5 December, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

A ray of morning sun shone on Jamie’s chair in his study, and with a cup of tea in hand and Jamie’s tartan wrapped tightly around my shoulders, I ran my hand over his chair. I set down my mug and leaned against the chair, my glasses sliding down my nose. I needed to remind myself to tighten them at some point. I let out a sigh, then picked up a corner of Jamie’s plaid. “I wish ye were here, Jamie… I really need ye now,” I said softly, holding the tartan to my face. “I need yer strength… I dinnae ken if I have the strength te carry on wi’ this. Just hurry home, I beg of ye… Hurry back te me.” I felt tears welling up in my eyes a little, but I forced them back the moment I heard footsteps in the hall. I looked up as they came around the doorframe to see Elton, who peered in and saw me at Jamie’s desk.

“Are ye all right, Mam?” he asked as he came into the study, catching me wiping my eyes dry.

“Aye, I’m fine,” I told him with a sigh. “I just… I’m missin’ yer father a bit more than usual today.” He nodded subtly.

“Aye, he picked a bad time te leave,” Elton replied, and then he also sighed. “I saw Maevis, just now. She’s lookin’ better. There’s more colour in her face.”

“Tha’s good. Tha’s an improvement from this mornin’, she was a wee bit more pale,” I answered him tiredly. I never slept properly without Jamie, but ever since Maevis’s suicide attempt, I barely slept at all, if ever.

“Does she still have the infection?” Elton asked me after a moment.

“Miraculously, she’s gettin’ better, though I dinnae ken how,” I said to him. “The penicillin willnae be ready fer another few days, at least. We start new batches daily, so once it’s finished, we’ll have an endless supply.”

“Tha’s good, at least,” Elton replied, and I nodded. He stood there somewhat awkwardly for a moment, and then I broke the silence between us.

“Thank ye fer bein’ here,” I told him. “I cannae tell ye how… wonderful it is havin’ ye. A small piece of me always kent somethin’ was missin’ from my life… When I was back in the future, I thought I was missin’ Jamie, Archie and Bree, and then when I got here, I thought it was Maevis… but it was you, as well. Ye’ve been the strength I’ve been lackin’ these last few days… I dinnae ken where I’d be today if I didnae have ye, Elton.” He looked up at me, his cheeks turning a little pink. He tried to force a smile, but I could tell that he didn't know how to respond. It was like no one had ever told him how much he was needed. I moved away from the chair and approached him, then I embraced my son tightly. “I didnae ken ye as a lad… but no matter what, ye’ll always be my wee lad.”

“I know, Mam,” said Elton softly, returning the hug awkwardly. When I pulled away, I gave him a kindly, but tired smile.

“I suppose ye should get back te work on the forge. We certainly want it complete before the blizzards come,” I told him, and he nodded.

“Mrs. Carlyon says she thinks one’s comin’. She says she feels it in her bones,” Elton told me, and I sighed.

“And that’ll delay yer father and brother even more,” I said. “Wonderful. I’ll keep ye updated on yer sister’s condition.”

“Thanks, Mam,” said Elton, and then he was gone. I looked back to the desk, nodding to myself silently before picking up my mug and making my way to the Surgery. I’d been thinking of where to go from here with Maevis’s condition. She had survived, but fixing her body wouldn’t fix the pain that she struggled with internally. What she needed was therapy, as I had endured after giving birth to the child I had long since forgotten, however, I never opted for a psychiatry rotation. I knew the basics, of course, so I decided to go the route that my therapists had gone with me. I was a difficult patient. I clammed up and wouldn’t say a word to them, not until they gained my trust, and they did so by letting me control the conversation and the session. There were many sessions where I simply talked about my day, talked about my budding relationship with Tom or my friendship with Maidie, my relationship with my brother, and then eventually, I got into talking about my family. Before I knew it, my therapist was working with me on my issues, and I had barely even noticed the transition. So that was going to be my plan of action.

I went to the kitchen and asked Mrs. Bug to boil some milk for me, then added the hot milk to a sweetened wheat and barley malt mixture in two mugs. I carried them to the porch, where Lizzy had told me Maevis had gone to watch the sunrise. She was still sitting out there, even now hours later, and as I approached the doorway, I paused, freezing when I heard the sweet melodic voice of a girl so pained by the turmoil inside of her:

“…young girl dressed in ribbons

Taking fancies to those like you,

Oh, Diana, sweet Diana…”

Maevis was singing. It had been months since I had heard her sing anything. If she was singing again… Well, it could mean nothing. It could mean that she just didn’t want to sing and now, felt that it was all she could do. I paused to listen, smiling quietly to myself.

“Yet you wait with mourning in your hair,

And now I need good reason,

But I’ve none to spare…

You are just a leaf that I have turned,

And I am like a match that slowly burns…

A beggarly, account of empty boxes…

That is all I own in this world,

Oh, Diana, sweet Diana…”

“I was startin’ te think I’d never hear ye sing again,” I said to her as she finished her song, and she looked up as I handed her the mug. “Easy now, both hands. If ye cannae hold it, let me ken.” She accepted it, then raised her brows when she realised what it was.

“Horlicks?” she asked me, adjusting her hands a little to prevent pain in her wrists.

“As close as I can get te it,” I told her, sitting down on the bench next to her. “Wi’ this chill in the air, I thought we could both use a sweet reminder of warmer days.”

“I haven’t had this in so long… They don’t really have it in America, except at Indian grocery stores. I guess there’s a British one in Haddonfield, which is in New Jersey. South of where I lived,” she told me. She took a sip of it, letting out a small sigh of relief at the flavour. “It tastes even better than the one in the future.”

“I’d hope so, I made it from scratch. And put a wee drop of vanilla extract in it,” I told her.

“How did you get vanilla extract?” she asked me next.

“Made that, too,” I said. “Alcohol and vanilla bean. Let it soak in a dark corner fer a few weeks and it tastes just as it should. But dinnae drink it. ‘Tis practically pure alcohol. Gettin’ tha’ through yer brother’s head when I first made it was fun.” Maevis chuckled very quietly, a small smile making its way onto her face before it faded.

“I assume you… want to talk. About what happened,” she said next.

“Eventually,” I replied. “Fer now, why dinnae we talk aboot whatever you want te talk aboot?”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Maevis answered me.

“Tha’s okay. We dinnae have te talk, either. We can sit here in silence, we can sing songs, ye can listen te me drone on and on aboot somethin’ ye dinnae care much fer… Whatever ye like,” I told her, looking at her and meeting her eyes. “Healin’ starts now, and we’ll use whatever tools we have at our disposal te ensure that healin’ occurs.” Maevis’s eyes returned to her mug of Horlicks, pursing her lips a little.

“Why don’t you… ever talk about your family?” she asked me after a moment. “Your brothers, your parents… I hardly know anything about them.” I sighed; Talking about my family was a painful topic that I never wished to bring to the front of my mind, but if hearing about my past would help Maevis to heal, then I needed to suck it up and deal with my own demons so that she could face hers.

“It… hurts te talk aboot them,” I told her, looking away. “It was so sudden… In a matter of moments, I lost everrathin’. My home, my family… I was thrust into a role that no fifteen-year-old should be thrown into. As more time went on, it became easier te block it out. I wouldnae dwell on it, and I could fight fer Scotland’s freedom without my mind bein’ clouded.” She nodded a little, then looked up at me.

“Why don’t we talk about them? One at a time,” Maevis replied. I sighed a little.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll start wi’ yer Uncle Iain. I kent him the least, but te no fault of mine or his… He was two years auld when he died. Just a wee bit younger than Ginnie… Like all toddlers, he loved te laugh and run around. He wasnae afraid te go after seagulls and even grabbed the beak of one that tried te steal his bread soaked in milk.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory, recalling Iain’s chubby wee hands grabbing the beak of a thieving seagull to stop it. “He looked like Da, but wi’ Mam’s eyes.”

“He must have been adorable,” said Maevis. “How old would he be right now?” I paused in thought.

“I want te say… late thirties, now. He was thirteen years younger than me,” I answered her. “Maybe he’d have a family. A braw lad, a bonny lass, maybe… He never really had the chance te grow into his personality. He was barely speakin’ as it was.” I sighed, then continued on. “Then there was Uilleam, who, like me, had red hair. He loved te paint and draw, just like Da, and the house was full of their sketches… All of which were lost in the fire. I dinnae have one drawin’ te remember him by… He was nine when he died… and the first of my family te be shot.” I froze again, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I will… never forget that moment. Sometimes, I still see it in my nightmares…”

“That’s so awful… Why did Richard Randall go after your family, anyway?” Maevis asked me.

“Ye ken yer grandsire fought in the first rebellion, I assume?” I asked, and she nodded. “The English won and imprisoned him fer fifteen years.”

“Fifteen?” Maevis asked with shock, and I nodded.

“‘Course, prisons in the future arenae like prisons of this century,” I told her with a soft sigh. “He was released and pardoned, but that was under a different king. King Edward IX was… relentless after his eldest son was killed by Scottish rebels. It was what led up te the first rebellion. When we lost… he took all our weapons away, he policed the cities, towns, basically everraone who lived in Scotland was under strict surveillance. Officers were imprisoned, the higher rankin’ ones executed. My father, thankfully, wasnae a high-rankin’ officer. He was a captain, but only just. He was just imprisoned until 2115, then… I came along the followin’ year.”

“Your parents met during the war, didn’t they?” Maevis asked me, and I nodded.

“The story goes is that he was shot in the arse and she was his attendin’ nurse,” I told her with an amused smile. “I dinnae ken if it’s true or not, but Mam never denied it. Maybe she was humourin’ him. Either way, they… had a love story like the one of legends. Fifteen years, she waited fer him, and the moment he was pardoned and released, they went down te the courthouse and were marrit.”

“She waited all that time?” Maevis asked me.

“Faithfully,” I replied, and then I let out another sigh. “Now, as fer Alasdair… I learned later he was named fer my father’s cousin and closest friend. I met him a long time ago, shortly after Archie was born. My wee brother had red hair, like myself and Uilleam. He was more quiet, kept te himself… Actually, he… reminds me a lot of yer brother. He was good wi’ technology, was always lookin’ fer some way te improve our lives.”

“Just like Elton,” said Maevis softly, and I nodded subtly.

“Just like his nephew, aye… He wanted te be an engineer or an inventor when he grew up. But he never had the chance. He… He was eleven when he died. Sometimes, I… think of all of the things that might have existed had he no’ died. Maybe he’d have been the one te invent flyin’ cars.” I chuckled softly to myself. “And then Calum… Well, he was yer uncle’s identical twin.”

“I haven’t met him yet,” Maevis told me. “Cailean. He’s coming here soon, isn’t he?”

“I think so, but I dinnae ken fer sure,” I said. “I ken he’s te immigrate te North Carolina sometime within the next two years but that doesnae mean he’s comin’ here.” I looked down at my hands for a moment. “He named his illegitimate son after his brother. Cailean and Calum were always verra close, as most twins are. Even you and Elton are verra close, despite not growin’ up together.”

“Twin telepathy,” said Maevis, and I chuckled a little.

“Aye, maybe,” I replied. “He had a hard time copin’ after Calum died. They were pranksters, the pair of ‘em.” I happened to glance up briefly when I heard a squeal, and I looked up to see Brèagha trying to run away from Caoimhe, who was brandishing something in her hand.

“Get that away from me! Faigh air falbh e! Faigh air falbh e!” she cried, and then screamed when Caoimhe threw something at her, and I realised it was an earthworm. I couldn’t help but chuckle a little and shake my head.

“Caoimhe inherited her father’s mischievousness,” I said. “And his sense of adventure. He and Calum both were verra antsy, always tryin’ te ‘escape the isle and go on an adventure. Playin’ pirates was their favourite thing, and more than once did I find them usin’ lobsters fer swords or takin’ one of the town lads as a hostage.” This made Maevis chuckle a little as she pictured two young boys brandishing lobsters at each other. “Aye, they were funny, the pair of ‘em… Da used te egg them on, and Mam couldnae be angry wi’ them all the time. And then when I joined in on the fun, it was us four against Mam, Alasdair and Uilleam. Iain was a wee bit of a surprise… and too young te get involved in our antics, but Da always talked aboot how we would recruit him te our team when he was aulder.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of good memories of them,” Maevis told me, and I sighed softly.

“I do… but those memories are what makes thinkin’ of them so painful,” I replied. “Right, I think tha’s enough therapy fer now. Perhaps later or tomorrow, we’ll carry on, aye?” Maevis nodded subtly, looking down at the Horlicks in her lap.

“I don’t know… if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it,” she told me.

“Someday, ye will be. It took me nearly forty years te talk aboot what happened te me,” I told her with a small smile as I stood up. “It takes time… Nobody heals overnight. Now, dinnae stay out here too long, it’s quite chilly, and yer no’ ready fer extended exposure te the cold.” She only nodded silently, her eyes going to that distant place where she went whenever she was left alone.

I, on the other hand, was fighting off tears. It had been a long time since I had last thought of my family that I had lost. I didn’t often recall the memories of what I had lost to my mind, and when I did, I shooed them away to come back another day. Well, they were all at the front of my mind now.

“A lady lobster wears seashells because she’s outgrown her B-shells!” said a young eleven-year-old Calum, and Da scoffed while Alasdair gasped. We were all out lobster fishing while Mam stayed home with Uilleam, who was sick, and a newborn baby Iain.

“Ye cannae say that, Calum!” he squeaked. 

“Where did ye learn that one, lad?” Da asked him.

“Payton taught me at school!” said Calum.

“He-he also taught us this one!” said Cailean, and he cleared his throat. “How do ye make a pool table laugh? Go on, guess!” 

“I dinnae think he wants te ken,” I said with a laugh. I was thirteen at the time.

“I dunno, lad, but I’ve a feelin’ yer goin’ te tell me,” said Da with some amusement, taking a sip of a bottle of ale he brought along with him.

“Ye tickle its balls!” Cailean exclaimed, and Da spit out his drink before breaking out into laughter. Alasdair gasped again.

“I’m tellin’ Ma!” he said.

“We dinnae need te be tellin yer Mam aboot any of these jokes, lads!” said Da, who thought this was hilarious.

“Wait until ye get te secondary school,” I told them. “Then ye’ll hear jokes like this one. Wha’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb?”

“I dunno, what?” asked young Calum.

“Ye can unscrew a lightbulb,” I said softly to myself, smiling at the old memory. Though it pained me to recall those days - the days back when I was young and innocent, never knowing a truly dark day - it did bring a sense of comfort to me, almost like they were never truly gone.

7 December, 1770

I sat down beside Maevis with Rory’s guitar, which he had loaned to me for a little while. He and Bree finally returned to their home along with Donnie, so the house was a little quieter, and I also sent Lizzy and Mrs. Bug with Wren and Lark to Bree’s so Maevis could get a little peace. Eventually, I would like to work on Maevis with the girls, but for now, she just needed to work on herself, and she unfortunately needed the girls out of sight to be able to do that. Considering they were the cause of her depression, she needed time away from her daughters. Perhaps this time away would be felt by her, but I wouldn’t know for certain.

She looked up at me when I sat down, having curled herself up on the porch with a book. “What are ye readin’?” I asked her.

“Robinson Crusoe,” she told me. “Lord John sent it for my birthday.”

“Tha’ was verra kind of him,” I said, swallowing my discomfort at the mention of Lord John. “What’s it aboot?”

“It’s about a man’s survival on a tropical island,” she replied. “We read bits and pieces of it in ELA classes over the years, but I’ve never read the whole book.”

“ELA?” I asked, raising a brow.

“English Language Arts,” she replied.

“Ah,” I said. “We just called it ‘literature’ when I was at school.” I smiled a little at her.

“You’ve never really talked about your life when you were a teenager,” Maevis said to me suddenly, placing the piece of ribbon inside of the book to mark her place. “I know yesterday, we talked about when you were little and your grandparents, but we never really talked about when you were a teenager.”

“Aye,” I said with a small sigh. “Tha’s because most of my teenage years were spent in the rebellion,” I told her. “I was fifteen when my family was killed, and had only just turned aboot two and a half months before. When I was sixteen, I told ye aboot… the bairn… and I also was trainin’ te be a medic fer while. At seventeen, same thing, only I was seein’ more battles, most notably Loch Fell.”

“Oh, right. I remember reading about that in a Scottish History course I took at college,” she said. Loch Fell was a hill located in the southern uplands of Scotland, part of the Ettrick Hills. It was the site of a major air battle in the second rebellion, occurring in the summer of 2134. It was the first major battle I saw as a medic, and was when I grew even closer to Maidie.

“I was eighteen when I led the Battle of Bloody Bush te victory, and nineteen when we besieged Berwick,” I continued.

“I know all that. I meant before the rebellion,” Maevis told me, and I sighed.

“Well, hen… the rebellion had been actively occurin’ since 2129, I turned thirteen that year. And I remember not long after, the Battle of Edinburgh occurred and then a couple of weeks later was Bonnyrigg. Before Scotland declared its independence, there were uprisin’s all over the country fer… well, as long as I can remember. I dinnae think I remember a day of peace in Scotland from before I got involved in the rebellion,” I said to her, trying to remember if there were any years that didn’t have an uprising in the news.

In 2121, I was five. The Laurieston Revolt in Glasgow occurred and lasted from 25 April to 13 May. Shootings and bombings occurred regularly. Later that same year was another uprising in Stirling, which lasted from 18 November to the 3rd of January, 2122.

The year 2122 saw the end of the Stirling Uprising and the beginning of spats in Bishopbriggs, Cumbernauld and Linlithgow. Mineral miners at Tyndrum and Beinn Chùirn began their strike on the 18th of May, which was put down with violent bloodshed and the striking miners that lived were all fired.

The years 2123 to 2126 saw a massive recession, and families started resorting to old methods to save money, such as no longer using electricity, which pissed off the English even more. Laws were passed that required all households to have a contract with an electric company, and in 2125, all the electric companies merged into one, giving its English CEO a monopoly over Scotland’s electrics.

Soon, the violent attacks against loyalist business owners and government officials began. In 2126, large gatherings were banned, and anyone suspected of treason against the Crown was imprisoned or executed, depending on their involvement. In 2128, the English military base outside of Glasgow was bombed by revolutionaries, and scarcely two weeks after my thirteenth birthday in 2129, Scotland declared its independence. 

“No… I cannae remember much peace,” I told her finally.

“I didn’t mean that,” Maevis told me. “I know all about the years leading up to the rebellion. We talked about it at primary school. I meant when you were young. Who were your friends? Did you have any boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends? At my age?” I asked with a playfully scoff. “No, there werenae any boyfriends… Truth te be told, I didnae have many friends in school. There was Maggie McLaughlin, who I was friends wi’ in primary school but once we moved onto secondary, she didnae care much fer me.” I paused to think for a second. “I had some… casual friends, I suppose. There was Annie MacNeil, who was verra sweet and verra artistically talented. I… I believe her family was arrested just before the rebellion due te her aulder brother’s involvement. I dinnae ken what happened te her. I also kent a lass named Moire McKinnon, who could dance like no one else I’ve ever kent. She won awards in Scottish dancin’, until the competitions were suspended due te the unrest. I think her family moved te America just after the rebellion started. There was Olive Gardener and her twin brother, Oscar. Their father had died in prison, where he was after participatin’ in the first rebellion, and they fought in the second. I remember seein’ Oscar at Loch Fell, but… I dinnae think he survived. Olive did. She went on te be a teacher, but I ken she had problems… Last I heard, she overdosed on sleepin’ pills.”

“Oh,” said Maevis softly. “Did… Did you keep in touch with any of your friends?” I shook my head.

“Most had moved out of Scotland, died in the rebellion or moved on wi’ their lives. All of us were kids who grew up right into the rebellion,” I told her. “Because of it, we were all verra different people. It was harder to keep in touch with those ye kent before, as they knew a verra different side of ye. They knew ye from a life where there was no war.” I looked down at the guitar in my lap, letting out a small breath of air before looking up at her. “Faoiseamh a Gheobhadsa. Do ye remember that one?” She raised a brow at me.

“I… don’t even know what that means,” she said. “Something… peace, isn’t it?”

“‘I Would Find Peace’,” I said to her. “A wartime song, written… sometime in the twentieth century, durin’ the Irish uprisin’. We used te sing it together when ye were wee.” Maevis shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I… I don’t remember it,” she said to me softly.

“Och, tha’s all right,” I told her with a comforting smile. “Why dinnae I sing it, then?” She nodded, and then I strummed the opening of the song on the guitar:

“Am fois a gheibhinnsa

Cuairt rè tamaill

A-measg mo dhaoine…”

I will find solace a short while amongst my people. Beside me out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maevis sitting with her eyes closed, and then she softly joined me in song.

“Air eilean mara,

A’ coiseachd chladaich,

Moch is anmoch,

Ò Luain gu Sathairne,

San iar, aig baile.”

On a sea island, walking the stone beach, morning and evening, from Monday to Saturday, in the west at home. I couldn’t help but smile at her when she looked at me, and the corners of her mouth slipped upwards into a small smile. She might not recall the meaning, but she did recall the words.

“Am fois a gheibhinna

Cuairt rè tamaill

A-measg mo dhaoine

O chràdh cridh’,

O bhuaireadh aigne,

O uaigneas dubhach,

O chainnt ghuineach,

San iar, aig baile…”

I will find solace a short while amongst my people from heart sorrow, from mind worry, from joyless loneliness, from hurtful talk, in the west at home.

“See, I kent ye’d remember it,” I told her.

“I only asked you to sing it to me every day,” said Maevis, a small smile forming on her face, and then she lost it. “What does it mean again?” I repeated it to her in English as if it were a poem. She nodded subtly. “I wish I could find solace…”

“Ye can. Yer amongst yer people,” I told her, reaching up a hand to brush a piece of hair out of her face. Her hair was loose and a bit messy, so I set down the guitar. “Turn around a moment.” She did, and then I brushed my fingers through her beautiful red hair and started to braid it. “My grandfather - my mother’s father, I mean - used te always say that we could find solace where we sought it, but only if we believed it was there.”

“So I’m supposed to believe there’s peace in my life?” Maevis asked me.

“It cannae hurt te try,” I told her, and then she sighed.

“It’s hard to believe in something I can’t see,” she told me.

“We believe in air, but we cannae see it. We believe in various deities across the globe, but we cannae see them. We believe in the cold and the warmth, even though they’re things we can only feel. Just because we cannae see it doesnae mean it isnae there,” I told her as I braided her hair.

“Do you think…” she began to say, but then she trailed off.

“Do I think what, a leannan?” I asked her, but she only sighed.

“Nevermind,” she said quietly. “I think I want to go and lie down. I’m just so tired…”

“I’m no’ surprised,” I told her as I finished her hair. “Go and get some sleep, all right? We’ll continue this tomorrow.” She nodded and then she stood up, crossing her arms across her chest and making her way inside the house. I sighed softly to myself, then went inside to find Clara watching Maevis go up the stairs.

“Do you want me to sit with her?” Clara asked when she saw me, but I shook my head.

“We cannae babysit her forever,” I told her.

“Is she doing better at all?” she asked.

“A little, day by day,” I said. “She doesnae want te talk aboot what happened yet, but I think in time, she will. It’s only been a few days.”

“You’re doing such a wonderful job with her,” Clara told me, and I smiled a little.

“Thanks, hen. It helps te hear that,” I told her, and then I made my way to the Surgery to check on the penicillin progress.

14 December, 1770

It had been a few days of more talk about my past, my family, and how my childhood and youth had been so different from hers. While I was fighting in a rebellion at sixteen, she was learning how to drive a car. She talked to me about her life in Princeton, when she was growing up as Ellie Murray. As the days went on, the conversations slowly shifted to more about her rather than myself, and I knew that we were starting to get to the core of the problem. I knew we wouldn’t reach it overnight, and I knew that we wouldn’t solve all of her problems at once, but if we could talk about it even a little bit, I believed that she could start healing properly.

“Did you… ever want children?” she asked me suddenly. This question sort of caught me off guard a bit. “I mean, your first born you gave away, and… I can’t help but wonder if that made you… not want kids.”

“Tha’s… a valid question,” I said with a small nod. “Well, I… I mean, te be quite honest… havin’ children wasnae somethin’ that was on my mind at the time.” I had to pause to think for a moment. “When I was fightin’ in the rebellion, I didnae want te bring children into that, so I pushed it out of my mind, but then it started goin’ on fer longer and longer - in fact, it didnae even end until 2142, thirteen years after it started. At the time, it just… didnae make sense fer me or, really, any woman involved te have children. I remember the birth rates dropped drastically durin’ the rebellion.”

“But what about when you came to this time? What year was that, again?” Maevis asked me.

“1743,” I answered her. “Honestly, I wasnae really thinkin’ of havin’ children then, either. I was in such a… peculiar situation. I never expected te get stuck in another time period, let alone an unfamiliar place surrounded by unfamiliar people. And yet, it happened. I met yer father, marrit him… and then came wee Archie and Brian. They were quite a surprise, they were, but a welcome one.” I smiled softly. “I was verra uneasy, aye, even terrified… but once I held Archie in my arms and he looked up at me wi’ those sweet wee eyes, trustin’ me wi’ his life, lovin’ me unconditionally, well… I fell in love wi’ him instantly. And then came Brian, and tha’ love doubled.” Maevis looked down, a look of shame glowing on her face.

“Why can’t I feel the same?” she asked me. She wouldn’t look up at me, and to make her feel more comfortable, I looked out at the Ridge before us.

“Fer the same reason I gave up that nameless child all those years ago,” I told her. I could feel her looking up at me now, but it was now my turn to feel shame. Did I regret giving up that child? Honestly… No. I was a child myself, and I was actively involved in the rebellion. What sort of life could I have given that child? Richard Randall was after Cailean and I at that time, so that child wouldn’t have been safe with me anyway. Had I even wanted to keep that child, I would have probably sent it away for its safety anyway. But did I miss that child? Of course I did. My heart ached with shame and longing whenever I thought of them. Granted, at the time when I made the decision to give up the child, love wasn’t the emotion that I was feeling. I was frightened, in pain, horrified that a piece of one of my rapists had grown inside of me like a parasite that I hadn’t known about. Afterwards, there wasn’t time to dedicate to any thought of that child, or even the deaths of my parents and brothers, due to the rebellion, but when I had Archie and Brian… It was then that I started to miss the child that I couldn’t put a name or a face to. Did he or she have red hair like me? Did he or she have grey eyes like I did? Did they look like me, or did they look like their father? I would never know.

“But I didn’t h-… I didn’t dis-… I wasn’t… bothered by them when I was pregnant,” Maevis said to me softly, struggling to find the word to describe how she felt about her daughters.

“Ye kent ye were carryin’ them. I didnae,” I said, and then I sighed. “I was also a child myself… How I reacted and how you reacted were influenced by our situations and experiences.” I turned my head slightly to look at her out of the side of my eyes. “All I kent of the horrors of the world was the war… You kent the war, longin’ fer a parent ye kent was alive… Perhaps that was a comfort te ye that wasnae afforded te me. ‘Tis hard te say.” I looked away again, watching a couple of goats grazing on the frozen grass trying to find even an inch of green among the dried up dormant grass.

“You… said once you… had a hard time with me,” Maevis said suddenly after several moments of silence. “After… After you left… here.”

“Aye, I did,” I told her quietly. “It hurt because I wasnae wi’ yer father. I was angry, because had I not been pregnant wi’ ye, then I wouldnae have had te leave him. I… resented ye fer it… Blamed ye fer what had happened…” I then turned my head to look at her, my eyes meeting hers. She had her father’s eyes… Eyes that I fell in love with, that captured my heart. Eyes reflecting a soul that wasn’t completely ripped away from me because of them. “But when I first held ye in my arms… all of that stopped. Ye were so wee, so innocent… I realised that nothin’ ye could do would harm me. Ye were my wee bairn, and… and ye were all I had left of yer father, save fer memories.”

“I suppose Wren and Lark are all I have left of their father, too,” said Maevis, looking out at the goats on the grass.

“Aye… but there’s more as well,” I told her. “Even if… ye were the product of rape… ye were also a part of me, a reminder of how strong I could be. Ye were a reminder that while I couldnae change the past, I could control the future. How I raised ye could mean the difference between a world of pain and a world of good.” I smiled softly at her as she looked at me, a new look in her eye that hadn’t been there before. “I didnae choose te have ye… but at the time ye were born, I wouldnae have had my life any other way. I was so alone, and ye became my wee companion fer life. No matter how horrible life got, havin’ ye meant that everrathin’ would be okay.” I gently laid a hand on her back, then pulled her close to me and embraced her. She leaned her head on my shoulder and I kissed the top of her head, and when she started to cry, I wiped away her tears. “Shh, my wee girl…”

“Wh-why c-can’t I… l-love them…” she said through tears.

“Ye do,” I said. “Ye brought them into this world safely, ye gave them bonny names and ye dinnae want te bring them harm. Some mothers shouldnae be mothers at all… but you were meant te be one.” She cried softly, and I wiped her tears with my sleeve before I sang softly an old song that my grandfather once sang to my mother and my mother once sang to me:

“When I find myself in times of trouble,

Mother Mary comes te me

Speakin’ words of wisdom, ‘Let it be’…

And in my hour of darkness,

She is standin’ right in front of me

Speakin’ words of wisdom, ‘Let it be’…

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be,

Whispered words of wisdom, let it be…”

MAEVIS POV

Mama left in the early evening to tend to a difficult birth with Caoimhe. Maevis was spending most of her time outside, even though it was cold. She rather liked the cold. New Jersey was always ridiculously hot in the summers so when she was in Scotland, it was a breath of fresh air. Of course, North Carolina was hardly any better, but a ‘hot’ day in this time was around seventy-five degrees. Rory said something about there being some cold period around this time that would last for a good fifty years or so and said that it had happened multiple times in history, but it was likely due to the fact that there were no coal emissions or pollution in the air.

The world of the future was a different place. There were a lot of storms when the glaciers melted in the mid-twenty-first century, but after about fifty years or so of serious environmental care, they calmed down and the earth began to cool. It was getting cooler and cooler every year, but an average hot day in New Jersey was still over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit as of the 2160s. That was too much for Maevis, and not to mention all the sunburn she received from having fair skin and red hair. Those jokes about gingers frying in the sun were quite truthful.

She glanced up when she saw another red head bobbing up and down over the hill. Was it Mama coming back already? That was fast. Wait, no it wasn’t… It was Elton. He must have been coming back from the Carlyons. He’d been spending a lot of time there helping them to finish their forge, as the cold was really starting to set in. But Scots were resilient, and it seemed that they had some sort of resistance to the cold because Elton, too, seemed to enjoy it. He paused when he saw her on the porch, and then he climbed the stairs.

“How’re ye feelin’?” Elton asked her, as he often did when he saw her. She shrugged casually, then sighed softly.

“I don’t know. Better, I guess,” she replied, but she wasn’t actually sure if she did or not. Mama forcing her to endure these ‘therapy’ sessions probably were helping, but Maevis personally didn’t feel a difference. She still felt sad and depressed.

“Aye, tha’s good,” Elton replied, standing awkwardly on the deck. “Ye… seemed deep in thought. What were ye thinkin’ aboot?”

“How different this time and Scotland are from twenty-second century New Jersey,” Maevis replied honestly, pulling her legs up onto the bench. “Weird, I know… but I had never seen snow until I was in Scotland, and now it’s so cold every winter that it snows in October.”

“Rory said it was some sort of cold spell,” Elton said. He let out a breath of air, then set his tool bag on the ground and sat down on the bench next to her. “I used te hate summer. It was always too hot, and when I was a lad, my dad forced me te play football.”

“Football?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Aye, I think ye Americans call it somethin’ different,” Elton replied. “It’s a wee round ball tha’s black and white…”

“Oh, soccer,” Maevis answered him. “We call it soccer. Were you good?”

“No’ really, no. I never really played much, but when I did, I always came out of it lookin’ as if I jumped in a Loch.” Maevis chuckled gently.

“I felt the same way when I played lacrosse in high school,” she told him, a small smile on her face. “I was average, I’d say. Not the best, but not the worst either. I was more focused on my studies, but my foster mom said I should do a sport in high school because it looks good on college applications. I was only gonna do it for a year, but then I liked the friends I made, and sometimes, it was an excuse to get out of class.”

“I didnae make the football team in secondary school, but I was captain of the STEM League,” Elton replied, and this made Maevis snort. “What?”

“You’re such a nerd,” she told him playfully. “Do you like things like Star Wars, Doctor Who and Galactic Warzone, too?”

“Star Wars I never really got behind, but my dad did. I loved Doctor Who, and it wasnae Galactic Warzone I liked but it was Galaxies and Stremmers,” Elton told her, and Maevis laughed again.

“Galaxies and Stremmers? The space version of Dungeons and Dragons?” she asked him.

“And what did you like, huh?” Elton asked her.

“Oh, I don’t know… I liked Doctor Who, too, a bit, because Mama and I watched it when I was little,” she told him. “I liked music, I guess. Sandy Denny is my favourite singer.”

“Sandy Denny?” 

“She was a folk singer in the 1960s and 70s. She was one of the greatest female vocalists of all time,” Maevis replied.

“Ah, I… didnae really listen te music that auld, if at all,” Elton told her. “The noises sort of bothered me. Ye get used te silence when everraone in yer family is deaf.”

“You must hate living in this noisy house,” Maevis said to him as she looked back out at the field. “Crying babies, Mama’s patients… Mrs. Bug clanging around in the kitchen.” Elton chuckled a little.

“It’s… a welcome change, but… sometimes, I do miss the quiet,” he confessed to her. The two of them fell into a comfortable silence for several moments. Maevis glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling a little. Family was a comfort in such a dark time, especially someone like Elton. He didn’t hound her with questions, look at her with worry or sympathy, keep a close eye on her at all times… He asked her once how she was doing and then didn’t bring it up again, and that made Maevis feel less like a patient and more like a person. She looked back out at the field just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall.

“These are the moments that we love so well.

Precious moments caught within a spell.

All too soon our lives, they fade away.

These are the moments that we wish would stay.”

“Tha’s a fine song,” Elton said when she’d finished singing. “It’s… nice te hear ye sing again.”

“It’s Sandy Denny,” Maevis told him softly.

“Aye? I havenae heard her and, now, probably never will… but ye sing the song beautifully,” Elton told her.

“Thanks,” said Maevis with a small smile, and then they fell into yet another comfortable silence.

“Say, what’s lacrosse, anyway?” Elton asked after a moment, and Maevis couldn’t help but laugh.

“Have you been wondering that the whole time?” she asked him playfully. “It’s played with a ball and a stick that has a net on the end. You pass the ball back and forth until you get it in the goal. I know it’s played worldwide but I guess it isn’t played very much in Scotland, huh?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Elton replied casually. “Sounds like shinty, though, ‘cept wi’ a net.”

“It was played by the Native Americans first, and then the Europeans sort of… modified it. It was always big in the U.S. though,” Maevis told him. “A small part of me does miss it… but I think being here with my family is so much better.”

“Even if it means… havin’ the girls?” Elton asked her. It wasn’t what Maevis would describe as a loaded question, but she could tell he’d been stewing over it for a while. In response, she sighed, then didn’t answer him verbally. Did she prefer to be in this century, even though it meant having Wren and Lark, the product of the rape that had been haunting her for a year and a half? Well… yeah. Mama was right… They weren’t at fault. They didn’t ask to be born, and here Maevis was just… blaming them for existing. Was it too late to fix the bond that she had broken between herself and her daughters? It hadn’t been too late for the bond between Mama and Maevis to be repaired… But unlike what Maevis was doing with her daughters, Mama had tried and succeeded in repairing it. So Maevis would just have to try.

“I think… I think I want to see them,” she said, after several long moments of silence. “Tomorrow. I… I want to see them tomorrow.”

15 December, 1770

Caoimhe had come back for a little while to collect more supplies and was surprised to hear that Maevis wanted to see the girls. “Do ye want me te stay wi’ ye, a cho-ogha?” Caoimhe asked her, calling her the Gaelic word for ‘cousin’.

“No, that’s all right,” Maevis told her. “You need to be with Mrs. Donahue, don’t you?”

“Auntie can do well without me, but she wouldnae mind a hand,” Caoimhe said to her, and then she sighed. “If ye insist yer all right… but ye shouldnae be alone. Auntie said ye should have someone nearby in case ye get distressed.” Maevis sighed heavily and closed her eyes tightly, mildly annoyed by this babying her mother kept doing to her.

“They’re my daughters. I’ll be fine,” Maevis told her, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“All right,” said Caoimhe with discomfort. “They’ve been wi’ Bree. Maybe she can stay wi’ ye?”

“You should be getting back to Mama. Don’t worry about me, I’m certainly not alone in this house,” Maevis told her.

“I can stay with her,” came Clara’s voice from the doorframe, and both girls looked up at her, young Vicki sleeping peacefully in her arms. “Bree sent a note saying that Donnie has the colic, so Maggie will go over and bring the girls here with Lizzy.”

“I’ll pass their cabin on the way te the Donahues. I’ll drop off some of Auntie’s colic tonic,” Caoimhe replied, and then she disappeared into the house, making for Mama’s Surgery.

“I appreciate it, Clara, but I really don’t need to be babysat,” Maevis told her as Clara came out of the house and onto the porch, delicately bouncing her sleeping infant in her arms.

“I don’t mind. I need to get out of my room,” Clara replied. “This one had some colic for the last few days and only now is just feeling better. She could use some fresh air.”

“If you insist,” said Maevis with a sigh. They sat on the porch for a while chatting idly about things, such as the dusting of snow they had received the night before, speculation on when Archie and Da would be back… Oh, God. Maevis hadn’t even thought of Da since he left. Surely, Mama would tell him about what had happened when he got back. Would he be angry with her? She couldn’t be sure, but she knew that she didn’t need another helicopter hovering and fussing over her. She hoped he would just leave her be. Honestly, he probably would. Da wasn’t really one to butt into his children’s business unless Mama asked him to. Heh, that was yet another way he and Elton were similar. Something she liked to do sometimes was look at all of her siblings and see how they were similar to each of their parents. So far, Elton was the most like Da, with his laidback demeanour and lack of a desire to stick his nose where it isn’t necessarily wanted. Both will ask just to check in, but then will let it go. So they not only looked alike, but acted similarly. It was kind of funny to think…

She paused in thought. Over the hill came the brown of Lizzy’s bonnet, contrasting starkly against the snowy white of the ground. Maggie’s white bonnet followed shortly behind, and each of them carried bundles wrapped snugly in wool. Maevis’s stomach gripped at the thought of what those bundles contained. Oh, God, she wasn’t as ready for this as she thought. Her breathing quickened a little and she could feel her heart trying to pound out of her chest. Suddenly, she felt a cold sweat overcome her, but she froze when she felt a warm hand cover her own. “It’s all right,” Clara told her softly. “They’re your daughters. They’ll always love you no matter what.”

“I… I’m not so… sure about that…” Maevis stuttered a little out of fear.

“Just see them. You’ll see it in their faces,” Clara replied calmly. “Take a deep breath.” Maevis nodded, taking a deep breath and practically holding it as Lizzy and Maggie approached with the girls.

“Yer lookin’ much better, Miss Maevis!” Lizzy said to Maevis cheerfully.

“Aye, Miss, ye are,” said Maggie in agreement. Maevis’s tongue felt swollen in her mouth, so she simply gulped and nodded.

“Sit them down on the blanket there,” said Clara, referring to the blanket at their feet.

“Aye, Mistress,” said Lizzy, and she and Maggie set the girls down. The bundles fell around them and their little faces were revealed. Wren looked just like Maevis did, with bright red hair but with silvery Fowlis eyes. Freckles were starting to dot her face, as they did Maevis’s, and her hair was growing thicker. Both Maevis and… their father… had straight hair, so it was likely that both girls would have inherited it, as Maevis had learned that straight hair was a recessive gene in her genetics class in high school. Lark, on the other hand, looked more like their father, which was what frightened Maevis even more. She was fair-haired and had his green eyes, and though her nose was shaped like Maevis’s, her jawline was starting to look more like his, but that didn’t make her hideous. She was a very beautiful girl and would likely grow into a very beautiful woman, but it was the fact that she resembled the man who had raped Maevis was what made it so hard for her mother to look at her. And yet, it still wasn’t her fault. Lark had made no conscious decision to resemble her father, the same as Wren had made no conscious decision not to. Lark couldn’t help her fair hair or her green eyes, it was simply her genetics.

“You ain’t ever goin’ te be free o’ me, sweetheart, whether ye like it or not. I’m here forever… Lurkin’ in the shadows, comin’ up when ye least expect me to…”

Because she had to learn to live with her demons, and her worst demon was Stephen Bonnet. No, she would never be free of him. Even if Lark was identical to Wren and neither of them bore any resemblance to the bastard, he would still be in them. They were half of him. And even if they didn’t exist, Maevis would still be haunted by Bonnet through memories alone, and perhaps those were worse. At least through his daughters, she could learn to live with him, even forgive him, maybe… Actually forgive him, as she had lied to him at the gaol. She swallowed her fear, then shakily looked up at Lizzy and Maggie.

“Th… Thanks,” she said softly. “You… You can go.” They both curtsied to her and said something that Maevis wasn’t listening to, and then they went into the house.

“Hello, pretty girls,” said Clara happily to her nieces, who cooed and clapped their little hands at their aunt.

“Can… Can I have a m-moment with them? Alone?” Maevis asked Clara, turning to look at her.

“Oh, of course. I’ll just be over there. Sweet Vicki will need to be fed soon, anyway,” said Clara, and then she stood and went to the other side of the porch, still in view but not quite within earshot. Maevis then took a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath to stabilise herself. This was so hard… but it was time that she at least started to try. She opened her eyes and looked down at the girls, her daughters, who were sweetly pulling at each other’s blankets and giggling. Maevis tried to force a smile, but it seemed that the muscles in her face were paralysed. Her vocal cords, too, apparently, as she couldn’t utter a sound. She tried to open her mouth and force air through, but all that came out was a small squeak, and it captured the girls’ attention. They both looked up at her with their silver and emerald eyes, looking curiously at their mother as if they were mesmerised by any sound that came out of her. Maevis was never really good with words… but she was with songs. Songs weren’t her words, but were the words of others, and she could convey a message through song that she could not in words. She closed her mouth and cleared her throat, hoarsely forcing the words of an old song of sorrow and apology through her lips:

“It’s a lesson… too late… for the learning…

Made of sand… made of… sand…”

The girls’ eyes widened with wonder at the sound of their mother’s singing voice, which was the very first thing they probably would have heard from her, save for her heartbeat and her breathing.

“In the blink… of an eye… my soul is turning…

In your hand… in your hand…

Are you… going away with no… word of farewell?

Will there be… not a trace… left behind…”

She felt her eyes well up and her throat start to hurt from tears that threatened to fall. She took a moment to swallow that feeling down, looking down at her daughters as she sang the next line with a bit more strength, even as a tear began to fall down her cheek.

“I should have loved you better…

I didn’t… mean to be unkind…

You know it was… the last thing on my mind…”

Chapter Text

5 December, 1770

New Bern, North Carolina

JAMIE POV

Jamie pulled the woollen scarf that Bree had knitted him a bit tighter around his neck to keep out the cold, then rubbed his hands together and blew some heat into them. Covering them were a pair of fingerless gloves that Caoimhe had knitted him one day during a blizzard a couple of years back. She’d always been an antsy wee thing, so she knitted so many pairs of gloves, socks, scarves and more until she ran out of yarn. Jamie was grateful for them, because she’d knitted them thick and they kept his hands fairly warm without impeding his ability to use them. He had just finished speaking with Governor Tryon about the order, which was undergoing yet another inventory due to a miscount. Jamie rolled his eyes irritably at the thought, wanting to just get the damn weapons and go back home before the weather got worse. But with inventory needing to be taken again, and more weapons and supplies on the way, Jamie was forced to wait at least another week before he could return home. It already took longer to get to this damn town because of the snowstorms in the mountains.

Jamie made his way to the Bell and Hammer Tavern, where he’d told Archie to wait for him until he’d spoken with Tryon, and he heard Archie before he saw the lad:

“On his heid a bonnet blue,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Tartan plaid and Hieland trews,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

When he drew his gude braid-sword,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Then he gave his royal word,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.”

The crowd of men that were brandishing their tankards of ale rather drunkenly were singing along with him for the ‘bonny laddie’ part. Jamie himself could never carry a tune, but he had to admit that his son was an excellent singer. It was a gift from his mother, of course - Catrìona could sing like the morning lark at dawn.

“Ale, sir?” asked the barmaid who greeted him at the door, holding a plate of ale tankards.

“Aye,” said Jamie, accepting one and taking a sip.

“Frae the field he ne’er would flee,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Wi’ his friends would live or dee,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Geordie sits in Charlie’s chair, hey!

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

But I think he’ll no’ hide there,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Charlie yet shall mount the throne,

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie.

Weel, ye ken, it is his own!

Bonny laddie, Hieland laddie!”

As Archie finished the song from atop a table, the men cheered and sloshed their ale around, whistling and whooping. Archie, proud of himself, spotted his father near the door and hopped down from his pedestal, accepting pats on his back as he made his way to Jamie.

“Best ye be careful, lad. Ye dinnae want te end up on the wrong end of a rope,” Jamie warned him with a careful expression. “Where did ye hear that song, anyway?”

“Och, ‘tis just a song. Uncle Cailean taught it te me when I was a lad,” Archie told him, and Jamie scoffed lightly.

“Of course he did,” he said, remembering how most of what Archie learned as a young lad came from his uncle, not his father. Archie swallowed a sip of ale and cleared his throat, not noticing his father’s look of melancholy.

“What did Tryon have te say aboot this delay?” he asked Jamie.

“Hm?” asked Jamie, coming out of his thoughts. “Still waitin’ on more te come. There’s been a delay due te storms.” He let out a small huff. “And they did their inventory all wrong. We have te wait fer them te correct their mistake before we can head fer home.”

“Christ,” said Archie, shaking his head. “How can ye fuck up countin’?”

“Dinnae ask me,” said Jamie, who kept a careful account of everything on the Ridge down to the exact number, with Elton’s help. Elton was in charge of keeping up with the population of the Ridge and the livestock, as well as bushels of food harvested every year. He was better at it than Jamie was, but only they two cared enough about exact numbers to ensure they were correct.

“So when are we lookin’ at leavin’ now?” Archie asked his father.

“A week, at least,” Jamie replied, and Archie huffed again.

“Tha’s far too long. And wi’ the winter storms comin’, we’ll be lucky te make it back before Christmas,” said Archie a bit irritably. “I met a bloke from New Jersey, said they called them ‘nor’easters’. He said they’ve been verra bad this year, comin’ off the northeastern shore.”

“Aye, tha’s wonderful,” said Jamie with agitated sarcasm. “At the verra least, we can make ourselves useful and see what supplies we can bring back besides weapons. More grain will be needed if we’re te travel.”

“I’ll see aboot buyin’ some in town,” Archie told him. Jamie could see that there was something bothering Archie based on how he gritted his teeth, and he raised a brow.

“What is it, lad?” he asked his son.

“Hm? Och, I dinnae ken. Just… a bad feelin’ I cannae shake,” said Archie, shaking his head. “Somethin’ isnae right. I dinnae ken what or where, but ‘tis somethin’.”

“Here? Or at home?” Jamie asked him softly and in Gaelic.

“Aig an taigh,” said Archie. At home. Jamie felt the pit of his stomach drop, wondering if this feeling Archie was having had to do with Maevis. He’d been hesitant to leave because of her ill mood, or ‘depression’ as Catrìona had called it, but he couldn’t upset Tryon any more than he already had. Catrìona assured him that Maevis was in good hands, but Archie had always had this strange uncanny ability to sense things that others didn’t. Did it have to do with his ability to hear the stones? Perhaps, but Catrìona didn’t pick up on things like Archie did.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” came a Scottish voice, and both Jamie and Archie turned to see a rather stout middle-aged man with a balding head covered by a cap.

“Can I help ye, man?” Jamie asked the man.

“Be one of ye a Mr. Archie Fraser, sirs?” asked the man, looking between the two of them.

“That’ll be me, sir,” said Archie, glancing awkwardly at his father. What did this man want with Archie?

“Och, so ye are! A chàirdean, ‘tis the man who put Amos Ainsley oot on ‘is arse!” he exclaimed to a group of men sitting at a round booth.

“Aye!” they said collectively, raising their tankards.

“The songbird, aye? I thought it be so!” said one of the men.

“Er… I wouldnae say I put Mr. Ainsley on his arse,” said Archie a bit bashfully, his cheeks turning pink. “‘Twas the other way around, more like.”

“Och, I dinnae mean it so, laddie. Ye put ‘im in ‘is place!” the man told him cheerfully. “The auld bastard doesnae do business wi’ Scots, makin’ us all turn te the blasted George Underwood an’ ‘is greedy bank. Havin’ ‘is arse handed te him by a Scot humbled the auld bastard.”

“Aye? Well… Tha’s good, I suppose,” said Archie, looking at his father for help.

“And when ye stole away ‘is lass and Underwood’s bride, och!” exclaimed the man again. “‘is pride was never the same!”

“I wouldnae say I ‘stole’ his daughter away, either,” said Archie, a little bit more firmly. It was a bit of a sore point for Archie, hearing rumours that he had stolen Clara away in the night. Jamie was well aware of the fact that Clara had run off with him quite willingly and without force, but rumours were rumours, and many Scots knew of Archie’s great-grandsire’s tendency to kidnap his brides - Jamie’s grandsire, of course. A similar rumour had once been spread about Eairdsidh Ruadh, Laird of Cìosamul, but Granny Fowlis, as she’d insisted Jamie call her, also went with him quite willingly.

“Come, lad, we must go,” Jamie told him, nodding towards the door.

“Och, let us buy ye a round!” said the rather cheerful man.

“Another time, gentlemen,” Jamie told them as he led Archie out of the tavern.

“Christ, will I never escape those rumours?” Archie asked his father.

“Not wi’ Lord Lovat as yer great-grandsire,” Jamie told him with a small sigh.

15 December, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CLARA POV

Clara softly hummed the tune of the song Mrs. Fraser had sung to her the night she gave birth to Victoria, rocking her somewhat fussy infant in her arms. It has been several hours since Maevis had finally reunited with her daughters, and Lizzy, Maggie and Ginnie were now giving them company. Clara had gone into the parlour when Vicki began to fuss, wanting to soothe her and see if she needed to be fed. However, Vicki had no interest in feeding, so she simply comforted the little girl.

“No, don’t worry about it, Lizzy. I’ve got it. I should… probably learn to do it, anyway,” came Maevis’s voice from the door, and she came into the house carrying Wren. Wren was the spitting image of her mother, almost like a mirror image, but smaller, like Maevis was to her own mother. It was amazing what God could do for mothers and daughters.

“Is everything all right, Maevis?” Clara asked her, stopping her in her tracks. “Oh, how sweet… Little Wren looks just like you, Maevis.” Maevis’s cheeks turned a little pink as she looked down at her red-haired daughter, who was trying to pull at the laces on Maevis’s corset.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. She just needs a diaper change,” Maevis told her. She repositioned Wren on her hip and Wren giggled a little.

“Do you need help, dear?” asked Clara, but Maevis shook her head.

“No, I’ve got it. I’ve done it before, it’s just… been a while,” Maevis told her, and Clara nodded.

“All right. If you need anything, call for me,” Clara told her.

“I will,” said Maevis with a small smile, and then she made her way upstairs to the nursery. A few moments of silence passed, and then another set of footsteps could be heard inside the house. Clara turned to see young Maggie Abernathy in the hallway, looking around the house as if she were lost in thought.

“Hello again, Maggie,” said Clara kindly. “Do you need something?”

“Hm? Oh… I simply wish te ken when Mistress Fraser will be back,” Maggie told her with a bit of discomfort.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Clara told her. “Hopefully soon. I’ve not seen her since yesterday, so she must be exhausted. I suppose Mrs. Donahue’s labour is going on very long.”

“Caoimhe said it was her first and tha’ first bairns can take days,” Maggie replied. “I hope she returns soon. I need te speak wi’ her.”

“I’m sure they will, dear,” said Clara with a soft smile, and then Maggie curtsied to her and left, leaving Clara by herself with Vicki. “All right, my darling girl. What has you so fussy? You aren’t hungry, your napkin is clean, you don’t want to sleep… What is it, my sweet?” Vicki, of course, didn’t answer, but only fussed in reply. “Shh, shh…” She kissed Vicki’s little head.

“And the wind will whisper your name to me.

Little birds will sing along in time…”

CATRÌONA POV

My arms and legs felt like weights and my body felt as if I were moving in water. I had been up and tending to Mrs. Donahue’s labour for eighteen hours or so, only for both mother and child to die before they could be saved. Mrs. Donahue had a placental abruption and I could not stop the bleeding in time, resulting in her untimely death. The child, a wee lass, had died in the womb before she could breathe her first breath of air. How this could have happened and gone unnoticed for so long I couldn’t understand without a post-mortem, but there was no way her mourning husband would allow me to do one. So I was left not knowing, and with my heart aching for the lost souls of Mrs. Donahue and her stillborn bairn. Caoimhe decided to stay for a little longer and help clean up Mrs. Donahue’s body so Mr. Donahue wouldn’t have to, telling me to go home and rest. But I couldn’t rest until I had documented what had happened in my notebook.

I dropped my medical bag heavily on the table in my Surgery, dragging my feet to the cabinets where I kept all my books. I pulled out the one where I had been documenting Mrs. Donahue’s pregnancy and then went through my files, finding Mrs. Donahue’s information. I brought those papers, a candle, a quill and an inkwell to the table, grabbing a stool and sitting down at the table. I opened the page to where my information on Mrs. Donahue was and went to the parchment with her information, then dipped the quill into the ink.

Mrs. Miss Noreena MacAfee Donahue, D.O.B. 18 October, 1751

Married to David Donahue 8 June, 1770; lives in the Village

I paused for a moment as I read her notes, then scribbled down the following underneath:

Deceased; died 15 December, 1770 age 19 years and 2 months, T.O.D. approx. 21:00

Cause of death: exsanguination via placental abruption

I sighed softly to myself. She was so young, practically the same age as Maevis. Lately, I have been dealing with the deaths or near-deaths of too many young women due to some connection with a pregnancy, and I’d just about had enough. Noreena Donahue wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for the fact that any idea of protection during sex wasn’t even considered, and the act itself considered sacrilegious. Noreena and David Donahue were married only six months ago, when Noreena first discovered her pregnancy. It wasn’t fair. Had she been aware of safe sex practices, she wouldn’t have lost her life tonight.

I looked up when I heard a small cough and saw Maevis herself standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. I forced a small smile. “How are ye, a leannan?” I asked her.

“All right,” she replied. “How’s Mrs. Donahue?” I lost my smile and sighed, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes before putting them on again. “Oh no… What happened?”

“Placental abruption,” I said softly. “She didnae stand a chance.”

“And… the baby?” she asked next, and I shook my head.

“Stillborn,” I told her.

“That’s so awful,” Maevis said softly.

“Aye, and what are we te do aboot it? Young girls like Noreena dinnae ken a thing aboot safe sex practices,” I said a bit irritably. “Condoms exist, but people like Noreena and David Donahue wouldnae be able te afford them, not te mention, they’re difficult te obtain.”

“Isn’t there anything else they could do?” Maevis asked me.

“A few,” I told her. “Herbal douches, sometimes sponges or bits of linen as a cervical cap. Anythin’ te block the entrance te the cervix. Then there’s also ground dauco seeds brewed into a tea, sort of like the contraceptive pill. I have a cup daily te keep myself from havin’ another wee happy accident like Ginnie. I love her dearly, but I cannae have another bairn.”

“How do these… dauco seeds… prevent pregnancy?” Maevis asked me.

“They just prevent the egg from attachin’ te the uterine wall,” I told her. “I’ve been tryin’ te grow them in my garden, but I cannae produce nearly enough te serve all of the women of the Ridge. But perhaps… Perhaps I could give them seeds te start their own wee gardens… Aye, tha’s a thought.”

“If only there was a way to get the word out to all of them,” said Maevis, a subtle expression on her face that said, ‘If only I’d known about it.’

“Perhaps there is,” I said, looking up at her. “Fergus will be goin’ te Cross Creek soon te buy more supplies. I can prepare a flyer wi’ all the different contraceptive methods and ask him te take it te the printer. We can distribute it te the women.”

“That’d be a very good idea,” said Maevis. “Bree could probably do the illustrations. Is… is she on this tea?”

“I’ve given her a supply, aye,” I told her. “And if and when yer marrit, I’ll make sure ye have it, too.” She looked up at me, and I could tell she was worried about another rape in her near future. “It willnae happen, hen. Yer safe here. Ye were alone before, and now, yer not. It will never happen again.” She nodded silently, looking down at the ground and biting her lip gently.

“I… I saw the girls today,” she said softly, and I was a bit taken aback.

“Ye saw Wren and Lark?” I asked, and she nodded and looked up at me.

“I thought… I was ready to see them again,” she told me.

“And… were ye?” I asked cautiously.

“I think so,” she replied. “I didn’t… feel like I wanted to run away.”

“Tha’s wonderful,” I told her, and then I smiled a little. “Really, Maevis. Tha’s wonderful.”

“They’re upstairs now… I didn’t… want to burden Bree with them anymore. They’re my responsibility, after all,” she said to me.

“Yer sister doesnae mind takin’ them in until yer ready, hen. She said so herself. In fact, it was she who suggested they stay wi’ her fer a bit,” I said, but she shook her head.

“I want to try,” she told me. “Lizzy put them to bed tonight, but… I want to try. I… I want to be their mother.”

“Ye’ll always be their mother, hen,” I told her. “I’m so glad te hear this. I think havin’ them near ye will help ye heal.” She nodded in agreement.

“I think so, too,” she said softly, a very small smile on her lips. “You shouldn’t stay up too late. You’ve been working for so long.”

“Och, I’m used te long hours,” I told her with a smile. “I used te have twenty-four hour shifts when I worked in hospital. Dinnae ye remember?”

“Oh, yeah. And I remember you had me stay with Mrs. MacNeil on Barra when you did, or… or with Tom,” Maevis answered me.

“Ah, Mrs. MacNeil… She adored ye, she did. I kent she was perfect te watch ye the moment I met her,” I told her. “She was a widow who’d lost all her children in the rebellion. She had no grandchildren, either, so she was glad te devote all of her attention te ye.” I smiled at her, then turned my attention to the door when I saw Maggie appear.

“Mistress Fraser,” she said, a concerned expression on her face.

“Maggie, hen, come on in,” I said, gesturing for her to enter my Surgery. “What can I help ye wi’?”

“I’m sorry te come te ye so late, ma’am… but… I have a… wee problem…” she said, rocking on her feet and not quite looking me in the eye.

“Oh?” I asked with a raised brow. “What sort of problem? Is it yer courses?”

“No, I’ve had those… Actually… as of late, I… havenae,” she said, her face turning bright red. At this, I couldn’t help but raise my brow in suspicion.

“How long ago?” I asked her, knowing exactly what this young girl was telling me. She was older than she looked - fourteen going on fifteen, but looked easily eleven or twelve years old. She wasn’t very developed, but still was a very pretty young thing. I suppose it didn’t surprise me much that the boys of the Ridge took an interest in young Maggie Abernathy. She was fair-haired with a reddish hue, blue-eyed and as fair as ivory.

“September, Mistress, at the harvest,” said Maggie, not looking me in the eye. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she looked down in shame, and I sighed heavily.

“Who was it?” I asked her, and then her head whipped up to look at me, her eyes wide with fright.

“Oh, please, Mistress, dinnae ask me that! If either of our fathers were te hear… Why, my Da might keel over wi’ shame!” she cried with fright.

“All right, all right. Calm down, hen,” I told her. “I’ll not ask ye. But ye must ken that riddin’ yerself of a bairn can be verra dangerous.”

“What can be done?” asked Maevis a little sharply, and I glanced over at her. Her eyes had narrowed a little and her expression was difficult to read, but it seemed that she was mildly annoyed. I didn’t have the energy to question why, so I returned my attention to Maggie.

“I’ve a tonic I can give ye. It’s made from ustilago, a type of fungus made from corn. It’s the same sort of fungus used te cause ergot poisonin’,” I said, and then cleared my throat. “Er… Saint Anthony’s Fire.”

“Oh… I dinnae ken what tha’ is, Mistress,” said Maggie shyly.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll give ye a wee bit, but then ye must stay here, because it can cause somethin’ called disseminated intravascular coagulation, or DIC. Too much can make the blood clot abnormally. I’ve herbs that can thin the blood if I suspect DIC. But basically, ustilago induces uterine contractions te expel the foetus. Ye may be in a bit of pain, but I-”

“Wait, are you saying this is something that can cause an abortion?” Maevis asked sharply, interrupting me.

“More like a ‘spontaneous abortion’. Miscarriage, if ye will,” I said clinically. “Come te the bed here, hen.” I led Maggie to the bed, and Maevis stepped out of the way. I didn’t look at her, but judging by her questions and her tone, something had upset her.

“Why wasn’t this an option for me?” Maevis demanded from me.

“Not now, Maevis. I need te focus,” I told my daughter as I settled Maggie on the bed and went to find my vial labelled ‘ustilago’.

“No, now. Why wasn’t this an option for me a year ago?” Maevis demanded again.

“Need I remind ye that I gave ye the option te go through wi’ termination?” I asked her, and then I turned to look at her. “I told ye it could be dangerous, that I didnae have the ability te properly maintain a sterile environment, nor did I have any antibiotics in case of infection. But I told ye I would do it if it was what ye wanted. Ye didnae answer me.”

“Then why is this suddenly safe?” she demanded back from me.

“Because it doesnae require me te go into the uterus and perform a dilation and curettage,” I told her firmly.

“So why wasn’t it an option for me? How come you can help her, but not your own daughter?” Maevis demanded again angrily.

“Maevis, stop this!” I snapped at her. “This takes weeks te make properly! If ye dinnae recall, yer father, Elton, Ian and I were sent te bloody New York after Rory because ye didnae tell us who raped ye!”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that Rory got sold into slavery by my father?” she snapped back at me, and I closed my eyes and let out a heavy breath.

“That wasnae what I meant,” I told her. “It wasnae yer fault. I didnae communicate properly wi’ yer father, but that isnae what this conversation is aboot. I didnae have enough time te make the tonic and I didnae trust Caoimhe te be able te administer it properly at the time and treat ye if somethin’ went wrong.”

“So that’s it, then? Your excuse is you didn’t think Caoimhe could treat me if it went wrong? Well, clearly, she could!” Maevis snapped back at me.

“Fer Christ’s sake, Maevis, this is ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “I gave ye an option that ye didnae take. When ye didnae answer me, I assumed ye didnae want me te terminate yer pregnancy so I didnae rush the production of the tonic. I have it now, but that cannae change the past.”

“Maybe you didn’t communicate with me properly either, then,” said Maevis sharply, and then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the Surgery.

“I thought ye were happy wi’ yer daughters! Maevis!” I called after her, but she didn’t respond. I let out a heavy, tired sigh, leaning against the counter, closing my eyes and silently counting to ten. Once my anger had passed, I turned to face Maggie again, the Ustilago tonic in hand. “Right. This is goin’ te taste awful, so best get it over with, aye?”

16 December, 1770

It was almost dawn when Caoimhe returned. She was a bit bloodied from cleaning up after Mrs. Donahue’s death and very, very fatigued, but she was surprised to see me still awake. “What are ye doin’ up still, Auntie?” she asked me with a yawn, and then she saw Maggie asleep on the bed.

“Apparently, Maggie found herself wi’ child,” I told her quietly, raising my finger to my lips for Caoimhe to lower her voice. “I gave her the Ustilago tonic te induce a miscarriage.”

“Ye can use it fer that, too?” she asked me softly, and I nodded.

“She’ll feel rotten fer a bit. I sent Geordie wi’ a note fer Mr. Abernathy sayin’ she must have eaten some bad berries and needs te be watched fer a bit. I’ll need te keep an eye on her until the foetus passes. She’s out fer now so her body can do what it needs.” Caoimhe nodded, rubbing some sleep out of her eyes.

“Do ye want me te stay wi’ her? Ye’ve been up fer hours,” Caoimhe told me, but I shook my head.

“Nah, no need. I dinnae sleep much without yer uncle, anyway,” I told her. I looked back down at my notes, where I had written down the treatment I gave Maggie. “Do ye… think I should have done this fer Maevis?”

“Ye mean… end her pregnancy?” Caoimhe asked me, and I nodded.

“She was here when Maggie came, and she was verra upset when she found out I could have done this fer her. I didnae have the supplies at the time, but I could have rushed them. I could have delayed our goin’ after Rory until she was better… but I think a part of me didnae want te,” I told Caoimhe. I looked up at her, both of our tired silvery eyes meeting. “Wi’ Maggie, it’s different. This isnae my grandchild, and Maggie isnae my daughter. But wi’ Maevis…”

“I think ye did right, Auntie,” Caoimhe told me softly. “Ye didnae see Maevis while she was carryin’ her bairns. She would sing te them, talk te them aboot her day, aboot her future, tell them how much she loved them… She did everrathin’ she could te make sure they would be born healthy. She loves those girls, there’s no question aboot it. She’s just… strugglin’ now, wi’ her own demons, and it doesnae help that her bairns were created because of them.” I nodded subtly, looking back down at my notebook in front of me.

“I hope yer right,” I said softly, and then I looked up at her. “Go and get some sleep. I’ll make myself a cup of tea and sit wi’ Maggie. Ye can take over when ye’ve had a bit of rest.”

“Are ye sure, Auntie?” Caoimhe asked, and I nodded. “Verra well. I willnae sleep long.”

“Sleep as long as ye need,” I told her. She was about to protest, but simply nodded after seeing the look on my face. She turned and left the Surgery, leaving me alone with the sound of the crackling fireplace in need of more wood.

13 December, 1770

New Bern, North Carolina

ARCHIE POV

Archie grasped onto a pole that held up a lamp to avoid slipping in the snow that piled up in the blizzard. He could hardly see a damn thing, which meant that getting home was going to take even longer. At this rate, they’d be lucky to be home by Hogmanay, let alone Christmas. “Damn it,” Archie muttered to himself, nearly slipping again as he went to step away from the pole. The inn where he and Da were staying was just up the road, but he could hardly see where he was going. Behind him, he heard the whinny of a horse and the sound of carriage wheels crunching in the snow, and then suddenly, he got an idea. He waited for the carriage to pass by, and then he lunged for the back railing, gripping on and letting the carriage drag him through the snow. He held on tightly, even though his fingers were frozen, and struggled to stay upright on his feet so the carriage didn’t drag him on his belly. When he caught the snow-covered sign appearing through the snow, he let go of the carriage and continued to slide forward until he fell face-first into the snow. Grunting irritably to himself, Archie pushed himself up and stumbled through the snow to the door of the tavern. He forced the door open and slipped inside, feeling the warmth of the tavern’s hearth melting the cold on his face. He gave a shiver and stamped the snow off of his feet, then looked up. Damn it, he was in the wrong tavern.

He knew he was in the wrong tavern because this one had broadsheets of Murtagh pasted all over the walls. It was a loyalist tavern that Da and Archie preferred to avoid simply because of the broadsheets, not wanting to give away their desire to protect Murtagh instead of hunting him down. Archie let out a small huff, doing his best to ignore the broadsheets and went to the bar. “Afternoon, Miss. Do ye have any warm mead?” he asked the barmaid.

“I do, sir, steeped wi’ cranberries. They came on a ship from New Jersey,” said the barmaid, and then she left to fetch it. Huh, cranberry mead. He’d never had a cranberry before, but had heard about them from his mother and sister. Archie sighed and leaned back against the bar, taking in the people who had sought out refuge there. Archie would have to wait a while before he could muster up the strength to brave the snowstorm yet again, so he may as well get comfortable with his surroundings. In there were redcoats as well who were sitting nearby engaged in a card game, all of them a little drunk already and chatting away as if they were the only men in the room.

“Damned Regulators,” said one of them, an Englishman. “May God them all freeze to death in this storm.” Another man let out a chuckle.

“We aren’t tha’ lucky, mate,” said the second. “We’ll freeze to death first ‘afore them savages. Sneaky bastards.”

“I hear they’re planning another riot soon,” growled a third. “I’d be glad to shoot them all dead to save us all the pain. They took me from the warmth of the Indies for this. None of this damned snow there.”

“I ain’t never seen snow ‘afore now,” said the second with a chuckle. “Was brought up in Jamaica, I was. A bastard’s son.” This second man was facing him, and Archie could see that he was mixed race. His bastard of a father must have been the product of an affair between a plantation owner and a slave.

“Something to laugh about, is it, Peterson?” said the first. “I’m the son of a Lord, and I’m stuck here ridding the Colonies of vermin instead of training to become an officer.”

“It’ll make a good story, Ainsley,” said the third, and Archie perked up. Ainsley? Wasn’t Amos Ainsley’s elder brother the Earl of Ellenbroke? Was this Clara’s cousin? “Jus’ like that Scot stealing away your cousin and ruining her.” Ainsley chuckled, and Archie’s face turned red and the pit of his stomach dropped. He turned away immediately to avoid being recognised, just in time for the barmaid to bring him his mead.

“Thanks, lass,” he said, dropping a few coins in her hand. “Keep what’s left.”

“Thanks very much, kind sir,” she said to him, walking away. He took a sip of his mead - hm, the cranberry actually gave it a nice tangy flavour.

“Clara’s a fool,” said Ainsley behind him, scoffing lightly. “She could have lived like royalty, and yet, she chose some backcountry farmer.”

“The son of a Jacobite, no less,” said a fourth, whom Archie couldn’t see before. He sounded older, probably around Da’s age or older. “I fought ol’ Red Jamie myself at Prestonpans. Nearly died, I did.”

“Then what the hell are ye’s doin’ here, Lyle?” asked Peterson, and Lyle, the older soldier, chuckled a little.

“Got nothin’ else to live for. May as well keep dyin’ for ol’ Geordie,” said Lyle. “Red Jamie was a force te be reckoned wi’ then. Wonder what he’s like now, fightin’ for Tryon.”

“A Jacobite fighting for us?” asked the third still unnamed soldier. “How does he know the wily old Scot won’t stab him in the back?”

“If you had ten thousand acres of the King’s land, would you not do what you were told?” Ainsley asked him, and then he chuckled softly. “I still find it hard to believe the man is now related to me by marriage… If I ever come face to face with the man who ruined my cousin, I shall see him done in, I will. I’ll do what my uncle couldn’t.”

“Calm yourself, ye fool,” said Lyle. “Yer gonna mistake a shit for a fart.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Lyle,” said Ainsley, and then he slammed down his cards. “Straight aces. I think I win this round, gentlemen!”

“Agh, damn you!” growled Peterson, followed by more groans from the other men. Great, now Archie had another foe to consider - Amos Ainsley’s nephew. He glanced over his shoulder briefly to try and memorise the man’s face, but Ainsley’s back was to him. That was probably for the best. He was fair-haired, though, and it wasn’t very common for men to have fair hair and look as clean as Ainsley did from behind. The man did look like he had a stick shoved up his arse, so that would make identifying him easier. He turned back around and sipped his mead, deciding that he needed to get the hell out of this tavern as quickly as he could despite the swirling storm outside. But after savouring that delicious cranberry flavour.

18 December, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

It was morning, but one would never know it from looking outside. Overnight, wintry winds carried a blizzard to the Ridge and with it came deep snow at least two feet deep, piling higher and higher by the second. Elton had likely gotten stuck at the Carlyons, and I had refused to let Geordie go to his lodgings above the stables, or Ceitidh, Bea and Sioned, who had come to me the day before with flu-like symptoms. I had set them up in Jamie’s study in the main house, which was near the kitchen, so that they would be warm, and Geordie I sent to mine and Jamie’s room. I, on the other hand, decided to stay in the Surgery. I was sitting up on the bed and leaning against the wall with a cup of hot tea in my hand, Juniper laying beside me purring as I ran my fingers through his silky black fur. “Ye spoiled wee thing,” I said to him as I looked down at him. He’d closed his little eyes and happily continued to purr. “Arenae ye glad yer in here and not out there in the woods?” I smiled softly, then looked out the window at the blizzard, which was hard to see. The window was already mostly covered by a wall of white, but I could still see a little bit. I could scarcely see the tree outside that reached up to the nursery, and forget about trying to see the bird feeder that Elton had installed for Ginnie. I sighed heavily, knowing that this meant that Jamie and Archie would be even more delayed in their return. I hoped they were safe and warm, wherever they were… I hoped they were still in New Bern, at least, or had taken shelter in an inn or someone’s home somewhere along the way.

A scream upstairs startled me and I spilled my tea all over myself and Juniper, who yowled and leapt off of the bed. “What the hell?” I said with surprise, and then my stomach dropped. What if Maevis had harmed herself again? The last time a blood-curdling scream such as that one echoed through this house, Maevis had been found with her wrists cut and bleeding. I jumped up immediately, having no concern for the shattered teacup at my feet, and I grabbed Jamie’s tartan and threw it over my shoulders. I threw open the door of my Surgery and ran over the small dusting of snow that had blown into the thruway that was built between the Big House and my Surgery, ignoring the numbing cold, and then ran up the stairs. The door to Maevis’s room opened and she poked her head out, her straight red hair plaited in two braids on either side of her head.

“What happened?” she asked me with alarm, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief. Thank Bride she was all right!

“I dinnae ken,” I told her, and I heard the cries of anguish again. I turned my attention to where they were coming from - Clara and Archie’s room. “Clara?” I called, rushing to her room and pounding on the door. “Clara!”

“What’s goin’ on?” came Caoimhe’s voice.

“Is everything all r-right, Mrs. Fraser?” I heard Geordie’s voice say from my room.

“I don’t know! I dinnae ken!” I snapped at them. Clara was still sobbing inside, so I threw open the door and found her kneeling on the floor with her back to the door. “Clara! What is it?” I exclaimed as I dropped down at her side, and then I felt all the blood drain from my face as I discovered the source of her distress. Clara was on her knees on the floor over Victoria’s limp body, the bairn’s wee lips blue and her skin cold to the touch.

“She’s not breathing!” Clara cried, and Caoimhe knelt down beside her.

“Ò dhìol!” I heard her mutter as she covered her mouth, and I took over from Clara and scooped Victoria up in my hands.

“Vicki? Darlin’, wake up, please,” I said urgently as I flicked her cold and lifeless feet. I laid her flat on the floor, tilted her chin up and blew warm air into her mouth, then using my pointer and middle fingers, pressed on her chest to perform CPR. “Aon, dà, trì, ceithir…” I muttered softly, counting out as I pushed down about an inch and a half into her chest, and when I hit thirty, I breathed more air into her mouth. I resumed compressions, but to no avail. Poor Victoria had been gone for hours, at least, and it was too late to save her. After several minutes of trying knowing that I would not succeed, I stopped and sat back on my feet, tears threatening to pour out of my eyes like waterfalls. I swallowed those tears so that I could remain strong, because when an infant had died, someone had to be the strong one. “I… I’m so sorry… She’s gone…” I muttered softly, in shock by this news, as if it was the first time I was hearing it as well.

“No, no, no! You have to keep trying! You have to! My baby!” Clara cried incoherently, and Caoimhe held onto her tightly and she screamed and sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Clara… There’s… n-nothin’ else I can do…” was all I could say. I sat there staring at my granddaughter’s lifeless body, tuning out the sounds of Clara’s wails as I sat there stunned. What had happened? Just yesterday, Victoria was fine. She was giggling and grabbing at my hair, acting like the happiest, healthiest wee infant that she could be. And now… Now she was gone. Cold, lifeless… No laughter to shake that bonny girl’s wee body. Her brown eyes had glassed over, the light of life having left them barren, and her skin around her nose and mouth was blue. I took off my tartan and laid it over her, wrapping her up in it as I picked her up. Clara continued to sob as I numbly walked past them, pausing in the doorframe, where Maevis, Geordie and Lizzy were all looking at me with their eyes wide, and Ginnie stood inquisitively at Lizzy’s feet. I shook my head gently, and Lizzy’s hand covered her mouth as she began to cry. Maevis, too, seemed numb, and she and Geordie stepped aside as I silently moved past them. I could feel Victoria’s lifeless foot brush against Maevis’s shift and I heard her gasp softly, so I covered the foot and continued on.

I laid Victoria on the table, still covered by the tartan. I went searching through my herbs and tonics looking for the henbane tonic, which would sedate Clara. She needed it badly now, and I needed to figure out what the hell had happened to my granddaughter. On my way out of the Surgery, I paused to look at the lifeless little lump on the table, then forced myself back upstairs. “Drink this,” I said softly to Clara, because if I had been any louder, I would have started sobbing myself. She shook her head at first, but upon gentle urging, she took a big sip, and then I knelt beside her and rubbed her back until she began to slip into unconsciousness. “Geordie, would ye mind liftin’ her onto the bed?” I asked Geordie, who was trying to give Lizzy comfort. He silently nodded, then with Caoimhe’s assistance, lifted Clara up and laid her on the bed. “Sit wi’ her, if ye dinnae mind. Fetch me if she wakes up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly.

“Come, Caoimhe. I need yer help,” I said numbly, not allowing any emotion to force it’s way through. As I left Clara’s room, I came across Sioned, who had come halfway up the stairs.

“I heard distress,” she said, and I looked up at her with my numb expression. “No… Not the bairn…” I nodded subtly. “Can I help?”

“Ye need yer rest. You and the girls,” I told her softly. “Ginnie, go on back te yer room, hen. Maevis, would ye mind makin’ yer cousins tea from my cold and flu blend?”

“Sh-Sure…” Maevis muttered numbly. After all, life in the house had to go on. Just because a life was lost didn’t mean that the world stopped spinning, but it sure felt like it slowed down.

“Lizzy, if ye dinnae mind puttin’ water on te boil,” I said to Lizzy, and she wiped her nose and eyes on her sleeve and nodded.

“Y-Yes, M-Mistress,” she sniffled, and then she, too, was gone. I was left standing there with my hand on the railing, staring down the stairs feeling nothing but cold and numb. It was back… That feeling of a dark, cold void being ripped through my heart. Another hole was being created where the love of a child once grew, replaced with the icy cold touch of loss. A sniffle from Caoimhe brought me back and I glanced up at her, meeting her red, puffy eyes. She, too, had been crying, but had tried to hide it with little success. I bit my lip a little to firm my jaw and nodded subtly to her, taking off my glasses so I could wipe the mist from my eyes, then let out a small breath of air.

“We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” I told her softly, my voice shaking just a little. “We need te find out what happened.”

“How?” she asked me so quietly, I could hardly hear her.

“Post-mortem,” I told her, my face firm so that my lip didn’t tremble. “If ye think ye cannae handle it, I dinnae blame ye. I can do it alone.”

“No, I’ll… I’ll help ye,” she told me, nodding her head a little.

“Thank ye,” I replied, and then I started down the stairs towards the Surgery.

It was an alveolar septal collapse. Even four hundred years from now, we will never know exactly why such an event occurs all of a sudden. There’s speculation that because infants are growing so rapidly, some parts like the developing alveolar walls don’t have the strength to keep up and are prone to collapsing. It’s hard to be certain, as it can also collapse if the infant finds itself in a prone position, or on its stomach. I’ll never know exactly why Victoria experienced this, but it didn’t matter now. My granddaughter was dead, leaving behind a heartbroken mother and a father who did not yet know his daughter was gone. Christ, Archie didn’t know… He would return home to find his whole world falling apart. I couldn’t think of that now. The idea of knowing how much pain my poor son would be in broke my heart, because I knew exactly what that pain felt like. I had lost two children forever, and I had lost all of my children temporarily. I had known a lot of pain in my life, but nothing hurt worse than having to bury my child.

I covered Victoria’s wee body up again after I finished stitching her back up. I didn’t want Caoimhe to endure the post-mortem any longer, as she was having a hard time concentrating, so I asked her to check on Clara. I would have to make a point to remember to dress Victoria again before Clara saw her. As I finished solemnly writing down the last of my notes, Caoimhe appeared in the doorway, clearing her throat lightly. “She’s awake, Auntie,” she told me. “Groggy, but… awake.”

“Leave her be, fer now. She needs some space. I’ll check on her in a bit,” I said to her, and then I sighed, removing my glasses to wipe my eyes dry. “When I lost Brian… all I wanted was te be left alone, but no one would. They just kept botherin’ me, askin’ if I was all right… All I wanted was an hour, at least te just… process that I had lost my child.”

“I cannae imagine,” Caoimhe replied. “I’ve been a child who’s lost a mother, but… never a mother who’s lost a child.”

“I’ve been both, and it fucking sucks both ways,” I said with a small huff. “But… it was so much harder te go on after losin’ my child.”

“Another reason I dinnae want children,” said Caoimhe. “I dinnae think I could manage that kind of pain.”

“I love each and everra one of my children verra dearly, but I dinnae blame ye. I didnae want te live after I lost Brian,” I told her, and then I sighed. “Would ye mind… helpin’ me dress her? I dinnae want Clara te see all the stitches.” Caoimhe nodded, taking a breath to stabilise herself for the difficult job.

At dusk, the blizzard outside had dulled to a gentle and quiet snow, with the occasional whistle of a breeze. Carrying a tray with broth and bread, a lit candle and a whisky decanter and cup, I climbed the stairs and stopped outside of Clara’s room. Inside, she was silent, and there was no flicker of candlelight bleeding out from under the door. I knocked softly so I didn’t startle her. “Clara?” I said. “Clara, hen. Can I come in?” She didn’t answer, so I slowly opened the door. The light from my candle cast a stream of light into the room, as it was dark, and I noticed that the fire went out. I entered her room and closed the door, noticing the lump on the bed that I knew was my daughter-in-law. I set down the tray on the bedside table and carried the candle to the hearth, using it to relight the fire. I poked it gently with the poker, and when a fire was established, stood back up with the candle in hand and went to the bed. Clara was staring forward, her eyes glossed over and her olive skin pale. I set the candle down on the table and pulled the wool knitted blanket over her shoulders, laying my hand gently on her back and rubbing it gently.

“Is it true?” she asked me very quietly. “My baby…” I took a small breath to stabilise myself, and then let it out slowly.

“Yes,” I said. She didn’t respond after that, so I let out a small sigh. “I’ll not ask ye how yer doin’, because I ken the answer already… But I will encourage ye te eat a wee bit of broth, if ye can.”

“What’s the point?” she whispered.

“I asked myself that once,” I told her. I took my hand off of her back and clasped my hands in my lap, looking forward at the frosted window. “Archie had a twin brother when he was born. I dinnae ken if he’s told ye, and if he has, what he’s said… but Brian was six months auld when he died verra suddenly.” I paused for a moment. “He was born poorly… He and Archie both came aboot two months early, but it isnae uncommon wi’ twins fer them te come a bit early. It was the winter solstice - Yule, if ye will. It was cold, and my husband was in danger. I’m a stubborn wee mule and was tryin’ te save him, but I went into labour in the woods. Archie was born first, and he was screamin’ his wee heid off all fit as a fiddle. I thought I was finished, but then… another came. I named him Brian, after his grandsire. Jamie’s father. My father’s name was Archie, named fer his father, Eairdsidh, which is is the Gaelic form of Archie… and so on. ‘Tis a family name.” I paused again for a moment as I realised I was rambling. “Brian was smaller than Archie. He was pale, ye could almost see right through him. He was plagued by issues and… I dinnae ken if he ever had a good day in his short life.” I looked down at her to find her brown eyes, shaded by darkness, looking up at me.

“Archie never told me,” she said quietly when I looked at her. I nodded subtly.

“I didnae think he would. It’s… hard te talk aboot a sibling ye’ve lost,” I told her, and then I let out a small sigh. “He likely doesnae even remember. We dinnae form memories that young.”

“Did he suffer?” Clara asked me, her voice cracking a little. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to push back the tears, and nodded.

“Verra likely,” I told her. “I dinnae ken what happened exactly… nor do I really recall the day… but I recall the nanny we had sayin’ te me…”

“Mistress! Mistress, oh, Mistress! He isnae breathin’!” Beth cried, alarming me. I ran to her side to look at Brian, finding that he was breathing, but extremely faintly and his nose, lips and fingers were turning purple.

“We have te get him te hospital,” I said. “Quickly!” I grabbed Brian from Beth’s arms and turned to run for the door, only to suddenly feel very faint.

“I… fell ill myself. I hadnae been feelin’ well before, and that day… when Brian needed me most…” I whispered, and then I closed my eyes tightly to shut out the tears. “I might have been able te save him… Though what fer, I dinnae ken. He was born so p… poorly, that… I might’ve just prolonged his sufferin’…” I leaned forward, took off my glasses and covered my face with my hands. I had no right to cry for the child I lost nearly thirty years ago in front of Clara, who just lost hers tonight.

“Do you… know what happened?” I heard Clara ask me after several moments. “To…” She meant Victoria, but couldn’t bear to say her name. I pulled myself together and sniffled, then replaced my glasses, which misted up, and took a deep breath.

“I do,” I told her quietly. Would she understand if I told her? Would it give her comfort to know? Would it have given me comfort to know? Probably. I was the sort of person who needed to know the reason for everything. Not having answers only stressed me out even further. But Clara, I couldn’t be certain. As a mother, I imagined she wanted to know, but could she bear that burden? Knowledge could be both a blessing and a curse.

“Did… Did she suffer?” she asked me. This was where I faltered. Many times as a doctor, I had had relatives and loved ones ask me that question, and I learned quickly that sometimes, a small lie helped make the pain of loss just a bit more bearable. Clara wasn’t an expert on my tone of voice or my expressions, so she would never know. I couldn’t put her through more pain, not when she was so alone.

“No,” I said, but I knew that Victoria would have suffered. She would have suffocated when the alveolar walls collapsed. She’d have struggled for a breath and failed, would have tried to cry and couldn’t… It would have been like drowning, but without water. But Clara didn’t need to know that. “She… She experienced…” I closed my eyes for a moment.

“So what’s the diagnosis?”

“Failure to thrive.”

“‘Failure te thrive? That is not a diagnosis, that is giving up! Call yerself an expert on infants and dinnae ken anythin’ aboot them…”

“He has joined the angels…. He failed to thrive.”

“‘Failure te thrive’ isnae a diagnosis! I want my son!”

“…failure te thrive,” I choked out finally, haunted by memories of the past. I felt like such a hypocrite, telling her this when I knew that it meant nothing.

“I… I’ve heard of it,” said Clara softly, and I nodded subtly, not meeting her eyes. “What does it mean?”

“Sometimes… bairns just die and… there’s no rhyme or reason fer it. It just… happens. I’ve heard… some physicians… call it ‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome’, or ‘SIDS’ fer short,” I explained to her. “Others just call it ‘failure te thrive’.” Silence fell between us, and I heard a small whimper in a breath of air from Clara.

“She was not yet baptised… Where will she go?” she asked, her voice shaking. “She’ll go to purgatory forever… never to see myself or Archie.” I had forgotten that, in the Catholic and Christian faith, babies who were not baptised would go straight to purgatory, a sort of limbo between Heaven and Hell. It wasn’t necessarily a bad place, and it was the place that those with sins not bad enough for Hell would burn them off before they could go to Heaven, but it wasn’t Heaven, either. And even though it was better than Hell, it was a place feared by God-fearing people.

“I dinnae think so,” I said to her. “There’s an auld myth in Celtic lore… The Fae have beautiful and perfect children, but when they have one that was born imperfect… they’ll steal away a perfect human child and replace it wi’ a changeling. The changeling child may fall ill and die… but the perfect human child will live wi’ the fae forever, never kennin’ pain or sorrow or sickness.” I turned my head to look at her. “‘Tis but a small comfort… but it’s somethin’, te think of a child livin’ forever. It gave me a small comfort when I lost Brian.”

“She was perfect,” Clara whispered. “But it’s just a story.”

“Maybe, but isnae that why stories exist? Te make the pain more bearable? Te make life more liveable?” I asked her, and she seemed to pause for a moment in thought before nodding a little.

“I suppose so,” she said softly. “What’ll I tell Archie?”

“That no one is at fault fer this. That sometimes, these… things just happen,” I told her. “He’s a verra seasoned lad, but… losin’ a child will be hard fer him. Ye must be there fer each other, both of ye. Ye need each other now more than ever.” I placed my hand over hers to offer her support, then reached over to the tray for the whisky. I poured some into the glass and then I handed it to her. I was nearly shocked to see her down the glass in one gulp, and then she made a face.

“This is horrible. I don’t understand why men like it so much,” she said, putting the glass back down, and I let out a small chuckle.

“Because they like te stumble through life drunk,” I told her. “Men like te think they can handle anythin’ life throws at them, but in truth, they can only handle it after a few drinks. Women though… We have te face the world wi’ grace even after it slaps us and spits in our eye.”

“Do you… have any more of that tonic you gave me? I just… don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now,” said Clara, her eyes falling onto the ground.

“Of course, hen. I’ll go and fetch it fer ye,” I told her. I went to fetch the henbane tonic again and returned, giving her a good amount so that she would sleep for a while. I stayed until she was asleep, and then I left her to rest. This was so hard… Clara was showing strength when she had every right in the world to scream and shout and damn the world. Perhaps she knew that it wouldn’t do any good. Damning fate for taking her child wouldn’t bring Victoria back. On my way back down, I heard a shuffling sound in the parlour, so I went in to find Maevis standing by the window with a candle in hand, her eyes watching the snow swirl around outside again. “Maevis?” I asked, and she looked at me. Her wrists were still bandaged, but only to protect the wounds. The stitches would come out soon, and then I’d work with her on physical therapy. She could barely carry anything heavier than a candlestick at this point. “What are ye doin’, hen?” I asked her, approaching her and touching her shoulder lightly. She didn’t answer me right away; Instead, she looked out the window again.

“It should have been one of mine,” she told me quietly, and I felt like I had been slapped in the face.

“I… beg yer pardon?” I asked her, unsure what she was saying and not wanting to believe what I thought she was.

“Clara didn’t deserve this,” she told me. “She loved Vicki more than anything. She had no trouble doing that… She deserves to be a mother. I don’t.”

“Maevis,” I said, and then I sighed gently. “No one deserves this…” I faltered, not sure what else to say. I was still in shock that she had all but said she wished the death had occurred to one of her children. “Least of all, the children. No child deserves te die so young.” Maevis looked down again, casting her eyes down in shame.

“Maybe God was pissed I didn’t die,” she said quietly. “If I had…”

“Enough of this,” I told her a bit firmly. “We’ve had enough tragedy. I’ll not have more of this talk.” She didn’t answer me, so I let out a small huff. “Ye should get some rest. Whatever the hell tomorrow brings, I’m sure it’ll be long.” With that said, I left for the kitchen, deciding ultimately to make myself a cup of tea and stay there. I couldn't stay in the Surgery… Not with my wee granddaughter’s body laying lifeless beneath a shroud.

I shivered. Damn, do these winter winds blow cold. 

22 December, 1770

JAMIE POV

Both Jamie and Archie, with the weapons in tow, had decided that enough was enough and they would push through to the Ridge despite the blizzard. They were cold and wet, but thankfully, the blizzard left and soon, they were simply trudging through deep snow. Getting up the mountain was difficult and took them a week alone, but they finally made it. When they arrived at the Big House, Jamie was so glad to finally be home, however, there was an eerie silence hanging over the house. Archie detected it, too, as he glanced at Jamie curiously after noticing the eerie silence. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

“I dinnae ken,” Jamie replied, dismounting his horse. “Take the horses te the stables, and leave the wagon in there fer now.” Archie took the lead of Jamie’s horse and urged his own to turn towards the stables, while Jamie made his way to the house. As he approached, he froze, seeing a sign of what caused the eerie silence on the Ridge. There was a black ribbon tied to the handle of the front door, indicating that there had been a death within the household. No… Jamie cursed himself silently and demanded that God damn him to hell for leaving when his daughter was so vulnerable. He should never have left! How could he face Catrìona now? Would she be angry with him? Would she hate him for again not being there with her when another child had died?

He heard the creak of the door to the thruway open and saw Catrìona enter, and she stopped in her tracks when she saw him. She seemed a bit pale and sleepless, her tired eyes magnified behind those round-rimmed glasses. Behind those eyes wasn’t anger, but sorrow, and draped around her shoulders was a black airisaid of sorts. She pulled it tighter around herself and then slowly made her way towards him, stopping at the top of the stairs. After a moment of staring at each other, Catrìona came down the stairs and stepped right into Jamie’s arms, embracing him tightly. “Maevis?” Jamie asked her softly, but when she shook her head, he was relieved, but surprised. If that black mourning ribbon wasn’t for Maevis… then who was it for? Catrìona pulled away from him with her eyes misty, and she sniffled a little and wiped her eyes.

“Where’s Archie?” she asked him.

“Archie?” Jamie asked, turning to look back at the stables, where Archie was now leaving from. Catrìona took a deep breath, then let it out shakily.

“I need te speak wi’ him,” she said, and then she started making her way towards Archie.

“Catrìona… Who?” Jamie asked, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Victoria,” she said without turning, and then she continued on her way. Christ… Not wee Vicki… She was such a bonny, healthy wee thing. How could this have happened? Jamie watched in silent horror as his wife approached their son. For one blissfully unaware moment, Archie smiled and prepared to embrace his mother in greeting, but then lost his smile when he saw the look on her face. His lips moved, but Jamie could not hear the words, and then he waited for his mother to answer. When she did, Jamie watched as his face went from a numb, neutral look to one of painful agony, and Jamie’s own heart clenched when he heard that horrible cry of agony as Archie learned that his daughter had died.

“No!” Archie’s screams reached Jamie’s ears and he collapsed against his mother, embracing her tightly as he cried for the wee girl he had cherished so dearly. Jamie remembered that feeling. He remembered the pain he felt when he had learned that his own child had died. Wee Brian…

“I’m sorry, Jamie, but… he passed away.”

Cailean’s words echoed in Jamie’s ears, the ghost of a cold, cold day in June. Who knew that June could be as cold as December? Jamie had scarcely had the time to mourn, because he had to put his wife and his surviving son first. And here that same son and wife were, embracing as they were once now almost thirty years ago. Death had no preference for who it touched. Young and old, strong and weak, wealthy and poor… Mother and son. This pain… It was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. He wanted a better future for his son, and here he was… living his father’s mistakes. It was Jamie’s fault that Clara was alone when their child died, just like Catrìona was when Brian had died. And he would never forgive himself for it.

Chapter Text

22 December, 1770

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

A long time ago - or, rather, a long time from now - there was an American writer by the name of Arabella Marlowe. She was a survivor of the 2048 Avian Flu pandemic, which killed five million people worldwide in the span of three years, hitting America particularly hard. When I learned of these global pandemics in school, I supposed that America didn’t learn from the COVID-19 pandemic that had scarcely been three decades earlier. Honestly, does anyone learn from their past mistakes? Scotland, for example, has fought for its freedom so many times since England set its eyes on her, and yet, only won a handful of times. Agh, I digress.

I related to the writings of Arabella Marlowe in a way that I didn’t know I would when I first read her works in school. She had already been dead for a while by the time I learned about her. She was in her thirties during the flu pandemic, and she died from a suicide attempt in 2062. The pain of carrying all of the loss she endured must have been too much for her. Some of that pain she was able to express in her writing, and when I was learning to cope with the loss of everything I had ever known - my family, my friends, my home, everything a fifteen-year-old girl could want - I found myself drawn to her book, I See You in the Rain. She had dedicated the book to her fiancé and son, who died during the pandemic, leaving her all on her own. The short piece that had inspired the title was written about her son, who she said was very young when he had died. When I returned to my time pregnant with Maevis and Elton, I had found that old book among my old possessions and committed that passage to memory…

I see you in the rain. Little droplets that fall from the clouds, hiding the tears that roll down my cheeks. As the pain pat-pat-patters against my windowpane, I hear your laughter bubble up from my deep unconscious mind. I see you in my dreams, reaching out to me with your tiny hand. I feel the warmth of your sweet toddler hugs around my neck in the scarf that I wear to keep out the cold, but when I go to touch your arms, I find only the flimsiness of the polyester fabric, no solidness of your arms underneath. I catch you in the corners of my peripheral vision running after Chester the cat, hoping to embrace him with all the love you hold in that innocent, childlike heart.

I still see you in the rain, but the magic has gone. No more do the raindrops sparkle like pixie dust. Once, we danced together in the puddles, but now, all I see in them is an endless void, a shell of the woman I once was looking back at me. There is no sunshine any longer; only dark clouds, and with it come heartbreaking memories that rain down upon me, weathering me as they should have weathered you.

I didn’t understand that passage until I had lost my own children. Every time it rained, I heard their laughter, saw them dancing between the raindrops and opening their wee mouths trying to catch them on their tongues. And even though my children are now all grown, safe, and living with me now… I still saw the ghosts of the past in the raindrops, carrying with them every regret that I had. 

Everyone mourns the loss of a child differently. When Brian died, I pushed Archie away thinking he would hate me for not saving his brother. I hated his father for not being there, for giving me those children whose losses would destroy me. Before I had children, nothing could break me. I fought for myself and myself only. But then they came, my world changed… And when I lost them, I lost my whole world all over again, only it was much worse this time around. I could live without my parents - after all, we all had to learn to someday - but I could not live without my children. Seeing my son and my daughter-in-law with this same battle, fighting the same heartache that I once had… Jamie and I could overcome the pain of the loss of our child together, as it was not something that either of us were strong enough to bear alone. Clara and Archie needed each other, and yet… Archie was nowhere to be found.

When Clara came calling for her husband and found that he had not come in, she was devastated, powerless against her broken heart that needed Archie’s to stand with her. Where had he gone? I didn’t know, and neither did Jamie, nor Maevis, nor Elton, nor Bree, nor Rory… Geordie hadn’t seen him, nor had Mrs. Bug. Marsali and Fergus hadn’t known he’d returned. Caoimhe thought she saw him wandering off on his own. When he’d asked for a moment to himself, I understood, as I’d wanted nothing more than to be left alone just for a little while when my son had died, but I didn’t understand running away. Running didn’t make the pain go away, it only allowed it to build up, and if it kept building up more and more, then eventually, the dam would break.

I didn’t think I could survive another loss in this house.

ARCHIE POV

“…cross now the Great Divide, damn it!” Archie shouted out deep in the middle of the woods. He had cleared a spot in the snow and built a summoning circle in hopes of contacting Granny. She had better respond, or so help him, he would find a way to wreak havoc in that damned spiritual world and tear it apart until he found her! Yet still, he was surrounded by silence, and he let out a furious growl. “Here these words, hear my cry, spirits from the other-”

“What the hell do ye think yer doin’?” came Granny’s firm voice, but this time, Archie didn’t startle. He reared on her as she started scolding him. “I thought I told ye te avoid doin’ the summonin’ ritual?”

“I want te see my daughter,” Archie demanded from her straight away, catching her off guard. She seemed stunned into silence for a moment, and then her face changed.

“I thought ye might ask me this,” she said to him softly. “I’m sorry, Archie, it-”

“I want te see my daughter. Where the hell is my daughter?” Archie demanded from her again.

“Archie, listen te me. I cannae help ye,” she said to him, but he refused to take no for an answer. He stepped towards her with his lit torch in hand, fury written on his face.

“I want te see my daughter!” Archie demanded furiously, getting close to her face.

“I cannae give ye yer daughter!” Granny spat back at him furiously, in a similar manner that Mama had done a few times to people she was angry with. “It doesnae work that way! I am permitted te travel between worlds due te yer gift, but she has already crossed over and cannae pass through the veil until Beltane!”

“I thought ye said the solstices were other days the veils thinned!” Archie shouted back at her. “The winter solstice was yesterday!”

“I never said the veils thinned on the solstices! I said that travellers could pass through more easily but not wi’ this war wi’ the shapeshifters goin’ on! I told ye, the veil’s been closed off!” Granny snapped back. Archie let out a fierce shout and turned around to avoid hitting her, although he had a feeling that if he tried, his fist would pass right through her. “I’m sorry, Archie. I wish I could give ye this, but I cannae.”

“I just want te see my daughter, damn it! I wasnae here when she died!” Archie snapped, fighting off tears so he could keep the strength in his voice.

“I ken ye want te see her. I want te see mine, too, but I cannae just do that. Only when ye happen te need me and be near her at the same time,” Granny told him, still firmly but much more calmly.

“Will I ever be able te see her?” Archie asked her, and she let out a sigh.

“I dinnae ken, te be honest. I dinnae ken when this war wi’ the shapeshifters will end. Fer now, ‘tis nowhere in sight,” Granny told him, and Archie let out a huff.

“Then what good is this gift?” he said quietly.

“A lot of good. Without it, ye wouldnae see anyone. There would be no chance fer ye te see Victoria again. Ye wouldnae have met me. There would be no chance te see yer grandsire, yer uncles, yer brother, yer great-grandmother…”

“Wait,” said Archie, pausing for a moment and turning to look at her. “I can see Brian?”

“He’s got the traveller’s gene, aye,” Granny told him.

“So why hasnae he come through yet? I mean… can he? He was just a bairn when he…” Archie asked her a bit softly.

“If ye dinnae cross over, ye look the way ye did when ye died, but if ye do… ye have a bit more control over yer appearance,” Granny told him. “He’d… likely resemble how ye look now.”

“Would Victoria?” Archie asked her with a whisper, and Granny nodded gently.

“If she so chooses,” she told him. “Our spirits dinnae have the limitations of our bodies.”

“If… if it’s possible fer… you te travel through the veil… Could I?” Archie asked her next.

“Te the Otherworld? Sorry, Archie, but no. The Otherworld is meant fer spirits only, no’ fer physical bodies. The only way ye can pass through is if ye were te die,” Granny told him, and then she firmed up her expression. “And ye willnae be doin’ that. Not anytime soon. It isnae yer time ye. Yer not expected te pass through the veil fer a long time yet.”

“‘Longevity’ isnae a curse I wish te live wi’ just now,” said Archie, sitting down on a tree that must have come down during the blizzard and burying his face in his hands. “I just want my daughter… I wasnae here fer her, and I should have been.”

“I know ye do, Archie,” Granny told him. He felt the ghost of her hand on his back, scarcely a small pressure touching him gently. “I wish I could help ye. Truly, I do. I wish I could bring her te ye now, but… I dinnae ken if there’s a way.”

“This isnae fair… None of it is!” Archie exclaimed with a low growl.

“I know, a eunan… Believe me, I ken a thing or two aboot losin’ a child and the lack of fairness behind it,” she told him. “Did yer mother ever tell ye that before her father… I was the last te be shot?” A moment of silence passed between them, and Archie shook his head. “I had te watch four of my children be shot before my eyes… Uilleam was first. Then Alasdair. Wee Iain was scairt and he started te scream, and when he tried te run towards me te hide, the English bastards shot him, too. One hit me wi’ the butt of his gun when I went fer my wee lad, and when Calum tried te protect me, they shot him, too. Then it was me, and my last thoughts were that… I hoped Catrìona and Cailean had gotten away.” Archie didn’t say anything, so Granny let out a soft sigh and straightened herself up. “Clara needs ye, lamb. Ye should go te her. She lost her child, too.”

“I cannae face her,” said Archie with shame. “I should have been here, and I wasnae. She was all alone fer one of the hardest things…”

“And she’s alone now,” Granny told him. “She’s alone now because yer out here tryin’ te make the impossible happen.” Archie shook his head a little and squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping and melting a small hole in the snow at his feet.

“Is there… any way te bring her back?” Archie asked her, unable to control his train of thought. There was no harm in asking, was there?

“No,” Granny told him. “At least… not properly.”

“But… there is a way?” Archie asked, his eyes widening as he sat up to look at his grandmother.

“Yer not doin’ it. I’ll not even tell ye how,” Granny told him firmly.

“But-”

“I said no,” she told him sharply. “Ye dinnae mess wi’ the dark arts. If ye mess wi’ the way the world is supposed te be, then it’ll mess right back wi’ ye, unleashin’ somethin’ awful into the world.”

“Like what?” Archie asked, genuinely weighing his options. How bad would things be if he tried to bring Victoria back?

“A long time ago in ancient Athens, there was a man who’s name now is lost te history. He lost his wife and his daughters te sickness. He learned of a way te bring them back… but there must be balance. As a result, he unleashed a plague onto the city of Athens, and hundreds of thousands died. They vomited blood, had horrible infectious lesions on their skin… No one kent the cause of it, but I learned only in the Otherworld that it was basically a deal wi’ the devil,” Granny told him. “There was another illness, which we’ll someday call the sweatin’ sickness. People in England in the sixteenth century startin’ breakin’ out into a sweat wi’ pain in the limbs and half who suffered died. It only stopped when the lass who started it by tryin’ te bring back her father killed him again. Everrathin’ comes wi’ a price, Archie, and no matter what ye may think… the price fer bringin’ someone back from the dead isnae worth it.” Archie turned away in shame. Of course there would be mass suffering if he tried to alleviate just a small bit of his own.

“So an innocent must stay dead,” said Archie with his jaw firm. “An innocent who’s done nothin’ wrong. Perhaps if I hadnae questioned my faith in God…”

“God had nothin’ te do wi’ Victoria’s death, Archie. Her body couldnae manage,” Granny told him. “Ask yer mother. She kens what happened.” At this, Archie raised a brow.

“How?” Archie asked her. “How does she ken what happened?”

“Just speak te her. She’ll answer whatever questions ye have,” Granny told him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I must go… Archie, ye must promise me ye willnae try and do somethin’ stupid. I’m sorry te say, but Victoria’s gone. Ye cannae bring her back.”

“I get it,” said Archie irritably, looking away from her.

“Swear te me ye willnae do it, Archie. Promise me,” Granny told him firmly.

“Fine! I promise I willnae do anythin’ stupid,” Archie told her without looking at her.

“Thank ye,” Granny told him. “Remember, ye have yer family here wi’ ye. Dinnae forget that yer parents ken what it is yer feelin’. They’ve been there before… More than ye know.”

“What’s that supposed te mean?” Archie asked, turning his head to look at her, but she was gone. He let out a small huff, then stood up and kicked over the candles of the circle to put them out. She was right, he should go to Clara… But how could he? He needed to see Vicki first… And he needed to find out what his mother knew about her death.

CATRÌONA POV

“I cannae thank ye enough fer this, Seàrlas,” I said to my cousin, who had crafted a beautiful wee coffin made of pine for Victoria. He had hand-carved some beautiful flowers into the front panel and Sioned had painted it and protected it using plant resin. It was such a beautiful gift, and perfect for Victoria. It had been too cold to bury her, as the ground was frozen solid, so I had been storing her body in my herb shed outside so that she didn’t decompose. She would still have to reside there until the ground thawed enough for burial, but at least she would have a nice, comfortable place to rest until then.

“When Sioned told me, my heart broke fer ye,” Seàrlas told me. “After Ceitidh, we had a bairn who had died. We were all sick wi’ fever, so we couldnae give her a proper funeral. My rather envious brother-in-law took care of it and wouldnae disclose where she had been buried.”

“Tha’s horrible,” I said to him, resting a hand on his arm. “I’m verra sorry te hear… I ken a thing or two aboot losin’ a child, too.”

“I imagine ye do,” Seàrlas replied. “Too many of us do.” He bit his bottom lip subtly, then nodded. “Best I go. I dinnae want te intrude.”

“Yer not intrudin’,” I told him kindly. “Thank ye, again, fer this. Archie and Clara will be verra grateful fer yer kindness. I’ll be sure te send word when we’re able te have the funeral.”

“Tha’ would be verra kind,” said Seàrlas. I bid my cousin goodbye, then looked down at the intricacies of the wee coffin. Coffins should not ever have to be built as small as this one, which was a little over two feet long. Victoria had still been so small… It wasn’t fair. I picked up the coffin and brought it to my Surgery, placing it underneath the table and making a mental note to dress it and place Victoria inside of it. I wanted her to have a wee pillow to lie on, which Bree was making and embroidering for me. I turned to leave the Surgery and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Archie standing in the doorway, his hat held in his hands.

“Christ, Archie!” I exclaimed, my hand over my heart. “If ye dinnae mind not scarin’ the shit out of me…”

“What happened te her?” Archie asked me softly, his eyes glossed over. “I know ye ken.”

“I… I do ken,” I said softly. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to the idea that I’d cut his daughter open to find out what had happened, so I needed to tread carefully. “It was… failure te thrive.”

“Tha’ diagnosis is a load of shite and ye ken it,” he told me a bit coldly and without emotion. “What happened te my daughter?” Seeing the look on his face reminded me of my own face, much less weathered than it was now. I remembered looking in the mirror for hours trying so hard to figure out what had happened to Brian. Clearly, there was something wrong with his heart or his lungs. He had always struggled, so perhaps one of his ventricles collapsed or failed to function. I lost sleep for days over not knowing what had happened to my wee lad, and looking at the anguish in my son’s eyes as he longed for answers… I couldn’t allow him to put himself through the same hell. He wasn’t like his father in the sense that he could accept things for the way they were. He was like me - he needed answers, and he needed them now.

“She… had what’s called a… collapsed alveolar septum,” I told him. “Our lungs are… sort of like a case fer our breathin’, containin’ everrathin’ ye need te breathe. The bronchi, which leads into the bronchioles, which features the alveoli on the ends. The alveoli are these wee sacks tha’ exchange the carbon dioxide and oxygen in our bloodstream. They take in air when we breathe in and expand and they deflate again when we breathe back out. But when… the walls of the alveoli collapse… we cannae breathe.”

“Is that what happened te Brian?” Archie asked me with his jaw firm, appearing not to be emotionally affected by this news. I could tell he was angry, and I couldn’t blame him. I was angry, too, when Brian died, even though I’d expected it. But Victoria’s death was completely unexpected.

“I dinnae ken,” I told him. “I fell verra ill when he died. I… didnae regain full consciousness until he was…” I swallowed down tears. “…already buried.”

“How do ye ken this was how Victoria died?” Archie asked me, and I felt my stomach drop a little. He deserved to know how, but I couldn’t be certain if the news would anger him or not. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I… performed a post-mortem,” I told him carefully. “It’s when… ye… open up the body te… find out how they died.”

“So ye cut my daughter open?” Archie asked me, no change evident in his voice. I nodded subtly. He clenched his jaw a little and looked away, then took a deep breath to stabilise himself before looking at me again. “Clara’s not te ken,” he told me softly. “I… I’m glad ye did. I’d go mad if I didnae ken how she… died.” He looked down at the ground for a moment. “She’d have suffered, wouldnae she?” I didn’t answer him verbally, but only nodded instead. “Did Brian?”

“He… would have,” I said softly, sniffling to pull back more tears.

“So then ye ken exactly what this feels like,” he told me. He looked away again and sniffled heavily, brashly brushing tears away from his eyes. “Where is she? The ground’s too hard te bury her, so where is she?”

“In my herb shed,” I told him. “I laid her out on the table.”

“In the cold?” Archie asked me, his voice cracking a little.

“If she wasnae, she… would… start te… break down,” I told him, unable to fight off my own tears. “I wanted te k-keep her… as whole as I could.” At this, Archie went to the window to look towards the herb shed in question, a look of longing in his eye.

“I want te see her,” Archie told me softly.

“Go ahead. Go and be wi’ her,” I told him. I hadn’t gotten the chance to see Brian after he died, and I wouldn’t be denying Archie the chance to say goodbye to his bonny wee girl. I watched through the window as he went out to the shed and paused, taking a deep breath before opening the door and disappearing inside. However he said goodbye to his daughter was his own private moment, something that had been denied me.

I could no longer hold back the tears. I covered my mouth with my hand to silence myself as I began to cry, squeezing my eyes shut and bowing my head forward. I didn’t know how long I had stood there silently crying, but I soon felt a presence behind me and a hand on my lower back. I turned around and looked up through my misty glasses to find Jamie behind me, a look of utter heartbreak on his own face as well. We said nothing to each other as we embraced, remembering the pain we once felt as we mourned the child we had lost together.

“The only way we can live with it is te carry it… together.”

But this wasn’t our child that was lost. This was our grandchild. We could seek comfort in each other, but it wasn’t our hearts that felt Victoria’s loss the most, it was Archie’s and Clara’s. And yet, they were separated. Archie had not yet sought solace and comfort in Clara, and Clara was desperate to seek it in Archie. I knew how hard it was to seek comfort in others when it felt like the whole world was falling apart, but I hoped that Archie would find his wife, or else they would fall apart from the strain of loss.

23 December, 1770

MAEVIS POV

Clara hadn’t come down from her room, and as far as she knew, Archie hadn’t come home. Wherever he was, he clearly wanted to be alone, even though Clara didn’t, and he knew that because Mama had told him before he went off to God knew where. It annoyed Maevis a little because Clara was hurting so much, so a small part of her hoped Archie was suffering a little in the frigid rain outside. That’s right, it was raining - fucking raining, after the blizzards that tore through the Ridge. Maevis, having been caught in the rain after going out to feed the chickens, desperate for something to do, and sought refuge in the barn. She let out a small huff at the downpour that started to turn the blanket of snow into an icy sludge, then ducked into the barn. She shivered gently, groaning out loud at her fate. Of course it had to fucking rain. Snow, at least, didn’t soak someone right away, but rain, of course, did, and the added cold air made Maevis even more irritated with the weather. Just pick a season, damn it!

“M-Miss Maevis?” came a small voice, and Maevis jumped a little and whipped around, finding herself looking at Geordie, who had come down the ladder to the loft, where he lived. Suddenly, she became self-conscious of the bandages that were still protecting the stitches on her wrists, and she was glad to have gloves on to hide them.

“Geordie! You scared me,” she said, letting out a breath of air that created a small puff in the frigid air. Oh, so it was cold enough for her to see her breath, but not enough for it to snow?

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Geordie said to her. “Are… Are you well? I… h-haven’t seen you…” He was referring to her suicide attempt. She gulped a bit uncomfortably, then nodded.

“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” she said to him softly. “We… did see each other during the blizzard.”

“Ah, yeah,” said Geordie, nodding a little. “W-We didn’t really… speak.” But he did stand beside her when they learned of Victoria’s death. When Mama broke the heartbreaking news to Clara that she couldn’t save Victoria, Maevis had let out a small gasp and covered her mouth, and Geordie had gently touched her arm, then pulled away right as she looked at him. He was a stable presence there, which kept Maevis from crying, and all he had done was meet her eyes with his kindly hazel eyes…

“No, I… suppose we didn’t,” said Maevis, looking down in shame and uncomfortably wrapping her arms around her abdomen. In one hand was the bucket of chicken feed, which was growing heavy in her hand.

“H-how… How is Mrs. Fraser?” Geordie asked her. “And… I u-understand your brother is b-back.”

“He is, yes,” said Maevis with a small nod. “Clara isn’t really coming down from her room. I… I’m not really sure how she’s doing, but… I imagine it isn’t good.”

“Aye, I… s-suppose not,” said Geordie. “You’re l-looking very good.”

“Huh?” Maevis asked him, looking up at him. He was now wringing his hands a bit uncomfortably, a few pieces of his brown curly hair out of place on his head. She looked away when she recalled that he had been nearby when Brèagha had discovered Maevis’s suicide attempt, which meant that he likely saw her. “Oh… Um… Thanks…” A few moments of awkward silence passed between them. Maevis listened to the splat-splat-splat of the rain hitting the snow and melting it.

“M… M-Miss Maevis…” Geordie began, and Maevis looked up at him, seeing a peculiar look on his face. “I… meant to… p-put a… very imp-portent question… t-to you…” He didn’t wait for her to answer as he approached her, and Maevis looked up at him with a rather perplexed expression. “I… I d-don’t have m-much… But I kn-know that I can… t-take care of… of you and the girls…” She widened her eyes even more.

“What are you talking about?” she asked him a little brashly, which seemed to startle him a little, but he regained his composure.

“I… I w-want to… ask if p-perhaps you’d… d-do me the honour of… g-giving m-me your… h-hand in marriage,” he said to her. Panic began to bubble up in Maevis’s stomach, and she backed up right into the stall of one of the horses. The horse, slightly startled, whinnied loudly, which made Maevis jump and gasp softly, dropping the bucket of feed in her hand and spilling it all over the ground.

“Geordie,” she said with shock. “I… I couldn’t… I can’t ask that of you…”

“Y-you aren’t… asking anything of me,” Geordie told her, gaining a bit of confidence. “It would be my honour to-”

“I can’t,” Maevis said sharply and quickly. She began to slide along the stall towards the entrance to the barn. “I can’t, I… I can’t. I can’t… I… I can’t…” she sputtered out as she moved towards the barn, fear gripping her as she sought an escape. “I’m sorry!” she cried finally as she turned and ran, stumbling through the sludge and running towards the house. How could someone like Geordie Severs want to marry someone like Maevis? A girl with two children, carrying a burden that only she should carry, not someone else! And, not to mention, what would come with marrying someone… Was it considered rape if a wife didn’t want to have sex with her husband? Maevis stopped by the tree that was next to Mama’s Surgery, pausing to catch her breath. Could he still see her? Oh, she couldn’t look! God, he must have been so upset… She swore it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t him! Geordie was the sweetest, kindest boy that Maevis had ever met. He’d never hurt a fly, not even if it was one of those green heads from New Jersey that bite. But she couldn’t marry him. Her burden was hers to bear alone, and she’d already dumped her burden on her family enough. She couldn’t dump it on Geordie, too. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t….

She paused for a moment when she heard the sound of a guitar playing and looked up at the porch, catching sight of Rory sitting on a bench with Bree beside him, one of the babies sitting on her lap and giggling. In front of them, Maevis assumed, were more children, probably Wren and Lark or Wren and Donnie or Lark and Donnie… She heard Ginnie’s little voice, too, encouraging Rory on as he started to sing:

“Somewhere over the rainbow,

Way up high…

There’s a land that I’ve heard of

Once in a lullaby…”

A happy song being sung during a time of grief. It felt disgusting to hear a happy song and childlike giggles when a baby had just died, but Maevis supposed that the children were simply too young to understand. At least, Donnie, Wren and Lark were. Ginnie was about three and a half now and probably recognised that there was sadness around, as Maevis did when her mother sent her away at age seven. Still, it didn’t feel right hearing such a happy song, and yet, she stood still, listening to Rory sing it calmly to the children.

“Somewhere over the rainbow,

Skies are blue…

And the dreams that ye dare to dream

Really do come true.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me…

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Way above the chimney tops,

That’s where ye’ll find me…”

Seeking hopes and dreams beyond a rainbow… Maevis once thought that somewhere over the rainbow was everything she could have ever wanted, but when she went to the other side, it was nothing but pain and hardship - the same pain and hardship that was on the side she came from, but worse. Everything she had ever thought would come when she went to the other side of the rainbow proved to be nothing more than an unreachable dream, and yet, a small part of her still looked beyond the rainbow for hope. Hope that she could one day be the loving mother her daughters deserved, hope that maybe - just maybe - she could be a wife that someone like Geordie deserved… But she wasn’t sure that any of those things were achievable. Not anymore, at least.

Trying to ignore the hopeful song, Maevis went inside to escape. The house was silent, of course. Mama and Caoimhe had probably gone to the Village to check on the residents of the Ridge, Da was probably somewhere doing some… landowner thing… and Elton was probably at the Carlyons’ house again. Who knew where Lizzy and Maggie and Mrs. Bug were, and Clara was likely still upstairs. Maevis found herself in the parlour next, surrounded by nothing but silence. She sighed softly to herself, looking up at a painting of the Ridge that Bree had done that hung on the wall. It was so beautiful… Bree had an impeccable talent for painting, that was for sure. Maevis approached it a little, taking note of a small rainbow that she had painted in the sky… Had it been there when she sat down to paint this? As Maevis leaned forward to delicately touch the rainbow with her fingertips, she pressed down onto the keys of the pianoforte, startling herself a little. The pianoforte was small, so it was easy to forget that it was there, but the sound it made was still grand and loud. Did it work just like a regular piano? It sounded almost exactly like a piano, only it had a little bit more of a harpsichord’s twang thrown in as well. She ran her fingers along they keys, pressing down on a B key somewhere near the lower end of the piano. It had been a while since she had touched a piano, opting mostly for a guitar, but her old piano teacher in school had once told her that playing the piano even years after learning was ‘like riding a bike’. Was it really that simple? She pulled out the bench of the pianoforte and sat down, looking down at the keys before her. What should she play? ‘Chopsticks’ was too happy… ‘Fur Elise’ was too upbeat. She needed something simple, but something reflective of how she felt inside… She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then raised her hands to the keys and began to play.

G D B D B D E, C… G D B D B D E, C…

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows,

And what’s on the other side?

Rainbows are visions, but only illusions…

And rainbows have nothing to hide…

So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it…

I know they’re wrong, wait and see…

Someday they’ll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers, and me…”

A direct response to what was on Maevis’s mind. A song about not quite losing hope, about having once come close, but not quite made it… A song about not giving up. Because rainbows might be mystical, but they’re only light, and the rainbows themselves aren’t physically hope, but a symbol of it.

“Who said that every wish would be heard and answered

When wished on the morning star?

Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it…

Now look what it’s done so far…

What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?

What do we think we might see?

Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers, and me…”

‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all,’ said Emily Dickinson once. Maevis did a report on her once in school, and poor Emily Dickinson lived a lonely life, mostly in isolation, traumatised by loss. If someone like Emily Dickinson could hold onto hope… could Maevis?

“All of us under its spell,

We know that it’s probably magic…

Have you been half asleep

And have you heard voices?

I’ve heard them calling my name…

Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?

The voice might be one and the same…

I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it.

It’s something that I’m supposed to be…

Someday I’ll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers, and… me…”

“That’s such a beautiful song,” came a soft voice from behind Maevis, but it was enough to startle her. She slammed her hands down on the keys and whipped around, knocking the piano bench down with a large crash. Standing in the doorframe dressed in her shift, with a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders, was Clara. Her dark hair was tied in a single loose braid down her shoulder and she appeared slightly gaunt. It was the first time that Maevis had seen her since Victoria’s death, and to be honest, she was a little startled by Clara’s appearance.

“Clara,” said Maevis with surprise. “Sorry, I… I didn't mean to disturb you…”

“You didn't,” Clara told her gently. “It was a beautiful song. I didn’t know you had such a beautiful voice.”

“Oh,” said Maevis, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks. “I… I guess I don’t sing as much anymore…”

“I’ve heard you sing before, but never like that,” Clara replied. “When no one’s watching… It’s different, more… meaningful.” Maevis glanced up at her face. “Where did you learn such a beautiful song?”

“Um… it’s… just a song about… hope,” Maevis replied a bit bashfully.

“Hope,” repeated Clara softly. “I haven’t had much of that lately.”

“Nor I,” Maevis replied. She clasped her hands behind her back, trying to stop herself from rocking on the balls of her feet with discomfort. “Are… How are you doing?” Clara shrugged gently, looking down at the ground. Maevis realised that Clara really wasn’t much older than her, if even at all. Archie was already twenty-seven, by now, and Maevis herself was twenty, but Clara had turned eighteen right before she married Archie, which was already a year ago, meaning she was only nineteen years old. Nineteen, and already experiencing one of the worst forms of heartache a person could feel… “I bet you’re sick of that question. When… When everyone was asking me that, I… wanted to rip my hair out every time I heard it.”

“I just don’t know what else to say. My answer doesn’t change,” Clara told her. “I lost my baby… How will I ever be okay again?” This made Maevis feel guilty for not loving her own children the way Clara loved her daughter. There were many people in the world who didn’t deserve to be mothers and many who did. More often than necessary, mothers who did deserve it, like Clara, didn’t get the privilege to be mothers, and those who didn’t, like Maevis, were the ones who had them.

“You must… think I’m so ungrateful,” said Maevis, thinking out loud, and then she sucked in her breath, not realising she had spoken. “Um… I… I mean…”

“Not ungrateful, no,” Clara told her. “Unlucky, perhaps… Same as me. You were blessed with two perfect daughters, but they were born out of an atrocity committed against you, not out of love. I… can’t imagine how hard it must be to come to terms with that.”

“It… It’s been so… hard…” Maevis choked out quietly, tears coming to her eyes. “But… What you’re going through… it’s so much worse…”

“We all have our pains,” Clara replied gently. “I think of it like a flame. Burning yourself with a candle might not cause as much pain as burning yourself in the hearth, but pain is pain, is it not?”

“My mother says the same thing,” said Maevis, letting out a small breath of air. “Has… Has Archie talked to you yet?” Clara shook her head, pulling the blanket around her a little tighter.

“I know he’s home, but I… don’t know where he is,” she said with sadness. “I suppose he’s… taking this very hard.”

“Still, he should be with you,” Maevis told her. “You both lost your child… The child you created together. He should be here with you. Neither of you should go through this alone.” Clara only shrugged subtly.

“We all grieve differently… Perhaps Archie cannot commiserate with another,” she said in response.

“Well, that won’t do anything but pull you two apart farther and farther,” said Maevis, now mildly annoyed with her brother again. “I couldn’t sleep, so when the sun came up, I went outside for a bit of fresh air and I saw him going to Mama’s herb shed. I think… I think that’s where she is. I think he’s visiting her. Maybe you should meet him there.” Clara shifted a little uncomfortably, closing her eyes as a tear slowly fell from her eye.

“I haven’t seen her since… I found her,” she whispered quietly. “I want to, but… I can’t…”

“You need Archie,” Maevis told her. “You can’t go through this alone, neither of you can. Maybe he’ll go back again today or tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” said Clara softly, lifting her head and looking out the window. She scoffed gently. “It’s raining now, I see… The weather cannot decide what it wants to do. Perhaps we’ll see a rainbow next.” Perhaps. If rainbows really were a symbol of hope, then the Frasers could really use one right now.

27 December, 1770

CLARA POV

Frankly, Clara had had enough of Archie’s elusive behaviour. She was heartbroken over the loss of her daughter, and her husband and father of her child seemed to have no care in the world for how she felt! Perhaps marrying him was a mistake… Ugh, no, it most certainly was not. Archie is mourning in a way that, she supposed, he thought mourning ought to be done. Well, Clara was sick of being alone and trapped in the room where Victoria lived and died, and she wasn’t going to spend another moment in it. She took Maevis’s advice and waited for him to appear at the shed in the garden, and when he did, she stalked over to him, having no regard for the rain that had long since melted the snow. “Archie!” she called, startling him and causing him to jump. He whipped around, nearly losing the tricorn hat on his head, and backed against the door of the shed.

“Clara!” he exclaimed as she stormed over to him, her skirts bunched up in her hands.

“Where have you been?” she demanded of him. “For days now, I have been on my own mourning the loss of our daughter, and you’ve been nowhere in sight!”

“I-I… I didnae think…” he began to say, but she cut him off.

“No, you didn’t think, did you?” she spat at him. “Where have you been?”

“If ye’d just let me get a damn word in, I’ll tell ye,” Archie said back to her with irritation. “I’ve been…” He paused, unsure of how to answer. “…around.”

“Around? Around? Five days now, you have been back home, and this is the first I’m seeing of you. Why, Archie? Tell me why!” Clara snapped again, and Archie only let out a small sigh.

“I dinnae have an explanation,” he said with defeat. “Only that… I thought ye might… hate me fer not bein’ here when she…”

“Hate you? Archie, we could not have expected such a horrible thing to happen! What in God’s name would make you think I hated you so?” Clara demanded from him, feeling tears stinging her eyes. “Angry, yes, because I’ve been mourning our beloved daughter all on my own… and it’s been so hard. All I wanted was my husband by my side, but you haven’t been there.”

“Exactly my point,” Archie replied, and Clara huffed.

“I’m not angry with you because you weren’t there when she died, you cow! I’m angry with you because you haven’t been there for me! Everyone else has - your mother, your father, your sisters, even your brother - but you haven’t! And you are the one person who matters most to me in this dark time!” Clara snapped at him, and he let out a soft growl.

“Ye have no idea how difficult this has been fer me,” Archie said back to her.

“No idea? No idea?” she said incredulously. “You’re saying that I have no idea how difficult the death of our daughter has been?”

“That isnae what I meant!” Archie snapped back at her, and then he huffed again. “I cannae cope wi’ this now. Let me by!” He pushed past her and started walking away from the shed.

“Oh, so now you’re running off again? You damned coward!” Clara shouted after him, but he continued on, ignoring every foul word that Clara could hurl at him.

ARCHIE POV

All he wanted was to be alone, why couldn’t he be given that? He understood why Clara was upset, but Archie was ashamed of himself because he wasn’t there, because he wasn’t a better father to Victoria or a better husband to Clara. He was angry because he couldn’t save his daughter or protect his wife from this horrible pain… How could he ever forgive himself? He sat himself down by the creek, taking refuge on a cold, wet log underneath a tree. The rain poured down heavily, running off of his hat in front of him, but Archie didn’t care. He didn’t care if he caught ill and died, at this point.

“Lad,” came his father’s voice, and Archie closed his eyes and let out a firm sigh.

“I dinnae want te be bothered,” he said sharply, and he heard his father chuckle gently.

“Yer mother has said that many times, sittin’ by a creek,” Da told him, sitting himself down on the log beside Archie. “The two of ye are always drawn te water. I suppose it’s the isles in ye.”

“What do ye want from me?” Archie asked him, not looking at him, and Da let out a small sigh.

“I saw yer wife. She didnae look verra happy, nor verra dry,” Da replied. “I asked her what was wrong and all she shouted back at me was yer name and stomped loudly up the stairs before slammin’ her door.”

“She didnae call me an arse or anythin’?” asked Archie sarcastically.

“Clara isnae yer mother,” said Da with a chuckle. “Nor yer sisters… I dinnae think such words would ever come out of her mouth.” Archie didn’t say anything, instead only looking down at the wet ground underneath his feet. “Seall, a ghille… I wasnae there fer yer mother when Brian died, either. I was ashamed fer it, angry wi’ myself… She was angry wi’ me, too, but as soon as I was able te, I went te her.”

“Is there a point te this story?” Archie asked him a bit sharply.

“Aye, ye impatient wee imp,” Da told him. “When ye lose a child… it was somethin’ ye created together that has been lost. The burden of such a loss is too great fer either of ye te carry on yer own. Ye have te carry it together.”

“I dinnae want her te carry it at all,” Archie confessed to his father. “I wish I could carry all of it.”

“Aye, as did I… but yer mother will always carry her part of tha’ loss, and Clara will always carry hers. They are mothers who loved their bairns, so we must ease their burden when we can. Not worsen it by not bein’ present.”

“Hmph,” Archie replied. “How can we come back from this? How can we move on? This is different from when ye lost Brian… Ye still had a child. Me. We only had…” Victoria. He hadn’t been able to say her name since he learned of her passing.

“Aye, we had ye, and if we didnae, then we would only have had each other, as ye have Clara,” Da told him. “She needs ye, Archie, now more than ever, and ye need her. If ye dinnae both carry this loss together… it’ll crush ye both.” Da fell silent for a moment, then quietly cleared his throat. “It almost crushed yer mother… After Brian died, she couldnae look at ye. Couldnae touch ye… She was afraid ye would despise her fer not savin’ yer brother.” At this, Archie raised a brow.

“How? I was an infant,” Archie said to him. “She’s never… showed any sign of that. Mama and I are verra close.”

“Aye, ye are, closer than any mother and son I’ve ever seen, and perhaps that is why,” Da replied. “Go te yer wife, lad. She needs ye. Fer the sake of yer love fer her… go te her.” Archie looked down at the ground again, feeling tears stinging his eyes.

“Will it always hurt?” he asked his father softly.

“Losin’ a child? Aye,” said Da. “Sometimes… I still cry fer Brian, even twenty-seven years later.”

“And ye never forgot him? Even after havin’ other children?” Archie asked him, genuinely curious.

“No, lad. Ye never forget a child ye’ve lost,” Da told him, resting a hand on his back. Archie let out a shaky sigh.

“All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll go te her.” And so he did. As if moving through water, Archie climbed the stairs slowly and quietly, the sound of every footstep echoing in his ears. At the bottom of the stairs, he had passed his mother, who was coming inside from her Surgery. She nodded to him and moved on, giving him whatever strength she could to get through this next moment. He reached the door to the bedroom they shared, wondering if he should knock, but ultimately deciding not to. She’d know it was him by him entering the room unannounced. He slowly opened the door, peering in to find her standing beside the window holding one of Victoria’s gowns in her hands. It was sent to her by her mother, whom she had written to in secret about her pregnancy, and it was what she wanted Victoria to wear when she was christened. They were going to have her christened when they went to Cross Creek for Auntie Jocasta’s wedding in the spring… She didn’t look at him as he closed the door and approached her, finally stopping in front of him, and then she lifted her eyes slowly.

“I want her to be buried in this,” she said to him softly, and Archie nodded.

“I’ll make it happen,” he said quietly. “Clara, I…” She held up a finger to his lips to stop him speaking.

“You’re here now… That’s all that matters to me,” she said. Archie nodded, sniffling as he felt a tear rolling down his cheek, and then he took his wife into his arms and embraced her. She returned the embrace, resting her head against his shoulder as Archie cried into hers. She was out of tears, likely, having cried them all when she saw the life no longer lighting up their daughter’s beautiful wee eyes. She reached up and took off his hat, running her fingers through his hair, singing softly to him.

“Who said that every wish would be heard and answered

When wished on a morning star…”

29 December, 1770

CATRÌONA POV

It was raining when we buried Victoria. We had set aside a plot of land for a cemetery and our friends on the Ridge were kind enough to carve her a beautiful memorial stone. It had on it a cherub with wings reaching up to the sky, along with an epitaph with her name and dates. The stone read as follows:

HERE LIETH INTERR’D THE BODY OF VICTORIA, DAUGHTER OF ARCHIE AND CLARA FRASER. DEPARTED THIS LIFE 18 DEC 1770 AGED 2 MO 18 DYS

SHE LIETH IN THE LORD’S PROTECTIVE HAND, WAITING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF A RAINBOW

We departed the year 1770 without a much beloved member of our family, but she would never be forgotten. She would remain in our hearts forever, always cherished and ever present. But with Victoria gone, nothing could be the same again. Not for Archie and Clara, nor for us. It was that cold rainy day when Archie said to Jamie and I that he and Clara would be moving to the cabin that he had been building, as neither of them could stand any longer to live in the room where their daughter lived and died. Though it pained me that my son was now leaving my home, I understood, as Jamie and I couldn’t even remain in the same country, let alone house, as the one where our child had died.

And so we said goodbye to the dusk of a difficult year, and hello to the dawn of a new one. All of us prayed silently to whoever would listen, begging for a better year, but with each passing year came new challenges, and with new challenges came new surprises. I only hoped we were prepared to face them.

Chapter Text

8 January, 1771

Cìosamul Castle, Isle of Barra, Scotland

CAILEAN POV

“Christ… I look like I’m sixty years auld,” said Cailean with disappointment as he took in his reflection. He had new wrinkles on his face that hadn’t been there before, and his hair was going grey a hell of a lot faster than he’d anticipated. It was predominantly a dark grey colour now, with hints of his natural dark brown still throughout. “I wonder if I can get my hands on some of tha’ black walnut powder…”

“I think you look very handsome, fy nghariad,” his wife told him from the hearth, where she was putting on her stockings. “I think I look older than you do, anyway. I am older.” Cailean scoffed lightly, shaking his head at his bespectacled appearance. He had started to wear his grandfather’s eyeglasses regularly, although they weren’t a perfect fit for him. What he needed to do was pay a visit to a city like Glasgow or Edinburgh and see an oculist.

“I think yer blind. Have ye seen me lately, Maids?” Cailean asked her with a small chuckle.

“As a matter of fact, you are blind,” Maidie told him, and Cailean sighed. Maidie, a former nurse practitioner, suspected that he had cataracts, and after consulting medical books with Thora, they came to the conclusion that that was the case. Cailean himself thought he was too young for cataracts - after all, that was an old person’s ailment - but he was forty-seven, soon to be forty-eight. He certainly wasn’t the young man he used to be when he was fighting for Scotland’s freedom and traipsing the European continent. “I’ve heard there’s a German oculist who’s very good at removing cataracts. I want to write to him to see if we can see him.”

“I’m no’ goin’ all the way te Germany te have my eyes looked at. There’s plenty of fine Scottish oculists that are much closer,” Cailean said a bit sharply. “Besides, now isnae the time fer the Laird of Cìosamul te disappear te some far off land fer months… Who kens what’ll happen te my tenants if I do?”

“Cillian would do a fine job, I think,” Maidie told him rather nonchalantly. “He’s already doing such a fine job with them. And besides, do you really think the English will take you seriously if you go blind?” Cailean scoffed again.

“They dinnae take me seriously now,” he told her. “That damn oath they made me take in order te claim my birthright… It’s all but made me their bitch.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see what the lawyer says, won’t we?” Maidie asked him. Calum had returned with a solicitor from Edinburgh and his family the previous day, but Cailean couldn’t see them at the time, as he was dealing with yet another disagreement with the English on the other side of the island. Cailean himself had only just returned that morning, which led him to standing in front of the mirror criticising his own appearance. He sighed, readjusting his cravat for the fifth time and using his fingers to brush yet another peppery curl back into place.

“I suppose we will,” he replied. He invited the lawyer and his family to take breakfast with him in the extra room outside of the Laird’s bedchamber, which was sort of like a private parlour. When he went out into the private parlour, he glanced briefly at a bookcase, which concealed a hidden room behind it - one that Jamie had once hidden behind when the English came to visit. Cailean concealed quite a few historical Fowlis of Barra artefacts back there, including the family Bible that recorded the names of children born in the castle all the way back to his grandsire’s generation, including Eairdsidh Ruadh himself. A knock at the door brought his attention back to the present and he cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said, and the door opened to reveal Cillian and Madge, who was expecting her and Cillian’s third child. “Ah, there the two of ye are.”

“Madge, anwyl, how’re you feeling? You’re looking wonderful,” said Maidie, embracing Madge, who smiled kindly.

“Och, wee bit of nausea, but tha’s te be expected,” she said, resting her hand on her swollen belly. “Four months yet, and May cannae come soon enough.”

“Oh, don’t I remember such days?” said Maidie with a small chuckle. Cailean smiled awkwardly, masking his discomfort at the bairn that Madge carried. Cailean knew that one of Cillian’s sons was the one that basically sold the clan’s lands to the English in the nineteenth century. He didn’t remember when exactly that would happen, or which son it was that did it, but he certainly didn’t remember the name ‘Patrick’ belonging to the Laird that basically sold the clan out. That made him uneasy, too - if Patrick wasn’t going to be the Laird after Cillian, then that meant that he either gave up his title or died before Cillian did.

“Has the solicitor come yet?” Cillian asked his father.

“No’ yet,” Cailean replied. “I’ve only just returned myself. I’ve no’ yet met the man.”

“He’s an auld man. Bear with him,” came Calum’s voice from the door, drawing Cillian and Cailean’s attentions.

“What are ye doin’ bringin’ an auld man? Ye think the English will take him seriously?” Cillian said to his half-brother a bit irritably.

“Hold on, hold on. How auld is ‘auld’?” Cailean asked his elder son - who was older than Cillian only by a few months.

“I dunno, eighties? Nineties?” Calum replied.

“He’ll make me feel young and spry,” Cailean said to Maidie, who smiled lightly and shook her head.

“Your father’s been feeling like an old man himself today,” Maidie told them.

“Dinnae tell them that! Let them think I’m still young,” said Cailean with amusement, pulling out a chair for Maidie to sit in.

“I keep having to remind him that I’m older than him,” Maidie told them. “Need I remind you all that I’ll be fifty-four this year?”

“Compared te the people I’ve seen, tha’s young,” Calum told them, sitting down at the table. The family chatted away about various things, including Calum’s love life (which wasn’t going well), Cillian and Madge’s children, Maidie’s latest medical adventures with Thora, and Cailean’s eye problems, which he didn’t want to discuss. Soon, breakfast was brought, and then their guests were announced.

“A Mr. Edward Gowan, Esquire, a Mr. William MacCleary, a Mr. Charles MacCleary and a Mrs. Elizabeth Gowan,” said Angus, a newer servant to the Fowlis family. In entered an old man who must have been the solicitor, followed by a younger man, a teenaged lad and a very familiar-looking woman holding an infant on her hip.

“Christ… Is tha’ Beth MacCraig I see?” Cailean asked with utter shock, standing up. The last time he had seen the young lass, she had been seventeen years old and serving as a nanny to Jamie and Catrìona for an infant Archie and, before he died, Brian. Apparently, she had married and watched Archie while the Jacobite campaign was brought to England in 1745, but Cailean hadn’t seen her then. Now, she was no longer that bonny young thing who had a small crush on him - she was a plump, middle-aged woman and a mother to at least three children, judging by the three children that were with her. Her weathered face lit up when she saw Cailean, and she smiled.

“Mr. Fowlis! Blessed Bride, I didnae think I’d be seein’ ye again after Culloden!” said Beth, now apparently Mrs. Gowan, rather excitedly, and then she turned to her husband. “My dear, do ye recall Mr. and Mrs. Fraser? Mr. Fowlis here is the brother te Mistress Fraser!”

“Mistress Catrìona Fraser?” asked the aging Mr. Gowan. “Och, ye dinnae say! The Frasers and I most certainly go quite a long way back…”

“Ye ken my sister? What a small world,” said Cailean, shaking the hand of Mr. Gowan. “A pleasure te meet ye, Mr. Gowan.”

“Och, Ned will do fine,” said Mr. Gowan. “Come, sit, my dear. I owe my marriage te yer brother-in-law. Mrs. Gowan served Mr. Fraser in Edinburgh and when a fire took his home, he asked if I might take her on as my housekeeper. A bonny woman wi’ four bairns, I couldnae say no, but ye can imagine the lass, after bein’ widowed fer so long, made a fine companion!”

“Och, hush!” Beth exclaimed, her cheeks flushing red as she sat down with the infant on her lap.

“Never did I expect te marry. ‘Twas my lack of doin’ so that I attributed te my advanced age! But due te my advanced age, it became harder and harder te care fer myself, but my bonny Mrs. Gowan was firm in her care fer me,” Mr. Gowan continued.

“And what might tha’ advanced age be?” Cailean asked him, genuinely curious.

“I am a contemporary of yer late grandsire, my lad. We both spent a year at the University of Edinburgh, though he didnae stay long. I couldnae blame him, the man was already the Laird of Cìosamul! I never found him te be as tart as everraone else did,” said Mr. Gowan, sitting down at the table. “This will be my stepson, William. He’ll be takin’ over fer me as a solicitor upon my retirement - forced upon me by my dear beloved wife.”

“He’s verra nearly eighty-five! I tell him he’ll die young at the rate he’s goin’,” said Beth, clearly teasing him.

“Quite, my dear,” said Mr. Gowan as Cailean sat back down. “Now, yer son tells me ye’ve had trouble with the English, my boy.”

“‘Boy’, as if I’m no’ nearly fifty years auld,” said Cailean with amusement, and then he sighed. “Aye, there’s a bit of trouble.”

“‘A bit’? It’s more than ‘a bit’ of trouble, Da,” Cillian chimed in, and then he turned his attention to Mr. Gowan. “The English are forcin’ people out of their homes te make way fer damn sheep farmin’.”

“I’d have put it a wee less vulgar, but aye, tha’s aboot the gist of it,” Cailean said to Mr. Gowan. “The problem is, I’m a pardoned Jacobite, and was reminded of tha’ fact when I attempted te stop the forced removal of my tenants off their land.”

“And did ye sell this land to them, boy?” asked Mr. Gowan, and Cillian scoffed.

“No, he most certainly didnae. The English just took it,” he chimed in.

“Lad, I can speak fine,” Cailean reminded his son. He appreciated that Cillian was so passionate about protecting the people of the clan, but the lad needed to take a back seat - he wasn’t the Laird yet. “…what he said.”

“Indeed, I see,” said Mr. Gowan, and then he turned to his stepson. “And what do you think of this, William?”

“It’s a wee bit tricky, isnae it?” asked young William MacCleary. “Yer a pardoned Jacobite, Lord Fowlis. Though it isnae legal fer the government te just take yer land… Aye, well. I suppose it all depends on the terms of the pardon. Have ye the original document?”

“I do, right here, as a matter of fact,” said Cailean, standing up to go to a desk that was located in this additional parlour, and he picked up the document in question and handed it to Mr. MacCleary.

“Hm…” said Mr. MacCleary, reading over the cursed document that Cailean had been forced to sign now almost twelve years ago. “Ah, here it is. It says tha’ the terms of this pardon are subject te change at the will of the Crown.”

“I beg yer pardon?” Cailean asked him, one brow raised irritably, but still very much intending the pun.

“The Crown can change the terms of this pardon if they so-” Mr. MacCleary began, but Cailean cut him off.

“I heard what ye said, lad. Ye mean the bastards can do whatever the hell they want te me because I signed a bloody pardon?” Cailean demanded again.

“Did ye even read it when ye signed it, Da?” Cillian asked him.

“Mind yer business, lad,” Cailean spat back at his son.

“Ye didnae, did ye?” said Cillian, and Cailean huffed.

“I was in a rush te get that damned Reynolds out of here,” he said irritably. “I suppose this is his revenge fer all that prankin’…”

“Pranking?” asked Maidie, and Cillian huffed in a similar matter.

“I said te ye that it was a bad idea, didnae I?” he said to his father.

“It was fun, though,” chimed in Calum, and then Cillian turned on him.

“This isnae yer legacy, nor are these people yer responsibility!” he exclaimed, standing up. “Brother or no’, ye’ll never have te worry aboot the rights of the people of Barra!”

“Cillian!” Cailean exclaimed, also standing up, and then Cillian reared on him.

“No, Da. Ye just had te go and fight in a war ye couldnae win! Ye just had te be a traitor te the Crown, and now look what they’re doin’ te yer own people! Ye tell me all the time how important it is te consider the fate and futures of our tenants, but ye didnae do that yerself!” he snapped at his father.

“Ye dinnae even ken what yer speakin’ of, lad. At the time, I wasnae the heir te Cìosamul. I hadnae yet even met yer grandsire. I never thought I’d be the Laird te this estate!” Cailean snapped back at him.

“No? Sometimes, I dinnae think ye even want te be, wi’ the way yer actin’!” Cillian spat back.

“Watch yer tongue, lad. Ye may be grown, but yer no’ too auld fer a thrashin’,” Cailean warned him, and Cillian scoffed, turning back to the lawyers, who sat staring at the two hot-headed Fowlis men with wide eyes.

“Is there anythin’ we can do aboot this?” Cillian demanded of them.

“Er… What say ye, Father?” Mr. MacCleary said with discomfort, looking to Mr. Gowan.

“Only that there is nothin’ te be done, save abdication,” said Mr. Gowan softly. “If the Laird is te have any power te tell the Crown te piss off, ye’ll need te step down, sir, in favour of yer son.”

“Step down?” Cailean asked him.

“Are there any other options?” asked Cillian.

“Lad, this doesnae concern ye just now,” Cailean tried to tell his son.

“It will if ye have te step down, damn it,” Cillian snapped back at him without looking at his father. “Well? Is there?”

“Ye could always petition te Parliament to cease such actions,” Mr. MacCleary told him. “Or te change the terms of the pardon. I ken the Highlands are troubled as well by these forced evictions, and some landlords in similar predicaments have done so.”

“Parliament,” said Cailean, and then he let out a small sigh, stepping away from the table with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can only hope Parliament has a short memory.”

“What have ye done now?” Cillian demanded of his father.

“No’ me,” Cailean replied, turning back around to face his son. “Yer great-grandsire.” At this, Cillian raised a brow.

“What did Grandsire do?” he asked more calmly.

“Humiliated the politicians, more than once,” said Cailean. “Clan Fowlis of Barra vied fer a seat in Parliament fer a long time. Yer great-great grandsire fought fer a seat, but given the dislike of the Stuart monarchy durin’ the Civil War and the interregnum, they didnae trust Scots much. And the English werenae fond of Catholics, which the restored Stuart monarchs were, and which Fowlis of Barra was and still is.”

“That’ll not do ye any good, either,” said Mr. Gowan. “Ye’ll have had te convert te Protestantism te have been able te keep yer land.”

“I ken what I had te do. I did on paper when I signed tha’ damned oath,” Cailean told him a bit firmly, and he huffed. “Appeal te Parliament… Have I any other option besides abdication?”

“Afraid not,” said Mr. Gowan, and Cailean sighed.

“Aye… Suppose it’s worth a try,” he said, glancing up and meeting the eyes of his wife. “Guess I’d better start packin’.”

14 January, 1771

Cailean made his way to the portrait gallery, stopping in front of the portrait of his grandsire. It had been painted by his great-grandmother, Ealasaid MacNeil Fowlis, who was a gifted painter. Her portraits were so realistic, almost as if Grandsire was standing in front of Cailean now, just on the other side of the frame. A long time ago - or a long time from now - there’ll be a movie about a wizard lad, and in those films, the portraits moved. Cailean wondered if his great-granny had somehow instilled a bit of magic in her paintings. If only this one could move and speak to him… What Cailean wouldn’t give to have Grandsire’s advice right now. “I’m doin’ what I can,” Cailean told him softly. “I’ll give it one last go, before I give up entirely. It might be out of my hands… I suppose ye were right te think me a fool. I should have just come straight here, no’ bothered te take part in the Uprisin’, especially when I already knew what was goin’ te happen…” He sighed, looking down in shame. “Christ, I’m such a fool…”

“Yer not a fool, Da,” came Cillian’s voice from behind him, startling him a little, and Cailean let out a slow breath of air.

“I need te put a bell on ye, lad,” Cailean told his son as he came to stand right beside him. “The other day, ye thought yer auld man was a fool. What changed yer mind?”

“Och, I was upset, Da. I dinnae want ye te have te give up yer title. I certainly dinnae want te claim it yet, either. I’m no’ ready fer it,” said Cillian, and Cailean chuckled gently, shaking his head and looking back up at Grandsire’s portrait.

“Yer more ready than ye ken,” he told him. “Yer grandsire would be proud of ye.”

“Would he?” Cillian asked, also looking up at the portrait.

“The way yer fightin’ fer yer people, not afraid te take a beatin’,” Cailean continued, and then he looked at the surprised look on Cillian’s face. “Alasdair told me. Ye think anythin’ happens on this island that I dinnae ken?”

“I was fine. ‘Twas just a scratch,” said Cillian uncomfortably, and Cailean chuckled.

“Isnae it always?” he replied. “I said that te yer auntie, and then yer mother many times. She’d be proud of the man ye’ve grown up te become as well.”

“Ye think so?” asked Cillian.

“Ye were always her wee boy. Of course she would be. She’d be proud of ye even if ye decided te join the bleedin’ redcoats,” Cailean told him with a small chuckle, and then he sighed. “I’ll be off te London shortly. I trust Barra is in good hands, lad.”

“Ye’ve never left it in my hands before. Are ye sure ye can trust me wi’ it?” Cillian asked his father, and Cailean let out a small sigh and wrapped one arm around his son’s shoulders.

“If I couldnae, this clan would be in great danger. But it isnae,” Cailean told him. “Ye ken how te fight fer yer people, and how te care fer them. Ye ken how te hear and solve their grievances and ye ken how ye keep the peace among yer people. I trust the clan in no one’s hands but yer own, lad.” He looked up at the portrait again, then let out a heavy sigh. “Besides… if all else fails, ye might be takin’ up the reins sooner than ye think.”

“I hope that isnae the case,” Cillian replied. “The clan needs ye, Da.”

“Not if I’m no good fer it,” Cailean told him. “My past is catchin’ up wi’ me, and I’m continuin’ te face consequences fer crimes against the Crown committed nearly thirty years ago. If, in the end, it’s in the best interest of the clan fer me te step down, then… so be it.”

“Dinnae think like that yet. Let’s wait and see what London has te say, aye?” Cillian asked him, and Cailean nodded, patting his son gently on the back.

“Ye’ve yer mother’s optimism, tha’s fer sure,” he told him. He then pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it briefly. “Hour’s gettin’ close. Suppose I should get ready te go. It’ll be a long journey te London.”

“How long?” Cillian asked him.

“Two days, maybe three,” Cailean replied. “We have te sail around the islands, through the Channel and the Irish Sea, say hello te the Isle of Man, sail all the way down the coast of Wales, sail around Cornwall and along the coast of South England, pass by the auld White Cliffs of Dover into the North Sea and then up the Thames te London. It’ll be quite a journey.”

“Sounds excitin’,” said Cillian. “Ye sure ye want me te stay here?”

“With ye actin’ on my behalf as my heir, the English cannae touch our tenants,” Cailean told him, and Cillian chuckled softly.

“I should have run off wi’ Caoimhe when I had the chance,” he said sarcastically, and then Cailean chuckled.

“I’m glad ye didnae. I’d have lost my mind if I lost another one of ye,” he said with a soft sigh. “I still dinnae like the idea tha’ yer all growin’ up…”

“Imagine how grown Caoimhe is now,” said Cillian a bit sadly. “She’ll be gone from us five years this year.”

“Aye, she will have,” said Cailean with a sigh. “But she’s happy where she is. I can tell from her letters. Her home is wherever the hell she feels like it is, and that didnae seem te be Barra. Right, best I go. I’ve set up everrathin’ so that if the English come questionin’, they either receive yer answer or wait until I return te see mine. I trust ye, lad. Ye’ll do fine.” Cillian didn’t say anything, but he did embrace his father when Cailean went to give him one.

Cillian had grown up to be a fine man, and was everything Cailean could have ever wanted him to be and more. He was noble, fierce, fearless and proud, all things that would make him a great Laird and Clan Chief someday. However, that day seemed to be looming closer and closer every day. Normally, the next Laird would not claim his title until the previous one had died, but if Cailean couldn’t find a way to get the English to leave him and his people alone, then he’d have no choice but to give up his own title and pass it onto his son. At least the clan would be in able hands. Sometimes, Cailean didn’t feel like his hands were able enough for it. His own weathered hands had seen many adventures, but for the last two decades, they had been here on the island, not venturing much farther than maybe Benbecula or the Uists. He couldn’t deny that a small, small part of him wanted to abandon his sense of duty to his clan and take off into the sunset. That same small part of him hoped that Parliament would slam the door in his face.

18 January, 1771

London, England

Cailean, with Calum and Young Archie (who wasn’t so young anymore at almost forty), stepped off of the ship and onto the dock, taking in the grand city that he had never himself had the privilege - or misfortune - to visit. In the twenty-first century, he had no reason to visit considering England and Scotland were at war, and before now, he hadn’t had a reason nor a desire to visit London, let alone set foot in England. But here he was, breathing in the stench of the city and making a face at it. “Dinnae ken why we call Edinburgh ‘Auld Reeky’. Clearly, whoever named it so had never been te London,” Cailean remarked about the city.

“I recall Paris didnae smell so great, either,” Archie chimed in, and Cailean chuckled a little.

“That it did no’. Even Versailles smelled of shite and pish,” he told his cousin, and then he looked at his son. “What do ye think, lad?”

“It’s no’ so bad. Amsterdam reeked of rottin’ fish all the time, and I’ll take this over that any day,” Calum told him.

“Aye, yer certainly right there,” Cailean replied. “Right, we need te find an inn or somethin’. Preferably somethin’ that doesnae smell so… pungent.” The Tower of London could be seen off in the distance, looming ever so menacingly. The history of that place unsettled Cailean, as did the numerous deaths that occurred there. He shivered a little unconsciously, shaking his head and moving from the dock and onto dry land. All around him were modern buildings - modern to the eighteenth century, that is. A little over a century ago, a fire ripped through central London, destroying practically all of the mediaeval buildings. London had put itself back together nicely, but the remnants of the destruction echoed throughout the streets.

“How does one even get into Parliament?” Calum asked Cailean as they walked.

“Yer askin’ the wrong man, lad,” Cailean replied, looking up at the buildings. “I recall my grandsire mentionin’ tha’ his father wanted te get a seat in the House of Lords, but the House wouldnae hear him. Grandsire humiliated them when his mother tried te get him te pursue a seat as well. He didnae want a seat, but the Lords presumed tha’ he did. I dinnae ken exactly what was said, but I imagine it wasnae good, because he was never invited back te even try. He said his mother was so pished at him, but he didnae mind.” He chuckled a little. “Grandsire was quite a man… He debuted the kilt in the English court, did ye ken tha’?”

“He did?” Archie asked him.

“Aye, he did. He said Queen Anne was verra taken not only wi’ his red hair, but wi’ the kilt. Of course he was mocked fer it, but Grandsire said he told te Lords his head was clear because his bollocks werenae squeezed until they burst in their breeks,” said Cailean, and both Calum and Archie laughed. “Ah, look. Here’s an inn! And it doesnae look too dingy. C’mon, lads, in we get.”

“‘Lad’? I’m no’ much younger than ye, Cousin!” said Archie.

“But the fact that ye are younger than me makes ye a lad te me, lad,” Cailean teased him, leading the two of them into the inn.

20 January, 1771

It took a couple of days, but Cailean finally managed to track down an MP (short for ‘member of Parliament’) and convince him to let Cailean sit in at Parliament. Archie was to stay back and prepare a flyer in case Parliament wouldn’t hear them, and Calum would accompany his father. The Parliament building was a busy building, located at the Palace of Westminster. They would only be seen by the House of Commons, which was the better House to be seen by, anyway. The House of Commons controlled what was debated and passed, as they were the elected officials, while the House of Lords was hereditary. The House of Lords was made up of just that - Lords - but after the reforms following the English Civil War, the House of Commons held the majority of the power.

“I wouldnae want te be seen by the folk who are doin’ this te their tenants anyway,” Cailean said to Calum quietly when they were informed of this.

“They dinnae have more power?” Calum asked him.

“Oh, no! No, they can give their say, but they dinnae have much sway over the government now,” Cailean told him. “No, if we want te change somethin’, we talk te the people who are chosen te represent whatever constituency they come from. There’s Scottish constituencies as well, ye ken.”

“Any from the isles?” asked Calum, and Cailean raised a brow curiously.

“Ah… I dinnae ken, actually,” said Cailean. He looked around the room, where men were taking their seats, and he approached one man sitting on the lower bench, extending a hand. “Good day te ye, sir. Cailean Fowlis, Laird of Cìosamul. And whom do I have the pleasure?”

“Yer in the wrong House, man,” said the man, shaking his hand. “Thomas Lyons, yer Lordship.”

“Ah, I can assure ye, I am no’. Politics arenae my strong suit. I’m here fer one thing and one thing only, and the House of Lords cannae help me,” Cailean told him.

“Begging your pardon, but did you say ‘Fowlis’?” asked an Englishman, chiming into the conversation. “Charles Morgan, sir, of Brecon.”

“Wales, is it?” Cailean asked, shaking the man’s hand. “Pleasure te meet ye, sir. Cailean Fowlis, Laird of Cìosamul.”

“The Laird of Cìosamul! I’ve heard stories of you, sir! And of your grandsire, as well,” said Mr. Morgan. “My father was the MP for Brecon for a long time, and before him was my own grandsire, Sir John Morgan. He recanted the day your grandsire humiliated the House of Lords many times!”

“A sore spot fer them, is it?” Cailean asked, highly amused by this news.

“Just a little bit,” said Mr. Morgan with an equally mischevious smile. “What brings you here to Parliament today, Mr. Fowlis? Seeking the seat your great-grandsire sought?” Cailean scoffed lightly.

“Not even a little,” he said. “Actually, I’m here on behalf of my tenants who have had their land stolen from them by the English.”

“Och, dinnae bring it up,” chimed in Mr. Lyons with a firm scoff. “Ye wish te speak of sore spots? That is a sore spot!”

“Aye? Well, I’m here te put a stop te it,” Cailean said to him.

“Good luck wi’ that, lad,” said Mr. Lyon’s with a touch of bitterness.

“The least we can do is try,” said Calum a bit irritably. “It sounds as though ye’ve given up!”

“No’ given up, no - submitted. ‘Tis in the ‘best interest of the Crown’, so they say, and anyone seen opposin’ it goes against the Crown,” said Mr. Lyons. “I came here te do the same once. Ye should speak te Mr. Alexander Garden, the MP who sits fer Aberdeenshire. He’s heard loads of complaints from all over the county of people bein’ evicted from their homes and sent away te God kens where!”

“Who do ye represent?” Calum asked Mr. Lyons.

“Aberdeen Burghs. I serve Aberdeen, Arbroath, Brechin, Inverbervie and Montrose, but Mr. Garden serves the whole of the county,” Mr. Lyons told him.

“Are there any men servin’ the isles?” Calum asked next.

“Er… I dinnae believe so,” said Mr. Lyons with some discomfort. “I believe Mr. Mackenzie may serve some of the isles!”

“‘Twill be the Isle of Lewis!” chimed in another man, sitting down beside Lyons.

“My Lord, may I introduce Mr. Francis Grant of Elginshire? Mr. Grant, my dear friend, this is Lord Cailean Fowlis of Cìosamul,” Mr. Lyons said to the newcomer.

“Fowlis of Barra, aye? I’m fond te meet ye, sir,” said Mr. Grant, shaking Cailean’s outstretched hand, and then Calum’s. “And yers?”

“Calum Fowlis, sir,” said Calum in response.

“My, er… second son,” said Cailean, trying not to let on that Calum was a bastard. Bastards were always frowned upon no matter what they achieved.

“The Isle of Lewis is represented here, but no’ the Western Isles? No’ the Uists nor Benbecula, Eriskay or Barra?” Calum asked a bit incredulously. “How do ye expect the Western Isles te have their voices heard?”

“No one’s been interested in representin’ the Western Isles, lad,” said Mr. Grant. “Most simply wish te leave, dinnae they?”

“Not if they can help it,” said Cailean, slightly coldly. “My tenants have been forced off their land te make way fer sheep farmin’, and I can tell ye that whoever’s te do the sheep farmin’ isnae doin’ it yet on Barra. We’ve seen no sight of sheep in the two years since they started, but I’ve had te send the people who lived on those lands te the my sister in the Colonies!”

“Aye, I’ve never been te the isles, so I cannae say,” said Mr. Grant a bit uncomfortably.

“We’ll be sure te give the Western Isles a voice today then,” said Calum a bit firmly.

“Oh, surely, ye ken ye willnae be speakin’ today,” said Mr. Lyons. “We’re te debate abolition again today.”

“I was told I might be able te speak,” said Cailean with disappointment. “What do ye mean, I dinnae get te speak today?”

“The man doesnae ken what occurs in Parliament,” said Mr. Grant to Mr. Lyons.

“I can hear ye! I'm right here!” Cailean snapped at them.

“Da,” said Calum calmly. “We’ll wait it out, then we’ll see if we can speak te the house speaker after, aye?”

“Good luck wi’ that, aye,” said Mr. Grant with a chuckle. “Lord North would rather gauge his ane eyes out than stay here a moment longer than he needs te be.”

“Lord North?” Calum asked them.

“The bleedin’ Prime Minister,” said Cailean a bit irritably. “Will the man take appointments afterwards?”

“I dinnae ken. Lord North is a busy man, given the King’s… Well, he’s a busy man,” said Mr. Lyons a bit uncomfortably. “Ah, come and sit by me, men. The debate is aboot te start.” When the man whom Cailean assumed was Lord North entered the hall, the men started shouting, hooing and hawing, and Lord North, once he made it to his seat, started banging his gavel.

“Order, order!” shouted the man, who was younger than Cailean, but looked significantly older than him with that stupid powdered wig. “The debate for the abolition of slavery is to continue today.” He hit the gavel again and sat back down as one man on the other side of the room stood up.

“As I made my point yesterday, I should like to say that slavery is a necessity. What man can afford to hire as many men as he may own to work his plantations in the Indies?” said the man, who clearly was against the abolition of slavery. One man standing somewhere behind Cailean stood up next.

“Because owning another man is an abomination!” he exclaimed back at him, spitting as he spoke. “Who here can justify the owning of another man? What if the man in question was your son?” There were hoots of agreement around him.

“A foolish remark from a man who cannot possibly understand, Mr. Wilkinson. You are not a property owner, you are a property manager,” said the first man, and there were hoots on his side as well. “A job your own father could scarcely keep.”

“My father is not a part of this debate, sir,” spat the man called Mr. Wilkinson.

“It does not take a landowner to know that owning the soul of another man is reprehensible, and against the word of God, Mr. Clarke!” shouted a man on their side. Cailean worked out that he was sitting on the side of the Whigs, while the others were the more conservative Tory party. “The Bible doth say that all men are created equal!”

“And that same Bible, Mr. Townshend, condones the use of slavery!” Mr. Clarke said back to him.

“In Exodus 21:16, the Bible states that any man who ‘steals a man and sells him, and anyone found in possession of him, shall be put to death’!” shouted Mr. Townshend, and Parliament seemed to lose its mind at the outburst on both sides.

“Order, order!” shouted Lord North firmly.

“All this bleedin’ rabble, and they’ll get nowhere,” said Cailean to his son. “Slavery willnae be outlawed fer another thirty years or so.” Calum was silent for a moment before looking up at his father.

“How do ye know that?” Calum asked him quietly, and Cailean’s eyes widened a little. Damn it, he slipped up! He hadn’t told Calum about his own chequered past. Caoimhe knew, and though Cailean didn’t know why, he knew that his sister would have had good reason to tell her.

“Er… I’ll… explain later, lad. Now isnae the time,” Cailean told him, looking away back at the debate. It went on for what felt like hours, with men screaming across the room like squabbling children, until they finally took a recess until later. Cailean, frustrated that he wouldn’t be given the chance to speak, wanted to find the man that had invited him and demand an answer. He left Calum chatting away with Mr. Lyons while he went in search of the man. What was his name again? Pult-something, he couldn’t remember, but he would remember the man’s face. Would he? Honestly, Cailean wasn’t entirely sure what the man looked like, either, save for the fact that he was Scottish.

“Cailean Fowlis, be it truly you?” came a voice from behind him, and Cailean turned to see a middle-aged man a little younger than himself smiling at him with familiarity. He had a bit of a crooked nose and his hair was covered by a powdered wig. He smiled at Cailean, who raised a brow at him curiously.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, but do I ken ye, man?” Cailean asked him as the man grasped his hand to shake it.

“Och, ye dinnae recall?” asked the man. “Ye once called me a ‘meek wee caterpillar’.” Still not ringing any bells. “Simon Fraser, cousin te Jamie Fraser! Or uncle, I suppose.” Simon Fraser? That wasn’t a name familiar to Cailean, and the expression on his face must have given it away. “Dinnae ye recall? We fought at Culloden together, cousin.”

“Culloden?” Cailean asked him, and then when it hit him, his eyes widened. “Oh! Simon Fraser, commander of Fraser of Lovat’s army! Christ, man! I didnae recognise ye! Ye were so wee then!”

“Nineteen, and no’ much younger than yerself, sir!” Simon Fraser teased him.

“No? How auld are ye?” Cailean asked him curiously.

“Four and forty,” Simon told him.

“Four years younger than me, ye meek wee caterpillar,” Cailean teased him. “Though ye dinnae seem so wee or meek anymore. Ye sit on Parliament, aye?”

“Aye, I do, representin’ Inverness-shire,” Simon told him. “I hear yer the Laird of Cìosamul now.”

“Aye, ever since my grandsire died some twelve years ago,” Cailean told him. “I’m surprised te see ye in Parliament, wi’ yer coloured past.”

“I received a full pardon four years after the Uprisin’,” said Simon proudly. “I went on te become a solicitor. I wanted te come here sooner, but the Duke of Argyll thought I might ‘rekindle feelin’s of clanship’, the bastard.”

“He would hate te come te Barra then,” said Cailean with a small chuckle, and Simon scoffed lightly.

“Ye dinnae have te worry aboot seein’ auld Archie Argyll anymore. He died a decade ago,” said Simon with amusement. “After he kicked it, I sat unopposed te represent Inverness-shire and won!”

“As one unopposed would do,” said Cailean nonchalantly.

“Are ye lookin’ te sit on Parliament?” Simon asked him next.

“Not at all. I’d rather no’ step foot in London again if I can help it,” Cailean replied. “I’m here te put a stop te the forced evictions of people from their land.”

“Ah, I see,” said Simon, sighing softly.

“What? Dealin’ wi’ the same, are ye?” Cailean asked.

“All of us in the Highlands are, man. I’ve lost whole villages of tenants te sheep farmin’,” Simon told him, not firmly but with complete seriousness. “I’ve been told I owe it te the Crown fer my actions in the Uprisin’.”

“I’ve been told I’ve no choice, that as part of my pardon, the Crown ‘reserves the right te change the terms of my pardon if they so please’,” Cailean told him irritably. “Have ye tried fightin’ against it?”

“‘Tis no use,” said Simon with a shrug. “Men have tried and failed te be heard.”

“Then perhaps ye havenae tried hard enough,” Cailean told him a bit firmly. “I’ll tell ye this, Simon. I willnae stand aside and let the English take whatever they want from my people. Somethin’ must be done, and somethin’ will be done, even if I have te scream until my throat goes raw at the corner of the street.”

“I wish ye luck, Cailean. Truly,” said Simon, grasping Cailean’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Perhaps ye’ll set a change in motion that’ll benefit us all.” With that said, Simon Fraser bid him farewell, leaving Cailean shaking his head. The man had always been a bit of a pushover, but with Lord Lovat for a father, Cailean supppsed he couldn’t blame him. Still, he was allowing the English to evict his tenants without fighting back, and Cailean wouldn’t do that for his own people. Most government changes that were demanded by the people started with a petition, so Cailean went in search of his son, grasped his arm and dragged him out of Parliament.

“Da, what are ye doin’?” Calum asked him with confusion as Cailean dragged him out of Westminster Palace.

“What we came here te do, lad,” Cailean told him firmly. “We’re goin’ te start a petition te stop the Clearances from tearin’ apart our home.”

“And how do ye intend te do that?” Calum asked him.

“I dinnae ken, but tha’s where you come in, lad,” Cailean told him. “Ye’ve got brilliant ideas in that head of yers, so use them. I ken ye’ve got somethin’ knockin’ around in there.”

“Aye, maybe… Perhaps we can meet wi’ the Highland MPs and see how they’ve been affected?” Calum asked his father.

“We ken how they’ve been affected, and they’ve all but bowed down te the Crown. No, what we need te do is convince them te fight back,” Cailean replied.

“And how do ye intend te do that?” asked Calum again, and Cailean sighed.

“I dinnae ken. They’ll be meetin’ fer some time. Let’s go back home te regroup, form a plan, and then when we return te London next, we willnae be so unprepared. Instead, we’ll be ready te kick ass and take names,” Cailean told him, and Calum only raised a brow at him. “It’s a figure of speech… Come on, lad. There’s no time to waste.”

History says that the Clearances went on for almost a century, starting in the years following Culloden and continuing well into the Victorian era, spanning five British monarchs. Would Cailean be able to stop the Clearances entirely? Probably not, but at the very least, he could stop them affecting Barra. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. He was going to show these people that the Laird of Cìosamul was still a force to be reckoned with.

Chapter Text

13 March, 1771

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

It was a warm spring day, a little unusual for this time of year, but we didn’t care. It was the first birthday of three of our bonny grandchildren, and I was busy making a cake with Mrs. Bug. She was pulling the baked cake out of the hearth, while I was busy whipping up some frosting to cover the cake with. “I dinnae understand why yer makin’ tha’ whipped stuff,” Mrs. Bug said to me. “This sweet bread will be perfectly fine!”

“‘Tis called ‘cake’, Mrs. Bug, and they’re nice te have on special occasions like birthdays,” I said to her. “Besides, ye didnae say anythin’ when we made a cake fer Bree fer her birthday last November.”

“She’s a grown woman. These are bairns yer bakin’ fer. They dinnae need such sweets,” said Mrs. Bug, eyeing the amount of sugar I mixed in with melted butter to make the frosting.

“Life is short, Mrs. Bug. Just let them eat cake,” I said, emulating a French queen who would soon lose her head in the next two decades. “Maggie, would ye mind frostin’ this fer me? Just spread this out all over the cake and cover it.”

“Aye, Mistress Fraser,” said Maggie, putting down the rolling pin she was using on some dough, which was taken up by Mrs. Bug. Mrs. Bug clicked her tongue at me as I took my apron off and laid it on the table, then left the kitchen to go upstairs. It was late morning, and Ginnie was getting a wee kip in before the celebrations started at noon. Quietly, I crept over to her bed and softly sat down beside her, laying a hand on her back and rubbing it gently.

“Ginnie,” I said softly. “Wee girl…” She stirred slightly, rolling onto her side and rubbing her sweet little eyes sleepily, and I smiled at her as she looked up at me with her pretty green eyes.

“Good morning, star shine,

The earth says hello.

You twinkle above us,

We twinkle below…

Good morning, star shine,

You lead us along,

My love and me as we sing

Our early mornin’ singin’ song…”

Ginnie giggled as she sat up and I picked her up, balancing her on my hip and dancing gently with her.

“Gliddy gloop gloopy,

Nibby nabby nooby, la la la lo lo…

Sabba sibby sabba,

Nooby abba nabba, le le le lo lo…

Dooby ooby walla, nooby abba dabba,

Early mornin’ singin’ song!”

“Did ye sleep well, my wee girl?” I asked her, and she nodded while giggling at my silly song.

“Cake?” she asked me, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not yet, wee hen! We’ve got te eat lunch first! But make sure te save room fer dessert, aye?” I asked her, and she pouted a little.

“But I want cake!” she cried.

“I know ye do, darlin’, but it isnae time yet. Yer wee nieces and nephew still need te finish their own naps while we eat lunch. C’mon, darlin’, let’s get ye cleaned up fer lunch,” I told my youngest daughter. I helped her use her chamber pot and wash her hands, and once I sent her down to her father, I heard the sound of crying coming from the nursery. I sighed a little, knowing that one of my granddaughters had woken from her nap, so I went into the nursery and was surprised by what I saw. Maevis was in there with her back to the door, gently bouncing the crying infant in her arms and humming a song. It was Wren, judging by the little tufts of red hair that came into view every so often. “Is she all right?” I asked, startling Maevis a little.

“Huh? Oh, she’s fine,” said Maevis. “I think she’s just hungry.”

“Mrs. Bug is preparin’ lunch, but I’m sure she’d be happy te prepare somethin’ fer her,” I said, and all of a sudden, Lark started crying. A look of fear crossed over Maevis’s face, but was quickly replaced by a more neutral expression. “Want me te take her down?” I asked, offering to take Wren off of her hands, and Maevis looked at me apprehensively.

“Uh… I’m already holding her. I’ll just take her down,” she said, and then she stepped past me, leaving with Wren in her arms. I raised a brow curiously at this behaviour, then bent down over the crib containing Lark, who fussed.

“Oh, shh, shh… ist, wee bean,” I told her, laying a hand on her head and brushing her fair hair back. Her crying began to cease, and as she calmed, she cooed happily under my touch. “Come here, darlin’. Ye must be hungry, aye?” I picked her up and balanced her on my hip, giving her my finger to hold. “Let’s go down and get ye somethin’ te eat.” With that said, I took her downstairs to join her sister for lunch, where I nearly ran into Lizzy, who must have heard Lark’s cries.

“Och, I can take her, Mistress Fraser,” said Lizzy to me with a kind smile.

“Oh, it’s no bother, Lizzy,” I said in response. “Have ye seen Mr. Fraser?”

“Aye, Mistress, in his study, speakin’ wi’ Mr. Lindsay,” she replied.

“What’s Mr. Lindsay doin’ here today of all days?” I asked, more to myself than her, and Lizzy stood there with a mildly perplexed expression.

“Oh, I dinnae ken, Mistress,” she replied.

“Oh, nevermind. On second thought, would ye mind takin’ Lark, actually?” I said as I handed my granddaughter to her, and she nodded.

“Come along, wee Lark! We’ll get ye a nice lunch!” Lizzy said as she carried Lark off, and then I made my way to Jamie’s study.

“…so ye see, Mac Dubh, a tavern would serve the men o’ the Ridge fine,” I heard Evan Lindsay saying to Jamie.

“Aye, and give the men an excuse te be rowdy,” I heard Jamie reply.

“No! Not at all, Mac Dubh. ‘Twill be a way fer the men te relax a bit before goin’ home te their wives and bairns! After a hard day’s work, do ye not like a dram or two wi’ friends before ye go home?” I heard Evan Lindsay continue.

“I think ye’ll find I’m happy te go home te my wife and family,” Jamie replied as I appeared in the doorframe.

“Evan, do ye really think today’s the best day te be havin’ this conversation? It’s our grandchildren’s birthday today. We’re a wee bit busy te be haverin’ away aboot a pub,” I said, interrupting the conversation.

“Oh! Good day te ye, Mistress Fraser,” said Evan, nodding to me politely in greeting. “My apologies, Mistress. I was only hopin’ yer husband might consider it. The men hae been hopin’ fer a tavern fer some time.”

“Well, perhaps ye can discuss it when we return from River Run,” I said, crossing my arms as I leaned against the doorframe. Soon, we would be on our way to River Run for Jocasta’s wedding, bringing along Caoimhe, Ginnie, Elton, Rory, Brèagha, Donnie and Geordie. Maevis thought it best to stay behind, and Archie would be put in charge of the Ridge in our absence.

“Oh, aye, of course. I did ferget auld Duncan was marryin’ yer aunt, Mac Dubh,” said Evan a wee bit shyly. “I’ll leave ye to it, then. Good day te ye both.” With that said, he left, and Jamie let out a small sigh.

“A tavern… ‘Tis the last thing I wanted on the Ridge. A place fer the men te congregate and drink themselves blind,” he said to me.

“I dinnae think it’s such a terrible idea, but what is a terrible idea is discussin’ it today of all days,” I told him, crossing the room and resting my hands on his shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Come on, then. We’ve got three wee grandbabies te celebrate today. They’re a year auld! Hard te believe it already…” Another thing that was hard for me to believe was the fact that I had turned fifty only about six weeks before, but ever since the day, I had pushed it to the back of my mind and changed the subject the moment anyone brought it up. I shook off that mild discomfort and urged Jamie up. “Come on, up ye get. ‘Tis lunchtime anyway.”

“Another of Mrs. Bug’s stews?” Jamie asked me.

“It smelled better than ye’d think,” I replied, chuckling a little.

“I dinnae think I’m in the mood fer stew,” he told me, leading me by the hand around and pulling me into his lap.

“Jamie!” I said with some surprise, glancing towards the door. “The door’s open!”

“Damn the door,” he told me, pressing his lips firmly against mine.

“Ye willnae be sayin’ that when someone walks in,” I told him, wrapping my arms around his neck anyway and kissing him again.

“Then let us take this upstairs, aye?” Jamie asked me, raising a brow curiously. “I havenae had ye in weeks. I’m starvin’ fer ye…”

“And who’s fault is that? Ye’ve been so busy buildin’ yer new distillery,” I said to him, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Yer gone from dawn te dusk. This is the most I’ve even seen of ye in weeks!”

“Aye, and I’ve missed ye terribly,” Jamie told me. He leaned in to kiss me again, but the sound of excited little footsteps coming into the room interrupted us and we pulled away right as Ginnie came in and started pulling on her father’s sleeve.

“Daddy! Daddy! Mrs. Bug says ‘tis time ye come out of yer cave and eat!” she said to him excitedly, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“His cave?” I exclaimed. Mrs. Bug often seemed to have a stick up her twat, but she certainly had moments where she was the funniest woman I had ever met.

“Come on, Daddy! Let’s go!” Ginnie exclaimed as she pulled on her father’s sleeve.

“All right, all right! I’m comin’, a sheillan-meala,” Jamie said to his daughter. I chuckled gently as I got up and was immediately replaced by Ginnie, who crawled up onto his lap. A long time ago, Brèagha and Archie would have done the same, but the two of them were never as close to their father as Ginnie was now. If she could, she would follow Jamie everywhere, much like how I once did with my own father.

“Right, on we get, then. First lunch, and then cake!” I said to the two of them.

“Yeah! Cake!” Ginnie exclaimed excitedly.

MAEVIS POV

“Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, Wren, Lark and Donnie,

Happy birthday to you!”

Everyone clapped while Brèagha, who was sitting down with Donnie on her lap, blew out the candles on the cake for the three infants. Well, they weren’t really infants anymore, Maevis supposed. Were they? Donnie wasn’t walking yet, but he was taking steps aided by his parents, and Lark was still crawling around, but Wren had started taking her first steps already and clumsily liked to follow everyone around. Maevis held Wren, the oldest of the three cousins, on her hip while Wren clapped her little hands, and she couldn’t help but glance over at Lark. Lark was happily being held by Geordie, who absolutely adored the two little girls. It made Maevis’s heart clench to see him so sweet on them, but she couldn’t allow herself to think about that, or about how Geordie bonding with Lark made her feel. When she did, she started going back to that dark place she had been now almost four months ago.

Four months ago, Maevis had tried to end her life, and she was almost successful. Only now was she regaining use of her left hand again after weeks of physical therapy, and her right hand fingertips still tingled as the nerves in her wrist repaired themselves. Mama had said it could take up to a year for her hands to go back to some semblance of how they were before. Mama continued her therapy sessions with Maevis, but they were growing further apart as things kept drawing Mama away. She’d asked Caoimhe to help, but with so many residents on the Ridge, it was hard for Caoimhe to find time to sit Maevis down and speak with her. There were times, too, when Brèagha would sit with her and they’d talk about the babies, but that was about as far as the conversation went. Ever since Maevis’s suicide attempt, Brèagha wouldn’t look Maevis in the eye, so those moments didn’t often occur. Sometimes, Elton would sit with Maevis, too, and listen to her sing songs to the girls. She liked those instances best because Elton never really said anything, he was just there, and that seemed to help her the most.

It was a nice day, so the birthday party took place outside and was spread out among the lawn in front of the Big House. There were people from all over the Ridge, friends and family like Seàrlas and his family or the Lindsays and their families. There was a lot of joy, laughter and general happiness, and though Maevis was feeling better, she still found it somewhat difficult to smile. She no longer felt that dark cloud hovering over her, suffocating her with its shadows, but she knew it was nearby, lurking just around the corner and waiting to catch her off guard. She could feel her mother’s silvery eyes and her father’s sky blue ones occasionally glancing at her as she sat on the porch with Rory’s guitar on her lap, but she paid them no heed. At her feet were Wren and another young child who Maevis didn’t quite know the name of, but knew was a child of one of the Ridge residents. They weren’t exactly listening to Maevis, but were relaxed at her feet as they played with hand-carved wooden blocks.

“I’m being followed by a moonshadow,

Moonshadow, moonshadow

Leaping and hopping on a moonshadow,

Moonshadow, moonshadow

And if I ever lose my legs,

I won’t moan, and I won’t beg.

Oh, if I ever lose my legs,

Oh, if I won’t have to walk no more…”

“Tha song sounds oddly cheerful, yet the lyrics not so much,” came Archie’s voice, and Maevis looked up to see him leaning against the stairs, one arm resting on the handrail.

“Ah!” cried Wren, excited to see her uncle, and Archie chuckled a little as Wren pushed herself to stand and toddled over to him.

“Hello, wee bird,” said Archie, picking her up happily. “What song is tha’, a phuithar?”

“Hm? Oh… It’s a song called ‘Moonshadow’ by Cat Stevens,” Maevis answered him. “I guess it doesn’t have the happiest lyrics, but there’s a lot of those. Lots of songs for children have dark meanings. Have you ever heard ‘Ring Around the Rosy’ or ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’?”

“Dinnae think I have,” Archie replied. “Hey, wee girl.” Maevis noticed that Archie gave Wren a bit of a sad smile. He and Clara both had been rather elusive since Victoria’s death, and for good reason. Clara cried whenever she saw a young child still, mourning the fact that her own child was cold in the ground. Archie was a bit more stoic, perhaps a bit aloof almost, but for the sake of cordiality, forced himself to present as warmer than he was actually feeling.

“She’s glad you came,” Maevis remarked about Wren, and Archie chuckled softly. “She’s missed you a lot.”

“Och, I’m sorry, Wren… Some days are… a bit harder than others, and as ye can imagine, the thought of the girls and Donnie turnin’ a year auld already has been loomin’ over us,” Archie told her, keeping his focus on Wren. “This lucky wee girl gets te see a year…” Maevis didn’t respond, but only nodded in understanding.

“Did Clara come?” she asked after a moment, and Archie shook his head.

“No, she couldnae. But I’ll bring her a piece of Mama’s cake,” Archie replied. “I came te speak wi’ Da aboot runnin’ the Ridge when he’s gone te River Run. I ken they’re leavin’ tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Maevis, nodding a little.

“Mama wants me te return te the house while they’re gone, but I cannae ask Clara te do that. If she wants te, she’ll come, but I’ll come and stay as long as I can before goin’ back home,” Archie told her.

“I understand,” Maevis told him, and she sighed a little. “It’ll be so lonely here. Pretty much everyone’s going except for us. Caoimhe, Elton, Ginnie, Bree and Rory…”

“Even Geordie’s goin’, I hear,” said Archie, and Maevis glanced up briefly at Geordie, who, along with Lizzy, was playing with Lark on the grass. “Good fer him. I ken it’s been a long while since he’s seen his family last, and wi’ them wantin’ te relocate te Alamance, it could be the last time he sees them fer a while.” At this, Maevis raised a brow.

“Alamance?” she said with some surprise. “What’s out there?”

“Another developin’ town,” Archie told her. “Wi’ tha’ bastard, Underwood, in talks of buyin’ out Mr. Ainsley’s small bank in Cross Creek, Mr. Severs doesnae want te take the chance tha’ he’ll have te bank wi’ Underwood, so he wants te leave. At least, tha’s what Geordie said he said in his last letter.”

“Huh,” said Maevis, unsure of why that name sounded so familiar. “Would… Would Geordie move back in with his family if they went there? I know he came here because of Mr. Underwood.”

“I dinnae think so. I think he likes havin’ his own piece of manhood te claim fer himself here,” said Archie with a small chuckle. “That, and everraone here doesnae treat him like an invalid, whereas his parents still do.”

“Yeah, I guess I can’t blame him for not wanting to go back,” said Maevis softly, looking down at the guitar in her lap.

“And how are you doin’, Maevis?” Archie asked her, somewhat catching her off guard. At first, she looked up at him, unsure of what to say, and then she sighed and shrugged.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” she replied. “I mean, I feel okay… but like you said, some days are harder than others.” At this, Archie nodded, and then he sighed.

“Yer lookin’ better,” he told her. “Ye scairt me half te death before. Ye’d gone all pale fer weeks, ye lost a lot of weight… I thought it might have been the White Plague ye had, save fer ye werenae coughin’ up blood.”

“The White Plague?” Maevis asked him.

“Consumption,” Archie told her. “I think Mama calls it somethin’ else, wi’ tubes…”

“Tuberculosis,” said Maevis.

“Aye, tha’s it,” said Archie, snapping his fingers in recognition. “Ye look much better now, really.”

“Thanks,” said Maevis, honestly not sure how to respond. She looked back down at the guitar again, and Archie let out a small breath of air before setting Wren back down on the ground.

“Right. I need te speak wi’ Da and… get back te Clara,” he said. “I’ll see ye later, a phiuthar.” Maevis nodded and smiled a little.

“I’ll see you,” she said, watching him head back towards the family.

15 March, 1771

Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

We left the Ridge the day before, leaving it in the care of Archie and Maevis. Truth to be told, I was quite worried about leaving our two most recently traumatised children alone at the Ridge, but I did privately ask Seàrlas and Sioned to check in on them, and I asked Mrs. Bug to keep a close eye on Maevis and stay in the house with her. I understood why Clara couldn’t stay in the house, as I certainly never wanted to return to Jamie’s cousin, Jared’s house in Paris after Brian died, but I was concerned that Archie wouldn’t be in the house as much. I had also asked him to keep an eye on Maevis’s interactions with Lark, as I had noticed that she had been showing more of a preference for Wren. Whether she knew about it or not, I didn’t know for sure, but I would not allow my granddaughter to grow up in her sister’s shadow just because she looked like her mother’s rapist. However, I didn’t want to speak to her about it until I knew for sure, and Archie agreed to watch her and tell me if he, too, noticed a difference.

The nice weather had turned cold again, so we kept moving as much as we could in an attempt to keep warm. Elton had had the bright idea to bring along a metal basin to have a fire in, sitting it in the wagon on top of a slate tablet and allowing for us to have heat while on the go. Jamie and I sat in the front seat of the wagon, while everyone else huddled up around the fire behind us. When Rory wasn’t keeping us entertained with some music, Caoimhe had encouraged everyone to read from a Shakespeare book she had brought along.

“‘Sir, I sh-shall study d-deserving’,” said Geordie, reading for the part of Edmund, the Duke of Gloucester’s illegitimate son and the main villain of the play, King Lear.

“‘He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The King is comin’,” read Rory, reading for the part of the Duke of Gloucester.

“‘Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants’,” read Caoimhe. “Bree, why dinnae ye read fer Goneril, maybe Da can read fer King Lear, Elton can read fer Cornwall, Auntie can read fer Regan, and I’ll read fer Cordelia.”

“I didnae ken we were a part of this,” I teased her.

“We need more readers! We cannae keep speakin’ te ourselves!” Caoimhe replied.

“What sort of names are ‘Goneril’ and ‘Cordelia’?” Bree asked with a slight tone of disgust.

“‘Goneril’ sounds like ‘Gonorrhoea’,” said Elton, and I couldn’t help but snort at this.

“‘What’s two plus two? Gonorrhoeeeea’,” quoted Rory, making Elton laugh.

“What the hell is ‘gonorrhoea’?” Bree asked with some shock.

“A venereal disease, hen. Nowadays, it’s called ‘the Clap’,” I told her, and I laughed at the horrified look on her face.

“The Clap!” cried Ginnie, clapping her little hands together and causing more laughter to erupt from the wagon.

“Lord, cleanse my ears,” Jamie uttered beside me.

“They’re no’ bad names!” Caoimhe exclaimed, interrupting the laughter. “Accordin’ te Geoffrey of Monmouth, Gonorilla was the name of the eldest daughter of an auld British king, and Shakespeare just shortened it te ‘Goneril’.”

“‘Gonorilla’ is even worse!” Rory exclaimed, bursting out into laughter again.

“I’m sorry te tell ye tha’ ye’ve tested positive fer Gonorilla,” I said playfully and in a mock serious tone, making Rory and Elton laugh even harder.

“Thanks te you lot, if I ever have a daughter, I’ll never call her ‘Goneril’ fer fear yer makin’ fun of her,” Caoimhe told them, returning her attention to the open book on her lap. “Not that I would anyway. Goneril is an evil bitch.”

“I thought ye didnae want children anyway,” Bree said to her.

“I dinnae, but if I ever did have a daughter, she’s certainly no’ gettin’ that name,” Caoimhe spat back at her.

“Good, because I most certainly would make fun of her,” Rory teased her, making Elton laugh again.

“Cordelia is a much prettier name,” I chimed in. “Doesnae it have some meanin’ pertainin’ te the sea?”

“I dinnae ken. I thought maybe somethin’ te do wi’ ‘heart’ since ‘cardi-‘ is the Latin root word fer heart and it kinda sounds like tha’. But I think I’ve heard it had te do wi’ the sea,” Caoimhe told me.

“‘Heart of the sea’. A bonny meanin’,” I said. “And personal, seein’ as yer a child of the sea yerself.”

“Dinnae remind me,” Caoimhe replied. “I do miss the sea…”

“I’ll be needin’ te visit Wilmington again soon. I’ll be sure te take ye wi’ me, Caoimhe,” Jamie told his niece.

“I’d love that. I miss the salty air,” Caoimhe replied. We continued on for a bit, stopping when we came to a creek to water the horses. I took Ginnie down from the wagon to encourage her to go for a wee in the woods, and once she was finished, she was immediately distracted by the sight of a bird on the ground.

“Look, Mama! A bird!” she cried excitedly, running towards it.

“Ginnie, be careful! Yer goin’ te frighten it!” I said to her, but she was already off.

“Mama, he’s hurt!” Ginnie said as I followed her, and she had already picked up the bird in her hands. The bird, a type of sparrow, was chirping with fright, and Ginnie shushed it and pet its feathers like she would Juniper back at home. “Shh, yer okay, birdie.”

“Darlin’, we should really put the birdie down. He’s terrified,” I said to her, but she wasn’t having it.

“He’s hurt, Mama. Help him!” Ginnie told me, trying to hand the bird to me, but I really didn’t want to take it. Wild birds were often full of diseases, and I won’t lie when I say that they sort of freaked me out a little when they flapped their wings wildly. But this bird wasn’t flapping its wings, and instead, was nursing an injured wing.

“Darlin’, we should… really leave the bird alone,” I told her. “We’ll put him in a tree and-”

“No! Help him!” Ginnie cried again, trying to give me the bird again. “You help people. Why won’t you help the birdie?” I sighed, knowing well that she had me there.

“All right… Let’s bring him back te the wagon and I’ll take a look at him,” I told her. “But yer holdin’ him.” She carried the little sparrow back to the wagon, and I shrugged when Jamie gave me a raised brow at the sight of the bird. “I have to help the bird,” I told him. I climbed into the back of the wagon with Ginnie and she laid the bird on a crate.

“Ginnie, what is that?” Bree asked her, but Ginnie ignored her.

“Caoimhe, help the birdie!” Ginnie demanded from her cousin.

“I’m no’ really sure what we can do. His wings are so wee,” I said as I examined the bird.

“I have an idea,” said Caoimhe, and she climbed off of the wagon and went back into the woods.

“Whatever yer doin’, do it quickly. We need te move on,” Jamie told me.

“We cannae leave the birdie!” Ginnie said. “We won’t leave the birdie, will we, Mama?” I let out another small sigh.

“No… We’ll take him with us and hope he’s better by the time we get te River Run,” I told my daughter.

“Catrìona,” Jamie told me a bit firmly, and I returned his firm tone with a firm look.

“Do ye want te break yer daughter’s heart? Because I dinnae,” I snapped at him, and then I returned my attention to the bird. “Do we have any seeds, maybe? Or bread?”

“Ye cannae give the bird our food!” Bree exclaimed.

“Yer mean!” Ginnie snapped at her, and she stuck out her tongue at Bree, who returned it.

“We can spare a few crumbs of bread fer the wee bird,” I said. “Elton, can ye find the bread and break a few pieces off fer the bird?”

“His name’s Harry,” said Ginnie.

“Fer Harry,” I corrected myself.

“Dinnae give it a name!” Bree exclaimed. “What if it has diseases? Put it back!”

“You probably have diseases and we’re no’ discardin’ ye,” said Caoimhe as she reappeared with a twig, and she climbed back up onto the wagon. “Here, we can fashion a wee splint fer Harry.”

“Will he be okay, Mama?” Ginnie asked, watching as I tried to fashion the splint for a very unhappy and noisy little Harry.

“I’m sure he will be, hen,” I said. “We’ll see him well.”

17 March, 1771

My first thought of the day was that Saoirse would have been forty-five years old, but fate intervened and she didn’t get the chance to see such an age. It started me down the path of thinking about my own age. I had turned fifty years old in February, and ever since, I’d pushed that down to the deepest, darkest crevices of my mind. It still seemed so… strange to me that I was fifty, as I had lived through so many things that should have killed me well before I reached what honestly isn’t such an advanced age. Fifty was relatively young - maybe not in this time period, but in general was considered fairly young. My father was fifty when he died - not far from fifty-one, as his birthday was the nineteenth of June and he died on the sixteenth of April - and my mother had only been forty-eight, actually sharing her eighth of August birthday with her grandchildren. Wow, how had I never made that connection before? My father was born on the nineteenth of June, three days before Maevis and Elton, and my mother was born on the same day as Cillian and Caoimhe… Huh. My father had always enjoyed music and celebrations, and I can only imagine all the fun he and his grandchildren would have had… But they were robbed of that. They could have been sitting in rocking chairs on the wraparound porch of the Big House with their great-grandchildren on their laps… But instead, their remains lay cold in the ground, four hundred years in the future along with four of their children, and their only surviving children were now as old as they were young when they died.

“Are ye all right, a nighean?” Jamie’s voice interrupted my thoughts and I rapidly sucked in air, catching my breath again when I realised who was speaking to me.

“Blessed Bride, Jamie, ye ken not te sneak up on me like that,” I said a bit sharply, and he chuckled a little.

“Ye and Elton both startle like kittens,” he said, and I sent him a glare. “I ken it’s Saoirse’s birthday today. Caoimhe’s a wee bit quiet as well.” I looked down at my hands, which were poorly learning how to knit a scarf, and I sighed and put down that pathetic scrap of yarn.

“Yeah,” I said to him. “I started thinkin’ aboot how she’d have been forty-five today, which reminded me that… I turned fifty not that long ago. And then I started thinkin’ aboot my parents… My father was two months shy of fifty-one, and my mother was forty-eight. Did ye ken she shared a birthday wi’ Cillian and Caoimhe?”

“Did she?” Jamie asked me, raising a brow with interest, and I nodded. “She was born on the eighth of August, 2082, exactly, oh…three hundred and thirty-five years after her grandchildren.”

“Perfectly normal,” said Jamie with a small chuckle. He glanced up at Geordie for a moment, the only of our group, save for Donnie who was too young to understand, who didn’t know about our big family secret. Jamie had a strange look in his eye and a small smile on his face, so I couldn’t help but raise my brow.

“What are you smilin’ at?” I asked him, somewhat perplexed by his behaviour.

“Geordie’s a nice lad,” he said. “He’d make a fine son-in-law, wouldnae he?”

“What?” I asked him, somewhat taken aback. Where was this coming from?

“Er… Fer who?” I asked him, and he only chuckled.

“Have ye not noticed?” he asked me.

“Noticed what? Jamie, what are ye talkin’ aboot? Will ye stop bein’ so damn cryptic?” I asked him irritably.

“Geordie. Wren and Lark adore him as he does them,” Jamie told me. “He’d make them a fine father, wouldnae he?”

“Geordie?” I asked with surprise. “Ye mean… Maevis isnae interested in marryin’ right now, Jamie. Ye know that.”

“Aye, but someday, she’ll need te be,” Jamie replied, and I scoffed.

“She doesnae need te marry anyone if she doesnae want te,” I snapped back at him, but he raised a hand to slow me down.

“I understand yer point fine, Catrìona, but ye need te try and understand mine,” he told me somewhat firmly. “Regardless of how ye feel aboot how strong our daughter is, she’s still a woman.” I scoffed and stood up to walk away from him. “Ye ken what I mean, Catrìona. Our daughter can be the strongest person in the world, and still, the world itself willnae see it that way because of her sex.” I paused, closing my eyes and letting out a deep breath.

“Ye think I dinnae ken that?” I asked him. “I know this world isnae like the one I left behind… This one sees women as mere objects te own and not individuals. Even you once thought that way.”

“Aye… And it’ll see a young lass like Maevis, alone wi’ two fatherless bairns… and it’ll wish her gone,” Jamie told me softly, and I let out a heavy sigh.

“Worse than that,” I said. “It’ll wish her dead. See her and the girls as no more than a burden on the world, even though their existence doesnae affect them.”

“Aye, I ken. And though I disagree wi’ the world’s sentiments now, we need te see her cared fer. Ye ken better than most how short life can be, and how suddenly somethin’ bad can happen,” he said, and I scoffed again.

“I know yer right, but I dinnae like the reason fer it,” I said with a small huff. “Maybe… Maybe we can figure out a way te find out if the girls can travel through the stones. They can go back te the future, te a world better suited fer them.” I turned to look at Jamie, who was pressing his lips together a bit unhappily. “She can get proper treatment there, too… I’m no’ a therapist, and the St. John’s Wort tea I’ve been givin’ her fer depression isnae enough. She needs somethin’ stronger, somethin’ chemically derived.”

“Catrìona,” Jamie said, but I was already heading down the track too fast for him to stop me.

“Plants can do a lot and so many medications will someday be derived from them, but they can only do so much. It isnae enough. She needs better treatment, the girls need te live in a better world…”

“Catrìona.”

“What?” He was standing in front of me with his hands out, encouraging me to slow down.

“Is that what Maevis wants?” he asked me. “Te live in the future?”

“I dinnae ken… But if we want te see her safe and cared fer and she willnae marry - and I will not force her if she doesnae want te - then goin’ back te the future may be the only way we can ensure the safety of her and the bairns.”

“But would she want that wi’ Wren and Lark?” So he noticed, too. If Jamie noticed, then how obvious was it to everyone that Maevis was clearly favouriting Wren over Lark? “At least if she marrit Geordie, we’d ken they were both loved and cared fer. And we wouldnae have te lose our daughter or granddaughters.”

“We’ll talk te her,” I said softly. “In time, of course. I willnae bring it up te her now… It’s only been four months since…”

“Aye, I ken,” Jamie replied, a tone of sadness creeping into his voice. “I… havenae found the strength te speak te her aboot it myself…”

“It’s probably best ye dinnae,” I said with compassion, crossing my arms across my chest. “She’s been verra stubborn… and rather reactive. I… can relate te her on some levels, but… attemptin’ suicide…”

“Do ye think I dinnae have experiences te relate te her?” Jamie asked me, and I looked up at him to meet his eyes. At almost fifty himself, he still towered over me, but the gap between the bottom of his chin and the top of my head had shrunk just a little, meaning he’d lost a bit of his height as well. Another weird thing about ageing.

“I know the whole deal wi’ Randall,” I said, but he shook his head.

“More than that,” he uttered softly. “Ye were gone fer a long time…” I was a bit taken aback by this. Did this mean he attempted to take his own life when we were separated for fifteen years? I opened my mouth to respond, but the shrill sound of a badly-out-of-tune stringed instrument suddenly cut through the air, cutting me off. Alarmed, Jamie and I both looked towards the source of the sound and found it coming from the wagon, Rory’s back to us and the neck of Maevis’s hurdy gurdy just visible on his left side. Bree quickly covered Donnie’s ears by pressing him against her abdomen and covering his free ear, then attempting to cover her own. Caoimhe, on the ground next to Ginnie, also covered her own ears, and Geordie made a whistling sound.

“Terrible! Terrible!” he ticced, and Caoimhe let out a scoff.

“Ye’ve got that right. What the hell is that noise?” she demanded.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure it out!” Rory snapped back at her, and I exchanged a brief glance with Jamie to silently tell him the conversation wasn’t over and that we’d continue it another time before heading to the wagon.

“First, ye have te tune the puir thing,” I said, climbing up onto the wagon. “Thoir an seo e.” He handed me the gurdy upon my request and I sat down with the instrument on my lap, turning the tuning pegs, cranking the wheel and pressing the keys as I listened for the tune. Once I had it tuned, I played a few notes from some random melody, then smiled. “There we are.”

“It’s almost like tuning a guitar! And a piano…” said Rory, quite perplexed about the instrument. “But it sounds like an accordion, almost? A really sick one… Mixed with a horn of some type, or a pipe.”

“It’s a difficult instrument, tha’s fer sure. I only ken how te play it a bit because my grandsire did,” I told him. “Er… my mother’s father. It was a rather niche hobby he had, and when he died, he left it te my mother, who had no idea what te do wi’ it.” I chuckled a little. “She wanted te sell it but my father said we ought te keep it, that he could learn te play it, and she said, ‘Ye willnae do such a thing! It’s like tryin’ te play the piano and the violin at the same time!’ And he just laughed and said ‘Eilidh, mo eun-seinn, if the man who created this daft thing could do it, then so can I’.” I smiled fondly at the memory, and next to me, Bree smiled as well.

“I didnae ken Grandda called Granny his songbird, Mama,” she said to me. “It’s… nice te hear stories aboot them.” I smiled a bit sadly.

“I ken I dinnae talk aboot them much… Sometimes, the pain of losin’ them is just… so great, it… can be hard te bear,” I told her. “But perhaps I should. Tell more stories, I mean. Because someday, there willnae be anyone left te tell their story.”

“Daddy’s told me a few,” said Caoimhe, leaning against the wagon. “My favourite is the story of how they met.”

“Tha’s a good one, too,” I told her, looking back down at the gurdy in my lap. “They were… often verra different from each other, but one thing they had in common was their love of music and singin’. Da was a singer as well, but he preferred te be behind the instrument. When he mastered the gurdy, this was a particular favourite of theirs to sing together. I’m sure Bree and Caoimhe might have heard it before…” I started playing a specific tune on the gurdy, and the recognition lit up in both Caoimhe’s and Bree’s eyes. Suddenly, they were little girls again, and beside them were Archie and Cillian, watching me strumming the guitar I held on my lap on some warm summer day a lifetime ago.

“Did ye ever see the Wild Goose sailin’ on the ocean?

Ranzo, my boys, oh, Ranzo Ray…

Just like them pretty girls when they get the notion, oh

Ranzo, my boys, oh Ranzo Ray.

Oh, Ranzo, you’ll rue the day

As the Wild Goose sails away…”

“As I was walking one evenin’ by the river,

Ranzo, my boys, oh, Ranzo Ray.

I met with a pretty girl, my heart it was a quiver, oh

Ranzo, my boys, oh Ranzo Ray.

It was at this point when Caoimhe joined in with the song. Just like her father and her grandmother, she was also a songbird with a bonny voice, happy to share her gift with the world.

Oh, Ranzo, you’ll rue the day

As the Wild Goose sails away.

Oh, Ranzo, you’ll rue the day

As the Wild Goose sails away…”

“I know that song,” said Rory. “From Maevis. She used te hum it te herself, but never sing it. I always thought it was just some tune she made up.”

“Archie sang it te me te keep me awake durin’ that harsh first winter on the Ridge,” Jamie chimed in, leaning against the wagon and watching me.

“When ye broke yer leg?” Caoimhe asked him, and Bree’s eyes widened.

“Broke yer leg? When did that happen, Da?” she asked him.

“Some time ago. All’s well now. Yer brother saw me safe,” Jamie told her, and she let out a small sigh.

“I missed out on so much…” she said a bit sadly. “Archie would sing that song te me when ye were gone, Mama, although I havenae heard it in years. He said singin’ yer songs would keep us close.” I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of my son comforting my daughter, taking care of her the way he had sworn to do the day we said goodbye in Ireland.

“It was a favourite of both of my parents,” I said fondly as I recalled the memories I had of being little and listening to my own mother sing that song to me. Then I sighed, and handed the gurdy back to Rory. “There ye are. Simple, but no’ as simple as ye’d think. Just try te get used te pattin’ yer head and rubbin’ yer belly at the same time.”

20 March, 1770

Cross Creek, North Carolina

CAOIMHE POV

After what felt like forever, the Frasers finally arrived at River Run, and right away, Caoimhe was sent to Cross Creek in search of a metal cage that Harry the bird could continue his recovery in. The wee sparrow seemed to be doing better, but it still couldn’t fly, so Ginnie was going to build him his own wee nest in the cage so he could recover without injuring himself further. She came to the General Store, which was owned by the McCulloughs, and she let out a small sigh as she made her way to it. Where else was she supposed to get an iron cage? But did the General Store have to be owned by the one person who Caoimhe didn’t want to see?

It wasn’t that Caoimhe disliked Mr. McCullough necessarily. He was a very kind man, and Caoimhe had no reason to dislike him or feel uncomfortable with him. She just… had a lot behind her, and that didn’t frighten her necessarily - little really did - but it just… Oh, it just made things so complicated, and she didn’t want to explain it nor even try to understand it. It was too much. She had a lot of shit to deal with at the moment, and she didn’t intend on romantic feelings being one of those things. She stabilised herself before going inside, half expecting to see Mr. McCullough right away, but being pleasantly surprised to see his mother instead. “Oh. Hello, Mrs. McCullough,” she said as she let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, good mornin’, dear! ‘Tis so good te see ye again, Miss Fowlis! It’s been so much time! I assume yer here fer Mistress Cameron’s weddin’?” Mrs. McCullough asked her.

“Aye,” Caoimhe replied. “Are ye… goin’ as well?”

“Mistress Cameron invited all of the merchants of Cross Creek te attend as well,” Mrs. McCullough answered her kindly. “My Allan and I will both be in attendance.”

“Oh, ye both will,” said Caoimhe with a little bit of discomfort. “Er… Tha’s wonderful. I… look forward te seein’ ye both. Um… I’m lookin’ fer a wee metal cage fer birds. My wee cousin has a bird tha’s injured its wing and she wants te put it in a cage so it can rest.”

“Birds in a cage?” asked Mrs. McCullough with a raised brow. “I may have somethin’ in mind, but if I dinnae, then ye may want te go te Mr. Balfour at his forge fer somethin’ specific. But ye’ll have te go quickly. He’ll be leavin’ soon.”

“The blacksmith? Why?” Caoimhe asked her. Blacksmiths were so important to towns, so why was Cross Creek’s blacksmith leaving? Suddenly, Caoimhe had a feeling why… She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Underwood.” Mrs. McCullough nodded.

“We’re verra fortunate my husband didnae take many loans out wi’ him,” she said. “My father came into fortune on his own. I was his only child, and when my father died, he left the shop and his fortune te me. But of course, no’ many are as fortunate as we are.” She let out a small sigh, then looked out the window. “Mr. Abernathy’s auld cobbler shop has been turned into a private office fer Mr. Underwood, and the new cobbler, Mr. Whitney, well… He’s a Tory, te say the least.”

“And I’ll bet the next blacksmith will be, too,” Caoimhe said with a slight tone of disgust, and then she let out a small huff. “‘Tis maddenin’ te think how much Cross Creek has changed, and in so little time.”

“My father used te say that change was inevitable,” said Mrs. McCullough. “However, this sort of change…”

“It’s benefittin’ the wrong people,” Caoimhe replied. “I assume Mr. Whitney will be at the weddin’ as well?”

“Aye, I believe so,” said Mrs. McCullough. “Well, best I fetch ye that cage. Oh, my Allan will be thrilled ye’ve come fer the weddin’. We werenae sure if ye were. He’s out of town until Friday, but he’ll return wi’ plenty of time before the weddin’ on Saturday.”

“Glad te hear it,” said Caoimhe as kindly as she could muster. “Er… the cage, Mrs. McCullough?”

“Oh, crivens. Yes, of course, the cage,” she said, and then she finally went to fetch it. Caoimhe, on the other hand, let out a small sigh. Again, she didn’t necessarily dislike Mr. McCullough, she just… Well, she didn’t know what, and she also didn’t know if she couldn’t identify what ‘what’ was because she simply couldn’t, or because she was unwilling to. Either way, the only thing she knew for certain was that she wanted to avoid Allan McCullough. She suddenly thought back to the pile of unopened letters she had bound and hidden underneath a loose board under the windowsill in her room, all addressed to her, all from Mr. McCullough. Too many, and still somehow not enough. Oh, but what did a silly thing such as love matter in such a tumultuous time? Auntie Cat had mentioned many times that the dawn of a revolution was on the horizon, and how it would become loyalist against revolutionist, father against son, brother against brother. The first tendrils of smoke were already starting to appear even here in Cross Creek, with questionable merchants being evicted and replaced with Tories who would resist the coming revolution. And was it a coincidence that many of them were Scots? Scots who might have come or been sent here generations ago due to some unrest with the English, and Scots who came just a generation ago. Those who once fought for Scotland’s freedom were growing old, and now, their children would inherit their qualms with the English. Once the spirit of revolution was ignited, it was incredibly difficult to put it out. It seems that the young will always inherit the revolution, but the dawn sure was cloudy.

Chapter Text

23 March, 1771

River Run, North Carolina

CATRÌONA POV

The fourth wedding of Jocasta Mackenzie Cameron Cameron Cameron Innes went as expected. It was elegant, full of the riches of the upper class of Georgian society, and just as full of the stuck up people that belonged to Georgian society. There was chamber music playing in the garden and people were dancing, but I was perfectly happy to stand aside and watch Ginnie chase butterflies in the garden.

“They’re like birds, Mama! But they’re not. They’re bugs,” said Ginnie curiously as she inspected one that landed on her finger.

“Aye, but they start out as these wee little worms wi’ legs,” I told her as she came over to show me her butterfly. She raised her finger with the butterfly on it, but it startled me when it flew away and I backed up into a table. “Blessed Bride!” I let out a small huff as Ginnie laughed at me. “Bloody wee things… Why dinnae ye go and play wi’ the other children, Ginnie, instead of terrorisin’ yer mother wi’ bugs?”

“Okay, Mama!” said Ginnie through her giggles, and then she ran off to the other children playing in the garden. I let out a small huff and brushed off my dress, which was a bonny royal blue colour that had been dyed with indigo, as Jamie approached me with a glass of wine.

“As I said, ye scare like a kitten,” he said to me with an amused chuckle, handing me the glass, which I snatched and took a sip of irritably. He shook his head with amusement, so I ignored him. Beside me, he let out a heavy sigh, then looked around at all the people in attendance of the wedding. Caoimhe had mentioned that Jocasta had invited many of the merchants and business owners of Cross Creek to attend, as well as many other friends she had in Wilmington and New Bern, and several red-coated officers of the British military. Major Campbell was there, much to my dismay, as well as a new, overly friendly Scottish officer by the name of Major MacDonald who badly wanted Jamie to introduce him to Tryon. I could only guess that Major MacDonald was the reason for Jamie’s appearance in the female-dominated garden, and then I cleared my throat.

“Major MacDonald pesterin’ ye again?” I asked him, and he sighed.

“Everraone of some importance in the British army is pesterin’ me,” he said a bit irritably. “Rubbin’ shoulders wi’ the men who want te see my godfather dead…”

“Who thankfully, isnae here,” I said, and then I lowered my voice. “Thanks te Fergus and his quick thinkin’. We’re verra lucky Fergus happened upon him on his last trip te Wilmington. Wi’ redcoats everrawhere…”

“Aye. I’m glad of it, too,” Jamie told me, looking at me and smiling gently, and then he leaned into me and lowered his voice. “What do ye say we sneak off and find ourselves a quiet wee nook?”

“At yer aunt’s weddin’? How scandalous,” I teased him. “But I do like yer thinkin’.”

“Meet me in the stables-” Jamie began to utter, but then he was suddenly yanked away.

“Daddy! Daddy! Come look!” came wee Ginnie’s voice, her little hand grasping at Jamie’s sleeve and pulling him away. Jamie looked at me with a mock exasperated look, and then he followed his daughter.

“All right, a nighean, slow yerself!” he said to her, and I shook my head with amusement. As I finished my glass of wine, I surveyed the people around me. Most were women, as the men were elsewhere speaking of ‘manly topics not suitable for female ears’, but there were some men that were accompanying their female companions in the gardens, as well as dancing on the terrace. I spotted Bree near the terrace as well, Rory nowhere in sight, and there were a few men who were approaching her. Judging by the look of discomfort on my daughter’s face, she needed company, so I quickly downed the rest of my wine.

“I’ll take that, Missus,” said a voice beside me, and I looked to my left to see another of Jocasta’s servants - well, slave, really, because she wasn’t paid for her work - that I recognised as Betty.

“Thank ye, Betty,” I said as I handed her the glass. I paused briefly when I saw that she looked a little unwell and unstable on her feet, but I was more focused on my daughter, so I shrugged it off. She was probably tired, as most of the slaves - Christ, I hated that word - had been up since well before dawn preparing for the wedding. I then approached my daughter, who was casually drinking a glass of wine while three men fawned over her. The hand she drank from was her left, which displayed her golden wedding band, but the fools didn’t seem to notice.

“My dear, I do have a lovely pianoforte that would be most blessed to be graced by your fingers,” said a young Hal Tindall, the eldest son of one of the newer lawyers of Cross Creek - all the Whig lawyers were chased out by Mr. Underwood and his connections, save for young Mr. Hawthorne, who was new to the scene and bolder than the others who had left.

“I dinnae play, I’m afraid,” Bree replied meekly, hoping he got the hint to leave her alone.

“Do you sing, madam?” asked the son of one of Mr. Underwood’s Tory business partners, Nathaniel Cromwell.

“I do not,” Bree replied.

“She’s a verra skilled painter, my daughter,” I chimed in, surprising the gulls that were gawking over her like a piece of meat. “She’s painted a fine portrait of her husband and her son tha’ Mistress Cameron - oh, pardon me, Mistress Innes - has displayed in her parlour.”

“You’re married, madam?” asked Mr. George Seaver, who was easily thirty-five years old and was the son of an ageing accountant who worked with Mr. Underwood. I thought he might have been his father’s apprentice.

“Do ye not see the ring on her left hand?” I said to them, and they all looked. “Yer lucky my daughter is a respectable lady, but I, on the other hand, am not. Leave her alone, will ye?”

“I do hope you will forgive me, madam. You have my most sincerest apology,” said Mr. Tindall, taking her hand and bowing over it to kiss it.

“Shoo, get,” I said, shooing the three men away, and they all gave me dirty looks as they left. I claimed the seat beside my daughter, who let out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Mama,” she said. “I couldnae think of a polite way te tell them te leave me alone.”

“Then dinnae be polite. Simple as that,” I told her. “Those fools dinnae deserve yer kindness.” She chuckled a little.

“I guess I’m a bit more afraid of Auntie Jocasta’s judgements than ye are,” she replied, and I scoffed.

“The woman judges me based on my smell alone, I’m sure of it,” I said. “She’s never liked me. She thinks I’m holdin’ yer father back, and had the audacity te say so te my face. Nothin’ I do will earn her approval, so I’m no’ fightin’ fer it anymore.”

“Tha’s a shame. Yer a strong woman, just like she is. Ye’d think ye’d both get along fine,” Bree told me, and I shrugged.

“Sometimes, when ye see yerself reflected back at ye in another person, ye dinnae like it. Perhaps we’re too similar,” I replied. Perhaps it was a bit of a disappointment that Jocasta and I didn’t get along, but it was due to no fault of mine. She was the one who disapproved of me, and I suppose I judged her lifestyle a bit, however, it was hard for me not to, considering how difficult of a life I’d had compared to her. But there were some things we had in common, such as the fact that we’d both lost children - however, Jocasta lost all of her children, whereas I had been lucky enough to still have most of mine. We’d both seen horrible things from the perspective of someone who wasn’t expected to, and yet, we still find it difficult to get along. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Jocasta was about as old as my parents would have been had they lived, and I was as old as her daughters would have been had they lived. I glanced up to see another gentleman staring at my daughter, but I didn’t recognise him, so I narrowed my eyes at him. “Who’s that peacock?”

“Who?” Bree asked me, looking in the direction I was. “Oh, him? I dinnae ken. He’s been eyein’ me fer some time, though.”

“Where’s Rory?” I asked her.

“Pulled away by Mr. Forbes fer some legal business. I dinnae ken what,” she told me. “Perhaps I should go and check on Donnie…”

“Mamie’s watchin’ him, hen. She did a fine job wi’ Ginnie and she’ll see te him as well,” I told her, but the uncomfortable look on her face told me that that wasn’t what she was concerned about. “Right. Ye go inside, I’ll deal wi’ Mr. Googly Eyes.” She shook her head with mild amusement and stood, and we parted ways while I went to the mysterious man across the lawn. “Can I help ye?”

“I do beg your pardon, madam?” he asked me, raising a brow at me.

“Ye were oglin’ at my daughter,” I told him, and he feigned ignorance.

“‘Ogling’ is a harsh word, madam. Not to mention, a strange one,” the man said to me. He had dark hair tied back in a neat queue and he seemed to be relatively young, maybe late twenties. He turned to face me fully and bowed slightly to me. “And whom may I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Catrìona Fraser. Mrs.,” I said to him, quite unimpressed with this show.

“Madam Fraser, how lovely to meet you,” he said to me, taking my hand and brushing it with his lips. I tried to pull it away without bringing attention to my obvious annoyance.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. “And te whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ignatious Spalding, madam,” he said to me, trying to bow again.

“I havenae seen ye around,” I said to this peacock. “Are ye a friend of Mistress Innes’s?”

“I am the coroner of Cross Creek,” said Mr. Spalding, and I raised a brow at him.

“What happened te Mr. MacIntosh?” I asked him, somewhat suspiciously.

“I am told he was of an advanced age, Madam Fraser. I am afraid to say that he has passed,” Mr. Spalding replied.

“And his sons? He had three of them who worked wi’ him as his apprentices,” I said next.

“Hm. I was informed by Mr. Underwood when he told me of this town that the heirs of Mr. MacIntosh’s business could not repay their loans,” he replied, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Mr. Underwood, ye say,” I said. “Hmph. Cannae say I’m surprised.”

“Nor can I,” said Mr. Spalding nonchalantly. “I imagine they spent all their inheritance at that filthy whorehouse. I hear they bank with Ainsley, but when George purchases Ainsley’s bank, he will do away with that filth.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I said to him sharply, and he looked at me with an incredulous expression.

“I… beg your pardon? Have I offended you, madam?” Mr. Spalding asked me, and I scoffed.

“Offended me? Ha! It takes a hell of a lot more than that te offend me, but what I willnae stand fer is yer heartless accusations of the MacIntosh lads,” I spat back at him. “I can assure ye, whatever ye think and whatever ye might have heard aboot them is incorrect, and if they couldnae afford their loans, it is because yer friend, Mr. Underwood, drove them out by callin’ in everra loan at once.”

“Does a banker not have the right to claim the money he is owed?” Mr. Spalding asked me, and I scoffed.

“‘Tis a moral thing. Clearly, ye and yer friend dinnae have a moral compass,” I told him. “Stay away from my daughter. She’s a marrit woman, and she’d have nothin’ te do wi’ the likes of ye.” I didn’t even give him a chance to respond as I quickly stalked away. It infuriated me quite a bit that this Mr. Underwood felt that he could push out people who had been established here for years - even several years before the man himself was born, as I believed he was around Archie’s age. I was distracted momentarily from my thoughts as another server offered me a glass of wine, and I let out a small sigh and took it. “Thanks,” I said as I continued on. When I came around the corner of a hedge, I let out a gasp as I bumped into someone, spilling that new glass of wine all over both of us. “Christ!”

“Bon sang!” cried the other woman I ran into.

“Och, I’m so sorry, hen, I didnae see ye,” I said as I pulled a handkerchief that I had stuffed into the neckline of my dress and tried to blot it out of the other woman’s dress, and then I looked up to find myself face to face with the new Mrs. Underwood. “Oh… Are ye all right, Mrs. Underwood?”

“Bon après-midi, Madame Fraser,” the young, fair-haired woman said to me. I couldn’t help but notice that she was several months pregnant, due probably in no less than four months, but I brushed off that thought.

“And te ye as well,” I told her. “Sorry, again, I didnae see ye there. Unfortunately, I was just given a full glass of wine that isnae quite so full anymore.” Mrs. Underwood chuckled gently, brushing off some of the wine with her own handkerchief in her gloved hand.

“C’est d’accord. It is okay,” she said to me politely.

“How are ye doin’, then, hen? I havenae seen ye since, oh… I’m sure it was some gatherin’ here at Mistress Innes’s,” I said to her, and she smiled kindly. “I hear ye’ve been marrit.”

“Oui, to my dear Monsieur Underwood. I could not be happier,” she told me with a smile, resting her hand on her swollen belly.

“And a wee one on the way. Ye must be excited,” I said to her.

“Oui, it is what I have always wanted,” Mrs. Underwood told me.

“I recall the joy I felt kennin’ I was carryin’ my firstborn,” I told her with a bit of nostalgia, and then I let out a small sigh. “Enjoy it while ye can. Before ye ken it, that wee one will be out of ye and twenty-seven before yer verra eyes.” Mrs. Underwood laughed gently.

“Your son is Archie, oui?” she asked me, and I nodded.

“Aye. He and his wife just had a child of their own this past October,” I said, and then I lost my smile. “She… didnae live long, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, pauvre chose. I am so sorry for your loss,” said Mrs. Underwood, laying a hand on mine gently. “You are doctor, no?” she asked after a moment.

“Aye, I am,” I replied, raising a brow curiously. “I assume Doctor Fentiman has been te see ye?” She seemed to shrug delicately, her eyes cast down beneath her hat.

“He is good doctor. So George insists. I think him too… impétueuse,” she said to me, calling him harsh. “He always smells of drink.” I sighed subtly and nodded.

“Aye… I’ve no’ had much interaction wi’ him, but he seems te care fer his patients,” I told her.

“Will you come?” she asked me, looking up at me. “I feel more comfortable with woman.”

“Me?” I asked her. “Er… I… have a feelin’ yer husband wouldnae like that…” She looked at me with a perplexed expression.

“Why ever not?” she asked me.

“Er… Well…” I said, and then I sighed. “From… what I’ve heard… he’s still a wee bit sour from my son marryin’ his former fiancée.” For a moment, she seemed confused, and then she recognised what I was talking about.

“Ah, oui. I did forget for a moment,” she said, and then she sighed. “May I come here to see you?”

“Er… Is… Would your husband be all right wi’ that?” I asked her, quite apprehensively. My family had pissed off Mr. Underwood, who clearly had a lot of power and influence, enough and I really didn’t feel like pissing him off any more. He had already taken his anger out at Archie’s marriage to Clara on quite a few Scots in Cross Creek, so what would he do if I pissed him off next? A small part of me wanted to antagonise him, but I didn’t want anyone else to suffer, either.

“He does not need to know,” said Mrs. Underwood, smiling knowingly at me.

“Um… I’ll give it some thought and send ye word, aye?” I asked her, and she nodded.

“Merci, Madame Fraser,” she said happily. “I would be very grateful-”

“Marielle,” came a firm voice, and I was slightly alarmed by the sudden appearance of Mr. Underwood himself. “I thought I told you not to wander far.”

“Je suis désolé, mon amour. I did not mean to worry you,” Mrs. Underwood said in an effort to calm her obviously irritated husband. He looked up at me beneath his powdered wig, narrowing his eyes somewhat as he recognised me.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Fraser,” he said as politely as he could muster, but it was clear that he was not at all happy to see me.

“And ye as well, Mr. Underwood,” I replied a bit coldly, not taking my own slightly narrowed eyes off of his. “I was just congratulatin’ yer wife on her pregnancy.”

“Hm,” he said suspiciously. “Yes, we are very fortunate indeed.”

“Count yer blessin’s. No’ many are as fortunate,” I said to him with a subtle warning tone. He didn’t say anything except for subtly biting his lip, and then he grasped Mrs. Underwood’s arm.

“Come, Marielle,” he said a bit sharply, dragging his young wife away. I couldn’t help but scoff a little at Mr. Underwood’s behaviour. The bastard clearly thought me and everyone else beneath him, and the way he looked down at me over his nose confirmed that. I shook my head, trying hard not to think further about the bastard for fear that my day was going to be ruined. 

“Mistress Fraser!” came another familiar voice, and I turned around to see the bumbling Doctor Fentiman himself, already drunk from too many glasses of wine, and I sighed. Would I ever get a moment to myself today?

CAOIMHE POV

Caoimhe was in the library, having been roped into conversation by Miss Forbes, Geordie’s sister Lizzy, Miss Bernadette Beauchamp and the daughter of one of the accountants at Underwood’s bank, Miss Alexandra Seaver, and she hated every second of it. They were chatting away about the latest gossip of the town, which included the romantic lives of some of the younger men, including Miss Seaver’s brother, and talk of a recent elopement.

“I heard that Jeremiah Matland threatened Art Hawthorne with a duel if he kept giving Charlotte Cromwell his attentions,” Miss Forbes was saying.

“Monsieur Matland should marry Mademoiselle Cromwell,” Bernadette chimed in. “Then she will be his wife, and Monsieur Hawthorne will have no leg to stand on.”

“I honestly cannot blame them,” said Miss Seaver. “Mr. Matland is so much older than Charlotte, and she and young Mr. Hawthorne have known each other for so long.”

“How auld is Charlotte?” Caoimhe couldn’t help but ask. She knew that Art Hawthorne, who was the nephew of the young Whig lawyer, Allan Hawthorne, was somewhere around Lizzy’s age, but she didn’t know how old Charlotte Cromwell was.

“Fifteen, I believe,” said Alexandra. “At least, that’s what Henrietta says.” Henrietta was Alexandra’s older sister and was married to the cousin of Nathaniel and Charlotte Cromwell. “She first heard of it from Lucretia Simmons in Lillington.”

“Lillington? That’s fifteen miles from here. How ever did Lucretia Simmons hear of this?” Miss Forbes said with some exasperation.

“Because rumour has it that Art Hawthorne had gone to Lillington and made plans with a friend there to take them in when they arrived,” Alexandra told her.

“They had plans to elope already?” Bernadette asked with a raised brow.

“Supposedly. Charlotte said it was nothing but senseless rumours when confronted by her brother. I was there for it, visiting the Cromwells for tea,” Alexandra said.

“Cross Creek could do without another elopement,” said Miss Forbes with a bit of a scoff. “The town is still reeling from Clara Ainsley’s elopement with Miss Fowlis’s cousin.”

“They’re verra happy, thanks fer askin’,” Caoimhe said to her a bit irritably.

“Oh, how is dear Clara?” Alexandra asked Caoimhe. “We did write when she left, but I have not heard from her in so long. Did she have the baby?”

“The baby?” asked Miss Forbes. “I didn’t know Clara was expecting!”

“Oh, aye,” said Caoimhe, and then she sighed. “Well… They had a daughter, named Victoria, in October.”

“Oh, what a pretty name!” Alexandra exclaimed.

“There’s more to it,” Bernadette observed. “The look on your face says there is bad news.”

“Er… Aye, there… there is, I'm afraid,” Caoimhe replied, and Alexandra lost her smile. “Victoria… became ill and she… died in December.” At this, Alexandra gasped.

“Oh, goodness. Poor dear,” she said. “Oh, I must write to her right away. I am surprised to hear of it so late. My mother has always been so close to Mrs. Ainsley, her mother.”

“I imagine Mrs. Ainsley doesnae ken,” said Caoimhe, somewhat bitterly. “Mr. Ainsley didnae take too kindly te her elopement wi’ my cousin, as I’m sure ye recall.”

“The duel, yes,” said Miss Forbes. “What a silly way for men to ‘fight for their honour’. My brother talked of challenging Mr. Mackenzie to a duel as well, but I am glad the fool didn’t.”

“So am I,” said Caoimhe, taking a sip of her tea. As much as she adored her step-brother, she knew that Rory would not be capable of winning a duel. Did he even know how to shoot a gun? She’d certainly never seen him try.

“My mother will be having tea with Mrs. Ainsley, I imagine. I should go and find her,” Alexandra said. Caoimhe caught sight of someone moving past the entrance to the parlour, followed by a red-coated soldier.

“George! There you are, good friend! I must introduce you…” a voice followed the movement, and it sounded like Mr. Ainsley himself.

“Dinnae bother,” Caoimhe replied, finishing her tea in one sip and setting it down on its saucer on the table. “I’ve a mind te do it myself.”

“Oh, Caoimhe, you mustn’t,” said Alexandra kindly. “You sound upset, and you should never give bad news when you’re upset.”

“By that logic, no one should give bad news ever,” Caoimhe replied, standing up. “Dinnae wait fer me, I won’t be back.”

“Oh, I must witness this!” said Miss Forbes excitedly behind her, but Caoimhe paid her no heed. She went into the hall in search of Mr. Ainsley, finding the red-coated soldier standing in the doorframe of the other parlour with his hands clasped behind his back. He was fair-haired, and judging by the side of his face and the appearance of his hands, he seemed young. As Caoimhe approached, the man must have heard her footsteps, and he took a step back and revealed himself to Caoimhe. He was young, and not at all hard on the eyes. He had thick brows, but a firm jawline, a thin mouth with pink, somewhat plump lips, and a little bit of stubble growing on his face. He had blue eyes that were the colour of the ocean on a clear day, but something in his eyes indicated volatility.

“I beg your pardon, madam. I thought you were someone else,” he said, bowing to her somewhat, but she didn’t return it.

“Ye never ken, I could be someone else,” Caoimhe replied. “I’m lookin’ fer Mr. Ainsley. Is he nearby?”

“My uncle is speaking with Mr. Underwood at the moment,” said the soldier. “May I take a message?”

“I’ll wait. It’s better said by me,” Caoimhe told him, crossing her arms. “I havenae seen ye around these parts.”

“I’ve just come from Wilmington, and before that, England,” said the soldier. “I’ve just completed my officer training and have been sent here to the Colonies. I am meant to go to the city of Boston, but my uncle insisted I join him as a guest of this wedding.”

“England, huh? Sounds miserable,” Caoimhe replied.

“You do not sound like a lover of England,” said the soldier.

“Dinnae be daft. I love England,” she replied sarcastically. “I’m sorry, I didnae catch yer name.”

“Captain Edward Ainsley, ma’am, Viscount of Ellenbroke,” said the soldier, and Caoimhe nodded subtly. “And you are, Miss?”

“Caoimhe Fowlis,” Caoimhe replied nonchalantly, glancing into the room, where Mr. Ainsley was trying to speak with Mr. Underwood. However, Mr. Underwood didn’t seem too interested in hearing Mr. Ainsley speak - as a matter of fact, he looked somewhat upset, but out of the few times that Caoimhe had seen him, he never had anything other than a sour look on his face.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fowlis,” said Captain Ainsley, but Caoimhe wasn’t really paying him much heed any longer. “Tell me, how are you acquainted with the bride and groom?”

“The bride is my uncle’s aunt, and the groom is his friend,” Caoimhe replied, watching as Mr. Underwood said something and stalked out of the room, which gave Caoimhe access to Mr. Ainsley. “Excuse me a moment, Captain.”

“Oh? All right,” said Captain Ainsley with a raised brow as Caoimhe pushed past him, and once she was in front of Mr. Ainsley, she wasn’t sure where to start. She hadn’t seen him since he shot Archie in the duel now over a year ago, and while he looked the same, he definitely looked older and more fatigued. Caoimhe stalled for a second, as everything she wanted to say to this man gummed up together at her lips, wanting to come out all at once. If Caoimhe wanted him to hurt the way he hurt his daughter, then she needed to control the flow of her words.

“Can I help you, madam?” Mr. Ainsley asked her and she silently stared at him, and she let out a huff. As she opened her mouth, however, he cut her off. “Are you not the cousin of the man who stole away with my daughter?”

“What?” came the exasperated cry from Captain Ainsley in the doorway, and he came running in. “You did not inform me that you are cousin to that wretched man!”

“Didnae cross my mind,” Caoimhe said to him rather nonchalantly.

“Were you aware of my relationship to my uncle’s daughter?” Captain Ainsley demanded of her.

“I figured it out quickly,” Caoimhe replied.

“And you just continued to let me speak to you?” he demanded again with more force.

“Ya,” Caoimhe said, now with her own irritability. “All right, enough of this. I didnae come here te talk te you, I came here te speak wi’ Mr. Ainsley!”

“And judging by your tone, you mean to speak frankly,” said Mr. Ainsley a bit coldly.

“Perhaps it is best if you were to leave my uncle be,” said Captain Ainsley with a warning tone.

“That is enough, Edward. I am interested to see what Miss Fraser has to say to me,” said Mr. Ainsley to his nephew.

“Fowlis, actually. I’m the daughter of Mistress Fraser’s brother,” Caoimhe told them. “Right. There’s a lot I wish te say te ye in regards te yer daughter, but the verra thought of all the pain ye’ve caused her makes me seethe wi’ anger.”

“And what of his anger? Are you not aware of the troubles that Clara has brought upon my uncle?” Captain Ainsley demanded from her again.

“Tha’s enough, Edward,” Caoimhe mocked him, and then she turned her attention back to Mr. Ainsley, narrowing her eyes at him. “There’s only one thing I’ll say te ye fer now… Ye had a granddaughter. Had.” The hardened expression on Mr. Ainsley’s face seemed to freeze as if it were paralysed, drooping ever so slightly as the realisation of Caoimhe’s words dawned on him. After a brief pause, she continued, but with less abrasiveness. “She was born this past October and died scarcely two months later. And the one thing Clara needed most durin’ this time was her mother, who she didnae have because of ye.”

“Perhaps it is God’s way of punishing Clara for her-” Captain Ainsley began, and Caoimhe turned around and punched him in the nose as hard as she could. He stumbled backwards onto the settee, stunned into absolute silence and looking up at Caoimhe with his somewhat frightened blue eyes. Stepping over his feet, Caoimhe leered at him as she stood over him, her fierce Fowlis grey eyes piercing into his own.

“You will not use God te justify yer opinions!” she shrieked at him angrily. “If ye have any respect fer God, ye wouldnae dare imply him te be such a heartless beast as te take the life of a child as punishment fer Clara fallin’ in love and wantin’ te be happy!” Now satisfied with the terror in Captain Ainsley’s eyes, Caoimhe stood up straight and readjusted her dress, clearing her throat before she stepped over him again and made her way towards the door.

“Wait,” choked out Mr. Ainsley, and Caoimhe froze, not turning around to look at him. “The child… What did she call her?” 

“Victoria,” Caoimhe replied. “Victoria Eleanor Fraser.” She left the parlour, leaving a stunned-into-silence Mr. Ainsley and a terrorised-into-silence Captain Ainsley in her wake.

ELTON POV

Elton was happily enjoying a tart syllabub when he was tapped on the shoulder. He jumped like a frightened frog and accidentally flung the spoonful of syllabub out of the cup, in the air and right… in the hair of a woman not too far away. She didn’t notice, but Elton went beet red as he turned to see who had tapped him on the shoulder. It was a young woman who was hiding her face behind a fan, and she seemed to be giggling a little. She was dressed in a butter yellow dress with ribbons up and down the sides, and her reddish-brown hair was done up all prettily. She fluttered a floral fan in front of her face, which she held in lace-gloved hands, and she had cat-like green eyes as she looked at Elton above the fan. “Er… Can I help ye?” he asked her.

“Well? Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” she asked him, still hiding behind her fan.

“Oh, um… I didnae ken tha’s what ye wanted. Usually ye dinnae tap on people’s shoulders, give them a fright and ask them te introduce themselves first,” Elton replied as he stood up, and then he clumsily bowed. “Elton Fraser, ma’am.” She giggled again behind the fan, then stuck her hand out for him to take.

“My name is Henrietta Whitney. Miss,” she said to him.

“Uh… Hello, Miss Henrietta Whitney,” Elton replied awkwardly, taking her offered hand and shaking it. She raised a brow at him, perplexed at this interaction apparently, and she lowered her fan to reveal her face. She was kind of pretty, but definitely young. She had a petite, upturned nose and a small, plump mouth. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen.

“You’re quite a strange boy. That’s what everyone has been saying,” said Miss Henrietta Whitney, and Elton narrowed his eyes a little.

“Tha’s wonderful, and exactly why I didnae want te come here in the first place,” he replied, and he turned to leave.

“Wait! Wait! I didn’t say that I believed you were strange!” the young girl said to him hurriedly.

“Sayin’ ‘Yer quite a strange boy’ sure sounds like yer opinion,” Elton replied as he tried to get away from her.

“I didn’t mean it that way, I promise!” said Miss Whitney, and Elton stopped and let out a small sigh.

“What do ye want from me?” he asked her straight, not wanting to beat around the bush. “Did my aunt put ye up te this?”

“Mistress Innes, you mean? Oh, no! I-I wanted to meet you for myself,” said Miss Whitney with some mock meekness.

“Ye wanted te see how much of a spectacle I am, did ye?” Elton asked her, and Miss Whitney huffed and stamped her foot.

“You are so… standoffish!” she said.

“I just dinnae like bein’ treated like some side show,” Elton told her a bit firmly. “Good day te ye, Miss Whitney.” With that said, he walked away, but not before being stopped by Aunt Jocasta himself.

“Ye will never get a wife if ye treat all lassies like that, nephew,” she told him, and Elton scoffed.

“So ye did send her my way. And Miss Mercy, and Miss Ridley, and Miss Forbes, as well!” he exclaimed, recalling how each of those women had also approached him and tried to engage him either in a dry conversation, a long walk or a dance, none of which Elton had any interest in with strange women.

“Och, I simply suggested they go and introduce themselves te ye. No harm te it,” said Jocasta with a knowing smile, and Elton let out a huff.

“If I want te find a wife, auntie, I will,” he said, and then he stalked away. “I’ve my whole life fer it!” He was only twenty-one years old, after all. Why was everyone in this century in such a rush to get married? Well, he supposed that people did live much shorter lives than they would in the future. But still, he was in no rush to get married, let alone find a girlfriend. He was perfectly content being single, thank you very much. He had too many important things he wanted to work on, such as the plans for a device that would collect rainwater and store it, then water Mam’s garden when the trap door was opened. He also wanted to create a sort of hand-cranked chainsaw to make cutting wood easier. Perhaps he could slip away without being noticed so he could work on the blueprints upstairs… One of the servants let him use the attic earlier when all of the rooms were claimed by visitors. He briefly glanced back over at Aunt Jocasta, who wouldn’t see him anyway but if she asked her manservant, he’d tell her. They were distracted by Mr. Innes returning to her side with two glasses of wine and accompanied by Breàgha, who was carrying Donnie on her hip, and Rory. She seemed glad to see them - or rather, hear them - then gestured to Ulysses, who then left her side, but not in Elton’s direction. Good, now was his chance. He quickly made for the house, passing a rather angry-looking Caoimhe on the way out. “Caoimhe!” he said, now distracted. “Are ye all right?”

“Fine,” she said without turning around, continuing on her path, and Elton raised a brow curiously. Whatever could have happened to her? Oh, nevermind. He needed to disappear up into the attic before someone noticed he was gone.

CATRÌONA POV

Feeling slightly tipsy and loose-lipped after my third glass of wine, I found myself watching the dancers on the platform spin in circles. Watching them made me a little dizzy, so I instead focused on the glass of wine in my hand. When I heard people clapping all around me, I joined in, until I found myself being drawn out of my wine glass by a familiar voice. “Good day to you, Mrs. Fraser,” said the man, and I looked up to see Lord John Grey emerging from the small crowd of dancers.

“Lord John,” I said with a little bit of surprise. I couldn’t deny that I wasn’t overly thrilled to see him, but for the sake of the day, I chose to be more civil. “I had no idea ye were such a good dancer.”

“To tell the truth, I’m not certain I am,” said Lord John with his hands behind his back, a small chuckle emanating from his chest. “I think I must have danced with every girl in the province.”

“Hmm. All of them hopin’ te secure an advantageous match wi’ Lord John Grey, no doubt,” I said with a hint of sarcasm, and he let out a small sigh.

“Yes, well… It is the social event of the year,” Lord John replied. “I’d wager there isn’t a single young lady in North Carolina  who’d forfeit her chance to be worshipped in Cupid’s grove tonight.” A moment of awkward silence passed between us. “I… saw your daughter, and your grandson. He looks very much like his grandfather.”

“They named him Donnie, short fer Donald, which was Rory’s father’s name,” I told him.

“Yes, so they were telling me,” Lord John replied. “Rory was explaining to me that his father died in a gunpowder explosion when he was just a boy.” That was a clever explanation, given the fact that Lord John couldn’t even conceive the idea of a nuclear attack.

“Aye… It was verra unfortunate. I remember when it happened,” I replied. I felt myself wobbling a bit and stabilised myself on a chair, but this did not go unnoticed by Lord John.

“Goodness, are you all right, Mrs. Fraser? Can I assist?” he asked me, and when he went to grab my arm, I shooed him away.

“No, dinnae touch me,” I snapped, and he seemed somewhat taken aback. I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Jamie’s sudden appearance. “Jamie!”

“There ye are, mo chridhe,” he said with a small sense of urgency in his voice, and I felt his hand wrap around my wrist somewhat firmly. “John!” he said when he realised we weren’t alone, and his eyes went somewhat wide with surprise as he loosened his grip. “I thought I heard gossip aboot ye.”

“Gossip?” asked Lord John with amusement. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I passed a group o’ wee lassies gigglin’ aboot ye,” Jamie teased him. “Later, I’ll have a glass of wine wi’ ye, but I need te speak wi’ my wife right this moment.” I rolled my eyes a little, knowing that what he wanted to do involved very little speaking.

“I look forward to such a meet-” began Lord John, but he was broken off by even more unwanted company.

“Ah, Lord John Grey, Colonel Fraser, this is quite the advantageous meeting,” came the voice of Governor Tryon with his wife on his arm. The brief look that passed on Jamie’s face indicated that he was not at all happy to see Governor Tryon, but he masked it quickly.

“Yer Excellency,” Jamie said, bowing somewhat to him. I grasped onto his arm, squeezing it a little.

“Mistress Fraser, excellent to see you again,” Tryon said next to me kindly.

“And ye as well, Yer Excellency,” I said, and then I nodded to Mrs. Tryon. “Mistress Tryon.”

“Her Excellency… if you don’t mind,” said Governer Tryon, and Mrs. Tryon chuckled.

“Pay him no mind, Mistress Fraser,” she said to me with amusement. “I usually insist upon the title as a reminder to him.”

“I like that. I should insist my husband call me Lady of the Ridge,” I joked, and we shared a small chuckle.

“And just as he’s finally gun introducing me this way to the good people of North Carolina, we’re leaving for New York! Typical!” exclaimed Mrs. Tryon with a laugh, and Jamie and I both exchanged a brief glance and looked at each other.

“New York?” Lord John asked him.

“Oh, yes. I have been offered the opportunity to take up the governorship of the colony of New York. There is much to be done there, and an experienced governor is needed to head the colony,” Tryon explained to us.

“And we’re told the climate is much more similar to that of England,” Mrs. Tryon chimed in.

“So I’ve heard as well,” I uttered.

“Who’s te replace ye?” Jamie asked, a curious look on his face.

“I am not certain. That is yet to be decided, and if it has, it has yet to be relayed to me,” Tryon told him. “Colonel Fraser, might I have a word with you? Just a mere moment of your time.”

“Aye,” Jamie replied, following Tryon somewhere out of earshot.

“Mistress Fraser, I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter, Mistress Mackenzie,” Mrs. Tryon said to me. “Mistress Innes says she is a skilled artist.”

“A most skilled artist, indeed. Why, Mrs. Mackenzie did my own portrait this last winter…” Lord John was saying, but they trailed off as I zoned in on Tryon and Jamie. Tryon’s back was to me, but judging by the look on Jamie’s face, whatever news he was receiving was not good at all. Did this have something to do with the Regulators? Of course it did, and I was a fool to think otherwise. Tryon wanted Murtagh dead more than anything and he wanted Jamie to be the one to do it, yet Jamie couldn’t kill his godfather. It was a catch-22, if I’ve ever seen one. I watched as Jamie nodded to Tryon, masking the obvious upset that flooded his eyes. This must be it - we were going to battle.

“We are certainly most fortunate to have a governor so wise and merciful to offer pardons to such dishonourable men,” came Lord John’s voice, forcing its way into my consciousness, and my head snapped over in his direction.

“Hm?” I asked, and when his words sunk in, I narrowed my eyes a little. “Oh, aye. Most fortunate, indeed. Ye’d hate te be in the company of dishonourable men, wouldnae ye?”

“Wouldn’t any of us?” asked Mrs. Tryon with a small chuckle. “You have a fellow Scotsman to thank for proposing such a kindness, Mistress Fraser.”

“A Mr. Samuel Johnston,” Lord John chimed in. “He proposed an Act for Preventing Tumultuous and Riotous Assembly.”

“Fer preventin’ assembly?” I asked a bit incredulously. “Tha’ sounds like yer sayin’ it prevents people from attendin’ public gatherin’s.”

“Not all gatherings. Only under certain circumstances,” Lord John told me. “If men cannot gather, then they cannot conspire.” I narrowed my eyes at him - I knew I had a reason to distrust this man.

“Yes, exactly,” said Mrs. Tryon with a stiff lip. “Why, if only my husband had thought to do such a thing sooner, then perhaps he would not be going to war with these backcountry… Oh, do pardon me, but I feel I deserve the right to say so… addle pates!” I almost wanted to laugh at her pathetic insult, and she was truly flustered. “Goodness, I must remind myself of proper etiquette. This is not at all an appropriate conversation for such an auspicious day.”

“Quite right, Your Excellency,” said Lord John in agreement, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. The look in my eye that I returned seemed to make him blush a little.

“Lord Grey, a word, if you do not mind,” came the voice of Governor Tryon, and Lord John awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said, bowing to us both. Mrs. Tryon took my arm.

“Come, Mistress Fraser, let us leave the men to their morbid talk of politics,” she said with mild amusement. “I hear there’s a game of high-stakes whist taking place later. I find it very beguiling watching men gamble away their fortunes.” And I couldn’t find anything less interesting than that.

“Of course,” I said, though I had to force myself to do so. I glanced back at Jamie over my shoulder, but he was too engrossed in his conversation to notice me.

“I’m not saddened by leaving the palace at New Bern,” Mrs. Tryon said to me as we walked. “The building has certain elegant amenities, but I’ve never felt comfortable there.”

“I imagine it’s difficult te feel uncomfortable in such a place,” I said mindlessly.

“Oh, Mistress Fraser, I did not mean it that way,” she said, somewhat sympathetically. “I meant only that I feel, oh… out of place, if you will.”

“The palace itself is a wee bit out of place, isnae it?” I asked. I was focusing my attention on the crowd, but all of a sudden, I caught sight of none other than the painted face of one Philip Wylie, who looked even more pampered and silly than he did when we last met in Wilmington some four years ago. “Blessed Bride, is that Philip Wylie?” I asked with exasperation.

“You know him?” Mrs. Tryon asked me.

“‘Tis hard te tell beneath all that powder, but aye. I met him at a dinner in Wilmington,” I said, recalling his irritating attentions to me. “I found him rather…”

“Persistent?” asked Mrs. Tryon, and I scoffed lightly.

“I was goin’ te say annoyin’,” I said rather brashly, and Mrs. Tryon laughed.

“Ever since he returned from Paris, he’s become an insufferable dandy, not to mention a rake,” Mrs. Tryon continued. “Rumour has it, he’s in an obscene amount of debt after losing his fortune to gambling in houses of ill repute.”

“Cannae say that surprises me,” I said as I watched Wylie stupidly kiss the gloved hand of a lady. As if feeling our attention, he lifted his big white stupid face and looked up at us, then smiled wide and made his way towards us, brandishing his cane in the air as if to wave. “Wonderful, now he’s comin’ towards us.”

“Towards you,” said Mrs. Tryon, a small, playful grin on her face. “But perhaps I can distract him for you. I’m the wife of a politician, after all. It’s a particular talent of mine.”

“I would be grateful,” I said, and I started to slip away as Mrs. Tryon attracted Wylie’s attention.

“Mr. Wylie!” I heard her say as I rushed away as politely as I could.

CAOIMHE POV

Damned Mr. Ainsley, keeping Mrs. Ainsley from her daughter all because he had a stick up his arse. If he truly loved his daughter, all he would care about was her happiness, but he was still so resentful, all because Archie was Scottish! Or because he was the son of a farmer and not some prominent banker. Or both. Well, if he had any heart, he would take Caoimhe’s news and maybe write to his daughter or let her mother-

“You should have seen the look on Robert’s face when I told him there were certain times during the month when he would be sleeping in the guest chamber!” came the excited voice of a woman nearby. Caoimhe had found herself walking the path along the river and had taken refuge among the willow tree, where a stone bench had been placed long ago. It was covered in lichens, but it was private, and the pink blooms concealed her entirely from the path.

“And he agreed to it?” asked a second woman.

“Well, what could he say? There it was, written in plain ink: the words of this Rawlings physician,” said the first. Rawlings? Words? “He was cursing the day that women were taught to read!” Caoimhe strained her neck a little to hear the women, careful not to reveal herself to them. How did these women know about Auntie’s pamphlet for the Ridge women?

“But don’t you think it a little… sacrilegious?” asked the second. “A child is a divine blessing. If it’s God’s will, what sort of woman would willingly prevent herself from bearing one?” Their voices trailed away as they walked further down the path.

“Perhaps the sort of woman who doesnae have the means te provide fer an infinite number of blessin’s,” Caoimhe said aloud, thankfully well out of earshot of the two women.

“Miss Fowlis?” came a male voice, and Caoimhe gasped softly. “Is that you in there?” Damn it, it was Mr. McCullough. Caoimhe jumped up and glanced around quickly, searching for an exit, but before she knew it, Mr. McCullough was brushing aside a frond of willow flowers, peering in at her with his soft brown eyes. He smiled when he saw her, stepping underneath the protection of the untrimmed willow. “Och, it is ye. I’ve been searchin’ fer ye, Miss Fowlis.”

“And I’ve been avoidin’ all attentions today, frankly,” Caoimhe told him, and then she sighed. “Sorry, I just… I’ve been a wee bit stressed, is all, and worrit aboot the residents on the Ridge.”

“I see,” said Mr. McCullough, somewhat awkwardly. “I’ve been writin’ te ye. I havenae heard back from ye.”

“Have ye? Oh, I… I didnae see any…” she replied, which wasn’t a full lie. She hadn’t actually opened any of them, so she really didn’t see any letters.

“Perhaps the courier has managed te lose my letters,” said Mr. McCullough with a small chuckle. “Of course, I… can tell ye what the letters contain…”

“News of Cross Creek, I imagine,” Caoimhe replied. “I’ve heard some of it. I’ve heard tha’  Mr. Balfour will be leavin’, and Mr. Abernathy was replaced by a Mr. Whitney. I also heard tha’ Jenny Laurie is marryin’ Michael Matland this summer.”

“Aye, ‘tis more than that, though,” said Mr. McCullough, his cheeks a bright pink colour. “Er… the Severs family…”

“Are movin’ te Alamance. I ken that, too,” Caoimhe told him with a small smile.

“Er… That… isnae what I meant te say,” said Mr. McCullough, his hand fiddling with the hair at the base of his neck and his brown eyes looking elsewhere, and then he sighed, steadying himself. He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye next. “Miss Fowlis… Caoimhe… I… I find myself enchanted by ye…”

“Oh… Um…” was all she could say in response. She backed up a bit, finding the bench against the back of her knees, and she stumbled backwards onto it. “I… I’m flattered. T-Truly, Mr. McCullough…” All of a sudden, a high-pitched scream pierced the air as it came from the house, and Caoimhe’s head shot up in a mild panic. “Sorry, I-I have to go!”

“Miss Fowlis,” said Mr. McCullough in an effort to stop her, but Caoimhe pulled away and ducked under the fronds of the willow tree. “Miss Fowlis!” A part of her felt bad for running away, but she was also relieved. However, if someone was screaming, it meant that there was trouble.

CATRÌONA POV

With my skirts in my hands, I ran towards the house, following the sound of the screams that were coming from inside. Some people ran out the front door protecting their heads, which only left me confused. Why were people running away if there was a medical emergency? Perhaps it wasn’t a medical emergency… I tried to think if I heard gunshots before the screams, but I couldn’t recall any. Once the stampede ran from the house and into the gardens, I pushed my way inside, following the screams that emanated from the parlour. Once I got inside, I realised right away what was happening - a bird was circling the room chirping madly, and there were people trapped in the middle screaming with fright. But it wasn’t just any bird, it was Harry the sparrow, and Ginnie was chasing him while trying to catch him. “Come down, Harry, this instant!” Ginnie was shouting at her bird.

“Virginia Fraser! What have ye done?” I demanded from her as she chased her bird, and she stopped and gasped when she saw me.

“This is your child, Mistress Fraser?!” demanded Mrs. Tindall, who, along with her daughter, Esther, were among those trapped in the middle.

“Harry got away, Mama!” Ginnie said back to me.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Caoimhe as she appeared behind me, and then she saw the bird and gasped. “How did he get out?”

“Ginnie, I told ye not te let him out inside the house! I told ye not te take him out te show him te anyone!” I scolded her, and then I climbed up on the settee to try and catch the wee bird.

“Uncle Jamie!” came Caoimhe’s voice, but I didn’t waste time turning to look at him.

“Jamie, give me yer cravat,” I ordered him. “Now!”

“Aye!” he replied, removing his cravat from around his neck and handing it to me. I unfolded it to make a sort of net so I could try and catch Harry, and when he flew by me a couple of times, I tried and failed to catch him.

“Caoimhe, he’s comin’ te you!” I said as I saw her climbing up on the other settee, and with a table runner she had taken from a nearby table, she also attempted to swipe the bird from the air, but failed.

“Auntie!” she cried as Harry made his way to me, and I finally caught him in Jamie’s cravat.

“Good heavens! What on earth is happening here?” came the voice of Governor Tryon.

“I hear talk of a wee bird in my parlour?” said Jocasta, who entered the parlour.

“Mistress Innes! This child brought this wild creature here!” jeered Mrs. Tindall.

“Aye, and it was my daughter! I’ll save ye the trouble of tattlin’, ye auld crone!” I snapped at her, irritated by her tone, and Mrs. Tindall scoffed.

“Why, I’ve never-” she began, but Jocasta cut her off.

“Has the bird been captured?” she asked firmly.

“Aye,” Jamie replied. “Catrìona has it in hand.”

“Then please, if ye dinnae mind, remove it from my house,” said Jocasta firmly.

“I’ll take it,” said Caoimhe, taking the chirping bundle from my hands and quickly leaving the parlour.

“No! He’s still healing!” Ginnie whined.

“Then ye shouldnae have let him out, Virginia,” I told her firmly, and she looked at me with her sad green eyes.

“Ulysses, where is Mamie? She was supposed te be watchin’ the children,” Jocasta said to her manservant.

“Nowhere in sight, Mistress,” Ulysses replied.

“Find her,” Jocasta ordered him.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, and then he left. “Well, I think that is enough excitement fer one day…”

“Ginnie, go up te the nursery,” I told her. “Now.” Pouting, she did as she was told, and then she left the parlour.

“I expect nothing more from children raised in the backcountry,” said Mrs. Tindall rather bitterly, and with irritation knitted in my brow, I turned and faced her.

“Yer opinions do nothin’ te help, either,” I spat at her.

“Catrìona,” Jamie warned me, reminding me of Governor Tryon’s presence, and I let out a heavy huff.

“Spectacle’s over. Ye can all leave,” I said, and then I stalked past Jamie, going back outside for a bit of fresh air and a moment to myself.

“Champagne, madam?” asked a servant as I stalked through the garden, offering me a tray of champagne, and I took one and went to take a sip of it, but as I rounded a corner, someone bumped into me, spilling the champagne all over me.

“Ugh!” I cried out as the cold champagne went down into my dress.

“Oh! Well, Mistress Fraser!” said an obnoxiously nasal voice, and I looked up and scoffed at the painted china doll that was Philip Wylie.

“Mr. Wylie,” I said with obvious disappointment.

“Deuced clumsy of me!” Wylie exclaimed dramatically. “MayI fetch you something to restore your spirits?”

“No, thank ye. I’ve had enough spirits spilled on me today,” I told him grumpily as I wiped the champagne from my skin with a handkerchief. “Good te see ye. If ye’ll excuse me…” I tried to slip past him, but he stopped me.

“I assure you, madam, the pleasure is entirely mine,” said Wylie, bowing stupidly to me as he stood in my way.

“I see yer lookin’ well,” I replied, taking in his peacock-like appearance, and he smiled, being sure to flash that hideous fake silk mole cut in the shape of a star on his white chin.

“Fortune has smiled upon me this year, Mistress Fraser! The trade with England has quite recovered, may the Gods be thanked, and I’ve had my share of it and more besides,” he told me, and then he sighed breathlessly, still smiling greedily at me. “May I likewise observe how becoming you look?”

“How thoughtful of ye,” I said. “If ye’ll forgive me, I must…” He pulled a pair of silk gloves out of his pocket and showed them to me.

“Chantilly lace,” he said loudly, interrupting me. “A favourite of the mistress of King Louis of France, Madame du Barry. My humble gift to the lovely Jocasta Innes.”

“Lovely,” I said with some irritation. “Mr. Wylie, I’m afraid I must…”

“Pity, it would look far lovelier on you,” he interrupted me again, and I huffed. “Oh, I’m afraid such things are hard to come by. The excise duties are quite inconvenient - that is, unless you know the right people.”

“As in any situation,” I replied. “Well, fine lace is of little used te me out in the backcountry anyway.”

“As I was saying, if you knew the right people, Mistress Fraser, you would not be languishing away in the backcountry,” Wylie said to me rather proudly, and I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’d be enjoying the finer things in life. I can procure you whatever you wish, whatever your heart desires.” I scoffed.

“Right now, what my heart desires is-” I began, hoping to tell him to piss off, but he interrupted me yet again.

“I know an Irish seafaring gentleman who does business in the port of Wilmington.” I froze. An Irish seafaring gentleman? That could be no one else but Stephen fucking Bonnet. Of course Wylie was consorting with Bonnet, which meant I had to do the one thing I wanted least in the world right now, and that was hanging around Wylie to get more information.

“O-oh… Ye mean a smuggler?” I asked him, my eyes widening, and he dramatically gasped as if I had insulted him.

“Why, Mistress Fraser, you wound me! Do you take me for a common thief?” he demanded from me with exasperation. “I only meant to imply that I have… certain friends… who are in the business of acquiring rare and exquisite things.”

“So… a smuggler,” I replied, and Wylie let out a small huff before acting as if I had never spoken.

“My dear, you most certainly are a rare and exquisite gem yourself,” he told me. “Do come. I have something I wish to show you.” That sounded dangerous, but of course I was going to follow him, especially now since this is the first word we’ve had of Bonnet since last summer. I accepted his offered arm and followed him.

“So… this Irish gentleman… Does he have a name?” I asked him.

“A lovely gentlewoman such as yourself need not worry yourself with such matters,” said Wylie with pride.

“I’m a physician. There are worse things I worry myself wi’, Mr. Wylie,” I reminded him, and he chuckled uncomfortably.

“It appals me that Mr. Fraser allows his wife to pursue such a profession,” he said with disapproval.

“My husband is a revolutionary type of man, somethin’ rare and unheard of,” I said, looking at him. Though I had lost an inch in height, I still towered over him, so I had to look down at him. “A rare and exquisite gem, if ye will.”

“Your husband is clearly an extraordinary man,” said Wylie, clearly unhappy with this news. He looked down at my hand on his arm and with his free hand, touched my silver ring. “Why, what a beautiful piece of silver. Pray tell, how long have you and your husband been married?”

“It’ll be twenty-eight years next month,” I answered him.

“Twenty-eight years. And still, you are so devoted to him. How… unheard of in our society,” Wylie observed, and I scoffed lightly.

“As I’ve said, my husband is a rare and exquisite gem that I treasure verra dearly,” I told him.

“A love, represented by such a lovely little token,” Wylie replied. “I did meet your most lovely daughter this afternoon. A true beauty, she is, and a gift to any man with eyes.”

“And happily marrit by a man who kens her true worth,” I warned him, looking at him with a firm gaze.

“Indeed, I did meet her husband, as well. You have another daughter, too, yes?” Wylie asked me.

“Two, in fact,” I replied, and Wylie scoffed lightly.

“Yes, I did hear one of them found herself in some… unfortunate circumstances,” he said critically, and I stopped us from walking just outside of the stables and pulled my hand from his arm.

“Have ye somethin’ te say aboot it?” I demanded from him.

“Oh, most certainly not! Goodness, I would never imply that a lady of such fine breeding was anything other than that! Some men can be true scoundrels!” Wylie exclaimed dramatically, and I crossed my arms and eyed him suspiciously. If only he knew his Irish ‘gentleman’ friend was responsible for it. “There are some who blame the girl, of course, but not I! No, madam, not I! Now, I must show you my pride and joy. Come, Mistress Fraser. I do hope you will forgive my insolent tongue and allow me to show you something spectacular.” I still hadn’t come up with a plan to get him to spit out any further information about Bonnet, so perhaps after he showed me whatever his ‘pride and joy’ was, I could talk him into meeting me in the parlour for a dram of Jamie’s whisky. Wylie didn’t seem like a man who could hold his liquor very well, and a dram or two might loosen up his tongue.

“Verra well. Yer forgiven,” I said, and he smiled and let out a gross, airy noise.

“I am so pleased, Mistress Fraser. Come now,” he said, leading me into the stables. He walked me to a specific black stallion, which whinnied at me when we arrived. “I would like you to meet Lucas.”

“Oh, hello!” I exclaimed when I saw that beautiful stallion. He whinnied again as I pet his nose. “Look at ye, bonny lad. Yer magnificent!”

“Isn’t he? He was born last spring. He was said to be a son of Eclipse of the Darley Arabian line,” Wylie bragged to me with his nose in the air.

“Eclipse?” I asked him, genuinely having no idea what he was talking about.

“Only the most famous racehorse that has ever lived! He has been retired now, but he went undefeated in eighteen races. Have you never heard the phrase, ‘Eclipse first, the rest nowhere’?” Wylie asked me, and I shook my head.

“I cannae say I have,” I said. “We Scots use horses fer their purposes, no’ fer racin’.”

“And what do you say to the Leith Races, Mistress Fraser?” asked Wylie, again with his nose in the air.

“I say nothin’. They’re run by lowlanders. ‘Tis a whole different world in the Lowlands than in the Highlands and isles,” I replied, paying attention only to Lucas, who whinnied again and rubbed his nose against my hand. “Och, arenae ye sweet, a leannan?”

“Sweet?” scoffed Wylie. “Strange choice for such a magnificent creature.”

“Then how do ye like ‘good-natured’ and ‘spirited’?” I asked him, putting both of my hands on Lucas’s face and resting my forehead against his snout.

“And above all, beautiful,” said Wylie. For a while, he remained silent while I interacted with his horse. It was odd that he was so quiet - too quiet, in fact. I turned my head to see what he was up to when all of a sudden, he yanked me by the arm and wrapped his arms firmly around me. “Oh, Mistress Fraser, Catherine, you madden me!” He forced his lips onto mine, and I forcibly ripped myself free and slapped him across the face.

“Are ye mad?” I demanded from him, and he lunged for me.

“Catherine, my dear!” Wylie moaned, and with one swift kick to his abdomen, I shoved him away from me and straight into a vat of manure that had been collected for fertiliser. Wylie, shocked and disgusted, gasped in horror. “You bitch!”

“The name’s Catrìona, damn you!” I snapped back at him right as someone else entered the stables in a frenzy. I didn’t see who it was until the man had grabbed Wylie by his collar and punched him across the face, knocking him to the ground. “Jamie!”

“She practically begged me to take her where she stood! The woman’s a vile succubus!” Wylie cried as he scrambled to get away from my infuriated husband, who had heard my cries and came to my defence.

“Ye willnae speak aboot my wife that way!” Jamie shouted back at him, going after him and pinning Wylie down on his stomach. He had his arm wrapped around Wylie’s white neck, and his white face was turning pink as Jamie choked him. “Jamie, stop! Stop! He’s not worth it!”

“Stop?” Jamie demanded from me, tightening his grip on Wylie, who squelched out a noise of distress.

“Are ye really goin’ te kill someone at yer aunt’s weddin’?” I demanded from him, and for a moment, he looked up at me underneath infuriated eyes before finally letting go of Wylie, who flopped down like a fish and gasped for air. Jamie climbed off of him and forcibly turned him onto his back, grabbing him again by the collar and lifting him slightly off of the ground.

“If I see ye near my wife again, I will kill ye. Do ye understand?” Jamie growled at him, and Wylie gulped and nodded in fear. “Good.” He threw down Wylie, then grabbed his discarded cane and threw it at him. “Away wi’ ye!”

“Savages, both of you!” cried Wylie as he scrambled to his feet and scampered off. Jamie, with his back to me, took a moment to catch his breath before turning to look at me with an angry look in his eye, which I returned.

“Dinnae ye dare blame me,” I warned him.

“What were ye thinkin’, spendin’ time alone wi’ a man like him?” Jamie demanded from me as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I tried te get away from him until he mentioned an Irish smuggler he’s acquainted wi’. Who else could that be but Stephen Bonnet?” I asked him firmly. At the mention of Bonnet’s name, he froze, his face softening into one of surprise, but then he steeled his face. “So I went with him te see this prized horse of his and…”

“He told ye this?” he asked me.

“Well, no’ exactly that it was Stephen Bonnet, but I assumed. This world is too small fer it not te be, and given our luck…” I said, and then I sighed. “Perhaps I’m hopin’ too much. We’ve no’ heard anythin’ of Bonnet in almost a year. But Wylie does employ a smuggler in Wilmington and he’s Irish, that much he told me.”

“Christ,” Jamie uttered, looking down at the ground as he knit an irritable expression onto his brow. “Speak of the devil and he appears. Ye willnae believe this - Lord John told me Bonnet put a dagger te a man’s eyes in Wilmington.”

“Willnae believe it? I witnessed it, Jamie,” I reminded him, and then I huffed. “I didnae get the chance te come up wi’ some way te get more information out of him. And now I’ve thrown him in horse shite and ye’ve threatened te kill him. There’s no way we’ll get him on our side now.” I glanced over at Lucas for a second, recalling what Wylie had told me about him. He’d said he was the son of a famous racehorse, so he must have been quite expensive. Huh… Wasn’t there another clue in there somewhere? “Wait… Mrs. Tryon mentioned somethin’ aboot him bein’ in debt… And he’s friends wi’ a smuggler. Maybe… Maybe we can coax him into a business deal. Ye brought yer whisky, didnae ye?”

“I dinnae want te go into business wi’ Bonnet, Catrìona,” Jamie told me a bit sharply.

“Well, do ye have a better idea? If he’s up te his neck in gamblin’ debt, I imagine he’d jump at any opportunity te make money. It could be our only chance te get close te Bonnet again without him seein’ us comin’,” I told him, looking up at him again. On his face was an expression suggesting that something was stewing in his mind, so I raised a brow at him. “What?”

“Ye didnae tell him aboot my whisky, did ye?” Jamie asked me.

“No, I just came up wi’ the idea now. Why?” I asked him. “What are ye thinkin’?”

“Ye said the man likes te gamble,” Jamie told me, a sly smile appearing on his face. “I have an idea. Wait fer me here. Keep an eye on this here prized horse of his.”

“What? Jamie!” I said as he turned to leave, but then he stopped, turned around, wrapped one arm around me and pressed his lips firmly against mine. I was a bit dazed as he pulled away, and he licked his lips hungrily.

“God, help me win this quickly,” he said, and then he turned and strode out of the stables as quickly as he could.

JAMIE POV

The sun was starting to sink down in the sky as dusk approached. Jamie made his way back to the house with his plan stewing in his head. Catrìona had mentioned how much Wylie valued his horse, so the horse was his bargaining chip. He would play a game of whist with Wylie for his horse. In his pocket, he had plenty of coin to tempt the debt-ridden Wylie, and the man was so weak-willed that he would crumble at the sight of it. He made his way into the parlour, where the gambling and gaming was taking place. Wylie’s back was to him, and at the sound of Jamie’s footsteps, he let out a small chuckle. “Back so soon, Mr. Barlow? I thought you’d had enough,” said Wylie, indicating that he was on a winning streak.

“Not Mr. Barlow,” Jamie told him, and Wylie groaned.

“Oh. It’s you,” Wylie spat as Jamie came around the table. He had cleaned himself up a bit in the hour or so since their last meeting, but the expression on his face indicated that he was still rattled. Jamie dropped a bag of coins on the table in front of him, and Wylie scowled up at him. “If you think that’s enough to replace my coat, you are sorely mistaken. It was given to me by the Countess of-”

“My wife was right,” said Jamie as he sat down across from Wylie. “I cannae kill a man at my auntie’s weddin’. So it seems we’ll have te settle this another way.”

“If you’re referring to the incident in the stables, I assure you, I was the perfect gentleman,” spat Wylie, and Jamie lightly scoffed.

“Indeed,” Jamie told him, not believing him in the slightest. “Yer acquainted wi’ the governor’s wife, aye? A fine woman, but… between you and me… she’s no’ kent fer her discretion.” He smiled slyly at Wylie, lowering his voice. “One word in her ear and in a fortnight, everra man, woman and child in the Province of North Carolina will ken what sort of ‘gentleman’ ye are.” Wylie scoffed.

“I’ve no doubt that Her Excellency thinks me a rake already,” spat Wylie, a shrewd smile on his face as if to say that Jamie couldn’t blackmail him. “It’ll be no news to her. I’m afraid my reputation precedes me.”

“Hm,” chuckled Jamie, returning the shrewd smile. “She hasnae heard what I have te say aboot ye. My word carries far.” Wylie’s smile faltered as Jamie sat back in his chair. “We settle this now. One game of whist. You win, I’ll allow ye te keep yer honour intact, and I’ll offer ye all the coin in this bag te help wi’ yer… financial issues.” Wylie narrowed his eyes at Jamie.

“And if I lose?” Wylie spat at him.

“The stallion,” Jamie replied. “I hear he’s yer prized possession.” Wylie scoffed again.

“Oh, you Scots are all alike, aren’t you? You brutes place far too high a price on things like pride,” he said to Jamie, and then he leaned forward. “The difference between you and me, Mr. Fraser, is, given the choice between pride and gold… I’d take gold any day.” He sat back, sneering at Jamie. “Besides, Lucas is worth ten times this amount. So if you want to play at this table, Mr. Fraser, you’re going to have to produce something far more valuable.”

“What do ye have in mind?”  Jamie asked him as Wylie continued to sneer at him.

CATRÌONA POV

“Have ye gone mad?” I demanded from Jamie when he told me what Wylie wanted, and I protected the silver ring on my finger. “No! Tha’s too high a price! He’s not gettin’ it!”

“He says it's the only thing he’ll take fer the horse, Catrìona. I dinnae ken why,” Jamie replied, and I scoffed.

“I ken why! Because he saw it earlier and kens how much it means te me!” I snapped back at him.

“It’s just a ring, Catrìona. I can have another made,” Jamie replied.

“It’s more than that, Jamie, and ye know it! It was all I had of ye fer years! Wylie doesnae want it because he values it, he wants te take somethin’ of value from me because I humiliated him! This is his attempt te humiliate me!” I snapped again.

“And what if it is? If I win this game, we get the horse and if we get the horse, then we get te take revenge on a man much worse than Philip Wylie!” Jamie exclaimed, but I shook my head.

“No. I’m not riskin’ it. We’ll find another way. We have te,” I said, turning my back to him.

“Catrìona, Stephen Bonnet-”

“Stephen Bonnet tried te rip this ring out of my throat!” I shouted at him. “He will not try to take it from me again!”

“I willnae lose it, Catrìona! This is our one chance-”

“And what if ye do?” I demanded, whipping around on him. “And what if ye do lose it, huh? Then what? Then Philip fucking Wylie gets te humiliate me even more than he already has!”

“I need ye te trust me, Catrìona,” Jamie said to me somewhat firmly, but also calmly, and I huffed, turning around to look away from him.

“Who are ye doin’ this fer?” I asked him quietly.

“What do ye mean?” he asked me, as if to ask if he heard me correctly.

“Answer the question,” I said to him, turning around to face him again. “Who are ye doin’ this fer?”

“Fer Maevis, our daughter,” Jamie told me with a bit of an agitated tone.

“Fer her honour, or fer yers?” I demanded next, and his expression changed.

“Catrìona…” he began, and I removed the ring from my finger and slapped it into his hand.

“Ye’d better pray te all the gods in the world ye dinnae lose it,” I growled at him, and then I shoved past him, not giving him a chance to respond.

It was now late, and many of the wedding guests had gone to bed, but not me. I was in the garden helping to pick up forgotten glasses and dishes and keeping them confined to one area. I hated being useless, and the servants were all so fatigued. If I could make their evening just a wee bit easier, then I would. All of a sudden, behind me, I heard the sound of sobbing, and I turned around to see shadows moving against the ground.

“Shh, it be all right, honey,” I heard the lilting voice of Mamie say in an effort to comfort whoever was crying, and I went around the corner to see Mamie holding a very distressed Phaedra.

“Phaedra?” I said. “Are ye all right, hen? What’s happened?”

“It be her mama, Missus Fraser,” Mamie told me softly. “She sick.”

“Her mother?” I asked, raising a brow. I’d had no idea Phaedra’s mother was even nearby, let alone on River Run. “Where is she?”

“She in the attic, Missus,” Mamie told me. “Ulysses go to get the doctor, but he don’t wake up.” I let out a small huff. Of course Doctor Fentiman was drunk at a time when he was needed most.

“I’ll go and have a look at her,” I said, and then I laid a hand on Phaedra’s back. “Darlin’, it’ll be all right. I’ll see that she’s taken care of.” Phaedra nodded from Mamie’s breast, and then I went inside to fetch my medical bag. “Caoimhe,” I said to my niece as I came across her getting ready for bed in the bedchamber our family was sharing. We’d put up sheets to act as curtains and divide up the room into sections for Caoimhe, Elton, myself and Jamie, and Bree and Rory, and Caoimhe peeked her head out from behind one of the sheets. “I need ye. There’s a medical emergency.”

“I’ll get dressed,” she replied, going back into her indoor tent.

“Meet me in the attic,” I said, and then I left, making my way to the attic. The attic was divided into a couple of different rooms, and standing outside one door was Ulysses, and he seemed a little distressed, but was masking it.

“Mistress Fraser,” he said a bit solemnly. “I’m afraid you are too late. Betty has just died.”

“Betty?” I asked with surprise, noting how she had given me a glass of wine earlier. “But… She was fine no’ six hours ago…” As a matter of fact, she had looked a little ashy when I saw her earlier. “Christ… Let me have a look at her.”

“There is no point, Mistress Fraser. She is already dead. I must go and inform her daughter,” Ulysses told me. “Goodnight, Mistress Fraser.” I didn’t answer him as he stepped past me and left. I waited for the sound of his footsteps to disappear, and when they did, I tried the doorknob. Locked, damn it… I hadn’t actually picked a lock in a long time, but I imagined I hadn’t forgotten the skill. I put down my medical bag and removed a pin from my hair, brushing aside the now white streak of hair behind my ear, and got to work trying to pick the lock.

“Do ye need help, Mam?” came a voice, and I jumped with fright thinking Ulysses had come back.

“Elton!” I exclaimed. “Christ, lad. Ye scairt me! Where’d ye even come from? How did ye ken I was up here?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I was by the window tryin’ te work on my drafts, but then I lost the light and didnae want Ulysses te ken I was up here still, so I was tryin’ te work by moonlight.”

“What? Why were ye workin’ on yer drafts durin’ yer aunt’s weddin’? Oh, nevermind. Ye can pick locks?” I asked him.

“Of course. I lost verra many keys over the years and taught myself te pick locks. I’ve no’ carried a house key in years,” Elton replied, and then he knelt down in front of the door and took the pin, successfully picking the lock.

“Good job, lad,” I said, touching his shoulder. “Will ye keep an eye out fer Ulysses fer me?”

“Aye,” he replied. “What happened te yer weddin’ ring?”

“Dinnae fash aboot that now,” I told him a little coldly, and then I entered the darkened room. It was dark save for one candle, which I brought with me to where Betty’s lifeless body lay on a makeshift bed. Poor lass. She worked so hard and got so sick all of a sudden. I touched the back of my hand to her forehead, finding her temperature to still be relatively warm, meaning she had died very recently, and then I started searching for clues. I couldn’t find any physical evidence for illness, save for her ashy skin and slightly elevated temperature, so I started to examine inside of her mouth for signs of illness. Hidden inside of a stitched-in pocket of my medical bag was a wee torch and batteries that I was carrying on me when I came through the stones - or wall - in Edinburgh. I cut through the stitches and put the batteries in the torch.

“Auntie,” said Caoimhe, and I jumped, throwing the torch into the air.

“Blessed Bride, Caoimhe!” I snapped, catching the torch before it clattered to the ground. “Dinnae sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry, Auntie. Elton said we had te be quiet,” she said as she knelt down beside me, raising her brows at the torch in my hand. “What is that?”

“A torch,” I told her. “Or rather, we call it a torch in the future. The Americans call it a flashlight. Basically, it’s a battery-operated wee device tha’ creates artificial light.” I pressed the button to turn it on, and she jumped as it suddenly came on.

“Christ. It’s fast!” she exclaimed with surprise.

“I need it te see inside Betty’s mouth. I dinnae want te draw attention te ourselves,” I said, directing the light to Betty’s face. I opened her mouth and took a look inside, not seeing swollen tonsils, but they did look a little inflamed and irritated. “Hand me some cotton on forceps, please.” Caoimhe did as she was told, and I lowered the cotton into Betty’s throat to press on the tonsils and the back of her throat. When I pulled them back out, the cotton had spots of blood on it, and I raised my brow. “There’s blood in her throat. Could be some sort of injury te her oesophagus or lungs…”

“Could it be the white plague?” Caoimhe asked, and I shook my head.

“I doubt it. Wi’ tuberculosis, ye dinnae go from fine te dead in a matter of hours,” I told her. “It’s a slow-movin’ illness.”

“Perhaps she’s been coughing up blood fer months and we didnae ken,” Caoimhe replied.

“It’s a possibility, but again, it’s unusual fer her te go from fine te dead in mere hours. No… I think it’s somethin’ else, somethin’ more sinister,” I replied. “Hand me a tray and my scalpel. And hold the torch, if ye dinnae mind.” She handed me the items and I dropped the bloody cotton in the tray, then clamped one of the tonsils with the forceps and cut the tonsil off with the scalpel. Caoimhe’s disgusted expression was visible out of the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t focused on it. Instead, I was examining the tonsil, which looked as if it had been shredded by something sharp.

“It’s like… she swallowed broken glass or somethin’,” Caoimhe said as she stared at the tonsil with wide eyes.

“Maybe… It’s definitely suspicious,” I said. “I want te try and do a post-mortem, see if there’s anythin’ in her stomach.”

“What? We dinnae have time fer that, Auntie!” Caoimhe exclaimed as I dug through my bag for more tools.

“Which is why I have te be quick,” I said. I moved the blanket and the gown that Betty was wearing, exposing her stomach, which was obviously distended, and pressed my scalpel to the skin.

“Auntie!” Caoimhe said again, but I had already cut through the skin and was starting on the fat.

“Do me a favour and hold back the muscle and fat, hen,” I said to my niece, and Caoimhe sighed as she realised that I wasn’t stopping now.

“What are ye goin’ te do if someone catches us?” Caoimhe asked me, pulling back the muscles.

“We willnae be caught,” I told her. I had the stomach exposed, and the outside of it was obviously very inflamed, suggesting something was amiss. I cut into the wall of the stomach next and exposed the contents. “Watch the acid. I need the copper forceps.” She handed me the forceps and I inserted them into the mass of mashed up food in Betty’s stomach, pulling out some of it and putting it into the tray. “Cover it and take it back te the room. I’m goin’ te stitch her up fast and it’ll be like we were never here.”

“Actually, I think you should take it, Auntie. Ulysses doesnae ken Elton and I are up here, but he kens you are. He might think yer snoopin’ around if he doesnae see ye downstairs,” Caoimhe replied, and I let out a small huff.

“Yer right. Take the light, stitch her up as fast as ye can. I’ll keep Ulysses distracted and then go have a look at this chyme,” I said, handing the tools back to her. I covered up the tray and took it downstairs, catching sight of Ulysses giving comfort to a very distressed Phaedra outside on the porch. Poor lass… She was a little older than I was when I lost my mother, but no matter the age, losing your mother was always a gut-wrenching crush to the soul. But so long as she was as distressed as she was, Ulysses was distracted, as Mamie must have gone to tend to the children in the nursery, so a small part of me hoped she would continue her sobbing to give Caoimhe more time. I snuck around to the rear entrance of the house and out into the garden, planning on making my way to the stables when suddenly, a lantern was held up in my face.

“Mistress Fraser, is that you?” came the voice of Lieutenant Wolff, and he pulled the lantern back to light his own face.

“Oh, hello, Lieutenant Wolff,” I said, tucking the covered tray into my arm. “A fine night, isnae it?”

“Whatever is a woman such as yourself doing out at this hour?” Lieutenant Wolff asked me, glancing down at the package in my arms.

“Oh, just waitin’ fer my husband. He wanted te take a romantic moonlit walk down by the river. ‘Tis the mood of the weddin’,” I lied efficiently, noticing his attention on the package in my arms. “Oh, this is just a bunched up shawl. I brought it in case it got a wee bit chilly, but ‘tis surprisin’ly comfortable tonight, isnae it?”

“Hmm. Aye, it is a warm spring night, indeed,” said Lieutenant Wolff. “Tell me, you haven’t seen the tippling slave anywhere, have you?”

“Er… The what?” I asked him.

“The tippling slave. The big-breasted heavy woman known for drinking whatever remains of served drinks,” he repeated. That’s right, Betty had a bit of a bad habit of drinking discarded or unwanted beverages at parties, as she had done in the past. Perhaps that was why she didn’t look good earlier - being drunk tends to do that. But why did Lieutenant Wolff care so much to know?

“Er… No, I… cannae say that I have,” I replied, and he let out a small gruff sound.

“Hmph. Indeed,” said Lieutenant Wolff. “Very well then. Best you be careful out of doors so late, Mistress Fraser. It’s not safe for a woman by herself.”

“Ye ken my history, Lieutenant Wolff. I think ye’ll find that I can handle myself well enough,” I told him. “Good evenin’, Lieutenant.”

“Good evening, Mistress Fraser,” he replied, somewhat suspiciously. I made my way towards the willow tree, every so often checking to see if he was still watching me, and when he had continued on his way, I redirected my path to the stables. Once I was there, I ran into the stable boy, who looked at me with a rather perplexed expression while shovelling horse shit.

“Er… Ye should go and see te Phaedra. She’s verra upset. Her mother’s just died,” I said to him, recalling that this lad had a small crush on Phaedra. He immediately threw down his shovel and ran out of the stables, leaving me alone at last. I grabbed a lantern off of the wall and laid the tray on a barrel, then uncovered it and picked through it with tweezers until I found what I was looking for - broken glass, ground up to be almost undetectable but still big enough to cut up her throat and stomach. She had been murdered, but why? What could Betty have possibly done to deserve such a fate? And actually… why was Lieutenant Wolff looking for her? Did he have something to do with Betty’s death?

The sudden sounds of footsteps startled me and I immediately covered up the tray, then swung around with the lantern in hand to see who had invaded the stables, only to find a rather drunk-looking Jamie standing in the doorframe, his coat long gone. I raised a brow at him as he smiled cheekily at me and entered the stables. “I’ve been lookin’ fer ye,” he said to me, and I huffed a little.

“I see ye’ve been drinkin’, and while ye’ve been doin’ that, I’ve been uncoverin’ somethin’ sinister,” I said to him, although he didn’t pay attention to that as he sauntered over to me.

“Had cause te celebrate,” he told me as he came over to me, and then he opened his hand to show me my silver wedding band in his palm. I only scoffed.

“Bonnet took a lot from us, and I was startin’ te think there couldnae be anythin’ else he could take from us, yet ye almost let him take that,” I said, turning away from him and walking over to Lucas the stallion, who whinnied in distress as Jamie entered the stables. “Shh, darlin’, yer all right. ‘Tis only a harmless, drunken fool.”

“Bonnet had nothin’ te do wi’ this,” Jamie said to me. “Yer condemnin’ me fer wantin’ te make Wylie pay fer what he did te ye.” I scoffed again.

“No, I’m condemnin’ ye fer lettin’ yer hatred of Bonnet and Wylie come between us,” I told him, looking up at him again. “Ye let him use yer pride against ye. In fact, ye let people use yer bleedin’ pride against ye more than ye’d ever admit. It’s gettin’ annoyin’.”

“My pride?” he questioned me. “And what of yers? Ye say and do what ye like no matter the consequences.” I rolled my eyes and looked back at Lucas. “Ye think too much from yer time.”

“Which has gained me quite a lot of respect,” I told him. “I dinnae need ye te tell me how te behave, thank ye verra much.”

“Sometimes, ye need remindin’,” he said, and I looked at him with raised eyes.

“Excuse me?” I asked him, stepping away from Lucas.

“Yer a woman like no other, Eileanach… but dinnae forget, yer still a woman,” he told me, and I slapped him across the face.

“You watch what ye fuckin’ say te me, ye…” I said, but I trailed off when I saw the pleased look in his eye. It seemed that weeks of pent up sexual frustration, plus our inability to slip away even just for a moment, plus the strain of the day and the alcohol in his system, led to him being very, very turned on. I couldn’t help but raise a brow at him as he stepped towards me, lightly taking my hand in his.

“Heh,” he muttered, and then he took a step back and pulled me closer to him, forcibly pressing his lips against mine. Still annoyed with him, I pushed away, but I couldn’t deny even to myself that that kiss ignited a fire inside of me that needed him in order to be suppressed. Every second we were apart fed the flames and made them grow stronger and hotter, so I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him fiercely again. He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me into an empty stall, pushing me up against the wall and yanking up my skirts before lifting me. “Look… Look down…” he growled in a low tone. “Watch as I take ye.” He undid his breeks as I attempted to shove my skirts out of the way. “Watch, damn ye!”

“I can’t! The damn skirts are in the- oh!” I cried out as he entered me in one stroke, and I grabbed the back of his hair as I braced myself against the wall while he thrust into me. Behind us, Lucas whinnied with distress at the sounds we made, but in the moment, neither of us cared. We had an animalistic need for each other, and it needed to be satisfied. He bit my neck and I felt the flames inside of me grow even hotter as we both neared the end and we fell over the edge together. I let out a sigh as he collapsed against me, and together, we sank down onto the hay at our feet, breathing heavily. I laid my head against his shoulder, and I heard him messing with the buckle of his belt.

“Huh,” he said after a moment. “Christ… Tha’ was…”

“Somethin’ else,” I said a bit breathlessly.

“Ye… Ye dinnae hate me fer comin’ at ye like a… ravenous beast?” he asked me softly.

“The fact tha’ ye can even imply that I could ever hate ye, first of all, is ridiculous… and actually, I kinda liked that part,” I told him, and he chuckled softly as I raised my hand to where he had bitten my neck. “Although I’ll probably have a fairly nasty bruise…” I sighed. “So, ye beat Wylie?”

“Aye,” said Jamie with amusement.

“I wish I could have seen tha’ cow’s face,” I said.

“The man was almost in tears, until I told him I’d trade him the beast fer a whisky partnership,” he told me.

“Oh, tha’s good. I’ll bet he pished himself te get that,” I replied with a laugh. “Did he reveal his smuggling partner?”

“Aye, ye were right,” Jamie replied with a small sigh. “It was Bonnet, and Wylie referred te him as ‘the greatest smuggler in all of North Carolina’.”

“And earlier, he called him a gentleman,” I said sarcastically. “So now what?”

“Mr. Bonnet will be personally meetin’ Mr. Alexander Malcolm, purveyor of the finest whisky in the Carolinas,” Jamie told me. “And I thought Mr. Malcolm’s smugglin’ days were well over…”

“Wait, ye dinnae mean you, do ye? Surely, Bonnet recognises ye by now,” I said, looking up at him.

“I’ll speak wi’ Archie aboot it,” Jamie replied. “But I’ll be close by.”

“He kens Archie, too, Jamie,” I reminded him. “And ye cannae even send Elton. He looks just like ye.”

“Rory?” Jamie asked, and I shook my head.

“No, he was captain of the ship Rory and Bree were on - and Elton, too, as a matter of fact,” I said with a small sigh. “We’ll think of somethin’… We have te. Especially now that we finally have him.”

“Aye,” said Jamie. “The bastard will finally pay fer what he’s done.” We fell into a small, comfortable silence. “Ye were right, Catrìona… I’m not doin’ this fer Maevis… but I am doin’ it because I want te see the monster who hurt our daughter dead, and fer no other reason other than I must. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” I replied. “I cannae say otherwise when I’ve wanted the same thing… But ye must swear te me, Jamie.” I looked up at him again. “Swear te me that Bonnet willnae take another thing from us.”

“I swear,” he said to me, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Tha mi a’ guidhe. I swear…” He picked up my hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out the silver ring that he had given me so, so many years ago and sliding it right back onto my finger, where it belonged. Then he brought my hand to his lips and kissed it delicately. “I swear tha’ this ring will never leave yer hand again.”

“It better not,” I told him, smiling as I looked down at the beautiful silver ring on my hand once again. I lifted my head up to press my lips against his, then nestled comfortably under his arm. I lost my smile slowly as I recalled what I was doing before our rendezvous in the stables. “Do ye recall the slave woman, Betty?”

“Hm?” Jamie asked me. “Betty… She was around when Ginnie was born, aye? Wipin’ ye down while ye were in labour?”

“She was,” I said a bit sadly. “She died tonight.”

“What? How?” Jamie asked me, looking down at me, but my attention was back to the barrel, where the glass-ridden contents of Betty’s stomach lay underneath a stained cloth.

“Murder. I’m certain if it,” I said a bit coolly. 

“Christ,” Jamie muttered. “How? And how do ye ken this?”

“Someone fed her glass,” I said. “I ken this because I examined her and found blood in her throat, then I did a wee bit of a post-mortem and found ground glass in her stomach.”

“A post-mortem?” he asked me, paling at the thought of it. “Catrìona… Whatever it is, ye must stay out of it.”

“Stay out of it?” I said, picking up my head to look at him. “How can ye ask me te stay out of it?”

“Because she belonged te Jocasta… and I’ll be needin’ ye,” Jamie told me, meeting my eye. “When Tryon pulled me aside earlier, he… he informed me that I must gather my militia and meet his troops at Alamance. He wishes te put an end te the Regulators.” I felt my stomach drop at the news. I suspected it when I saw his reaction to Tryon’s conversation earlier, but now that it was confirmed…

“And… and Murtagh,” I said with unease, and Jamie nodded.

“Aye… And Murtagh,” he repeated. So the time had finally come. Murtagh had been smart and kept out of sight, but if the Regulators were going to face off with British troops… Well, no good was going to come from it. I had a sickening feeling in my stomach, one that would stick around for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

1 April, 1771

Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

MAEVIS POV

“If it werenae fer Ginnie savin’ the day by lettin’ her wee bird out in the house, I thought he’d propose,” Caoimhe was telling Maevis, Bree, Archie and Lizzy on the porch of the Big House. They had been back since the previous evening, but all of them were so tired that they pretty much instantly went to bed. There wasn’t much to report on back at the Ridge - Archie ran the place pretty smoothly, and Lizzy was a big help to Maevis in taking care of the girls. Unfortunately, a couple of days after her family left for the wedding at River Run, Maevis came down with a nasty case of the flu and was sick for almost the entire time that they were gone, only recovering the day before they got home. She still had a lot of post-nasal drip, and after taking a sip of lemon and echinacea tea that Mama had given her, she blew her nose into a handkerchief while Bree laughed at Caoimhe.

“Would it be so bad fer Mr. McCullough te propose te ye?” she asked her cousin through her laughter, and Caoimhe scoffed.

“I dinnae want him te propose. I dinnae want anyone te propose,” Caoimhe spat back at her.

“Havenae we established tha’ Caoimhe would make a bad wife?” Archie teased his cousin, and Caoimhe glared at him. Maevis sniffled and started singing a song that came to mind when Caoimhe started voicing her woes about Mr. McCullough.

“You say you’re looking for someone

Who’s never weak, but always strong,

To protect you and defend you

Whether you are right or wrong.

Someone to open each and every door.

But it ain’t me, babe.

No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe.

It ain’t me you’re looking for, babe…”

“Oh, shut up, all of ye, will ye?” Caoimhe snapped at her red-haired cousins, who all laughed.

“I met him at Bree’s wedding last summer. He was a nice guy,” Maevis told them, her voice slightly muffled by lingering congestion.

“And verra handsome, too,” Lizzy chimed in a little dreamily, leaning against the railing of the porch.

“Then why dinnae you marry him, Lizzy?” Caoimhe asked her irritably.

“Because he doesnae like me. He likes you,” Lizzy quipped back, and Archie snorted while Caoimhe scoffed at them.

“If I’d known ye’d all be so opposed te my feelin’s towards Mr. McCullough, I wouldnae have told ye gabbots anythin’,” she said to them, which elicited even more laughter from her companions.

“Are we talkin’ about the blonde bloke who wants to shag Caoimhe?” came Rory’s voice as he exited the house, and more snorts of laughter followed while Caoimhe glared at him.

“I hate all of ye. I wish I wasnae related te any of ye,” Caoimhe said to them, stalking past Rory as she went back into the house.

“Puir hen,” said Bree, shaking her head. “I think Mr. McCullough would make her really happy.”

“Except fer the fact tha’ she called him ‘boring’,” Archie replied. “Before ye came, she was sayin’ he’s likely never left the colony of North Carolina and likely never would. Her exact words were ‘he was born runnin’ that shop and he’ll die runnin’ that shop’.”

“And would stability be such a bad thing fer her?” Bree asked him, and Archie shrugged.

“Dinnae ken, but it isnae up te us. If she doesnae want tha’ stability, then she’ll not have it. Ye ken how she’s always hated bein’ idle. She could never stay still,” Archie replied.

“Her father said te me once that he was worried she was too much like him,” Rory said, and Maevis raised a brow at him.

“You met my uncle?” she asked him.

“Didn’t you know this? We went te Barra first lookin’ for you, remember?” Rory asked her.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I still have sick brain,” said Maevis with a small sigh, suppressing a cough.

“Aye, ye were verra sick. I’m glad yer feelin’ better now, a phiutharag,” Archie said to her. “Right, I’d best go back home te Clara. She’ll be wonderin’ why I’ve no’ repaired the leak in the roof yet.”

“Can ye repair the one in ours, too?” Bree asked him, and Rory huffed slightly.

“I said I’d get to it soon!” he said to her.

“If Archie’s goin’ on his roof, he may as well go on ours, mo chridhe,” Bree told him, and Rory huffed a little.

“I’ll do it. I swear I will,” he said.

“Ye said tha’ two months ago,” Bree told him a bit firmly.

“It’s nae bother, brother. I’ll already have the tools out anyway,” Archie said to Rory.

“Fine, fine. Whatever. Fix my damn roof,” said Rory, who looked as if he was feeling a little emasculated.

“I’ll show ye where it is,” Bree said to her brother, and then she touched Rory’s wrist and kissed his cheek. “I love ye, mo chridhe. I’ll see ye at home.” At this, Rory sighed, then accepted a small kiss from his wife.

“I love ye, too,” he said to her, watching as she and Archie left to get on horses and head towards the Village.

“I suppose I should go and see if Maggie needs help wi’ the bairns,” said Lizzy once Bree and Archie had left, and she went inside. Rory then cleared his throat.

“Maevis, I need to talk te ye for a moment,” he said once they were alone.

“Oh? What about?” she asked him, moving over on the bench so he could sit beside her. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper, unrolling it and showing it to her. She took it to look at it, then raised a brow as she read the title:

Declaration of Heir to the Estate of River Run

“Rory… What is this?” she asked her friend and brother-in-law.

“I don’t know if ye know this, but at mine and Bree’s wedding last summer, Jocasta tried te give River Run to Donnie,” Rory explained to her. “I told her te shove it up her twat, but she’s a persistent woman. She more or less told me at her own wedding that she was going to name Donnie as her heir, and I again told her te piss off, but she said the document was already signed and just needed my signature. So… instead, I appealed te her whole ‘strong independent woman who doesn’t need a man’ side.” Maevis raised a brow at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked him.

“It means… I reminded her that she’s been runnin’ River Run better than it had ever been run before on her own, and that it took a strong woman te do that… and then I said to her that you are a strong woman raising two girls all on yer own,” he continued, pausing for a moment, and Maevis narrowed her eyes a little.

“Rory… What did you do?” she asked him suspiciously.

“What I did was get her te name you heir of River Run,” Rory told her. “For the sake of yourself and the girls.”

“Rory!” Maevis exclaimed.

“Now, hold on a minute. Before ye rip my throat out, listen to what I have to say,” Rory told her. “On our way te River Run, I heard your parents bring up a very important thing… In this century, single mothers aren’t given respect or opportunities like they are in our time. They’re seen as burdens on society. And at the time, I didn’t think anything more on it, but when Jocasta brought up needin’ an heir for River Run, I thought who else better for that role than you?”

“Rory, I don’t know anything about running a plantation! And I don’t want slaves, either!” Maevis snapped at him.

“So then pay them a wage,” Rory told her. “I’ve spent a long time thinkin’ about this. You can pay them a wage, although ye have to understand that given the time we live in now, keepin’ them under ownership will keep them safe.”

“This is ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m hearing you say this. Of all people, a twenty-second century historian!” she scolded him.

“I know, I know. I don’t like it either, but unfortunately, that’s just the world we live in now. The people of this century don’t appreciate people of colour the way the people of our century will someday,” Rory replied, and then he sighed. “Ye can’t change things overnight, but ye can be good to them. Better, even, than Jocasta. You can treat them as human beings, and no one can do shit about it because they’d be your property. No one can tell ye what to do with your property.”

“I just can’t think of other people as my property, Rory. I can’t,” Maevis told him.

“I know… But ye have to, for their sake, because if ye try and set them free, that leaves them vulnerable to cruel people who don’t see them the way we do,” Rory told her. “I’ve asked the Whig lawyer from Cross Creek to come here at his earliest convenience. A Mr. Allan Hawthorne. He sees things more our way. He can help ye figure out all the legalities of this shit.”

“I haven’t even agreed to be Jocasta’s heir, Rory. Why have you made this decision for me?” Maevis demanded of him.

“I haven’t made any decision for you,” he began, but Maevis cut him off.

“Not according to this document. You’re treating me no differently than every other man of this damn racist, misogynistic century,” she snapped at him.

“I’m sorry, Maevis,” Rory said, not knowing what else to say. “I just… I know how this century will treat you and the girls. I just… I don’t want to see ye fail.”

“I’m not going to fail. I’ll be just fine here on the Ridge,” Maevis said to him.

“And what’ll ye do when your parents are gone?” Rory asked her. “How are you going te make a living? Ye haven’t heard the awful things people say about you.”

“I don’t care what they have to say,” Maevis said stubbornly.

“Someday, that’ll mean something, but not here. Not in this century,” Rory explained to her. “Have ye ever read The Scarlet Letter? It’s about a woman named Hester Prynne who has a child out of wedlock. She’s shunned by her society, her daughter has no friends because the people won’t allow their children to play with her. I know ye don’t care anbout other people’s opinions, but when it starts te affect your life and the lives of Wren and Lark, you will. Ye can’t change these people to behave and think like the people of our century. No matter how much you think it won’t matter, it does. I wish it didn’t, but it does. It’s just… how it is in this time.” Maevis fell silent. She knew he was right, but the twenty-second century feminist inside of her wanted so badly to refuse to admit it. She looked down at the paper in her hands, which named her and her descendants as the heirs of River Run. When Jocasta died, the plantation would be hers, and then it would fall probably to Wren, who was born first, and her family. River Run was a very prosperous plantation, and it would mean that Wren and Lark and even Maevis herself would never want for anything. But the morals… She couldn’t own slaves, she just couldn’t, but then again, Rory was also right about how people of this damned stupid century felt about people of colour. She didn’t want to be a hero, but she couldn’t force their opinions to change, either. As the owner of River Run, she could positively impact the people who ran the plantation and made it prosper. She could teach them to read and write, pay them a wage, essentially create her own community on the plantation. This arrangement could benefit so many lives… She picked up her head, then looked at Rory.

“All right,” she said finally. “All right… I’ll do it. But only because of all the good I can do with it, not because of everyone’s pity.”

“I understand,” said Rory. “All ye have to do is sign that document where it’s indicated, whenever you’re ready.” She looked down where he pointed, seeing a line marked by an ‘x’ for her to sign.

“I will,” she said. “Later. I’m really enjoying the spring air right now.” She rolled up the document and set it aside, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “So. I hear you’re leaving soon to fight the Regulators.”

“Yeah,” said Rory softly. “Your father’s rounding up the Ridge men as we speak. Your mother’s making us give her blood samples so she can type it in case any of us are injured.”

“When do you leave?” Maevis asked him.

“Couple of days, I think. We’ll need to be in Alamance by early May. We need te find more men for the militia, though,” Rory told her. “Shouldn’t take more than a week to get there. It’s not far. We can pick up men on the way.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” said Maevis with a small sigh. “I guess Bree, Marsali, Ginnie and I are stuck here, as usual.”

“Ye don’t want te see battle,” Rory told her.  “Hell, I don’t want to see battle. I’m a historian, not a soldier.”

“Can you even shoot a gun?” Maevis asked him, and Rory scoffed lightly.

“No, but do most of the men here? I doubt it,” Rory replied. “This is something I’m not ready for…”

“Think of it as practice for the Revolutionary War,” Maevis told him, and he groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Fuck… That war is five years away,” he said softly, and the two of them fell into an uncomfortable silence.

“Well… Five years is a long time…” Maevis said after a moment.

“But no’ that long,” Rory replied, and then he sighed, running a hand through his hair before standing. “I’ll have to cross that damn bridge when I get there. For now, I need te prove to my wife that I’m a man and can repair my own damn roof.”

“Yeah, you do that. Go prove you’re a man,” Maevis teased him, and then he stood up to leave. “Rory…” He paused, turning around to look at her. “Thanks… For thinking so quickly. About this.” She lifted the rolled-up parchment, and he nodded.

“Hopefully, we all live te see it through,” he said, and then he turned and left, leaving Maevis sitting alone on the porch.

2 April, 1771

ARCHIE POV

“He said the Riot Act allows him te indict any man seen at any riots of the past?” Archie asked his father as the pair of them were checking their gun supplies and taking a final inventory. “I thought it just outlawed assembly. Why’s he doin’ this now?”

“He said te think of it as ‘delayed justice’,” Da replied, and Archie huffed.

“Any riot? No’ just Hillsborough?” Archie asked.

“Aye,” Da replied. “He’s given the sheriffs leave te discipline any man who resists, and then reminded me tha’ ‘there’s the law and there’s what is done’.”

“Shit,” Archie muttered, and then he sighed. “And now he wants us te meet him at Alamance. Fer battle, I’m sure of it.”

“Aye, and I’m supposed te have a full militia. I should have gone around recruitin’ months ago,” Da replied with a subtle tone of defeat in his voice.

“We’ve had a rough autumn and winter,” said Archie, trying hard not to think about December and what it brought. “Still, he said early May, didnae he? We’ve got a wee bit of time.”

“No’ as much as I’d like,” Da told him. “Still, we’ve a fair amount, and I’ve a map of locals livin’ in the backcountry on the road te Alamance. There’s a fair amount.”

“Likely still not enough te appease Tryon,” said Archie, scrunching up his nose a bit.

“Er… M-Mr. Fraser,” came the meek voice of Geordie, and both Archie and Da looked up at him as he stood in the doorframe of the barn. “Th-there’s a man here to see you. A s-sss-soldier.”

“A soldier?” Archie asked, exchanging a look with his father, and the two of them followed Geordie to where a red-coated Lieutenant Knox was dismounting his horse. He removed his hat and extended a hand to greet Da and Archie.

“Good day to you, Colonel Fraser, Captain Fraser,” said Lieutenant Knox to the two of them.

“Good day te ye, Lieutenant. What can I do fer ye?” Da asked him.

“I fear I have some regrettable news for you, Colonel,” Lieutenant Knox said, and Archie felt his stomach tie into a knot. If there was ‘regrettable news’, then that could only mean one thing - there was a conflict coming. Archie had been born in the middle of a war and had been nearby for plenty of battles as a wee lad, but never had he actually fought in a war. When they came to the Colonies, Da taught him how to shoot a rifle for hunting, and he wasn’t the worst shot, but he wasn’t nearly as good at it as his father was, meaning he wasn’t nearly good enough for battle. Da had fully intended on training the men of the Ridge to use the weapons that Tryon had given them for the militia, but with everything that had happened, the heartbreak, the fear… There was never a ‘right’ time for it. Now, the Regulators and the Crown were coming to head, and Fraser’s Ridge was in no way prepared.

“Aye?” Da asked Lieutenant Knox, raising a brow at him.

“His Excellency wishes me to inform you that not a single man has submitted himself to the mercy of the courts,” Lieutenant Knox told him. “He did hope it would not come to this, as I imagine we all did, but it seems there’s to be no choice in the matter.”

“Christ,” Da muttered. “His Excellency did inform me te meet him in Alamance wi’ my men.”

“You are to gather your men, yes,” Lieutenant Knox told him. “However, your instructions are different. His Excellency, the Governor, did arrange for a convoy of munitions to be delivered to General Waddell. As soon as he is in receipt of those, he will meet His Excellency in Hillsborough.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a rolled up piece of parchment, handing it to Da. “You’re to gather your men and find us there within the fortnight.”

“A fortnight? Hillsborough is a week away alone,” Archie burst out.

“Lad,” said Da,” and he let out a small sigh. “Aye… But I must ask fer an extra week, if his Excellency doesnae mind. This past winter was… difficult… fer my family. My daughter took verra ill and…” Da glanced briefly at Archie, who knew exactly what he was going to mention. “…my granddaughter was lost te us. I didnae quite have the time nor the means te traipse the backcountry fer men.”

“I see,” said Lieutenant Knox, understanding immediately by looking at Archie. “Yours, Captain?” Archie didn’t say anything, but swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “I am… very sorry to hear. I am certain His Excellency will be understanding.”

“I’ll write te him explainin’ everrathin’, and I’ll be sure te ride ahead te make it te Hillsborough before my men,” Da told him, and then he gestured towards the house. “May I offer ye refreshments? Ye must have been ridin’ a long while.”

“I certainly would not turn it down,” said Lieutenant Knox with a small chuckle, leaving the barn with Da. Da glanced at Archie briefly, nodding to him before continuing to the house with Lieutenant Knox.

“Alamance, d-did he say?” said Geordie suddenly, and Archie jumped a little, turning around to look at him.

“Christ, Geordie. I forgot ye were there,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Aye, Alamance… Yer family’s there now, aye?” He nodded.

“Th-they… m-moved there after M-Mistress Innes’s… w… wedding,” Geordie said to him, and Archie sighed.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. If there’ll even be fightin’,” Archie told him, but truth to be told, he wasn’t even sure that was true. He knew Murtagh, who was like a grandsire to him and a father to Da. The man was stubborn and hated injustices, and likely wouldn’t be put down by the thought of war with the redcoats. He had to warn him in some way, but how?

Fergus.

Fergus was born and bred for the sort of sneaking around that was required to reach Murtagh. Without saying much to Geordie, Archie hopped onto a horse and rode to where Fergus and Marsali lived with Germain and Joan. Outside, Marsali was drying clothes that she had just washed, and she smiled when she saw Archie. “Oy, Archie. Feels like I havenae seen ye in a wee bit,” she said happily as she greeted her stepbrother.

“Aye, well. It’s been a wee bit busy around these parts,” Archie said, and Marsali’s smile faded.

“What? What is it? Clara?” she asked, immediately detecting that something was wrong, and Archie sighed.

“No. Clara’s fine. It’s… somethin’ else,” he said to her. He knew that sparing Marsali the details would only make her ask more, so he explained everything.

“Christ… Ye mean…” she said when he was finished.

“We’re likely goin’ te battle. I need te find Fergus, he seems the most aware of Murtagh’s whereaboots,” Archie said, glancing up just as Fergus was returning to his own home.

“Papa!” exclaimed wee Germain, running to greet his father happily.

“Fergus, I need te speak wi’ ye, urgently,” Archie said as he stalked past Marsali.

“Germain, come here a wee minute, aye?” Marsali called to her son. “Do ye want te take a wee trip te the creek?”

“Ya!” said wee Germain excitedly, and Archie exchanged a brief glance with Marsali before she took the kids and left.

“What is it, frère?” Fergus asked him, concern knitted on his brow.

“I need ye te find a way te reach Murtagh, or at least get word te him. Do ye ken anyone who might?” Archie asked him.

“Hmm…” said Fergus, taking a moment to think. “Ah, oui. In Hillsborough.”

“Hillsborough? Shit,” Archie cursed, and then he let out a huff. “It’ll have te do. Da’s been ordered te gather his militia and meet Tryon at Hillsborough, but we dinnae quite have a militia te gather. I dinnae ken what Da’s plans are, but I need ye te get ye Hillsborough before we do and find a way te warn Murtagh.”

“You think Murtagh will heed such warning?” Fergus asked him, and Archie let out a small sigh.

“No, but at least he’ll ken what’s comin’,” Archie said to him, and Fergus nodded.

“I shall leave as quick as I can,” Fergus told him.

“Thank ye, a bhràthair. Hang around when ye get there, wait fer us. I dinnae ken how long we’ll be, but ‘tis almost a week’s journey te Hillsborough anyway,” Archie told him.

“I will wait for you,” Fergus said, and then he was gone, leaving Archie with the task of informing his father about this plan.

3 April, 1771

CATRÌONA POV

We were getting ready to travel yet again, and since we were facing the possibility of a battle, I fully intended on bringing Caoimhe with me. We packed as many herbs and tools as we could carry, as well as bandages, my syringe and a vial of liquid penicillin, which would save more lives than Caoimhe and I could combined. However, this meant that I was yet again leaving the Ridge without a healer or a physician, so I was relying on my apprentice to remedy that. “Hopefully, ye dinnae get sick again,” I said to Maevis as I handed her a couple of books. “If ye need anythin’, reference these. Ye can practice yer stitchin’ on pig skin, if ye can get some.”

“I’m sure Marsali could get me some. She’s very good with a butcher’s knife,” Maevis told me as she watched me do some last minute packing.

“Is she? Huh. Perhaps I ought te take her on as an apprentice, too,” I said casually. “Right, that drawer there has everrathin’ ye’ll need te ken aboot the Ridge residents. The top two drawers are everraone livin’ and any information I could get aboot them, the bottom drawer is those that have died. If anyone dies, make sure te find out how and write it down on their card. Some causes of death or illness could be genetic.”

“I know, Mama. I will,” she said to me, and I sighed.

“I ken it’s a lot te put on ye… but wi’ this impendin’ battle, I badly need experienced hands te help me,” I told her.

“I’ll be fine. I mean, last time, no one really wanted to hear what I had to say anyway,” said Maevis with a small chuckle. “They sort of just… did their own thing.”

“Aye, the people of the Ridge are fairly self-sufficient,” I said. “Still, cannae hurt te have someone who actually kens a thing or two aboot medicine.” I collected the last few things in my basket, including my notes on my blood typing that I had had to put a rush on (meaning I stayed up all night to finish it) and then I looked back at my Surgery with a small sigh. “‘Tis hard te leave all this fer a surgeon’s tent behind the lines of a battlefield…”

“Better there than the battle coming here,” Maevis told me.

“Yer most certainly right aboot that. I’ll no’ lose another home te war,” I told her.

“Catrìona! We need te leave!” I heard Jamie call from outside, and I sighed again.

“Take care te keep Mrs. Bug out of here, and dinnae forget te check on the penicillin. Dinnae forget te sterilise any tools ye use and dinnae forget the list of those needin’ the dauco seeds. They’re growin’ in a box outside of the window, if we’re no’ back by August, fer some godforsaken reason, they’ll have te be harvested. I try te give aboot a two week supply at a time. I’ve my notes on the dauco seeds in one of the books I’ll be leavin’ ye. Oh, and stay away from the Ustilago, ‘tis better ye dinnae use it at all,” I told her as I tried to list off everything I could think of.

“What if a woman goes into labour and it’s risky?” Maevis asked me.

“Use the laminaria. Dried seaweed. It goes into the cervix and forces dilation,” I instructed her. “It’s labelled on the shelf by the ‘L’s.”

“I figured, Mama,” Maevis said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. Clara said she would help me out if I needed it.” This caught me by surprise, as I had seen very little of Clara since winter.

“Clara? Really?” I asked her. “Oh, that’ll be good fer her. Get her out of the house and all.”

“Catrìona!” Jamie called again.

“I’m comin’, damn it!” I shouted back at him.

“Let’s go, Mama,” said Maevis with amusement, and she led me outside so I wouldn’t get distracted further by anything else in my Surgery. Standing out in front of the house were Marsali with wee Germain and Joan, who would be temporarily moving into the Big House while we were all away, Clara, Bree with Donnie on her hip, and Lizzy and Maggie, who each had Wren and Lark on their hips. Geordie was near Lizzy, who was holding Wren, and he had taken Wren from her to say his goodbyes to her.

“I’ll s-see you s-soon, beautiful g… girl,” Geordie said to her as he embraced her, and I couldn’t help but pause and smile at the sight.

“Ba ba,” said little Wren, who had already started babbling the sounds of single-syllable words a couple of months ago. I elbowed Maevis gently, and her cheeks turned pink.

“Mama, stop,” she muttered to me.

“Go and say goodbye te him, at least,” I said back to her quietly, and she rolled her eyes. Jamie came up to me and took the basket from me.

“We need te leave, Catrìona. We’re already behind,” he said to me a bit impatiently.

“Well, I’ll beg yer pardon. I need te stock an entire wee field hospital,” I said back to him with my hands on my hips, and he shook his head and went to place the basket on the wagon that contained the rest of my supplies.

“Impatient, isnae he?” Marsali teased, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Thankfully, he sent Fergus ahead, otherwise, he’d be houndin’ us all,” I replied with a smile. “Now, the Ridge is in the hands of the four of ye. Do ye think ye can handle it?”

“Is that a question, Mama?” Bree asked me, teasing me a little.

“Aye, I ken. Ye four are all strong, bonny women and I trust the Ridge is in good hands,” I said, and then I looked at Clara. “Especially the future Lady of the Ridge.” Her cheeks turned a little pink.

“Archie already explained everything to me,” she said a bit meekly. She still seemed tired, and the circles under her eyes were dark, as if she failed to find sleep. I reached up a hand to brush a loose piece of dark brown hair from her face.

“I’m sure ye’ll do fine,” I said to her kindly. “As fer the rest of ye, dinnae run poor Clara into the ground.”

“‘Tis not us ye should be worrit aboot, Mother Cat,” said Marsali, referring to the bairns.

“Then I hope these weeuns are on their best behaviour, aye, Germain?” I said to my eldest grandson. “Speakin’ of good behaviour, where’s my daughter?” I looked around, finding Jamie pulling Ginnie down from the wagon.

“Yer not comin’, a sheillean-meala,” he said to her as he set her down on the ground.

“Please, Daddy?” she begged him.

“No. ‘Tis no’ safe fer wee lassies like yerself,” Jamie told her, and she pouted at him. “I said no, so dinnae look at me that way.”

“Yer needed here, my wee hen, te look after yer big sisters,” I said to her as I approached her, kneeling down to give her a big hug. “Can ye do that fer me?” She whined, but then ultimately nodded. “Tha’s my girl.” I kissed her cheek and tickled her side, and her pout turned into her sweet, beautiful giggle. “Och, I’ll miss ye, my wee girl… Whose hair will I plait before bed?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, and saw Geordie, now holding Lark, approach Maevis.

MAEVIS POV

Maevis wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on around her, instead focusing on a robin that was pulling a worm out of the ground, but she was slightly startled when she felt someone approach her. She looked up to see Geordie, holding her fair-haired daughter on his hip.

“M-Maevis,” he said, clearing his throat. “I… I w-wanted to say that… I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “It’s like you’re saying goodbye. You’ll come back.”

“M-maybe,” said Geordie, chuckling a little. Maevis hadn’t really spoken to him since his proposal in the winter, although he did leave her some flowers in a vase with a note of apology. Since then, he’d acted as if it had never happened, and Maevis figured that the best course of action was for her to act the same.

“Not maybe, definitely. You have to, otherwise who’s going to care for the Ridge?” Maevis asked him. “And… the girls would be very upset if you didn’t.” Geordie chuckled lightly.

“I’ll d-do my best,” he said, turning his head to look at Lark. “If I… I don’t…”

“Don’t,” Maevis said. “I won’t hear it.” Geordie sighed, then adjusted Lark on his hip.

“It h-has to be s-sssaid,” Geordie told her. “If I don’t… come back… j-just… don’t forget me.” Maevis could feel the expression on her face shifting, and she let out a small sigh. This poor boy was so taken with her, and even she had to admit that he was so undeserving of her and her treatment of him. But how could she give herself to him when she couldn’t even accept herself? And now, here he was saying goodbye for what could be the last time… It probably wouldn’t be, it couldn’t be, but if the last few years had taught her anything, it was that anything could happen at any time. There was no predicting what could come next. He wasn’t asking her for anything except his memory, and the kindness of such a gesture was enough for Maevis’s heart to break. It was at that moment that she realised her heart was still whole enough in places to break.

“Never,” she said to him softly after several long moments of silence. “I mean… How could I? You’ve been such an integral part of our family, and… and the girls love you… Just…” She crossed her arms across her stomach. “Come back, won’t you?” He smiled gently.

“I’ll t-try,” he said to her kindly. There was a loud whistle, indicating that it was time for the militia of the Ridge to leave, and Maevis sighed as she looked at her fair-haired daughter, who was settled comfortably in Geordie’s arms.

“I… I guess I should take this one off your hands,” she said.

“Oh, r-right,” said Geordie with a chuckle, lifting up Lark to look at her one final time. “B-be good for your m-mother, poppet.” She smiled and giggled, and then he handed her to Maevis, who awkwardly shifted Lark on her hip to be as far away from her face as possible. She was still recovering from the flu, after all.

“Well… See you soon, I guess,” she said to him, and he smiled again.

“S-see you soon,” he repeated, and then he turned to follow the rest of the militia as they made their way off the Ridge.

“Ye should hae kissed him goodbye, a phiuthar,” Marsali teased her, and Maevis huffed a little.

“Lizzy, can you take her for me?” Maevis said, ignoring the comment, and she handed Lark off to Lizzy.

ELTON POV

“Wait! Wait!” cried the voice of young Isolde Carlyon, running to the wagon where Elton was seated.

“Christ,” he heard his father mutter.

“Isolde!” called her older brother, Young Ross, who was among the men on foot. Isolde hopped up onto the wagon as it still moved with something in her hands.

“Take this, for good luck,” she said as she took Elton’s hat off and placed something around his neck. He picked it up in his palm and looked at it, and it was a little metal charm depicting the monogram of St. Michael the Archangel. “I made it for yee, so yee’ll be safe.”

“Oh, er…” Elton replied, unsure of what to say. “Um… Thanks.”

“Isolde! Get yee down from there and back ta your mother!” called the older Ross Carlyon, her father. She quickly kissed Elton’s cheek, which made him blush furiously, before hopping off of the wagon and waving goodbye to him.

“Be safe, Mister Elton!” she called as the wagon carried on, and beside him, he heard his mother chuckle.

“Sounds like she has a wee crush on ye,” she said with amusement.

“What? No, dinnae be ridiculous,” Elton replied. “She’s only kind te me because I’ve been teachin’ her te read.”

“If I was a thirteen-year-auld lass bein’ taught by a handsome young man, I’d have a wee crush on him,” she replied, and Elton brushed her off.

“Auntie,” said Caoimhe from behind them on the wagon, a notebook in her hands. “Did ye find out everraone’s blood types? Ye didnae write it down.”

“Och, I forgot aboot tha’,” Mam replied. “Aye, at least of us all. It’s in their files. Have ye a pencil?” Caoimhe nodded. “Right. Yer uncle is type B-positive. Archie is O-negative like I am, Rory is AB-negative, which he told us. Yers is type A, although I cannae tell if yer positive or negative, I didnae have the time te fully compare yer blood te Rory’s, only enough te tell what type.”

“Type A?” Caoimhe asked her.

“Aye, so yer mother must have been type A because yer father is type O-negative like I am,” Mam replied. “I didnae get Elton’s, though.”

“Ye dinnae need te. I ken my blood type from the bombin’ in Glasgow,” Elton told her as he listened to his mother and cousin speak. “I’m B-positive.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an exasperated expression on his mother’s face, and he looked at her with a brow raised. “What?”

“Ye told me a few months ago ye didnae ken yer blood type at all!” she said to him.

“Did I? Huh,” said Elton casually, looking forward again. “Guess I forgot.” Mam sighed.

“Elton’s B-positive,” she told Caoimhe.

“Got it,” Caoimhe replied as she scribbled it down.

“So,” Mam said, turning around to look at Caoimhe fully. “I wonder if Mr. McCullough will be in a militia.”

“I doubt it,” said Dad, chiming into the conversation from Mam’s other side. “Cross Creek isnae bein’ called upon.”

“Lucky them,” said Caoimhe in a flat tone.

“Aye,” said Mam, and she turned around again and laid a hand on Elton’s arm. “So. Tell me aboot Young Miss Carlyon.”

“There’s nothin’ te tell. I’ve been workin’ closely wi’ her father at the forge, and I learned she couldnae read or write, so I’ve been teachin’ her. Tha’s it, really.”

“She gave ye a necklace she made. It’s a wee bit more than that,” Mam teased him, and Elton sighed and rolled his eyes.

“She’s just a kid. There’s nothin’ there,” Elton told her. “Fer anyone.”

“All right, all right, there’s nothin’ there fer anyone,” Mam said, throwing her hands in the air. Behind them, a horse rapidly rode up beside them, and all of them looked over to see Archie on his horse. “And where were you?” Mam asked him.

“Sayin’ goodbye te my wife properly,” Archie told them, and Caoimhe laughed.

“Were ye, now?” she teased him.

“No’ like that, ye filthy auld besom!” Archie spat back at her. “I’m just worrit aboot her… I’ve no’ left her fer more than a few hours since…”

“Aye, I’m a wee bit worrit aboot her, too,” said Mam. “However, I pulled Marsali and Bree aside and asked the two of them te take extra care of Clara and Maevis. They’ll do a fine job of carin’ fer their sisters, I ken it.”

“Aye. I ken they will. Marsali’s grown up quite a bit since becomin’ a mother herself,” said Archie. “Elton didnae have the privilege of meetin’ her when she was an immature wee brat.”

“Dinnae say that aboot yer sister, lad,” Dad told him.

“‘Tis true, Da. She didnae behave so around ye, but the way she spoke te Mama on the Artemis was cruel,” Archie said back to him.

“She was just upset. I didnae blame her fer it,” said Mam. “But… aye, she wasnae verra kind te me. But she was just a wee lass of fifteen then. Now, she’s a bonny woman of almost twenty, a strong and fierce mother of two, and a devoted sister te all of ye.” She chuckled gently. “Our family is verra blended, isnae it? Made up of an adopted son, a stepdaughter-turned-daughter-in-law, five of our own children, another son-in-law who’s been like a nephew te me since he was wee, a niece, a… a nephew.” She meant Ian, Elton supposed. They hadn’t heard anything from him since they left him with the Mohawk, but then again, Elton didn’t really expect them to. The Mohawk didn’t seem very open to outsiders, from Elton’s experience with them. He wondered how they were treating Ian, and if he was even still alive… “Jamie, have ye heard from Jenny at all?”

“Hmph,” said Dad. “She still willnae utter a word te me.” Mam sighed.

“At least Ian still writes te us… and Maevis said she still gets letters from Janet all of the time,” Mam replied.

“Does she?” said Dad. “Aye, I forgot she went te Lallybroch first.”

“Aunt Jenny must have been thrilled,” said Archie. “She adored Bree and I, when we lived in Broch Tuarach.”

“She adored ye when we lived at Lallybroch,” said Mam, and then she let out a small sigh. “A small part of me does miss those days… We had a sort of… peaceful happiness there tha’ we didnae have fer a long time, in the days before the Uprisin’. Neither of us were wanted by the Crown, we werenae pardoned Jacobites… Still so blissfully unaware of the hell we were aboot te endure.”

“Aye,” said Dad. “We did have peace on Barra, fer a time.”

“But no’ really,” said Mam. “We were wanted Jacobites, at that point. Even if we felt at peace, we couldnae live without lookin’ over our shoulders at all times. But… it was a peaceful time, I’ll give ye that.”

“I miss Grandsire,” Archie chimed in. “He would have adored ye, Elton. I wish ye could have met him.”

“I saw a portrait of him at the castle,” Elton replied, remembering the portrait he saw of his great-grandfather in the portrait gallery of what he knew as Kisimul Castle. The man had sharp features, like Archie, and had Mam’s light grey eyes and red hair. Of course, the grand portrait he saw was of a much younger Eairdsidh Ruadh Fowlis, but he did see a smaller one of him done in his later years by Brèagha.

“His mother painted tha’ portrait,” said Archie. “When I was a lad, he sat me on his knee and told me the story of when he first became Laird, all the way back in 1703. He was fifteen years auld, and his mother, a MacNeil, was a gifted artist. Perhaps tha’s where Bree got her skills from.”

“Or yer grandmother - my mother,” said Dad. “My mother was a verra skilled artist, too.”

“And so is Elton - in a different way,” said Mam, touching his arm again. “I’ve never seen more perfect blueprints in my life.”

“It just takes a lot of practice, tha’s all,” Elton told her, and she scoffed.

“Practice… I’ve been practicin’ fer years and the best I can do is flowers and leaves,” she said. “They’re natural shapes, so easier te do.” Mam shared a small chuckle with Caoimhe, who returned it happily.

CATRÌONA POV

It was later that same day, a couple of hours later, when we came across the first settlement - or rather, pair of covered wagons. At the sound of our horses and the clanging of metal, a small child poked her head out of the larger of the two wagons. “Mama! Si streinonge katse!” she called, and I raised my brow at the language. The little girl went into the wagon to hide behind the skirts of her mother, who was olive-skinned with thick, dark curly hair underneath a scarf and she wore lots of jewellery on her neck and wrists.

“Analetta, žas te anes che dades,” she said to her daughter, who ran off into the woods. She then pulled a scarf around her arms and came down the stairs, looking at us with somewhat frightened eyes. She was close to my age, if not a little younger, but she was very skinny, as if she had had few meals in her life. “Can help?” she asked us in a thick Eastern European accent, referring to herself.

“Gypsies,” Jamie muttered to me, clearly on guard. He hopped down from the wagon and approached the woman, who didn’t leave the bottom step of the wagon. “Good day te ye, madam. My name is Colonel James Fraser of the Rowan County militia,” he introduced himself to her, but she didn’t seem to understand him. “Er… Do ye ken any English?”

“English?” she asked him, shaking her head. “No good. Husband say English.”

“Yer husband speaks English,” Jamie repeated. “Do ye ken where I can find him?”

“Jamie,” I said, climbing down from the wagon. “I think yer frightenin’ her. She can tell ye dinnae trust her, and wrongfully so, mind ye.” I pushed him behind me and approached the woman with a kind smile on my face. “Good afternoon, I’m Colonel Fraser’s wife, a physician.”

“Tata, dikh! Si streino!” came the voice of the little girl again, and she came back to the clearing with a middle-aged dark-haired, olive-skinned man and a younger man with longer hair who looked just like him.

“Mina, len Analetta ai zha andre,” he directed his wife, who urged her young daughter to join her, and she led her inside of the wagon. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked in English.

“Good day te ye, sir. I am Colonel James Fraser of the Rowan County militia,” Jamie said to him. “Governor Tryon has called a militia, and he’s offerin’ forty shillin’s fer everra man between the ages of sixteen and sixty te join it, and two fer each day served. Do ye and yer son fall between this range?”

“What is this… militia?” asked the man with his nose scrunched up, not fully understanding Jamie.

“An army, of sorts. Unofficial,” Jamie told him.

“Army? My son and me, we do not shoot,” said the man, and his son yanked on his arm.

“Tata, dui shillings si te zhan dur amendar. Ame či meras khêrêl jekh semani,” he said to his father with an urgent tone, and the father seemed to let out a sigh.

“Numa amaro traio si te avel shudino. Naj dosta lasho ke si šavo xanto,” he said back to the lad. Judging by the looks on their faces, I could tell they were debating, so I entered the conversation.

“We have supplies. Fer as long as yer with us, ye’ll have plenty of food and water,” I told them. “And medical care. I’m a physician - a healer.”

“Healer?” asked the man, and then he looked at his son again.

“Woi nashti lel sama katar e mami, de la vastensa, ai avela ame xabe. Tata, musaj ame te žas lensa,” the son said to him, and the father sighed before looking at Jamie and I again.

“Yes. We will go with you,” he said, and Jamie and I shared a small smile.

“Excellent! What are yer names?” I asked them.

“Petsha Vlahović,” said the father. “My son, Miloš. My wife, Mina, my daughter, Analetta.” From the wagon, Caoimhe scribbled down their names in the notebook.

“I’ll ask fer proper spellin’ later,” she said as she closed the notebook.

“We bring our wagon,” said Mr. Vlahović, referring to his wagons behind him. “And horses.”

“Excellent,” said Jamie with a smile. “Welcome te the militia.”

8 April, 1771

ELTON POV

They had collected quite a few more settlers of the backcountry, most of them in their late thirties and early forties, but some of them had sons that were old enough. The militia had paused to set up camp for a day and Dad, Rory and Archie were discussing where they ought to go next. “Brownsville ought te give us a decent amount of men,” said Dad as he looked at a map through his spectacles.

“I’ve no’ heard kind things aboot them,” Archie told him. “When we stopped in Granite Falls, one of the lads we picked up there, Morton, says te stay away from them.”

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Rory asked them. “We don’t have the time to avoid them.”

“Perhaps Mr. Morton had a bad experience wi’ them,” Dad said to Archie.

“Oi, dinnae shoot the messenger. I was just repeatin’ what I was told,” Archie told them. Elton stepped away from them and went to check on the wagon - or rather, he went under the guise of checking on the wagon, but really, he just wanted a moment to himself. When he got to the other side of the wagon, he stopped and gasped at the sight of a young lad pulling things off the cart. He didn’t seem to hear or see Elton, and Elton, frozen with fear at the thought of confrontation, didn’t know what to do. Once the lad’s arms were filled, he turned around and gasped, dropping everything he held in his arms and froze.

“Er… Wh… What do ye think yer doin’?” Elton asked the lad, whose eyes were wide with fright. He couldn’t have been much older than fifteen or sixteen, and he was quite skinny. He had long unkempt hair, and strangely enough, he wasn’t wearing any trousers, which confused Elton even more. “I… I said… What do ye think yer doin’?” The lad shook his head and pointed to his ears, a universal sign that Elton, as a CODA, understood quite well. “Oh… Are ye deaf?” Elton asked him, pointing to his own ears. “Cannae hear?” The lad shook his head. “Can ye speak wi’ yer hands?” He signed while speaking, but the lad didn’t seem to understand him. “Oh, ye dinnae… Well, I dinnae suppose there’s any way te communicate wi’ ye is there?” The lad nodded and pointed to his lips, and then at Elton. “Ye can read lips? Aye, tha’s a useful skill when yer deaf. Right… My name is Elton Fr-”

“Get away from my brother!” came the angry voice of another lad, scaring the absolute hell out of Elton. He let out a shriek of terror as the owner of this other voice tackled him to the ground.

“Thief! Thief! Stop him!” shouted another voice.

“Elton!” came another. Suddenly, the attacker was pulled off of Elton and someone grabbed him underneath the armpits and sat him up.

“Elton!” came Mam’s voice, followed by her hands all over his face. “Are ye all right, lamb? Are ye hurt?”

“What happened?” Elton asked, genuinely confused.

“Let us go!” shouted a young lad - the same young lad who was deaf a moment ago. But wait, this one was dressed differently… Wait, there were two of them? Two identical twins, both skinny and scraggly-looking, with hardly a difference between them.

“Who are ye, lads?” Dad demanded from them.

“A thief, by the looks of it!” said one of the men, who had grabbed the lad that had attacked Elton. He was showing a scar on the lad’s thumb.

“So I see. What’s yer name, lad?” Dad asked him firmly. “What do ye mean by stealin’ my food and attackin’ my son?”

“Please, we just want somethin’ to eat! We’ve not had more than a squirrel between us these last two days!” the lad cried out.

“Yer name, lad, and then ye can have all the food ye want,” Dad demanded again, and the lad huffed and stopped fighting.

“Josiah Beardsley,” he said to Dad. “And that’s my brother, Keziah. He canna hear. Now ye’ll give us food, sir?”

“Aye,” said Dad, standing up again. “Josiah and Keziah. Archie, get them a bit of food each.”

“Aye, Da,” said Archie, doing as he was told.

“How auld are ye both?” Mam asked them once she was assured that Elton was okay.

“Fifteen, ma’am,” said Josiah.

“And yer a hunter?” Dad asked him, and the lad nodded.

“Where’s yer parents?” Mam asked next.

“Dinna have any, ma’am,” said Josiah. “They died when we was young, and our four sisters. We was sold to indentured servitude, te a man who lives not far from here. We’ve run away.”

“I see,” said Dad, raising a brow curiously at them.

“Let me have a look at ye both. Yer both verra thin,” said Mam, kneeling beside them to take a look at them. She first looked at the one without trousers first. “Has he always been deaf?”

“Since we was five, ma’am. Our master boxed his ears,” Josiah answered.

“Blessed Bride… And what happened te his breeks?” Mam asked next.

“He took ‘em off in the barn where he slept. The barn cat had her kittens on ‘em. He said he didna wanna wake ‘em,” Josiah explained. “I told him he was bein’ foolish.”

“Get him a blanket,” Mam said next, taking the two plates of food from Archie and handing them to the lads. They both dug into the food hungrily, grateful for the food. “So, ye dinnae have any family ye said?”

“No, ma’am,” said Josiah between bites. “Mistress said we kent only our Christian names. That was the first Mistress Beardsley.”

“Beardsley’s the name of the man who bought ye,” Dad said to him, and Josiah nodded.

“Aye, sir,” Josiah replied. “He’s an Indian trader. Ship’s captain sold us fer a term of thirty years.”

“Thirty years?” Archie exclaimed as he came over with a blanket for the deaf lad.

“And tha’ scar on yer hand, did that have anythin’ te do wi’ yer runnin’ away?” Dad asked him next.

“Oh… No, sir. I stole a cheese in town and the dairymaid saw me,” he explained. “Sheriff branded me as a warnin’, but if Mr. Beardsley found out… Ye willna send us back, will ye, sir? He beat us bad, starved us, as ye can see.”

“Of course we willnae send ye back,” Mam said to them sharply, looking up at Dad. “Will we, Jamie?”

“No, of course not,” Dad said after a moment of deliberation.

“I think we should take them in on the Ridge,” Mam said.

“What?” Elton asked her. “Are ye mad, Mam? He tried te kill me!”

“I couldna even if I wanted te,” Josiah shot back at him.

“Ye said yer a hunter, aye, Josiah?” Mam asked, and he nodded. “Then we could definitely use them on the Ridge, and while we’re travellin’.”

“They’re too young te fight, Catrìona,” Dad said in an effort to reason with her.

“I didnae say te fight, I said te hunt,” she said back to him. “Ye could help us wi’ provisions, or help me in the hospital tent.”

“I suppose… But we cannae take them wi’ us without purchasin’ their indenture so their master has no claim on them,” Dad told her, and then he looked at Josiah. “Is he home, do ye ken? Or away tradin’?”

“I canna say. We left a few days ago,” Josiah told him.

“Aye,” said Dad, standing up again. “Captains.” At this, Archie stood and Rory stepped out of the crowd for Dad to address them. “Take these lads and the rest of the company and continue te Brownsville. Fill tha’ muster book of yers wi’ as many men as ye can. Catrìona and I will go see this Mr. Beardsley.”

“Aye, Da. We willnae let ye down,” Archie said to him, and Rory nodded in agreement.

“Absolutely,” said Rory. Elton watched in awe as these two lads, one of which attacked him to the ground, into their company as if they hadn’t tried to steal from them. Elton couldn’t make sense of it, but his parents were good and kind people who couldn’t not help when someone was in need. Well, Elton supposed he couldn’t, either… But the bruises on his back would still cause a wee bit of resentment towards the two lads. Perhaps he could use this time and this journey to teach Keziah sign language… Then he could communicate with others, too.

Chapter Text

7 April, 1771

Hillsborough, North Carolina

FERGUS POV

Night had fallen, and Fergus crept carefully in the streets of Hillsborough hidden underneath a midnight cloak. He made his way to the window of the tavern, peering inside and looking for the faces of Ethan MacCrimmons, Bryan Cranna, Lee Withers and Robert Duff, but only one of them could be found. Inside, the round and purple-faced Robert Duff was drinking himself drunk, his usual companions nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the fat man belched and stood up, waddling his way towards the back entrance to the alley, and Fergus quickly flew down it, keeping close to the wall. While Duff was pissing against the wall, Fergus grabbed his arm, shoving a hand over the fat man’s mouth before he could scream. “Where are the others?” Fergus demanded from him.

“Hmph!” exclaimed Duff, and then Fergus removed his hand. “Cannae ye wait ‘til I’ve emptied me chamber, lad?” 

“Be quiet!” Fergus hissed at him. “Where are they?”

“Och, ‘tis terrible news,” moaned Duff, continuing his piss. “‘Twas a riot, it was - a small one. Och, auld Ethan, Bryan an’ Lee tried te get the judge te see it our way, but wi’ tar and feathers! ‘Twere arrested, they were, and due te leave fer New Bern te be hanged!”

“All three of them?” Fergus asked him.

“Oh, no, no! Ethan did say te the redcoat he was Murtagh when asked, an’ he killed ‘im!” Duff told him, and Fergus shushed him again.

“Who was this redcoat? Do you know his name?” Fergus asked him.

“Some cap’n called ‘im ‘Knox’,” moaned Duff drunkenly, and Fergus felt his stomach drop. How could Lieutenant Knox have possibly made it to Hillsborough before Fergus? Did the man have a deal with the devil? Hell, all redcoats probably did, but that man in particular most certainly did.

“Mariée bénie,” Fergus muttered, a phrase he had picked up from Milady. “When did this happen?”

“This marnin’,” said Duff mournfully. “They’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.” He hiccoughed, and then started drunkenly singing off key.

“Of all the money tha’ e’er I ‘ad

I spent it in good company.

And all the ‘arm I e’er done

Alas ‘twas te none but me…”

“Be quiet, you fool!” Fergus hissed at him, reaching into his pocket for some coins and forcing them into Duff’s hand. “Take this, get a room. Tomorrow, you leave and go back to Murtagh.” Duff hiccoughed, looking at the coins in his hand and sliding down the wall on his back, eventually settling in his piss puddle.

“And all A’ve done… hic… fer wan’ of wit…

Te mem… hic… ‘ry now I can’t recall…”

“Go, Duff. Go!” Fergus growled at him in disgust, helping the drunken fool up and forcing him onto his feet. “Go to sleep!” He pushed the piss-covered drunk back into the tavern, wiping his hands off on his breeks. With Duff taken care of, Fergus made his way to the gaol, finding two guards inside playing poker. In his pocket was a vial of Devil’s Breath - henbane essence from Milady’s stores, given to him by Caoimhe when she heard of the plan.

“What will I need such a thing for?” Fergus had asked her when she gave it to him.

“Ye never ken. Ye’ll be lookin’ fer a man wanted by dangerous people. Cannae hurt te have some protection,” she had told him. Now he understood what she meant. But how would he slip this into their drinks? He glanced back at the tavern, wondering if Duff took his advice and got a room or if he just took the coin and got more drinks. That gave him an idea. He slipped the henbane essence back into his pocket and rushed back to the tavern, entering like a guest when he caught sight of Duff once again trying to get a drink.

“Away wi’ ye, fool!” said the lady of the tavern. “I’ll no’ have ye stinkin’ up my tavern!”

“I hae coin fer ye, Mistress! Please, another wee dram,” said Duff, flopping over onto the counter. Perfect. Fergus casually made his way to the semi-conscious form of Duff and the irritated Mistress.

“May I help you, Madame Banks? I am with Colonel Fraser’s Rowan County militia. I can take this lout off of your hands,” Fergus told her, familiar with the woman from his few visits to Hillsborough.

“Och, Mr. Fraser, arenae you a sight fer sore eyes? Aye, if ye dinnae mind,” she said to him. “Mr. Duff could do wi’ a night in the clink.”

“Oui, Madame. I agree,” said Fergus, looking at the now drooling Duff.

“Those puir officers. Come back when ye’ve dumped him and I’ll give ye ale te bring te them, as my thanks.”

“I will, Mistress,” said Fergus, and he grabbed Duff. “Come along now, Duff. Let us get you to bed.”

“Of all the comrades… hic… tha’ e’er I had…

They’re sorry fer my… gang awa’…”

Fergus half dragged, half carried the drunkard to the gaol and the two guards stood up when they saw him, setting their cards face down on the table. “What is this? Another drunk?” said one of the officers.

“Oui,” said Fergus, dropping Duff into their waiting arms. “With compliments from Madame Banks.”

“She’s sent many a man here tonight, hasn’t she?” said the other officer, struggling under Duff’s weight. “Is this a man or a great sow?”

“A boulder, more like,” said the other, forcing open the door to one of the cells and helping the other officer drop Duff onto the floor.

“A moment, messieurs. I will return shortly,” Fergus told them, going back to the tavern to get the two tankards of ale Madame Banks promised. He paused outside and set the two tankards on a barrel, looking around before taking out the Devil’s Breath and pouring some in each of the tankards. He replaced the vial and picked up the tankards, returning to the gaol. “A thank you from Madame Banks.”

“Oh! What a kindly woman,” said one of the officers, accepting the ale happily.

“I’ve always liked that Mistress Banks. I wonder if she has a husband,” said the second. Both of them sat down at the table and sipped their ale.

“She’s too young to be a widow. Poor woman,” said the first.

“She is a widow?” asked Fergus, making small conversation while he waited for the Devil’s Breath to take effect.

“Mr. Banks died in a measles epidemic some three years back,” said one of the officers. “I did feel awful sorry for her. Say, is it too soon to ask for her hand?”

“I say you waited too long!” said the other. They shared one great big laugh and then smashed their tankards together. “To Mistress Banks!”

“Here, here!” said the other, and they downed the rest of the ale. They slammed down their tankards, smiled giddily at each other, and then collapsed onto the table, their heads making a loud bang as they hit the wood. Fergus quickly checked them to make sure they were not dead, and finding they weren’t, he grabbed the keys and quickly made his way towards the cells.

“Cranna! Withers!” he whispered as he went from cell to cell, finally finding them in the last one. “There you are, you fools!”

“Fools?” asked Withers when he heard Fergus.

“Oui, fools. You got yourself arrested,” Fergus told them as he unlocked the cell.

“Ye’ve got balls comin’ here, lad,” said Cranna. “I did hear talk of a Colonel Fraser. Be that yer Da, lad?”

“Lieutenant Knox is a cruel man, but you should not have tarred and feathered the judge,” Fergus said back to them as he opened the cell door. “I am sorry for Ethan. He did not deserve to die.”

“No, he didnae,” spat Withers. “But what care do ye lot have? Bein’ at the beck and call of bloody Tryon!”

“What be it tha’ leads ye and yer Da te such treason, lad? Money, is it? Tryon’s coin?” Cranna demanded from him, and Fergus let out a huff.

“The governor has Milord bound to him,” Fergus told them. “He is trying to save all of our lives.”

“How verra noble,” Cranna spat back at him.

“Aye, he’s not doin’ well so far,” said Withers.

“Do not speak of what is noble regarding Milord,” Fergus growled at them. “War is coming.”

“We believe in our cause, lad,” said Cranna.

“And Milord believes in his,” Fergus replied. “To preserve as many lives as possible. Now go, there is not much time. Take Duff with you, he is very drunk.”

“That auld fat oaf? We need a wagon te carry him!” Withers exclaimed.

“Find a way,” Fergus ordered them, stepping aside so they could leave the cell. “And give Murtagh this.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a letter, giving it to Cranna. “It is from Milord.”

“And why would I do such a thing?” Cranna asked him.

“You do not want to find yourself at the end of a rope, do you?” Fergus asked him, raising a brow. Cranna didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he grabbed the letter.

“Fine,” he growled, and then they were gone, dragging the fat oaf off into the woods with them.

8 April, 1771

North Carolina BackCountry

MURTAGH POV

To my godfather,

Unfortunately, time is running out. Tryon has ordered my militia to meet them at Alamance and a battle is sure to be fought if your men do not back down. My militia is to be made up of men with nothing left to lose, and farmers though we be, we’ve beaten our ploughshares into swords and are training for battle. I do not know yet how many men will arrive at Alamance, but there will be many - too many, even for you. I know that we both understand the importance of home, and that one man fighting for his home is worth a hundred fighting for pay, but if your men challenge the armies of Tryon, the battle will be lost. It will be like Culloden, a battle already lost.

Leave North Carolina, go back over the sea to Scotland. You are no longer safe here, and I cannot protect you any longer. I beg of you, Murtagh, for the sake of the vow you once made to me, go.

Your godson,

James Fraser

So that was it, then. Tryon’s forces were ready to fight. Well, so were the Regulators. They’ve been ready to fight for their homes and their land for a long time and they weren’t about to back down now. Alamance, did his godson say? Then that’s where they would go. To Alamance, to fight for what’s right and to fight for their lives. Come hell or high water, the Crown would pay for what they’ve done to their own people.

Of course, there was Jamie’s request for him to leave. Of course Jamie wanted him safe, but how could Murtagh abandon his men now? Herman Husband was a decent leader, as was Benjamin Merrill, but they didn’t have the anger towards the Crown that Murtagh had. They hadn’t lost everything to King and country as Murtagh had. To have a strong army, one needed fighting experience, as Merrill had, the power of persuasion, as Husband had… and the fires of passion, as Murtagh had. If the fires of passion left, so did the will to fight, and they couldn’t lose that now, not when they’ve come so far, not when they’ve finally gotten the attention of the Governor. No… Jamie meant well, but Murtagh couldn’t leave them now. He would see his godson at Alamance - it was what must be done.

CATRÌONA POV

It hadn’t been long since we left the militia to find Beardsley's trading post, but we were quite alone. I was taking a look at a map where Josiah had drawn the approximate location of the house when Jamie cleared his throat. “Alone at last,” he said, and I smiled and rolled my eyes.

“Let’s focus on the mission at hand, aye?” I asked him. “I’ve been thinkin’, though. I wonder how this dairymaid could be certain it was Josiah and no’ Kezzie who stole the cheese.”

“Ye think it might have been Kezzie, but Josiah took the blame?” Jamie asked me.

“They remind me of Cailean and Calum, when they were younger,” I replied. “And alive, I suppose, in Calum’s case… Identical in everra way except behaviour. Often, one of them would do somethin’ and the other would take the blame. Dinnae ken why, seein’ as most of the time, they both got the punishment. But in Josiah and Kezzie’s case… Kezzie’s deaf, and likely didnae learn tha’ he cannae just take what he wants because no one could tell him not te.”

“Aye, maybe,” said Jamie. “He’s a brave lad. Ye must cut that brand off of him, Catrìona. There are thieftakers in these parts. Will ye do it like ye did fer me?” I glanced down at his chest, where the scar of the brand that Black Jack Randall had put there was still visible underneath his shirt.

“Aye, of course. Though it’ll be much more painful and I’d be worrit aboot infection. Might be best if we just give the lad a pair of gloves, fer now,” I said. “Thankfully, it isnae on his face.”

“Aye,” said Jamie. “If we’re te buy his indenture, we must ensure he’s truly free of his past.”

“‘Tis such a shame,” I said. “They dinnae ken their true families, and they never will. And I doubt we could find out, either. They probably dinnae ken what ship they came here on, or where they came from. Fer all we ken, they could be Irish, Welsh, English, even French or Dutch.”

“They sound Scottish,” Jamie told me.

“Yer no’ born with an accent, Jamie. Ye have te pick it up and learn it from those around ye, and ye must be hearin’ it fer a long time. I’d guess the Beardsleys were Scottish. ‘Tis why Maevis sounds American despite bein’ born in Scotland and Ginnie, havin’ been born in America, sounds Scottish, as we do,” I explained.

“Huh,” said Jamie. “I’ve never thought of that.” He fell silent for a moment, and then we made small talk until we finally came upon what looked like a rather large house, compared to other cabins in the area. This must have been the trading post. “We’re here.”

“It’s quiet,” I said, observing the silence of the house. “Do ye think they’re out lookin’ fer the lads?”

“Hard te say,” said Jamie. “I’ll check the barn, see if there’s a horse.”

“I’ll have a look around,” I said, dismounting my horse. I wiped the sweat from my palms and walked around the land, taking note of a well, a few roaming chickens that somehow hadn’t been eaten by predators, and the dilapidated appearance of the outside of the front of the house. I climbed up onto the porch, intending to knock on the door, when I saw the curtains moving in the window next to the door. Ah, so someone was home. I raised my hand to the door and knocked, catching sight of some markings on the outside of the door that resembled tally marks. “Hello? Is someone in there?” No answer, so I knocked again. “Hello? I ken yer there, I saw yer curtains movin’.”

“Go away!” came a voice from the other side of the door. I heard footsteps behind me and found Jamie making his way to the porch, having heard me speak.

“Someone’s there?” he asked me, and I nodded, then turned and knocked again.

“I can help ye if yer unwell. I’m a healer,” I said, and suddenly, the door cracked open and a pudgy face appeared in the doorframe. It was a woman who might have been in her thirties or younger, but it was hard to tell. She was short and stout and had mousy brown hair hidden underneath a cap.

“Leave me alone,” she growled at us.

“Good mornin’ te ye, Mistress,” Jamie said to her. “I’m Colonel James Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge. I must speak wi’ yer husband.”

“Husband’s dead,” she said rather sharply.

“We’re sorry te hear that,” I said kindly to her. “Would we be able te speak wi’ ye instead?”

“I’ve found myself in possession of yer two bond servants, and I would like te purchase their indentures. I am certain we can arrange-” Jamie began, but she cut him off.

“Keep ‘em. I got no use for ‘em,” she said sharply, and then she slammed the door.

“Bloody hell,” I said, looking at Jamie. “She’s lettin’ us keep them free of charge. Tha’s good, isnae it?”

“I need their papers,” Jamie told me. “If we dinnae have their indentures, she could change her mind.” He quickly left the porch and went around to the side of the house.

“There’s somethin’ verra strange aboot this place, Jamie,” I said, taking note of a scraggly-looking rowan tree near the entrance of the property. There was a strange patch of grass growing underneath it. “We should go…”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, and I turned to see him pushing open a door on the side of the house.

“Jamie, ye cannae just break in!” I hissed at him.

“I need those papers, Catrìona,” he said as he went into the house, and I let out a huff and followed him. I stepped over a piece of timber that had fallen from the roof and looked up, seeing several patches of daylight. The place smelled like a zoo, and there were goats and chickens running around as if they were the occupants of the house. In the smell of faeces and goat, there was something else, something rotten that I couldn’t quite put my finger on… but I definitely smelled it before.

“What do ya think you’re doing?” shouted Mrs. Beardsley when she saw us, a broom in her hand ready to hit us.

“I need the papers fer the lads, Mistress, and then we’ll be on our way,” Jamie said to her, and she huffed, lowering the broom.

“I don’t know where Mr. Beardsley would have kept their papers,” she said irritably.

“What aboot this desk here?” asked Jamie, making his way to it by stepping over a goat, which bleated at him.

“Why do ye keep the goats indoors?” I asked Mrs. Beardsley.

“It’s too cold for ‘em in the barn,” she said, staying as far away from me as she could. When I looked up at her, I noticed her glance go first to the stairs behind me and then back to me.

“Too cold fer the goats, but not yer bond servants?” I asked her.

“You want them papers or not?” she snapped at me.

“Aye,” said Jamie. “Aye, we do.” I heard a thump above me and I looked up at the ceiling, where a wall was built to cover a loft attic.

“What was that?” I asked, looking at Mrs. Beardsley, and her eyes went wide. “Mrs. Beardsley?”

“Shoo! Out!” Mrs. Beardsley snapped at a goat, as if trying to mask the sound of the thumping. She quickly slammed a closet door closed. I heard the thump again. “That’s just Billy. We keep him in there so he doesn’t rut with the others.” More thumping, but it didn’t sound like it came from the closet. The smell became overwhelming and to stop myself from gagging, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and covered my nose, looking around for the source of that smell.

“I cannae find the papers here,” Jamie said as he rummaged through the desk. “Perhaps he lost them.” Suddenly, I recognised the smell as something I became very familiar with on the battlefield - it was the smell of rotting flesh.

“That smell… it isnae goat. Or at least, not a livin’ one,” I said, looking up at Mrs. Beardsley.

“I don’t smell nothin’,” she said to me, her eyes a little wide with fright.

“Yer husband… When did he die?” I asked her next.

“Few months back,” said Mrs. Beardsley suspiciously. I heard the thumping sound again above me and I looked at the stairs, then glanced back at Mrs. Beardsley before heading towards them.

“Don’t go up there!” she cried, trying to stop me, but I was already on my way up the stairs.

“Catrìona?” Jamie called, and when I finally made it up the stairs, I gagged in horror at the smell.

“Blessed fuckin’ Bride!” I exclaimed, reaching into my pocket for the lavender satchel I kept on hand and shoving it into my handkerchief. Even the lavender wasn’t enough to keep out the putrid smell of rot. It was dark, save for the faint outline of a window. I pulled back the curtains and flooded the upstairs with light, catching sight of Mrs. Beardsley on the stairs frozen with fright. I looked at what she was looking at, then found myself sucking in my breath at the horrific sight before me. There, essentially lying in his own filth and left to rot, was Mr. Beardsley, weakly tapping his fist against the wooden floors beneath his hands.

“Catrìona!” Jamie called, pushing past Mrs. Beardsley on the stairs, and then he, too, almost gagged at the smell. “What in God’s name?”

“It’s Mr. Beardsley,” I said, taking a deep breath of the lavender and letting it out slowly. I approached Mr. Beardsley carefully and he opened one eye to look at me, opening his mouth just a little to try and speak, but no words were coming out. “Mr. Beardsley, can ye hear me?” He made a small noise, but I couldn’t tell if he was trying to call for help or if he was responding to me. “Blink twice if ye can hear me.” I watched his eyes - one, two. He wasn’t deaf, so I would have an easier time trying to figure out what had happened to this poor man.

“What’s wrong wi’ him?” Jamie asked me quietly as he approached.

“Tha’s what I’m tryin’ te find out,” I said as I looked down at his feet. One of them was badly burned, and the flesh on the bottom was black and full of puss and rot. The other was just burned, but would soon join its companion. I looked at his face, which was straining immensely to speak, and noted that the left side of his face was drooping beyond his control. “A stroke, I’m thinkin’ - apoplexy.”

“Christ,” said Jamie. “He’s lyin’ in his own filth… What is the meanin’ of this?” He’d turned on Mrs. Beardsley.

“God’s judgement!” she snapped back in her defence.

“Not entirely God’s,” I replied as I knelt down beside him. Mr. Beardsley tried to utter a word, but nothing would come out. “Shh, shh… We’re here te help ye. Ye dinnae have te speak. He needs water, and gruel, if ye can drum some up.”

“How long has he been like this?” Jamie asked both Mrs. Beardsley and myself.

“Not long!” said Mrs. Beardsley.

“Judgin’ by this state of rot and the sores I’m seein’ on his back,” I said as I pulled up his shirt a little and turned him, “I’d say weeks, if no’ months.”

“Months,” Jamie growled, and then he turned on Mrs. Beardsley. “Months! Yer husband’s been lyin’ here in his own filth fer months!” She let out a cry of fright.

“Jamie, tha’s enough!” I said, standing up after observing his surroundings, and then I put myself between Jamie and Mrs. Beardsley. “Ye said he was dead.”

“I hoped he was!” she cried back at me, both fright and defensiveness in her eyes.

“How did this happen?” I asked her calmly, but firmly.

“He chased me, struck me…” she sobbed, recoiling into herself. “He was in a rage as ever, of course.”

“When?” I asked her.

“A month ago,” she cried. “Maybe… two weeks ago. I don’t know!” She let out a shrill sound. “C-come up here to get away from him… He followed me, and then he fell and lay writhin’. I couldn’t move him.”

“Mrs. Beardsley,” I said, approaching her and grasping her hands.

“F-Fanny,” she muttered.

“Fanny… Go and prepare some hot water,” I told her. “My husband and I are goin’ te get him downstairs.” She looked at Jamie, sniffled, and then nodded before she slowly made her way down the stairs.

“Christ,” said Jamie, looking down again at Mr. Beardsley with a disturbed look on his face. “Do ye really think it’s been tha’ long? That he’s been… this way… tha’ long?”

“Hard te say,” I said with a small sigh. “Let’s just get him downstairs so I can clean him up. ‘Tis awful up here.”

“He’s covered in bed sores,” I said as I checked him once I’d gotten him cleaned up. “His muscles have wasted away… At least these maggots have kept his wounds clean.” Using tweezers, I picked maggots out of Mr. Beardsley’s wounds and dropped them into a bowl. “Cannae say the same aboot his foot, though.”

“The man was tradin’ goods,” Jamie said to me quietly, carefully watching Fanny. “There are barrels of food and bundles of furs out there. Yet he lay where he fell, cold, starvin’… Why’d she simply no’ let him die?”

“So she could do this,” I said softly, showing Jamie the burns on his feet. “And this…” I showed him cuts on Mr. Beardsley’s arms.

“She tried te bleed him te heal him?” Jamie asked me, and I shook my head.

“No,” I said softly. “Judgin’ by the burns on his feet, she’d burn them over and over, let them heal and then do it all over again… She was torturin’ him.”

“Christ,” said Jamie, looking down at Mr. Beardsley’s face. “Did yer wife do this te ye, man? Blink once fer yes.” I supposed Mr. Beardsley blinked once, because Jamie looked at the still frightened Mrs. Beardsley and let out a small sigh, leaning into me to speak quietly. “What must he have done te deserve this?”

“No one deserves te be tortured when they’re helpless,” I said, looking up at him. “No one. Now… His foot’s gangrenous… It’ll either have te come off or… let him go somehow.”

“We dinnae have time fer ye te do this surgery and give him time te heal, Catrìona,” Jamie told me. “I must rejoin the company and go on te Hillsborough.”

“I ken,” I said. “We cannae leave him like this, though. Maybe… Maybe we can find some way te make him comfortable enough, bring him wi’ us te Brownsville…” I looked at the excruciating misery in the man’s face, and let out a small sigh. “Or… find a way te end his sufferin’ ourselves.”

“We can ask him… what he would like,” said Jamie, and I looked up at him, nodding gently. We both turned to speak to Mr. Beardsley when suddenly, Fanny came around with a piece of rope and started to strangle him.

“Fanny!” I shouted.

“Stop this!” Jamie shouted, grabbing at her while I tried to grab the rope and free Mr. Beardsley’s neck from it. “No!” Jamie pulled Mrs. Beardsley away until she finally let go of the rope.

“He should die!” shouted Fanny rather loudly.

“Ye could hae killed him at yer leisure! Why in God’s name would ye wait until ye had witnesses?” Jamie demanded from her.

“I didn’t want him dead, I wanted him to die slowly!” Fanny shouted back, hammering on his chest. “You filthy beast! You dirty, wicked - I’m his wife! Let him rot! Let him- Oh! The babe!” All of a sudden, she stopped, letting go of Jamie, stepping back and holding her belly. “Oh… Oh, the pains!”

“The babe? Fanny, do ye mean te say yer pregnant?” I asked as I approached her, laying one hand on her stomach, and sure enough, it was heavily swollen and firm to the touch. “Christ, how far along are ye?”

“My… My, my, my waters… They came earlier. I thought… I thought I just wet myself…” she moaned, stumbling a little, and I caught her.

“Right, let’s get ye in a chair. Let me have a look at ye,” I said as I sat her down. “Jamie, go and get my medical bag, if ye dinnae mind.”

“Aye,” said Jamie, rushing off. Meanwhile, I lubricated my hand and went to feel her cervix, finding my fingers brushing the head of the bairn that was well on its way out.

“Blessed Bride, Fanny! Ye must have been in awful pain!” I exclaimed.

“No, no… ‘Tis nothin’ compared to what he did…” she groaned out, letting out a low growl as a contraction overtook her.

“Ye poor thing,” I said sympathetically. While I had sympathy for her, I couldn’t condone what she did to her husband while he was helpless. It would be one thing if he was weakened, but could still fight back, but in this case, he quite literally couldn’t move while she was burning the hell out of his feet. It was cruel and unusual, but I had to push that to the back of my mind and help this bairn into the world. “Right, give me one great push, all right? Yer bairn is right on the cusp of bein’ born, so let’s get it out, aye?” She nodded, huffing and puffing before giving me one big push. The head of the bairn was now visible and in my hand. “Okay, one more push, Fanny. One more push and yer bairn will be wi’ us. Christ, it’s comin’ fast. How long have ye been in labour?”

“Oh… Four days,” she groaned through gritted teeth as she pushed one final time.

“Four days? Blessed Bride, ye puir woman,” I said with exasperation. In my four pregnancies that resulted in live births (not counting the child that resulted from my rape, during which I was heavily medicated), I never laboured more than twenty-four hours at most, and that was considered short, especially for a first birth. But this poor woman had been in labour for days, all on her own with no one to help her. I wanted to wonder what she had in mind for what she was going to do had we never showed up, but there wasn’t time for that. This bairn was coming very quickly now, so there was no time to waste. “Right, give us one big push now, on yer next contraction. On my count, one, two, three!” Fanny screamed out in pain as she pushed again, and this time, the bairn was with us up to its shoulders. “Almost there, when yer ready, give me one big final push! Tha’s it, tha’s it… and there we go, wee girl! Oh, such a bonny wee thing!” I said as I helped the little infant out, and as the air filled her lungs for the first time, she let out a great big cry, while her mother let out one big sigh of relief.

“Oh!” she cried out as I quickly searched for something to wrap the infant in. At this moment, Jamie returned with my bag, and his eyes widened when he saw me holding the bairn.

“Christ, already?” he asked me, looking a little pale. I imagined that he was still traumatised from Ginnie’s birth now nearly five years ago.

“Find me somethin’ te wrap her in,” I said to him.

“Here,” said Fanny, untying a shawl that sat around her shoulders and handing it to me. I wrapped the bairn up in it, taking my bag from Jamie so I could clamp and cut the cord. Once that was done, I wiped her wee face off and smiled down at her.

“Such a bonny wee thing,” I said again. While we waited for the afterbirth, I quickly inspected her for any deformities, taking note of a very noticeable bluish mark on her lower back, just above her bum - a mongol spot, which was indicative of African American ancestry. I glanced briefly at Mr. Beardsley on the table before I wrapped the wee girl back up and handed her to Fanny. “Here she is, ye’ve done a wonderful job,” I told her, forcing a small smile.

“Oh, I thought it was over!” said Fanny, scrunching up her face in pain again.

“That’ll be the afterbirth. Just give me one more push and this part’ll be all over, hen,” I said, and she obeyed my instructions. The afterbirth came out in my hand and I dropped it in a pot, standing up and going to the window for more light so I could make sure it was whole.

“Tha’ face ye made… Is somethin’ wrong wi’ the bairn?” Jamie whispered to me quietly, and I subtly shook my head.

“No,” I told him quietly. “I noticed wha’s called a mongol spot, it means the bairn’s father is black.”

“So she isnae his?” Jamie asked me, and I nodded.

“She isnae his,” I repeated, and then I went to a basin to wash my hands, returning to Fanny’s side. “Right, this bonny wee girl will be ravenous. If ye’d like, I can show ye how te feed-”

“She ain’t his,” said Fanny, and then she let out a loud cackle. “You hear that, you old bastard? She ain’t yours! Ha!”

“Fanny,” I said a bit firmly. “Focus on yer wee girl fer now, she’ll need te be fed.” I showed her how to feed her daughter, and then Jamie helped me get her settled on a cot that lay on the floor of the dining room/kitchen area. Apparently, she’d been sleeping in here for some time.

“You got babes?” she asked me as she watched her daughter suckle from her breast, and I nodded.

“Aye. Five,” I said. “I… I lost two in infancy, but… I’ve got four grown ones and one tha’s still wee.” She didn’t reply, so I took this moment to try and learn more about her. “Do ye… have any family nearby, Fanny?” She looked up at Mr. Beardsley’s limp form on the table, which was currently being tended to by Jamie, and narrowed her eyes.

“He took me from my father’s house in Baltimore to this place,” she said bitterly, and then she looked down at her daughter. “I miss Baltimore.”

“I’ve never been,” I said. “How long ago was that?”

“Two years, three months, five days,” she said sternly.

“Verra precise,” I observed, remembering the tally marks I saw by the door. “So those are yer markin’s by the door.”

“No,” she said. “That was Mary Ann, I believe.”

“His first wife?” I asked, and she scoffed.

“No. His fourth,” she said, and I raised my brows a little. Five wives? And no children?

“Don’t know where the others are buried,” she said. “I think one’s under the rowan tree. Mary Ann, I think. I see her ghost sometimes.” She then looked up at me, meeting my eyes in a rather unsettling manner. “She tells me things. He killed them all, you know. Woulda killed me, too. None of us could give him a baby, and he didn’t like that.”

“I see,” I said after a moment, trying to digest what she was telling me. “Er… So who is the father, if… if ye dinnae mind me askin’?”

“A good man. One who’s kind to me,” she said, looking down at her daughter again.

“Does he live nearby?” I asked her. She didn’t answer me, but instead, closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again.

“He beat us terrible… me and those boys. All three of us, and the other wives, too,” she said. “If I could find them papers, I’d give ‘em to you. They deserve some happiness, I s’pose…”

“And so do ye and yer bairn,” I told her. “Everraone deserves at least a chance of happiness.”

“Even if she’s born of sin?” Fanny asked me, looking up at me with a hopeful look.

“Of course,” I told her, thinking of my own daughter all of a sudden. Fanny didn’t seem much older than Maevis, if at all. She was very young, indeed, but she looked older than she was. I could see in her young eyes that she was older beyond her years with living, but younger with time. “I… I hope that… she was born of love, this wee girl.”

“Hmph,” said Fanny, looking down at her daughter in her arms. “She’ll need more than love to get by in this cruel world.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” I replied with a sigh. “‘Tis a hard world te be a woman in. But at the verra least, ye have this home.”

“Ain’t no home to me,” said Fanny. “This place is her birthright, but to me, it’s naught but… ugliness and evil.”

“He cannae harm ye anymore,” I told her, covering her hand with mine. “When we leave, we’ll take him wi’ us. Yer free of him now, free te be a mother te this bonny wee girl.”

“Having a babe doesn’t make me a mother any more than sleeping in a barn makes me a goat,” said Fanny, looking up as a goat chewed on the drapes.

“Ye could name her,” I told her. “Names are verra powerful. I chose strong names fer each of my bairns.”

“What are they?” Fanny asked me.

“My eldest is Archie, named after my father… then there’s Brèagha, my eldest daughter. ‘Tis Gaelic fer ‘pretty’, and she truly is the prettiest wee thing ye could ever see,” I said with a smile. “Then there’s my twins, Maevis and Elton, wi’ two verra unique names fer their verra unique personalities, and my youngest is Ginnie.”

“Those are some very fine names,” said Fanny, looking back at her daughter.

“Catrìona,” said Jamie suddenly, and I looked up at him to see him gesturing to me, wanting us to step outside.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Fanny. Keep her head supported, and when she’s done, she’ll let go on her own,” I said to Fanny, who nodded as I stood and joined Jamie by the door.

“How long will ye have te stay here?” he whispered to me with impatience. “I didnae count on a man unable te move and a bairn bein’ born. We were meant te get the papers and return te the militia.” I let out a sigh.

“Aye, I ken, but I’ll need te stay at least a day, maybe two at most,” I told him. “She’ll need te be looked in on.” I let out another sigh. “As a physician, I cannae turn my back, but ye owe them nothin’. I can catch up wi’ ye.”

“No, I’ll no’ leave two women defenceless in the woods,” said Jamie, and I scoffed.

“I wouldnae say I was ‘defenceless’,” I replied.

“Ye ken what I mean,” he told me. “What’ll ye do aboot Mr. Beardsley? Ye cannae lift him on yer own.”

“I dinnae ken,” I said with a third sigh. “Blessed Bride… What sort of world is this te bring a bairn into? This home… This family.”

“The only world,” Jamie said a bit bitterly, reminding me that I had brought my own children into this same world, and I nodded.

“I know,” I said softly, but then suddenly, I had a thought. It wasn’t the only world - just the world of the eighteenth century. There was another world that I knew for certain Archie, Maevis, Elton, Rory, and even Caoimhe could travel to if they so desired - Archie, of course, wouldn’t without Clara. But could Wren and Lark travel? Could Bree? What about Donnie, or Ginnie? I hated the idea of splitting up my family… but if they could be safe, I would force myself to accept it.

“What are ye thinkin’ of?” Jamie asked me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I realised that I had been biting my lip in thought. I looked up at him, knowing that he likely wouldn’t be in agreement.

“Ye’ll not like it,” I told him. “But… if it’s possible… I think it would be best te… send our children te my time.” I watched his face change with dislike, and he scrunched up his brow.

“Why?” he asked me.

“Why? Look around ye at this world,” I told him. “A world where our daughter was raped, forced te carry her rapist’s children… Were she in my time - her time - then tha’ wouldnae be the case.”

“She turned out fine, Catrìona, and she loves her wee girls,” Jamie replied firmly.

“No, she didnae turn out fine, Jamie. She tried te kill herself, fer Christ’s sake, and she may love the girls more than she realises, but it is verra clear she still struggles wi’ Lark lookin’ like Bonnet,” I snapped back at him. “If we send her and the girls te her time, she can get proper treatment fer what is clearly a form of post-partum depression. Tom can see te her-”

“Oh, send her te Tom, aye?” Jamie snapped back at me, and I scoffed.

“It isnae like that and ye ken it well, Jamie,” I spat back. “It’s safer fer them all there. Archie, Bree, Maevis, Elton… even Ginnie.”

“Where the hell is this comin’ from? Ye were fine raisin’ our children here fer a long time! If ye were so concerned, perhaps ye should have gone te yer time when I ordered ye te after Culloden!” Jamie hissed at me, and I scoffed loudly.

“Ordered me te, did ye?” I demanded from him. “I told ye I couldnae pass through the stones and I told ye that I dinnae ken why!”

“Did ye try again after? No, I didnae think so. Ye went te Barra instead.”

“I couldnae even hear the stones after tha’! And given what the English did te the Scots after Culloden, I wasnae hangin’ around in the open te find out if I could hear them again!” I let out a growl, then closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “This is ridiculous. Tha’ was twenty-five years ago. There’s nothin’ I can do te change what happened. But we can change what will happen.”

“May happen,” he told me firmly. “Fer all ye ken, our children and grandchildren could live long and healthy lives right here on the Ridge, in this time. Did ye not say yer penicillin will make it safer fer everraone?”

“From infection,” I spat back at him. “Penicillin cannae protect them from pissed off natives or the redcoats or even the people who live on our land that clearly dinnae trust us.” It was Jamie’s turn to scoff and he turned away from me, shaking his head.

“I ken it’ll be safer in yer time,” he told me after several moments of silence. “But they would be without their family - their blood. They’d be surrounded by strangers… and strange things. This century is all Archie and Bree and Ginnie and Caoimhe and all of our grandchildren ken.”

“I know that,” I told him, and he let out a sigh.

“We can ask them… But if they dinnae wish te go, then we willnae force them,” he said, turning to look at me again. “We dinnae even ken if Bree can travel…”

“Why wouldnae she be able te? All of our other children can,” I said.

“Can Ginnie?” Jamie asked me, and I sighed, not truly knowing the answer to that, either.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “Nor do I ken how we can find out…”

“Missus?” came Fanny’s voice, and I glanced up at the doorframe.

“Comin’, Fanny,” I said loudly, exchanging a brief look with Jamie before going back into the house.

Late in the night, long after Jamie, Fanny and the bairn had gone to sleep, I was up late checking on Mr. Beardsley. His breathing was shallow, but still ever present, and when he saw the light of my candle being held close to his face, his tortured eyes fluttered open and looked at me. He made a noise in what I assumed was an effort to talk, but failed to be coherent, so I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. “I’d like a word wi’ ye, so ye’d do best te keep yer mouth shut and listen,” I told him, both quietly and firmly. “If ye were my husband, ye’d have been dead a long time ago. Yer lucky wee Fanny was never the vile bitch that I am. But I’m sorry te say, yer luck has run out. Yer nothin’ but a weak, useless vegetable now, unable te even wipe yer own arse or piss in a pot. As fer yer other wives, I cannae speak, but if Fanny’s right, then goin’ out like this is what ye deserve, but I imagine worse is comin’ fer ye, wherever ye go.” The bastard tried to make a noise, but I shushed him. “Shh… I want ye te ken, there’s no comin’ back from this. Even if I wanted te treat ye, I couldnae. What’s happened is permanent. Ye’ll be a rottin’ vegetable fer the rest of yer miserable life, and I hope yer sufferin’ trapped in yer mind the way ye made Fanny, and possibly yer other wives.” I stood up then and went to fetch myself a cup of water, wanting to spit those emotions right out. As a doctor, I made a vow to never cause harm, but learning of a woman so broken, so damaged, so defenceless against someone so vile… It infuriated me. I wouldn’t do anything physical to Mr. Beardsley, but there was nothing in the Hippocratic Oath about inflicting mental agony.

Suddenly, I heard rustling behind me, and I turned to find Fanny, bundled up in a wool blanket, making her way into the room. “Fanny? Is everrathin’ all right?” I asked her.

“Missus!” she exclaimed, genuinely startled. “Ah… ‘Tis nothing amiss! Just… I had a thought about where them papers are.”

“Fanny, hen, ye need te rest. There’s no need te worry aboot those papers, all right? Ye just had a bairn, one of the most physically taxin’ things a woman can endure, and ye need all the rest ye can get,” I told her, ushering her back to her cot.

“A-all right, Missus,” she said a bit shakily, but I was a bit shaken up myself. The things I said to Mr. Beardsley… Did they really come from me? Was I really a vile bitch? Well… Perhaps I could be, if someone set me off.

9 April, 1771

Wah… wah…

The maternal instincts in me jolted me awake and I sat up abruptly, my eyes darting towards where I had left Fanny sleeping with her bairn. The large lump that should have been Fanny was absent, but the bairn was still there screaming her wee head off. “Blessed Bride,” I uttered, jumping up and alerting Jamie. I heard him groan as I went to the cot to pick up the puir wee lass, bundling her up in the blanket and holding her against my chest. “Shh, wee girl…”

“What? Catrìona, what is it?” I heard Jamie ask, and I turned to look at him.

“She’s gone,” I said a bit numbly, searching for something to feed the bairn with.

“Mrs. Beardsley?” Jamie asked me, and I nodded.

“She’s left her daughter behind,” I told him. “Do ye ken if any of the goats have milk? She needs te fed, and quickly.”

“I dinnae ken,” said Jamie groggily as he stood up. “Where’s she gone?”

“If I knew that, do ye think I’d be standin’ here haverin’ aboot how te feed the bairn?” I asked him a bit irritably, still searching my surroundings. I suddenly noticed a piece of parchment laying on the bed where the bairn had been laying, and I bent down to pick it up.

“I’ll have a look outside,” said Jamie, making his way to the doorframe while I read the note, scrunching up my brow with anger. “Christ… Her horse is gone. Mebbe she’s gone te-”

“She’s not comin’ back,” I told him sharply. “Says so right here.”

“Where?” asked Jamie, abruptly crossing the room to snatch the note from me. “Nighean na ghalla…”

“No amount of callin’ her a bitch will put an end te this,” I snapped at him. “Christ, there’s more…” There were more papers on the bed, and Jamie bent down to pick them up and rifle through them.

“It’s the deed,” he said. “And the indenture papers… She doesnae mean te return.” He turned to look at me, and I returned his gaze when I looked up from the bairn. “What’ll we do?” I looked back down at the sweet wee girl, abandoned by her mother, no father to claim her…

“We’ll take her te Brownsville,” I said suddenly. “If we’re lucky, there’ll be a nursin’ mother there. Goat’s milk will suffice fer now, but she needs te be fed properly.” I next looked over at Mr. Beardsley. “But what’ll we do aboot him?” There was a moment of silence from Jamie, and then he cleared his throat.

“Take the bairn outside,” he said, and I looked at him with slightly surprised eyes.

“Jamie…”

“I would do it fer a dog, Catrìona,” he said firmly. “Could I do less fer a man? Go… Let it be his choice, his will… If or if not, I will call fer ye.” I let out a small sigh, and then nodded.

“Verra well,” I said. “Just… be quick aboot it.” With that said, I carried the bairn outside, adjusting the blanket she was wrapped in. I found myself standing a good distance from the house, standing just underneath the rowan tree. With the wee lass in my arms, I looked down at the ground, which was unusually coloured compared to the rest of the ground underneath the tree.

“I think one’s under the rowan tree. Mary Ann, I think. I see her ghost sometimes.”

“Ye’ll be free now, Mary Ann. Ye dinnae… have te stay here if ye dinnae want te,” I said to the discoloured ground. “I dinnae ken what he did te ye… I dinnae want te ken what he did te ye… but he’ll be gone soon, and ye’ll be free. None of ye will be trapped here anymore.” I could feel the breeze pick up gently, brushing a piece of my hair across my face. I pushed it back behind my ear and looked up at the sky-

Bang!

I sucked in my breath, and the wind died down. Freedom never felt so good.

We had barely spoken since we finished burying Mr. Beardsley beneath the rowan tree, right next to where Mary Ann supposedly was buried. There was no time to build a casket, but for all we cared, he could rot. We’d attached our horses to the wagon owned by the Beardsleys and brought along any supplies that would otherwise go to waste and as many chickens and goats as we could carry. As the wheels bumped along the rough road, we retained our silence, occasionally broken by a bit of cooing from the wee lass - Bonny, we’d started calling her, for ‘bonny wee lass’. Suddenly, Jamie let out a breath of air, smacking his lips together for a moment.

“I… thought an apoplexy killed a man outright,” he said uncomfortably. “Never thought te ask Jenny if… if my father suffered.”

“She would have told ye, I’m sure,” I replied, feeling sympathetic for this concern. His father had died of an apoplexy when Jamie had been flogged, and for years, Jamie blamed himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. I knew my grandsire, too, died of an apoplexy - Cailean had been there when it happened and told me that he hadn’t suffered, save for a horrible headache, and he might as well have been asleep when he passed. I let out a small sigh. “Mr. Beardsley was an anomaly, Jamie… Not everraone suffers that way.” He pursed his lips and nodded a little.

“Swear te me, Catrìona… If it should one day fall te my lot as it did my father, then swear te me that ye will give me the same mercy that I gave tha’ wretch,” he said to me, meeting my gaze with one of the more serious gazes he’s ever given me. I didn’t like the idea of shooting him like a lame horse if he ever had a stroke, but I bit my lip and nodded, knowing that he wouldn’t let me argue this.

“I’ll… do what must be done,” I answered him. “In a… less messy way.” Needless to say, it was unsettling to have to clean up the table and floor after Jamie took care of business with Mr. Beardsley. “So… How do ye think Rory and Archie fared wi’ Brownsville?”

Chapter Text

11 April, 1771

Brownsville, North Carolina

RORY POV

Rory rode beside Archie, trying his best to sit high on his horse as Archie did with an air of authority. However, that was the greatest difference between the two young captains - Archie was a natural born leader, and Rory was just a young man with a title. Whenever Archie gave orders, the men would obey without question and do as they were told. Whenever Rory gave orders, the men scoffed, and he could have sworn he heard them call him a ‘meek little lad’ behind his back. He knew the men didn’t care much for him. Despite the fact that Rory had spent a lot of time in Scotland, he had primarily lost his accent, with only the occasional inflection here and there, and he’d lost most of the Gaelic he had learned in school from never speaking it. They didn’t see him as a real, respectable Scot, unlike Archie, who frequently conversed in Gaelic with them. Rory looked at Archie beside him, his back straight and his shoulders high, and let out a small sigh. “So… How long do ye think it is until we hit Brownsville?”

“Shouldnae be far now,” Archie said to him without looking at him, keeping his eyes forward. “The map says it should be right in front of us.”

“Your mum said there was a measles outbreak not long ago, ye don’t think they were wiped out, do ye?” Rory asked him.

“Nah, one of our men traded wi’ them recently, said they had sore arses from shovin’ sticks up them,” Archie told him, and Rory chuckled.

“Stiff bastards, are they?” he asked his brother-in-law, and Archie chuckled lightly.

“Aye, suppose we’ll find out,” Archie told him. They continued on for a few more minutes, Archie humming a somewhat familiar tune to Rory while they rode, and suddenly, they came across a small village made up of dark wooden buildings and the like.

“Strange, no one’s here. There’s no life,” said Rory, observing the silence of what should have been a lively village.

“Aye,” Archie agreed, climbing down from his horse and approaching the village. Rory followed him, a little more on the cautious side. “Halloo, the house!” Archie called, and a gunshot suddenly ricocheted off of the ground at Archie’s feet, and he let out a shout and jumped back. “Oi!”

“Don’t move!” shouted a voice from one of the buildings in the village, where the gunshot had come from.

“Easy now, a charaid,” said Archie, taking a deep breath and raising his hands in the air. “We’re no’ here te cause any trouble. I’m Captain Archie Fraser currently in command of a militia servin’ under Colonel James Fraser of Fraser’s Ridge. I’d just like te speak wi’ ye-”

“We saw you up the road, Morton, you bastard!” shouted another voice.

“You’ll pay for what you did!” shouted a third, and then there was another gunshot.

“Get down, man!” Rory shouted at Archie as both he and Archie, as well as the militia, darted behind trees and carts to avoid the gunshots.

“What have ye done, Morton?” came the voice of one of the Ardsmuir men.

“Christ, what’s goin’ on?” Archie asked Rory, pulling out his own pistol for protection.

“Do ye think they’re Regulators?” Rory then asked him, and Archie scoffed.

“No’ unless Morton’s a corrupt tax collector in disguise,” Archie replied as Elton ran over to them, dodging between bullets and hiding underneath the wagon.

“What the hell do we do?” he asked, covering his ears as he lay on his stomach underneath the wagon.

“I dinnae ken,” Archie replied, and then he pulled out a white handkerchief and waved it in the air, the gunfire ceasing. Archie stepped out from behind the tree holding his handkerchief in the air. “What do ye want wi’ Morton?” he asked the man who was now clearly visible in the window, staring the militia down the barrel of his gun. Rory joined him out in the open, staying a little bit behind Archie.

“None of your concern. Hand ‘im over,” said the man in the window.

“Surely, ye understand our point of view,” Rory chimed in. “If you had a man that we thought was trouble and wanted ye to give him up, would you?”

“Enough of this! Hand over Morton or I’ll shoot!” said the man in the window again.

“Should we just hand him over?” Rory quietly asked Archie, who opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a loud screech from inside.

“Alicia!” screeched a woman, and the door to one of the buildings opened and a young fair-haired girl came running out sobbing.

“Isaiah!” she cried, running out into the line of fire.

“Put your weapons down!” the man inside shouted at his men.

“I’m sorry, I had to tell! I couldn’t marry Elijah Ford!” she sobbed as a woman came running out to join her.

“Alicia, come inside at once!” she ordered the young girl.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” asked Archie, turning around to look for Isaiah Morton, who had come out of hiding. “What have ye done, man?”

“Please, Isaiah! Say you’ll do right by me!” cried the young girl called Alicia, now in the arms of who Rory assumed was her mother.

“Alicia, dear,” said the woman.

“I’d rather die than be without him!” she cried again.

“Have a shred of dignity!” exclaimed the woman, trying to drag Alicia back inside. “Shouting for all the world to hear your shame…”

“Isaiah!” she sobbed again, being dragged back inside by her mother. As soon as the field was clear, the gunshots started again, and the men all darted back into their hiding places.

“Hand him over!” shouted the man in the window again, a bullet bouncing off of the tree that Rory had hidden behind.

“Do what they ask before they kill us all!” Elton cried from underneath the wagon, clearly overwhelmed.

“Lord, give me courage,” Rory heard Archie say, glancing over to find him looking up at the sky.

“Should we? Do what they ask?” Rory asked him.

“Turn Morton over, ye mean?” Archie asked him, looking over at him. “It doesnae feel right turnin’ him over. Do ye think my father would do such a thing te one of his men?”

“Yer father isn’t here, is he?” Rory asked him a bit firmly, and then he huffed. “We’re gonna need some of that whisky.”

“The whisky?” Archie asked him, raising a red furry brow.

“Yes, and a full bottle to start with,” said Rory, looking at the wagon. “A bit of Dutch courage is all we need.”

“I dinnae think the Browns are Dutch,” said Archie with confusion.

“It’s a figure of speech,” said Rory, and then he looked at the two Carlyon men, who were nearby behind the wagon. “Mr. Carlyon, fetch a few of the men and grab the whisky.”

“The whisky? Aye, Cap’n,” said the elder Mr. Carlyon.

“Right,” said Rory, following Archie’s lead by waving a white handkerchief, and the gunfire ceased once again.

ARCHIE POV

The leader of Brownsville, Richard Brown, took a sip of the whisky alongside his brother, Lionel, making a face as he sampled it. Peace was only achieved by Archie and Rory agreeing to turn over Isaiah Morton, and though the men weren’t very happy about that, at least they were no longer being shot at. Lionel Brown let out a small cough as he took in an inventory of the whisky barrels around him. “How much for a cask?” he asked Archie. “We’ll buy some, and then you can be on your way.”

“Will ye oblige me and have a wee bit more?” Archie asked them.

“What are you, whisky merchants?” Lionel asked him with a raised tone.

“Brother,” said Richard cautiously.

“No’ whisky merchants, no,” said Archie. “As I said earlier, we’re militiamen, charged by Governor Tryon te march against the Regulators.”

“Hmm,” said Richard Brown, taking another sip of the whisky. “Well, it’s tolerable, I’ll admit, if not a little sharp.”

“My father’s been agin’ this barrel fer aboot three years now,” Archie told him. “It’ll be the auldest one we have.”

“Three years. Hmph. We can’t get much better out here in these parts. All we got is shitty ale,” said Richard Brown, and Archie chuckled as he raised his own cup.

“Then perhaps I can propose a toast,” he said. “Te the men of Brownsville and te the men of Fraser’s Company, and te shitty ale.”

“Hm,” said Richard, nodding to his glass and downing the rest of the whisky. Archie made a face at his own father’s whisky, then took a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

“Right. Wi’ that out of the way, I must tell ye we’ve come te notify ye of yer obligation te provide men fer the militia,” Archie told him, and Lionel Brown scoffed.

“Obligation,” he said a bit viciously. “The only present obligation I have is to my daughter. And these men, who’ll break that boy’s neck without hesitation if I give the word.” It was clearly said with a warning tone.

“I see,” said Archie. “I understand havin’ an obligation te a daughter. I… had a daughter myself, who… passed away this past December.”

“We’re sorry to hear that,” said Richard as politely as he could muster. An awkward moment of silence passed.

“Perhaps… ‘opportunity’ would be a better word, rather than ‘obligation’,” Rory chimed in after a moment. “Ye see, it’ll be forty shillings per man who joins the militia, and two shillings per day thereafter.”

“Forty shillings,” said Richard. “Governor Tryon really wants to put down these Regulators, don’t he?”

“He’s been verra ambitious aboot it, aye,” said Archie.

“Just… out of curiosity… what could a young guy like Morton possibly have done?” Rory couldn’t help but ask.

“That bastard’s cost me a fortune,” snapped Lionel Brown. “I had a match arranged with my daughter.”

“Elijah Ford brought with him almost a hundred acres and a decent trade in tobacco,” Richard Brown chimed in, as if to emphasise what was lost.

“I tell her the news and she weeps, refusing to be wed because that bastard got to her first,” spat Lionel Brown with disgust.

“Ford won’t marry a harlot,” said Richard, eyeing Archie curiously. “I did hear something of the daughter of a banker from Wilmington doing something similar with a Fraser…”

“I see,” said Archie, brushing off the slight. “Perhaps Morton isnae as fine a suitor, but might ye consider him?”

“Ha! The bastard’s dishonoured my daughter,” spat Lionel. “Now, I told her I’d see him dead at her feet if he ever dared to show his wretched countenance within ten miles of Brownsville. And damn my eyes if that grass-livered spittle-snake hasn’t the face to ride right up to my door!”

“You and your men can stay the night,” said Richard to Archie and Rory, interrupting the tension. “But when you go on your way tomorrow, Morton won’t be joining you.”

“Forgive me, but I dinnae think ye get te make tha’ decision, sir,” Archie said to him. “Isaiah Morton is an enlisted member of my father’s militia. Ye cannae just kidnap and keep him.”

“How old was your daughter when she passed, Captain Fraser?” Lionel Brown asked him with his eyes narrowed.

“…just two months,” Archie replied a bit bleakly.

“Then you don’t understand,” Lionel spat at him, stalking out of the room. Richard Brown nodded to the two of them before following his brother. The door opened and Elton stood in the doorway, then he stepped aside with a meek look on his face as the Browns shoved past him.

“Sorry, beggin’ yer pardon,” said Elton, and then he stepped in after they had left, a worried look on his face.

“Dinnae tell me, the men are upset,” Archie said to him a bit irritably, and Elton meekly nodded.

“Robertson, Morrison and a few others just up and left,” Elton told them.

“What do ye mean, they just up and left? Where’ve they gone?” Rory asked him, surprising Elton a little with his tone.

“I dinnae ken, it’s not like they told me,” Elton said back to him. “They probably went back te the Ridge.”

“That’ll be a wonderful thing fer the lasses te wake up te. Men from the militia comin’ back pished off because we gave up Morton,” said Archie a bit irritably. “How many left, Elton?”

“Ten, maybe. Eleven,” Elton answered him, and Archie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Da’s goin’ te have a coo,” he said, and then he sighed. “Tell who’s left te set up camp fer a night.” Elton nodded, then left without a word. Rory glanced at Archie, who raised his eyes to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing, just… wondering what the hell we’re going to do” Rory said to him.

“I dinnae ken either… We have until tomorrow te think of somethin’. Hopefully, they dinnae kill Morton before then,” Archie replied. And hopefully, Da arrives before then.

CATRÌONA POV

Wee Bonny cried in my arms as I tried to feed her milk from the goat with the end of a spoon, but it was easier said than done. She wasn’t all that interested in what I had to offer, as it wasn’t fresh from the source nor was it human. I let out a small sigh and continued the song I had started singing to her:

“Oh, the girls of Banyg

In sorrow may retire,

And the piper and his bellows 

May go home and blow the fire.

Since Johnny, lovely Johnny

Went sailin’ o’er the main…”

“Oh, wee girl, do try and sleep, willnae ye? Arenae ye tired of cryin’?” I asked the wee infant, who only cried in response, and I sighed as Jamie approached me from behind, looking up at him with a fatigued and hopeless look. “She’s as fussy as Archie was after we lost Brian. I think she kens her mam’s abandoned her.”

“Aye, likely so,” said Jamie, raising a hand to gently touch her wee head, and her crying softened to whimpers. I let out a small huff.

“Ye’ve always been able te quiet a bairn wi’ just a single touch. I never understood it,” I said, and he chuckled warmly.

“‘Tis like a frightened horse. Ye just need a gentle touch is all,” he said to me with a kindly smile. “She’s a bonny wee thing…”

“Save fer all the cryin’, aye,” I said in agreement.

“Te see ye wi’ a bairn… I could watch ye hold her all day,” Jamie told me, a small smile on his face. “Makes me miss when our weeuns were small.”

“Dinnae even get me started on that,” I said softly. “Even Ginnie’s startin’ te grow so fast. It was like yesterday when she was this wee.” Wee Bonny let out another fuss and started crying again, and I sighed softly. “I hope we’re no’ too far from Brownsville… She willnae do well on goat’s milk alone and even if she could, she willnae have it. She doesnae like it.”

“Dinnae fash, we should be there before dusk,” he said, touching my cheek gently, and I smiled again.

“Hopefully, we can find a nursin’ mother who can feed her properly,” I said to him, and he raised a brow.

“Ye dinnae have more milk?” he asked me, and I scoffed lightly.

“Out of all my bairns, Ginnie weaned herself off of my milk the fastest,” I replied. Archie had been the slowest, but part of that was because we were dragging him around the Highlands in the middle of a war and having milk readily at my breast was the most convenient method of keeping him fed and healthy. “No, I havenae produced in years… What’ll we do after Brownsville? Will we bring her all the way te Hillsborough? She’s a newborn, and granted, she’s had some frightful shits, I dinnae think it wise te try and frighten off our enemies wi’ dirty nappies.” Jamie chuckled warmly, giving Bonny his finger to hold.

“We’ll think of somethin’,” he said, wrapping one arm around my shoulder and kissing the side of my head. We continued our journey for a few more hours until we heard the sound of distant fiddle music. The closer we got, we started to hear the sound of a rather familiar voice singing a traditional Scottish round of ‘The Overgate’:

“She asked me fer tae gaeng wi’ her,

I said yea, I’ll be hard,

But I’m just off Auchtermuchty

Tae the market wi’ some swine…”

There was a chorus of loud voices that joined the singer, who we recognised as Archie, for the round.

“Wi’ my rovin’ eye, fol-a-doo-a-dee,

Rovin’ di-dum-derry, my rovin’ eye!”

“It seems the lads have won them over,” Jamie said to me, and I glanced at him briefly before looking down at Bonny in a sling around my body. We made our way into the village, finding the militia setting up camp and relaxing if they were finished.

“Good day te ye, sir, Mistress,” said one of the men as we passed.

“She took me tae a sittin’ room

A wee bit doon the burn,

Aye, it’s true what Rabbie Burns said,

A man was made tae mourn,

“Wi’ my rovin’ eye, fol-a-doo-a-dee,

Rovin’ di-dum-derry, my rovin’ eye!”

“Archie!” Jamie called to our son, who turned his attention to us and stopped singing. A strange look crossed his face but then he smiled.

“Sorry, men, ye’ll have te excuse me,” Archie said to them, and they all groaned out loud. As Archie hopped off the crates he was sitting on, another man with a fiddle started playing ‘The Flowers of Edinburgh’ as Archie made his way over. He made a face when he heard wee Bonny fuss in my arms. “Another wee sibling?” he asked us, sarcastically of course.

“Mrs. Beardsley was wi’ child when we found her,” Jamie explained to him, and Archie looked around for this Mrs. Beardsley.

“And… ye have her child… why?” he asked us.

“She took off without her bonny daughter,” I said, somewhat bitterly as Bonny fussed inside of the sling I had made her.

“Where’s Rory Mac?” Jamie asked him.

“In the village wi’ Caoimhe, she’s checkin’ out a new mother, I think,” Archie replied.

“A new mother? Oh, perfect, she’ll be able te feed Bonny, if she’s willin’,” I said, letting out a visible sigh of relief. I was getting worried about wee Bonny’s lack of interest in goat’s milk.

“And the Beardsley lads?” Jamie asked him.

“Around here somewhere. I think I last saw Elton wi’ the deaf one,” Archie told him.

“I must speak wi’ them. We’ll talk later aboot the militia,” said Jamie, patting Archie’s shoulder, and once Jamie had turned his back, Archie’s expression soured. I raised my brow at him as if to ask, but there wasn’t time. Bonny needed to eat, so I followed Jamie towards the village.

“He seemed uneasy aboot somethin’, Jamie. Ye heard what Isaiah Morton said aboot the Browns. What if somethin’ happened?” I asked my husband.

“Archie wouldnae allow Caoimhe into the village if somethin’ was amiss,” Jamie told me, spotting the Beardsleys with Elton at a campsite. They were sitting around a fire and Josiah was cooking what looked to be a rabbit, and Elton was in front of Keziah teaching him what looked to be sign language. Elton was showing him the fingerings of various letters and Keziah was mirroring him.

“What have we here?” I asked kindly as we approached them, causing Elton to jump like a kitling.

“Christ, Mam! Ye should wear a bell!” he exclaimed with surprise. “I-I’ve been teachin’ Kezzie and Josiah here how te sign, so they can communicate wi’ each other better and Kezzie can communicate wi’ others.”

“Tha’s verra kind of ye,” I said to him with a smile.

“Good day to ye, sir, ma’am,” said Josiah, standing up to greet Jamie and I, and Keziah also jumped up, immediately spelling out the word ‘hello’ in sign language.

‘Hello, Keziah,’ I signed back to him, Elton raised a brow at me.

“Ye ken sign language?” he asked me.

“I’m no’ fluent, but I did learn some while I was trainin’ te be a physician,” I explained to him. “Helps te be able te communicate wi’ as many people as I can.”

“I’ve secured yers and yer brother’s indenture papers, lad,” Jamie said to Josiah, producing the papers in question and handing them to him. “Ye willnae see Mr. Beardsley again.”

“What about the mistress?” Josiah asked him. Elton spelled this out letter by letter for Keziah, who followed along as best as he could.

“She’s gone fer good,” Jamie explained to him. “She left her bairn wi’ us.” He referred to me and I bent down to show the young lads the bairn in my arms, and both of their eyes grew wide.

“I didn’t know she was with child,” Josiah said with surprise. “Kezzie told me the mistress may have lain with… well, there’s a man, a former slave. He came lookin’ for work once or twice…” He looked at his brother, who was watching Elton spell out words for him, and then Kezzie turned his attention to us and nodded. He then looked at Elton, spelling out some words.

“He wants te ken if they’re all free,” Elton said to us, and Jamie smiled and nodded.

“Aye, lad, all of ye,” he said happily.

“That means we can ride with your militia to Hillsborough?” Josiah asked him hopefully.

“Yer much too young te fight lad, both of ye. Ye’ve fought hard te earn yer freedom and I willnae let ye lose it in death on the battlefield,” Jamie told him firmly, and the look on Josiah’s face faltered.

“But I could use their help in the medical tent,” I said, and Josiah’s face brightened up again. “Yer te stay close, both of ye. Caoimhe and I will need ye te fetch us things like boiled water and various tools, bandages and the like.”

“Aye, ma’am. We promise to do as ye ask,” said Josiah heartily. Elton was in the midst of explaining this slowly to Kezzie, who smiled and nodded when he got the message and understood it.

“Good, I’m glad te have wee helpers,” I said, and then I turned to my husband. “We should go into town now. I need te find this nursin’ mother and ye need te speak wi’ the Browns.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, looking at wee Bonny in my arms. We bid goodbye to our son and the Beardsleys and made our way into the village. We came across Caoimhe and Rory relatively quickly exiting one of the buildings, and when they saw us, Caoimhe smiled.

“Auntie!” she called. “Did ye find this Mr. Beardsley, then?”

“Aye, we did, and I’ll tell ye all about it later,” I said as we approached them. Jamie looked around, noticing familiar whisky barrels sitting outside of one of the buildings.

“Rory Mac, is that our whisky?” he asked him.

“Um… yes,” said Rory with some discomfort. “There was, um… just a wee difficulty.”

“What sort of ‘wee difficulty’?” Jamie asked him suspiciously.

“Before he explains, can we sort out our own wee difficulty first?” I chimed in, pulling the blanket off of wee Bonny’s face, and both Caoimhe and Rory’s eyes widened.

“Congratulations. Ye work fast, Uncle Jamie,” said Caoimhe playfully, and I only shook my head.

“She belongs te Mrs. Beardsley, who took off in the night. She needs milk urgently. Archie mentioned ye were tendin’ te a new mother?” I asked her.

“Aye, come wi’ me,” said Caoimhe, leading me back into the building. I glanced briefly at Jamie before following her. She led me to a back room, which seemed to be almost like a sunroom, and two women looked up at me with curiosity. “Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Brown, this is my auntie, Mistress Catrìona Fraser. She’s the wife of Colonel Fraser.”

“Thomasina Brown, and this is my daughter-in-law, Lucinda. Are you young Captain Fraser’s mother?” said the older of the two women. “He mentioned you were a physician. Imagine that, Lucinda, a woman physician…”

“A hard ceilin’ te break through,” I replied. “Beggin’ yer pardon, and I’m sorry te intrude, but I have a wee bairn in need of milk.” I showed the two women wee Bonny, and the younger of the two, Lucinda Brown, looked at her in awe.

“Oh, what a pretty thing!” she said. “Is it yours?”

“No, she was born a few days ago and her mother…” I paused, not sure I wanted to explain what happened to these strangers. “Anyway, I’ve been feedin’ her goat’s milk on the road here, but she needs te be fed properly. Would ye… Would ye mind?”

“Of course! I could never deny a babe in need of milk,” said Lucinda, taking Bonny from me and freeing her breast to feed her. Bonny latched on perfectly, and Lucinda giggled, smiling down at the wee lass.

“Oh, what a sweet little thing,” said Thomasina Brown. “A girl, you said?” I nodded.

“Does she have a name?” Lucinda asked me.

“Er… Not officially, no,” I replied. “My husband and I have taken te callin’ her ‘Bonny’, as it’s a word we use fer ‘pretty’ or ‘beautiful’.”

“She’s a strong, healthy babe, that’s for certain,” said Thomasina. “Her mother died, you said?”

“She… lost both of her parents,” I said. “Before they could christen her. I… I know that her mother’s name was Fanny.”

“Sweet thing… Is she a slave’s babe?” asked Thomasina. “I see she’s got dark features.”

“Er… Not quite,” I replied, glancing briefly at Caoimhe, who raised a brow at me,

“How’d you come by her, then?” Lucinda asked me, looking up at me.

“It’s difficult te explain,” I said with a small sigh. “We went te the home of a trader, Aaron Beardsley, and found him havin’… died of an apoplexy.” A few little white lies would make the complicated nature of this situation easier for everyone, including wee Bonny when she was older, to understand. “Her mother was in labour, but…”

“She didn’t live. Oh, poor dear,” said Thomasina, looking down at wee Bonny. “What it would be to have a babe again… I lost all of mine now.” A sad look crossed Lucinda’s face. “I had one son survive to adulthood. Alastor, we called him. He died this past winter.”

“Mama, can we please not discuss it?” said Lucinda sadly.

“Richard, my husband, and I count our blessings. A small piece of our boy still lives on in his own son,” Thomasina said to me.

“He’s a braw lad, also called Alastor,” Caoimhe told me.

“I’m verra sorry te hear aboot yer loss, both of ye,” I said to them both. “I… I dinnae want te take up any more of yer time…”

“It’s no bother,” said Lucinda. “She can stay with me, for now. I’ll see that she’s fed and cared for.” I smiled subtly and nodded.

“Thank ye, Lucinda. It means a lot, truly,” I said kindly. “Come on, Caoimhe, let’s go and take a look at our own men.”

“Oh, no, stay! If you don’t mind, I’d like you to have a look at Alastor, as a physician,” said Lucinda, drawing my attention back to her.

“He’s with your Aunt Meg, I’ll go and fetch him,” said Thomasina, leaving the sunroom.

ARCHIE POV

Young Ross Carlyon had told Archie that Da wanted to speak to him and Rory as his militia captains, so he made his way into town. Standing beside the whisky barrels that had been sold to the Browns, a stern look on Da’s face and a somewhat uneasy look on Rory’s. Suddenly, Archie felt like he was a teenager having been caught kissing young Isobel Dunsany again by one of the grooms, who had ratted him out to his father. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he approached the two men. “Ye wanted te speak wi’ me, Da?” Archie asked him.

“I’m no’ just yer father, lad, I’m yer Colonel as well,” Da reminded him. “Captain Mackenzie here says ye had a ‘wee difficulty’. What is this ‘wee difficulty’?” Archie let out a quiet sigh.

“There was a… wee bit of a misunderstandin’ upon our arrival,” Archie explained to him.

“And ye cleared it up wi’ our whisky?” Da asked the two of them, and Rory and Archie exchanged a glance.

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” he said, and Archie raised a brow at him.

“What?” he asked his brother-in-law.

“I taught at a high school and though the students didn’t care much, I loved telling them about words and phrases, their origins, their meanings… Do either of ye know where the expression ‘Dutch courage’ comes from?” Rory asked the two of them.

“I’m sure yer aboot te tell us,” said Da a bit coldly.

“Ye said tha’ when we gave them the whisky, but what’s it got te do wi’ Rome?” Archie asked Rory, glad for the brief distraction from the issue at hand.

“Some say it dates back a century ago when English troops would drink te calm themselves before heading into battle. Others say the English witnessed the incredible courage gin gave the Dutch,” Rory explained.

“Ye could say whisky gives Scots their courage,” said Archie with a chuckle, glancing briefly at his father’s face. Da was clearly a bit annoyed with this stalling.

“Definitely so. A number of times in history, an advance of soldiers was stopped by an exchange of alcohol or goods,” Rory continued.

“Alcohol makes the world go ‘round,” said Archie.

“It’s funny te think about how much of history involves violence halting at the sight of liquor,” said Rory with a small laugh. “Take the First World War, for example - it’ll be from 1914 to 1918. There was a daily rum ration on the western front-”

“Captains, this is not the issue at hand,” Da interrupted him firmly. “I noticed I didnae see Morrison or Scott. They were in charge of the whisky, where’ve they gone?”

“Um… They… They left…” Rory said a bit meekly.

“Left? Why?” Da demanded from him, and Rory and Archie exchanged a somewhat nervous glance.

“There have… been around… eleven or so… who’ve left,” Archie continued.

“Why have they left, lad?” Da demanded again.

“When we arrived, the Browns were shootin’ at us,” Archie told him.

“What for?” asked Da quickly and sharply.

“If ye‘ll stop interruptin’, I’ll tell ye, Colonel,” said Archie, equally sharply, and he caught Rory’s widening eyes out of the corner of his eye. “When we arrived, the Browns were shootin’ at us. I asked why, they said Isaiah Morton had ruined a daughter of one of them.”

“L-Lionel Brown’s daughter,” chimed in Rory.

“Aye. Apparently, Morton had… lain wi’ Lionel Brown’s daughter, Alicia, and… Well, we didnae ken what else te do except te hand him over,” Archie explained to him.

“Hand him over? Ye allowed Lionel Brown te harm one of yer men?” Da demanded from him, his anger rising.

“We had to! They wanted te blow Morton te smithereens, and they didn’t harm him!” Rory chimed in, and Da reared on him next.

“Then what did they do te one of yer men, lad?” Da demanded of him.

“We agreed te some sort of temporary confinement, and gave them whisky te keep the peace,” Archie said, and then Da sent him a furious look. “Dinnae look at me that way! What would you have done?”

“What would I have done? I wouldnae have sold out my man and given them whisky te soften their blows!” Da snapped back at him. “And what were ye plannin’ on doin’ once the whisky ran out?”

“We were hoping ye would arrive before that happened and… you did,” said Rory, and Archie looked at him with a look suggesting he keep quiet while Archie battled it out with his father.

“We kept the peace, Da. We avoided confrontation,” Archie said to him firmly.

“Ye gave up one of yer men, you are their captain. Do ye ken the meanin’ of what a captain is? Either of ye? Is it a meanin’ ye care te explain te me? I didnae expect that I would have te explain that te my son, of all men!” Da snapped at him.

“And why not? Because ye were a captain in the damn Uprisin’? Because ye were Bonnie Prince Charlie’s right-hand-man? Because ye reared me like a soldier and raised me te be a smuggler? Damn it, Da, I am not you! I wasnae made in yer image! I never asked te be a bloody soldier! Ye made me yer captain without even consultin’ me, and ye did the same te Rory, when you know that neither of us are military men! Ye werenae here te do what ye would have done, so we did the only thing we could do in the moment te avoid gettin’ our damn heads blown off!” Archie shouted back at him.

“Yer men left because ye betrayed their trust, both of ye, and those who remain willnae have much faith left. As captains, ye must honour that loyalty above all else,” Da said to them firmly.

“And what good is that loyalty if the men are dead?” Archie demanded of him, and Da let out a small sigh, changing his tone.

“They swore te follow us into battle, te risk their lives…” he continued. “I understand neither of ye were raised that way. Rory I cannae speak fer, ye were raised in a different world, sent away te safety so ye wouldnae see war. And Archie… yer mother did all she could te make sure ye never did see battle. But things are changin’, war is comin’ whether we like it or not and soon, it’ll be at our doorstep.” He paused, then looked at both of them calmly. “As yer father and father-in-law, it is my duty te ensure ye can survive in this world, keep yer families safe… I should have prepared ye better, should have sent one of ye in my place te the Beardsleys. What has happened is my responsibility.” Archie glanced at Rory, who had fallen silent, before looking at his father again.

“We’re doin’ the best that we can… We understand than’ givin’ up Morton may not have been the wisest choice, but in the moment, it seemed te be our only choice. We tried speakin’ te them, but they wouldnae hear us out,” he explained, and then he lowered his voice. “I dinnae think Lionel and Richard Brown are te be trusted.”

“Is this one of yer feelin’s?” Da asked him, and Archie nodded. Da let out a sigh through his nostrils and looked at Rory. “Rory Mac, return te camp, tell the men that I have returned and will deal wi’ the issue at hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rory, glancing at Archie once more before leaving them.

“Now… where are they keepin’ Morton?” Da asked him.

“In a shed,” Archie said. “Come wi’ me.” Archie led him to the shed, which was being guarded by the teenaged son of Lionel Brown and younger brother to Alicia.

“What’re you doing?” asked the young lad, ruffling his feathers.

“Dinnae pish yerself, lad. The Colonel wishes te speak wi’ an enlisted member of his militia. He has that right,” Archie said to him.

“Pa won’t like that,” the lad warned him.

“Then yer Pa can take it up wi’ the Crown. Step aside,” said Archie, pushing the young lad aside and entering the shed. Da followed behind him and found Isaiah Morton sitting on the ground of the shed inside. He jumped up as soon as he saw the two Frasers enter.

“Colonel Fraser!” he exclaimed.

“Lad,” said Da. “Tell me, what disarray have ye and yer cock brought upon our endeavour?” Morton’s cheeks turned pink and he shrunk back a little.

“I am awful sorry, sir. I didnae mean te cause such trouble,” he replied.

“Archie tells me ye’ve dishonoured the Browns’ daughter. If ye have, ye must marry her and put matters te rights,” Da explained to him. “Ye dinnae have much choice, Isaiah.”

“I would, Colonel, but I cannae,” Morton said to him rather bashfully and awkwardly. “Regretfully… I already have a wife.” Both Archie and Da raised their brows and exchanged a glance before returning their attention back to Morton.

“As a father of three daughters myself, I can understand the Browns wantin’ te see ye drawn and quartered,” Da said to him. “How is it ye have a wife?”

“My parents arranged a marriage between themselves and hers,” Morton explained. “Ally… Miss Brown… She-She took a likin’ te me on my travels through Brownsville… and I took a likin’ te her.”

“Too much of a likin’, I’d say,” Archie said to him. “But I cannae blame ye. I… might have taken the fiancée of another as well.”

“Then ye understand, Captain,” Morton said to him. “Ye see, Colonel, my, um… my heart had a mind of its own. ‘‘Twas as if I had no say in the matter.”

“Still, ye made a vow te yer wife and broke it, and ye swore an oath te me,” Da said to him, narrowing his eyes a little. “How can I be certain ye willnae break it before day’s end?”

“My vow te ye was my own will,” Morton said to him somewhat defensively.

“As was yer infidelity,” said Da, and an awkward moment passed.

“I think we should consider clemency,” Archie said after a moment. “After all… love makes fools out of us all, doesnae it? Makes us do foolish things.”

“Like takin’ the fiancée of a wealthy and influential banker,” Da said to him.

“Aye, and nearly gettin’ yerself killed many times,” Archie reminded him.

“Ye must leave. Dinnae show yer face here again,” Da told Morton.

“Oh, I meant no trouble fer ye, Colonel, truly!” Morton cried.

“And as yer colonel, I’ll take care of yer trouble,” Da told him.

“But Da, what aboot Mr. Brown’s lad outside?” Archie asked his father quietly, and Da glanced at the door.

“We’ll think of somethin’,” Da said back to him. “Fer now, yer te stay here, Isaiah. I’ll come and see ye when I come up wi’ a plan.”

“Aye, sir, but… if I go, I’ll never see Ally again,” Morton said to him mournfully.

“Ye will go. It’ll be better fer ye both,” Da told him firmly. “Come, lad.” Da motioned to Archie to follow him, and Archie glanced at Morton one final time before following his father out of the shed. He couldn’t help but feel for Morton. He couldn’t imagine what he’d have done if he had married Mrs. MacKimmie and met Clara as a married man.

CATRÌONA POV

“Oh, she’s so perfect. It’s such a shame this beautiful little thing doesn’t have a mother to love her,” Thomasina Brown said as she cradled wee Bonny in her arms.

“Don’t get any ideas, sister,” said another middle-aged woman, Meg, who I learned was the sister of Lionel and Richard Brown.

“How can I not? Look at this lovely little girl,” Thomasina said to her sister-in-law. “And Mrs. Fraser says she’s in perfect health. Isn’t she just perfect, Mrs. Fraser?”

“Absolutely perfect,” I said kindly as I finished checking Alastor over. “And this weeun is, too. He’s in perfect shape.”

“I’m so glad to hear,” said Lucinda happily as I stood up. I looked at wee Bonny in Thomasina’s arms and smiled kindly.

“I never understood how a mother could just abandon her child,” I said softly, and Thomasina looked up at me, raising a brow.

“I thought you said her mother died,” she said to me, and my smile faltered.

“Well… Not quite,” I said with a sigh. “It’s… a bit more complicated than that.”

“How complicated can it be? Either she’s dead or she isn’t,” Meg chimed in.

“Aunt Meg,” said Lucinda, picking up her own son and holding him in her arms.

“It’s true!” scoffed Meg. “You said she was the Beardsleys’ daughter?”

“Aye,” I said. “We arrived to find that… Mr. Beardsley had died of an apoplexy and Mrs. Beardsley was in labour. She had her bairn and the next mornin’, we found she’d disappeared and left us wi’ wee Bonny.”

“How do you know Mr. Beardsley died of an apoplexy?” Meg asked me with her hands on her hips.

“We’d… found his grave outside, and… Mrs. Beardsley said he’d died of one,” I explained a bit meekly, and Meg scoffed.

“Apoplexy… She probably killed the bastard,” she said.

“Meg, you always think the worst of people,” Thomasina said to her sister-in-law.

“I’m just saying, is all,” Meg defended herself. “The Beardsleys were strange, came through here once on their way home, didn’t say a word.” She scoffed again, then looked at wee Bonny. “So. The babe’s dark. Aaron Beardsley wasn’t the father.”

“Meg!” exclaimed Thomasina.

“Fanny Beardsley may be strange, but she isn’t the first woman to find herself in such an unsuitable situation, and she certainly won’t be the last,” said Meg rather judgmentally, and she scoffed again. “Why, look at our own niece!”

“Is she wi’ child?” Caoimhe asked, and Thomasina made a squeaking noise.

“If she is, I hope Lionel never finds out,” Meg said with another scoff.

“Oh, shush! Here she comes with cider,” Thomasina said as she heard shuffling from inside, and a young fair-haired lass of about fifteen or sixteen came out with a tray of cider for everyone. She set it down on a table, which was covered by what looked to be a piece of parchment, and started handing out cups.

“Thank ye kindly, Miss Brown,” I said to her, and she smiled meekly at me before handing a cup to Caoimhe. As she went to pick up another cup, she knocked it over, letting out a small cry.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Aunt Meg!” Alicia exclaimed, and Meg scoffed again.

“Oh, don’t worry your little head, dear,” said Meg, waving it off as Alicia tried to wipe the table clean. “Funny you should spill cider on that blasphemous paper. I don’t know who these physicians think they are these days! Writing to the broadsheets with their ‘wisdom’… It speaks of means to prevent becoming with child. Can you believe it?” Alicia curiously looked down at the piece of parchment.

“‘A woman is fertile between…’,” she read, and my eyes widened a little as I sipped my cider; That sounded oddly familiar.

“Alicia, it is improper to speak of such things in company!” Meg said to her niece.

“May I see tha’?” I asked Alicia, and she picked up the wet parchment and handed it to me.

“Of all girls to have their attention drawn to that vulgar nonsense,” said Meg as I read the parchment. My eyes were wide with shock - this was my broadsheet, meant exclusively for the women of the Ridge. What the hell was it doing here in Brownsville?

“Auntie? Are ye well?” Caoimhe asked me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, er… Aye, I’m fine,” I said as wee Bonny fussed again.

“Oh, I think she’s hungry again, Lucinda,” said Thomasina, bringing Bonny to Lucinda. Meg took wee Alastor while Lucinda took Bonny, holding her to her breast and smiling when she latched on. “What a perfect little girl… I only wish I could feed her.”

“Ye could, if Lucinda would be willin’ te express some milk into a cup,” I said to her, seeing how obviously Thomasina adored this little girl.

“I could do that, Mama,” said Lucinda to her mother-in-law, causing Thomasina’s eyes to light up.

“That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed joyfully. “Oh, Mrs. Fraser, would you mind if I took the little darling tonight? I have a bassinet that’s been empty for far too long that would be perfect for her.”

“Would Uncle Richard be all right with a screaming babe so near his bed?” Lucinda asked her.

“No bother at all,” said Thomasina, and then she looked at me. “My Richard is a fair man.”

“A fair man who fired at my Isaiah!” chimed in Alicia bitterly.

“He did, and very fairly at that,” scoffed Meg. “No one to blame but yourself. If your poor mother could see how lowly you’d fallen…”

“Um… Caoimhe, we should probably head back te camp, see te our men,” I said after a moment. “Would it… be all right if I took this?” I was referring to the broadsheet. “I could, er… use it te light a fire.”

“Kindling’s all its good for,” said Meg to me. Caoimhe and I bid them farewell and then made our way out of the house.

“What the hell is this doin’ all the way here! It should have never left the Ridge!” I hissed to Caoimhe.

“I dinnae ken, but I forgot te tell ye I heard some women discussin’ somethin’ aboot it at the weddin’,” Caoimhe replied quietly.

“At the weddin’? Goddamn it…” I muttered as I looked at the broadsheet.

“Is it so bad?” Caoimhe asked me, and I sighed.

“I sure as hell hope not,” I told her. “I just hope the stone I just threw makes ripples and no’ waves.”

I found Jamie going over the list of names of men in his militia and when I approached, found maybe ten or so names crossed out. “What’s this?” I asked him, holding onto his arm and leaning against him.

“Men who have left, thanks te our captains,” he said to me somewhat bitterly, and I raised a brow.

“How did Archie and Rory cause men te leave?” I asked him.

“By givin’ up Isaiah Morton te the Browns,” he told me, and I raised my brows as I made the connection. Caoimhe had asked if Alicia was pregnant, Alicia had said something about an Isaiah, and Isaiah Morton was missing.

“Blessed Bride, he’s the one who laid wi’ Alicia Brown?” I asked, and Jamie let out a sigh.

“Aye, and the men are upset and dinnae trust the lads, some so much so, they left,” Jamie told me, and then it was my turn to let out a sigh.

“Well… At least ye’ve only lost a few,” I said, crossing my arms across my chest, clutching the folded up piece of parchment in my hand.

“Men are what I need fer this show of force,” he said to me.

“What do ye think they should have done?” I asked him.

“Archie and Rory had command of near four dozen men. One word from either of them and the Browns would have been outnumbered. Instead, they had them stand down and gave up one of their own,” he answered, clearly very upset. “Actions have consequences - as does inaction.”

“Aye… but the lads are young and inexperienced. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes,” I told him, letting out a sigh and showing him the parchment. “This one, fer example, is a verra big mistake.”

“What is this?” he asked me, taking the parchment and adjusting his glasses on his nose to read it. “Who’s Dr. Rawlings?”

“Yer lookin’ at him,” I said, and he looked at me with widened eyes.

“You?” he asked me,

“Me,” I replied.

“Fowlis, Fraser, Randall, now Rawlings? Ye have another husband I should ken aboot?” he asked me, and I scoffed.

“I was never ‘Randall’,” I told him. “And besides, it’s a pseudonym. It was the name engraved on tha’ medical equipment ye gave me. I thought I’d use it so the people of the Ridge didnae think me even more of a heathen than they already do.”

“Ye wrote te the broadsheets?” he asked me.

“No, I most certainly did not,” I replied back. “I wrote some medical advice fer the Ridge te help dispel certain superstitions and try te prevent more unnecessary deaths like Mrs. Donahue’s.”

“The lass who died in childbirth last December?” Jamie asked me, and I nodded.

“I never intended fer it te go any further than the Ridge. I dinnae ken how it got out!” I said with exasperation.

“I did send Fergus te print broadsheets fer the Ridge. Perhaps he picked it up on accident,” Jamie told me, and I let out a sigh, closing my eyes as it dawned on me what had happened.

“I asked Fergus te take them te the printer so I could distribute them te the Ridge. He must have forgotten I only wanted enough fer the Ridge,” I said, and then I groaned and covered my face with my hands. “Goddamn it…”

“Do ye think it’ll cause us any trouble?” Jamie asked me. “Will anyone associate it wi’ Fergus or the Ridge?”

“I doubt it,” I said, lowering my hands and letting out a huff. “At least, not unless someone tries te find the author and invite him te speak on how ‘bloodlettin’ is a harmful practice’.”

“Colonel Fraser,” came a voice, and we both turned to see two men approaching us. “It appears we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting.”

“No, I cannae say we have,” said Jamie, putting away his record of militiamen and accepting the extended hand of one of the men to shake.

“Richard Brown, and this is my brother, Lionel,” said Richard Brown, introducing his brother beside him. Lionel Brown made my skin crawl with the way he scowled, so I attempted to be friendly.

“Mr. Brown, I had the pleasure of meetin’ yer daughter. She’s verra kind,” I said.

“She’s been dishonoured by one of your men,” said Lionel Brown bitterly.

“Aye, I understand there was a wee bit of a disagreement,” Jamie said to the Brown men. “My sons informed me of this.”

“They was wise, handing the lawless bastard over,” growled Lionel Brown. “Bastard’s lucky to be alive.”

“The whisky was a pleasant offering,” said Richard Brown, stopping his brother from speaking further. “Your son said it was aged in oak casks?”

“Aye, the Scottish way,” Jamie explained to him. “I started my own distillery on my land-”

“He’s gone, Pa! He’s gone!” came the frightened voice of a teenaged boy that ran to join us. “Morton’s gone, Pa! He’s gone!”

“What are you telling me, boy? Was no one guarding him?” Lionel Brown demanded, grabbing the lad’s shirt and yanking him forward.

“N-no, sir, they was all drinking!” cried the young lad.

“Find him, Hiram, and when you do, don’t wait for me,” Lionel demanded, turning on his heel to make his way back to the village.

“Any harm done te Isaiah Morton will be considered an act of aggression against my militia, formed by His Excellency, Governor Tryon!” Jamie snapped, stopping Lionel Brown in his tracks. “I’ll have no choice but te consider ye traitors te the Crown, no better than the Regulators we were sent te disperse.” Lionel Brown pulled a pistol out of his pocket and cocked it, pointing it right at Jamie. 

“Who are you calling a traitor?” he demanded. Any women who were among us gasped or squealed as they froze in utter terror, but not me. I whipped out my bow and pulled an arrow from my stocking, snapping the bow open, loading it and pointing it at Lionel Brown.

“Put tha’ down before someone gets hurt,” I growled at him.

“Catrìona!” Jamie hissed at me.

“Stop, brother. You sound foolish,” spat Richard Brown, shoving his brother’s gun down towards the ground, and he sniffed the air. “And a drunken fool at that. I thought I smelled drink on you.”

“You’ll let the bastard get away with defiling my daughter?” demanded Lionel from his brother. “You didn’t have no daughters live long enough to know what it does to a man to have his daughter dishonoured!”

“Enough!” Richard snapped at Lionel. “I want Morton as much as you do. So I am gonna talk to Colonel Fraser… Come to an understanding… Is that clear?” Lionel scoffed, then looked at Jamie next.

“You keep strange company, Colonel Fraser,” he spat. “Isaiah Morton… Not of the God-fearing kind.”

“Little I can do aboot a man’s character,” Jamie told him, his face stern and solid.

“Go back home to your daughter, brother,” said Richard, and Lionel sent him a filthy look before turning to leave wordlessly. Sensing that the danger had passed, I lowered my bow, but didn’t quite put it away, and Richard Brown gave me a curious look before turning his attention back to Jamie. “There’s enough sin and lawlessness each day without counting those Regulators causing disorder in an already crumbling society. And we don’t want no trouble with the Governor, so if you have come recruiting, you could not have found any better men in all the Carolinas, Colonel.”

“I’m pleased te hear,” Jamie said to him. “We’ve been ordered te head to Alamance te meet the Regulators. We hope it willnae end in battle.”

“Hm. We’ll ride with you to Alamance, but my men will all be answering to me,” Richard told him, firmly and with a mild threat in his voice, which Jamie detected. He lowered his eyes a little, meeting Richard Brown’s square in the middle, and nodded.

“Long as we’re in agreement ye will answer te me,” Jamie told him, equally firmly. Richard Brown’s lips pressed together, but he made a noise in the affirmative, and then looked at me.

“If it’s no trouble, I wish to offer my home to you and your niece, Mistress Fraser,” he said to me. “What sort of man would I be if I allowed two ladies to sleep out with the militia on a cold, dark night?”

“It isnae so cold. I dinnae mind,” I said, feeling uneasy about the look in Richard Brown’s eye.

“My wife, Thomasina, suggested it. I understand she’s fallen in love with the Beardsley babe you brought with you,” Richard told me.

“Aye, she seemed te adore Bonny verra much,” I said, glancing at Jamie briefly.

“Of course, the offer is extended to you as well, Colonel Fraser,” said Richard Brown, not sternly, but it was clear that he was a stern man.

“I thank ye kindly, Mr. Brown,” said Jamie, offering a hand to shake, which Richard Brown accepted. “I’ll send my captains te gather the names of yer men.”

“Connor Brown, sir,” said one of the young men joining the militia to Archie and Rory, who were taking names.

“Hiram Brown,” said the young lad who had been guarding Isaiah earlier.

“Phineas Brown,” said another. Also in the line were an Abner Brown, a Thomas Brown, an Ebenezer Brown and a Thaddeus Brown.

“We’re glad te have you all on the right side of history,” said Rory to them all rather cheerfully.

“Mrs. Fraser, if you’ll follow me, I’ve prepared your room,” said Thomasina Brown to me, wee Bonny cradled in her arms. 

“Certainly,” I said as I followed her to a room. It was a rather large room on the top floor of the house, with curtained windows overlooking the village and a grand bed in the middle of the room.

“I had my nephews bring the bed in. This… This room used to be the nursery,” said Thomasina, a sad look on her face. “Many children grew in this room, but only one actually grew up.”

“I’m verra sorry te hear,” I said. “I… I’ve lost a child, too… and had a stillborn.”

“‘Tis hard, and it never gets any easier no matter… how many you’ve lost,” she replied, looking down at wee Bonny in her arms and smiling. “Oh, I do hope you don’t think we’re a family of ill repute with all that’s happened. Perhaps… Perhaps God sent you to bring us the babe for a reason.” She looked up at me, a hopeful look in her eye. “If you’re looking for a home for her… oh, I would be so glad to care for her as my own. I never had a daughter to raise, and I’ve always wanted one.” She smiled kindly again before looking down at Bonny. “Do you have any daughters, Mrs. Fraser?”

“Three,” I said. “Two are grown, and one of them has two daughters of her own. I’ll not deny that… there’s a special bond between mothers and daughters that is just different than it is wi’ lads.”

“I had no daughters live past a year,” said Thomasina quietly. “To have this little one… It would be my honour, if I may.”

“I think that would be wonderful fer ye both,” I said to her kindly, and her face lit up.

“I can’t thank you enough for this gift. Oh, I must inform my husband!” Thomasina said happily. “I’ll send up Alicia to help with the bedding. Do come and join us for supper when you’re ready.” I turned around to find a pitcher of water and a towel on the nightstand and wasn’t opposed to a bit of a face wash. As I made my way to it, I heard footsteps enter the room behind me.

“Mistress Fraser,” came the voice of young Alicia Brown, and I turned to face her. She had a meek look on her face, and her hands were clasped in front of her and resting underneath her chin. “I… I heard… Is it true? Is Isaiah truly gone?” This poor young girl, who couldn’t be much older than fifteen, was utterly heartbroken, and I let out a saddened sigh.

“It’s better he stays gone, considerin’ yer father’s feelin’s aboot him… He’ll likely go back te our home, at Fraser’s Ridge,” I told her, trying to give her an answer.

“I know, but…” she said, trailing off. She dropped her hands and held them down by her waist, pressing her palms against her stomach. I raised a brow curiously, suspecting there was something more.

“But what?” I asked her, already knowing the answer.

“Oh… He’s my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. He never spoke of marriage, but I wouldn’t have lain with him if I thought… Will you… Will you ask your husband that if he sees Isaiah again, to tell him that I’ll follow him wherever?” she asked me, looking up at me.

“Alicia, hen… He’s yer first love, and yer young. First loves have a… certain grip on ye that ye cannae necessarily shake,” I said to her, thinking back to Tom only for a moment.

“It isn’t that, Mistress Fraser,” said Alicia a bit more firmly. “I know it isn’t that. He is my soulmate, my one true love. I’ll do whatever I must to be with him.” I let out a sigh and closed my eyes for a moment before opening them again.

“Isaiah Morton isnae worth leavin’ yer family fer,” I told her. “I hate te have te be the one te tell ye this, but… he’s already marrit.” At this, poor Alicia’s face changed. Her hopeful look dropped into one of mournful sorrow, and I could almost feel the lump in her throat.

“Wh… What?” she whispered to me, her voice catching. “What do you mean? To… to whom?”

“I dinnae ken, hen,” I told her. “He told my husband…” I trailed off as I saw her burst into tears, sobbing and burying her face in her hands. I crossed the room to her to give her comfort, which she was indifferent to. “Poor hen… he’s not worth yer tears… He’s worth nothin’ of yers.”

“Wh-wh-what will I-I d-do?” she sobbed, sniffling violently and wiping her nose and tears on her sleeve. “I’ll n-never w-want anyone else… and n-no one will ever w-want me!”

“Darlin’, that isnae true! How auld are ye, fifteen? Sixteen? Ye’ve yer whole life ahead of ye,” I told her, but then she looked up at me.

“B-but it… it isn’t th-that!” she said, and I looked down to see her hand pressed against her stomach once more; So my initial assumption was correct.

“Alicia… Are ye wi’ child?” I asked her delicately.

“I… I th-think so… I d-don’t know…” she said, sniffling again.

“Ye puir thing… My… My daughter found herself in… a similar predicament, only… it was rape, no’ love… We took care of her, and still do, both her and her two bonny daughters. Yer family will take care of ye,” I said, trying to give her comfort, but she shook her head.

“I’ve r-ruined my… our… r-reputation,” she said to me. “I… I wish I was dead…” I was brought back to the moment we found Maevis in her room, her wrists cut and her lifeblood spilling out onto the floor. A sweet, gentle life almost extinguished much too soon. I was almost angry that Alicia would dare to say such a thing, but I took a deep breath to control my anger and let it out slowly.

“No… No, tha’s the last thing ye should wish fer,” I told her softly. “Ye seem verra close te yer aunt. Do ye… Do ye wish fer me te speak te her?”