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Sheona let out a shaky, raspy breath, loosening her frantic grip on Brodie’s tartan just enough to wrap one arm tightly around Angus’s trembling back. Brodie’s arm shifted, expanding his hold to clasp them both, shielding them completely from the draft and the crowd of men filling the room.

“Are ye whole, Sheona?” Angus sobbed into her collar, his fingers clutching tightly at the wool of her dress. “Did the bad man hurt ye?”

“I am whole, Angus,” Sheona managed to whisper, her voice raw and scraped thin, like dry leaves sliding across stone. She smoothed her hand over the top of his soft, dark curls, pressing a gentle kiss to his crown. “Ye saved me, sweet lad. Ye hit him true when I couldnae move.”

The boy pulled back just enough to look at her, his small face pale and streaked with tears, his bright dark eyes wide with a grave, fierce intensity. His gaze flicked to the thick, purple mark blooming across her jaw where Thomas had pinned her, and his chin trembled.

“I broke me sword on him,” Angus said, a small hiccup catching in his chest. “Father said I did good. He said I helped.”

“Ye did more than help,” Brodie’s deep, quiet voice rumbled from beside her, his large hand cupping the back of his son’s head with a gentle strength. “Ye gave yer father the second he needed, Angus. Ye were brave as any Highlander in this keep.”

Douglas lowered his sword slowly, his wide eyes sweeping the ruined timber sill and the dark stain near the edge. He let out a long, heavy breath, gesturing for the guards to hold the stairwell.

“Morrison?” Douglas asked quietly.

Brodie didn’t look up from them. “He went over the north wall. Take two men to the base of the rocks below. Clear the rest from the tower.”

“Aye, me Laird,” Douglas nodded grimly, turning to usher the guardsmen back down the steps, leaving only the soft flickering glow of a single wall torch to light the drafty room.

Angus sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his woolen sleeve, his small hands taking Sheona’s. His grip was warm and tight. He looked at her face, then at Brodie, his brow furrowed with determination.

“Ye must go to Elspeth,” Angus insisted, trying to pull Sheona upward with his tiny strength. “Right now, Sheona. Yer neck is bruised, and ye are cold as ice. I will walk ye to the healer’s room meself to make sure ye are alright. I willnae let anyone else bother ye.”

A faint, trembling smile broke through the tightness in Sheona’s chest. “Will ye guard me all the way down the steps, brave knight?”

“Aye,” Angus said firmly, standing up and puffing out his small chest. “I’ll stay right by yer side.”

Brodie shifted, rising slowly to his feet with the fluid, powerful grace of a mountain beast, though Sheona caught the subtle, rigid tension in his frame as his boots planted firmly on the stone. His left palm was tightly wrapped in a strip of torn tartan, dark red blooming through the cloth where the wooden stake had torn his skin. He extended his uninjured right hand down to her.

Sheona took it, allowing him to pull her up gently. Her legs wobbled the second she stood, the chamber swaying slightly around her, but Brodie was there instantly, his broad arm sliding around her waist to take the brunt of her weight before she could stumble.

“I have ye,” he murmured against her hairline.

Angus took his post at Sheona’s left, holding her hand tight, his little wooden sword forgotten on the floor as he marched them toward the stairwell. They descended the long, winding spiral in quiet, measured steps. The heavy silence of the lower corridors stood in stark contrast to the howling wind above. The great hall was quiet now, the feast abandoned, the fire in the hearth glowing red and low as the keep settled into a heavy, watchful hush.

They walked together through the rear passage, the draft growing warmer as they approached the small, low-ceilinged room near the inner courtyard where the clan healer kept her hearth burning through the night.

The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, spilling the rich, comforting scent of dried lavender, crushed chamomile, thyme, and hot tallow candle wax into the dark hallway.

Old Elspeth was already waiting, having heard the commotion in the courtyard. She moved around her long wooden worktable with quick, practiced efficiency, gathering stone jars and brass bowls.

“In here, quickly now.” Elspeth's voice was its usual gruff warmth, but her hands stilled on the worktable the moment the torchlight caught Sheona's throat. The old woman's face went very quiet. She set down the brass bowl she was holding with deliberate care. "Sit down, child. Sit down and daenae speak yet."

Her sharp eyes moved from Sheona's bruised jaw to Brodie's bloody hand to Angus's pale, tear-streaked face. Her jaw tightened.

"Who did this?" she asked.

Brodie met her gaze. "Morrison."

Elspeth said nothing for a long moment. Her hands, already moving to gather her linen cloths, went still a second time. Sheona remembered Elspeth had spent the better part of the evening standing beside Morrison at the edge of the courtyard, watching the binding ceremony. He had complimented her heather garland. He had fetched her a cup of spiced mead.

"I see," she said finally, in a voice that was very flat and very quiet.

Then she dipped the linen into the steaming bowl.

Brodie guided Sheona onto the bench, settling beside her so closely that his hip and shoulder pressed firmly against hers. Angus didn’t leave her side either, sitting right on the edge of the stool beside her knee, keeping his small hand wrapped firmly in hers, watching Elspeth’s every move with hawk-like concentration.

“I brought her,” Angus spoke up, his voice fierce. “Make sure her throat is healed. A bad man squeezed it.”