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“Father’s face lost its contemptuous-bored expression and went completely still. I realized I had been wrong to ask that. To ask anything. A question meant defiance.

“‘How about going and scrubbing the stables, huh, lad?’

“‘Nae in the storm, Father,’ Raghnall said.

“I cringed. Raghnall, ever the rebel. No matter how many times Father had tried to beat it out of him, he never could. Even at eleven years old, Raghnall wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. My father’s gaze on Raghnall chilled me.

“‘And whyever nae, lad?’ he said. ‘Are ye saying I dinna ken what one can do in a storm and what one canna?’

“I kent the evening wouldna end peacefully. Raghnall walked towards us, the stick he’d been throwing to the puppy still in his hand. With my stomach in knots, I realized it looked like a weapon. By God’s blood, he didn’t look eleven at all. My wee brother had more courage and spirit than an army of grown men.

“Father rose, casting a shadow from the fire that danced and distorted on the stone floor.

“‘Ye wee shite,’ he muttered, ‘ye need to be taught a lesson.’

“Another beating? God’s arse, Raghnall had just had one the day before. As I always tried to calm the situation down, I said, ‘Father, please. He only meant—’

“‘Shut up,’ Father barked.

“Mother looked at us with worry. She’d aged so much in recent years. She was pregnant again, but she looked like an old woman with a big belly, nae like a glowing woman with child.

“‘Ye ken what a punishment was from my own father, lad? Ye must think me cruel. In the old days, my da would have put yer sorry arse out in the cold and let ye freeze, lose a couple of toes to frostbite. How would ye like that?’

“‘Better than being in a room with ye,’ Raghnall said.

“Mother gasped. Catrìona’s eyes were as wide as two full moons. Laomann paled.

“By God’s bones, Raghnall was playing a dangerous game. He hadn’t so openly challenged Father before.

“‘Brother, take yer words back,’ I whispered. ‘Before ’tis too late.’

“‘’Tis already too late,’ Father said as he marched towards Raghnall, harsh decision written on his face. A vein began throbbing in his temple. He came to my brother and tried to grab him by the collar, but the lad ran away. Father’s cheeks reddened. His upper lip curled up in a soundless snarl. Even more determined, he marched towards the other end of the hall where Raghnall was.

“The puppy barked—worried barking, confused barking. Mother stood up from her seat, helpless whimpers coming out of her mouth. Worried, Catrìona rose to her feet as well and held the skirt of Mother’s dress.

“My own heart drummed. I suppressed the urge to grasp Father’s clothes and stop him.”

He remembered thinking he could. Taller than most, and strong and solid, he often felt like a boulder, or a post for people to lean on. Being the middle child, he didn’t react as strongly to Father’s whims and mood swings. Where Laomann ran to satisfy Father’s requests, and Raghnall did everything to defy him, Angus went for observation and trying to find the way to calm the situation down for everyone. Which was probably why Father had called him stupid—because he didn’t have something to say every time. He also didn’t want to make it worse, especially not for his siblings and his mother.

“But you didn’t?” Rogene said.

Angus shook his head. His chest ached, hollowed out, scraped from inside, and only pain remained there. He studied his arms, his giant fists that knew battle, that knew death and violence.

“Raghnall darted away again, but this time, Father was faster,” Angus continued. His chest ached but also itched, as though he was healing. “He grabbed Raghnall. God’s blood, he was strong. He brought his arm back for a hard blow. The wall was right behind Raghnall, and an image flashed in my head: my brother’s skull crushed against the rough rock, blood flowing from the gash. His skin deadly pale.”

Angus’s throat contracted.

“Something snapped within me,” he said. “I was stronger than my younger brother. My skull was as hard as rock, as Father often said. Before Father’s fist could slam into Raghnall’s face, I launched myself and crashed into him with such force that we fell on the floor, dragging Raghnall after us. Father swore and pushed me away. His face was almost purple.

“‘Ye son of a whore,’ he roared. ‘Ye dare to challenge me?’

“He stood and yanked me up, then slammed his fist into my face. Through the burst of pain, I saw his distorted face and bloodshot eyes. His teeth were bared, yellowish, and glistening with spit. He looked like an animal, emptiness and fear behind his eyes.

“Fear? I thought distantly as Father drew his fist back to throw another punch into my face. What was he afraid of?

“’Twas the man who ordered the priest to write a book of legends about him. The man who had a castle that had been built to protect Scotland from Viking invasions in the west and that controlled three lochs at once.

“An important man.