7 A DEAD WOMAN’S WORDS

ALONE IN THE tiny guest alcove on the floor above the chief-enforcer's meeting space, Bree whispered a string of gutter curses.

Iron smite her, that had gone terribly. Mac Brochan was insolent and unpleasant—and he hadn't hidden his scorn for her.

"You've got a challenge there," she muttered. "That cold bastard wouldn't trust his own mother."

She could hardly be surprised though. He was the chief-enforcer, after all .

Bree cast a scowl in the direction of the flimsy curtain that shielded her alcove from the narrow passageway beyond. Unlike Caisteal Gealaich, this broch didn't have internal doors. Anyone could burst in on her, and the lack of security put her already taut nerves on edge.

She hoped that when the queen's women came to ready her the following morning, they'd announce themselves first. Her breathing grew shallow then. She couldn't believe that tomorrow was her wedding day. Tomorrow, she'd meet the High King of Albia.

Bree's mouth twisted. If there was one individual the Shee hated more than the chief-enforcer, it was Talorc mac Brude. The High King held a deep loathing for her people—a reckoning twenty-five years in the making. His animosity had festered ever since his first wife disappeared. The Marav believed that she'd strayed too close to a barrow at sunset and been stolen away. However, the truth was that the woman had met a Shee warrior one day while out riding. They'd become lovers, and shortly after, she'd run away with him.

The incident had also scandalized the Shee—for the warrior who'd stolen the High King's wife was Flynn, Mor's youngest brother.

Rumor had it that, besotted by the Marav woman, Flynn had willingly passed through the stones, giving up everything for love. Over two decades on, no one had seen or heard from him again. Mor's wintry rage had settled over Caisteal Gealaich like a harsh frost in the aftermath.

Dragging herself from her thoughts, Bree turned to the pile of furs, where she'd sleep, her gaze traveling to her saddle bags. The alcove was dimly lit, the ceiling so low that a tall man would have to bow his head to avoid hitting it on the wooden beams overhead. A cresset burned above a table opposite the furs, while a lump of peat smoldered on the hearth against the outer wall.

Bree wrinkled her nose at the pungent peat smoke. There was a vent that let some of the smoke out. However, there were no windows in this foul place to let in any fresh air. Crossing to the furs, she opened her bags and unpacked Fia's things. She hung the clothing up on hooks protruding between the stacked stone on the walls and placed her shoes and boots by the curtained entrance. Fia's lavender-scented soaps, pouches, and oils went on the low stool beside her furs, while she placed the figurines of the Gods on a narrow ledge inset into the alcove wall.

Then, her unpacking done, Bree perched on the edge of the furs and picked up Fia's diary. She'd just untied the thong that held the diary and letters together when a young female voice called out from the other side of the curtain. "Supper."

Irritation spiked through Bree. Couldn't she have one evening to herself?

Swallowing her annoyance, she sucked in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. "Aye … come in."

Moments passed, and then a small soft woman of her own age with curly peat-brown hair and sky-blue eyes pushed her way into the alcove. Like most Marav women, she wore a long sleeveless tunic, girded at the waist with a leather thong, and sturdy leather boots. It was cold this eve, so a woolen shawl covered her bare shoulders. An iron pendant—a small staff—hung from a leather thong around her neck. A protection amulet .

The servant bore a tray of what looked and smelled like venison stew, and she favored Bree with a shy smile. "I thought you'd be hungry … after such a long journey."

Bree was going to deny it and send the woman away, for she just wanted to start on the diary, when her belly gave a loud growl.

"I'm Mirren." The woman gave another timid smile. "I'll be your handmaid when you move in with the chief-enforcer."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Bree answered, remembering her manners. "Thank you, for supper."

Mirren placed the tray on the small table in the corner, which had a stool beside it. "The queen's women will help you get ready tomorrow," she said, meeting Bree's gaze fleetingly before glancing away again. "But I will see you the following day … once you and your husband have had some time alone together."

Bree's stomach flipped over at these innocent, well-meaning words.

The thought of spending time, alone, with the chief-enforcer, of being plowed by the brute, made her feel queasy. When she was going after a mark with a blade in her hand, she was in her element. But this was uncharted territory.

Suddenly, her appetite deserted her.

Mercifully, Mirren didn't stay long.

Bree didn't engage her in conversation—eager for her handmaid to leave so she could research the woman she was impersonating—so after she'd delivered supper, the lass hovered awkwardly for a few moments. Then, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, she bid Bree a good eve and left her alone .

Leaving her ripe-smelling stew to cool, Bree got down to work. It was too dim to read seated on the furs, so she moved over to the table and sat down. Opening the diary upon the first page, she then began to read.

Mid-winter Fire—Year of The Warrior.

My time at the House lengthens, and I still have no offer of marriage. I begin to wonder if what Maisi said to me out of spite two winters ago is actually true. I am too meek, too plain. The suitors who come here and take their pick of us forever pass me over in favor of one of my Sisters.

Mother Gelda says I must be patient, that one day a man will visit who will see my virtues.

But until that day, I wait.

Life here is lonely … sometimes. That is why I've begun this diary. The friends I made when I first came here have found their husbands. I haven't seen Ma, Da, or Bran for so long. They never visit, and Mother Gelda forbids any of us from leaving the House.

I think she worries that on a trip home, one of us might meet someone … unsuitable … that we will run away with him.

I wouldn't though. I'm too obedient … too eager to please.

The first entry ended there, and Bree lowered the diary.

The lass's words—written in a neat, flowing hand—were unsettling .

Bree wanted to curl her lip at Fia's weakness. However, she didn't. She'd thought reading a dead woman's words wouldn't bother her—after all, she'd been just some foolish Marav wench. But there was a vulnerability in that entry, a deep loneliness.

Fia had been surrounded by others at the House of Maids, yet she had felt alone.

Alone .

Frowning, Bree closed the diary.

That was enough reading for tonight.