Sorcha dipped into another curtsy, lower and exacting, then turned and left the solar without another word.

She waited in the hall, seated on a carved bench, hands folded in her lap, spine straight, her expression giving nothing away. After a time, she heard heavy footsteps approaching, the rhythm uneven, accompanied by the soft tap of a cane on stone, before a voice she hadnae heard in years reached her.

“Lady Sorcha.”

She looked up to find Laird MacRae, older than she remembered, his hair gone white at the temples. The sleeve of his left arm was pinned neatly at the shoulder. Her father had told her of the loss. Seeing it now brought the memory sharply into focus.

“My lord,” she said, rising and curtsying once more.