|c.7|

Morning light filtered through the windows of the MacDonnell estate, casting a pale glow on Ailsa’s chambers. As she stretched and pulled herself from the warmth of her bed, a wave of weakness struck her. It wasn’t illness—not the sharp pangs of a cold or the feverish burn of infection—but a strange, pervasive fragility.

Her reflection in the small, cracked mirror by her bedside startled her. The vibrant flush that normally colored her cheeks was gone, leaving her pale and gaunt. Her eyes, once bright with determination, seemed duller.

“Are ye feelin’ ill, lass?” her mother asked when Ailsa joined her family for breakfast. The older woman’s brows furrowed with concern as she looked her daughter up and down.

“Nae, Ma,” Ailsa replied quickly, brushing her mother off with a weak smile. “I just dinnae sleep well is all.”

Her father chimed in, his booming voice filling the room. “Ye’ve been lookin’ a bit peaky these last few days. Ye sure yer no catchin’ somethin’?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, her voice firm. “It’s nothin’ tae worry about.”

But her family wasn’t the only one to notice. The MacDonnell estate buzzed with gossip that morning, and the whispers carried the name “Ailsa” far and wide. Some speculated that her newfound frailty was a curse, while others quietly muttered about her visits to the old crone.

For Ailsa, the rumors were less troubling than the glee she felt when she heard the news about Moira’s sudden illness. It worked, she thought triumphantly. That dark creature won’t take Finlay from me.

Her triumph, however, was short-lived.

---

By midmorning, a new wave of gossip reached Ailsa's ears as she stood near the kitchens, eavesdropping on the servants.

“Did ye hear? That MacEacharn lass is up and walkin’ about like nothin’ happened,” one of them said, her voice a mixture of awe and irritation.

“Aye, says it was just a wee sickness—nothin’ more,” another replied with a scoff. “She’s tougher than she looks, I’ll give her that.”

Ailsa’s hands balled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Her plan had failed—or at least not worked as she intended. Her blood boiled as she thought of Moira dismissing her carefully planned curse as a simple bug.

How dare she? Ailsa fumed, her lips pressing into a thin line. I gave my energy, my strength, tae cast that spell. She should be broken, nae walkin’ around makin’ light o’ it.

She stormed away, her skirts swishing furiously as she went in search of answers. Spotting one of her clansmen gossiping near the stables, she grabbed him by the arm, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“Ye’ve been talkin’,” she accused.

The man stammered, “Nae, mistress, I was just repeatin’ what I heard.”

“Then repeat it tae me,” she demanded, her voice cold and sharp as steel.

He swallowed hard, glancing nervously around to ensure no one else was listening. “Some are sayin’ ye’ve been visitin’ the crone… that it’s no coincidence ye’ve been dabblin’ in her ways and then Moira falls ill.”

Ailsa’s heart pounded in her chest, fear threatening to overcome her. “And who’s spreadin’ such nonsense?”

“I-I dinnae ken,” the man stuttered. “It’s just talk, mistress, ye ken how people gossip.”

Fury eclipsed her fear, and she barked an order at him. “If I hear another word about it, ye’ll make sure the tongues waggin’ are silenced. Am I clear?”

The man nodded quickly, his face pale. “Aye, mistress.”

Satisfied, Ailsa released him and marched back to her chambers, slamming the door behind her. She would have to tread carefully now—Finlay couldn’t know, and she couldn’t risk her father’s wrath.

---

Meanwhile, in the MacLeod household, the morning passed far more peacefully. Finlay sat across from Moira at the long dining table, his eyes studying her with a mix of curiosity and lingering concern.

“Ye look fine now, lass,” he said, his voice soft but probing. “But last night… I’ve never seen such pain in someone’s eyes.”

Moira sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she cut into a piece of bread. “Och, Finlay, ye’ve asked me three times already. I told ye—it was nothin’. Likely my monthlies settin’ in.” She gave him a teasing smile, but her golden eyes sparkled with mischief.

Finlay leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “Aye, but there’s more tae it. I ken ye’re holdin’ somethin’ back.”

“Am I now?” Moira challenged, arching a delicate brow. “Ye’re verra observant for a laird. Maybe ye should turn those sharp eyes tae the affairs o’ yer land instead o’ badgerin’ me.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ye’ve a sharp tongue, woman.”

“Only for those who deserve it,” she replied with a wink, earning a laugh from Finlay.

Their conversation turned to lighter topics, the tension easing. When the rumors of Ailsa’s supposed curse came up, Moira waved them off with a laugh.

“Ach, do ye really think that lass could curse me?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement. “Even if she could dabble in magic, it always demands a price. If she did somethin’ tae me, it’ll come back tae her soon enough.”

Finlay smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “And what do ye ken about magic, Moira? Should I be worried ye’ve cast a spell on me?”

Her laughter rang out, warm and genuine. “If I had, ye’d be even more smitten than ye are now. Ye’d spend every moment followin’ me around like a lovesick pup.”

The two shared a smile, their connection undeniable.

---

Later that day, Finlay met his father in the great hall, where the elder laird was bidding farewell to another clan leader. When the lairds exchanged their final words, Finlay approached, his demeanor serious.

“Ye wanted tae see me, Da?”

“Aye,” his father replied, gesturing for him to sit. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this deal wi’ the MacEacharns. The promises sound good—too good. I need tae ken why yer so sure we can trust them.”

Finlay took a deep breath before recounting the story of how he and Moira met. He described the day she called out to him from beneath the shade of an ancient oak, her young face bright with curiosity. He told his father how they had formed an unbreakable bond over the years, sneaking away to spend time together despite the dangers.

The elder laird listened intently, his brow furrowing when Finlay spoke of Laird MacEacharn’s overprotectiveness. “And ye kept this secret from me all these years?”

“Aye,” Finlay admitted. “But only because her father wouldnae have allowed it. She’s his only child, Da, and he’s lost everyone else. He’s cautious, aye, but he’s honorable. We can trust him.”

His father nodded slowly, his expression contemplative. “I’ll think on it, lad. But I’ll say this—I see the way ye look at her. If ye trust her, I’ll give her the chance tae prove herself.”

Finlay nodded, his heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank ye, Da.”

---

While Finlay set out for a border patrol as ordered, Moira spent her day with the women of the clan, helping with the harvest and tending to chores. Her newfound energy surprised many, and the women expressed their relief that she had recovered.

“Ye gave us all a fright,” one of them said, handing Moira a bundle of herbs.

“Ach, it was nothin’,” Moira replied with a grin. “Likely my monthlies startin’. Nae need tae fuss.”

The women laughed, but the topic soon turned to the rumors of Ailsa’s involvement in her illness. Moira waved the idea away, her laughter light and mocking. “Do ye really think that wee lass could manage a curse? She’d be better suited tae cursin’ her cookin’—that’d be a service tae us all.”

The women roared with laughter, their camaraderie warming the cool afternoon air. But as they joked and gossiped, Moira’s sharp mind worked in the background. She wasn’t just laughing at Ailsa—she was setting the stage for the young woman’s downfall.

Moira was already where she wanted to be, and she wasn’t about to let anyone take it from her. Ailsa’s games had only just begun, but Moira was ready to finish them.