of the dead clansman could lead to trouble for both Verica and her apprentice healer.
Sabrine gave Verica an oddly concerned look, almost as if she could read Verica’s thoughts despite her better than average attempt at controlling her expression. Growing up a double shifter in the Donegal clan had been a die-or-try training ground for learning to hide both her bird nature and her true thoughts and feelings.
“How did he die?” Sabrine gently asked the girl.
“A wild animal got him while he was hunting.” Brigit recited the words as if she’d been taught to say them, but they held no conviction.
She had to learn to dissemble better. Those who had hurt her father would think nothing of harming the child. Only Verica could not blame Brigit for her lack. Her father had been gone less than a year, not long enough for her to bury her grief as deeply as it had to go.
Verica found herself saying, both for the child’s sake and as a very subtle warning to Sabrine, “Just like my da.”
“Your father was laird before Barr?”
“Nay, before that even, before the laird Barr replaced.” Rowland, a cruel and stupid man, if cunning like the beast inside him.
Verica had always believed he was responsible for her father’s death but could not prove it. Even if she had been able to, it would have done no good. Rowland had too much power with the Chrechte wolf pack and the Donegal clan they lived among.
Best she remember that before loose lips caused more pain for all of them. “That’s enough talk of the past,” she said. “Eat your food, Brigit. Your mother would find it amiss if your bowl was returned to the kitchen untouched.”
The food was good and Verica noted that Sabrine ate hungrily, as did she and Brigit.
“How long has Barr been laird?” Sabrine asked as she set her bowl aside.
Verica picked it up and placed it with her own on a table by the door, warning herself to caution when speaking with this woman. There was something about Sabrine that invited confidences, but sharing such was dangerous. Deadly so. “Less than a month.”
“He is ever so much better than our old laird.”
Verica’s head moved in an infinitesimal nod she could not help, though she gave her charge a chiding frown. “Do not speak disrespectfully of Rowland.”
The girl’s lip protruded in a stubborn pout. “He was not a fair leader.”
“No, but he’s still a powerful man in our clan. It could go badly for you and your mother if someone heard you say so.”
“It cannot get worse for my mum.” Brigit’s pout turned to a pain-filled expression that caught at Verica’s heart.
“What do you mean?” Verica demanded, a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew, but how she wished she did not.
She’d seen the way Rowland looked at the young widow before the woman had ever lost her husband.
Brigit’s face blanched and she closed her mouth so tight her lips disappeared. The girl shook her head.
And Verica’s disquiet intensified. “Tell me.”
“Mum says I mustn’t.”
Sabrine’s body went tense, and an expression Verica had only ever seen on a warrior’s set her face in feral lines. “Does your former laird hurt your mother?”
Brigit’s eyes filled with tears, but she wiped away the moisture with a fisted hand before they could fall. “Mum and me are strong. She says so.”
“You are strong.” But the girl’s fear had become a rank odor around them. Verica would not question her further.
“It is all right. You do not need to say anything you don’t want to,” Sabrine said before Verica could.
Brigit nodded, her tension easing a wee bit. “You always say the walls have ears,” she said to Verica. “So does Mum, but they don’t. It is not possible.” These words held no more conviction than her recitation of her father’s death. Brigit looked around, her expression filled with fear and impotent anger. “Sometimes I think they really do though.”
More like Rowland had Chrechte spying for
Sabrine gave Verica an oddly concerned look, almost as if she could read Verica’s thoughts despite her better than average attempt at controlling her expression. Growing up a double shifter in the Donegal clan had been a die-or-try training ground for learning to hide both her bird nature and her true thoughts and feelings.
“How did he die?” Sabrine gently asked the girl.
“A wild animal got him while he was hunting.” Brigit recited the words as if she’d been taught to say them, but they held no conviction.
She had to learn to dissemble better. Those who had hurt her father would think nothing of harming the child. Only Verica could not blame Brigit for her lack. Her father had been gone less than a year, not long enough for her to bury her grief as deeply as it had to go.
Verica found herself saying, both for the child’s sake and as a very subtle warning to Sabrine, “Just like my da.”
“Your father was laird before Barr?”
“Nay, before that even, before the laird Barr replaced.” Rowland, a cruel and stupid man, if cunning like the beast inside him.
Verica had always believed he was responsible for her father’s death but could not prove it. Even if she had been able to, it would have done no good. Rowland had too much power with the Chrechte wolf pack and the Donegal clan they lived among.
Best she remember that before loose lips caused more pain for all of them. “That’s enough talk of the past,” she said. “Eat your food, Brigit. Your mother would find it amiss if your bowl was returned to the kitchen untouched.”
The food was good and Verica noted that Sabrine ate hungrily, as did she and Brigit.
“How long has Barr been laird?” Sabrine asked as she set her bowl aside.
Verica picked it up and placed it with her own on a table by the door, warning herself to caution when speaking with this woman. There was something about Sabrine that invited confidences, but sharing such was dangerous. Deadly so. “Less than a month.”
“He is ever so much better than our old laird.”
Verica’s head moved in an infinitesimal nod she could not help, though she gave her charge a chiding frown. “Do not speak disrespectfully of Rowland.”
The girl’s lip protruded in a stubborn pout. “He was not a fair leader.”
“No, but he’s still a powerful man in our clan. It could go badly for you and your mother if someone heard you say so.”
“It cannot get worse for my mum.” Brigit’s pout turned to a pain-filled expression that caught at Verica’s heart.
“What do you mean?” Verica demanded, a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew, but how she wished she did not.
She’d seen the way Rowland looked at the young widow before the woman had ever lost her husband.
Brigit’s face blanched and she closed her mouth so tight her lips disappeared. The girl shook her head.
And Verica’s disquiet intensified. “Tell me.”
“Mum says I mustn’t.”
Sabrine’s body went tense, and an expression Verica had only ever seen on a warrior’s set her face in feral lines. “Does your former laird hurt your mother?”
Brigit’s eyes filled with tears, but she wiped away the moisture with a fisted hand before they could fall. “Mum and me are strong. She says so.”
“You are strong.” But the girl’s fear had become a rank odor around them. Verica would not question her further.
“It is all right. You do not need to say anything you don’t want to,” Sabrine said before Verica could.
Brigit nodded, her tension easing a wee bit. “You always say the walls have ears,” she said to Verica. “So does Mum, but they don’t. It is not possible.” These words held no more conviction than her recitation of her father’s death. Brigit looked around, her expression filled with fear and impotent anger. “Sometimes I think they really do though.”
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