Donella had never touched her before. The ghost’s hand felt like ice on her arm, and Sidra gasped and woke.

Her pulse was thick in her throat.

Gradually, Sidra’s awareness sharpened. The cottage was dark with night and quiet save for the howl of the wind. She was lying in bed, and Maisie was snoring, curled up close beside her. She was exhausted after a long, strange day.

But her arm . . . it ached. Sidra rubbed it, noticing that Donella’s ghost was in the room with her, hovering at the bedside, transparent like a stream of moonlight.

“Donella?”

“Make haste, Sidra,” the ghost spoke. Her voice was not nearly as strong as it had been in the dream. In reality, it was delicate, like a fading note of music. “He’s coming for her.”

“Who?” Sidra rasped.

“Rise and go to Torin’s oaken chest. At the very bottom, you will find a small dirk,” Donella said, motioning for Sidra to hurry. “I had this blade forged for Maisie before I died. Take it in your hand and run with her to Graeme’s croft. Hurry, hurry. He’s coming, Sidra.”

Donella surrendered to the moonlight on the floor, and Sidra wondered if she was still dreaming. But she did as the ghost had instructed. She slid from the bed and rushed into the next chamber, kneeling before Torin’s oaken chest. Her fingers were slow from sleep, but she searched through his clothes and the juniper boughs until she found the dirk Donella had spoken of, snug in a leather sheath and hiding at the very bottom.

One of Una’s creations.

Sidra took the hilt in her hand and hurried back into her bedroom, bare feet slapping on the floor. The wind had fallen quiet; its absence made her skin prickle as she gathered Maisie into her arms. There was no time to slip on stockings or boots or to wrap her and Maisie in a cloak. Sidra could hear the lock of the front door turning as she carried Maisie out the back.

“Sidra?” Maisie mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to visit Grandda,” Sidra whispered as she carried the lass through the yard, trying to be as quiet as possible.

“But why?” Maisie asked loudly.

“Shh. Hold tight to me.” She found the path to Graeme’s cottage in the moonlight. It wound up the knoll, knee deep in heather, and Sidra began to run, even though her legs were trembling. She pressed Maisie’s objections to her chest, sparing a frantic glance over her shoulder.

Something stood in her yard. It was a shadow, tall and built like a man. It tilted its head; she could feel it looking at her.