Immediately, the answer popped into her thoughts. “The soft leather shoes in Granny’s sack.”

The moment she said it, he seemed to understand the epiphany she’d had. It was precisely what was needed. His feet would be protected from the rocks and thorns and thistles, but his footfalls would be rendered much lighter and much quieter.

They talked over the difficulties and worked out a few strategies. They spoke of their worries and their hopes as they continued their journey toward Loch Dreva. Soon enough, Sorcha recognized the hill around which a path led to the loch where the Bean-Nighe could be found undertaking her gruesome washing.

Sorcha stopped. She could pass by the hill without making the turn and remain hidden from the Washing Woman, but Duncan needed to continue directly toward his fate.

“This is where we part, is it?” He looked to her for confirmation.

“If you follow this hill, you will see Loch Dreva—and the back of the Washing Woman.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you mean to wait here for me?”

“I fully anticipate you returning, successful and ready to save your dear little patient. I will wait here for you to complete your mission.”

“I suspect you have more faith in me than is actually warranted.”

“So prove to me that it is warranted.”

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kind and gentle kiss there. “I will return shortly.”

With that, he slipped slowly out of sight.

In her mind, she could hear the howl of the cù-sìth, could feel the fear of sitting alone in the silence of the dark cottage, waiting for loved ones who would never return.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Gemma was on her feet, feeling both confused and delighted. Brogan looked ready to jump to his wife’s defense.

“It ain’t what you seem to think, Brogan,” Gemma said. “I’m gaping because I know Vera.”

A smile spread across the woman’s familiar face. “Gemma. I’ve not seen you in years. How are you?”

“Carrying on proper, i’n’t I?”

Vera laughed lightly. “Are you, though?”

“Perhaps not full proper,” Gemma answered, “but I’m staying out of trouble. I’d heard Brogan’s wife’s name was Vera, but not in a million years would I’ve twigged she was you. How’d a girl from South London and a man from Ireland meet each other?”

Brogan helped Vera sit on the sofa—a feat as difficult for her as he’d warned Gemma it’d be—and remained beside her.

“You’d already fled Southwark when my father and I sold our print shop there,” Vera said. “We opened a finer one in Soho. Brogan earned a bit of boot at our shop for a time.”

Brogan looked from Vera to Gemma and back repeatedly. “The two of you truly did grow up together?”