Asgall’s blood still covered Hæra’s mouth from nose to chin. “I’m also this.” Hæra’s voice was now the one Madeleine knew, even if it was rough with pain. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m—I’m also this, and you love me like this, don’t you? You love me.” Her voice rose again, cracked with desperation. “I know you love me!”

The truth will cut you worse, Asgall had said. “I—I⁠—”

“And I love you.” Hæra held out a hand to her. It trembled. “I know what that means now, I understand, I won’t hurt you⁠—”

Madeleine turned. Her feet carried her with more speed than she’d have thought possible under the circumstances. She’d grown stronger while working the farm. She ran across the wet fields while Hæra’s anguished cries faded behind her.

She didn’t know where she was headed. She’d just go until her legs wouldn’t carry her for another step, or until she reached the cliffs, the land ended, and there was only the sea. The sea where Hæra had meant to drown Madeleine.

She had succeeded and didn’t even know it. Madeleine was drowning now. There was no rescue in sight.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

From the refuge of Madeleine’s bed, Hæra dimly heard Jonathan outside the cottage ordering Jim and Connor to start inspecting the worst of the damage. Yes, he obviously knew about the broken cottage door, that wasn’t their first concern. Hæra had been hurt in the storm and was resting inside until Sue Kilbright could get here. Naught anyone else could do. Jonathan would just tend her until help came. Madeleine? Oh. Yes. Madeleine was inside too, now he thought of it. She’d help Hæra, sure enough. Jonathan would just go inside for a few more minutes and then be along to see the wreckage.

Get on now, look to the dogs, they were in the sheep pens. Hope to Christ none were hurt, with the mad wind and that.

Never mind the gun.

His voice wove in and out of her hearing, which felt less sharp than usual. Perhaps that was because her left arm hurt so much that she couldn’t pay proper attention. Asgall had injured her front left leg, and now it translated into an ache that ran from Hæra’s shoulder to her wrist. Broken? Maybe.

Her heart, too.

Madeleine knew everything. And she hated Hæra for it.

The bedroom door opened and shut. Hæra blinked. When she stopped blinking, Jonathan stood over the bed, lantern in hand. The light threw shadows into the crevasses of his face and the corners of the room. His shirt and jacket still looked damp, and his trousers were dirty from where he’d knelt in the mud. He looked exhausted and held the shotgun loosely in the other hand.