“It’s all right,” she said, and knocked again before she lost her nerve. She heard muffled voices inside, and before she could exhale, the door swung open, and Margot’s heart seized. Griselda.

She stood in the doorway, tall and fit. Her smirk made Margot’s blood run cold. There had never been any warmth between them, but Griselda was looking at her as if she had caught Margot in a criminal act and relished it. She was wearing a long plaid skirt and a velvet jacket fitted tightly to her.

“Aye, so it is true, is it? You’ve come crawling back to Balhaire,” she said coolly to Margot.

“Actually, I came by chaise. Good evening, Zelda.”

“Mmm,” Griselda said. She gestured for Margot to enter.

The room was lit only by a fire at the hearth, but in the shadows, behind Griselda, Margot could see Arran and Jock. Arran was at the window, one arm braced against the frame, the other on his waist, staring out. Jock was standing beside him, his arms folded over his chest. His expression was inscrutable, but he looked as if he were prepared to tackle Margot should she reach her husband.

Margot didn’t know where to go—Arran had yet to turn around and acknowledge her—so she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as Griselda circled her like a hawk lazily circling its prey from above. “Arran?”

He slowly turned. His ice-blue eyes startled her—they were so deeply wounded and full of fury that she was confused. She hadn’t told him anything yet.

“Has something happened?”

Griselda snorted from somewhere behind Arran now.

Arran’s gaze didn’t waver. He stared at Margot, his jaw clenched so tightly shut that the muscles bulged slightly beneath a shadow of his beard. He folded his arms across his chest. “Aye. Word has reached us that there is a spy among us,” he said calmly.

Margot’s heart began to race. “Oh, I... A what?” she said, shaking her head, as if she hadn’t heard him or understood him. As if she didn’t know what the dreadful word spy meant.

“A spy, Margot. Someone who would see me hanged. And then Jock found this in my study,” he said, and held out his hand and opened his palm. He was holding the figurine the man in the cove had given her.

She’d put it in her pocket, had quite forgotten it. She stared at it now.

“Is it yours?”

Her heart was pounding so hard she was certain Arran could hear it. Her stomach roiled with dread, and she couldn’t form any truly coherent thought. She could not tear her gaze away from Arran’s—his eyes reflected such pain.

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible to anyone but him.

Arran’s shoulders sagged. He let the figurine drop from his hand to the floor and turned away.