The morning was cool and bright, the mist burned away by a brisk salt wind. At Loch Wattenan the Craiks were patching the salt pans again, men hauling stones, women stirring brine, children fetching peat. Agnes moved among them, sleeves rolled, hair plaited, her eyes scanning the work with her usual sharpness.
From the ridge came the clop of hooves. A rider approached, cloak flapping, saddlebags bulging with bottles and books.
"Doctor MacPherson," someone murmured, and the name passed like a spark.
He dismounted stiffly, a stout man with a keen gaze, his wig askew from the wind. He dusted his coat, then greeted Agnes with a bow. "Mistress Craik. I pass through on my way to Scrabster, bound for Hoy. But I would not ride past without offering my services. Rumour has reached even Aberdeen of a Gunn ghost coughing his life away. I told him before this wouldn't happen."
Agnes flushed but smiled. "You honour us, Doctor. And aye, he coughs too much. Will you look at him?"
MacPherson nodded gravely. "Lead me."
They found Seumas seated by the fire in the longhouse, plaid drawn tight, claymore resting at his side as if even in sickness he would not be parted from it. His face was pale, hollows deep beneath his eyes.
He tried to rise, but the doctor waved him back. "Sit, man. Let me see your tongue first."
Seumas obeyed, though his pride bristled. Agnes hovered nearby, her hands twisting in her plaid.
The doctor peered, tapped his chin, then asked bluntly, "Tell me, sir—what colour is the blood you cough these days. Has it changed since last?"
Seumas's jaw clenched. "Dark. Thick. Comes after sickness of the stomach. But it is blood, and much of it. I fear it is the wasting—consumption I was originally diagnosed with. My father's brother died of it. He spat bright froth until his chest rattled like a broken bell. I think the same fate waits me."
Agnes bit her lip, eyes wet.
MacPherson leaned back, tapping the side of his nose with one finger. His voice was firm, carrying the assurance of long practice.
"You say the blood comes after sickness of the stomach? That it is dark and clotted, not bright and frothy?"
Seumas frowned. "Aye."
The doctor sniffed. "Then, sir, this is no true phthisis. The lungs are not in decay. Mark the colour—dark and heavy, not bright and frothy. It proceeds from a corrosion of the stomach, an inward sore. Painful, yes, but not mortal, provided you live temperately."
Agnes gasped softly, covering her mouth.
Seumas stared, his voice low. "You mean, are you sure—I am not dying?"
MacPherson wagged a finger. "Not unless you insist on hastening it with whisky and warfare. Keep to a light diet—broth, barley, little flesh. Avoid strong drink. Stay away from strenuous activity and excitement. If you live temperately, we may yet set you to rights."
Agnes let out a sob of relief, pressing her hands to her face.
Seumas, still stunned, asked, "But the blood?"
"The blood is your belly's doing," MacPherson replied. "The stomach ulcerates, and when the sore breaks, blood rises. It frightens, aye, but it does not waste the lungs. Rest, sir. You may live long yet."
Agnes sank to her knees beside Seumas, clutching his hand. "Did you hear him? You're not marked for death. You've years yet."
Seumas's lips trembled. "Years?" He swallowed hard, overcome. "I thought—I thought each cough was the last."
MacPherson packed away his instruments with brisk efficiency. "Each cough is a warning, not a grave. Take heed of it. I have seen men live to grey hairs with worse."
Agnes laughed through tears, pressing her brow to Seumas's hand. "Do you hear, love? Grey hairs!"
For the first time in months, Seumas laughed—hoarse, broken, but true. He kissed her hair, whispering, "Then I will live them with you."
Doctor MacPherson rose, satisfied, smiling at the couple. "I leave for Scrabster. There is a boat waiting for Hoy. But I will return, if I find myself in Caithness again."
Agnes clasped his hand with both of hers. "You've given us more than medicine, Doctor. You've given us hope."
The physician's eyes softened. "Hope is the strongest draught I know. Guard it well."
With that, he mounted his horse and rode north, his cloak vanishing into the salt wind.
When he was gone, Agnes turned to Seumas. Her eyes shone, cheeks flushed. "Now we fight not as doomed, but as living. You'll not throw yourself away, Seumas Gunn. You'll stay, and you'll grow old, and you'll see the bairns we'll raise."
Seumas cupped her face, his voice thick with wonder. "I was ready to die. But now… now I dare to live."
She kissed him fiercely, tasting salt and smoke and the promise of tomorrow.
And for the first time since Culloden, Seumas Gunn felt the weight of death lift from his shoulders, leaving not emptiness but light.
The doctor's words turned despair into hope, shifting the tide not only in Seumas's heart but in the clan itself. For if their leader lived, then so too might they endure.
Margaret Sinclair sharpened her poisons in Wick, dreaming of death. But at Loch Wattenan, life stirred again—bright as flame, stubborn as stone.
Anail Ùr (A New Breath)
Word of Doctor MacPherson's pronouncement spread faster than kelp fire. By nightfall, every man, woman, and child in Loch Wattenan knew the Gunn was not dying after all.
Màiri Mhòr declared it a miracle. "Tha na nèamhan air èisteachd!" (The heavens have listened!) she cried, thumping her staff against the earth. Children danced around her, laughing, their voices high and free.
The women sang as they worked the salt pans, their laments shifting to quick, lilting tunes. Even the brine seemed to bubble merrier. The men, once hunched with dread, now stood straighter, sharpening blades with grins instead of grim silence.
Sorcha boasted to the younger children, "I saved him, aye. My stone cracked the devil's skull. Now the doctor's words have mended the rest. The Gunn's ours yet."
Her friends echoed, "Seumas gu bràth! Seumas forever!"
Seumas himself felt the change in his bones. His cough still wracked him, but it no longer carried the taste of doom. Each breath no longer seemed borrowed.
He rose earlier, helped mend fences, even laughed at the children's games. Agnes scolded him—"The doctor said no excitement, no strain!"—but she could not stop smiling when she saw colour returning to his cheeks.
One morning he took her hand as they walked the loch's edge. "I spent years thinking my end was near. I lived each day as if it were a farewell. But now…" He looked at her with awe. "Now I dare think of years. Of seasons. Of bairns running at our heels."
Agnes's heart swelled. She squeezed his hand, whispering, "Then let us plan them, love. Let us build more than cairns."
Màiri Mhòr and the women brewed broths of barley, nettle, and kail. They pressed honey mixed with heather into Seumas's hands, scolding him whenever he reached for ale.
"Gun deoch làidir!" No strong drink, they repeated like a chant showing a jug of milk into his hand.
At night, Agnes rubbed warmed oil of juniper into his chest, murmuring old Craik prayers. She sang soft Gaelic lullabies that her mother had sung, weaving healing into melody.
Seumas teased her once, "If song cures, I am healed already." But he drank the broths, chewed the bitter herbs, and submitted to her care with rare patience.
With hope restored, the Craiks fortified anew. The cairn was raised higher, but this time not only for the dead. Stones were placed for the living, each carved with a rune of protection.
Children carried water in little pails, pretending to be warriors. Women drilled with slings beside the men, laughter mixing with the whirr of stones.
Ewan declared, "If they come again, they'll not find us weary. They'll find us waiting."
The people answered with a shout, stamping their feet in rhythm like a war-dance.
That night, under the stars, Seumas and Agnes lay wrapped in one plaid, watching the northern lights shimmer green across the sky.
Seumas whispered, "I thought I'd leave you in grief. Now I think I'll leave you only when we're wrinkled and grey."
Agnes laughed softly, kissing him. "Grey? You'll be white as snow, but still fierce. I'll be flame-haired still, though slower with the dagger."
He held her tighter, his voice rough with feeling. "I love you, Agnes Craik. I love you as I've loved nothing else in this world."
Her eyes shone. "And I you, Seumas Gunn. Now we fight for more than survival. We fight for our tomorrow."
The doctor's words gave more than medicine; they gave new breath to a weary people. Seumas was no longer a ghost awaiting his grave. He was a man with a future, bound to Agnes and to the Craiks with love and purpose.
The fire burned brighter at Loch Wattenan that night, its light stretching far into the dark, a beacon of defiance.