The apothecary's shop crouched in a crooked wynd behind the tolbooth, its windows stained brown with age and smoke. Jars lined the shelves like a congregation of eyeless saints: roots twisted into fists, dried leaves the colour of old bruises, powders that clung to glass as if they feared the light. A brass mortar sat on the counter like a little cannon. The air smelled of vinegar, camphor, and secrets.
Margaret Sinclair entered as if she owned the night. Her scarlet cloak drew the oil-lamp's glow and threw it back onto the walls; dust motes whirled around her like startled birds. Robert paused at the threshold, the shadow of a man who had come too far to turn back and not far enough to be forgiven.
The apothecary bowed—thin, neat, hands like a spider's. "My lady."
"You know what I want," Margaret said. She did not lower her voice. The shop itself felt like a vault.
"A physic?" he ventured mildly. "A cordial for nerves? You've enemies who keep you wakeful, so people say."
"A certainty," she replied. "Slow. Without fever. A wasting that looks like misfortune, not design. A draught that can be carried a long distance and still keep its counsel."
He considered her with a pharmacist's cool. "You speak in bells, my lady. I prefer weights and measures."
She leaned in. "I prefer results."
Behind them, Robert closed his eyes. He could hear the soft clink of glass.
"Something bitter," the apothecary murmured, turning to his shelves. "Mask it with strong tea or beer, and it will pass. The body will fold upon itself, day by day, and no one will note the hand that tipped it." He took down a small vial, then thought better and chose a smaller one. He wrapped it in waxed paper and tied it with thread.
Keith's boots thudded on the threshold. He had followed not to bless the errand but to know it. "Poison?" he said, voice flat. "Is this the war now?"
Margaret's smile barely moved. "This is the war that ends wars."
"Dishonour," Keith said.
"Efficiency," she returned.
Robert could not help it; he found words he had not planned to spend. "Margaret, the boy you sent—Geordie—he trembled when he spoke. He was a child."
She turned her gaze on him, a blade laid against silk. "Then let him grow. Or let him be forgotten. Either serves me."
Keith's mouth twitched as if he would spit and thought better of it. "You'll turn every crofter in Caithness against you."
"I'll turn their songs against her," Margaret said, and held out her hand. The apothecary placed the parcel there with reverence, as if knighting a queen.
"Instructions?" he asked delicately.
"Deliver it," Margaret said. "Place it where a generous fool will pour it. I'll provide the hands."
She swept from the shop without paying. Robert pressed coins onto the counter with shaking fingers and stumbled after her into the damp night.
"Daughter," he whispered in the alley, "if there is any mercy left in you—"
"There is none," she said, and her smile in the lamplight was a wound.
He went to the quay because the sea forgives nothing and tells the truth in waves. The harbour rocked its masts like a lullaby for the damned. Robert leaned on the rail until the wood bit his palms and watched the lanterns bob, prayer-lights for men who had not prayed.
He remembered Margaret at seven, red hair tangled, cheeks apple-bright, bringing him a wounded gull in both hands. We can mend it, Da. He had told her the wing would never lift again. She had flung the gull into the air anyway, fierce with belief, and when it fell she had wept as if God had personally betrayed her.
Now she flung knives the same way. And when the knives failed, she blamed the sky.
He returned to his rooms and took out the letter he had written to Agnes Craik days ago and never sent. He began anew, quill cutting the page:
Madam, if this reaches you it will be because I have done one brave thing in a life of clever cowardice. My daughter moves against you with a draught that bears no banner. She intends to carry it to you in the shape of kindness. I beg you to be wary of gifts that cross the moor. I beg you to forgive me for teaching her that ends justify means.
His hand shook. Wax sealed the page like a blood clot. He buttoned the letter into his coat and called for Ruaraidh—the same boy who had once carried warning to Loch Wattenan with his heart in his throat.
"Another ride," Robert said, voice thin. "Swift and silent. If they catch you, burn it." He pressed silver into the boy's palm and guilt into his own.
Ruaraidh nodded, eyes bright with the meaning of such errands, and vanished into the dawn like a thread through cloth.
Robert poured whisky and did not taste it.
The day the wind turned warm the Craiks called a feast because you must meet blessings with noise or they think themselves unwelcome. From the shore to the longhouse door ran a braid of heather and thrift. Fires were kindled in three circles: one for bread, one for fish, one for telling lies without malice. Nets hung like banners. Children chased each other with kelp blades for swords.
Màiri Mhòr presided with a ladle as sceptre. "Bannocks there. Broth to the wounded first. Saves whisky for the ones who've earned the hurt in their heads." She smacked Ewan's arm when he reached for a cup. "Not yet, lad. You're still growing into the courage ye pretend to."
"Och, a' bhean," Ewan laughed, ducking. "Save your blows for Keiths."
Agnes moved through the crowd, lighter than she had been in months, stopping to kiss brows, to lift children, to trade jests. Seumas kept to her shoulder, a plaid around his ribs and discipline wrapped around his impulses. When someone pressed a cup on him, he lifted it to his lips and then passed it to Sorcha, who took a cautious sip and made a face.
"Gun deoch làidir," Agnes reminded, wagging her finger.
"Then I'll get drunk on you," Seumas murmured, and she flushed, and Màiri Mhòr heard and said, "Aye, ye'll both be drunk later; for now, eat."
The music began with a whistle's thin strand, then a fiddle warmed by palms, then palms themselves—clapped time for the waulking songs the women used to soften wool and now used to soften worry.
"Heave then, hò ro—
Turn then, hò ro—
Weave then, hò ro—
Cloth for the bairns."
Feet thudded in counter-rhythm, a dance older than debt. Lads paired with lasses for the cèilidh: hands touched, eyes flashed, laughter stitched the night.
Seumas stood at the edge of the firelight and let it wash him. His chest still creaked, but each breath now brought more than pain. Agnes slid her hand into his and tugged him forward. "Dance," she said.
"My ribs—"
"Will learn the steps."
He let her lead, awkward at first, then finding his feet in the figure as they had found each other in the fog. When he stumbled he laughed, and the sound surprised him, and the people around them cheered because a man laughing after he thought himself dying is a sign as strong as any omen.
When the music slowed to a croon, he drew Agnes close, their foreheads touching. "Mo ghràdh," he whispered, so soft it could have been smoke.
"Mo chridhe," she answered. My heart.
At the tables, Sorcha boasted in heroic metre to a knot of younger bairns: "—and I wound up and the stone flew like a comet and cracked the bad man's head! Seumas might have cut him after, but my stone made the cutting possible."
"Fìor," Seumas called, overhearing. "True."
Sorcha glowed like a coal banked for winter.
Later, under the stars, Màiri Mhòr led a toast with broth instead of whisky for the Gunn. "To temperance," she declared, and men groaned and obeyed and Agnes's smile set the tone more effectively than any sermon.
"Sing them something merry," Seumas asked Agnes when the night lowered its voice.
She sang a travelling song her mother had loved, light and quick, the kind that makes a road feel short. The clan took the chorus and turned it from a path into a promise.
Thig a-nis, mo bhràithrean, togibh suas an ceòl,
Buaileamaid rathad tro ghlean is tro bheinn.
Gun deoch làidir, ach bainne 's aran beag,
Is seinnidh sinn òran gu latha a-rithist.
Seinn, seinn, air rathad fada,
Seinn, seinn, le cridhe glan;
Far am bi a' ghrian a' deàrrsadh,
Sin far a thig sinn dhachaigh.
Come now, my brothers, let us lift the song,
We'll walk the road through glen and mountain high.
No strong drink, but milk and a little bread,
And we shall sing a song until day returns.
Sing, sing, upon the long road,
Sing, sing, with an open heart;
Where the bright sun shines before us,
That is the place we call our home.
Seamus laughed feeling Agnes was making fun of him drinking Milk and not Ale.
In Wick, Margaret unspooled her web.
The parcel—now disguised as a small flask in a crate marked linen dye—was handed to a carrier who did not ask questions because he had been paid enough to afford none. The carrier was instructed to leave the crate with a peddler of pots bound for the loch settlements. The peddler would stop at Loch Wattenan because he always did; he had a knack for appearing just when pans cracked and ladles snapped. Purchase would be made, gratitude expressed, the flask left as a "bonus" for good custom.
"Tell him to say it sweet," Margaret told the clerk she used as messenger. "Say the Guild in Wick has decided to be generous to the brave folk who keep the salt flowing."
"Will they not suspect?" the clerk asked.
"They will be flattered," Margaret said. "They are poor. They cannot afford to read malice into gifts." Her lip curled. "They'll soon learn."
Keith stood in the doorway, hearing more than he meant to. "And if the flask passes to a child's mouth?"
"They will learn quicker," Margaret said, and for the first time Keith looked at her as if she had stepped out of mortal company.
Robert, farther down the corridor, pressed his back to the wall until the wood groaned. He had sent Ruaraidh with his warning at dawn. Would the boy be swift enough? Would the letter be believed? Would he live long enough to see either answer?
He set off along the quay to listen for hooves.
Ruaraidh rode like a rumour that feared being caught. The pony ate the miles; salt burned his face; gulls kept pace like pale dogs. Twice he hid when he saw Keith men on the road. Once he threw himself flat in gorse as a small armed party trotted past, the glint of steel a rattlesnake in sunlight.
By late afternoon the loch lay ahead, a black mirror rimmed with labour. He loped the pony across the last rise and shouted before he'd stopped. "For Agnes Craik! For the Gunn! Message!"
Ewan reached him first, hand on the bridle, eyes hard and curious. Ruaraidh thrust the letter at him and nearly fell. "From Robert Sinclair," he gasped. "He bade me burn it if I were caught."
"Then we'll read it," Ewan said, and carried it to the longhouse as if it were a live ember.
Agnes broke the seal. The script shook on the page but the meaning did not. Seumas read at her shoulder. When they finished, they did not speak for a heartbeat. Then Agnes said, very calm, "We refuse all gifts that smell of Wick or money. We drink what we brew. We eat what we catch."
Seumas called for Màiri Mhòr, for Ewan, for Domhnall with the axe. "Hear this," he said, and read the letter aloud. He did not name the messenger again because the messenger might still be needed.
Màiri Mhòr spat into the hearth. "I knew her type," she said grimly. "Pretty as a dying fire and twice as treacherous. We'll not take dye for cloth or cordial for cough."
Ewan frowned. "And if trade suffers?"
"Then we trade with hunger," Agnes said. "It's an honest partner."
Ruaraidh wobbled on his feet. Agnes pressed a bowl of broth into his hands; he drained it and swayed and would have fallen if Seumas hadn't steadied him with a touch that was almost paternal.
"Brave," Seumas said simply.
Ruaraidh flushed scarlet and looked as if he might run back to Wick for the chance to be brave again.
Two days later the peddler came rattling his cart along the shore track, as predicted: tin cups singing against one another, pans bright where smoke had not kissed them yet, ribbons for girls plaited with thread the colour of winter sunsets.
He called ahead, cheery as always. "My brave folk! I've wares and bargains and a small something from the good guild of Wick for your pains."
There was a new stillness in the yard as the cart trundled in. Men watched with targes near to hand and women with slings looped at their wrists. The peddler blinked at the reception, but merchants grow a hide.
Agnes stepped forward with a smile so warm it might have fooled a better liar. "You're welcome, friend. Show your wares there." She pointed to the bare ground well away from the pans. "Ewan, check the crates."
Ewan did, rough but polite, his eyes on the labels and his fingers on the seams. He pulled out a pot, turned it, nodded. He pulled out a bundle of coarse linen, sniffed it, nodded. He reached for a small crate tied with twine, marked dye in a clerk's careful hand.
"Open it," Agnes said lightly.
The peddler's smile pinched. "A gift, mistress."
"All the more reason to see it."
He fussed, cut the twine, peeled back paper. Inside lay wrapped flasks, stoppered tight. A faint bitter tang rode up from the glass like a whisper that did not want to be heard.
Ewan looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Seumas. Seumas nodded once. Agnes turned to the peddler. "Did you pack this?"
"No," he said quickly. "Came from Wick. The guildmaster's clerk swore it was dye for linen. A good dye, he said."
"A very good dye," Agnes echoed. "So good it could colour a man's innards."
He blanched. "I never—"
"I know," she said, and meant it. "You'll take it back."
He licked lips gone dry. "If they ask why—"
"Tell them the Craiks have no need of charity," Seumas said, stepping forward, voice low and steady. "Tell them we've learned to refuse kindness that arrives wrapped in paper and lies."
The peddler swallowed. "Aye." He hesitated, then added with a tiny spark of his own courage, "And I'll not carry for them again."
Agnes smiled genuinely then. "Then you'll eat at our fire before you go." She gestured him to the benches and signalled Màiri Mhòr. "Bread and fish for our honest man."
They carried the crate to the far rocks, weighed it with stone, and let the tide take it. The sea, which keeps its own counsel, accepted the offering without a word.
That night the feast resumed, but its laughter had a new edge. Knowledge does that to joy; it sharpens it. The songs were merry, the steps quick, but between the verses people looked at one another and saw not only friends but sentries. It made them love each other more.
Seumas stood to speak, his hand still on his ribs as if to remind them to behave. "Hear me," he said. "We do not take from Wick what we have not asked for. We do not open what we did not send for. If the Keiths want our salt, they can come and sweat for it. If the Sinclairs want our deaths, they can come and look us in the eye."
"Buaidh no Bàs!" someone shouted, and the words came back from a hundred throats.
Agnes took his hand and lifted it with hers. "We live," she said simply. "We live to spite them. We live because the land says we may. We live because love has made us stubborn."
They toasted with broth again. Groans. Laughter. Sorcha rolled her eyes and mouthed to the younger ones, old people. Màiri Mhòr caught it and made a face back sufficiently outrageous that the children howled.
When the music fell to embers, Seumas and Agnes stepped aside into the long shadow near the door. "She'll not stop," he said.
"No," Agnes agreed. "But neither will we."
He kissed the ribbon at his wrist. She touched the dirk at her belt. Between the two, a life could be defended.
The peddler returned to Wick pale and poorer by the coin he refused. He told the clerk what he had been told to tell; the clerk told Margaret; Margaret did not smile so much as bare her teeth.
"They sniffed it," she said.
"They have noses," Keith replied, not kindly.
"They have help," she snapped, and her mind leapt at once to her father because her mind ran to the nearest betrayal. "Where is Robert?"
"Walking the quay as if waiting for a miracle," Keith said.
"Miracles are my business," Margaret answered, and sent for the apothecary again.
"You demanded slow certainty," he reminded her when she slammed into his shop. "You received it."
"I require patience to match," she said, and she had none left. "New plan. A draught for livestock. There's no suspicion in a cow that will not rise or a dog that will not bark. A village with sick beasts lets down its guard."
The apothecary hesitated as a man who has discovered—too late—that the devil keeps excellent accounts. "Very dear," he murmured.
She tossed coin. "Then very dear."
He packed his powders and his fear into a smaller box this time.
Keith, waiting in the lane, said nothing—an ethics worse than speech.
Robert stood on the quay and prayed Ruaraidh had ridden like lightning twice.
In Loch Wattenan, when the last song curled away, Agnes slipped outside. The loch held the moon like a coin on a black palm. She knelt and put her hand into the water. It was cold enough to be honest.
"Keep us," she whispered—to the saints, to the old ones, to the mud and the stones and the fish that ignore kings. "Keep us stubborn. Keep us quick. Keep us kind, even when kindness looks like a weapon."
Seumas came and stood behind her, a cloak of warmth and bone. "Praying?"
"Aye."
"For what?"
"For tomorrow."
He nodded. "We'll be there to meet it."
They stood until their breath matched the loch's, and then they turned back toward the light.
By day the Craiks laughed and danced and ate fish crisped in honest fat; by night they set a watch on gifts as if gifts were wolves. Seumas drank broth and hope; Agnes drank air and resolve; the clan drank togetherness and found it stronger than whisky.
In Wick, Margaret set a darker cup to be poured—if not into Seumas, then into the things he loved, the fabric of the village itself. Keith watched the hinge swing toward cruelty and did not stop it. Robert pushed letters into the world like lifeboats and hoped one would find a shore.
Shadows lengthened along the tracks between town and loch. The storm had learned new shapes. And yet, on the shore where the pans steamed and the kelp smoked blue, the people sang—because singing is the Highlander's refusal to go quietly where he has been told to.
"Weave then, hò ro—
For the bairns and for the bread.
Turn then, hò ro—
Till the day we fear is dead."