That evening, when the herds were driven close and the cow Milk-Alive was resting but upright, Agnes called the people together. She would not let poison steal their bread as well as their beasts. "If fear takes the table, it takes the clan," she said, and so she ordered a feast — not in laughter alone but in defiance.
The longhouse smelled of broth and baking bannocks. Smoke curled in rafters where hams hung, salt-cured against lean times. The glow of tallow lamps gilded every face. Yet even as the benches filled, there was a wariness in every hand, every glance. Mothers sniffed the milk jugs before pouring. Men eyed the broth pot as if it might spit treachery.
Agnes lifted a bowl first. The broth was thick with kail, barley, and a few strips of salted herring. She dipped a spoon and drank, her eyes steady on her people. She swallowed, licked her lips, and smiled.
"It is ours," she declared. "No hand but Craik touched it. No tongue but mine tasted it first. If I fall, I fall for you. Now eat."
There was a ripple — relief, pride, shame for doubting — then spoons clattered, and hunger at last outshouted fear.
Once bellies were filled, a fiddle came out, its strings bright as laughter. A whistle joined, thin as a bird at dawn. Feet stamped. Voices rose in old waulking songs, the women slapping rhythm on their thighs as if softening wool.
"Thig cridhe le cridhe,
Thig gàirdean le gàirdean,
Còmhla gu bràth,
Chan eil sinn sgìth."
(Heart with heart,
Arm with arm,
Together forever,
We are not weary.)
Children joined in, stamping small boots, faces fierce in mimicry of elders. Sorcha led them in a verse she made herself, her chin lifted:
"Bainne dubh, bainne brèagha,
Cha bhàth sinn ann am mealladh!"
(Black milk, false milk,
We will not drown in deceit!)
The older folk laughed, some through tears. Humour had always been the Highlander's second blade.
When the music eased, Seumas rose. His plaid hung loose about his shoulders, the firelight showing the lines of wear in his face, the scars across his hands. His voice was hoarse, but it carried.
"I bled on Culloden Moor," he said. "I thought my death was written there. I thought every cough since was the grave knocking. And yet I live."
The hall was silent but for the crackle of peat.
"I live because of your work. Because Agnes holds us steady. Because Màiri Mhòr knows herbs better than any book. Because each of you fights, with stone, with song, with salt. They would poison us. But poison is a coward's blade. Better to choke on honest broth than to drink deceit."
There was a roar at that, targes thudding against the earth. "Craik! Craik! Craik!"
Seumas lifted his bowl and drained it in one draught. Broth dribbled at his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand and laughed, a deep, unexpected sound. It caught in his chest, but he did not cough.
"See?" he rasped. "Not yet dead."
Laughter broke the tension like a dam. Agnes touched his hand beneath the table, pride and fear mingled in her eyes.
To seal the night, Agnes broke a bannock in halves and passed one to Seumas. He bit, she bit, and they handed the pieces onward, each person breaking a bit and passing it, until the whole clan had eaten from the same bread.
"This is our oath," Agnes said. "We share one loaf, one life. We trust only what passes from our own hands. No gift from Wick, no flask, no barrel not tapped before our eyes. Chan eil sinn nam braighdeanan — we are not captives. We are free."
They repeated it back, the words a vow.
The night closed with a dance, couples turning, hands brushing, feet stamping dust. Even in caution, even in threat, the Craiks made joy — because to dance was to tell Margaret Sinclair that she had not won.
By the time the last song faded, Milk-Alive had staggered to her feet in the pasture. The news ran through the longhouse like a second feast. Men cheered, women clapped, children rushed outside to see.
Agnes stood in the doorway, Seumas beside her, both silhouetted by firelight.
"She lives," Agnes whispered.
"As will we," Seumas said.
And though poison had touched them, it had not broken them. Instead, it had bound them tighter than any rope.
The people ate, wary but proud. Songs rose again, though their laughter had a sharper edge. Even the children seemed older, their eyes darting to shadows.
News travelled strangely in Caithness — by fisher's tongue, by crofter's cart, by lads running messages for a penny and a bite of bannock. Three days after the poisoned cow staggered back to her feet, word reached Wick: the Craiks still stood, the pans still smoked, and the cow lived, newly christened Bainne-Beò — Milk-Alive.
Margaret Sinclair heard it first from a cloth-merchant, who delivered it with a nervous smile, as though unsure whether the tale would amuse or enrage.
"It's said the beast rose again," he stammered. "They call it a miracle. Or a jest at your expense, my lady. The name—Milk-Alive—they laugh when they say it."
Margaret's hand froze on the spindle of her chair. The colour drained from her face, leaving it pale as the limewashed walls. Then her lips curved, not into a smile but into something sharper.
"They mock me," she said softly. "They mock me with a cow."
The merchant tried to laugh. "Superstitious folk, my lady, nothing more. You know how—"
Her hand flashed, a pewter cup striking the floor inches from his boots. He flinched, stammered an apology, and backed out the door.
Keith found her pacing the hall, skirts whipping like banners, hair loose from its pins. She looked more spectre than lady.
"So," he drawled, leaning against the hearth, "the Gunn still breathes, and the Craiks still boil salt. And now they sing songs of your poisoned cow."
Margaret spun on him. "Bain is dead, the boy failed me, the apothecary gave me powder that might sicken a rat but not kill a man. I am surrounded by incompetence."
Keith's scarred face hardened. "No. You are surrounded by men who know the difference between war and witchcraft. You shame yourself, lass. Poison is for cowards."
"Honour has won us nothing," Margaret snapped. "Culloden proved that. Your kind of honour left Jacobite blood soaking the heather while the Duke of Cumberland feasted. Honour leaves widows. Poison leaves power."
Keith's fist slammed the table. "And poison leaves you despised! Do you think Caithness crofters will follow a lady who slaughters beasts in secret? They respect the strong hand, not the sly one."
Margaret leaned close, eyes alight. "Then let them fear me if they cannot respect me. Fear bends quicker than love."
Keith stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "You sound less Sinclair and more witch every day. One day your own folk will spit when you pass."
He left before she could answer, the slam of the door echoing in the rafters.
Robert had listened from the shadows, his heart aching as if each word was a knife in his chest. His daughter's voice — sharp, cold, hungry — sounded nothing like the girl who once wept over a broken-winged gull.
When the hall was quiet again, he slumped onto a bench, covering his face with his hands. His thoughts circled like vultures:
The boy Ruaraidh carried my letter. Did it reach them?
Will they believe me, or think it another trick?
What if Margaret discovers I warned them?
He poured himself whisky, the spirit harsh in his throat, but it dulled nothing. He thought of Agnes — flame-haired, fierce-eyed — and of Seumas Gunn, gaunt and coughing but unbroken. They had something his daughter would never grasp: loyalty freely given, not forced.
He whispered into his cup, "God forgive me. I may have to damn my own blood to save them."
Later that night, Margaret stood at her chamber window, looking toward the north where the sea swallowed the horizon. Wick's harbour lamps bobbed faintly, but beyond, darkness stretched, broken only by the imagined glow of Craik fires.
She whispered to herself: "If poison cannot fell them, then pestilence will. If not beasts, then bread. If not bread, then water. I will pour it into their very veins."
She pressed her hand against the glass until her knuckles whitened. "They will drink death, and never know from whose hand it came."
Behind her, Robert stirred but said nothing. His silence was a greater rebellion than any outcry.
By dawn, orders had already been sent — another parcel of powders, this time meant for fodder and flour alike. Margaret's obsession curdled into certainty.
But at Loch Wattenan, the Craiks were already watching, already warding. What had been meant to break them had instead bound them closer.
The night after the poisoned cow staggered upright, Agnes called the Craiks to the yard. The fire in the great brazier cracked and spat, casting shadows long as giants across the stones. Men, women, bairns, even the feeblest grannie with her stick came. The news from Wick would spread soon enough, but it was here, in their own earth, that they needed strength first.
Agnes stood beside Seumas, her plaid bright in the glow. Màiri Mhòr leaned on her rowan staff, a figure as old and certain as the hills. The people hushed when she lifted her hand.
The cow had survived the day, but her sides still heaved and her milk had soured. Domhnall had begged to keep her alive, but Agnes shook her head.
"She suffers," she said gently. "Better a clean end than slow torment."
Domhnall wept as they slit the beast's throat quick and merciful. The blood steamed in the night air, dark and heavy. Màiri Mhòr dipped her staff-tip in it, then raised it.
"This is no curse of the fair folk," she proclaimed. "This is human malice. But we will not let her death be wasted. She will guard us now."
Together they hauled the carcass to the cairn — the mound already heavy with the stones of fallen friends. Men lifted, grunting; women placed hands to steady; even children carried pebbles to add. The cow was laid in a hollow cut at the cairn's base. Stone by stone, they covered her, until only memory breathed.
Agnes placed the final rock, her voice steady. "We name her Milk-Alive. Her death is Margaret Sinclair's shame. Her spirit is our warning. Let this cairn be our shield."
The clan murmured assent, a sound like the sea grinding on stone.
At dawn, Màiri Mhòr led the women to the wells. Each carried sprigs of rowan, leaves bright as flame. Red thread wound round their wrists.
One by one, they dipped the rowan into the water and stirred thrice sunwise, chanting softly:
"Uisge glan, uisge beò,
Cùm sinn saor o phuinnsean,
Cùm sinn saor o dhroch rùn."
(Clean water, living water,
Keep us free from poison,
Keep us free from ill will.)
The thread was tied to the well-stones, a crimson ward against unseen hands. Children watched wide-eyed, learning without being told that ritual and survival were kin.
Seumas himself stood guard at the south well, musket resting on his arm. He nodded once when the rite was done. "No hand from Wick drinks here. If they come, they'll find lead before water."
That evening in the longhouse, Agnes called for bannocks again. She broke one in two, passed half to Seumas, and spoke:
"No morsel enters our mouths unless it has passed Craik hands. No flask, no cask, no gift from Wick is to be touched. By this bread, we swear."
They ate, each taking a fragment. Then Màiri Mhòr poured a dram of whisky into the fire, hissing as the flames leapt. "Here's to the spirits," she said. "They will know our vow."
The clan repeated, "Còmhla gu bràth — together forever."
From then on, every hearth had a watcher. Women stirred pots with two sets of eyes. Men checked fodder before beasts were fed. The children were taught a whistle-signal — three short, one long — to raise the alarm if they saw a stranger.
Sorcha boasted to the younger ones, "I'll whistle loud enough to wake the dead if Wick men come near." She showed them how to knot rowan twigs into crosses to tuck under aprons and belts.
Even in play, the lesson took root: the next morning children staged a mock trial, tying up a boy who pretended to be a Sinclair, pelting him with peat until he swore never to poison again.
The adults laughed, but their eyes were fierce.
Seumas walked the yard with Agnes that night, listening to the hum of the clan as they settled into guarded rest. He coughed into his sleeve, but the sound no longer carried despair.
"They are stronger for it," he murmured. "Her poison has bound them closer than her sword ever could."
Agnes took his hand. "She'll never understand that. And it will be her undoing."
They stood together, iron and flame, watching the cairn rise black against the stars.
At Loch Wattenan, poison had not broken them. It had taught them new watchfulness, new unity. The cairn stood taller, the wells brighter with rowan, the hearth oaths stronger than any bond.
But in Wick, Margaret Sinclair's obsession deepened. She had failed once, failed twice — and each failure fanned her fury hotter. Robert wept in silence. Keith turned away in disgust. Margaret only sharpened her will.
The next move would not be subtle.
The cairn stood higher than it had at the year's turning, each stone laid with muttered prayer, each rock a weight of memory. Now it held not only men but a beast, and with her the promise that the Craiks would turn every strike of Margaret's hand into another bond between themselves.
Agnes looked on it at dusk, the glow of the fire behind her, the wind smelling of brine and smoke. She thought of her mother, who had once told her: "If the land loves you, it will teach you how to endure. If it hates you, it will teach you how to fight." Now the land taught them both.
Seumas joined her, leaning heavier on his musket than he liked to admit. His cough lingered, but he stood straighter than in weeks. "Strange," he murmured, "that a dead cow can guard us better than ten spearmen."
"She's a lesson," Agnes replied. "Milk-Alive warns us not to trust the hand that feeds."
They were silent, listening to the loch's lap against its stones. Behind them, children laughed as they tested the curlew-whistle; Màiri Mhòr scolded them for wasting lungs, though her eyes softened; Domhnall and Una sat hand in hand, grief tempered by resolve.
Miles away, Wick's streets gleamed with wet cobbles under a sliver moon. Margaret Sinclair walked them like a queen in exile, her cloak snapping, her face pale and lit from within by fury. The townsfolk bowed and turned away in the same breath. Respect and fear had once walked hand in hand for her; now she felt fear pulling ahead.
Keith leaned in a tavern doorway, watching her pass. He spat into the gutter. "She's lost," he muttered to no one but the dark. "Poison rots the hand that carries it."
Robert watched from his chamber window. His candle guttered. He thought of Ruaraidh on the road, of his letters in Agnes's hands, of the guilt gnawing his heart raw. He whispered a psalm verse he half-remembered in Gaelic:
"Ma thèid mi troimh ghleann na sgàile-bàis, cha bhi eagal orm olc."
(Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.)
But he did fear. And most of all, he feared his daughter.
At Loch Wattenan, the Craiks slept behind barred doors, food watched, wells warded, beasts guarded. Fear was present, aye — but it was braided with trust, with discipline, with the stubborn joy that sang even when mouths were dry.
At Wick, Margaret lay awake, the vial of powders by her bedside, her mind racing with new cruelties. To her, failure was not warning but invitation to greater risk.
The Highlands had always lived by balance: feast and famine, peace and raid, laughter and lament. Now the balance tipped ever closer to blood.
The poisoned cow had not broken the Craiks. It had made them harder, watchful, bound in shared oaths. Rowan guarded their wells, bannock bound their hearths, the cairn bore witness.
But Margaret Sinclair's fury did not ebb with failure — it deepened, sharpened. Her hand would reach again, this time not for beasts or bread but for lives.
As stars wheeled above Caithness, two fires burned: one of community at Loch Wattenan, warm and defiant; one of obsession in Wick, cold and ravenous.
And somewhere between, on lonely tracks and windy ridges, riders already carried the next move of the game.