Two weeks at the Morvaine estate and I finally have a day that belongs to me. Domnall granted it without hesitation when I asked—one day per fortnight for personal matters. I didn't tell him the personal matter was three children I've been hiding in plain sight.
The market town is loud and bright and chaotic in ways that make my chest loosen for the first time in weeks. Tavish and Lachlan run ahead between vendors, their laughter cutting through the noise. Fenella's hand grips mine, small fingers locked tight.
"Can we get pastries?" Tavish skids to a stop in front of a baker's stall, eyes wide.
"Please?" Lachlan adds, already reaching.
I shouldn't. Every coin matters. But their faces are so hopeful, so unburdened by the lies I'm carrying, that I can't say no.
"One each." I hand over the coins and watch them devour sugar-dusted pastries with the single-minded focus of children who don't remember the last time they had something this good.
Fenella tugs my skirt. "You too, Mama."
I break off a piece of hers and let the sweetness dissolve on my tongue. For a moment, I'm just a mother walking through a market with her children. No false name, no borrowed identity—just us.
Tavish and Lachlan dart toward a toy vendor. I let them go, keeping them in sight while Fenella and I examine ribbons at the next stall.
Then I look up and Lachlan is suddenly gone.
My stomach drops. I scan the crowd—faces, bodies, too many people pressed too close. No dark-haired boy in a patched jacket.
"Lachlan!" My voice cracks on his name.
Tavish appears at my elbow. "Where'd he go?"
"I don't know." My hands are shaking. I grab Tavish and Fenella, pulling them close. "Stay with me. Don't move."
I push through the crowd, my chest tightening with every step. People bump into me. I shove past them. "Lachlan!"
Nothing. Just noise and strangers and the suffocating press of bodies between me and my son.
My vision narrows. My throat closes. I can't breathe properly. He's six years old and small for his age and the market is full of people who wouldn't think twice about—
I round the corner into the square and stop.
Domnall is crouching in front of Lachlan. He's dressed in plain clothes—rough wool jacket, no crest, common trousers that let him blend into the crowd.
Lachlan is chatting at him without hesitation, gesturing wildly with both hands while Domnall listens with the same patient attention he gives Isla.
Then Domnall looks up, sees me. His gaze moves past me to Tavish, then down to Fenella—three children with dark hair and blue eyes standing in a row.
His expression shifts. The careful politeness drains away, replaced by something I can't name. Recognition. Confusion. Something sharper underneath.
He stands slowly, his hand still on Lachlan's shoulder. "I believe this one belongs to you."
My legs have forgotten how to work. I force myself forward, kneeling to pull Lachlan against me. My hands run over his arms, his back, checking for damage that isn't there. "Don't ever do that again. Do you understand?"
"I was just looking at the puppets…" His voice is small, uncertain.
I press my forehead against his. "I know. But you scared me."
Domnall is still standing there when I look up. His gaze moves between the three of them—comparing features, cataloging similarities I've been praying he wouldn't notice.
"So these are your children." His voice is quiet, careful. Not a question—a statement weighted with something I can't interpret.
My throat has closed around words that won't come. "Yes."
"Tavish, Lachlan, and Fenella." He's watching my face now, searching for something. "You mentioned them during the interview, but seeing them..."
He trails off. The silence fills with everything he's not saying.
"We should go." I stand, keeping Lachlan's hand locked in mine.
The square is too loud, too crowded. People are staring.
Domnall seems to realize it at the same time I do. "Perhaps we could speak somewhere quieter?"
It's not a question, not really. I nod.
We walk to a bench at the edge of the square, away from the vendors and the noise. The children run ahead toward a street performer juggling colored balls. I watch them go, needing the distance between us and this conversation.
Domnall sits. I sit beside him, leaving two feet of space that feels both too much and not enough.
"How old are they?" His voice is measured, controlled.
"Six."
He goes completely still. I watch him count backward, watch the realization move across his face in degrees.
"Six." He repeats it slowly. "All three."
"Yes."
The silence stretches. I can hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
"Mairead." He turns to face me fully. "Are they mine?"
The question is so direct, so carefully spoken, that for a moment I can't breathe. His eyes are searching mine, looking for truth I can't give him.
I think about Tavish asking where his father is. Lachlan demanding to know if he's a knight. Fenella watching my face for lies she can't quite name yet.
I think about Lady Catriona's voice through the study door, calling me "that stupid maid." The contempt in her gaze. The engagement announcement that came three days after Domnall kissed me in the garden.
I think about what happens if I say yes. What she'll do to protect her son's reputation. How fast the doors will close. How thoroughly she'll destroy any chance my children have at something better.
I look at Domnall—at the hope and fear warring in his expression—and I lie.
"No."
The word drops between us. Final. Absolute.
His face drains of color. He looks away, jaw working, hands gripping his knees hard enough that his knuckles go white. "No?"
"No." My voice is steadier than it should be. "Thomas was their father. My late husband."
"Thomas." He's testing the name, turning it over. "The blacksmith who died two years ago."
"Yes."
He's quiet for too long. When he speaks again, his voice has gone careful. "They look like me."
My chest tightens. "They have dark hair and blue eyes. Half the children in Aeldmoor have dark hair and blue eyes."
He nods slowly, like he's trying to convince himself. "Of course. Yes. I just…" He stops, then starts again. "That morning in Carvenmoor. I shouldn't have left like that."
My throat closes. "But you did leave."
"I had business. I thought I'd find you when I got back, but you were gone. I looked—asked at the tavern, checked the lodging houses." His voice is quiet. "You vanished."
"I moved. Found work in another town."
"With your husband." He's watching my face. "Thomas."
"Yes."
"The blacksmith." He's testing each word. "Who died two years ago."
"Yes."
A long silence. Then: "They're six years old."
My throat closes. "Yes."
"Mairead." He leans forward slightly. "I'm not trying to… I don't want to presume anything. But if there's something you need to tell me…"
"There isn't." The words come out too fast.
He stops, pulls back. "All right."
"I married Thomas shortly after Carvenmoor. The children are his."
He nods, but his jaw is tight. He doesn't believe me, but he's not going to push. "I understand."
I stand, my legs unsteady. "I should go."
"Of course." He stands too. His hand lifts like he might reach for me, then drops. "If you ever need anything…"
"We're fine." I pull away before he can finish. "Thank you for finding Lachlan."
I walk away. My throat is closing, my vision is blurring. I call the children and they come running, oblivious to what just happened.
Lachlan grabs my hand. "Can we come back next week?"
"Maybe." The word barely makes it out.
Tavish bounces ahead. "That man was nice."
"Yes." My voice sounds hollow. "He was nice."
Fenella is quiet, watching my face. I squeeze her hand and keep walking.
I don't look back. If I look back, I'll see Domnall still sitting on that bench, still watching me walk away with his children, still believing the lie I just told him.
The lie that will protect them from his mother. The lie that will keep them safe.
The lie that is burning a hole through my chest with every step I take.