The schoolroom is quiet except for the scratch of my pen on paper and the distant sound of servants moving through the corridors below. Sunlight cuts across the table where Isla sits with a history text open in front of her, chin propped on her hand.
I glance up from the notes I'm making. She's staring out the window again, her page hasn't turned in—I count back—ten minutes at least.
"Isla." I keep my voice gentle. "Can you tell me what year the northern provinces united?"
"Don't know."
"We just read about it. Two pages ago."
"Forgot."
I close the book. The sound makes her blink, her gaze snapping back to me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The word comes too fast, too practiced.
"You've been somewhere else all morning. Talk to me."
Her jaw sets in that stubborn way that reminds me of her father. "I'm fine."
"Isla."
She looks down at her hands. Her fingers twist together, knuckles going white. "I heard Grandmother yesterday. Talking to Lady Ruthven."
"What did you hear?"
"They were discussing Father. Lady Ruthven has a daughter—Elspeth. Grandmother said she'd be a proper wife. Someone who could give Father sons." Her voice goes small, thin. "Someone useful."
I move my chair closer. "Isla, look at me."
She doesn't. Her eyes are fixed on the table, blinking too fast.
"Your grandmother is wrong." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "Being a daughter doesn't make you less. It doesn't make you a failure. Your mother…"
"My mother died because of me." The words burst out. "Grandmother said it was a shame I wasn't a boy. That at least then Mother's death would have meant something."
My chest folds. I reach across the table and take her hands. "Your grandmother is cruel and wrong. Your mother would have been proud of exactly who you are. Not who anyone wanted you to be. You."
Isla's face crumples. "How do you know?"
"Because I'm a mother. And if I had a daughter like you—smart and stubborn and brave enough to climb trees your grandmother hates—I would be so proud I couldn't stand it."
She stares at me like I've said something in a language she's never heard before. Her throat works. "Really?"
"Really." I squeeze her hands. "You matter, Isla. Not because of what you can give someone else or what you might have been. Because you're you."
The walls crack. She starts crying—not the pretty, quiet kind, but the ugly, hiccupping sobs of a child who's been holding too much for too long. I move around the table and pull her against me. She clings to my dress, her whole body shaking.
"It's all right." I press my hand against her hair. "Let it out."
She does. For long minutes, she cries while I hold her. Eventually, the sobs slow. She pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve.
"Sorry." Her voice is rough.
"Don't be. You needed that."
"Grandmother would say I'm being dramatic."
"Your grandmother isn't here." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "And even if she were, I'd say it anyway."
A small smile breaks through. "You would?"
"Absolutely. I'm terrifying when someone threatens my students."
She laughs. The sound is watery but real. "You're not scary at all."
"Give me time. I'm working on it."
A throat clears from the doorway. I look up. Domnall is standing there, one shoulder against the frame. How long has he been watching?
"I didn't mean to interrupt." His voice is careful. "But it sounds like the lesson might benefit from a change of scenery."
Isla straightens, wiping her face again. "I'm fine, Father."
"I know you are." He steps into the room. "But fresh air never hurt anyone. Why don't you take the rest of the hour outside? The gardens, maybe."
Isla looks at me. I nod. She's out of her chair in seconds, moving toward the door with the sudden energy of children who've been given permission to escape.
"Don't go near the lake alone," Domnall calls after her.
"I know!" The words float back as her footsteps disappear down the corridor.
He turns to me. "You're good with her."
I stand, brushing imaginary dust from my skirt to avoid his gaze. "She's a good child, just needs someone to listen."
"Most children do." He moves closer, yet not too close. Careful. "But not everyone knows how to hear them. You do."
"I have three of my own." The words come out defensive. "It's not special."
"It is, though." His voice has gone quiet. "The way you spoke to her just now—that mattered."
My throat tightens. I need distance from this conversation, from the weight in his voice, from whatever he thinks he sees when he looks at me. "We should follow Isla. Make sure she doesn't climb anything your mother would disapprove of."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Too late, she's probably already in the oak tree by the south wall."
We walk. The gardens are bright with late afternoon sun, the air warm enough that I can feel it on my bare arms. Isla is indeed in a tree, perched on a branch fifteen feet up, waving at us.
"Should we tell her to come down?" I ask.
"She's been climbing that tree since she was four. She's fine."
We follow the path toward the lake. Domnall walks beside me, close enough that our arms nearly brush with each step.
"How do you do it?" His voice breaks the silence. "Connect with difficult students."
"Isla isn't difficult, she's grieving."
"She was four when her mother died. She doesn't remember her."
"That doesn't mean she's not grieving." I glance at him. "She's grieving the mother she never knew: the absence, the hole where someone should be."
He's quiet for several steps. "You sound like you understand that."
"I do." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"Your mother?"
"Never knew her." I keep walking, eyes fixed ahead. "My father acknowledged me by surname only. Bastard daughter. I grew up knowing exactly what an absence feels like."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I survived."
"Survival isn't the same as living."
The observation hits harder than it should. I don't answer.
We reach the narrow bridge that crosses the lake. The wood is old, weathered grey, uneven in places where boards have warped. Isla has run ahead, already across and examining something in the reeds on the far side.
I step onto the bridge. My foot catches on a raised board. My ankle twists. I'm falling—
Domnall’s hand shoots out, gripping my waist—solid, sure. He pulls me upright, steadying me against him. For a moment, we're pressed together, his chest against my shoulder, his hand burning through the fabric of my dress.
I freeze, my breath catches. I can feel his heartbeat—fast, too fast.
His hand doesn't move. His fingers press into the curve of my waist like he's forgotten how to let go.
I look up. His face is inches from mine, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His jaw is tight and his lips are parted like he's about to say something he shouldn't.
The air between us is too thin. I can't breathe properly. My pulse is hammering in my throat. His gaze drops to my mouth and everything inside me goes liquid and dangerous.
"Mrs. Farren!" Isla's voice cuts through from the other side of the bridge. "Come look at this!"
We break apart too quickly, his hand drops, I step back—my legs unsteady, my face burning.
"Careful." His voice is rough. "The boards are uneven."
"I noticed." I don't look at him. Can't look at him. "Thank you."
I cross the bridge without another word, gripping the railing hard enough that splinters bite into my palm. Isla is crouched by the water's edge, pointing at something in the reeds.
I join her, grateful for the distraction, for anything that isn't the feeling of his hand still burning against my waist.
Behind me, I hear his footsteps on the bridge—slow, deliberate.
I don't turn around.