One week before

The morning in Caorann began the way most of them did—wet stone underfoot, smoke curling from the hearth fires in slow ribbons, and the sharp scent of peat mingling with lavender soap in the corridor that led from the cloister to the chapel. The shutters were still drawn, but a faint light had begun to edge towards the windowsills, soft and grey with mist. Somewhere deeper in the keep, a bell tolled once, then fell quiet.

Mairead liked the silence before morning prayers. She liked the hush of it, the way the air seemed to still just long enough for her to gather her thoughts, to breathe in something deeper than silence. A pause, she liked to call it. The kind the soul needed to remember itself. It was in those moments that she felt closest to what she hoped God saw in her—not pious or perfect, but willing. Still learning.

She had meant to go to the chapel early that day. To light a candle and give thanks for something she couldn’t name. But her steps slowed in the corridor.

“Mairead.”

She turned.

Sister Agnes stood at the far end of the passage, her voice low but firm. The older woman’s hands were folded in front of her habit, her shoulders square, her face unreadable—but not unkind.

“There’s been word from Glen Lyon.”

The name stopped her breath.

“Fer the church?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Sister Agnes gave a single nod. “It’s still in ruin. They’ve begun clearin’ the wreckage. But they’ve asked fer help. Fer someone skilled in scripture. In healin’. Tae guide.”

She didn’t say what else she meant. Didn’t say the other word that hung heavy in the air between them: conversion.

Mairead’s fingers curled against her palms. The corridor was warm from the hearths below, but her hands had gone cold.

“Ye’re sendin’ me,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

The nun’s gaze softened just slightly, a flicker of something like approval ghosting behind her eyes. “Aye. If ye accept. Ye’d be part o’ the rebuildin’ effort. There’s still unrest, but the laird himself has allowed it. A pagan, aye—but one who daesnae seek war.”

The stone wall pressed cool against Mairead’s back. She hadn’t realized she’d moved until the roughness caught her shoulder blades. A strange flutter moved behind her ribs. A sense of being… shifted. As though something in her life had turned, just slightly, without her having touched it.

“And when I return?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Sister Agnes took a step closer. Her voice lowered, but it was no less certain. “Then ye will be ready.”

Mairead’s breath left her all at once.

Ready.

To take the veil. To give herself wholly. To leave behind the questions, the wondering. To put on the habit and call it enough. To belong.

Her throat tightened, and it took her a moment to nod. “Thank ye,” she said, her voice shaking. “I dinnae deserve such trust.”

“Ye’ve earned it,” the nun said simply. “The journey begins within the week. Ye’ll go with a few others. I believe Sister Mòrag is preparin’ provisions already.”

Mairead barely heard the last part. She was still holding onto those words.

Ye’ve earned it.

She had waited her whole life to hear that. And yet it didn’t settle in her chest the way she thought it would. It trembled there instead. Restless. A little too alive.

She dipped her head in reverence. “I’ll find Kirsteen. She should hear it from me.”

Sister Agnes nodded once. “See that ye dae.”

The corridor emptied behind her as she turned and walked back the way she came. Her steps were faster now. Lighter. But her breath didn’t come easy.

She was going to Glen Lyon, the pagan stronghold. To the glen where men still traced runes in the dirt and left offerings for trees. Where they danced on solstice nights and drank from carved horns and didn’t know the shape of a rosary bead.

And yet, God had opened the door, and she was walking through it.

She turned, her robes sweeping softly behind her. Mairead stood frozen a moment longer, her hands still trembling slightly. Then she turned and hurried toward the courtyard.

Kirsteen.

She found her in the herb garden, kneeling beside a row of wild mint, her hair pulled back in a rough braid. She looked up as Mairead approached.

“Ye look like a woman wi’ news,” Kirsteen said, squinting into the sun.

“They’re sendin’ me,” Mairead said breathlessly. “Tae Glen Lyon.”

Kirsteen blinked, then grinned. “About time.”

Mairead laughed. “I’m tae help rebuild the chapel. When I return—”

“Ye take yer vows.”

“Aye.”

Kirsteen stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I suppose we’d better start packin’. They’ll want us off before the week’s end.”

Mairead frowned. “Us?”

Kirsteen tilted her head. “Didnae they tell ye? I’m goin’ wi’ ye.”

The breath whooshed out of Mairead’s lungs. “Ye’re what?”

“I was requested. Fer healin’. Fer… guidin’.”

Mairead stared at her. Then a small smile broke across her face. “We’re goin’ taegether.”

Kirsteen’s grin widened. “Glen Lyon willnae ken what’s comin’.” Then she paused, as if just remembering. “Oh—Mairead, the laird’s asked tae speak wi’ ye.”

Mairead stilled. “The laird asked fer me?”

“One o’ the guards told me. Said John wanted tae see ye before we left.”

Her stomach twisted. “Why?”

Kirsteen shrugged. “I dinnae ken. But if he daes, ye’d best go.”

They stood there for a moment longer, sunlight pooling at their feet, the scent of mint and wild thyme in the air between them. And for the first time in a long time, Mairead felt something like hope.

Kirsteen bumped her shoulder lightly. “Ye’d best go then, before he sends someone tae drag ye by the wrist.”

Mairead laughed. “Aye. Though I’m nae sure what he could want wi’ me.”

Kirsteen nudged her gently again. “Go on, then. I’ll meet ye back in the dormitory. We’ve packin’ tae dae.”

Mairead hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be quick.”

“Famous last words,” Kirsteen muttered, but her smile didn’t fade.

Mairead turned toward the staircase and took the stairs with careful steps, her skirts gathered in one hand, the other brushing lightly along the cool stone wall. She passed two novices in the corridor below, murmuring good morning, and they bowed their heads in return, though their eyes followed her longer than they should have. No one had said it aloud, but it was clear enough that word had already traveled. That she was to go, that she had been chosen.

Her heart beat faster at the thought.

She reached the laird’s chamber and paused, smoothing the front of her gown, then knocked twice.

The door opened, and there he was, Laird John of Caorann. His hand braced against the wood, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then it softened, almost too quickly.

“Sister Mairead,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

The room was warm, filled with the scent of old wood and ink. She hesitated only a breath, then entered, folding her hands before her.

“I was told ye wished tae see me.”

John’s gaze didn’t leave her. He motioned to a chair near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”

She did, perching lightly on the edge, while he crossed the room to pour water into a cup and brought it to her.

“They’ve accepted,” he said quietly. “Glen Lyon. The laird will allow the missionaries tae assist with the rebuilding o’ the chapel.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “Aye. Sister Agnes just told me.”

He studied her. “And ye’ve agreed?”

“I have.”

His jaw tensed. Only slightly, but she saw it. “Sister… ye dinnae need tae go.”

Her brow furrowed. “I dae. It’s part o’ me path. I’ve prayed on it.”

“There are others,” he said. “Others who could take yer place.”

“I was chosen.”

He stepped closer. “By a nun. Nae by God.”

She blinked. “That’s—me laird, why would ye say that?”

He sighed, turning away for a moment before facing her again. “Because I worry. About what ye’ll face there. They’re pagans still. Heathens, some o’ them. And their laird—he’s nae a man ye should trust.”

Mairead set the cup down, her fingers now folded tightly in her lap. “I’ve been called tae serve, me laird. Ye ken what this means tae me. It’s the final step before me vows.”

He was quiet a long moment. Then: “What if ye didnae take them?”

She stared at him. “What?”

“What if ye stayed?” His voice dropped lower. “Ye could dae good here, Mairead. Teach. Heal. Live.”

She rose from the chair. “But I want tae take them.”

“Because it’s all ye’ve ever kent,” he said, stepping toward her. “Because ye think it’s the only way tae be pure. But ye are already—ye shine wi’ a light that has naethin’ tae dae wi’ vows or veils.”

Her breath caught. “I dinnae understand.”

He smiled, gently this time. And stepped closer. “Ye dinnae have tae. Just listen.”

“I… I must go,” she said, shaking her head. “This is me chance tae prove I’m ready.”

“Prove tae who?” he asked. “God? Or them?”

She looked up at him. “Both.”

A beat passed. Then he reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand.

It startled her.

The warmth of his palm was gentle. His eyes were soft, but she didn’t want to return their stare, so she stilled.

“I only want what’s best fer ye,” he said. “I’ve watched ye grow from a frightened girl tae somethin’ more. Somethin’ rare. And if I could spare ye pain…”

She shook her head. “I dinnae need sparin’. I need direction. I’ve prayed fer it—and now I have it.”

His thumb brushed against her cheekbone. She flushed.

She told herself it was only gratitude, kindness. He was a man of God. He cared for her soul, nothing more.

He stepped back then, slowly, and smiled again. “Then go,” he said. “And may the Lord walk beside ye.”

She nodded, flustered, and moved toward the door.

And as she slipped out into the corridor, her heart pounding and her thoughts tangled, she told herself that she had misunderstood.

That it had been blessing, not longing, in his touch.

That she was going to Glen Lyon for God.

She didn’t look back. Just hurried down the stairs and into the morning light, where the road awaited and the sky was wide and clean and full of the unknown.

And somewhere ahead of her, a church had burned to ash and waited to be raised from ruin. And Mairead—blessed, chosen, still innocent of the things she could not see—began to pack.

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