Two days before

The scent of pine smoke clung stubbornly to Castle Galbraith’s stones, a remnant of the feast that had burned late into the night. Vivienne inhaled it as she moved through the passage, skirts whispering against the flagstones, the weight of her satchel steady at her hip. Her steps echoed softly in the quiet, and her thoughts, as ever, turned back to a time when she had walked halls like this one with a far different stride, her head bent to her mother’s sharp whispers, her tongue sharpened to wound those who had done nothing but exist.

Odette.

Even the name was enough to stir shame that never truly dulled. Once, Vivienne had stood in her mother’s shadow, a willing accomplice to cruelty she had not dared question. She remembered laughing when Odette faltered, mocking her when her voice caught, turning away when she was left alone and aching. It had been easier to obey, to please, to be the daughter her mother demanded instead of the sister Odette had needed.

But that world was gone. Vivienne had watched it fall piece by piece, the mask ripped from her mother’s face, the cruelty exposed and discarded like a rotten cloak. And she had watched Odette rise, her quiet steel revealed, until she stood beside Gregory Galbraith as his wife, her head high, her worth undeniable. A queen carved from ash.

Vivienne had hated herself most in those moments. Hated the girl she had been, small and vicious, a reflection of another’s will. But hatred, she had learned, could be a seed as much as a poison. From it had grown something else, something that had carried her through the war and after.

Healing. She had discovered her talent almost by accident, binding a wound in the chaos of battle, pressing linen to stop a bleeding that would have ended a man’s life. Her fingers had not trembled then. They had known what to do, as though some part of her had always been waiting to be used for more than spite. From that moment, she had not stopped. She had learned poultices and sutures, tinctures and teas. She had burned her fingers on boiling honey, stained her skirts with wine and blood, memorized the smell of herbs until they haunted her sleep.

And now, when she walked through the halls of Galbraith, it was not as her mother’s daughter or her sister’s shadow. It was as Vivienne, healer.

The chamber she entered was bright with morning, light pouring through the narrow window slits to fall across the straw mattress where a soldier sat, bare-chested and pale. A line of red crossed his ribs, angry and raw, though shallow enough that it had not cut deep. His friends stood clustered near the wall, their faces still pink from laughter, though they tried to school themselves into solemnity as she entered.

Vivienne set her satchel down with a thump. “Which o’ ye thought it wise tae let him climb trees wi’ a blade in his hand?”

The men grinned despite themselves, glancing at one another. One, the youngest, spoke up. “He said he could dae it.”

The wounded soldier shot him a glare, though his cheeks darkened as his gaze flicked back to Vivienne. “It was naught. Just a slip. Hardly worth callin’ ye fer.”

Vivienne arched a brow, pulling a jar from her satchel. The scent of thyme and honey filled the air as she opened it. “A slip that’s left ye bleeding across half yer chest. If this is what ye call naught, lad, I dinnae wish tae see what ye call serious.”

His friends snickered. He ducked his head, muttering, “I didnae want tae trouble ye.”

Her mouth twitched, though she smothered it into something stern. “Ye’ll trouble me more if ye let it fester. Now sit straight.”

He obeyed at once, his back stiffening as though she were the laird himself. Vivienne dipped her fingers into the salve and began to spread it across the wound, her touch firm but careful. The soldier hissed, then clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the far wall. His skin was hot beneath her hands, the muscle tense under the sting of the balm.

“Breathe,” she instructed, her voice gentler now. “It will bite at first, but the pain will pass.”

He did, though his chest rose sharp, the breath uneven. She could feel the heat of his gaze flickering toward her, quick and guilty, every time she shifted. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who thought kindness might mean something more.

When the salve was spread, she took up a strip of linen and began to wind it across his ribs, tight enough to hold but not to choke. His friends began whispering then, loud enough for her to hear.

“Bet he fell just tae have her hands on him.”

“Aye, next time he’ll throw himself from the wall.”

“Or the stables, if he thinks she’ll kiss him better.”

The boy flushed scarlet. “Shut yer mouths.”

Vivienne’s lips curved despite herself. She tied the bandage neat and pressed her palm to it, steady. “If ye mean tae wound yerself fer attention, lad, pick somewhere less daft than a chest wound. A nick on the arm would dae as well, and ye could still lift a cup wi’out tearing the stitches.”

His friends roared with laughter. The boy groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Vivienne’s voice softened as she leaned back. “Keep it clean. Change the linen twice a day. Nay hunting, nae climbing, nae wrestling—though I doubt ye’ll listen.”

He peeked at her through his fingers, half a smile tugging his mouth. “I’ll listen if ye tell me again.”

His friends howled at that, and Vivienne shook her head, gathering her satchel with a sigh. Saints save her, he was barely more than a boy. It was harmless, and yet, she remembered when she had once thought such fancies were worth clinging to, before she had seen what love truly was.

Her heart tightened at the thought of Odette again, radiant beside Gregory, her hand steady in his even as the world had crumbled. Love was not fluttering hearts and foolish wounds. It was steel. It was choosing each other when the walls shook and the blood ran.

She straightened, her voice brisk once more. “Rest. Heal. I’ll look at it again.”

And with that, she swept from the chamber, her satchel slung once more at her side, the laughter of the soldiers chasing her down the corridor. She ignored it, her steps quickening.

Her own chamber waited, small but bright, her things already laid out. The satchel she had carried for years now sat open on the bed, half-packed with herbs and linens, the tools of her trade. She had work ahead of her.

Castle Keith. The name rang heavy in her chest, though she had not yet spoken it aloud. Tomorrow, she would ride there, summoned for her skill, though the details had been scarce. She knew only this: their healer had died a long time ago, their laird had called, and she was needed.

The hinges creaked softly.

Vivienne glanced up, startled, to find Odette standing in the doorway of her chamber. The morning light poured around her like a halo, catching in the pale gold of her hair, the steel of her gaze. Vivienne’s chest pinched at the sight. Her stepsister had changed so much since those days in Beaumont’s halls. She was no longer the girl Vivienne had mocked, nor the young woman their mother had scorned. She was Odette Galbraith now, laird’s wife, her presence sharp and sure, her smile a blade and a balm all at once.

And yet when she crossed the threshold, it was with quiet steps, the hem of her gown trailing through the rushes as she tilted her head. “What was all that ruckus? I could hear the laughter halfway down the passage.”

Vivienne turned back to the satchel, tucking a roll of linen into its side. “Just silly boys. They’ve naught better tae dae than make fools o’ themselves.”

Odette leaned lightly against the doorframe, her brows arched, her smile tugging faint. “Silly or nae, that one looked fair handsome tae me. Broad shoulders, clear eyes. Ye truly have nay interest?”

Vivienne let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Odette. If Gregory hears ye say such a thing, he’ll send the poor lad straight tae the border and nae let him back inside the walls.”

Odette’s laugh followed, warm and amused. “Gregory would dae naeysuch thing. He kens well enough where me heart lies. I’m saying the boy might be good fer ye, Vivienne, nae fer me.”

Vivienne paused, her fingers smoothing over a jar of honey before slipping it into her bag. Her lips curved faintly. “Perhaps he’ll be good fer someone, one day. But it will nae be me. Me heart is nae so easily swayed by a clumsy smile and a bandaged chest.”

Odette’s eyes softened, her head tipping as she studied her. “Then what daes sway it? Is it the work that drives ye so hard? Ye never rest, Vivienne. Ye live as though there is nay tomorrow, as if ye’ve something left tae prove with every stitch and every poultice.”

The words hit their mark. Vivienne stilled, her back straightening, her hands frozen over the satchel strap. For a moment, shame threatened to rise again, that old weight she had carried since the day she had first seen Odette stand tall as Gregory’s wife. But she crushed it, forcing her voice steady, her chin lifted.

“This is nae penance, Odette. I long since accepted that naething I dae will make up fer what I was. I cannae change the girl who mocked ye, who obeyed me maither’s cruelty. But I found something that is mine, something that mends instead o’ destroys. Healing isnae about proving meself. It’s about… purpose.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. “When I set a bone, when I keep fever from stealing a child, when I bind a wound that might have festered—I feel whole. I will nae turn from that. Nae even fer comfort or ease.”

Odette was quiet a long moment, her eyes searching Vivienne’s face. Then she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. “Dae that mean ye are set on this? Leaving Galbraith lands, heading tae Keith with nay more than a summons and a name? Ye dinnae even ken what awaits ye there.”

Vivienne tied the strap of her satchel tight, her voice firm. “Aye. I am set. Whatever awaits, I will meet it as I am now, nae as I was.”

Odette’s lips parted, as though she might argue, but she only sighed, her shoulders lowering with quiet resignation. She crossed the chamber, her hand reaching for Vivienne’s. “Then I’ll nae try tae stop ye. But I’ll miss ye, sister.”

The word struck like an arrow. Sister. It was no longer rival or stranger, but the bond she had always longed for. Vivienne’s throat closed as she turned, clasping Odette’s hand tight. For once she let the softness show, let the truth rise past the no-nonsense exterior she had always clung to.

“I’ll miss ye too,” she whispered.

Odette drew her into an embrace, warm and steady, her hand stroking her hair the way no one had since they were children. Vivienne clung to her, her chest aching with a strange mix of grief and hope. They had lost so much, both of them, but they had found more too. Odette had found love. Vivienne had found purpose. They had found each other. Perhaps that was enough.

When they drew apart, Odette’s eyes shone, but her smile was sure. “Go then. Tae Keith. And remember—nay matter what clan ye serve, ye are still me sister. And ye will always have a place here.”

Vivienne nodded, her grip on the satchel firm. “Aye. And ye’ll always have me.”

She turned toward the door then, her steps light though her chest was heavy. Tomorrow she would ride for Keith, for a land she had never seen, for a future she could not yet imagine. But for the first time in her life, she would do it as herself. As a healer.

And that, she thought, was enough.

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