She had grown thinner in some places, stronger in others, since the day she had arrived in the small northern village. Hard work had shaped her shoulders and steadied her hands. The freckles across her nose had darkened under summers spent outdoors. Her bright red hair was braided tight against her head now, practical and unremarkable. Iona Pearson had learned to move through a crowd without drawing notice, to lower her eyes without lowering her mind.
And she was bone tired.
The path to the small cottage at the edge of the village was slick with mud. The air carried a damp chill. She kept her cloak drawn close and her head down out of habit, eyes scanning shadows as she walked.
The cottage door creaked when she pushed it open.
Heat greeted her first, thick and sharp.
Then the smell of burning salt.
“Erin?” she called, already shrugging off her cloak.
The elderly healer stood before the hearth, back straight despite her years, a fistful of coarse salt scattering into the flames. It hissed and snapped, sparks leaping high. Her grey hair hung loose around her shoulders. She muttered under her breath, the Gaelic rolling fast and low, too quick for Iona to follow every word.
“Erin,” Iona repeated, stepping inside fully.
The old woman did not turn at once. She reached for a small wooden bowl on the table beside her, dipped her fingers into water clouded with crushed herbs, and flicked droplets toward the doorway.
Cold flecks struck Iona’s cheek.
“By the saints,” Iona muttered, wiping her face. “What are ye about?”
Erin turned then, pale blue eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. Without answering, she strode forward and began sprinkling the herb water directly over Iona’s head.
“Stand still,” Erin ordered.
“I have just walked half the village and served half the county ale. I willnae stand still while ye soak me like a wet hen.”
“Stand. Still.”
There was a tightness in Erin’s voice that stilled her protest.
Water dripped down her temple. The scent of rosemary and bitterness clung to her skin.
“These are warding rites,” Iona said quietly as understanding settled in her stomach like a stone. “Protection.”
“Aye.”
The word was clipped.
Her pulse began to thrum. “Protection? From what?”
Erin set the bowl down slowly. For a moment she simply stared at Iona, the lass she had taken in seven winters ago, the lass who had arrived hollow-eyed and shaking with a small child clutched to her skirts.
“A lass is gone,” Erin said at last.
Iona’s fingers curled at her sides. “Gone?”
“Missing these three days. No trace. Her mother swears she only stepped outside to fetch water.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
“People are saying wolves,” Erin continued, voice low. “But wolves leave signs. There were nae signs.”
Iona swallowed.
“And that isnae all,” Erin added.