Cora had drifted off to sleep in Ian’s arms as they usually did after a long evening spent in bed, talking and laughing into the small hours of the morning — along with a few other activities that passed the time rather pleasantly. More and more, she found they were talking about the future — not the immediate future, but a more distant one, months and years down the track rather than weeks and days. And the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t mind it. Maybe it was just new love, the giddy rush of emotion and infatuation that accompanied a new relationship. In the early days, it felt like anything was possible — then the honeymoon phase would wear off and reality would reassert herself. But she had a feeling that this time was different.

That morning, it had been a good hour before she remembered that the castle hadn’t always been her home. San Francisco was like a distant dream — she could no longer remember every single turn of the drive to work, or even what it felt like to drive a car. She much preferred riding, these days — she and Ian would take long rambling rides out over the moors. She mostly rode the black horse, who she’d named Hamish after her black cat from her old life — Ian said he’d never named the beast, preferring to refer to him by a series of profanities.

“That’s why he doesn’t like you,” Cora told him, exasperated, as she fed the horse a piece of carrot she’d thieved from the kitchens for him. “He just needed a name and a little bit of love. Didn’t you, Hamish? Didn’t you, my sweet?”

“I had an uncle called Hamish,” Ian muttered. “Terrible auld bastard.”

They had visited the village a few times, but Cora was afraid to spend much time there — Mary’s warning was still ringing in her mind. Every curious eye that turned to look at her was cause for concern, even though it was vastly more likely that the village folk were just interested to see who Ian MacClaran was stepping out with. There were rumors of their marriage flying about left right and center, of course, and though Ian never brought it up, she had a suspicion that if she suggested it he’d just about faint with happiness. Well, that was a question for another day.

And this day had been a long one. They’d gone for a nice long ride that morning, then spent the afternoon with the babies — it was laundry day, and two babies meant twice as much washing to do for the staff. Colin and Audrina were out of the castle on a diplomatic errand of some kind, so Cora and Ian had taken the babies off the hands of the nurses so they could focus on the mammoth heaps of laundry. Though Cora didn’t miss much about San Francisco, she had to admit that a washing machine was a luxury she’d never fully appreciated.

But it had been an exhausting day — and of course, when they’d fallen into bed together that night they’d immediately grown distracted with each other. Not that she’d have forsaken that time for a few extra hours of sleep — hell, if he wasn’t soundly asleep right now she’d have been up for a second round. Cora had always thought of herself as someone who didn’t particularly enjoy sex, but that was before she’d tried it with a partner as skilled and attentive as Ian.

These pleasant thoughts carried her to sleep…where there was a cold room waiting for her, with colder chains binding her hands and feet. She stared up into the face of her tormentor, defiant as blood streamed down her head from the fresh wound in her scalp. Spat some blood onto the floor. They’d had her prisoner for twelve hours now, and she was determined that they wouldn’t break her spirit, no matter how much pain they tried to inflict on her.

“And when did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?” the man in front of her asked, the tone of his voice bored and complacent.

“I didn’t,” she spat. “It’s you who’ve forsaken Him. Torturing innocents. Thou shalt not kill!”

The next blow hit her on the other side of the head and knocked her dizzy. When the room revolved back into view, the man was unmoved.

“When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

“The answer’s not going to change, you piece of garbage!”

Another blow to the side of her head. Tears ran down her face, mingling with the blood on her cheeks.

“When did you forsake the Lord your God —”

“Stop it,” she whispered. “Stop —”

Crash. Blackness, then the room again. More blood, and she was swaying where she knelt.

“When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

“Pater noster,” she murmured, half awake. “Qui es in caelis. Sanctificetur —”

The blow struck again, but this one didn’t hurt as badly. The words she spoke bolstered her, gave her strength, brought her a kind of strange courage in this dark, dark place. No matter what happened, God would be here with her. Despite the sins of evil men, she would cleave to Him and His teachings, just as Mary had taught her all those months ago in Scotland, at Castle MacClaran, her home. She should never have left.

“When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

“… nos inducas in tentationem,” she whispered, “sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

“You profane these holy words, witch,” the man said, still sounding bored.

“Pater noster,” she started again, louder now. “Qui es in caelis —”

“Very well. We’ll find another way of quieting your tongue.”

She woke up, screaming, with Ian’s arms curled around her and his worried face above her. He rocked her until the worst of the panic had eased, until the specter of the man and his blade began to fade into memory. She clung to him, once the panic had faded, because it was replaced with grief, with fear and sadness and rage at what had been done to Bellina, to her ancestor whose only crime had been the knowledge of herbs and healing that Cora herself had inherited. They were so alike — so alike — to think that the woman had been put to death, and such an awful, lingering death, too, was almost more than she could bear.

“They’re getting worse, aren’t they, lassie?” Ian asked, his voice low and quiet in their darkened room.

She nodded silently.

“You were speaking, in this one.”

“I was?” Now she thought about it, there had been words in this dream — more than she usually heard, at any rate. They tended to be very image-heavy, and though she knew Bellina was being interrogated, she never heard the questions. “Strange — so strange — I understood every word, but — but it wasn’t English. They were speaking Italian.”

“She spoke four languages, our Bellina. Quite a scholar. Gaelic, English, Italian — and Latin.”

Cora smiled despite her sadness. “We have that last one in common. Church Latin, anyway. The perks of a Catholic upbringing.”

“Good Catholic girls, both of you.”

She grinned into his bare chest. “I’m not so good. Do you remember what I was saying? Was it in Italian?”

“I don’t think so. It sounded more — rhythmical than that. Like you were repeating the same thing over and over. Pater something…something, something in caelis…”

Cora’s eyes widened. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis?”

“That’s it!”

“That’s the Lord’s Prayer.” Tears came to her eyes again. “She was reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.”

“To show them she was devout, maybe?”

“No. To give herself strength.”

Ian took a deep breath and pulled her into his arms, the only comfort he could offer. They lay in silence for a long time before sleep finally claimed them.