Bright and early the next day, Cora met Audrina at the foot of the stairs that led to her tower. The redheaded woman looked pale and drawn still — she clearly hadn’t slept especially well. She wasn’t alone in that. Cora had gone to bed so full of dread of her nightmares that she suspected she hadn’t actually dropped into restful sleep the whole night. Every time she’d felt herself beginning to nod off, a flash of panic would bring her back to consciousness with a jolt. Ian hadn’t complained about her keeping him awake, but he was a little quieter than his usual self at breakfast, and she caught him suppressing a yawn once or twice. Well, he’d known what he was getting into when he found her screaming blue murder in the middle of the night in an abandoned room. She hadn’t made him take her up to the battlements and kiss her, had she? A little sleep deprivation was a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company, as far as she was concerned. But she appreciated his kindness and his support nonetheless. It felt so good to have someone in her corner — she’d spent her whole life relying on herself alone.

Well, not alone. She’d always had Audrina — at least, up til the two long, lonely years of their separation, which were already fading in her memory. The years without Audy didn’t count, not really — they were just some empty time she spent doing things that didn’t matter until the day that fate (or was it magic?) brought them back together. And here they were, setting about a sad but necessary task together. They gathered all the bundles of dry herbs into a basket, and the bottles of liquids went into a small cloth bag. It was only a small room, but it felt a lot emptier with all of Audrina’s handiwork removed. She sighed, rubbing her thumb over the inscriptions that had been carefully traced onto the bottles.

“Maeve did these,” she said quietly. “It’s one of the only connections I have to her.”

“Audy — I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“It’s not your fault, love. It’s Cotswold’s.” Her eyes narrowed and her face twisted in a way that Cora was quietly glad she’d rarely seen before. “He’s the piece of excrement that’s making me do this — the abscess on the face of the world that I wish someone would just — burst.”

“Maybe he won’t come here,” Cora said hopefully. “Maybe he’ll stay away — if you really did scare him last time, maybe —”

“No. He will. Men like that never give up. Remember Stephen?”

Cora blinked, then opened her mouth in horror. “God! Yes! Gross! I’d almost forgotten about him!”

Stephen had been a patient of Audrina’s back at the hospital. A young man who’d come in one day with a broken leg, he’d clearly taken quite a shine to the red-headed nurse who cared for him — misinterpreting her professional courtesy and kindness for something more. When his leg was healed, he asked for her phone number — and she’d politely but firmly told him no, that she didn’t date patients.

Every night for a fortnight, he would loiter by the hospital, waiting for her to come out so he could follow her and beg her to reconsider, to give him a chance, he was a nice guy — and the tone of these complaints grew steadily less pleasant. By the end of the second week, he was screaming at her, calling her a tease and a whore, accusing her of sleeping with every single one of her patients except for him. She’d had to get hospital security involved, and only the threat of a restraining order successfully deterred him — everyone had a suspicion that he had more than a few of those already.

“God, six hundred years in the future and the same stupid shit is still going on. Do men really never change?” Cora wondered aloud, bending to grab a small bundle of herbs that had been overlooked — and double-checking the back of the cabinet while she did so.

“Some men,” Audrina said flatly. “Our sons will be different.”

They walked down the staircase together and out into the mid-morning sun. In the center of the courtyard there was a flat, clear area where they’d built a fire earlier. Cora squatted by the fire and began coaxing it into a full, roaring flame, while Audrina stared at the horizon, clearly making her peace with Maeve. One by one, they tipped the tinctures out of the small bottles — the liquids sizzled and evaporated. Upending the basket of dried herbs, they watched as the whole pile went up in a conflagration of smoke and flame — the sweet smell of the herbs drifting across the courtyard.

They sat for a while like that in the weak autumn sun, watching the fire burn down to ash, taking all trace of ‘witchcraft’ — of their healing supplies — with it.

“I hope nobody falls ill,” Audrina murmured after a while, and Cora patted her shoulder in wordless comfort. Once the fire had burned out, they disposed of the ashes and headed inside for lunch. Though it was frustrating to have to destroy the precious supplies, it felt good to know that no matter what, Cotswold wouldn’t have a shred of evidence to level against either of them. With any luck, that would be enough to get rid of him…though the knot of worry in Cora’s belly hadn’t loosened at all. Bellina hadn’t had herbs of any kind in her possession when they took her.

Lunch was a sober affair. Laird Colin sat with Ian, deep in conversation — apparently the visiting party had already caused quite a scene at the local village tavern, accusing every woman there (including the publican) of being whores and she-devils. Maudie was an extremely friendly woman, it was true, but she was a good-hearted soul and didn’t deserve such venom from men who were intruding on the village’s hospitality as it was. They’d also been cruel and demanding with local merchants, paying pittances for supplies and threatening violence when challenged.

“I’ll send some of the men down. A military presence might make those bastards think twice,” Colin was saying, fist clenched. Ian opened his mouth to counsel caution — after all, it wouldn’t do to aggravate the Inquisition any more than necessary — when the doors to the dining hall burst open. A servant ran in, almost in tears with dismay, and bolted right up to the Laird’s table.

“Laird, so sorry, we tried to stop them, but they just barged right in — claimed to have God’s right —”

A man barged through the door then, and Cora knew without a shadow of a doubt as she looked at him that this was Lord Cotswold. She didn’t need to hear Colin’s whispered curse, or feel Audrina’s hand tighten on her leg under the table, or see the dozen soldiers leap to their feet at the very sight of him, hands flying to their weapons.

“Hold your peace,” Colin barked, and the men relaxed, though their faces were furious. Clearly, this man had not made a good impression his first time there. He wasn’t making too good an impression now, either. Tall and stooped, he had the sickly look of a man who’d lost a lot of weight quite quickly. His watery blue eyes were bloodshot and the capillaries in his face had burst — a classic sign of a drunk, Cora knew immediately. From what Ian had told her, the man had lost his family and his fortune, and imposed himself upon Lord Weatherby, an unwelcome but unremovable guest. He certainly held himself with a lot of authority for a man with no status.

“Yes, I think you better had,” he drawled, and Cora had never disliked an English accent more — the round, plummy vowels of the upper classes dripped from his mouth. “It wouldn’t do to be unfriendly to your betters. Though of course, we are all equal under God.”

Another man burst into the room, walking quickly, but clearly trying not to look like he was hurrying. This man looked younger, though he was still certainly in his forties — neatly and richly dressed, his orange hair neatly combed. He stopped behind Cotswold and offered the Laird a respectful bow, clearing his throat to speak.

“My apologies, Laird MacClaran, but Lord Cotswold here could not be swayed from visiting, so desperate he was to make his apologies for the previous unpleasantness.” The man spoke smoothly and with the ease of a diplomat, but Cora didn’t miss the way he jabbed Cotswold in the ribs.

The other Lord swayed on the spot, and her eyes widened — was he drunk now? In broad daylight?

“Oh, yes. My apologies,” he drawled, still scanning the room though he was ostensibly addressing Colin. The Laird hadn’t moved — he sat at his table, knife and fork in hand, entire body still as stone and eyes fixed with savage focus on Cotswold. “My apologies, about your wife. But is she really your wife? I mean — marriage is between man and woman, not man and —”

“What my good friend Lord Cotswold means to say,” Weatherby said loudly, clearly trying very hard, “is that —”

“ — your wife’s a demon,” Cotswold finished for him, bellowing it cheerfully to the rafters.

Cora heard every man in the room take a sharp breath in — a few more of the soldiers stood up, slowly this time, with an air of calculated menace. The only hand not on a weapon was Colin’s, which still grasped his knife and fork in an attitude of quiet repose. Cora couldn’t believe this was actually happening — she’d been around fights before, of course, and she recognized the thickness in the air, the alertness, the way the men (and women, for that matter) were alert, every muscle tense and ready to strike. But the fights she’d encountered back in San Francisco (mostly in bars between drunk men) hadn’t involved dozens of lengths of steel that she’d seen being polished and sharpened again and again. Looking at Cotswold’s fleshy frame, she felt a little unwell to think of what those swords were actually meant for. They were so pretty, it was easy to forget that they were killing machines as surely as guns and rifles were.

“A demon!” Cotswold said again, clearly frustrated by Colin’s lack of response.

Weatherby stepped forward and seized his arm, looking absolutely mortified, his eyes flicking from the Laird to his men to Cotswold’s steadily reddening face as though if he could keep all three in his field of vision he could somehow avoid the confrontation that was inevitably looming.

“Cotswold,” Cora could hear him hissing under his breath with a manic desperation. “Cotswold, enough, you told me you wanted to make amends, not cause a scene and provoke these men — you’ll undo everything we’ve worked for, the growing peace between our nations — is that really what you want, out of spite, a petty old grudge over something that was your own damn fault?”

She could hear it, Cora realized, because Weatherby had pitched his voice to be heard. A low tone, sure, but one that carried through the silent hall in a way that was absolutely deliberate. Ever the diplomat, Weatherby was proving to the hall of men that he wasn’t on Cotswold’s side — while staying in the drunken Lord’s good graces by behaving as though he was speaking in an undertone. Clever man, Cora thought approvingly. She wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him (and neither would Audrina, to judge by the death grip her friend was maintaining on her leg under the table) but at least someone with a modicum of tact was trying to take control of the situation.

What Weatherby had said to Cotswold seemed to take the winds out of his sails. He staggered back a little, looking suddenly lost — and then his expression (which had been heading for embarrassment) began to spin back around to anger. He kept searching the hall, and Cora scanned it too. She saw Mary and Donal at a table near the Laird, Mary’s hand firmly clapped over Donal’s mouth and holding the squirming boy in his chair. He looked as furious as Cora felt. Margaret was standing at the back of the hall, and her hand was at her belt as though to draw a weapon — did the quiet Headwoman carry a blade? Cora wondered. She absolutely would not be surprised.

And then she realized that Cotswold was scanning for Audrina. He hadn’t seen her yet by virtue of the extremely tall soldier who was sitting across from them, obscuring her bright hair — Cora made eye contact with him and he winked. He was positioning himself that way on purpose, she realized. These Scots were good in a crisis.

“Have you done away with her then, MacClaran?” Cotswold yelled, seeming to give up on his search. “Gotten rid of the she-devil? Good man, good man. Knew you had a reasonable head on your shoulders. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, and all that. Good show.”

Cora looked at Colin, whose jaw seemed made from steel. His eyes didn’t move and his face didn’t change — like the soldier opposite them, he seemed to sense instinctively that it would be best for Cotswold not to find Audrina. But Cora could feel Audrina at her side, shifting, restless, clearly absolutely furious and ready to launch herself at the man. Ironic, really — here Cora sat, listening to accusations of witchcraft, experiencing the most categorical proof of her best friend’s innocence. If she’d had any magical powers at all, Cotswold would be a smoking hole in the flagstones by now.

“You’re a handsome man,” Cotswold was slurring, “you’ll find a much better wife than that old whore, I guarantee it!”

“He’s baiting you,” Cora hissed as quietly as she could to Audrina, speaking under Cotswold so he wouldn’t hear her. “He knows you’re here, he’s trying to make you angry enough to lash out...”

Audrina relaxed the slightest amount.

Cora didn’t dare look at her in case her movement drew the angry Lord’s attention, but she could feel the energy emanating from her. If he wasn’t so drunk he might have been able to follow the hotspot of rage to his intended target, Cora thought to herself.

A crafty look came across Cotswold’s face. “Well, I’m glad you got rid of her anyway, Laird MacClaran,” he said softly. “The rumors in the village mustn’t be true, then. Because what I heard, was that you had not one but two children! Already! It would make sense, of course… unholy fertility like that isn’t uncommon when it comes to devils and witches. They aim to propagate themselves across the land, you see, like weeds, or vermin. That’s why it’s so important to burn them once you find them.”

“Are you quite done?” Colin asked, and his voice was like a whip crack in the silent room. The soldiers tensed their hands on their weapons and Cora saw Mary ready herself to drag Donal out of the room.

“Yes, twins, that’s what the publican was saying, the daffy old whore — after we roughed her up a bit, of course, she was more than happy to talk. My good friends — oh, forgive me, I should have brought them along to introduce them. They’re Inquisitors, you see. Experts at identifying and stamping out witchcraft. I thought you might need a hand with your wife, you see — just a little favor from your old liege Lord, for old time’s sake. They’re very good at getting the truth out of people, too — my word, yes. You should see how many tricks they have.” His eyes gleamed in the low light of the keep. “Good thing there are no twins here. They’d be hellspawn just like your wife.”

“Enough!” Audrina shot to her feet, her mane of hair swinging free — and though Cora wished direly that she hadn’t, there was something extremely gratifying about the way Cotswold physically staggered backwards to see her.

Weatherby, standing by helpless, shut his eyes for a moment at the way the situation had escalated. The drunken Lord recovered, took a few steps toward her with his beady little eyes narrowed.

“Ah. So he wasn’t strong enough to vanquish you after all. Typical.”

“You come into my home. You level baseless accusations that were proven wrong, again and again. You insult my husband, my hearth and my children. And to add insult to injury, you’re drunk.” The venom in her voice was incredible, and Cotswold reacted as though he was being punched again and again.

“Here she is!” he shouted, losing his composure. “This witch! Returned from the dead through unholy means!”

“And how do you know that?” Audrina challenged.

“Because I killed her,” he said immediately, and a hush fell over the room. “I killed Maeve MacClaran. I have made my atonements for that sin,” he added piously, “but she died at my hands, and now she stands here before you all.”

“A miracle,” Laird Colin said tightly, clearly unable to stand silent while his wife was insulted like this. She glanced up at him, a mixture of fondness and irritation on her face — clearly, Audrina was more than happy to fight this battle by herself.

“An abomination,” Cotswold countered with poison dripping from his voice. “An affront to God and Heaven itself. Or am I to believe that this is simple coincidence? That a woman the spitting image of Maeve MacClaran just happened to wander into the keep one day, and take her place?”

The soldier across from Cora and Audrina turned in his seat — he’d been chewing at his lip, clearly deeply frustrated, and the temptation to speak had grown too strong. He rose to his feet — that gave Cotswold pause, as he was a full foot taller than the English lord and built like the broad oak doors of the castle.

“Ye daft old man,” he growled. “People bear similarities all the time! Why, this lassie here!”

Cora recoiled in shock as she realized the soldier was gesturing at her. She ducked her head, trying to make herself as small as possible.

“Miss Cora, here! She’s the spitting image of a midwife we had here a few years ago. Murdered by your mates at the Inquisition down in Italy on false charges,” he added rancorously. “And she’s a midwife, too! Coincidences happen. You’re mad as a cut snake if you believe anyone who bears a passin’ resemblance to anyone else must be doin’ witchcraft. Cora’s no more a witch than I am.”

Cora fought the urge to bury her head in her hands. She could see Ian, seated beside Colin, looking as though he’d been punched in the stomach — even the Laird’s mask of composure had slipped a little, and the panic was showing through. And there stood Cotswold, staring at her — and she could sense the thoughts racing through his evil little head, see the gears ticking behind his eyes. The soldier gave a nod, clearly oblivious to the harm he’d done in trying to defend his Lady and his Laird, and sat back down. His bearing suggested that a round of applause wouldn’t have been out of order. Cora couldn’t be angry with him — but in opening his mouth, he may well have doomed her and Audrina both.

“Very interesting,” Cotswold murmured, his eyes glinting. “Very interesting indeed. Well, Weatherby, it looks as though I was mistaken! No witchcraft here, no witchcraft whatsoever. Just two women, identical in every way to women who were killed…one of them for witchcraft. A misunderstanding. My apologies,” he added, voice dripping with disdain. “Well, I suppose we’d best get going. I’ll convey your greetings to my friends from the Inquisition,” he added.

“That is enough,” boomed Laird Colin, and his voice filled every corner of the room, majestic and furious. “You have interrupted my household and embarrassed yourself, your kinsmen and your country, Lord Cotswold — or should I just say Cotswold? A lord strictly speaking has property, and you, I know, do not.”

“Your estate is built on English soil, you ignorant Scot,” Cotswold yelled back, clearly driven to fury. “You own nothing! You’ll die destitute in a ditch by the time I’ve finished with you — and your hell spawn too!”

“Get out.” Colin’s voice was flat and frightening. “You are no longer welcome in my home. You have five minutes to vacate my land. If you’re seen here again, you’ll be escorted from the territory with all necessary force. Consider this fair warning.”

Cotswold opened his mouth, then shut it again. Weatherby grabbed him by the arm and marched to the door with him in tow — though he made it seem as though they were walking together, Cora could see that he was all but dragging the man. At the threshold, the other Lord turned and sought Colin’s impassive face across the hall.

“My sincerest apologies, Laird Colin. We’ll speak later.”

Colin inclined his head respectfully to Lord Weatherby, but the cold expression on his face didn’t change. Cotswold opened his mouth to speak again — but Weatherby pulled him from the dining hall and closed the doors behind them before he could do any more damage than he had. If that was even possible.

The collective breath that the room had been holding was released as the door slammed. The soldiers immediately fell about animated discussions of what they were going to do to Cotswold if he returned to the premises — Cora overheard some rather creatively horrible ideas being thrown back and forth, expounded upon. But her attention was on Audrina, who was still standing, back ramrod straight and her hands shaking, just slightly.

Colin rose to his feet and crossed the hall to her, and they fell into each other’s arms — he buried his face in her hair, murmuring something that Cora couldn’t make out into her ear. She clung to him too, and it was impossible to tell who was holding who up. The soldier who had spoken up against Cotswold was continuing about his lunch, clearly satisfied with how the encounter had gone, and Cora, though she’d been intending to give him a piece of her mind, realized it was futile. The damage was done, and there was no point making the man feel bad about something he’d done in an effort to help. She got to her feet and joined Ian at the table — his face was drawn and pale.

“It’s alright,” she murmured, stroking his back in an attempt to soothe him. “There’s no evidence. And he’s banned from the castle — that’ll give him pause.”

Ian looked bleak. “Inquisitors can’t be banned from anywhere. If he gives them cause to come back — and you heard him, he’ll lie through his teeth if it suits him...”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. We witches have a few tricks up our sleeves, after all” she joked.

Abruptly, he stood and pulled her into his arms, a fierce, bruising hug that almost cut off her breathing — and it wasn’t until she was buried in the warmth of his embrace that she realized how badly she needed it.

“We’ll be okay,” she murmured to him, over and over again, wishing that she believed it.