Page 2 of Following Her Highland Journey (The White Witch’s Apprentices #2)

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" N o!" Adair cried out as her jewel-green eyes shot open, air rushing into her lungs as she gasped for air, sweat soaking her skin and tangling her hair around her. Her chest heaved as she blindly sat up, scrambling around her, trying to work out where she was. Where were the guards? The storm? Where was Henry?

Someone nearby let out a low, sleepy groan at the sound of her shout, and Adair's heart slowed a little as she recognized the noise. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she turned her head to the bed next to hers and saw the sleeping figure there, turning her back, pulling the pillow over her ears and mumbling, "G'back tae sleep."

Fia. Sweet Fia, who shared her room, her work, and was, in Adair's heart, a sister. Adair remembered where she was now, safe and warm in the monastery that had become her hearth and home. She smiled faintly as she looked over at Fia, though she still waited for her own breathing to return to normal. The other girl was already fast asleep again. Maeve often said that Fia could sleep through a stampede, and having shared her room with her all these years, Adair had to agree.

Letting out a slow, uneasy breath, Adair lay back down on her soft pillow, wiping her eyes with the backs of her shaking hands. It was still dark outside, though here in the Highlands so early in the year that wasn't much indicator of the time. The sun had set around four hours after noon yesterday, and wouldn't rise again until closer to nine in the morning.

Some of the girls complained about the long hours of darkness in the winter. Kenzie, who had spent much of her life in lower climes, often wondered how they were meant to thrive at all with only seven hours of sun compared to seventeen of darkness, never mind the cold and the wet from the rain. But Adair didn't mind it. So long as the weather remained mild, and the wind stayed tame, she enjoyed the quiet darkness of the early winter mornings. It reminded her of the days and months and years spent with just her and her father, waking into a still world to feed the animals and tend the farm. By the time the sun rose in the Januaries of her childhood, she'd have already done most of a day's work.

Her fingers found the tight woven cord around her wrist, battered and worn with age. She knew that one day soon it would fall apart, and she would lose it forever, but she would not take it off. She remembered how excited she'd been the day her father had given it to her, the only 'jewelry' a man of his status could afford. He'd been torn from her so cruelly, and she would keep this part of him with her for as long as she could.

"Enough of this," she whispered to the air. Adair was not one for melancholy, not these days. She'd rebuilt herself and her life under the tutelage and care of Mor, or the White Witch as the healer was known in myth and legends of the Highlands around them. Mor had given her the chance to escape her past and the horrors that lay in it, and Adair had gladly accepted that chance.

Among her sisters, as she always thought of the other apprentices and those villagers and townsfolk who relied on her for aid, Adair was known for her lightness and easy cheer. The old merchant Duncan, who reminded Adair so much of her father that it almost hurt as much as it made her happy, called her the personification of sunshine. It was a lot to live up to, and Adair dedicated her every moment to making sure she did. There was too much darkness in this world, and while it still haunted her dreams, she would not allow it to overwhelm her waking life as well.

She lay there for a few more moments, tossing and turning as she tried to get comfortable again, before she sighed and conceded the truth—there would be no more sleep for her now. Soon after, the tower clock of the monastery sounded five bells. It was still too early to be awake, but Adair conceded that she would not sleep more now even if she wanted to. Sighing, she slipped out of bed, careful not to make too much sound and wake anyone as she did.

Adair couldn't see much in the darkness, but it didn't matter. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out the majority of shapes, and besides, she knew her room by heart. She slipped past the partition to where her small 'washroom' waited—a basin for washing, a small vanity table with a slightly-cracked mirror which Adair didn't have the heart to replace, and a tiny hooded candle-lantern which was just bright enough to see herself while still being dim enough not to wake anyone else behind the partition.

She sat at the vanity, coaxing the small flame to life and glancing at herself in the mirror. She looked the same as always, her long blonde hair slightly mussed from her sleep, her fair skin a little freckled even so late in the winter. She picked up her brush and set about combing her hair. Adair was not a vain woman, but she did love the golden locks she took such good care of. Her father had always told her she'd inherited her hair from her mother.

"Ye've got her beauty, me wee buttercup," her father had told her one night when she was around eleven or twelve years old. He was always so gentle when he combed her hair, as soft as any mother would have been even despite his farmer's hands. "Her shinin' hair that burned brighter than the sun itself. I swear she was Brigid the poet herself, and ye have the same heart, the same soul."

"I'm nae goddess, Da," Adair replied as she giggled at his silliness. "I'm nae queen. I'm just a farmer's lass wi' nae mam and nae clan."

Her father's nose had crinkled in the mirror, the surest sign of his displeasure. He never got angry in the way most men did, never threatening, but his disappointment was always somehow worse. "Ye're a queen, a poet, a goddess, an' more, love," he told her. "Yer blood, yer money, none of that matters. What matters is yer heart, and yers is as golden as yer hair. Swear ye'll never forget it."

"I willnae."

"I mean it, Adair. Yer heart an' soul is all ye get in this world. It's all I can give ye. Never let them take it from ye. Promise an old man ye'll never lose yer smile."

Adair had been a little frightened to hear him talk like this. She'd been too young then, to know that the disgusting new Laird had already taken note of her budding beauty, too young to know that in a few short years her life would be torn from her. But she knew her father was serious, and so she did the only thing she could. She smiled.

"I promise, Da," she told him. "I promise."

Adair breathed out slowly, blinking rapidly to rid her eyes of any tears that may be trying to form there. Even though the sorrow came, as it always did when she thought of what she'd lost, the memory made her smile too. She finished brushing her hair, her mind dancing with memories of the happy childhood she'd had despite the tragedies that had surrounded it, and by the time she was done, she felt almost cheerful.

That was good. That was who she wanted to be. Who she needed to be.

Adair's favorite task in the morning was feeding the chickens and goats that provided them with eggs and milk. They didn't keep many, but the animals were well-cared for and responded by providing them with an abundance. The nanny goat had recently birthed two kids, and while a nearby farm had offered to buy them, sweet Kenzie had begged Mor to allow them to be raised here with their parents, and after the girls had all agreed, their leader had relented. Adair was no stranger to the reality of farms—she had raised animals and knew of the natural cycle of life—but she had to admit that she'd grown attached to the animals and was glad the occasional meat for their meals remained anonymous.

After she'd scattered the chicken feed and collected a few eggs, she approached the goat pen. The billy goat watched her with distrustful eyes as he usually did while she filled their trough, his nanny goat and the kids still snoozing quietly nearby. Adair smiled as he let out a low, threatening baa .

"Baa to you too, sir," she told him, finishing her work. "Dinnae push yer luck. There's still time for ye tae be stew."

The goat turned his back, and Adair laughed. Silly creature. She was fond of him, though, despite his roughness. She admired a father who took care of his young.

"Be nice tae Fia when she comes tae milk the nanny later," she warned him. "She isnae as fond of ye as the rest of us, ye ken, and I already woke her once this mornin'."

The goat baaed again, and Adair grinned, then turned to head back inside the monastery. Since there was still an hour or so before the other girls started to rise, she figured she would get as much done as possible, taking advantage of the quiet. She'd already sorted the morning's herbs before heading out to feed the animals, and now she routed herself down to the kitchen. She wasn't on breakfast duty today, but since she'd managed to collect fresh ingredients and was up so early anyway, she thought she could prepare a nice surprise.

There was some day-old bread in the larder, which Sara had made yesterday, and a little of the nanny goat's milk. Perfect. On the days when her father had a good crop or a little better profit than usual, he used to make her the dish that the merchants called tostées dorées. She'd told Henry about it once, and he'd laughed, telling her he'd always known the dish as poor knights of Windsor, which seemed an absurd name to her.

As always, when she thought of Henry, she paused, not sure which of the swirl of emotions inside her would dominate. It warmed her heart to remember his smile, and for once, she let that win out over the agony of his loss. She hummed to herself as she prepared the mixture, cracking a few eggs into the bowl and whipping them together with the milk and a pinch of salt. She could practically hear Henry next to her as she sliced the bread into thick pieces and started a small flame under the pan to allow it to heat.

"No sugar? What's the point of poor knights for breakfast if ye're gonnae eat them without a bite of sweetness?"

"I'm plenty sweet enough," she said out loud, melting a little lard in the pan to make sure the slices would not stick. "That's what me Da always said. And besides, we're not all castle-dwellers tae be wastin' sugar so early in the mornin'."

"Ye could at least add some jam. I ken ye've got a bramble preserve here somewhere. Ye always telt me it was yer favorite."

"Jam! On egg bread! Ye heathen!" Once the pan was hot enough, Adair began dipping the first slice of bread into the egg mixture, allowing it to soak for a moment and ensuring it was fully covered, then dropped it into the pan. "A little honey at most . Jam, I ask ye!"

She carried on like this, frying each piece of dipped bread on both sides, chattering away to herself. Adair knew how the other girls would react if they knew she "talked" to Henry like this. They'd think she had an illness of the mind, like poor Annie Gilchrist in the village who couldn't leave her house anymore. It wasn't like that, though. Adair knew that Henry wasn't with her, knew he wasn't really talking to her. She just took comfort in the what if of it all.

"Ye can let me go, ye ken. It's all right tae let me go."

Adair scowled at that as she finished frying the third piece of bread and plopped it on the plate. Even her imagination was betraying her now! "Ye shut yer mouth," she scolded the thin air. "There's naught tae let go. I ken ye're alive, and one day I'll find ye again, and I'll give ye a piece of me mind."

There was no reply this time, not even in her imagination. Of course there wasn't. Adair had no idea if what she said was true, and in fact, it most likely wasn't. All evidence pointed toward Henry being dead, and having been dead for these five long years. But no matter how many times she thought of that, she couldn't believe it.

When she was done with the frying, she cleaned the pan and bowl and fetched some goat cheese from the larder. They didn't have much, but today felt like a special occasion for some reason—and besides, her father had always made his tostées with cheese. She hesitated for a moment, then with a sigh, collected two little jars, one with the remainder of their honey for the season, and the other she filled with her favorite bramble jam.

"Dinnae say a word," she warned the empty kitchen as she loaded it all on a tray. Above her, she heard the tell-tale movements that indicated the others were up and about, and soon enough all six of her sisters and Mor would be gathering for their meal. Maeve would be so relieved to be excused from breakfast duty for the day, and if Adair was honest, she and the rest would be pleased about it too.

Sure enough, when she arrived in their meal room, all of the girls and Mor were already gathered, Maeve heading for the door with the look of a woman heading to her execution. She gasped when she saw Adair approaching with the tray.

"Me savior!" Maeve cried. "Is that pain perdu?! Ye angel!"

Adair chuckled at the enthusiasm. "How many different names can one dish have?" she joked as she carried the tray in and placed it on the main table, to many appreciative noises from the rest. Maeve hurried past her down to the kitchen and returned not long after with a pile of plates, forks, and a carafe of water for drinking.

"Oh, it smells heavenly," Sara said brightly as everyone settled into their seats. "Me mam always used tae use our old bread tae make this at the end of the week."

Natalie beamed. "Oh! And ye brought the bramble jam! Me Da always used tae call me an odd duck when I wanted it with this."

Adair blinked at her once, then laughed again. "Have ye nae taste? Very well, there's cheese, honey, jam, and two slices a-piece. Help yerselves."

At the head of the table, Mor was gazing at her with an intense expression in her grey-blue eyes. The older woman had a way of looking into someone's soul, and sure enough, Mor asked, "And what's the occasion?"

"Can I nae make me family a nice breakfast without an occasion?" Adair asked as she pointedly cut slices of cheese for her own slices. "I just wanted tae treat us."

"Aye?" Mor asked, a perfect white eyebrow arched as she studied Adair. She didn't press any further, but just from the way she said it, Adair knew the conversation was not over.

Wrenching her thoughts away from that for a moment, Adair looked around at them all. Fia, with her loose wheat-colored braid, looked no worse for the wear for her 'rude awakening' that morning while she chewed her bread with no topping. Quirky Natalie with her dark curls was the only one who'd gone for the jam, while red-headed Maeve was spreading honey with enthusiasm.

"Pass the knife?" asked Kenzie, her bright chestnut hair already pulled back for the day, and she started to slice cheese upon her own plate, followed by Sara and the beautiful and exotic Vanora.

"At least ye three have sense," Adair teased.

There was a pause as everyone looked up at Mor, and then the world was turned upside down—as Mor reached for the jam.

Everyone burst into laughter, and Adair's heart warmed. Despite her past, despite the pain, this was her family now. And she knew that, no matter what, everything would be all right.

But a cold shiver ran down her spine as she heard Henry's voice in her ear once more. "I never thought of ye as naive. Keep yer eyes open."

Adair waved it off, a figment of her imagination, but a stone settled in her stomach, and she wondered now if it would ever truly leave.