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Frida opened her mouth to protest, but Mirrie held up a hand to silence her. This was so out of character that Frida’s words dried on her tongue.

“Your whole family has always been kind. Ever since my parents passed away. There has been no barrier between us. Tristan and Jonah are like brothers to me. You, Isabella and Esme are as sisters. But in truth, I am not one of you.” A log cracked in the fire, as if giving emphasis to her words.

“You are,” Frida said, staunchly.

“Nay, I am not,” Mirrie persisted. “Truly, the day you asked me to accompany you to live a quiet life in Ember Hall was a blessing to me.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling fire and a faint rattle of wind blowing down the chimney. Frida wanted to believe her, but back then she had been so intent on getting her way that she had never stopped to consider why Mirrie had agreed to her wild proposal so quickly.

“Truly?”

Mirrie nodded, sincerity shining from her eyes. “I had no wish to stand in the shadows, watching the rest of you marry and move on, leaving me as a burden to your parents.”

“You would never be a burden,” Frida cried out, her denial ringing up to the rafters of the hall. A hound dozing by the fire opened one eye and thumped his tail upon the wooden floor.

Mirrie inclined her head. “They would never say such a thing, I know. But isn’t it better this way? You and I can live useful lives. On our own terms.”

Frida’s heart lifted. “That is exactly what I want.”

“And I too.” Mirrie squeezed her hand again. “Though I will say this. My options have always been limited. But you are Lady Frida de Neville.”

Frida snorted. “You mean that men want me for my father’s coin?” She screwed up her face to show her disdain for the notion.

Mirrie leaned closer. “I mean that you carry a great name as well as a great fortune. You are clever and beautiful and gifted.” Frida snorted again, but Mirrie would not be dissuaded from her course.

“’Tis true, your dancing days may be over, but your future is still bright with possibility.

Should you ever decide to return to Wolvesley—”

“I never will.”

“You must do what is right for you,” Mirrie concluded softly.

“I never will return,” Frida repeated. “This is my life now. I will work hard and do whatever I must to ensure the good fortune of the estate. But I shall never marry.” She cleared her throat. “I mean it, Mirrie.”

Mirrie sat back in the tapestried chair. “Forgive me, Frida. I will not speak of this again.”

Frida nodded, not trusting herself to speak until the tight bars of tension in her chest eased. “I will go and gather some comfrey for my dear brother.” Her last words were laced with sarcasm, which Mirrie acknowledged with a lifted eyebrow.

“You are not enjoying Jonah’s company?”

“I am not enjoying his constant demands for attention.”

“He is afflicted,” Mirrie began.

“And we have all sympathised.” Frida’s voice rose higher. “I am sure the days are not easy for anyone born with a wasted leg. But Jonah has many blessings, which he declines to count.”

Mirrie looked down at her hands. “He has always lived in Tristan’s shadow.”

“Then he should go and stand somewhere else,” Frida retorted. She folded her arms, rigid with annoyance. “I too know what it is to live with pain.”

“You bear it bravely.” Her friend’s words were softly delivered and Frida felt some of the fight draining out of her.

“I bear it because I have no choice. And because I do not believe that anyone else should be made miserable by it.”

Mirrie’s mouth twitched. “Jonah does not have your strong will.”

“Aye, well.” Wind rattled down the chimney and Frida waved away a plume of smoke that billowed towards them. “He will have to strengthen his will if he wishes to remain here long.”

“Mayhap that is why God brought him to this beautiful place? So that he can learn to appreciate all that he has, rather than all he has not?”

Muffled, slightly uneven footsteps from the gallery above heralded the imminent arrival of Jonah, the object of their discussion. Whether he was sent to them by God or not, Frida was in no mood to converse with him just now.

She bent down to whisper in Mirrie’s ear. “If that is so, let us hope that he learns his lessons quickly.”

With a wink to acknowledge Mirrie’s hastily repressed smile, Frida swept from the hall as gracefully as her ankle would allow. Her stride shortened as she reached the vaulted kitchen, where Agnes was studding the day’s meat with thin slivers of freshly-cut garlic.

“Jonah is up and about,” she announced.

Agnes nodded. “He’ll be wanting a tray to break his fast.”

Frida took a deep breath and tasted smoke from the sputtering fire. “He will have to serve himself, like the rest of us. Don’t wait on him, Agnes.”

The old woman straightened up, her palms pressing against the small of her back. “Are those your orders, milady?”

“Those are my orders.” Frida grinned, suddenly carefree. She snatched up Mirrie’s basket from the table. “Is there anything you need from the herb garden?”

“Anything that this cold spell hasn’t already killed off you mean?” Agnes thought for a moment. “Rosemary, if any can be found.”

“I will dry whatever is left.” Frida plucked her cloak from a peg near the doorway. “Is it customary for the temperature to fall so low before Michaelmas?”

“Aye, winter comes upon us early this far north. That is why the farmers couldn’t welcome you and Miss Mirabel when you first arrived. They were busy with the harvest.”

“There is still the orchard crop to bring in.” Frida tied her cloak tightly with the basket hanging off her elbow, regretting once again the impulse that had driven her to declare she would see to the orchard crop herself.

“Mayhap you will need extra help?”

Frida grimaced. It seemed every day they moved further from her dream of a quiet, self-sufficient life. “I shall consider it.”

She nodded farewell and stepped out into the mist, squinting to make out the squat shapes of the wattle-and-daub barns across the courtyard.

Beyond those, silent figures moved atop the high battlements which her father had insisted on building around the outer edge of Ember Hall.

When Frida protested against fortifications in a home that had never been attacked, Angus, her father, had been quick to point out their proximity to the troubled Scottish border.

And the vulnerability of two women making a home without a father or husband’s protection.

His message was clear; if Frida did not agree to guards and a constant look-out at Ember Hall, then she would stay at Wolvesley where he could keep her safe.

Frida had reluctantly agreed, even though the presence of the guards interrupted the peace and healing she had hoped to find in her mother’s ancestral home.

They were protected by more than mere weaponry up here, amidst rolling hills and woodlands.

As a child, Frida had been able to feel the tangible pull of energy around the ancient standing stones nearby.

She knew, deep in her bones, that Ember Hall was a place of safety.

These soldiers, with their sharpened swords and heavy booted feet, disturbed the tranquillity.

But Frida knew enough about compromise to give up railing against those things she could not change. She had grown used to the guards now. Had even learned their names.

She pulled her cloak about her and walked through the mist to the small store where she kept her herbs and medicines.

The pungent scent of dried sage calmed her thoughts as she tied the mint into small bunches and strung them from the ceiling.

A quick glance at her orderly shelves confirmed they were well stocked; aside from the comfrey which she would go and gather.

Frida breathed deeply; the herb store was evidence she could act with order and purpose, even while everything seemed to be spiralling out of her control.

Nay, not everything, she corrected herself. She should not allow her younger brother to distress her so.

A smile flickered across her face as she remembered the secret nickname she and Tristan had once used for Jonah. The Scowler. It was still apt.

Frida carefully closed the door of the store and set off towards the herb garden, before abruptly changing course and walking with new purpose towards the standing stones. Mayhap there she would be able to think more clearly.

Two winters ago, she might have run. Certainly she would have lengthened her stride and revelled in her youth and strength. Now it took all of that same strength to walk at a moderate pace without limping. And when her foot twisted on a sharp stone, she couldn’t help a yelp of pain.

Hot tears filled her eyes and she allowed them to fall, knowing that she was unlikely to be observed.

Once a day, and no more, Frida allowed her carefully controlled emotions to surface.

But on this morn, the combination of salty tears and heavy mist was disorienting and she had to stop and look about her to recover her bearings.

Thankfully, the way to the standing stones was as familiar as the back of her hand.

She had been drawn to them ever since her parents first brought her to Ember Hall at the age of seven.

Frida gazed from left to right until she made out the familiar crooked tree which marked the start of the faint rabbit path she must follow.

Half-way up the hill was where she usually paused to glance at the sparkling waves breaking onto the small cove below, but today she could not see that far.

All about her was quiet and still, suspended in the mist. Frida was the only thing that moved; her breathing the only sound in her ears.

Her pulse picked up speed. Mayhap the magic was coming back to her?

Not real magic, the kind that could cast spells and enchantments.

But the magic Frida had grown up with: an energy which helped her sense the future and feel connected to the world, both past and present.

Losing her Sight had been like losing a limb.

It troubled her more than her damaged ankle; more than she would ever tell.

No one would understand anyway. This feeling of not being whole wasn’t something she could easily explain.

Frida dashed away her tears. She had jibed at Jonah’s self-pity and now was indulging in the same.

Seven tall granite stones loomed out of the mist towards her. On a sunny day, these stones exuded a golden hue, but now they were shrouded in white.

White. The colour of my fall.

Gritting her teeth, Frida stepped towards the nearest stone and placed a hand on its rough surface. Years earlier, her whole being could sense the vibrating energy emanating from the ancient site. Standing here she had felt both powerful and humbled; part of something far bigger than herself.

Now, she was just a tired woman touching a cold stone.

Her connection to the spiritual world had been severed.

She hung her head forward, allowing the surge of grief to pass. Her thick white hair fell forward like a cascading waterfall. Impossible to ignore.

Frida had never been vain. Since childhood, she’d known that her sister, Isabella, was the beauty in the family.

Consequently, the loss of her honey-blonde curls struck Frida as more of an inconvenience than a tragedy.

But there were times when she mourned their loss.

Times when the whiteness of her hair stood as a symbol for the colour that had gone from her life, ever since her accident.

My fall.

She always thought of it as her fall. Because accidents were, well, accidental. And with the benefit of hindsight, Frida could see that her own actions had set that terrible sequence of events in motion.

She had been blinded by love. Or by something. For a man she hardly knew.

Sir Callum Baine. A friend of Tristan’s. Just the thought of his name was enough to set her heart fluttering. Even now, when she had sworn to live her life free of men.

All men.

But most especially that one.

Wiping away her tears, she straightened her shoulders and tucked her wilful hair back behind her ears.

She should tie it in a plait and hide it beneath a bonnet—both for propriety’s sake and to save herself the embarrassment of curious stares.

But out here, Frida knew she was unlikely to be stared out by anything other than a frightened rabbit.

And moreover, she baulked at moulding herself to society’s whims. Hadn’t she moved to Ember Hall to get away from such rules and restrictions?

Aye. She had moved here for peace. And because Ember Hall was where she had always been most content, comfortable and able to be freely herself. None of that had changed; even though her ankle ached and her senses remained stubbornly ill-attuned to the spiritual.

Frida breathed deeply, dispelling her loss and grief; determined to be positive. Though her ankle pained her, she could still walk. She had the chance of a new, happy life and she was determined to grasp it.

Life. She had so nearly lost it with one fall from her spirited horse.

For three days she had lain unconscious, while her devastated parents summoned the best physicians and barber surgeons in the land to Wolvesley Castle.

They had shaved off her hair, perforated her skull, applied healing unguents and prayed on their knees.

When the sun began to set on the third day, the healers had all but given up, but then her eyes had opened.

Eyes that were still bright and cornflower blue, even though her hair, when it grew back, had changed from gold to white.

All she needed now was peace and time.

Time to make peace with what had happened.

Frida smoothed down her skirts and straightened her cloak. She would return to the litany of tasks which now formed the fabric of her days at Ember Hall. Quiet, predictable days which she cherished.

“Frida, come quickly.”

The shout came through the mist like an arrow. Frida whirled around to see Mirrie running up the hill towards her; her brown hair flying and her grey shawl gaping over her shoulders.

Mirrie who should be tucked up by the fire, keeping warm.

“Whatever is it?” she cried, walking as quickly as she could to greet her.

“Come quickly,” Mirrie repeated, gasping for breath. “A band of warriors have been spotted. And they’re coming straight for Ember Hall.”