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“J ust what do you think you’re doing, Catriona MacLeod?”

Cat froze in front of the large window of Baird’s Pub, the click of her boot heels over the cobbles falling silent. Saints above, that voice, like the ominous crack of rotted ice underfoot right before the frigid waters of Loch Dunvegan closed over your head.

She’d know it anywhere.

Why, oh why , of all the people she might have encountered today, did it have to be this one who’d sneaked up behind her? Perhaps if she remained still, the odious woman would go on about her business without—

“Well, girl? What have ye got to say for yourself?”

Cat muttered a curse at the thump of a walking stick striking the cobbles behind her. She knew that thump, and what it meant. She’d heard it dozens of times before.

Mrs. MacDonald was in a temper, and Cat was one of the woman’s favorite targets.

There was no avoiding the unpleasantness that was coming, so she sucked in a calming breath and turned, lifting her chin. “Mrs. MacDonald. How do you do?”

That question was, alas, destined to remain forever unanswered.

A pair of gray eyes icier than the leaden skies above narrowed on the lock of hair that had escaped Cat’s hood, the grizzled chin beneath them quivering with disgust, and a touch of fear.

A mark of the devil, that red hair. Only a century earlier the subtlest hint of it was enough to arouse suspicion, and it was a mere half a step from suspicions to accusations.

Her Great-great-aunt Elspeth could attest to that, although if family legend could be trusted, Aunt Elspeth hadn’t been entirely innocent.

But then the Murdoch women had always been a peculiar lot. Just ask anyone in Dunvegan. And she, Freya, and Sorcha had always been more Murdoch than they were MacLeod.

Aside from their red hair, of course. That was pure Rory.

But Rory was dead now, and her mother, as well, and not many of the villagers seemed to remember her mother’s kindness to them or the respect they’d once shown her father.

That had been before the incident . Since then, there wasn’t a soul in Dunvegan who hesitated to repeat the gossip and rumors about them or describe in breathless detail all the “strange doings” up at the castle.

It was astounding how quickly people could turn on you. Terrifying—

“You’ve not been in the village much, Catriona MacLeod.” Mrs. MacDonald’s cold gray gaze swept over her. “Weeks, by my reckoning.”

Weeks, yes. Eight of them, to be precise, although it felt as if a dozen lifetimes had unfolded since then. Eight weeks wasn’t long enough for Mrs. MacDonald, however. Not if the ugly twist of her lips was any indication.

But Cat dredged up a smile and nodded down at the marketing basket looped over her arm. “I’ve business with the Frasers.”

“Glynnis Fraser,” Mrs. MacDonald repeated, her tone flat.

Cat flinched. For pity’s sake, would she never learn discretion? It wasn’t as if she owed Agnes MacDonald an explanation for her business here.

Especially not when her business involved Glynnis Fraser.

Glynnis was a bit peculiar herself and occasionally roused the suspicions of the more distrustful among the good citizens of Dunvegan. No one dared breathe a word against her, as her brother was a well-respected gentleman who attended the Sunday service every week.

But even that wouldn’t stop Mrs. MacDonald from envisioning Cat and Glynnis getting up to all manner of wickedness together, from concocting deadly potions to casting curses and spells.

It wasn’t true, of course. At least, not about the spells and curses.

The potions, however—

“Are your sisters about?” Mrs. MacDonald cast a wary glance around them as if she expected Freya and Sorcha to appear out of thin air, leap upon her, and drag her off to the underworld, where a dozen devils with pitchforks awaited her.

“No. Not this time.” Not ever again, if she had her way, especially not Sorcha. She never brought her youngest sister to Dunvegan if it could be avoided.

It was only asking for trouble, as Sorcha was not known for her even temper.

“Mayhap you’ll want to get back to them soon.” Mrs. MacDonald glanced over Cat’s shoulder at the castle looming behind them, and a visible shudder ran through her. “Rain’s coming.”

Rain was alway s coming in Dunvegan, but Cat didn’t say so.

What was the point?

Instead, she offered Mrs. MacDonald a cursory nod before she stepped around her and continued down the High Street, the heels of her boots sliding on the slippery cobbles.

But the damage had been done. Mrs. MacDonald had snatched away any hope she’d had of conducting her errand in privacy as soon as she’d stopped Cat in the street.

Dozens of eyes were following her now, the gazes heavy on her back.

Mrs. MacDonald’s eyes, yes, but others as well, peering through windows as she made her way down the street, past Mr. Murray’s fishmonger’s, with Mrs. Murray’s nose pressed so tight to the glass as Cat passed that she risked a sliver in her nostril, and from there past Mr. Wood’s mercantile, and onwards to Fraser’s Apothecary at the end of the street.

Had it truly only been a handful of months since she’d enjoyed coming into the village and looked forward to marketing day? Only a handful of years since she’d skipped along at her mother’s side as they made their way down the High Street together?

There was precious little skipping these days. She was like a ghost now, creeping down the street, her hand wrapped so tightly around the handle of her basket that her fingertips had gone numb.

This was what came of tucking oneself into the darkest corner of one’s castle like a timid mouse, pink nose twitching in panic at the slightest disturbance from the terrifying world beyond the tight confines of its own safe little corner.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie , indeed.

She’d loved that poem, once upon a time, but that was before she’d become the quivering mouse. One would never guess to look at her now, with her hood pulled low over her face and her heartbeat thudding in her ears, that she’d once been fearless.

She’d been the cat, not the mouse, with her claws extended and a fierce hiss upon her lips.

But then cowardice begat cowardice, didn’t it?

The longer one spent shrinking into the shadows, the greater the threat of the light became.

Not that there was much light to be had in Dunvegan, especially at this time of year.

She’d lived all her twenty-three years on this island, yet she couldn’t recall a single winter as dark and dull as this one.

It was fitting, really.

She glanced neither right nor left but stared straight ahead as she made her way toward the apothecary at the end of the street, her face hidden inside the deep hood of her cloak.

It took ages, decades, but at last her trembling fingers closed around the iron doorknob, and then she was inside, the dim, cool interior closing blessedly around her, hiding her from all those prying eyes, and for a moment—an instant only—she let herself slump against the door at her back with a ragged sigh.

“Cat.” Glynnis emerged from behind the long wooden counter with her usual serene smile, but it dimmed as she came closer, and got a better look at Cat’s face through the gloom. “Oh, dear. Who was it this time?”

“Mrs. MacDonald.” Cat straightened and attempted a proper smile for Glynnis.

“She wasn’t pleased to see me, I’m afraid.

Eight weeks is not, it seems, a long enough absence if one is a MacLeod sister.

It’s lucky I didn’t bring Sorcha with me, or else that confrontation may well have ended with a stoning. ”

Or a burning stake.

“Ach, well, never mind her.” Glynnis took her arm. “I’ve all sorts of delightful things here, yours for the asking.”

Cat allowed herself to be led inside, her dark thoughts falling away as Glynnis led her toward the counter, underneath the dozens of herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling beams to the rows upon rows of small drawers and the flasks and glass jars lining the shelves, each containing their own little store of magic.

She drew in a deep breath. Mrs. MacDonald and all the prying eyes that had followed her here faded away as the scents of piney amber, sweet clover, and the bitter bite of wormwood all crowded into her nose at once.

Goodness, how she loved the apothecary! She always had done, even as a child. Some of her first memories were of standing at her mother’s side at this very counter, her fingers fisting her mother’s skirts, the acrid scent of camphor tickling her nose.

Of course, as a child, she hadn’t known why she was so drawn to this place—why it should feel as if she were coming home when she passed over the threshold.

But her mother had. She’d known it at once.

Peculiar, those MacLeod women —

“Now then, Cat.” Glynnis gave her a sunny smile. “What have you got for me today?”

“Some of my marigold tincture. I daresay you’re nearly out by now.

” Cat rummaged in her basket and withdrew a few small, squat jars, along with a bundle of long, spiky leaves with a string tied around the stems. “I brought you some aloe leaves, as well. This is likely the last batch I’ll have for you this season. ”

“Yes, I’ll have those.” Glynnis bustled about behind the counter, opening drawers and peering inside. “Do you have any of your maidenhair syrup? The cough has been rather bad this year, and the matrons in the village have been demanding the syrup.”

“I do, indeed. I flavored this batch with licorice extract. I can never get Sorcha to swallow anything bitter without sweetening it with licorice first.”

Glynnis laughed. “Miss Sorcha and her sweet tooth.”

Cat withdrew the half dozen bottles of syrup she’d prepared last night and set them down amid the little pile of leaves on top of the counter. “One of these is a gift for you, as I know you’re often troubled by a cough in the winter.”