Read Chapter 5: The Old Doctor's Advice

The knock came mid-morning, while Iona was still elbow-deep in the kennel records she'd inherited from the previous vet. She wiped her hands on a rag and found Dr. MacElroy on her doorstep, a wiry Border collie on a rope lead at his side. The dog's coat was dull, its ribs a quiet confession of neglect, and one ear hung at an odd angle—old scar tissue, thick as rope.

"Dr. MacElroy," Iona said, stepping aside. "Come in. Is it the dog?"

"Aye. She's not mine. Belongs to the MacDonald boy, but he's off to Aberdeen for the harvest, and she's taken a turn." He shuffled inside, bringing the smell of pipe tobacco and antiseptic with him. "I've done what I can for her—old wound's flared up, infection in the joint. But I'm seventy-four, and my hands aren't what they were. Thought a fresh pair of eyes might help."

Iona led the collie to the examination table and lifted her up gently. The dog whined but didn't resist, her eyes clouded with the patience of a creature who had learned that pain was simply part of the day. Iona palpated the scarred ear, felt the heat radiating from the base, and nodded.

"Abscess. We'll need to lance it and flush it. I can do that now, if you're willing to hold her."

Dr. MacElroy took the dog's head in his hands with a tenderness that surprised her, and Iona worked quickly. The collie barely flinched when the blade went in, and the pus that came out was thick and yellow, the smell of it filling the small room. Iona cleaned the wound, packed it, and gave the dog an injection of antibiotics.

"There," she said, stripping off her gloves. "She'll need a week of rest and another course of something. I'll have the tablets ready before you go."

But Dr. MacElroy wasn't looking at the dog anymore. His gaze had snagged on the silver locket at her throat, and his face had gone the colour of old paper.

"That's a striking thing," he said, his voice careful now. "Where did you get it?"

Iona touched the locket, a reflex now. "It was my mother's. She passed a few years ago. I only just found it."

"Your mother." He said the words slowly, as if tasting them. "And what was her name, if you don't mind an old man asking?"

Iona hesitated. Something in the way he was looking at her made her want to lie. "Maeve. Maeve MacRae."

Dr. MacElroy's jaw tightened. He looked at the locket again, then at her face, and Iona saw something flicker in his eyes—recognition, or fear, or both.

"You should not wear that openly," he said quietly. "Not in Lochraven. There are those who would ask questions you don't want to answer."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head, busying himself with the collar of the collie. "I knew your mother. A little. She was a quiet girl, always had her head in a book. She left the village when she was young—before I knew her properly. But I remember her." He paused. "And I remember that locket. She never took it off."

"You knew her?" Iona leaned forward, her heart hammering. "Can you tell me anything about her? About why she left?"

Dr. MacElroy was quiet for a long moment. The collie shifted on the table, and he stroked her head absently, his gaze distant.

"Your mother was a Blackwood," he said finally. "Born on that estate, same as her father before her. But she left when she was seventeen, and the Blackwoods—well. They don't speak of those who leave. It's as if they never existed."

"Why did she leave?"

The old man's eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw something raw there, something unguarded. "That's not my story to tell," he said. "And if you're wise, you'll not go digging for it. The Blackwoods have long memories, and they don't welcome strangers poking at their past."

"I'm not a stranger. I'm family."

"Are you?" He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "They don't know that yet. And when they find out, they'll make a decision about what you are to them. You'd better hope it's a kind one."

He helped the collie down from the table and took the leash from her hands. At the door, he paused.

"Dr. MacRae. That locket. Tuck it inside your shirt when you go out. And if anyone—anyone—asks about your mother's people, you tell them she was from Inverness. Do you understand?"

"Why would I lie about that?"

"Because the truth could get you killed." He said it flatly, without drama, and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him and leaving Iona alone in the sudden silence of her surgery.

She stood there for a long time, her hand wrapped around the locket. The silver felt warm against her palm, alive somehow, and she thought of her mother's face—the way it had clouded whenever anyone mentioned the Highlands, the way she'd refused to visit, the way she'd always changed the subject when Iona asked about her childhood.

There were letters. Her mother's letters, still unopened in the box on her bedside table. She'd been too afraid to read them, too afraid of what they might say.

She wasn't afraid anymore.

Iona was halfway to the door when she heard the knock—a different rhythm this time, three sharp raps that felt familiar. She opened it to find Lachlan Blackwood on her step, and behind him, on the gravel path, a large wooden crate.

"Iona." He looked worse than she'd seen him last—dark circles under his eyes, his jaw shadowed with stubble. But his voice was warm, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry to bother you. I know you've only just set up."

"What's in the crate?"

"Ravens." He gestured at the box. "A storm took down a nesting tree near the edge of the estate. The chicks survived, but the parents didn't. I found them this morning, half-starved."

Iona frowned. "Ravens. You brought me ravens."

"They're wild birds. I thought—" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed. "I didn't know who else to ask. You're the only vet in the village."

She looked at him, at the exhaustion etched into his features, at the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. The scarf he'd left behind was still folded on her table, and she could smell it from here—pine and something else, something animal and wild that made the hair on her arms stand up.

"Bring them in," she said.

The chicks were five of them, barely feathered, their beaks gaping and hungry. Iona checked each one carefully, finding fractures and dehydration but nothing fatal. Lachlan stood by the door as she worked, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"They'll need feeding every few hours," she said, setting the last chick back in its nest of straw. "I can do that here, but it'll be a lot of work."

"I can help. Bring food, stay—" He stopped himself, colour rising to his cheeks. "I mean, I can bring food. For the birds. If that's not—"

"It's fine." She smiled despite herself. "You can bring food for the birds. That's very generous of you."

He nodded, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The surgery was small, and he filled it more than he should have—all that height and breadth and restless energy, barely contained. She caught him looking at her again, and this time she knew what he was looking at.

The locket.

She'd forgotten to tuck it inside her shirt.

Lachlan's gaze was fixed on it, his face unreadable. The seconds stretched, and Iona felt the weight of the moment press down on her, heavy as the Highland sky.

"You asked me about that before," she said quietly. "You recognised it. I want to know why."

He opened his mouth to speak—then closed it again, shaking his head. "I should go. The mother—the birds. They'll need—" He was already moving toward the door, fumbling for the handle.

"Lachlan."

He stopped.

"My mother's name was Maeve Blackwood."

The silence that followed was sharp and absolute. Lachlan stood with his back to her, one hand on the doorframe, and she watched the muscles in his shoulders tighten beneath his shirt.

"That's not possible," he said, and there was something broken in his voice, something she hadn't heard before.

"It's true. I found her birth records. She was born on your estate—she was one of you. And I want to know why that terrifies you."

Lachlan turned. His eyes were amber in the dim light of the surgery, catching the sun slanting through the window, and for a moment Iona could have sworn she saw something wild behind them.

"Because it means," he said slowly, "that you're not a stranger to us after all. And that changes everything."

Before she could ask what he meant, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.