Read Chapter 6: Invitation to the Estate

The invitation arrived on thick cream paper, delivered by a boy on a bicycle who barely waited for Iona to take it from his hand before pedaling away. She stood in her cottage doorway in her dressing gown, the morning mist curling around her ankles, and read the elegant script twice before she believed it.

*The Blackwood family requests the pleasure of Dr. Iona MacRae's company at dinner this evening, seven o'clock. Formal attire not required. Transportation will be provided.*

There was no mention of a reason. No mention of Lachlan. Only the embossed tree-and-crescent crest at the top of the page, identical to the one inside her locket.

Iona touched the silver at her throat. She had not taken the locket off since finding it, despite Dr. MacElroy's warning. The metal held her mother's warmth, or so she told herself. The truth was simpler: it was all she had left of Maeve, and she was not ready to put it away.

She spent the day telling herself she would not go. The Blackwoods were dangerous. Lachlan Blackwood had fled her cottage twice, pale and shaken, muttering about things changing. His grandmother—if the cold, regal woman in Gareth's stories was the Lady of the estate—would hardly welcome a stranger poking at family secrets.

But at quarter to seven, when a black Range Rover pulled up outside her cottage, Iona was waiting by the door in her best dark dress and a pair of boots that had seen better days.

The driver was a young man with a flat cap and a face that gave nothing away. He opened the door for her, waited until she was settled, and drove in silence along the loch road. The evening light painted the water gold and violet, and the mountains rose dark against the sky, and Iona found herself gripping the edge of her seat as the gates of Blackwood Estate swung open without a sound.

The house was larger than she remembered from the frantic call about the colicky mare. In the dusk, its grey stone walls seemed to absorb the last of the light, and the tall windows glowed amber like watchful eyes. The Range Rover crunched to a stop before the main door, and it opened before the driver could reach it.

Lachlan stood in the doorway, and for a moment Iona forgot to breathe.

He wore a dark jacket over a white shirt, open at the collar, and his hair was brushed back from his face. The exhaustion she had seen on the moor was gone, replaced by something careful and watchful. His eyes caught the light as he stepped forward—amber, she noticed again, almost gold in the lamplight.

"Iona." He said her name like he was testing it. "Thank you for coming."

"You sent the invitation."

"I did." He held her gaze. "Though I'm not entirely sure it was wise."

"Then why ask me?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, and stepped aside to let her pass. "Because my grandmother insisted. And because I wanted to see you again."

The hall was cavernous, hung with portraits that watched her as she walked. Lachlan led her past a staircase with a carved banister worn smooth by generations of hands, into a drawing room where a fire roared in a hearth the size of her entire cottage. The woman standing before it turned as they entered.

Lady Isobel Blackwood was not old so much as ancient, her face a map of fine lines and sharp angles. She wore black, as though in permanent mourning, and her white hair was pinned so tightly it seemed to pull her features back. Her eyes, when they found Iona's, were the same amber as Lachlan's—but where his held warmth, hers held the cold of a winter moon.

"So this is the girl." Her voice was paper-thin but cut cleanly. "The new veterinarian."

"Dr. Iona MacRae." Iona stepped forward and offered her hand. "Thank you for the invitation, Lady Blackwood."

Isobel looked at Iona's outstretched hand as though it were a dead thing, then took it briefly. Her skin was dry and cold. "You came alone."

"I did."

"Good. We have little enough to hide from the village as it is." Isobel turned and settled into a high-backed chair by the fire, gesturing at a seat opposite. "Sit. Lachlan, pour the wine."

The dinner was a strange, meticulous affair. A woman in a grey uniform served courses Iona could not name—delicate things arranged like art on white plates—while Lady Isobel asked questions that felt like scalpels.

"Your father was a MacRae?"

"Yes. From Glasgow." Iona cut into a piece of venison that melted on her tongue. "He worked in construction."

"And your mother?"

Iona paused, the fork halfway to her mouth. Lachlan's hand tightened around his glass.

"My mother was a lovely person. She passed away a few years ago."

"From where, originally?" Isobel's eyes did not leave Iona's face. "I asked where she was from."

"Glasgow. They met there." The lie tasted thin, but Iona held the old woman's gaze. Dr. MacElroy's warning echoed in her head: *claim she was from Inverness.* She had managed worse.

Isobel smiled, and it did not reach her eyes. "Interesting. There was a MacRae girl who worked for us once, many years ago. A servant's child. Perhaps your mother was related."

Iona's jaw tightened. The locket felt heavy against her chest, hot as if it were accusing her. "I wouldn't know."

"No. I suppose you wouldn't." Isobel set down her fork and turned to Lachlan. "The estate is losing stock to the winter. The shepherd mentioned wolves again. We should arrange a cull before the next moon."

Lachlan's face went very still. "I'll speak to the keeper."

"Do that." Isobel turned back to Iona, and the coldness in her eyes had a new edge. "You have a fine profession, Dr. MacRae. Healing creatures. It suits a woman of modest means. Do you plan to stay in Lochraven long?"

"I don't know yet." Iona set her own fork down, her appetite gone. "It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether the village wants me."

Isobel laughed—a dry sound, like paper crumpling. "The village will want anyone who fixes their sick sheep. It's the Blackwoods you must worry about." She rose, and the servant appeared as if summoned. "Lachlan, show our guest the gallery. I find I'm tired."

Iona stayed seated until Isobel had left the room, then let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Lachlan stood beside her, and when she looked up, his expression was apologetic.

"I'm sorry. She's..."

"Terrible?" Iona offered.

"Hospital." A corner of his mouth twitched. "She thinks politeness is a weakness."

"The portraits. Is that really necessary?"

"She wants me to keep an eye on you." Lachlan's voice was low as he led her toward a door at the end of the drawing room. "She fears what you might see."

"What would I see?"

He did not answer. He pushed open the door, and they entered a long gallery lined with paintings that caught the low lamplight. Blackwoods, generation after generation, with the same sharp jaw and amber eyes. Iona walked slowly, aware of Lachlan close behind her, until she stopped before a portrait near the far end.

The woman in the painting was young, perhaps twenty, with dark hair in a loose braid and a face that was startlingly familiar. She wore a plain grey dress, and at her throat hung a silver locket on a fine chain. The same locket. The same chain.

"That's the one." Iona heard her own voice as if from a distance. "She's wearing it."

Lachlan came to stand beside her. He was close enough that she could smell woodsmoke and rain on his jacket. "That's Clara Blackwood. My great-great-aunt. She left the estate when she was young—ran away, from what I'm told. No one ever knew where she went."

Iona stared at the painted face. The woman's eyes were not amber like the others. They were grey-green, the color of the loch in a storm.

Her own eyes.

"She was disowned," Lachlan continued quietly. "Her name was struck from the family records. It's as if she never existed."

"Except she did." Iona's hand went to her locket, touching the worn silver. "She existed. She had children. Grandchildren."

Lachlan turned to face her, and his amber eyes were full of something that looked like grief. "Iona. I didn't know. When I saw your mother's locket, when you told me her name—I thought you were here to finish something. To claim what was taken."

"I'm not here to claim anything. I didn't even know the Blackwoods existed until I moved here."

"But now you do." He reached for her hand, then stopped himself, his fingers hovering close enough that she felt the heat of him. "And now you know that your blood is in this house. That Clara's blood is in you."

The portrait watched them, her painted smile neither warm nor cold, and Iona felt the weight of generations settle across her shoulders.

"I should go." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "The driver—"

"I'll walk you to the car." Lachlan moved past her, and as he did, his voice dropped to something barely audible. "Iona. Please don't come back here. Not until the new moon has passed."

She stopped. Turned. "Why?"

He looked at her as if the question itself caused him pain. "Because after the moon, I'll have more answers. And I want—" He swallowed. "I want to give them to you whole."

He walked her to the Range Rover, opened her door, and stood in the gravel until the taillights faded into the dark. Iona pressed her hand to the locket through her dress and felt it grow warm against her skin, as if Clara herself were telling her something she could not yet hear.