“Ye daft goat, always causin’ trouble,” Celestia said as she came upon the young goat with its horns stuck in one of the fence posts. She stepped through the pen, her long skirt tied up high enough to avoid the dirt and dust.

She stepped up to the animal—her twin brothers called this one Clyde—and gripped his horns firmly at the base of his furry head and tugged. There was no give at all.

“What did the fence ever do to ye, Clyde?” she muttered to the animal, still trying to wiggle him loose.

She heard shouting and laugher coming from the woods behind her family’s home, from the footpath leading through the woods to the village. Turning, she saw her young brothers, Chester and Hugo, laughing and running into the yard.

She let go of the goat and grimaced, frustration filling her chest. “What have ye two done now?” she called to them.

The boys’ smiles slipped from their faces when they saw Celestia.

“Nothin’ bad, daenae worry!” Chester said loud enough for her to hear. Behind him, Hugo’s face doubled over in laughter.

“Get wee Clyde unstuck, please. And when you’re done with that, refill the pigs’ feed and come inside for lunch,” she said, brushing the dirt from her palms onto her apron.

“Aye, mistress,” Hugo said solemnly and sarcastically, but as soon as she turned her back, she heard the twins snickering as quietly as they could.

Back in the house, all was quiet. She walked down the short hallway to her younger sister’s bedroom. She knocked but didn’t wait for Auralia to answer before opening the door. The room was bright, the shutters had been thrown open since this morning. She found her sister nestled in her bed with a book.

“It’s nearly midday, will ye get out of bed to help me with lunch?” Celestia said, pushing the bedroom door open all the way. She picked up the pile of skirts that lay on the floor and turned to her sister. “Get the kettle on and start makin’ some porridge, please.”

“Porridge again?” Auralia said, peering over the top of her book.

A pang of guilt struck Celestia’s heart at her sister’s words. Porridge had become a main form of sustenance for the McLean family since her father first fell ill. It was one of the ways Celestia tried saving money due to her father barely being able to work.

“Go ahead and see if there are any eggs in the chicken coop,” Celestia said, forcing a small grin.

“But…what about sellin’ them at the market this week?”

“The chickens will lay more eggs by then, daenae worry,” Celestia said, before going to check on her father. He was at the end of the hallway, in the main bedroom.

This time she waited for a response when she knocked on his door.

“Come in,” he said, his voice hoarse. He had always been a soft-spoken man despite his great ability to persuade clients and buyers in his line of work, but now his voice was always weak sounding.

Celestia opened the door slowly, partially not wanting to look upon her father’s features. He had seemingly wasted away in the last three moons, and it was difficult to look at him. The village healer was in and out of their home weekly, tending to him, but he never got better. Just last week, the healer told them that their father didn’t have long. Maybe three months, and if they were lucky, then half a year.

“Da, do ye need anythin’ before lunch?” she asked, stepping into the room. She looked to see if the fire was still burning from this morning; it was.

She finally looked at her father. The covers were bundled up to his chest, and he was still wearing his favorite thick woolen winter jumper. And like Auralia, he had his nose in a book.

“Can ye open me window? It’s a wee bit dark in here; the words are hard to make out,” he said, flipping to the next page.

She was hesitant, but she knew the sunlight and fresh air would be good for him. “Only for a wee bit, then.” She pulled the curtains aside, dustier than she would have liked, and pushed open the shutters. The view was of the front yard, and the path that led to the main road—which would take one either north to Castle Ferguson or south to the village.

Their house, the McLean homestead, was on the village outskirts in the woods. Her father was a well-known and respected whisky merchant and had purchased a fair bit of land when he was young. He always said he loved dealing with people but didn’t like seeing them all the time.

“Lunch will be ready soon. De ye want me to bring it in to ye?” Celestia asked, turning to look at her father. He was smiling at her, enjoying the beam of sunlight that had fallen over the bed.

“I’d like to take lunch outside, enjoy the sun while I can,” he said.

Celestia nodded. “Aye, I’ll send in the twins to help ye out of bed.”

He nodded and Celestia made her way back out to the hallway and into the kitchen. Auralia was standing over the small fireplace that lined the wall stirring the pot of porridge over the steel griddle her father had made years ago, her book just far enough away not to catch fire.

She turned at the sound of Celestia’s footsteps on the flagstones. “Almost done.”

Celestia was about to thank her when someone pounded on the front door. Both sisters looked at each other, Auralia’s eyes wide, Celestia’s heart frozen. They both hoped it wouldn’t be debt collectors or one of their father’s clients. She turned toward the door, stopping in front of the mirror to tuck a few stray strands of blonde hair back into her low bun. There were bits of dirt on her cheeks from trying to free the goat earlier.

The pounding came again, louder this time, more insistent.

“I’m comin’!” she shouted.

She braced herself for the berating she was sure Gavin was about to deliver and pulled open the heavy oak front door. Instead of Gavin’s old, sun-damaged face she was met with the tall figure of the young chief of Clan Moore.

Celestia eyed him, stunned as she took him in. Chief Anthony Moore wore well-polished riding books, his plaid perfectly tucked and pinned, his dark, almost black curly hair fixed with a bonnet. She was irritatingly awestruck by how handsome he looked in the late-morning light.

She forced herself to blink, scolding herself for her thoughts. How was it that he made butterflies appear in her stomach after he’d been nothing but a snobbish prat to her their entire lives?

She looked once more at him, taking in his dark eyelashes that framed his dark green eyes.

“Good day, Mistress,” he said. He attempted a smile.

“Good day to you, m’laird,” she replied, such formalities felt strange after a lifetime of knowing one another. “What do I owe the pleasure of ye on our humble doorstep?”

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