Frae crept to the back door. There was a small iron grill with a sliding panel built in the upper wood—a peeping window—which was a little too high for Frae’s line of vision, but if she raised up on her toes, she would be able to see out of it. She held her breath, her hands suddenly clammy as she worked to unlock the narrow panel, sliding it back until she could taste fresh air and see the constellations glittering like crystals in the sky.
She raised up on the balls of her feet and peered through the narrow opening.
She saw the horse instantly. It stood only a stone’s throw away, grazing in the garden. It was huge and beautiful, tacked with saddle and bridle, the silver buckles winking in the starlight.
Then it must have a rider, she thought, her eyes sweeping the garden.
He could have been a statue standing in the herbs, etched in moonlight. He stood facing the house, staring in Frae’s direction.
She dropped down, heart beating wildly in her chest, but then realized he probably couldn’t see her, not through the dark shadows that draped the backside of the cottage.
She dared to peep again.
She couldn’t fully make out the features of his face, but she saw the woad tattoos that marked his forearms and the backs of his hands. She saw the plaid that was draped across his chest and knew it would be blue in color. A sword was sheathed at his belt.
Frae panicked and slid the panel. It shut with a click, a quiet sound but in that midnight moment it was horribly loud to her and she cowered, slowly backing away from the door.
What was the first rule? The first was to be silent. Don’t make a noise if they come.
She darted to Jack’s room, throwing his door open.
“Jack!” she cried, but her voice had withered. It came out nothing more than a rasp and Frae hurried to his bedside. “Jack, wake up!”
“Mm?” He rolled over. “Where should we sing?”
Frae blinked, realized he was sleep-talking. She shook his shoulder, adamant.
“Jack!”
He sat forward, reached out to trace her face in the dark. His voice was thick but lucid as he said her name. “Frae?”
“There’s a Breccan in our backyard,” she whispered.
Her brother nearly knocked her over as he lurched out of bed. He strode into the common room, Frae right behind him, twisting her hands together as Jack stood at the back door and opened the sliding panel.
She waited, holding her breath. The moonlight doused Jack’s face in silver as he studied the yard. It felt like an eternity had passed before he looked at Frae and whispered, “I don’t see anyone. Where was he?”
“He was right there standing in the herbs! He was looking at the house. His horse was eating our vegetables.” She hurried to his side and peered through the grate.
Jack spoke truth. The Breccan and his horse were gone.
Both relieved and disappointed, Frae slumped against the door, wondering if she had imagined it.
“Was there just one of them, Frae?”
She let out a quivering breath. “I … yes. I think so.”
“Where does Mum keep the sword?”
“In her bedroom, in the oaken chest.”
“Will you get it for me?”
Frae nodded and retreated back to the bedroom, feeling her way to the chest in the corner. Mirin still slumbered, and Frae sorted through the weapons gathered within the chest—a quiver of arrows, a bow made of yew wood, and the broadsword in its leather scabbard. Though it was dusty and dull from disuse, Frae secretly hoped Mirin would give the blade to her one day.
When Frae returned to the common room, sword in hand, she saw that Jack had opened the back door and was standing on the threshold, staring boldly into the yard.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him. “The second rule is to stay inside, lock the doors, and wait for the East Guard to come!”
“Thank you, sister,” Jack said, taking the sword from her. “I’m going to look through the yard, just to make sure no one is here. Go wake Mum and stay with her, do you hear me, Frae?”
His voice was stern, and Frae nodded, wide eyed.
She listened as Jack unsheathed the sword; she could see the blade drink the moonlight, and the moment her brother stepped into the yard, she panicked again.
“Jack! Please stay inside,” she begged, even though she felt a strong urge to follow him.
Jack only spun on his heel in the dirt, lifting a forefinger to his lips.
The first rule. Don’t make a sound.
Frae swallowed the knot in her throat and watched as Jack silently stepped through the garden, searching. She strained her eyes in the dark as she watched him, anxious until she heard Mirin’s soothing voice speak behind her.
“It’ll be all right, Frae.”
She jumped and turned to see her mother directly behind her, her eyes wide as she, too, watched Jack move through the garden.
“I saw a horse and a man in the yard,” Frae whispered, and Mirin’s gaze flickered down to hers. “He was a Breccan.”
“Just now?”
“A few moments ago, Mum.”
Mirin stepped closer and laid her hands on Frae’s shoulders, and it made Frae feel safer. They both continued to watch Jack walk the perimeter of the yard and Frae finally noticed it—the gate was sitting open, groaning in the sudden gust of wind. That was one of her final chores of the day—to ensure all of the gates were closed.
“The gate!” she cried just as Jack approached it. “Mum, the gate’s open!”
“I see it too, Frae.”
“Jack will close it, won’t he?” Frae said, but then to her horror, her brother stepped through it, and she realized he was about to walk down the hill, out of sight. “Jack! Jack! Come back!”
She was screaming and didn’t even know that she was until Mirin knelt and framed Frae’s face in her cold hands.
“We must be quiet, Frae. Remember the rules? Jack will be fine. All of us will be fine. We are safe here, but you must be quiet.”
Frae nodded, but her breaths were rapid again, and she felt light-headed.
“Come, let’s make a cup of tea and rouse the fire while we wait for your brother.” Mirin shut the back door, but she didn’t lock it, and Frae felt torn as she followed her mother to the hearth.
Mirin threw a log on the coals and stirred a tired flame to life. Frae struggled to put the tea leaves in the strainer and carry the kettle to the hearth. The water was just beginning to boil when Jack returned, bounding in through the back door, his hair tangled, his face flushed. There was a wild, angry gleam in his eyes.
“Jack?” Mirin prompted.
“I counted ten of them,” he said, grabbing his boots. He stood on one foot and struggled to knot the tethers up to his knees. “They’re riding along the valley floor by the river, following the tree line to the north. To the Elliotts’ croft, I believe.”
“Are they going to come here, Jack?” Frae asked, tremulous.
“No, Frae. They’ve passed us by. We’re safe.”
But there had been that one Breccan and his horse, Frae thought with a perplexed frown. What had he been doing? She was certain she hadn’t imagined him.
“And where are you going, Jack?” Mirin asked in a measured tone. As if she felt nothing—no fear, no relief, no worry.