My hands tremble as I pace the tower bedroom for the hundredth time, my footsteps echoing off stone walls that have witnessed centuries of drama but surely never anything this absurd. The portraits of stern-faced Scottish lords seem to judge my life choices as I stomp past them. Even Finbarr has taken shelter under the massive four-poster, only his judgmental green eyes visible as he watches me wear a path in the floor.
"This is insane," I tell him. She blinks slowly, unimpressed.
Myles is packing his bags right now, and it's all my fault. Myles, who snuck me phone calls to Hope and Grams when I was crying myself to sleep. Myles, who remembers my weird pregnancy cravings for haggis and strawberry jam. Myles, who's been Samuil's right hand through god knows how many riots and wars and bus
