Page 14 of The Violet Raven

“Come here to me, ya little rogue!” she calls.

Rolling my eyes but unable to keep the smile off my face, I oblige. Saoirse’s slender arms wrap around me in a bone-crushing hug.

“What’s wrong with you two? Squeezing me like that—are you trying to snap me in half?”

Saoirse and Dealla chuckle in unison.

“Eamon, get in here before she slithers away on us again!” Saoirse calls out with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Eamon steps forward, the faint blush creeping up his cheeks unmistakable. He wraps his arms around both of us with a sheepish grin.

Saoirse and Eamon share the same striking features—long waves of fiery red hair, piercing green eyes, soft Irish lilt’s, tall statures—but their differences couldn’t be clearer. Saoirse is bold, wild as a fox, the kind to dance barefoot in the rain just for the hell of it. Eamon, though, carries his past more quietly, careful where she is reckless, measured where she is free.

Their past still lingers like a shadow. They arrived at our home from Ireland four years ago, carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weight of their history. My father caught Saoirse trying to steal from us in the dead of night. Instead of punishing her, he saw through the desperation in her eyes and offered them a place to stay. In a world where others would have condemned them, he gave them solace.

Saoirse wasted no time making herself at home, charming her way into all our hearts. Eamon, though—Eamon took time. He was a hard book to read, quiet and cautious. As Dealla had done for me, I earned his trust, piece by piece.

“Ye’ve been missed, Triona,” Eamon says warmly, pulling back but leaving a hand on my forearm.

I smirk. “By you… or my parents?”

His eyes widen slightly, and his blush deepens. “Teasing Eamon,” I say with a wink.

Behind me, Saoirse and Dealla are already focused on Casey and Callan, who are unloading our belongings.

“I missed you all so much,” I mutter, half to myself, “but never tell a soul.”

Eamon chuckles, his laughter soft and genuine. “It will remain our little secret.”

“Where are my parents?” I ask.

Eamon glances over my shoulder toward Saoirse and Dealla, hesitating. They exchange looks before deliberately turning their backs on me.

“They’re entertainin’ someone,” Eamon finally admits, his tone uncertain.

“Someone?” I raise an eyebrow, making it clear I expect more of an answer.

He shrugs playfully, his expression carefully neutral. “Ye’ll have to see for yerself. I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”

“Triona, your ma says to come in from the back,” Saoirse calls, smirking over her shoulder.

I roll my eyes at her dramatic tone but laugh as she adds, “Lest ya drag all that muck through yer dear ma’s entryway.”

Pressing a quick kiss to Eamon’s cheek, I dart toward the house.

But before I step inside, there’s someone else I need to see. Someone who’s been waiting far too long for me to come home.

This late into spring, patches of wildflowers—some of sea pink, muted purple, and heather—dot the grassy slopes, offering subtle bursts of colour against the heavy greens and browns of the far-off landscape. The faint echo of waves crashing in the distance still reaches my ears, and the salty tang of the sea lingers in the air, ever-present.

Ancient stone walls, weathered by centuries of harsh winds and relentless rain, cross over the fields around our home. These walls mark old boundaries that once divided the land. These older stonewalls lead to the ruins of Old Keiss Castle, where our ancestors lived before it succumbed to the forces of time and weather. An attack many years ago destroyed the other half of the castle.

To the north, just beyond the sheep that graze lazily in the open meadows, the land flattens out gradually, leading to the village of Keiss. It’s a small, quiet settlement with traditional stone cottages and winding roads. The people who reside in this village are more like family than neighbours; many work closely with my parents. Our whiskey business, along with my father’s trading endeavours, help to sustain the village. Without the Sinclairs rebuilding our ancestral home after the fall of 1698, Keiss might not even exist today.

I approach the stables quietly, taking my time as I run my hand along the weathered wooden exterior. I know it’s no use, though—my special companion is already awake and moving. From the sounds of it, he’s been waiting for me for quite some time.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I unlatch the door. The familiar smell of hay and leather greets me, along with the soft nickering of the horses.

“Good day, my lovelies!” I call out softly, excitement building as I move further inside. In the far corner, a flash of pristine white hair glistens like moonlight against a sleek white coat.