Page 72 of The Violet Raven

Once we’re out of earshot, Saoirse releases me and turns, arms crossed, her expression as pointed as a blade. “I saw him take ya back there,” she says, her voice lowering. “And so did Finn.”

My stomach twists at the mention of Finn, a sharp pang cutting through the haze of the evening. Tension is coiled tight beneath my skin—and now, the thought of his disappointment feels like a blow to my stomach. “I wasn’t—nothing happened,” I mutter, the words tasting hollow, defensive. Too fast. Too guilty.

Saoirse exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “Ah, love, I know ya. And ya know I love ya, but after tonight…”

“I know,” I reply quickly, cutting her off. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She scoffs, her voice tight. “Ya weren’t. Yer mind’s muddled by drink, and he should’ve known better.”

“He didn’t—” I start, but she cuts me off with a look.

“Don’t.” Her voice is firm, but not unkind. “Don’t make excuses for him.”

Saoirse watches me for a beat longer, then exhales again—this time softer, letting the tension go with it. Her tone shifts, light but still laced with care.

“Come on now,” she says, nudging my arm. “One more dance before we both fall into bed, aye? Let’s not waste the music.”

I huff a quiet laugh, more breath than joy.

There’s something about Marcus—a pull I can’t explain. It feels as if two forces are tearing at my soul. One whispers to lean in, the other screams at me to run. My thoughts churn, a storm I can’t quiet, my body caught in its turbulent centre.

Finn wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t have seen the tension in my shoulders or the way my breath caught at the thought of my family’s disdain.

Wouldn’t have felt the guilt coiled tight in my chest, or the way Marcus’s nearness leaves me teetering on the edge of something I don’t fully understand.

We step back into the glow of the bonfire. The lively music and cheerful clamour of the ceilidh wraps around me like a lifeline. I cling to Saoirse’s arm—her presence grounding me, even as my thoughts drift back to the chaos still brewing inside me.

14

The Last Dawn of Innocence

Triona

Friday, 2 May 1823

The morning air bites against my skin as the as the sky above bruises with the first light of dawn. Still rubbing away the haze of sleep, I step outside, pulling my shawl closer.

And there he is.

Standing with his back to me, silhouetted against the silver-washed fields, his stance as unmovable as the mountains beyond. Something in me exhales. Relief rises—unexpected, quiet, and sharp. In the hush of morning, with everything still unsettled, his presence feels like the only thing that hasn’t shifted.

“Finn,” I call out, my voice barely a breath in the lingering fog. He doesn’t turn, but I follow the weight of my own words, unwilling to let them die in the mist between us. “I wanted to say something. About what you might have seen last night.”

He tenses and looks over his shoulder, gaze sharp as broken glass. “Triona, you owe me nothin’.” The tone of his voice holds none of his usual warmth.

“But—”

“But nothin’, Triona. Leave it alone.”

His words are rough and cutting. My cheeks flush with something akin to shame. The ache rises sharp in my chest, but I press on, even as his coldness sets me on edge.

“Finn, please,” I murmur, my words catching like brambles. “I only want to explain—”

“Enough!” His words hit like a lash. “I’m not yer brother. I’m not gonna speak on who you should or shouldna talk to, even if I agree with Callan.”

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “It sounds as if you do have issue with my happenings that need discussing.”

“Triona,” He warns with a voice as biting as a winter’s breeze. “I said to leave it alone. Stop tryin’ to provoke an argument.”