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Chapter Text

The first thing I noticed as I finally regained consciousness was the warmth of the sun on my skin. The weather had been quite poor when we had reached the abandoned cottage at the bottom of Craig na Dun the previous evening... No, the weather had been quite poor when we had reached the cottage 200 years ago. 200 years ago... Two centuries now separated me from my husband, my Jamie. It wasn’t the first time we had been separated since we had wed, there had been the ordeal at Wentworth and his time at the Bastille when we nearly lost Faith, but this time I knew for sure he was gone. My husband was dead. He went back and died on the moors of Culloden after making sure we were safe, back in my own time. Such a selfless act from such an honourable man... I loved him and hated him at the same time. Why couldn’t he be selfish for once? Why had he made me promise to come back to my own time?

“Mama?”

Faith was sitting on the ground, tucked in a Fraser’s plaid, playing with Sawny. Seeing the wooden snake brought back the memory of Jamie’s teary goodbye to our daughter. It had all started the night Dougal had died, the night Jamie had killed him to protect me... Murtagh’s disappearance should have raised my suspicions, but everything was going so fast... Before I could even register anything, Jamie had brought me to the cottage where we had first met and Murtagh had brought our daughter from Lallybroch. That’s when I finally put all the pieces together. Jamie was sending us back to my time, for my sake, for Faith’s sake and for our unborn child. The news of my newfound pregnancy was bittersweet. I should have been ecstatic, but how could I be when my husband was sending us away and planning to die?

“Mama sad?”

I forced a smile before hugging my small daughter, inhaling her sweet scent. The plaid had been Jamie’s and it still smelled like him.

“Come, darling. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

We made quite the duo, walking along the road to Inverness. Faith kept herself occupied by singing French comptines that Fergus taught her. Fergus... My brave little French boy... A wave of guilt invaded me at the thought that he would be all alone...

“Mama, we see Da and Fewgus?”

I couldn’t lie to my daughter and yet I couldn’t tell her the truth either. It would already be hard enough to explain to her about the modern era we were now in, how could I tell her she would never see them again?
“Mama, look! Carriage with no horsy!”

The car slowed down next to us. The man behind the wheel looked at us, probably completely baffled by our appearances.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

“I... Yes... No... I’m... Could you tell me what year it is?”

He frowned, looking at me from head to toe. “What year, Ma’am?”

I nodded. I had been gone nearly three years, but didn’t know if time ran parallel on each side of the stones. If what Geillis had told me was true, she had come through the stones from 1968 and had clearly arrived to the 18th century earlier than me.

“Well it is 1948, Ma’am. Are you sure you are alright?”

“1948... Tell me, who won the battle?”

“The battle, Ma’am? Which battle?”

“The battle of Culloden? Which side won the battle?”

“The British, of course...”

Then they were all gone... Murtagh, Rupert, Angus, Willie... Jamie...

“My name is Claire Fr... Claire Randall.”

The name felt wrong against my tongue, foreign. For three years I had forgo that name, first by using my maiden name and then by embracing my new husband’s. Who was Claire Randall? To me she was a stranger or at least a former acquaintance. Could I still be Claire Randall after all I’d been through? Could I go back to bearing the same name as the man who had tortured and nearly destroyed my husband’s soul?

“Could you possibly drive us to the hospital in Inverness? My daughter and I need to be seen by a physician and...”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

The ride to town was spent in relative silence, albeit Faith’s sobbing at the awful sound the car was making. To be completely honest the sound irritated me as well and it got even worse once we reached the center of Inverness. I already missed the peace and quiet of pre-Industrial Revolution Scotland.

Chapter Text

To say that the doctors and nursing staff of the Royal Northern Infirmary were shocked when Faith and I came in would be an understatement. Our appearances alone caused quite the circus. And as soon as I told them my name they started whispering among themselves.

“Should we call...”

“... she disappeared three years...”

“... said she ran away with her lover...”

“... look at the way she’s dressed...”

“... been gone three years and that bairn cannae look any older than two...”

“All of ye out!” finally said a matronly looking nurse, who I would later learn was indeed the head nurse. “Come my lamb, let’s get ye and the wee bairn comfortable before the doctor examine the both of ye.”

She showed us to a large examination room where I was instructed to get undress and wait for the doctor to come and examine us. I removed each clothing items except my shift, carefully setting them up on a nearby chair. Faith was sitting on the bed, looking a little fearful.

“Don’t be scared, darling. Mama is here.”

“We see Da now?”

I fought the tears threatening to fall from my eyes. My poor darling little girl... Before I could answer her heartbreaking question, the door opened on a stern looking gentleman.

“Mrs Randall? I’m Doctor Beaton...”

The irony of his last name brought an unconscious smile to my lips. The examination was after all a formality, I could have easily told the physician what was ailing me. I was two months pregnant and severely malnourished and underweight. But the examination brought me answers to questions that had been plaguing me ever since Jamie’s announcement of my new pregnancy. My medical knowledge was advanced enough to know that what I had suffered at Faith’s birth was placental abruption. Could such a thing happen again? If so, what were the chances of survival for me and my baby? I knew that with modern medicine such a condition could be diagnosed earlier, but could my body go through such a traumatic event again? Could my psyche go through the ordeal again? Our survival had been miraculous, could such a miracle happen again?

“There’s always a risk, but as long as ye follow doctor’s orders...”

He then proceeded with his examination of Faith. My darling little girl proved to be quite brave, only hiccupping a sobs once in a while as the physician poked and probed her.

“Ye got yourself a healthy wee lassie, Mrs Randall... A little on the small side for her age...”

“She was born premature” I explained, defensively.

I knew Faith was small for her age, she actually looked younger than little Kitty who was several months her junior. As tiny as she was, my daughter was also fierce. She, after all, had Fraser’s blood running through her veins. She had proved it by surviving and thriving against all odds.

“Premature, ye say? Well that explains it, then. Has she received her inoculations?”

Her inoculations? I hadn’t thought of that... Her immune system was already a little weak, add the fact that she had only been in contact with 18th Century germs and virus...

“By yer expression I’ll wage she hasn’t. We’ll take care of that later on. In the meantime, why don’t ye rest. The next few days should bring enough excitement... I ken that some constables are very eager to meet with ye.”

Excitement... I had had enough to last one lifetime, if not two. As for those constables, what could I possibly told them? That I travelled through time not once, but twice? They would intern me at Bedlam as soon as the words were out of my mouth!

“Thank you, Doctor Beaton.”

As he was getting ready to leave the room, the door opened on the head nurse carrying a bundle of clothes.

“I see that ye are done with yer examination, Doctor. Come my lamb, I brought some clothes for ye and the bairn. Then ye and the wee thing will nap. Ye look as if ye’ll drop dead from exhaustion.”

“Thank you, nurse... Could you... Would it be too much to ask you to ring someone for me, please?”

“Yer husband, Mr Randall?”

My husband... I didn’t think I could face Frank yet. Jesus H. Rooselvelt Christ, could I ever face him again without getting flashes from Black Jack? I simply shook my head.

“Someone in Inverness, perhaps?”

I nodded. “Do you know Reverend Reginald Wakefield?”

“Reverend Wakefield, ye say? Of course I ken the good Reverend. My dear friend, Fiona Graham, work for him as a housekeeper. Would you happen to ken her too?”

Mrs Graham! I was brought back to the morning of Samhain before I went through the Stones and the ritual Frank and I had spied upon. If there was one person I could tell my story to and wouldn’t judge me or think me crazy it would be Mrs Graham. I just hoped she would still be in the good Reverend’s employ.

“Yes, I do know Mrs Graham... She once read my palm... Could you please ring her? Tell her Claire is back.”

TBC

Chapter Text

They kept us at the Infirmary five days. The afternoon of the first days saw our first visitors, two constables from the Inverness Police. Luckily they came just before tea time, while Faith was still napping. For nearly two hours they questioned me about what had happened to me, where I had been and who did Faith belonged to. I couldn’t possibly tell them I had traveled through the stones of Craig na Dun, I couldn’t risk being committed to the psychiatric ward.

“Mrs Randall, do ye realize the gravity of the situation? Do ye ken how many people help searching for ye? Dinnae ye have anything to tell us?”

“I’m back, that’s all I can tell you. Shouldn’t that fact alone matter more than my whereabouts for the last three years?”

They both sighed.

“I dinnae think we’ll be able to get anything out of her...”

“Right... Well, we’ll leave ye, Mrs Randall.”

I simply nodded before turning my attention back to Faith who was slowly waking up. They hadn’t closed the door yet and I caught a glimpse of their conversation, not that they were whispering or anything.

“Guess ye’ll owe Detective Collins a pound, mate.”

“I already knew I’d lose the moment I met her husband, ye ken. He was so desperate to think she hadn’t run off my some bloke... If only he had kent.”

“He’ll have quite the surprise when he’ll see her and that bairn of hers...”

Our second visitor came after dinner. Faith and I had just finished eating our meal, my daughter lamenting the lack of bannock on the menu.

“Mama! Me want bannock!”

“I’m sorry darling, maybe we’ll have some tomorrow...”

“Me want da!” she finally wailed.

“I know, darling... I want him too...”

I took her in my arms and rocked her, hoping to soothe her sorrow. I softly sang that long ago song my mother used to sing to me, the same one I sang to her the first time I held her when Mother Hildegarde brought her to me. She had finally stopped crying and was drifting to sleep when someone knocked on the door before opening it slowly.

“Mrs Randall? Claire?”

I smiled, wiping a lone tear from the corner of my eyes and welcomed my visitor.

“Mrs Graham! Come in...”

Reverend Wakefield’s housekeeper hadn’t changed in three years. She still had this warm smile that always reached her eyes. I could tell she was surprised at the view of Faith sleeping in my arms as she dropped a suitcase – my old suitcase, the one I had brought with me on that fated second honeymoon – and sat in the chair at my bedside.

“My dear... I coudnae believe it when Aileen told me ye were here at the Infirmary...”

“I can hardly believe it myself, Mrs Graham... I... Thank you for agreeing to come here. I’m sure you have a lot...”

“No need to thank me, my dear. I have to say that I was shocked when Aileen said ye wanted to see me. I would have thought ye would have asked for yer husband. But I can see that under the circumstances...”

I bit my lip, looking down at my sleeping child.

“The reason why I asked to see you, Mrs Graham, is because I think you are the only person that I can talk to about what happened to me without thinking I’m crazy or delusional. That morning when I disappeared, Frank and I went to Craig na Dun and saw you and your druid friends...”

And then I told her everything. How I had gone back to the standing stones later that day, how I had heard the stones and, upon touching the split one, was transported to 1743. I told her everything, from being nearly raped by a redcoat and then rescued by a band of Highlanders, being held at Castle Leoch as a guest of Clan MacKenzie, meeting, marrying and falling in love with Jamie, escaping to France and failing to prevent the Jacobites Rising, giving birth to Faith and nearly losing my own life, going back to Scotland and participating in the doomed Rising before being sent back to the 20th Century by my husband for my child and my safety. It was an unbelievable tale. Honestly if I was in Mrs Graham’s shoes I would think myself completely crazy.

“That’s quite a tale...”

She didn’t believe me! I felt desperate tears stinging my eyes. If Mrs Graham couldn’t believe me then who would?

“You don’t believe me... You think me crazy...”

She surprised me by smiling, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

“Of course ye are nae crazy, my dear! And I do believe ye.”

Those 5 words acted as a broken dam and the tears I was fighting were let loose. I felt the same relief as when I had told Jamie after the witch trial at Cranesmuir and he too said he believed me.

“Thank you... for believing me.”

“No need to thank me, my dear. I had heard the stories of people travelling through the stones, fairies stories and all. I’ll admit I even told the Reverend and yer husb... I mean Professor Randall about the possibility that ye might have done so. Of course they didnae believe me, said it was all old wives’ tales. But I knew I was right. I remembered reading yer palm and seeing the contradictions... I guess my predictions were right, ye went on a journey, but stay put at the same time, right dear?”
I nodded through my tears.

“Now... How about ye tell me about that wee lassie of yers? She looks exactly like ye...”

I let out a laugh. “She’s her father’s daughter through and through! She might have my colouring now, but would you believe it if I told you she was born with a shocking head of red hair? And you might not be able to see it now as she is sleeping, but she has Jamie’s eyes and his mischievousness... It’s going to be so hard. She misses him already, which makes me miss him even more.”

“I’m nae saying it will completely ease the pain ye are feeling right now, but yer wee lass will with time act as a balm to that pain.”

She stayed for another hour. We talked about everything and anything, but never of Frank. In fact the only time we really talked about him was when she told me about telling him and Reverend Wakefield about her suspicions regarding what had happened to me. Honestly I was in no hurry to talk about or see my first husband. But it seems like I didn’t have quite the choice in that matter.

The next day one of the nurse offered to take Faith to the garden to allow her to burn up some energy. I loved my daughter, but the last couple of months spent following the Jacobite army had taken a toll on me. And so while my overactive 18 months old ran around the garden, I took the opportunity to nap. Unfortunately the outside world seemed no to want to allow me to rest. The nurse had opened the window before leaving with Faith. I had forgotten how busy and loud modern times were. I was debating whether to get up and close it myself when the door opened.

“Could you please close the window? I can barely hear myself think...”

“Claire?”

I froze... That voice... That voice had given me nightmares... I looked up, expecting to see the redcoat Captain, but was met by the worried sight of Frank.

“Frank...”

“You’re... You’re back!”

What could I possibly tell him? Yes, I was back, but nothing could ever go back to the way it was before... But he looked so... happy? Glad? No, the correct word was relieved.

“Yes, I’m back...”

“And I’m so gl...”

Before he could continue the door slammed and Faith came running toward the bed.

“Mama! Me saw a doggy!”

TBC

Chapter Text

Previously

“Frank...”

“You’re... You’re back!”

What could I possibly tell him? Yes, I was back, but nothing could ever go back to the way it was before... But he looked so... happy? Glad? No, the correct word was relieved.

“Yes, I’m back...”

“And I’m so gl...”

Before he could continue the door slammed and Faith came running toward the bed.

“Mama! Me saw a doggy!”

The world stopped turning. Or at least it seemed like it had stopped turning for me. Faith kept baby babbling about the dog she saw in the garden, but it was as if she was miles away. My whole attention was focused on Frank... Frank who looked positively shocked and confused.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am” said a breathless young nurse, coming through the door. “The wee lass and I were heading to the kitchen, but she ran away...”

“There’s no need to be sorry, Nurse Monroe. This little one is quite stubborn when she wants.”

The nurse looked at Frank, then at me. “Would ye like me to take her so ye...”

“Yes, please. Go with Nurse Monroe to the kitchen, darling. You might be able to get bannock for a snack...”

“Bannock? Me want bannock, mama!”

“Then off you go, darling. But first, give mama a kiss...”

She happily obliged before running out of the room. A ghost of a smile appeared on my lips before a cough brought me back to the reality of the moment. Frank was still standing at the foot of the bed, frowning.

“Is that... Is she... She’s...”

“Her name is Faith...”

“She looks just like you! Darling... You have made me oh so happy!”

I took a deep breath before inevitably breaking his heart.

“She’s turning two in October, Frank... She was born in October, almost a year after I... after I disappeared.”

He frowned, realization finally hitting him.

“She’s not yours, Frank. It would probably make thing easier if she was, but the truth is you are not her father.”

For a moment I saw a shadow of his ancestor in his features. For even if Jonathan Wolverton Randall wasn’t his direct ancestor, there was this uncanny resemblance and for a moment I feared his reaction. He crossed the several feet separating us and grabbed me by the arms, not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to make me cower a bit.

“Why are you saying that, Claire? Why are you lying...”

“I’m not lying, Frank... Why would I be lying about such a thing if it made things even more complicated?”

“Then who’s her father?! And where have you been these past three years? Answer me!”

I couldn’t fight the tears anymore.

“Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me!”

“Tell me anyway!”

I closed my eyes, tried to remind myself that this man wasn’t Black Jack Randall, that this man was my once sweet husband, that his anger and rage in a way were expected. That any man whose wife came back from a 3 years disappearance with an eighteen months old child would react this way...

“Her father’s name is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”

“Fraser? A Scot, then?”

I nodded.

“Who is he? How did you meet? Where is he now?”

I thought carefully about what I would tell him next. It was one thing to give him Jamie’s name, but to tell him exactly what had happened to me? Mrs Graham had told me that she had tried to tell him and the Reverend about the possibility of me having traveled through the Stones only to be told off for saying such apparent nonsense. I decided to tell him the truth, but a certain version of the truth.

“He was a Scottish soldier, who fought in France. I met him when I patched him up, a dislocated shoulder and then a bullet wound. We fell in love...”

Yes, to a certain degree that was the truth. Jamie had fought in France as a mercenary 200 years ago and I did patch him up upon our first meeting. I looked in Frank’s eyes and only saw disgust.

“And where is that bastard now? That fucking Scot that stole my wife?”

“He didn’t steal me, Frank! Jamie was the most honourable man I’ve ever met...”

“Honourable?! Is it honourable to steal someone else’s wife, to fuck her and get her pregnant? If he was so honourable he wouldn’t have touched a married woman in the first place! So when I suggested that we come here after the war... Were you planning on running away with him? Was that your plan all along? Get a ride and get rid of me?”

“No! No... I never planned on leaving you deliberately... Jamie and I... it just happened.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Where’s the bastard? Did he got tired of you and the child? Is that it? He got bored with you and sent you back to your poor husband? Tell me so I can go and kill him myself!”

“You can’t kill a dead man, Frank. My Jamie is gone... He’s dead...”

Saying the words out loud hurt more than I expected. I had thought them a lot in the last couple of days, but I never said them out loud...

“And what did you thought? That now that your lover was out of the way you could go back to your husband with your bastard child? That I’ll turn the page on the last three years as if nothing had happened? That I would happily agree to raise your bastard?”

“Stop calling my daughter that! She’s not a bastard... And no, I never expected you to take me back, to raise my daughter... You made it quite clear after the war that you would never be able to love or raise a child that wasn’t of your blood.”

“You’re damn bloody right I won’t! No man would take a child and raise it and love it without sharing the same blood. Even your Scottish bastard wouldn’t have taken a child who wasn’t his.”

“He did...” I whispered.

“What?”

“Jamie and I took in a young French orphan... We loved him as if he was our own son. We saw no difference between him and Faith... They were both our children...”

He let out a snort. “Then your Jamie truly was the King of men, right?”

“Yes... He was...”

He looked at me as if to see something that clearly wasn’t there anymore... The shadow of the ghost of the woman I had been before...

“What happened to us, Claire? Was it the war? The six years of separation? Tell me!”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “We had so little time together before the war, Frank. We were still getting to know each other, truly know each other, when the war started...”

“But we were happy! Tell me that you were happy!”

“I... I thought I was happy. But these last three years spent with Jamie showed me what true happiness was. He made me happy, happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

“You don’t regret a thing, do you?”

“I could never regret meeting and loving Jamie, Frank.”

He took breath, put his hat back on and prepared to leave.

“I guess it’s the end... I’ll contact a solicitor to begin the procedure... I imagine you’ll be staying in Scotland, right?”

I nodded.

“Goodbye, Claire.”

TBC

Chapter Text

To my great surprise, Reverend Wakefield kindly offered Faith and I hospitality upon our release from the infirmary. Saying I had been surprised by his invitation would be the understatement of the century!

“You may stay for as long as you need, dear.”

“I wouldn’t dare to impose, Reverend... Faith and I can find other accommodation.”

“You are not imposing, my dear. If anything we would be the ones imposing on you. You see, Mrs Graham and I aren’t getting any younger and chasing after our wee Roger has become more difficult for us...”

And so here I was, nearly a month later, rocking Faith to sleep near the living room fireplace of Reverend Wakefield’s Rectory, Mrs Graham sipping a cup of tea while Roger was drawing by the coffee table.

“Mistress Claire!” shouted-whispered Roger, running toward me with a sheet of paper. “I made a picture for ye!”

It was three stick figures, obviously one adult with wavy brown hair and two children, one smaller than the other.

“That’s a nice picture, Roger!”

“That’s ye, wee Faith and I in the garden!”

Roger and Faith had quickly taken to each other despite their age difference and the little boy had become my daughter’s protector upon their first meeting.

“Hi, I’m Roger” he had said, handing her a beautiful stuffed doll.

Faith had looked at Roger, then at the doll, then at Roger again before turning to me.

“Go ahead, darling...”

“Me Faith Lally” she whispered, taking the doll and hugging her.

I had smiled before explaining she meant she was Faith of Lallybroch. Then she had asked me a question that shattered my heart.

“He bwotha like Fewgus?”

“Oh, darling... No... Roger is a friend...”

“Who’s Fergus?” had asked Roger with the curiosity only child has.

“Fewgus me bwotha!” had exclaimed Faith. “He nice, he sing, me love Fewgus!”

“Mistress Claire! Mistress Claire!”

“I’m so sorry, Roger... I was miles away!”

“I put me name on it! See, Roger! But I didnae put me whole name, ‘cause it’s too long.”

“I would imagine that writing Roger Jeremiah Wakefield wouldn’t leave a lot of place for your picture.”

“Ye forgot MacKenzie, Mistress Claire! Me full name is Roger Jeremiah MacKenzie Wakefield. MacKenzie was me father’s name, the one who died when I was a baby.”

“Four names! That’s sure is a lot, Roger, but Faith too has four name. And you know, I knew a little boy who had five names!”

“Really?! Five! That is a lot of name, Mistress Claire! Was it yer Fergus?”

I nodded. “His full name is... was Fergus Alexander Murtagh Beauchamps Fraser.”

“But didnae ye say he was French? That does nae sound very French.”

“That’s because it’s his Scot name. We changed it once we adopted him. Just like your father changed your last name to Wakefield when he adopted you.”

That seemed enough explanation for the little boy who went back to his drawing.

“Fergus Alexander Murtagh Beauchamps Fraser... That’s quite a mouthful for a wee lad.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of my brave little French boy. “His birth name, Claudel, was apparently not manly enough... But it wasn’t until we named Faith that he asked Jamie and I to give him a full official name...”

“Milord, Milady... I too want a full name, like the petite Milady” he had said once we had chosen our daughter’s full name.

“A full name, laddie?”

“Yes, Milord! Like you, a long one.”

Jamie had raised an eyebrow before taking Fergus in his arms and sitting him on his lap.

“A long name, ye say? Well, what kind of name would ye like?”

The little boy had looked pensive before taking a deep breath.

“If you would agree, Milord, you could name me after you... I know I’m just a poor French orphelin and that you are not mon père, but I would be honoured to bear one of your names... Maybe not your Christian name, you and Milady should keep it for when you have a son.”

“But we already have a son, Fergus” I had said, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You are  our son, my love. Maybe not by blood, but we choose you...”

Tears started to pool his dark eyes, but my brave little boy fought them.

“Well me full name is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Since ye want us to save me Christian name for our second born son, Fergus me lad, we will then bestow ye the Alexander... What do ye think, Sassenach?”

“Fergus Alexander sounds marvellous, Jamie.”

“But... But Milord, you have a third name... I think I ought to have a third name, don’t you think Milady?”

From the gleam in his eyes I could tell Fergus already had an idea.

“You are right, Fergus, if three given names is good enough for Milord then it’s good enough for you... But what third name could we give you? Do you have an idea?”

“Well... You could name me after Monsieur Murtagh... That is if you think he wouldn’t mind...”

“Fergus Alexander Murtagh Fraser” I tried, liking how it sounded on my tongue.

“Fergus Alexander Murtagh BEAUCHAMPS Fraser” stated Jamie. “It’s tradition in me family that the lads be also named after their mam’s families, Sassenach.”

“If it’s tradition, Jamie, who am I to change it? So what do you think, Fergus? Do you like it?”

“I do, Milady. I will bear those names with grande fierté!”

“Just one more thing, lad” said Jamie, sounding very serious.

The young boy gulped, as if expecting to get reprimanded. “Yes, Milord?”

“We have just christened ye as our son and a son does nae call his father and mother Milord and Milady... From now on I expect ye to call us properly as da and ma.”

“I could never, Milord! I mean... You really want me to... But I...”

“If ye are to be our son, Fergus, ye are to address us properly. Ye are not a servant, ye are our son.”

The little boy nervously bit his lip before smiling like a loon.

“It wouldn’t feel right to call you ma and da, but... could I maybe call you maman and père?” he asked, hopeful.

Before either Jamie or I could answer him, Faith let out a wail.

“I think the petite Milady likes it, maman... Bonjour petite Faith, I’m your brother, Fergus...”

“Ye’re thinking of yer wee lad, aren’t you?”

I took the handkerchief she offered me and wiped away my tears.

“Some nights... I think I can hear him crying out for me... My... My little boy is all alone... And I couldn’t even tell him goodbye...”

“My poor lass...”

“I wake up in the middle of the night and I swear I hear him calling for me...”

“Maman! Where are you, Maman?”

“And what about yer lassie?” asked Mrs Graham, changing the subject to spare me the pain of remembering my boy. “Ye never said what was her full name...”

“Faith Claire Hildegarde Fraser... I told you she was born with red hair, but by the time Jamie was released from the Bastille it had turned dark and... He said she looked just like me and needed to be named after her mother...”

“And Hildegarde? Not a common name for a lassie, even in the 18^th century...”

“Mother Hildegarde was the nun in charge of L’Hôpital des Anges in Paris... She’s the one who named her Faith and... She’s the reason we are both alive.”

“That’s a nice tribute to her... And what about one ye are carrying? What are ye going to name it?”

“What? How...”

How could she possibly know I was pregnant? I hadn’t gained that much weight and apart from the medical personnel from the Infirmary...

“I’m a mother meself, me dear. I recognized the signs... Was it the reason why yer Jamie sent ye away?”

I nodded. “Yes, he was even the one to tell me I was pregnant in the first place... With the stress of the rebellion I... I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant. He... He made me promise to name the baby after his father, so it’s going to be Brian James Fraser.”

“And if it’s a wee lassie?”

I frowned. I hadn’t thought of the possibility of the baby being a girl...

“Don’t fash, me dear. Ye still have some time to think about it...”

Yes, time... That’s all I had now...

TBC

Chapter Text

Summer came and went and there was no hiding my pregnancy anymore. Roger went back to school and I spent my time during Faith’s naps either helping Mrs Graham with the light household chores or reading medical textbook the Infirmary head nurse brought to the rectory. The divorce was finalized by September and Frank sent me the remaining of my inheritance from Uncle Lamb. Faith’s second birthday was bitter sweetly celebrated with cake and presents and soon it was my own 30^th birthday. I was now 8 months pregnant and as big as an elephant, at least according to my daughter. I was experiencing things in this pregnancy that I hadn’t had the chance to experienced when I was carrying Faith. The strangest one came one night while I was enjoying a cup of chamomile and a tiny little foot seemed to want to stick out of my huge belly. Tears filled my eyes as I softly touched it, whishing Jamie was here to share this moment with me.

Although I had begged Mrs Graham and the Reverend no to make a fuss out of my birthday, I spent October 20^th 1948 being pampered and spoiled. The weather being warm enough, the Reverend, Roger, Faith and I went on a picnic by the Loch before coming back to the rectory to the aroma of a freshly baked chocolate cake.

“Happy birthday, me dear!”

“Mrs Graham, you didn’t have…”

“Come and sit, Mistress Claire” cheerfully said Roger, pulling a chair for me to sit.

“We got you some wee presents as well” announced the Reverend, handing me a wrapped rectangular box.

“But first we eat cake, right father?”

All three adults laughed at Roger excitement for desert. Later that night, after having put the children to bed, the Reverend, Mrs Graham and I sat down for one last nightcap.

“Ladies, not that I am not enjoying your company, but I better head up to bed myself. Good night and my dear Claire, again, happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Reggie. And good night…”

I let out a groan as I felt a swift kick to my kidney. I had thought that Faith had been quite active while I carried her, but it was nothing to this new baby. I must be black and blue from the inside from all the kicks I received.

“The bairn is restless tonight?”

I nodded. “Doctor Beaton thinks it’s a good sign…”

“Aye, a very good sign indeed! Does he foresee any complication for the delivery?”

“He doesn’t think so. This pregnancy is very different from my first one… Compared to Faith’s, it is the ideal pregnancy. I practically didn’t suffer from any morning sickness…”

“Then ye are one of the few lucky one! Oh, before I forgot, I got ye a wee something…”

“Mrs Graham, you didn’t have to! You have already done so much…”

“Don’t fash, dear. Here take this.”

I frowned as she handed me a folder.

“What is it?”

“This is the gift of peace of mind. When ye told me the name of yer wee laddie, it felt familiar, but it wasn’t ‘till the Reverend received a batch of books from Edinburgh that I made the connection.”

I opened the folder and gaped at the paper held in it. It was a copy of a very old trade card for a printer and book seller named F.A.M.B. Fraser in Edinburgh.

“My Fergus?”

“Aye, me friend Eliza works at the County archives and found this for ye. Yer lad started as a printer and book seller. It’s now called Fraser Press and it is one of the country most prominent publishing houses. Still belongs to yer lad’s descendants.”

My Fergus had survived and thrived… He had survived and thrived without neither Jamie nor I… His professional success must mean that Jenny and Ian had taken care of him after… My little boy…

“If ye want I can ask Eliza for more information like who he married, when he passed… Ye could even visit in Edinburgh if ye want. The Reverend has his entry…”

“No… Knowing he lived through adulthood is enough knowledge for me. I… I couldn’t bear to learn the date of his death or anything else… This and what you just reported tells me he lived the life Jamie and I had hoped for him.”

I cried, cried tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears of pride… My little boy lived and seemed to have made a good life for himself. What else could a parent hope for?

“Thank you, Mrs Graham… You can’t imagine what it means to me to know that my little boy…”

I carefully put the card back in the folder, holding it as if it was the most precious thing in the world. And honestly, it truly was. That card was the proof that my boy had lived. That card was the proof that Faith’s brother who had patiently taught her French comptines had lived.

I went to bed that night with a huge weight lifted off my chest. I still felt guilty of having left my Fergus behind, not having said goodbye… The baby must have felt my conflicted feelings for it kicked me swiftly.

“No need to beat your poor mother, little one…” I whispered. “Mama is only thinking about your brother, how much he would have loved you…”

And so, up until sleep claimed me, I told the baby all about its older brother. It would know everything about this older sibling who wouldn’t get to grow up alongside him or her.

TBC

Chapter Text

The first contractions hit me as I was getting ready for bed on the night of November 22^nd.  I had expected this labour to be as quick and swift as Faith’s had been, but by 7AM my water still hadn’t broke and the contractions were getting stronger and closer. I waited until Mrs Graham came in the morning before asking the Reverend to drive me to the Infirmary.

I barely remembered Faith’s birth, apart from the pain and then it was all washed away by the joy of being handed my newborn child by Mother Hildegarde. I expected this labour to be as hard and painful as my first one and before they showed me to my room I said a silent prayer for my safety and my unborn child’s.

And painful it was... For nearly 5 hours I pushed, for nearly 5 hours I cursed the day I allowed Jamie Fraser to touch me... I was nearly at the end of my rope, completely exhausted when, just after 12:15, I was finally delivered of my pain to utter quietness.

“Is he alright?” I asked. “Tell me, is my son alright? Why isn’t he crying?”

“It’s nae a lad, Miss Beauchamps, but a wee lassie!” said the nurse before disappearing to a corner of the room with my baby.

Another daughter!

“But why isn’t she crying?!”

“She’s born with the caul, Miss Beauchamps” explained Doctor Beaton.

Second later I let out a sigh at the loud sound of my angry newborn daughter.

“They say that being born with the caul is a good omen, Miss Beauchamps” said the nurse as she handed me my swaddled daughter. “Here’s yer wee beauty...”

And beautiful she was, just like her older sister. A tuff of red hair covered her tiny head and I hoped that unlike Faith it would stay that colour. I counted each and every one of her fingers and toes, studied her featured... Perfect, she was perfect. Jamie and I had done it again; we had created once more the most perfect little creature the world had ever seen.

“I promise to tell you everything about your father, little one. About the sacrifices he made so you could live...”

Later that evening, Mrs Graham brought a pyjama clad Faith to meet her new sibling.

“Mama?” she asked, big fat tears staining her face.

“The poor wee lamb spent the day crying for ye, me dear.”

“Crying? Darling, why...”

“Mama gone! Mama gone like Da and Fewgus!”

“Oh, my darling... Mama isn’t gone. Look, come and meet your little sister!”

She just shook her head vehemently. “Baby not lilla sistaw. Me Fewgus’ lilla sistaw!”

“Oh, Faith... Come sit by Mama...”

Mrs Graham helped her up to the bed and my darling little girl pouted never looking me in the eyes.

“Look at Mama, Faith... Good. You will always be Fergus’ little sister, Faith. That’s not going to change, but you are also Brianna’s big sister now just like Fergus is your big brother. Do you remember what Fergus did with you?”

She took a deep breath, her little body shaking as she fought a sob.

“Fewgus nice, he sang, he played, he taught...”

“Yes, Fergus was nice to you, he sang you comptines, he played with you and he taught you a lot of things...”

I was hit back by memories of Fergus helping Faith learn to walk in the dining room of Lallybroch, of him teaching her her first words – mama and da.

“And now you’ll have to do all that for Brianna because you are her big sister.”

“Me Bweenana’s big sistaw?”

I smiled. Brianna’s name would prove to be quite a challenge to pronounce for Faith.

“Yes, you are Brianna’s big sister...”

Her little hand stroke Brianna’s soft cheek before kissing her sister’s tiny forehead.

“Mine! My baby, wight Mama?”

I smiled. In that moment she was so like her father, taking ownership of the people under her care.

“Yes, darling. Brianna is your baby sister.”

She smiled back before softly humming one of the many comptines Fergus taught her.

A week later, Brianna Ellen Fiona Fraser was christened at St Mary’s Catholic Church with the Reverend and Mrs Graham acting as her godparents. Luckily the parish’ priest was a friend of the Reverend who didn’t mind christening the child of an unwed divorcée whose godparents were two Presbyterians. His open mindedness didn’t make me miss Father Bain one bit.

Brianna proved to be, just like her sister, an easy baby – except for when she was hungry then all hell broke loose! It was in those moments that I missed Jamie... He was a very hands on father, had been with both Faith and Fergus, getting up in the middle of the night to tend to our colicky daughter or our frightened little boy when he had been plagued with night terrors following his encounter with Black Jack Randall. It was a shame Brianna wouldn’t get to experience the joy of having her father putting her to sleep, softly talking in Gàidhlig, telling her the tales of Frasers past... Would he had called her his mo beag nighean ruadh – his little red haired lass, as he had called Faith his mo beag nighean donn – his little brown haired lass?

And so here we were, a month after Brianna’s birth. The Reverend, Mrs Graham and Roger had left earlier for the parish’s Nativity Play’s rehearsal where Roger was going to play one of the shepherds. Faith was playing in one of the corner of the living room with her new baby doll and little crib – a birthday present from the Reverend to prepare her for her new role as a big sister. I had just finished feeding Brianna who was in a milk coma when the doorbell rang. I frowned since we weren’t expecting any visitors... Faith forgot all about her doll and ran to the door.

“Faith Fraser! What have I told you about running in the house?”

She pouted, her little teeth biting into her lower lip. “No running...”

“Yes, no running, and you do not answer the door without mama. Here, keep an eye on your sister while I go see who’s at the door...”

I put Brianna in her bassinet under the careful watch of her older sister and went to open the front door.

“Claire?!”

For a second I forgot to breath and simply stared at him.

“Frank... What... What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question...”

I didn’t like his tone one bit.

“I live here, Frank! You didn’t leave me much of a choice since you didn’t release my inheritance from Uncle Lamb until after the divorce was pronounced. The Reverend was kind enough to open his door to me...”

I knew I was hard on him, but so had he been with me. If the Reverend hadn’t helped Faith and I after our release from the Infirmary, I don’t know what I would have done...

“So, you now know the reason why I’m here... What about you, Frank? Reggie never said anything about you coming here or I would have made sure not to be here...”

“He doesn’t know, I... I spent the last three Christmases with him so I...”

I simply nodded, understanding. I had forgotten how Frank was such a creature of habits.

“The Reverend, Roger and Mrs Graham are at the church... It’s the Nativity Play’s rehearsal, but they should be back shortly. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

Before he could answer I felt two arms circle my legs from behind. I looked down and Faith was peeking at our visitor.

“Me Faith Fwasew” she said shyly. “Who you?”

Frank gulped, uncomfortable. He had never felt at ease around children.

“That’s Mr Randall, darling. He’s mama’s...”

How could I explain our former relationship to my 2 years old?

“He’s mama’s friend. Can you say hello?”

She nodded. “Hi.”

An awkward silence settled between the three of us that was interrupted by the soft meowling of Brianna letting me know she was done with her nap.

“Excuse me...”

Before I could even reach the bassinet, Faith was already putting the pacifier back into her sister’s mouth and was softly patting her tummy, singing for her.

“Fwère Jacques, Fwères Jacques, dowmez-vous? Dowmez-vous? Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! Ding, dang, dong… “

Having put her baby sister back to sleep, my big girl looked up at me proudly.

“Me good sistaw, wight mama?”

“Yes, darling. You are a very good sister.”

I took a deep breath and turned to face Frank. Once upon a time I had been an expert at deciphering his many expressions, but tonight... Tonight I couldn’t tell.

“You... You were...”

“I was pregnant? Yes. Brianna was born a month ago.”

“You should have told me! I would have...”

“You would have what, Frank? You would have given me my inheritance from Uncle Lamb sooner? Why would you have done that? You already knew I had a child to care for, but that didn’t stop you from keeping it from me. And I didn’t tell you because it didn’t concern you!”

“Didn’t concern me?! Claire you are my wife!”

“Was your wife, Frank!”

I regretted my outburst almost immediately when both Faith and Brianna burst in tears. I quickly grabbed both daughters in my arms, soothing them when the door opened and Roger came barrelling in the living room.

“Mistress Claire! Father told us the most amazing story ‘bout the Dun Bonnet!”

“Claire, whose car is it...” started the Reverend before he spotted our visitor. “Frank... We were nae expecting ye.”

“Yes... I can see that...”

I took this as my cue to retire for the night. I never wanted to come in between the Reverend and Frank, to force Reggie to choose between his friendship with Frank and me.

“Mistress Claire, dinnae ye want to hear the story of the Dun Bonnet?” asked Roger, completely unaware of the tension between the adults.

“How about you tell me the story another day? It’s getting late and we have a big day tomorrow. Faith, Brianna and I need to be well rested if we want to watch you in the Nativity play.”

“Ye are really going to come? Even if ye are nae a Presbyterian?”

“Of course, Roger! We wouldn’t miss your big debut! We will be in the front row, won’t we Faith?”

“Aye! Me an Bweenana clap fo’ Rwogaw!”

I settled Brianna in the crook of my arms and took Faith tiny hands in mine and made my way to the stairs before being stopped by the Reverend.

“Dear, I can ask him to find other lodging if it makes ye uncomfortable...”

“Don’t... If someone should find other lodging it would be me.”

“Claire...”

I smiled. “But I know you would never allow it and neither would Mrs Graham. Let him stay here for the holiday. He was your friend before I was yours...”

“You ken that’s nae how... Frank might be me friend, but ye and yer bairns are family to me and Roger!”

I felt tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

“And so are you, my dear Reggie. Goodnight...”

TBC

Chapter Text

Roger’s theatrical debut ended up being a grand success. It seemed like he caught the acting bug and was already planning his next performance.

“Next year, I want to be one of the Wise Men. And Faith could be one of the angels! Father, do ye think Faith could be in the Nativity Play? Even if she’s not a Presbyterian?”

The Reverend was sitting in front of the fireplace, cradling a now slumbering Brianna.

“Well since she is family to us, I don’t see why she couldn’t take part.”

The answer seemed to be enough for the young boy. We were all sitting in the large living room of the rectory having just came back home. Roger sitting on the floor while Faith and I were curled on the settee, my daughter wrapped in the Fraser plaid that had travelled with us through the Stones, tucking Sawny close to her cheek. Frank was seated opposite to the Reverend in one of the plush armchair, nursing a glass of Scotch.

We had come to some sort of truce, Frank and I. We weren’t ignoring each other, but the less we interacted with each other, the better.

“Father, can ye tell us a story?”

“And which story would ye like to hear, son? A Visit From St. Nicholas, maybe? Or a chapter from A Christmas Carol?”

“Ye promised to tell Mistress Claire the story of the Dun Bonnet, father!”

“Ye are right, Roger, I did... So... Our story begins before the Rising of ’45. The Dun Bonnet was a fair and much loved Highlander Laird. Nae only was he loved by his kinsmen, but he loved them in return and cared for them. While many of his fellow Lairds were hoping for the return of a Stuart on the throne, the Dun Bonnet only wanted the wellbeing of his people. He never swore allegiance to either the House of Stuart or the House of Hanover.”

I closed my eyes and suddenly I was back 200 years ago... I had spent many nights sitting just like this, listening to glorious stories of the past...

“One day, the Dun Bonnet received a vision. A vision of a failed Rising, of his kinsmen dead on the moor of Culloden in April of 1746... He knew of several Lairds collecting money for the restoration of the Stuarts, for the Bonnie Prince, and in that moment he knew that such an enterprise would be doomed. His vision had also shown him the aftermath of it all, the Highland Clearances, the wiping of the Highland culture. And so he did his best to prevent it. Unfortunately his efforts were for naught and the Bonnie Prince was able to collect enough to fund his rebellion. Any other men would have given hope, but not the Dun Bonnet. His vision had told him that the Rising would end at Culloden Moor and so he was determined to stop it before that and with as little casualty as possible. In order to do so he did something he had never done before, he swore allegiance. He swore allegiance to the House of Hanover and became a spy for them. He infiltrated the Bonnie Prince’s entourage, gained his trust and friendship, became one of his most trusted advisors, all the while trying to stop him and reporting everything to the English. But April 16^th 1746 came and the Dun Bonnet had to admit that he had failed to stop the Bonnie Prince’s madness. He saved as many of his men as he could, but was severely wounded as they escaped the butchery. His kinsmen brought him back to his estate, to his family, wanting him to be surrounded by his loved one before he met his Maker. But...”

“But he didnae die, right father?”

The Reverend nodded. “He didnae die. But he had been labelled a traitor by the English. His family, who had kent of his arrangement with them to spy on the Bonnie Prince, tried to get his name cleared of the charge, but they had no proof of it. The officer who had served as his contact had been one of the few English casualties and with him all proofs of the Dun Bonnet’s actions were lost.”

The story seemed so familiar. Like I had heard it before... No, I hadn’t heard it, I had lived it, for heaven’s sake! It was Jamie’s story, albeit with some changes, but weren’t all legend changed from the original story?

“What happened to him?” I asked in a whisper. “Did he escape Scotland? Did he go into hiding?”

“Aye, his kinsmen hid him in a cave, protected him from the Redcoats who were wandering the Highlands in the following years. Whenever he left his cave, he would wear a bonnet on his head, to hide his identity, thus the name the Dun Bonnet.”

“But were they able to prove his innocence? Did he spend the rest of his days hiding away in a cave?”

I had to know! If somehow Jamie had survived, if there was a chance...

“The Dun Bonnet had quite the Lady wife. She went all the way to London and gained an audience with none other than the Duke of Cumberland. When she finally came back to Scotland it was with a letter from the Duke himself proclaiming her husband’s innocence and his efforts to stop the Bonnie Prince.”

“And they lived happily ever after, right father?”

“I wouldn’t say happily ever after, Roger. It is nae a fairy tale. But yes, the Dun Bonnet, his Lady wife and his kinsmen were able to live in peace once again.”

I quickly wiped away the tears I had shed, hoping neither the Reverend, Roger or – God help me – Frank had seen them.

“Do we know the name of this Dun Bonnet? To which clan he belonged?”

“They don’t know his name because the Dun Bonnet’s tale is just that, a tale” stated Frank with a sigh. “Reggie, you’ve been searching this nameless Laird for years and you haven’t found anything! If he had existed don’t you think his family, his clan, would have boasted about it?”

“The Scots may be boastful sometime, but they protect their own” I said. “I think they were boasting enough. I mean, if the Dun Bonnet’s story has survive more than two hundred years...”

“And how would you know that?” he asked.

“I’ve spent nearly three years surrounded by the most boastful bunch of Scots you could ever meet, Frank. I know.”

Memories of Angus and Rupert, poor Angus and poor Rupert... Dead for what? For the impossible dream of a foolish, egotistical coward?

Much later, when Roger, Faith and Brianna were put to bed, I decided to question the Reverend more about this Dun Bonnet and his research to uncover his identity.

“You’ve been researching this Dun Bonnet for how many years, Reggie?”

“Nearly all me life, Claire!”

“Then how come it’s the first time I hear about it?”

He smiled. “Me search is more a hobby... Before Roger came to live here, all my spare times were spent searching for the Dun Bonnet.”

“Well... I’m in need of a hobby myself” I said. “I thought of going back to nursing, but with a newborn it might not be the best idea. And Mrs Graham told me about a nice nursery school nearby... I know that Faith is still a little young, but you and I both know that she’s quite ahead for her age. In the meantime I could maybe help you with your research...”

“Ye would? That would be amazing, me dear Claire! A friend of mine down at the National Archives has been sending copies of documents pertaining to the aftermath of the Rising... Honestly there are so many of them! The Scottish lawyers of this era seemed to have come with a rather efficient way to stall things up. They petitioned the government for pretty much everything!”

“All right, then. How about we start our search on Boxing Day?”

His only answer was to kiss my cheek and squeeze my hand.

“Good night, Reggie...”

I was left alone in the living room of the rectory. My thoughts drifted back to Jamie... My Jamie...

“I will find you, Jamie... And we will get back to you, I promise.”

TBC

Chapter Text

The awkwardness of that first Christmas at the rectory would be the last of my interaction with Frank, at least face to face. He quickly left Inverness before New Year and by April the Reverend told me he had moved to America, having been offered a position at Harvard in their History Department.

If I thought that knowing what I was looking for would make the search easier, I was greatly mistaken. The Reverend hadn’t been jesting when he said the Scottish lawyers of the era had petitioned for everything and anything. It was six months into my inquest that I realized how unhealthy it was to spend all my spare moments searching through endless papers. And so with the help of Mrs Graham and her friend Aileen I took a part time position as a triage nurse at the new A&E at the Infirmary. So during my shifts either Mrs Graham or her daughter-in-law would watch over Brianna while Faith was enrolled at the nearby nursery school. I had expected my eldest daughter to suffer from separation anxiety and throw one of her famous Fraser temper tantrum when I dropped her off on her first day, but she simply hugged me and went running to the other children, barely turning back to say “bye mama”. I spent several hours warily wandering the nearby streets pushing Brianna’s pram until it was time to pick Faith up. And instead of a teary daughter waiting for me at the end of the day, I was met by a cheerful one.

“Mama! Me made fwiends!”

By Brianna’s first birthday, I was beginning to think it would take twenty years before I could find proof that Jamie was the Dun Bonnet. That is until a couple of weeks before Christmas, when we received a new batch of documents from the Reverend’s friend at the National Archives. For the first time since I started helping the Reverend with his search I found several names I recognized and knew.

It was a document dating from 1747 regarding the Oath to the King taken by a young Laird, barely 12 years of age, a young Laird named Hamish MacKenzie. The document had been witnessed by his mother, Letitia MacKenzie, and Edward Gowan, a lawyer from Edinburgh. Ned... Of course, Ned was the key to this search! Any documents I would have gathered to exonerate Jamie would have to be presented to the authorities by a lawyer. And there was only one lawyer I trusted back in the 18^th century, Ned Gowan.

“Reggie, I think I might have a lead...”

“A lead, ye say?”

“You said the Dun Bonnet was a Highlander Laird, right?”

He nodded, setting his cup of tea on a nearby table that wasn’t nearly collapsing under the weight of several books.

“Look at this document, it’s the Oath to the King taken by the young Laird of Clan MacKenzie upon his twelfth birthday. See the name of the witness, Edward Gowan? His name comes back in several other documents pertaining to different other Highlands Clans. From what I gathered this Mister Gowan was a lawyer settled in Edinburgh, but who worked mainly as some sort of traveling solicitor. He seemed to have been highly regarded throughout the Highlands...”

He took the document, careful even if it was a copy.

“Gowan, ye say? Yes... I remember seeing that name more than once... Ye really think he might be the key to our search?”

“I think so... Do you think your friend at the Archives could send us every document they might have connected to this Mister Gowan?”

He frowned. “It might take a while, me dear...”

And a while it took. Winter made way to spring and by midsummer we still hadn’t received anything from London. By the end of July I decided to use my vacation times from the hospital and treat the girls to a short trip. We spent a couple of days on the beaches of Aberdeen and, upon our return to Inverness, were welcome by several boxes filling the living room of the rectory.

“Claire! At last, ye are here! They’re here, me dear!”

“The documents from the Archives? Reggie, you should have phoned me!”

“Nonsense, me dear! Ye and yer girls needed that short holiday.”

And so began the real search. Mrs Graham and her daughter-in-law were kind enough to entertain Roger, Faith and Brianna while the Reverend and I spent all our spare time buried in 200 years old paperwork.

It was strange, searching those papers and finding the names of people I knew, people I had met. Each time I would get emotional, fighting tears that were begging to be shed. But there were also times where I was nearly gleeful at the suffering of people I hated, people who had made my life a living hell. I have no shame to say I was glad when I found the Order of Execution of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat.

The breakthrough in the search came one Saturday in August. Mrs Graham was busying herself in the kitchen, preparing for the Parish annual baking sale, while the Reverend was working on his sermon in his study. Mrs Graham-the-younger, the senior Mrs Graham’s daughter-in-law, had taken Roger and the girls for a picnic in the countryside, allowing me some time to go through the ton of paperwork.

At first glance it was yet again another official looking document. At first glance... I nearly set it aside until I realized it was written in French.

“Nous, Louis, par la grâce de Dieu, roi de France et de Navarre…”

I couldn’t believe what I was reading and it took me a while to fully translate it. And once I did I knew that I had found part of the proof I was looking for.

“We, Louis, by the grace of God, king of France and Navarre, declare that on the fifth day of December in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and forty-four, after having negotiated with an emissary of his Majesty King George of Great Britain, We delivered to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Laird of Broch Tuarach of Scotland, a full pardon from the British authority. Thus Laird Broch Tuarach took leave from Us and from the Kingdom of France in order to return to his estate...”

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! This proved that Jamie couldn’t have signed Prince Charles list of Highland Lairds supporters and that his signature had been forged! But this must not be all... There must be more... And so I went through the whole box and at the very bottom of it laid two pieces of papers that left me breathless and teary eyed. The first was a letter from the Duke of Cumberland to William Grant, Lord Advocate of Scotland.

“... It has come to our attention that James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Laird of Broch Tuarach in Scotland, has been branded a traitor to the Crown and has been since wanted by the authorities to answer for his supposed crimes during the failed rebellion... Laird Broch Tuarach approached Fort William’s garrison commander, Captain Jonathan Wolverton Randall, Esq., in the early months of Seventeen Hundred and Forty-Four with the intention of infiltrating the Jacobite movement... Laird Broch Tuarach gained access to Charles Edward Stuart while sojourning in France... Returned to Scotland in the early days of Seventeen Hundred and Forty-Five... Took command under Charles Edward Stuart while reporting the Jacobites’ advances to Captain Randall who acted as his liaison... Captain Randall perished at the Battle of Culloden... Laird Broch Tuarach survived... We command that the good name of Laird Broch Tuarach be reinstate and that all his lands and holdings be returned to him...”

The second was a copy of an official proclamation probably sent to all Scottish garrisons regarding the innocence of one James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Laird Broch Tuarach...

I don’t know how long I spent staring at those documents... Time seemed to freeze as I felt my vision blurred by unshed tears.

“Claire?”

I jumped, the Reverend and Mrs Graham were standing in front of me, worried looks plastered on their faces.

“Claire... Are ye alright, me dear? See, Mrs Graham, I told ye she’s not responding...”

“Reverend, why don’t ye go and get us something to drink. I think our Claire could really use a dram of scotch.”

The Reverend frowned before sighing and heading to his study to get the scotch.

“Claire, dear, ye look as if someone walked on yer grave!”

“I... I found him, Mrs Graham. I found the Dun Bonnet and...”

“Ye found him? Well, why didnae ye tell the Reverend? He’ll be the happiest man on...”

“The Dun Bonnet is Jamie, Mrs Graham!”

“What... But... How...”

I told her about my suspicions once I heard the legend of the Dun Bonnet, how it felt as if Reggie was telling Jamie’s story.

“And now I have proofs! Proofs that not only the Dun Bonnet is real, but that it’s Jamie! Jamie survived, Mrs Graham, and according to the legend...”

“According to the legend, his lady wife is the one who cleared his name... Claire... Ye have to tell the Reverend, ye have to tell him everything! How ye went through the Stones, how ye found yerself in the past...”

“Reggie won’t believe me...”

“What will I won’t believe?” asked the Reverend, holding a decanter and three glasses.

I took a deep breath, thinking about how I could probably tell the Reverend...

“Reggie... Do you know the song The Woman of Balnain?”

“Aye, it is an old folk song... About a woman taken by the fairies, I think, and traveled to a faraway land to live among strangers...”

Mrs Graham squeezed my hand. “Go ahead, Claire. Tell him.”

“What if I told you that I was the woman of Balnain... Back in 1945, I went to Craigh na Dun and upon touching the largest Stone I was transported to 1743. I lived among strangers, married one of them, fell in love with him, bear his daughter...”

I couldn’t decipher his expression. Did he think me mad?

“You don’t believe me...”

“What ye are telling me, Claire... Well, it is quite a tale... Fairy hill, time traveling through the Stones... Ye are right to think anybody wouldn’t believe ye, but I’m nae anybody, me dear. I’m a Scot. I was raised with stories of fairies and people disappearing, of the magic surrounding Craigh na Dun, though most of me life I thought them to be old wives’ tales. But I do believe ye, me dear Claire.”

I bursted in tears and threw myself at him, hugging him.

“Thank you, Reggie. Thank you for believing me!”

“Ye dinnae need to thank me... Although ye could have told me sooner, me dear. Two years is a long time to keep such a secret and from what I can see ye had already told Mrs Graham... I feel quite left off...”

I laughed through my tears.

“Now... Will ye tell me what got ye so emotional earlier? I ken you didnae tell me yer secret for nothing...”

I carefully handed him the letter from King Louis, the one from the Duke of Cumberland and the proclamation.

“I found the Dun Bonnet, Reggie.”

“Ye... ye did?! Claire, it’s...”

He swiftly read the documents and for a moment he looked like a giddy schoolboy.

“That name... James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser... Yer lassies’ father?”

I nodded, not trusting my own voice.

“Will ye tell me yer story, Claire? Yer whole story, from the beginning?”

“I’ll leave ye two to it” said Mrs Graham with a smile. “I’ve already heard it and I still have some baking to do...”

And so I told the Reverend everything, starting with my first encounter with Jack Randall and subsequent saving by Murtagh. He didn’t stop me once to ask questions, but I could feel he was enthralled by my tale. For an avid historian like him, especially one interested by the Jacobites era, this was heaven for him. I was coming to the end of my story, how Jamie had gotten me and Faith to Craigh na Dun when the entrance door came bursting open and the sound of Faith, Brianna and Roger’s crying filled the Rectory.

“Mama!” shouted my youngest.

“Bree, darling, what’s the matter?”

“Roger, lad, why are ye all crying?”

At the grand old age of 9, Roger wasn’t known to cry for nothing, so something must have happened. Before the sweet lad could answer, the younger Mrs Graham came in, carrying her own daughter Fiona.

“Reverend, Miss Beauchamp, I think yer lad and lassies might have some ear infection... We were having a picnic, then they started complaining about their ears...”

“Mama, they scweamed!” sobbed Faith. “They were so loud, mama!”

I frowned. “What was so loud? Roger, what is she talking about?”

“The sound, auntie Claire, the sound was awful!”

Sound? Screams?

“Where did you say you went on your picnic?”

“Just outside the city, Miss Beauchamp. Near this hill, Craigh na Dun.”

TBC

Chapter Text

Previously

 I was coming to the end of my story, how Jamie had gotten me and Faith to Craigh na Dun when the entrance door came bursting open and the sound of Faith, Brianna and Roger’s crying filled the Rectory.

  “Mama!” shouted my youngest.

  “Bree, darling, what’s the matter?”

  “Roger, lad, why are ye all crying?”

  At the grand old age of 9, Roger wasn’t known to cry for nothing, so something must have happened. Before the sweet lad could answer, the younger Mrs Graham came in, carrying her own daughter Fiona.

  “Reverend, Miss Beauchamp, I think yer lad and lassies might have some ear infection... We were having a picnic, then they started complaining about their ears...”

  “Mama, they scweamed!” sobbed Faith. “They were so loud, mama!”

  I frowned. “What was so loud? Roger, what is she talking about?”

  “The sound, auntie Claire, the sound was awful!”

  Sound? Screams?

  “Where did you say you went on your picnic?”

  “Just outside the city, Miss Beauchamp. Near this hill, Craigh na Dun.”

****

It took time, some cajoling and a full platter of Mrs Graham’s biscuits, but I finally succeeded in calming Roger, Faith and Brianna. They exhausted themselves and were now all napping in the girls’ room. I made my way back to Reggie’s study, the manse quiet except for the soft music coming from the kitchen.

“Reggie...”

The reverend’s desk was scattered with papers, the letters and proclamation I had found, but also what looked like a family tree and a piece of paper filled with Reggie’s familiar scribbling.

“The bairns...”

“They exhausted themselves. They’re napping in the girls’ room.”

“Good... I’ve been looking through all the papers ye found and tried to make a timeline... We are now in August 1950 which means that during yer Jamie’s time it is now August 1748... 202 years difference, right?”

I nodded and noted his frowned expression.

“What seems to be the problem, Reggie?”

He sighed.

“It’s all those dates... Nothing is right! The letter from the French King is dated May of 1748... And this letter from the Duke of Cumberland is dated September of 1748... In September 1748, Cumberland was in the Holy Roman Empire for the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle! It is impossible that ye and the lassies... Unless...”

He started opening drawers full of paperwork, fished out a photograph before going to the mantle of the fireplace and taking a framed document.

“McMaster!” he exclaimed, handing me the framed and the picture.

The framed contained what looked like a very old document in Latin with several seals at the bottom.

“I don’t understand... What is this document and who or what is McMaster?”

A smile appeared on the Reverend’s face.

“This, me dear, is a photograph of the Declaration of Arbroath, the letters the Scottish barons sent to Pope John XXII in 1320 in response to the excommunication of Robert the Bruce. It is currently held at the Scottish Record Office in Edinburgh. And this” he pointed to the frame, “is an almost perfect copy of the Declaration that was made by a dear friend of mine, Ray McMaster.”

“A copy, you say?”

I couldn’t quite believe that this document was not the real deal. It looks exactly like the one in the picture, albeit without the signs of time.

“So your friend, McMaster... He’s a counterfeiter?”

Reggie let out a jolly laugh.

“In another life he might have been... No, he is an artist. He works with several museums throughout Britain. As ye must ken from yer experiences with yer Uncle Lambert, artifacts are priceless and mostly fragile. It is the same for documents and that’s when Ray comes in. He made several copies of documents that are on display at the Culloden Museum, like letters from Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Scottish Lairds Declaration to the Old Pretender.”

“You want to ask your friend to make copies of King Louis and the Duke of Cumberland’s letters...”

“Yes! It might take him awhile; Ray is quite the perfectionist... But the proclamation is dated July of 1749, so it will give you and the girl time to get ready to make the trip back through the stones...”

He smiled, sheepishly.

“And it will give us time to get use to the idea of ye and yer lasses leaving...”

I sighed before hugging him. The girls and I would be reunited with Jamie and our family back in the 18^th century, but it will mean saying goodbye to our 20^th century family. The idea of leaving Reggie, Roger and Mrs Graham suddenly made me feel faint...

“Promise me something, lass... Promise me ye’ll try to find a way to get word to us, to let us ken ye are all safe...”

“I promise, Reggie... I think I might even have an idea how. You do business with a publishing house from Edinburgh, Fraser Press. It was founded back in the 18^th century as F.A.M.B. Fraser, Printer and Book Seller...”

He frowned. “F.A.M.B. Fraser? Yer lad, Fergus?”

I nodded. “According to Mrs Graham, Fraser Press still belongs to my Fergus’ descendants... I’ll forever be thankful for what you did for me and my girls...”

“I feel as if ye and yer lasses are me own... Like ye are part of me family and... maybe ye are, in a way.”

He took the family tree from the table, it was a MacKenzie family tree.

“Tis wee Roger’s family tree, from his father’s side. See if ye can find any name ye recognize...”

I looked at the very top and let out a gasp.

“William John and Sarah MacKenzie... They’re... They adopted Dougal and Geillis’ son... Oh my God! That means that Roger is...”

“Dougal, ye mean the War Chieftain of clan MacKenzie?”

“Yes, he was Jamie’s uncle, his mother’s brother... He had an affair with Geillis Duncan, the fiscal’s wife, but... She was a traveler, from 1968... And Roger can hear the stones as well... But then he is...”

I tried to calculate in my head, but Reggie was quicker.

“It means that wee Roger is yer lasses’ 2^nd cousin, 6 times removed. So ye are, indeed, family.”

“So I truly am Auntie Claire!”

We laughed and cried at the same time, Reggie holding me in his arms and whispering softly. I felt so safe in his embrace. It reminded me of how safe I felt in Uncle Lamb’s embrace.

“Now, me dear, we have to make preparations...”

****

And so we did. First we had to contact Mr McMaster who took quite his time responding to the message Reggie left with his assistant. Then with the help of Mrs Graham and her coven of druids, we salvaged pieces of the clothing Faith and I had wore on our arrival to 1948 and made three new dresses with lots of hidden pockets.

Slowly I started to get the girls to the idea that we would be leaving our current lives to be reunited with Jamie and Fergus. Faith had an easier time accepting it than Brianna. The 20^th Century was all she had known and, although she had been quite young, my eldest daughter still had vivid memories of our lives in the past. She was able to get her sister excited at the prospect of finally meeting their father and their brother. My sweet little girl made sure to tell Brianna that both Jamie and Fergus would love her and that Fergus would teach her all the French comptines she couldn’t remember.

We celebrated first Faith’s 4^th birthday, then my own 32^nd and finally Brianna’s 2^nd. After Hogmanay, the girls started counting down the day until we would leave. We had decided that the best moment to pass through the Stones would be on the Summer Solstice. And so we counted the days and waited for Mr McMaster to send the copy of the letters. And we waited, and waited, and waited. By late May I was beginning to think the letters would never get on time and that we would miss our window of opportunity. That is until June 15^th, 5 days before our set departure date.

Reggie had taken Mrs Graham, Roger and the girls on an outing by the Loch and I was doing some last minute check, making sure all the medicine I had “borrowed” from the Infirmary would fit in all the hidden pockets of my traveling clothes, counting all the vintage coins we had found in several antique boutiques, when someone rang the doorbell.

“Yes?” I said to the well dressed man standing on the doorstep.

“I have a parcel for Mrs Claire Fraser...”

Claire Fraser... I hadn’t been called that in what seemed like a lifetime ago...

“Yes... I mean... I am Claire Fraser.”

He handed me a large envelop before wishing me a nice day. The envelope was indeed addressed to me, but there was no return address. I slowly made my way to Reggie’s study and opened it. Inside were two sealed documents as well as what looked like antique bank statement from the Royal Bank of Scotland and three delicate necklaces with gemstones. In between those documents was a simple white envelope with one word, Madonna.

Ma chère Madonna,

You must have now deduced that Ray McMaster and the Paris apothecary you met a long time ago are one and the same.

You see, I have been watching you for years, Madonna. I first met you when you were a small child, pushed in a pram by your mother in an Oxford park. Your light, even at such a young age, shined a bright blue. Our second meeting happened shortly after your parents’ untimely death, when you were travelling to Egypt with your Uncle Lambert.

You see, Madonna, the Beauchamp are quite dear to me and I was tasked – or more likely I tasked myself – into looking after them through Time.  Just like you, Madonna, I am a traveler. I have traveled for so long that I somehow forgot where and when I am from. But I have never forgotten my line. You are of my line, Madonna. You come from a long line of what now people call time traveler.

Your destiny was always to travel through the Stones of Craigh na Dun and to meet your Highlander. And it is my destiny to reunite you with him.

I was able to visit Versailles recently. Do not worry, Madonna, King Louis didn’t recognized me. Although for him 4 years had passed since our last encounter, for me it had been a couple of decades. After leaving Versailles I made a quick detour by Aix-la-Chapelle and met with the Duke of Cumberland. I was able to convince him of the innocence and the loyalty of both you and your Highlander. Quite the man, that Butcher of Culloden.

I know Reginald believe me to be an artist – a counterfeiter maybe – but as you can see I am simply a traveler. Don’t tell him that the Declaration of Arbroath I gave him a couple of years ago is actually one of the original copy. I don’t think he would survive the shock.

Aurevoir for now, Madonna, for I am sure we will meet again.

Raymond

PS. I almost forgot, you will also find bank papers allowing you to access an account at the Royal Bank of Scotland in Edinburgh back in the 18^th Century. I opened it in 1727 in your name, hopefully the fund will allow you and your Highlander to live comfortably. – R

PPS. The gemstones necklaces should allow you to pass through the Stones and through time more easily. Opal for yourself and your Faith and topaz for your Brianna. – R

I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear fell on the letter, staining the paper. I didn’t know what to think about all that, but knowing Master Raymond had spent years furtively watching over me...

“Thank you...” I said before putting the precious documents away.

****

Before I even realized it, it was June 20^th. We all went to bed quite early the previous night and got up a couple of hours before dawn. I took my time getting the girls ready before joining Reggie and Roger down in the kitchen for a light breakfast – I knew from experience that it was better to travel through the Stones on an empty stomach.

“Do ye really have to go, Auntie Claire?” asked Roger, eyes still red from having cried himself to sleep.

“I’m afraid we do, sweet boy... But I promise I will find a way to get word to you as soon as we can...”

The car ride was spent in silence and as we arrived at Craigh na Dun we were meet by Mrs Graham and some of her fellow Druids. Unlike for Beltane and Samhain, the Midsommer Druids Dance was done only by 3 dancers led by Mrs Graham.

“They are ready for ye, me dear...”

That’s when it hit me... I turned toward Reggie and Roger, hugging them as if my life depended on it, pressing kisses to their cheeks and tasting their salty tears. The girls too hugged them and kissed them goodbye, Brianna having to be pried from her grip on Roger’s neck.

We finally made the trek up the hill and the buzzing sent more tears to my daughters’ eyes. Arriving in front of the central stone, I took Brianna in my arms, balancing her on my hip, and held Faith’s little hand.

“Alright, girls... Now I want you to think about your father and brother... Think about them and about finally seeing them... I want you to count to three with me, and at three we will all touch the stone, alright?”

They both nodded.

“One... Two... Three!”

TBC

Chapter Text

The ride back from Craigh na Dun was spent in relative silence, except for Roger quiet sobs. Mrs Graham was sitting in the back seat with him while a red eyed Reverend drove the Anglia back to Inverness. As much as he had believed everything Claire had told him, actually seeing her and the girls passing through the Stones had made things even more real.

As they pulled into the rectory’s driveway, they noticed a forest green Land Rover parked by the entrance and a young couple waiting.

“Father, look! It’s Auntie Claire!”

The reverend had barely stopped the car before the little boy opened the door and ran toward the young woman who, while looking incredibly like Claire, was clearly too tall and looked much younger.

“Auntie Claire! I knew ye’d be back! Where are... Ye’re not me Auntie Claire!”

The young woman smiled warmly, crouching to the little boy.

“No, I’m not your Auntie Claire. My name’s Clara and you, dashing wee gentleman, must be Roger. I heard a lot about you, young man.”

“Ye ken my Auntie Claire?! She just left with the girls...”

“I... You could say I know her... Here, this nice man is my cousin, who’s also named Roger. If you ask nicely he’ll show you around his brand new Rover...”

The little boy didn’t need to be told twice and ran toward the redheaded young man.

“May we help ye, Miss...”

“Fraser, Clara Fraser from Fraser Press. And this is my cousin, Roger Murray. It’s an honour to finally meet you, Reverend Wakefield.”

“I imagine ye are nae here to bring me new published books...”

“No, I’m not...”

“Well, we should all get inside, right Reverend? Roger, lad!”

Both Roger turned toward Mrs Graham, making Clara Fraser laugh softly.

“A Diah! There’s two of them now... Come, both of ye!”

***

Clara Fraser and Roger Murray were seated in the sitting room of the rectory, waiting for Mrs Graham and the Reverend. The former had taken wee Roger to his room while the latter was fetching his best Scotch.

“I cannae believe it, Clara! It’s Roger Mac and he’s a wee laddie!”

“Hush, Roger! You know we can’t let them know about that... But you’re right, it’s quite bizarre. Wait ‘til we tell Grand-Père...”

The Reverend and Mrs Graham finally joined them, bringing a decanter and glasses.

“So... Miss Fraser, Mister Murray...” started the Reverend. “If I remember correctly from what Claire told us, I would assume that ye are both related to her...”

“You are correct. Both Roger and I are descendants of Claire and James Fraser. I... I don’t know what we should and what we shouldn’t tell you... This whole time travelling...”

The two cousins exchanged looks before coming up with an answer.

“Clara is a direct descendant of Claire and Jamie’s first son, Fergus. As fer me, my da is a direct descendant of Jamie’s sister, Jenny, and my ma is Clara’s aunt, a descendant of Fergus.”

“So ye must ken that Claire and the wee lasses left this morning...”

Clara nodded.

“As you must know, Fraser Press was first established as a printshop by Fergus Fraser, Claire and Jamie’s son... Our many times great-grandfather... When he first started it, his mother gave him and his descendants a task, an important task. She gave Fergus a large chest, containing hundreds of letters she wrote for a man who wasn’t even born yet. Fraser Press kept this chest through the year until it was time to bring it here and give you the first of the letter.”

She searched her handbag and handed him a letter sealed with wax.

“This is the first letter... We have a very specific timeline for each of the others. We will post them accordingly.”

The Reverend looked at the wax seal bearing the crest of the Fraser of Lovat and their moto, Je Suis Prest.

“Reverend... May I ask ye something?”

“Go ahead, son...”

“What is she like? Claire, I mean... We saw portraits, there is a rather large one at Lallybroch and another one at Grand-Père Fraser’s house in Edinburgh...”

Mrs Graham was the one to answer, seeing as the Reverend was clearly taken by emotion.

“She’s quite the lady, our Claire. Ahead of her time, even by today’s standard, right Reverend?”

The old man nodded, trying very hard not to broke down and cry. Finally he raised his glass.

“To Claire Beauchamp Fraser... A unique lady, ahead of her time!”

*****

To my dear Reggie,

If you are reading this letter, then my plan worked and my Fergus’ descendants were able to keep the hundreds of letters I wrote to you through the years. Although for you I just left this morning, for me it has been many, many years. I am now even older than you currently are. My hair is still as thick and curly as ever, but now it is streaked with grey. But to Jamie I am still his Mo Nighean Donn.

I am now an old woman, an old woman who had the joy and privilege of watching my children grow up and start their own families. But I want you to know that I never forgot you, neither did the girls. Each of my children and grandchildren grew up knowing about their Uncle Reggie without whom I wouldn’t have found my way back to my Jamie.

You should received the first letter I wrote to you in a week.

Please kiss Roger and Mrs Graham for me.

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser

 

TBC...

Chapter Text

Edinburgh, July 1749

Dear Reggie,

The girls and I made it safely through the Stones and were able to catch a coach leaving Inverness for Edinburgh with the coins from the antique shop…

*******

The ride from Inverness to Edinburgh was long, made longer by constant Redcoat patrols. Thankfully, the girls slept most of the time, exhausted by the journey through the Stones.

The coach left us at the bottom of the Royal Mile, near the World’s End, and so we began our trek toward Advocates Close where, according to the records, Ned Gowan lived.

It astonished me how little Edinburgh had changed in two centuries — at least the Old Town. The New Town wouldn’t begin for another twenty years, and the stench from Nor’ Loch was still ever-present.

“Excuse me,” I asked a man loading a cart, “would you know where I could find the office of a Mister Edward Gowan, an attorney…?”

The man frowned at my English accent, but pointed toward a large house down the close.

“Thank you…”

I took a deep breath and knocked. A small, middle-aged woman opened the door — a mix between Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Fitz.

“May I help ye?” she asked.

“Yes, my name is Claire Fraser… I’m looking for Mr. Ned Gowan.”

“Ned! Get down here, ye numpy! Mistress Fraser is here!”

“Mama,” Faith whispered, “is the lady angwy?”

“Of course not, me wee lamb. It's just that Neddy is me wee brother and sometimes he needs his big sister to reminds him to not be so numpy.”

"I'm a big sistew too, but i'm also a wee sistew to my bwotha Fewgus."

“Aye, yer brother Fergus is a fine lad, verra polite, a true credit to yer folks,” the woman said.

“You’ve met my son? How…”

“Aye, but Neddy will explain… Ned!”

A door opened and Ned Gowan appeared.

“How many times must I tell ye not to shout! Claire! Me dear Claire! And yer wee lasses!”

He crouched, smiling warmly.

“Ye must be Miss Faith — the spitting image of yer mam. And this… this must be Miss Brianna.”

I blinked, breath catching at the sound of my daughter’s name, surprise flickering through me, but I forced a smile.

Ned’s eyes misted. “She favors Ellen…”

Brianna straightened, a proud smile blooming across her face. “Like my gwanny?"

“Aye, lass. Ellen MacKenzie Fraser — a beauty and fierce of heart.”

“Mistress Fraser,” Ned’s sister offered kindly, “let me take the bairns to the kitchen while ye and Neddy talk.”

Faith looked to me. “Do ye have bannock? It’s our favouwite.”

“I do, with strawberry jam too.”

“Ye ken our name comes from the word for strawberry in French. Fergus told me.”

I smiled as Ned gestured me to a sitting room.

“Ye must have questions fer me…”

“And you for me.”

“Well, yer uncle Raymond answered plenty when he came last month.”

“My uncle…?”

Ned sighed. “I ken your first married name was Beauchamp, but never guessed it was also your maiden name. Yer uncle came and explained how ye escaped to France after Culloden with yer lass and stayed with maternal kin — the Wakefields, was it? Said yer mother was a Moriston from Aberdeenshire. Explains the bairns’ accents.”

I smiled faintly. “Yes, Reginald, his son Roger, and their housekeeper Mrs. Graham were a touch of Scotland in our French lives.”

“With yer uncle’s help, we’ve arranged a meeting with the Lord Advocate in two days. Now, he said ye’d brought documents…”

“I have… and they’re a shock.” I drew letters from my satchel. “In France before the Rising, we met Prince Charles Edward. We saw quickly he’d lead Scotland to ruin. We tried to prevent the Rising, but when it was too late, arranged through Mary Hawkins to act as spies for the British. It wasn’t treason — it was to save lives.”

Ned’s brows shot up.

“Mary Hawkins was secretly engaged to Alexander Randall, Jonathan Randall’s brother. Alexander was gravely ill and made his brother marry her before he died, as she was pregnant. I met her in Paris. That’s when we set it in motion.”

I handed him the letters. “One from King Louis, the other from the Duke of Cumberland. They’re Jamie’s salvation.”

He pressed them to his heart.

“Ye have my word — Jamie will be free.”

“My son… your sister said he was here with Ian?”

Ned’s face darkened. “Since Culloden, the Redcoats seize Ian and Fergus twice a year, to force the folk at Lallybroch and Broch Mordha to betray Jamie. They ken he’s alive. The tenants at Lallybroch keep his secret at great risk.”

“And Fergus… still a boy.”

“To a mother, aye. To the Crown, he’s a man. I’ve always managed to free them quickly.”

My throat tightened.

“And Lallybroch itself?”

“It’s taken in many. Jamie’s aunt Jocasta — Ellen’s sister — and her daughter Morna fled after Jocasta’s husband, Hector Cameron, was killed by Redcoats while trying to smuggle his family to the Colonies. Only Jocasta, Morna, and their driver survived. Hector was a fierce Jacobite, as zealous as Dougal. Jocasta stays now at Lallybroch with Murtagh Fraser.”

I sighed. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“We’ll let ye and the girls settle. No need to decide aught tonight.”

“One more thing,” I added. “Before we left France, my uncle Raymond set up an account for me at the Royal Bank of Scotland. I need to access it.”

Ned brightened. “I’ll look into it tomorrow. Likely under an alias?”

“No, under my own name, Claire Beauchamp Fraser. I’ll need funds for clothes, supplies, livestock for Lallybroch.”

“We’ll see to it. I’ll have the best dressmaker in Edinburgh called.”

Before more could be said, the door cracked open.

“Mama,” Faith called, “would ye come? Mistwess Hawpew says to come fow tea!”

I smiled, squeezing Ned’s hand. “Thank you… for everything.”

“Ye’re family, Claire. Always were.”

With a grateful nod, I followed Faith, the scent of warm bread and strawberries filling the air.

And for the first time in years, hope stirred.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, July 1749

Dear Reggie,

Two days after we reached Edinburgh, Ned and I met with the Lord Advocate, and at last—the matter of Jamie being named a traitor was put to rest.

*****

The morning of the meeting, we left our lodgings carrying a knot of dread tight in our bellies, leavened only by the brittle thread of hope. William Grant’s office was every inch the grim, solemn place I’d imagined: tall sash windows half-veiled in heavy damask, walls lined with battered legal volumes, the air thick with the scent of old parchment, pipe smoke, and wood polish. A small fire hissed in the hearth despite the summer warmth, the only sound in a room heavy with waiting.

Grant himself was a man of deliberate, quiet authority, his manner precise without a trace of kindness or cruelty. He gestured for me to sit in a high-backed leather chair opposite his desk, cluttered with papers, ink pots, and seals.

“I’ve reviewed the documents you brought,” he began, his voice steady as granite. “Letters from His Most Christian Majesty Louis of France, and His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland. They confirm that James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, formerly Laird of Broch Tuarach, is no longer considered a traitor by the Crown. The lands, previously held in security through a deed of sasine, are to be restored to him as well as his title.”

The words settled over me like a breath I’d been holding for three years. My hands trembled in my lap, but I held his gaze.

“His name is cleared?”

Grant inclined his head. “Aye. His claim stands. He’s free.”

I kept my composure, though inside my ribs, my heart pounded like a drum. There was still so much left to do.

Afterward, Ned took me to the Royal Bank of Scotland. I could never have imagined the sums Master Raymond had arranged for me in years past — a fortune by any measure, one that made Ned’s eyes widen behind his spectacles. Ever the careful solicitor, he cautioned me.

“Ye’ve the means now to see Lallybroch and its folk safe,” he said. “But take heed — don’t scatter it like chaff in the wind. Secure food, medicine, and repairs first. The livestock can wait.”

I promised I would, though my mind was already galloping ahead — the mill, the fields, the faces I longed to see.

The next days blurred into a haze of markets and errands. Mrs Harper — Agnes — accompanied us more often than not, shepherding the girls through the crowded wynds. Watching Faith and Brianna find joy amid the bustle of the city gave me the first flickers of peace I’d known in years.

*****

Three days later, under a low sky, we made our farewells. Mrs. Harper stood in the doorway of her brother’s house, her eyes bright with unshed tears, though her chin was high.

I took her hands in mine. “Thank you,” I said softly. “For everything.”

Her lips trembled. “Ye’ll always have a place here, should ye need it.”

Before sentiment could steal the moment, Faith darted forward, as bold as ever.

“And if you get tired of your numpy brother, you can come live with us at Lallybroch!”

Agnes laughed and pulled her close. “Ye’ve a fierce heart, lass.”

And then we were away.

The journey north stretched long and uneasy. The coach rattled over winding tracks between mist-hung hills, the scent of clover thick in the warm air. Faith dozed at my side while Ned pored over his papers, Brianna curled like a cat in my lap.

As afternoon waned on the second day, the rise of the familiar hills ahead stirred a dull ache deep in my chest. Then Faith’s sharp cry shattered the quiet.

“Mama — it’s Fergus!”

I looked up to see a lone figure on the road ahead. Taller now, his dark curls longer, but unmistakable.

“Stop the coach!” I called.

The driver hauled the reins. I thrust Brianna into Ned’s arms and flung open the door.

“Fergus!” My voice broke.

He stiffened, then bolted.

“No! Wait!” I stumbled down, skirts tangling about my legs. “Fergus! Mon fils!”

At the words, he faltered. His thin shoulders trembled. I reached him, breathless, laid a hand on his arm.

He flinched but did not pull away.

I gathered him to me, feeling how much he’d grown, how painfully thin he was. My throat ached with unshed tears.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He clung to me, voice breaking. “I knew ye’d come back. Père told me… said you weren’t dead. Just gone. That there was a way. I never stopped hoping.”

A shriek of joy rang out.

“Fewgus! I missed you!”

Faith hurled herself at him. “Mon bwotha!”

He knelt at once, pulling her close, kissing her hair. Brianna peered shyly from Ned’s side.

“Brianna Ellen Fiona Fraser,” I said softly. “This is your brother, Fergus Alexander Murtagh Beauchamp Fraser.”

Fergus’s face lit with wonder. “Bonjour, petite sœur.”

A discreet cough broke the moment. Ned inclined his head toward the rise. “Lallybroch’s not a mile ahead.”

We gathered ourselves — Faith clinging tight to Fergus’s hand — and moved on.

The final stretch felt like a waking dream. The hills fell away, and the courtyard of Lallybroch opened before us, unchanged.

The old stone house stood resolute against the summer light. Smoke curled from its chimneys. Chickens scattered at the coach’s approach. Children darted between lines of drying linen. Lads mended a fence. The steady thunk of an axe rang from the stables.

The coach slowed, faces turning — some known, some not.

I saw her at once.

Jenny.

Visibly pregnant. Her face marked by grief and years, but she stood straight and proud, one hand shading her eyes. Ian leaned on his wooden leg, protective at her back, his face unreadable.

And there was Murtagh.

Older. Greying. But his eyes fixed on me. He took a single, unsteady step, as though afraid I might vanish if he blinked.

A pale woman near the house struck a strange chord of recognition. Jocasta MacKenzie Cameron. Ellen’s sister. I saw it in the proud brow, the tilt of her chin. She clung to a dark-haired girl of nineteen — Morna.

The bairns had gathered too. Jamie, tall for eight, Maggie and Kitty hand in hand, two toddlers hiding in Morna’s skirts. The courtyard fell silent but for the creak of the coach wheels.

I stepped down, Faith close, Fergus hovering, Ned with Brianna.

Jenny made the sign of the cross, face ashen.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she whispered.

Murtagh moved first. One step, then another. I barely had time to open my arms before he crushed me against him.

“Christ, lass,” he choked. “Ye came home.”

I clung to him, breathing in earth and sun and wool. He set me down gently, hands gripping my shoulders.

“I dared not hope,” he said hoarsely. “But here ye are.”

Jenny came forward. Her hand brushed her belly. Fury and grief warred on her face.

“It’s you,” she whispered. “After all this time.”

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off, voice low and sharp.

“You bitch.”

The word cracked across the courtyard like a musket shot. The bairns stilled. Faith’s hand tightened in mine.

Ian flinched, reaching for her, but she shook him off.

“For three years,” she hissed. “We mourned ye. Buried you. Dug graves. Jamie near lost his mind. And now ye walk up the road like a ghost?”

Her voice broke, color high in her cheeks.

I started to speak, but Murtagh’s hand on her arm stopped me.

“Jenny. Enough. There’s time for this inside.”

She glared at him, then gave a tight nod and turned toward the house.

Ian met my gaze, sorrow deep in his.

“Best come in,” he murmured.

I nodded, gathered Faith, and gestured for the others to follow.

*****

The sitting room felt smaller than memory. The air hung thick with smoke and old grief. Jenny’s eyes were flint, her arms crossed. Ian and Murtagh stood close. Jocasta was straight-backed, Morna a quiet shadow.

Murtagh cleared his throat. “This is Jocasta MacKenzie Cameron and her daughter Morna.”

Jenny’s glare shifted, but did not soften.

Ned set Brianna down. I knelt beside her.

“This is Brianna Ellen Fiona Fraser.”

Jenny’s mouth tightened.

I spoke plainly. “Jamie sent me away. It was the only way. I was wanted as a witch. I couldn’t risk writing. I thought him dead. When I learned he lived, I worked with my uncle’s friend in France to secure letters from the King and the Duke of Cumberland.”

Jenny’s jaw clenched.

Ian stepped forward. “Let’s give them a moment.”

He and Murtagh herded the others out.

Jenny spoke at last, low and fierce.

“He nearly died, Claire. Six months in that priest hole before he moved to the cave. Ian and Fergus were hauled to Edinburgh twice a year.”

I swallowed. “I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”

For a moment, the silence between us held — fragile but real.

Her voice cracked. “We missed you. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

She rose, called out the door.

“Fergus!”

He appeared at once.

Jenny pressed a whistle into his hand.

“Use the signal. Tell him it’s safe.”

Fergus’s eyes shone. “Aye, Auntie.”

Jenny looked at me.

“Tonight,” she said thickly. “We’re together.”

TBC

Chapter Text

Dear Reggie,

I hardly know how to begin this letter — for the first time in so many years, our family is whole. I keep turning the words over in my mind, as though speaking them too boldly might unravel it all. But it’s true. Jamie is home.

*****

After a hearty supper, where laughter came easier than any of us expected, the bairns were sent off to bed. Fergus, with the unflappable grace of someone long accustomed to making others feel safe, offered to share his chamber with Faith and Brianna.

“Dinna fash,” he said with a wink. “I can put up wi’ the lassies for a night.”

Faith climbed onto the small bed with her sister, while Brianna curled close to her, heavy-eyed from the day’s excitement. Within moments, Bree was asleep, her auburn curls a splash of fire against the pillow. Fergus too drifted off quickly, his long limbs sprawled carelessly, a faint smile on his lips.

But Faith… my bold, sharp-tongued girl refused to surrender to sleep.

“I want to see Da,” she whispered, her voice thin with exhaustion but stubborn as ever.

I brushed a hand over her brow, damp from the heat of the day. “Lovey, he might not make it home until the early hours. You need your rest.”

She blinked up at me, lashes heavy. “But I—”

“I promise, I’ll wake you if he comes,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes drifted shut at last, her little hand still curled around mine, until her breathing slowed and evened out.

I left them there in Fergus’s room and made my way downstairs. At the top of the staircase stood Jenny, arms crossed, a look in her eyes I couldn’t quite name — not anger, not entirely. Something warier. Apprehension, perhaps. The knowledge that with Jamie exonerated, everything would shift again.

“The Laird’s room’s ready,” she said shortly, jerking her head toward the hallway on the first floor. “We never moved back after you... And we moved ourselves to the chamber belowstairs some time back. It was easier wi’ Ian’s leg.”

I followed her down the corridor, the candlelight flickering over the old stone walls, over memories layered so thick it felt as though the house itself were holding its breath.

Jenny lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “What d’ye mean to do now he’s cleared? Now Jamie’s Laird again?” Her voice was steady, but I could hear it — that thread of unease beneath the words.

“I’ve a plan,” I said softly, turning to face her. “I don’t want to take anything from you, Jenny. This is your home, and it always has been. Jamie and I… we’ll make our own.”

Her brow arched. “You’d leave the manor house?”

“If it means keeping peace between us,” I admitted. “I have money, enough to buy land nearby. Good land. Build a house for us, Fergus, and the girls. Leave Lallybroch to you and Ian, and to wee Jamie when his time comes.”

Jenny stared at me, suspicion and something warmer flickering behind her sharp eyes. “The laird of Lallybroch lives in the manor house, Claire. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Then we’ll build you a better one.” I met her gaze. “A house made for Ian, with a master bedroom on the ground floor, wide halls, a good hearth. A place that’s yours.”

Her mouth twitched, caught between a frown and a smile. “And where, pray, would ye find the coin for that?”

I gave a shrug of studied ease. “I could afford half of Mayfair if I wanted. Would you prefer I pick a townhouse on Curzon Street?”

She snorted. “Christ, woman.”

“I’m quite serious.”

Jenny shook her head, the corner of her mouth finally curling upward. “We’ll speak again once Jamie’s had his say.”

She turned on her heel and made her way back down the stairs toward the chamber she shared with Ian.

I stood alone in the laird’s room, letting the quiet settle around me like a weight, before reaching for my shift.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

So I padded downstairs to the sitting room, where I found Murtagh slipping into his coat.

“Off to sin, are you?” I teased lightly.

He grinned, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Aye. Jocasta keeps a warm bed and a sharper tongue. Wouldna miss it.”

His expression sobered as he looked at me. “It’s good to have ye back, lass. Jamie… he wasna himself without ye. A ghost of a man.”

My throat tightened. “There was nothing on this earth or any other that could’ve kept me away.”

Murtagh nodded once, rough and wordless, then clapped my shoulder and disappeared into the night.

I hadn’t gone far when Ian appeared, favoring his leg as he came down the hallway.

“Claire,” he murmured, “he’s here.”

My heart stopped.

“In the washroom,” Ian added. “He’ll no’ come through the house looking like a wild man. Thought ye might want these.”

He pressed a bar of soap and a pair of shears into my hand, a wry smile twitching at his lips.

“Go on, then.”

I didn’t hesitate.

The washroom was small, lit by a single candle on the sill, its flame trembling in the draft from the open window. Jamie stood with his back to me, his hair long and tangled, the heavy fall of it damp at the ends. He was scrubbing his arms with a cloth, his skin streaked with the dirt and grime of too many years in hiding.

And the scars. God, the scars. Pale, jagged lines crisscrossed his broad back, souvenirs of Fort William’s whipping post. And yet for all the marks of brutality, the muscle beneath them was firm, the breadth of his shoulders no less impressive. My body ached just looking at him.

He heard my step, stiffened, and without turning, asked gruffly, “That you, Ian? Took ye long enough. Where’d ye go to get the soap — all the way to Glasgow?”

My throat caught. “It isn’t Ian,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Claire.”

Jamie went utterly still. Then, slowly, he turned.

His face was leaner, rough with beard, but those eyes… those clear, sharp blue eyes were the same. Recognition flared, and a thousand emotions tumbled across his face.

A stunned Jamie swayed, staring at me as though scarcely believing it, and then, as in some terrible dream, his knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor in a faint.

I was at his side in an instant, the soap and shears forgotten on the flagstones.

“Jamie! God — Jamie!”

His eyelids fluttered, a groan escaping his lips as he came to.

“It’s me,” I said desperately, cradling his face in my hands. “It’s me, love. I thought you were dead.”

His hands caught mine, rough and trembling. “Jesus… Claire… ye’re real?”

I gave a choked laugh through tears. “I’m real. And I’m here. I’ve come home to you.”

He pulled me down to him, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his body shuddering against mine.

“I’d find you in any century,” I whispered fiercely, and felt the answering tremor in his embrace.

The world spun away, leaving only us.

TBC

Chapter Text

The air between us pulsed with disbelief, our breathing uneven, as though the world itself had tilted beneath our feet. I sat beside him on the cool stone floor, Jamie’s head cradled against my shoulder, my fingers threading through the tangled curls at his nape.

It wasn’t long before the silence broke.

“Claire…” His voice was hoarse, rough with years of longing and heartache. “Why are ye here? It’s no’ safe for ye. Christ, I told ye to go… to stay gone. What of the bairns?”

He pulled back, his eyes fierce now, stormy with fear and fury both. “Ye shouldna have come. I sent ye through the stones to keep ye safe.”

“And I came back to bring you home,” I said softly, without hesitation. “Jamie… let me explain. All of it. But first”—I reached for the soap and shears—“let me make you presentable.”

He gave a broken laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “Aye… I reckon I look a fright.”

He perched on the stool beside the small copper basin, and I set about the task with trembling hands, wetting a cloth and gently washing the grime from his face, neck, and shoulders. In the flickering candlelight, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the familiar curve of his lips, the line of his jaw made my heart ache so fiercely I could hardly breathe.

As I worked lather through his hair, I began.

“After crossing through the stones, Faith and I were taken in by a kind man — Reverend Reginald Wakefield. He’d adopted his great-nephew, Roger… who’s the descendant of Dougal and Geillis’s child.”

Jamie blinked, brows lifting. “Their child… survived?”

I nodded, dipping the cloth again. “Aye. Roger is of their line. The Reverend sheltered us, asked no questions.”

His gaze darkened. “And Frank?”

I looked away, the old ache sharp. “I didn’t go back to him, Jamie. There was no going back.”

I drew a steadying breath. “When I reappeared… he was relieved, at first. Maybe hopeful. And then he saw Faith.” My throat tightened. “The moment he realised she wasn’t his, everything changed. Fury. Accusations. Demanding where I’d been, whose child she was. And when I told him… when I said your name, he called you a thief, a bastard… accused me of planning to leave him long before.”

Jamie’s jaw flexed, a flicker of pain in his eyes, but he said nothing.

“He made it clear he’d never claim a child not of his blood. Said no man would.” I squeezed his hand. “But you did, Jamie. You loved Fergus. Made him yours.”

A muscle twitched in his throat. His fingers tightened over mine.

“I feared for Faith’s safety. Frank was bitter, obsessed with what we’d lost. He withheld my inheritance until the divorce was final. Staying would’ve destroyed us both. There was nothing left to salvage.”

Another breath. “So I stayed in Inverness. Reggie, Roger, and Mrs. Graham gave us a home. It wasn’t just survival, Jamie. It was a good life. Warm. Safe. With kindness and small joys. Pieces missing, aye — you, Fergus, Lallybroch — but it was enough. Enough to live, to be loved.”

The quiet stretched between us. Then, softly, “I saw Frank once more. That first Christmas. It was bitter cold in every way. He left before New Year’s, and by spring, Reggie told me he’d gone to Boston. That was the end of it.”

I covered his hand with mine, grounding myself in the feel of his skin. “There was never a way back, Jamie. And no part of me wanted one.”

The shears clicked softly as I trimmed the ragged ends of his hair. “I thought of you every day. Of Lallybroch. Of what we lost. I thought you dead. Until… I heard whispers. The Dun Bonnet.”

I paused, letting the words settle.

“In my time, there’s a legend of a Highland laird called the Dun Bonnet. A good, beloved man who tried to stop a war that would destroy his people. When he couldn’t, he vanished. Hid in a cave while his people protected him. When he ventured out, he wore a bonnet to hide his face. It’s your story, Jamie — twisted by time, but yours.”

His voice was a rasp. “Aye… that one I ken.”

I met his gaze. “You remember Master Raymond?”

A faint nod.

“He’s a traveller, like me. Tied to my bloodline somehow. He knew about me, long before Paris. For me, it’s been four years. For him, decades. He left France after us but never forgot. He went to King Louis, then to the Duke of Cumberland. Between them, he secured letters — one from the King of France proving you weren’t in Paris when Charles Stuart gathered his supporters, and another from the Duke of Cumberland naming you a Crown informant.”

Jamie’s lips twitched in a grim, bitter smile. “A traitor and a laird, is it?”

“Aye,” I said quietly. “But loyal to your people first. Master Raymond built a story, using a liaison between you and the British. Someone few would suspect.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “Who did he name?”

I took a breath. “Jack Randall.”

His face went pale, fury and disbelief flashing across it. “Jack Randall? That black-hearted bastard? Are ye daft? After all he—”

“I know, Jamie. I know. But listen. Randall died at Culloden. It made him the perfect scapegoat. No one could contradict the story.”

His brow furrowed. “And Mary Hawkins? She blamed ye. She’d no reason to help.”

“She married again. Happily, from what I hear. Raising her son Denys — Alex’s child. Whether Cumberland’s men questioned her or not… we’ll never know. But if she spoke, she didn’t contradict Raymond’s story.”

Jamie gave a long breath. “Aye… that’ll do then.”

I brushed a loose curl from his brow.

“A week ago,” I said, voice thick with emotion, “Ned Gowan and I went to the Lord Advocate in Edinburgh. The letters were presented. The charges dismissed. It’s done, Jamie. You’re a free man.”

His breath shuddered out, shoulders sagging as though a mountain had fallen from them. His eyes shimmered in the candlelight.

“And your lands,” I went on. “The ones you signed over to wee Jamie to protect them — they’re yours again. The title of Laird of Broch Tuarach is restored.”

His hand gripped mine, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. “Laird Broch Tuarach,” he murmured. “Christ… I never thought to hear that again.”

“It’s yours, Jamie. It always was.”

A single tear slipped free as he whispered, “Aye. And so it shall be.”

We left the room, the hush of the corridor thick around us, Jamie’s hand in mine.

“What did ye tell them, then? Jenny, Ian… the rest?”

I laughed softly. “That I fled to France after Culloden. Claimed I went to kin on my mother’s side — the Wakefields. Said I was too afraid to come back.”

His brow rose. “And they believed it?”

“Jenny didn’t. She knows me too well. Ian… I think he preferred not to ask. Jocasta and Morna haven’t known me long enough to see through it.”

He snorted. “We’ll have to tell them.”

“Aye. All of it. Now that you’re home.”

“I thought the Woman of Balnain might help.”

He chuckled, breath catching. “I’d nearly forgotten that old tale.”

“I never did.”

Jamie’s gaze softened. “And the bairns… Faith… and the other ye said was a lad?”

I smiled. “Our three bairns — Fergus, Faith, and Brianna Ellen Fiona, who’s a lass — are asleep in Fergus’s room.”

His breath hitched. “Another daughter…”

I nodded. “I promised to name her for your father. Brianna for Brian, Ellen for your mother, and Fiona for Mrs. Graham. She was born on the twenty-third of November, at a quarter past noon. Came into the world veiled in the caul — silent at first. They say it’s lucky.”

His eyes shimmered. “And her birth?”

“The doctors said what happened with Faith — the abruption — was rare. It wouldn’t happen again. And they were right. Bree came safely, red-haired and stubborn from the moment she drew proper breath.”

I grinned. “We’ve used apostle spoons for Fergus, Faith, and now Brianna. That’s three. Still nine left.”

He laughed, warmth returning to his face. “Aye. Maybe our luck’s not run out yet.”

Together, we went to Fergus’s room. There they lay — Fergus, Faith, and Brianna — peaceful, perfect.

Jamie knelt, kissing each one in turn, his heart plain on his face.

At last, he turned to me with a shy, crooked smile. “Come, Sassenach. Let’s go to the laird’s room.”

We crossed the hall, closing the door behind us. Jamie dropped onto the bed, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint flush rising.

“Ye ken… on our wedding night, I’d no bloody clue what I was doin’. Nervous as a colt on his first ride.”

I smiled. “But you learned.”

He chuckled, eyes darkening. “Aye. Slow and steady.”

His gaze met mine, the air between us sparking.

“It’s been a while since… ye ken.”

I laughed softly. “Then let’s not wait.”

He grinned. “Apostle spoon number four?”

“God, I hope so.”

No more words. No more waiting. Just us. Wild and free, as though we’d never been apart.

Chapter Text

The morning light slipped through the worn drapes, warm and soft against the stone walls. It was July in Scotland — no frost in sight, just the quiet hush of early summer heat settling over the land. I woke to the familiar weight of Jamie’s arm curled around my waist, his hand splayed over my belly as though to tether me there, afraid I might vanish again.

Beyond our door, the house had begun to stir. The distant clatter of pans in the kitchen, the heavy tread of Ian’s limp, and the unmistakable racket of small feet chasing one another down the hallway. I smiled, content to let the world wait a little while longer.

I shifted, and his arm tightened. A low groan rumbled in his chest as his lips brushed the nape of my neck.

“Mornin’, Sassenach,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and tenderness.

I turned to face him, finding his eyes already open, heavy-lidded and soft with something unspoken. “Good morning,” I whispered, my fingers threading through the tousled mess of his hair.

He smiled, slow and warm, letting his thumb graze my cheek. “Ye’re still here.”

“I’m here,” I promised, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes closed for a moment, as though holding onto the relief of it. “I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake and find it’s three years past again. You… gone.”

I swallowed hard and pressed my forehead to his. “I’m here now.”

“Aye,” he breathed. And for a while, neither of us spoke, the sounds of life beyond the room filling the quiet between us.

At last, he gave a soft, fond laugh as a shriek of childish glee echoed down the corridor. “Christ, it’s a full house, is it no’? Jenny’s brood, Jocasta and Morna, and now our family, too.”

“Our family,” I echoed, the words sweet on my tongue.

His gaze turned thoughtful, his thumb absently tracing circles against my skin. “I’ve been thinkin’… about Fergus.”

I raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Aye. When you left… he was ten. Just a lad, voice high as a lass’s and no hair on his chin. And these past years…” His voice thickened. “He’s grown, Claire. Brave. Loyal. Sharp as a blade, that one. Never let me go hungry, nor without news. Took risks no lad ought to. And did it wi’out complaint.”

My throat ached at the thought. “You should be proud of him.”

Jamie’s mouth quirked in a crooked smile. “I am. Brave. Strong. Smart.”

“Just like his father,” I murmured, earning a playful eye-roll.

“Ye’re makin’ me blush, woman,” he teased. I swatted his shoulder.

He grinned. “And a Highland storm when he sets his mind.”

I laughed, warmth blooming in my chest.

After a beat, Jamie’s thumb traced along my jaw, his voice gentler. “And you — any other secrets you’re keepin’ from me, Sassenach?”

I bit my lip, feigning innocence. “Funny you should ask. Before we left Inverness… Master Raymond arranged for something. An inheritance.”

His brows lifted. “An inheritance?”

I nodded. “He said it was for what I’d lost… or might yet need. In a letter he left, he mentioned opening an account at the Royal Bank of Scotland in my name back in 1727. It’s still there, Jamie. And it’s… substantial.”

Jamie blinked, then gave a low whistle. “Sweet Mary… how substantial?”

I smirked. “Enough to buy Jared’s Paris estate.”

His brows shot up. “Aye?”

“Ten times over.”

A deep, rolling laugh burst from him, so rich and full it made my heart squeeze. He scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Well then… ye mean to buy half of Scotland next, do ye?”

“I thought I’d start by putting it to good use here,” I said softly. “Jenny and I talked last night… she agreed that Lallybroch is yours, Jamie. It always was and always should be. The Laird belongs in the Manor House.”

Jamie’s face sobered, his hand coming to rest against my cheek. “Aye,” he murmured.

“I told her, though — the house is bursting at the seams now, with Jenny’s brood and ours, and Jocasta, Morna, and Murtagh settled in the tenant house. So we thought… maybe it’s time to build something new for Ian and Jenny. A home with wide halls and a master bedroom on the ground floor, a place made for Ian. If you agree.”

Jamie’s eyes softened, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “Aye, mo nighean donn. I think that’s just what we’ll do.”

Another shriek of laughter echoed down the hallway, followed by the thunder of tiny feet.

Jamie chuckled, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Christ, it’s a madhouse.”

“But it’s ours,” I said quietly.

We both groaned as another burst of giggles rose from the hallway, followed by a conspicuous hush just outside our chamber door. Jamie and I exchanged a glance, then scrambled to tug on our clothes — a shirt for him, my shift and wrapper for me. Wouldn’t do to have our children catch us indecent.

As Jamie tied the laces at his throat, we heard a tiny, cross whisper: “Mama promised to wake me when Da came in, and she didn’t!” Faith’s small, indignant voice quivered with betrayal.

“Hush, Faith,” came Fergus’s lower, teasing murmur. “Ye ken well what grown folk do when they’ve been apart a long time.”

“What do they do?” Faith demanded.

“Tell ye later,” Fergus said smoothly. “Not for little ears.”

Jamie stifled a laugh, and I shot him a glare as we both moved toward the door. He opened it, and there stood our three: Faith with arms crossed and a thunderous scowl, Fergus leaning on the doorframe with a knowing smirk that spoke of a Paris brothel upbringing, and little Brianna peeking out from behind Fergus’s leg, big blue eyes cautious but curious.

“Da!” Faith burst out, fury forgotten as she launched herself into Jamie’s arms. He caught her easily, holding her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears.

“Oh, mo chridhe,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I’m here, wee lass. I’m here.”

Fergus grinned, clapping Jamie on the back. “Took ye long enough.”

Brianna lingered a moment more, still half-hidden, then with a bold toss of her red curls, marched forward. “Are you my Da?” she demanded.

Jamie crouched, still holding Faith, and extended his other arm. “Aye, lass. I’m your Da.”

She hesitated a heartbeat, then barreled into him, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck.

Jamie’s eyes shimmered as he gathered both his daughters close, holding them as though he’d never let them go.

A soft sob escaped me, unbidden. Before I could lift a hand to brush it away, Fergus was there. He slipped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick, reassuring squeeze. “They’re safe now, Maman,” he said, old Paris street wisdom softened by boyish affection.

I smiled through my tears, leaning my head briefly against his. “Thank you, Fergus. For everything.”

A sharp, familiar voice sliced through the warmth.

“Is no one breakin’ their fast this mornin’, or are ye all plannin’ to starve yerselves in that room?”

Jenny stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes sharp as ever. “And you, brother,” she huffed at Jamie. “I dinna care how long ye’ve waited to see yer wife — there’s chores and mouths to feed.”

Jamie chuckled, not letting go of his daughters. “Aye, sister. I’ll be down shortly.”

Faith wriggled in his arms. “Fergus said ye and Mama were doin’… somethin’ last night,” she announced gravely. “But he wouldna say what.”

Jenny’s brow shot up, and Fergus went scarlet.

“It’s not for little lasses to know, Faith,” Jenny said, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

Faith shrugged. “I don’t understand it anyway.”

Jamie grinned, ruffling her hair. “Best ye don’t, mo chridhe. Not for many years yet.”

And with that, the room dissolved into soft laughter, the warmth of family wrapping around us like a long-lost cloak.

Chapter Text

The morning chores were done, and the house was unusually still — the quiet broken only by the faint murmur of birds outside and the soft crackle of the hearth fire. After breakfast, Ned had left for Edinburgh, his absence leaving the place a little quieter, though a strange sense of expectation hung in the air.

Jamie, Jenny, Ian, Jocasta, Morna, Murtagh, and I gathered in the solar, the noon meal still some time away. Fergus stood near the door with a knowing grin.

“I’ll take the children outside to play,” he said cheerfully. “I ken this story already — and I’ll keep Mrs. Crook from coming to find ye.”

Jamie gave him a grateful nod. “Thank ye, lad.”

As the sound of children’s voices faded down the hall, Jamie poured whisky into cups and set one before each of us. The room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

He began softly, “D’ye remember the old song, The Woman of Balnain?”

Jocasta’s face softened, as though the words stirred some distant recollection. “Aye. I heard it when I was a lass, growing up at Leoch. A strange tale of a woman taken by the stones.”

Ian leaned forward in his chair. “There’s always been talk about the stones. Folk say they hold secrets. Fergus told me once he heard screaming when we passed Craig na Dun at night.”

Jenny snorted. “Nonsense. Stories to scare bairns. Stones dinna scream, and folk dinna vanish into thin air.”

“They do,” Jamie said quietly, and for a moment, no one spoke.

I felt my heart beat faster, knowing this was the moment to lay everything bare.

Jamie gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Jenny, Ian, Jocasta, Morna — there’s a truth here ye’ve a right to know.”

Jenny’s sharp gaze fixed on him. “Then say it plain.”

I took a steadying breath. “I was born in England, in 1918 — in what you would call the future, my own time. During a great war, the Second World War, I served as a nurse, tending wounded soldiers in France between 1939 and 1945. After the war ended, during a trip to Scotland, I came across the stones at Craig na Dun… and was pulled through them to the year 1743.”

The room was still except for the fire’s crackle. Jenny’s face remained tight with disbelief.

“There are others like me,” I went on. “A woman named Geillis Duncan — she came from a time even further in the future than mine, the 1960s. And the man I told you was my uncle, Raymond… he was no uncle, but an ancestor of mine. A traveler as well — though from much farther in the past.”

Jenny scowled, arms crossing. “And all those tales about France? About being wi’ the Wakefields?”

I met her gaze without flinching. “They were true — in a way. There was a Reverend Wakefield and his family, but in 1949 Inverness. I stayed with them after I… came back.”

Jamie spoke then, his voice steady. “Claire saw what was coming before Culloden. The danger, the slaughter. So I sent her, and our wee lass, through the stones — back to her own time, to keep them safe.”

I picked up the thread. “I raised both my daughters there, in my own time, for three years. And when I discovered Jamie had survived Culloden… I came back.”

Murtagh cleared his throat and spoke, his voice firm, addressing Jenny, Ian, Jocasta, and Morna alike. “Ye can believe them. I’ve known this truth longer than any of ye. Seen enough wi’ my own eyes to ken it’s no lie they tell.”

The silence that followed stretched long, the fire popping softly in the grate.

Then Jenny’s mouth twitched, her brow furrowed but her voice quieter. “Well… it’d explain a good many things about you, Claire Beauchamp.”

I reached into my satchel and drew out the photographs I’d carried all this time — images of Brianna, Faith, Reggie, Roger, and dear Mrs. Graham. These were people from my own time, and the ones I love most. I laid them on the table one by one.

“These are the ones I love, and the people who helped me along the way,” I said gently.

Jocasta reached out, fingertips brushing over one of Brianna’s images. Ian leaned in close, his expression a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Even Morna gave a soft, astonished sound.

And there it was — impossible as it seemed, the truth now lay bare between us.

As the last photograph settled on the table, I felt the weight of years and miles, of battles fought in silence and in plain view, ease from my shoulders. In this room, thick with the scent of peat smoke and old wood, the people I loved most in this world — and the world I’d left behind — now knew the truth.

Not one of them would see me the same again. Jenny’s wary gaze would always weigh the impossible against what she knew in her bones. Ian, with his open heart, would likely believe because he wished to. Jocasta, though we’d only just begun to truly know one another, held a wisdom in her bearing — the kind of woman who recognized when the world held stranger things than men liked to speak of. And Morna… sweet Morna, would carry this secret with the same quiet loyalty she carried every burden asked of her.

Jamie’s hand found mine once more, rough and warm, steady as a heartbeat.

The noon bell rang, and Fergus’s voice floated from the yard, mingling with the laughter of children.

I had crossed centuries to find my place, and perhaps — just perhaps — I had found it here.

The past was no longer only mine to bear. And for the first time in a very long time, I was no longer alone.

Chapter Text

Dear Reggie,

I hope this letter finds you, Roger, and Mrs. Graham well, and that your Christmas season was peaceful and warm. I can just picture your hearth aglow while the winter winds howled at your windows. Here at Lallybroch, we welcomed the new year with quiet gratitude — thankful for the blessings of family and home, and hopeful for the promise of spring.

The new Murray house, with input from Jamie, Jenny, Ian, and myself, was finished just as the cold winds began to bite. The Murrays moved in with relief and joy, and the old manor feels just a touch less crowded.

Faith turned five in October, wide-eyed with wonder at her gathering of friends and kin, followed by mine and Brianna’s in late November. And in early September, Jamie — as always — was the first to realize I was carrying again, just as he did with Brianna. We expect a new little Fraser in May, not long after Jamie’s birthday, and wait with quiet anticipation.

The harvest this year was bountiful — a blessing after seasons of uncertainty. We held a festival to mark it, the tenants gathering with songs, drink, and stories. The joy on their faces was worth every aching back and frostbitten morning. Jamie and Murtagh went to Crieff for the Michaelmas cattle market in late September, returning with several Highland coos and a fine herd of sheep to see us through the winter.

The kitchen at Lallybroch has been thick with the scent of fresh bread and simmering stew, the winter chill kept at bay by a roaring hearth. Jenny, Jocasta, Mrs. Crook, and I gather often around the wide table, peeling potatoes and stringing beans, the easy murmur of women’s talk filling the room as comfortably as the scent of baking.

It’s become a habit, these evenings together. Sometimes at Lallybroch, sometimes at the new house — Broch Deasach, we call it now. The South-Facing Tower. It’s grown into a lively home in its own right. The back-and-forth between the two keeps us close and the tables well-fed.

The children were away that afternoon, gathered at Jocasta and Murtagh’s cottage. Morna — bright as a new penny for her nineteen years — took it upon herself to teach them their letters and sums. I laughed when she first insisted, but it’s become a daily ritual: the little ones tramping down the path with slates and chalk, Jocasta keeping the fire warm and a watchful eye.

Jamie was in the study with Fergus, bent over ledgers and Latin texts. He’s set his mind on preparing Fergus for university, determined the boy should have every opportunity. He speaks of Paris as he once knew it — legacy and the Fraser name carrying weight beyond these hills. I, for my part, would rather keep Fergus closer. Edinburgh, perhaps. Paris still holds ghosts for him. Fergus claims no preference, but I see the flicker in his eyes when the subject comes up — the shadow of streets best left behind.

Murtagh and Ian were at the stables, seeing to the beasts before nightfall, their voices carrying in the crisp air when the wind shifted just so.

I looked up from my bowl of peas to see Jenny pause, one hand braced against the table, her face unreadable. She drew a slow breath, letting it out through her nose.

“Jenny?” I asked softly.

She waved me off with a sharp shake of her head. “It’s nothin’.”

But I knew better. So did Jocasta, who arched a brow and set down her knife.

“Your back again?” Jocasta asked quietly.

Jenny scowled. “It’s begun. Been at it since before sunup.”

“Since before sunup?” I exclaimed, dropping my spoon. “And you’ve said nothing?”

“Because I ken what it is, Claire,” Jenny snapped, though without heat. “It’ll be a long one. Always is wi’ me — and I’m not the sort to flap over a few hours of bother.”

Mrs. Crook clucked her tongue by the hearth. “Shall I send for the midwife, Mistress?”

Jenny shot her a glare. “Ye’ll do no such thing.”

“She won’t need a midwife,” I said, gently squeezing Jenny’s hand. “I helped her bring two of her five babies into this world — I’ll see her through this one, too.”

Jenny’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “Aye, and I’ve still the bruises to prove it.”

Jocasta rose, smoothing her skirts. “Let’s see ye comfortable, lass. I’ll have a room readied upstairs—”

“No.” Jenny’s voice was firm as stone. “The first five were born here at Lallybroch. But this one…” She glanced out the window toward the flicker of lights from the new house. “This bairn will be the first Murray born at Broch Deasach.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of it hung in the air — a marking of change, a new chapter begun.

I nodded and turned to Mrs. Crook. “Fetch Murtagh, Ian, and Jamie. We’ll need them to help move her.”

Mrs. Crook didn’t need telling twice, bustling out with a muttered, “Heavens preserve us.”

Jenny stiffened as another pain gripped her, and I took her hand in both of mine.

“Come on, then,” I murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

Jocasta came to her other side, steadying her as she rose. The hearth crackled behind us, the scents of herbs and stew lingering in the hush of the room. And in that moment — amid the warmth and ache of old grief and fierce love — we waited for another life to claim its place in the story of Lallybroch.

And now, Broch Deasach.

By the time Murtagh, Ian, and Jamie arrived, Jenny was pale but steady, refusing to let anyone coddle her. The men squabbled over who would carry her until Jenny snapped she wasn’t a damn invalid and could manage her own two feet — though she leaned heavily on Jamie’s arm as we crossed the yard in the chill of afternoon.

At the door, Murtagh paused, glancing toward the hills where the light was just beginning to soften. “I’ll stay here,” he offered, gruff but gentle. “Fergus too. Morna’ll be back soon wi’ the bairns, and someone needs to see they eat more than just bread and honey.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “See they eat proper, Fergus. And dinna let wee Jamie sneak off wi’ the bannocks.”

We left them to it and made our slow way to Broch Deasach. Inside, Jamie and Ian settled in the sitting room with a good bottle of scotch, the fire blazing and shadows stretching long across the walls. Their voices rose and fell in quiet tones as Jocasta and I led Jenny through the hall to the master bedchamber on the ground floor — planned that way from the start for Ian’s sake.

Jenny’s face was tight with sweat, but her eyes gleamed with their usual defiance.

“I tell ye, Claire,” she panted, bracing on her elbows as another pain came. “Wi’ the twins… wi’ Matthew and wee Janet… it near killed me. I prayed wi’ every breath you’d be there, but I thought you dead, and I kenned it was a fool’s hope.”

I took a cool cloth from Jocasta and wiped her brow. “Well,” I murmured, brushing damp hair back. “I’m here now, sister. And you won’t do this alone.”

Jenny gave a shaky chuckle, then gritted her teeth as another wave swept through. Jocasta stayed close, a steady hand on her shoulder, her own face lined with quiet awe. She’d birthed three daughters herself but confessed she’d never seen a woman wield such calm, commanding hands over a birth.

“Ye’re like some kind of healer-saint, Claire Fraser,” she muttered — not for the first time that night.

The labor Jenny swore would drag to morning gathered pace with surprising speed. The pains came sharp and close, and soon there was no room for talk — only the rhythm of breath, whispered comforts, and the age-old dance between life and death.

Jocasta fetched water, linens, and cord without needing to be asked.

Not long after midnight, with a final fierce cry and a strength that left even me breathless, Jenny brought forth a squalling, red-faced bairn into my hands.

“A girl,” I said, my throat tight as I lifted the perfect, tiny creature, her lungs proving as formidable as her mother’s. “You’ve a daughter, Jenny.”

Jenny sagged against the pillows, her face wet with tears and sweat. “Caitlin Maisri Murray,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the downy head.

Jocasta let out a choked laugh. “Well done, lass. And well done to you, Claire.”

I wrapped mother and child in a clean sheet, and for a time, the room held only the sounds of new life — the hiccupping cries of Caitlin Maisri, the steady crackle of the hearth, and the deep, unsteady breaths of her mother.

And in that moment, within the stone walls of Broch Deasach, old griefs and distant wars slipped into the shadows.

A new chapter had begun.

TBC

Chapter Text

Published in The Edinburgh Courant, June 5th, 1750

At Lallybroch, near Broch Mordha, to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Esq., Laird of Broch Tuarach, and his lady, Claire Fraser, a son was born on Tuesday, the 26th of May, 1750, at half past two in the afternoon. The child has been named William James Reginald Beauchamp Fraser. Both mother and child are reported to be in good health.

*******

Lallybroch, May 26th, 1750

The room smelled of lavender and fresh linen, with the faint tang of blood still clinging to the air despite Jenny’s careful cleaning. The fire crackled low, casting a gentle glow over the faces gathered around my bed. I was bone-weary, my limbs heavy as stone, but my heart felt light, soaring in my chest as I cradled the small bundle against me.

“Another Fraser bairn,” Jenny declared, breaking the hush with a broad grin. “At this rate, you and Claire’ll be catchin’ up to Ian and me soon enough.”

Jamie gave a hoarse laugh, pride softening the weary lines of his face. “Aye, but we’ve still a way to go — this makes four. You’ve six, woman. We’ll need to get a move on to match ye.”

Ian chuckled from his place by the hearth. “God help us all if ye do.”

Murtagh grunted in amusement. “Ye’d best build another house, then.”

Jenny snorted, though her eyes shone fondly as she looked at the bairn. “Och, well — at least they’re bonny ones. I’ll give ye that.”

A soft knock came at the door, and Morna’s face appeared, flushed and bright-eyed. “The wee ones are ready, if ye’ll have them.”

Jamie moved to open the door as Jenny ushered the others out with a knowing look. “We’ll leave ye to it. The bairns need their moment.”

They filed out, leaving the room still and expectant until Morna ushered in our three wild things — Fergus first, his grin already in place, followed by Faith and Brianna, their hair mussed and their Sunday best a bit askew.

Faith climbed onto the bed at once. “Mama! Is it a boy or a girl? I hope it’s a girl!”

“Me too!” Brianna piped up, scrambling after her.

Fergus lounged against the bedpost, his smirk as proud as any brother’s. “I’ll wager it’s a lad. Ye can tell by the shape of his head.”

Jamie laughed softly. “Let your mother tell ye.”

I smiled and shifted the blanket. “This is your new brother. William James Reginald Beauchamp Fraser.”

A beat of silence.

“A brother?” Faith’s face crumpled. “Och… I wanted a sister.”

Fergus ruffled her hair. “Too bad, ma petite. Ye’ve got a brother now.”

“I dinna need another brother. I already got you,” she pouted.

I kissed her temple. “I’m sorry, love. But he’s a good one.”

“I’ll teach him to climb trees,” Faith decided, chin lifting.

“I’ll teach him to fight,” Fergus added with a smirk.

“I’ll give him my dolly,” Brianna offered earnestly.

Jamie gathered her onto his lap, chuckling. “I reckon Will’ll fancy a wee horse more than a dolly, but he’ll thank ye kindly.”

“Mama?” Brianna asked, serious-eyed. “I ken how Will grew in your belly and came out… but how did he get in your belly?”

Faith perked up, eyes wide. “Aye! I wanna ken too!”

Fergus snorted, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Well…” I began, my cheeks heating.

Jamie coughed. “Maybe best left for another day, mo chridhe.”

“But we wanna ken now!” Brianna insisted.

“I ken how it’s done—” Fergus began, grinning wickedly.

“Ye’ll do no such thing,” Jamie warned, a sharp look silencing him.

“Magic,” Faith declared firmly. “Mama makes a wish, Da kisses her, and a baby grows.”

“That’s about what I heard too,” Fergus said, smirking.

I laughed, shaking my head. Jamie sighed, pulling them all in close. “Enough, the lot of ye. Ye’ll learn it proper when you’re older — from me or your mother, no one else. Now… come give your brother a kiss and let him sleep.”

Faith scowled but kissed the baby’s head. “Even if I wanted a sister, he’s ours.”

“Aye,” Brianna agreed, copying her.

“I suppose he’ll do,” Fergus added.

And in that moment — noisy and tender — we were whole again.

*******

Three days later, beneath a sky heavy with Highland mist, we gathered in the kirk of Broch Mordha for Willie’s christening.

It was a modest place, whitewashed stone with a small bellcote crowning the roof, its narrow arched windows letting in the dim light of the overcast day. The old kirkyard outside was scattered with weathered headstones, some leaning, some half-swallowed by earth, the names of old families fading into the stone. It was here that Jamie, Jenny, and their late brother William had been christened in their time, and where their mother Ellen and father Brian had been laid to rest. Now, it would welcome another bairn into its fold.

Father Alexander MacAulay, the parish priest, awaited us at the font. He had baptised most of the bairns born on Fraser land these last thirty years and knew well both the Gaelic tongues and the Highland hearts gathered there.

Jamie stood proudly at the front of the kirk, Willie in his arms, swaddled in a length of Fraser tartan — a rich, earthy weave of deep wine-red, moss green, soft brown, and slate grey, the same one Jamie wore about his shoulders in defiance of the cursed Dress Act. It was a tartan older than the ban, older than Culloden, and no one spoke against it here, for among kin and God, tradition held fast.

Jocasta, dignified in dark green silk, stood at Jamie’s left as godmother, while Murtagh took his place on the right — the very spot he’d stood for Jamie’s own christening. I saw the flicker of memory in both their eyes as the priest began.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Father MacAulay intoned, making the sign of the cross upon the babe’s brow, his lips, and his breast.

“William James Reginald Beauchamp Fraser,” he declared solemnly, “I baptise thee with water, that thou may be cleansed of original sin and made a child of God.”

He poured the clear water over Willie’s head, murmuring the sacred words in Latin, and the bairn gave a brief, startled cry before settling back into Jamie’s arms, a tuft of damp copper hair curling against the muted colours of the tartan.

“May the Lord bless thee and keep thee, little one,” Father MacAulay finished softly, tracing one final cross upon the bairn’s brow.

The rite complete, Murtagh clapped Jamie on the back as the congregation stirred around us. “I stood at this font for ye, lad… and now for your son. A fine, strong name he’s got.”

Jamie’s voice was thick. “And he’ll be the better for your hand upon him, a charaid.”

Ian and Jenny had been Faith’s godparents when we’d rechristened her upon our return from France — a fresh start, a new blessing for the child we’d nearly lost. Reggie and Mrs. Graham had stood for Brianna in Inverness, their steady presence in our lives and hearts across time and distance.

And now, Jocasta and Murtagh — two of our own — would guard this child’s soul as well.

Afterwards, we returned to Lallybroch for a feast. The bairns, dressed in their Sunday best for the kirk, tore about the hall as the adults toasted the newest Fraser. Willie was passed from hand to hand, kissed and cradled, the ancient colours of the Fraser tartan a reminder of who we were, and what we meant to keep.

For a little while, all the years, wars, and losses faded.

We were a family.
Whole.
And home.

Chapter Text

Late October 1750

Dear Reggie,

I hope this letter finds you, Roger, and Mrs. Graham in good spirits as the autumn winds settle over Inverness. Here at Lallybroch, the fields have grown quiet with the end of harvest, though the house itself is anything but. We’re in the thick of preparations for Jocasta’s wedding to Murtagh — a match none of us thought we’d live to see, given they’ve been living in sin so long we half-feared the kirk might strike them both down before the vows could be said. It promises to be a gathering to remember, with old faces returning and a good bit of laughter amid the bustle.

******

The days were growing shorter, the air crisp and edged with the scent of peat smoke and ripening apples, but within Lallybroch’s walls, it might as well have been high summer for all the life it held. Every room seemed to house some scrap of wedding preparation — bolts of fabric strewn across the parlour, flowers hung to dry in the kitchens, bairns chasing one another in a blur of tangled limbs and shrieks while Jenny barked half-hearted scoldings between armfuls of linens and baskets of late pears.

Jocasta was to marry Murtagh — a notion I’d never expected to entertain in my lifetime, and I wasn’t alone in that. Even Jenny, as practical a soul as ever walked the earth, had confessed one evening that she'd half-thought the pair would carry on forever as they were, too stubborn and too set in their ways to risk binding themselves before God. But here we were, with banns read and the kirk booked for Sunday.

The bairns were beside themselves. It would be the first wedding any of them were old enough to properly remember, and they treated it like a festival in its own right. Young Jamie, nearly nine, took to parading round the yard pretending to be Murtagh, with Kitty and Maggie trailing behind as his "maids of honour." Kitty was five, Maggie seven, both thoroughly enchanted with the notion of weddings and finery. Michael and Janet, the twins at two, toddled in their wake, while baby Caitlin, at nine months, was content to gnaw on anything she could catch hold of. Will, a cheerful bundle at five months, gurgled happily from whichever arms he landed in.

Faith, having freshly celebrated her sixth birthday, was every inch the queen of the festivities, bossing the younger bairns with a mixture of affection and stubbornness. Brianna, nearing her fourth birthday, trailed after her older sister, eager to be part of whatever mischief Faith devised.

In the midst of it, Morna Cameron, dark-haired and soft-spoken, remained blissfully unaware that a certain young Kirbys of Broch Mordha had not only sought Murtagh’s blessing, but Jocasta’s as well — and Jamie’s, of course, as Laird and nearest kin. I’d caught Jamie chuckling about it with Ian one evening, both recalling their own awkward courtship blunders while pretending not to be sentimental.

For my part, with my inheritance continuing to grow — Raymond’s careful plans bearing fruit and Ned Gowan proving as shrewd in business as he ever was in law — I’d quietly arranged a dowry for Morna. Jocasta had protested, as had Murtagh, both too proud by half, but in the end, they’d agreed. “A good lass deserves a good start,” I’d told them. And that had been that.

By the day of the wedding, the house fairly overflowed with guests, chatter, and good cheer. Familiar faces arrived in droves — Ned Gowan, dapper as ever despite the years, with his sharp-eyed sister Agnes Harper at his side. Leticia MacKenzie, the Dowager Lady of Leoch, sweeping in with regal dignity and a fond kiss for Jocasta. And Hamish MacKenzie, Colum’s son in name and Dougal’s by blood — though few spoke it aloud — of an age with Fergus and bearing Dougal’s fire tempered by Colum’s gentler kindness, standing tall at fifteen and faithfully by his mother’s side.

The kirk at Broch Mordha was dressed with what the land could offer — late-blooming heather, woven garlands of rowan berries, sprigs of pine and fir. Murtagh looked every inch the Highland groom, fierce and proud beneath his Fraser plaid, and Jocasta, in deep blue silk, was radiant enough to outshine any bride of twenty. When they spoke their vows, the room felt full of ghosts and blessings both.

At the feast after, the bairns ran wild, the older folk trading stories and toasts, while Jenny and I took turns minding Will and little Caitlin. It was there, with a mouthful of honeycake and a berry-stained chin, that Faith made her declaration.

“I’m gonna marry Fergus when I’m a big girl,” she announced, hands planted on her narrow hips, her face as solemn as any judge.

“Oh?” Jenny asked, one brow arched. “And why’s that, a leannan?”

“Aunt Jocasta says ye must marry a good man. But Uncle Ian’s married, and Uncle Murtagh’s married, and Da’s married too. And Uncle Ned is too old.” She cast a pointed look toward me. “And Fergus is a good man, and he’s my heart brother. He didn’t grow in Mama’s belly like me and Bree and Will. So I can marry him.”

Brianna burst into giggles, covering her mouth with sticky fingers, while Jenny and I dissolved into helpless laughter.

“What’s this now?” Jamie’s voice rumbled from behind us as he arrived with Ian and Ned Gowan in tow. “What’s so bloody amusing?”

I caught my breath, wiping tears from my eyes. “Your daughter’s just made her matrimonial intentions known. She means to wed Fergus.”

Jamie blinked, utterly scandalized. “And thinking it right, to marry her own brother?”

“I told ye, he’s my heart brother!” Faith insisted, stamping her foot for good measure. “And if I want to, I will marry him!”

Ian chuckled, clapping Jamie on the shoulder. “Well, we’ve all heard worse notions. Ye remember old Master Forbes taught us about the Habsburgs when we were lads? Charles the Second of Spain — his chin hung so low from marrying cousins and nieces for generations he could barely eat his own supper.”

Ned let out a dry chuckle. “Nothing in Scots law against it, Jamie. No blood ties, no cause for scandal. Though I do object to being labeled ‘too old,’ lass.”

Jamie ran a hand through his hair, half-laughing. “My six-year-old daughter is already thinking of marriage.”

Claire shook her head fondly. “She’s a Fraser of Lallybroch, love. Stubborn as they come.”

Ian grinned. “Should we tell Fergus of his impending fate, then?”

The whole table erupted in laughter as Faith scampered off in pursuit of more honeycake, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’d left in her wake.

Chapter Text

Mid-July 1751

Lallybroch

Dear Reggie,

I hope this finds you, Roger, and Mrs. Graham well as summer ripens and the hills blush with heather. Morna married Andrew Kirby last February — a fine match by all accounts. The bairns miss their beloved teacher and cousin, of course, but with the income from my investments, we’ve at last built a proper schoolhouse between Broch Mordha and Lallybroch. A clever young gentlewoman from the north — Miss MacLeod — has taken up the post, and the children adore her.

*****

Morna’s wedding had brought light and music to the house after a long, cold winter. But once she left for her new home, the rooms felt quieter somehow, the children missing her gentle patience and easy laughter. With the new schoolhouse nearly finished and a sharp-minded young teacher hired, the bairns would soon have their lessons again — and likely a stricter hand than Morna’s soft scolding ever was.

Of course, the talk in the house wasn’t all about the school. Fergus’s future had stirred no shortage of opinions these past weeks. Jamie and I had weathered several sharp exchanges over the matter, the argument rising again and again like a stubborn tide neither of us could turn. Where he ought to go for his studies, what kind of life lay ahead for him — we’d agreed on none of it. And tonight, over supper, it came to a head.

The great table in the Lallybroch hall was crowded with familiar faces, firelight flickering over them. Jamie sat at the head, with me at his right hand and Jenny directly across, Ian beside her. Jocasta, regal as ever, was seated at my other side, with Brianna perched contentedly on her lap and Murtagh settled just beyond, cradling wee Will as the bairn gnawed contentedly on a crust of bread. Fergus and Faith sat at Murtagh’s side, the little girl tucked close to her big brother, eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. At the far end, the Murray brood gathered together — young Jamie, Kitty, Maggie, Michael, and Janet — with wee Caitlin dozing peacefully in Ian’s arms, safe from the lively hum of talk and clatter of dishes. The air was thick with warmth, good food, and the quiet tension of a matter yet to be settled.

Jenny had raised the question of term dates, narrowing her eyes shrewdly.

“It’ll be the winter term then? Does it begin in January?”

“Aye,” Jamie said, his voice firm. “He’ll go to Paris in January.”

“Paris?” I said sharply, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. “I thought we hadn’t made a choice yet.”

Jamie’s gaze was steady, his chin tilting stubbornly.

“He’ll study the Classics there. Same as I did.”

“Well, Cambridge is closer to home,” I replied tightly, fighting to keep my voice calm. “And it’s where my Uncle Lamb went. Fergus is a third French, a third Scot, and a third English, after all.”

Ian shifted in his seat.

“Both fine schools. Would do the lad credit either way.”

“Aye,” Murtagh grunted. “But it’s no small thing, sending a young man that far from his kin.”

Jocasta leaned in, arching a brow. “Paris has its merits, to be sure. Connections, culture, and respect for a lad of his blood.”

Heat rose in my cheeks.

“I won’t have him in Paris,” I snapped. “Not when the place could drown him in memories best left buried.”

Jamie’s mouth tightened, his temper flaring.

“And I’ll not send my son to bloody England,” he snarled. “I’ll not have him bowing his head where they sit in judgment. It was the English who took me, flogged me near to death, and saw my father to his grave. They left me an outlaw, forced to flee to France without a chance to say a proper goodbye to him. And ye’d have my son — my child — call those butchers masters?”

I slammed my palm flat against the table, the sharp crack halting every other conversation in the room.

“I am English!” I spat, my voice shaking. “And I’ll not be shamed for it in my own house!”

The room went dead still.

Jamie’s chest rose and fell, his face hard and dark with anger — and then, rash, unguarded, and sharp as a whip, he flung the words like a blow.

“Ye’re with child again.”

A gasp, a held breath.

“It’s true,” he pressed, breathing hard, “and it matters. And maybe it’s the reason you’re so unreasonable of late, picking fights over every wee thing. I ken you’ll miss Fergus — so will I. But this bairn’s coming, and there’s a house to keep. I canna have ye tearing yourself apart over things that can’t be helped.”

“You absolute bloody bastard,” I choked out, blinking against the sudden burn of tears. “You always know before I do. And you’ve no right to fling it at me like a stone in the middle of a fight.”

The air in the hall hung thick, every eye on us.

Jocasta cleared her throat smoothly. “Let the lad speak for himself.”

Fergus rose, squaring his shoulders as a man grown.

“I’ll study the Classics, aye — but at Edinburgh,” he announced clearly. “Monsieur Gowan has agreed to lodge me, and it suits me well enough.”

Jamie’s brow furrowed.

“Edinburgh?”

“Aye,” Fergus said firmly, his voice steady. “Amongst my own folk, respected as I ought to be.”

Faith piped up before anyone else could speak, her little voice earnest and bright.

“I’m glad he’s not goin’ away to Pahr-iss or Cam-bish.”

The tension broke like a storm cloud split by sun, a ripple of laughter chasing it from the room. Jamie let out a sharp breath, his hand moving — at last — to rest on my belly, his stubbornness giving way to tenderness.

“And what about you, a leannan?” Murtagh teased, ruffling Faith’s curls.

“I’ll marry Fergus someday,” she declared matter-of-factly. “I don’t need to go to university.”

Jocasta chuckled, bouncing Brianna lightly on her lap.

“He’d best prepare himself, then.”

“Can the baby be a girl?” Brianna asked, her eyes wide.

I smiled through my tears, leaning into Jamie’s touch.

“We’ll see, love. We’ll see.”

The matter was settled — Fergus would go to Edinburgh, and the bairns were content. For now, that was enough.

Later, with the Murray family back in their house, Murtagh and Jocasta retired to their cottage, and the little ones safely put to bed, the house fell into quiet. Only Jamie, Fergus, and I remained by the hearth, the warm glow of the fire soft against the stone walls.

Fergus rose, his cheeks still pink, and lifted his cup.

“To health,” he said quietly, voice steady despite the storm of emotion that lingered.

Jamie leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the young man he claimed as a son. The firelight caught the lines of his face, softening his features as he raised his own cup.

“To a man of courage,” Jamie said, his voice rough but proud. “A son of my blood in every way that matters. Fergus Fraser — may ye carve your path wi’ strength, stand wi’ honour, and never forget you’ve a home to come back to.”

Fergus swallowed hard, blinking fast, though he held his ground.

I raised my cup last, my voice thick with love.

“To my firstborn,” I said softly. “The boy who made me a mother, and taught me what it meant to give my heart without condition. May your path be bright, your burdens light, and your heart forever certain of your worth — for you are, and always will be, ours.”

We touched our cups together, the soft chime a quiet promise.

Jamie smiled, his hand closing around mine.

“To family,” he murmured.

And we drank.

TBC

Chapter Text

Published in The Edinburgh Courant, April 10th, 1752

At Lallybroch, near Broch Mordha, to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Esq., Laird of Broch Tuarach, and his lady, Claire Fraser, a son was born on Thursday, the 18th of March at around three in the morning. The child has been named Robert Malcolm Ian Beauchamp Fraser. Both mother and child are reported to be in good health.

*******

I woke to the soft creak of the door and the sound of bare feet padding across the wooden floor. The room smelled of beeswax, fresh rushes, and the faint sweetness of milk. Jamie shifted beside me, his arm warm across my waist. In the cradle near the hearth, Robb let out a small, sighing breath in his sleep.

“Is it true, Da?” Faith’s hushed, eager voice broke the quiet.

Jamie chuckled softly, sitting up against the pillows. “Aye, a leannan. He came in the night.”

The door swung wider as Brianna darted in after her sister, her fiery curls wild from sleep, eyes bright with excitement. At five, she was bold and mischievous, always elbowing for answers.

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” I smiled at them both. “You’ve another brother.”

Jamie leaned over, brushing a hand over the baby’s downy head. “This here’s Robert Malcolm Ian Beauchamp Fraser,” he announced proudly. “But we’ll be calling him Robb.”

Brianna made a face. “Another one? How many boys does one family need? It’s unfair.”

Will tottered in behind them, his fair hair sticking up in tufts, clutching his battered wooden horse. “But I a boy.”

“You’re my favourite boy,” Brianna assured him with a fond ruffle of his hair. “But still — too many boys.”

Jamie laughed, scooping Will onto the bed and kissing his head. “Ye’ll manage, lass. And ye’ll both love him whether he’s a boy or no.”

Faith edged closer to the cradle, her thoughtful eyes shining. “Mama,” she said, “can we take Robb to Edinburgh to show Fergus? He ought to see his brother.”

I smiled, brushing a hand through her hair. “Not yet, sweetheart. He’s too little to travel. But Fergus will be home in a week for the Easter holiday.”

Faith brightened at once. “He will?”

Jamie nodded, meeting her gaze over Robb’s sleeping head. “Aye. He wrote to say he’ll be here by Sunday next. Says he’s bringing a surprise.”

Brianna perked up, forgetting her earlier complaints. “Is it a puppy?”

“Or sweeties?” Faith asked hopefully.

“A kitty!” Will piped up, waving his wooden horse aloft.

Jamie laughed low. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

I closed my eyes briefly, listening to their easy chatter, feeling the house full even with one still away. Soon Fergus would be home, the hall echoing with his laughter and his arms around his brother. I looked at Robb’s small, perfect face against Jamie’s chest and felt the world settle a little more firmly in place.

Brianna wasn’t done. She cast a sideways glance at me, mischief in her eyes. “Mama?”

“Yes, love?”

“If the next one’s a boy too, I’m running away to France.”

Jamie barked a laugh, tugging lightly at one of her curls. “Ye’ll no go to France, a leannan. Not while there’s a Da here to keep ye close.”

“I’ll take Faith with me,” Brianna declared, crossing her arms with determination.

Faith giggled. “A place with no boys.”

Will scowled fiercely. “Coming too!”

“That’s not how it works, Will,” Faith teased, patting his head.

I laughed, breaking the long night’s weariness. Meeting Jamie’s gaze, I raised a brow. “Who says there’ll be another one?”

Jamie turned with a slow, wolfish grin. “Well now, Sassenach — if memory serves, we had twelve apostle spoons when we wed. Five bairns so far, and seven spoons still waiting for names.”

I rolled my eyes fondly, smiling. “Greedy Highlander.”

His fingers tightened around mine, voice rough with feeling. “A man can hope.”

I squeezed back, watching the light catch in his hair, the lines of his face etched deep with love.

“Aye,” he murmured. “We’re blessed, Sassenach.”

“We are,” I said softly, as dawn broke over the hills and the world felt whole.

******

In the days that followed, the house brimmed with preparations for Easter, the promise of spring lifting all our hearts. Fergus returned from Edinburgh with the early breeze, his face alight with excitement to be home again.

Just as he arrived, he revealed a small surprise — a lively Cairn Terrier pup, scruffy and spirited, with bright eyes full of mischief.

Brianna’s face lit up instantly. “A puppy! I’ve wanted one for ages!”

Fergus smiled proudly. “Aye, thought it was time we had a proper Highland dog. He’s wee but brave, and I’ve named him Bruce — after Robert the Bruce, to keep company with the new bairn Robert.”

The girls and wee Will took to the pup at once, calling him “Brucey” with delight.

The morning of Easter dawned bright and clear. After the service at Broch Mordha’s village church, the Fraser, Murray, and Kirby families gathered at Lallybroch to celebrate.

The house soon filled with laughter and lively voices as both families blended.

Jenny found a quiet moment to pull me aside, a smile touching her lips. “Claire, I’m with bairn again,” she confided softly. “I hope this’ll be the last. The brood’s getting large, and it’s more than a bit much for me these days.”

I squeezed her hand, sharing the warmth of our friendship and the secret joys and burdens of motherhood.

Murtagh and Jocasta, ever the proud surrogate grandparents, moved among the children with gentle patience and sparkling joy. Jocasta’s smile was softer than I’d ever seen it, her heart clearly full.

Morna and her husband, Andrew Kirby, were with us too, their son Colum — now several months old — playing quietly nearby. Morna, always maternal when teaching her young cousins, had grown even more so with motherhood. She had named her son Colum in honour of her mother’s favourite brother. Jocasta had once said that while Dougal was much like herself — fiery, strong-willed, and fierce — Colum was his opposite: calm, steady, and quietly dependable. It was this balance that made Colum the brother Jocasta favoured most, as he completed her in ways Dougal could not.

The house was alive with warmth, the rich colours of spring flowers brightening every corner, and the delicious smells of the Easter feast drifting from the kitchen.

The celebration blossomed with joy and laughter. Jenny’s children played with ours, the Murray family blending seamlessly with the Frasers under the watchful eyes of their surrogate grandparents.

Jocasta and Murtagh beamed with pride, moving among the children, their presence a steady comfort. Morna, relaxed and radiant, watched over little Colum — a gentle reminder of family ties stretching back generations.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the house settled into quiet warmth, Jamie and I sat by the fire. The day’s noise faded into a gentle hush, broken only by the soft breathing of sleeping children.

Jamie’s hand found mine again, his fingers strong and steady. “We have a fine family, Sassenach.”

I smiled, heart full beyond words. “Yes, Jamie. We do.”

Chapter Text

Dearest Reggie,

The last of the leaves have fallen and the hills stand bare against a grey sky, though the fires of Lallybroch are bright with the news of another bairn safely delivered. The summer and harvest passed in a blink, and I find myself marvelling at how swiftly time moves here. The children have grown like weeds in the sun, and our household feels more crowded — and more content — with each passing day.

*****

The summer of 1752 had been a good one. Warm, gentle days gave way to cool nights, and the steady rains of September came just when they were needed. Jamie declared it one of our best harvests since my return. The cellars and lofts stood full, and the men spoke cheerfully of the winter ahead.

Faith turned eight in October, already tall for her age and sharp as a tack. She’d begun trailing Fergus like a loyal hound whenever he was home from Edinburgh, peppering him with questions about books, fencing, and city life. Fergus, for his part, bore her attentions with indulgent patience, though I occasionally caught him slipping away to the stables when the interrogation grew too intense.

Brianna, not quite six, remained a force of nature. She was forever climbing trees, trailing after the older boys, and coming home covered in dirt and bruises, proud of every one. Will, now two and a half, was a copy of his father in looks and temperament, stubborn to the bone and determined to be wherever Jamie was — whether it be mucking stalls, walking fields, or mending a fence.

Robb, just eight months, was already standing against the furniture and making delighted shrieks whenever anyone entered a room. He had his sister’s colouring, with a shock of coppery hair and wide, clear eyes. He was a merry, placid child, so long as he could see Jamie nearby.

Jenny, heavily pregnant with her seventh child — and sixth pregnancy — had shouldered the long summer without complaint. She and Ian had hired Mary McNab that spring to help them manage the house at Broch Deasach, the kind of capable, reliable housekeeper Jenny had sorely missed since their Lallybroch days with Mrs. Crook.

And so it was Mary who came knocking at our chamber door in the dead of night, face lit by flickering taper.

“It’s Mistress Jenny, ma’am,” she said, low but steady. “Her pains are on her. She says if ye dinna come now, she’ll see to it herself.”

I was dressed and out in moments, Jamie beside me as we hurried through the cold night to Broch Deasach, breath misting in the air.

Jenny laboured as she always did — fierce, unflinching, and furious at every attempt to console her. And with the cold dawn came her victory: a blond haired, squalling son.

“There he is,” I whispered, laying him on her breast.

Jenny looked down at the red, wrinkled face, and a crooked, tired smile tugged at her mouth.

“Well,” she muttered, voice hoarse but proud, “it’s high time one of them was named after the man that helped make him.”

“Ian,” she called toward the doorway, where Ian Murray lingered, pale and anxious. “Come see your son, man. We’ll call him Ian. After his father. And his blood.”

Jamie came in a few minutes later, face alight with tenderness, lifting the bairn in his big hands. The fire crackled, the child wailed, and Jenny lay back against the pillows, spent and triumphant.

Outside, the season’s first snow began to fall.

*****

Christmas that year was a grand one, the largest gathering the two Brochs had seen since Murtagh and Jocasta’s wedding. The air rang with fiddle music and children’s laughter, the long tables in Lallybroch’s hall piled high with roasted goose, hams, oatcakes, bannocks, and fruit puddings. Cloves and pine branches hung from the rafters, and candles flickered in every corner.

The Kirbys of Broch Mordha came with their bairn, wee Colum, nestled in Morna’s lap, his fat little cheeks red from the cold. Morna, once again round with child, glowed brighter than any candle in the room. Jamie teased her gently, raising his brows as he passed.

“That lad of yours works fast, lass.”

Morna grinned, unbothered. “Aye, well, it’s the long winters. Folk must keep warm somehow.”

Jenny and Ian beamed over their newest arrival, wee Ian asleep in his mother’s arms. Faith sat beside Fergus, as always, though she’d spent most of the evening nicking pieces of marzipan from the table.

Outside, while the fiddlers struck up a reel, Brianna challenged her Murray cousins — Maggie, Kitty, Jamie, wee Michael and wee Janet — to a footrace through the snow.

She lined them up at the edge of the yard, snow crunching underfoot, cheeks red with cold.

“I’ll beat the lot of ye!” she crowed.

“Will not!” shouted Jamie Murray, already halfway to a snowball.

Will toddled after them as best he could until Jamie scooped him up before he could fall headfirst into a snowbank.

Inside, wee Caitlin stayed close to Jenny, her soft curls bouncing as she clung to her mother’s skirts, wide-eyed at the noise and brightness. She peered into the cradle now and then to coo at baby Ian, giggling when he stretched and yawned.

As the night wore on and the fiddlers played their last tunes, Jamie caught me beneath the mistletoe strung above the hearth. He gave me a slow, wicked smile and tugged me toward him.

“Ye ken the rule, Sassenach,” he murmured, his voice low, breath warm against my ear.

I laughed, cheeks flushed from the fire and the whisky, and stood on my toes to kiss him. It wasn’t a quick peck — not with Jamie. He kissed me like it was midsummer, not midwinter, the world narrowed to just us in that moment.

The hall roared around us — music, laughter, the crackle of flames — but I felt only his hands on my waist, his mouth on mine.

“A very merry Christmas to us, Sassenach,” he whispered when he finally let me go.

“And to all of us,” I smiled, as another round of music rose, the snow thick against the windows, and the world spun on, as it always did.

Chapter Text

June 1753

Dearest Reggie, 

The Borders are greener than I ever remember them, the fields thick with clover and the rivers heavy with spring melt. Jamie has turned half the market’s head with the beasts he’s brought, and I daresay the other half are likely wishing they had come sooner to bid for Lallybroch stock. It stirs something in me, seeing him so alive in his element, the way his eyes light when a fine-boned mare or sturdy colt catches his fancy. I find myself grateful every day that peace, of a sort, has finally found us.

The bairns are in good hands — Jocasta presides over Lallybroch like a queen on her throne, with Fergus back from university and adored by the children, especially wee Robb, who follows him about like a pup. I miss them terribly, though I’ll not deny a few nights without sticky fingers and midnight wakings has its charms.

*****

The day was warm, the air thick with the mingled scents of sun-warmed grass, leather, sweat, and horse. A faint haze shimmered above the rolling green hills surrounding the market field, where scores of stalls and makeshift pens had been thrown together, and horses of every size and shape waited restlessly for buyers.

It was my first time at the Borders horse market with Jamie and Murtagh — meant, in Jamie’s hopeful words, as a kind of romantic getaway. Granted, a Highland version of such a thing involved early mornings, mud-spattered boots, the company of men, horses, and no end of bargaining, but it had its charms nonetheless.

Murtagh, scruffy and ill-tempered as ever in the early hours, had grunted while tightening a saddle girth that morning, “Reminds me o’ the old MacKenzie rent party, this.”

I’d laughed, the memory sharp and vivid. I had been there, after all — one of my first bewildering adventures after coming through the stones, trailing along after Dougal MacKenzie and his band of kilted enforcers as they collected rents and loyalty from crofters and tenants. The noise, the smells, the heady mixture of commerce and threat, and above it all, Jamie, his face alight with the thrill of it.

“Aye,” I’d said, smiling, “though back then I hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening half the time.”

Murtagh had snorted. “Neither did half the MacKenzies.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that — and at Jamie now, walking a little ahead of us, one hand resting on the withers of Archer, his best gelding. The animal moved like liquid shadow, glossy and sure-footed, and I could see the flickers of envy in other breeders’ eyes as we passed.

“I’d wager ye’ll fetch a king’s ransom for that one,” Murtagh grunted, eyeing the horse.

Jamie only smiled, a glint of good humour in his eyes. “I’ll settle for an Englishman’s purse.”

There was something deeply satisfying about seeing him like this — easy in his skin, proud of his work, no longer burdened by hiding or fear. Since the lifting of the price on his head, Lallybroch had flourished. My inheritance had helped, yes, but it was Jamie’s hands and heart that had made the estate strong again.

With Fergus away at university now and no longer needing tutoring, Jamie had poured himself back into his first love — horses. And he was brilliant at it. His breeding lines were already making their name in the north, and now word was seeping down through Glasgow and Edinburgh, even across the border into England. I’d heard men whispering of the Fraser beasts all morning.

We’d just finished settling our string for showing when a shift in the crowd caught my attention.

Most of the gentry at the horse market had arrived on horseback, their animals glossy and high-stepping. But this party came on foot — an older gentleman with stiff, aristocratic bearing, flanked by two dark-haired girls: one strikingly beautiful, with raven-dark hair and a bold set to her chin, and the other fairer, with wide, shy eyes. Behind them walked two men — one lean, soldierly, with a lined face and piercing pale eyes, the other young and blond, not yet hardened by the world.

A ruddy-faced breeder beside us, Kinnear, leaned toward Jamie and murmured, “That’s Lord Dunsany of Helwater. Fine estate in the Lake District. Word is he’s lookin’ for carriage horses — maybe a stud.”

Jamie’s gaze fixed sharply not on Dunsany, but on the lean, pale-eyed man behind him.

“Who’s that?” I murmured, feeling the tension gather in him.

“Lord Melton,” Jamie replied very softly. “Harold Grey.”

My breath caught. The officer who had spared Jamie’s life after Culloden. I slid my hand discreetly into his, and his thumb brushed mine once, steady and sure.

The party reached our pen, Lord Dunsany giving the horses a sharp, critical glance before his pale gaze settled on Jamie.

“Fraser of Broch Tuarach, I presume?” he said curtly.

Jamie inclined his head, polite but cool. “Aye, my lord.”

Dunsany gave a curt sniff. “I don’t generally do business with Scots. But a friend in York swore up and down these were the finest carriage beasts he’d seen in twenty years. Said I’d be a damned fool not to see them for myself.”

Jamie’s mouth quirked faintly. “I’m pleased to hear it, my lord.”

Dunsany’s lip curled. “Though it’s a wonder you’re free to trade, Fraser. I remember the name ‘Red Jamie’ well enough — traitor to the Crown and a scourge of the north, they called you.”

Before Jamie could answer, Melton stepped forward. His gaze met Jamie’s, a quiet current of recognition passing between them.

“Fraser,” he said in a low voice.

Jamie tilted his head, feigning mild puzzlement. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Should I ken ye?”

“I saw you at Culloden,” Melton said evenly. “You were half-dead. I had orders to have you shot. I… did not.”

Jamie raised a brow, as though vaguely recalling. “Ah. Well — truth be told, my lord, I could scarce recall my own name at the time. If ye did preserve me… my thanks.”

Melton’s lips twitched wryly. “Had I been apprised at the time of what I later discovered — that you served His Majesty’s cause — I should have sent for a surgeon, and spared you the discomfort of dying in a cart.”

Dunsany stiffened, his face darkening. “Working for the Crown, was he?” he spat. “Convenient tale. My son fought for His Majesty at Prestonpans. Died cleanly, with a sword in his hand. And now ‘Red Jamie,’ of all men, paraded about as a loyal subject?”

Melton lifted a hand. “It was a necessary deception. Fraser’s information saved lives — mine among them. Orders from above my station. His cooperation was concealed for… strategic reasons.”

Jamie said nothing, polite detachment fixed on his face, though I felt the tautness in his hand.

Melton gestured to the young blond man beside him. “My brother — Lord John Grey.”

Lord John stepped forward, colour rising faintly in his fair skin. “I was seventeen when we met. At Carryarick Pass.”

Jamie gave him a faint, almost fond smile. “Aye… brave lad ye were.”

“I was indebted to you,” Melton said gravely. “And I paid it as best I might.”

Jamie turned and introduced me to the company. “Claire Fraser,” he said with a sly smile, casting a knowing glance at Lord John. “My wife — and, as you well know, the ‘hostage’ that night at Carryarick Pass.”

I offered a courteous smile. “The pleasure is mine.”

At the sound of my voice, Lord Dunsany’s gaze shifted to me. “Your accent — English, I take it?”

“Yes, my lord,” I replied with a light arch of the brow. “Born in England, though I have since taken to the Highlands.”

Jamie gave a small, barely suppressed cough behind me, whilst Lord Melton’s lips twitched in amusement.

Dunsany inclined his head. “These are my daughters — Geneva and Isobel.”

Geneva, the elder, dark-haired and poised, maintained a countenance of perfect decorum whilst beneath her father’s watchful eye. Yet, when his attention waned, her dark, glimmering eyes turned toward Jamie, her expression betraying a hunger scarcely concealed. Isobel, younger and fairer, glanced about with a demure shyness.

As the gentlemen turned to survey the horses, I caught Geneva’s eye and offered a smile. “Would you care to join me for tea at the refreshment tent? ‘Tis quieter there, and perchance your ears might be spared the endless discourse on fetlocks and breeding.”

Geneva hesitated, a wistful gleam in her eyes. “I would rather stay and observe… I do have a fondness for fine horses.”

Isobel stepped forward gently. “Come, Geneva. The heat is oppressive here.”

Lord John smiled. “I shall escort you, ladies.”

Geneva, casting a swift glance at her father, gave a prim inclination of the head. Yet, the moment his attention turned elsewhere, she bestowed Lord John with an arch, mischievous smile and allowed herself to be led away, Isobel walking beside me as we withdrew from the pens.

As we moved, the lively clamor of the market surrounded us — the clatter of hooves, the sharp calls of traders, and the mingled scents of fresh bread, roasting meat, horse sweat, and sun-warmed grass. I was conscious of Geneva’s keen gaze fixed upon me, her expression keenly appraising.

When Lord John paused to exchange words with a passing acquaintance, Geneva seized the opportunity, sidling closer with the assured entitlement of a lady accustomed to obtaining her desires.

“You are English,” she said softly, voice smooth but edged with a subtle challenge.

I smiled with polite civility. “By birth.”

“And yet, you married… him.”

The pause before her last word was laden with meaning. Isobel coloured, glancing at me with a mixture of embarrassment and apology.

“I did,” I answered evenly. “I find Scotsmen quite irresistible.”

Isobel let out a startled giggle, whilst Geneva’s dark eyes narrowed, lips curving into a brittle smile.

“Some might say it a shame,” she murmured, her gaze flickering toward Jamie, who stood tall and golden in the afternoon light. “Such a man — squandered on a country estate.”

I met her stare without faltering. “Others would say he is precisely where he ought to be.”

For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the two of us, the heat and dust and murmuring voices fading away. She was young, yet beneath her beauty lay a hard streak — the sort that covets what it admires and begrudges what it cannot have.

Before she could retort, Lord John rejoined us, cheerfully unaware of the undercurrents. “Shall we? I believe I espied a tent yonder, with shade and cider.”

I inclined my head and fell into step beside him, Geneva following close behind, her silks whispering against the dry grass. Isobel lingered near, offering a shy, conspiratorial smile.

“I do believe your husband’s horses are the finest I have yet beheld,” she whispered, eyes bright with admiration.

“Thank you,” I murmured, warmed by her sincerity.

As we left the main ring behind, I cast a final glance over my shoulder. Jamie stood with Archer’s reins in hand, bowed slightly as he conversed with Lord Dunsany, Murtagh standing like a weathered mastiff at his side. Lord Melton’s visage was grave, yet from afar I discerned the taut threads of old debts and buried danger weaving between them.

This was no mere social gathering. Nay, it was commerce and politics, ambition and grievance — all wrapped in polished boots and fine cloth. For a moment, it recalled the MacKenzie rent parties of old — alliances forged, rivalries stoked, and no soul certain who might ride victorious come sundown.

The refreshment tent offered a welcome respite, the canvas sides fluttering gently in the breeze. Within, the air was thick with the scent of freshly poured cider, warm bread, and the faint sweetness of honey. Tables and benches were scattered throughout, occupied by the wives and daughters of gentlemen, feigning polite disinterest in the business without.

Lord John procured us a small table near the entrance, where I took my seat. Geneva and Isobel settled opposite. A young maid brought forth a tray laden with cider and oatcakes, and for a brief spell, only the clink of cups and the distant murmur of the crowd broke the silence.

Geneva’s dark eyes flickered restlessly toward the tent’s entrance, where the pens lay barely visible through the shifting canvas. She sighed — a long, languid sound crafted to draw notice.

“He’s quite magnificent, is he not?” she murmured, no effort made to disguise the subject of her admiration.

Isobel gave a nervous laugh, casting a reproving glance at her sister. “Geneva—”

“Oh, spare me your looks, Issie,” Geneva retorted, tossing her raven locks over one shoulder. “’Tis not as if every woman present does not harbour the same thought.”

I raised a brow over my cup. “Some of us are content with what we have.”

Her gaze snapped to mine, lips curling in a smile far too sweet. “Well, not all were fortunate enough to entrap a Highland laird for themselves.”

There was a brittle edge to the words, sharpened by envy. I smiled slowly and deliberately. “I did not entrap him. I only stood still long enough for him to catch me.”

Lord John chuckled, breaking the tension. “Mrs Fraser, you do possess a talent for expressing matters in the most unexpected fashion.”

“I find it a good way to save time,” I replied lightly, reaching for a honeyed oatcake.

Geneva sank back, silent a moment, though the smouldering glance she cast toward the pens spoke volumes. Isobel, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat.

“I would dearly love to visit Lallybroch someday,” she said shyly. “I have never seen the Highlands.”

“You’d be most welcome,” I said earnestly.

“Perhaps I shall,” she murmured, casting a hopeful glance toward Lord John.

Geneva snorted softly, shaking her head. “I should find it a dreadfully dull place. Naught but sheep, heather, and endless rain.”

“It depends on the company,” I replied with a small smile.

A beat of tense silence followed, then Lord John, perhaps sensing Geneva’s rising temper, drained his cider and rose. “Shall we rejoin the others? Methinks the true entertainment is about to commence.”

Geneva was already on her feet ere he finished speaking, her skirts swishing as she made for the tent’s entrance without a backward glance. Isobel followed, and I lingered briefly, sipping the last of my cider, before rising to follow.

As we stepped forth into the bright afternoon, I espied Jamie — standing tall and assured, one hand resting lightly on Archer’s bridle, engaged in earnest conversation with Lord Dunsany and Melton, Murtagh at his side like a faithful hound. Geneva’s gaze was locked upon him, fierce and thwarted, her chin lifted imperiously as if willing the world to grant her desires denied.

I shook my head with a private smile and returned to Jamie’s side.

By the time I reached the pens once more, Lord Dunsany was deep in negotiation with Jamie, Murtagh standing at his elbow, arms folded and expression carved from stone. Lord Melton lingered nearby, observing with faint amusement.

“Twenty guineas for the pair,” Dunsany said sharply, eyes flicking between Jamie and the horses. “Not a penny more.”

Jamie nodded slowly, stroking Archer’s glossy neck. “I would not cheat a gentleman, my lord — but nor will I part with my best stock for less than their due. Thirty guineas, and I shall include tack and delivery to your estate.”

Dunsany snorted. “You drive a hard bargain, Fraser.”

“Aye,” Murtagh muttered beneath his breath. “’Tis the nature of dealing with stubborn MacKenzies.”

Jamie’s lips twitched in amusement. “’Tis fair,” he replied.

Dunsany glanced to Melton, who shrugged. “They are fine beasts. I would pay it.”

A muscle twitched in Dunsany’s jaw. “Very well,” he snapped. “Thirty it is.”

Jamie inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. “A pleasure, my lord.”

They clasped hands, sealing the bargain, and Jamie called over one of the younger lads from the Lallybroch party to handle the paperwork.

At that moment, Lord Melton spoke. “And I shall take that large bay gelding, the grey mare, and that black stallion for my estate at Earlington. I shall send for them anon, and if your stock breeds as well as their looks promise, Fraser, expect further orders come spring.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow, inclining his head in assent. “I shall hold you to your word, my lord.”

Geneva appeared again at Jamie’s side like a shadow, her face a mask of ladylike grace as her father glanced in her direction. Yet as soon as his gaze wandered, her eyes gleamed with a fierce hunger.

“I do hope,” she purred, “that you have not parted with all your finest horses, Mr Fraser.”

Jamie raised a brow. “The best of my breeding I keep for myself, Miss Dunsany.”

Her lips curved knowingly. “A pity… I should dearly love to see them, perhaps one day.”

Jamie’s expression did not falter, though I perceived a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. “I daresay my wife would prefer to keep such company private.”

Geneva’s eyes flicked to me, sharp and scornful, before she recovered with a sweet laugh. “I meant no offence, Mrs Fraser. One cannot help but admire such strength and beauty when it is so plainly displayed.”

I smiled, undisturbed. “Indeed. Though I find it is the steady, dependable beasts that serve best in the long run. The spirited ones tend to be… unpredictable.”

Murtagh coughed into his hand.

Geneva’s eyes narrowed, but before she could retort, Lord Dunsany called sharply. “Geneva — enough gawping. We must be off.”

She cast Jamie one last smouldering glance before turning, her skirts billowing like a banner in retreat.

I moved to Jamie’s side, fingers brushing his. “Well handled, my love.”

He grunted. “Spoiled, that one.”

“Aye,” Murtagh muttered. “Worse than a certain young MacKenzie lass ever was.”

Jamie glanced sideways at me with amusement. “Ye ken what Murtagh said earlier, Sassenach? That this trip reminds him of the old days, when we went on the MacKenzie rent party?”

I smiled, leaning into him. “I do. And he is not wrong.”

Jamie squeezed my hand. “Only difference is — this time, ye’re mine.”

“Aye,” I whispered. “And no spoiled English heiress shall come near you.”

He laughed aloud, the sound rich and easy in the warm summer air.

Chapter Text

Dearest Reggie,

The Borders have long since traded their soft summer greens for the browns and greys of winter, though the land sleeps under clear skies and brittle frost. I came home from the horse market with more than bolts of linen and a new bonnet — it seems I’ve brought back a bairn as well. The children are equal parts delighted and outraged, though Brianna has renewed her dramatic vow to flee to France should this child prove to be "another smelly boy."
I confess, this time, I’ve had a notion from the start that there was something different. As it turns out, my instincts were right.

*******

The news of the bairn’s coming had barely settled before Brianna made her feelings known in no uncertain terms.

"If it’s another smelly boy," she announced one afternoon, standing in the middle of the solar with her hands on her hips and her chin stuck out, "I’ll go live in France, and ye’ll never see me again!"

Faith, seated by the hearth with her sewing, rolled her eyes. "You dinna even ken where France is, Bree."

"I do so! Mama was there, so I could go too!" Brianna snapped back, fire flashing in her blue eyes.

Jamie, who’d been mending a bridle strap near the window, looked up with a grin, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Och, and what would ye do in France, a leannan? Eat cream buns and boss folk about in French?"

"I’d be a duchess!" Bree declared, stamping her foot for good measure.

"Ye’d be a sore trial is what ye’d be," Faith muttered, earning a scowl from her sister.

I couldn’t help laughing as I gathered little Robb into my lap. "Well, let’s hope it’s a lass then, for all our sakes."

But deep down, I’d felt a stirring — something different about this child from the very beginning.

It was the grey hour before dawn, when the house lay still save for the faint stir of wind outside and the soft, steady breathing of our children in their beds. Jamie lay beside me, one arm beneath my head, his face half-hidden in the tumble of copper hair against the pillow.

Then, a sudden, sharp nudge beneath my ribs.

I caught my breath. A heartbeat later, another push, lower down on the opposite side of my belly.

Jamie stirred, lifting his head. "What is it, Sassenach?"

"The bairn," I murmured, laying both hands over the mound of my stomach. "Here… and here."

I guided his hand and waited. Another firm kick, this time square under his palm.

His eyes widened. "Christ, it’s a hellion."

"Jamie…" I swallowed, a ripple of fear and wonder passing through me. "I think there might be two."

Jamie paled visibly. "Two? As in… two whole bairns?"

I nodded.

He sat up abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. "Sweet Mary, Mother of God. Ye dinna think it’s… like that cow I saw in Paris once — wi’ six legs and two tails in a jar? It had a face like a wee man’s, it did. In a Cabinet de curiosités."

I burst out laughing in spite of myself. "I don’t think so."

"We’re calling for Granny McNab," Jamie declared, already half out of bed. "I willnae have peace till she’s had a look."

By noon, Granny McNab, a stocky, sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, was settled before the hearth with a dram in hand and her palm firmly pressed to my belly.

"Aye," she pronounced with a sage nod, "there’s two in there, sure enough. One’s head up, one’s head down — like a pair of stubborn goats.”

Jamie let out a shaky laugh, one hand braced on the mantel.

"Guess the twins thing comes from the Frasers," I said, remembering Jenny’s own set.

Granny McNab snorted. "Aye, and a cursed thing it is. Best ye rest well, mistress. Ye’re no’ the wee slip of a lass ye once were."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, thank you for that."

*******

Fergus left just after Hogmanay, setting off to begin his third year at university in Edinburgh. The morning air was crisp as he gathered his few belongings, calling me “Maman” with a soft smile and concern in his eyes. 

“I’ll miss ye, Maman,” he said quietly, hesitating as if uncertain how to say more. “I worry about ye… ye’ve been much more tired and sick this time. This bairn, it’s different.”

I reached out, taking his hand firmly. “It’s true I’m no longer a young woman, Fergus. But I’ll be fine. The strength of the Frasers runs deep, and you’ll be back before long.”

He nodded, a mixture of relief and lingering worry in his gaze as he turned toward the door.

A few days later, the familiar tightening began—a slow gathering storm that quickly grew relentless. The hours stretched on, long and unforgiving, each wave of pain more fierce than the last. I clung to Jocasta’s steady arms, my body wracked with exhaustion as the labour wore on.

“Faith,” Jocasta said gently but firmly, “you must be a big girl now, and care for your brothers and sister.”

Murtagh was sent swiftly to fetch Jamie, Jenny, and Granny McNab, while Jocasta guided me through each wave.

At one desperate moment, my strength faltered. I grasped Jocasta’s hand, voice barely more than a whisper, “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.”

Jenny, standing close, scolded me gently but firmly, “Claire, ye’ve faced worse than this and come through. Ye are Fraser strong—do not let fear take ye now.”

Then, just when hope seemed to wane, the sharp, clear cry of my son broke through the haze of pain. A fierce joy surged through me, lifting me above the torment. But the trial was not yet done. Minutes later, the delicate wail of my daughter filled the room—fragile and precious—renewing my strength once more.

Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes, hot and full—I had been so frightened, but hearing their voices made the impossible seem possible.

The house lay still in the early morning light, the flicker of candle flames casting soft shadows on the worn wooden walls. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me, yet I felt a fragile thread of peace holding me upright, the warmth of two tiny bodies against my sides.

I barely registered the soft tread of footsteps in the corridor until Jenny’s voice reached my ears — low, thick with emotion.

“They’re all well, Jamie,” she said, halting him in the doorway. “Your lass… and both bairns. A boy and a girl.”

I heard Jamie’s breath leave him in a ragged sigh, and a heartbeat later, he was at my side, his face drawn but alight with relief and something rawer still.

“Sassenach,” he murmured, sinking onto the bed beside me, brushing damp curls from my brow. His hand cupped my cheek as though he still needed to feel me there, solid and warm.

“You did it,” he whispered hoarsely. “Ye brave, stubborn woman.”

I gave him a weary smile, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “I wasn’t so brave a few hours ago,” I confessed, my voice cracking. “There was a moment I… I truly thought I couldn’t.”

He pressed his forehead against mine for a long moment before drawing back. “Jenny told me,” he said softly. “And that she gave ye a proper scolding.”

I gave a shaky laugh at that. “She did.”

Then, Jamie’s gaze softened, distant for a moment as he recounted what I had missed beyond these four walls — how Granny McNab had taken charge with cool authority, how he’d waited downstairs with Faith, the lass never leaving his side, both of them murmuring every prayer they knew. How the house had held its breath with each hour, until at last, the sound of our son’s cry had broken the silence, followed soon after by our daughter’s softer wail.

“I thought my heart might burst, Claire,” he said thickly. “Hearing them both… and knowing ye were still with me.”

I reached for his hand and drew it to my lips, kissing his calloused fingers. “I’m still with you,” I whispered.

I must have dozed, because the next thing I knew, the sound of quick, light footsteps echoed up the stairs, followed by the hushed voices of my brood, eager but wary.

“Slow down, ye wee eejits!” Faith hissed, trying — and failing — to corral her younger siblings.

Jamie rose and crossed to the door, ushering them in with a grin, his large frame filling the doorway. “Come now, your mam wishes to see you.”

The children clustered together, Brianna leading the way, her face alight with curiosity and barely-contained excitement. Will clung to Faith’s hand, wide-eyed, and little Robb toddled along, his curls sticking up at odd angles.

I straightened as much as I could, my arms still cradling the tiny, swaddled forms against me.

Brianna peered at the bundle nearest her, a hopeful glint in her eye. “Well?” she demanded, brows arched in challenge. “Is it another smelly boy?”

I bit back a smile and made a show of considering. “Well, your brother is sleeping just now…” I let the words hang.

Brianna’s face fell, a flash of disappointment and faint horror passing over her. “I told ye,” she muttered darkly, “if it was another lad, I’d go live in France, and ye’d never see me again.”

Jamie chuckled then, reaching down to tug one of her curls. “Och, Bree, your brother’s no’ smelly, and neither is your sister. So best unpack your bag, lass.”

Brianna’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “A lass?”

I shifted the blankets aside just enough for them all to see, and the room filled with the soft, delighted gasps of children.

“Oh, Mam!” Faith breathed, her face alight with joy as she bent to look. Will grinned, craning forward on tiptoe, and even wee Robb clapped his hands.

“She’s bonny,” Brianna declared after a long, solemn moment, her earlier threat forgotten in the face of new sisterly pride.

It was then that Will burst into noisy tears.

I blinked, alarmed. “Will, darling — what is it?”

Jamie knelt beside him, gathering the boy close. Will rubbed his face with a small fist, hiccupping.

“I’m cryin’ ‘cause I’m happy,” he managed, his voice trembling. “’Cause Bree won’t run away to France.”

The whole room dissolved into warm, relieved laughter, the strain of the past hours melting away like mist in the morning sun.

Jamie met my gaze over their heads, his smile soft and fierce all at once.

We were whole.

*******

Published in The Edinburgh Courant, January 31st, 1754
At Lallybroch, near Broch Mordha, to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Esq., Laird of Broch Tuarach, and his lady, Claire Fraser, a son and daughter were born on Saturday, the 18th of January at five o’clock and at twenty minutes past five in the morning, respectively.
The children have been named Henry Quentin Brian Beauchamp Fraser and Julia Elizabeth Janet Fraser. Both mother and children are reported to be in good health.

Chapter Text

Fall 1754

Dearest Reggie,

The fields have yielded well this year, the last sheaves gathered and the air crisp with the scent of woodsmoke and frost. Lallybroch and the neighbouring farms are thick with the noise of harvest feasts, bairns shrieking through the yards, and fiddles going near dawn. It’s a good thing, to see the land and the people thrive together.

*****

The sun hung low and golden in the sky, the air thick with the rich, sharp scent of turned earth and the sweet tang of woodsmoke. The last of the barley had been brought in that morning, and the fields now lay stubbled and bare, save for the flocks of sheep grazing over the fallow patches. Lallybroch’s yard pulsed with music and laughter, the skirl of fiddles and pipes mingling with the shrieks of bairns chasing one another between wagons and hayricks.

I stood near the ale cask, watching Robb toddle after Will with determined steps, the little boy’s chubby fists clutching at air as he tried to keep up with his elder brother — who was far more interested in nicking apples from a nearby basket than minding his wee shadow. Faith and Brianna had vanished somewhere into the crowd with the Murray cousins ages ago, and I’d caught a glimpse of Fergus earlier, deep in conversation with Murtagh near the stables.

“Claire,” Jamie called, waving me over from where he stood speaking with a stranger — a broad-shouldered, flaxen-haired man with pleasant, weathered features. I made my way to them, brushing stray wisps of hair from my cheeks as the warm air clung to my skin.

“Claire, mo nighean donn — this is Simon MacKimmie, nephew to the Widow MacKimmie of Balriggan,” Jamie said, laying a hand briefly on the man’s shoulder. “He’s taken over the place since the auld lady passed this summer.”

“Well met, Mistress,” Simon said with a polite dip of his head. “I’ve long heard o’ the name Fraser o’ Lallybroch.”

“And you as well, sir,” I replied with a small smile, dipping into a slight curtsey out of habit. “Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

Simon grinned, cradling a cup of ale in his hand. “I was just tellin’ the laird how grateful we are — my wife and me — for the kindness he showed my aunt when my uncle passed. Helpin’ ease the burden. It near killed the auld woman tryin’ to keep the place herself these last years.”

Jamie shrugged modestly. “She was a good neighbour. It was no more than right. The land’s good — it'll serve us both well. I hear ye’ve started patchin’ up the sheep pens already?”

“Aye,” Simon said, his expression brightening. “And I can scarce believe the difference about here. Lallybroch and Broch Deasach both — fields clean enough to eat off, and the beasts fat as any I’ve seen at market. The way ye work the land, rotatin’ crops, grazin’ sheep for wool — clever, that.”

Jamie chuckled and gestured toward me. “Most o’ those clever notions came from my wife. She’s the one brought us new ways for plantin’ and tendin’ the beasts. And there’s no finer healer anywhere between here and Inverness.”

I felt the familiar warmth of both pride and embarrassment at his words, but returned Simon’s respectful nod. “Thank you. And if ever your wife has need of me, you’ve only to send word — day or night.”

Simon’s face softened. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. She’ll be glad o’ the news — carryin’ again, after… well.” He cleared his throat, looking down.

I laid a hand lightly on his arm. “I wish her well, truly. And you mustn’t hesitate, should there be any need.”

His gratitude was plain in his eyes. “I thank ye, Mistress.”

Jamie took a sip of his ale, the conversation easing into more familiar ground. “And it’s not just the sheep keepin’ us fed. I’ve gone back to horse breedin’ in earnest these past few years. We’ve a strong line now — some from Spanish stock out of Edinburgh, others from Highland blood we’d near lost. No finer string o’ beasts from here to Glasgow, I’d wager.”

“I’ve heard talk at Falkirk market,” Simon admitted with a grin. “They say the Laird o’ Lallybroch breeds a line strong enough for the hunt and fast enough for the chase. I’d love to see them for myself one o’ these days.”

“You would be very welcome,” I said, meaning it. “Jamie takes great pride in his stables — though I confess I’m rather better with people than horses.”

Jamie grinned sidelong at me, eyes alight with fondness. “And it’s a fair brood we’ve between us, too.”

I laughed softly. “Indeed. Fergus — our eldest — is newly home from university, and there’s been no end of excitement over it. Then Faith, ten years old and twice as determined as I ever was; Brianna, nearly eight; Will, four; Robb, just turned two this March — and the twins, Henry and Julia, born in January.”

Simon gave a low whistle, impressed. “A fine houseful.”

Jamie smiled. “And your own?”

“For now, just myself, my wife, and our daughter, Marsali. She’s near the same age as your Brianna. And — another on the way, God willing.”

Jamie raised his cup. “Then here’s to both our broods and to a good harvest season.”

We drank to it, the warm autumn air thick with the mingled scents of roasting meat and fresh bread. And it was just then I saw Maggie hurtling toward us, skirts flying, her cheeks red and eyes wide.

“Uncle Jamie! Ye must come quick — there’s a lass over by the edge o’ the crowd, sayin’ awful things to Brianna and Faith. I think Bree’s about to punch her!”

Jamie’s brows shot up. “Which lass is this, then?”

“She’s new — from near the old Widow MacKimmie’s land,” Maggie panted, face grave. “And Will and wee Robb are cryin’, too!”

I felt my stomach tighten at the words, unease prickling along my spine. Jamie’s expression darkened at once. He set down his cup.

“Come on, then. Let’s see what’s about.”

I followed him and Simon swiftly through the bustling yard, Maggie’s hand tight in mine as we wove between tables and fires. The cheerful music and laughter faded behind us as tension thickened the air ahead. I could see the knot of children now, huddled in a tight ring — and in the middle, Brianna stood crimson with fury, Faith beside her, her eyes dark and stormy.

A fair-haired girl glared back at them, sharp-featured and sneering.

“You ought to watch yourself,” the girl jeered, her voice sharp and cruel, loud enough for us all to hear as we drew close. “My mam says your mother’s a witch — a filthy Sassenach witch that should’ve burned long ago. She bewitched the laird, cursed this place, and that bastard brother of yours? A whore’s get. You’re all cursed!”

I felt the breath leave my lungs. Fury and dread surged in equal measure as Faith’s face flushed deep crimson.

“Fergus is my brother,” she spat, proud and fearless, “and he’s worth ten of you!”

“And our mother is no witch!” Brianna shouted, fists clenched tight. “You’re a rotten liar — and if you don’t shut your mouth—”

“Nobody talks about my Auntie Claire or my cousins like that!” Kitty Murray burst out, forcing her way to the front.

My voice rang out before I fully knew I’d spoken, sharp and cold as a knife.

“Brianna Fraser.”

The children froze at once.

Jamie’s face was a mask of cold fury beside me. I saw Simon’s colour drain as the words the girl had spat registered — and as he realised precisely who had spoken them.

“Marsali,” Simon said hoarsely, stepping forward, his voice low and trembling with restrained anger. “What in God’s name are ye sayin’? Apologise. Now.”

“I won’t!” Marsali shrieked, shrill and defiant. “It’s true! Mam says so — and she’s no liar—”

A voice cut through from behind us.

“What’s all this shouting about?”

Jenny came briskly toward us, a woman trailing at her side. The moment I saw her, I knew exactly who she was—Laoghaire MacKenzie. She’d aged since Cranesmuir, that much was clear. Her pale gold curls were less vibrant, her face rounder and flushed with exertion, and those sharp, pale eyes were as unyielding as ever. At twenty-eight, she somehow looked older than I did at thirty-eight, the stubborn defiance etched deep into her expression.

My stomach tightened, but I forced my face calm. So this was Laoghaire.

“I was just bringin’ Mistress MacKimmie to meet ye, Claire,” Jenny said cheerfully, completely unaware of the tension settling over us. “Laoghaire here’s been telling me all about their move to Balriggan—thought it high time ye met, since ye’ll be neighbours now.”

I spoke her name quietly, deliberately. “Laoghaire.”

Jamie beside me tensed, his jaw tightening like iron. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Jenny blinked between us in confusion. “Wait—you two… know each other?”

Jamie’s voice was grim. “Aye, we ken her well enough.”

Simon’s face lost all colour. “Sweet God… Laoghaire—what have ye been sayin’?”

Marsali stood behind her mother, defiant but trembling. “Mam said—”

“Not another word,” Simon snapped sharply.

I squared my shoulders, voice steady despite the storm inside. “Your daughter has insulted me, my children, and my household in front of half the parish, Mr. MacKimmie. You will see it does not happen again.”

Jenny’s eyes narrowed as she caught on. “Laoghaire MacKenzie,” she said, voice low but fierce. “The lass who nearly got you killed at Cranesmuir.”

Laoghaire’s cheeks flushed crimson, but her chin lifted in proud defiance. “I only spoke the truth then—and the same now. Trouble follows the likes of her.”

Jamie’s voice was low and hard as thunder. “Enough.”

Simon stepped forward, pale and mortified, gripping his daughter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Laird Fraser. Mistress Fraser. Ye have my word—it’ll no’ happen again.”

Before I could reply, the commotion drew the attention of all the attendees at the harvest celebration. Jocasta, Murtagh, and the rest of the children came quickly, joining the growing group. Fergus held little Robb in his arms, his eyes attentive as he watched Brianna and Faith gently comforting Will, whose tears still fell from the upset.

Laoghaire’s eyes caught sight of Fergus, and with venom, she spat, “A son of a whore, that one is. No’ worthy of the Fraser name.”

Jocasta stepped forward, voice cool but cutting. “Your granny would be ashamed of you, Laoghaire. Mrs. Fitz was a good woman — better than many I’ve known.”

Murtagh, ever blunt, shook his head with a wry smile. “Still acting like a jealous lass, then. Never changes, does she?”

The tenants and neighbors of Broch Mordha who had gathered murmured their support. “Laird Fraser’s been a good man to us all,” one said. “And Mistress Fraser’s healing hands have saved many a soul.”

Simon’s shame deepened, his eyes dropping to the ground. “My wife and daughter will no’ be leavin’ Balriggan until they’ve learned to behave themselves better. That’s a promise.”

The crowd nodded, the tension slowly easing as the harvest fête resumed, though the sharp edges of old wounds still lingered in the cool evening air.

*****

The solar was warm and dim now, the fire’s glow licking at the hearthstones. The bairns gathered close — Robb beginning to drift to sleep in Fergus’s arms, while Will nestled between Brianna and Faith, both trying to comfort him after the day’s excitement. Harry and Julia were tucked safely in bed. It had been a long, eventful harvest day.

It was Will who spoke first, his voice small and uncertain.
“Mam… why were the lady and her daughter so mean?”

The other children leaned in, watching me with solemn eyes.

I glanced at Jamie, who gave a little shrug and a crooked smile. “Go on, Sassenach.”

I took a breath. “Do you remember Castle Leoch? The big stone castle where your cousin Hamish lives?”

“Aye,” Brianna said. “With the big tower.”

“That’s the one.” I smiled. “When your Da was a young lad — a bit older than Fergus is now — he lived there for a time. And there was a girl, Laoghaire MacKenzie. She liked your father very much, though he didn’t pay her any mind.”

“Didn’t even ken she was there, half the time,” Jamie grunted, a glint in his eye.

I went on. “Years later, your Da and I came back to Leoch. By then, Laoghaire still hadn’t let go of her old fancies. And when she saw the two of us together…”

Jamie gave a theatrical sigh. “Aye, she was vexed. And when a lass like Laoghaire gets vexed, she stirs up as much trouble as she can.”

The bairns giggled.

“One day,” I said, “I caught her kissing him.”

Gasps and laughter erupted.

“She kissed you?!” Brianna demanded, eyes wide.

“Da!” Faith’s voice was sharp.

Jamie groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Aye. I was a lovesick fool for your Mam by then and didn’t see her comin’. But I told her straight after — my heart wasn’t hers.”

“I saw it though,” I teased, arching a brow.

More giggles.

Jamie chuckled ruefully. “Not my proudest moment.”

“Laoghaire never quite let it go,” I said gently. “And when folk carry bitterness that long, it turns them hard. When your Da and I married, she was furious.”

Faith frowned. “Is that when…?”

Jamie’s face darkened, his voice low and fierce. “Aye. She called your Mam a witch. And worse. Folk then — they were quick to believe foolish things. They dragged her into a thieves’ hole. Cold. Dark. Alone. Called a trial, though it was no fair trial at all.”

The room fell silent.

“Lashed her hands. Mocked her in front of the whole kirk,” Jamie said, the anger still hot in his voice despite the years. “And there stood Laoghaire, feedin’ them lies like kindling to a fire.”

Will gave a soft gasp, his little face stricken, and flung himself into my lap. I held him close.

“It was terrible, my wee love,” I murmured, smoothing his hair. “But your Da came for me.”

Jamie’s face softened, though his jaw was tight. “Aye, I did. Sword in hand, heart in my throat. Would’ve torn down the kirk stone by stone if they’d tried to touch her.”

The bairns’ eyes were huge.

“Uncle Ned spoke on my behalf,” I said. “And when the crowd turned ugly, your Da forced his way in, cut me free, and carried me out.”

Faith shivered. “That’s awful.”

“It was,” Jamie agreed, his voice grim. “But it’s done. We never looked back.”

Fergus gave a small nod. “You told me about it, Maman.”

“I did, darling.” I smiled at him. “And it taught us to stand together. No matter how loud the lies, no matter who tells them.”

“She’s still mean,” Brianna grumbled.

“Aye,” Jamie said flatly, eyes hard. “And she’ll get no welcome here till she learns to behave like a decent Christian woman — or at least keeps her tongue in her head.”

I smiled. “But it’s long past now. We know who we are in this house. We treat folk kindly, stand up for one another, and protect what’s ours.”

The room settled again. Will curled closer to Faith, and Brianna took his other hand.

“I like us,” Will murmured sleepily.

Jamie leaned in and kissed the top of his head. “So do I, mo mhac.”

Later that evening, after the children had been tucked into their rooms — the girls in their room, Will and Robb together in theirs, the twins already asleep in the nursery — Fergus lingered by the door to his own chamber, Jamie’s old childhood room.

He gave us a quiet smile. “I’m glad to be your son,” he said simply.

Jamie stepped forward, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. “And I’m glad to have ye, lad. Always.”

I kissed Fergus’s cheek as we bid him goodnight, and then we made our way hand in hand to the laird’s chamber.

As we passed the girls’ room, a voice called softly. “Da? Mama?”

It was Brianna.

We stepped inside to find both girls sitting up in bed.

“I’m glad you married Mama and not that mean lady,” Brianna said solemnly.

Faith nodded fervently. “Me too.”

Jamie chuckled, coming to kiss them both on the brow. “So am I, mo chridhe.”

I smiled and smoothed their blankets. “Sleep well, my loves.”

With the house finally still, we made our way at last to our own room, hearts full and at peace.

Chapter Text

December 1754

Dearest Reggie,

The air carries the sharp bite of winter now, and Lallybroch lies cloaked in frost most mornings. The bairns are beside themselves for Yuletide — Faith already scheming about gifts and sweets, Brianna elbow-deep in the stables with her beloved gelding, and Will tramping after Jamie as though born to it. The house feels full and bright, strung with greenery and fragrant with pine, but there’s a quiet tension beneath it all, one I know you’d sense in an instant.

*****

Fergus is preparing to leave for Edinburgh after Hogmanay. It will be his final year at university, and while I’m proud beyond measure, Jamie struggles with it. He’s always dreamed of having Fergus at Lallybroch, working beside him, carrying the weight of the land one day. But Fergus’s heart lies elsewhere — and tonight, at last, they spoke of it plainly.

The days before were filled with the kind of ordinary joys I’ve come to cherish. The house was a flurry of Yule preparations. Mrs. Crook and the girls had been baking for days, the kitchen windows fogged with steam and the rich scent of spice and honey wafting through the halls. Faith had bundled together sprigs of holly, rowan, and ivy, hanging them over the doors and windows with Will’s eager assistance — though more than once I’d caught him sneaking the red berries to nibble, to Faith’s sharp scolding.

“Will Fraser, if you eat another one of those, you’ll be coughing yourself green till New Year!”

Will grinned shamelessly. “Was only testin’ if they’re still poisonous.”

“I’ll test you in a minute,” Faith growled, and he darted off, laughing.

Brianna had fashioned garlands from pine boughs, twisting them with scarlet ribbon and setting a wreath upon the Laird’s chair in the hall. She’d taken to calling it Da’s Throne , and no one dared sit in it when Jamie wasn’t there — save for Robb, who clambered onto it whenever anyone’s back was turned.

“I’m the king!” Robb declared one afternoon, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sceptre.

“And I’m the queen,” Faith said archly, taking a seat beside him.

“I’m a dragon,” Will added, blowing a raspberry.

“Well then,” Bree said from the doorway, brushing snow from her shoulders, “the Fraser kingdom’s doomed.”

Meanwhile, the twins — Harry and Julia, nearly a year old now — were scooting about the floor like wee storm clouds, crawling at alarming speed in opposite directions, getting into everything. Harry, with his mop of dark brown curls and luminous grey-blue eyes — my colouring, through and through — had recently learned to pull himself to standing by clinging to the furniture. More than once, we’d retrieved him from trying to climb into the basket of kindling or tugging at Mrs. Crook’s skirts.

“Harry, no — leave the peat alone!” I called as the tiny boy made a determined grab for a lump of turf.

Robb, delighted, dashed to assist. “I’ll get him, Mama!” And before I could intervene, he scooped Harry up — or tried to — resulting in both of them toppling gently into a pile of fir branches with peals of laughter.

Julia, the little towhead of the family, her fine hair shining gold in the firelight — that rare, unmistakable shade of Venetian blonde — was every bit as bold, reaching up to tug at the garlands hanging from the mantle. Fergus, seeing it, scooped her into his lap with a fond chuckle.

“Little troublemaker,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her pale curls.

Evenings found us all gathered around the hearth, the room dim and warm, filled with the scent of woodsmoke and candle wax. Robb was happily building a precarious tower of stones and wooden pegs, declaring each new addition a ‘castle for his sheep.’

“It’s a big castle, Mama!” Robb announced proudly.

“Aye, darling, so I see,” I said, pressing a kiss to the crown of his dark red curls.

Faith sat sorting herbs while Will sprawled on the rug, whittling at a bit of wood, though judging by the shavings, it was more whittled away than anything else.

Harry sat beside him, sturdy and bright-eyed, gnawing contentedly on a wooden ring and babbling to himself as though offering commentary on Will’s craftsmanship.

“I’m makin’ a whistle,” Will declared, waving the sorry-looking thing in the air.

“A whistle for mice, maybe,” Faith teased.

“I’ll blow it at you first, see if it works,” Will shot back, grinning.

“Children,” Jamie rumbled from his chair, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

Julia, still in Fergus’s lap, tugged industriously at the buttons of his waistcoat, her pale brows furrowed in fierce concentration.

Fergus sat back, a glass of whisky in one hand and Julia in the other, his gaze sweeping over us all with quiet, wistful fondness. It was then he spoke, his voice soft.

“I love them, you ken,” he said softly to Jamie, the words falling like a stone into deep water. “And I love this place — what it means, what it gave me. I’ll never forget that, Maman.”

The room hushed. Even Robb paused, a pebble clutched in each fist.

Jamie’s jaw tensed.

“But…” Fergus’s voice was gentle, sure. “It’s no’ meant to be mine, Père. I’ve always known it. Lallybroch saved me. You saved me. You gave me a name, a home, a family. I’m grateful — I’ll be grateful every day of my life. But I need to make my own way in the world, carry the name you gave me into something of my own making.”

Jamie was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire as though seeking an answer there. At last, he gave a curt nod, voice rough when he spoke. “I never meant to make ye feel obliged, lad. Ye’ve a right to your own road.”

Fergus smiled, soft and a little sad. “I’ve loved studying the classics — maybe I got that from you, Père. The old poets, the philosophers… they made me fall in love with words. Their power. The way they can shape a man’s thoughts and heart. I’m no Daniel Defoe, no great writer, but I can help see those words printed, shared, remembered. That’ll be my way to carry the Fraser name forward.”

Jamie swallowed hard, pride and sorrow warring plainly on his face.

“It’s not that I’m not a Fraser by blood,” Fergus went on, voice steady. “But Faith’s got Maman’s healer’s soul, Bree was born with your way with horses, Will’s already your shadow. He loves the land. He is Lallybroch’s heart. And Robb…” Fergus grinned as the wee lad let out a whoop of delight as his latest stone tower collapsed. “Well, I think he’ll be the one to find mischief wherever it hides.”

Jamie gave a snort of laughter despite himself. “Aye, that he will.”

“I’ll always be a Fraser, Père,” Fergus said softly. “I’ll come home when I can. This is my family. My anchor. But I need to build something that belongs to me.”

Jamie rose then and clasped Fergus by both shoulders. “Ye’ll always be my son, Fergus. And when your press bears our name, I’ll be proud of every word you print.”

“Even if it’s about clever, bossy sisters,” Faith said with a grin.

“Especially then,” Fergus promised.

“I want my name in a book!” Robb declared.

“We’ll make a book about your castles, lad,” Will told him.

Fergus fetched his coat from the peg by the door. “I’ll be off to Grandda Murtagh’s to help bring in firewood. If I stay here another minute, Robb’ll have me carryin’ stones for his next castle.”

“It’s a big castle!” Robb cried.

“Ba-ba!” Harry echoed.

Fergus chuckled, kissed Julia’s pale-gold head and my cheek. “See you after, Maman,” he murmured fondly, and with a parting nod to Jamie, slipped out into the night.

Jamie dropped back into his chair, gaze fixed on the flames. I crossed to his side and took his hand.

“I knew it, Jamie,” I said quietly. “Even before I came back through the stones. Fergus was meant for Edinburgh. For something bigger than these fields.”

He turned to me, shadows and softness in his eyes. “How?”

Without a word, I rose and fetched the worn folder from the Laird’s study — the one holding the few treasures I’d carried back through time. Opening it, I laid it before him.

The old trade card sat there: F.A.M.B. Fraser, Printer and Bookseller, Edinburgh.

“Mrs. Graham found this in the county archives,” I said. “When I thought I’d lost you… when I believed I’d never come back… this was what gave me peace. Proof that Fergus had survived, built a life, even if we weren’t there.”

Jamie stared at it for a long moment. A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“But now,” I said softly, “I see it wasn’t without us. It was always meant to be this way — with us, with our family. I just didn’t know it then.”

Jamie squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “So, he’s found his own way.”

I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Aye. And he’s proud to be your son, Jamie.”

A chuckle rumbled from him then, easing the heaviness. “And did ye learn whether our daughter succeeded in her mad endeavour to marry her brother of the heart?”

“Jamie Fraser!” I swatted his arm, laughing as the ache in my chest loosened.

“That, my love,” I said, “is a tale for another night.”

Outside, the snow fell soft and silent, cloaking the hills and fields in white — the first promise of a new year.

Chapter Text

August 1755

Dearest Reggie,

We’ve come to Edinburgh to see Fergus graduate — can you believe it? Our boy, grown into a fine man, is finishing his studies early, and Jamie insisted the whole family be here to mark the occasion.

*****

I stood in the front room of the tall, narrow townhouse just off the High Street near Anchor Close, gazing out the window to the bustling Royal Mile below. The building’s façade was of weathered sandstone, its upper stories rising gracefully above a well-proportioned shop front with wide, arched windows and heavy shutters. A fine brass knocker in the shape of a thistle adorned one of its two doors.

One entrance, plain but sturdy, opened directly to the ground-floor trading space. The other, larger and set beneath a carved stone lintel, was the private entrance to the residence — its brass fixtures gleaming and its broad, paneled door painted a deep, glossy green. Inside, a generous entrance hall led to the private rooms, its floors laid in chequered flagstone and walls hung with clean white plaster and dark wood panelling.

The ground floor was fitted for trade — wide front windows to catch the light, ample shelves lining the walls, a solid oak counter worn smooth by years of use, and a snug parlour at the back where private dealings might be quietly arranged. Discreetly tucked behind a panelled door near the rear was a narrow, winding stair that connected the shop to the private quarters above — a feature meant for trusted hands and quiet access, without disturbing the front rooms.

Above, the private residence held generous, well-appointed rooms. The walls were clad in plaster with fine crown mouldings and soft Georgian hues of pale blue, sage, and cream. The polished oak floors shone in the sunlight, broad fireplaces graced each chamber with marble hearths and brass grates, and tall sash windows overlooked both the bustling close and the quiet walled garden behind. The main parlour, hung with damask drapes and furnished with handsome chairs and a long mahogany table, offered a view of the Royal Mile, while the bedrooms faced the garden where thyme and roses climbed the walls.

The kitchen, located at the back of the house, was bright and practical, with a wide stone hearth, gleaming copper pots, and a tidy larder cool enough for storing perishables and wine.

It was more than comfortable — it was home. And soon, it would be Fergus’s, though he did not yet know it.

The house had cost a pretty penny — a fine piece of Edinburgh property in the heart of the city did not come cheaply. But it was worth it for Fergus, for the life he would build here. And while the purchase did draw from the family’s coffers, the inheritance had already been wisely invested in building Broch Deasach, launching the wool trade, and expanding the horse breeding business.

Jenny had taken the wool business in hand with keen eyes and sharper wit. Under her watchful care, the family’s wool was spun and woven into cloth that rivalled the finest in the Lowlands, fetching good prices and securing loyal clients both here in Edinburgh and across the border. Her careful management of tenants and trading contacts had transformed a modest venture into a flourishing enterprise, one that brought steady income and pride to the Fraser name.

Meanwhile, Jamie’s passion for horse breeding had grown into a renowned and respected pursuit. From the lush pastures of Lallybroch and Broch Deasach, his horses—strong, swift, and sure-footed—were sought after by merchants, nobles, and farmers alike. His knowledge of bloodlines and careful selection had earned Lallybroch stock a reputation stretching from Skye to Glasgow, Edinburgh, and even into England, making the Fraser brand synonymous with quality and endurance.

Together, these ventures had turned those initial investments into thriving enterprises. The family fortune remained strong — solid as the stones beneath our feet.

I glanced away from the window toward the parlour, where Jocasta sat contentedly by the hearth with the twins, cradling wee Harry in her lap while Julia perched on a low stool at her feet, carefully threading coloured beads onto a length of string. Murtagh nursed a tankard by the far window, keeping half an eye on the street and the other on the bairns, his weathered face softened by a look of fierce affection.

Jamie crouched by the hearth, showing Robb how to coax a flame from flint and steel. Faith sat nearby, braiding sprigs of lavender, her nimble fingers quick and sure. Will had vanished out to the courtyard with Brianna, the pair of them far too curious to resist the bustle of Edinburgh beyond our doorstep.

I took a steadying breath. Tomorrow would change everything.

The afternoon slipped comfortably into evening. The children had been fed and tucked into their rooms by Mrs. Effie McGonagall, the formidable housekeeper we’d hired for the Edinburgh townhouse. Effie was a woman of indeterminate age, sharp-eyed and quick-witted, with a warmth beneath her no-nonsense manner that put me at ease. She ran the household with quiet authority, managing both bairns and servants as if she’d been born to it.

Though Fergus was a grown man and this house would be his, knowing Mrs McGonagall was here to oversee everything and care for him gave me a quiet reassurance I hadn’t expected to feel.

“I’ve seen to the twins and young Robb,” she assured me with a kindly smile, “though Robb tried to hide behind the settle at teeth-brushing time. Will and Brianna are settled with a story, and young Faith’s gone up with a book of her own. The house’ll be quiet as a kirk by the time you come back — or as quiet as it ever is, with Robb about.”

Jamie chuckled, and I smiled in genuine relief, pressing Effie’s hand before we stepped out into the cool evening air.

Jocasta joined us in a deep green silk gown, Murtagh offering her his arm as we made our way down the Royal Mile. The streets were bustling with evening trade and the calls of vendors hawking wares, but I barely noticed the noise, my thoughts already ahead to tomorrow.

We found Ned Gowan seated at a familiar table in a snug little tavern, a tankard in hand and Agnes Harper at his side. Their faces lit with warmth at the sight of us, no introductions needed — they were as much family to us now as blood kin, what with years of shared suppers, market dealings, Fergus lodging with them through his university days, and the easy rhythm of lives intertwined.

“Claire, Jamie,” Ned greeted us with a broad smile. “I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten us in your fine new house.”

“Not likely,” Jamie said with a grin, clasping his shoulder.

Agnes gave me a fond nod. “I trust the place is settling well?”

“Well enough,” I replied. “Thanks in no small part to Mrs. Effie McGonagall — she’s a treasure.”

Agnes chuckled. “Oh, I’ve heard. Word travels fast when there’s a woman like that in charge.”

We settled in, the conversation turning easily to Ned’s latest legal squabbles, Agnes’s tenant dramas, Jenny’s thriving wool business and Jamie’s flourishing horse breeding venture. The Frasers of Lallybroch were becoming as well known for their wool and livestock as for their stubborn tempers.

Murtagh’s dry remarks earned grins and the occasional snort of laughter, while Jocasta’s calm, poised presence lent a quiet elegance to the gathering.

It was a simple evening, with no more purpose than good company and a tankard or two. We didn’t linger overlong — tomorrow was Fergus’s graduation, and the celebration planned in Holyrood Park, a gathering of family, friends, and half of Fergus’s university acquaintance. I felt my heart light to think of it.

We left Ned and Agnes with warm farewells and promises to see them at the festivities the next day.

The street lamps burned low as we walked home, Jocasta leaning on Murtagh’s arm, Jamie’s fingers brushing mine. The townhouse windows glowed gently ahead, and I knew the children would be fast asleep, the house safe under Effie McGonagall’s watchful eye.

I glanced at Jamie as we reached the steps.

“A good evening,” I murmured.

He smiled, leaning to kiss my temple. “Aye. And a better day tomorrow.”

****

The morning had begun early, the city already stirring as the bells of St. Giles tolled the hour. Jamie, Jocasta, Murtagh, and I made our way through the cobbled streets to the University, where the formal commencement was to be held in honour of the graduating scholars. Ned and Agnes awaited us at the entrance to the grand hall, both dressed in their Sunday best — Ned in a sober black coat and Agnes in a dove-grey silk that suited her sharp, kind features.

The ceremony itself was a solemn, lengthy affair conducted almost entirely in Latin, save for the names of the graduates and the occasional flourish of polite applause. The hall was packed with the city’s gentry and learned men, the air close with candle smoke and the faint scent of ink and vellum. Fergus, standing proudly amongst his fellow scholars, wore his academic gown and cap with undeniable elegance, the French grace in his bearing undimmed by the stiff formality of the occasion.

As the Latin orations stretched on and the names were solemnly read, I was quietly grateful we’d left the children behind at the townhouse. Even Faith’s formidable patience would have withered before the first hour was out, and the twins would have begun wailing long before the closing benediction.

When the moment came and the rector intoned, “Fergus Alexander Murtagh Beauchamp Fraser,” a hush fell over the hall. At that precise second, I caught Jamie’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. Beside him, Murtagh’s usual stoic mask faltered as a single tear traced down his weathered cheek.

Jocasta reached out to steady Murtagh, her own eyes shining, and I found a sudden swell of emotion rising within me. Blinking hard, I felt tears slip down my cheeks as well.

It was more than a graduation. It was the recognition of a journey — from a ragged boy on the streets of Paris to a learned man standing before his family and peers.

The remainder of the ceremony continued, but our hearts had already spoken.

Afterwards, Fergus made his way through the throng toward us. His face lit up as he approached, and he embraced each of us in turn — kisses for Jocasta and me, a firm, manly handshake for Jamie, and a rough clap on the shoulder for Murtagh.

“A fine day, and no mistake,” he said with a grin. “I’ll meet you all at the park later — there’s a celebration waiting for us.”

We promised Fergus we’d see him soon and turned back toward the city streets.

The townhouse was a welcome sight after the stifling press of the university hall. Effie McGonagall was already marshaling the household like an admiral directing her fleet by the time I came down, seeing the children fed and dressed in their best. Brianna was fussing with the bow at the back of Julia’s dress while Will chased Robb in circles around the parlour chairs, both of them already rumpled and laughing. Harry, more solemn by nature, clung to his carved wooden horse and observed the chaos with wary eyes.

The twins were growing fast. Julia giggled as Jocasta smoothed her curls and pinned a posy of bluebells at her shoulder, while Harry accepted a kiss on the brow from Murtagh with the stoic dignity of a king enduring court.

It didn’t take long to gather ourselves once everyone was dressed and ready. Jamie and Murtagh saw to the horses and cart that would carry Jocasta and the twins, while the rest of us walked. The park wasn’t far, though we’d made certain to arrange a quiet route through the streets to avoid the main throngs heading in the same direction.

Mrs McGonagall stood on the step as we departed, arms folded and expression fierce with approval, already organizing the household staff to ready the evening meal and lay fresh linen.

Holyrood Park was already alive with people by the time we arrived. The great green sweep of the King’s Park stretched wide under the mellow August sky, canvas pavilions dotting the fields and strings of colourful pennants fluttering in the breeze. The air was warm, carrying the scents of roasting meats, sweet heather, and the last wildflowers of late summer. Musicians played near the pavilions, a jumble of pipes and fiddles and drums rising above the babble of hundreds of voices.

The children scattered the moment their feet hit the grass. Brianna, hair gleaming copper in the sun, grabbed Will’s hand and led him toward a game of rolling hoops down a slope, Robb in determined pursuit, sturdy legs pumping. The twins toddled between Jocasta and Murtagh, wide-eyed at the bustling scene. Julia squealed with delight at the fluttering pennants overhead, while Harry clutched his carved wooden horse tightly, surveying the crowd with wary dignity, already more solemn than his years.

Faith remained close by, standing a little apart, the breeze tugging at her dark curls as she eyed the gathering crowd with a practiced, watchful air far beyond her ten years. She had her mother’s discernment and her father’s stubborn pride, and I knew she was waiting for one face in particular.

Jamie slid an arm around my waist, pulling me in close as we took it all in. The sight of so many folk — families, students, tradesmen, gentry and labourers alike — gathered to celebrate was a rare joy after the quiet, working months of spring and early summer.

“It’s a fine thing, isn’t it?” Jamie murmured.

“It is,” I agreed softly, leaning my head against his shoulder.

A familiar voice called our names, and we turned to see Ned and Agnes waving us toward a shaded pavilion near the treeline.

We’d barely reached them when a lively knot of students approached, Fergus at the centre, his face alight with joy and a touch of mischief. His French lilt, polished from years among scholars, was unmistakable as he called out to us. He made the introductions with pride — Hugh MacLaren, a wiry, dark-haired lad; Archie Seton, tall and fair; and Elsie MacLaren, Hugh’s younger sister, a fresh-faced girl of seventeen with bright blue eyes that never left Fergus’s face.

Elsie curtsied politely, but her real attention was fixed squarely on Fergus. Every word she spoke, every glance she cast, carried the bold admiration of a girl quite certain of what — or rather, whom — she wanted.

I felt, rather than saw, Faith stiffen at my side.

When Elsie laughed a little too brightly at something Fergus said and laid a hand lightly on his arm, Faith stepped forward without a word.

“You promised me you’d show me the stall with the sugared almonds, Fergus,” she said, her tone perfectly pleasant but leaving no room for debate.

Fergus blinked in surprise, then grinned. “But of course, ma chère.”

Elsie’s smile faltered as Fergus gallantly offered Faith his arm and let her lead him away through the crowd.

Jamie chuckled low in his throat. “The lass has claws.”

“She’s a Fraser,” I replied, unable to keep the smile from my lips. “And God help any girl who forgets it.”

****

The late afternoon light softened as the sun dipped lower, the golden haze turning the hills to bronze and the banners above the pavilions to fire. Musicians struck up a lively air, and the scent of roasting meats and oat bannocks hung thick on the breeze.

Jamie and I stood together a little apart, watching the children race and tumble through the grass. Fergus and Faith had just returned from the sweet stalls, each carrying paper cones of sugared nuts to share with the twins, who sat contentedly beside Jocasta under the shade of a linen awning. Murtagh was at her side as always, keeping a watchful eye on his family.

The strains of a strathspey drifted over the park, and Jamie turned to me with a crooked grin. “Shall we, Sassenach?”

I laughed and set my hand in his. “You’ll have to mind your step, love. You’ve not a tune in your head.”

“Aye, well, I’ve no ear for music,” he admitted cheerfully, pulling me onto the grass. “But I’ve a fine memory for how it feels to hold ye.”

He wasn’t wrong. Jamie’s sense of rhythm left much to be desired — he was near enough tone-deaf, something even Faith had teased him for at family gatherings — but what he lacked in grace, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm and the kind of warmth that made me forget anyone else was watching.

We twirled once, twice, the world narrowing to the feel of his hand at my waist, the familiar glint of his hair in the late sun, and the sound of his quiet laughter above the music.

As the music swelled again and the shadows lengthened, a small, stiffly formal party approached along the edge of the park — Lord John Grey in dark blue, his expression carefully neutral, and beside him, Lord Melton, straight-backed and severe. Between them walked a young woman with hair the colour of ripe wheat, bright green eyes, and a wide brow — demure in appearance, yet with a presence that drew the eye. And heavily pregnant, clinging to what little dignity she could muster, was Geneva Dunsany.

Her condition was plainly visible beneath her fine gown, her face pale and set, eyes wide as they swept over the crowd — then fixed on us. On Jamie.

The colour drained from her face in an instant. She faltered mid-step, and for a moment I feared she might collapse altogether. Lord Melton’s hand shot out, steadying her, while the young woman leaned in to whisper something sharp in her ear.

In the two years since we’d first met Lord Melton at the Borders Horse Market, I’d come to know him as a stern but fair man, one of the few English lords with a genuine appreciation for Scottish horseflesh. He’d purchased several of Jamie’s horses from Broch Tuarach’s stables in that time, favouring the tall bays and swift-footed greys that Jamie prized most. His visits were always marked by a brisk courtesy and a sharp eye for bloodlines, and though no great friend to our cause, he held to his word and dealt honourably in matters of trade.

Without waiting for pleasantries, Geneva turned and was half-supported as she retreated swiftly toward the lane.

Lord John Grey and Lord Melton approached with measured steps, exchanging courteous nods as they drew near. With a formal inclination of his head, Lord John saluted Jamie and then myself. Lord Melton followed suit with a respectful bow.

Jamie returned the gesture with quiet dignity. “My Lords,” he said, voice steady, “allow me to reintroduce my godfather, Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser, and his wife, my late mother’s sister, Jocasta MacKenzie Cameron Fraser.”

He gestured to Fergus. “Our son, Fergus, newly graduated from the university in Edinburgh.”

Then, with a fond sweep of his hand, he indicated the lively knot of children nearby. “Faith, our eldest daughter; Brianna; William; Robert; and the twins, Henry and Julia — the youngest of our brood.”

Lord John’s face softened at the sight of the children, and Lord Melton’s gaze rested a moment on the composed woman standing beside the heavily pregnant Geneva.

“That lady with Miss Geneva Dunsany,” Lord Melton remarked, “is my wife, Lady Minerva.”

At the pointed use of Miss , my brow lifted in private reflection. Geneva had always been Miss Geneva Dunsany , as was customary, but hearing it now — so deliberately spoken while her condition was plain for all to see — made clear that no husband’s name shielded her now. No Mrs. , no courtesy title, and no polite pretence. She stood exposed, and the omission carried its own sharp meaning.

With the introductions made, the two lords, Jamie, and I moved a little apart from the gathering, seeking the quiet shelter of the trees lining the park’s edge.

Lord Melton spoke first, his voice low but firm. “If you’ll forgive my plain speaking, we’ve a matter best addressed directly. I refer to Miss Geneva’s… circumstances.”

Lord John gave a tight nod. “She had been promised to the Earl of Ellesmere — a man of considerable years.”

Lord Melton’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Before the marriage could be secured, she was found in a compromising position with a stable hand at Helwater. When it became clear she was with child, Ellesmere flew into a violent fury. In the struggle that followed, one of the Dunsany footmen intervened and killed him.”

“The scandal of the Earl’s death at Helwater was difficult enough for the family to weather,” Lord John added quietly. “And with my recent appointment to take command at Ardsmuir, my brother and his wife have accompanied me to Edinburgh. The Dunsanys asked that Geneva be removed from Helwater and brought here as well, so she might be confined discreetly until her confinement is over. Once the child is born, arrangements will be made for it to be placed with a good family — well away from public scandal.”

I felt Jamie’s hand tighten around mine as the truth settled between us like a stone dropped into deep water. A long, heavy moment passed in which none of us spoke. His jaw clenched slowly, his eyes darkening with a fierce, growing anger as he took in Lord Melton’s words. The distant laughter of children felt like a cruel contrast to the weight of the conversation.

“I’m no stranger to scandal,” Jamie said at last, his voice low but sharp with outrage. “When I first met Miss Geneva, I knew she’d be trouble—proud, headstrong, and no one to be crossed lightly. But to be cast out like this… as if she were some stain on the family name—that’s a cruelty I cannae abide.” His gaze fixed on Miss Geneva, standing stiffly beside Lady Minerva, pale and drawn but holding herself with stubborn dignity. “She’s their family—by blood and by honour and duty. No family ought to turn its back on one of its own, no matter the circumstances.”

Claire’s eyes mirrored Jamie’s anger. “It is cruel and unjust,” she said firmly. “A woman—and a mother—deserves better than to be discarded for something beyond her control. And what of the bairn? A child should not suffer for the sins or fears of others.”

Lady Minerva, standing beside Miss Geneva, made a subtle but decisive gesture to the two men. It was clear their time here was at an end.

Lord John gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. Jamie stepped forward, his voice steady but warm. “If ever you find yourselves near Broch Mordha, my lords, you must consider Lallybroch your home. I would be glad to show you my new horses—they’ve turned out well this year.”

Lord John’s expression softened, and Lord Melton inclined his head in thanks. “A generous offer, Mr. Fraser. We shall not forget it.”

With a final exchange of polite bows, the two men took their leave, the air around them heavy with unspoken tensions.

I squeezed Jamie’s hand quietly. “Poor girl,” I whispered.

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Aye. Poor girl. No one deserves to be cast out like that.”

As we turned back toward the laughter of the children, Jamie’s voice came again, low and thoughtful. “Truth be told, when I first met Miss Geneva, I knew she would be trouble. But I never thought it’d come to this.”

He took a slow, deep breath, as if trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

“There’s still time to dance with pretty girls,” he said with a rare, small smile.

Turning toward the gathering nearby, he called softly, “Faith, would you grant your father the honour of a spin ‘round the dance?”

Faith’s face lit up instantly, and she took his hand eagerly.

Just then, Fergus stepped forward, flashing me a charming grin. “Maman,” he said, offering his arm, “may I have the pleasure of taking you for a turn?”

I smiled warmly and slipped my hand into his.

As Jamie and Faith began their dance, and Fergus and I moved toward the music, the earlier heaviness faded, replaced by the lightness and joy of the celebration.

****

The evening air was crisp and fragrant with the lingering scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers as we guided Fergus along the winding path away from the festivities. His eyes were covered with a soft cloth, tied securely but comfortably, and he stumbled slightly at first, trusting entirely in our steady hands.

“Are ye sure this is safe, Maman?” Fergus asked, his voice a mix of excitement and curiosity.

Jamie chuckled softly. “Aye, lad. Trust your old father.”

Fergus’s imagination took flight. “A new horse, maybe? One of Donas’s colts, perhaps? Something fierce and fast for the fields of Lallybroch?”

Faith and Brianna exchanged mischievous glances nearby, their giggles barely contained. Faith pressed a finger to her lips, giving their younger brothers a quick hush.

“Nope,” Faith whispered with a grin. “It’s not a horse.”

Brianna nodded, biting back a laugh. “You’ll see soon enough.”

After a few more careful steps, Jamie finally stopped. “Alright, Fergus. Ready?”

“Ready!” Fergus exclaimed, anticipation radiating through his words.

Jamie untied the blindfold gently, and Fergus blinked, rubbing his eyes. “Why are we standing here, in front of such a fine place?”

Brianna grinned and nudged him playfully. “It’s yours, Numpy.”

Faith giggled, adding, “You’re going to have your very own place — just for you.”

Jamie smiled warmly. “Since you’re letting Will have Lallybroch, it’s only fair you get something of your own. A place to call your own, Fergus.”

He opened the door, leading Fergus inside. “Let’s start with the ground floor — the trading space. You’ll find a brand-new printing press waiting. It’s yours to run and make your own.”

Fergus’s eyes lit up as he took in the sight. “A printing press? Really? I never thought… This is amazing.”

Jamie clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Aye, lad. Something to keep your mind sharp and your hands busy.”

They moved upstairs, where Fergus’s breath caught. “This house is huge!”

Faith’s eyes sparkled. “It’s big so we can all come visit you whenever we want.”

Brianna nodded. “And so you never forget your family.”

Will and little Robb, who had been quietly watching, broke into wide smiles. Robb tugged at Fergus’s sleeve, while Will let out a happy laugh.

Fergus looked around, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

Jamie gave a proud squeeze on Fergus’s shoulder. “It’s yours, lad. A new start, and always open to family.”

As the evening shadows grew long, I watched them all — Jamie, Fergus, Faith, Brianna, Will, and Robb — standing together in quiet contentment. The promise of home and belonging wrapped around us like a gentle embrace.

Chapter Text

Spring 1756

Dearest Reggie,

There’s a new venture taking root here at Lallybroch that I’m eager to tell you about. Jamie and the men have begun constructing a whisky distillery beside the old mill—carefully planned, with Ned Gowan overseeing all the legalities to keep everything above board. The barley is plentiful, the water pure and cold from the burn, and we’ve already completed a trial batch that shows promise.

It’s a hopeful enterprise, one that will bring new life and steady income to the estate for years to come.

*******

The yard hummed with the fresh stirrings of spring as I made my way down, the lingering chill softened by hints of warming sun. Past the stables and paddocks, the old mill wheel turned steadily in the burn, its creak and splash as familiar as my own heartbeat after all these years. But today, the stretch of land beyond the mill was alive with new purpose.

Jamie, Ian, and Murtagh stood near a half-cleared patch by the burn, heads bent over a plank table where rough plans and lengths of timber lay scattered. They’d chosen the spot wisely—close to the mill for grinding the barley, with a ready source of fresh, cold water for mashing and cooling when the time came. The ancient mill itself would remain, but beside it, they meant to raise a stone bothy for the stills, with storage sheds to follow once the first runnings proved worthy.

Robb, now just shy of four, his bright copper curls catching the spring light, was already there, standing on tiptoe against the table, eyes wide with interest.

“A stout beam there, Da,” he piped up, pointing with a chubby finger.

Jamie laughed and scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Aye, ye’ve the right of it, wee man. Could have the place fallin’ about our ears else.”

Murtagh grunted with a knowing smile. “Better sense than half the tenants, that one.”

Robb beamed and scrambled down eagerly to haul a stone toward the growing pile, his usual urge to topple things set aside for the moment in favour of solemn, earnest work.

I moved to Jamie’s side, taking in the layout. “You’ve chosen well,” I murmured, nodding toward the mill wheel. “Plenty of water, and you won’t have to haul the barley far.”

Jamie’s eyes gleamed. “Aye. And no pryin’ eyes, neither. The hills’ll keep the smoke close and the neighbours guessin’.”

“An honest venture,” Ian agreed, glancing at the plans. “Ned’s made sure all the papers and licenses are proper. No fear of Excise men comin’ down on us.”

Murtagh grinned. “Aye, and should any still fancy testing their luck, they’ll be seein’ the wrong end of a bottle—or a fist.”

The spring air echoed with the steady rhythm of hammer on timber, murmured plans, and the occasional shout from the workers. The scent of fresh-cut wood mingled with the sharp tang of the burn, promising both hard labour and new beginnings.

Jamie turned to me, a quiet smile touching his lips. “It’s honest work, Sassenach. Somethin’ to build on—for the estate, and the bairns.”

I nodded, watching Robb drag another stone toward the foundation. “It’s good, Jamie. This place—this family—has only grown stronger since we came back.”

He reached for my hand, his grip warm and steady. “Aye. And with Ned handling the paperwork, we can focus on what matters. Raising our children, and making sure Lallybroch thrives.”

Robb let out a triumphant laugh as the stone slipped from his grasp and tumbled with a satisfying crash into the growing pile.

“Careful, wee man,” Jamie chuckled, lifting Robb high. “Fergus—he’s doing well wi’ his print shop in Edinburgh, makin’ a name for himself, he is. Brianna—stubborn as me, nearly grown now, and fierce about the stables. No doubt she’ll take over the horse breeding when the time comes.”

I smiled. “Glad you’ve finally admitted it. But she’s got the heart and mind for it.”

Jamie grinned. “Will, our wee laird in training, always eager to learn the ropes.” Then he gave Robb a playful tickle. “And this lad’s got the spirit of a builder, always dreamin’ up somethin’ new.”

I added softly, “And wee Harry—he’s already sneakin’ his da’s whisky when we’re not lookin’. He’ll take over the distillery one day, sure as anything.”

Jamie’s eyes warmed. “And sweet Julia—she’s got her mother’s healer’s touch. Though I’d wager hers is a good bit gentler than yours, Sassenach.”

I laughed lightly. “Is that so? Like my not-so-gentle hand this morning?”

Wee Robb, still in Jamie’s arms, looked up, wide-eyed. “Da was hurt this mornin’?”

Jamie smiled and set him back down, where the boy immediately returned to his stones.

I winked at Jamie. “He was. Mama helped him.”

Jamie’s smile softened as he watched the children playing. “And Faith—stubborn as a mule, dead set on marrying Fergus, her brother of the heart.”

I sighed. “She has her plans, and once Faith decides a thing, there’s no stopping her.”

Jamie chuckled. “Plenty o’ time for her to change her mind, though.”

I shook my head. “Not my Faith.”

He sighed, content. “We’re blessed wi’ our brood, every one of them.”

I leaned in and brushed a kiss against his lips. “I’ll leave you to your beams and barrels, my love. I promised Jenny I’d come see the new colour she’s working on.”

He gave me a fond smile, thumb brushing over my knuckles before letting go. “Mind she doesn’t rope ye into cardin’ wool the rest of the day, Sassenach.”

I laughed and made my way toward the big byre where Jenny kept her dye pots. The air inside was thick with the sharp, earthy scent of mordants and boiled herbs. Steam rose from the copper vat as Jenny stirred the dye bath, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her dark hair damp from the heat. Several women from Broch Mordha moved about, dipping skeins and tending fires, busy with the day’s work.

Kitty and Maggie, Jenny’s daughters, stood nearby, watching eagerly as freshly spun wool took on a deep, rich hue in the bubbling liquid.

“It’s like one of Auntie’s dresses, Mam,” Maggie said, her eyes bright. “The one from Paris, wi’ the colour like dark wine.”

“Aye,” Kitty agreed. “The one wi’ the lace at the bosom.”

I raised a brow, both amused and baffled. “And just how do the two of you know what dresses I wore in Paris?”

They grinned at each other, a conspiratorial glint passing between them.

“Well,” Kitty began, “Fergus used to go up to the attic sometimes, when he was sad.”

“And one day,” Maggie added quickly, “we followed him. He showed us the big trunks where your Paris things were kept. The dresses still carried his maman’s scent, he said — your scent, Auntie.”

“Did he, now?” I murmured, a lump rising in my throat despite the smile. “And what scoundrels you are, rummagin’ through old trunks.”

They giggled, unrepentant.

“It was like openin’ a treasure chest,” Maggie confessed.

Jenny turned from the vat with a fond shake of her head. “I should have known you three were behind the state of that attic. No wonder I kept findin’ stray ribbons and bits o’ lace about.”

I swallowed, warmth blooming in my chest. “I’m glad he had them.”

Jenny lifted a skein from the dye bath, holding it aloft. The wool gleamed, a deep plum colour, rich and dark.

“What d’ye think?” she asked, proud.

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “It’ll make lovely shawls or caps come winter.”

Jenny smiled, satisfaction softening the lines of her face. “Aye, and it takes the dye better than the last batch. If we keep at it, folk’ll be talkin’ about Jenny Fraser Murray’s magic dyes for years.”

Maggie’s eyes sparkled. “Mam, your wool and dye are the best in all Scotland — and probably the whole of the British Isles.”

Kitty nodded. “We’re goin’ to open a shop in Edinburgh one day, sellin’ your wool and dyes to the city folk, and folk from far and wide’ll come for it.”

Jenny caught their whispering smiles and shook her head, though the glint in her eyes betrayed how much she cherished the dream. “A shop in Edinburgh, is it? Sellin’ my wool and dyes to the city folk?”

The girls nodded eagerly.

Jenny raised a brow. “And what of husbands and bairns? You both want those, don’t ye?”

Kitty and Maggie exchanged a glance before answering in unison, “We can have both, Mam. A shop, a livelihood, and a family, just like you and Auntie.”

Maggie added thoughtfully, “And the men we’ll look for’ll be ones willin’ to help us — like Da and Uncle Jamie.”

Jenny’s smile softened, pride clear on her face. “Aye, that’s the way of it. There’s more than one road to a good life.”

The air hung thick with steam, the scent of herbs and wool, and the promise of future dreams as the dye continued to bubble and take on its rich, vibrant hue.

I lingered a moment longer, watching Jenny move among her helpers with quiet authority, the dye pots steaming and skeins of wool deepening to the perfect shade. The pride in her eyes was unmistakable — this was more than work; it was a legacy.

Kitty and Maggie chattered softly, their dreams mingling with the fragrant steam. I saw the fire of ambition bright in their eyes, tempered by the practical wisdom Jenny had given them.

“Come on, lasses,” Jenny called, “let’s finish up before the light fades.”

As we stepped outside, the afternoon sun warmed the cool spring air. I glanced back at the byre, feeling a deep sense of belonging and hope. This patch of land, these people—my family—were the heart of all I held dear.

With one last look, I turned toward the fields, ready to return to Jamie, my heart full.

Chapter Text

 Excerpt from a Letter to Rev. Reginald Wakefield
(Summer 1756)

As you must know from your history books, dear Reggie, Great Britain has formally declared war on France. You’ll know it, of course, as the Seven Years’ War — but here in 1756, it’s simply another war in a weary litany of them. You’ll also know, I expect, that this summer saw the closing of the Highland prisons and the poor Jacobite souls who survived them shipped off to the colonies. History reduces these men to footnotes. Here, I see the empty cells and the weary faces that left them. But more of that another time.

******

It was a fine, soft afternoon—the kind of day that made you grateful to be alive and in Scotland, with the sun warm upon your shoulders and the scent of summer heavy in the air. We had just finished the noontide meal in the great hall of Lallybroch—a generous table of roast beef, fresh oat bannocks, new peas from the garden, and sweet apples stewed with honey.

Mrs. Crook and the maids were already clearing away the trenchers and cups, bustling back and forth between kitchen and hall. The house was alive with the pleasant sounds of a home well kept: the clatter of dishes, the murmur of voices, and the occasional peal of laughter from the children.

Jamie rose from his place at the head of the table, stretching his arms with a satisfied grunt. “I’ll see to the stables,” he said, smoothing his coat.

Brianna’s head lifted at once, her eyes bright. “Can I come, Da?”

He smiled at her, ruffling her copper hair. “Aye, a ghraidh, if ye like. But mind, no climbing the hayloft till I say.”

Will and Robb lingered nearby, their faces alight with the unmistakable gleam of mischief, whispering between themselves as if plotting some small escapade. Meanwhile, Harry and Julia toddled close to Aunt Jocasta’s skirts, babbling softly, their tiny hands grasping at the hems of her gown as they explored the safe confines of her shadow.

Faith hovered near the window, quietly observing with a book folded in her hands, her thoughtful gaze following the conversation.

“I’ll be to the healing room,” I said, lifting the basket of dried herbs I’d prepared earlier. The little cottage stood beyond the garden wall, a quiet, whitewashed haven for tending the sick and injured from Lallybroch and the neighboring crofts.

Murtagh was already gathering his hat, intent on making his way to the still-house. Built only this past spring, it stood stout and whitewashed beside the old mill at the edge of the barley fields, its copper stills gleaming like coins in the sun. The first batches of whisky had begun to age in their casks, and Murtagh took no small pride in overseeing them.

As the children grew and the families became larger, the tradition of family meals all together had lessened, now happening but once a week, alternating between Lallybroch and Broch Deasach. Jenny and Ian dined with their own family that day, as was usual.

It was, in short, a day like any other. Or it might have been.

The low rumble of hooves upon the road made us pause, a sound too deliberate, too organized for a passing traveler. Jamie’s head lifted sharply, his hand brushing the hilt of his dirk, and Murtagh’s expression darkened.

The yard stilled as the troop of red-coated soldiers came into view, their muskets gleaming in the sun. The children went silent, watching with wide eyes as the line of mounted men approached the gate.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered under my breath, my stomach tightening.

Jamie’s head turned toward me in reflex, then back toward the riders.

Then I saw him—the officer at their head. A familiar face beneath the tricorn hat, fair hair catching the light.

“Lord John Grey,” I murmured, a mixture of surprise and wariness tightening my chest.

Jamie’s expression shifted, and he stepped forward, hand raised. “Grey,” he called.

Lord John drew his horse to a halt, dismounting with a soldier’s practiced ease. His uniform was travel-worn, his face flushed from the heat, yet his bearing remained precise.

“Fraser,” he greeted, inclining his head. “Mistress Fraser.”

“My Lord,” I replied with a polite curtsy.

“I hope I find you well,” he said, his gaze traveling across the gathered family.

“Well enough,” Jamie said, cautious but civil. “What brings ye to Lallybroch, sir, wi’ a company of His Majesty’s men?”

Grey gave a small, weary smile. “We’re bound for Fort William. With Ardsmuir closed and her prisoners transported, my men are to be stationed there. I myself am called to London for new orders now that war with France has been declared. I took the liberty of stopping here, Fraser, on account of your kind invitation extended last summer.”

He dismounted fully, the soldiers behind him halting in a neat formation.

Jamie gave a small nod, glancing to me, then over his shoulder toward the house. “Aye, well then—you’re welcome, My Lord. Ye’ll stay the night.”

Lord John inclined his head in gratitude. “My thanks. The men will camp beyond the mill pond.”

Jamie gestured toward the assembled faces. “You ken my wife, of course. This is Murtagh and his wife Jocasta—ye’ve met them before—and our weans.”

Each greeted him with polite reserve. Lord John, to his credit, named each of the children correctly, though I noted the way his eyes lingered a fraction too long on Jamie.

The children, for their part, stood straight and solemn as they were introduced, clearly impressed by the uniforms and company, though I doubted most remembered him from Holyrood Park, where excitement had rather overshadowed faces.

“An excellent memory, My Lord,” I commented lightly, catching the flicker of surprise on Jamie’s face.

Grey smiled faintly, a shade too warm. “It’s a soldier’s habit, Mistress Fraser. One remembers names and faces in the field—it tends to matter.”

Jamie, oblivious, gestured toward the yard. “Come then, if ye’ve a mind for it. I’ll show ye the place—it’s not the same as the hills of Ardsmuir, but it serves well enough.”

“I’d be honoured,” Lord John said, glancing up at the old grey stones of the house and the spread of fields beyond. “I’ve long wanted to see Lallybroch for myself.”

Jamie clapped a hand to his shoulder in comradely fashion. “Well then, ye’ll have the grand tour.”

And with that, the three of us set off across the yard, the warm afternoon stretching ahead like a promise. The children scattered in our wake, their laughter trailing behind us like bright ribbons.

We began with the stables, where Jamie’s pride in the latest foal born that spring was clear as he led the way. The chestnut colt, lively and spirited, had a star on his brow and a gait quick enough to catch the eye. The familiar scents of hay and horses wrapped around us, comforting and alive.

“A good size,” Lord John remarked, running a practiced hand along the colt’s neck. “The last time I saw Broch Tuarach stock was at my brother’s estate near Inveresk. He had a pair of greys — stood out in the ring, finest there by far.”

“They’ve only improved since,” Jamie said quietly, pride coloring his voice. “It’s been my work these last years… with a verra keen little helper at my heels.” His gaze lingered fondly on Brianna, who stood nearby, cheeks flushed under the attention.

Brianna grinned, a little shy but clearly pleased. “I help with the foals,” she told Lord John, standing a bit taller.

“Do you now?” Lord John smiled warmly, inclining his head to her. “Well, it shows. He’s a beauty.”

From there, we moved past the mill, its wheel turning steady and sure beneath the rush of water, then on to the still-house, fresh and whitewashed, the sharp scent of malted barley hanging in the air.

“I must confess,” Lord John said, his eyes flickering over the gleaming copper stills and the men moving barrels, “in the last year, word of Broch Tuarach’s whisky has traveled farther than you might think. I’ve heard mention of it even in Stirling and Inverness.”

Jamie’s lips twitched in quiet satisfaction. “Aye — we’ve ambitions for it yet.”

Nearby, Jocasta stood overseeing a pair of men checking the casks, her bearing imperious but softened by the faint smile she gave Jamie. She exchanged a polite nod with Lord John, cool but civil.

“Mistress Fraser,” Lord John greeted her respectfully.

“My Lord,” she replied evenly. “Your visit’s a surprise, but we can make room for it.”

The farm fields stretched beyond the still-house, golden and ripe. Jamie spoke proudly of the barley and oats, of the wool business Jenny had built, and of the healing cottage I kept just beyond the garden wall.

We passed the cottage last. I felt Lord John’s gaze linger on its whitewashed stones and the small windowboxes filled with herbs. He said nothing, only inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment.

I had not missed the way his eyes sought Jamie when the man’s attention wandered, nor the faint flicker of fondness there. It was subtle — Lord John Grey was always careful — but it was there nonetheless. Jamie, for his part, remained blissfully unaware, chatting easily of horses and harvests, whisky casks and barley fields.

The sun hung low when we returned to the house, the scent of roasting mutton thick in the air, children’s laughter echoing faintly from the garden.

“A fine place,” Lord John said at last, pausing by the gate. “It suits you.”

Jamie’s brow lifted, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Aye. It does.”

Though Jamie spoke only of land and stone, of home and hearth, I wondered if Lord John heard something else in his words — or perhaps wished to.

The evening meal was generous, by Lallybroch standards — a haunch of mutton roasted over the hearth, oat bannocks fresh from the griddle, butter, cheese, and stewed apples set alongside pitchers of small ale and watered wine. Mrs. Crook had outdone herself, as always when there were guests of note.

The older children sat straighter than usual, their manners impeccable under my sharp gaze. Will and Robb shared secret grins across the table, heads bent close, clearly plotting mischief for later. Julia and Harry, seated lower at the table with Jocasta, were occupied with bits of bread and stewed fruit, though Julia’s curls bobbed as she wriggled in her chair.

Jamie’s voice held quiet pride as he spoke of Fergus. “Our eldest lad’s business flourishes well in Edinburgh. He’s taken up his own house on the Royal Mile, near Anchor Close — a fine establishment befitting a man of his standing.”

Faith’s eyes shone with admiration as she eagerly chimed in, “Aye, that house was a gift to him upon his graduation, a mark of his industry and learning. And when I’m older, I’ll surely marry him, and be mistress of that fine house.”

Lord John’s brows lifted in surprise. “Marriage to your own brother, Miss Faith? Such a notion is most uncommon — and, I daresay, ill-advised. I trust you speak in jest?”

I intervened gently, careful with my words. “While Fergus is indeed our eldest, he was taken into our family when he was eight years old, in Paris. Before then, he was a ward of the church.” Better to leave unsaid where he truly lived.

Lord John’s surprise deepened. “I had supposed, Mistress Fraser, that he was your own flesh and blood. He bears the countenance of both you and your husband most unmistakably.”

I offered a faint smile. “He does. Perhaps that is the true measure of a family — not blood alone, but the ties we forge through love and care.”

Jamie nodded, his gaze steady. “Aye, a family is made by the heart, not solely by birthright.”

Faith beamed, proud and determined. “And when I marry Fergus, I’ll do my best to make the house a warm and happy home.”

Jamie cleared his throat softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Now, now, Faith — there’s plenty of time for such talk. Best you focus on being a fine young lady first, aye?”

Faith pouted briefly but said no more.

Jamie glanced toward Lord John with a wry smile. “We’re only humouring Faith’s grand matrimonial schemes, my lord.”

Faith’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re humouring me? I’ll have you know, I will marry Fergus!”

I smiled gently and took her hand. “Faith, your heart is full of dreams, and that’s a fine thing. But remember, there’s time yet for all of that. For now, just grow and learn. When the moment comes, you’ll know.”

Jamie nodded in agreement. “Aye, and if it’s meant to be, it’ll be — without the need to rush.”

Faith looked between us, her fiery spirit softened by our calm words. She nodded slowly, conceding for now.

Lord John watched us quietly a moment before I finally broke the silence. “Are Lord and Lady Melton still in Scotland, My Lord?”

He inclined his head thoughtfully. “No, Mrs. Fraser. They have returned to London some time ago. Their children are with them now.”

I nodded slowly, then hesitated before asking, “And what of Miss Dunsany — the young lady who was with you and Lord and Lady Melton when we saw you at Holyrood Park last summer?”

His expression darkened slightly, and I caught the flicker of something unspoken behind his careful eyes.

“She… passed away in childbirth,” he said quietly, the words weighted with sorrow. “Leaving behind a daughter.”

The table fell still; even the children sensed the gravity of his words.

After a brief pause, he added, “Lord and Lady Dunsany named the child Geneva.”

The name lingered in the air — a soft, sad thread binding that long-ago summer to the present. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for a girl I’d barely known, and for the tiny motherless child left behind.

The rest of the meal passed with quieter conversation, the earlier gaiety tempered by Lord John’s news. The children were soon excused, their chatter and footsteps fading as Mrs. Crook herded them to bed. Faith lingered a moment at my side, offering a quick squeeze of my hand before following the others.

Jocasta rose from the table, calm and measured. Murtagh caught her eye and spoke quietly.

“I’ll be at the distillery for a while yet,” he said. “I’ll join you at the cottage afterward.”

She nodded, then laid a brief hand on Jamie’s shoulder as she passed.

“I’ll be heading back to the cottage,” Jocasta said softly.

Jamie inclined his head. “Safe journey.”

“And you,” she replied.

A moment later, Jocasta’s footsteps faded down the hall, while Murtagh remained a while longer before rising and heading toward the distillery.

Jamie poured a final round of whisky — more for form than pleasure — and we drank it quietly. Outside, the last light clung stubbornly to the horizon, painting the hills in soft strokes of blue and violet.

Lord John stood at length. “I’ll take my leave for the night, if you’ll excuse me.”

Jamie rose to clasp his hand. “Your chamber’s made ready. Sleep well, My Lord.”

“And you,” he said quietly, his gaze brushing mine, polite but distant — though I thought I glimpsed a weariness no rank nor title could shield a man from.

I inclined my head. “Goodnight, Lord John.”

When he’d gone, Jamie shut the door softly and exhaled a long breath. Crossing to the hearth, he tossed another log on the fire, the flames catching with a soft rush.

“Poor lass,” he said after a time, voice rough. “Whatever her sins — no woman should meet her end like that.”

“No,” I agreed, tracing the rim of my cup. “Nor any child left behind.”

We sat in easy silence, the crackling fire filling the room. The weight of the day settled around us like a well-worn shawl — warmth of home, shadow of war, old loyalties, and quiet sorrows.

At last, Jamie reached for my hand, his calloused fingers warm against mine.

“Come to bed, Sassenach,” he said gently. “Tomorrow’ll be soon enough for the rest.”

I rose and followed him from the room.

******

The next morning dawned cool and bright, the sun climbing steadily over the misty hills. Soft neighs drifted from the stables, mingling with the steady hum of soldiers preparing their gear. There was a purposeful rhythm to their movements, a disciplined energy filling the crisp air.

Lord John’s troop gathered in the courtyard, their motions precise and practiced. Men adjusted coats and saddles with quiet efficiency, while Lord John exchanged brief, formal farewells with Jamie and the rest of us. His face was calm, but beneath that measured exterior, I caught a flicker of something sharper — the same intense look he’d worn all day.

Jamie nodded firmly. “Safe travels, my lord.”

Lord John inclined his head in return. “And to you all.”

With that, the troop fell into formation. The clatter of boots against the cobblestones and the flash of red coats filled the yard before they rode out, the road swallowing their dust and the echo of their passage.

When the last horse disappeared, Jenny let out a low whistle, shaking her head. “Well,” she said with a grin, “I’ll feel lighter now — even if Lord John’s a friend and no foe, there’s something about a red coat that makes my skin crawl all the same.”

A few others chuckled, the tension lifting as the day’s work resumed.

Jamie and I lingered a moment longer in the quiet courtyard, watching the dust settle where the soldiers had vanished. I turned to him, a thoughtful frown creasing my brow.

“Jamie,” I said softly, “did you notice how Lord John acted? The way he looked — not just last night, but all through the day?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Acted how?”

I hesitated before answering, “Those longing looks. The way he watches when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Jamie’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Aye, I did notice. Though while I’m a jealous man, it’s always a bit flattering to see other men desire my wife.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Those looks weren’t for me — they were for you.”

He furrowed his brow, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well, that’s… new.”

I spoke quietly, almost a whisper. “I think Lord John might be… interested in men.”

Jamie whistled softly. “Better not talk about it—else his life would be destroyed.”

We stood side by side, the morning sun warming the courtyard stones beneath our feet, the world carrying on around us with its usual mixture of duty, quiet secrets, and unspoken truths.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, Spring, 1757

My dear Reggie,

The days grow longer, and the earth turns green again after winter’s long hold. Jamie, Jenny, and Ian are away in Edinburgh just now, seeing to the final arrangements for the wool shop on the Lawnmarket.

*****

The late morning light spilled gently over the hills beyond Broch Mordha, soft and golden, painting the frost-nipped grass with a shimmer that belied the lingering chill in the air. After seeing Faith, Bree, Will, and Rob off to the schoolhouse—a short walk from the Broch—and knowing that Harry was happily settled with his beloved Aunt Jocasta, I pulled Julia’s shawl a little tighter around her shoulders as we made our way down the worn track toward the village. Her pale curls peeked out from beneath her hood, catching the sunlight as she chattered happily in her small, high voice—something about a bird she’d seen from her window, blue as the sky and nearly as quick.

Murtagh swore that her pale curls matched Jamie’s hair when he was a baby, a gleaming blond that darkened with the years but never lost its fire in the sun. It was a thought that warmed me as I let her talk, offering the occasional murmur of interest while my mind wandered elsewhere. To Edinburgh, to the Lawnmarket, and to Jamie.

It had taken nearly a year to bring this new venture into being, from the first tentative visit last autumn to today, when Jamie, Ian, and Jenny were back in the city finalising the purchase. The memory of that first visit rose in my mind—the sharp smell of the city, horses and coal smoke mingling with the tang of salt from the distant Firth, and the way Jamie’s hand had rested protectively at the small of my back as we stepped through the narrow close into the courtyard beyond.

The building itself had seen better days—a narrow, tall structure of grey stone, its windows diamond-paned and clouded with age. But it was sound, and its position was perfect: the bustling Lawnmarket at its front, with a passage down a side close leading to a quieter entry for the living quarters above. I remembered Jamie running a critical hand over the woodwork of the shopfront, speaking quietly with the factors and merchants he knew nearby, while I stole glances at the old staircase inside, the worn bannisters polished by centuries of hands.

Compared to Fergus’s townhouse on the other side of the city—newer, brighter, and set a little back from the noise—this building had a stern, respectable presence, well suited for the steady trade of wool and the fine Kashmir wool imports Jamie envisioned. It had been my suggestion, remembering Uncle Lamb’s stories of the East—how, in the eighteenth century, fine cashmere had begun to find its way into Britain by way of India, prized for its softness and warmth. The Scots, ever practical and enterprising, had taken to importing the raw fibres and adapting their own techniques to work the delicate thread, and I’d seen the spark in Jamie’s eye when I spoke of it. With the right contacts in Edinburgh and Inverness, it could be not only profitable but a mark of distinction for our venture.

We’d hired a capable man to oversee things—Mr Archibald Monroe, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, with the quiet authority of one who had long run affairs for men who believed themselves too grand for the detail of ledgers. He’d promised to keep the books sound, the trade steady, and the tenants content until the girls—Maggie and Kitty—were of an age to take the venture into their own hands, as determined as ever to claim a measure of independence in Edinburgh.

For now, the living quarters were let out to decent folk, with Ned Gowan’s sister, Agnes Harper, acting as tenantlady, keeping the place clean and the rooms let to those who would not shame the name over the door.

A tug on my hand brought me back to the present.

“Mama, look! The flowers!” Julia pointed to a cluster of daffodils bright against the mossy stones of a cottage wall. Her cheeks were pink with cold, her pale curls shining in the morning sun.

I smiled and stooped to admire them. “Spring at last, my dear.”

The market square was beginning to stir, traders setting out their wares beneath canvas awnings, the smells of fresh bread, smoke, and earth mingling in the air. I let Julia pick a honey cake from Mistress Muirhead’s stall and lingered over the cloth merchant’s bolts of homespun, trading easy pleasantries with faces I’d come to know well.

“And is it true then, Mistress Fraser?” Mistress Muirhead asked, leaning over her counter with a conspiratorial glint. “That the Laird’s to be bringing in those rare wool goods from the Indies come next season? Young Jamie Murray told me as much.”

“From India, yes,” I replied with a smile. “Kashmir wool. Finer than anything we’ve seen here yet, and light as a whisper. The merchants in Edinburgh are already clamouring for it.”

“Well now,” she said, pursing her lips in approval. “I’d not mind a shawl or two of that for my old bones. You’ll keep a length or two back for us country folk, eh?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised, tucking Julia’s honey cake into her hand.

It was as I turned toward the poulterer’s stand that I saw her.

Laoghaire MacKimmie.

“Sassenach witch,” Laoghaire spat the moment our eyes met, loud enough to draw heads.

Before another word passed, Mistress Muirhead’s adult daughter, Mairi, swiftly stepped in, plucking Julia from my side and scooping little Joan MacKimmie into her arms. “Come along, wee ones,” she said kindly, hustling them away toward the safety of Mistress Muirhead’s stall.

Laoghaire didn’t notice.

“You strut about like the queen o’ the glen,” Laoghaire spat, venom thick in her voice, “parading those brats about like trophies of the lives you’ve stolen. Flaunting Lallybroch, the distillery, the horse breeding, your fine wool trade, the big house you bought for that spiteful whelp in Edinburgh—and don’t think folk don’t talk about where all that coin came from, either. We ken what sort of woman disappears for three years and comes back with a bairn and a man still ready to crawl into her bed.

“I should have been Mistress of Broch Tuarach,” she snarled. “It should have been me. Jamie Fraser was meant to be mine—before you bewitched him, flaunting your English ways, putting ideas in his head. If he’d married me, he’d not have been a hunted man, no exile, no traitor. He’d have had a safe home, a good wife, bairns of his own. But you—you ruined him. You ruined everything.”

“Are you finished?” I said, my voice clear and steady.

She glared, defiant and trembling.

“First,” I said clearly, “that word—Sassenach—is not the insult you imagine. It’s a name of love in my house, since the first day Jamie Fraser called me by it.”

A murmur of approval stirred.

“As for your claim of stolen fortune—everything we have has been earned, through hard work and enterprise. The distillery, the wool trade, the horses. And that house in Edinburgh belongs to my son by love and by Jamie’s name, not your spite.”

“And as for calling Jamie a traitor—I’ll remind you, and anyone else who listens, that my husband fought to protect his people. Not for a laird’s pride or a doomed cause, nor to grasp at power like men such as Dougal MacKenzie might have done, with fine words and reckless hearts. Jamie carried his men away from slaughter when he could, kept them safe, and bled beside them when he could not. He never stopped.”

A voice from the crowd—a grey-haired woman by the fish stall—called out. “Aye, that’s true. Laird Fraser saved my son from Culloden, sending him away with Murtagh and the rest of the Broch Mordha lads before the battle. If not for him, I’d be weeping over an empty hearth.”

Laoghaire paled, her mouth opening and shutting, fury and humiliation twisting her face.

Suddenly, Jamie, Jenny, and Ian appeared in the square as if from nowhere—earlier than anyone had expected. Julia broke free from Mairi’s arms and ran straight to her father, throwing herself against him.

Jamie scooped her up, holding her tight against his chest, one hand shielding her other ear.

His gaze landed on Laoghaire like a blade.

Laoghaire seized the moment, her voice sharp and venomous.

“Remember, Jamie,” she spat, “after you came back from your sham wedding—you and I, we laid together by the burn at Leoch. You liked it better, didn’t you? A virgin’s touch instead of a frigid English whore.”

Jamie’s jaw clenched, his other hand tightening into a fist at his side, but he kept his voice steady. “You’re crazy, Laoghaire. I never wanted you. I never laid with you. Not then, not ever. I’m not ashamed to say I only ever laid with my own wife.”

Laoghaire’s mouth opened to reply, but Jenny was quicker. A sharp slap cracked through the square.

“You disgrace your house, your man, your bairns,” Jenny hissed. “You should be locked in the attic at Balriggan like the madwoman you are.”

Laoghaire’s face twisted in fury, but no one spoke for her.

“You’ll see, Claire Fraser,” she spat finally. “Folk remember. They always remember.”

We left her to the stares of Broch Mordha.

*****

By nightfall, word of the disgrace in the market square had spread like wildfire — from hearth to hearth, carried by sharp tongues and wide eyes, whispered beneath eaves and over supper tables. In a Highland community, a scandal left to fester could sour everything it touched. And as Laird of Broch Tuarach, it was Jamie’s duty to see it mended before the rot could take hold.

I found him after supper, standing by the hearth in the study, the flickering light gilding his hair with shades of copper and gold. His face was set, grim and resolute, the muscle in his jaw tight as he stared into the flames.

“I’ll ride to Balriggan,” he said quietly, not looking away from the fire.

I set down my mending, rising without hesitation. “I’ll come with you.”

His eyes met mine then, weary but grateful, and the faintest flicker of warmth passed between us. “Aye. Good.”

We rode out into the gathering dusk, the cold sharp in the air, the hills fading to grey shadows in the last of the light. Ian and Murtagh rode at our backs, their faces sober. No one spoke. There was no need.

At Balriggan, Simon MacKimmie was waiting in the yard with a lantern, his face pale, lined, and haggard in the flickering glow. He looked a man at the edge of his strength — worn, weary, and ashamed. But to his credit, he stood his ground as Jamie dismounted and strode toward him, every inch the Laird of Broch Tuarach: tall, broad-shouldered, his face like iron.

I followed, and Simon’s gaze flicked to me, shame heavy in his eyes.

Jamie’s voice was calm — too calm — and the steel beneath it rang as clear as the blade of a dirk.

“When ye first took over Balriggan,” Jamie began, his voice carrying in the night air, “after the harvest gathering, I gave ye your chance, MacKimmie. Told ye plain to set your house in order. Ye did well enough wi’ your daughter. Marsali’s a good lass — made friends wi’ Faith, Bree, and the Murray girls. I’ve had no complaint of her since.”

Simon swallowed hard, his gaze falling to the ground.

“But you’ve failed wi’ your wife.” Jamie stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Simon’s in the lantern light. “She’s brought shame on your house and insulted mine before half the parish. She’s made a vile, filthy accusation against my wife’s honour and spat a lie about me to my face. I’ll not have it.”

Simon opened his mouth as if to speak, but Jamie cut him off with a look.

“I ken she’s taken to the drink,” Jamie said flatly, “and I ken well enough it’s been worse this last year. But ye’ve let it fester, and now it’s stained your name and near undone your standing. If you’ll not manage your own house, I’ll do it for ye — and ye ken well I’ve the right.”

Simon’s face was ashen, his voice low and tight. “I’ll see it done, Laird. My sister Mary’s on her way. She’ll help wi’ the bairns. Laoghaire’ll be locked away — out o’ the drink and out o’ sight. You have my word.”

Jamie regarded him for a long, heavy moment, years of old bargains, bitter history, and broken trust hanging thick between them.

Then, with a short, sharp nod, he spoke. “Good.”

I stepped forward then, my voice cool and crisp as ice.

“And hear me well, Simon MacKimmie — if she so much as speaks my name again, if a word passes her lips against my family, against my husband, or spreads so much as a breath of slander through this glen, you’ll answer for it before the whole district.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something between defeat and remorse. “Aye, Mistress. It’ll no’ happen again.”

Jamie gave one last hard look, the unspoken warning thick in the air. “See that it doesna.”

Without another word, he turned, mounted his horse, and I followed, the house at Balriggan fading behind us as the hush of night closed in.

Jamie reached for my hand as we rode, our fingers twining together tightly against the chill. No words were needed.

The Laird of Broch Tuarach had made his will known.

And the glens would remember it.

*****

Months passed, but the memory of that ugly day in Broch Mordha lingered like smoke on the tongue.

It wasn’t long before word trickled back of what became of Laoghaire MacKimmie. Humiliated in front of her neighbours, condemned by the words spoken that day — and perhaps by the truths she’d refused to face — Simon MacKimmie, battered by shame and fury, at last took decisive action.

True to his word, he locked Laoghaire away, confining her to the attic at Balriggan. The drink was stripped from the house, and his widowed sister Mary came to live there with her young son, helping him tend to Marsali and little Joan, and keeping the farm from falling to ruin.

But a temper like Laoghaire’s was not so easily confined.

The drink found her again, even in confinement, and her tongue remained sharp, her bitterness thick as bile. When one dark evening she struck little Joan hard enough to leave a bruise, Simon sent word to Leoch at once, refusing to have her under his roof another day.

Her return to Castle Leoch was met with no warmth. The dowager Lady Laetitia MacKenzie — who had heard the ugly accounts from Broch Mordha and Simon himself — made swift judgment. Laoghaire and her father would be banished to Cranesmuir. The dowager would not suffer scandal under her roof, nor a woman who had publicly sought to sully her nephew’s honour.

It was a harsh sentence — but not an undeserved one.

Cranesmuir, for all its narrow wynds and sharp-tongued gossips, proved no refuge. The scandal clung to her like a burr, and as the months wore on, her bitterness festered. The drink took her deeper, and whispers of her wandering through the village at night, muttering curses to no one, drifted north with the summer winds.

I might have pitied her, once. Might have remembered the wide-eyed, flaxen-haired girl at Leoch, desperate for a young laird’s notice. But that girl was long gone, lost to envy, spite, and years of brooding venom.

It was a warm day in mid-July when Father MacAulay came to Lallybroch, his face somber beneath the linen of his travelling cloak. We received him in the study, whisky poured, the scent of peat smoke lingering in the air.

“She’s dead,” he told us quietly. “Laoghaire MacKimmie. Drowned in the loch near Cranesmuir.”

An accident, it seemed — though no one was surprised. She had been drinking heavily, her nights spent wandering, and one evening simply hadn’t come home. At dawn, a fisherman found her body caught in the reeds.

No one claimed her.

After the priest left, the house fell silent. I stood by the hearth, watching the fire’s embers shift and settle, the weight of years pressing down and lifting in equal measure.

“Am I a bad person,” I asked softly, “for not feeling sorry she’s gone?”

Jamie came to stand behind me, his hand resting gentle against the small of my back. His voice was low, sure.

“No, mo nighean donn. Evil festers in a soul long enough… it kills what’s left.”

I took a deep breath, feeling the last of the shadow slip away.

And so she was gone.

At last.

Chapter Text

October 1757

My dear Reggie,

The days grow colder here, the hills beginning to wear their winter cloaks of mist and frost. The children are well — Faith thriving, Brianna as headstrong as ever, Will and Robb growing strong and full of mischief, and Henry and Julia nearly four now; Henry a solemn and serious boy, while Julia is as cheery and sweet as the morning sun. Fergus visits more often these days, claiming his business is so well-established he can afford to leave the press in capable hands. I suspect it’s as much concern for me as it is for the children, but I shan’t scold him for it.

There’s news I’ve yet to share aloud beyond these walls, though I suspect you, of all people, would understand the strange mixture of terror and wonder that accompanies it. 

*****

I woke before dawn, a strange flutter stirring deep inside me that pulled me from sleep before the birds began their song. At first, I thought it was just the usual aches and shifts that come with the years — the slow settling of life and age at Lallybroch. But when I felt a faint wave of nausea curl low in my stomach, I knew immediately: I was pregnant again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, my hand resting lightly on my belly, a rush of emotions swirled through me. Joy, yes — but also that cautious, familiar shadow of worry. How would I tell Jamie? When? What words could carry this fragile, precious news?

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he already knew — that quiet watchfulness of his, the way his eyes sometimes seemed to see things before I spoke them aloud. Could he have guessed before even I did? But no. When I met his steady gaze as he worked near the hearth, there was only warmth and that teasing spark, not the guarded look of a man already carrying a secret.

I moved through the quiet house, the familiar sounds of morning distant against the whirlwind inside my head. I busied myself by the fire, but my hands trembled with the secret I held. I imagined his face — that crooked grin, the fierce protectiveness in his gaze. Would he laugh, or would the memory of those harrowing months carrying the twins temper his joy? I sighed and looked out the window as the light slowly thickened. I’d find the moment. I always did.

By midmorning, the house had begun to fill with visitors. It was my birthday, and if there was one thing the Frasers and Murrays could be counted on, it was making a proper occasion of it. Jenny arrived first from Broch Deasach, carrying a bundle of cashmere wool she’d set aside — a deep, stormy grey with a sheen that made my fingers itch for a needle.

Jocasta and Murtagh arrived not long after Jenny, their presence carrying the quiet dignity of old Highland blood. Jocasta, elegant as ever in deep blue silk, swept into the room with a smile that softened the lines around her keen, watchful eyes.

“I thought it fitting,” she said, pressing a carefully wrapped parcel into my hands, “that ye have something of lasting value on this day.”

The parcel was long and narrow, the linen wrappings tied with a twist of silver ribbon. Inside, I found a set of fine linen handkerchiefs, each embroidered with my initials in pale blue thread — but it was the object beneath them that made my breath catch.

A solid silver chatelaine, gleaming and intricate, its chains hung with delicate tools: a tiny pair of scissors, a vinaigrette, a thimble, a needle case, and a small locket. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the Fraser crest engraved at its heart. It was a thing both beautiful and practical — a mark of a woman’s domain and worth, worn proudly at her waist.

“I had it made for you in Edinburgh,” Jocasta said, watching my face closely. “A proper token for the mistress of Lallybroch — and a healer besides.”

Murtagh grunted, his hand on her shoulder. “It was her idea. I just made certain the silversmith didna try to cheat us.”

I smiled, running a fingertip over the cool, intricate silver. It was a beautiful, thoughtful thing — the kind of heirloom that would one day be passed to Faith or Brianna, and to their daughters after them.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “It’s perfect.”

The others arrived in clusters — the Kirbys from Broch Mordha, Morna with two bairns clinging to her skirts and another asleep in her arms. The yard soon filled with the sounds of children’s laughter, shrieks and shouts chasing one another through the crisp air.

The younger ones were eager with their treasures too. Faith, graceful at thirteen, presented me with a bracelet of tiny glass beads she’d bartered for at market. Brianna’s portrait of our family, all crammed onto one page, made me laugh through the blur of emotion. Will and Robb brought smooth stones they claimed were magic. Julia, sweet and bright-eyed, offered a string of wildflowers, while solemn Harry pressed a polished bit of driftwood into my palm without a word.

Fergus arrived in the afternoon, grinning as he gathered me close. “I could hardly stay away today,” he murmured. In my hand he placed a velvet case, inside of which lay a necklace and earrings — shimmering opals, their pale fire catching the light like mist at dawn, delicate gold filigree holding each one in place. “For the woman who gave me my life,” he said softly.

I held him tight. “You repay it every day, mon fils.”

And then — there was Jamie.

He saved his gift for last, slipping it into my lap after the midday meal. A shawl, the softest I’d ever touched — forest green, thistles embroidered in fine silver thread along the edges. And nestled within, a small ring box, its clasp worn from years of holding something precious.

Inside, a ring: a band of silver, Scottish thistles intertwined with tiny English roses, their petals so fine they might have been spun from moonlight. At its heart, a bright diamond winked like a captured star.

Jamie’s voice, rough and steady: “It’s high time ye had a proper wedding ring, Sassenach.”

I wept, of course. Who wouldn’t? I told him the key ring he’d given me would forever hold my heart. But this… this was perfect.

As the sun slid low and the last of the guests wandered home, I found him in the study. The moment stretched between us, long and quiet, before I took his hands and pressed them to my belly.

He looked up, his face breaking into a slow, tender smile. “Come to steal my dram, Sassenach?”

I laughed softly, though my heart thudded hard against my ribs. “I’ve something better than whisky to offer.”

He raised a brow, setting his glass aside. “Aye? And what might that be, then? It’s your birthday — the gifts should be yours.”

I stepped closer, took his hands, and guided them to rest over my middle. His brow furrowed, fond and puzzled.

“Jamie,” I said softly, my voice catching, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

His gaze searched mine, the teasing fading. “What is it, lass? Are ye unwell?”

I shook my head, a breath of a laugh escaping me. “No… not unwell. I’m… I’m with child.”

For an instant, his world stilled. His breath left him in a sharp, soft exhale, and his eyes locked onto mine.

“Claire,” he whispered, wonder thick in his voice. “Are ye… certain?”

I nodded, feeling tears sting behind my lashes. “I only knew this morning. I didn’t want to say anything too soon… but aye. I’m certain.”

A sound escaped him then — a strangled laugh, half joy, half disbelief. He pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his face buried in my hair.

“Another bairn,” he murmured fiercely. “Christ, Claire… ye’ve given me so much, and still…”

“I worried you might be angry,” I confessed softly. “That you’d think it was too soon. Too dangerous.”

He drew back, his hands cradling my face. “I’ll no’ lie, I’ll worry. But never — never would I wish this away. Every child you’ve borne me is a blessing, mo chridhe. And this one too.”

A tear slid down my cheek. “I love you, Jamie Fraser.”

He smiled through damp lashes. “And I, you, mo nighean donn. More than life itself.”

“Happy birthday,” I whispered, brushing his cheek.

He laughed, pressing a kiss to my brow. “It’s your birthday, Sassenach.”

I gave him a watery grin. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if I shared it.”

“I’ll take it,” he said softly. “Best birthday gift I’ve ever had.”

By breakfast, the news had begun to ripple outward. Fergus was the first to notice something, his keen eyes narrowing as Jamie kept brushing his hand against the small of my back.

“You’re hovering,” Fergus said dryly, eyeing Jamie over his tea.

“I’m no’ hovering,” Jamie grumbled, though he promptly moved his hand.

I caught Fergus’ gaze and saw the moment it clicked. His face went utterly still — then flooded with warmth and fierce concern.

“Mon Dieu… Maman,” he breathed, rising to kiss my cheek. “Another? Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Fergus,” I said softly. “Truly. Better than fine.”

He decided to stay longer than he’d planned, claiming his apprentices could manage the press without him for a few days. “You’ll indulge me if I hover a bit too,” he murmured, squeezing my hand.

The children, each in their own way, seemed to sense the new life growing inside me. Harry, ever solemn and serious, bent close to whisper secret promises to my belly, while Julia’s cheerful laughter danced around the room like sunlight. Faith watched me with wide, thoughtful eyes, already protective beyond her years. Brianna offered me a quiet, unreadable smile, but her support was unmistakable. Will and Robb, caught between curiosity and excitement, darted about with restless energy, stealing glances at me between their games.

The days passed in a blur of anticipation, and the first chill of late autumn crept into the air. The fields faded to brown, hearth fires burned longer into the evening, and the household seemed to hold its breath — a fragile, collective hope clutched close.

Jamie hovered, of course. More than he’d ever admit.

*****

The labor came fast and fierce — a sudden, unrelenting tide that pulled me under before I was fully ready. One moment I was tending the fire, and the next a pain like nothing I’d known before gripped me hard enough to steal my breath.

There was no time to send for Jenny or Jocasta, no chance to gather the women of the house. Barely fifteen minutes from the first sharp pain to the final push.

Jamie never left my side, his face pale but steady, his hands warm and sure as I fought to keep my head clear. I gave him rapid, urgent instructions between contractions, my healer’s mind overriding fear, his quiet strength anchoring me as the world narrowed to the room, the fire, this fight.

And then — a cry. Sharp, fierce, impossibly strong for a bairn so new.

Jamie’s breath caught as he looked down at her — our daughter, a tiny, perfect thing swaddled in a soft wool blanket, eyes already bright and curious.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “Aye… she’s a Fraser, through and through.”

I smiled through exhaustion, tears blurring my vision. “Lena,” I murmured. “She is Lena. After Ellen and Julia… our mothers.”

Jamie’s fingers traced the name like a prayer. “A fine name for a fine lass,” he said softly. “Lena Mairi Caitriona Fraser.”

He didn’t rush to send word. In those first sacred moments, it was only us — Jamie cradling her, me against his shoulder, the fire crackling low and dawn pale against the windows.

When the household finally stirred and word spread, Jenny and Jocasta arrived swiftly, their faces alight with joy, saying nothing of the surprise that it had been Jamie who brought his own bairn into the world.

I was carried down to the solar in Jamie’s arms, though I protested I could walk. He paid me no mind, cradling me close, his face still pale beneath the red-gold stubble on his jaw. The room was warm and bright, fire crackling in the hearth and the table laid with a hasty but generous spread — roasted venison, bannocks, cheese, and bowls of early strawberries gleaming like scattered rubies.

The children gathered at once, peering at the tiny bundle in my arms. Lena’s face, red and crumpled, peeked from the folds of linen and Jenny’s knitted shawl.

“She’s so wee,” Brianna breathed, blue eyes wide.

“And wrinkly,” Will added with a face, earning a sharp jab from Faith.

“She’ll grow out of it,” Faith declared, elder-sister authority in her voice. “You did.”

Will stuck out his tongue but sidled closer to look again.

“Will she have red hair like Da?” Robb asked eagerly.

“Or Mama’s curls,” Brianna added, glancing at her own chestnut waves.

I smiled, brushing a thumb along Lena’s soft cheek. “We’ll see soon enough.”

“She’ll have both, I wager,” Jenny grinned, handing me a cup of broth. “And lungs fit for a banshee. That was a fair bit of squalling for a lass so small.”

Ian raised his mug in salute. “Well now, brother — seems ye’ve a new calling. We’ll have ye take up Granny McNabb’s stool yet.”

Fergus choked on his ale, coughing while Murtagh clapped his back. “Aye,” Murtagh chuckled. “We’ll find him an apron wi’ frills.”

Jamie shot them a dark look, though his mouth twitched. “Hold your tongues, the lot of ye. Last time I’ll play midwife, if I’ve any say.”

“That’s what ye said last time,” Jenny teased.

“And last time, I was outside the door, where a man’s meant to be,” Jamie shot back dryly.

Laughter filled the room, mingling with the crackle of fire and clink of cups. The evening stretched long and warm, food plentiful, wine flowing. Jocasta presided from her chair by the hearth, a small smile softening her sharp features each time she looked at Lena.

The older children were eventually sent to bed, trailing reluctant goodnights. The talk turned to old days — tales of births and weddings, harvests, storms, and Granny McNabb’s remedies. I dozed in my chair, half-listening to the hum of voices, cradling Lena against my chest.

When the room finally emptied, Jamie came to kneel beside my chair. He gathered Lena from my arms, cradling her gently against his chest. The hearthlight painted his face in gold and shadow, hair gleaming copper-red.

He spoke to her softly in Gaelic, voice a low, lilting murmur that made my throat ache.

“Mo nighean bheag… mo chridhe… mo bhana-phrionnsa… (My little girl… my heart… my princess…) Lena Mairi Caitriona Fraser. Ye’ll have your mother’s stubborn heart, I ken it already.”

I reached out, tracing my fingers along his arm. “You’ll teach her Gaelic?”

“Aye,” he whispered, kissing her downy head. “And the songs, and the stories. Everything I can.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling the fierce, aching warmth of home settle around us.

And for that night — for this perfect, fragile moment — the world beyond Lallybroch ceased to matter.

Published in The Edinburgh Courant , May 19th, 1758

At Lallybroch, near Broch Mordha, to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, Esq., Laird of Broch Tuarach, and his lady, Claire Fraser, a daughter was born on Wednesday, the 12th of May at around seven in the morning. The child has been named Lena Mairi Caitriona Fraser. Both mother and child are reported to be in good health.

Chapter Text

My dear Reggie,

It still surprises me, sometimes, how quickly a life can upend itself. One moment, you’re certain of the shape of your days, and the next, you’re relearning how to be yourself amidst new joys and old sorrows. I suspect you understand more of this than most.

******

Lena was what folk kindly called a colicky baby — fretful, restless, forever seeking the comfort of her mother’s breast or her father’s arms. Not even Jenny, Jocasta, or Mrs. Crook — each a miracle worker with fractious bairns in their day — could settle her for more than a few precious minutes. She wanted Jamie or me, and no other would do.

As I returned to my duties as healer, tending to the sick and the injured across our community, Jamie became her constant companion. He’d sling her snug against his chest and take her with him to the stables to check the horses, to the distillery to see to the still room, or to the cottages of the tenants. She’d sleep to the steady cadence of his voice and the easy sway of his stride. In those blessed moments, peace reigned.

The household swiftly adapted. Either Lena was in my arms or cradled against Jamie’s chest while he worked. She would squall furiously at being set down — a piercing, wounded cry that made my heart race and left my body aching with the need to soothe her. Colicky , Jenny said with a knowing arch of her brow and a sympathetic squeeze of my hand. There was little for it but to carry her, rock her, and pray she’d outgrow it before we all lost our wits.

One afternoon, I found Jamie in the paddock brushing down a mare with Lena strapped to his chest. The bairn’s head lolled against his shoulder, soothed by the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breath. The soft sounds of brushing and the gentle shift of hooves filled the air.

“Is it time?” he asked softly when he saw me, his hand instinctively cradling Lena’s bottom.

“It is,” I smiled, coming to him and lifting her into my arms. She fussed at the shift, rooting eagerly as I sat on a flat stone. Jamie crouched beside me, his hand on my knee.

He watched Lena nurse with a tenderness that made my throat ache, his thumb tracing idle circles on my leg. “Christ, she’s like Faith was. Fierce, wi’ no patience and a lung on her.”

I laughed softly. “I seem to recall you saying she had your temper.”

“Aye, well, it serves us right.” He sighed, his gaze lingering on the hills. “Ye ken, seeing ye like this… puts me in mind of Leoch. When I’d be out wi’ the horses and ye’d come wi’ yer basket of salves and linens to see to my shoulder.”

I smiled at the memory. “And Auld Alec would scold you for staring at me instead of your work.”

Jamie chuckled. “Aye. Told me more than once I was moon-struck. Couldna take my eyes off the beautiful Mistress Beauchamp.”

“I don’t recall you being so obvious.”

“I was. Only ye were too kind to shame me for it.”

I reached out to touch his cheek. “I was every bit as smitten.”

He leaned in and kissed me, slow and tender, the sun warm on our faces. In that moment, there was no colicky bairn, no demands of the estate, no grief. Only this.

******

Another afternoon, Jamie brought Lena to the healing cottage where I worked. The bairn’s howls rattled the rafters as I tended to a tenant’s broken arm. Outside, in the herb garden, Faith and Brianna sat on a bench in the sun with Lena cradled between them, doing their best to calm her.

“Sing to her, Faith,” Brianna urged, bouncing a bit as Lena fussed.

“I am,” Faith said, beginning a soft, lilting tune — I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside . She glanced at her sister with a fond smile. “Mama used to sing this to me when I was a wee thing, and then I sang it to you when you were a bairn.”

Brianna grinned. “I don’t remember that.”

“Ye wouldn’t. You were small as Lena is now.”

Will and Robb huddled a safe distance away near the fence, fingers jammed in their ears.

“She’s fierce as a banshee,” Will muttered.

“And louder,” Robb grumbled, tugging his cap down lower.

Faith rolled her eyes, determined. “She’s a Fraser, through and through. She’ll settle when she’s good and ready.”

“She’ll rule them all someday,” Brianna agreed with a grin.

Jenny took her turns too, pacing the nursery with the bairn against her shoulder, murmuring the old lullabies in Gaelic and Scots that had soothed generations of Frasers. Her voice was soft but steady.

“Lord, lass,” Jenny muttered with a crooked smile. “None o’ my Murray bairns were ever like this. Nor any of the Frasers I’ve known.”

Lena let out a particularly fierce wail.

Jenny chuckled and rocked her. “Well, perhaps there’s always a first.”

Jocasta took a turn as well. The formidable matriarch cradled Lena by the hearth one evening, humming a Gaelic air with surprising tenderness. When the bairn continued her fretful cries, Jocasta chuckled softly.

“Your grandmother Ellen used to say I was a holy terror as an infant,” she confided to Lena. “Screamed my wee lungs out for days on end. Though we’ll no tell anyone that, aye? It’ll be our secret.”

She kissed the baby’s head and continued her lullaby.

Murtagh tried walking Lena about the courtyard, grumbling about being too old for this nonsense, but his gruff voice seemed to soothe her — for a minute or two. Then she’d be off again, squalling mightily.

The house and grounds rang with mingled laughter, tears, and the weary patience of kin.

A sharp pounding at the door later shattered that fragile peace. Mrs. McLeash, the new midwife who had taken over from Granny McNabb, came breathless with urgency. A difficult labor. Flora MacNeill, young and in her first confinement.

I left Lena with Jamie and hurried to the croft, only to arrive too late. The baby — a girl — was born still, her tiny, perfect body pale and silent. Flora’s wails of grief tore through the cottage like a knife. And standing there, bloodied and helpless, I wasn’t in a Highland croft. I was in L’Hôpital des Anges, waking alone in a cold chamber, screaming for my baby, sure she was dead — until Mother Hildegarde placed a breathing, fragile Faith in my arms.

The room spun. My knees buckled.

Jamie caught me as though by some impossible grace he were there — but of course, he hadn’t been then. He’d been in the Bastille when Faith was born. But his arms now were steady, his voice a low croon at my ear.

"I ken, mo nighean donn," he murmured. "I ken what this brings back. But look at me. We’re here now. Faith is safe. Lena is safe. And so are you."

I clung to him, the scent of peat smoke and heather steadying me. And I wept for Flora, for her lost child, for the ghosts I carried, and for myself.

The next afternoon, I saw young Ewan MacNeill lingering by the byre. The lad was scarcely more than a boy, his hands rough, his face already lined with grief. Jamie clapped a hand on his shoulder, speaking low and steady. I couldn’t hear the words, but the moment struck me. Jamie’s face was kind, grave. Ewan nodded, his eyes bright with unshed tears, then grasped Jamie’s hand before walking away.

That evening, determined to lift the weight pressing on the house, we gathered in the solar. Jenny, Jocasta, Ian, Murtagh, and the children — a warm, bustling crowd. The fire crackled, the table laden with fresh bread, oatcakes, cheese, and early summer berries.

The bairns bickered and laughed, and for a time, it felt light again.

Then — Lena’s cry rang out from the nursery upstairs. A sharp, furious wail that turned every head.

I froze. Jamie paled.

Then — silence.

Worse.

Jamie and I bolted for the stairs, hearts pounding, sick with dread.

We burst into the nursery.

And there — in front of the hearth — sat wee Julia. Somehow the four-year-old had clambered into the cradle, lifted her shrieking sister out, and built a soft nest from the pillows and blankets on the thick rug. Lena lay in Julia’s lap, quiet now, her tiny face nestled against Julia’s neck as her older sister rocked her gently, crooning soft nonsense words.

Julia’s face was solemn, her small hand stroking Lena’s auburn fuzz.

“She was sad, Mama,” Julia whispered when she saw us. “I’m makin’ her better.”

The fury was gone from Lena’s face, replaced by a sleepy, trusting look.

Tears stung my eyes. Jamie crouched beside them, brushing back Julia’s hair with a trembling hand.

“Ye’ve the healer’s touch, mo chridhe,” he murmured.

Julia beamed.

In that moment, with our daughters safe in each other’s arms, I knew we’d be all right. Even in the hardest seasons… we always were.

Later, with the house quiet, Lena finally asleep, Jamie and I found one another in the soft darkness of our room. The six-week mark had passed. Though exhaustion clung to me like a second skin, something beneath it stirred — hunger, longing, the simple human ache to be held.

He saw it in my eyes and came to me.

“Are ye sure, mo nighean donn?” he murmured.

“Aye,” I whispered. “I need you.”

The world fell away, and for the first time in what felt an age, it was just us — breath and skin, tenderness and need, and the unshakable truth that whatever storms came, we’d weather them.

Morning dawned soft and misty. Jamie and I lay tangled together in the rumpled sheets, reluctant to leave the warmth of our bed. The world could wait a little longer.

I pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “We’re all right, you know.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice thick with love. “We always are.”

And we rose to meet the day.

Chapter Text

Edinburgh, September 20th, 1758

My dearest Reggie,

You would laugh to see the state of us here in Edinburgh. Picture it: the entire Fraser brood descending upon the city like a pack of Highland wolves, with Mrs. McGonagall throwing up her hands before retreating to her kitchen with dire warnings about muddy boots on her clean floors.

*****

The city smelled of damp stone and woodsmoke. Even with the window shutters drawn, I could hear the sound of Edinburgh rising to meet us — the rumble of carts, the occasional sharp crack of a hawker’s voice advertising eels, oysters, and hot pies, and the endless tramp of boots on cobblestones.

I leaned slightly to one side, peering out through the narrow gap in the curtains. The mist hung low over the rooftops, softening the harsh lines of tenements and chimney pots, and catching the last of the afternoon light in a thin, silver glow. The closes and wynds narrowed between tall buildings like dark arteries, while the High Street spread ahead of us, alive with people and movement.

I had come to Edinburgh often enough these past years, but it still struck something in me each time — the restless pulse of it, a place where the past clung tight to the stone and the future walked beside you in the streets. The sharp scent of tallow smoke, the wet gleam of the stones, the sight of a beggar’s hand stretched silently from a doorway — it was a city that never quite let you forget where you stood in the world.

In my arms, Lena stirred, making a small, contented noise in her sleep. She was curled against my chest in a soft bundle of blankets, one tiny fist pressed beneath her chin. Jamie, beside me, reached down to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his fingers gentle.

“We’ll be there soon,” he said, voice pitched low so as not to wake her.

I nodded and glanced across the seats. Brianna was peering out through the opposite curtain, bright-eyed, her breath fogging the glass. Robb and Will had fallen asleep leaning against one another, the motion of the carriage finally besting their excitement. Harry and Julia sat huddled together, Julia cradling her favourite cloth doll while Harry’s head lolled against her shoulder.

Faith sat nearest the window, chin propped on her hand, the light catching the warm chestnut of her hair. At fourteen, she'd matured in the last two years — cheerful, lively, and protective of her younger siblings. She no longer spoke so boldly of marrying Fergus one day, though her fondness for him remained constant. It showed in her protective nature, the easy way she teased him, and the fierce loyalty she carried for those she loved.

The carriage slowed, wheels rattling over uneven stones, and I could hear the voices outside growing louder.

“There it is,” Jamie murmured, leaning forward.

I followed his gaze to Fergus’s townhouse on the High Street — a fine and solid house, far grander than most in the Old Town, its clean stone facade and polished brass knocker catching the fading light. It was a fabulous place, a home my son owned outright, gifted by his parents but very much his own, and one he clearly took pride in.

The ground floor was given over to the printing and trading business Fergus managed, with large windows framed by sturdy oak, through which stacks of paper and rolls of printed sheets were visible. A steady stream of customers and apprentices came and went through a plain, well-worn wooden door on the right — the common entrance used for trade.

But just steps away, tucked beneath a carved stone archway and reached by a small flight of stone steps, was the family’s private door — larger, more solid, and carefully maintained. Its dark wood gleamed with fresh polish, the brass knocker catching the fading light. This more formal entrance led directly to the upper floors where the family lived, away from the bustle and clatter of the shop below.

The two entrances reflected Fergus’s dual life: the pragmatic tradesman and the proud Fraser, guardian of his kin and their place in this city’s tangled web.

The carriage came to a halt with a jolt, the wheels settling into the uneven cobbles of High Street. The children pressed their faces to the glass, their eager chatter filling the cramped space.

Almost at once, the family door swung open and out stepped Mrs. McGonagall, her apron stiff and her cap perched firmly atop her tight bun. Her sharp eyes swept over the cluster of children and the loaded carriage with a long-suffering sigh I could hear clear as day.

“God preserve us,” she muttered, voice thick with weary affection. “A plague of Frasers upon my floors.”

Jamie grinned, opening the door and swinging himself down. “Good to see you too, Mistress McGonagall.”

“Mm,” she grunted, shaking her head. “We’ll see how long you’re sayin’ that when the bairns are done wi’ my parlour.”

I adjusted Lena carefully in my arms and stepped down after Jamie. Brianna pressed to the window, watching the street with restless eyes. Will and Robb woke with a start, tumbling out of the carriage like shot pheasants, while Julia, Harry, and Faith followed closely behind.

From the close came a familiar figure — James, Jenny’s eldest and the children’s cousin, now taller and broader than when he’d first come to Edinburgh a year past, his wild bronze hair still unruly but his manner more measured and confident.

“Uncle!” James called as he approached at a trot, grabbing Jamie’s hand and pulling him into a quick, warm hug. “You’ve brought the whole bloody clan, then?”

“Aye,” Jamie laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “And it near took all Jocasta’s cunning to keep the rest from following.”

His gaze flickered briefly over the children, taking stock of the lot of them.

I nodded, glancing toward the trading room below, where the soft clatter of presses and the murmur of apprentices working filled the air. The house held that peculiar blend of home and enterprise — solid and busy all at once.

Jamie waved a hand toward the door. “Come on, inside wi’ ye all before the bairns take root on the stoop.”

The children wasted no time, darting up the stone steps and through the door after Mrs. McGonagall, their voices carrying into the entry hall. Jamie and I followed, the familiar scent of beeswax and hearth smoke curling through the air.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew my attention, and moments later Fergus appeared in the doorway of the family sitting room — a tall, lean figure in a bottle-green coat, his dark hair neatly tied back. There was an easy grace to his movements, a confidence hard-won in these streets, but the warmth of his smile hadn’t changed since the boy I first met in Paris.

“It’s good to have you all here,” he said, his voice rich with pleasure.

The afternoon passed in a warm flurry of greetings, laughter, and the rustle of travel-worn cloaks being shed. Fergus produced a tray of small parcels from behind his desk, each one neatly tied with string.

“A little something for each of you,” he announced, passing them round.

Brianna opened hers to find a fine leather grooming kit for her pony, the handles polished smooth.

“For the best horsewoman in the family,” Fergus said with a grin.

Robb unwrapped a handsome leather-bound notebook, the creamy pages smooth beneath his fingers.

“For the lad who’ll rebuild Edinburgh one day,” Fergus teased.

“It’s not because the authorities outlaw tartan that you can’t have a beautiful sporran,” Fergus said, handing Will a finely crafted leather sporran, its silver clasp engraved with a stag.

Will’s eyes lit up, and he grinned, clutching it to his chest.

Harry received a sturdy wooden horse, and Julia a soft cloth doll with dark braids.

Lena, still nestled in my arms, was given a soft purple blanket, so delicate and light it might have been woven from clouds.

Fergus smiled warmly as he handed it to me. “For my Petite Princesse,” he said gently, brushing a stray curl from Lena’s forehead.

Faith’s parcel revealed a slender volume of poetry, the cover embossed with a pattern of ivy leaves.

“For the young lady who always has a word at the ready,” Fergus said, bowing gallantly.

Faith’s smile was bright and easy, her gratitude clear. “Thank you, Fergus.”

The evening settled into warmth and comfort, the house filled with the scent of supper and the sounds of contented family. Faith, cheerful and protective, sat with Julia curled against her side and Harry leaning on her shoulder, her heart steady and sure among her kin.

And as the fire crackled and night deepened beyond the windows, I thought how good it was — to be here, all of us, in this house of stone and stories, with the future waiting just outside the door.

The room was alive with chatter now as the children exclaimed over their treasures. I felt Jamie’s hand find the small of my back, and the steady warmth of it rooted me to this simple, perfect moment.

Fergus clapped his hands once. “And now — who wants to see the shop?”

A chorus of eager voices rang out, and he laughed. “Come on then, before the supper bell claims us.”

The children bolted toward the stairs, their new prizes clutched tight in their hands, Fergus leading the charge like a pied piper with the promise of ink and type to follow. Jamie fell in behind them with an indulgent shake of his head, while I paused to settle Lena into a cradle by the hearth — one Mrs. McGonagall had clearly brought up in preparation for our arrival.

I lingered a moment, smoothing a hand over the downy curve of her head, then followed the others down the narrow stair.

The scent of ink thickened as we descended, mingling with the earthy tang of old paper and wood polish. The printshop occupied the entire ground floor of the townhouse, its wide, mullioned windows dim now with the fading light, though the steady glow of oil lamps flickered within. The great press stood in the center of the room, solid and gleaming, its levers and beams burnished by years of use.

Apprentices moved about, stacking freshly printed sheets and sweeping shavings of paper from the floor. A lad no older than twelve spotted Fergus and gave a quick, respectful nod.

“Evenin’, sir.”

“Evening, Rab,” Fergus called back, his face bright with pride as he gestured to the press. “This, my dears,” he announced to the children, “is where the words come to life.”

Will stepped forward first, eyes wide as saucers. “Is that a real printing press?”

“It is,” Fergus said, his voice warm, laying a hand fondly on the great wooden frame. “And this fine beast has been known to devour careless fingers, so mind yourselves.”

The children clustered round, Brianna’s gaze sharp with curiosity as she traced the iron joints and thick timbers.

“What are you printing?” she asked.

Fergus reached to one of the drying racks and plucked down a fresh broadside, crisp and smelling of ink.

“Notices for the town council,” he said, holding it out. “And a few handbills for the assembly house. Boring today, but we’ll have a new set of pamphlets coming next week. James, you’ll bring them by?”

“Aye,” James said, leaning against the doorframe with an easy grin. “I’m on his errands often enough.”

Fergus showed them how the press worked — laying out the type, inking the plate, and working the heavy lever. Will and Robb took turns operating the press with Fergus’s guidance, and even Faith allowed herself a small smile when Fergus teased her into trying.

When the last sheet was lifted, Fergus clapped his hands. “Right, that’s enough for now. Supper’s waiting, and Mrs. McGonagall’ll have my hide if I keep you lot down here much longer.”

Groans of protest rose, but Jamie gave a sharp whistle, shepherding the brood back toward the stairs.

As I followed them up, my heart swelled with a quiet, aching gratitude. For all the grief and trials the years had brought us, here we stood — a family in motion, laughter in the air, and the warm, steady pulse of life around us.

I glanced back once at the press, the drying racks, and the pages waiting to carry Fergus’s ink-stamped words into the world, then turned and climbed toward the scent of supper.

The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread hit us as soon as we reached the upper floor, rich and inviting after the chill of the printshop. The dining room was set for a feast — not in the grand, gilded manner of Jocasta’s table, but in Fergus’s own way: simple, well-made, and generous. Pewter plates gleamed in the candlelight, and a pair of decanters stood at the ready beside a basket of warm oatcakes.

Mrs. McGonagall bustled in with a tureen of broth, muttering under her breath about hungry bairns and ruined parlours, though the fond look she cast at the children belied her grumbling.

Fergus made a quick pass round the table, shooing the children toward their places, then turned to Jamie with a flourish.

“You’ll sit at the head, Père,” he declared, gesturing grandly to the carved chair by the hearth. “As is proper. Laird and father — it’s your due.”

Jamie smiled, but shook his head, laying a hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “Not tonight, lad. This is your house, your table. I’ll not have it said I came to my son’s hearth and claimed his place.”

For a moment Fergus hesitated, pride and deference warring in his face, then he gave a small, crooked smile and bowed. “As you will, Père. But only because you ask it.”

Jamie clapped him fondly on the back, and the two men exchanged a look — one of those rare things between fathers and sons when words aren’t needed.

We settled ourselves then: Jamie took the seat to Fergus’s right, while I slid into the place directly across from him. Faith claimed the chair at my left, her hair catching the candlelight, and Brianna slid in beside her with Julia on the end. James dropped into the chair at Julia’s side, easily within arm’s reach of the boys, who clustered at Jamie’s right: Will, then Robb, then Harry, the youngest already eyeing the bread basket like a starved pup.

Lena, freshly fed and content, lay cradled in the small cradle by the hearth, swaddled and pink-cheeked.

Dishes were passed with chatter and laughter, the children eager to recount the pressroom adventure and argue over whose prize had been best. Fergus poured wine for the adults and cider for the older children, while Mrs. McGonagall set down platters of roasted capon and turnips, green peas swimming in butter, and a berry tart still warm from the oven.

It was noisy and bright and entirely perfect.

I caught Jamie’s eye across the table, and in the flickering light I saw the quiet warmth there, the deep satisfaction of a man surrounded by those he loved, and grateful for the moment.

He lifted his cup slightly, and I answered in kind.

Whatever tomorrow might bring — tonight, we were here.

*****

After supper, with the little ones yawning and the last crumbs of berry tart claimed, it was agreed that a quiet turn about the streets would do the older folk good. The air was cool but dry, and the mist that had hung over the city all afternoon was beginning to lift.

James excused himself with a courteous nod, explaining he was to attend a gathering of his fellows — a reading circle, he called it — at one of the nearby taverns, where students of law and philosophy met to debate with much ale and little resolution, by his own admission.

“Don’t let them turn your head with too much Latin,” Jamie said, clapping him on the shoulder as he made to leave.

“I’ll leave the Cicero to the others,” James replied with a grin. “I’m only going for the ale and the scandal.”

With the younger children marshalled off to bed by Mrs. McGonagall and her apprentice maid, the house grew suddenly quiet. Fergus fetched his bottle-green coat, shrugging it on with easy grace, and together we stepped out into the evening streets.

The High Street was a different creature at night — the press of crowds thinned, though the taverns still spilled light and laughter onto the stones. The scent of peat smoke hung in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of ale and roasted chestnuts from a nearby brazier. Candlelight flickered in upper windows, and the glow of distant lanterns painted the mist in soft halos.

We strolled without particular aim, Fergus falling easily into step beside Jamie, the two exchanging quiet words about business and the latest broadsheets. Brianna and Faith walked ahead, heads close together, both girls bright-eyed in the chill air, their breath ghosting between them as they talked. But Faith’s sharp gaze was alert, flicking now and then to the streets, to those they passed, her protective streak always quietly at work.

It happened as we passed one of the grander closes, a carriage drawn up at its mouth, the livery of its driver catching the lantern light. A well-dressed family was just descending from the doorway beyond — a gentleman in a dark coat trimmed with silver braid, his wife in dove-grey silk, and a tall, fair girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, her pale hair caught in an elaborate braid and her cheeks flushed from the evening air.

The gentleman caught sight of Fergus as we approached and raised a hand in greeting. “Mister Fraser,” he called amiably. “A good evening to you.”

Fergus turned at once, his face lighting in polite recognition. “Ah — Mr. Drummond. A pleasure.” He bowed slightly as we drew nearer.

The girl’s eyes fixed on Fergus with unmistakable interest, a practiced, simpering smile already in place.

“Out with your family this evening, I see,” Mr. Drummond observed, eyeing our party with interest.

“I am, indeed,” Fergus said easily, then gestured toward us. “Allow me to present my Père and Maman — the Laird and Lady Broch Tuarach, Mr. James Fraser and Mistress Claire Fraser.”

At that, a flicker of recognition sparked in Mr. Drummond’s eye, his expression brightening.

“Ah — Broch Tuarach!” he exclaimed. “The horse breeding, the wool enterprise… and you’ve a hand in that fine whisky venture north of the Firth, do you not?”

“Aye,” Jamie replied with a courteous nod. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

I inclined my head, offering a polite smile.

“And these two young ladies,” Fergus continued, “are my sisters — Miss Faith Fraser and Miss Brianna Fraser.”

Brianna gave a cheerful, unselfconscious bob of her head. Faith managed a small, graceful curtsy to Mr. and Mrs. Drummond, though her sharp eyes didn’t linger long on either of them. Instead, she coolly examined Miss Eleanor Drummond, taking in the elaborate braid, the painted cheeks, and the way the girl practically undressed Fergus with her eyes.

“Will you be at Lady Blair’s assembly next week, Mister Fraser?” Mr. Drummond inquired as the carriage door was opened for them.

“I fear my work may keep me, sir,” Fergus replied with an easy, deferential smile. “Though I am honoured by the invitation.”

At this, Miss Eleanor stepped forward with an affectation of sweetness, her voice soft and syrupy. “Dear Mister Fraser,” she cooed, “I am so very disappointed you won’t be at the assembly. It simply won’t be the same without you.”

Faith raised a brow, her lips tightening the barest fraction as she studied the other girl’s fawning expression.

“I’m certain your assembly will shine without my presence, Miss Drummond,” Fergus replied smoothly, offering a slight bow.

A few more pleasantries passed, the kind that meant nothing but were expected, and then they were away, the carriage rattling off into the misty night.

As we strolled on, Faith drew alongside me, her voice low but clear. “She was terribly plain in her intentions, Mama. Fergus will want to be careful — there are more than a few lasses who’d see a gentleman’s name and business as a prize purse, rather than the man himself.”

I bit back a smile. “You needn’t worry, darling. Your brother’s no fool.”

“I know,” Faith said, though she kept her gaze on the street ahead. “But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop keeping an eye.”

I squeezed her hand, warmth blooming in my chest. “He’s lucky to have you.”

The air had grown cooler by the time we reached Fergus’s townhouse once more, the mist curling low along the High Street, dimming the glow of lanterns and softening the cobblestones beneath our feet.

We stepped inside the quiet front hall together, Fergus locking the door behind us. The house felt pleasantly close after the evening chill, the scent of beeswax and old wood mingling with the lingering trace of supper.

“The bairns sleep well?” Fergus asked as he shed his coat.

“Out like stones,” I assured him.

“A fine evening, truly,” Fergus said with a pleased smile, hanging his coat on its peg. “Good to have you all here.”

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “Always.”

I gave Fergus a sidelong glance as we settled by the hearth. “That Drummond girl had a mighty fixed look on you, Mister Fraser.”

Fergus chuckled softly. “I saw it, Maman. But no young debutante will keep me from my work — not while I’ve been schooled by my Père , yourself, and have Mrs. McGonagall’s sharp eye on me. I’ll not be swayed by a simpering face and painted lashes.”

I smiled, leaning in a little. “Faith will feel better hearing that. She worries for her big brother.”

His expression softened. “She’s a good lass, our Faith.”

“She’s a Fraser,” Jamie murmured.

And in the warm hush of the house, the fire crackling softly, the bond between us all seemed to settle a little deeper into the stones.

*****

The morning dawned crisp and bright, pale sunlight spilling across the cobbles of Edinburgh, making the stone buildings seem almost warm. The city was already alive with movement—the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the clip of hooves on stone, and the rise and fall of traders’ cries from the markets.

Jamie left early, a shipment of horses bound for the garrison at Edinburgh Castle. Strong, sure-footed beasts from our herds at Lallybroch, destined for service within the ancient fortress walls.

“These men,” Jamie had said, tightening the reins as he mounted, “are among our most faithful and best customers. Good horses mean strong riders—and strong riders keep the peace.”

Fergus rode with him, eager for the business of it and to see the Castle garrison again. The younger boys had watched in awe as the sleek animals moved out through the wynds and closes toward Castlehill.

Meanwhile, I gathered the children for our visit to the wool shop. The little establishment on the Lawnmarket had quickly found its footing under Mr. Archibald Monroe’s careful management. Though Jenny had first proposed the venture and still directed it from Broch Tuarach, it was Monroe who saw to the daily business with a sharp head for figures and an unflinching sense of order.

The shop itself was modest but well-kept, bolts of fine wool in every shade lining the shelves, baskets of yarn and buttons filling the space with color. Monroe greeted us at the door, his neat appearance and quick bow unmistakably professional.

“Good day to you, Mistress Fraser,” he said, then inclined his head toward the gathered brood. “And to your young ones. It’s a pleasure to have you call.”

“Good day, Mr. Monroe,” I replied warmly. “And how fares the shop?”

“Prospering, madam. The autumn orders have been most satisfactory, and we’ve recently secured two more clients for dyed yardage. I’ve sent word to Mistress Murray of the developments.”

I glanced about the neat interior with quiet satisfaction. The children, though restless at first, soon found interest in the colorful bolts and displays. Brianna ran her hand along a length of deep green cloth, while Harry and Julia peered with shining eyes into a basket of polished horn buttons. Even Robb and Will, though inclined to mischief, were momentarily tamed by the promise of choosing scraps for themselves.

Not long after, Jamie appeared in the doorway, brushing dust from his coat, Fergus at his side. Both were sun-warmed and wind-stirred from their ride down Castlehill, their faces brightening at the sight of us.

“All settled at the Castle,” Jamie said, stooping to kiss my cheek as Fergus grinned and greeted the children.

“Horses delivered,” Fergus added cheerfully, “and Captain Moffat pleased.”

I smiled. “A rare accomplishment.”

“Indeed,” Jamie agreed. He glanced around the shop, nodding in approval. “It does Jenny credit.”

We lingered a while longer, speaking of trade, business, and home, before stepping back out into the bright afternoon. From there, we made our way together to Holyrood Palace.

The children were lively with excitement, their chatter tumbling over one another as we approached the great stone building. The heavy oak doors opened before us, admitting us into cool, shadowed halls where the air seemed thick with the weight of years.

The housekeeper, a stern-faced woman in a spotless linen cap, greeted us with the crisp authority of one who ruled her domain. “Stay close, if you please,” she instructed, and began leading us through the grand, echoing chambers.

For Jamie, Fergus, and me, the old stones stirred older memories still. I felt Jamie’s hand brush mine, a fleeting touch, as his eyes swept over a familiar tapestry-lined hallway.

“I’d near forgotten the look of this place,” Fergus murmured, falling into step beside us. His voice held something quieter than nostalgia—an ache, perhaps.

“Aye,” Jamie said softly.

I remembered it too—the cold nights huddled behind those thick doors, the ever-present weight of fear, the unspoken dread in every glance exchanged. I folded the memories away, though their sharpness lingered like a chill in my bones.

The children’s bright energy dimmed somewhat within the palace’s hush. Robb and Will jostled one another as always, but their laughter echoed strangely against the old stone. Harry and Julia crept along the edge of the tapestries, while Brianna and Faith kept close by my side.

“Boys,” I said gently, “remember where we are.”

They hushed only when the housekeeper led us into a small, dim chamber. A dark stain, almost lost in the uneven floor, marked the spot beneath our feet.

“Here,” the housekeeper said quietly, “is where David Rizzio was struck down by Lord Darnley’s men.”

The boys froze, wide-eyed.

“Blood leaves its mark,” the housekeeper went on, her voice soft. “Even when the stone tries to forget.”

A stillness settled over our little party. Even the youngest seemed to sense the gravity of it, the way some places hold the memory of violence close, refusing to let it fade.

I glanced toward Jamie and Fergus. Both wore that same faraway look I’d seen often enough—faces drawn by old ghosts.

I tried to lighten the hush.

“If only I’d known that was the secret to getting them to behave,” I murmured to Jamie, who gave a huff of amusement through his nose.

Faith, standing beside me, caught my eye and offered a small, knowing smile—the kind shared between those who understood how history clung to certain places and people alike.

When we emerged once more into the open air, the children’s spirits lifted again, as though the sun itself burned away the palace’s lingering chill. We made our way back through the bustling streets, stopping briefly for a vendor’s sweet buns and a length of new ribbon for Julia’s hair.

*****

The next morning dawned grey and misting, the High Street slick with rain and the city’s usual bustle softened beneath a damp hush. The hired carriage waited just beyond the close, its horses steaming gently in the chill as the family gathered in Fergus’s front room for their farewells.

The children, still heavy-eyed from sleep, clung together in the quiet way of bairns too small to grasp the ache of partings. Harry and Julia sat side by side, their travel cloaks folded neatly in their laps, while Brianna made a valiant effort to coax a smile from Will, who scowled at the prospect of leaving behind the city’s grand adventures. Nearby, little Lena slept peacefully in Fergus’s arms, her soft breaths rising and falling in time with his steady heartbeat.

Fergus stood with James near the doorway, both neat in their coats, faces pale and solemn in the grey morning light.

Jamie embraced Fergus hard, a wordless thing that said far more than any farewell could.

“Take care of yourself, lad,” Jamie murmured. “And mind your work. There’ll always be a place for you at Lallybroch.”

Fergus swallowed and nodded, his voice tight but steady. “Aye, mon père.”

Jamie turned next to James, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “You’ve done us proud. Keep at your books—and dinna let these city folk make a fool of you.”

“I’ll do my best, uncle,” James replied with quiet determination.

I stepped forward then, brushing my hand gently along Fergus’s cheek, as I had done since he was a boy. His face was grown now, lean and sure, but for a fleeting moment, his eyes shone with the boy I remembered so well.

“You’ll always have a home with us,” I whispered. He smiled faintly, the mist gathering in his lashes.

Faith hugged both young men tightly, then pulled back with a sly grin, her usual sparkle brightening the room.

“Aye, just mind yourselves out there,” she said, glancing between James and Fergus. “Edinburgh’s lasses have a keen eye for a husband—and a gentleman’s standing counts for more than the man himself.”

Fergus chuckled softly. “I’ll keep my wits about me, Faith.”

James gave a wry smile. “Good advice. We’ll both need it.”

Fergus adjusted the little bundle in his arms, careful not to wake Lena. He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, lingering in the warmth of the moment before gently passing her into my waiting arms.

The goodbyes were swift after that, for there’s little kindness in stretching partings too long.

The carriage rattled out from the close and turned down the High Street, heading toward Canongate and the Abbey Strand. Fergus and James stood together at the doorway, their figures fading into the damp morning as they lifted their hands in farewell.

We rode through the misting streets, past the closes and wynds we’d come to know, the great gates of Holyrood House looming grey and silent in the distance. Beyond the Abbey Strand, the city’s restless pulse softened to a distant murmur, replaced by the steady rhythm of hooves on the rain-slick road.

I looked back once, as the last of Edinburgh’s rooftops disappeared into the mist. There was a strange ache in it — a city of memories, of ghosts both gentle and cruel, of fierce joys and quiet losses. A city we had left once before, and would again, but which had left its mark on us all the same.

Ahead lay the road home.

And Lallybroch waited

Chapter Text

Spring 1759
“Dear Reggie,
The days have been full and bright, though not without their trials. Fergus’s printing press in Edinburgh is coming into its own—the true beginning of what will one day be Fraser Press. We’ve also had promising news about a special order from London that may open new doors for our wool business. It’s encouraging to see the pieces falling into place, though the work is only just beginning.”

*******

The kitchen at Lallybroch was warm with the late morning sun and the soft chatter of Jenny and Ian as they set the table for lunch. Jenny hummed quietly while arranging fresh bread and cheese, but her usual calm was undercut by a bright spark in her eyes — a certain restless energy that made Ian glance up with mild curiosity.

I sat by the hearth, mending a tear in one of Julia’s gowns, half-listening as the two of them worked. The scent of baking oatcakes mingled with the sharp tang of fresh linen drying by the fire, and the quiet peace of the morning settled around us like an old, familiar shawl — comforting and strong, like the hills that sheltered Lallybroch from the storms of the world.

Jamie’s boots thudded on the flagstones outside, then through the heavy door, his broad smile immediately filling the room.

“Just in time for lunch, then,” he said, brushing off his coat and setting down a folded letter on the table.

Jenny glanced at the letter, then back at Jamie, her cheeks flushing with sudden excitement.

“What is it?” Ian asked, his voice curious.

Jamie opened the letter and read aloud the carefully penned words from Mr. Archibald Monroe, our trusted wool agent in Edinburgh:

The Dowager Princess of Wales herself has expressed interest in a special order of fine Lallybroch wool. She requests a selection of your best yarns for her London residence.

Jenny’s breath caught, and a laugh burst from her lips — light, genuine, and utterly rare.

“Did you hear that, Ian? The Dowager Princess! Our wool, all the way to London!”

For a moment, Jenny stood there, eyes bright and glistening, the letter trembling slightly in her hands. It was more than pride — it was vindication. Years of quiet labor, weaving and dyeing by firelight, managing tenant flocks, minding accounts and scolding lazy hands — it had all led here.

Jamie crossed to her, his face alight with pride. “Ye see, Jenny? I always told ye no one could match your skill. Even kings and queens would wear your wool if they only kent it.”

Jenny gave a watery laugh and clutched the letter to her chest. “I… I never thought — not in my wildest fancies. My mother… she would have loved this.”

Ian stepped forward, cupping his wife’s cheek. “And she’d be burstin’ wi’ pride, love. As am I.” His voice thickened, his thumb brushing a stray tear away. “It’s no’ just the wool, Jenny. It’s what ye’ve made of this place. What ye’ve held together when so many might’ve let it crumble.”

“Aye,” Jamie said softly, his gaze sweeping the room. “After all that’s been lost, to see Lallybroch rise again — strong, proud — it’s a quiet sort of victory, no less fierce for bein’ bloodless.”

Jenny sniffed and leaned her forehead against Ian’s. “Aye, well — it takes a stubborn man to keep pace wi’ a Fraser.”

“Aye, and I’ll race ye to the end of my days,” Ian murmured.

Jamie grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll drink to that.”

Jenny’s joy returned then, bright and eager as she carefully folded the letter. “This wool order isn’t just a chance for us,” she said, “it’s a step toward makin’ Lallybroch known beyond these hills. Beyond Inverness, even. Maybe the Lowlands, London… who knows?”

She paused, her expression sharpening, voice low but firm. “Let them in London see what Highland hands can craft. Let them wear what was woven by women who’ve buried brothers and rebuilt hearths with their own two hands.”

Without another word, she whisked the letter up and made for the door, calling for Mary and Ailsa as she went, her voice carrying clear and bright across the courtyard.

Ian chuckled as he reached for his coat. “Best see to the lads in the west field before your sister sets them all to spinning silk cushions for the Dowager Princess.” He clapped Jamie on the shoulder and went out after her.

The kitchen quieted in their absence, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the gentle hiss of the peat fire. Jamie crossed to the table, rifling through the papers in his coat pocket.

“There’s another letter,” he said, pulling out a sealed page and handing it to me. “From Fergus.”

My heart gave a little lift at the sight of his neat, careful hand on the front. I set aside my mending and opened it at once, smoothing the page across my lap.

Jamie moved to sit beside me, leaning in so we could read it together, his arm warm against mine.

The letter began, as always, with warm greetings to us both and news of Edinburgh. Fergus wrote of the continued success of the printshop, of new pamphlets and broadsheets they’d been asked to produce, and of Young James’ studies.

“He says our Young James is doing well with the accounts,” Jamie murmured, eyes scanning the neat lines. “Seems the lad’s a head for figures. Took to keeping the books like a born clerk.”

I smiled. “Do you think he’ll want to come home when his studies are finished?”

Jamie made a face, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wonder at it, Sassenach. He loves the city life. Fergus says he’s sharp, quick-tongued, and well-liked. Takes to the business side as easy as breathing — and not just wi’ the lads his own age, but wi’ the guild men and tradesmen too.”

He sighed, a rueful note in his voice. “Jenny won’t like it if he decides to stay. Ian might understand, but Jenny… she’s had her heart set on the lad running his own lands beside Lallybroch since the day the notion was first spoken.”

I reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “They’ll understand, Jamie. He’s a good man, and he’ll do what’s right for himself — and for the family. Even if it’s not what they imagined.”

Jamie huffed a laugh. “Aye… and as for the lasses — Fergus says Maggie and Kitty never miss a chance to plague him for news of the city in their letters. Always pestering after what the ladies are wearin', what shops have opened, and which rooms they'll claim when they finally visit. Fergus swears they’ve each already picked a favorite room in his house, though they've not yet seen it wi' their own eyes.”

He shook his head fondly. “Jenny swears those two will have half the city on its knees and the other half runnin’ for cover by the time they arrive. Says it’s a mercy Fergus hasn’t changed his name to escape them.”

I laughed aloud. “Well, at least ambition runs in the family.”

Jamie grinned and unfolded the rest of the letter. “He also confirms the purchase of the property next to his own townhouse on High Street. A fine spot, he says, and perfect for expanding the printing business. He means to set up Fraser Press proper, with printing floors, typeset rooms, and offices — and upper flats for living quarters.”

I felt a pleasant shiver at the thought. “It’s a good plan, Jamie. Fergus has built something remarkable there.”

Jamie’s smile softened, pride shining clear in his face. “For him… and for us all. And there’s more. Fergus says Young James might one day invest in the printshop or the wool trade himself. The lad’s head for figures could see both businesses prosper.”

He glanced at me, his voice quieter now. “And the printshop — it’s more than just ink and paper, Sassenach. It’s our voice. Our stories. And if folk in Edinburgh read words set by Fraser hands, they’ll ken there’s strength yet in Scotland’s bones — and a future worth building.”

The sunlight spilled warm and steady across the kitchen table, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the fire crackling and the quiet rustle of the letter between Jamie’s fingers. The world, for all its uncertainty, felt solid beneath us.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the mullioned windows of the solar, casting a golden glow over the worn oak table where we sat. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of light, and the warmth of the hearth curled gently through the air like an embrace. The house was quiet — Jamie and the boys were out in the pasture, Jenny and Jocasta had taken the wee ones berry-picking — and it was just the three of us: myself, Faith, and Brianna.

Faith, now fifteen, sat near the hearth with her legs tucked under her, quietly mending the hem of Julia’s favorite doll. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, a soft furrow between her brows. Brianna, sprawled on her stomach by the rug, sketched a lopsided Highland cow on scraps of paper, her reddish hair catching the light like fire. I sat at the window, sorting sage and yarrow from the drying basket, the scent of lavender thick in the stillness.

“Mama…” Brianna’s voice broke the silence. “Can we ask you something?”

I looked up and nodded. “Of course, love. Anything.”

Faith glanced at her sister, then folded her hands in her lap. “Why did we leave this century in the first place? And… why did we come back?”

I took a breath. The questions were not unexpected — I had known this day would come. But hearing them spoken aloud set time into motion again, past and present shifting into place.

“You both deserve to know,” I said softly, and set the herbs aside. “You were born in different centuries. Faith, you were born here, in Scotland, during the time of war. And Brianna… you were born in another world, two hundred years from now.”

Faith gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “But we all lived there together, in the future.”

“We did,” I said. “After Culloden, I believed your father had died on the battlefield. I had no proof, no hope. So I brought Faith with me through the Stones at Craigh na Dun. I was… broken. And I was afraid. I didn’t think it was safe to stay.”

“And I was born there?” Bree asked.

“In Inverness,” I said, smiling at the memory. “We lived at the manse with Reverend Wakefield — Reggie — and his ward, Roger. And there was Mrs. Graham, a wise woman who knew the old ways. She and her daughter-in-law helped me raise you both. Faith went to nursery school. I worked part-time at the hospital.”

“I remember,” Faith whispered. “The cold tiles in the hallway. The smell of toast. My little red boots.”

“And I remember Roger,” Bree said, eyes shining. “He let me steal his biscuits.”

“You were both loved there,” I said. “More than you can imagine. But still, I searched. I had to know. I needed to be sure.”

I paused, feeling the weight of that long stretch of years. “At first, I tried to forget. But then Reggie told me a story — a Highland legend about a man called the Dunbonnet. A laird who’d survived Culloden and lived in hiding. I knew, somehow, it was Jamie. I could feel it.”

I rose and crossed to the bookshelf, running my fingers along the grain of the old wood. Behind the carved thistle, the secret panel clicked open, and I withdrew a small stack of old letters and a thin bundle of parchment.

“With help from Reggie, and the National Archives in Edinburgh, we began to search. We followed the paper trail, piece by piece, and slowly the truth began to take shape.”

“What did you find?” Faith asked.

“Proof,” I said. “Proof that Jamie had survived Culloden. A royal pardon hidden in French records. A letter from the Duke of Cumberland himself, saying Jamie had been working as a spy for the British crown. It was all there, buried and forgotten. But most important — there was a proclamation restoring his name and lands. And according to legend, it was his wife who brought forth the evidence to exonerate him.”

“But… that was you,” Brianna said.

I nodded, my voice thick. “History remembered what I hadn’t yet done. It was like a loop — I was the wife they spoke of, even though I hadn’t gone back yet. I knew then that I had to. That it was safe. And that he was waiting.”

“Wasn’t it dangerous?” Faith asked.

“It always is,” I said. “But Master Raymond helped us — that’s a story for another day — and with Reggie’s blessing, we returned through the Stones. All three of us.”

There was a long silence, as the girls absorbed the enormity of it.

Brianna looked down at her drawing. “Do you miss them?”

“Every day,” I whispered. “Reggie, Roger, Mrs. Graham… They were our family, too. Even if they’re two centuries away, they’re in our hearts.”

Faith looked toward the hearth, thoughtful. “You write to them still, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said. “Even though they can’t write back. Sometimes it helps to say what you can’t forget.”

“Can we write to them?” Brianna asked. “Even if they never see it?”

“I’d love that,” I said, my throat tight. “More than you know.”

I brought ink and parchment to the table. Faith studied the form of my letters and copied it with elegant strokes. Bree dipped her quill with determined flair.

“I’ll write to Reggie,” said Faith.

“And I’ll tell Roger about Bonnie and the ducks,” Bree added with a grin.

I chuckled softly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “He’d adore that.”

For a time, the only sounds were the scratch of quills and the hum of the fire. Outside, the world carried on — but here in the solar, time folded in on itself, and the space between centuries grew warm with memory and hope.

When the letters were sealed, we tucked them into the compartment with the photographs: Faith’s red boots, Bree’s chocolate-covered face, Roger chasing ducks in the garden. Reggie’s soft smile beneath his clerical collar.

We closed the panel together.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour.

In that moment — between past and present, silence and story — we remembered. And somehow, we were remembered in turn.

*****

Lallybroch, this 30th day of May, Anno Domini 1759

To my dear Uncle Reggie,

I don’t know if this letter will ever find you — but Mama says sometimes words can carry love even if they’re never read. I hope that’s true.

I remember Inverness. I remember warm porridge and wool mittens and the way your study always smelled like ink and old leather. You once called me your brave lass. I wish you knew how much those words stayed with me.

Thank you. For believing Mama. For helping her find Da again. You helped bring us home.

With love,
Faith Fraser

*****

Lallybroch, this 30th day of May, Anno Domini 1759

Dear Roger,

Mama told us everything today. About how we came from the future. About how you and Reggie helped her find Da again. I don’t remember everything, but I remember you.

I’m thirteen now. I have a pony named Bonnie who follows me like a duckling. Da says I have a good hand with horses. Mama says I get my stubbornness from both of you.

If this ever reaches you — thank you. For the biscuits. For your hand when we said goodbye. For helping us find the way back.

Your friend,
Brianna Fraser

Chapter Text

The house glowed with firelight and good spirits, the scent of roasting meats, spiced oatcakes, and pine boughs thick in the air. The din of conversation, laughter, and fiddle music rang off the walls, and it was the happiest kind of chaos — the kind that comes when a house is full to bursting with kin, neighbors, and old friends.

Hogmanay at Lallybroch was always a grand affair, but this year felt even more so. With both Fergus and Young James home from Edinburgh, a dozen children underfoot, and a sea of familiar faces gathered for the turning of the year, the old house felt alive in a way that made my heart ache with contentment.

Jamie moved through the hall with our youngest perched proudly on his shoulder, her wisps of red-gold hair escaping from beneath a tiny knitted cap. At two and a half, Lena was still more baby than child, but she had the household wrapped firmly around her tiny fingers. A demanding, colicky thing in her early months, she’d turned into a beaming daddy’s girl, content to nestle against Jamie’s chest no matter how noisy or crowded the room.

“She’s spoiled, that one,” Mrs. Crook remarked fondly as she passed me with a tray of bannocks.

“And not an ounce of shame about it,” I replied, smiling as Jamie presented Lena to old Mistress Grant, who clucked her tongue fondly and pinched the wee girl’s rosy cheek.

Jenny bustled past a moment later, cheeks pink from the heat of the kitchen. “If she’s no’ spoiled now, she soon will be,” she laughed. “Ian gave her a sugared plum before supper. It’ll take us a week to settle her.”

“She’s her father’s daughter,” I said with a grin, and Jenny snorted in agreement before disappearing back toward the kitchen, shouting for more ginger cordial.

Near the hearth, Marsali MacKimmie lingered with Brianna, Maggie, Kitty, and Faith, the five of them gathered in a knot of girlish chatter beneath the garlands of holly strung from the beams. Marsali had changed so much over the past year. Freed from her mother’s poisonous grip after Laoghaire’s disgrace and untimely death, she had blossomed under the steady, kind hand of Simon MacKimmie’s new wife — a sensible, plain-spoken woman who treated Marsali no differently than her own. Without Laoghaire’s sharp tongue and sour ambitions to shape her, the girl had softened. She laughed easily now, spoke with kindness, and had formed fast friendships with my daughters and nieces.

She was prettier for it too, her pale gold hair shining in the firelight, a flush of healthy color in her cheeks. As I watched, I saw her gaze follow Fergus across the room.

He was twenty-five now, tall and sure, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight. Fergus had always carried himself with a kind of unshakable charm, equal parts gentleman and rogue, and I could hardly blame any young girl for sighing over him.

“I ken I shouldna say it,” Marsali whispered, cheeks pink, “but I think Fergus verra fine.”

Maggie raised a brow and grinned. “Who does no’?”

Marsali gave a little sigh, then brightened. “Is it true his business has gotten so grand now? Folk say he’s made himself a fortune in Edinburgh.”

“Aye,” Kitty said, grinning. “He’s done well. And Da still hasna taken us to see the house yet,” she added with a huff. “Promised it last year and again this harvest. Might be old women by the time we set foot inside.”

“I’ve been so many times I’ve lost count,” Brianna said with a cheeky grin. “Three storeys, right on the High Street, and Mrs. McGonagall keeps it so tidy you could eat off the floors.”

Marsali’s eyes widened. “Truly? And it’s his own?”

“It is,” Faith said quietly, her voice light though I saw the faint tension in her jaw. “His business is called Fraser Press now. Not just a print shop anymore — he’s made it a proper publishing house too. Prints broadsheets, books, political pamphlets, even music sheets. And he’s just opened a second print room in the building next door.”

“Imagine,” Marsali breathed, clearly enchanted. “Havin’ a house of yer own, and a business too. I always thought printers were little old men covered in ink, but Fergus — well.” She gave a sly little smile and tossed her hair. “I wouldna mind bein’ mistress o’ a house like that.”

Brianna snorted softly, a teasing smile curling her lips. “The woman to be mistress of Fergus’s house will need Faith’s approval, I’d wager.”

Maggie chuckled, nodding. “Aye, I remember when Faith was but a wee lass, all set on marrying Fergus herself. Her heart was well fixed on him, she did.”

Kitty laughed quietly. “And I doubt she’s changed her mind much since.”

Marsali’s eyes widened, a flush rising to her cheeks. “But… he’s your brother, is he no’?”

Faith’s voice was barely more than a whisper, low and steady. “We are nae blood kin. And according to Uncle Ned Gowan, that is lawful in Scotland.”

Marsali blinked, leaning in. “What did ye say?”

Faith met her gaze, cool and certain. “Set no’ your hopes high on Fergus—for him, ye are but a bairn.”

A tense hush settled over the group. Kitty cleared her throat, eager to break the mood. “At this rate, we’ll be wed and runnin’ the Edinburgh wool shop before any of us see that house ourselves.”

That did the trick. Maggie snorted, and Brianna grinned. Even Marsali gave a rueful little laugh, though the flush on her cheeks lingered.

“Aye,” Maggie agreed. “Best hope Fergus throws a party for old maids and businesswomen someday.”

The tension softened, the girls beginning to giggle again, though Faith stayed silent, her expression shuttered.

I turned away then, my heart catching for her. Sixteen now, and learning in painful little cuts how affection and belonging could be claimed, challenged, and defended.

On the other side of the room, Jamie had gathered the youngest children at his knee — Will, Robb, Ian, Harry, Julia, and little Joan MacKimmie, all bright-eyed and flushed with excitement. A tray of oatcakes and small glasses of ginger cordial stood nearby for the First Foot, the old tradition about to begin.

“Da,” Will piped up, eyes shining, “how come you’re no’ the first foot, seein’ as you’re laird?”

“Aye!” Robb chimed in eagerly. “Should it no’ be you what steps over first?”

Jamie grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, but see — tradition says the first foot after midnight ought to be a tall, dark man, lads. Brings luck for the year ahead.”

Will and Robb exchanged a disappointed glance, both of them ginger-haired through and through, so like their Da. “That’s no fair,” Will grumbled, tugging at a wayward lock of his copper hair. “I’ll never get to do it.”

“Me neither,” Robb sighed, slumping against Ian’s shoulder.

Harry, on the other hand, positively beamed. “I’ve dark hair!” he declared, bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning wide enough to split his face. “I can do it one day!”

“Aye, ye can,” Jamie laughed, ruffling the boy’s thick brown curls. “We’ll keep that in mind, lad.”

Young James Murray, ginger cordial in hand, leaned in with a sly grin. “I might fancy bein’ first foot next year, if it gets a man the kind of attention Fergus is gettin’ tonight.”

Jamie chuckled, raising a brow. “Careful, lad — wi’ a tongue like that, you’ll be wed before you can blink.”

Young James laughed and clapped Jamie on the back. “Could be worse.”

“Aye,” Jamie grinned. “Worse things than a good lass and a warm hearth.”

The children giggled, and Julia clung tightly to little Joan’s hand, the pair of them whispering about who might be brave enough to sneak a kiss under the mistletoe.

Just then, Ian strode through the crowd with a tankard in hand, stopping at Jamie’s side.

“Ye ken, brother, if we keep lettin’ Fergus steal all the attention, none o’ the lasses here’ll ever wed a Highland man again.”

Jamie chuckled. “Aye, well, they’ll tire o’ his French charm soon enough. Lasses like a lad wi’ dirt under his nails now and then.”

“Aye, they do,” Ian agreed, clapping him on the shoulder.

Ian grinned and took Jenny’s hand as she passed, pulling her toward the next set of reels.

“Best get a move on, woman. Can’t have these young lasses showing ye up.”

Jenny rolled her eyes but laughed, letting him tug her into the dancing line with practiced ease.

“Ye’d think after twenty years, I might get to sit one out,” she called as she passed me, her face flushed and shining.

“Never on Hogmanay,” I called back.

Julia, her Venetian blond curls bouncing, clutched Joan MacKimmie’s hand tightly as they watched the older dancers with wide eyes. Harry bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to join in as soon as he was big enough.

I was watching the children when a shift in the room caught my attention.

Two lads from Broch Mordha — lanky, broad-shouldered, and not quite as clever as they believed — had sidled up near the hearth where Faith and Brianna stood chatting. The boys leaned in too close, laughing a little too loudly, all charm and bravado in the way adolescent boys often are when emboldened by company and cider.

Fergus had seen it too.

With barely a word, he nudged Rabbie McNabb, and the two of them crossed the room with easy grace — not rushed, not confrontational, but purposeful. Fergus slid into the conversation with a deft comment, light but pointed, and Rabbie cheerfully distracted Brianna with some exaggerated retelling of the last harvest fair mishap.

It was smooth, practiced. Effective.

The Broch Mordha boys didn’t know they’d been dismissed until it was already over, blinking at one another with bruised pride and awkward bows before retreating toward the punch bowl.

I glanced at Faith. She’d said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes — the raised brow, the small twitch at the corner of her mouth. She knew what Fergus had done. She didn't object.

And Fergus — he didn’t touch her, didn’t so much as linger overlong beside her. But he kept stealing glances, subtle and swift, when he thought no one was watching. And every time, his eyes found Faith.

That quiet protectiveness — it had always been there, but tonight, it seemed to burn closer to the surface.

Jamie murmured beside me, catching my thoughts. “Marsali’s keen as a hawk, but Fergus… well, he sees her only as a bairn. Not unlike I did with her mother.”

The fiddle’s lively tune shifted into a slow reel, and couples paired off beneath the mistletoe hung with practiced care. Laughter and whispered promises floated through the warm air.

Fergus, still carrying his dark, easy charm, offered Jocasta his hand, and she accepted with a smile that softened her usual stern demeanor. Murtagh, a little reluctant but good-natured, was soon twirling Caitlin Murray, who blushed fiercely and kept up with surprising grace.

Near the hearth, Marsali lingered, her gaze flickering repeatedly toward Fergus as she smoothed the ribbons in her hair. Faith stood a few paces away, her arms crossed tightly, eyes narrowed but resolute. The tension between them was quiet but unmistakable.

Brianna, ever the observer, leaned in and whispered, “She’s got that look again. The one that says she’s not giving up.”

Kitty nodded. “Marsali might be clever, but Faith’s no’ one to back down.”

I watched Jamie carefully, sensing the weight of his thoughts. “You’re worried,” I said softly.

Jamie’s jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod. “Aye. Faith loves Fergus true, and it’s no’ just a passing fancy. But Marsali… she’s young and bold. This could get tangled.”

As the night deepened, the children’s laughter grew more boisterous. Harry tugged on Jamie’s sleeve.

“When will I be a man like Fergus, Da?”

Jamie smiled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Soon enough, lad. Soon enough.”

The clock in the corner struck midnight with a slow, sonorous clang, and a cheer went up through the room. Hands clapped, voices lifted, and glasses were raised. Jamie kissed Lena’s rosy cheek and passed her to Brianna before turning to find me in the crowd.

He found me, as he always did, and I went willingly into his arms.

“Happy New Year, mo nighean donn,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, the press of his lips warm against my temple.

“Happy New Year, my love,” I whispered back, resting my head against his chest for a moment. I let the noise and bustle blur around us, breathing in the scent of hearth-smoke and wool, the faint tang of ale on his breath, and the deep, abiding warmth of him.

Around us, the room shifted into a flurry of embraces. Fergus found Faith and kissed her hand gallantly, as was his habit every Hogmanay, though this year I saw the way her breath caught and her eyes shimmered. Marsali hovered nearby, watching, a forced brightness in her smile as she accepted a congratulatory peck on the cheek from Murtagh.

The children shrieked with laughter as Young James lifted Julia and Joan onto his shoulders and spun them about. Even old Mistress Grant joined hands with Jocasta and Mrs. Crook for a reel, their steps careful but sure.

It was Jamie who made the toast, as he always did. He raised his glass, his voice carrying clear and steady over the din.

“To those we love, to those we’ve lost, and to the year ahead. May it bring us peace in our hearts, strength in our hands, and joy in our hearths.”

“Aye!” came the answering chorus, and glasses clinked all around.

I caught Fergus’s glance then, and something in his eyes made my heart stutter — a shadow of sadness, quickly masked beneath his practiced grin.

Before the moment could settle, Julia let out a delighted shriek.

“Snow! It’s snowin’, Mama! Look!”

Sure enough, fat white flakes drifted lazily past the window panes, thick and steady, the way they did in the Highland winters. The children rushed to the doors, flinging them open to race out onto the step, their shrieks echoing into the cold night, eager footprints marring the pristine snow that lay deep and untouched across the fields.

Jenny came out after them, her arms folded against the cold, watching the bairns with a satisfied look. Ian joined her a moment later, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

“Well, woman,” he murmured, “looks like we’ve done no’ too badly.”

“That we have not,” Jenny said softly, leaning against him.

Jamie’s hand found mine, and we followed them out into the cold. The air was sharp and clean, the kind of biting chill that settled deep in your bones, but carried a sweetness too — peat smoke, pine, and the faint metallic tang of snow. The sounds of music and laughter softened, muffled by the heavy snowfall, and in that hush, Jamie drew me close, his warmth a welcome shield against the Highland winter.

“I’ll no’ mind the work ahead,” Jamie murmured, his breath misting between us, “if it means keepin’ this safe.”

I leaned into him. “We’ll keep it, Jamie. Whatever comes.”

He kissed my brow, and for a long moment, we stood together in the falling snow, the soft golden glow of Lallybroch behind us, and the future — wild, untamed, and ours — waiting just beyond the hills.

Chapter Text

  Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated May 4th, 1761

James has finished his formal studies at last, and to everyone’s surprise — perhaps even his own — he’s decided not to return to Broch Deasach just yet. He’s staying in Edinburgh to work full-time with Fergus at the Fraser Press. I’m proud of him, Reggie. He’s a good man with a good mind, and more than that — he’s chosen his path on his own.

*****

Fergus’s letter arrived on a morning awash with birdsong and the scent of peat smoke. I was sitting by the kitchen hearth, sorting dried comfrey and calendula into jars, when Ian brought it in from the post rider and tossed it onto the table with a knowing grin.

“Best pour a second cup for Jenny,” he said before disappearing out the back.

I smiled even before breaking the seal. Fergus’s handwriting was unmistakable — strong, elegant, just a little dramatic.

Ma chère Maman,
Prepare yourself. Tempête Jenny is on her way.
James has made his decision, and it is to stay in Edinburgh for now. He told me he wrote to her first, of course — said he’d rather face a printing press fire than the storm in Aunt Jenny’s eyes if she heard it from anyone else.
I’ll tell you this, Maman — he’s made the decision well. Deliberately, quietly, and with a strength that reminds me of you. He’s not just a help to me — he’s a partner. Thoughtful, clever, unshakable when it matters.
Fraser Press is growing faster than I can keep up, and I trust no one more than James to stand at my side. The apprentices respect him, the clients like him, and I... well, I’m simply glad to have a brother again.
But again, prepare yourself. She’ll come marching with her needles clicking, and heaven help the poor soul who gets in her way.
With all affection,
Fergus

I was still smiling when the kitchen door banged open and Jenny stormed in, cheeks flushed from the walk up from Broch Deasach, her knitting bag tucked under her arm like a weapon of war.

“That fool laddie of mine,” she muttered, barely pausing before falling into the chair opposite me.

“Ian says we should be proud, but I hadn’t even finished putting fresh lavender in his press before he sends word he’s stayin’ on in Edinburgh!”

I rose to pour her a cup of tea. “Fergus said you might be by.”

“He did, did he?” She narrowed her eyes and pulled out a rather crumpled letter from her sleeve. “Told me so himself — in writing. Polite, thoughtful, and cowardly, the wee shite.”

“He said he’d rather face a fire than you,” I said with a chuckle.

She snorted and took the tea. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

I sat down beside her. “He’s not gone forever, Jenny. He just wants to help Fergus while he can. Fraser Press isn’t a cramped room anymore — it’s thriving. Fergus needs someone he can trust. And Ian still has many, many years left in him to run Broch Deasach.”

She gave a reluctant grunt of agreement, then pulled out her knitting — a sock in moss green, already half-done and bristling with needles. She clicked them together furiously for a few seconds before sighing.

“I just... I thought we’d have a bit more time. I’d see him back here, working beside Ian, maybe settling into the rhythm of the place. Feels strange, the house without him.”

I reached out and rested a hand on her wrist. “He’ll come back. This isn’t a final goodbye — it’s just a step on the road.”

She nodded slowly, then said in a quieter voice, “He’s your son too, ken. You mothered him just as much as I did, once we were all back under the same roof.”

My breath caught, and I squeezed her hand. “And mine are yours…”

Jenny sniffed and blinked rapidly. “Aye. We didna do so bad, did we?”

“No,” I said softly. “Not bad at all.”

She gave a wry smile and returned to her knitting. “Still doesn’t mean he’s not a bloody fool.”

We both laughed — the kind that starts deep and warm and leaves the room a little lighter than before.

Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated April 2nd, 1762   

We’ve just returned from Edinburgh, where the whole clan — Jamie, Ian, Jenny, Jocasta, Murtagh, and I — descended upon the printshop like an army. I half-expected Fergus to bar the door. Instead, we found him and James working like brothers, like equals. It was a good visit — though Lena wept bitterly when Jamie left.

*****

The morning at Broch Tuarach was alive with the sounds of preparations and soft protests. Lena, Jamie and I’s youngest, was clinging tight to her father’s leg, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

“You can’t go, Da,” she sobbed, voice trembling with all the earnestness of a child who believed the world would fall apart without him. “I need you!”

Jamie knelt to her level, brushing a lock of fiery curls from her damp face. “Weel, mo chridhe, ye’ve still got Maggie and Faith to mind ye.” His voice was gentle but firm. 

“But you’ll be gone forever!” Lena wailed, clutching him tighter.

I crouched beside them, wrapping an arm around the small bundle of fury and love. “Not forever, lovie. Just for a little visit to Edinburgh. We’ll bring sweets and ribbons for your dolls when we come back.”

“Two sweets?” she asked suspiciously.

“Two,” Jamie promised, lifting her up and kissing her cheek. “And a new ribbon for your doll.”

She considered this carefully before finally allowing herself to be handed off to Maggie who gave her a sly wink.

“Come on, Lena,” Maggie said, pulling her gently toward the garden. “Let’s go pick herbs with Faith. You can carry the basket.”

That did the trick.

Later that day, in the courtyard behind Fergus’s townhouse, the men gathered under a canopy of wisteria and the late spring sun. The fragrance of freshly printed pages drifted faintly from inside the Fraser Press, now a bustling, well-sized establishment.

Jamie leaned against the stone wall, watching as Murtagh launched into another piece of advice.

“A good woman,” Murtagh said, voice gruff but warm, “should be sharp as a blade and steady as the earth beneath your feet.”

James flushed but smiled. “I’m learning every day, Uncle.”

Fergus grinned, glass raised with a mischievous gleam. “And she must ken when to wield the sword, and when to sheath it wi’ grace.”

Jocasta, standing beside me, shook her head with a fond laugh. “Typical Highland wisdom — fiery but wise.”

I smiled softly. “And no different from the lessons we’ve all learned at Broch Tuarach.”

Jocasta’s eyes twinkled. “Though Fergus does add a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

I glanced at Fergus, catching the cheeky smile he sent me in reply. “Indeed, he does.”

Jenny appeared at the garden door, carrying a basket of oatcakes. “Tea’s ready, ladies,” she called.

As she left, I turned to Jocasta. “Think Jamie will manage all these lads?”

She gave a wry smile. “He’ll have his hands full, but they’re good men — strong and loyal, and well advised.”

James’s voice cut through our conversation, quiet but certain.

“If I’m to find a woman worth the trouble,” he said, “she’ll need a bit of my mother’s strength and cleverness…” He paused, looking between us. “My Aunt Claire’s courage and kindness… and my Granny Jocasta’s fierce heart and sharp tongue.”

Murtagh lifted his tankard, grinning broadly. “And don’t forget a dash of Fraser stubbornness, lad.”

We all laughed, and Jamie ruffled James’s hair.

“Aye,” Jamie said, voice warm. “If ye find a lass like that, ye’ll be well off indeed.”

Jocasta and I exchanged a smile, the kind that spoke of years shared through love and hardship. Surrounded by family, the future felt bright.

  Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated May 28th, 1763

Maggie is now Meg, Kitty now Kate, and both are MacLarens. The weddings were celebrated together, a joyful double occasion. The MacLaren brothers — Ewan and Alex — are good, solid lads. Edinburgh gains two fine women, but I must admit, Broch Tuarach feels a touch emptier.

*****

The ceremony took place at the old stone kirk in Broch Mordha, its weathered arches dressed in ivy and early roses. The village turned out in full, lining the path with wildflowers and soft spring cheer. Ian looked every bit the proud father as he walked his two eldest daughters down the aisle, one on each arm — Meg in soft blue, Kate in cream — his face taut with emotion but steady as a stone. He kissed them both on the cheek before stepping aside, and I saw Jenny reach for his hand the moment he sat back beside her.

Jamie stood near the altar with Murtagh, a quiet smile on his lips as he watched Meg and Kate pledge their futures. I sat in the front pew with Jenny on one side and Lena nestled close on the other, unusually quiet. Faith and Brianna sat just behind us, whispering to each other with fond smiles.

“They’re going to be gone forever now,” Lena whispered, leaning into my side with a trembling lower lip. “First James, now Maggie — and Kitty too…”

I wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head, brushing a tear from her cheek. “No, lovie, not gone. Just grown. They’ll come back to visit, and we’ll visit them too.”

“But they won’t be here every morning,” she sniffled.

“No,” I agreed gently, “but they’ll always be yours. Just like you’ll always be ours.”

After the vows were spoken and the kirk filled with cheers and laughter, we returned to Broch Tuarach for the celebration. The courtyard was draped in bunting, tables heavy with food and drink, music rising like birdsong into the long spring dusk. It was a good Highland feast — full of dancing and story, of full hearts and full bellies.

It was during the reels that I noticed Marsali standing a little apart beneath the rowan tree, her blond hair gleaming in the lantern light. No longer a girl, but a woman grown, sharp-eyed and deliberate in her attention. She watched Fergus intently. At last, she crossed the courtyard and asked him to dance. He smiled, gallantly offered his arm, and led her through a lively strathspey. He was kind, he always is — but even as he danced, I saw his gaze wander.

Not rudely. Just unconsciously. Toward the edge of the crowd, where Faith stood laughing with her sisters, the moonlight gilding her loose curls and lighting up the joy in her face.

Jamie noticed, too. He leaned close to me and murmured, “So. He’s beginning to see her.”

I said nothing, only watched as Faith looked up — caught Fergus watching — and turned quickly back to her sisters, the colour rising in her cheeks. Something unspoken passed between them.

Something not yet ready to name itself — but growing.

The house felt quieter that night, after the music faded. But there was something else, too — something tender blooming in the space they’d left behind.

  Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated July 16th, 1763

Faith is now fully my assistant. She knows every tincture and tea better than I did at her age. Brianna, meanwhile, has stepped into her father’s boots — quite literally — and rides with Murtagh to the border horse markets. Jamie is bursting with pride, though he insists he’s still the better judge of a filly’s temper.

*****

The mornings began early that summer, Faith already in the garden snipping yarrow and rosemary before I’d tied my apron.

“You’ve listed the laudanum properly this time?” I asked one morning, watching her label the glass bottle with neat script.

Faith shot me a look. “I’ve been your assistant for years, Mama.”

I smiled. “And now you’re officially irreplaceable.”

She grinned but didn’t reply — only went back to grinding dried thyme.

Meanwhile, Brianna was all mud and saddle leather, arriving back from the border market with a face flushed from sun and satisfaction.

“We sold every beast we brought — two dozen clean, including the greys from last winter’s stock,” she told Jamie, throwing her arms around him.

“Two dozen?” Jamie’s brows shot up.

“Aye,” Brianna said, grinning. “At first, the men were surprised to see me alone. They knew me riding with you before, but without you, they thought I was just some girl sent to fetch tea or count coin.”

Jamie’s mouth tightened, sensing her story wasn’t quite done.

“One tried to talk me down like I’d never touched a lead rope. Another called me ‘lassie’ like I’d wandered into the wrong pen. One even tried to flatter me — said I had pretty hands and offered to ‘help me learn’ the difference between colts and geldings.”

I saw the vein twitch in Jamie’s jaw, but Brianna only shrugged, her eyes steady.

“I held my ground. Did the work, made the trades. And with the profit, I brought back two fine broodmares — one’s a dun with a temperament sweet as barley mash, and the other’s a sharp-boned sorrel with a neck like spun copper. And the stallion —”

Jamie’s brows arched. “A stallion?”

Brianna nodded, eyes gleaming. “A black, with legs long as Murtagh’s temper and a gait smooth as cream. I want to pair him with Donas’s daughter — the big chestnut. If she throws foals like her sire, we’ll have something worth the buyers crossing the firth for.”

Jamie stared at her for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing a smear of dust from her jaw.

“I’m proud,” he said, his voice rough. “So bloody proud it makes my ribs ache.”

I stood close by, watching the way Brianna’s face softened at his words, the fierce spark dimming into quiet contentment. It struck me then — how much this family had grown, how the old rhythms of Broch Tuarach were changing, but how the heart of it all, the fierce love and steady loyalty, remained.

Faith’s laughter drifted out from the garden, a bright counterpoint to the distant call of horses in the fields. I felt a deep, steady warmth settle in my chest, a reminder that though the days grow busier, the ties that bind us only strengthen.

Jamie caught my eye and gave me a slow, knowing smile. No words were needed between us — just the quiet understanding that this was home, and these were our people.

And in this moment, it was more than enough.

Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated August 30th, 1763

It has now been nearly a week since Fergus arrived at Broch Tuarach for a brief sojourn. Though his intention was only a short visit, the change in him, particularly in his manner toward Faith, is quite evident. Jamie and I have finally had the opportunity to discuss it frankly, and I am relieved we did.

*****

The hearth fire threw a soft, flickering light about the room. All the children, save our youngest, were retired to their beds. Brianna was absent, busy with Murtagh at the stables. Will, Robb, Harry, and Julia were asleep upstairs, and little Lena—my lovie—rested quietly beside me, her breathing even in the peaceful dimness.

Jamie sat opposite, his expression thoughtful beneath the glow of the fire. He toyed absentmindedly with the rim of his cup, the weight of his thoughts plain.

I ventured gently, “You have observed the difference in Fergus, have you not?”

Without looking up, he gave a slow nod. “Indeed.”

“Particularly between him and Faith,” I pressed.

He shifted and sighed, the sound heavy. “She was but a child when he left for Edinburgh. Tender and spirited, both.”

“And she mourned him sorely,” I added softly. “Each night she called for him by the window.”

Jamie’s lips twitched faintly in memory. “Her affection for him was never simply sisterly.”

“Faith herself calls him her ‘heart brother’—always more than kin,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily.
He nodded slowly. “We took him in and raised him as our own son, though there’s no blood to bind.”

“Precisely,” I replied. “From the moment he came, he was ours in every sense that matters.”

Jamie’s eyes returned to the hearth’s flames. “But now, the way he looks upon her… it is unlike how he regards the others.”

“And Faith is a woman who knows her own mind,” I said with quiet conviction. “She would not give her heart lightly. Nor would he take it without honour.”

He glanced up, firelight reflecting in his eyes. “Does this cause you unease?”

“Not in the slightest,” I answered without hesitation. “I have confidence in them both. They understand what they are to one another.”

A creak above us reminded us of the life stirring in the house. Jamie reached for my hand with a firmness that steadied my own.

“If it be their choosing, they shall have my blessing.”

“And mine as well,” I said.

He inclined his head. “I daresay Brianna has already noticed, and the others likely as well, even if they keep their counsel.”

I smiled softly. “Will is silent, but I have caught Robb’s gaze fixed upon them more than once today.”

Jamie chuckled softly. “And what think you he makes of it?”

“Curiosity, I imagine, more than anything else. Perhaps he wonders how one can love as family and yet something beyond that.”

Jamie nodded. “We have always been slow to set boundaries where the heart is concerned. Perhaps it is no wonder our children do the same.”

I looked down at Lena, so peacefully asleep, then back to Jamie. “They will find their own path, in due course.”

“Aye,” he agreed with quiet certainty. “And we shall be there to guide them, whatever may come.”

The fire’s warmth and the gentle hush of the night wrapped us in a comfortable silence, heavy with hope and unspoken promises.

Excerpt from a letter to Reggie, dated October 14th, 1763

The days grow shorter and chillier, the early frost creeping upon the heather and into the corners of the house. Yet within the walls of Broch Tuarach, the laird’s study bustles with purpose. The season of harvest has passed, and now the season of learning is upon us.

*****

Jamie has taken to instructing Will with a zeal I recognise well — the same fierce determination he once reserved for swordplay and tilling the earth. It is a marvel to behold, the boy who once raced laughing through the hayfields, now seated solemnly by candlelight, quill in hand, learning copperplate script.

This evening, I found Jamie sitting close beside Will in the oak-panelled study. The flickering candle cast lively shadows on the walls, lending a warmth to the quiet room. The scent of beeswax and old parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of peat smoke drifting in from the hearth.

“Steady, lad,” Jamie said softly, voice low but firm, as if coaxing a wild beast to calm. “The letters are like horses — wild at first, with spirit and stubbornness, but with patience and a firm hand, they’ll learn the reins well enough.”

Will’s dark eyes narrowed with fierce concentration, his lips pressed in a tight line as his quill scratched the parchment, leaving delicate loops and strokes behind. He paused, lifting his gaze to his father’s.

“Is this enough, Da? Does it look right?” His voice carried the earnest eagerness of youth hungry for approval.

Jamie’s stern face softened into a proud smile, the years of hardships and joys reflected in his eyes. “More than enough, Will. You’ve the hand for it, and the mind. Soon enough, you’ll be poring over Latin and Greek texts, and the scholars at Edinburgh University won’t know what hit them.”

Will’s grin broke free then, lighting up his face with bright hope.

“I want to make you proud, Da. I want to show you all the work you and Mam have done was worth it.”

Jamie reached over and placed a firm, reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “You already do, lad. You already do.” His voice held something deeper, a promise and a blessing intertwined.

From where I stood just inside the door, watching this quiet lesson unfold, my heart swelled with both pride and a tender ache. The future loomed wide and wild, full of promise and uncertainty. But in this moment, I could see that Will was ready — ready to take up his own path, to build upon the legacy we’ve given him.

The study’s shadows deepened as the candle guttered low, but the steady scratch of quill on parchment remained, a small beacon of hope in the lengthening autumn night.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, October 20th, 1764

Dearest Reggie,
Another year older, though I swear the mirror lies to me kinder than my joints do these days. The bairns conspired with Jamie to make my birthday a proper gathering — fiddle music, roast lamb, far too much wine. It reminded me, in the sweetest way, how time keeps moving whether we will it or not.

James Murray made the journey from Edinburgh with Fergus this week, both arriving with road-dust on their boots and wide smiles on their faces. Meg and Kate sent their best wishes in a letter tied with blue ribbon, along with a beautiful cashmere shawl — soft as a whisper, and far too fine for the likes of me, but I wore it all evening.

The sun had long since slipped behind the hills, leaving a cool, crisp dusk in its wake. The great hall was warm and close with the scent of wax, hearth smoke, and roasting meat. A fiddle sang somewhere near the hearth, and the clatter of tankards and the steady hum of laughter threaded through the room like an old, familiar tune.

I sat by the fire, Lena curled drowsily against my side, her curls tickling my arm. It was a rare thing, a night where no one squabbled, no urgent matters demanded attention, and the air was thick with nothing but simple contentment.

"Happy birthday, Mama," Brianna said, leaning down to kiss my cheek before darting back toward the corner where Robb and Will were arguing over who could eat more oatcakes without choking.

Jamie caught my eye from across the room and raised his cup in silent toast. I lifted mine in return, feeling that peculiar ache of gratitude and tenderness that always seemed to accompany moments of such peace.

It was then that Fergus approached, his steps careful, expression unusually grave for such a night. He waited until the last of the conversation near my chair had drifted away before crouching down beside me, his dark eyes searching mine.

"Maman," he said softly, with that familiar warmth that never failed to pull at my heart. "May I have a word?"

"Of course, love. Walk with me?"

I slipped away from the warmth of the fire, pausing to press a kiss to Lena’s head as Jamie gathered her up, settling her against his chest without missing a word of whatever teasing Murtagh was slinging in his direction.

Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, the sky dark velvet overhead, scattered with stars.

Fergus was quiet for a moment, then spoke, his voice low and steady.

"I… I’ve been a fool, Maman," he began, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or perhaps just blind."

I raised a brow, a teasing note in my voice despite the earnestness in his face. "About what?"

He swallowed, looking away for a moment. "About Faith. I realize now I’ve loved her — as more than a sister — longer than I had sense enough to see it."

The words were simple, but in them lay a depth of feeling I could hear plainly. I laid a hand on his arm. "And you’ve told her?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. I thought it right — the proper way — to speak to you first… and to him."

I squeezed Fergus’s arm gently, feeling the tremor beneath his sleeve. "Come," I said quietly. "Let’s find your father."

The hall was still lively when we returned, though the first wave of revelers had drifted toward the fireside or out into the yard for a pipe. Jamie stood by the sideboard, cradling a tankard, his face alight with laughter at something Murtagh had just said.

I caught Jamie’s eye, and something in my expression made his own shift — a flicker of curiosity, then wariness. He set the cup down and crossed the room to us.

"Aye, Sassenach?" he murmured, catching my hand. "What’s amiss?"

"Nothing amiss," I assured him gently. "But Fergus needs a word with you."

Jamie’s gaze moved to Fergus, studying the younger man’s face. He must have read something there, for he nodded once, soberly. "Come, lad."

We made our way through the quieter corridor to the Laird’s Study, closing the heavy door behind us. The quiet settled thick around us, broken only by the hiss of the hearth and the faint sounds of music and conversation filtering through the stone walls.

Fergus took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders. "Père… I wished to speak to you, man to man."

Jamie leaned a hip against the desk, arms crossed, waiting.

Fergus’s voice didn’t waver. "It’s Faith. I care for her… deeply. And it’s no passing thing. I’ve come to realize I love her — as a woman, not as a sister. And I would ask your blessing to marry her."

The room went still. Jamie’s face betrayed nothing for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, slowly, a muscle in his cheek twitched — and I saw it then, the long years unspooling in his mind.

At last, Jamie let out a long breath, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Well," he said, voice low. "Took ye long enough, lad."

Fergus blinked, startled. "Père?"

Jamie pushed off the desk, clapping a hand to Fergus’s shoulder. "I’ve known it for years, Fergus. Seen it in your eyes. And if I’d thought ye’d harm her, or fail her, I’d have sent ye packing long since. But ye’ve never been anything but faithful to us — and to her."

Fergus swallowed hard. "I swear to you, I would lay down my life for her."

Jamie’s eyes softened, the warmth returning in full. "I ken ye would. And ye have my blessing."

Jamie arched a brow then, a glint of humor breaking through. "So… when do ye mean to ask her, then?"

Fergus smiled, and for the first time that night the weight in his expression lifted. "Tomorrow," he said quietly. "Tonight belongs to Maman."

My throat tightened at that, and Jamie’s eyes met mine across the firelight. "Well said," Jamie murmured, pride clear in his voice. He grinned then, cuffing Fergus lightly on the back of the head. "Now come on. I’ll wager Murtagh’s got a flask of that vile French brandy hidden somewhere. Tonight’s worth a dram." Fergus laughed softly, the tension at last uncoiling from his shoulders. "Aye. I’ll drink to that."

Later, after Jamie and Fergus returned to the hall, I saw the three of them slip out into the yard — Fergus, Rabbie McNabb, and Young James Murray — a flask gleaming in Rabbie’s hand as they made for the wall by the old sycamore.

I waited a few moments before following, lingering just inside the doorway, unseen in the shadows as the men shared a drink under the cold autumn stars.

"Well, about bloody time, ye great eejit," Rabbie was saying, his voice rough but fond as he passed Fergus the flask. "I thought I’d be in my grave before ye found the courage to tell her."

James chuckled, leaning against the stone wall. "Courage’s not the problem — it’s sense. Every soul within ten miles of this house’s known for years that Faith Fraser’s had her heart set on ye since she was a wee lass."

"Aye," Rabbie snorted. "Wasn’t she the one who told me straight-faced at nine years old that she was goin’ to marry Fergus one day, and no other fool of a man had better ask, else she’d hex him?"

James roared with laughter. "I mind that! Wee thing had a temper on her then too."

Fergus ducked his head, a boyish grin tugging at his mouth despite the flush in his cheeks. "I ken it. I’ve loved her for most of my life, though it took me long enough to see it plain. And tomorrow—" he straightened a little, voice quiet but firm "—I’ll ask her to be my wife."

Rabbie let out a satisfied grunt, clapping Fergus hard on the shoulder. "Good lad. Ye’ll make her happy. And if ye dinna, we’ll bury ye behind the byre and tell folk ye ran off to France."

"Aye, behind the byre’s good ground," James agreed cheerfully.

Fergus laughed, shaking his head. "Thank you, both. It means more than I can say."

Rabbie raised the flask, passing it to James. "To Faith."

James tipped the flask back, then offered it to Fergus. "And to the luckiest bastard in the Highlands."

Fergus drank, and the three of them stood there a moment longer in companionable silence, the night settling soft and easy around them.

The morning broke clear and cold, a fine mist rising off the fields as the sun pushed its slow way over the hills. Lallybroch still lay under the hush of sleep, save for the low crackle of kitchen fires and the soft clatter of pots in Mrs. Crook’s domain.

Jamie and I stood together by the window in the Laird’s Study, hands wrapped around mugs of hot cider, watching the yard below. The air was sharp enough to show each breath, curling white in the dawn light. Faith’s cloak fluttered behind her as she crossed the flagstones toward the old sycamore, her stride purposeful even in the chill.

“She’s early up,” Jamie murmured, leaning his shoulder against mine.

“She always is,” I said softly. My heart ached with that strange, luminous ache that comes with joy and the passing of time.

Fergus stood waiting beneath the tree, dressed in his best coat, his dark hair neatly combed, a small posy of late-blooming heather and wild thyme in hand. In that moment, he looked both older and younger than his years — every inch the boy Jamie had pulled from a Paris alleyway, now grown into a man asking for our daughter’s hand. His eyes never left her as she approached.

Faith reached him with a smile that could have lit the entire valley — the kind reserved for the one soul you’ve always known was yours. She lifted her hand to his cheek before he’d spoken a word, brushing her fingers lightly along his jaw.

“She’s known this was coming since she could walk,” Jamie said, his voice thick with feeling.

I slipped my hand into his, holding tight.

Fergus spoke then — we couldn’t hear the words from the window, but we saw the way he bent slightly to press the flowers into her palm, his other hand finding hers. Faith’s eyes glistened, her free hand rising to her lips, and then — she nodded.

Jamie breathed out. “Aye. That’s my girl.”

Fergus dropped to one knee, not for spectacle, but because it mattered — to him, to her, to all of us. And when Faith threw her arms around his neck, I felt the sting of tears blur my vision. He lifted her, spun her once, and her laughter rang out through the crisp morning air like music.

Jamie turned to me, eyes shining. “I told ye she’d be happiest wi’ him.”

“You did,” I whispered, resting my head against his chest. The steady beat beneath my ear anchored me.

We stayed like that a long while, watching them — two hearts that had always belonged to each other, even before they’d known the words for it.

When at last they turned and began walking hand-in-hand back toward the house, Jamie squeezed my fingers and grinned. “Best tell Murtagh to fetch that brandy.”

The dining room bustled with life — the long table crowded with bairns and grown folk alike. Porridge steamed in bowls, fresh bannocks passed hand to hand, and a platter of cold ham vanished steadily down the line. Will was deep in discussion with Robb about the farrier’s next visit. Harry was daring Julia to steal oatcakes from the sideboard without Mrs. Crook noticing. Lena was curled half-asleep on Jamie’s lap, a thumb in her mouth and her braid coming loose over one shoulder.

Faith entered with Fergus at her side. Their clasped hands didn’t shout the news, but it didn’t need shouting.

Not until Brianna’s sharp eyes landed on the silver glint at Faith’s left hand.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Bree exclaimed, dropping her spoon with a clatter. “It’s about bloody time!”

The room turned as one. Faith, cheeks flushed but eyes bright, lifted her hand, where a simple silver ring with a thistle engraving gleamed.

“We’re to be married,” she said, voice clear and steady.

The room erupted like a thunderclap.

Will whooped loud enough to startle Lena upright. “I told ye so!” he crowed, jabbing a finger at Robb and Harry, who both started talking at once.

“I saw it first—”

“No, I said it in church last month!”

Julia clapped her hands, beaming. “You’ll make the most beautiful bride, Faith!”

Lena blinked groggily, looking around the room — and then burst into tears.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Faith said at once, dropping to her knees beside the chair. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I don’t want you to go away,” Lena sniffled, clinging fiercely to Faith’s neck.

Faith gathered her up, rocking gently. “I’m not leaving yet, I promise. And I’ll come back to Lallybroch as often as I can. When you’re a little older, you can visit me in Edinburgh too.”

Lena hiccupped, her lip wobbling. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Faith whispered, kissing her forehead.

That earned a damp, giggling sniffle from Lena, and a collective sigh from the table.

Brianna leaned back, arms crossed and eyes smug. “Told you. She’s had him wrapped round her finger since she was four.”

“I mind the time she told Fergus he wasn’t allowed to marry anyone but her,” Murtagh said, grinning into his mug. “She was five. Dead serious. Threatened to feed me to the hens if I said otherwise.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

Fergus, still holding Faith’s hand, looked around the room, his voice rich with feeling. “I’m the luckiest man in Scotland.”

“You’re not wrong,” Murtagh called, lifting his mug. “And you’d best remember it.”

“To Faith and Fergus!” Jocasta said warmly.

“To Faith and Fergus!” echoed the chorus of voices.

I looked around at all of them — the ones we’d lost and found, the ones we’d fought for, the ones we’d raised. My beautiful, maddening, irreplaceable family. Stone by stone, we’d built this.

I raised my own cup, voice soft but firm. “To your health.”

The dining room had emptied, the clatter and chatter drifting into the wider house. I lingered by the hearth, stacking cups and napkins more slowly than needed.

“Mama?”

Faith stood in the doorway, cheeks still flushed but eyes steady, sure.

I smiled. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She came into my arms with the ease of long habit, her head against my shoulder.

“I just—” she began, then gave a little laugh and wiped her cheek. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” I asked, smoothing a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“For loving me. For loving him. For never making me feel foolish for knowing what I wanted, even when I was small.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “You’ve always known your heart, darling. And there’s nothing foolish about loving someone true.”

She smiled, radiant. I kissed her forehead.

“Now go on,” I said, giving her a playful swat. “He’s probably pacing by the gate like a lovesick fool.”

She laughed. “Aye, well… he always has been.”

And with that, she slipped out the door, leaving me in the hush of morning light, heart brimming over.

Later, I found Jamie in the Laird’s Study, leaning against the hearth with a dram in hand.

He looked up as I came in, raising a brow. “Has our girl stopped flutterin’ yet?”

“She has,” I smiled, sinking into his side.

He slipped an arm around me. “She’s a good lass. And she’s right — you’ve always loved them both. Same as me.”

“Do you remember when she was seven, told you she meant to marry Fergus?”

“Aye,” Jamie chuckled. “And I told her she could — if she still wanted him at seventeen.”

“And she made you shake on it.”

“She did. Fierce wee thing.” He kissed the top of my head. “We’ve done well, Sassenach.”

“Yes,” I murmured, pressing my cheek against him. “We have.”

And in the stillness, wrapped in warmth and memory, we stood together, letting the moment stretch — the kind you want to keep forever.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, April 7th, 1765

Dearest Reggie,

We’re in the thick of wedding preparations — Faith’s day is nearly here. After a long, stormy winter, the hills have softened with green, and the earth smells clean again. The whole house is caught up in it, bustling with lists and linens and gossip. I find myself pausing now and then, just to watch her — my first — and wonder how we reached this day so quickly.

It hadn’t been a short engagement — not like Meg’s or Kate’s. Both her cousins had married the moment propriety allowed, just after the final bann was read. Sensible matches, quick and clean, in the Highland way — when there was no need to delay, why wait?

But Faith…

She and Fergus had known each other all their lives. Their match surprised no one, but it had felt important — to them, to Jamie, to me — that they take their time. Fergus had insisted, wanting to see the Edinburgh business settled and their home made ready. Jamie had confessed one night that he was grateful for a few extra months before giving her away.

And so, here we were in early spring. The snows melted, the kirk at Broch Mordha prepared to ring its bell for another Fraser wedding.

Afternoon light slanted through the Laird’s bedroom window, catching on the fabrics strewn across every surface. Faith stood barefoot on the rug, her arms wrapped loosely around her middle, gazing at her reflection as gowns were laid out and discarded.

“Green?” she asked, holding a deep emerald silk to her front.

I shook my head. “Too sharp. Makes you look a little wan.”

“This one, then?” Brianna offered, holding up a pale blue gown with pleated front, elbow sleeves, and embroidery as fine as frost — one of mine from Paris, long ago.

I was about to reply when the door creaked open and in came Fergus, with Jamie just behind him — both looking far too interested for men who’d been told to stay out of the way.

“Maman,” Fergus began cautiously, “I only meant to see if—”

Jamie made it three steps before spotting a scarlet bundle at the foot of the bed — crimson satin spilling like wine, its bodice sharply structured and its neckline scandalously low.

“God in heaven, Claire,” he said, eyes wide. “Ye can’t mean to put her in that.”

“The red dress?” Fergus recoiled. “Maman! That’s indecent.”

I held up both hands. “I wasn’t going to! It just came out of the trunk.”

“Burn it,” Fergus muttered, crossing himself.

“Aye,” Jamie agreed. “I’d sooner see her walk to the altar only wrapped in a plaid.”

Faith was laughing now, and Brianna snorted into her sleeve.

“Out,” I ordered, pointing to the door. “Bad luck for the groom to see anything, even a pile of discarded silk.”

“She’s not..” Fergus started to protest.

“Still bad luck. Out.”

They left, grumbling like boys sent from the kitchen.

Faith wiped tears from her eyes. “The infamous red dress.”

I sighed, smiling despite myself. “Not for this.”

I crossed to the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and lifted the linen-wrapped bundle waiting there. The ivory silk glowed faintly in the soft light — aged, but still luminous.

The gown was simple, but graceful — lace at the neckline, just off the shoulder, fitted bodice, elbow-length sleeves with a fine trim, and a ribbon sash to match. The skirt fell in soft folds, light enough to move like water.

“This,” I said, voice catching, “I wore the day I married your father.”

Faith’s breath hitched as she reached to touch the fabric. “Mama… it’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours, if you’d like it.”

Her smile was radiant. And when she lifted the gown and stepped before the mirror, holding it to her front with careful hands, it was as though time bent — not back to me, but forward and through her. She was entirely herself. But the sight of her in that silk made my throat ache with a grief so tender it felt like joy.

A bride. My daughter.

It was just past noon when the house fell quiet. The carriages were gathered, the courtyard swept, the tables laid for the feast to come. In the front hall, I smoothed a fold of lace at Faith’s shoulder and took a breath to still my heart.

She was radiant in the ivory silk, her hair swept up with simple pearl pins. I saw not the child I once cradled at dawn, but the woman she had become — poised, luminous, and sure.

Brianna stood beside us, a vision in the pale blue Paris gown, her copper hair pinned with hawthorn. I squeezed her hand, and she grinned.

Faith gathered her skirts in one hand and looped her arm through mine as we descended. Jamie stood at the base of the stairs, waiting.

He looked up — and the sight of her struck him like a blow. Tears spilled openly, one hand pressed to his chest.

“Mo chridhe…” he breathed.

Faith paused, startled — then smiled, soft and steady.

Jamie crossed the space in three strides and took her hands in his.

“You’re so… Christ, Faith, ye look like your mother,” he said thickly. “The day she married me.”

He kissed her cheek and rested his brow against hers, whispering something only she could hear.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway as Lena burst in, flower basket in hand, curls bouncing.

“Is it time, Mama?” she asked, breathless.

“Almost, sweetheart,” I said, smoothing a wild curl behind her ear.

Ever since I’d told her stories — half-truths and softened memories of weddings I’d attended in another life — she’d been utterly determined. There might not have been such a thing as a flower girl in 1765, but Lena had declared it so, and no one had had the heart to deny her.

“You remember what to do?”

She nodded solemnly. “I scatter the petals for Faith, so the flowers’ll know she’s coming.”

Jamie made a strangled sound and swept her into a hug.

“Well, away wi’ us then,” he murmured, offering Faith his arm. “Time for my lass to wed.”

The kirk at Broch Mordha was cool and sweet-scented, washed clean by spring rains. Familiar faces filled the benches — neighbors, kin, the Edinburgh family, Jocasta in grey silk beside a teary-eyed Murtagh.

Fergus stood straight at the altar, fidgeting with his cuffs until Young James laid a steady hand on his shoulder.

Lena came first, scattering petals with solemn care. But when she reached the front, she ignored her cue, marched straight to Fergus, and threw her arms around his waist.

“Fergus,” she whispered fiercely, clinging to him. “I love you.”

Fergus laughed softly and knelt to hug her back. “And I love you, wee Lena.”

She kissed his cheek with a loud smack, then skipped off to Jocasta’s arms, leaving Fergus grinning and the kirk smiling.

Then Faith entered, her arm in Jamie’s.

A soft sigh moved through the crowd.

The ivory gown shimmered in the light. But it was her face — steady, luminous — that caught every eye. She met Fergus’s gaze and held it. I saw in his expression a joy so raw, so full, it stole my breath.

Jamie’s voice broke as he placed her hand in Fergus’s.

“She’s my heart, lad,” he said hoarsely. “And yours now.”

The priest gave a small nod.

They had asked for the old words — the Gaelic rite Jamie and I had spoken once, long ago.

Jamie passed the cord to Young James, who retrieved a gleaming scalpel from his sporran — mine, from another time, cleaner than any knife at hand.

With careful hands, he nicked their palms. Blood beaded. They pressed their hands together, and the cord was tied.

Then came the words:
You are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.
I give you my body, that we two might be one.
I give you my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.

The kirk stilled in reverence.

Then the kiss — long, sure — followed by cheers and laughter and joy.

A Fraser wedding.

And my girl, married.

The yard rang with music and laughter. Tables bowed under platters of lamb, greens, oatcakes, and honeyed berries. Children shrieked and darted between grown legs like joyful shadows.

At the edge of the gathering, Marsali MacKimmie stood still, her hands clenched. Brianna approached gently.

“I ken it’s no’ easy,” she said, slipping an arm around her. “But Faith’s the one Fergus loves. That’s what matters now.”

Marsali exhaled. “I know. I just… thought maybe things might be different.”

“You’ve your own place here,” Bree said softly. “It’ll come.”

Marsali gave a small nod, a reluctant smile forming.

From across the yard, I watched them — daughters, sisters, growing stronger together.

Later, as the sun dipped and the pipes rose, Jamie raised his glass.

“My friends, my family,” he said, his voice steady, “today my wife and I are neither gaining a son nor a daughter.”

He paused as a hush fell.

“For these two have long been ours — Faith, the light of my heart from her first breath… and Fergus, my son from the moment I found him in the streets of Paris.”

He turned toward them.

“I’ve watched them grow — strong, stubborn, kind. And to see them choose each other, not by duty, but by love… there’s no greater joy.”

His eyes found mine.

“My hope for them is simple — that their days be long, their burdens shared, and their hearts forever bound. And that they might know, in one another, the happiness I’ve found with my own wife.”

He raised his glass.

“To Faith and Fergus.”

Cheers rang high. And across the crowd, Jamie met my eyes — love and knowing in his smile, steady as ever.

Chapter Text

Summer 1766 — Excerpt from a letter to Reggie

Another year turns, and I find myself marking it not in calendars, but in hoofbeats and the dappled play of sunlight through orchard leaves. The pastures are thick with summer’s green, the house bursting at the seams with children’s footsteps and laughter. Bree rides the fields as well as any man, the younger ones give the hens no peace, and Jamie, ever the watchful laird, pretends to grumble about the chaos while secretly revelling in it.

Lallybroch is as full as ever, though it feels strangely quiet of late. A kind of hush, like the house itself is holding its breath, waiting.

Fergus and Faith are expected any day now, returning home from Edinburgh for the birth of their child. Faith is nearing the end of her confinement, and though Edinburgh has been kind to them, she longs for the steadiness of home for her lying-in. I think Jamie is counting the days more keenly than any of us — though he’ll never admit it.

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, soft and golden, casting a dappled light over the familiar contours of Jamie’s bare shoulder. He stirred as I brushed my fingers lightly down the curve of his back, slow and deliberate, savouring the rare stillness.

"A dangerous thing, Sassenach," he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. "Waking a man like that, when ye've no bairns yet howling at the door."

"I thought I'd risk it." I smiled into his skin as he shifted, stretching with a pleased grunt before rolling to face me.

His eyes, still heavy-lidded but glinting with mischief, met mine. "Do we have a minute for—?" His lips quirked into a grin. "A proper husband's duty?"

I laughed softly, pressing my forehead to his. "A minute, perhaps two, if we're clever."

"Two is generous," he whispered, sliding a hand to the small of my back. "I ken fine we're needed soon enough. But I'll steal what I can, when I can."

We were not young lovers anymore, no. Life had filled our days with children, responsibility, and the endless motion of a house like Lallybroch — yet these stolen moments were ours, cherished and vital.

Jamie’s kiss was slow, reverent, tasting of the ease and warmth we’d built over years. His hands were firm but unhurried, and for a breath of time, the world outside the walls of our room fell away.

"I think," I murmured against his lips, "that you're still as greedy for me as you ever were."

He chuckled low in his throat. "Aye. And you, mo nighean donn, are the reason for it. I'll no pretend otherwise."

We lay tangled together for a moment longer, breath mingling, hearts steady. Then, with a groan that was half contentment, half resignation, Jamie pulled away.

"We should rise," he said, though his tone was reluctant. "The wee fiends will be loose upon the place if we don't."

"Aye." I sighed, though my hand lingered on his cheek a beat longer.

We were barely halfway dressed when Julia's voice echoed up the stairwell, urgent and breathless. "Mama! Da! There's a carriage comin' up the road — it's Faith and Fergus!"

Jamie’s head snapped up, a grin already spreading across his face. "Saved by the bell, eh?"

"Not saved, Fraser," I said, sweeping towards the door, heart lifting. "Merely postponed."

As we made our way to the front steps, Bree was already at the gate, shading her eyes against the morning sun. The carriage was rounding the bend — the polished wood gleaming beneath a fine layer of road dust, the team of greys moving at a careful, measured pace.

Perched beside the driver, Will waved broadly, taller now, broader across the shoulders. He had spent the past six months in Edinburgh, having been admitted to university earlier than most — calm, steady, and sharp-minded, he'd been more than ready. He lodged above Fraser Press in the "bachelor's quarters" — two young men living above a bustling print shop under the iron rule of Mrs. Margaret Smith. Mrs. Smith, sister to Mrs. McGonagall, had taken to fussing over the employees in a manner half mother goose, half drill sergeant. James Murray, working in the accounting department, thrived under her sharp-eyed watchfulness, though Jenny was convinced what James needed most was a wife.

Inside the carriage, Faith sat, curtain drawn back to let in the summer breeze. Her face was flushed with heat but glowing, one hand resting gently on the swell of her belly. Fergus sat beside her, protective and proud, his hand over hers.

Jamie’s hand found mine as we stood on the steps, watching them come home. "Home's no' quite itself without them," he said quietly.

"No," I agreed, heart swelling. "But it's getting louder by the day."

Bree and Julia were the first to reach the carriage as it stopped, enveloping Faith in gentle but eager hugs. Lena lingered back, her small brows drawn together in worry. As Faith turned to her, opening her arms, Lena inched forward, hesitant.

"I dinna want to hurt you, Faith," Lena whispered.

Faith smiled, reaching out to her. "Come here, love. You won’t hurt me."

With the utmost care, Lena wrapped her arms around her sister's middle, only to freeze as a swift kick thumped against her forearm. She drew back, her eyes wide as saucers. "Faith! The baby kicked me!"

Faith laughed softly. "That’s its way of saying hello."

Lena scowled at Faith's belly, indignant. "You mind your feet in there. That’s my sister you’re kickin'."

Jamie watched the exchange with a fond grin before sweeping Faith into his arms for a proper Fraser embrace.

Jocasta and Murtagh arrived at the gate just as a cloud of dust rose from the lane. Jenny and Ian appeared with their children, arriving swiftly from Broch Deasach.

"Is James here with you?" Jenny asked eagerly.

Fergus gave a rueful smile. "He stayed on in Edinburgh, tending to Fraser Press and its accounts. Said he'd not be traveling just now."

Jenny threw up her hands in gentle exasperation. "Of course he stayed in Edinburgh! That lad — always tied to his books and ledgers. Mrs. Smith is right; what he needs is a wife to keep him in line."

Laughter rippled through the group, and the rest of the Murray children dismounted, joining the gathering with eager chatter. Jamie clasped Ian's hand with a grin.

That evening, the hall was filled with the comfortable din of family — the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. Faith sat at the long table, leaning back against Fergus with a contented sigh, while Will poured her a careful measure of cider.

"You're coddling me, Will," Faith teased, though her smile was soft.

"And you'll let me," Will replied, unbothered.

Fergus raised his glass. "Edinburgh's done wonders for him, no? All manners and civility now."

Will's lips twitched into a grin. "Mrs. Smith would disagree. She still keeps a switch behind the ledger, just in case."

Faith laughed, then shifted with a small wince. Fergus's hand was immediately at her back.

"Still, it's good to be home," Fergus said, glancing around the table. "The city has its charm — the Press is thriving, the salon nights are lively — but nothing compares to this."

"Faith's name is known through half of Edinburgh, mind you," Will added. "Nursing, charity work — folks ask after her more than they do the rest of us."

Faith shook her head, cheeks flushed. "That’s nonsense."

"It’s not," Will insisted. "You and Fergus are the heart of those gatherings."

Fergus pressed a kiss to Faith’s temple. "Heart of Edinburgh, heart of Lallybroch — she’s my heart, everywhere."

Jamie raised his glass, a gleam in his eye. "And we’re all the better for it."

Laughter rang out, filling the hall with warmth that seemed to settle in the very stones.

The morning air was cool but bright, soft light filtering through the windows of Faith’s chamber. Lallybroch was hushed, but no longer with the breathless anticipation of new arrivals. It had been a full fortnight since Fergus and Faith had come home from Edinburgh, their presence folding seamlessly back into the rhythms of the house. Days had passed in a quiet, pleasant blur — family meals filled with easy laughter, slow walks through the orchard, the children flitting about Faith like bees to a blossom.

But this morning was different.

The signs had begun the night before — a shift in Faith’s step, a flicker of tension in her face as she rose from her chair. Nothing alarming, nothing urgent. Simply the body’s way of announcing what we had all been waiting for, in its own quiet time. And so we had let her be, moving through the evening with an unspoken understanding that the wait was nearly over.

Now, as the soft light crept across the floorboards, Faith lay back against the pillows, her hand resting on the swell of her belly, her breaths steady but intent. There was no panic in the air, no sudden rush. This was a beginning long prepared for — a journey starting not with a shout, but a calm, certain step.

“The baby’s readying itself,” I murmured, smoothing her hair back from her damp brow. “It won’t be long now.”

Her eyes met mine — a flicker of uncertainty beneath the surface, but far stronger than fear was the quiet resolve that had been building over these past weeks. She reached for my hand, curling her fingers tightly around mine, anchoring herself in the knowledge that she was not alone.

Jenny sat herself on the edge of the bed, pressing a cool cloth to Faith’s temple with the calm ease of a woman who had seen more births than she could count. “Ye’ve done well, lass,” she said with a fond smile. “The waiting’s the hardest part, and ye’ve borne it better than most. Now we’ll see the rest through together.”

Jocasta moved quietly about the room, adjusting linens, tending the fire with an eye for perfect balance — not too warm, not too cold. She offered Faith a cup of herbal tea, her touch light, her presence as constant as the stone walls of the house. She was a woman of few words, but none were needed. In these moments, it was her steadiness that spoke volumes.

“Breathe with me,” I said gently, settling myself beside Faith, guiding her through the familiar cadence of slow, grounding breaths. “In… and out… let each one carry you. There’s time yet. We’ll meet it as it comes.”

The contractions came and went, spaced far enough apart that we could fill the in-between with quiet talk — of Bree’s latest sketch, of Lena’s newest scheme to smuggle the baby off to her playhouse, of Fergus’s theatrical sighs as he fetched yet another cup of milk for his “insatiable girls.” These small things tethered us, keeping the hours gentle even as the undercurrent of anticipation hummed steadily on.

But time, relentless as ever, wore down the spaces between contractions, sharpening their edges as the afternoon crept on. Faith’s grip on my hand tightened with each wave, but she met them with a fierceness that had been honed over these two weeks of quiet waiting.

“Now, Faith,” I said, my voice low and sure, smoothing the damp hair from her face as another wave rose. “When you’re ready.”

Jenny passed me the linens, Jocasta steady at Faith’s back, her touch firm and sure. There was a breathless moment, suspended in the hush of the room — and then Faith bore down, her entire being bent toward the work of bringing new life into the world.

And then — a cry. Fierce, sharp, undeniable. The sound filled the room, slicing through the weariness like a blade of sunlight, swift and clean.

The baby was born, dark-haired and vigorous, his fists clenched tight as though claiming his place in the world. Faith sagged back against the pillows, her breath ragged, her face flushed and shining with the triumph of a woman who had given all.

“Here, love,” I whispered, settling the small, squalling bundle into her waiting arms. His cry was a marvel — loud and lusty, as though he’d been waiting to make himself known for far too long.

Jenny slipped out to fetch the men, and a moment later, Fergus appeared in the doorway. His face was pale, his dark eyes wide as they swept from Faith to the baby in her arms. He crossed the room in two strides, kneeling beside the bed, his hand trembling as it brushed back a strand of hair from Faith’s brow.

“My heart,” he said thickly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I thank God for you.” His gaze dropped to the baby, his expression softening into wonder. “A fine, strong lad.”

He cleared his throat and glanced toward Jamie, who had followed him in, quiet and watchful. “We would like to name him James Alexander William Fraser.”

The room stilled, breath held as Jamie’s expression shifted — surprise, pride, and emotion all vying for dominance until, at last, a slow, warm smile claimed his face.

“Ye honor me beyond words,” Jamie said, his voice rough with feeling. He crossed to the bed, laying a broad, gentle hand on the baby’s dark head. “Welcome to the world, wee Jamie. Ye’ve a good name to bear.”

Faith gave a soft, tearful laugh, cradling her son close as Fergus pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

Jamie’s eyes caught mine as he stepped near. He leaned in, his lips curling into a grin as he murmured for my ears alone, “Well now, Sassenach… looks like I’ve a grandson — and a verra bonnie granny to go with him.”

I felt the warmth bloom in my chest, a laugh bubbling to my lips as he brushed a kiss to my temple. “You rogue,” I whispered back.

He gave me a wicked glint of a grin. “Aye, but yours, always.”

The door opened wider, and in poured Murtagh with the children at his heels. Will lingered back a step, his usual calm stillness softened by the fondness in his eyes.

“Can we see him, Mama?” Julia asked softly, still my shadow at twelve, clinging to my skirts though she tried her best to act grown.

“Aye, come along,” I said, guiding them forward.

They gathered round in a loose huddle, peering with wide eyes, their voices hushed but brimming with wonder.

“He’s a loud one, isn’t he?” Robb grinned, craning his neck for a better look.

“A proper Fraser,” Jamie chuckled.

“I was never that small,” Harry declared, puffing up indignantly.

Murtagh snorted. “Aye, ye were — scrawnier yet, and with a nose like a turnip.”

The younger ones giggled, Lena climbing boldly onto the foot of the bed. She peered down at the baby, wrinkling her nose. “I wasn’t scrunched like that.”

“Oh, you were,” I teased, grinning. “And you cried day and night. Wouldn’t let me put you down for a moment.”

She crossed her arms, indignant. “Well, of course I wanted Mama and Da all the time. What else would a clever girl do?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Julia smiled and tugged her closer. “I could make you stop, though, remember?”

Lena’s face softened as she nodded. “Only you. Not even Faith could.”

Jamie chuckled, pulling Julia into a rough, affectionate embrace and pressing a kiss to her brow. “Aye, lass, you had the touch then — and still do.”

Will stepped forward at last, his voice steady, deeper than it had been last year, but his eyes kind as he looked down at the tiny bundle. “He’s a fine lad. Lucky to be born in this house.”

Fergus clasped his shoulder in quiet thanks.

And as I looked around the room — at the faces I loved, the children growing tall, the men who had stood through war and joy, the women who held us all together — I felt the fullness of it settle warm and steady in my heart.

We were many now. And in that moment, we were whole.

The following morning dawned clear and bright, the early light spilling gold across the hills beyond the orchard. The house was already astir by the time I made my way downstairs, the bustle of a Fraser household in full swing. Mrs. Crook and Mary MacNab were deep in discussion over menus for the coming weeks.

I found Faith and Fergus in the morning room, the baby asleep in Faith’s arms, Fergus hovering close beside her as though reluctant to let either of them out of his sight. Brianna sat nearby with Julia and Lena, helping them plait scraps of wool into makeshift dolls.

At the sight of me, Faith rose carefully, Fergus at her elbow.

“Mama,” Faith said softly, the look in her eyes making my heart turn over.

Jamie came in behind me, and Faith glanced at him, then at Brianna. “Bree… we’ve something to ask you.”

Brianna looked up, brows lifting in surprise. “Aye?”

Fergus stepped forward, his dark eyes warm. “We’d be honored, ma petite sœur, if you would be our son’s godmother.”

Brianna blinked, a flush rising in her cheeks. “Me?”

“Aye, you,” Faith said with a fond smile, shifting the tiny bundle in her arms so Brianna could see the sleeping face. “There’s no one else we’d rather have.”

“I… I’d be proud,” Brianna managed, her voice thick though a grin broke through. “Thank you.”

“And I’ve already written post haste to James,” Fergus added with a crooked grin. “Sent the message myself not an hour after the bairn was born. Wouldn’t be a christening worth having without the godfather present.”

Jamie chuckled. “He’ll come, aye — if it means leaving his precious books behind for a time.”

Lena clapped her hands. “I’ll be the best auntie, too!” she declared.

“You already are, mo leannan,” Fergus told her, dropping a kiss onto her head.

Faith’s smile softened. “We’ll hold the christening once James arrives — a fortnight, perhaps three weeks.”

“Good,” Brianna said, her voice steady now. “We’ll make it a day to remember.”

The days that followed passed in a pleasant flurry of anticipation. The kirk on the hill at Broch Mhorda was swept and scrubbed, wildflowers gathered and hung to dry for garlands. Jenny and I busied ourselves overseeing the stores and preparing linens, while the kitchen hummed with activity as menus were planned and baking begun. The older boys lent their hands to Murtagh, mending benches and clearing the kirk yard, while the younger children scampered about gathering herbs and picking berries for cordial, their laughter carrying on the warm summer air.

Though many Fraser bairns had been born since the girls and I returned in ’49, this celebration felt different—more profound somehow. This was the first grandchild, the first of the next generation, and the joy that filled Lallybroch was quiet but deep, like the steady beat of a new beginning.

Each evening, as we gathered in the hall, the familiar sounds of the household mingled with talk of Edinburgh news, Will’s studies, and the bairn’s ever-growing appetite. Then, one evening during supper, Fergus was handed a folded letter. I saw the neat seal before he broke it open—it was James Murray’s hand. He read quietly, then passed it to Jamie.

“He’s on the road,” Jamie said, a warm smile tugging at his lips as he folded the parchment. “Says he’ll not miss the christening for anything.”

Fergus’s eyes shone with relief. “I told ye there wouldn’t be a christening without its godfather.”

That brought a fresh wave of energy to the house. Over the next fortnight, preparations took on a joyful rhythm—barrels of ale tapped, bannocks baked, garlands strung along the kirk beams. Every hand had a part, and though the work was tiring, no one complained. This kind of labor, I thought, was the very thread that wove a household tight.

Nearly three weeks after the birth, James Murray arrived. The courtyard exploded with life—Will and Robb wrestled him playfully while Lena squealed as he caught her and swung her high. James, just twenty-five now, still bore the dark hair of his mother and the grin I remembered from years past, though his face carried the marks of city life.

Fergus was waiting on the steps, clasping James’s hand firmly before pulling him into a hard embrace. “Come meet your godson—he’s been waiting to meet you.”

James smiled warmly. “And I’ve been just as eager to meet him—wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

That night, the house thrummed with music and stories, the scent of heather thick in the air, the promise of the day to come wrapped around us like a shawl. Dawn broke bright and clear, and by the time the bell at Broch Mhorda tolled, family and tenants alike were making their way up the path.

The kirk filled swiftly—the warm scent of stone and beeswax mingled with wildflowers. Fergus stood proud, his son cradled in his arms, swaddled in the very gown every Fraser child had worn. Faith, radiant in soft blue, gripped his hand tightly.

When the time came, Brianna stepped forward, steady and sure, her voice carrying through the quiet kirk as she gave her vows—a blessing that seemed to settle softly over us all. James followed, solemn and steady, then Father MacAulay took the child for the blessing. The name—James Alexander William Fraser—echoed against the stone walls, a melding of past and future in one breath.

As the prayers ended, a shaft of sunlight poured through the narrow window, resting like a benediction upon the babe’s dark hair and tiny hands.

The celebration that followed stretched long into the evening. The courtyard overflowed with food and drink, the scents of roast and fresh bread mingling with the perfume of midsummer blossoms. Music and dancing filled the air, children running wild beneath the fading light, voices raised in laughter and song.

Yet, as the sun dipped behind the hills, the weight of parting settled quietly among us. Faith and Fergus were to leave at dawn, returning to Edinburgh with their son. I watched Faith move through the gathering, laughing and talking, but her eyes held a brightness I knew was tears she wouldn’t let fall. Lena clung to her skirts, while Julia held the bairn one last time, her solemn young face reluctant to say goodbye.

When the moment came, no one spoke. Faith pressed a kiss to Brianna’s cheek. “I’ll write every week,” she promised.

“You’d better,” Brianna answered, voice thick but steady.

Jamie clasped Fergus hard, then pulled Faith close, whispering something that made her lips tremble. When it was my turn, I cupped Faith’s face in my hands, feeling the warmth of her skin, the light in her eyes.

“I love you, my darling girl.”

“I love you, Mama,” she whispered, and finally the tears spilled free.

The carriage waited at the lane’s end. With one last wave, they were gone, the dust rising behind them as the road swallowed them from sight.

Jamie’s hand found mine, warm and steady. “They’ll be back,” he murmured.

“Aye,” I whispered, my throat tight. “But not soon enough.”

Chapter Text

The first letter did not arrive by post, as the others would in years to come. It was delivered in person—brought to the rectory on the Summer Solstice of 1951, mere hours after Claire and the girls had passed through the Stones.

Clara Fraser and Roger Murray, descendants of Claire’s family, stood on the threshold, bridging past and present with the solemnity of those who carried heavy truths. In their hands was a single cream envelope, sealed with the Fraser crest, its wax unbroken.

Inside the sitting room, Reverend Reginald Wakefield broke the seal carefully, his hands trembling.

To my dear Reggie,
If you are reading this letter, then my plan worked, and my Fergus’ descendants were able to keep the hundreds of letters I wrote to you through the years...

Ten-year-old Roger sat close to Mrs. Graham, his wide eyes shimmering with tears. Claire’s words seemed to fill the room, her voice stretching across two centuries.

“She’s really alright, isn’t she?” the boy whispered.

Reggie smiled, blinking back his own tears. “Aye, lad. She is.”

That first letter marked the beginning of a ritual. Over the years, more letters arrived—most by post, each delivered precisely two hundred and two years after it was written. As Roger grew, the letters became threads stitching together his understanding of family and legacy. They spoke of weddings, bairns, quiet triumphs of home and hearth. They told of Fergus—the eldest, Claire’s adopted son—who became a respected scholar and printer. Of Faith, Brianna, Will, Robb, Henry, Julia…

Each letter painted a vivid picture of a family that spanned generations, defying time’s grasp.

When Roger left for Oxford, the letters continued. Reggie sent them on, often with a wry note of encouragement: “Read this one with a good dram, lad. You’ll be proud.” Every summer, when Roger returned, the latest letters awaited him in Reggie’s study. They would read Claire’s words aloud, letting her presence fill the quiet rooms once more.

It was early summer of 1960 when an unexpected knock came at the rectory door.

Reggie, peering out the window, gave a disapproving grunt. “Frank Randall. And his young wife.”

Frank, now teaching history at Harvard, had not set foot in Inverness for years. His letters had grown rare and terse, replaced by academic publications and a carefully curated life across the Atlantic. Yet here he stood—still immaculately put together, though thinner, with the brittle composure of a man holding himself together by force of will. Beside him stood a woman who did not belong in the draughty old streets of Inverness.

Sandra “Sandy” Randall was everything Frank had once admired in Claire—brilliant, composed, fiercely intelligent—but where Claire had been vivid and earthy, Sandy was cool porcelain. Fresh-faced, blonde, quietly poised, she carried herself with the self-awareness of one who knew she was being scrutinized and meant to pass inspection. Formerly Sandra Farrell, she had been one of Frank’s brightest postgraduate students, specialising in early modern history.

“Reggie, Roger,” Frank greeted, his tone overly bright but with an unmistakable edge beneath. His hand rested briefly on Sandy’s back, a touch that was both possessive and performative. “This is my wife, Sandy.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Randall,” Reggie said politely, though without warmth. His eyes flickered to Frank, a quiet censure. “Do come in.”

Sandy smiled, demure yet observant, her gaze cataloguing every detail of the rectory. “Thank you, Reverend. It’s a lovely home. Frank’s told me much about his time here.”

Roger, standing by the mantel, exchanged a glance with Reggie. It was strange, hearing this woman speak so easily of Frank’s past—a past always shadowed by Claire.

As Sandy followed Mrs. Graham to set the tea, she expected pleasantries. Instead, she stepped into a house filled with an unspoken story.

Frank kept the conversation clipped, asking after Roger’s studies at Oxford, but his eyes flicked constantly to the mantel, the desk, the empty spaces where photographs had once stood. Abruptly, he asked, “Is she still here, then? Living with you both?”

Sandy’s brow furrowed. She assumed Frank meant an elderly aunt.

Roger’s mouth curled faintly. “No, Frank. She left nearly ten years ago. Went back to the girls’ father.”

“Oh…” Sandy said, surprised. “Is she a relation of yours?” she asked Roger, curious.

Roger’s smile was small. “Auntie Claire. She’s family.”

Frank’s lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders tightening.

“And no one thought to tell me?” he asked, the words soft but sharp enough to slice.

Reggie met his gaze with steely calm. “It was none of your business, Frank.”

The air turned brittle.

Before Frank could retort, a knock came at the door. The postman stood on the stoop, holding a thick cream envelope sealed with the Fraser crest.

Roger took it with a flicker of a smile. “Another from Auntie Claire.”

Sandy watched with polite curiosity as Roger broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His gaze lingered on Frank as he began to read aloud, calm and measured—but edged with precision.

It is with the greatest joy I write to tell you of our newest arrival. A daughter, born healthy and strong, with her father’s fire and her mother’s temper, and a cry that could wake the dead…

As Roger read, Frank’s face tightened. Sandy, oblivious, smiled wistfully. “What a lucky woman, to have such a big family. It must be wonderful to have children filling a house.” She looked fondly at Frank. “I hope Frank and I will have a little one soon.”

Frank’s face went rigid. He said nothing. His jaw tightened, and abruptly, he stood.

“I need some air,” he muttered, striding out of the room.

Sandy watched him go, blinking in confusion. “I… I hope I didn’t say something wrong.”

Reggie’s tone softened, though his words carried weight. “You should ask your husband, Mrs. Randall.”

Sandy hesitated. “Claire… she must have been very dear to you both.”

Roger’s thumb brushed over the Fraser crest. “She’ll always be family to us. That’s all that matters.”

Frank did not return to the rectory that day. Nor did he write afterward. He had excised himself from that chapter, a self-inflicted silence. For a time, Reggie thought it would pain him. It didn’t.

But Claire’s letters kept coming.

By the spring of 1968, Reggie was confined to his bed. His body had grown frail, but his mind remained sharp. Roger had taken leave from his teaching post at Oxford to care for him, spending the afternoons reading aloud Claire’s old letters. But that day, Roger was away on an errand.

It was Clara Fraser who came.

She climbed the narrow staircase to Reggie’s sunlit bedroom, carrying a bundle of letters tied with ribbon, and a single thick envelope sealed with the Fraser crest. Reggie, propped against the pillows, looked up as she entered.

“I’ve come to tell you everything, Reverend,” Clara said, settling into the chair beside him. “Not just that I am of Claire’s blood, but how your family is bound to hers. The whole truth.”

Reggie smiled faintly. “Aye, lass. I’ve been waiting. Go on, then.”

Clara’s voice was steady as she explained: of Fergus and Faith, of the Fraser Press, of Jenny Fraser and Ian Murray’s line through their son James. She told of how those lines endured—until they intertwined.

“And that is where Roger’s place truly begins,” she said softly.

Reggie’s breath caught, but he listened in silence.

“Your Roger—Roger MacKenzie Wakefield—is not just your adopted son. He is the key to it all. When the time comes, the Stones will call him. He will go back. Settle there. His life will begin anew, and from him, a line will be born.”

She laid a final envelope on his lap. “Claire meant for this to reach you now.”

Reggie’s hands trembled as he broke the seal. Clara read the letter aloud, steady and sure.

To my dear Reggie,
If you are reading this, then my faith in the years has held true. I have always trusted that the threads we wove would find their way back to you, just as Roger will find his way to us…

When the letter ended, Reggie smiled, content. “She always did make the impossible seem certain,” he murmured. He curled his fingers gently around Clara’s. “Make sure he knows, lass. Roger’s stronger than he thinks.”

“I will,” Clara promised.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the rooftops, Reverend Reginald Wakefield passed quietly, a soft smile upon his lips.

Reggie’s funeral was a quiet, dignified affair. Roger arranged every detail himself, ensuring Reggie’s simple wishes were honoured. When the others had gone, he lingered by the grave until the last shovelful of earth was laid.

Later, as he stood by the old stone wall, Clara joined him.

“You’ve done right by him,” she said softly.

Roger’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does,” she replied gently. “But he knew you’d see it through.”

They stood in silence for a time, the moor stretching wide before them. Roger’s hand rested on the stone, his fingers curling into the lichen. Then, quietly, he asked, “What do I do next, Clara?”

Clara looked out over the hills, her expression thoughtful. “Some truths can’t be given as answers, Roger. But I can tell you this—there’s a path ahead. You’ll choose when to take it. No one else can choose it for you.”

She placed an envelope in his hand, the Fraser crest pressed into the wax. “Claire left this for you.”

Roger opened it slowly, unfolding the parchment.

My dearest Roger,
I know your heart is heavy now, burdened with loss. Take your time. Grieve as you must.
But when the moment comes—when you are ready to choose your path—you will know.
Beyond the Stones. Beyond time. We will be there.
With all my love,
Claire.

Roger closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling gently in his chest. Clara’s hand rested lightly on his arm.

“Some journeys begin with a question,” Clara said. “But yours begins with a choice.”

The months after Reggie’s funeral passed in quiet reflection. Roger, Fiona—granddaughter and successor of the late Mrs. Graham—and her fiancé Ernie worked together to pack away the rectory. Books were carefully shelved, papers sorted, and memories folded gently into boxes. Fiona’s calm strength and Ernie’s quiet steadiness helped steady Roger’s heart, each moment bringing him closer to the inevitable choice ahead.

Claire’s letters were wrapped with care, tucked safely into Roger’s satchel alongside a small velvet pouch. Inside the pouch lay a single sapphire.

“You’ll need this,” Fiona said softly one evening, her eyes steady as she looked at him. “Even the Stones demand a price.”

Samhain arrived, heavy with ancient power. Fiona and Ernie guided Roger to Craig na Dun, where the Druid dancers gathered, their silent ritual weaving through the warm twilight air.

Fiona stood beside him, her presence steady and reassuring. “The path is open,” she said quietly. “The gemstone will see you through.”

Roger took a steadying breath. The choice was his alone to make.

As the dancers moved around the ancient stones, their footsteps light and rhythmic, Roger stepped forward into the circle.

The world shifted—not with chaos or overwhelming force, but with the quiet certainty of a choice made freely.

The sapphire pulsed warm in his pocket, a steady heartbeat beneath his hand.

When he opened his eyes, the air was sharper, cleaner.

Before him stretched the unspoiled hills of the eighteenth century.

Roger adjusted his satchel, took a final breath, and stepped forward onto the path he had chosen.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, early November 1766

The yard at Lallybroch was bright with late autumn light when I saw the stranger approaching. His clothes marked him as an outsider — too plain and threadbare for a man of means, yet too neat for a vagrant. His dark, curling hair was tousled by wind, his face lean and lined with exhaustion. He moved like a man who had walked a great distance to reach a place he hadn’t dared hope truly existed.

I stood frozen, my herb basket in hand. The twins, Harry and Julia, were tumbling through the yard nearby in one of their whispery, mischievous games. Julia paused and gave the man a curious glance before darting after her brother again. Lena, on the other hand — wild-haired and bold — ran forward without hesitation.

"Are ye lost?" she asked, hands on her hips like a tiny laird. “Do ye need help? My mama’s the healer.”

He looked down at her, startled. “I… perhaps I do,” he said with a tired smile.

Lena narrowed her eyes, inspecting him. “Well, then. I’m Lena Mairi Caitriona Fraser, and this is Lallybroch. Did ye come for my mama?” She gave a lopsided curtsy, proudly—then looked back at me. “Mama, should I get Da?”

The sound of his voice stirred something faint and familiar in my chest, though I couldn’t place it. He was far too grown for me to know — the last time I had seen him, he’d been barely ten years old.

But there was something… in the eyes.

“Roger?” I whispered.

He turned to face me fully. “Hello, Claire.”

I dropped the basket, herbs spilling in all directions.

And then I was in his arms, half-laughing, half-crying. “You came,” I murmured against his shoulder.

“I did.” His voice cracked with feeling. “I found my way.”

We stood that way a moment, my arms around the boy who had once been just a child and now a man, a man who had crossed time and centuries to find us.

Behind me, Lena tilted her head, watching with solemn fascination. “Is he one of our cousins?”

Roger crouched a little to look her in the eye. “Something like that, I think.”

She nodded with great seriousness. “Good. I’ve always wanted more cousins.”

I laughed, wiping my eyes. “Come. Come inside. You’ve a great deal of family to meet.”

As we stepped toward the manor house, the door banged open. Julia poked her head out and gave a dramatic little gasp. “There's a man with mama and Lena!"

That sent the rest of them tumbling out — Harry right behind his twin, and Robb already calling for Jamie. Lena marched proudly beside Roger like a herald.

“Roger MacKenzie,” I said, smiling as we reached the porch. “This is Jamie, my husband. Robb, Harry, Julia. Jocasta and Murtagh — Jamie’s aunt and uncle, but you may as well call them yours, too.”

Jamie stepped forward, gripping Roger’s shoulder firmly, eyes warm and sharp. “Welcome home, lad. Ye’re among kin here.”

Roger looked overwhelmed — and no wonder. The press of people, the accents, the scent of peat and bread in the wind — all of it must have felt like another world entirely. I saw him sway slightly, just from the sheer weight of arrival.

“I—thank you,” he said, voice thick. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome, but—”

“Ye are,” Jamie said firmly. “Blood or no, ye belong here.”

Jocasta stepped closer, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “My word,” she whispered. “He looks like… like Colum and Dougal did, when they were young.”

Murtagh wrapped an arm around her shoulder as she dabbed at her eyes. “Aye. The MacKenzie brow, sure enough.”

Roger gave them a small, respectful nod. “My father—well, my adoptive father—always told me there was Highland blood in me. It seems he wasn’t wrong.”

Harry and Julia immediately began peppering him with questions — where had he come from, did he know how to ride, was he a pirate? Lena stood between them and Roger protectively.

“He’s tired!” she scolded. “He walked all this way. Don’t pester.”

Brianna stepped forward, her cheeks flushed from the wind — or the stable. She must have come directly from the paddock; her boots were muddy, and her braid fraying with bits of hay clinging to it. “You made it,” she said simply.

Roger looked at her — and time stopped.

I saw it. So did Julia, watching from the steps. A stillness passed between them — eyes locked, a shared flicker of some powerful recognition. Not a word passed, but everything changed.

Lena narrowed her eyes with great interest.

Roger cleared his throat. “Brianna?”

She nodded. “We met — a long time ago.”

“I remember,” he said softly.

“You look different.”

“So do you.”

And then — Lena sighed and threw her arms wide. “Isn’t my sister brilliant?” she announced to Roger. “She trains horses and breeds them, too. She’s the best in all of Scotland. Even Da says so.”

Roger smiled at her, and Brianna gave her sister a bemused look. “That’s enough, Lena.”

“I’m just saying,” Lena replied sweetly. “If I were new here, I’d want to know how wonderful my big sister is.”

Jamie laughed, and so did Robb.

I gave Lena a look, and she shrugged innocently. “I’m just being polite.”

I bent to whisper in her ear. “You remember, love — Roger did know Bree before. When she was just little.”

Lena’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. But he still thinks she’s wonderful, aye?”

“Maybe. That’s for them to know.”

Roger, meanwhile, had been drawn inside, where the fire was blazing and a pot of broth simmered on the hearth. The scent of bannocks and roasted root vegetables wafted through the air.

“What’s your trade, lad?” Ian asked, pulling out a chair for him.

Roger sat gratefully. “I was… a scholar. At Oxford.”

Harry blinked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a university,” Julia said, rolling her eyes. “He’s very clever. Like Bree.”

“I studied history,” Roger added, with a crooked smile. “Taught a bit too. But that’s all… very far away now.”

“You’ll find your place here,” Jamie said quietly.

Roger looked at me, his voice quiet but sure. “I should explain. When Reverend Wakefield—my father—died, I stayed on to put his affairs in order.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up.

“But not long after, someone from Fraser Press came to me. She gave me a letter. From you.”

I felt the air catch in my chest.

He nodded. “A letter you haven’t written yet. You said I should take my time. That I’d find my way.”

His eyes met mine, warm and steady.

“And I suppose… I did.”

Jamie reached across and clasped his forearm. “You’ve a bed here tonight, and a home as long as you want it.”

Lena, from her spot beside Roger, nodded sagely. “He’s staying. He’s my new favourite.”

Brianna rolled her eyes. “You said that about the new colt last week.”

“He didn’t speak Latin,” Lena sniffed, folding her arms. “Roger does.”

Roger burst out laughing, and the sound of it lit the hearth warmer than any flame.

In the weeks that followed, I watched Roger settle into Lallybroch with a quiet resilience that surprised us all, perhaps most of all himself. He adapted to eighteenth-century life with a stubborn grace, as if some part of him had always belonged here, only waiting to awaken.

He rose early with the rest, his hands growing rough and strong from splitting wood alongside the lads. Jamie and Ian showed him the lay of the land—the winding paths, storm shelters, and the places where a hare might dart through the underbrush. I saw him listening intently, asking careful questions, absorbing it all with the patient mind of a scholar.

Evenings found him by the hearth, swapping ballads and stories with Murtagh. His low, warm voice breathed life into the ancient songs of Scotland, as though they had waited for him to return and sing them anew. Jocasta, usually aloof, lingered to listen.

Brucey, old and wise, took to Roger at once, trailing behind him like a shadow, settling at his feet and offering long-suffering looks when pups tangled in his bootlaces. The pups adored Roger, tumbling over each other to be near him, their wild energy a perfect contrast to his quiet steadiness.

Lena, ever watchful, had swiftly named him her new favourite person. She followed him from the byre to the smithy, prattling on about ponies and secret hiding places, demanding he sing her songs and help her mend a bramble-snagged hem. He obliged every time, never once brushing her off.

One afternoon, Brianna approached him boldly as he carried a bundle of firewood toward the kitchen.

“There’s a post opening at the school in Broch Mordha,” she told him plainly. “Miss MacLeod’s to be married in spring. It’s not much—one room, bairns from the crofts—but steady work. If you mean to stay.”

Roger looked startled, firewood slipping from his arms, the conflict clear in his eyes: longing, uncertainty, and cautious hope.

“You think I ought to?” he asked quietly.

Brianna shrugged but smiled with that crooked grin of Jamie’s that always made my chest ache. “I think you’d be good at it. And you’ve already won Brucey’s favour—that counts for more than half the laird’s.”

She turned and walked away, braid swinging, leaving Roger with pups wrestling at his feet and firewood slipping from his grasp.

I felt the warmth of new life weaving itself into our tapestry once more.

By Yuletide, Roger had truly found his place. Highland folk are slow to trust, slower still to claim kin—but the signs were there: Ian’s slap on Roger’s back after a day’s work, Lena begging for songs by the fire, pups following him like a wild retinue. Even Jamie, wary as ever, seemed more at ease—though he kept a sharp eye when Brianna was near.

Fergus, Faith, and the others arrived from Edinburgh, bringing noise and light. Baby Jamie was bundled like a dumpling in soft wool, curls escaping his bonnet. Will came next, still smelling of smoke and ink. James Murray arrived with Meg and Kate MacLaren, and their boisterous children.

The yard rang with greetings, dogs barking, and Brucey’s gruff inspections. The house filled with laughter and the scent of pine boughs and baking.

That night, as the firelight danced along the beams, Roger sat by the hearth, Brucey sprawled at his feet. Faith approached, baby Jamie pink and sleepy on her shoulder, and gently placed him in Roger’s arms.

“Mind him for me, aye?” she smiled before slipping away to dance with Fergus.

Roger’s hands were tentative but steady, cradling the babe with care. Brucey sniffed the baby’s toes before settling again.

It twisted something deep within me—this new thread woven, another bond formed.

Later, when the reel slowed to a strathspey, Jocasta beckoned Roger to her chair. He passed the baby back to Faith and settled beside her, Brucey sprawling content at his feet.

"How many times great-grandson of my brother, did ye say ye are?”

“Six,” Roger replied softly, scratching Brucey behind the ears.

“Aye,” she chuckled. “Six generations, and I see a good deal of him in ye yet. Though, thank God, you seem the better tempered sort.”

Murtagh snorted. “Let’s hope ye’ve not got his appetite for trouble, too.”

Roger laughed. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Murtagh tipped his cup. “Good lad.”

I stood nearby, watching the easy weaving of this man into our lives. The years between us melted away, another promise kept, another thread mended.

As the night deepened, laughter ringing, I stood by the hearth, cider warming my hands. Jamie nodded toward the doorway, catching my gaze.

Brianna and Roger stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe, their heads close, breaths mingling. Then, tender and certain, their lips met.

Jamie grunted softly. “Weel… he’s a MacKenzie. Could be worse.”

I smiled, teasing. “Could be better.”

Brianna’s cheeks flushed, and Roger cleared his throat, stepping back, but the spark was unmistakable.

I squeezed Jamie’s hand, sharing the quiet joy of watching the next generation find its way home.

Chapter Text

Lallybroch, Summer 1767

The Highlands held their breath in summer light. Hills rolled in long folds of green and gold, heather painting the slopes in purple, the air warm with peat smoke, crushed thyme, and bread fresh from the oven.

In the yard, the wedding feast spilled far beyond the tables. Fiddles sang above the thump of dancing feet, children darted between benches with berry-stained fingers, and the great oak by the orchard wore garlands of ribbon, shading trestle tables piled high with bannocks, pies, and roasted lamb.

That morning, Brianna and Roger had been married in the kirk, their hands bound in Fraser plaid, the vows spoken into stones that had held the prayers of generations. Now, as twilight softened the day, they moved together through the gathering — she radiant in deep blue, her hair crowned with roses; he steady and content, as though every step of his long journey had been for this moment.

I stood just beyond the terrace, watching the swirl of it all. Fergus laughed as he chased Wee Jamie, who darted away with a pilfered oatcake meant for the dogs. Faith, cheeks flushed with pride and joy, sat with Marsali, weaving flowers into Julia’s hair while Lena, in her usual way, decided her own garland needed feathers and scraps of bright ribbon. Harry, pretending not to care, leaned against the ale table until Lena dared him into the reel.

Will, his stance already that of a man who knew his place, moved among the guests with an easy smile, pausing to help an old neighbour to her seat. Robb stood near the wall, speaking animatedly to one of the masons from Edinburgh, hands sketching shapes in the air as though the buildings in his mind might spring to life.

Roger, in the middle of the dancers, hoisted Lena onto his shoulders. Her shriek of delight carried across the yard as the pups leapt at her trailing ribbons. Brianna turned to watch them, and the curve of her smile was so like Jamie’s that my breath caught.

I felt him before I saw him — the weight of his presence, the warmth of his hand at the small of my back.
“Ye’ve a look about ye, Sassenach,” he murmured.
“Just thinking how far we’ve come,” I said, leaning into him.
“Aye. From Culloden’s shadow to this.” His arm settled around my waist, strong and sure. “We’ve done no’ so badly.”
I laughed softly. “We’ve done more than that. Look at them.”

And I did — every one of them, the futures written in their eyes.
I could see their future as clearly as if the years had already unfolded before me.

Fergus and Faith, thriving in Edinburgh, the Fraser Press reaching across Scotland, their voices respected in trade and politics alike.
Brianna and Roger, expanding Broch Tuarach’s horse breeding into one of the finest studs in the Highlands, their skill and honour known far beyond our borders.
Will, the next Lallybroch Laird, steady as the land itself.
Robb, studying architecture at the university, destined to help shape the grand New Town rising in Edinburgh.
Harry, breathing new life into Broch Tuarach scotch, restoring the family’s bond with Jared in France until Fraser et Cie was once again a name spoken with pride in two countries.
Julia, wise and calm, taking over the healing cottage and tending the people of the estate as I once had.
And Lena — still wild now, but with a spark of something boundless. One day she would stride into Edinburgh drawing rooms like a queen in tartan silk, her wit and beauty opening doors to ministers, poets, and princes. She would keep Highland songs alive in the city and turn every gathering into an alliance, every conversation into an opportunity. People would remember her name — and remember they’d been changed by knowing her.

“A fine brood,” Jamie said, following my gaze. “They’ll have a place to come home to. Always.”
I turned toward him, the light catching in his hair. “Because of you.”
His eyes softened. “Because of us, Sassenach.”

He bent to kiss my brow, lips lingering until the noise of the yard faded to nothing but the beat of his heart.

We stood like that, the music drifting on the air, the sun sliding low over the hills. The light turned Brianna’s hair to copper fire; the fiddler struck up another reel; Wee Jamie squealed as Fergus scooped him high into the air.

Jamie’s hand closed over mine. “We’re home,” he said simply.
I rested my head against his shoulder. “Aye. And we’re together.”

The shadows stretched long, but Lallybroch glowed warm in the falling light. The threads of our lives — tangled, frayed, and scattered — had been drawn close and bound fast.

A family.
A promise kept.

And I thought of it — the other world that might have been.
A world where I never stepped back through the stones, where Jamie’s laughter never rang across these fields, where our children’s faces were strangers to each other.
A colder, emptier world.

But not this one.
Here, the air was sweet with summer, the music was bright, and the man I loved stood beside me.
We had found our way home.

Dans un autre monde, we might have been lost.
But in this one, we were exactly where we were meant to be.