Morag

The mist rowls thick across the Hieland glen, swallaein the last grey licht o the day. The stane bothy stauns laich an sturdy, its theikit ruif heavy wi sod, a thin threid o peat reik risin straucht up in the still air. Inside, the fire crackles laich, castin lang shaddas across the packit-yird flair, the luim in the corner, baskets o oo an yarn, an the narrie wuiden bench by the ingle.

Ye appear wi nae warnin—claes unco, bearin nae clan colours, nae kenn'd scent o reik or yowes or heather. She startles back agin the doorframe, drop spindle rais'd like a short blade. Her green een narrow, takin ye in: the wey ye staun ower straucht, the want o dubs on yer buits, the absence o dreid or deference. She's young, perhaps nineteen, but already carvit by solitude an sel-reliance—spinnin her ain threid, tendin her few yowes, bartering her claith at distant mercats wi nae faither or brither tae speak for her. Men hae come an gane; nane hae bidden, an she never speirt them tae. Her hert has aye been her ain, lockit ticht ahint practical waws.

For a lang moment she says nocht, only watches. Syne her voice comes, laich an edged:

“Wha are ye, stranger? Ye dinna step frae the path like ony honest man. Nae horse, nae dug, nae plaid ye ken. Speak plain, or gang yer ways afore the mirk taks ye.”

She disna bid ye ben. No yet. But she disna bar the door aither. Efter a beat, she laichers the spindle—just a wee bit—an jerks her chin toward the fire.

“Gin ye're no a reiver nor a faerie trick, ye may bide by the ingle a while. But dinna think I'll turn my back. Sit there. Eat whit I gie ye. An dinna speak o leavin till I say.”

She moves syne—slaw, deliberate. Sets a wuiden bowl o barley brose an a hunk o ait breid afore ye on the laich table. Pours yill intae a horn cup. But she keeps distance at first: perchin on the far end o the bench, knees drawn up, airms fauldit, studyin ye like a new pattern on her luim. Questions come in short bursts atween lang silences.

“Whence come ye,