Chapter 77: The Last Feast
Chapter 77: The Last Feast
The castle thrummed with life. For the first time in months, laughter and music drifted through its halls instead of whispers and grief. Torches burned bright, their light gleaming off banners dyed in the deep blue and gold of House Strathclyde.
Isla stood at the center of it all, her hands folded neatly in front of her, watching servants rush about with baskets of apples, rolls of fabric, and armfuls of flowers.
Lachlan’s welcome-home celebration — and the honoring of the surviving warriors — was in two days. It had been her idea, though she’d accepted the task with a bittersweet heart. Men had died because of her. Those who lived still woke screaming from nightmares of the forest.
The least she could do was give them a night free of ghosts.
She threw herself into the work.
Invitations were written by her own hand — elegant, simple, stamped with the Strathclyde seal. She organized the menu, coordinated the musicians, oversaw the kitchen, and supervised the decoration of the Great Hall.
The centerpiece theme was autumn’s farewell: wildflowers, pumpkins, and sunflowers arranged in clay urns, draped with dried heather and twine. The scent of spiced bread and roasted meat already filled the halls by midmorning.
She had quietly asked the kitchen girls about Lachlan’s favorite dishes — and those of his men. What they’d eaten before the march. What comforted them. The answers were humble: venison stew, honey oat bread, baked trout with herbs. She made sure they would have all three.
Outside, the courtyard had been transformed. Garlands of ivy and ribbons were strung from torch poles. Fire pits ringed the open yard, ready to blaze if the festivities carried into the night.
When Isla stepped back to take in the view, her chest tightened. Pride — and sadness — mingled in her throat. She’d done something good here. Maybe for the last time.
Because the calendar in her mind whispered the truth: Book Isla had died on November 2, 1213.
Two weeks. Two weeks before fate claimed her.
She straightened her shoulders. There was no use in despairing over a countdown she couldn’t stop.
The day of the celebration dawned bright and brisk.
Isla woke before sunrise, her heart steady, her mind set. She had commissioned a new outfit for Lachlan — deep navy trimmed with gold stitching, the colors of his house. Alongside it, she’d ordered a hair pin crafted from iron and silver, carved with the sigil of a hawk in flight. A small gift, nothing more. She sent it to his chamber through his maid.
Whether he wore it or not wasn’t the point.
It was a gesture of peace — or farewell.
As for herself, she chose a gown unlike any she’d worn before: a rich crimson silk with gold-threaded sleeves, fitted to her frame. Bold. Daring. Alive.
When she studied her reflection, the woman in the mirror startled her.
Thinner. Paler. The scar above her heart faintly visible through the fabric. It pulsed, slow and faint — less pain now, more reminder.
She pressed her fingers over it and whispered, “Not tonight.”
By twilight, the castle shone like a jewel. Lanterns glowed from every window, laughter spilled from every corridor, and music echoed through the courtyard.
Isla stood at the entrance of the Great Hall, greeting each guest as they arrived. Nobles from neighboring lands, merchants, knights, and their families all passed through the doors, offering congratulations and gifts.
She smiled and thanked them, placing their offerings on the long table near the hearth. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but she kept at it — duty demanded it.
Once most of the guests had arrived, she handed the task to the steward and moved inside.
The Great Hall had come alive. The long tables gleamed under candlelight. Platters of food steamed, goblets overflowed, and voices overlapped in laughter and song. She made her rounds quietly — checking on her in-laws, her parents, offering polite words to lords and ladies who stared a little too long, whispered a little too loudly.
She smiled through it all.
The kitchen smelled of baked apples and sugared nuts. She thanked the cooks, tasted the desserts — a moment of simple joy in the chaos.
Then, seeking a moment of calm, she slipped out to the gardens.
Children ran among the torches, shrieking with delight as they chased each other. The crisp air carried the scent of earth and woodsmoke. A baby crawled through the grass near her feet, babbling softly, fascinated by the flicker of a fallen leaf.
Isla knelt beside him.
His laughter was light and pure. She touched his tiny hand, and her chest ached.
Not for herself — but for her. For Book Isla.
The journals she’d read whispered of that longing, that dream of a child that never came. It felt now like her own yearning, as if their souls had blended. Her eyes stung.
She stayed there until Fenella found her.
“Lady Isla, dinner has begun. You’re being missed.”
She smiled faintly and followed her back inside.
The Great Hall was louder now. Laughter, song, the clatter of cups. As Isla entered, the air shifted — the faint throb of the fading scar under her collarbone told her he was here.
Lachlan.
She didn’t look for him. Didn’t need to. His presence filled the space like gravity. The seat beside him, her seat, empty.
Instead, her eyes found another woman.
Mairi.
Draped in a gown too fine for her station, seated at the far end of the main table.
Isla crossed the hall without hesitation, her skirts whispering across the stone.
“I believe you’re in the wrong seat,” she said lightly, her tone carrying enough steel to slice the air.
Mairi blinked up at her, startled. “What are you talking about?”
The nearby guests fell silent, sensing something sharper beneath the polite words.
Isla leaned down, close enough for only Mairi to hear. Her voice was low, calm, deadly clear.
“You wanted my life. You wanted him.”
Her gaze flicked toward Lachlan, seated mid-table, golden hair glinting in the torchlight.
“Well, you have them both. The scar we share is proof.”
Mairi went pale.
“What?” she hissed under her breath. “Have you lost your mind? This isn’t the time or place—”
Isla straightened slowly, her expression unreadable. Her voice carried again, soft but certain.
“He’s yours, Mairi. Maybe he always has been. If the bond we shared was truly sacred, he wouldn’t have broken it so easily.”
Her words landed like the strike of a blade — quiet, precise, irreversible.
She placed a hand on Mairi’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I hope you both have a good life.”
And then she turned, calm as a queen, and walked away.
The hall watched her go, her crimson gown trailing like flame behind her.
She paused only once — to lift a plate of food from a passing servant’s tray.
If she was to die soon, she thought wryly, she might as well not face it hungry.