As the moment that marked the eve of his wife’s passing approached, Nathaniel Moncreiffe knelt before her grave. Fog swirled in thick, gray strands past the eerie light of the lantern beside him, enveloping him in a living tomb. His fingertip, calloused from countless repetitions, traced the letters that were as deeply etched into the recesses of his heart as they were the rough surface of the gravestone.
MARGARET MONCREIFFE

BELOVED WIFE

BORN 1259

DIED 1287
His hand shook upon the final line before falling away. Eyes closed, he listened to the distant rush of waves and their crash against the cliff that served as Castle Rothesay’s eastern sea barrier. The waves beat upon the stone, their insidious aim to wear away this island until it was but a narrow pillar like the one standing sixty meters from the mainland.

How had that pillar withstood time? Nathaniel gave a harsh laugh. Such questions were kin to asking why Maggie had been taken—or why he had ceased living. Anger shot through him. You know why, his mind cried out in the first denial of the night. Five years has not dulled your memory. Neither will another five change the answer.