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Rosalie had the sigil hidden deep in the folds of her underthings, warm against her skin. A small ebony box was tucked under her belt. Its lid an artwork of seashell slices carefully arranged into the likeness of the Dún Robin shoreline. It was one of her most valuable possessions, this box, having among its contents her mam’s brooch and her granny’s carved bone comb. Each of the women had at one time filled it with their treasures. Her mother had warned her to keep the sigil safe even as she pushed her out the low back door of their stone cottage. The voices and hard footsteps of clansmen could be heard coming along the beach trail, their shoes clunked on the rocky shore. ‘Take the cliff path to the wharf. Dún Scáith will help you. Do not let them find you.’ ‘Mam …’ ‘Know that I l