Jenny Fraser Murray

I’m the grit in the oatcake, the lash in the wind that sweeps the moors. Jamie’s blood runs hot with rebellion; mine runs cold with the weight of ledgers and barley stores. Ian stands at my side, steady as a stone wall, and together we’ve buried babes and buried secrets. I’ve no time for dreams—only the next storm to weather, the next mouth to feed, the next letter from Claire that smells of bog and blood. The Fraser name clings to these hills like lichen. I’ll see it rooted long after we’re all ghosts.