And so, this journal I leave for whomsoever may discover it, wanderer or plunderer. Consider it the ravings of a madman or the insight of one who has seen beyond normal seeing, perceived beyond the everyday of life and into the world of the fairies. I am a journalist of some reputation still, and I only ask you consider that as well.
This was madness. It could not be. Conan Doyle’s writings?
Bloody hell. Conan Doyle?
He closed the cover. How was it possible?
A red fox bounded across the field and into the shadow of the hills in hot pursuit of a hare. Gaelan’s stomach growled in protest. How long had it been since he’d eaten?
Conan Doyle had lived not far from this place, and it was not uncommon to read, even in the American press, of a newly discovered unpublished manuscript turning up in a nearby attic or cellar. Was this yet another? A story? An unfinished novel? Would Holmes pop up on the next page or the one after that? Gaelan continued reading.
My hope for some time has been to track down the history of an elusive, perhaps magical, book of healing attributed to a particular sect of the fairy folk and given over to our world through Thomas of Erceldoune, a man of legend and ballad, to be sure, but also of historical significance. That I have been unsuccessful is of little matter, for what I discovered was of far greater import. Hard to fathom it has now been more than a quarter century since first I set out on this hunt for what you might suggest is the great white whale of my existence. But at long last, I am successful, knowing that although I am not long for this world—perhaps a year, perhaps less—I have my proof of the existence of fairies in my own hands.
Conan Doyle died only two months after the date of the entry. July 1930, years after they had last been in contact. As Conan Doyle more and more concerned himself with the supernatural world of ghosts and fairies, Gaelan placed himself at an increasingly safe distance from the author’s often too-probing inquiries.
He quite understood Conan Doyle’s obsession, his dogged pursuit of facts to support his understanding of the fairies, despite the risks to his reputation. Conan Doyle obviously witnessed something. And had written it down for posterity. But why stash the papers here and not at his home in Sussex?
More likely, and far more tragically, these papers represented the mad ravings of an elderly, dying man. His last testament to a theory for which he could never acquire even the merest threads of evidence.
Never mind the unlikelihood of Gaelan, of all people, discovering it here, and now. The idea that all this was his grand delusion weighed heavily. If ever he awoke from it, would he still be in the sea cave? Had the poison destroyed his sanity and left his body alive? A cruel fate, if true.
The probability of discovering a journal—or whatever it was—documenting events triggered by his own conversation with Conan Doyle more than a century ago—insane. And mention of Gaelan’s healing book to boot! What other rational explanation could there be? A madness brought on by the poison he’d consumed. Yet, he was curious enough to learn where this delusion led.
You undoubtedly think me insane, or this entire diary a fiction fabricated for the benefit of my loyal readers, perhaps to be published in The Strand as an addendum to The Coming of the Fairies. But where that was anecdote, this is a first-hand chronicle, worthy of a journalist of my standing. I ask only, dear reader, that you keep about you an open mind—open to the holding possibility that what I suggest is true and no fairy tale, as it were.
As Gaelan set the folio on the ground, a piece of glass fell from within the sheaf of papers. Curved as if blown and not cut from a plate. Smooth as weathered quartz. Opalescent.
Turning it in his hand, he held it up into the sunlight with an artist’s eye. The piece was in perfect condition, no cracks. No weathering or erosion.
Then it hit him. And he froze, stunned, as if struck by lightning. That piece. Crafted by his own hands, missing for more than a century. Impossibility upon impossibility. None of it made any sense at all, but how could he not believe his own eyes? Not trust his own memory of it? The feel of the glass, its smoothness, the weight of it in his hand? What next? A white hare bounding by, asking about the time?
Clasping the piece to his chest, running his thumb along the curve of it, Gaelan closed his eyes, picturing . . . her. His beloved. His wife.
LONDON, 1826
CHAPTER 9
The girl could not have ventured far, not in her condition. What had she overheard of the conversation with Simon Bell through the thin curtain? Enough to scare her off, no doubt.
The constant threat of discovery. The terror of inevitable catastrophe, a noose about the neck. The endless fear of it gnawing away from within, a crushing stranglehold about the middle, refusing to loosen its grip. The ticktock of Gaelan’s life. Two hundred years of it. That same terror, writ plain in the girl’s countenance as she’d pleaded with him.
Her velvet cloak lay in a heap on the floor beside the cot where he’d left it, the blood dried to brown. Yet the lustrous ivory velvet incongruously shimmered in the candlelight like fire opal.
There was nowhere for her to run but up the dark, steep stairway to his flat. She’d never have made it even halfway. Holding his breath, Gaelan quietly turned the handle on the mahogany door.
She barely stirred as she sat on the rough floorboards, back against the banister, sobbing into her gown. He waited in the doorway; he dared not frighten her and risk her scuttling up the stairs. Finally, she looked up, meeting his gaze. In the gleam of the candle, her eyes glittered dark and terrified, liquid blue-black indigo, split by the reflection of the flame.
With a nod, she granted leave for him to approach. Fresh blood pooled beneath her skirts. Her arms were crossed tight about her middle as she shivered, saying nothing. A cornered animal observing warily, expecting attack.
Gaelan crouched low beside her, maintaining a cautious distance between them. “He is gone, Miss. You’ve nothing more to fear.”
Gaelan did not believe it, even had Bell spoken true. “He is called Simon Bell. Do you know him?”
Her eyes fluttered closed, but she said nothing. There would be time enough for discussion, but later.
Confident she would not struggle, he set down the candle and collected her in his arms. She was asleep by the time he resettled her into the cot, swaddling her with blankets to still her shivering.
He dragged himself to the washbowl and poured out the remaining fresh water from a large glass ewer, reminding himself to collect a new supply from the sand filter apparatus he’d fixed to the rooftop cistern. He managed to scrub the blood and grime from his hands and face, but not the fatigue of yet another sleepless night.
Gaelan sighed, lamenting the day he’d let go his last apprentice before securing a new boy. But an opportunity had arisen for the lad, and Gaelan could hardly deny him a better position than what he could promise in the squalor and stink of Smithfield Market.
The Apothecary’s Hall had sent him four candidates in short order, and not a one worth the tidy sums their fathers promised for their training and keep. Two were clumsy fools, one a dour complainer, and the fourth could not read a word of Latin. Useless. If a capable young man would not come soon into his employ, he would have little choice but to suffer whatever doltish lout next came through the door.
Gaelan ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, in a futile effort to force away the throbbing in his head. He dragged a low stool to the cot and sat close by the young lady’s side.
Her long hair was drenched and matted; perspiration trickled from her forehead, running in rivulets down her pale face, wending their way into the hollow of her neck. This was her body fighting off the poison from within, purging it from each pore. At least she was no longer shaking. Optimistic signs, yet too soon to know the outcome for certain.
He touched the back of his hand to her damp brow. Cool. Her hands were no longer afire. With luck, by morning’s light, the worst would be past. From the corner beckoned his deep-cushione
d wing chair. Perhaps he might find an hour or two of rest in its arms before opening the shop, and without leaving the girl’s side.
“Please sir, I am too hot. I do not want all these . . .”
He was halfway to sleep when she woke. “What—?” he mumbled sleepily.
She thrashed about, struggling with the bedcovers.
“Ah,” Gaelan yawned. “You are awake. That is an excellent sign,” he said, endeavoring to keep the fatigue from his voice. “And I am happy to remove one coverlet, and only that for now. I pray the other you would keep close about you just a while longer.” Her eyes were no longer glazed; she seemed alert enough. And he had many, many questions—and the need to better examine her.
“Now. Might you tell me your name, miss, and what has brought you this night to my apothecary? Indeed, to Smithfield!”
The young lady spoke haltingly. “I would beg your forbearance, a short while more—”
“I do not wish to grieve you, but I must call you . . . something—”
“Call me . . . call me . . . Cate, if you must, but please do not oblige me to give my true name, nor the circumstances that have brought me here. I implore you, Mr.—”
“Erceldoune. Gaelan Erceldoune. I am the newly installed apothecary here in Smithfield. In any case, I am glad to see you awake and much improved since first you arrived on my doorstep.”
“Am I? I think not.”
An odd reply. “Forgive me . . . Cate . . . but are you not in a peculiar area of London for a young lady of your station?”
Her only response was a rueful laugh, hard-edged, with a brittle bite, which provoked a coughing spasm.
Gaelan held a small cup of water to her lips when it stilled. “Here, sip this.”
She pushed away his arm. “My station! Indeed!” She spat out the words, breathless, and the coughing recommenced.
“Please do allow me to help you sit up; it will help. And drink. All of it. And slowly. Your body endeavors to exorcize the poison—the savin juniper given you by—” She would never say who it was gave it to her. London crawled with incompetent “doctors” whose specialization was in expunging unwanted pregnancies—at an exorbitant cost, and in much more than pounds sterling.
“What is this?”
“It is but ginger water. Drink!” Ginger, honey, and vinegar. All credit to Hippocrates and his brilliant oxymel. Gaelan had only just tinkered with the formula. Refined it a bit. Finally, she sipped.
“Good. Yes. Slowly now.”
“Thank you, sir. You have already been too kind, and your care and medicines have much improved me. I am now quite ready to take my leave.” She pushed off the blankets and stood. Far too quickly. Gaelan was already up and at her side before she lost her footing completely.
“Please do not . . . allow me to assist—” He eased her to sit on the cot before she swooned. “There, now. Slowly, my lady.” He did not remove his hand from her back.
Tears collected at the corners of her eyes. “What time is it, pray?”
“It is not long past dawn—”
“Have you gotten no rest at all this night, tending to my . . . ? I am—”
Gaelan shrugged. “Do not trouble yourself about my well-being.” He attempted his warmest smile, trying his best to make it genuine. “It is my vocation to thus help whomsoever needs medical attention, no matter the hour.”
“Please. Do not stay on my account. I am certain you have much else to do. More important than tending to my . . . problem.”
“I cannot yet leave your side; you are not quite out of danger. And I’ve yet to . . .” He had to examine her more thoroughly. But he needed her complete trust for the task. And he needed better lighting than the single candle could afford.
“I shall be but a moment, Cate. Here, lie back. One blanket. I promise.”
After placing a light covering on her, Gaelan moved about the room, sifting spoonsful of a gray phosphorescent powder into several glass globes, taking a flame to each. By the time he returned to her side, she was asleep. Extinguishing the candle, he was satisfied with the blue-green glow provided by lamps. Adequate to continue the unpacking, but not so bright as to disturb her slumber.
A quarter hour later, she was awake again, and sitting up. It had been a vain hope that she might sleep a bit. He dropped the book in his hand and was immediately by her, attentive but frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose, steadying his nerves. “It would do better . . . Cate . . . if you would at least attempt to sleep.”
“I am not sleepy, not at all. And it is too difficult to talk, lying prone, whilst you work at the far side of the room. And I seem rather suddenly disposed to be gregarious. Perhaps it is the fault of the potion you gave to me.”
It was not the medicine but her fear, and hardly unexpected. Twice already, he’d watched her flail against some unseen enemy from within her fitful sleep. He understood better than most the monsters looming in the shadows of a peaceful dream, waiting for the moment to shatter it, to terrorize, to . . .
He could only imagine what horrors ravaged Cate’s sleep. Arguing with her would do little good; he could not force her to rest and drugging her might well do more harm than good.
“Might I read to you? It may serve to settle you, although I confess, the books in my library are hardly suited to young ladies. Boring texts, they are. Botany and chemistry. Anatomy.” He laughed. Wasn’t that, after all, the point? “I dare say, they would put most men to sleep in a trice. Soon, you shall be asleep.”
“I confess I do quite enjoy your voice. There is music in it; I would love to hear you read, no matter the . . . content. And if it will serve to still my nerves, all the better.”
She’d lent him a notion. Perhaps he had no need of a book at all. He closed his eyes and thought upon earlier, better times. Peaceful times.
“There was a lad,” he began, “long ago, time out of mind, who dwelled in a magical, secret place, hidden in the shadow of three peaks.” It had been so very long ago. The tale of his own youth, the happy times before James VI betrayed his father, murdered him, and destroyed his family. He would skip past those wretched years to his rescue by the monks of Dernwode House. But the lass had again fallen asleep. His own battle against sleep was lost, and Gaelan drifted on the memories of childhood, hoping, at least for a few hours, the demons of his past would be kept at bay. That he would dream of his time at Dernwode, and not once again be visited by the flames of his father’s execution. But it was not to be.
“Are you all right, Mr. Erceldoune? You were shouting as you slept. And now you weep . . .”
“What . . . ?” Gaelan leapt from his chair, startled.
Cate stared at him from the cot, concern plain in her countenance.
He rubbed away the grit from his eyes, trying to cast off the last vestiges of a nightmare. How long . . . ?
He glanced at the mantel clock. Three hours had passed? Too long. He must not delay the examination a moment longer. Make certain no vestige of the birth remained within her.
Damnation. Soon enough, the savin would be the least of her worries. But to gain her cooperation for so an intimate examination . . .
“Miss . . . Cate . . . you seem to be in far better a state than when first you arrived, and I must, if you would allow it, examine you more thoroughly. Internally, if you understand—
“I do—”
“Good. Your clothing must go, else it will get in the way of . . . You might do with one of my nightshirts in . . . exchange. At least for purposes of . . . Besides which, your skirts are fouled beyond washing, and I fear . . .”
She nodded.
“Excuse me, then; I’ll be but a trice.”
By the time he returned to her side, Cate’s skirts were in a heap on the floor; she’d wrapped herself in a goose down quilt. Happily, there seemed no obvious signs of bleeding beyond the expected drainage.
“I must be certain all has been expelled from the womb; nothing can there remain of it, else . . .” Too ofte
n, the abortion was incomplete; tissue remained, leading to far deadlier problems than caused by savin juniper.
Conversely, the deed was a total butchery, and the poor unfortunate girl was rendered entirely unable to bear children. He’d seen it too often and could tell her none of it.
She nodded, pulling the quilt closer. She was trembling again, but it was no chill caused it.
“I shall be swift as possible, and painless as I can manage, but I need to—” Gaelan gestured to the area below her waist.
Again, she nodded. “I do understand.” She lay back on the cot. “Must I remove the coverlet, or—”
“There is no need. In fact—” Gaelan placed another of the blankets about her legs before immersing his hands in a glass basin, which he had filled with a pale green liquid.
“What is it you are doing? It smells of citrus. Lemons?”
“It is a practice I learnt long ago. Strange, is it not? Lime and a salt powder dissolved in water. My father insisted that washing this way before performing such an examination . . . as this . . . I mean to say, any internal examination—no matter what for, is better for the patient. Fewer fevers, many fewer deaths . . . Do forgive my bluntness. I do not know why it works, not exactly so, but I have found it to be true in my years of practice.”
Conversation seemed to distract her well enough while Gaelan prodded about the birthing canal and cavity above. If the examination caused her distress, she did not show it. “If I might be so bold to enquire . . . who it was dosed you the—?” He was nearly done.
“The cover-shame? Such an appropriate name for it, is it not? An old woman—a midwife, she insisted, but I think not. Madame Browning, she is called. She is well known . . .” Cate stopped, unwilling to say more. “Two pills and a foul-tasting liquid, and she showed me the door forthwith. I think I remember falling, or nearly so, but then staggered my way about before—”
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