The protective shield was gone, and the veil, and the gauze; it was as if the deepest of Nature’s secrets lay revealed to every eye and every foe. ‘Come! Help protect us from the unwise and the covetous, for we must keep our precious secrets and defend our solitary freedom. Come!’
Esmé did not stir, she was listening so intently, feeling The Voice’s pain, its fear, its vulnerability. She could not reject this plea, turn her back on this agony and turmoil. For this The Voice had chosen her; to this she must respond.
‘Come!’ The Voice sang in heartbreaking song, ‘for I will die without you. Come!’
The Voice echoed in her soul so deeply that she rose as if following the notes, as if The Voice were her leash and her instincts the collar. She rose without hesitation, without thought, without fear and without question. The Voice needed her. She would go. She could make no other choice.
Yet she wondered, who spoke with such command, yet softly, seductively? To whom did The Voice belong? The medallion glowed in her pocket, warmed her body, her legs, her shivering arms. She took it out and kissed it lightly, barely brushing it with her lips, and the glow from the circular piece lit her face.
She awakened twisted in her night rail, her skin tingling, her breasts so sensitive that the fabric moving against them made her gasp. Her body ached and her need seemed as great as the need of The Voice, but she knew it was quite different.
She’d best be ready. In spite of all the arguments for staying safe in her familiar home, she would go. Not only for The Voice, which she had come to love, but because there was something else she was meant to find.
~ * ~
“By all that’s holy, what is going on here?” demanded Rory MacGregor, when everyone came down for breakfast the next morning.
“I’m wondering the same,” Connall Fraser, Esmé’s father put in with rather less vigor.
Breda merely narrowed her eyes at her sister, while Grandmam Caelia sensed the tension in her eldest granddaughter and tried to unwind it.
Esmé had been up well before dawn, before even Cook awoke. She had brushed back her hair and braided it tightly, so it would not get in her way. She’d dug out her thickest pair of trews and warmest shirt, and a cap with which she could cover her hair, so she wouldn’t look so obviously like a woman traveling alone. In addition, she had neatly folded her plaid, packed some of her herbs, some meat and dried berries. She had all this laid out on the work table.
“It looks as though you’re taking a trip,” Caelia observed blandly.
“Aye.”
“She can’t do that!” Breda turned to their father. “She’s never even been outside! She’s too frightened!”
Connall met Breda’s gaze squarely until she sputtered and backed down.
“Well, at least, not in a while. And besides—”
“Esmé, lass,” Caelia intervened, “where are ye going?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Breda sulked.
Esmé opened her mouth, but realized she had no answer. “North?”
Her grandfather Rory decided he had waited long enough. “Are ye asking us, lass? If so, I might suggest ye do a wee bit more planning before ye worry about packing up yer things.”
“But I have to go now, Grandda,” Esmé insisted. “Tis urgent.”
“At least tell us who you’re going to see,” Connall suggested.
Shaking her head as she flushed deeply, Esmé reached for a reasonable answer. But she was very bad at lying. Finally she shrugged. “I’m no’ exactly certain. I just know they need me!” Her voice rose on the last few words.
Between bites of porridge, Breda stared at her sister in shock. “So ye haven’t left the house since ye were nine, but you’re going on a journey alone to see ‘you don’t know who’ at ‘you don’t know where’. Is that about it?”
Esmé really did not enjoy being the center of attention. “I…well…
“Breda, lass, you seem to have finished your porridge. Why don’t ye go get started with the horses?”
“But I want to hear—”
“I’m perfectly well aware of that. Nevertheless, off ye go.
Breda went off in a noisy huff.
“Esmé,” her grandmother said, “do ye think ye could explain this more easily to me in private?”
The girl heaved a huge sigh. “Aye, Grandmam. Thank ye.”
“We’ll take our tea into the sitting room then.”
Before she knew what was what, Grandmother Caelia had whisked her away, closing the sitting room door behind them.
“Now come sit beside me and tell me everything.”
Esmé hesitated, not because of Caelia, whom she loved dearly and trusted completely, but because the dreams were so much a part of her midnight private encounters that she felt she might be betraying a secret. She did not mind sharing the magic, because of her grandmother’s odd version of the Sight. She was well aware she couldn’t just speak with anyone about such delicate matters. But Grandmam will understand, or at least try to. She will believe me. So Esmé told her all about the dreams and The Voice and the call for help. She even took out the medallion and showed her how it glowed.
They sat on the settee together, letting their strong tea get cold. Caelia held her granddaughter’s hands when she had finished. “Are ye sure tis a voice for good, and no’ for evil?”
Esmé replied without hesitation. “Tis all that is good. There is no evil in it.” She did not mention, however, what happened to her body, to her soul with each dream. She was naïve, but not a fool.
“Well then, I think ye must go. But I think we should send your father to protect ye.”
Esmé took Caelia’s hands and looked at her with great pity. “I will already be protected by the magic of the dream.” She whispered the last word; it was not wise to speak it out loud when anyone might overhear.
“And how will ye find your way?”
“I will be shown.” She held tight to the worn, ancient medallion, which had a strength all its own.
Caelia drew her granddaughter close in a tight hug. “Are ye sure you’re ready for this?”
“Ye don’t think I’m strong enough?” Esmé was stunned that her grandmother did not believe in her.
“Of course I believe in you. Of course ye are strong. Strong in spirit,” Caelia murmured. “Strong in intention and in talent. But I wonder if you’re no’ afraid to use those things. Afraid of whom ye could be or where ye might end up?”
As always, Caelia saw too much. Frowning, Esmé pondered the question. “Just because I fear my future does no’ mean I can abandon this quest. I have to go, Grandmam, others are counting on me. If tis difficult for me, then I must simply try harder. But I believe I have been preparing for this all my life. I just didn’t know it. I was chosen for a reason.” She straightened her chin. “The one thing I do know is that I’m ready now.”
Caelia Rose had painted Esmé again and again and loved her like a daughter. Her own daughter, Sorcha, was much like Lila, Caelia’s own mother. Sorcha could never stay still for long. She had come home to have her children, stayed for a bit, then left. So now that Esmé wanted to go, it broke Caelia’s heart. She had thought the girl would always be there, was more like Caelia than Sorcha. “Are ye going for good?” Caelia could barely speak, she felt so bereft.
Her granddaughter seemed to understand all the thoughts that were running through the older woman’s head. “I am Esmé, no’ my mother. Only that. And I promise I will come home to you.” She didn’t know how she was so certain of this, but she was. She squeezed her grandmother’s hands. “I promise.”
Their eyes met, Esmé’s shining with tears and an honesty Caelia could not doubt. “I know my mother promised, but I am not her. As I said before, I am Esmé. Please trust me.”
With difficulty, Caelia kept the tears from her eyes. “I do, mo-run. I’m trying.”
Smiling that secret smile of hers, the girl put her hand on her grandmother’s cheek, and her palm seemed to dr
aw all the flushed pink into itself, while her fingers cooled and soothed.
Tears shimmered in Caelia’s golden-brown eyes. She had never seen her granddaughter look so confident or determined. And yet she was so slight, fragile. Caelia’s heart constricted in her chest. Esmé is not ready, it cried. You must stop her from this madness. But she knew she could not; somehow this time had come upon her and she was needed. Esmé had been chosen.
Her grandmother was both proud and petrified, but she was also determined not to make the young girl doubt herself. Doubt could destroy any good she might do. More than anything, Esmé must believe with all her heart and soul.
Chapter Eight
It was the oddest thing. The more Magnus dreamed, the less concerned he became with the factions within his clan. He could see quite clearly they were bored, and he put as many as he could to work shoring up the castle walls, building new ones, bringing in stones for the wall around the moat, and making the intact chambers more livable. It was a wise decision, though he was well aware no one would ever call him Magnus the Astute. Still, he was determined they would not call him Magnus the Foolish.
He continued his healing duties while overseeing the plans for re-making the castle, but he was restless, impatient, as though he were waiting for something he knew nothing about.
“Are ye goin’ to be growlin’ at me today again?” Sam asked flippantly. “Because if ye are, I might as well go home and let my father do it.”
Magnus looked up in surprise. “Growl at ye? Why on earth would I do that, lass?”
Her eyes widened. “Because tis the only way ye talk to me lately. I’d begun to think ye’d forgotten your words.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re exaggerating, just like ye always do!” he said with a wee bit more force than he intended.
Hands on hips, she faced him squarely. “Is that so?” Sam was angry herself now, tired of explaining away all his little slights and rudenesses. “Well, then, I’ll take myself from your hearin’, since my voice is so calamitous.” Just like that, she disappeared.
Staring at the place where she had been a moment past, Magnus realized he was frowning fiercely. Sam was right; he was behaving like an ogre, or a MacDonnell, as Hugh would have said. Something was weighing heavily on his mind, and he did not want to admit it might have anything to do with the promise of the dream, which was given again and again, only to be taken away as often. He ached with that lost promise, and that was something he would not confess to anyone.
~ * ~
That night the dream swallowed him whole. Magnus fought it at first, but the pull was too strong. It attacked his body, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, with music that pulsed through his heart and his veins, so he throbbed with each note and rose, full of sensation, with each crescendo. The reed whistle danced along his skin like an invisible caress, while the strings of the hand harp followed, plucking, sliding, skimming along his torso with the skill and the rapture of angels.
When his body sang out for release, the music subsided, and he heard The Voice—strong but imperative. It called to him as a siren would, like the beauties who crooned the great warships of old onto the rocky shores, where they were wrecked and all their treasures and their manhood taken.
It urged him in the tone of a warrior, ready for battle, ready for blood, ready for victory at any cost.
It prevailed on him as warriors prevailed on their destriers to carry them, and their armor to safeguard them.
It begged him as a younger brother begs his older laird for just one night of battle.
It called to him in a manner he understood, and he knew that he must follow.
Though when he woke, he ached and felt hollow and alone. Except that this time, he felt hope in a flame beneath his skin that burned with wanting and need, and the knowledge that someday soon the wanting and need would be over.
~ * ~
In the morning, Magnus appeared at breakfast, freshly shaved, face and hands washed and wearing a clean shirt, waistcoat and breeches. He smiled, first at Diarmid, then Graeme and then Hugh.
“I’m glad you’re all here,” he told them with warmth and suppressed excitement. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do about the crafty MacDonnells of Glengarry.
All three stared at him expectantly.
“I shall take it upon myself, as Laird and ruler of the MacLeods, to go in search of Julia, my betrothed, and I swear I’ll no’ return here until she is by my side.”
They shouted; they ranted; they complained and made speeches. But in the end there was nothing they could do. They had demanded he solve the problem and he was going to do so. They could groan because it wasn’t what they wanted, but they certainly could not stop him.
As he left the dining room, Magnus smiled to himself. He had made them believe it. He almost believed it himself.
Chapter Nine
She had said she was ready, had even believed it. The traveling pack hung off one arm and down her back, full to bursting, and she had hugged and kissed even her pouting and disbelieving sister. Then Grandfather Rory opened the front door, and Esmé stood paralyzed. She had not looked out and down at the snow-covered ashes, rowans, pines and beeches, the ferns in winter sleep along the loch, the cotton grass, crushed and dead beneath snow and horse hooves and wagons and plows. She had not touched the door handle or leaned against the heavy mahogany for nine years, and she most assuredly had never stepped outside.
Her throat began to close and her heart to race. She pressed her hands to her chest because she could not breathe. Her face turned red and she grasped her chest with both hands.
“Someone close the cursed door.” It was Breda who shouted, who slammed the door shut, who hurried Esmé to a chair and offered her hot tea and sugar. “Just breathe, Es. Just remember to breathe.”
Esmé nodded mutely, surprised she could accomplish that much. She was grateful beyond tears for her sister in that moment. Esmé herself had not known what to do.
Gradually her pulse slowed, though not to its normal rate, the room steadied and the swelling in her throat went down, leaving her quite nearly normal. Clinging desperately to her medallion, she remained silent for a long time.
Her family gathered around the table in silence, waiting for her to speak first, not wanting to shatter her fragile protective shell. But they did not understand Esmé. No one did, except for Breda.
“I’m all right now. Mostly,” she announced at length. “I’ll try it again in a little while, but ye needn’t wait here for me.”
“But Esmé—”
“Are ye sure that’s wise—”
“Perhaps ye should postpone your trip—”
She tilted her head to get a better view of their concerned faces. “Ye weren’t listening before. I have to go, and I have to go soon—now. So I will conquer this fear, because I have to. Now, today.”
Her expression was not angry or irritated, but rather the look of a girl who simply wants to be understood.
Everyone wanted to say more—except for Breda—but everyone refrained. They went off to follow their own pursuits. Except for Breda.
“Thank you,” Esmé said. She was bundled up in a warm flannel shirt and trews, her plaid, a woolen sweater and a heavy greatcoat. She was getting overwarm but was still too shaken to think straight.
“Here,” Breda told her, “let me takes those things. No point in getting over heated too.”
For some reason, Esmé found that inordinately funny. Both girls laughed a bit too much in relief and at the thought of repeating the effort.
Once they were alone, Breda looked thoughtful. That was unusual enough for Esmé to ask, “What?”
“Do ye ever miss mam? Tis just, when I saw ye out there, I had a thought about her always going away.”
Esmé took her sister’s hand. “Ye miss her, don’t ye? Sometimes I do, sometimes I’m just curious and sometimes—”
“I hate her!” Breda interrupted.
Esmé sh
ook her head sadly. “I always think one shouldn’t do that. Tis hurtful for ye as well as her. But yes, sometimes I wonder if we would be less confused if we knew her better?”
“Confused about what, Es? I’m no’ confused. I’m just angry. Ye should be too.” Breda’s cheeks were flushed, then pale, then flushed.
Esmé wanted to comfort her, but had no idea how. “I can no’ let myself be angry. If I did I’d be angry all the time.”
Leaning in close, her sister whispered, “Perhaps ye are and ye just don’t know it.”
Brushing the thought away like a persistent insect, Esmé refused to think about it. “I think she’s sad.”
“But she doesn’t care, Es. Ye know she doesn’t. Yet you’re not afraid of that are ye? Is there nothing you’re no’ afraid of?”
Esmé bowed her head in shame. She was trying to be brave that day, but she was terrified. Perhaps, after all, she did hate Sorcha Fraser. She couldn’t help it. Here she was, burdened by guilt from things that had happened long ago, and her mother never felt guilty at all. Not one little bit. She just left them behind without a glance, without a last minute kiss, without anything to show them she loved her children. Because she didn’t. Esmé was certain of it. But she did not tell Breda that.
~ * ~
After four tries, Esmé finally inched her way outside the Hill of the Hounds. With her sister close beside her, holding Breda’s hand and shivering all the while, she paused. Don’t think, The Voice reminded her. Only feel the things your heart tells you—and your soul, for they are pure.
She felt it first in the pit of her stomach, so she summoned up The Voice and the music from her dreams, and with them came the courage she needed to take more steps away from the house, one by one, until, after what seemed like hours, she could no longer see the house, or her sister waving solemnly.
Esmé still felt sick, but it occurred to her for the first time that she had not really believed she could do this, but maybe she could after all. Maybe.
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