People have mostly forgotten the old ways, the ancient gods, the magic of sun and moon and stars. And because their belief is weak, so are we, who represent the oldest of the old, born of the Druids and before the Druids, of Celt and Roman and the Kingdom of Dalriada. There is also darkness in this world, which seeks to defeat the light. It has sought my son since birth, determined to destroy him, but an old woman came to us and let him choose two humans to help when he was most desperate. He could only speak inside their heads and not appear before them. He chose you, and I see that he chose wisely.
Last night the darkness came and set the blaze all round us, and I was powerless to fight it, for my son was surrounded by dark fire, and the forces of light cannot fight such a threat. Then we heard your voices coming, and even that was powerful enough to douse many of the flames. And then we saw you, and more fire consumed itself. And then you offered your tender hands—the greatest gift of all. For if he dies, our line will cease to be once I am gone. We are given one chance to procreate, and one chance only. That is why I ask you to save him.
I do not know yet if my son will live, but I know tis because of this danger that winter lingers oe’rlong.
Touch him, the deer instructed them. It would not have occurred to them to disobey.
Magnus moved as close to Esmé as he could and they leaned over the sleeping fawn, with her long blond hair for a curtain shutting them off from all but each other. Magnus rested his hand on top of hers upon the fawn—too young, yet, to be called a buck—and at once they had one vision and one sight. It spun with designs of Druid and Celt, with the gods on the walls and left free in the air. Century spun back upon century, belief upon belief, odd clothing upon jewelry of gold and copper. The history of the men and women who wore those clothes and that jewelry spun its story and then they moved on, and culture upon culture spun through their sight. The Old Ones, the sacrificed, the Celts and their gods, which Esmé recognized and shared into Magnus’s open mind, and then century upon century, folktale upon truth upon herb upon Sight, upon healing upon war, upon death upon learning. It spun and it spun through darkness and light, and then, finally, everything grew still.
Magnus and Esmé gasped as if their bodies had actually travelled so far and so fast. But by the time they caught their breath, the fawn was still sleeping, as if there had been no disturbance at all. The two healers sat unmoving, wondering at all they had seen and felt and known in those brief flashes, from ancient times to the present. In the space of a few moments, miraculously, they had been allowed to understand for themselves the importance to the whole of Scotland of saving this tiny fawn.
Without him, the winter would never release its grip. It would become eternal.
Chapter Fifteen
Several times in the next few days, Esmé cleaned the wound and treated the burns, then applied fresh dressings, according to Magnus’s instructions. The fawn slept on as long as Esmé sang or played the recorder.
Meanwhile, Magnus set up a crude camp, using his last flannel blanket as a kind of half-tent. He built a larger fire in the center of the fire-swept ring; it was the only place nearby where the snow was not thick and too cold to rest on. Besides, he and Esmé needed to stay close to the fawn and keep him warm. Esmé wrapped the injured animal in her plaid, which seemed to give him comfort, though she could tell he was floating somewhere away from them, because of the draughts to keep him sleeping and the fever that began to burn through his body.
Eventually, both Magnus and Esmé fell asleep, and when they woke, there was fresh prey to cook, and their damaged clothes had been replaced with sturdy new ones. Neither had spoken their concerns out loud, but they had wondered how they would survive in the cold, without food.
On that first new morning, after they ate, they began to talk.
She nestled next to him, grateful for his warmth and his wisdom and his kindness. “Ye don’t believe, do ye?”
“In what?” he asked idly, concentrating on keeping his hand in his lap rather than running it through her soft gleaming hair.
“That he’ll…” she swallowed dryly, “that he’ll survive.”
That took his attention away from her hair. Looking away, he rumbled, “Ye believe enough for both of us.”
She was silent for so long that he thought she might be angry. Just when he was searching frantically for something to say, she raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I’m not sure that is enough. I think, no I’m certain, that believing is part of the cure.”
She held his gaze, awaiting his response, but he could not think what to tell her.
“And what of the Celestial Deer? Do ye believe in him? Do ye believe that if the fawn should—” She broke off, unable to say the words.
Magnus drew her closer and felt her trembling. “Tis just…it doesn’t make sense.”
Esmé could not help herself; she began to giggle. “And the dream? Does that make sense? The one who haunted us and called us here, now? Waking in this snow world when we never traveled so far or so high? The crone along the way? The white buck who fades in and out of our sight? Does even one small part of it make sense?”
Shaking his head, Magnus wondered, not for the first time, if he was following in the footsteps of his ancestor, Magnus the Mad. “No, none of it. Not one tiny crumb.”
She elbowed him gently in the side. “But look ye, here we are.”
“Here we are,” he echoed with a flicker of hope. Oh, how he wanted to believe in the enchantment that had brought him to the moment when he sat here talking magic with this amazing woman. How could he deny it, after all? She was right; all those bewitching things had happened. But he was too afraid to speak of them out loud. Afraid to admit what he felt for Esmé.
“Can ye at least believe that?”
“Aye, well, it’d be foolish to argue. But why are ye so passionate about this? Why is it so important to ye that I believe?”
Esmé drew back, struck by the question. “I just…” she hesitated, afraid to express what neither had even alluded to. “I thought, when we touched his beating heart…I felt I knew ye, that I’d always known ye. As if…as if we were brought here for some reason other than the healing.” There. It was done. She could not believe she had said it out loud. If he laughed at her, or looked puzzled or blank, it would break her heart. But I won’t give up, she thought. Not anymore.
Astonished by her courage—and his own cowardice—Magnus raised her chin with his finger. “Yes, I felt it too. But I was too afraid to say so. I’m an eejit; I’ve always been an eejit. And too big. Everyone says I’m too big. I’m a healer who can’t even do his own stitches because of my clumsy large fingers. And ye are so tiny and fragile. I fear I would break ye, if no’ with my body, then with my small doubts. I’d no’ normally speak like this, so openly. I can no’ believe I’m doing it now, but these are extraordinary circumstances. I think…it seems to me…” he stumbled over his words, “that mayhap we have known each other for a long, long time. And it frightens beyond battles or death or dishonor.”
“Fear is no’ the same as disbelief, Magnus.” Esmé’s voice shook just a little.
Just then the fawn whimpered and they turned as one to their work, to the task that had brought them together.
Esmé had been giving the animal sips of water and broth whenever it awoke. Now the fever was at its peak and the fawn shuddered and shivered. Magnus brought her handfuls of snow which she melted on a cloth and then smoothed over its body, trying to cool the fever. She was busy constantly, wetting the cloth, caressing the fawn with it, taking more melted snow from Magnus, who also saw to the broth he had made from the rabbit they’d eaten the first day.
“Isn’t it time for the yarrow?” she asked him. She herself was drenched in sweat; it ran into her eyes and down her chest, and her trews were soaked.
“I’m sorry, lass, but ye have to let the fever run its course to some extent, or the poisons stay locked inside. I’ll let ye know when tis time.
It seemed like days she had been battling the fever, refusing to give in, and then she heard Magnus rustling among his herbs and smelled heated yarrow leaves. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and sighed with relief. Because she believed in Magnus.
He came to her with the poultice, but she refused to take it. Instead she guided his hands to the fawn’s forehead, placed the poultice across two of his fingers and steered them to lay the leaves there gently. Magnus used his little finger to smooth the leaves down and then sat back, triumphant.
“I would never have risked it without ye.” He reached for Esmé and nuzzled her neck.
She turned fully toward him. “Twas no’ a risk, Magnus. Twas a gift.”
They gazed at one another for a brief moment that lasted years, then moved closer until their lips were a breath apart. “Ye have saved me,” he whispered.
“And ye me,” she replied.
Their lips met tenderly, and he tasted her sweet, sweet kiss. He knew without asking that this was her first: full of innocence and passion, need and the gift of her heart.
Chapter Sixteen
For the next several hours, both hovered over the fawn, alternating tisanes of pennyroyal and yarrow leaves and trying to make the fawn more comfortable with the cool cloth. Esmé was delighted the first time she prepared the leaves properly, just as she was the first time Magnus managed to blot the cloth over the animal’s body.
They smiled at each other constantly, and Magnus could not help but wonder if Esmé was right, and the believing helped, because at last the fawn began to sweat, which meant the fever was breaking. Magnus gave it some water from Esmé’s small cup, and she fed it broth, a little at a time.
Esmé opened the dressing to see that the swelling had gone down and the stitches were now completely visible. And when she met the white fawn’s eyes, they were clear—no longer delirious—and she swore she could see gratitude in the silvery depths.
It was still in pain, so Magnus prepared the leaves of All-heal and Esmé placed them on the wound and burns. The fawn went back to sleep.
“The Voice is gone,” she said sadly, as they ate their own broth.
Magnus put his arm around her and felt her sorrow through her clothes. “Why is that, do ye think, my love?”
It was the first time he had used the word love and it sent warmth furrowing through her body. She leaned into him, into the heat and the welcome of his body. “I think tis no’ necessary anymore—for us to communicate, I mean. I think its soul must rest with its body so it can fully heal, and that the voice took a great deal of energy and spirit.”
Tis odd, Magnus thought, that she can be so practical and useful and precise, and yet so fanciful. But he did not speak the words, because she would only point out that the voice had spoken to him as well and brought him here, and because of that, he had met Esmé. There was no getting around that one. It was, indeed, a miracle. “Aye, no doubt you’re right.” To punctuate his point, he kissed her.
Esmé climbed up in his lap, and curled against him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back with every bit of her passion and belief.
The gesture took his breath away; no woman had ever made him feel like this before. Fingers of fire raced through his veins, and he wanted her with a desire so intense it blurred his senses. He wanted her this instant—all of her—but that would have to wait.
Clinging to his greatcoat, Esmé shivered at the sensations rushing through her. She had never imagined sensations like these, even in her dreams, when she awoke hungry and aching. This ache was more than pleasant; it was ravenous and greedy, and she felt her whole world lay within it, waiting to be born.
“Do ye love your family very much?” Magnus asked at what she thought a most inappropriate time. But he knew better.
She glared at him in silence, tried to kiss him again, but, reluctantly, he drew his lips away. “I’m waiting.”
“Do ye really want to know?” she asked in exasperation. “Now?”
“I most sincerely want to know. Right now.”
“But why?” She wanted nothing more than to kiss for a while longer and then fall asleep in his arms.
“Ye said ye believe in me,” he pointed out.
She nodded, again reluctantly.
“And when ye asked me your questions, I answered them at once, though I was afraid of your response. Is that no’ so?”
“Aye,” she said. She could hardly disagree.
“Weel then, please answer mine. Tis only fair.”
Esmé got out of his lap, because she surely could not talk of everyday matters while she was there; it was against her desire, her will, and her common sense. “All right then.” But she did not give up entirely—not while she continued to breathe. She took the leather thong from the bottom of her braid and began to unwind her long blond hair. She knew without being told that Magnus loved her hair.
“Aye, I love my family dearly. They’re the best people I know, except for Breda the Brat—” she added automatically. Then she remembered all the help her sister had given her to get Esmé out of the house and on her journey. “No, even Breda the Brat. I must remember to stop calling her that.”
She explained about Breda, and then it was only natural to tell him why she had needed Breda’s assistance, and that led to the story of Ewan and her father and the bear, and then she had to stop to take a drink of water.
Magnus was fascinated that the amazing woman snuggled beside him had been hidden away in her home for years until The Voice called her away. Yet she had come. Had never considered staying at home where she was safe. She was more remarkable than he’d imagined.
Now that she was talking about her family, Esmé had forgotten all about kissing—for the moment. She went on to describe her much beloved Grandmother Caelia, and her great-grandmother Clare, and her grandfather Rory and her father Connall Fraser and her young brother Geordie.
“But what about your mother?” he asked, puzzled by her absence in the fascinating narrative.
Esmé had long since finished unbraiding her hair. She concentrated for a long moment on combing it out. Finally she took a deep breath. “My mother is named Sorcha MacGregor.” She continued to comb; her hair was very long. “She comes and goes, rather like my other great-grandmother, Lila. She cannot seem to stay in one place for very long. So I’m very glad she brought Da home and married him. If she had no’ done that, I can’t imagine where we all would be. But she did, and we’re together, and safe, and can choose what we want, and we’re happy. Tis why I wear the Rose plaid and no’ the Fraser. We all like it best, and we can no’ have a hundred clans running through the house. Think how confusing it would be. And that’s my home, Magnus. That’s what I love—and who. Except for ye.”
It was not what Magnus had thought he wanted to hear, but when she was finished, it took him only an instant to make his decision.
~ * ~
The next time they turned to their patient, he was struggling to stand.
Chapter Seventeen
The fawn was finally walking without difficulty. He followed both Magnus and Esmé around as they did their daily chores; he submitted meekly to their ministrations, though he began to have a kick in his step and confidence that encouraged him to hold his head high. The better he felt, the more he withdrew from them until, at last, he was as regal as his father and did not seem to remember who these two people were.
Esmé wept a little as she saw this happening day-by-day. She could not deny the emotional connection she felt with the tiny fawn who had needed them so much. In caring for him, she had woven a fine but tensile bond between them, which, like an invisible web, wound around Magnus as well. The three had shared an experience like no other that had come before, or would ever come again.
She could not dismiss so easily the empathy she’d felt for the small wounded animal. It had grown into tenderness, then fondness, then deep affection as the animal healed and grew stronger, became more himself.
Ev
en Magnus mourned the loss of their companion. This was an exceptional creature, after all, finely honed and beautiful: no other deer came close. “But tis no’ only that,” he told Esmé. “When I help heal something, I give it part of myself, and in return, I receive a part of him. I never knew that before, in all my years of treating the sick and the injured. Tis a silent pact between us, a bond, ye might say.” He smiled and his face shone with wonder at the revelation.
Esmé kissed his cheek tenderly. “Aye, that’s it exactly.” She had known that for a long time, as she used her remedies on her small menagerie at home. But it had never occurred to her as she helped treat her brother’s fever. She had given Ewan something of herself, and in return, she had received something of him. He’d been in her heart, always, just as the amazing white fawn would be.
She settled against Magnus’s chest, and he closed his arms around her. “Tell me, mo-charaid, do ye disbelieve any less?” she asked.
“Tis difficult to disbelieve when coming brought me ye. When I saw these wonders with my own eyes and felt them with my body. I’d have to call myself Magnus the Moron if I didn’t come to believe just a little.”
Esmé kissed his neck. “You’re no’ a moron. You’re brilliant and caring. And handsome.” She whispered this last, but he heard it just the same.
He leaned down to look into her eyes, brushing her lips with his as he did so. “Weel then, Esmé, do ye think I’d be presentable enough to meet your family? Do ye think they’d be willing to take me in?”
She sat up straight, affronted. “Take ye in as what?”
Smiling, he caressed a lock of her hair. “Why as your husband, of course. What else could I possibly mean?”
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