by Jen Holling
Gillian ignored Rose for a moment, soft gray eyes intent on the corner, apparently attending to something the ghost children said to her. She was as lovely and perfect as always, in a green silk gown draped with a red-and-green arisaid. Thick sable hair was pulled away from her face, the glossy curls packed into a jeweled caul. The perfect countess.
Isobel’s pale green eyes turned toward Rose, and she whispered, “They don’t understand they’re dead.” She shook her head sadly, her thick copper-gold braid slipping over her shoulder. It, too, was kinked from curls. Rose was the only one of the three with impossibly straight auburn hair.
Isobel continued in a low voice, “It’s making it most difficult for Gillian to help them move on.”
Gillian smiled ruefully. “All they want to do is play.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Rose asked. “I think I’d like to be a bairn forever and have nothing better to do than play.”
Gillian’s eyes softened and her smile faded. “You never did play much, did you? Always healing, even when you were a wee thing.”
“Aye, well,” Rose said, feeling guilty for expressing such feelings. Her mother had worked very hard to teach her, even though Lillian herself had not been a healer. She’d had such faith in her youngest daughter, and Rose had failed her. She’d been barely competent when Lillian had died. Rebellious and complaining, she’d given her mother fits. Rose gave a small shake of her head, putting it from her mind. She couldn’t change it now, so there was no value in dwelling on it. Instead she worked hard to be the healer her mother had always believed she could be.
Rose nodded to the corner. “Why can’t they just stay here and play?”
Gillian sighed and gazed at the empty air thoughtfully. “I suppose they can for now. But they should move on. Others are there, waiting for them. They’ll be happier.”
“It sounds as if they’re happy now.”
“They keep asking about their mother,” Gillian said. “They understand that she’s dead, but they don’t understand they’re dead. If they’d move on, they’d be with their mother again.”
“Unless she went to the other place,” Rose said.
Gillian shook her head firmly. “She didn’t.”
“How do you know?” Rose asked, skeptical. Her sister could see ghosts, but so far there’d been no mention of an afterlife.
“Because there is no hell.”
Isobel looked around the hall nervously, but no one was close enough to overhear. “Hush, Gillian. That’s blasphemy you speak.”
Gillian shrugged. “It’s the truth—or so it seems to me. Hell is of our own making, if we’re afraid to move on.”
“So the wee lassies are in hell?” Rose asked.
“That’s not what I said. They’ve not made it into a hell. They don’t even understand they can move on. They’re just children. It’s the ones that tie themselves to a place and haunt it. Those are the ones in hell.”
Rose considered this while Isobel glanced around nervously.
“Can we speak of something else?” Isobel whispered. After nearly being burned herself for witchcraft, Isobel had become quite cautious about such things.
“Aye,” Rose said. “I’ve something to tell you, but you must not breathe a word to anyone—especially Uncle Roderick.” Rose scanned the hall. It was deserted except for a few hounds lazing in the rushes. She leaned closer to her sisters. “I’m leaving at first light. I’m going to bring Lord Strathwick here.”
They both stared at her as if she’d gone mad. And perhaps she had, to undertake this alone, but she could see no other alternatives.
“Tell Da for me, but give me as much of a head start as possible in case he tries to send someone after me. Two days would be good.”
Isobel reacted first, shaking her head in bewilderment. “You’re going north—alone?”
Before Rose could respond, Gillian gripped her arm. “You cannot go alone.”
“And who should I take? Who can I trust here?”
Isobel and Gillian exchanged an uneasy glance.
“Fash not. I will disguise myself as a man.”
Gillian grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Rose—think! Broken men roam the Highlands. Even lone men are in danger.”
“You and Isobel traveled alone, and not disguised as men either. You came to no ill.”
“We were fortunate.”
“As will I be.”
Her sisters still looked uneasy, and Rose couldn’t risk them doing something foolish, like telling their husbands. That might end her journey before it began. She stared down at the rush-strewn floor for a long moment, then inhaled deeply through her nose. “I’m not a fool. I know that some of the stories about this wizard might be just that—fables. But I can’t help hoping…” Rose’s heart raced at the thought, her voice catching momentarily. “If he is real, then I’ll bring him back if I have to tie him to my horse. But if he’s not…” She didn’t want to consider that. “I have to know.”
Gillian’s lips thinned, and she gazed at Rose with worried gray eyes. “But are you sure it’s wise? Nicholas’s man never returned…we don’t know what happened to him. The journey north is harsh and dangerous.”
“Aye, but they haven’t burned nearly as many witches up north. It’s far safer than what you two did a few months back, traveling into the heart of the witch hunt to save Sir Philip.”
“Aye,” Isobel conceded, “but there are other dangers in the north.”
“It’ll be fine. I promise. I lived on Skye, remember? I can’t imagine a bigger band of hempies then the MacLeans. I’m well used to such men.”
They both still looked so worried. Rose sighed and held her arm out to Isobel. “Have a look—see what happens.”
Isobel frowned uncertainly. She had visions when she touched some things. Sometimes she saw the past, sometimes the present, sometimes the future. She’d been working hard to gain greater control of the gift, and she was having some success. She removed her gloves and gripped Rose’s sleeve. After a moment she shut her eyes, her smooth brow creasing.
Rose and Gillian watched her closely. When her sage green eyes drifted open, they were empty, sightless. The troubled lines in her forehead became more pronounced, and her hand tightened on Rose’s arm. She shook her head slightly, as if trying to shake off something disturbing, then her shoulders relaxed and a smile spread across her face. She released Rose’s arm.
“What is it?” Rose asked impatiently.
“Oh, you’ll be back—and in time to deliver Tira of a large son.”
“You saw this?” Gillian asked, eyes wide.
“Aye, I did. It will be a difficult birth—you’ll nearly lose both mother and child. There is a strange man there I don’t recognize. He has gray hair. I think he’s your wizard. He helps with the birth.”
A surge of excitement and determined hope shot through Rose. Isobel’s visions weren’t always accurate, but they were often enough to make Rose confident her mission would be a success. “You see? There is naught to fash on. I’ll be back with the wizard within the month.”
Isobel grew serious. She seemed to be mulling something over, then she blurted out, “I saw something else, Rose, before the birthing. Something from your past.”
Rose’s gut clenched. “Aye?”
Isobel bit her lip hesitantly. “Would you like to talk about what happened on Skye?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Rose tried to keep her face expressionless, though it felt stiff and unnatural from the effort, but she was determined to discourage further questions.
Gillian, of course, had no clue what they were talking about, and she looked between the two of them curiously. Rose was certain Isobel would fill Gillian in later, and that made resentment simmer, but not enough to discuss it. Let them think what they would. She had other things to fash on.
“What about Jamie MacPherson?” Gillian asked.
Rose’s hand went to the ribbon around her neck, drawing the locket from her bo
dice where it lay against her heart. Jamie MacPherson was her betrothed. He’d been writing letters to her for months now. They’d known each other as children, and she remembered him with great fondness. She longed to wed him, but she’d written him, telling him she could not in good conscience marry him so long as her father was so ill. He’d written back assuring her that he understood and would wait.
She opened the locket and gazed down into her betrothed’s cerulean eyes, his handsome face framed by golden hair. She shut the locket abruptly and tucked it back into her bodice. “He doesn’t have to know…besides, if he ever finds out, he would understand. He is a good man, like Sir Philip and Lord Kincreag.”
Her sisters had been most fortunate in their husbands—fine men both, who adored their wives.
Rose stood. “I need to have a look at Tira so Uncle Roderick doesn’t suspect anything.” She gave them both a penetrating look. “Not a word to anyone. If someone comes looking for me tomorrow, tell them I’ve the bloody flux and cannot leave my chambers.”
Isobel and Gillian stood, giving Rose swift, firm hugs and wishing her Godspeed. Filled with hope and resolve, she left to begin her preparations.
From his tower window he watched her leave under shadow of darkness and fog. She thought she was being clever—she always thought she was being clever. But in truth, she was doing exactly what he wanted. She’d interfered for the last time. The demon-raising ceremony was a lengthy one, consisting of days of fasting and prayer, and he could not do it with her present. Her sisters might cause some problems, but not nearly the delays Rose had caused him. Besides, he could charm the sisters into anything. Rose did not respond to charm or scolding or anything.
How she had become such a hard woman, he didn’t know—her time on Skye with the MacLeans, no doubt—nor did he care. Not anymore. He looked to the sky. The moon was waxing. Soon it would be full and he could finally begin.
Chapter 2
Strathwick Castle, Northern Highlands, a fortnight later.
“My lord? She’s still out there. In the rain.”
William flicked a disinterested glance at the large, scarred man-at-arms standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. The rather incongruous sight gave him a brief prick of amusement.
When he made no response, Wallace went on, “She’ll catch her death, she will. At least let me show her to the stables.”
William’s brother Drake made a rude noise. He lounged in William’s chair before the fire, a leg slung over the carved arm, jet-black hair gleaming in the firelight. “Serves her right if she does catch her death. It’s not my lord’s fault if she’s stupid enough to stand out in the rain like a coof.”
“She’s not stupid,” William said. The carved wooden box on his desk drew his gaze. “She’ll get out of the rain eventually.” His gaze swept the room. “Leave me.”
Drake stood and stretched but didn’t leave. When the others were gone, he gave William a keen look. “You’re acting strange.”
“Rumor has it I am strange.”
Drake lifted a shoulder and palm to acknowledge that. “Aye, well, more so than usual. You seem preoccupied since the MacDonell lass arrived.”
That was true, but William didn’t mean to discuss it with Drake. “I’m well enough.”
Drake hesitated, as if there was more he wanted to say, but finally left. Alone at last, William crossed the room to his desk. He rested a hand on the wooden box, pensive. Why had he kept that letter? He’d burned all her others. He tapped the lid of the box. The musing question repeated itself with each tap of his fingers against the wood. Why? Why? Why?
He removed the letter and held it in his hand, still folded, still bearing the broken red wax and her bold scrawl: Deliver to Lord William MacKay of Strathwick.
He had known immediately something was wrong when he’d received this letter. All her letters were full of desperation and pleading—and authority. Her father was dying. He was her only hope. God commanded it of him. Her audacity made him smile. But still, he’d burned all the others. It had never occurred to him to reply.
This letter, however, had been different. His name across the front was uneven, scrawled, lacking the brazen confidence of the others. He strolled to the fireplace, fingers caressing the parchment. He stared down at the folded letter. Feed it to the flames.
Instead he sat, leaning back in his chair, and unfolded it for perhaps the hundredth time since receiving it.
My dearest Lord Strathwick,
Why do you ignore me? I know you must be used to such requests. You must receive scores of them with regularity, and I ken I’m just another hopeful petitioner. It is impossible on parchment to convey my earnest need for you. I can only tell you that I, too, am a healer, and every soul I lose is a burden to my conscience. At first, I didn’t suppose a man possessing the miracle of healing by touch could understand that, but then recalled that even the Saints endured trials. You are a man with a divine gift, but you are still a man. I know that at times you must feel helpless and alone as I do now. I cannot tell you the circumstances that separated my family for twelve years, but I have only just regained them, and I am now losing my father to a mysterious ailment. The loss of my mother was the catalyst for the events that tore my sisters and I from my father and each other. That is all I can say of that. I cannot bear to lose my father now when there’s still so much unfinished. I feel so impotent when it seems as if there must be something I could do. Why would God give me this gift, then make it impossible to help those I loved the most? It vexes me terribly. Surely you can understand this and as a fellow healer will grant me this boon?
My hand has run away with me. I plead like a fool and make little sense. I think to tear this letter to shreds and start anew, but I fear, you do not read them anyway, so what matter?
Your friend eternally,
Rose MacDonell
From the House of Lochlaire on x June
The year of our Lord 1597
William inhaled deeply, carefully refolding the parchment and tapping it against his thigh. He had replied to this letter. Twice. He’d burned both versions. That was the only reason he’d saved this letter, he told himself, and not very convincingly. Because the rawness of it—as if she’d opened a vein and bled onto the parchment for him alone—deserved an answer. And yet everything he wrote in response was inadequate, mere dressing to cushion the force of his reply. No. He would not help her. And she would not accept that answer.
He lifted the letter so that firelight reflected off the smooth surface of the parchment, smudged now from his many readings. She was here now, outside his walls. Would he really send her away without even talking to her? Without looking upon the face that had written these words? It seemed wrong to invite her in, to give her hope, and yet he needed to see her. It was a physical pull, a hole that somehow wanted filling.
He rubbed the corner of the letter thoughtfully against his chin. Perhaps there was a way.
Rose’s clothes were soaked through so that she shivered violently, her teeth chattering, but still she sat in the meager protection of the gatehouse, rainwater pooling about her feet and bottom. She could see faint lights from the village, but the rain and fog obscured the cottages. Logic told her to get to her feet, walk to the village, and seek shelter. Her horse stood over her, head down, the rain beating onto her back.
Rose had told the porter to inform Lord Strathwick that she wasn’t leaving until he spoke with her. The porter had warned her she would drown first, but she waited stubbornly. Her mother had always said she was obstinate, that when she got an idea in her head, she refused to let loose of it.
She buried her face in her cold, wet hands as another violent shiver racked her. It had taken a fortnight to get here, and not through easy terrain. It had been long and grueling and she’d done it alone, disguised as a lad. She’d looked forward to company on the return trip, eagerly anticipated long conversations with Strathwick about healing. Perhaps he’d even have been willing to teach her som
ething.
Fool!
And still she sat, stubborn as an ass. She’d said she wouldn’t leave until she spoke to him, and by God, she’d drown before she left this spot. Judging by the puddle forming around her, it appeared that might actually occur. Laughter rippled through her unexpectedly.
“Miss? Are you unwell?”
The deep, masculine voice startled her, and a jolt went through her. She dropped her hands and squinted upward, pushing back the sopping brim of her hat. A man towered over her, his plaid pulled over his head, shielding him from the rain and her scrutiny. His face was but a dark shadow, the features indistinct, leaving her only with the impression of great height and breadth.
“Just drowning,” she said, then bit back a foolish smile.
He said nothing for a long moment, staring down at her. Though the dark and the plaid hid his expression, she sensed he frowned at her. Probably thought she was mad. Perhaps she was.
“Come,” he said, his deep voice kind but impersonal. “You must get out of the rain.”
His sudden presence and concern sparked hope. “Inside the castle?”
“No, I know someone in the village who will give you a place before their fire.”
Rose sighed. “My thanks, but I’m not moving.” She frowned up at him thoughtfully. “Are you from the castle? I didn’t see anyone cross the bridge.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, I work in the stables.”
“Tell your master he can throw my bloated corpse in the moat when I drown. I’m not moving.”
“I doubt he’ll want your body floating in his moat, making the place smell, but make no mistake, you will die out here before he’ll see you.”
Rose’s heart sank, and she found herself perilously close to tears for the first time in weeks. She’d held out such hope that Strathwick was the answer to her prayers, had traveled so far, for it to come to this. There was nothing more to do. Her father’s cause was lost.
