The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “But, after you’ve set yourself up, why couldn’t I come on my own? I could cook and clean. I could find a fee. Laundry, or sewing. If he comes searching for me I could hide.”

  He hesitated, gnawing at his lip. “Why d’you give him so many reasons to beat you? If you’d wait till you’ve finished your chores before you run off to the moor, you could be happier. Then he’d ignore you.”

  “My chores are never finished. You know that. You don’t care what happens to me. All you care about is yourself and your own freedom.”

  His heavy black brows knotted. “That’s not true. You can’t live with me because I don’t have a clue what’ll happen, or what my life will be. I’ve never been to Edinburgh. No doubt I’ll struggle, for a while at least. I can’t be fashing over you as well as myself.” He dropped his gaze to the ground, scuffing at the mud with the worn toe of his boot. “I can’t thole this anymore.”

  Washed in guilt, she said more gently, “Aye, you’re a man and can make your own way. Of course I want you to go. I’m envious, is all.”

  “I do want to bring you with me. I’ll try to think of a way….”

  “Perhaps another lad will solve the problem.”

  “Well.” He grinned and cocked a brow. “I’ll not tell all I know about that.”

  “What? What d’you know?” She grabbed his arm.

  His smile was satisfied and mocking. “I know what lass one of my best mates is so taken up with the fool can scarce speak of anything else. I almost broke his nose over it.”

  “Is it—”

  “I’ll betray no confidences.”

  “You wouldn’t say a word if—”

  “Come, jo, time to face your punishment.” His expression gave nothing away as he asked, “Has that unicorn let ye keek it yet? All silver-white… standing beneath your window?”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “You know I haven’t, because I haven’t the eyes of a madman.”

  “Speaking of madmen,” he drawled, “I’d suggest you make certain Da never sees that mark on your neck.”

  Her cheeks grew hot as brushfires. “Aye…” she said weakly. “That’s good advice. We’ll be brave, won’t we?”

  “We will.”

  * * * *

  Like the fields he ploughed, Douglas’s face was deeply furrowed. It was a testament to over fifty years of strife and labor, of the fight to survive. Though grey now dominated, his hair and beard had once been deepest black, or so Isabel claimed. The one feature on Douglas that never seemed to change were his eyes— for as long as Morrigan could mind, they had been as cold as a winter sea. She could hardly remember a time when they hadn’t sent fear springing through her.

  He was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea when she and Nicky returned. Beatrice was there as well, and Aunt Ibby. Morrigan made a downcast apology, speaking faintly around the lump of terror in her throat. Douglas’s gaze flickered over her then veered to her brother. “You were sent to bring her home, not play in the mud,” he said. “Where have you been all this while?” He paused only an instant before jerking his head at the door. “Go and wait for me in the barn.”

  This was his well-worn method of letting his children know they were about to be whipped. But Douglas hadn’t touched his son with hand nor lash in years. Nicky was nearly twenty-two, far too old to be punished like a misbehaving wean. Morrigan watched her brother’s face whiten. “What are you on about?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. His hands clenched though he kept them at his sides, and the air nearly crackled with threat.

  “You’re right.” Douglas rose. “It’s her punishment to take. Be off. Do whatever you please.” He shrugged, grabbed Morrigan’s arm, and began pulling her to the door, his grip tightening as she tried to free herself.

  “Stop it.” Nicky’s jaw worked. “You’ve already blackened her jaw. Beat me then, if you must beat someone.” Grimacing, he lowered his head and went out, striding across the close.

  Morrigan didn’t have the courage to tell her father what a monster he was, though the words shrieked inside. She wanted to tear his face open with her nails, but she could only stand, frozen, disbelieving.

  “What are you doing?” Ibby was no coward. She got right up in Douglas’s face. “You can’t mean to beat Nicky.”

  He turned from her and went out the door, not bothering to reply.

  “No!” She went after him, grabbing his arm. “He’s a grown man. It’s humiliating!”

  “Get off me, Isabel.” He flung her hand off his arm.

  “Beast! You’re an inhuman, uncaring beast!” She stopped and stood, wringing her hands. “You don’t deserve to have children!”

  There soon came the distinct crack of a leather strap against skin. Ibby returned to the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “You enjoy listening?” Beatrice said coldly to Morrigan, who remained by the door.

  “He does it to punish me,” she said.

  “Your mischief brought this about, aye. Maybe he thinks it’s the only way you’ll learn.”

  Morrigan ran from her aunt into the close, stopping outside the half-open barn door.

  She heard six sharp cracks, followed by a strangled gasp, and imagined herself ripping Douglas Lawton’s eyes from their sockets, hearing him scream. Feeling his blood pour, warm and sticky, over her fingers.

  Douglas came out, scowling as though the lashing had only increased his anger. There was so much hatred there, in his eyes, on his face.

  She wished she could explode, leaving nothing but a mess of blood and slivers of bone.

  “Tend your brother,” he said, and walked away.

  She ran into the barn. Nicky lay on his stomach, unmoving. For one instant, she thought he might be dead. The strap marks crisscrossed his back, red and swollen. A few were bleeding. They seemed an enigmatic roadmap, leading the way to some dismal place no one with any sense would choose to go.

  “Nicky?”

  “Why does he hate you so much?”

  Stretching out next to him, she wiped tears from his cheek with her thumb.

  Beatrice brought a bowl of warm water, clean cloths, and her special deadening liniment. Morrigan cleaned the welts and applied the ointment.

  Dust motes careened through shafts of light. At last Nicky put his hands in the straw and pushed up. Using one of the wooden beams, he dragged himself to his feet, releasing a harsh sound of pain and almost losing his balance as he reached down for his sark.

  Morrigan grabbed it and gave it to him. She rose, putting her shoulder under his arm.

  His face was different. There was no light in his eyes. Always generous with smiles, his mouth now lay flat, tight and colorless. Douglas had extinguished his merry spark, what she’d loved most about him.

  The rage that had sent her to the forest reared again, but this time it twisted inward like a bitter poison.

  “I’m going,” he said. “Tonight.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I’ll send for you.” His teeth grated and he shook his head. “Be careful until I do.”

  He draped his sark over his shoulders, grimacing.

  No beating on earth could have matched the one Morrigan proceeded to give herself in the dusty barn. Which was, no doubt, her father’s plan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE HONEYED SCENT of woodbine floated through the open window, bringing memories of lost summers, of wrapping barley into fat droopy stooks and Nicky carrying her cockerdecosie around them. Morrigan leaned against the casement and observed her world.

  Peewits chirped and a hidden dove cooed. The sun peeked over the roof of the barn, throwing peach-stained streaks across a cobalt sky. In the meadow, Leo kicked, snorted and shook his black mane. With a half-rear and a whinny, he raced to the stone wall and carved a trench in the soil with one gigantic hoof. The more sedate old mare, Widdie, ignored her restless companion as she ripped up mouthfuls of grass.

  Such a peaceful scene offered encouragemen
t after the dreich weather of two days ago, when the skies had wept for Nicky.

  He’d slipped out like he said he would, in the night. When Douglas discovered it, he’d raged through the house, cursing his son, his daughter, the rain, the crops. Morrigan had hidden, frightened yet triumphant. This was one time events hadn’t bowed to the cruel bastard’s demands.

  Douglas let her know he blamed her by pointedly leaving whatever room she entered, sometimes with a disgusted growl.

  She had seen her brother off, pressing her hoarded two shillings into his hand, and a packet holding three thick sandwiches, for he was always hungry, and one of her books, to keep him company on the train, and finally, the unicorn he’d carved for her tenth birthday. He’d stood for several moments in the doorway, his forehead pressed to hers, before he sighed, kissed her, and went off into the night.

  She pictured him arriving in Edinburgh, looking for a place to stay, maybe starting his fee with the newspaper. He’d planned to go anyway, after the harvest. Now Papa would have to hire a strong lad or two to help him get the wheat and barley in, unless he added that to her chores as well.

  “You’re lucky to be gone,” she said. As for his promise to send for her, she wouldn’t let herself hope.

  Thankfully, there were no travelers to be perturbed by the shouting and tension. She would finish the laundry and hang it in the sun to dry. Beatrice planned to roast a chicken or two and would expect her help. Today she would try to be what Nicky had so often advised: quiet and industrious. It might help soothe Douglas’s anger.

  Not a hair lay out of place nor a crease marred her skirts when she finished her toilette. Nick is well away, she chastised her selfish grief. No one will ever lash him again.

  With a firm pinch on each cheek to coax some color, she descended to the kitchen, where her aunts were slicing leeks and peeling potatoes.

  Ibby gave Morrigan a sad, subdued glance and patted her hand. “Good morning, sweet,” she said when Morrigan bent to kiss the older woman’s soft, wrinkled cheek.

  After the wash was finished, Morrigan simmered vegetables, wrung the necks of two chickens, and set herself down in the close to pluck the feathers.

  Ibby joined her. “I ordered a bolt of velvet last month,” she said, settling onto a three-legged stool. “Cisele, it’s called. Also a good dimity and I couldn’t resist two yards of Spanish lace, though I fear lasses have small need of a lace shawl the way the wind blows off the Sound. I should’ve ordered tartan, but there you have it. Your aunt is a wretched daft woman.”

  A feather floated against Morrigan’s cheek.

  “But I’ve found that lasses don’t always use their heads when they fancy something,” Ibby added more cheerfully. “Did I tell you I’ve had a few customers clear from Fort William?”

  “I’m happy you’re doing so well.” Morrigan didn’t reveal that after Uncle Gregor died, Douglas had predicted Ibby would soon be on their doorstep, destitute, and he’d have another mouth to feed.

  Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, Ibby wiped her nose and regarded the frolicking horses. “My bones long for a warm place.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sometimes I dream I live on a tropical island. Kings trust me. Folk bow to me wherever I go. I still have dreams where you’re my child.”

  “You do?” Morrigan smiled. It was too bad Ibby had never given birth. She loved steadfastly, and would’ve made the grandest mother.

  “Aye, every few months.” Her aunt’s laughter faded into reflection. “For years I’ve thought I should pack up and move here so I could be closer to you and Nicky. Now he’s gone, and you’re alone.”

  “Don’t fret, Auntie. I’ll make do.”

  Ibby picked up the other chicken and plucked a few feathers. “Of course you will… but I’m thinking I want you to come with me to Mallaig.” She paused. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here.”

  “You want me to leave the inn? To live with you?” She could hardly believe it. After a lifetime of bondage, two tenuous avenues of escape had been broached in a matter of days.

  “You’d be a great help to me, though it’s a shame you’ve never learned to make a straight seam, and your mending is…” she shook her head. “A sight is what it is.”

  Morrigan hated sewing. Delicate, painstaking work appealed to Ibby, but Morrigan invariably snarled the thread, broke the needles, and ended up wanting to set fire to the whole mess.

  “It was different when Nicky was here,” Ibby said, low. “He watched out for you. I knew he wouldn’t let things go too far.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “D’you want me to ask?”

  “It’s useless. He’ll never agree.”

  “We can try, isoke.”

  The pet name was one Ibby used only when they were alone, and when asked, she’d laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know where it comes from,” she’d admitted, “or when I first thought it. But its always there, every time I think about you.”

  When the chickens were basted and roasting in the oven, Beatrice asked Morrigan to go to town and buy a sugarloaf so she could make fruit pastries, adding that maybe on the way home she could pick some wildflowers for the dining room table. The invitation to dawdle was kind and rare. Perhaps Ibby had suggested it. Morrigan seized gloves and a bonnet and ran before her aunt could reconsider.

  After she’d made her purchase, she strolled to the seafront to watch the gulls soar, marveling as she always did at how much their cries sounded like sad, lonely babies. A half-buried shell twinkled at her. She brushed it clean and listened to the surf inside.

  Fresh wind teased from the west, carrying an earthy fragrance of bracken, gorse, and open moorland. She followed eagerly, coming soon to the edge of town, where she turned inland, climbing the hill that would give her an unobstructed view of Loch Ryan and Stranraer. At the summit she watched the Princess Louise glide up to the wharf, and the tiny black figures swarming down the pier like ants emerging from an anthill. The way the light struck the humped isle of Ailsa Craig to the north made it appear closer than it was, nearly close enough to swim to.

  She rambled on into undulating moor that soon hid all evidence of Stranraer, giving an impression of vast, uninhabited expanses. Up and down over rough ground she clambered, taking off her boots and stuffing her stockings inside them so she could wade through a burn. Away in the west, a lochan sparkled in a froth of blue-green, and the only living things she saw were grazing sheep and an eagle, gliding joyously. Roving wind stirred about her feet, sparking an urge to dance, blowing away fear and sadness and all dark things, away into the wild, empty land she loved.

  The wind sharpened, billowing her shawl. She removed it and folded it over her arm; her gloves and bonnet soon followed, so she could feel the warmth of the sun on her hair.

  Remembering Beatrice’s suggestion, she picked bluebells, campion, coltsfoot, and yellow rattle. Then she spotted a patch of tormentil and farther on, purple mallow. It was too bad there was no heather. Beatrice would be dissatisfied with this pitiful cluster, and would no doubt inquire why she hadn’t gone to the meadows and woodland, where wildflowers of every type and hue abounded.

  As she shaded her eyes, searching for color, she spied a figure approaching from the direction of Stranraer, and with a jolt of surprise recognized Curran Ramsay, the Highland gentleman who had gone to Ireland days ago to acquire a puppy. His golden hair, being blown about by the wind, gave him away.

  He waved and quickened his step. “I saw you from the pier,” he said, “standing on the hill like a statue.”

  “You’ve good eyesight, Mr. Ramsay.” Morrigan held out her hand. He appeared highly pleased; it seemed cruel to wish he hadn’t spotted her. She’d so wanted some rare time alone.

  “Aye.” He clasped her fingers as he shrugged a bulky leather knapsack off his shoulder. “I was on my way to the inn to show you something.”

  Sunlight brought out the diverse shades in his hair, from gold and honey to wheat and flaxen. I
t reminded her of a watercolor rendition of the Greek god Apollo in his sun-chariot, which had hung on the dominie’s schoolroom wall. Curran Ramsay could have been that painting brought to life.

  Belatedly she remembered she was barefoot, bareheaded, and gloveless. Would she ever be prepared when something like this happened? Enid Joyce would never tramp about on the moor at all, much less without shoes.

  A white pup with dark grey patches on its face and ribs popped its head out of the open flap, its mouth open in a grin, and she forgot her shortcomings.

  “Oh!” She fell to her knees, carelessly dropping everything: the wildflowers, her boots, her shawl, and the sugar cone. The pup jumped on her lap and licked her face, whining as though she was a long lost friend. Morrigan fondled velvety ears and soft new paws. At last she set it on the heath and wiped her hands on her apron, blushing as she glanced at its owner.

  But Mr. Ramsay didn’t appear to notice what a fool she’d made of herself. He gallantly picked up her sugar and shawl so they could follow the youngster’s curious meandering. Morrigan gathered the flowers and tucked them into one of her boots.

  “Choose a name for her, Miss Lawton.”

  Morrigan considered. The pup’s owner had at first reminded her of the Greek hero, Theseus, who, according to the tale, had wed an Amazon queen, a lass no doubt slim, graceful, and strong, much like this greyhound would become in a year or so. One title almost forced its way out of her. “Antiope.”

  He tilted his head and murmured, “Odd.”

  She remembered that a proper lady was expected to appear refined without seeming bookish. He’d think her uncouth, if he didn’t already. His gaze was keen, searching her face as though he would like to pierce her flesh and invade her brain. “Antiope was a great queen,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “Strong and free. I’ve always admired her.”

  “Have you, then?” he asked softly.

  Damn these blushes she couldn’t control. She’d like to sink into the ground. Now he’d lost any respect he may have entertained for her. If she would only learn how to keep her mouth shut.