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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  The captain gave her another pat on the shoulder and went off to his duties.

  Life was chancy, was that what the dream meant? What would happen when the seal mother searched for her offspring? She’d find nothing but a poor, crushed corpse.

  “Folk think you unfeeling, but your heart is tender.” Ibby hugged Morrigan and brushed windblown strands of hair off her niece’s face. “I mind the first time you saw a cat kill a mouse, how inconsolable you were, for days and days. Pinch your cheeks. Think of that handsome lad who’ll soon be yours, and the happy way things’ve turned out for you. And don’t give a thought to that silly mistake at shore. Such things are but ancient superstition. Marriage to the Laird of Eilginn will bring you years of joy. D’you hear me? Years and years of joy.”

  Ibby gazed at the boat’s churning wake for a moment. “Thank the Lord, you’ll never have the kind of memories I do. Everyone in Glenelg was so poor. And the clearings. Folk starving, freezing. Their homes burned as they watched. I’ll never forget holding Beth Dunbar, that’s Fionna Dunbar’s daughter, the day before she died.”

  “Curran’s housekeeper?” Distracted by Ibby’s chatter, Morrigan’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal. “She had another daughter?”

  “She had three weans. Tess and Logan survived. Beth did not. All of six when cold and starvation stole her away.” Ibby wiped tears from her lashes. “Begging for a bite of bread. But there wasn’t one to give.”

  Morrigan ached as she imagined her warmhearted aunt weeping over her inability to provide a crust to a dying child. It was daft to grieve over a dead seal pup when such things happened to children. She must try to be more grateful. True, her life up till now hadn’t offered many pleasures, but she’d never gone hungry. She’d never been left out in the cold. Douglas had seen to that.

  In a brisk, no-nonsense tone, Ibby said, “I wish I could give you advice, but don’t you already know too much about what a young lady should be getting advice on?” She gave Morrigan a peppery frown before turning pensive. “Curran’s a dear, though, I have to admit. It’s clear he adores you. D’you realize how lucky you are? It all could’ve turned out quite differently.”

  “Aye, of course,” Morrigan agreed, with an attempt at a smile.

  “The babe… it is his…?”

  Morrigan’s heart plummeted at her aunt’s obvious embarrassment and hesitant tone. “You think I… I have done… been with… with other men?”

  “W-well…” Ibby stammered. “You can trust me, you know. I’d never tell a soul, love.”

  Morrigan could only gape, speechless with shock.

  “It’s your father,” Ibby finally admitted. “I didn’t know how mad he’d become.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why did you never tell me? I would’ve taken you away. I wouldn’t have let him stop me. I should have known. I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you there.”

  Oh. Now Morrigan understood, and it made her sick. “How?” she asked. “How would you have done that, when you couldn’t even get me away for a visit?” She gripped the rail, white-knuckled. “You think the child is….” She couldn’t finish.

  Ibby paused. It did seem a monstrous thing to say while impaled in bright sunlight and clean sea air. “It’s… the way he attacked you. I could tell he had some mad notion that you were Hannah. He was enraged, yet… there was something else as well.” Tears spilled over her cheeks.

  Morrigan knew she had to protect Ibby. “No, Auntie, Papa never did anything like that,” she said as firmly as she could. Heat rose then dissipated in her cheeks. This must be why Ibby had counseled Morrigan to hide the marks on her throat from Curran, to lie about what had happened. “I swear it. Curran’s the father.” Knowing she would shatter into bits if the subject wasn’t changed, Morrigan stammered, “Auntie, Nicky told me when I was small Papa treated me well. Is that true?”

  “Oh aye.” Relief swept over Ibby’s face and she nodded vigorously. She, too, looked relieved. “That’s why I never knew… was scunnered when I saw…. D’you know why you didn’t die when we were cleared? We found a goat, and Douglas fed you its milk from his finger. Goat’s milk off your da’s finger— that’s why you’re here today. And when you were older, why, he always carried you about on his shoulders. You’d laugh and laugh. You should know these things. Now Douglas is dead, I won’t keep your past from you anymore. One reason I agreed to his demands was because it’s a sad, sorry tale, and I didn’t want you burdened.”

  “It’s like a great dark hole full of mystery and fear. Like I did something so awful everyone has to shield me from it.”

  Ibby shook her head. “You were a bright blessing in the midst of horror. After you’re wed and settled in at Kilgarry, I’ll tell you everything. Of course,” she added, “Beatrice knows more than I. There were those months they were in Ireland. She was with them. None on earth knew Douglas, or your poor mother, as well as she.”

  “Getting her to speak of those days is like tearing out fingernails with pincers.”

  “Maybe now he’s gone she’ll relent. Speaking of fingernails… what are we going to do about yours?”

  * * * *

  Behind them and before them were mountains, mountains everywhere.

  “The Cuillin.” Ibby nodded at the range straight ahead that reached for the clouds like sharp teeth seeking sweetmeats. “Bonny to look at, terrible to be lost in.”

  “And those?” Morrigan gestured towards the massive peaks behind them.

  “The Knoydarts. That hulking brute there is Beinn Sgritheall. Your new home is on the other side, beneath The Five Sisters. Now there’s a sight you’ll not soon forget. You saw hardly anything when we went there before. After the child is born, you must go out riding. If Curran doesn’t have the time to take you, I shall do it. I grew up there, after all. There’s many a spot I can show you.”

  Morrigan stared at the peaks, not sure what she was hoping for. A message of reassurance? Some glimmer of welcome? They were so beautiful she couldn’t turn away, yet their summits were shrouded in grim rainclouds, and as she looked, lightning flickered, sending branches in a hundred directions. One thick, white, wicked bolt came out of the darkest cloud, striking the ground three times, and distant thunder resonated across the water.

  * * * *

  The ferry slid against the pier at Armadal like a babe to its mother’s breast. Morrigan and Ibby found Beatrice dozing on a wooden bench, her mouth hanging slack. They woke her and paid two eager lads to haul their trunk and lead them to The Hart and Wench, where Curran had arranged for rooms.

  After a meal and an hour spent listening to the proprietor’s garrulous tales, Morrigan and Ibby went sightseeing while Beatrice retired for a nap. They walked to the pier then north, into lush, overgrown wilderness.

  Many of the locals wore little more than rags and much of the area appeared abandoned, strewn with rubble and burnt-out shells of cottages.

  “Skye never recovered from the potato famine and the clearings,” Ibby said. “Folk once believed Scotland invincible. She’s seen strife and slaughter, at Culloden, Phillipaugh, Glencoe, and more. Yet always there remained a steadfast belief that these mountains and burns, fed with our precious blood, would survive, no matter the assault. Aye.” She mopped her tears. “D’you know what destroyed us at last? The clearings. Over a thousand years we withstood everything: the Romans, the Vikings, greedy English kings with their massacres. Oh, how they tried to bring us to heel. But in the end, it was our own who achieved the English desire. Our own kin, shipping us away and replacing us with sheep.” She shook her head. “Betrayal from those we trust is the worst treachery,” she said, and left Morrigan, saying she needed to be alone for a bit.

  Her words replayed like a grim prediction as Morrigan watched the sunset create deep, frowning shadows on Beinn Sgritheall.

  * * * *

  Morrigan woke full of energy on her wedding day, though she’d hardly slept. She traced the slight swell, the tautness of the flesh over her womb,
which she hoped lacing would disguise. Outside her window, the sea lay calm, speckled by sunlight. “I wish you could be here, Mama,” she said.

  The image of Douglas’s face reared before her. Don’t play the innocent. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass, fighting despair and a sinking sense that he could somehow still take everything from her.

  Ibby burst in without bothering to knock. “We’ve much to do,” she said by way of a good morning. “First you will eat. I don’t want you fainting today. How d’you feel? Is there any sickness?”

  “Hardly any,” Morrigan said. “I was queasy when I woke, but it’s gone now.”

  “I’ve heard that many expectant women have more energy than they know what to do with, once the first sickness is done.”

  “That would be grand.”

  Ibby threw orders like a desperate leader in the midst of heated battle. Whenever she heard the clop of a horse or the grating wheels of a carriage, she rushed to the window, but Curran still hadn’t made an appearance by the time Morrigan was dressed.

  “Where’s our bridegroom?” Ibby wrung her hands.

  “Don’t worry, Auntie. No doubt he’s gone straight to the kirk.”

  Beatrice arranged her niece’s hair, rubbing each lock with silk to make it shine. She braided and coiled it with the chiffon roses, and positioned the lace veil.

  Draped white satin gleamed through tulle, shocking in its contrast to the black she’d been wearing since the beginning of August. The eyes staring back at Morrigan in the borrowed looking-glass seemed brilliant as polished crystals, and huge, perhaps because her cheeks had scarcely more color than her dress. Under the veil, her hair appeared as dark as Beatrice’s special molasses cake.

  The world felt as though it was lurching end over end, trying to throw her off.

  “Here.” Beatrice dropped a rolled ribbon into Morrigan’s hand. It had likely been bright blue once, but was now faded almost to grey. “It was Hannah’s,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Morrigan kissed her aunt and tucked the ribbon into her bodice over her heart.

  “I’ve something old.” Ibby dug into her case and pulled out a worn velvet bag. Untying the silk strings, she produced a delicate fan with a threadbare violet tassel. “It was your grandmam’s. It’s the only thing your father brought home from India besides his uniform.”

  Morrigan opened it. Though it was old and dull, the ribbon threaded through the slats held. She caught a hint of the warm, exotic scent Ibby called “sandalwood.”

  Silence fell when she descended the staircase and the men in the pub caught sight of her. One bold lad raised his ale and shouted a toast to her happiness. She’d seen enough men making toasts to know, though he spoke the Gaelic. Another nearly tipped Ibby over trying to reach Morrigan, blowing kisses and pretending he was on the verge of collapse. Aye flattering it was, but she would have enjoyed it more had her aunts not acted so annoyed.

  “I must say this is not how things were done when I was a lass.” Ibby put her hands on her hips. “Men didn’t dare speak in such a fashion or they’d have a father’s knife tickling their throats. Where has common decency gone?”

  “Men are a brutish lot,” Beatrice said. “If it weren’t for women, the human race would still be living in caves and grunting like pigs.”

  Ibby whisked Morrigan away to meet Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald, the long-married couple who would walk before the newlyweds. The lad who’d toasted her insisted on coming along and playing his da’s ancient fiddle. Morrigan was placed in an open carriage drawn by two lovely Clydes, and off they went, the tipsy men from the pub firing their guns, shouting, singing, and generally livening the passage. As they journeyed they drew more folk, including a few giggling girls, plus a barrel-chested grandfather with a set of pipes.

  An eagle was perched on a rough stone dyke to the left of the kirk. It fluffed its wings at the ringing gun blasts and released a protesting scree, but it didn’t lift off.

  The carriage pulled to a halt and Morrigan’s attention moved on to the structure. Though fallen into a state of disrepair, it retained its charm, nestled as it was in the lithe of two heathery hills, near the Sound and a ruin she was told had been a MacDonald stronghold in centuries past. The minister, a man with a great mass of curly hair, came out and welcomed them in rapid Gaelic, which left Morrigan blushing and mute. Ibby replied with a gesture towards her, and he immediately switched to fairly decent English. Patting her hand, he told her his name was Ruairidh Ogilvy, and he drew her to the peeling wooden doors. Morrigan turned once more before entering. The eagle had flown up and now circled above them, its wings motionless, resting, perhaps, on cushions of air.

  Their impromptu entourage remained outside, sipping from flasks and listening to the piper, who played one tune after another.

  The black garbed, white-collared clergyman coaxed her through the doors and off to his sitting room. “Who’ll be giving away the bride?” he asked, pouring tea into sturdy china cups.

  “My da and mam have both… passed on,” Morrigan said.

  His smile dissipated. Handing her a cup, he said, “You’re too young to have suffered such a loss.”

  “She lost her brother as well,” Ibby said. “Beatrice and I were all she had left until today.”

  Both the aunts regarded her expectantly. Ibby was more like a mother, but she owed Beatrice. “Could both my aunts do it?” she asked shyly.

  There was a squeal and a bang. Ruairidh stood. “That’ll be the bridegroom, or your admirers have knocked down the door. Don’t come out. You don’t want him to see your dress, which, by the way, is the grandest these old walls have ever witnessed.” He left to investigate.

  Morrigan’s knees quivered. A wave of dizzying heat spread from forehead to toes. Pressing lace-covered hands to her breast, she fought to breathe. “I think I’m sick.”

  Both aunts jumped to their feet. Beatrice dipped a handkerchief in the water basin and dampened Morrigan’s cheeks while Ibby fanned her.

  “At least now you’ve some color,” Beatrice said. “You were wambly as a squashed kitten before. Put your head between your knees.”

  “You wouldn’t worry if God himself appeared, would you?”

  “I’d ask why he bothers where he’s not needed.”

  The fanning and cool water soon helped. Morrigan sat up, rubbing her forehead. “I should walk,” she said, and paced from door to window.

  What was she doing? This was pure daftness. Marriage, for the rest of her life, to a man she hardly knew.

  Did she love him? Would they be happy? No answers presented themselves.

  She saw Louis Stevenson’s face, his drooping moustache and luminous eyes. I’ve a notion your heart will steer you rightly.

  Oh, how she hoped he was right.

  “I almost forgot.” Ibby emptied her beaded reticule onto the table. “Here, Morrigan. Slip this sixpence into your shoe.”

  “You’ve been havering yourself to a froth with your superstitions since the day this began,” Beatrice said. “The chit never had a swain before Curran.” She turned an emotionless gaze upon her niece. One brow lifted. “Did you?”

  Kit’s face materialized, his eyes blazing with unspent passion, his hands gripping her shoulders like steel clamps.

  Give me your promise.

  Will you wait for me, Kit? Will you wait for me to grow up?

  Had she broken an oath to him the day she’d seduced Curran on the moor?

  Christian kissed you. Bold as could be. And you let him. The cynical expression on her aunt’s face suggested she knew everything Morrigan and Kit had done, and maybe what was racing through Morrigan’s brain right now, too.

  A sixpence, worn in the bride’s left shoe, had the power to avert any evil wishes of past suitors, unless the woman had made a vow and broken it. Then the coin lost its lucky ability. Dire consequences would befall not only the bride, but her firstborn child as well.

  “Of course, only Curran, Auntie.” S
he felt sick again.

  She’d heard of cursed births, of babies with no arms, or shrieking mad, or dead, all born to women who’d broken vows to honorable gentlemen in order to wed another.

  Kit’s marriage to Enid must release her. They hadn’t made any real promises anyway. But she couldn’t ask. Ibby would swoon after the unlucky omen on the mainland. Two bad omens were more than the poor woman could be expected to bear.

  Ruairidh opened the door, flourishing a bouquet of pink hollyhocks, daisies, purple and white heather, and masses of sweet clover. Morrigan buried her nose in the blooms as he said, “Your groom brought these for you, my dear, and a friend as well. A man by the name of MacAnaugh. If you prefer, he could give you away.”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” Ibby said, “and far more proper.”

  Beatrice folded her hands across her middle and said nothing.

  “No.” Morrigan shook her head. “He’s no kin to me. I hardly know him. I want my aunts, if you’ll allow it.”

  Beatrice offered one of her enigmatic smiles and Ibby beamed.

  The minister nodded. “We’re ready, then. Come along, bonny girl. You’ve lured the sun into this shabby old place.”

  Ibby fluffed the satin skirts and lowered the veil over Morrigan’s face. Tears were already misting her eyes.

  They took up their positions on either side of her.

  Through a spangled haze no amount of blinking could clear, Morrigan glimpsed Seaghan standing next to Curran at the altar, his wild thicket of hair plastered down somehow, before her betrothed stole her attention as well as the remains of her composure.

  She’d never seen such a grand gentleman, and gave thanks that her veil disguised her gowping like a simpleton. He observed her approach, his demeanor as calm as though he wed every week. But as she came closer, she caught a brief narrowing of his eyes, a muscle tightening in his jaw. The sickle-shaped scar stood out distinctly.

  Infinite shades of blue eddied around him. As he took her hand, the colors swirled upward and turned white. A thread of energy ran from his fingers to hers, lifting the hair off her scalp. For an instant, she forgot where she was and saw only Curran, surrounded in a diffused glow.