He gripped her hand, his eyes darkening in sympathy.
She excused herself, saying she was tired. Seaghan followed her into the hall. “Did Aodhàn say anything to you?” he asked. “Anything that would give a clue where he’s gone, or why?”
“No,” she said. “I would’ve told you.” Mackinnon hadn’t spoken after he’d picked her up at the burn. He’d probably been trying to conserve his strength.
“What is happening in our village? First you go missing, and the moment you’re found, he vanishes.”
She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“I almost feel you’re the only one I can speak to about it,” he said. “I feel you understand.”
“I do,” she said.
He hugged her, sent her on her way, and rejoined Curran in the drawing room.
Morrigan felt unsettled, and doubted she’d be able to sleep. Violet helped her into her nightgown, brushed her hair, plaited it, and went off yawning, leaving Morrigan to blow out the lamp and sit on the window seat, looking out at the night. Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and she saw the figure, straight and still like a statue beneath her window.
She rose onto her knees and pressed her hands to the glass.
He didn’t move, wave, or give any indication he saw her. Yet she felt his gaze. Her hand fumbled for the brass lever. It turned easily enough, but the window was stuck; dampness had swollen the wood. Using both hands, she pushed and pounded on it, groaning her frustration. Finally, it released and with a protesting scrape, swung open. She leaned out into a downy torrent of snow knocked loose from the casement.
“Mackinnon,” she whispered. But there was nothing there. Had she imagined it, that shadowy human form?
She stared into the night for some time, until she was shivering and ready to admit her eyes had played a cruel trick. She pulled the window closed and went to bed.
* * * *
Morrigan was awakened by a male voice reverberating from the sitting room. Curran, she noticed, was gone already. He always rose early and left quietly.
“Let me see her,” she heard, and while Violet tried ineffectively to stop him, Seaghan bounded into the bedroom. “Wake up, m’lady!” he cried. “You’re wasting this bonny day!”
The shadows were gone from his eyes, the frown as well. He was laughing, his face touched by sunlight through the south window, the one she’d wrestled with the night before. She sat up, pulling her nightgown around her throat, and smoothed her hair, embarrassed to be seen by a man in such a state, but he didn’t appear to notice a thing, or care one whit about his impropriety.
“He’s back!” Without waiting for an invitation, Seaghan pulled one of the chairs from the fireplace over to her bed. “D’you hear? He’s alive!”
“It’s all right, Violet,” Morrigan said to the flustered maid. “Maybe fetch us some tea?”
Violet bobbed a curtsy and left, grousing about the crudeness of fishermen.
The moment she’d gone, Morrigan stretched out her hand and Seaghan grabbed it, squashing it between his. “Mackinnon, I suppose you mean,” she said.
“And he’s sent you something for your birthday.” Seaghan pulled a wee box from his coat pocket and gave it to her.
It appeared to be handmade, of exquisitely carved and polished driftwood. The top had a beautiful Celtic design of knots and two herons, their long necks intertwined.
For some reason she wanted to be alone when she opened it, so she set it on the table beside the bed. “Tell me everything. When did he come back? What did he say? Why isn’t he here with you? Where the devil has he been?”
* * * *
Aodhàn did not visit, so Morrigan had to take Seaghan’s word that he’d returned. All Seaghan could say was that it was anyone’s guess where the man had been or what he’d been doing. “Aodhàn Mackinnon is a close-mouthed bloody fool, who’d as lief have iron shavings stuck through his gums than reveal anything about himself,” he added caustically.
Hiding her impatience, she had waited for Seaghan to leave before opening the box. Nestled in a padding of black velvet was a ring. It looked like a wedding band, made to fit a small finger. When she picked it up she saw an etching on the inside. She knew the word gaol meant “love,” and mo meant “my,” but she wasn’t sure about chridhe, though she felt she had seen the word before. The ring itself seemed hauntingly familiar. One thing was certain: Curran would be rightfully furious if he saw it. She told no one of the gift and hid it behind her dressing table.
Eleanor insisted Morrigan rest every afternoon, and took those opportunities to massage comfrey and lavender salve into her skin, to feed her strengthening herbs, and ply her with simmered quince tea, parsley, and watercress. She still approved of the mistress taking walks every day, so the three cronies were often seen together laughing in the snow or exploring the forest.
Diorbhail looked much nicer than she had at first. Violet had cut the snarls from her hair and had added a fringe that disguised the scar on her forehead. It now curled about her face in a most attractive way. Moreover, she was cleaner than she probably had been in years. She’d put on a little flesh, and lost much of that fearful, shy demeanor.
They went back to the clearing with the cave, but it had lost its appeal. The low, cavernous opening made Morrigan want to run away, but she was embarrassed of such feelings, and kept them to herself. Anyway, with the onset of winter, the inside was clammy and unpleasant.
“I’ve seen something,” Diorbhail announced as they circled the clearing, arm-in-arm. “In vision.”
“You’ve taken more mushroom?” Morrigan asked.
Both Eleanor and Diorbhail looked a bit sheepish before confessing they both had done so.
“Without me?” Morrigan asked, stung.
“It wasn’t like that,” Eleanor said. “You and the babe are healthy, and I want to keep you that way. You’ve no business taking something that could cause harm, and if you ask me, the last time did cause harm. Such strong emotions are not good for an expectant woman.”
“Well,” Morrigan said, “you’d best tell me what you saw.”
“A knife,” Diorbhail said, frowning. “With a blade of glass. You were holding it.”
“Hmm. A blade of glass, you say? That doesn’t sound very practical.”
“I don’t know what it means,” Diorbhail said, “but it’s important. We must find it.”
“Did the vision tell you where it is?”
“No.”
Giving a sharp sigh, Morrigan turned to Eleanor. “And I suppose you’ve seen amazing things as well?”
“I did see something I can hardly explain,” Eleanor said, “something that may or may not be important. But I will not share it with you when you’re in such a mood.”
“I never thought you would keep secrets from me.”
“It’s because we knew you would be like this. I assume you care about having a healthy child?”
This was something Eleanor could always use to control her. “You know I do.”
“Diorbhail and I thought we could see things that might help you without putting you or the bairn at risk.”
“There’s something else,” Diorbhail said. “That man… the one who carried you from the bothy….”
“Aodhàn Mackinnon.”
“I don’t trust him.” Diorbhail’s face turned alternately pale then crimson.
“You still feel that way? What’s he done, besides help search for me when I was missing, and carry me so I wouldn’t strain my ankle?”
“It’s a feeling.” Diorbhail placed her fist on her chest. “Though he seems to want the best for you, I don’t think he does. No’ really. There’s something driving him… it came off him in waves that night. If you’re no’ careful, he may well do something to you that cannot be remedied.”
“He’s lonely,” Morrigan said. “You don’t know him….” She stopped herself from adding, like I do.
Eleanor folded her arms across her ch
est and frowned as she regarded Diorbhail. “Could it be you’ve been influenced by Agnes Campbell? She has long distrusted Aodhàn.”
“Agnes Campbell?” Diorbhail shook her head. “I don’t know who that is. The color I see round him is not bright and clear, but dark. I felt anger in him. Colors do no’ lie.”
Sighing deeply, Eleanor said, “In all honesty, I’ve never quite trusted him either. There’s something about him, Mistress Ramsay, and I probably know him better than you do.”
No you don’t! Morrigan wanted to scream. But that would only cause more questions, and more speculative stares when she refused to answer.
“Watch yourself,” Eleanor said. “That’s all we ask. Diorbhail and I care about you.”
“Do you?” Morrigan turned a baleful stare on Diorbhail. “You think I’ve forgotten what we saw in the water that night? Tell me the truth. Is there something between you and my husband, something you haven’t told me?”
Diorbhail flushed. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “I would never harm you. That wasn’t Master Ramsay you saw. I think it was another life, a life long gone. He loves you. You alone.”
“What in the name of God….” Eleanor looked from one to the other. “Water?”
“Diorbhail showed me how to see things in water,” Morrigan said tightly. “I expect she didn’t realize just how much I would see.”
Eleanor’s brows rose, creating deep creases in her forehead. She waited, but her expression was impatient.
“I saw a man in the water. I saw Diorbhail. They looked different, but I recognized them. They were lovers. Diorbhail was pregnant. The man was Curran.”
“That seems a fanciful conclusion. You saw images, in water, and now Diorbhail is making a play for Master Ramsay? Truly?”
Morrigan felt the absurdity even before Eleanor snorted in her usual eloquent way. She knew she was right, though. The figures she’d seen were Diorbhail and Curran.
“You’re being unfair.” Eleanor grabbed Morrigan’s upper arm and shook her.
Anguish emanated from Diorbhail’s face.
“Maybe.” Morrigan rubbed her temples. “You’re the ones who believe all this. You’re the ones who see things and have visions. Now that I’ve seen something, you want to ridicule me.”
“You did see something.” Diorbhail met Eleanor’s gaze. “She did. But it was another time, and they weren’t us. It’s different now.”
“You’re both wrong about Mackinnon,” Morrigan said.
Eleanor said nothing for a moment then she sighed. “About the mushroom. I would be willing to try something else.”
“What?”
“My brother calls it monoideism. He learned it from the surgeon who developed the method.”
“Surgeon…. You want to cut me open?”
“No, no. Another name for it is hypnotism. It’s not surgery, mistress. You relax and concentrate on an object I will choose for you. You allow yourself to open, or as Diorbhail would say, ‘to remember.’ You don’t drink or eat anything, so there’s no danger to the babe.”
“That sounds like what Diorbhail and I did. She had me look into the water and think about what I wanted to see. I saw her, and you. I saw her and…” she sent another narrowed glance towards Diorbhail, noting her flush. “Let’s do it now.”
“Half the day is gone, and you should rest. Tomorrow is soon enough. Oh, and did you do this water experiment without me?”
Morrigan’s teeth clenched, but Eleanor, after lifting her brows, smiled, and all was forgiven.
Later, when she was tucked into bed for her afternoon nap, Eleanor said, “I want you to practice the hypnotism after I leave. While you’re resting, concentrate on… this swirl here, at the top of your looking-glass.” She reached up and put her hand on the flourish at the upper corner of the mirror. “Try to let go of thoughts and concerns. Practice will make it come easier, and it will be more effective.”
Morrigan nodded.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds. But if you master it, it will help you in many ways, for instance, when you go into labor. I’ve improved my joint pain using this, and I’ve also used it to bring sleep.”
“I’ve had trouble sleeping,” Morrigan said. “I’ll do my best.”
“Another thing. I don’t like you being cruel to Diorbhail. D’you comprehend how fragile that woman is?”
“I know. I didn’t mean it. I’ll apologize. But Mackinnon’s been good to me.”
Eleanor’s gaze narrowed and one brow lifted, but she said nothing else.
After she left, Morrigan tried to do as she’d been bid, but it was hard. The more she worked at not thinking, the more her thoughts clamored for attention. Finally, since she kept picturing it no matter how hard she tried not to, she got up and retrieved the ring Mackinnon had given her, and slipped it onto her middle finger.
Only then, as she stared at the circular flourish, keeping her eyes half-closed, did she succeed in losing cohesion and sliding away.
They don’t understand, was the last thing she remembered thinking.
* * * *
Mackinnon led the woman up the hill blindfolded, stopping her before the newly finished cottage.
“Here.” He removed the blindfold and handed her a champagne bottle.
“What’s this for?”
“Christen it,” he said into her ear.
She laughed and approached the corner.
“Swing it hard,” he advised.
The wind blew champagne all over her dress, her gloves, and her face. Some splashed where it was meant to go, onto the fieldstone wall.
Mackinnon remained where he was, arms crossed, looking quite satisfied.
“I’m all wet and sticky!” she cried.
“Now name it,” he said. “Name our Mingulay home.”
She crossed to him and smeared champagne on his face. “Taigh na Gaoithe,” she said, before kissing him.
Morrigan woke with a gasp, her gaze immediately meeting Diorbhail’s. The woman was sitting in the armchair by the fire, watching her.
Aodhàn Mackinnon! With no creases in his forehead, not one grey strand in that black windblown hair, and an expression of relaxed happiness on his face.
“How long have you been there?” she asked, thinking Diorbhail’s stare seemed too discerning.
“A half hour,” Diorbhail said. “I came to tell you again that what you saw in the barrel was nothing to do with here and now. You were restless, so I stayed in case you needed anything.”
“Oh.” Morrigan hoped she hadn’t talked in her sleep. “I was dreaming.” She searched Diorbhail’s features, looking for anger or shock, but Diorbhail rose and went to the washbasin. She poured a cup of water and brought it to Morrigan, then said, “I’ll go and help Janet in the kitchen, if you need nothing.”
“No, I’m fine,” Morrigan said. “Thank you. Thank you for sitting with me. And I’m sorry about the way I acted. I’ve been out of sorts.”
Diorbhail inclined her head and turned to go, but before she reached the door, Morrigan stopped her. “Have you heard of… do you know… what is… Mingulay?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DIORBHAIL TIPTOED PAST the drawing room where Morrigan was playing some exquisite piece on the piano. She glimpsed Curran reading a newspaper, and Fionna setting down the tea tray.
Diorbhail knew she wasn’t wrong about Aodhàn Mackinnon. He was dangerous, though from the way Morrigan reacted when confronted by this, it was clear he’d already done much to worm himself into her trust. That night he’d carried Morrigan from the bothy, his malevolence had struck at Diorbhail’s senses as though it was written in fire on the ground. She’d caught him staring at her with an expression she could only describe as hatred. A warning response had awakened, and had not abated with time.
Twice since the man reappeared from wherever he’d been for two months, Diorbhail had clandestinely followed him. The second time, she’d caught him hiding something along the river in Gleann Beag, and
putting some effort into being secretive about it.
She went outside, closing the great oak door quietly behind her, and bundled up in her heavy wool shawl, the one Morrigan had given her as an early Christmas present. A few stars glimmered as she set out, determined to follow the path shown to her, and see what she would see.
* * * *
By the time Diorbhail reached her destination, her hands and cheeks were numb and it was snowing again. She made her way along the north side of the river to a dense thicket of stunted trees on a steep slope leading down to the water.
Aodhàn had stood a long time, looking around to make sure he was alone before he ducked and vanished into the copse. When he emerged, he no longer had the container he’d been carrying. He must have left it in there.
As Diorbhail approached, she saw a vaporous, nearly transparent red mist issuing from the ground within the stand. She forced her way in, pulling away twigs and branches, thankful for her long wool sleeves. In the center was a cleared space. The light made a faint halo around a large rock, which she dragged to the side. An opening was revealed, like a badger hole, though larger, leading into the earth. After reaching in as far as she could and finding nothing, she realized with dismay that she would have to crawl into the hole if she wanted to find what Aodhàn had hidden.
She draped her shawl over the nearest branches and forced herself to enter quickly, before she could think too much and dissuade herself.
It was a claustrophobic, muddy tunnel, only slightly wider than she, and pitch black. She inched along, cold, wet, and afraid. The heavy weight of the earth pressed on her. At least there was no sign or smell of habitation.
When she’d gone some distance and the tunnel squeezed around her, she saw again the red glow and her knuckles struck something hard. She backed out, bringing it with her, until she resurfaced at last and could stand, gratefully sucking in deep breaths of fresh air.
She was a mess, covered in mud, but she hardly noticed as she opened the metal casket Aodhàn Mackinnon had been carrying. Amid a wash of reddish colored light, luxuriant velvet protected the knife she’d seen in visions, the knife she knew was profoundly important. The visions had made that clear, though they left too many things out, as usual. She had seen an unknown man lifting the knife, and she sensed this blade might one day be not only important but holy… if it fulfilled its destined purpose. If thwarted, something else would happen. It would be handed down from generation to generation, and there would be many legends attached to it, legends twined with dread.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 43
