by Emma Hamm
“I have been scolded once tonight on respecting a woman’s wishes, I should not like to experience it again.” He swept into a low bow, his cloak spreading across his shoulders like wings.
“Yes, a shrew is not likely to keep her mouth shut.”
He chuckled. “The only shrew in this house is the boggart.”
Sorcha listened for the angry shriek, but Boggart had nothing to say to the comment. Perhaps she agreed.
Still, it made her cheeks flame all the hotter. She rushed to the door and held it open. “Thank you for the interesting conversation.”
He moved like a shadow, silent and smooth, hesitating only briefly in front of her. She inhaled the scent of mint and beeswax.
“It has been an enlightening, albeit short, evening.” He said before leaving the hut.
Sorcha sagged against the doorframe. All the energy he carried swept out with him and emptied her body of the adrenaline rush she rode. It had been a brief conversation, but her legs shook and her hands trembled.
A zing of awareness jolted up her spine. Spinning, she leaned out the door and shouted, “Stone!”
He paused, one foot on the dock to her hut and the other on his cursed isle. “Pardon?”
“You said some call you Cloch Rí. I shall call you Stone until you give me your true name.”
“You think I’ll ever give you that kind of power over me?” His voice wavered with humor.
“I would bet my life on it, Stone.”
“I look forward to your attempts, Sunshine.”
She hoped he smiled, although it seemed unlikely a man such as him knew how to twist his lips in happiness. There was a certain pleasure to making a man smile. She had forgotten what this was like. The courtship, the laughter, the teasing, everything that made butterflies take flight in her belly.
He started up the hill that led to his castle. The moon rose behind the imperious structure, silhouetting the jagged spires and crumbling peaks. It was a ruin, a relic of a time long ago when this isle might have been a sight to behold.
There was something hauntingly beautiful about this place. The emerald hills glimmered with dew in the silver moonlight. Fireflies danced above the wheat fields looking like magic kissing the land. And its king, the disfigured monster of a man, outlined as a shadow striding across his domain.
“You’re being fanciful,” she said. “Stop it, Sorcha. Go to bed.”
She couldn’t. She stayed where she was, pressed against the doorframe, watching him walk away from her.
A small hand tugged her skirt. Sorcha glanced down at Boggart’s strange, elongated face. Bread stuffed her cheeks, bulging them to the side and preventing her from squeaking.
Boggart tugged again and pointed towards the bed.
“Yes, it’s bedtime. Where are you sleeping, little one?”
The faerie pointed at a small lump of moth eaten blankets in the corner.
“Is that where you want to sleep? The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us.”
Boggart took off for her corner and burrowed underneath the blankets. Her long, whiskered nose poked out of the mound, sniffing for a moment before disappearing again. Sorcha could hear the slight sound of munching.
She must have taken the rest of the bread with her, Sorcha thought with a smile. Shaking her head, she disrobed and hung the velvet dress from the window. It was too nice to leave on the floor or fold into the chest in the corner.
Tomorrow, she promised herself as she got into bed, tomorrow she would explore the island and speak with its inhabitants. She would not be distracted by the handsome king. She needed to convince him to come back to the mainland with her and damned if she would fail.
The air vibrated with the sound of wings, wind brushing over her face as she snuggled into the pillows. A raven croaked as it landed on her windowsill.
“There you are, Bran,” she murmured quietly, so as not to disturb Boggart. “I wondered where you’d flown off to.”
He croaked.
“Of course I worried. We survived a near death experience together. And no, I can’t seem to sleep.”
The raven tilted his head, staring at her with one dark, beady eye.
“It has nothing to do with him!”
He flapped his wings, settled onto the windowsill for the night, and turned his back to her.
“That’s just rude,” she grumbled. “I’m not lying to you. I slept for a full day when I first arrived here. I’m not tired in the slightest!”
Perhaps it had something to do with the master of the isle. His gaze like ice, with molten heat in its depths.
She shivered and pulled the blankets high over her shoulders. Huffing out a breath, she resigned herself to a difficult night with little sleep.
Chapter Seven
THE HEALER
Sorcha crested a hill. Her breath was ragged and dripping sweat stuck long strands of her hair to her brow. She’d wrapped a bedsheet across her body as a makeshift pack. Her own was too large to bring on an adventure across the small isle.
The white sheet was a stark contrast to the old dress she wore. She found it in a chest left behind by the hag. Moths had gotten to it, chewing holes through the fabric and leaving the edges ragged, but there was nothing functionally wrong with it. She wouldn’t ruin it any further, and who needed fine clothing every day? The velvet was lovely, but not practical.
She prided herself on being a practical woman.
Hiking the sheet higher up her shoulder, she blew out a breath. A curl bounced from its confining tie.
Sorcha groaned. At this rate, by the time she crested the small mountain there wouldn’t be any hair left in the tie! The unruly curls demanded freedom.
Gravel crunched under her borrowed boots. There used to be a path here, the ground worn down by centuries of feet. The earth had grown back over the years, smoothing the marred ground, and covering the path to the peak.
She scrambled on hands and knees to the crest. Air sawed from her lungs and her knees wobbled, but she had done it. Plunking down near a cairn, she yanked the wayward curls back into their tie.
Bran cawed overhead, his voice shouting in the air.
“Yes, yes,” she muttered as she pulled hard. “You could have done this in half the time. Need I remind you feathers are far faster than flesh?”
He circled above her, dipping and diving as if to mock her exhaustion.
“Must be easy being a raven. Those of us down here have to struggle our way up the mountain. You can soar over and far beyond.”
She released the knot across her chest with a relieved sigh. Food was only a slight weight, but she was still sore. Her muscles needed to move, to release the tension and stiffness that hindered her movements.
Perhaps a mountain had been a little more than she could handle.
Rubbing her shoulder, Sorcha pulled out the small jug of water and block of cheese. It wasn’t much, but it would do.
She kept a sgian dubh, a knife, strapped to her ankle for moments like this. Dicing the soft cheese, she lifted it to her mouth and glanced down the mountain.
Everything seemed so small from up here. The land stretched out before her, dotted with sheep-like stars in the night sky. Tiny people worked diligently on their land. From here, she could see they had cast aside their glamour. Wings sparkled in the sunlight, warped forms bent over the fields. She knew if she walked within a few feet of them, they would put their glamours up so fast she never would get a peek at what they looked like.
It was the only mountain on the isle and was even with the top of the castle. Quiet, and lonely, it gave her moments to think while remaining away from all the people here.
No one wanted to speak to her about their master. They were as elusive as the man himself, answering her questions in vague responses that weren’t quite lies. Perhaps he had warned them away from speaking to her. Perhaps they were loyal to the mysterious man.
Sorcha scowled at the tiny figures. They were equally quiet about their
own information. Everyone was polite, kind, and giving, but they didn’t trust her.
Glamours were still in place. They brushed her off when she suggested she might help. They whispered behind her back when she left although they likely thought she couldn’t hear them.
The master, Stone, remained elusive. She saw him in passing every now and then but didn’t feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t repeat the heated experience which had left her dry mouthed for days.
Her knife slipped in her hand and cut her thumb. Hissing out an angry breath, she sank the blade into the ground.
“Sorcha, get your head out of the clouds,” she scolded. “That man is hardly worth your time or effort. Just get him off the isle and to the mainland. And stop hurting yourself while daydreaming!”
She ripped a piece of fabric from the bottom of her dress, muttering about foolish, wool gathering girls. Tying it around her thumb, she cinched it tighter than normal as punishment.
Sorcha planned to spend the entire day upon the ridge. She was getting nowhere with the locals. They wouldn’t give her any information about their master, which meant she had to go directly to the source.
The source was dangerous. The source burned like fire, with ice cold eyes that made her mind freeze in the wake of his hold. She would have to watch him constantly. There would be no more strawberry incidents, or anything of its ilk.
A voice whispered in the back of her mind that she wanted another such experience. She wanted more than that. For a calloused finger to become a hand, to feel what those crystals felt like against her skin.
“Foolish girl,” she muttered.
It was impossible for such thoughts to come to fruition. She’d get herself in trouble, lose focus, or worse, lose herself.
Stones skittered behind her, cracking together and rolling down the mountain in a great avalanche of sound. She rolled onto her side, peering towards the noise.
Snow white hair blew in the faint breeze. Heavy skirts tangled between Pixie’s legs, catching her as she struggled to the top. Her normally calm face was bright red with exertion.
“Pixie!” Sorcha called. She jumped to her feet and ran towards the Fae. “What are you doing up here?”
“Oh, dearie, why do you have to choose such a place to get away from us all? It’s awfully far away and my old bones can’t take it!”
“Somehow, I doubt you’re as old as you portray yourself,” Sorcha replied with a grin.
“You wouldn’t know,” Pixie said with a grimace. “Dearie, I hate to ask a favor of you, but something terrible has happened.”
Sorcha’s smile faded at the worry and anguish in Pixie’s voice. “What happened?”
“It’s little Doo—I mean—” Pixie caught herself and shook her head. “Pooka! It’s little Pooka, he’s fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. A terrible thing, nasty break, and he’s the only child on the island. It’s broken through the skin, dearie, and we don’t know how to set the break. He’s bleeding something awful.”
“Did you put a compress on the wound?” Sorcha scooped up her things and swung them over her shoulder. “How bad is the break? Just how far is the hand pointing away from its usual position?”
“I - I don’t know! I didn’t look at it closely, in truth. The break was so terrible and the boy was in so much pain…”
“Come on then.” A thrill of excitement rushed through her veins. Although Sorcha knew it was likely a terrible thing, she always felt this way before any kind of surgery. Her hands tingled to touch wounded flesh. Her mind fired with ideas on how to solve the problem of pain.
Sorcha's strange mind was both a blessing and a curse. She knew there were countless ways to heal a broken bone, but only a few that worked. If the bone had broken through skin, she would need to set it, then wrap it to encourage healing from the inside out.
She followed Pixie down the mountain at a much faster speed than she’d ascended. Both women rode a wind of anxiety and worry. If the boy bled badly, he might not be alive by the time Sorcha made it to him.
She hoped that wasn’t the case.
They reached the hills and ran. Pixie no longer seemed like an aged woman for she flew over the grass.
“I have one thing to ask,” Pixie said as they reached the castle. “The boy is young and impressionable. You cannot heal him without seeing his true form.”
“Then so be it,” Sorcha replied, breathless. “Open the door, Pixie.”
“No young man wants to feel scorn from a beautiful woman. I beg you to hide any reactions you might have to his appearance.”
“I have already seen both Cian and Boggart, Pixie. There is no reason to worry, just let me see the boy.”
Pixie sighed and swung open the kitchen door.
The room beyond had descended into chaos. The central table was clean of food and utensils. Faeries bodies rushed in wide circles, to and from a small body laid out on the wood. Sorcha saw the faint impression of fur, wings, and scales before everyone erected their glamours.
All but the boy.
He crouched on the table and whined, his face warping through hare, dog, and horse. Pookas imitated animals, but she had never heard of one switching so many times.
Sorcha kept her face steely as she made her way to his side. He opened his mouth with a growl, fanged teeth shining in the candlelight. She had seen animals do that before when they were in pain.
She reached out a hand. “Shh, little master. I will not hurt you.”
He growled again, but his lips closed. Again, his features changed. His nose dipped down, his pupils turned to slits, and whiskers grew upon his cheeks.
“Can you control it?” she asked. “I’ll need you to pick a form before I can heal your arm.”
He turned his face from her, scooting on his butt towards the other side of the table.
There was little time. Blood smeared his front and slicked the table. Red like hers. Red like a human.
She lunged forward and wrapped a hand around his ankle. The other Fae hissed at her movements reminding Sorcha just how dangerous the situation was. These people liked her, but they did not trust her. This was the one youngling they had. They would not tolerate mistakes.
“Easy there,” she whispered. “Let me see your arm. I can help.”
The boy stared back at her with mistrusting eyes. He had a reason to, she supposed. Sorcha’d had very little opportunity to earn his trust.
“I know I’m a stranger,” she breathed, turning her voice into a coo. “You are right to be scared. It is a good thing for you to be wary of those you do not know. I can make your arm feel better if you’ll let me.”
He inched towards her. The movement was slight, but it was there.
Sorcha let out a relieved breath. “That’s right, come to me. What a brave boy you must be! To break your arm like this, you must have been doing something terribly heroic.”
“No,” he grunted through blunted teeth. “I was climbing a tree.”
“Oh well, that is very heroic! There’s plenty of heroes who climbed trees, do you know any of them?”
Pooka shook his head and moved the rest of the way. She gently positioned him so his legs hung off the edge of the table. He moved his hand from the broken arm, stark white standing out amidst all the blood.
“It’s hurt real bad,” he whimpered.
“Yes, yes it is. But I’ll help. While I’m working, I’ll tell you a story.” She gestured over her shoulder, and Pixie leaned in. “Yarrow, as much cloth as you can, and perhaps a little liquid courage. Is there anything different about Fae bodies I should know?”
“Not that I can think of, is he going to survive?”
“Of course he is,” Sorcha leaned back in shock. “I’m here now.”
The collective sigh rocked through Sorcha. Why would they think the boy would die? A severed limb, or perhaps impalement yes, but a broken arm? He hadn’t bled out, now she could fix him.
She hesitated and asked, “What did you do before?�
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“Well,” Pixie glanced at the boy and lowered her voice. “Usually we’d let it be and hope it healed on its own. A wound like this usually festered. We’d do what we could with honey compresses, but most times we’d lose them.”
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’m here.”
Sorcha shouldn’t have said the words, but she did. These people needed her strength, her courage, her understanding. They didn’t need to know she planned on leaving as soon as possible. Or that she was leaving at all.
She turned back towards the boy and plastered a smile on her face. “Have you heard the story of Macha?”
“Yes,” he said with a sniff. Two large tears rolled down his face and dripped onto his bloodied pants.
“Did you hear how she cursed the line of Ulster?”
“No.”
“Good. Listen to my voice and nothing else, all right? This will hurt, but I want you to hear the story and not focus on the pain.”
They had waited a long time to come get her. The muscles of his arm had wrapped around the bone’s new position and did not want to release. Thankfully, it was a clean break. She was gentle with the sensitive bone and ragged edges of flesh.
Sorcha viewed the entire injury before deciding she would need to stretch the muscles before they would allow the bone back in its place. Theoretically, it would be easy. For her.
The boy she worried about.
She set about the surgery in the best way she could. The entire time she told the story of Macha. How she had married a mortal man and carried his child. How the foolish man had bragged about his wife to a rival king who forced her into a foot race. When she beat him, and lay near dying on the finish line, she cursed nine generations of his family to experience the pain of childbirth.
Although the pain must have been great, he listened. The boy repeated sentences of the story as she made three passes of stretching the muscle. He asked her questions as she snapped the bone back into place with an audible crunch. He bit back tears as she packed the wound with yarrow and wrapped it tightly with cloth.
They were both covered in blood and exhausted by the time she finished. She tugged the knot of his sling and nodded. “That will do. You have been brave enough to claim the title of hero, young Pooka. It’s been an honor.”
