by Jessi Gage
Night had fallen. The fire for cooking the boar stew had long been banked, but a scatter of torches around the camp made a dark slash of Darcy’s shadow across the grass on which he sat. Gravois, clearly the leader of the tinker caravan, reclined on an ornate pillow propped against a crate of cooking supplies, and sipped brandy from a tin cup. Darcy had slung his brandy back in a single swallow after listening to the various tales of how Gravois’s fellow travelers had come to keep company with him. As it turned out, being chased from villages by angry mobs wasn’t uncommon for a man who kept company with misfits, especially misfits who tended to possess magical abilities.
He suspected Gravois desired to add Timothy to his troupe, but he doubted the lad was interested. Though Timothy had partaken of the boar stew made by the hunchback and the eastern woman, he still darted his eyes about like a rabbit in a circle of foxes. Sympathetic though he was toward the lad, ’twas time to focus on keeping his word to his wife.
“’Tis sorry I am I gave my vow so hastily, but the deed is done, and I canna take it back.” He clapped the lad on the shoulder. “Between what Timothy can do with his blood and the magic I’ve witnessed here this day, surely a man of your talents and decency can devise a way for my wife to go back to her time.”
The slender man gave him a mildly chiding look in acknowledgement of the flattery, then swirled his cup as he studied Timothy. “I am afraid there is nothing I can do, mon ami,” he said while his gaze remained locked on the lad. “At least not at present.” He finished his spirits and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands free to elegantly gesture. “Your bloodmagic is like a child without proper rearing,” he said to Timothy. “Without any rearing at all, in fact. That clumsy display in the close proves it.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Magic requires discipline as it matures, if it is ever to be useful. I can teach you that discipline, but it will take time, perhaps years, to counteract the damage done by your neglect of your gift.” He faced Darcy. “I do not suppose you would be willing to wait years for such help as you request.”
He felt the blood drain from his face. He would lose his very heart and soul when he sent Malina away as it was. What would it do to him to send her back after he’d had years to cherish her? It must be soon if at all–But the point became moot when Timothy suddenly sprang to his feet and shrieked, “I willna do it, I tell you! You’re all wode! ’Tis a curse, magic. I dinna want it!” He took heaving panicked breaths as his fists curled at his sides. “I must return to Mr. MacLeod. He’ll be worrit for me, and he doesna need that on top of heart pains. That, or he’ll be furious with me. Either way, I need to see him.” He turned and strode toward the creek.
Darcy couldn’t let him go like that, thinking his only interest in him was for his bloodmagic, as Gravois had called it. Tossing a look at the slender man that said they weren’t through talking, he jumped up and stalked after the lad. “Wait, Timothy. I’ll give ye a ride back.”
The lad spun to face him, fear and indignation warring on his face. “I willna get in that thing again.” He pointed at the car, which sat cold and dark as the boulder it resembled by the bridge. “Ye’re as wode as the tinks. Leave me be.”
“I meant on my horse, Rand,” he said gently. “Come. Let’s get ye back to check on your master.”
He made it back to the tinkers’ camp ’round midnight. Gravois met him as he crossed the bridge and helped him tend to Rand and Shirebrand, the gray gelding Gravois had let Timothy take back to Inverness and whom Darcy had led back on a tether. Shirebrand was primarily a carthorse, but like Gravois and his fellow tinkers, the horse had varied skills. He was trained as a saddle horse as well as a performing horse. The lad with the tail did handstands and flips on his back for coin, Gravois had told him.
’Twas the tinker way to accept coin for their enterprising entertainments. The old woman told fortunes. The eastern woman sold potions. The giant, the hunchback, and the Negro lass stood in curtained booths where the curious could pay Gravois to peek in at them. The tattooed man performed feats of strength. The dwarf didn’t perform, but he was the one to cast an illusion over the camp. Gifted with bending another’s perception of reality, he was, and Gravois honored his refusal to be gawked at so long as he made himself useful in other ways. The dwarf woman also didn’t perform, but kept Gravois’s accounts and managed the troupe.
“Madame Hilda wishes to tell your fortune,” Gravois said to him as they finished wiping down the horses. “Go find her in the purple cart. Then you may bed down with the men, if you wish, in the yellow. I have some business I must attend to, but we can talk more in the morning.” The man patted his shoulder. “Though I am afraid there really is nothing I can do for you, mon ami. My advice is to go home and enjoy your wife. It is not breaking your word if it simply cannot be done.”
He wouldn’t accept that. Mayhap Gravois couldn’t help him and mayhap Timothy wouldn’t, but he would keep seeking a way. ’Twas not just that he’d given his word. ’Twas that Malina missed her modern world. After the excitement of driving the car, he understood a little better the magnitude of convenience she was accustomed to. Her world was truly wondrous. No wonder she wanted to return so desperately. He wouldn’t rest until he’d sent her back to where she longed to be.
Subdued, he said, “I have already seen my fortune, and it is lovely and transient as a rainbow. But I thank ye for your time. I’ll compensate Ferdinand for my meal.” He nodded toward where the dwarf sat on a moonlit log smoking a pipe with the hunchback.
“You insult me, mon ami. You saved my life today. The very least I can do is see you fed before your journey home. I hope you will break fast with us in the morning as well, as I would like to hear all you know about this miraculous device.” He motioned toward the car. “Now, do not insult the madame by refusing her. She does not offer free fortunes to just anyone. The sooner she reads you, the sooner the madame can get her rest.”
Only because Gravois pricked his guilt did he seek out the auld woman in her purple cart. That, and he was mayhap a mite curious to meet her, since neither she nor the eastern woman had supped with the others. He’d meet the woman, listen to her daft fortune, and then snare a few hours sleep before returning to Malina. A day and a night was far too long to be without her. Though he supposed he’d have to spend more days and nights apart from her as he sought another way to keep his word.
He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the razor sharp twinge of dread that accompanied the prospect of spending a lifetime of days and nights alone after he sent her away.
Golden lamplight glowed from the cart’s cracked-open rear door. He rapped twice.
“Enter, Highlander.” The woman’s voice rolled with the accent of the Rom–the gypsies–and rasped with age.
He ducked through the door and was immediately startled by the dimensions of the cart, which appeared grossly larger on the inside than he’d have guessed looking at the outside. In fact, his head didn’t even brush the ceiling, though he’d have sworn the height of the cart a full hand under his own height. He should have had to bend nigh in half to fit. Figuring the cart to be one of Ferdinand’s illusions, he resisted the urge to step outside to reassess the exterior, and looked around the generous space.
Netted shelves littered with supplies and wares lined both impossibly long side walls, and a hanging rack of women’s clothing occupied the rear wall. Despite all the space for storage, plenty of room remained for the two cots toward the rear of the cart and the low table atop an intricately-woven rug toward the front.
The auld woman, Hilda, sat on a three-legged stool at one end of the table, embroidering a colorful scarf with crystal beads. He wondered how she did it, because being so close to her for the first time, he noticed her brown irises were milky with age. She was either blind or close to it. The Eastern woman–Gravois had told him her name, but he didn’t recall it–sat cross-legged and stiff-backed on a cushion at the other end of the table. She rolled herbs into squares of paper and nod
ded in polite greeting. The movement was slight due to the rings elongating her neck.
He nodded in return, but inwardly cringed at the disfigurement.
“Sit, Highlander,” Hilda said, indicating another cushion on the floor. “I must study your aura to tell your fortune.”
He obeyed, though it irked him to sit lower than the woman. “I thank ye for your consideration, Madame Hilda,” he said warily, “but why did ye wish to tell my fortune?” He didn’t trust anyone who offered somat for nothing, especially somat of a magical nature.
Without answering, she closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the milky color of her irises and the black of her pupils had clouded to the pure white-gray of an overcast sky.
He scrambled for the door. Surely the woman was possessed of some vile spirit to alter her appearance so grotesquely.
“I did not take you for a coward,” the woman said, stopping him with one foot on the steps.
His heart racing, he turned back to face her. The doorframe creaked under his grip as he struggled to meet her white gaze. “Answer my question or I’ll be leaving your camp tonight to take my chances with the dark road. I dinna like magic.” Ferdinand’s illusions he could tolerate, and Timothy’s inadvertent bloodmagic he could sympathize with, but he could not completely unearth the notion ingrained in him since childhood that magic was inherently evil.
“Yet it blessed you with a wife,” Hilda said. “And you seek it out for her sake with intent to use it yourself if need be.” Gravois must have told her of their talk after dinner. Either that or the harridan’s ears were far more hale than her eyes to have overheard them from this cart.
“I only seek to undo the unnatural thing that’s been done.” His heart squeezed with denial. “She belongs in her own time. Now answer the bloody question or I’ll take my leave of ye.” He didn’t like to use foul language with women, but Hilda tried his patience by reminding him he had magic to thank for granting him a taste of heaven and he would have magic to curse for taking his heaven away again.
She shrugged one shoulder. “There is a blight on your aura that intrigues Monsieur Gravois.”
So Gravois had put her up to it. That gave him pause. Mayhap his mysterious new friend sought to help him in this way. He kent in his vitals Gravios wouldn’t intend him harm. The certainty gave him the strength to take up his seat on the floor again, though he scooted back to put inches between his knees and Hilda’s skirts.
“What do ye mean by ‘blight’?” he asked suspiciously. “And ‘aura,’ for that matter?” ’Twas the second time she’d used the word.
The Eastern woman answered in heavily accented English. “Aura the energy of life. Each have it. Many in camp can see, but only Madame can see–see deep inside. See danger.”
“Energy of life” meant naught to him. But he understood danger. “I am a warrior for my clan,” he said. “Danger isna unusual for me.”
“If Monsieur see danger so he ask Madame to see, you let Madame see or very bad happen. Let Madame see.” Her voice was gentle, her face full of concern.
He harrumphed. “Well, let’s have done with it then.”
“Be very still,” the Eastern woman said. “Take time to see.”
He harrumphed again.
“Quiet,” the auld woman barked.
He ground his teeth in indignation, but he sat still and resisted the urge to grumble.
Hilda leaned forward, her brow layered in wrinkles that deepened in her concentration. Her white-gray eyes bored into him, making his skin crawl.
At long last, she spoke, but not to him. “Chi-Yuen.” It was a sharp command, given as she stretched a hand toward the Eastern woman, who rose from her cushion to take it.
Standing behind Hilda’s shoulder, Chi-Yuen closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Her painted lips pursed. She shook her head. The auld woman huffed. Chi-Yuen tilted her head as though listening, then reluctantly nodded.
His gaze darted between the two women. Were they somehow communicating with each other? If he’d been at the limit of his patience before, being ignored while two women held a magical conversation tipped him well past.
He shot up off the cushion to glower at the pair. “If you’re through, I’ll take my leave of ye ladies.” He turned to go, surprised when neither woman tried to stop him.
Drawing cool night air into his lungs, he shook the neck-prickling feel of magic off and strode to the yellow cart. He doubted he’d be able to sleep after such an unsettling handful of minutes, but he wouldn’t ride Rand back to Dornoch this eve. Even if he wouldn’t rest well, his mount deserved to spend the remainder of the night in peace.
To his dismay, the yellow cart dared to boast an even larger interior than the purple cart, though the outer dimensions were the same. It served as sleeping quarters for all the men in the troupe. No less than ten cots filled the space, each with a trunk at its foot, and like the purple cart, a table occupied the entrance and netted shelving lined the walls. He turned around and marched right down the stairs to lie on the ground near the horses.
He woke at dawn, bleary-eyed and even more tired than when he’d lain down. Sitting up to stretch his stiff neck, he found a refreshed and energetic-looking Gravois holding out a cup of tea. “I trust you slept well, mon ami.”
He snatched the cup with a harrumph. “What were those two women about? Did your auld fortune teller get what she was after?”
Gravois’s smile faltered. “I shall tell you what I can over eggs. Come. Eat.”
He followed the man to the fire, where Ferdinand spooned cooked eggs from a pan onto a trencher for him. Eyeing the curious dwarf, he shoveled in the offered nourishment while Gravois blathered some nonsense about the Rom being forbidden to reveal certain fortunes.
“It means naught to me” Darcy said. “I didna seek the fortune, so I dinna mind leaving without kenning it.” He rose to saddle Rand.
Gravois followed, wringing his hands. “But it is of grave importance, mon ami.”
“Tell me or no. I dinna care which. But speak quickly if you mean to tell it. I must return to Dornoch and my bonny wife.” He winked at his new friend, feeling more cheerful after breaking his fast and kenning he was but a day’s easy ride from holding Malina in his arms again.
As he slipped the bit into Rand’s mouth, Gravois made a sound of frustration he somehow managed to make elegant. “Madame Hilda saw your death, Monsieur Keith.”
He froze, hands about to give the girth a final tug. He faced Gravois, not kenning how to respond to such a statement. Would he die heroically? Would he die an honorable member of the Keith clan, or a forgotten fugitive? How many years would he live with the agony of separation from Malina?
“The Rom are strictly forbidden from speaking le mort ne prophetiser–death prophesies. At the risk of losing her sight and perhaps even her life, the madame would not tell me exactly what she saw. But Chi-Yuen saw. She will not speak of the fortune either, but after the madame went to sleep, she made you this potion.” Gravois extracted a vial of whitish liquid from an inner pocket in his jacket and held it out to him. “Keep it with you at all times, for Chi Yuen believes it may save you from whatever it is the madame saw.”
The liquid reminded him of the color of Hilda’s eyes when they’d clouded over. He shuddered and shook his head. “Nay. I want naught to do with potions. I will only use what magic I must to help my wife, and that I do at the peril of my soul.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “If the Lord hasna already crossed my name off his list, he certainly will do so by the time I’ve found a way for her to return home.”
Gravois clucked his tongue. “Do you honestly believe magic is evil? After all you’ve witnessed? Knowing it brought you your wife. Knowing our gentle, pale friend carries it in his veins, and that it favors many in this camp? Do we strike you as evil, mon ami?”
He didn’t feel like having a philosophical discussion. “I only ken I was raised to revile aught that runs contrary to the natural way of things,
as does the church. Though I’ve had reluctant dealings with magic and will deal with it further for my wife’s sake, I dinna do so lightly, and I dinna expect to escape punishment.”
“Am I in need of punishment? Is Madame Hilda? Master Timothy? Is it so difficult to believe magic might exist under the approving eye of the Almighty?”
He huffed in annoyance. Rand, sensing his mood, stomped an impatient hoof. “Gravois,” he warned. “I dinna have the patience for this debate. My clansmen hunt me, my wife is leagues away under the protection of a man I hardly ken, and I’ve had my fill of shocks in the last day.” He swung up into the saddle and gave the tinker a curt nod.
“Wait,” Gravois said urgently. “I forgot, I have a gift for your beloved wife. A moment, mon ami, and I will fetch it,” he said over his shoulder as he jogged toward the green cart.
He waited, though both he and Rand lusted to run.
Gravois returned a few minutes later with a package the size of a flintbox. ’Twas wrapped in canvas and tied with twine. “S'il vous plait, tell your wife that I wish her well, and that this gift is to be opened only–how do you say?–when the sheet hits the fan. It is very important you use those exact words, mon ami.”
He raised a brow at the odd phrase, but took the package.
“It was my immense pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Gravois stepped back from Rand and made a grand, graceful gesture.
Darcy couldn’t help his smile. He nodded toward where the car sat. “Unless you’d like to face another angry mob, I’d be ridding myself of that thing.” Guiding his eagerly prancing mount toward the bridge, he called back, “Take care of yourself, Gravois.”
After he crossed, he looked back to see nothing but a dilapidated ruin of a bridge and a barren rise of rocky hills.
Chapter 18
Melanie knelt beside Constance in Skibo’s terraced garden. Beneath them, the village of Dornoch bustled with activity. The sounds of rolling carts, haggling merchants, and laughing children drifted up to the castle on the gentlest of breezes. Mild sunshine warmed her shoulders, and freshly-turned loam cooled her knees through her apron-covered kirtle. The mingled scents of a hundred varieties of flowers and herbs christened the morning perfect.
