The Falconer (Elizabeth May) (28 page)

Thoughtfully, she adds, ‘Until I saw your memories, I never even knew you watched me kill your mother. How very sad for you.’

Vengeance rises up inside me, powerful as ever. My skin burns, my rage purifies, becomes a surging storm within me until I’m cleansed of memories and guilt.
Finally
.

Our gazes collide. ‘Try me now,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll make
you
bleed.’

Sorcha smiles at my words. ‘She didn’t sense me, you know.’ She bares those elongated teeth I remember so well. ‘I tore out her throat before she had the chance.’

I explode. I jerk the lightning pistol from my belt and pull the trigger before I realise Sorcha is too far away for the capsule to hit.

The capsule strikes the water as if it were solid ice. Electricity crackles along the surface and the scent of ozone wafts into the air. I’m surprised when I inhale that I can detect a hint of
seilgflùr
, too. As if the thistle were more potent here.

Sorcha doubles over and gasps for air so hard that her entire body shakes with the effort. She barely manages to speak. ‘What did you—’

She coughs then, deep and rough, splattering dark blood across her white shift. Smoke rises from her feet as if the entire surface of the water is saturated with the thistle, burning her.

Now might be my only chance to kill her before the battle. I want her dead for my mother. For
me
.

‘Kam,
stop
.’

I launch myself towards the loch, pistol raised, but an invisible force knocks me back. I slam into one of the trees that line the water and hit the ground. Leaves fall around me. My pistol is still in my hand, but my grip on it is weak. Kiaran’s power leaves a sharp, saturated tang of earth in my mouth.

It hurts to swallow. I rise to my feet and slide the pistol back into its holster. Kiaran stands between me and Sorcha. She’s still gasping for air. It’s the perfect time to kill her. ‘Get out of my way.’

‘No.’

‘
Move!
’

I try to charge past him, but he smashes so hard against me that he knocks all the breath from my lungs.

‘No, Kam,’ he says, holding me close. ‘I can’t let you.’

I claw at his shoulders. Fabric rips under my fingernails. ‘Damn you, she’s weakened now! You told me that you would never get in my way,’ I remind him. ‘You
vowed
it.’

He leans in so close. ‘I never spoke the words to seal the vow.’

Before I can respond, he brushes his fingers across my temple. The overwhelming taste of honey and earth saturates my mouth and my eyes grow heavy. I try to fight it but I can’t. His power is too strong. Just before the emptiness takes me, he rests his cheek against my own. I think I hear him whisper.

‘I’m sorry.’

Chapter 27

T
he weather matches my mood as Dona and I walk quietly along George Street towards the modiste’s shop. My heavy green silk dress swishes and I squint up at the clouds from beneath my umbrella. Another cold, rainy winter day.

I can’t help but mentally curse Kiaran with every step. Damn him for his meddling, for rendering me unconscious when I was so close to killing Sorcha, for . . .
everything
. A dull headache pounds at my temples from his influence. I didn’t even wake up until noon and Dona had to rush to dress me for our appointment with the modiste.

Derrick perches on my shoulder, wings moving animatedly as he rants. ‘—comes into the room and you’re both soaking wet. Then sets you down on the bed – gently, I suppose, considering he’s a right bastard – and calmly tells me that he will speak with you later. When he comes by, can I pull out his entrails?’

I can’t help but laugh softly. Horseless carriages line the street and the traffic is heavy, still being diverted from Princes Street after the bridge disaster. I can’t believe it’s only been a few days since it happened. The street is lively with the sounds of steam engines purring, the laughter of ladies as they walk with gentlemen to their respective destinations. We stroll past the handsome white stone buildings with little hindrance, since people seem rather eager to step out of my way. They mustn’t be associated with a ruined lady, after all. My reputation won’t begin to recover until after I marry.

The residents of New Town are few in number, and everyone is either acquainted or known by reputation. Assuming one’s reputation does not resemble mine, people are usually quite friendly and make a habit of greeting each other as they pass.

‘Good day to you, Mr Blackwood,’ I say.

The young gentleman simply nods and strides past without stopping.

‘I suppose Mr Blackwood is in a hurry today,’ I tell Dona.

‘Why do we care about what these people think, anyway?’ Derrick mutters. ‘They’re idiots. But, if you want, I can
make
them say hello to you. I haven’t used my powers on anyone in a long time and now that I think of it, I rather miss it.’

‘
We
should be polite,’ I say pointedly through gritted teeth, though I don’t feel amiable at all.

‘Just being honest.’

Thankfully it isn’t much further to the modiste’s. I step into the shop and collapse my umbrella as I look around. The shop is warm and bright in comparison to the drab grey outside. Two velvet settees sit in the middle of the room, a tea service betwixt them already prepared. Beyond them are three mirrors framing a stool, where customers can view themselves from every angle. The wallpaper is a rich burgundy that matches the Persian carpet underneath the furniture.

Derrick snorts. ‘No honey with the tea? What kind of establishment is this?’

Above us float the globe lanterns that are so popular these days. One hums a bit too close to my face and I nudge it gently back up towards the ceiling.

‘Lady Aileana! I didn’t hear you come in.’

Miss Forsynth, the modiste, bustles out of the back room. An older woman, about one-and-fifty, Miss Forsynth is the premier modiste in Edinburgh and Father has called on her to design my wedding dress.

‘Good day, Miss Forsynth,’ I say. ‘Lovely to see you.’

‘Please have a seat, my lady. May I take your coat? It’s just us this afternoon.’

I remove the heavy, damp coat from around my shoulders and hand it to her along with my umbrella. She takes them to the cloakroom and returns with several swatches of fabric.

‘Now then, let me show you some ideas.’ Miss Forsynth sits next to me, clicking her tongue. ‘I do wish I had more time to prepare your dress. We could work up something so much more elegant if we had another month.’

I sip my tea. ‘I’m sorry about the rush.’

Smile. Nod. Be polite. Be proper Aileana, because proper Aileana apologises even when she doesn’t have to. She’s bland and dull and
nice
. I just have to survive the day without killing anyone.

Miss Forsynth pats my hand. ‘Oh, my dear, I do
understand
. After all, Lord Galloway is quite handsome, isn’t he? I can see why the hurry is necessary.’ She eyes me knowingly. Good heavens.

I put down my damned teacup before I break it. Derrick snickers at me. ‘No wonder you go out for a slaughter every night.’

Miss Forsynth picks up her swatches and hands them to me. ‘Now, as I was saying, I have some lovely fabric choices for your dress before I show you some designs. This –’ she holds up the one from the top of the pile ‘– is a delicate silk taffeta. Isn’t it just lovely?’

‘It’s hideous,’ Derrick says. ‘Next.’

I stifle a sigh. There are so many places I would rather be than here. Seeking out Kiaran and threatening him with my lightning pistol for a start. I still haven’t processed the anger and shock I awoke to this morning after everything Sorcha revealed. Everything that Kiaran has been keeping from me.

‘Lady Aileana?’

‘Aye, quite lovely,’ I say absently, plastering on a pleasant smile.

‘Or look at this ivory silk,’ she says, pulling out another swatch. ‘It would go so beautifully with your colouring.’

Dona nods her approval, but Derrick buzzes near my head. ‘Is she kidding? Ivory? Does she want you to look sallow? Why don’t you just tell her to shove off and that you aren’t marrying that bloody basta—’

‘Blue,’ I say firmly, interrupting Derrick’s rant. ‘I think I would prefer blue.’

Miss Forsynth blinks in surprise at my outburst. ‘Blue? That’s certainly quite . . . old-fashioned – ivory has become a popular choice among modern brides. Her Majesty herself wore it at her wedding and looked very beautiful indeed.’

‘How splendid for Her Majesty. I, however, would prefer blue. Do you have this in blue?’ I don’t want to spend a minute longer in this place than I have to.

The modiste purses her lips, wrinkling the corners of her mouth. ‘Of course. Marvellous choice.’ She forces a tight partial smile. ‘Shall I show you some design choices?’

Damnation.

She brings out some drawings and samples of other dresses. I nod at the appropriate intervals, barely comprehending her words. I must have agreed to something, however, because before I can make an excuse to leave, she escorts me to the back room to take my measurements and pin fabric on me.

I stand on a stool in the centre of the room and Dona steps up on her own stool to unbutton my day dress. She pulls the sleeves of my dress down my arms, revealing my chemise. I glare at Derrick, who’s grinning wickedly. He sits on the chimneypiece and wiggles his fingers at me.

‘Oh, fine,’ he says as I shake my head subtly. His wings fan behind him as he turns away. ‘Why must you always ruin my fun?’

I stand stiffly as Miss Forsynth takes her measurements. ‘My lady, could you raise your arms, please?’

I lift my arms, a mute doll.

Three days. Three days until midwinter, three days until the world ends, and I’m doing this. I suppose it’s appropriate. If I live through the battle, I will go right back to this – to being a plaything, a show horse for people to stare at and gossip over.

It will be as if nothing happened. I’ll still have to marry Gavin in a fortnight. I’ll still be forced into my neat little cage where ladies are never supposed to feel anger, where they must always be accommodating and complaisant no matter what grief they suffer under their pleasant demeanour.

What you want isn’t important.

Miss Forsynth pokes at my upper arm and glances at me in surprise at the muscles there. Ladies are not encouraged to engage in the sort of physical activity that might make our bodies look less feminine.

By the time the modiste finishes measuring and pinning, I’m stiff from holding still for her. Before I leave, she says, ‘In a few days time I shall stop over at your house for the first fitting.’ She pats my hand. ‘Fear not, my lady, you will make the most beautiful bride in Edinburgh. The blue is a lovely colour on you.’

I grit my teeth in a farewell grimace that I hope passes for a smile as I step out of her shop and into the rain. Most beautiful bride, indeed. If only that were my foremost fear. I wonder if I’ll survive – if anyone will survive – to attend my wedding.

Later, at home, I stand in front of my hidden map of Scotland, studying the path of Sorcha’s kills. One hundred and eighty-six kills. No one will know how they really died, except me and Derrick.

I brush my fingers over the ribbon that represents my mother’s death, the first one I ever marked. God, I’ve planned for so long, trained and fought and killed and overcome everything I thought would weaken me if I ever faced this faery. I’ve built weapons, imagined myself slaying her in a multitude of ways. I planned. I tracked her. I practised. I waited.

In the end, none of it mattered. I was so consumed by my own memories, my grief, that she took advantage of it with little effort at all. I can place some of the blame on Kiaran for stopping me, and claim a small victory in hurting her for a brief moment. But before that, the
baobhan sìth
played with me. She broke into my mind, reduced me to that pathetic little girl who knelt in blood, too afraid to move. She could do it again if she wanted.

I grasp the bottom edge of the map and rip the paper off the wall with a sharp jerk, scattering pins and ribbons across the hardwood floor at my feet.

‘Aileana?’ Derrick sounds concerned.

‘This is stupid,’ I say, tearing the map into pieces. ‘It was a waste of time.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ he says, flying around me. ‘It’s—’

I toss the paper into the fireplace and light it. I watch the map burn, curling and blackening at the edges. I let go of my hard work, all the effort I put into believing that I’d find Sorcha one day and slay her so magnificently.

‘Aileana,’ Derrick says from his perch on the table.

I sit at the window and stare outside. Only half-past four in the afternoon and it’s already nightfall.

‘You weren’t there,’ I say softly. ‘After everything I thought I was capable of – she made me watch her kill my mother all over again.’

I hear the flutter of Derrick’s wings as he lands on my shoulder. ‘I should have been there for you. When I heard she was in the city, I came home as fast as I could, but you had already gone.’

Laughing bitterly, I say, ‘I’m glad you weren’t there. She could have broken me so easily if she wanted to. I can’t believe I let her—’

I stop, unable to say the words.
I can’t believe I let her weaken me again. I can’t believe I let her murder my mother again. I can’t believe I let Kiaran get in my way
.

‘I know,’ Derrick whispers.

I watch the rain and inhale the scent of damp air. Soft fog lingers in the back garden. At moments like this, I appreciate how the weather in Scotland is never the same, and how swiftly it changes. How the rain itself seems to breathe, soft and slow. Right now, it falls in the same leisurely way feathers do. I open the window and let the wind carry the rain inside, to wet my cheeks and cool my skin.

I’m discovering a new kind of solace in being alone, in appreciating all the things I might never experience if I don’t survive past midwinter. I’ve never been the kind of lass to seek stillness to find meaning. I find meaning in the simplicity of destruction. The calm before a squall presents a moment so profound and quiescent, when the entire world stops and waits.