The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (27 page)

The aunts fell oddly silent. Both averted their eyes. Ibby clutched at Beatrice’s forearm, the color draining from her usually flushed cheeks, her earlier gaiety gone as though she’d been doused by freezing water. Morrigan wanted to ask what was wrong, but an oppressive, sourceless fear stoppered her tongue and kept her silent.

On they drove, and after a moment arrived at the next ruin, which Curran called
Dùn Trodan
. Morrigan could no longer ignore the weighted atmosphere. She sensed it emanating not only from her aunts but also from Kyle, and, to a lesser extent, from Curran.

“Is something wrong?” She addressed Ibby, thinking her garrulous aunt most likely to give her an answer.

She was surprised and not reassured when all Ibby said was, “No, nothing, my love, but I am rather peckish. Perhaps we could go on to Kilgarry, and explore another time?”

“Of course,” Curran said immediately. “Forgive me, I should have thought of that.” He said something to Kyle, who turned the wagonette around. Soon they were back on the coast road, breezing along at a good pace until the open land gave way to another forest. The track forked again and Kyle took the one to the right, into a deeper wood.

Trees and undergrowth closed in, alive with birds and squirrels and one red doe, which stood its ground and observed them curiously.

Glenelg.
The name alone filled Morrigan with both agitation and excitement. Magic emanated from the soil, swirled around the trees, beckoned in the flutter of leaves. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a faery, and eagerly turned towards every movement and sound.

Meanwhile, the tangible world displayed a bright, colorful autumn. Blood red rowanberries competed with foliage fading from green to buttery yellow, and everywhere was the pervasive scent of fallen leaves.

Flashes of warm stone appeared ahead. They came to tall iron gates, propped open, and the rough track was replaced with a neatly shingled drive. Flanking the gates were square stone posts mounted with regal unicorn heads.

Morrigan seized Curran’s forearm. Such civilized grandeur was hard to fathom in this wild, primitive place.

A central tower loomed, magnificently lit by hazy sunbeams. Newer towers, topped with capped turrets, nestled at the east and west ends. In between were ivy-covered chimneys, crow-stepped gables, and, Morrigan saw as they came closer, a half-moon staircase curving up to the door. A line of men and women were hastily assembling on the drive.

Curran stepped from the wagonette and offered his hand. He hadn’t said a word to prepare her for being put on display. Blushing with embarrassment, she squeezed his fingers to let him know he’d vexed her, but he merely grinned, lifted a mocking brow, and turned to assist the aunts.

“Welcome to you, Miss Lawton.” A grey-haired woman in a neat black dress and white apron bobbed a curtsy. “I am Fionna Dunbar, the housekeeper.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.” What should she do? Take the woman’s hand? Curtsy in return? Morrigan had no idea, and chose to extend her gloved hand. Fionna took it graciously and released it swiftly. No one seemed shocked.

“This is Tess.” Curran paused beside a young woman with black hair and large blue eyes, who curtsied, smiling. “Fionna’s daughter. And Janet, our cook.” The woman, heavy and ungraceful, performed an awkward curtsy but her smile was friendly. Morrigan hardly dared wonder if this meant that she and Beatrice would no longer be required to prepare meals.

“Violet,” Curran continued, taking another step. “She and Tess are the housemaids.”

“I often serve as lady’s maid for Master Ramsay’s guests,” Violet said after she curtsied. “I’d be pleased to do the same for you.”

“Th-thank you.”

Fionna took over the introductions. “This is my son, Logan, the groom.”

Logan’s bow betrayed subtle but certain cockiness. He was fearsomely handsome, with speculative grey-green eyes and dark, dusty hair, no doubt from working in the barn. There was a distinct odor of hay and horses about him. “I saw you birthed,” he said.

“Logan!” Fionna cried, flushing.

Morrigan’s own cheeks grew hot as he continued to gaze at her without any visible embarrassment. She must say something, but what? How should one respond to such a statement? Logan didn’t look as though he’d lived many more years than she. She could only stammer, “You… you saw my birth?”

“Aye, and you’ve grown up well,” he said, sending a bold, appreciative glance over her and laughing at his mother’s mortification.

“Mind your tongue,” Curran said, his face darkening.

The lad sobered and bobbed his head. “No offence intended, m’lady,” he said.

“I’m pleased to meet you all.” Morrigan spoke quickly to move them past the tension.

“Come inside.” Curran nodded to Fionna, which was apparently the signal to disperse. The four newcomers climbed the stone steps to a massive black oak door decorated with an intricate carving of a rearing unicorn and a bare-chested, kilted soldier brandishing a sword. Fionna opened it and stood to one side.

Morrigan touched the carving. “Why d’you have unicorns on your flags, your gateposts, and here, on your door?”

“It’s the Ramsay crest,” Curran said.

For the second time that day, Morrigan felt the world tilt and slide.
Have you seen our unicorn?
She comes out when the moon is full and stands beneath your window.
Nicky had always known whenever she’d felt too scunnered, too tired to fight another day under Douglas Lawton’s thumb. Those were the times he brought up the unicorn.

Had Nicky known? Was that his secret message?
Be patient. Your unicorn will appear
.

“This is where we’ll live?” She spoke quietly, forcing Curran to bend close. “Or are ye playin’ some daft game wi’ me, m’lord?”

He covered her hand with his. “I’ve dreamed of bringing you here.” Without warning, he swept her into his arms and carried her over the threshold.

“Curran!” She didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, knowing the servants would be sniggering.

“We may not be married yet,” he said, “but I couldn’t let this occasion pass without note.”

Twining her arms around his neck, she gave in to bittersweet laughter.
You knew, Nicky. You knew he would come, if I would stay strong
.

She touched the sickle scar at Curran’s brow, startled to feel that tingling, slightly burning sensation, and in the dim entry, she glimpsed that same violet blue radiance around him. It dimmed as her eyes grew accustomed to the change in light.

Curran set her on a floor so polished it resembled a deep brown pool. She smelled what she could only think of as wealth: fine wax, thick carpets, expensive quiet.

Then there came a mad scuffling. Something grey and warm jumped on her.

Laughing, Morrigan scooped the pup into her arms. “Antiope! Oh, she’s grown!”

Curran gave a disgusted snort and nodded at Logan, who hauled the dog away, though she whined and nipped his arm.

“Is it true, Curran?”

“What, my love?”

“That Logan saw my birth.”

“He was there. He and his folk were cleared along with yours. He didn’t mean to be rude. I think he’s truly pleased to see you, grown up and healthy. But I want this to be a happy occasion,
a ghràidh
. Come, let me show you my home.” He beckoned to Ibby and Beatrice, who had paused outside the door to speak to Fionna.

Curran took them through spacious drawing rooms, and a parlor in the east turret with big windows that caught the morning light, then a dining room that seemed capable of seating a battalion, and, set back in the southern recesses, a dim ballroom adorned with plasterwork that looked like beaten cream where the walls met high ceilings. The library, set into the west turret, dazzled her with its fully stocked bookcases and a great stone fireplace that promised warmth on the coldest winter day. The larger of two kitchens possessed a centuries-old flagstone floor and a prodigious fireplace preserved from a much earlier era. Shiny copper pots were suspended from hooks in the ceiling, next to fragrant bunches of dried herbs, onions and garlic.

The manor house even had a dungeon beneath the central keep, where the stone walls were chilly and the way in was down a twisting, narrow, slippery set of worn stone steps. Wine racks, holding dusty bottles, took up most of the large center space. Old oak doors led into other chambers, but Curran told her they’d been used long ago as prison cells, and were empty.

A curving staircase carpeted in deep burgundy led from the main floor to the second storey bedrooms. The master suite, with its attached dressing rooms and cozy sitting room, were tucked into the upper west-end turret and corridor. Fading sunlight created speckled rainbows from an intricate stained-glass window in the sitting room, and on the bedroom’s south wall, a cushioned window seat built into an alcove provided a view over the gardens, the forest beyond, and a portion of the Sound as well.

Four oak posts topped with carved pinecones accented the massive bed.

She would lie here with her husband, every night for the rest of her life. She would give birth here. Morrigan stole a glance at Curran, who leaned against one of the posts, his expression making her wonder if he guessed her thoughts.

How beautiful he was, in so many ways. Truly, Curran possessed far more than endearing dimples and bewitching eyes. Here he stood, willing to share all this with her, to make her his wife, when nothing but his own sense of right and wrong compelled him.

What about her? What could she offer that would keep him enchanted after her beauty faded? Douglas had made it clear she was a burden. He’d hated her enough to try and end her life. If she couldn’t determine what it was about her that was so awful, and figure out a way to rout it, would Curran someday feel the same?

Weighted by spiraling hopelessness, she turned away to trace the lead seams in the delicate stained glass. But, inexplicably, other images formed, hesitantly at first, then growing stronger, clearer. The inner Morrigan, perhaps, pushing at her as she so often did, willing her to transcend her shortcomings.

She saw herself at Curran’s side, laughing, arguing, planning Kilgarry’s crops and deciding how to educate their children. She turned away from the window and studied the bed again. They would join there, in the way of a husband and wife, but the bed could mean more. It could represent intimacy, friendship, and trust. With any luck, by the time her beauty declined, something else would have taken its place, something deeper, if she worked to create it. Though she knew she hadn’t yet conquered her doubts and fears, in this moment they were dispelled, like bursting soap bubbles.

“Isoke?” Ibby rested a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You’re quiet. Are you well?”

She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “More than well,” she said. “I’m happy, Auntie.”

Curran smiled.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AODHÀN MACKINNON AND
Seaghan MacAnaugh rose with the sun, as was their habit. After consuming their usual gruel, they set to work, Aodhàn scraping barnacles along the
Hannah’
s hull while Seaghan sat nearby, smoking his pipe and methodically mending frayed creels, nets, and lines. Long ago, the two had divided chores according to personality. Aodhàn suffered an intolerance of small detail that Seaghan thankfully didn’t share.

As the sun climbed, the intermittent foreboding that had kept Aodhàn awake most of the night escalated into sensations so powerful he could no longer dismiss or ignore them. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t identify what was wrong. Nothing was different, yet inside, he felt everything had changed. It wasn’t dread, yet it almost felt that way. It wasn’t fear, yet fear wove through it. It seemed a mixture of fear and exultation.

Standing at the brink of land often leant temporary relief, a peace of sorts. The roar of the surf calmed the insistent
need
he could never pin down. He knew Seaghan worried when he vanished, frequently for days. Yet ever since his partner had dredged him out of the vast open ocean, Aodhàn had been a slave to his compulsion. He could not expunge it, no matter how he tried.

One spot drew him more than any other: a cave scooped out by the sea, only reachable when the tide allowed, and well-disguised by a set of rugged, sharp-edged, slippery rocks. He would descend into this cave and study the pattern of waves, the play of light and cloud. Intense concentration, no food or water, and exposure to the elements left him exhausted, sometimes feverish, yet the fear of missing some revelation that might emerge from beneath the water’s surface was too strong to resist. When he stood on the sand, salt-spray stinging his skin and icy water creeping over his feet, fresh hope would spark. Maybe
this
time, the maddening, disjointed images, the lost chunks of his life, would coalesce.

Giving a pointed sigh, he threw his scraper, sending a family of eider ducks flapping and squawking.

“It’s more than I can bear,” Seaghan called from his sunny spot.

Aodhàn scowled. “And what is that?”

“Your mood. ’Tis black as peat. Go for a walk. Have some whisky. Find a willing lass.”

“I might walk a bit.” Aodhàn tried to sound casual, but the tension in his voice couldn’t be stifled.

“Away with you.” Seaghan heaved another swath of netting across his lap. With no small measure of threat, he added, “
A-mach às mo shealladh!
”

Aodhàn headed for the mountains. He knew he would end up at the sea eventually. Yet once more he tried to pretend he didn’t have to go— that his will would prove stronger than instinct.

Get out of my sight!
Seaghan had said. Aodhàn didn’t blame him. He wished he could get out of his own sight, more often than not.

His head throbbed, and his stomach felt as though sharp wires were tightening around it, sending gooseflesh and sweat in alternating waves over his skin.

The hills behind Glenelg ascended higher and higher, eventually culminating on the other side of Loch Duich in the Five Sisters of Kintail, the summits of which touched the clouds. He didn’t plan on going that far, though, and hiked towards a glen he’d found once, a spot he loved for its beauty and solitude. It, too, claimed a cave, a small one. He had explored it, crawling deep into the earth, fascinated for some reason by the pungent, chilled aroma, and brief infuriating snatches suggesting he had been in a similar cave before, somewhere.