The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (73 page)

Adultery is a fearful sin. It will destroy your family. You’ll never see your child again
.

She would honor him by living in a way that would make him proud.

Father Drummond had told her about the Celtic war-goddess,
Morrígu.
Tears had filled his eyes when he’d spoken of Hannah. More than anyone else, he had shown a willingness to speak to her about the past.

I’ll never see Mackinnon again
, she promised him as she carried Olivia through gardens bursting with blooms. Above them, Kilgarry’s central keep appeared to move through the heavens like a great ship, its sails formed of puffy white bannocks in an azure sky.

Kyle had transferred hollyhocks from the hothouse to the entry into the hedge maze. Periwinkles and violets filled the shady spots with color. By the garden’s sun-warmed wall, lilac greened and budded. A Scotch Argus fluttered, searching for nectar, while bumblebees hummed from flower to flower. Kilgarry’s gardener, swiping one dirty hand across his brow and leaning on his shovel, told Morrigan he couldn’t recall a finer spring, and pointed out where he planned to start a batch of Scottish flame flowers.

Lustrous as alabaster, rosy as the interior of a conch shell, Olivia eclipsed it all.

Morrigan observed the changing color and light from a wicker bench in the gazebo. On one side of the path, a marble lion stretched out a paw as if to touch the unicorn on the other side, which dismissively polished its horn against its rump. At the end of the graveled walk, a naked goddess held an amphora from which water flowed.

Had the unicorn just glanced at the lion? Did the goddess’s mouth turn up in a sly smile? Morrigan was beguiled into fantasy.

Kyle broke into song as he worked.

“
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever

Ae farewell, alas forever.
”

She found peace within Kilgarry’s gardens.

“This will be yours someday,” she told her daughter. Olivia would have this legacy, the security provided by Curran’s wealth. It would be enough.

Washed in sunlight and latticework shadows, she spent every afternoon reading. In some ways, she found a kindred spirit in Emma Bovary. But the woman’s stubborn selfishness enraged her and the ending offered no hope.

When she’d first met Curran, he’d asked what she would do with freedom. Hadn’t she said she would never marry? Or that she’d not be a man’s possession? The exact memory escaped her. But she was married, and from the instant Olivia began forming inside her, she’d lost any possibility of independence, insubstantial though it had been. Olivia stole Morrigan’s longed-for emancipation more completely than any man ever could.

Morrigan could not be sorry for it. She would give her freedom and more, if it brought Olivia happiness.

She would do anything for this child. She’d told Father Drummond as much. Protecting a child was not wrong, yet Morrigan knew her fierceness wasn’t shared by all women. Females were expected to be delicate and helpless. They were supposed to swoon at the sight of blood and shrink from harming any living thing. Men must perform the crude work of violence so that women could remain pure ideals.

Yet she had to admit Glenelg had introduced her to a whole new breed, an elite corps of naturally strong and practical women. There simply was no room or time to be anything else. These women were the descendants of Scatach and Aife. She suspected every one of them would flay the skin from any fool who might threaten their offspring.

While the babe cooed and played with her fingers, her mother spun fantasies. She saw herself arrayed in trousers, top boots, and rolled up sleeves, dredging ancient civilizations from sand and soil. Curran had mentioned an ongoing excavation for the city of Troy, making her wonder what it would be like to turn a spade of dirt and find a gold bracelet or bit of pottery thousands of years old. How would it be, to earn her own livelihood, to not be dependent on anyone? She could hardly imagine. It was men’s domain, and they kept selfish possession of it.

Kyle sang mournfully.

“
Had we ne’er loved so blindly,

Never met— or never parted—

We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
”

During the thick soft nights of May, her husband made love to her. He could still compel a fiery response, though she sometimes wept after, silently.

If she had to, she would hang her existence upon self-control for the next fifty years. If it made Olivia and Curran happy, then all would be well.

* * * *

But for Tess’s inadvertent slip, Morrigan would never have known Mackinnon had vanished again.

She was in the garden, reading a letter from Louis Stevenson. He told her he was pondering the idea of writing a book of poems for children. Inspired by what she’d told him about Nicky and the wind, he’d been playing with a wind poem of his own in a child’s viewpoint.

“Mistress?”

It was Tess, holding a thick warm plaid. While Morrigan had been reading, the skies had grown heavy, dark, and chilly. She tucked the blanket around Morrigan’s shoulders and, glancing at the heavens, said, “I hope Aodhàn Mackinnon finds his way home before it starts to rain.”

“Has he been gone?”

“One of his usual disappearances. It does upset Seaghan though, and that upsets my mother. Seaghan won’t stop searching, no matter how many times he does this, and no matter how miserable the weather.”

“Is anyone helping?”

Tess shrugged and Morrigan’s resolve disintegrated. “I’m just sitting here. I’ll lend a hand,” she said.

She nursed Olivia, saying nothing of her plan to Diorbhail, dressed warmly, and went to the stables. “Would you saddle Stoirmeil for me?” she asked Logan as she drew on her gloves. When he had, she sent the mare from the courtyard in a clattering gallop.

I’m not doing anything wrong
, she reassured herself, tapping the reins against her mare’s shoulder. She knew she should have said something to Curran, but he would have argued, maybe refused to let her go. Still, he’d been in his study. She’d crept by the door without saying a word. Shame told her she should have done things differently.

“I owe him this,” she said, remembering how Mackinnon had searched for her when she was missing, long into the night, how he’d carried her to spare her ankle.

She searched along the coast, then at the cave clearing where they’d last met. She dismounted and walked the path in the Eilanreach, reliving the night of fog, and how his brief, bright elation was ruined by Curran’s appearance.

The skies spattered and the wind rose. When she caught up to Seaghan, he seemed pleased and thanked her, but insisted if it started to rain in earnest, she must promise to stop immediately and come to his blackhouse for tea. About Aodhàn, he tried to sound nonchalant.
He’ll return,
the brawny fisherman said,
when he’s good and ready
, but his eyes said,
will he?

Morrigan wondered too. Had he decided to go away for her sake and Curran’s? Could he dredge up that kind of selflessness?

Seaghan escorted Morrigan to Kilgarry at sunset, and his gratitude deflected Curran’s irritation. The next afternoon, Violet brought Morrigan a note.
He came back on his own after midnight
, it said.

Why did he keep doing this? Morrigan’s worry turned to anger. She sent Violet to the stables with the order to saddle her mare again and once she assured herself that Olivia wouldn’t need her for a while, whipped the horse and raced from the courtyard as though chased by a moaning
bean-sìth
.

All her furious questions vanished when she saw him. He was feverish, every so often muttering unintelligibly. Rolling up her sleeves, she dropped onto a stool by the bed and took over applying wet cloths to his forehead.

“Don’t you fret, darling girl.” Seaghan knocked a ball of ash from his pipe and put the kettle on to boil. “Aodhàn’s prone to these fevers. He’ll recover. He always does.”

Morrigan’s exasperation rose at his careless attitude. “See how restless and hot he is. This could be miasma.”

“I’ve seen what happens to those infected with cholera, child.”

“Malaria. Smallpox.”

“It’s the same nameless fever he’s had many times. It clears up after a day or so like nothing ever happened.”

“We should fetch Eleanor at least.”

“He wouldn’t thank you for it.” Seaghan relit his pipe and puffed clouds of smoke. “Mind after your wedding, I told you about pulling him from the ocean?”

Morrigan nodded.

“Near dead he was, and no’ only from being half-drowned. There was a knife wound in his chest. We stitched it, covered him, and hoped for the best. He lived through that, didn’t he, lass?”

Morrigan folded a fresh cloth and dabbed Mackinnon’s temples. “Has he still not told you what happened?”

“Won’t say a word.” Seaghan pointed the stem of his pipe at her. “There wasn’t a plume of smoke or a broken board anywhere.” He offered a dramatic shrug, a tilt of the head, a mischievous smile. “I’ve told myself it’s indeed possible for a ship to sink in a storm and never a sliver seen again— especially in the seas south of Berneray.”

He handed her a cup of tea, lightly infused with milk, she noticed, just as she liked it. “Yet it did seem strange, him floating, alive, no sign of wreckage, nor any other bodies. Only moments could’ve passed, or he would’ve been dead, with such a wound, in frigid water.” He returned the stem of his pipe to his mouth, sucked in smoke, and shook his head. “Nothing about it seemed probable to my way of thinking.”

“You say he’d been stabbed? Maybe he was attacked and thrown off some ship, then it sailed on without him.”

“Aye, and an air of mystery draws women like bees to honey. You needn’t scowl at me. You’re female. And here you are, aren’t you? To this day old women up and down the coast make secret signs of protection when Aodhàn passes. We’re no’ all that far from the Orkneys.”

“What’ve they to do with it?”

“Where d’you think the legend originated?” he asked with exaggerated patience.

“What legend?” Annoyance sharpened her tone.

“The seal-man. Selkies. Orkney folk claim the seal is descended from a royal line. It’s within their power to change form at will. You haven’t forgotten already, have you?”

Morrigan’s throat constricted.

“I am a practical man, of course, and have never believed such daftness. But there remains the fact that Aodhàn didn’t drown that day. And he does vanish. He won’t say where he goes or why. No one ever sees him. What do you think? Is it the seals he rejoins, in the briny deep?”

She fell into memories of the dream, of the seal beckoning and transforming. Magic existed in the world; this man lying here, so tortured and ill, gave ample proof of it.

Seaghan was trustworthy. She sensed he would understand this strange bond between his friend and the laird’s wife, how difficult it was to ignore or deny.

Yet something in his face made her hesitate. Something different from a second ago. She gasped. “You… you’re mocking me.”

His mouth stretched into a toothy grin. Morrigan rolled her wet cloth into a whip and snapped it against his scalp.

“Ouch,” he cried then grinned again, rubbing at the sting. “There’s no need for us both to sit here wiping the great wean’s brow. I’ll see to the hens. Call if you need me.” Chuckling at his own wit, he scooped up his cap and left.

It wasn’t long before Mackinnon’s fever spiked. Heat rolled off him and he thrashed. Morrigan wanted to fetch Seaghan, but feared her patient might injure himself.

His eyes opened, glinting with unhealthy pinpoints of light. “
A rùin mo chridhe
.” He seized her arms. “Aridela….”

“Shhh, Mackinnon,” she said. “It’s Morrigan.” Again she reeled at the way he seemed to know her inner fantasies. How did he do that?

He lifted up off the bed, squeezing her arms. “I cannot give in. I won’t.”

“You don’t have to,” Morrigan said gently, hoping to bring him some kind of peace.

“I will best her….”

“Why can’t you just live and be happy, Mackinnon?”

His stare was alternately blank then coherent. “Without you?” He pulled her closer and pressed his face against her throat. It was frighteningly hot.

These ramblings were no doubt caused by fever. But the suffering in his voice made her long to give him relief. She kept her voice calm and low. “Here, Mackinnon. I have beef and barley soup. It will make you feel better.”

“I carry the memories. Every life… every death… every moment of torture. She forces them into me, trying to break me. I won’t… I won’t give in.”

“Aye, Mackinnon.” She stroked his cheek. “You’ll win.”

“She’s fading. None remember her.”

Nicky had fallen ill once and had made similar, nonsensical statements. When he improved, he couldn’t remember the things he’d said and accused her of lying about it.

“Morrigan….” Mackinnon’s voice trailed off. Then he added that other name. “Aridela. I’ve missed you.” He fell back, limp as a drowned kitten. “Your touch is cool.”

It sounded like he was calling
her
Aridela. She dunked the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and placed it on his forehead. As soon as he was himself again, she would ask him where he’d heard that name.

His left hand trailed up his chest. He grabbed at something, a chain around his neck, and pulled a pendant out from under his damp sark. After a moment his hand fell away, revealing a flat silver circle with a beautifully worked design.

A blue stone, embedded between two crescents. The stone winked as it caught the light.

Hesitantly, she touched it, brushing the bead with her fingertips. The resulting shock made her gasp and jerk away.

The pendant seemed familiar. Yet she couldn’t recall ever seeing it before.

Perhaps she’d imagined that jolt. She touched it again, and again recoiled.

This was silly. If it was hot it was because of Mackinnon’s fever. She lifted the pendant away from his skin, holding it by the chain.

The detail was stunning, the delicate carvings perfect in every way. The dark blue stone in the center was injected with subtle veins of white; it was so shiny she saw her face reflected in it.