Your parents. And I remember Lazarus Gannel saying ‘Off you go, missy, I’m sure your uncle will be pleased to see you’ and me not asking questions because I didn’t want to appear any more ignorant than I already had. Seeing this man, and the need and hope and want for a parent welling up and crashing over me so that no sort of reason could make itself known.
And I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. That everything I thought I had finally gained in those brief seconds has been wrenched from my hands and heart. As if everything I had laid claim to when I used the name “Elliott” is gone, showing the lie of who I am, who I might be. I feel the tears threaten again, although a different kind, those that come on the verge of a howling storm. The noise you make as you crumple to the ground and cease to care who sees you, cease to care if you continue to exist or not. The type of thing that might now unmake me.
We clasp at each other’s forearms. His voice is gentle when he says, ‘I am your uncle, Miren. Edward Elliott. Liam is my brother. You are with family again. Do not despair.’
He pulls me to him again, kisses my forehead. ‘Come inside. Come inside and we shall make you at home. You must tell me everything, all of your adventures. I can tell your journey has been hard, but you are home now. Come inside, come inside. You need to rest, my dear girl, I can see that.’
My uncle – Edward – keeps his arms around my shoulders and helps me to the steps leading up to the entrance. I want nothing so much as to sleep. Even more than answers to my questions, I want the oblivion of slumber.
‘Never fear, Miren, you are home.’
* * *
I wake at some point in the dark hours, not knowing where I am. Moonlight pours in through the panes of glass. I sit up, shaking my head, trying to remember. A pretty sitting room, a pot of tea, some sweet biscuits, some chatter but not long before I felt irresistibly tired. I have a vague memory of my uncle half-carrying me up the stairs, but nothing more. I’m still in shirt and trousers but my shoes, socks and coat are gone.
As I look around I don’t take in much detail of the room, but I do recall that I’ve not fulfiled a promise. Rising, I stumble over to the bank of tall windows and peer out.
Down there, by the shore, the kelpie-horse waits, a deeper darkness against the lawn, but still not so black as the lake. Did no one stable him after my arrival? I feel... more than weary, I feel sluggish... drugged? Did they slip something into my tea to calm me? I desperately want to lie back down and sleep, but I gave the kelpie my word and it’s best if I do what must be done while no one is about to witness it.
I step into a very long corridor, find my way to a staircase, to that marble-floored foyer, that enormous front door that takes me forever to unlock – my hands clumsy, now too large, now too small – then out onto the portico, into the night. The moonlight is so very bright and I’m lost, blinded and blinking. And the mountain air is cold, so cold through my shirt.
I rub my eyes until I see stars behind my lids, and somehow it’s better when I open them. Then I hear the gentle whicker of the beastie. There he is, waiting so patiently. When I’m by his side, I put my clumsy fingers to work, undo the bridle and slip it away. He shifts with the fluidity of water back to his proper shape, shakes his head and snorts with irritation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry I forgot you.’
He bows, head so low it almost touches the ground. ‘But I’m free, salt daughter, and you’ve kept your word as I shall keep mine.’
I think of his filthy old tether coiled in the bottom of my duffel, a means to call him back, and point to the lake. ‘Can you go this way?’
He nods. ‘A simple matter when all the waters in the world are joined.’
And he’s gone almost too fast for me to see; strange to hear Aoife’s words from his mouth. I don’t stare after him, but turn to the house, feeling sleep creep back through my limbs. I want to return to my chamber before it overtakes me.
* * *
The room is pretty and filled with daylight. The bed has no canopy, but is large and has a silver frame, shaped to look like vines and leaves. The quilt is a deep green and the wallpaper is green too, with fields of flowers sweeping across them. There is an enormous silk rug over the polished wooden floorboards and curtains of gold drape the tall windows. Awake now, I can make sense of the space: there are two doors, one closed, one ajar. The first leads, I assume to the corridor; the second to a small bathroom. There are only the slightest remains of a fire in the hearth, which was, I suspect, dying even before I woke last night.
I’m lying beneath the covers and I can feel the grit on my sheets from where I went outside barefoot. My hair is still in its tight bun and my scalp itches. In daylight I can see my coat is draped over a yellow armchair in one corner, my boots peeking out from beneath. A small octagonal table
