“Who did that?” asked Magnus, an edge in his voice that would have made a grown man tremble. “Who set those marks on you, Caitrin?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I muttered, hauling my sleeves back down. I headed for the door out to the yard, but he was there before me, his solid form blocking the doorway.
“Yes, it does.We knew you were running away. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Why else would anyone want to stay up here all summer, except to escape from something? Rioghan told me you were all over bruises.”
“Rioghan?” How could he know about the marks Cillian had left on me, the ones that showed on my arms, the many, many more that were concealed under my gown?
“Last night, in the garden,” Magnus said, and I remembered that I had been standing on the open gallery in my night attire while the councillor patrolled the garden below. Rioghan might have seen a good expanse of arm, shoulder, upper chest. “Who hurt you?”
“It makes no difference who,” I said. “The bruises will fade.They’ll be gone soon.”
“Of course it makes a difference. Someone beat you, not once but over and over; that’s blindingly obvious.”
“It’s not important,” I murmured. “Really.”
Magnus put his big hands on my shoulders. Despite the gentleness of his touch I could not help flinching. He spoke quietly, leaving his hands where they were. “It’s important to us, Caitrin. Maybe you’ve had nobody to stand up for you; maybe you’ve been all on your own. But you’re at Whistling Tor now. You’re one of Anluan’s folk. If a man thought to set a violent hand to you now, he’d soon find you’re not on your own anymore.”
My eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. I could not find any words. As he released his hold and stepped back, I simply nodded, picked up my bucket again, and went out.
By the time I had performed my ablutions and returned to the kitchen, Magnus was gone. I ate my porridge, then headed for the library.
On the threshold I hesitated, glancing over at the table where I had been working before.The pages of Nechtan’s account were still spread out there. At one end of the work space lay a considerable pile of other loose leaves, and the stone jar had been placed on top of these so drafts could not scatter them.There was no sign of the mirror.
I took a deep breath and went in.The chest in which I’d found Nechtan’s writings was on the floor, its lid closed. In the center of the table was a scrap of parchment on which a couple of lines were written in an unmistakable hand.
I was filled with gratitude by this terse note, though I would have been happier if he had taken the mirror right out of the library. I knew its capacity to entice, even from within a box. Never mind that. I’d made a plan for the day’s work and I would get on with it. Sort through the papers from the chest this morning, reading anything in Latin. Start on cleaning the library this afternoon.
As the morning passed, I realized there was an aspect of this kind of scholarship that I had not anticipated: boredom.The tale of Nechtan’s cruelty had been unpleasant but dramatic. It would have captured my attention even without its attendant vision.What I had before me today was entirely mundane and prosaic. A particularly hard winter, with stock losses. A good harvest of pears. An uneventful ride to visit a chieftain named Farannan. Unspecified trouble brewing in the southeast. Nothing about Nechtan’s family, the wife he had dismissed so cruelly, the new son. No reference to the experiment or to his quest for power. Who would have thought that the enigmatic, ruthless figure of the vision could be so . . . ordinary?
I was falling asleep as I read. I glanced out the window, wondering if Anluan was in the garden again, but there was no sign of him. A light rain had begun to fall; the grayish green fronds of chamomile and wormwood bowed down under its gentle persistence. I turned my gaze back to the page, where Nechtan set out a dispute over access to a particular grazing area. My eyelids drooped.
I woke with a crick in my neck and an uncomfortable awareness that I had been sleeping with my head pillowed on my arms for quite some time—the light in the library had changed, and my body was aching with cramps. Sitting up, I realized I was no longer alone. Anluan was standing in the doorway to the garden, watching me. Under the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes, I wilted.This was not a good start.
“You sleep soundly,” he observed.
“I’m sorry. I was awake most of the night. It was cold. And . . .” No, I would not tell him about the flight from Market Cross and the exhaustion that was more than physical. I would not speak of the nightmares. “Thank you for putting it away, Lord Anluan,” I added. “The mirror, I mean.”
“Mm.” He still had his eyes fixed on me.Their look had become wary, puzzled, as if he was trying to work out exactly what sort of creature I was. “Not Lord, just Anluan. We don’t use titles in this household. You’d best get on with your work.”
“Yes, I . . . May I ask you a question, Lord . . . I mean,Anluan?” Did this chieftain really mean me to call him by his given name?
“A question.What question?” His tone was less than encouraging.
“I was told—the others told me, over supper last night—of certain . . . presences, in the woods. I was warned of the same thing down in the settlement, and I thought the folk there were exaggerating, the way people do sometimes, to tell a more entertaining story. But it seems it’s true.”
Anluan regarded me, and all I could read on his uneven features was a profound desire to be somewhere else. After a long pause he said, “You like to talk.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, taken aback.
“You find it easy to talk.”
“Not always.” Cillian used to wait until Ita went out somewhere. He would only hit me in private. I was accustomed to being so frightened that I couldn’t move, let alone speak. I had despised myself for staying mute and frozen as he hurt me, but the little voice inside me, the one screaming
