Heart's Blood

“Of course—I’m sorry—forgive me, my lady. I’m a newcomer to the house and I don’t quite understand how things are done here.”

“Take what you need; nobody wants these old things,” Muirne said abruptly.

“Th-thank you,” I stammered.

“There’s no need to thank me,” she said, getting up and moving to the door.“You know I don’t like your being here. I made that clear the day you arrived. I suppose we must make the best of things.”

I stared at her. The sudden hostility had come from nowhere, and I wondered for a moment if I had misheard. “I don’t know why you would disapprove,” I said carefully.“Anluan has a job to be done, and I’m qualified to do it. I mean no harm to anyone. He wants me here.”

“He should not have employed you,” Muirne said. “Your presence wearies and disturbs him.This work on the documents is a misguided venture. He made an error of judgment.”

It seemed important to speak out on this particular point, even if she snapped my head off. “Muirne,” I said carefully, rising to my feet so I could look her in the eye, “I realize there are still aspects of the household and the Tor that I don’t fully understand. But one thing is plain to me. Anluan is a grown man. It’s appropriate for a man to make his own decisions. He’s entitled to hire a scribe to translate his documents if he wants to. He’s the chieftain of Whistling Tor, not a helpless child.”

Something flickered in her lovely eyes. “How can you understand?” she said. “This place is not like the outside world, Caitrin. If you have any wisdom at all, remember that some secrets are best not revealed. Some tales are best left untold. Now I must go; I am required elsewhere.You can find your own way back.” Before I could say another word, she went out the door.

Rather than obey my instincts and bolt downstairs, I decided to wait until I could be sure she was gone. Her cryptic warnings had unnerved me; I needed time. Plainly she had convinced herself that my presence in the household was bad for Anluan. He did often seem weary and despondent, that was true. And he never seemed to do very much. Most days he spent time in Irial’s garden, where I could see him from the library window. Sometimes he would write in his little book, but more often he simply sat on the bench, staring into space. Tomas and Orna had implied he left the Tor only rarely, if ever. Such isolation must be bad for him. No wonder his manner was so odd. I vowed to myself that I would stay, dire warnings or not. Perhaps by the end of summer I could both finish the job and make friends with Muirne. She was the only female in the household. It must get lonely. Perhaps she had simply forgotten how to talk to another woman.

Now that she was not watching me, I took time to examine the garments more carefully. Not only could they help clothe me for the summer, but they might also provide insights into the history of Whistling Tor. The library held the ink and parchment records set down by men. But that was only half the story. Women talked to their daughters and granddaughters, weaving memories. If no living women remained, one might still learn something from what they had left behind: a garden planted in a certain pattern, a precious possession set away with careful hands, a gravestone for a beloved pet. And clothing. I did not know who had owned these gowns, these delicate undergarments, but perhaps they had something to tell me.

It seemed to me that this apparel had clothed three different women. The newest garments included the violet gown I so liked and a russet one of the same size and style.There was a head-cloth that matched the violet, embroidered with jewel-bright flowers.This woman had loved color.

The oldest gowns were tattered and decaying. Their fabric was dark and plain, but had once been of good quality—this had helped preserve them, I thought. The woman who had worn these had been tall and thin, someone with neither the time nor the inclination for frivolity.There was a third set of clothing, in better condition than the dark things but older than the colorful ones. These garments had been made for a small, slight person. I mused on what I knew of the family at Whistling Tor. Perhaps this tower room contained items from the wives of the three chieftains who had preceded Anluan. Nechtan the sorcerer—his was the tall, serious wife. The son, Conan, whose birth had been acknowledged in Nechtan’s records—his wife had been the little woman. And the bright things, those I had planned to take away and wear, had belonged to Irial’s beloved Emer: Anluan’s mother.

The door creaked, then slammed shut, startling me. I had felt no draft. My heart began to race. I got up and strode over to pull on the handle. It refused to budge.

“Muirne, are you still out there?” I called.

No response. She’d probably gone so far down the stairway that she couldn’t hear me. “Muirne! I can’t open the door!”

Silence. She was gone; I felt it. I mustn’t panic. The door could not have locked itself. It must simply be wedged by the force of the draft that had blown it shut. I tried again, hauling with all my strength, but the thing wouldn’t move an inch. Perhaps the wood was warped by damp—this did seem a curious place to store clothing, with that trapdoor to the elements. The trapdoor! Thank heaven for that. I could climb up to the roof, then shout until I attracted someone’s attention. Embarrassing as that would be, it would be better than waiting until Muirne realized I had not returned from our exploration—that might take all day.

I climbed the steps, one hand on the stone wall for balance, and set my other hand to the square of wood, which Muirne had pulled across the opening when we came down. There was no bolt or catch to hold it in place, but try as I might I could not move it. I needed a stick or other implement to help me; my efforts with the door had taken all the strength out of my arms and my back was aching. I looked around for an old poker or length of firewood, anything useful, but there was nothing in the little chamber but the two chests and clothing spread out everywhere. And a mirror. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? It hung on the wall by the steps, tiny, oddly shaped, in a frame of weathered wood. The surface glinted dimly in the light from the narrow window.Whatever I did, I must not look in it.

Breathe slowly, Caitrin. I took stock of the situation. Eventually someone would notice I was gone. Eventually someone would ask Muirne if she had seen me. I just had to wait. This calm advice did nothing to cool my flushed cheeks or slow my racing heart. Something was wrong here. Someone meant me harm. I recalled a tale of an unwanted wife who had been walled up in just such a tower room to starve to death while her husband enjoyed himself with a younger and more fecund bride. Nothing I could do. Nothing. No way to help myself. I knew this feeling well; it had shadowed every moment in Market Cross, once Ita and Cillian came. You are powerless. Useless. Hopeless.You are nobody.

I descended the steps and went over to the window.“I’m not at Market Cross,” I muttered. “I’m here. I can be brave. I can.” The window looked down onto a section of roof; nobody was going to see me from below. I tried the door again. Had Muirne used a key to let us in? It wasn’t possible, surely, that she had done this on purpose.

There seemed no option but to wait the time out. I folded the violet gown and the russet, placing them on a spread-out shawl. I added some shifts and smallclothes, then tied up the bundle. I packed the other garments