Startled, I asked, “You knew her? Emer?”
“I cannot remember,” he said, but the memory was in those haunted eyes.They had changed when I spoke her name. I could have sworn there were tears glittering there.
“Will you keep watch for me? I will return before dusk.”
He bowed his head, a courteous indication of assent, and took up a position before the bedchamber door. His back was straight, his shoulders square, his booted feet planted apart. So stern was his expression, so formidable his stance that surely no one would dare challenge him.
“Thank you,” I said. “What is your name?”
There was a long pause, as if he had to dig deep to find the memory. “Cathair, lady.”
“It is a fine name for a warrior. Farewell for now, Cathair.”
I sat in Irial’s garden, under the birch tree, and stitched a new skirt for the doll, using remnants of Emer’s gown. I tried to weigh up hope against risk, purpose against peril. If it was too dangerous for Anluan to be exposed to Nechtan’s records—and Muirne had made a convincing case—I must reach the truth on my own. It must be done before summer’s end. Nobody had said what would happen if I failed to complete the job by then. Perhaps Anluan would let me stay on. But I could not assume so.That meant I must use whatever tools were at my disposal in the search for a counterspell. And there was one very powerful tool shut in a box by my work table, waiting to reveal more dark stories. Was I brave enough to set more of Nechtan’s writings on the table and look in the obsidian mirror again? Alone, without Anluan? I had given my word to the host. Perhaps I was already committed to this.
There was no way to fix Roise’s hair, not without a supply of silk thread. I made a little veil for her, using the same violet fabric, and sewed it securely to her head, concealing the damage. I murmured to the doll as I mended her, comforting stories of home and family: the warm kitchen, the orderly workroom, my sister singing as she cooked supper.When I came to Father, my voice faltered to a stop. One particular memory would stay with me always, no matter where I went. Blundering downstairs half-asleep, intending an early start on the important commission we were undertaking. Opening the workroom door. Finding that Father had risen even earlier than I had. He had begun work already; he had completed two lines before he died. The tall stool was tipped over. Father lay on his back on the floor, arms outstretched, eyes staring. The quill had fallen just beyond his reach; ink drops made a delicate pattern across the boards. His fingers, a craftsman’s long, graceful fingers, were open, relaxed, like those of a child sleeping. He was already gone.
“It was a good place, Roise,” I whispered, making a last neat stitch in her head-cloth and biting off the thread. “Until that day, it was the best place in the world. Then everything changed. Ita and Cillian came, and almost as soon as Father was buried, Maraid went away with Shea. I hope she’s all right. I hope they’re happy.” This thought surprised me. At the time, sorrow had claimed me so completely that I had hardly been capable of understanding that my sister was gone. Later, when I had begun to claw my way out of despair, I had felt bitter and angry towards her. Now, regarding the mended Roise and recalling the day of my seventh birthday, when Maraid had presented me with her creation and told me that since our mother was no longer in this world, Roise would keep an eye on me in her place, I realized that my resentment was fading at last. Perhaps Maraid had had no choice. Perhaps she had run away for the same reason I had: to save herself.
The violet gown was beyond repair.There was not enough of the skirt intact to furnish anything save this outfit for Roise. Perhaps I was foolishly sentimental to want to save it. I had not known Anluan’s mother, and she was long gone. But people had loved her. I rolled the gown up. Later, I would find a way to use it.
The sun was warm. The garden was peaceful. I could happily have stayed here all afternoon, doing nothing in particular. But the library door stood open and my work lay ready within.
There’s a hammering on the door. Nechtan feels his blood boil and makes himself take several slow breaths. The preparations must be perfect; he cannot afford any loss of control. He strides over, slides the bolt and whips the door open. “What?” he barks, glaring into the pasty features of his temporary steward, a man whose name he cannot quite recall.
“My lord, I very much regret the interruption, but—”
“Out with it! What is so important that you break my specific orders not to disturb me?”
“Lord Maenach is here, my lord. Not with a raiding party; he’s come with a group of councillors and kinsmen. There’s a priest with them, and Lord Maenach’s wife.They want to talk about an agreement, a treaty. Lady Mella said I must disturb you, since this is—”
“Go,” says Nechtan. “You’ve done as you were instructed.” He shuts the door in his servant’s face.
Aislinn is making the wreath. A lamp burns on the shelf above her workbench, its warm light transforming the soft mass of her hair to a glinting veil of gold. He wants to run his fingers through it, to gather the silken strands, to tug and make her cry out. Observing the neat, meticulous movement of her hands as she threads this most magical of herbs into the garland of winter greenery, eyeing the pleasing curves of her young body beneath the plain working clothes, he wants more than that. But he’s learned to suppress the stirrings of his body. To ruin his great work for the sake of such fleeting pleasure would be the act of an ordinary man, a weak man.
He turns his back on Aislinn. On his side of the workroom, three grimoires lie on the table, each open at a familiar page. The first:
“My lord, you need not read those again.” It seems Aislinn has eyes in the back of her head.“You’ll be using the other spell, the one you got from the monastery. The writers of those books have it wrong. I would wager none of them has put his theories to the test.They claim to be expert, but their writings are those of men who lack the courage to make their dreams reality.”
Nechtan smiles without turning. Aislinn is devoted; she’s giving him back his own arguments. “Quite true,” he tells her. “But we could have missed some small detail.This must be flawless, Aislinn.”
