by Cait Dee
A man enters the chamber. He is tall and thin, and leans on a black cane topped with a silver serpent’s head.
A word forms in my mind. Abernethy.
‘Aye, Lord Abernethy,’ says the old woman, as if I’d uttered the word aloud. Perhaps I did.
I try to sit up but I’m too weak. The old woman puts a hand on my shoulder and I sink into the downy softness of the bed. All I want to do is sleep.
‘Iona, do you remember what happened?’ she asks.
Do you . . . remember . . . The words float towards me. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I don’t want to be rude. She seems kind. And the laird . . . the judge . . .
Fire.
‘The fire,’ I say aloud.
But the chamber is dark and cold, and I’m alone.
* * *
‘Broth.’ The old woman cups my head and dribbles some into my mouth. ‘A few more days, you’ll be feeding yourself.’
Lord Abernethy is seated at the window, gazing out. ‘That raven is here again.’
‘Cal.’ My voice comes out in a croak. It sounds like somebody else’s.
Abernethy turns his attention to me. ‘Iona, this is Fenella Sinclair. There’s not a healer in Scotland who’s her equal. She’s worked tirelessly to save you. Many days and long nights.’
I raise my hand and stare at it. The skin is pinkish white, like the skin of a newborn wean. Then I rub my toes together. They feel soft and smooth.
‘Your skin is restored,’ says the woman called Sinclair. ‘Your hair is gone, but it will grow back in time.’
I want to pull down the bedclothes and inspect my feet and legs, for they were in the fire longest, but that would be unseemly in front of the laird. The judge. Lord Abernethy.
I raise my left hand to show them. Don’t they understand? It was on fire. My own hand.
Abernethy stands. ‘We must leave you to rest. Mistress Sinclair will give you another sleeping draught. I will see you anon.’ He gives me a curt bow and walks out of the chamber.
The old woman pats my hand. ‘He’s right, we should not exhaust you. You’ve not yet fully recovered.’
‘But the fire . . .’ My voice trails off as I gaze in wonder at the smooth skin on my hands. How could I have escaped that inferno unblemished?
‘Aye, the fire. It did some damage before the rains came down. But fire can also be a healer, if you know how to work with it. We saw to it that it only took from you what you no longer needed.’
‘You . . . were there?’
She nods. ‘Lord Abernethy sent the word out as soon as you were brought to Edinburgh for trial. We came from all the airts. The ancient families, the ones with blood ties to the Otherworld, like yours. Your aunt would have done the same for one of us, were she still alive. We worked with the fire, transforming it into a healing flame. But we sensed you calling in the storm.’ I confirm this with a nod and she smiles. ‘Your aunt trained you well.’
‘Grizel.’ Her name was Grizel.
‘I never had the pleasure, but rest assured, she’s well known to the witches of Alba. Balfours are of the old blood just like my kin, the Sinclairs. Him, too.’ She jerks her head towards the door. ‘We heard what happened to Grizel and your poor sister. We must stand together if we’re to have any hope of surviving. It’s not our way, but they will pick us off one by one if we try to fight them alone.’
A beautiful lass about my age with pale skin and long black hair hanging over her shoulder in a plait appears at the doorway and curtseys.
‘What is it, Mhairi?’ asks Sinclair.
‘Forgive me, ma’am, but Guthrie wants to know if you’ll be wanting anything from the kitchen.’
Sinclair smiles at me. ‘Shall I have some more broth sent up? You must be hungry.’
I shake my head, then yawn so hard my jaw cracks.
‘Get some rest, then. Your body knows what it needs. Listen to what it tells you.’ She places a gnarled hand on my forehead, just like Grizel used to do.
As Sinclair leaves the chamber, I slide down underneath the covers and close my eyes. I can hear the old woman talking to somebody outside.
‘Tell Guthrie to cover the looking glass, the one in the downstairs hallway. Better still, remove it. She’ll be up and about soon enough.’
‘We cannot hide every looking glass in Scotland,’ comes Abernethy’s reply, just as sleep envelops me.
* * *
I wake to find the sun streaming in through a gap in the curtains. A tray with a pitcher of ale and a plate of oatcakes is set beside the bed. I sit up as best I can, struggling against the feather mattress.
There’s no delaying it any longer. I need to see my feet and legs. I take a deep breath and push back the covers, then pull up my cream coloured linen shift.
The skin on my feet and legs looks pink and fresh, just like the skin on my hands. Unblemished. Perfect. I had freckles on my arms and legs but they’re gone now. It’s eerie, like looking at somebody else’s skin.
Relief floods through me, filling my insides. I laugh out loud. I survived, somehow, with not one mark upon my body to show for my ordeal. My hunger returns and I gulp down the oatcakes and ale with relish.
The door swings open and a plump woman with greying brown hair enters. It’s Guthrie, the housekeeper, and she is carrying a beautiful gown of dark grey velvet. It’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen, but I can tell just by looking at it that it’s too big for me.
‘The master says you’re well enough to come downstairs. I’m here to help you dress.’
She’s gentle and doesn’t pull my laces too tight. I’m surprised to find that the gown fits me perfectly.
‘There now, don’t you look bonnie!’ she says.
I run my hands down the skirt, marvelling at the impossible softness of the velvet. ‘Where’s Mistress Sinclair?’
‘D’you think I can keep up with the comings and goings of that one?’ Guthrie sniffs. ‘Sooner she leaves here, the better.’ She looks around and then wipes the corners of her mouth. ‘The master won’t say nothing, but I’ve heard she practises the dark arts.’ Her voice drops to a whisper.
‘Imagine that,’ I say, trying hard not to smile.
She ties a white linen kertch over my head, covering the fine wisps on my scalp that have begun to grow back. ‘Won’t be long afore it’s just as it was. Beautiful colour. Like spun gold.’
‘Gold?’ I snort. ‘My hair’s auburn.’
Guthrie laughs, then gives me an uncertain smile when I challenge her with a frown. ‘If you say so,’ she says.
I stand to face her. I’m tall enough to look her straight in the eye. I’ve seen Guthrie tower over Sinclair, who is closer to my own height.
‘Describe what I look like,’ I say, trying to quell the panic that’s starting to grip me.
Guthrie looks confused. ‘I don’t take your meaning.’
I shake my head in frustration. ‘Where can I find a looking glass?’ I ask.
‘Downstairs, on the landing. Wait, I was supposed to —’
She grabs my arm but I pull away from her. Leaving the sleeping chamber, I see a corridor ending in a flight of stairs.
‘Mistress!’ Guthrie calls after me as I run towards them.
In my bare feet, I hurry down the cold marble stairs, past Abernethy’s dark-eyed ancestors hanging from the picture rails.
‘Mistress!’ Guthrie calls again.
On the landing at the bottom of the stairs is a frame, covered by a linen cloth. I give the cloth a tug and it tumbles to the floor.
There, looking back at me, is a fair-skinned lass. I wouldn’t know her if I passed her on the street. She has an oval face and high cheekbones. An aquiline nose. A tiny dimple on her chin. The lass pulls off the linen kertch. Her head is covered with wispy, golden curls.
She’d be a stranger if it weren’t for those eyes. The eyes are just the same as mine.
The room begins to spin. I open my mouth to scream.
* * *
‘What was she doing here?’
‘Why did you not get rid of it like I told you?’
‘It’s only a looking glass. Has she not seen one before?’
Voices, voices, making my head throb. The housemaid Mhairi is pushing a cup of something in my face. I knock the cup from her hand. Hot liquid flies everywhere, splashing on the wall.
‘What did you do to me?’ I scream. ‘What did you do?’
* * *
‘This should never have happened!’ Abernethy points to the looking glass. His jaw is tight; his eyes are narrowed at Sinclair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him angry. The first time I’ve ever been close enough to see his eyes. Just for a moment, they pull me out of my own pain.
‘Leave us,’ Abernethy commands.
Guthrie and Mhairi scuttle away like frightened mice.
Sinclair is saying something to me but I’m barely listening. ‘I’m trying to explain in a way you’ll understand. A glamour, it’s like a mask, or a cloak —’
‘Undo it!’ I scream at her. ‘You had no right!’
Sinclair and Abernethy exchange a look. ‘It’s too late,’ she says, shaking her head.
I turn to him. ‘She — she had no right!’ I try to swallow the furious tears.
‘Follow me,’ he says, holding his hand up to Sinclair to indicate that she should stay.
Abernethy leads me to a large chamber off the landing. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling. At any other time I’d love nothing more than to linger here, to run my fingertips down those gold-lettered spines, but now my head is pounding. He points to an overstuffed leather chair and takes the one opposite.
I’m shaking with rage. I pull up the sleeve of my gown and show Abernethy my perfect pale skin. ‘It’s not real!’
‘As far as the world is concerned, it is real enough,’ he says. ‘Do you know what a glamour is? Did Grizel ever —’
‘You’ve no right to even say her name. She’d never forge magic like this, against somebody’s will.’
‘It’s regrettable you found out this way. We had planned to tell you when you were stronger. Now, will you not take a seat? Then we can discuss the matter calmly.’
His unflustered demeanour takes the edge off my rage. I allow myself to sink into the chair.
‘It was no easy thing, saving your life,’ he says.
‘And I’m thankful,’ I say with a frown, trying to muster the sincerity I cannot yet find, though I know I should.
‘Perhaps, in time, you will mean what you say. Fenella Sinclair is not your enemy.’ When I open my mouth to protest he adds: ‘The glamour was my idea, not hers.’
‘Yours?’
His face is expressionless. ‘Finster was attacked by a raven when he fell from the podium after the lightning strike. The creature maimed his face and blinded him in one eye. Regrettably, his injuries have not slowed him down. The witch hunts are continuing apace and his men are out there, searching for you. It would not take them long to find you, had we left you looking how you were.’
‘The fire,’ I whisper.
He nods. ‘Your burns were severe. When we first brought you here, we debated whether it would not be kinder to let you die. It took all Fenella’s considerable skills to save your life, but she could not make you whole again. And your injuries would draw unnecessary attention. Things will be . . . simpler this way.’
Simpler for whom? I want to ask him, but instead I stare at the long white fingers clasped in my lap. They’re the hands of a lady, who never spent one day of her life milking cows or gleaning the fields or picking herbs in the wildwood or gathering wood for the hearth fire. Hands that never kindled a flame. It feels wrong, like a violation of the natural order.
‘It’s up to you whether you treat it as a burden or a blessing,’ he continues. ‘You could gaze at your reflection and weep for all you’ve lost. Or you can choose to avoid looking glasses altogether. Every person you’ve ever met has scars that nobody else can see. Do you understand?’
His voice is soothing, his words persuasive. He is telling the truth, after all. He and Sinclair did save my life.
‘I don’t mean to be quarrelsome,’ I say. ‘And please, do not think me ungrateful. It’s only . . .’
He nods. ‘A lot to take in. We should have better prepared you for it. Quite shocking, I should think, to see it for the first time. This countenance of yours is a fair one, but it will take some getting used to. When you’ve had time to reflect, I hope you will see that this is an opportunity most people will never get in their entire lives. The chance to begin again. To leave the past behind.’
There follows a long silence as I think about what he has said. Golden hair and fine cheekbones will not erase the nightmare I have just been through. But perhaps, in time, I can grow to accept them.
He stands to leave.
‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Did you see what became of Dalziel? He was there. He pulled me down from the pyre.’
Abernethy sits down again, elbows resting on his knees. He steeples his fingers. ‘He did. He used his own body to smother the flames. His injuries were almost as bad as yours. In the end, we had to make a choice. There was only time to save one of you. You are of the old blood. We knew nothing of the boy.’
‘You mean to say . . . ?’
Abernethy nods. ‘It was clear to me that he tried to protect you in court. Despite his transgression in allying himself with Finster, take comfort in knowing that he loved you. In the end, he gave his life for yours.’
My eyes pool with tears. Dalziel didn’t find any peace in Heatherbrae and he never found solace with Finster, either. I remember those words I said to him. I pray you see the truth of what you’ve done. If Dalziel was the one who denounced my family, then perhaps he thought he needed to save my life to atone for his actions. But I’ll never really know why he saved me.
Abernethy interrupts my thoughts. ‘You’ve another friend eagerly awaiting your recovery.’
I dry my eyes and shake my head, not understanding his meaning.
‘Why, Finster’s assailant, of course. A raven with . . . unusual eyes?’ He stands and walks to the window and throws open the sash. On a low branch of an enormous pine tree in the garden sits a raven, watching us.
‘Cal!’ I rush to the window. ‘Finster deceived me, made me believe Cal was dead, but I saw him up on Castle Hill. He was — he’s a druid. A skin turner. But I think he must be stuck. He forgets how to change back to human.’
‘Then you must help him.’
‘But he won’t know me. I didn’t look like this before.’
Abernethy’s mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. ‘Animals are not fooled by the surface of things as we are. I’ll leave you two to become reacquainted.’ He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, then walks out the door, closing it behind him.
I lean out the window. ‘Cal!’
The raven flaps his wings and takes flight. He soars up into the sky until I almost lose sight of him, my heart in my mouth. Then he swoops towards me, landing with a thump. His long claws scratch at the windowsill as he tries to gain a purchase on it.
‘It’s me,’ I whisper to my friend, my fingertips rubbing the soft feathers around his golden eyes. ‘But you knew that already.’
He gives a sweet, soft warble in reply.
* * *
‘Have you chosen your new name?’
We’re strolling in the woods on Abernethy’s estate to the south-west of the city. Cal is nearby, scratching about on the ground for worms. He’s not allowed inside anymore, after Mhairi ran from the house in terror when she saw him perched on my forearm.
‘Elspet,’ I say, thinking of the first time I met Cal.
‘And your friend?’ asks Abernethy. ‘Does he not need a new name, too?’
He’s right; Cal does need a new name. Perhaps Goldeneyes . . . or Blackfeather . . .
‘Nightwing.’
‘A fine choice.’ Abernethy nods with approval. �
��And what are your plans, Elspet? I sincerely hope you’ll not be wandering the streets accompanied by a raven. That’s hardly going to go unnoticed.’
‘Nae, but I’ll need to return to the city. When Finster captured me I was on my way there to find a man my aunt once knew. Angus Ancroft. Grizel said to look for the Guild of the Green Lion. Have you heard of it?’
Abernethy nods. ‘The guild was a famed association of magicians,’ he explains. ‘Renowned throughout the Continent and beyond. Some of the greatest minds of our age were its members.’
‘And now?’ I ask him.
‘Sadly, it no longer exists. After the North Berwick witch trials, the association was forced to disband. Its members disappeared like smoke. What business had you with this Ancroft?’
‘I was supposed to give him something. Something important. But it’s lost forever.’
‘Forever?’ says Abernethy, a corner of his mouth curving. ‘That’s an awfully long time.’
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small object wrapped in a white silk kerchief. ‘I took the opportunity to, er, liberate this small item from Finster when he was injured.’
A thrill shoots through me as I reach out to take the parcel, but Abernethy grabs my left wrist.
‘Look at your hand,’ he says. ‘What do you see?’
Surprised, I pull my hand from Abernethy’s grasp to inspect it. Even though the glamour has made my skin smooth, there are two small scars on my left hand: a tiny puncture mark on the tip of my thumb, and a thin pink line on my palm.
‘Scars,’ I say, unable to hide my puzzlement.
‘Do you remember how you got them?’
I rub my thumb with my fingertip. ‘Grizel — she pricked my thumb on the day she died. She squeezed out a drop of my blood and mixed it with hers. And Ishbel accidentally cut my palm with Gregor’s dirk that last night we were together in Heatherbrae.’
‘I assure you it was no accident,’ he tells me. ‘That is how ancestral knowledge is passed down when a Balfour with great power is about to die. Grizel and your sister passed on their kenning to you when they mixed their blood with yours. The stone itself is worthless.’