I head to the window, searching for a latch, but there isn’t one. The glass is thick and full of bubbles, making it impossible to see out of, though I’m pretty sure I’m at the back of the house. With nowhere else to sit, I cross to the bed, sinking into the ancient mattress.
Now what? I think of my bag downstairs, the clothes, the ink and pens, the money in it. My gun. If I had that I could shoot out the locks. I could have forced Giles to let me go. Threatened him. Wildly, I remember when I pulled it on Ren, him telling me he knew I wouldn’t shoot him, because I never cocked the gun.
Ren.
He’s going to Maggie to tell her about the creatures, and Maggie knows I’m with Giles. Surely she’ll tell Ren. He’ll come for me, won’t he? He’ll help get me out of here.
As I lift my legs onto the bed, I find my skirts are stuck to the gash on my knee where I fell earlier. Bracing myself, I peel the fabric from the wound and pull them up to inspect it. The gash is bleeding again, the ends ragged and raw. I spit on to what I hope is a clean bit of skirt and dab at the cut. I tear the bottom of the inner skirt and tie it over it as a makeshift bandage. Then, with nothing to do but wait, I curl into a ball.
I must have fallen asleep, because I sit up suddenly, confused about where I am, just in time to hear a key in the lock. Before I can swing my legs off the bed, Giles is in the room. He locks the door as I stand, pocketing the key.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Four. Teatime.” He takes a step forward and I see it.
The dark shape of a gun in his hand.
“Get on the floor. Face down,” he says pleasantly, as if remarking on the weather. “Please.”
I stare at him in shock.
“Alva, if you want to eat you’ll do as I say. Otherwise I’m happy to wait for you to come to your senses.”
I remember the rules of staying alive. Rules three and four, I remind myself. Be useful and don’t make them angry. I swallow.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll do it. But there’s something I need to tell you. About the mill.”
“Floor, Alva. Now.”
I swallow my words, wincing as my wounded knee meets the wooden floor. I kneel, then lower myself on to my belly, clasping my hands behind my head. I listen as Giles opens the door once more, see the golden light from a candle flood the room as he brings something inside. Then he locks the door again.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You can get up now.”
I rise and look at what he’s brought.
There’s a tray, the kind with legs you give to the lady of the house so she can have breakfast in bed. On it is a candle in a brass holder, and a plate covered in a silver dome. A small jug, and a wooden cup, like those from the feis, sit beside it. And a pile of white fabric. The dress he examined earlier, taken from my bag.
“Put it on,” Giles says softly.
“Where’s my bag? Where’s my money?” I ask.
“Safe. You don’t need it any more. There will be no running away now.” He laughs. “Don’t deny that’s what you were planning; it’s obvious you were hightailing it out of here when I caught you.” He shrugs. “But that’s over. You’re here.”
My heart sinks.
“You just be a good girl and put it on.” He points at the dress with the barrel of the gun. That’s when I realize it’s one of my father’s. He took it for evidence, he said. “I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten,” he continues. “You either put it on yourself, or I’ll put it on you.”
He means it. He wants me to dress up nicely for afternoon tea, in the dress he thinks was my mother’s.
He wants me to be my mother.
“Go on,” he says when I stand, staring at him, frozen with shock and horror and disgust. “Take off your earasaid and vest and then I’ll shut my eyes. If you’re fast enough, I’ll see nothing I shouldn’t.”
He takes a step towards me and my hands fly to the pin holding my earasaid in place. I unclasp it, slipping the plaid from my shoulders, unfastening it from my waist. Then I unbutton my vest, my hands shaking so much that twice my fingers slip. My cheeks burn with humiliation; my mouth and throat are as dry as the loch bed. I want to cry and scream all at once. His eyes are on me the whole time, a strange light burning in them.
Once I lay my vest and earasaid on the bed, Giles raises the gun and points it at me. “I’ll close my eyes to preserve your modesty. But if you try anything, I’ll shoot. Don’t think I won’t, Alva.”
“All right,” I say slowly, my mind racing. My hands move to the ties at my waist. “Close your eyes.”
He smiles and does so. “One…”
I stick my first two fingers up at him, both hands.
“Two…”
He doesn’t flinch. He has played fair in this at any rate. I drop the dress to the floor and pick up my earasaid.
“Three…”
I open it out as wide as I can, gripping the edges in both hands.
“Four… Tell me something, Alva. What was all that money for?”
He wants me to speak, to be sure I’m where I ought to be. “I’m a little busy right now,” I say, muffling my voice behind the earasaid as though it were a blouse being pulled over my head. I take a step closer.
“Five… Surely you can talk and dress?” he says, smiling.
I make a small grunting sound, as though trying to force a dress over my head in a hurry.
“Six… It sounds like you’re struggling there, Alva. You are a little bigger in the hips than your mam was.”
This time my grunt is one of disgust. Pig.
“Seven…”
I take a deep breath, readying myself. I have one chance to get this right.
“Eight…”
I make a sound of panic, disgust blooming when I see him fight a smile.
“Nine…”
I wait.
“Te—”
Before he can finish I launch myself at him, using the earasaid to pin his arms and my weight to drive him backwards.
The gun goes off.
FIFTEEN
I wait for a burst of pain, but it’s Giles who moans and writhes beneath me.
“I’m shot,” I hear him gasp from under my earasaid. “My leg.”
“Good,” I hiss, keeping a tight hold on him.
“I can’t breathe!”
“Good,” I repeat. “You don’t deserve to breathe, you pervert.”
I keep the thick cloth over his face as he thrashes weakly, trying to free himself. When he finally goes limp I loosen my grip slightly, but wait a few more moments before I pull the earasaid from his face, reaching for the gun at the same time. I take his pulse, then, to be sure he’s truly unconscious – and because he bloody deserves it – I give him a sharp slap, then peel back one of his eyelids. His pupils remain unfocused. It’s only then I get off him.
Girding my stomach, I lift his kilt to check the bullet wound, and sigh with relief. It looks like the bullet merely grazed his thigh, and sure enough when I check the floor I see it embedded in the boards. He’ll live, then. It might not even scar. More’s the pity.
I make short work of going through his pockets, finding two loose keys and a full set on a ring, as well as the cameo of my mother. I take it all, and my father’s gun too.
I put my vest back on and walk out, leaving Giles on the floor, tangled in my earasaid. I debate whether to lock him in, but decide against it. I don’t plan to stick around Ormscaula long enough for him to regain consciousness and come after me.
I find my bag in the receiving parlour and take the new earasaid from it, putting it on and pocketing the revolver. I won’t be parted from that again. I put the flintlock in the bag too. Everything else is still in there, down to the purses of money. I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk out, smack into Gavan Stewart.
“Alva? What are you doing here?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Ask your da,” I say, moving past him, heading for the front door.
“What do you mean?” he says, following.
“Your father brought me here.” I don’t break stride but he keeps up, walking beside me along the wide hall. “By force. He said he’d arrest me if I didn’t come.”
Gavan shakes his head as though to keep my words from reaching his ears, but I keep going.
“He locked me in your attic and told me it was for my own good. And just now, he came up with a tea tray and a gun.” I pause at the door, Gavan stopping beside me. “He wanted me to put on some fancy white dress and sit down for tea with him, so when he closed his eyes to preserve my modesty,” I spit, “I knocked him down, and he fired the gun. The bullet grazed his thigh – he’s fine,” I add quickly. “He’s up there now.”
Gavan blinks at me.
“Are you all right?” he says at last. “He didn’t … hurt you?”
I shake my head, then say with some malice, “No. He didn’t have chance to.”
He nods. “Good. And he’s breathing? Conscious?”
“Not exactly conscious,” I admit, my hand on the latch. “I kind of … sat on him until he fainted, so I could get away.”
Amusement flickers over his face, lips quirking into a swift smile that comes and goes faster than a summer storm.
“I checked the wound; he won’t even need a day in bed,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Gavan nods again. “Leave him to me. You go on home. I’m sorry about this, Alva.”
“Actually.” I take a deep breath. There’s no point in hiding my plans now. Giles has already figured it out. “My father has been arrested, so I’m not going home.”
“What?” Gavan interrupts. “Where are you going?”
“I have a job, in a town. I was going to stow away with Duncan to Balinkeld and get the stagecoach, but he’s long gone. I’ll have to start walking now if I want to get to Balinkeld in time for the coach tomorrow.” I lift the latch, and Gavan reaches out to stop me.
“But there’s a lugh out there. It’s already killed Aileen Anderson and the horses, and Hattie’s missing too. You can’t just walk down the mountain in the dark.”
“It’s not a lugh, Gavan,” I say. “It’s something else. I’ve seen it. It’s... Talk to Maggie Wilson. Talk to Ren. They can tell you.”
Gavan shakes his head. “No, you tell me,” he says, bracing a hand against the door. “Half an hour, Alva, you can spare that. After all, you shot my da.” I hesitate and he smiles suddenly. “Come on, I need a cup of tea. I’m parched. And I’ve even got an idea to get you down to Balinkeld and make up the lost time.”
I hesitate – it’ll start getting dark in a few hours, and I want to put as much distance between me and the loch as possible before then.
“I’ll keep my da locked up overnight,” he adds. “As an extra thank you.”
I smile. “You’ll want these then,” I say, holding out the keys I took from Giles.
I end up making the tea and carrying it through to the dining room, while he goes to check on his father. When he returns we sit in the same seats at the same polished table we sat at all those years before; I do it without even thinking.
“How is he?” I ask, nursing my cup.
“He’ll live,” Gavan says, in a measured voice. “Just a scratch, like you thought. He’s not even bleeding.”
“Shame,” I say, then hesitate. “And how are you?”
He exhales slowly. “This time yesterday we were still setting up for the feis. It feels such a long time ago, now. You know, I saw Hattie trip you during the dance.” I am ashamed at the bolt of vindication that shoots through me when he says this. Gavan continues. “I actually said to James, ‘Hattie’ll get herself murdered if she carries on like that.’” He pauses. “It was a figure of speech. But now she might really be dead.”
I reach over and pat his hand. “Gavan, it’s not your fault.”
“No. It’s your da’s fault apparently,” he says plainly. “Or so everyone is saying. He knew there was a wild cat about. He knew and he didn’t warn anyone.” He leans forward. “Only you say that it’s something else.”
I pull my hand away. “It’s going to sound impossible. Just try to believe me.”
He listens in silence as I talk, as calmly and clearly as I’m able, about what I saw by the loch, and then in the old books.
I tell him my father knows, and that Ren knows too, and that he’s taken the little proof we have to Maggie Wilson.
I explain how I think the creatures are free because his father’s mill is draining the loch so that they can walk across the bed. And that if the mill keeps going, draining more and more water faster than it can be replenished, they’ll be out there for a long, long time.
Gavan says nothing, doesn’t interrupt. After I’ve stopped, he remains still as a carving for many minutes. The only sound is the ticking of the clock.
Then, though it must be cold now, he picks up his tea and drinks, tipping the cup back until it’s empty. He sets it down. “This is all true?” he says. “You swear to me?”
“I swear.” I put my hand on my heart. “Gavan, I saw one.”
“Do you have any idea how many there are?”
“I only saw the one. But the way my father spoke, and the images in the logbooks … it made me think there are more.”
“Then I have to catch one.”
I’m too stunned to reply for a moment. “What did you say?” I ask at last.
“No offence, Alva, but the word of a Douglas and some old books probably isn’t going to get us very far.” He holds up his hands. “Oh, I believe you. But I suspect I would be in the minority.”
He’s right.
“And I can’t imagine anything other than coming face to face with one will convince my father to shut down his mill,” Gavan continues.
“I don’t know if it’s possible to catch one.”
Gavan’s chin lifts, in a gesture I recognize as pure stubbornness. “There’s only one way to find out.”
He asks me to wait in the dining room, telling me he’ll be as fast as he can, then he leaves. I hear the front door open and close. I contemplate making a break for it, and have to force myself to return to the table and finish my tea, bitter from steeping for so long. I can trust Gavan, I feel sure of it.
But as the hands on the clock over the fireplace turn, marking how long he’s gone, I take to pacing around the room, trying to stay calm.
Finally it’s too much and I stand, hitching my bag over my shoulder ready to go, when the front door opens and a moment later Gavan enters, wearing his plaid, his cheeks flushed.
“Sorry,” he says, breathless. “Everything’s sorted. Let’s go.”
“What’s sorted?” I ask as I follow him to the front door.
“I told you, I had an idea to get you away, so long as you don’t mind travelling first thing tomorrow instead. I’ve agreed a loan of Jim Ballantyne’s donkey for you to get down to Balinkeld. If you go first light at a clip, you’ll make it in time for the stagecoach. You can still get away, and it means you don’t have to be on the road at night.”
I stare at him, stunned at this overhaul of all my plans and not sure whether I like it. “What about your father?” I ask. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Giles Stewart doesn’t forgive. He didn’t forgive my mother for falling in love with another man, and he won’t forgive me for besting him or exposing him to his own son. He won’t forgive Gavan for helping me, either.
“He’ll be fine. I left the keys with my mam.” He hesitates. “She says she’s sorry, by the way. I told her a bit about it. I don’t think this surprised her.”
I swallow. “Gavan…”
“I’ll take you somewhere to spend the night, somewhere you feel safe.” He holds the door open for me, and we leave his father’s house, entering the empty square. “Where would that be?”
I think for a moment. “At Ren’s,” I say at last. I have no idea how Liz Ross will feel about it, but it’s the only place in
Ormscaula I think I might feel safe. If Gavan is surprised, he doesn’t show it.
“Ren’s it is. Will we go there now, then?”
I nod.
“You have the gun, don’t you?” he asks.
For a moment I think he means the pistol against my thigh and I freeze; I don’t want anyone to know about that. Then I realize he means the flintlock his father was shot with.
“It’s in my bag. But I don’t have any more bullets for it. You can only load one at a time and it was fired.”
He chews his lip. “That’s a shame. I was going to ask if I could borrow it.” He pauses. “Do you think Ren would be willing to help me? You said he knows about the creatures. I’ll need a second pair of hands.”
I watch him for a minute, then make up my mind. “Third,” I say. “You’ll need a third pair of hands.”
He smiles at me tentatively. “And that would be you?”
“If I can’t leave until first light, I might as well help you. Where could I be safer than chasing monsters?” I smile.
Gavan grins back at me. “All right. I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas about how we catch one?”
We walk along, both of us lost in thought. “We have cages,” I say, breaking the silence. “My da kept them to catch the odd sick cat or wolf that came down the mountain.”
“How did he know they were sick?” Gavan asks.
“No healthy animal would come near humans,” I say. “Believe me.”
“Says a lot about these creatures, then,” Gavan replies.
I say nothing.
I’ve never been to Ren’s home – he’s always made sure of that. And I know very little about Liz Ross; only that she’s from Albion, she takes in mending and laundry, she buys the bruised and damaged stock from the Wilsons’ store, she sometimes has a man around, and she likes drink a lot more than it likes her.
We don’t see a single soul on the way there, everyone staying inside; the cottages we pass are shuttered against the growing dusk. Gavan seems to know the way, leading me through the silent lanes towards the rundown part of Ormscaula. As we move past the last of the well-kept homes, we pass the Logans’ neat cottage, the curtains closed, the cottage somehow forlorn, as if the stone has absorbed the family’s sadness. Then we pick our way out to where the paths become untidy and muddy, the stonework in the walls haphazard and in need of repair.
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