Hours later, glass Petri dishes covered the table’s surface. Each held a small sample of biopsies of Evan’s blue skin to which a variety of treatments—botanical and chemical—had been applied. Including the leaf and ant concoction. Conditions weren’t perfect, but it was the best they could do without a fully outfitted laboratory. The heat of the stove would keep the cultures warm, if not exactly at body temperature. Piyali clung to the hope that one of their makeshift experiments would yield results.
Now they waited.
“Evan,” she said, slipping behind him to wrap her arms about his waist and press the side of her face to his broad back. She choked out words her heart advised against. “It’s nearly midnight. I need to go back to the tavern.” By now Sarah—and the entire village—would have taken note of her failure to return, and she did not wish to antagonize them.
“Stay.” He wrapped a strong hand around hers.
“I shouldn’t. You know as well as I that gossip will be bubbling. If you want to conceal our relationship, that isn’t the way of going about it.” Agreeing to the here and now hurt, but if it was all they’d ever have, she would grab it with both hands. However, there was his sister to consider. Though she hesitated to broach the topic, she forced the words past her lips. “Without a wedding on the horizon, gossip will wend its way to Cardiff and impact Megan’s future.”
He sighed, but nodded. “I’ll walk you back.”
Ignoring the ache in her heart, Piyali lifted her bag and followed Evan out onto the moonlit path that wended its way down the hillside. Halfway, a flickering glow illuminated the forest glen and the fairy well it cradled.
Swearing beneath his breath, Evan came to a sudden stop. His arm looped about her as she stumbled into his solid form.
“What is it?” she whispered into his ear.
“It’s Seren’s Day.” He turned her around. “We’ll need to take a different path.”
“Wait.” Curiosity pricked, and she stepped past him, creeping closer to the well, taking care to stay well-hidden behind a nearby tree.
A number of young women—including Sarah and Tegan—gathered in a circle about the pool of water, looking remarkably serious. Each held a flickering candle in their left hand and pinched something between their right forefinger and thumb. With a glint of silver, one girl tossed her offering into the well, murmuring something—Welsh from the sound of it—and peered into the moonlit pool. There was a collective inhale, a holding of breaths, then a giggle, a blush and the announcement of a name. “Luc.”
“What on earth are they doing?” Piyali whispered as the next woman stepped forward. A time-honored ritual, but to what end?
“Tonight’s the night when a maiden can toss a bent pin into the well to ask the gwragedd annwn to show them the face of their future husband.”
“Gwragedd annwn?” Piyali tried to wrap her tongue around the strange Welsh words and failed.
“The water-sprite, a kind of fairy, that lives in this well. A few would even have you believe that a woman can—with the right words and offerings—coax the water-sprite into delivering the man of her choice into her arms.” He scoffed. “Sheer nonsense.”
“They seem quite serious,” Piyali observed, intrigued by the age-old custom and the seriousness of the ceremony.
“Mmm,” Evan answered.
Sarah’s turn arrived. She mouthed the words, tossed the pin, but instead of bending over to look, tossed in a scrap of cloth.
“That’s cheating!” Tegan accused, rounding on her. The harsh tone of her voice shattered the sacred silence. “You stole that handkerchief from him.”
Him. Evan’s missing handkerchief.
Smirking, Sarah gave a half shrug. “You snuck up here days ago, trying to coax the gwragedd annwn to do your bidding. That is cheating. At least I’m open about my wishes.”
“I did not!” Tegan pointed a finger. “You sent your mother to appeal to the sprite on your behalf.”
There was a collective gasp from the group of women. “Shh,” one admonished. “You’ll frighten the gwragedd annwn away.”
“At least I’m not creeping about Evan’s greenhouse,” Sarah said, “peering in windows or throwing myself at him with any number of ridiculous and fictitious afflictions. I hope your entire leg turns blue and falls off.”
With a howl, Tegan launched herself at Sarah, grabbing her by the hair and dragging them both into the shallow water. Both of them screamed, clawing at each other with their fingers, splashing and thrashing, each trying to hold the other’s face beneath the water.
“Stop!” The women cried out, leaping away from the brawl. A few—those who had yet to make their appeal to the water-sprite—burst into tears.
“That’s enough!” Evan bellowed as he stepped from behind the tree. “Stop this nonsense immediately. Home, all of you.” There was a slight hesitation as horrified faces turned in his direction, and then the women began to move, running down the pathway. He reached over the low stone wall and hauled Tegan away from Sarah.
“Ow!” Sarah cried as she crawled to the muddy edge of the pool, clutching at her lower leg. “I think it’s broken!”
“Now who exaggerates!” Tegan yelled.
“That’s enough!” he barked, scooping Sarah into his arms and leaving a sour-faced Tegan sitting half-submerged in the pool. “Once you manage to control your temper, Piyali will assist you.”
Reluctantly, Piyali extended a hand, but Tegan only narrowed her eyes. Several long gashes reddened where fingernails had streaked down her face. “You,” she spat. “You’ve ruined everything.” Thrashing about, the young woman dragged herself from the pool, and set off down the path behind Evan.
Chapter 8
Evan kicked the tavern door open and stepped into its smoky, alcohol-steeped interior. A number of men whooped to see him carrying Miss Sarah Parker, her arms wrapped tightly about his neck and her face pressed to his chest. Picking her up was a mistake he’d immediately regretted, but what was the alternative?
“What are you doing with my daughter?” Mr. Parker barked. “That’s it, I’m calling the—”
“I’m not marrying her.” A statement he made every time he walked through this door of late. He plopped Sarah’s sodden form down on the nearest chair and pried her arms from his neck. Her torn bodice gaped. “Dr. Mukherji and I found her—and others—at Seren’s Well. Miss Price and Miss Parker had an… altercation. Miss Parker has injured her ankle.”
This announcement drew forth another round of whoops, including table slapping along with a number of ribald comments and speculation as to who had won the catfight. Congratulations were called out to Sarah, who wore a satisfied smile at all the attention.
“What happened to Tegan?” he asked Piyali softly.
“She refused my hand,” she muttered. “And called you a number of creative names as she stumbled home.”
He cringed. “I’m sorry, but we shall have to pay her a visit later.” It was the last thing she wished do, but it was the right thing to do.
She jerked a nod. “Let me see to Sarah’s leg first.”
Dragging up her wet skirts, a whimper escaped Sarah’s mouth. “There’s a reason we call her two-faced Tegan.” A deep, bloody gash cut through her stocking and into the skin of her calf.
Piyali set down her bag and bent to examine the wound. “That’s going to require stitches.” Painful ones. “Where is your mother? You should change into clean, dry clothes before I employ my suture kit.”
“She’s not available,” Mr. Parker said, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, pressing her into the chair. “Stay.” He nodded at Piyali. “Much obliged if you’d sew her back together.”
“Your wife, is she ill?” Evan asked, recalling the accusation Tegan had hurled at Sarah—and Piyali’s report that Mrs. Parker had also been bitten by the blue frog. Much as he disliked the woman, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that she too might have need of treatment. His initial “rash” had spread all t
oo fast. “I’ve heard reports that she’s favoring a hand. Shall I take a look at her injury?”
“She’s fine.” Mr. Parker’s words were gruff, leaving no doubt in Evan’s mind that he would never, ever, under any circumstances be allowed to attend his wife. His daughter’s injury, however, couldn’t be dismissed.
After much drama involving screams and tears and shots of gin to calm a much-distressed patient, Mr. Parker carried his now-contrite, inebriated daughter to her room.
A heavy sigh met his ears as Piyali followed him out of the tavern. It was well past midnight. “Tegan?” she asked. Her hand sought his, and he grasped it tightly, squeezing. A small comfort. But it wasn’t enough.
“Her injuries were minor,” he answered. “Better to call upon her in the morning.” With a tug, he pulled Piyali into his arms and out of sight of the tavern’s dirt-streaked windows. He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her until she melted against him, until he nearly threw propriety to the wind and hauled her back to his cottage. Gossip be damned. Reluctantly, he released her. “Go. Sleep. We’ve much to do tomorrow. Today.”
“We do.” She lifted a hand to drag her palm across the stubble on his cheek. “I’ve missed you so much, Evan. We will solve this…”
The silver embroidery upon the hem of her skirt glinted in the moonlight as she stepped back into the tavern. She’d left a few words unspoken, but he’d read her unspoken thought in her eyes, and they sent a shaft of pain deep into his chest.
Whatever the cost.
The cost might very well be calculated by Queen’s agents and the scientists who kept Britain’s security at the forefront of their minds. Even Piyali struggled to rank him above her loyalty to the Crown. He’d know the minute she tossed a skeet pigeon toward London; guilt would scrawl itself across her face as if written in red ink, for she’d be unable to hide such a decision from him. At which point Tegan’s lesion would be excised, and he—and the frog—would disappear from Wales and from her life. Forever. He desperately hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Long before the first rays of sun lightened the sky, Piyali tapped softly at the door to Sarah’s chamber. Something about the young woman’s wound nagged at the back of her mind. Only examining it, studying its ragged edges and finding nothing abnormal would put her at ease.
The door cracked open and a pair of sleepy eyes set in a drawn face peered out.
“May I come in?” Piyali asked. “I want to make certain there’s no infection.” Of any kind.
Sarah waved her in, dropping back onto her bed and stretching out her leg. “It hurts, but only a little.”
“Was it worth it?” she asked as she unwrapped the gauze.
“Even if Evan wants nothing more to do with me, he’s at least met the real Tegan. Such a brat.” Satisfaction stretched Sarah’s lips wide.
Agreeing with her mildly vindictive patient seemed unwise, even if Piyali’s heart hummed a happy tune at Evan’s inability to resist her charms. For years he’d waited. For her.
“No sign of excessive redness,” she said. But neither had Tegan’s ankle shown any normal signs of infection. That stray thought had her reaching for the torch at her waist. Not possible. Was it? Better to know than to leave any lingering doubt. Shaking the decilamp, she pointed the beam of light toward Sarah’s calf.
A glimmer, a flash and a nightmare unfolded. The edges of the wound—a tiny fraction of an inch—were iridescent. Guanine crystals.
An iron band tightened about her chest; air scraped its way in and out of her lungs. This was a disaster. With the frog in captivity, it could mean only one thing. Whatever parasitic organism lived in the amphibian’s salvia, it did not require its host to survive. Despite its tropical origins, the parasite had managed to colonize the cold waters of Seren’s Well, entering Sarah’s skin via the open wound.
Tegan.
Piyali’s stomach clenched. Sarah had dragged four fingernails—four wet fingernails—down the side of Tegan’s face. Her face. “Keep it clean and rest today,” she said, careful to keep her voice steady as she wrapped the wound once again. “I’ll have Mr. Tredegar prepare a salve. Be certain to use it.”
Outside Sarah’s room, Piyali fell against the closed door, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart pounded against her ribs. What to do? Stepping back into the common room of the tavern, she searched out the rusty skeet pigeon, perched once again upon its shelf, returned from its last delivery. Hers. Odd that Mr. Black had sent no reply. He must still be in Scotland, her message languishing among his extensive correspondence. Not that her note mattered. More than an objective was broken now. An entire well was contaminated, one frequented by the local population. Disaster loomed.
She could delay one more day. If the experiments didn’t provide a cure within the next twenty-four hours, she’d have no choice but to write to the head of the Queen’s agents, the Duke of Avesbury himself.
This was a complete catastrophe.
Evan stared at the four blue streaks that raked down Tegan’s face. Tears ran from her eyes as she blew her red, puffy nose. “I’m going to die!” she keened.
As always, Tegan was completely self-centered. She offered not a single word of apology for instigating the fight, nor showed any concern for how Sarah might have fared. Sarah. He ran a hand over his eyes. If Tegan’s scratches were so affected, what of Sarah’s wound?
Her mother stood beside her, wringing her hands, looking to him with pleading eyes, but all he had to offer her were false promises and an imperfect ointment. Tegan might not die, but the quality of her life was definitely on a downward spiral unless he and Piyali found a cure and soon.
In the doorway, Mr. Price cleared his throat. “Dr. Mukherji has arrived.”
Mouth open, Piyali stepped into the room, yet her expression wasn’t one of surprise, rather one of horror at the verification of her worst fears.
A ball of lead dropped into his stomach. “Sarah?”
A grim nod was her answer.
There was nothing more they could do here; their time was best spent searching for a cure. Mouthing useless words of encouragement and instructing Mrs. Price to continue to apply the ointment, he grabbed Piyali by the elbow and steered her toward the shop’s door. “We’ll be back to check on her tonight.”
Piyali shook her elbow free. “If I might purchase a jar, Mr. Price?”
“A canning jar?” Mr. Price’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes.” She dropped a coin into his hand as he handed her the glass container. “Thank you. It’ll do.”
Evan kept his lips pressed tightly together until they had traveled several feet down the rutted road, exiting the village. “It’s not the frog this time.”
“No,” Piyali agreed. “It’s not.”
“The experiments are a failure.” Ice slid through his veins as he presented a cold and bleak report. “As you predicted, without proper incubation the cultured skin cells died. Even more worrisome, I examined a drop of the culture media beneath the lens of your aetheroscope and,” he took a deep breath, “the parasites broke free from the dying cells and are now free-swimming.”
Pain, not surprise, crossed her face as she lifted the jar. “In the water of Seren’s Well too. It appears they require a wound, a laceration of the epidermis for direct access to the basal layer. Sarah’s fingernails digging scratches into Tegan’s face. The sharp edge of a stone wall cutting Sarah’s ankle.” She dragged in a ragged breath. “Evan, I need to write to Mr. Black. The water is contaminated. If anyone seeks the well’s healing waters, anyone with so much as a tiny scratch, they too might become infected.”
An entire town slipping into madness. There would be no hiding such a crisis. No longer could this be kept a secret. They turned off the main road, following the narrow path upward into the forest, winding their way toward the fairy well. Soon the small, sleepy town of Aberwyn would be overrun with agents of the Crown.
He, Tegan, Sarah—and quite probably her mother—would be quarantin
ed, his sister and grandmother notified. He cringed. For the mental and physical safety of them all, separate—locked—cells would be required. Once the government realized the potential powers behind the side-effects of a blue frog’s bite… No, he could not allow himself to contemplate such a bleak future. Not yet.
“One more day,” he pleaded, stopping before Seren’s Well. Its once innocent waters now teamed with tropical parasites that had colonized an entirely new habitat. “One more day to find a cure.”
From the slight sag of his shoulders, Piyali knew it would cost him much to relinquish control. Though it was time to summon assistance, neither was she ready to admit defeat. A small concession was in order. “We’ll sample the water,” she said. “Confirm our suspicions. We’ll set up another round of experiments, and then I’ll compose a report. Maybe the parasites will prove easier to kill outside a host.”
She lifted a stick from the ground, threading it through the wire handle of the canning jar, and dipped it into the water. Sample collected, she stepped back onto the path, careful to hold the vessel steadily before her.
“Let’s hope so,” Evan said, his jaw set with determination.
Once the Queen’s agents became involved, quarantine was a strong possibility, and they might well judge the situation a security risk, refusing to inform his family of any specifics regarding his health or whereabouts. “If it comes to it, I’ll see to your sister and grandmother.” Whatever it took.
He managed a stiff nod.
They returned to his cottage in painful silence, neither one of them wishing to speculate as to what the future held.
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