by Kari Edgren
“Then Carman would be dead,” Cate persisted. “And incapable of sending a young girl to fetch a key. I tell you, Tom, no matter how you look at it, the chit’s story doesn’t line up. She must be insane like Selah said.”
“Think about it, Cate, the girl goes by Deri. Does that remind you of anything?”
Cate thought for a moment, her mouth moving silently over the word. Her eyes grew suddenly round. “It can’t be!”
Tom nodded. “An English nickname for our Gaelic Adare.”
“Áth Dara,” Cate said, breaking the name apart as I had done days ago with Chubais. “Ford of the Oak.”
“Aye, if her name be true, the girl came from the oak grove.”
I hung on every word, hearing everything, but understanding nothing. My grip tightened on Henry’s knee.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could share the story. Then we can decide together what is real or not.”
This drew them from their private conversation. “Forgive us,” Cate said. “It seems so absurd, I can hardly believe it to be true. Carman is thought to have lived during the time of King Bres. Some say she was a goddess of black magic, others that she was a powerful witch from Athens who invaded Ireland with her three sons.”
These last words brought a curt, mirthless laugh from Tom. “Her progeny were named Dub, Dother and Dian.”
“Darkness, Evil and Violence?” I asked, translating the Gaelic names.
“That’s right,” Tom said. “And together, the lovely family laid waste to Ireland. How I’ve heard the story told, they were a force to be reckoned with. It took four Tuatha Dé to put an end to their mayhem. The sons were eventually banished from Ireland, and Carman died of a broken heart. Our sire, King Bres is rumored to have buried her in Wexford among the oak trees. If the girl Deri has the slightest grasp on reality, Carman may not just have been real—”
“She may still be alive,” Cate interrupted, a little breathless. “Which means instead of being buried, she was actually imprisoned by Bres. But there’s no record of a daughter.”
“Assuming Deri is correct about this part of her history,” Tom said, “it stands to reason that one of Cailleach’s sons found Carman.”
“Why not release her then?” I asked. “If the man found his way in, surely he knew how to get out.”
Tom tapped a finger on his thigh in thought. “The man and their child perhaps, but not necessarily Carman. Since Bres created the prison, it might take his blood to open it for her.”
“Selah,” Cate said, grabbing my attention. “You mentioned a key. Did Deri give any more clues about what this could be?”
I bit my lip, trying to remember Deri’s exact words, how she had mocked me when I assumed it was an actual key. “Not so much, just that it was found deep in the heart. I thought she meant my heart at the time, but then she skipped off none too worried that the hound had come to kill me.”
Cate studied me intently. “Did she say or do anything else?”
With all eyes upon me, I examined the memory once more. The girl had laughed, then glanced over my shoulder in the direction of Henry’s voice before adding the cryptic part about the heart. This key is found deep in the heart...
I inhaled sharply. “Good gracious! I think she meant Henry.”
Henry started at my side. “You can’t be serious. How could I be the key to a prison set up by your first sire?”
Cate’s gaze never wavered. “Are you sure about this, Selah?”
I thought for a moment, then nodded. “It didn’t make sense at the time, but I’m positive she was speaking of Henry.” Who else was so deep in my heart?
Tom stared at Henry as though attempting to see straight inside his head. “The Fitzalans are an old English line. Any chance some Irish blood was mixed in along the way?”
“The duke told me that Henry’s great grandmother was Irish,” I interjected. “It’s a closely guarded secret. Henry didn’t even know until I told him last night.”
Cate and Tom exchanged a quick look. “How very interesting,” she said. “Did the duke happen to mention a surname?”
I opened my mouth, only to close it again. Yes, he did...the name sat on the tip of my tongue, refusing to budge farther. “O’ something or other,” I said, momentarily defeated by the memory lapse.
Cate laughed, sweet and soft. “The grandson of something or other,” she said. “Not the most distinguished surname, my lord.” She turned to Tom. “Fancy I’ll be paying a call to the duke tomorrow for further investigation. Could be something, or nothing at all.”
Henry’s arm tensed along my shoulder. “This is utter nonsense, as you shall discover once I’ve found the girl.”
Tom leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “Leave her to us, lad. Until we’ve more information regarding your ancestry, you’d best stay as far away as possible from young Deri. She’s already proven a deadly adversary. No sense in letting her prove it yet again at your expense.”
Henry stiffened beside me. “I will do no such thing,” he said, meeting the blacksmith’s intimidating gaze. “The girl will answer for what she did to my footmen.”
Surprise marked Tom’s face. “What do you mean?”
“While we were with Jenny and her uncle, the wretch managed to touch one of my footmen under the guise of needing assistance. He was struck with madness, and shot another footman before turning the sword on himself. By all means, I have just as much claim to the girl as you do.”
“She may kill you,” Tom said, his tone even. “Key or not, she’s shown herself insane and unreliable.”
My hand tightened further on Henry’s knee. “I’ve no fear of a child,” he countered.
“All the same, you are not to be out alone,” Cate said. “If the girl doesn’t worry you, then the hounds you fought certainly should. To be sure, they were up again less than an hour after you struck them down. The wounds may seep for a day or two, but they will soon be back to their usual selves, just in much worse spirits.”
“I left them dead,” Henry said. “There’s no way they could have regained life so quickly.”
Tom shrugged impassively. “They are creatures of the Otherworld and cannot be killed by regular means. Only a descendant of the Tuatha Dé or a weapon forged by Goibniu can send the hounds back to Cailleach. The blue fire is the one sure indication that they have returned to their maker.”
“Then there’s no reason to fear. I saw the fire with my own eyes, and am assured that they are returned home.”
Cate and Tom could not have appeared more surprised if Henry had just turned into Cailleach herself. “Are you certain?” Tom asked.
A low chuckle rumbled in Henry’s chest. “It’s rather hard to mistake. My sword is in Selah’s chamber if you would care to take a look. I’ve just recently retrieved it at my father’s behest from our family seat, and have no notion of its maker or history.” Henry smiled. “Except that it is excellent at killing hounds.”
Tom jumped to his feet. “Aye, that is a blade I’d like to see.”
The moment they left the drawing room, I turned to Cate. “What about Nora’s debut tonight? Deri could very well be there, and Henry is just itching for an opportunity to bring her to justice.” Worry twisted in my stomach. “We have to kill her before she has a chance to get to him.”
“We will, Selah, of that I can assure you.”
“How,” I persisted, “when that stupid curse has made us helpless against her? Get what you give indeed. Who ever thought of instilling something so ridiculous? Surely, Brigid wants us to defend life to the best of our abilities.”
“It’s from the same laws that govern Brigid and Cailleach themselves. Life to death and death to life. Neither can be without the other.” Cate’s lips curved to knowing smile. “Which is why Goibinu forged the knife,
as a caveat of sorts—to kill our enemies without the fear of equal reprisal.”
* * *
The Drury Lane Theater assaulted my overdrawn nerves in every possible manner. Candlelight danced in fitful patterns through the crowded corridors and main hall. Wealthy spectators looked like animated baubles, their bold satins and brocades unsettling against the heavily powdered faces that peered from the boxes along the outer wall. At ground level, a sea of humanity lapped to the very edge of the pit where the sound of laughter and tuning strings rose to a chaotic din. The stuffy air took physical form inside my nose, saturated with smoke, perfume, damp wool and sweat.
Each sight, sound, and smell came to me magnified a hundred times. I tried to block it all out in order to remain focused on the reasons I was here tonight. Nora and Deri...Deri and Nora. My thoughts turned a fair circle around these two names, unable to settle for more than a few seconds on one before moving to the other, and then back again. The urge to either kill or protect moved just as quickly, as though pinned to their very names.
Deri and Nora...Nora and Deri
The wretch could be anywhere. Or nowhere, as there was no guarantee of her presence here tonight. If she happened to make an appearance, I wondered what could be done in front of so many people. There was a plan, of course. Not that my great grandparents had bothered to fill me in on the details, possibly to curtail Henry’s involvement. For the time being, I had been instructed to stay at his side, enjoy the show and if the wretch appeared, to keep well out of the way.
In line with these instructions, I sat next to Henry in the same box from a week ago. This time though, rather than maintaining a proper distance, he held my gloved hand in plain sight for anyone with the right vantage point to see. Cate sat to my left, her usual calm demeanor masking any thoughts of murder as she chatted amicably with Lord and Lady Saxby, who had heard from a little bird that someone of their acquaintance was performing tonight. Tom remained standing in an alcove at the perimeter of the pit, a sharp eye for the wretch and eight inches of enchanted steel tucked beneath his waistcoat.
James Roth occupied the seat on the other side of Henry, though I did my best to ignore his belligerent presence. It proved more difficult to ignore the fact that Nora had invited him tonight without extending the same courtesy to me. In truth, I blamed no one but myself, and vowed to make amends for my idiocy after the play concluded. A bouquet of hothouse flowers rested at my feet as a token of my pride in Nora’s accomplishment.
My attention moved to the audience, and I skimmed the line of boxes once more along the opposite wall. Moving from face to face, I released an inward groan when a certain swarthy gentleman appeared.
What is he doing here?
Julian may have been a regular attendee of the theater. Or like the Saxbys, he had heard a similar rumor of Nora’s performance tonight. I wished either to be true, yet by the way he stared at me from across the pit, I had a sneaking suspicion he had come for other purposes. Even at a distance, I could make out the hard set of his mouth that bespoke of a simmering anger. Henry showed no sign of seeing him, which I hoped remained the case as we already had enough to deal with for one night.
My gaze slipped to the empty stage. Thick velvet draperies hid the players and any last minute adjustments from view. I tried to imagine Nora costumed as the wanton Polly Peachum, and what she must be feeling at this moment. My imagination refused to move past the conservative Quaker garb I had known all my life. Her feelings were another matter. If my nerves felt disturbingly stretched as a spectator, Nora’s must be strapped to the rack.
Her most treasured dream was about to come true. After just one week of rehearsal, I fervently hoped she was as prepared for the task as Justine believed. What if my great aunt was mistaken? What if Nora froze up at so large an audience? I glanced again at the hundreds of people packed into the playhouse. Most players began their careers as members of the chorus, not the beloved heroine. How would Nora respond to so much attention at once? The sharp taste of anxiety mixed with the lingering sweetness of my violet mouth rinse. I would personally snatch Justine bald if Nora suffered the slightest embarrassment tonight.
Dear Lord, I silently prayed. Please let her be a smashing success...Please don’t make me have to kill Justine...
A hush fell over the audience as two men came forward, a player and a beggar, to deliver the introduction. The seconds seemed to creep by, then speed off at a dash. I hardly heard a word of their dialogue before the overture sounded and the curtains opened to reveal Mr. Peachum seated at a large table, hunched over a ledger.
Tick...tick...tick...more seconds passed, more players moved about the stage. Mrs. Peachum and the servant, Mr. Filch, with the chorus in the background. My heart pounded and the blood seemed to leap at every sweaty pulse point. Any moment Nora would walk on stage and her life would be irreversibly changed.
Henry leaned toward me. “Are you intent on breaking my hand this evening?” he asked good-naturedly. “If so, the left one will cause the least amount of inconvenience.”
I dropped a startled glance to find my fingers clenched around his in a death grip. “Sorry,” I muttered, forcing the muscles and tendons to release.
He rested his other hand on top of mine. “Don’t worry, Selah. Nora will be brilliant. Justine would never have let her take the role otherwise.”
Even the pretense of a smile proved too much at the moment. “I pray to God you’re right. Heaven forbid I should have to—”
A collective intake of breath from the audience cut my threat short. Jerking my eyes back to the play, I saw Nora standing center stage just as Justine had done on my previous visit.
“Oh, my,” Henry said with quiet admiration. Forgoing words altogether, James and Andrew Saxby simply sighed their approval.
“Now there is a sight I never imagined,” Cate whispered to me.
I could do nothing other than nod a response, my eyes two enormous circles of surprise as I stared at Nora. The bulk of her long, brown hair had been pinned in a loose knot just below the crown, while the remainder fell in soft ringlets around her face. Paint enhanced her full lips, brown eyes and fair skin. She wore a gown of golden peach silk with a light smattering of dark pink and green flowers. The full skirts emphasized her narrow waist, and though not nearly as busty as Justine, the stays and low neckline revealed the right amount of cleavage.
Two thoughts struck me at once: This was the first time I had ever seen my dearest friend dressed in anything other than drab grays and browns. And that she had never looked more beautiful. There was no sign of the self-depreciating Quaker, nor the wry, no-nonsense Samaritan. A handsome young actress stood in her place, ready to delight in a debut performance as Miss Peachum.
Nora looked out over the pit, her face lit with excitement. Mesmerized, I stared unabashedly, just one small part of what must have appeared a thousand-eyed monster. Anticipation hung in the air for her to speak, to break the brief pause that threatened to stretch into an uncomfortable silence. I leaned forward, staring so hard my eyes stung for lack of blinking. It was then that I saw the first hint of panic manifest in a twitch of nerves around her mouth. The line of her lip quivered to a subtle frown that set to flight a hundred small birds in my stomach.
They’re just people, Nora. Don’t be frightened.
Several long seconds passed. Mr. and Mrs. Peachum stared expectantly at her back. The chorus stood as though frozen, their exaggerated expressions held tight. A handful of spectators shifted nervously on the benches near the front. Nora remained still except for the quickening rise and fall of her chest.
Look at me, I silently pleaded. Forget about everyone else and just look at me.
She lifted her gaze, shifted it along the wall to Henry’s box as though drawn by my will. Our eyes met at once, and I saw a flicker of surprised recognition through the lines of fear. The next moment cam
e so naturally it felt as though we followed our own private script, one created years ago in Hopewell. Assuming a look of steady assurance, I crossed my hands directly over my heart. She returned the gesture without a second thought, crossing her own hands in a secret sign from our earliest childhood—a sign we had done a million times, swearing to our friendship and promising to love each other always. In a heartbeat, I watched her countenance change. The fear fell away, and she smiled at me. Then pressing two saucy fists to her hips, she sauntered toward the formidable Mr. Peachum.
“I know as well as any of the fine Ladies how to make the most of myself and of my Man too...”
Every word sounded clear and true, and my relief rushed out in a long, shaky breath.
“That was close,” Henry said. “What did you do?”
“Just a little encouragement. Nora did the rest.”
I glanced over to see James looking at me. For the first time in our association, I saw appreciation in his brown eyes. He gave me a tight nod, then returned his attention back to the stage.
The remaining acts passed like a dream. After the first hesitation, Nora delivered each line to perfection, and not even the legendary Miss Rose could have sauntered or flaunted better. When she sang, I felt myself momentarily transported as though in the presence of a flesh and blood siren. At the finale, when Miss Peachum had successfully secured the notorious Captain Macheath, the audience burst into near convulsive applause. Whistles and shouts were soon added from some of the more appreciative male spectators. I jumped to my feet and clapped ’til my hands hurt.
“We need to go see her,” I said excitedly over the noise. “Before she is overrun with admirers.”
Henry nodded, his eyes tied to something below.
I bent to retrieve the bouquet from the floor. “Are you ready?”
A low rumble drifted through the cheering voices, stifled and distant as though coming from outside the theater. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “It sounded like thunder.”