The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “The chit needs more discipline than most.”

  “She’ll carry the scars for the rest of her life.”

  “She can be shameless, as you have learned. It didn’t bother you when you wanted to take advantage of it.”

  “Watch yourself,” he said quietly. “Do you think Douglas Lawton would care to put the strap to me?”

  “If he discovers how you’ve sullied his daughter, that’ll be the least of what he does to you.”

  “I doubt he’d have the courage. It’s more his manner to prey on those unable to defend themselves, isn’t it?” He clenched his hands. “When did the beatings start? How young was she?”

  “Don’t you dare malign Douglas in his own home! That glaikit girl showed in every measure she would shame us, aye, from the youngest days. We tried to make her into a decent lady.” With a harsh laugh, she added, “Yet here she is, with child, unwed. Exactly what we feared. Do you know what shame you’ve brought on us? Do you care?” She walked to the kitchen door, pausing to scowl at him. “You must be gone when Douglas returns. I’ll not have him more upset. When Ibby brought you here he saw right off what you wanted. Now we know he had good reason not to trust you, don’t we?” Giving him a final scowl, she left.

  Curran slammed his fist against the table. He’d like to strangle her, the bitch.

  Surely he deserved a few barbs for what he’d done. But he couldn’t quell this vicious fury. His fingers itched to smash every bone in her face. Well, damn it, she could go to hell. No one would keep him from Morrigan, no matter what they said or did. Desire for Morrigan outweighed any annoyance caused by her ill-begotten kin.

  Not for the first time, he relived her expression when he’d shared his whimsical experience in the northern wilds. She’d absorbed his story with the rapt, open acceptance of a child, without any hint of suspicion or cynicism.

  Through mere chance, because he’d decided to travel to Larne for a puppy, because he’d struck up a conversation with Ibby Maclean, because he’d allowed her to drag him to the Wren’s Egg, he’d found the one woman he knew he had to marry.

  I’ll be your Theseus. You’ll be my Ariadne. I won’t ever abandon you like he did, and I’ll defeat a hundred Minotaurs— even if they all look like Beatrice.

  It took several minutes to diffuse the simmering anger sparked by the dour, plainspoken aunt. At last, when he felt calmer, he trudged upstairs to tell Morrigan he must again leave her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SOME DAMNED STRANGER beat Nicky to death.

  Apparently he had come to the defense of a barmaid who was being harassed by three drunken patrons. A fight had ensued, three against one. Before it could be broken up, one of louts picked up a stool and struck Nicky in the head with it. He never regained consciousness and died the next day. The men who started the fight retained enough sense to vanish into the bowels of Edinburgh; they hadn’t been seen since, though the barmaid had given the police detailed descriptions.

  Nicky, murdered, after swearing he would never be abused again. Morrigan was glad no one could see the inner fount of uncontrollable laughter, followed by horror and grief so overwhelming she wasn’t sure she could bear it.

  Douglas resembled November’s fallen leaves, dry and brittle, like a gust of wind might blow him away.

  The fatal blow left half of her brother’s face disfigured. Beatrice had no choice but to cover it with a white shroud.

  Aunt Ibby arrived, looking as though she’d wept all the way from Mallaig. The news that Mr. Ramsay had proposed marriage was received with subdued happiness, and a low, “I knew he was smitten.”

  Among those who gathered to say goodbye on the day of the funeral was Eddie Christopher, the mill owner’s son, a staunch Tory who reminisced about their political arguments. The baker and his wife brought whisky and bread; Mrs. Forbes, the florist, pressed Morrigan’s hand as she wiped her eyes. Kit’s father, Ian Lindsay, kneaded his old felt hat and shifted uncomfortably. One by one they filed past the coffin, touching Nicky on the breast, not only in farewell but also to gain protection from ghostly visits.

  Matthew Weir, the minister of the nearby Free Church, had offered to speak at the gravesite, a kind gesture, Morrigan thought, since neither Douglas nor his children had ever attended his services.

  Just before the men left with Nicky’s coffin, a stranger in a black suit approached the inn and hesitated in the doorway.

  Morrigan came out of the kitchen at the sound of the bell. “We’re closed,” she said, drying her hands on a towel. “There are other places you can stay… the Sea Bank, the King’s Arms… the Albion.”

  “Miss Lawton?”

  “Aye?”

  “I came to pay my respects.”

  She held out her hand. He took it, gripping firmly, his steady gaze never wavering, his eyes luminous with grief. “I am Louis Stevenson,” he said. “Nick and I met—”

  “Oh, aye. Nicky wrote to me about you.”

  “May I come in?”

  She stammered some apology and led him to the coffin. He gazed upon the shroud and finally said, “We knew from the moment we met we would be grand mates. We seemed to have the same ideas about everything.”

  He gently traced the edge of the coffin Sir MacAndrew had provided. This man knew a Nicky she would never meet, one who made his own decisions and didn’t fall asleep dreading the dawn.

  Beatrice came to the doorway. “It’s time,” she said.

  As the men gathered around the coffin, Morrigan heard Nicky’s voice quoting his favorite poem, Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind.

  If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear…

  He had gazed into the sky when he spoke that line, as though imagining himself floating on a wayward breeze.

  If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

  And something, something… she always forgot the next part.

  The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven…

  “Freedom,” he’d said, when she asked what the devil it meant. “Untouchable freedom.”

  One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

  Her heartbeat slowed. The daft trembling in her fingers stilled. Aye, Nicky. That’s where you are. That’s where you’ve gone, to the moor. I’ll feel you there now.

  He was free. He could swim in and out of rainbows and touch her face on the high braes. No chains would ever again subdue him. None could ever catch him much less hurt him.

  Douglas would sooner put a knife to his throat than allow grief to show, but Morrigan thought she caught a glazed stupor, as if from some old nagging injury, and she wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he fought regret. Maybe he remembered Nicky’s mother, the girl who had loved him.

  Then her heart hardened. If it hadn’t been for him, Nicky might still be alive.

  The coffin lid was closed, sending waves of frantic, impotent rage coursing through her. The men were taking him. Never again would she set eyes on the lad. She wanted to scream at them to let go of her brother.

  Ibby, with a discerning glance, tucked Morrigan’s hand beneath her plump arm and held on tight. “Be strong, isoke,” she murmured, tears running down her face.

  Six sturdy souls carried the coffin on their shoulders. A line of men followed. Morrigan listened to the stamp of their boots fade in the distance.

  She’d asked to go along, but Douglas had refused. She and Beatrice were to stay behind and prepare a meal. It had never been said but she knew women were considered bad luck; their impure presence would harm Nicky’s journey to heaven.

  Sometimes she wondered why God had created females. They did nothing but tempt, thwart and harm his precious males. Perhaps he should have given men the ability to bear their own offspring, so there would be no need for the despicable weaker sex. Surely that lack of foresight was a failing on God’s part.

  Or maybe not, she thought as she crossed from oven to table, from scullery to pantry. No doubt he’d fashioned women to perform those tasks men weren’t in
terested in. Who would do the cooking, mending, cleaning, and washing if not females? Perhaps the motive was well planned, after all. But why then give them souls, if they were designed only for tedious labor and bringing sons into the world?

  Maybe women didn’t have souls. Since she didn’t know what souls were, she wasn’t sure, but she felt there was something inside her more than beast or slave.

  Douglas couldn’t stop her from going along in her thoughts. She pictured the procession coming to the kirkyard, lowering Nicky into a hole beneath the yews. Matthew Weir would read from his Bible. Douglas would drop a handful of dirt on the coffin. There was even a stone grave marker, thanks to Sir MacAndrew.

  Her eyes and jaw ached. Her bones were leaden and weary.

  Daft words spoken, a prayer or two, and folk would disperse, leaving him alone in the dark. A hundred years from now, would someone enter the kirkyard, read his name and know how dear he’d been?

  * * * *

  They closed the inn for a few days, a short respite before they must put on their pleasant guest faces and continue earning their livelihoods. The other crofters worked together to finish Douglas’s barley harvest. No one liked the cold, disagreeable innkeeper, but social rules couldn’t be ignored.

  Two days after the funeral, Morrigan escaped to the woods, hoping to spend an hour in solitude. She came across a patch of forget-me-nots clustered in the shade, and knelt, thinking how the color nearly matched Nicky’s eyes.

  Mama, is he with you now, or with his own mam, Neala Grant?

  No answer came but the weeping cry of a curlew as it passed overhead on its way to the shore.

  Muffled footsteps broke the silence. She looked up, surprised to see Nicky’s friend, Louis Stevenson. She stood. Without speaking, he embraced her, pressing her head against his chest, over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

  His unspoken understanding lifted her from the dizzying abyss and placed her on firm ground.

  She took him to her spot by the mossy tarn. “It seems like yesterday,” she said. “Nicky and I sat here and spoke of his plan to go to Edinburgh. My father had forbidden it. He thought he could use Nicky as unpaid labor forever. They fought and fought….”

  “In my family, the men become engineers. We build lighthouses and bridges. My uncle built the Cairn Point lighthouse, down the way. My grandfather designed Corsewall.”

  “I ride to Corsewall sometimes,” Morrigan cried. “Fancy your kin building it. That lighthouse is an old friend.”

  He smiled wryly. “I feel that way about a few of them.” He sighed, staring into the curtain of trees, running his palm over a patch of new grass stems poking through the mud furrows she’d made last time she was here.

  Belatedly, she remembered her habit of categorizing men. Louis was merry, judging from the lines beside his eyes and the upward mobility of his lips. But graveness lay beneath.

  “I heard my father rebelled once or twice,” he said, “but he finally became a partner as expected. Imagine when I told him I wanted to spend my life writing stories. Sometimes I wonder why parents feel they must burden their offspring with their own ambitions. Long ago, I asked him about his youthful aspirations. He denied wanting to be anything other than an engineer, but his irritation gave him away. I’d caused him to remember something he wished to forget. Sometimes, what folk don’t say tells the most.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I compromised. I’m studying law in case my writing fails to support me. I’ve a premonition—” A fit of coughing forced him to break off. The skin under his eyes darkened and he shivered, though the day had grown almost sultry.

  “Are you ill?” she asked. “Should we go?”

  “It’s nothing. A stubborn cold.”

  “What is your premonition?”

  His smile transformed his face, lending his eyes a dark radiance. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something fascinating about him. Morrigan could almost hear whispers of poetry in the rustle of his coat sleeves.

  “That I’ll never be grand or rich,” he said. “My only real hope is to have a child. I desperately want children. I’ve… never told anyone that, but for your brother. He wanted bairns too, did you know?”

  Oh, it hurt. It was like a stone lodged in her chest, pressing against her ribs every time she breathed. Nicky’s dreams would never be fulfilled, but perhaps he could survive, in some way, through this man. It comforted her to think so. “No, I didn’t know that,” she said. Then she blurted, “I’m having a child. So I’ve been told.”

  She’d said it. Aloud. To a stranger.

  His expressive face betrayed his thoughts. Concern became delight then reverted to concern. “My dear.” He touched her cheek and his frown deepened. “Your father….”

  Ah, so Nicky had shared that secret. Aye, indeed, they must have been close. If Nicky trusted him, then so would she.

  “He doesn’t know.” Picturing him when he found out turned her blood to ice.

  “Miss Lawton,” he said. “Morrigan… how can I help?”

  She wished, in the futile way of a child, that she could take back her revelation. “Every morning when I wake, I realize all over again this is no dream. It’s there, growing. Soon there’ll be no hiding it.”

  “What of the man? Could you marry? Do you love him?”

  Curran’s bright image brought an involuntary smile and a sense of warm safety. The braw lad, her braw, brave Theseus, who slew the lion and saved the world, at least in vision. “He seems willing. I… don’t know what love is, or how to make it happen.”

  Surprise danced across his features, then something else, something deliberately erased.

  Christ. He thought her depraved.

  She ducked her head, fighting the urge to give in to a self-indulgent tantrum, and regarded the smooth brown surface of the tarn. Water would always ripple in whatever direction the wind compelled. It had no free will, no choices to make. Her desire to spite Douglas hadn’t made him suffer, and soon, when the babe’s presence could no longer be hidden, she’d be the sorry one.

  Louis’s fingers twined around her fist and she faced him, bracing for the only emotion he could in good conscience show: repulsed Christian condemnation.

  His head tilted. “A light came over you just now, when you spoke of him. I’ve seen such things from time to time, like the air is vibrating.” His eyes narrowed as though he had something else to say, but he didn’t, and they sat in silence. Then he shook his head. “I understand now what your brother meant. He compared you to an alder. No gale can break its branches. Nick claimed you’re much stronger than he. If he were here, what would he tell you? The rest of your life is a long time, and far too many men are like your father.”

  “I won’t have a choice,” she said, flooded with gratitude at his acceptance. “If I don’t marry him I’ll end up like the local….” She paused, unable to say the word whore. “Fallen woman, having rocks thrown at me. Unmarried mothers are hated. Her fate could be mine no matter what I want. It’s up to him, isn’t it? The father.”

  “There’s the other side of the coin to consider. Are you strong enough to suffer a lifetime of unhappiness as wife to a man you don’t love?”

  “I couldn’t be unhappy with Curran. Oh, I do love him….” She rose, pacing from the water’s edge to the nearest tree, staring blankly at a beetle scurrying around its base. “Surely I do. I’m fortunate he asked me to marry him. He didn’t have to. He might as easily have blamed me.” Glimpsing the soft petals of a violet, she bent and plucked it, holding it to her nose. Flowers held an intoxicating hint of the earth in their scent, sending her into calmer contemplation. “What is love?” she asked. “How d’you know it?”

  His laugh was hardly more than an exhalation. “That I cannot answer, Miss Lawton. I think it must be different for each one of us.”

  This man made her feel at ease, unafraid of ridicule or censure. “What about hate? Why do folk hate weans who have no say in being born? Hate women who m
ean no harm? Yet judgment is never passed on the man.”

  “My father often says women should be able to divorce their husbands whenever they please, without hindrance, but as for men, they should not be allowed to divorce their wives for any reason. There are some of us who don’t agree that the fairer sex is to blame for the world’s ills.” Louis remained silent a moment, frowning. “I see the fighter inside you. Her heart recognizes injustice. She wants to destroy it, to demand that equity be given to every being, highborn or low, male or female, young or old. But, disagreeably, there’s another part that fights the fighter. She believes she should mold herself to the requirements surrounding her. You are at war with yourself, my dear Miss Lawton. At some point, someday, you’ll have to make a choice. Which path will you follow?”

  Louis’s discomfiting observations brought a memory of Diorbhail Sinclair’s odd words at the train station. Avatar. Learn of those who cleared the way for you. The warriors.

  The word sounded foreign, certainly not Scots, unless perhaps it came from the Orkneys or the Shetlands, from which Curran’s tyrant-protector Fearghas hailed. She’d heard folk from those islands were as far removed from Scotland as if they’d spawned at the North Pole.

  “D’you know what an ‘avatar’ is?” she asked, adding hesitantly, “Louis?”

  Creases deepened in his forehead. “It comes from India, I believe, and has to do with reincarnation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The belief that folk return again and again, each new life reflecting how they lived before, until, hopefully, they grow beyond the need for bodies and achieve Nirvana, the Indian version of Heaven.”

  “Nirvana,” Morrigan repeated, testing the word. A smile passed over Louis’s face, but she felt too absorbed to ask what he found amusing. “And avatar?”

  “I’m no expert on these matters, mind you, but I believe that is the human incarnation of a deity. Why do you ask about these things?”

  “I heard it and wondered. But what does that mean? Incarnation.”

  “The form a god takes when masquerading as a human. Rather like Jesus, I suppose. Human and divine in one.”