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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Wasn’t that Rachel Urquhart in the rocking chair? She held an unbelievably small figure to her breast, a mewling being hardly bigger than a bird.

  Even Fionna came and sat beside her, speaking gently as she urged the mistress to take a bite of Janet’s special gruel. Truth is, mistress, she said, I’m concerned over your husband. Oh, he’s not sick, dear, don’t think that. I believe it’s more an illness of the spirit.

  Fionna set aside the bowl and dabbed at Morrigan’s lips with a napkin. I came upon him in the garden. He was in a rage. Smashing his fists against the wall. I tried to make him stop. I’ve never seen him so angry. He said this is what he always does. He makes things worse for you.

  After a frowning pause, she said, I shouldn’t have repeated this. He’ll be fine if you’ll get well. Another bite, please? These are fine Scottish oats, madam, what’ll put a bloom in your cheeks. Poor Master Curran’s near out of his senses, and none of us have had a moment’s peace for worry over you.

  Morrigan worried over Curran too, yet at the same time, part of her seemed to want him to suffer. It was like she wanted him to be punished for something, but she didn’t know what. It made no sense. He was the perfect husband, unrivaled in every way. He’d married her, though she was an innkeeper’s daughter with no rank or title, not a penny to her name, and never once had he thrown that in her face. She had a strange conviction that he had left her when she most needed him, and that’s why she was vexed… but he hadn’t done that. It was puzzling.

  One good thing about dying. She wouldn’t have to think anymore.

  She thought she saw Seaghan’s face once. Come, get well, he said. Aodhàn and I want to take you out on the boat.

  Then there was Diorbhail.

  Morrigan couldn’t weep, Douglas had beaten that ability out of her long ago, but Diorbhail could. Diorbhail rested her cheek on Morrigan’s chest and wept the tears Morrigan could not shed. Diorbhail spoke the words Morrigan had always been too afraid to speak. Diorbhail called to the wild, inner Morrigan— called to her to come out and bring her witch-fire, for mistress needed its magic and heat to cauterize her wounds.

  Morrigan felt the tumultuous lass rise up at Diorbhail’s call with an answering shout. Selene! Oh, how I’ve missed you!

  * * * *

  Seaghan listened to the wind whistle against the casements. He cleaned the dishes, sat before the blue peat fire, and tried to prepare himself to say goodbye to the lass, lost for nineteen years, who might well be his daughter.

  In the morning he woke, cramped and sore from restless sleep in the hard chair.

  Aodhàn’s bed lay untouched, as it had every night since Morrigan went into labor.

  He stirred the fire to life and stepped outside, scanning the surrounding hills. Though he saw no sign of Aodhàn, he did spot a black brougham barreling along the snow-packed track from the direction of Kilgarry, and recognized it as the one used by the physician Curran had brought from Fort William. Seaghan waved to the driver and stumbled through the snow to its side.

  “Have you seen Lady Eilginn?”

  “It’s a miracle,” the man said. “She’s awake and eating. Claims she’s starving. I believe she’ll recover after all.”

  “This be f-fine news indeed, sir.” Not dead. Not the statement he’d braced himself to hear.

  The driver whipped the horse. Seaghan stared as it bowled away.

  He slogged to Kilgarry and was welcomed before he pulled the bell by an exuberant Fionna, who had spotted him through the window.

  “Mistress is better!” she cried.

  “Can I go up?”

  She nodded and he tore up the staircase two steps at a time, bursting without preamble into her sitting room.

  “Seaghan.” Curran welcomed him with a grin. From the bedroom came the sound of feminine laughter and chatter where before there had been nothing but feverish moaning or the silence of death.

  “Let me see… her.” Seaghan pushed past, barely stopping himself from saying, my daughter.

  Morrigan was trying on earrings and admiring them in a silver-edged hand mirror. Her hair, loose and freshly brushed, damp from washing, flowed onto the white coverlet like a shining waterfall of chocolate.

  Ah, she was thin and pale, but those big doe eyes held newborn sparkles, and the smudges underneath were already fading.

  Eleanor sat beside the bed, holding an open book. She looked up as Seaghan came in, and winked. The woman appeared as satisfied as a well-fed cat.

  “Seaghan.” Morrigan smiled and held out her hand. “Tell me. What do you think of these earrings? They belonged to Curran’s mother.”

  He gaped.

  Curran slapped him between the shoulders. “He thinks his eyes are deceiving him. Yesterday he couldn’t get a word out of you.”

  “I’m weary of being ill,” she said. “And no one— no one— will force me to stay in bed. I’ve had quite enough of that.”

  “You’ll do what the doctor has advised,” said Eleanor with comfortable authority, “that’s what, m’lady.”

  Morrigan shook her head; her hair rippled and her nostrils dilated, vividly reminiscent of her defiant Arab mare.

  “Where’s the baby?” Seaghan asked.

  “Diorbhail has her,” Morrigan said, scowling. “They all seem to think she’s tiring me.”

  “Impatient chit.” Eleanor laughed. “Give yourself a moment to recover!”

  Soon after, Eleanor intimated that her patient should not be overexcited, so Seaghan, after clasping the lass’s hand and drinking in the sight of her, obediently took his leave. He ground his cap down on his head and trudged through piled, crunching snow. Enormous flakes landed on his coat, each offering its own unique pattern of beautiful lace.

  He gazed at the sea as it thundered, pewter and ice, leaden green. Sometimes he was amazed anything could survive in such harsh surroundings.

  Smoke rose from the chimney. Aodhàn must’ve returned. He ran, throwing open the door to find his comrade sitting in the chair by the fire, his legs outstretched to the warmth and a cup of tea on his lap.

  “Where have you been?” Seaghan demanded. “I thought you frozen solid somewhere.” He tore off his coat, hat, and muffler, shaking snow on the floor.

  “Nowhere in particular. Come warm yourself. Have you been to see the lass?”

  Seaghan choked and sputtered as he tried to swallow tea and speak at the same time. “She’s better. The doctor called it a miracle. It’s true. I saw for myself.”

  “Good.” Aodhàn appeared pleased but not surprised.

  “What have you done?” Suspicion lifted Seaghan’s brow.

  Aodhàn’s answer was low. “Probably nothing. There are things beyond our ken. Things we can’t sort or explain.” His gaze lifted. “No doubt Eleanor saved her. She’s a good midwife. But I had to do something, so I walked. Now Morrigan is better. That’s all that matters.”

  “Aye, that’s what matters.” Seaghan held Aodhàn’s gaze. “She has another chance, and I’ll do whatever I can to help her take it. No matter the cost.”

  * * * *

  “You had a lass, just as you predicted.” Curran lay next to Morrigan and perused his daughter as if he was slightly afraid of her. He ran one finger over her diminutive fist. “Do I sound sure of myself?”

  “As always,” Morrigan said.

  “I was a bit fashed.” He kissed the baby then Morrigan on their foreheads, tender kisses with hints of relief. “To be honest about it.”

  Morrigan hadn’t realized how frail the child would be. Why, she couldn’t even hold up her own head, and she was so infinitesimal, like the most fragile of dolls. It was disquieting.

  “Rachel’s been nursing her,” Eleanor said. “She’s willing to go on doing so, if you’d like.”

  “Can I? Is it… is it possible?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Eleanor said, grinning her approval. “I think your milk will come if you work at it.”

  With the help of Diorbhail’s adv
ice gleaned from her own premature child, the mother guided the wee hungry mouth to her breast. “Livvy,” she murmured.

  She searched for signs of deformity or illness and found miniature perfection. But the baby was so frighteningly small, her skin translucent. Sometimes her lips and fingers turned blue and she was still so wrinkled. The danger wasn’t over.

  They’d kept Olivia wrapped in clouds of wool, near the fire, for such a wee babe could hardly be expected to generate any heat of her own. For the mother’s sake, they performed the protection spell again, placing Olivia in the specially prepared basket, filled with freshly baked bread, chunks of cheese, and folds of clean linen. They held her above three lit candles. Then they shared the bread and cheese, which promised good health in the coming year. A sense of continuity, of belonging, made Morrigan’s spirit soar as she joined in the old Highland ritual.

  Time ceased to matter as mother and daughter cuddled, day after day, in the great bed. Warm nape, milky breath, and satin skin. Delicate heartbeat and the clutch of toy fingers. If they could remain here in the bed together, Morrigan thought she would be content until the day she died.

  No one had prepared her for this losing of herself. Her entire substance… bones, skin, blood, and heart, clear down to her intangible soul— all now belonged to Olivia Therese Ramsay.

  “Be strong, Livvy,” she said, again and again.

  Was this the elusive love she’d always desired? No. Somehow she knew this was more. Love was for men and women, for misty sunrises and Chopin. This was consummation. Deliverance. Every feeling she had ever experienced was barren counterfeit.

  She kissed each perfect toe, laughing at how they lifted and stretched. Men couldn’t do this, could they? Of course she should be sorry for them. They couldn’t begin to comprehend what happened to women through the growth and emergence of their children, but they knew— they knew— it was wondrous. It was the most powerful thing on earth. Maybe that was why they made such a business of shackling females. Now she saw it for what it was, a pathetic dominance born from envy.

  Woman was man’s only pipeline to this joy, to this exquisite love for one’s own offspring. That’s why they fought it, ridiculed it, and pretended it didn’t exist.

  They fear we’ll win back our power.

  Diorbhail had said that, long ago in Stranraer, to a Morrigan who no longer existed, a child throwing her fists at life as though it were glass she could shatter.

  She finally understood not only the words, but also the rage that had glittered from Diorbhail’s eyes.

  Thinking of what Diorbhail had suffered, still suffered, made her tremble with an answering swell of fury. She wanted to find the bastards who had thrown rocks at her. She wanted to bring an army, an army of females, like Queen Boudicca’s, and send Diorbhail’s tormenters fleeing in terror. She envisioned finding the boy who had run down Diorbhail’s child with a horse, and doing the same to him.

  Unless a woman was properly married when she bore a child, she was outcast, turned into a whore— that ugly word branding women who gave men what they most desired. The innocent child was condemned along with her, of course. Yet men suffered no ill effects whatsoever when the seed they carelessly planted grew fertile. Males enjoyed unspoken freedom to experience and enjoy however many women they could, and move on to the next.

  When would it change?

  Never, if men had their way.

  * * * *

  Eleanor urged various healthful concoctions upon Morrigan and ordered her to remain in bed. “I’ll delay it as long as possible, but you’ll have to be kirked again, like you were when you married. This time, it will cleanse you. Until the kirking, whatever you touch is tainted.”

  “Tainted? How? Will I hurt Olivia?”

  Eleanor snapped open a napkin and tucked it into Morrigan’s neckline. Balancing a bowl on her lap, the midwife scooped broth into a spoon and held it to the mistress’s lips. “No. You misunderstand. A new mother is unclean in God’s eyes until purified by prayer or other customs. She’s to stay in bed and touch nothing until her kirking. She can do neither work, nor cooking, nor visiting. We Catholics have an entire ceremony for it, but you’ll only have to go and walk round the kirk with the other women of Glenelg, then attend the regular service.”

  Morrigan snorted. Eleanor tried to maintain a sober demeanor but when Morrigan began to laugh so did she. They laughed until tears ran from Eleanor’s eyes and Morrigan was looking down her nose, saying pompously, “Females are unclean,” in a fair imitation of William Watson.

  Olivia’s fist closed around her mother’s index finger.

  Unclean, for bringing this marvel into the world? Aye, indeed, the envy was clear to see.

  “I think I was wrong about Aodhàn Mackinnon,” Eleanor said as she wiped away her tears.

  “Why?”

  “He’s walked deiseal around Kilgarry every night since you went into labor. I saw his face in the light of the brand he carried. He honors the old ways, from before Christianity.”

  At Morrigan’s bemused expression, Eleanor said, “If a man walks round a property in the same direction as the sun, holding a lit brand in his right hand, it casts protection over all inside. Doing it after a woman gives birth protects both her and her newborn from faeries and evil spirits. Someone should tell Agnes and Diorbhail about this. It might make them look more kindly on the man. Anyway, it’s thanks to him that I don’t fear putting off your cleansing and Olivia’s baptism.”

  The image of Mackinnon walking round and round Kilgarry in the dark, in the bitter cold of February, simply to provide her and her child with supernatural protection, moved Morrigan profoundly. Several times she dreamed of watching him from her window seat, of him turning up his face to hers as he passed beneath the window, his gaunt cheekbones thrown into relief by the flaming brand.

  During one of the few afternoons she was left alone she extracted the ring from its hiding place.

  Why did this trinket seem so familiar? Gaol mo chridhe. She wished she could ask someone what chridhe meant, but no one would tell her without asking why she wanted to know.

  “Morrigan. You’re up.”

  She nearly squeaked. Her fist closed around the ring and swept it behind her as Curran came in.

  “What?” he asked, taking in her expression. “It’s only me.” He grinned. “Did I catch you looking at a naughty book?”

  “No, but I would appreciate something to read. That is, if you think my touch won’t pollute it.”

  The weather finally relented, allowing Ibby to come from Mallaig. She was inconsolable at having missed the birth, though Curran told Morrigan he was glad. “It was harrowing,” he said, “and I’m not quite sure her constitution would have survived it.”

  Morrigan remained cloistered until March was waning. By then, she was so sick of being cooped up that even the idea of the kirking wasn’t enough to keep her hidden any longer. Leaving Olivia in Diorbhail’s care, she went off to Glenelg and walked around the church as Eleanor and the other village women watched, then downed the dram of whisky they handed her, and magically, she was cleansed.

  The pews were crowded. This time, William Watson said nothing suggesting disdain for Kilgarry’s mistress. Afterwards, Morrigan was admired and exclaimed over, praised for the way she’d fought off death’s embrace. Childbearing was a chancy thing. To see recovery gave everyone cause enough to celebrate, though there remained a pall of anxiety over wee, frail Olivia.

  Rachel confided that Padraig had made a coffin shortly after Olivia entered the world— that’s how certain they all were she would expire. She shed a few tears over the poor babe, weightless as a feather, and so weak she could hardly manage to make a sound. But now, Rachel said with assurance, she no longer feared. Olivia would survive.

  Diorbhail had said the same thing. But it was Eleanor’s promise Morrigan most wanted.

  Seaghan’s grin revealed how pleased he was that she’d overcome the dangers of childbirth. “I see Mackin
non didn’t come,” she said, when Curran’s attention was elsewhere.

  He shook his head with a rueful grimace. “But he promised to attend Olivia’s baptism, and he’s no’ one to break his word.”

  Curran returned to Morrigan’s side, laughing at some quip made by Malcolm Campbell. “Come to dinner tonight,” he said to Seaghan. “And bring that moody recluse who lives with you. I feel like celebrating, and Morrigan’s been shut in with only Eleanor, Diorbhail, and me. She seems to appreciate the both of you, though I cannot fathom why.”

  “If you let us bring the main course,” Seaghan insisted, and they shook hands on it.

  * * * *

  “To Glenelg’s newest father.” Aodhàn touched his glass to Curran’s before sipping his whisky. Curran glimpsed no animosity in the fisherman’s face or tone. Still, he couldn’t quite vanquish an interlacing of anger and bewilderment. The man had helped Morrigan, but….

  He discreetly studied his wife, searching for any betraying gestures between her and this tall, quiet man he’d always considered a spiritual brother, though he didn’t know why.

  Morrigan left the piano and joined the men who stood chatting before the fire. Dimples appeared when she smiled. There was a beautiful blush of color in her cheeks, showing how far she’d come in her quest to regain her health after that terrifying fortnight when he’d nearly lost her.

  Placing a hand on Seaghan’s forearm, her fingers caressed, perhaps unconsciously, as she described Olivia’s angelic expression while sleeping that afternoon. Then she blushed and apologized for being one of those tiresome, obsessed mothers.

  “You’ve truly returned to us,” Seaghan said, voicing Curran’s own thoughts. “You’re the picture and pinnacle of health.” He covered her hand with his own. “When I mind how sick you were, and I look at you now, I can hardly credit my own eyes. You’re bonny, Morrigan. Bonny as a West Highland sunset. You’ve become a bean-uasal, a true Highland lady.”

  She blushed again, ill at ease as usual when receiving compliments. “Come and sit,” she said. She and Curran settled on the loveseat, while their guests took the matching armchairs.