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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “A lion did it.”

  “How d’you know?”

  He shrugged. “I just do.”

  “A lion.”

  He knew what she was thinking. He was too. The castle beneath the water. Fighting a lion. The woman chained in the oak.

  She pressed closer, rousing him though he tried to ignore it. “When I first saw you in Stranraer,” she said, “at the train station, I thought you were Theseus come to life. My Greek hero, the man I always dreamed of when I was unhappy.”

  “I thought you a wood nymph, sunburned and covered with bracken.”

  She rolled onto her back, holding the babe on her stomach, and touched the scar beside his eye. “This scar…” she said. “It was there in the dream, but much worse. It started here, but went clear down your face.” She trailed the tip of her index finger to his mouth.

  He took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “You were kissing me. I wanted to stay there with you in that cave… forever. Forever and ever.” Her eyes darkened. “Forever.” Her face turned sad and forlorn. “But I don’t think it happened.”

  “We’re together now.” Deep inside, that phrase formed. He’d heard it first when flying on the wings of whatever alchemy was in Diorbhail’s mushroom. What seems the end is only the beginning.

  He kissed her; she sighed, running her fingers through his hair and making a sound in her throat. “Your kisses are magic,” she whispered.

  Tell me you love me. It was a never-ending desire, one he never voiced. She had never said it. He’d never wanted to hear anything more.

  She traced the scar next to his eye, frowning. “What makes us do the things we do? Why can’t we form life the way we want it?” Lifting her hand, she flexed her fingers then closed them into a fist. “Sometimes I feel like the paddle wheel on a ferryboat.”

  He smiled. “That’s an odd bit of a thing to feel like.”

  “I go round and round, clicking and clacking, churning the water, chopping up plankton and wee sea creatures, never getting anywhere, never finding a place to land. Just senseless spinning.”

  Dark thoughts behind those luminous eyes. Not wanting to cause her more concern, he kept to himself the certainty that somehow, somewhere, the tableau in the cave had happened. The two of them had been in that cave, though they’d looked different and possessed odd names.

  He kissed away her frown. She kept him close, her hand stroking the back of his neck. When she rose to change Olivia’s hippins he folded his arms beneath his head and gave himself over to the enjoyment of watching her. She wore nothing but a chemise, lace-bottomed drawers, and a single petticoat. When she caught him watching, she smiled and blushed like a virgin, this lass who had borne his child, and who once said, I’m going to come home and ride you, my fine stallion.

  Once Doctor Wietzel had listened to Curran’s concerns, he’d asked to examine her. “It might be possible to bring out the cause of her nervous disposition,” he said, “and perhaps insert more healthy suggestions through the use of hypnotism. I’ve long wanted to try the method.”

  Curran was instantly on guard. “What is it?”

  Doctor Wietzel frowned as he absently polished a smudge on the corner of his desk with a handkerchief. “Hypnotism?” he said. “It was a popular theory in the ’40s and ’50s, mostly because of a surgeon in Edinburgh named Braid. He learned about the technique from texts on meditation coming out of India. I read his book on the subject— it was fascinating. Interest faded after his death, but lately, the French have resurrected the idea. Their new work shows promise, especially in the area of suggestion. Hysterical patients like your wife are surprisingly susceptible to new ideas and beliefs being placed into their thoughts. I have read accounts of tremendous changes in outlook and attitude.”

  In parting, Doctor Wietzel scribbled out a list of asylums in England and on the Continent where his wife would be treated with compassion. He’d been quite matter-of-fact about the whole idea, like Morrigan was nothing more than an interesting specimen warranting study. Curran left his offices in a cold sweat.

  Bedlam. Even in these modern days, the hospital remained infamous. He shuddered at the thought of committing Morrigan. Never. She would never go to one of those places.

  Yet the man’s final words troubled him. From what you say, I believe she can be dangerous in her present state, not only to you and the child but also to herself. Aggressive treatment is her best hope. You must not delay.

  Curran thought of the latticework of scars across Morrigan’s back, her white-hot fury the night of Michaelmas, and the mangled doll.

  Doctor Wietzel had theorized that Morrigan’s strange dreams were an outward symptom of an unbalanced mental state.

  So if he had the same dream… did it mean he was unbalanced as well?

  CHAPTER NINE

  MR. AND MRS. Hamilton had accepted Lily’s invitation to dinner and brought their three daughters, Nan, the eldest, who had been feted at the recent ball, Phoebe, and Julia. Henry Leyland, Quinn’s law partner, came on his own. One of Richard’s business partners, Isaac Osbourne, and his wife Gwyneth, rounded out the party.

  Conversation about the Hamilton ball and other society gossip eventually dwindled, and the topic turned to Lily’s well-known obsession with the Wagner opera, Tristan und Isolde. “None other compares,” she said.

  Richard grinned as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “Will you never get beyond that sentimental tripe, my dear?”

  “He’s teasing,” Lily said to Morrigan. “That opera had him weeping like a baby. Pay no attention to his martyrdom.”

  Morrigan smiled at the way they loved insulting each other, then was mortified when Lily brought all eyes to her.

  “Mrs. Ramsay recently read Matthew Arnold’s poem,” she said, “and I have a new convert.”

  “It— it’s a wondrous story,” Morrigan stammered. She mustn’t betray why she found it so enchanting. She never wanted Curran to suspect, though she knew it was too late. He’d suspected since Michaelmas. She glanced surreptitiously at him. He knew the Tristram story better than she, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he linked it to them.

  Candlelight reflected in his long-lashed eyes, and his smile was pensive. She wished, as she had uncounted times, that she could slice Mackinnon from her heart, where he had no right to reside.

  The Hamilton girls didn’t know the story. Lily was happy to answer their questions; Morrigan listened intently as well, for the opera version fleshed out many details that hadn’t been in the poem.

  Lily came to the part in Act II where the lovers deemed daylight an illusion, while night freed them from day’s lies.

  Morrigan had once compared Mackinnon and Curran to night and day. Curran, a bright golden sun, sat openly beside her while Mackinnon was banished to dark night.

  Unaware of the inner storm she was creating, Lily described the scene. “They realize death is the opening of a door where nothing can separate them. Together they will die, and lose themselves into love for all eternity.”

  Mackinnon’s fever-stricken words returned. Everything is spoiled. We should die, and start over somewhere else.

  The air in Morrigan’s lungs felt sticky, and Lily’s voice faded beneath a swimming dizziness.

  “In the final Act,” Lily continued, “King Marc accuses Tristan of dishonor, and one of his knights attacks. ‘Let the day to death surrender!’ Tristan cries. He turns to Isolde and asks her to follow him.”

  Come with me. D’you love me enough? Morrigan fanned her face as wave after wave of heat flushed her skin. Lily’s voice went on relentlessly, telling how Tristan was fatally wounded, and Isolde willed herself to die at his side.

  One day, she and Curran must return to Scotland. To Kilgarry. Would this ancient saga reenact, with Curran, Mackinnon, and herself as principal players?

  Curran rubbed the birthmark on her wrist, wh
at he called her “witch’s mark,” though the term caused her creeping disquiet. Morrigan pasted on the required appreciative smile, false though it was, as Lily’s tale came to an end. She retrieved her wine and sipped it to hide the tremble of her lips.

  The girls were entranced, especially Nan, who was preoccupied with love and marriage.

  “It’s an epic tragedy,” Lily said. “The lovers symbolize emotions so encompassing only death can relieve the pain. Wagner wanted to suggest the ultimate dissatisfaction with this life, and the possibilities of the beyond.”

  Could love and death, though opposite in many ways, be seen as twins, born of one womb? Did the potion force Tristan and Isolde to fall in love, or did it free the love that was already there? Was this fate beyond their choice? Beyond loyalty to king, kin, country, or marriage?

  Morrigan stole another glance at Curran.

  Lily sipped her wine and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Wagner has claimed that one needn’t understand German or know the legend to grasp his theme. His intent was to communicate through music alone, and he succeeded. I do wish someone would bring it to London. It’s been eight years. What could be causing this delay?”

  “I want to see it,” Nan said. “Mama? Would you take us to Germany?”

  Mrs. Hamilton laughed. “You can go with your husband when you marry.”

  Lily said, “I’ve heard Wagner described as selfish and petty, but the opera proves he is anything but. Such high, noble conceptions. Fulfillment through oblivion. Death granting bliss, since life condemned the lovers to be near, yet always separated.”

  “In life constant yearning,” Morrigan said. “But in death, the destruction of guilt, responsibility, and duty. Death as the shadow of love.”

  There was an instant of silence. Morrigan realized she’d spoken her contemplation aloud. Horrified, she lowered her face.

  “We shall have to toast you for that, my dear,” Richard cried, though he didn’t fully manage to hide his shock.

  They all lifted their glasses but for Curran. Morrigan saw the dismay flash through his eyes, but she couldn’t dwell on it, for awareness burst through her like a gun blast.

  For days she hadn’t given Mackinnon a passing thought. Her husband had muffled the inner call from the north, drowned it in his own magnetic presence. Now the call broke through again. Morrigan felt his suffering crash into her like the sea against the cliffs at Cape Wrath.

  I never give up what’s mine, he’d said that day in the clearing. And you are mine.

  She’d recognized the pain beneath his threat, and now, sitting here in London, so far from him, glibly discussing how love could prompt suicide, his words reverberated. Mackinnon was older. He’d experienced much more of life than she. He knew love, death, and want.

  “Morrigan.”

  She blinked. Her head cleared.

  “Are you well?” Curran asked. “You have the strangest expression.”

  “I’m fine.” She clasped his hand under the table.

  “I think nearly every opera has the same elemental root,” Isaac said. “That life will do what it wants with us, no matter how we try to shape it.”

  * * * *

  The women retired to one of the drawing rooms for tea and sherry, leaving the men to smoke cigars, drink brandy, and “do whatever men do,” as Lily put it.

  They talked again about the ball. Mrs. Hamilton was pleased to brag of the calling cards pouring in for her Nan. The two younger daughters wore bored expressions and talked to each other behind their hands as they nibbled on sugary biscuits.

  “How long are you staying in London?” Gwyneth Osbourne asked Morrigan as Mrs. Hamilton gushed on about the second son of a baronet who had begun pursuing her daughter.

  “Not much longer,” Morrigan said. “We’ve imposed upon the Donaghues enough, I think.”

  “Nonsense!” Lily said. “You could stay till Christmas. But tell me, cara mia. Have you decided where you want to go next?” She leaned closer to Gwyneth to explain. “They’re playing a game. One chooses where to go and they go there, no questions asked. Then it is the other’s turn to choose.”

  “That sounds droll!” the younger Hamilton girl cried. Phoebe, Morrigan remembered. Her sister said, “I would choose Africa!”

  “Nothing so far afield for us,” Morrigan admitted, “at least not yet. I have been thinking about it. I have a strange desire to see Barra. It’s an island off Scotland’s west coast.”

  She saw the confusion on the faces of the younger girls. With the entire world to choose from, she wanted to go to one of Scotland’s backward islands? Morrigan could barely believe it herself. She knew better than to say, I dream of it. It calls to me.

  “Do they even speak English there?” Mrs. Hamilton asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Morrigan had to admit.

  “Oh,” Lily cried. “I know Barra. I’ve been there! Donaghue’s family owns a cottage on a tiny island south of it. We spent a week there once, years ago when he was trying to convince me to live in Scotland, and no, nobody spoke English!” She seized Morrigan’s arm. “The cottage sits on a hill, apart from the village, if there is still a village. Mostly what the island has are birds and cliffs. Stupendous cliffs. According to Donaghue, the original cottage was owned by the Catholic Church, but it had fallen into ruin. A wealthy gentleman from Barra demolished what was left and built a new one for his wife. After they died, Donaghue’s family acquired it, which isn’t as strange as it sounds, because his great-grandmother was born there. It’s surprisingly comfortable, with large windows, and hmm, four bedrooms, I think. You’re most welcome to stay as our guests, for as long as you like, and that would save Richard from worrying what’s happened to it. It’s a desolate spot, to be sure, but it sounds as though that’s what you and Ramsay prefer!” She laughed. “Give me the opera, the ballet, shopping, and balls any day.”

  “Where is it?” Morrigan asked. “Does this island have a name?”

  “Yes of course. Forgive me. Mingulay.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  TENTATIVELY CALLING HIS work Woman reclining on the bank of the Thames, Whistler declared his masterpiece needed no more than a few final touches, and it would be finished.

  “We have worked hard and must celebrate,” he said. “When I’m in an especially good mood, I like to upset the classes of a local art instructor. Come, I’ll give you a lesson.”

  Morrigan no longer considered Whistler a boor. She’d designated him merry, as well as incorrigible.

  She soon discovered what he meant by “upsetting the classes.” His appearance put the students in turmoil. They clustered and fawned over Whistler, and the poor instructor lost any semblance of order.

  Whistler accepted it all as his due and encouraged Morrigan to try her hand at sketching. Giving her chalk and a sheet of brown paper, he demonstrated the curve of the model’s back and legs.

  Morrigan spent a good twenty minutes at the attempt, but her lines were crooked and childish. She finally gave up, crushing her paper into a ball.

  “Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” Whistler said with a perceptive glance. “For if art were easy, we would all make our livings at it, wouldn’t we?” He rolled a cigarette. “Would you care for one?”

  “No,” she said, still gloomy. “I couldn’t.”

  “Timidity does not suit you.” Snapping his chair upright, he leaned forward, his white forelock falling over his forehead. “You must live, girl, or your life will be over. You have one chance to accomplish everything you’re destined to do.”

  His words sank in far deeper than he could know.

  “You’ve been over-sheltered in Scotland. Here you can experience life in full measure. Stay in London.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  “You’re going to stay?”

  “No, but I’ll try one of those things.”

  He laughed, rolled another cigarette, and lit it.

  When the smoke entered her lungs she nearly exploded in a fit
of violent coughing. “That’s awful,” she gasped, dropping it on the ground.

  “It’s an acquired taste, my dear, as is much in life.”

  The sun dipped westward, illuminating long streaks of cloud, like a deity stretching out a mighty hand. Whistler coaxed Morrigan into joining him for dinner, and sent a message to Curran to meet them at Rules.

  The wine was delicious, plus it had the added benefit of making life more amusing and colorful. Oh, my. Whistler had no money? So that’s why he asked Curran to come. Morrigan suspected her husband knew this even before he arrived, but he took care of the matter without a trace of annoyance.

  A gentleman and three ladies happened by, causing a wave of murmuring and a frenzied rush of waiters. The well-dressed gentleman had thinning cotton-fuzz hair that couldn’t completely cover a pink scalp, and a prominent swooping nose, like a craggy cliff.

  Curran told her she was looking at Mr. Gladstone, the Prime Minister. The lady on his arm was Gladstone’s wife— he didn’t know the other two. One was a hollow-eyed woman, thin and delicate, with a nose remarkably similar to the Prime Minister’s. What struck Morrigan was the feverish intensity, not only in the woman’s eyes, but her entire face. Her companion was a lady of middle age, as plump as the other was thin.

  As they passed, Morrigan overheard the thin lady say, “Mrs. Crewler and I have other obligations this evening, sir. If you will promise us your sponsorship, we can leave you and your good wife to enjoy your meal.”

  “I cannot do that,” Morrigan heard Gladstone reply. She continued to observe them as they were seated at a nearby table. Gladstone snapped open a napkin and smoothed it in his lap. “Your sentimental efforts are admirable, but really, Mrs. Butler, I must insist we conduct this discussion another time. It is far too intimate a subject for open discourse in a public arena.”

  Gladstone’s regard left the woman and landed upon Morrigan. He smiled and inclined his head, making her realize she was staring. She turned away, red-faced. Whistler’s foot pressed against hers, letting her know her social blunder had not gone unnoticed. She dared not look at him, knowing he’d make some face and cause her to giggle.