“What do you mean, ‘might be’?” Eleanor’s gaze was perceptive. “Is she, or not?”
Curran’s mood darkened as he remembered that awful night, and Morrigan collapsing. “She fainted one evening in July, and I brought in a physician. He said he couldn’t be certain, but there were a few early signs. She refused to see him after that, but as far as I know, nothing has changed to rule it out.”
“Hmm.” Eleanor’s brows lifted. “Refused to see him, you say? Any number of things could cause the fainting, as you and I have discussed. I should examine her. She trusts me, Master Curran. Are you sure you don’t want me to ask her about it?”
“Better wait, I think— especially if I’m wrong.” He knew he was flushed, and he knew Eleanor noticed. The woman missed nothing. Why did he feel so guilty? He hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of, so why did he feel as though he had?
Seaghan broke into his thoughts. “There’s other news you probably haven’t heard. Aodhàn is gone.”
“What?”
“Aye.” It was Seaghan’s turn to blush. “We had a… disagreement. Eleanor sheltered him for a few nights, but now he seems to have left Glenelg altogether.”
Curran was so astounded he could only stare.
“He said nothing to me of leaving.” Eleanor shook her head, her annoyance clear. “I came home one day and he was gone. Apparently he told no one of his plans. He’s simply… gone.”
Seaghan and Eleanor continued on their way, excited to see Morrigan. Curran walked with his entourage of dogs until he came to Dùn Teilbh, where he sat awhile in contemplation, allowing the voices of the glen, the clouds, earth, and wind to refill his soul.
Aodhàn is gone.
Hope ran through him as he imagined it— the rest of their lives, freed of Aodhàn Mackinnon.
The dogs soon roused him. They’d found something by the edge of the forest and were digging at it. The deerhound whined. Curran got up to investigate, stopping some distance away because of the stink and swarm of flies. Something had died and was rotting in the long grass. No wonder the dogs were intrigued. Rummaging for his handkerchief, he held it over his nose and stepped closer.
His blood chilled as he realized he was looking at the remains of a person. A man, judging by the clothing. At once he thought of Father Drummond before remembering the priest had been found and taken away. This was someone else. A pinkish jelly-like substance slimed the cadaverous face. Antiope licked at it and Curran prodded her away with his stick. The corpse was little more than bones at this point, covered by matted clothing.
Could it be Aodhàn? It was a gruesome thing to look upon, but he forced himself to search for anything that could identify the dead man. The remains seemed to be about the same height as Aodhàn, but he couldn’t be certain.
What was left of the corpse’s hair finally gave him the answer he sought. Though the pinkish ooze had infiltrated it, Curran saw that it was light; when a ray from the sun struck it, the strawberry-blond highlights he remembered were still there. This was Patrick Hawley.
He remembered Morrigan’s account of cutting Hawley with a knife back in the middle of May, but she’d said it was only a flesh wound in the arm. Then he remembered how diseased Hawley had appeared in the tavern.
Maybe the wound had festered. It was impossible to muster distress over the bastard’s sorry end. He would fetch some men and have the corpse removed to the graveyard. That was as far as he would go. And he would keep this from his wife. She didn’t need to be reminded of the day Patrick Hawley attacked her, especially if she was pregnant.
He wanted no repeat of the harrowing labor Morrigan had endured giving birth to Olivia.
During their journey home, he’d given the matter much thought, and had resolved to keep his suspicions and jealousy to himself. He would not argue with her, confront her, or make demands. He would enclose her in a chrysalis of perfect calm and serenity. He would allow nothing to upset her, even if it killed him.
But he had to admit these resolutions would be much easier to keep with Aodhàn gone. It felt as though a hundredweight had been lifted from his shoulders.
For the first time in a long while, Curran smiled without reservation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHERE WERE NICKY and Papa? In an enchanted forest, populated with unicorns and doves?
It would be nice if true, but Morrigan couldn’t stop picturing them simply rotting in wood coffins, Nicky’s life snuffed out by one never punished for the crime, Douglas a victim of his heart. Everything, for them, over and done, finished.
Father Drummond would say they were in Heaven, singing with angels. She stifled a laugh. Douglas Lawton… singing with angels? That was indeed impossible to picture, though it gave her comfort to think of Father Drummond there.
Making herself comfortable on the window seat, the sunset warming the glass behind her, she opened her leather-bound diary.
An Indian princess named Jamini had given Morrigan the diary at one of Whistler’s bohemian dinners, along with a warning. You are dousing your fire. You must set your fire free. She had suggested writing in the book to help Morrigan explore what she needed to learn.
Morrigan contemplated the blank pages. Behind her, breezes keened against the casement, whispering of the vastness of the earth and heavens, of how small she was, she and all people.
She dipped her pen in ink.
Nicky used to tell me unicorns were the happiness that just escapes us.
Once in a lifetime, we might catch a glimpse out of the corner of the eye, yet when we look, it is gone. We don’t know the secret of taming them. Or is it that we gain too much wisdom as we get older, and become blind to their magic? My bones feel the truth of it. If we recognize our mistake and repent, can we find them again?
Solitude allowed her a welcome respite from maintaining the wind-wall she’d constructed around her soul, though whenever she relived the picture of Lily pressing her fingers to Curran’s lips, of seeing her husband kiss them, anger and guilt wormed hotly through the fissures. They were the two emotions she’d found most difficult to eradicate in her quest to become as coldly indifferent as a wintertime tempest.
You had your pick of London’s finest, decent and otherwise. Even me.
A furious blaze raged through her chest.
Let her go with this man. Oh aye, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it? Lily’s betrayal was unforgivable. How could she have trusted such a villainous wench?
Though her friendship with Lily had been a lie, the woman had started something inside Morrigan, and she couldn’t let go of it. Lily, for all her faults, had stepped out of her safe, wealthy world to help prostitutes and orphans. She had a close-knit circle of women aiding her.
Morrigan wanted to help those children too, all of them, if it were only possible. But how? She had no talents, no gifts, no real understanding of the world. All she knew how to do was dust, cook, and wash linens. What if she tried and failed? What if she was laughed at or rejected?
She rested her cheek against the cool glass then wrote again, feeling her way.
All my life, I’ve taken the easiest path. I gave away my courage I was born with. Papa told me I was useless and I’ve kept his voice inside me, repeating it. Everything about this world, every law and tradition, forbids women from striking out. We must be delicate, helpless beings, like rose petals. If we try to escape our cages, we are punished, sometimes horribly.
But what if those laws and traditions are no more than mist, and can be torn away? Lily is defying them. So is poor damaged Miss Collins. Diorbhail, after all she was subjected to, resolved to find me, and did. Why am I so convinced I can do nothing?
She listened to the muffled honking of geese as they flew past. “Where are you, Mama?” she asked softly. “Heaven, Hell, Purgatory? Or nowhere at all?”
Perhaps there was another answer. After dinner, Jamini’s brother had gone off to chat and smoke with the men, leaving the princess and Morrigan alone in a separat
e parlor for quite a while. Morrigan tried to make polite conversation, but it was difficult because Jamini, though proficient with English, didn’t seem interested. She only became animated when Morrigan, desperate to find something they could talk about, brought up the subject of reincarnation.
“We believe all people are souls in possession of bodies,” Jamini said, at last smiling. “Bodies perish, but every soul continues, learning, growing, and purifying, until eventually the liberation and union of moksha is achieved.” She paused. “There are many religions and faiths in this world. All you need do is find one that speaks to your soul, and give yourself to it.”
She explained that there were other beliefs far older than Christianity’s idea of Heaven and Hell, and brought out a female figurine carved of stone.
It had tapered legs and a crude head without features. The breasts were prominent and the arms curved up like horns, antlers, or, as Jamini suggested, the moon in its crescent form. “She never leaves my side,” the Indian woman said. “She is sacred, older than you can imagine. She was found in Egypt. Do you feel her power?”
How did she know? The instant Morrigan touched the figure, shock radiated through her fingertips and along her arm. “Tell me more,” she’d said.
Jamini’s eyes were luminous, seductive, and the gown she wore, a phiran, looked much more comfortable than Morrigan’s own frock, which as usual was tight and stifling. Jamini’s hair was covered with a flowing headdress, and she wore massive amounts of silver jewelry. The effect was charming. Exotic.
“Everything flows from the divine source of Shakti,” Jamini said. “She is the restless energy behind all creation. Fire birthed the Goddess— the same fire I see within you.”
Morrigan stared at her.
“Yes.” Jamini nodded. “An avatar’s fire-heat burns within you. I see it in your aura. You possess strength you have not yet recognized, but it will come. Your lessons will end and your sacred heat will burst free. Though you have feared it, it is the necessary force to achieve miracles.”
“Aura? What is that?”
“The radiance that surrounds each of us. The corona of our souls. Yours is lavender, fermented with gold.” She extended her hand, scooping the air around Morrigan’s shoulder then brushing at her palm with her other hand as though she were sorting grains of sand. “You are a dreamer. The gold tells me you are spiritual, and that you have wisdom. But it says more as well. It is rare to see this color. Gold is a manifestation of the divine. You are being guided and protected.”
“Curran….” Morrigan remembered the colors around him on their wedding day.
“Yes, I have seen his. You are well suited.”
“I saw swirls of blue and purple around him, then they ran together and turned white.”
“He is a visionary.” Jamini shrugged; her smile turned a bit regretful. “I have fallen a little in love with your husband. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Of course. I understand.” That was before Lily’s betrayal, of course. Lily was a liar, a cheat, where Jamini was straightforward. Lily conspired behind Morrigan’s back to seduce her husband, while Jamini spoke with honest admiration.
“I’ve seen color around three others,” Morrigan said. “Two women and a man. Diorbhail’s is white, hazy like a cloud, and delicate, with the slightest pink. Eleanor’s is like the green shadows in a forest.”
“And the man?”
“Reddish orange, like a burning fire.”
“Hmm.” Jamini’s gaze grew intent. “Now your colors are changing. They are becoming redder.”
“What does it mean?”
“You are drawn to this man.” Jamini frowned. “He sparks excitement in you. As far as his colors, orange can be amiable. It is energy, strength. It is the mark of courage and adventure. Red, though….”
“Is bad?”
“It is a forceful, sexual aura. I have seen this color around those who become obsessed by their desires. Artists, revolutionaries, ascetics. If this nature is kept under control, it can manifest creatively. If not, well then….” She shrugged.
“You’re not sleeping, are you, isoke?”
Morrigan straightened. With a dull thump the diary fell off her lap to the floor. She had been almost asleep, halfway immersed in Jamini’s prophetic visions. “No, Auntie.” She reached down to retrieve her book. “Come in, have a cup of tea.”
Ibby made herself comfortable and arranged her skirts. “Thank you.” She poured tea and stirred in a lump of sugar. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Morrigan left the window seat, tucking the diary beneath one of the cushions. “Thinking, I suppose. I’ve had many strange thoughts lately.” She dropped into the stuffed chair opposite Ibby and studied the neglected dish of fruit and cake.
“Curran asked me not to say anything, but when has that ever stopped me? I must know. Are you going to have another child?”
Morrigan flushed. “Aye.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and added, “Please, Auntie. Let me tell everyone.”
Ibby’s gaze was penetrating, but after a moment, she sighed. “Of course I’ll respect your wishes. Truthfully, I am torn about this. I would have preferred that you have a year at least to recover from Olivia’s birth. I often think of Nicky’s mam…. She only had two months before she was again expecting.” She sipped the tea and made a face. “Still, it’s a blessing. Curran couldn’t be prouder.”
“He loves children, and wants many.”
Ibby handed her a cup. “You’ve been quiet. Are you exhausted from your long holiday?”
“A bit.” Morrigan sipped. The tea had been left too long and was barely warm.
“What are these pictures in your head?”
The truth would shock and frighten her. Yet perhaps Ibby could provide answers to some questions. “When we were in London,” Morrigan said, “I wondered if I do anything well. I’m no’ artistic. Not a poet. I play the piano but I could never compose. Everything I do is by ear. What use am I? What can I offer? Why am I here?”
Ibby set her cup on the table. “I’m surprised you would say that when you must know how important you are to Olivia and your husband.”
“But doesn’t there have to be something more? I met some women in London, Auntie. They stand up to important men— even the Prime Minister. They want women to be treated fairly, and they speak as a man would, giving speeches and working to change laws! They remind me of the queen you told me about. Boudicca. Goats and pigs give birth. I’ve heard wolves mate for life. Most creatures make fine mothers. Shouldn’t a human be more? What can I do? Is there something only I can give? If not, then I’m no more than ‘an abuse of space,’ as Curran says.”
Ibby made no immediate comment, which surprised Morrigan. She’d expected her loyal aunt to burst into a torrent of trite reassurances, yet the woman turned her face away and studied the Whistler portrait, which was propped against the wall.
At last she rubbed her eyelids and, still avoiding Morrigan’s gaze, spoke.
“Someone once said, a long time ago, that you are the finest miracle I would ever see.”
The words seemed familiar. “Have you told me that before?”
Ibby nodded. “I wrote it—”
“In my Translated Greek Mythology. I’d forgotten. Papa took it from me the day you brought Curran to the Wren’s Egg. I never saw it again. Who said that, Auntie?”
Ibby smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt. “A dream came to me the night you were born.” With a deep breath she added, “A lady appeared. She called you a holy child.”
This was daftness. People kept telling her she was special. What were they seeing that she could not? “You’ve often promised to tell me of that time,” she said quietly, “yet you never have. Would you now?”
Ibby, in the process of inserting a forkful of cake into her mouth, stopped. She looked comical, her mouth open and her eyes as startled as a burglar’s caught stealing the silver. She carefully returned the fork to the plat
e and wiped her lips with a napkin. “You do have the right.” Clearing her throat, she added, “You’ve always had the right. I never understood why Douglas was against it. Maybe he wanted to protect you.” She brushed crumbs from her lap and settled more comfortably. “For surely, this tale is not fit for children.”
* * * *
Ibby finished an hour later.
“I cannot tell you,” she said, “why Hannah chose Douglas over Seaghan. It flies in the face of reason. But she did, and moreover, somehow talked Douglas and Beatrice into abandoning Glenelg in the middle of the night, saying nothing to anyone. That was in June, and we heard not a word from them until November. They reappeared as suddenly as they’d left, a fortnight before the clearings. They’d been living in Ireland, and knew nothing of Randall Benedict’s eviction order.
“I could tell right away things were bad between them. Douglas was cruel, and she very obviously hated him. They called each other the vilest names. But I could not twist the story from either of them, so I cannot tell you why, or what happened to sour their marriage.
“They were there with us when the mercenaries burned the village. Hannah might still be alive, had they stayed in Ireland.”
Ibby leaned forward and drank from her cup. Her voice had grown hoarse over the last twenty minutes or so.
“Let me ring for fresh tea,” Morrigan said.
“No, isoke.” Ibby placed the cup on its saucer. “It’s late. I wouldn’t want to wake anyone. I needed something wet is all. This helped.”
She frowned and fiddled for a moment with one of her ruffles. “I don’t think any of us believed it would really happen. So, when the day came— ‘The Day of the Burning,’ as I’ve always called it— our homes, our possessions, were put to the torch and we were unprepared. We could have boarded the Bristol and sailed to Nova Scotia, but Douglas refused, I think simply because of Seaghan. Douglas would not give Seaghan that satisfaction.”
Morrigan glanced at the mantel clock. It was close to midnight.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 70