Her gaze turned to the rolling sea. Once more, soft and gauzy, she saw herself plunging into a deep blue ocean, water bubbling like champagne. She remembered the story Mackinnon had told of the selkie and his human love, Eamhair.
It had happened somewhere along this odyssey of lives they’d lived. Somehow, Aodhàn remembered. Curran was there as well, in the body of… Cailean, but she didn’t think he remembered his past lives any better than she. They came in broken images and dreams, as they did for her.
Perhaps, with Diorbhail and Eleanor’s help, they could find a way to retrieve those shared memories.
And if they were thorough, maybe… maybe they could make a difference in lives to come, for she knew it wasn’t yet finished, though an inner voice— Eleanor’s voice— kept insisting there was only one more.
The dreams… were they part of what Aodhàn told her before he died? You were Aridela. There was magic in you. It runs in your blood still.
His words left more questions, more mystery.
She would sort through that later. There were more important tasks that needed tending now. “D’you know what I mind?” she said. “You telling me you loved me before you knew about Olivia.”
“Aye, well.” He blushed. “That might have been lust talking. I knew I couldn’t stop thinking about you all the bloody time. You were like an itch I couldn’t get to.” The embarrassed, quirky smile faded. “Now I know more of love.”
So do I.
Her body hummed with joy. “You don’t want to divorce me?”
His gaze remained steady. “Never,” he said.
“You love me for me, not because of how I look, or because I’m Olivia’s mother?”
A puzzled frown formed between his eyes. “Of course it’s for you. I love you, my quicksilver wife. I’ll love you when you’re eighty, and wrinkled as a dried apple, with brown apple seed eyes that see everything. I knew I was going to marry you the first time I kissed you.”
She pressed her palms against his and smiled.
“I know… about Aodhàn’s family,” he said, still frowning. “What happened to them. I know nothing he did was meant to hurt me. When I think of what he suffered, and for how long… I don’t know that I could have borne it. I think I might’ve forced someone to shoot me, too.”
The sobs came without warning. It was mortifying, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. Horrible, racking sobs. She pushed her knuckles against her eyes and turned away, wanting to hide, needing to hide, feeling her insides run together like candle wax. She was coming apart.
Then she felt him. He pulled her in against his chest and held her there, one hand on her head, rocking her gently. She clung to him, pressing her mouth to his throat, ashamed and more than a little terrified.
He went on holding her, soothing her as he would Olivia.
Her voice snagged and broke, but she managed to say, “He believed I was his wife, born again.”
Curran’s rocking paused… then resumed.
She struggled on. “I’ve told you about my dreams. I see myself being murdered. There are other… other dreams, too. I t-think it’s true.”
He said nothing. Gradually, her weeping subsided and she simply rested against his damp skin. Every now and then her chest constricted, but the awful shuddering relaxed.
“You were his wife,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.
“But now I’m yours, Curran. He accepted it in the end. He wants us to be happy. He was more your friend than it might seem.”
One last sob convulsed her throat.
Clasping her upper arms, Curran moved her away from his chest so he could meet her gaze. Gently, he pressed his cool palms to her hot skin. Sunlight struck his face, setting those blue eyes on fire and sparking against the stubble on his jaw.
He wiped her nose with his sleeve.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid,” she said. Love welled up, strong, unwavering, freed of guilt, duties, of unfinished lives and lifetimes to come. “I’ve been very, very stupid.”
Indeed, Curran’s smile could melt the Devil’s heart. “Come away, Lady Eilginn,” he said. “Have you been drinking? I have never in my life heard a female admit to stupidity.”
“I could use a drink, if you want to know the truth.” Tracing the crescent scar curving from brow to cheekbone, she drew him towards her and kissed that ridge of flesh.
He turned his face and kissed her on the mouth. It was profound, undoing her, reaching inside her, filling her with hope and peace. It said everything, yet beneath lay a delicate thread of loss. No doubt those opposite emotions would plait, like complementary ribbons, around her soul for the rest of her life. But she could bear it.
Until next time.
“I want to make love to you,” he said.
“In time.” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. “This baby happened that night at Torridon, in the moonlight. I think those three women had a hand in it.”
His smile was as dazzling as the sparkle of sunlight against a pristine field of snow. “I knew Beatrice was lying.” He held her hands. “Morrigan, Seaghan is your father. Not Douglas Lawton.”
“What?”
“It’s true, a ghràidh.”
At first she was dismayed. She wasn’t sure how to feel. The man who had killed her Aunt Beatrice? But it was only the unexpectedness of it. As the moments passed, she realized the news made her happy. She remembered the day she’d met Seaghan at the Mallaig Games, how huge he was, how loud, boisterous, and friendly, like a great Clydesdale. She pictured his face, so pleased that day he’d talked her into sailing with him on the Endeavor, how he’d watched over her, and had spoken plainly about Mackinnon, like a real father would. A real father. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I suspect he was afraid you might be disappointed.”
She blinked and tried to absorb that. He was afraid he would be worse, in her eyes, than Douglas? She needed to set that right as soon as possible. “I hope he comes back soon,” she said. “I want to give my father a kiss, and thank him.”
Life is what gives new beginnings… not death.
She contemplated what the orphans in London had to do to survive, and how they were manipulated, abused, tortured.
Why couldn’t she and Curran bring some of those sad, starving children to Kilgarry? After the squalor and stink of the city, to run along Glenelg’s coast, to help in the birthing of lambs, to play in clean mountain snow and swim in the bay, would be heaven for a child, and there was plenty of room. She could involve the village. She knew the Campbells and the Urquharts would be enthusiastic. Seaghan could teach them how to fish. Curran would enjoy it too. He loved children.
They would help heal Glenelg. The spectre of the clearings couldn’t survive the laughter of so many children.
Mackinnon gave his life so I could stay with Curran and be happy. I will make his gift mean something. I will do this, in part, for Mackinnon.
And she must apologize to Lily for her nonsensical doubts and jealousy. Together, they would prove that women could support, trust, and encourage each other, and cause miracles to happen.
I will make myself a reckoning.
“I took Diorbhail’s mushroom,” Curran said, brushing hair off her face. As she met his gaze, startled and wary, he added, “At Cape Wrath.”
“You know about that?”
“I heard the two of you talking about it, and found it in Diorbhail’s bag. It cleared up a few mysteries. I’d like to share what I saw with you.”
She nodded eagerly. “Aye. Please, Curran. And I’ll tell you what I’ve seen.”
Caressing her shoulder, he said, “We’ve found each other before, my Morrigan, in other lives. We always find each other. Aodhàn is part of it as well. We three have been together, I think, for a long time. We’re woven together somehow. I have no doubt you were his wife. What I don’t understand is how he manages to remember more than we do.”
“Why is this happening? Diorbhail th
inks I’m meant to do something, but…” she shrugged. “I don’t know what.”
“Maybe, together, we can puzzle it out.”
“Diorbhail can help.” Blushing, she added, “So can Eleanor. She’s used the mushroom too.”
He snorted and grinned. “I should have known. You and Diorbhail and Eleanor. The Three Graces.”
Her emotions were almost too strong to contain. She rose and went to the water, taking off her shoes so she could squish her toes in the wet sand. A velvety August breeze skimmed past with the promise of a fine day, and for an endless moment, time and space shimmered.
“Curran,” she said. “It’s time to go home, don’t you think?”
“Finally.”
“There is something about Douglas Lawton I don’t want to forget.”
He met her gaze, and his frown returned.
“He fed me goat’s milk, though he could’ve let me die. A man who would do that had goodness. There’s never light with no dark, good with no evil.” Her voice lowered. “Never wind without stillness.” She wondered, through a quick wrench of fear, if Curran could exist without Mackinnon any better than he had with him. “I think, I think… he did… the best he could.”
Curran came to her. How warm he was— warm and brash and vigorous. “Aye,” he said.
Hell is what Earth becomes without her Mother. So Diorbhail had stated in her simple yet profound fashion. Douglas had writhed in the desert men made of their souls. But Diorbhail had prophesied something else. One day, she’d said, we women will rise again. Our Mother will open our hearts and we will have thousands upon thousands of years of joy, not just men, and not just women, but all of us, together.
Movement brought Morrigan’s gaze to the sky. An eagle was drifting, silent and watchful. She felt its shadow pass over her face as it flew between her and the sun.
She breathed deeply. This sea air tasted like wine. “’Tis braw to be alive, sometimes.”
Curran made no immediate reply, and she glanced at him.
“D’you mind when you told me you felt like the paddle wheel on a steamer?” he asked.
She smiled sheepishly. “Spinning and spinning, never accomplishing anything.”
“Oh, you’re wrong there.”
“I am?”
“Aye, Morrigan.” He smiled again, that incandescent Curran Ramsay smile. “The wheel is what moves the boat along, my darling. The wheel is what gets us to our destination. Do you still think that’s such a bad thing to be?”
Above them, the eagle spread its wings and circled, higher, higher.
Warm, bright Curran, splashing rainbows into the dullest corners of life.
EPILOGUE: ONE
“AUNTIE! AUNTIE!”
“You’re hurting my ears, child. Where have you been?”
“Walking by the bay.”
“I wish you’d come back before dark, Sophie.”
“Because of the selkie?”
Eleanor laughed. “Because I don’t want you getting lost, or falling and hurting yourself.”
“Auntie, listen to me!”
“I’m listening.”
“I saw it!”
“Saw what?”
“The selkie! It came out of the water and turned into a man.”
“Ah, well, it must have been a selkie then. What did he look like?”
“He was old. His hair was white. Long, like a king’s. He was tall.”
“And what did he do?” Eleanor pushed her great-niece into a chair and brought her a slice of orange marmalade cake.
“He went over to that old blackhouse by the bay.”
“Seaghan MacAnaugh’s.”
“Aye. He was greeting, Auntie!”
“Was he? And what did you do?”
“I watched and didn’t make a sound.”
“Tea?”
“Aye, thank you. Olivia Ramsay says it’s bad luck to go to the beach at the full moon.”
“That’s a well-worn tale meant to get children home before dark.”
“She said anyone who does it is cursed. She said only fools walk on Glenelg’s beach during the full moon.”
“Olivia Ramsay has an imagination.”
“She said the selkie is her da’s brother.”
“So Curran Ramsay has a selkie brother, does he?”
“She says the selkie cries for the human girl he loved and lost.”
“Is that so?”
“Auntie, I don’t want to go home.”
“You must. If you never went home, your mam and da would miss you and be sad.”
“Like the selkie?”
“Aye. Like the selkie.”
“Why is it sad? Did it really lose its true love?”
“How would I know?”
“You know everything.”
“Oh, child, I wish I did.”
“You do know, though. I can tell. You look sad, too.”
“I can pity those who suffer, even when they might deserve it.”
EPILOGUE: TWO
THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER became the traditional date for holding an annual charity fundraiser at Kilgarry for the orphan project, as the weather was generally beautiful and the Michaelmas daisies were in bloom. It soon became the social event throughout the surrounding Highland counties, drawing Curran’s wealthy friends and associates from Glasgow, Edinburgh, and even as far as London. Every year the guest list grew, until Glenelg had to build a new inn to accommodate those who couldn’t fit into Kilgarry. Extra help was hired from Fort William and Mallaig to assist with cooking, cleaning, and serving; musicians were brought in for the evening balls and dances, and the manor house nearly burst its seams with so many people.
The first of September 1883 cooperated with sun and gentle breezes. Pavilions and tables were set up around Kilgarry’s pond, near the old oak. Guests wandered in and out of the gardens, enjoying lemonade, tea, and whisky, and there was a great deal of food for anyone who was hungry, as well as horseback riding, hunting, fishing, archery, and of course the ballroom was in great demand every night. The ferryman was kept busy transporting explorers to Skye for sightseeing, and for the most intrepid, there was mountain climbing. Interspersed with all the entertainment were the speeches, promises, and donations.
Morrigan, Eleanor, and Diorbhail sat together upon cushioned chairs beneath the oak, a table between them holding lemonade and cakes.
“You haven’t taken your eyes off Mr. Abernathy,” Morrigan said to Eleanor, only half teasing. “Are you going to marry him and leave us?”
With one of her signature snorts, she replied, “The most he’ll get from me is a night or two. He is rather handsome.”
“Eleanor!” Morrigan pretended shock then giggled with Diorbhail at the midwife’s brazen ways, but a moment later, she winced and rubbed the side of her stomach.
Eleanor didn’t miss it, as usual, and questioned with raised eyebrows.
“It’s fine,” Morrigan said. “Just my bones being stretched. I remember this from Olivia and Eirene.”
“It won’t be long now,” said Diorbhail. “We’ll have another wee lass to spoil.”
“I do think Curran might want a son. Can you arrange that?”
“No,” Diorbhail said with a wide smile. “You’ll only ever have girls. Girls and more girls. If you were having all the babies, the world would die out for lack of boys.”
At that moment wee Seaghan ran up to them, nearly falling as he hadn’t quite mastered running yet, and placed his fists on Morrigan’s knees. His right hand was stuffed with daisies, and he turned up his face, seeking approval.
“Are these for me?” she asked, taking them.
He nodded. She picked him up and placed him on her lap. “You’re such a grand lad,” she said, kissing his cheek, and he nestled in as best he could against her.
To think what might have become of him, if he hadn’t been found two years ago in that awful place in London, barely six weeks old, sold by his father. Now he lived at Kilgarry, and had twe
nty other orphans for playmates, along with the local children, and since he’d had no name, he was called Seaghan in honor of Morrigan’s father, even though hearing it made her suffer his loss all over again.
Seaghan’s body was found, stuffed under a pile of rocks, a week after the events on Mingulay. Someone had murdered him with a knife, and a local man went missing right after, but he was never found, and the investigation languished. Right when Morrigan learned she had a true father, he was taken from her; not being able to speak to him as his child remained an unrelenting anguish and regret within her heart.
Soon Sophie joined them. Eleanor’s great-niece was a little lady, at ten. She and Olivia were the same age and the best of friends, though very different, with Olivia being a wild boyish child who, more often than not, could be found in the branches of the oak rather than sitting demurely beneath it. Sophie came to Glenelg every summer at her own insistence to stay with her aunt. She never wanted to go home to Edinburgh, though she loved her mother and father, and often wept for missing them. Her dream of a perfect world was one in which her papa agreed to move to Glenelg.
She perched on the edge of a chair and sipped tea.
“What is it?” Eleanor asked, in her usual perceptive way.
The girl didn’t answer immediately, but pursed her lips and frowned.
“Well?” Eleanor asked.
“Livvy’s telling that story again,” the child said in her soft Edinburgh brogue.
“Which one?” Morrigan asked. Olivia loved making up tales. She was turning into Kilgarry’s own seanchaidh.
Sophie would only say that she wasn’t supposed to tell, but she hated the story because Livvy always refused to give her a part in it.
“Where have those lasses gone off to?” Diorbhail asked then. “I haven’t seen any of them in an hour.”
It was true. There was no sign of the local girls. “We’d best find them,” Morrigan said, “before they get up to mischief, if they haven’t already.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 82