The thought of it made him impatient, but fulfillment would have to wait while he dealt with this new outrage. The two facts in conjunction incensed him and made serenity impossible. He would have to be careful. Being separated from his skin was making him irritable.
“Rory, did you know that they have a merman from Sule Skerry in this wagon? Imagine that! We’ll have to come see it tomorrow, won’t we?”
“Aye,” he agreed, his voice a shade grim as he stroked his hand down her nape and then behind her ear. He could almost feel her rebelling thoughts buffeting her captivated brain with their great disembodied wings as they attempted to escape his control. He could not allow that to happen. Whatever else occurred, he could not allow her to panic and run away. “We’ll come and see it, there’s nae doubt of that.”
It was impossible for any of the People’s beautiful brown eyes to ever appear cold, but Ruairidh knew from Hexy’s reaction that his expression was far from the reassuring one he wanted to wear.
He renewed his petting, stroking salt into the skin over her veins, and forced his features to relax so that she would not be frightened and fight its effects.
It bothered him to do this, to use his gift in this way. Hexy’s contentment was something needed for the collective good of the People, and perhaps for himself as well, but this constant interference with her thoughts was too close to the subjugation the amoral finmen imposed on their women.
The People had always prided themselves on their society, which allowed for individual thought and choice.
Of course, some would say that Hexy was not one of the People and therefore not entitled to the privileges of the clan. And so much was at stake—the selkies very survival, in point of fact—that he could not risk losing her before she understood her importance to the People and to him. And his importance to her.
In the meanwhile, he could not waste time in questioning the philosophies of his clan. There were concerns of more immediacy.
“Where came ye by such a wondrous thing?” Ruairidh asked the young tumbler as the older one stopped long enough to hike up a drooping sock. “It must hae cost ye a shilling or two tae buy something sae rare.”
“Nay, it didn’t,” the youngster said. “Hector never paid a brass farthing for it. It was brung to us last year while we was in Scotland by two bullyboys named Turpin and Brodir—compliments of a Mr. Sevin. Muffled up to the eyes they was—two strange blokes, and that’s no lie.”
Ruairidh stiffened in shock at the name, and so alarming was his posture that Hexy actually laid a restraining hand upon his arm. At any other time, he would have found the gesture amusing, for the People were not usually violent. But in that moment he was glad of her reminder to use caution. It was improbable that this boy knew anything of importance, but the urge to drag him away and question him roughly was nearly overwhelming.
“Manny!” the older tumbler warned as he rejoined them. “Ain’t anyone learned you not to discuss business with the townies?”
“Well, aye, but—”
“But nothing! Shut yer gob and go check on the horses. I think one is throwin’ a shoe.”
The youngster glared at the other tumbler but went off without protest.
“Boys! They’s all chatterers. Ye mustn’t mind him.”
“That’s quite all right. We must be going, too,” Hexy said. She offered a smile, which was too friendly, but she didn’t want the older man looking too closely at Rory, whose expression was far from calm. “We shall certainly come see your exhibit when you are all set up. It sounds wonderful. Good luck to you.”
“Thankee, missus. We’ll see you on the morrow. Sir.” He nodded to Rory, but true to his lecture about bad luck, he didn’t turn his head to look at them as Hexy dragged Rory off the path and into the gradually quieting darkness.
They stood without speaking as the last of the circus disappeared over the hill. Slowly but surely, the shrill music faded.
“Was it really a merman inside that wagon?” she asked at last, looking down at her clammy shoes, which felt as though they were shrinking around her freezing feet. “Not just a seal or a fish, or some cobbled-together horror they’ve concocted to extort money from the masses?”
Rory hesitated.
“It wasnae a merman, a seal, nor a fish.”
Hexy nodded jerkily. What she was thinking was impossible—quite insane. But that didn’t seem to matter to her brain. It was beginning to embrace an impossibility, and this fantastical thought made her want to both run and hide and yet also seek out the possible wondrous truth.
For the time being she was caught between the wild conception and the discovery of an improbable reality, stranded between the thought and some moment of inescapable proof. Until she could decide what to do and believe, she would have to manage to live with two simultaneous and contradictory thoughts.
More than ever, she missed her brother and wished that he were there to talk to.
“How is yer ankle, lass?” Rory asked, his tone solicitous. “Shall I carry ye back tae Fintry? We cannae go by the beach as the tide is in now and would be tae strong for ye.”
Hexy shivered, her strength draining away with the light. They were half an hour from the castle, and every step of it was steeply inclined, but she had no doubt that Rory could easily bear her up the hill if he needed to.
However, she had had quite enough of being hauled about for the evening. Even if she suffered the agonies of the damned, she would manage the slope on her own.
“No. I can handle it.”
For a moment, she thought Rory was going to ignore her words and again force her into doing what he wanted. But he merely nodded and laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“Come away, then, Hexy lass. We’ll see ye warm and dry, and with a meal in yer belly.”
“We’ll have a fire?” she asked, finally looking up at Rory’s face.
His nod was reluctant, but he said, “Aye. I believe ye’ve need of one, and I can bear it if I maun.”
“I think these shoes are ruined,” Hexy added as they started up the hill toward the castle. The footwear was beginning to chafe and squeak alarmingly when flexed. “And your kilt is about the sorriest thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like it has seen a hundred years of war.”
“True enough. Things frae the land rarely fare well in the sea.”
She paused, trying to sort that out. At last she said, attempting to lighten the mood, “It doesn’t seem to have done me any harm, though. I am still whole and unscathed except for my ankle—but it was a rock that did that.”
Apparently she succeeded in hitting the right note of airiness, for Rory smiled widely, his teeth white in the new moonlight.
“Aye, that is true enough. But, Hexy lass, I suspect that is because ye belong more tae the sea than ye realize yet.”
“Perhaps,” she heard herself agree. What she really thought was that she might belong to Rory.
The thought was a little frightening and a lot wonderful. She hadn’t belonged to anyone since Rory Patrick died.
“Someday soon I maun take ye tae meet my family. Perhaps at the dark of the moon, when the tides are nae sae strong.”
Hexy wondered which village they lived in. There were several along the coast that could only be reached by boat or by hiking overland.
“I’d like to meet your family,” she answered.
“Da will be delighted with ye—I can swear to that, Hexy lass.”
Chapter Five
Westward across the small sound there was a tiny islet, hardly more than an upthrust of pulverized granite slightly taller than most of the sea’s waves. It was one of the many bits of land that littered the coastal region, usually pretty places where bog myrtle, crinkle root and odorous cotton grass grew out of the gray stone in delicate-colored puffs. Hexy had visited a few of the islets near Tresh nish and knew that there would be small stands of fragrant plumage, as the asphodels were thick on the ground this time of year, when they could find fertile soil for t
heir roots. In summer, Rory said that there would be a profusion of wild orchids, as colorful as exotic butterfly wings, but the season was still too early for them even though there was a tropical flow.
Still, Hexy thought optimistically, even without the wildflowers, it would be a lovely place for a picnic. The sun was shining, the breeze was moderate and she was wearing a pretty frock of lavender silk tulle with a bronze underslip, which brought out a colorful heat in her dark red hair.
Their movable feast, which Hexy had herself prepared, was packed carefully into the hamper at her feet, lifted off the boat’s damp floor by a small pile of rushes. The basket was a heavy one as it bore not only the food she had made but also a blanket, crockery and a flask of precious lemonade whose rare, tangy fruit had been purchased at three shillings and sixpence from the village’s tiny store.
As they drew closer to the shore, Hexy was reminded that the island would not be a silent one, because there were birds of every kind nesting on these tiny bits of land, and feeding in the nearby waters. The palest blue sky above was full of diving avians that were clearly happy to be out in the gladsome weather. She was pleased that she had planned their excursion with care and had brought a generous amount of food, because doubtless they would be asked repeatedly to share it.
Hexy smiled at Rory, watching the muscles of his arms and chest as he pulled on the oars. One stray lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, so that he reminded her a bit of an affectionate sheepdog when he grinned at her. Though, of course, she had never seen a canine with hair of that glossy brown shade.
Her own hair had worked its way loose and probably looked like a shaggy aster on a windy day, but she did not bother to try and neaten it. That would have been an exercise in futility, and besides, the breeze combing through the loose strands was delicious. She planned to spend the entire afternoon relaxing and getting to know more about the mysterious Rory.
In spite of this resolve, from the moment the boat’s keel touched the stony shore of the fisherman’s island, Hexy could not shake off a feeling of unease.
Part of her discomfort could be explained by the mission they were on. Someone—this missing furrier, John of Crot Callow, most likely—had been attacking seal pups on Rory’s family lands. Rory had said he was not certain whether it was an act of vengeance against his people for the loss of the furrier’s son in their waters, or if the man sought to take the pups hostage as a bargaining tool. He and Hexy were looking for some evidence of where he was hiding, and of the missing man’s state of mind, since it would determine how the poor soul was dealt with. Poaching was a serious crime here in Scotland.
Rory stepped out into the calf-deep water, and with the casual use of what looked like inhuman strength, pulled the rowboat up onto the gritty shingle with but a single hand. He turned and offered his arm to her.
“Careful now, lass. Yer shoes are lovely but not made for rough sand.”
Abandoning the picnic basket, Hexy allowed him to assist her onto shore. His touch, in spite of his previous show of force, was as gentle as sunshine, and as warming. That was pleasant, because she felt a sudden, unexpected chill creeping over her body.
“What dae ye feel here, lass? What dae ye smell?” he inquired of her, his head cocked as he asked that rather strange question. “Ye sense something, dae ye not? Yer kind always could talk wi’ the dead.”
Aware that she had been holding her breath, Hexy finally released a sigh and sampled the isle’s atmosphere. Peat reek was strong in the air, even with the cyclonic breeze that wrapped the tiny island. And though not far from the mainland, the air of isolation was profound. Even the birds had abandoned them once they came on shore.
Hexy turned her head slowly, trying to identify something that was at once foreign and yet familiar. This seemed like a place she might have known long ago in a dream.
There were the odd ruins of eighteenthcentury habitation about them, erected when stone was quarried here, and a few shacks along the grass fringes where lobstermen and other fishermen kept their extra nets and pots, but that was all, except for a small stone vault, perhaps six feet by eight, and five feet high.
She recognized the building’s purpose and suffered a chill. Such vaults were erected on islands that the tide favored. They were used to temporarily house the bodies of drowned seamen who washed ashore until coffins or shrouds could be brought to the island by the families of the deceased.
Yer kind always could talk wi’ the dead.
Nonsense.
Hexy turned away, searching for some sign of modern habitation, but there was none. There was no town, not even a single croft with a friendly chimney. It was, in fact, the loneliest place she had ever seen.
“I don’t like it here. It’s too quiet. Let’s just do what we must and then leave. Where do we start our hunt? He could be hiding anywhere,” she added, staring at the roofless buildings and wishing they needn’t explore the island.
She didn’t bother to protest the search, though. Obviously Rory took the matter of poaching very seriously. Just as seriously as he had taken whatever had been in the wagon of the circus.
It made her doubly uncomfortable to think about that, because the disappearance of the freak-show oddity was being talked about all over the village and even up at Fintry. The only certain fact seemed to be that the remains of the merman had been taken during the night, before the circus even opened. There was a great deal of speculation about why, and the scandal was shaking the village. A nervous Mr. Campbell himself had come to Fintry to tell her of the event and to leave some old books about mermen in her care.
She was certain Rory had taken the merman’s body—but why?
Rory took a deep breath of air and then pointed at a sorry-looking structure whose threshold had been swept away, leaving nothing but sand on the stoop.
“Here.”
Hexy turned. The building was gray, canted crazily, and had strange wounds in its walls. It was wrapped in an atmosphere of neglect that seemed to repel the sun. No more dismal dwelling could be imagined; just looking at it made the sky seem suddenly overcast with sickly green, and it was easy to imagine that it was lowering upon them, ready to crush them into the earth.
“That is the place. This is where the evil lies. Can ye not feel it, lass? Can ye not smell it?”
Hexy tried to think of something to say to this odd observation, but speech failed her. Evil? No one spoke of evil these days.
She shifted restlessly from foot to foot, uncomfortably aware of the unpleasant chill creeping in through the thin soles of her shoes and ghosting up the back of her legs with icy fingers. She suddenly wished that she were wearing leather instead of thin silk. A tea gown and slippers seemed inadequate protection against whatever was waiting inside that building.
Rory began pacing toward the weathered shack. After a moment, Hexy reluctantly followed.
The warped door opened without any audible protest and Rory disappeared inside, leaving only his footprints in the sand. Taking a final lungful of the clean, outside air, Hexy trailed him into the dark interior.
She paused three steps inside the door, unable to force herself any farther indoors. It was as though she had been entangled in a spider’s web.
Danger. Insanity. Evil.
She looked about hurriedly, trying to find some reason for her growing alarm, but nothing obvious leaped out at her. Nothing touched her limbs or face, nothing spoke into her ears.
Shutters had been fastened over the windows, closing out most of the sun, which made the room uncomfortably shadowy. The paving stones of the cottage floor had been upset, as though heaved about by a fearsome sea. The uneven ground was littered with dark casks, ropes and assorted nets that coiled menacingly like so many snakes. But that was all. No living thing stirred in the room.
It was hard to imagine that any living thing had ever been here.
Hexy looked up into the dark rafters. One particularly large net had been hung on a pulley rather like a stage c
urtain, partially veiling a small, high table set at the end of the room. She shivered, staring for a long moment at what should have been harmless rope but that seemed transformed into an instrument of torture and death that waited for her to walk beneath it.
And it was just that, of course, for the many sea creatures who had died within its grasp. But that was no reason for her to fear it.
Still, fear it she did. Profoundly.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Hexy could see that there was actually some order to the placement of the fishermen’s goods. There was also no mistaking the straight aisles with their pews of barrels, or the broken Celtic cross and candles placed on top of the lectern.
“It looks like a church made by insane people,” she whispered.
“It is. But I cannae imagine what sort of worship happens here. Look ye! See yon pieces of wood. They come frae a wrecked ship. There maun be the remains of a dozen boats here. I can smell something else as well.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Slowly his head turned toward the darker shadows. For a moment, he didn’t look at all human, but rather like some beast of the hunt.
Hexy’s sense of sanity and safety began to unravel. They were standing in the presence of lunacy and hatred. She could feel it all around them. The place was haunted.
You don’t believe in ghosts, she scolded herself.
I do now, a frightened voice answered. And I don’t want to talk with the dead.
“Rory,” she whispered, her throat dry and constricted as it tried to keep the room’s dank, spirit-poisoned air out of her lungs. She couldn’t imagine how Rory managed to take in such deep breaths without retching. The atmosphere was vile, venomous.
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