She shoved the book under her pillow. Changed her mind. Stowed it under her mattress.
None too soon.
Jane wandered in, listless and pale-featured. Smudges hovered beneath her eyes, her body stooped as if she sought to protect herself from some invisible hurt.
“Are you unwell, Jane?”
Jane flinched in panic, before her gaze fell with relief on Sabrina. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that. You nearly scared me to death.”
“I didn’t sneak. I was already here.”
She answered with a wan smile. “Were you?” Dipped her shoulder in a limp shrug. “I suppose I didn’t notice.”
Slouching into a chair before the dressing table, she tore off her kerchief. Even her beautiful red hair was dull and lifeless. Pulling the combs free with shaky fingers, she tangled one. Wrenched it loose with a muttered, “Blast.” Tears sliding down her cheeks. Shoulders quivering with dry sobs.
Sabrina threw herself from her bed. “What on earth? Here, let me, before you scalp yourself.” Took over from Jane, who merely sat like a life-size doll, allowing Sabrina to remove pins and combs. Brush the heavy fall of Jane’s hair, the rhythmic strokes easing her shoulders down from around her ears. Soothing her enough that she closed her eyes. Exhaled on a slow, deep breath.
Was this melancholia a result of the ambush in the woods? How had Sabrina not seen it before? Had she been so wrapped up in her own problems she hadn’t noticed her best friend’s suffering? Hadn’t thought about how the violent attack might have affected her?
Sabrina frowned at her own self-centered fixation. What kind of a friend was she?
Jane attempted a smile. “I’m a mess.”
“Certainly not. A good brushing, a few pins, and you’ll be fine.”
Their eyes met, Jane’s red-rimmed and puffy. “Nice try, but you know exactly what I’m talking about. Every time I close my eyes I see that greasy, horrible face and feel that man’s breath on my neck. I go all nauseous and trembly, and I can’t sleep. Sister Ainnir gave me a sleeping draught, but it tastes so awful, I don’t like to take it.”
Sabrina smirked. “Sister Ainnir believes anything that doesn’t make you gag on its way down must not be effective. A simple infusion of pennyroyal mixed with honey would do more for you than any of her torture potions.”
Jane relaxed back in her chair. Already more color to her cheeks, but lingering guilt kept Sabrina babbling. “I wouldn’t have let them hurt you.”
Her declaration met by a skeptical raising of brows. “And how did you plan on stopping them? You were hardly in a better position.”
“Daigh then,” Sabrina announced proprietarily. “He wouldn’t have let those men harm us. He didn’t. He fought. And could have died. All for us.” She still didn’t quite believe Sister Ainnir’s accusations. There had to be an explanation for his departure. Though none she’d come up with so far made any sense.
Jane’s mouth twisted in a dry smile. “He really did turn you inside out, didn’t he?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug. Pulled a heavy section of hair up and back.
Jane dropped her gaze. Began toying with the pins on the table. “Did you kiss him?”
“Jane!”
A glimmer of a wicked spark. “Did you like it?”
Sabrina jammed a comb in place.
“Ow!” Jane jerked upright. Shot Sabrina a dirty look. “Fine, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. But don’t stab me for asking.”
She loosened the skein of hair. Adjusted the offending comb. “Sorry.”
A companionable silence fell over the room. Afternoon light slanted long and golden over the bare wood floor. Up the whitewashed walls. Over three sets of plain white coverlets.
Sabrina caught herself comparing the simple unadorned chamber to her sumptuous, peacock-bright bedchamber at Belfoyle. She’d not seen it since . . . well since that last horrendous autumn. Hadn’t been home to walk the park or scramble down the cliff path to the narrow stretch of beach. Hadn’t stolen fruit from the orangery or curled up in her favorite chair by the drawing room fire.
Would it look the same seen through adult eyes? Would the rooms seem smaller? The grandeur seem less grand? Would she feel like she were coming home, or would it be a stranger who strode the corridors as if seeing it all for the first time? Would the ghosts of her past rise up to walk with her? And what sort of ghosts would they be?
Father with his hot and cold moods?
The patient but distracted hand of Mother upon her shoulder?
Or would it be Brendan who visited her in the tangled corridors and quiet rooms? Explaining away his abandonment and the horrible accusations. Reasoning past her suspicions. Telling her it would be all right. That it wasn’t the way it sounded. That the Amhas-draoi had it wrong.
He was innocent.
What a fool she was. Twice now she’d been deceived by a man she’d stupidly trusted. Who’d been as false as his word.
Apparently she had quite a talent for seeing a good in someone that just wasn’t there.
She shuddered off her daydreams of her lost home by the sea.
She wasn’t going back to Belfoyle. Aidan’s pleas notwithstanding, she remained committed to the bandraoi. Even if that life seemed empty after the upheaval of the last days.
And as for Daigh’s betrayal? She’d recover. Thoughts of him would fade in time. Her infatuation naught but cause for future teasing.
“Sabrina? Did you mean what you said the other night? I mean about Daigh MacLir?”
Jane asked this now? Sabrina peered closely at her reflection in the glass. There must be a message tattooed on her forehead. Moonstruck. Approach with caution. Or had every priestess suddenly grown adept at reading minds?
She did her best to look breezily vague. “You’ll have to be more specific. Which night? And more important, what did I say?”
Jane continued arranging and rearranging the tiny pile of unused hairpins as if afraid to look Sabrina in the eye. “About feeling as if you and Daigh had known each other before? Seeing things?”
Good heavens, talk about sounding like a blathering idiot. She put the finishing touches on the carefully reconstructed chignon. Tried to keep up the appearance of detached disinterest. “It does sound ridiculous when you say it out loud like that, doesn’t it?”
Jane flashed her a sympathetic smile. “At first hearing, perhaps. But do you still believe it?”
The memory of the parting in the woods. The gnawing ache of a past separation pressing even now upon her heart. Daigh’s fierce certainty they knew each other. His claim he’d come back for her. But back from where? And why for her?
She bought time. Stood back, admiring her handiwork. Touching up here. A stray wisp there. Not bad. If she failed at High Danu priestess she could always get a position as lady’s maid.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve rearranged that same curl three times already. If you don’t want to—”
“I don’t really know what I believe anymore,” Sabrina answered in a rush. “But Sister Ainnir is right. The order—and I—need to forget he was ever here. His arrival brought nothing but trouble.”
She leaned across Jane’s shoulder. Took up the kerchief. Draped it over the dark red brilliance of her hair. Pinned it neatly in place. Sighed. All that hard work, and no one would see it.
“I watched him watching you, Sabrina.” Jane craned her neck around, her smile wistful and envious and dreamy all at the same time. But—for now, at least—not haunted. “And you watched him just as avidly. Good luck forgetting that.”
Sabrina studied her reflection. Narrow, pinched face. Dark circles. Pursed line of her mouth.
And she worried over Jane? Physician, heal thyself.
A sharp rap on the door, and they turned together to face Sister Brigh’s wrinkled scowl. But not her usual world-going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket glare. This held a gleam of suppressed ex
citement. A hint of victory. Not a good sign. Any victory of Sister Brigh’s usually meant torment for some unsuspecting novice.
“Sabrina. You’re wanted in Ard-siúr’s office. Immediately.”
And then she was gone.
No tirade about their lazy duty-shirking? No questioning of the hows, whys, and wherefores that allowed them to be in their bedchamber when honest hardworking priestesses were occupied in the business of the order? Not even a disapproving sniff?
Not good. Not good at all.
Jane’s hand found Sabrina’s. Her look one of encouragement.
But all Sabrina could think was, this had impending disaster written all over it.
She studied the messenger from beneath properly downcast lashes. Heavy coat and muffler, a hat he ran nervously through sausage fingers leaking water over Ard-siúr’s rugs, and a red nose equally damp and runny. But it was his stature that held Sabrina’s attention. No taller than a half-grown child, though the crags in his face and the silver-threaded hair spoke of late middle years. What manner of servants was Aidan hiring these days? Probably taken on by that woman he married.
“His Lordship has sent Mr. Dixon, here, to escort you to Dublin. You are to prepare yourself to leave, and be ready to embark no later than the day after tomorrow.”
“What?” Sabrina’s gaze snapped back to Ard-siúr. “No! I mean I can’t leave. Not now. It’s impossible. There must be a mistake.”
Ard-siúr cleared her throat. Adjusted her spectacles. Read the letter again, with only the slow tick of the case clock breaking the silence. “It all seems quite clear. Lord Kilronan requires your presence as soon as it can be accomplished. He says he must have you with him and his wife in Dublin as soon as can be arranged.”
“But why? He certainly never made any push to see me before.”
Ard-siúr glanced at the dwarf shifting uncomfortably in the corner. “If you go with Sister Anne, she’ll see that you’re housed and fed. Our guest quarters are simple, but”—her gaze fell on the dripping hat—“dry.”
He bowed, and with a final stream of water trailing from his hat brim, squelched after Sister Anne.
Ard-siúr straightened the clutter of papers on her desk. Actually now that Sabrina was noticing, the clutter extended to the whole room. Not in a noticeable way. But in jarring incremental pieces. An echo of intrusion. A lingering violence in the overwarm air. Even the cat seemed restless. Pacing the floor. Sniffing at a stain that hadn’t been there on Sabrina’s last visit. Brown. Fresh. And hastily cleaned.
I remember blood. And the mud as I fell.
What had Daigh really been doing the night she’d found him in here? Was it connected in some way to his disappearance this morning? Had she been a gullible little fool? She breathed through her sudden light-headedness. Focused on Ard-siúr to keep the room from spinning.
Ard-siúr removed her spectacles, her gaze long enough to make Sabrina squirm. “I would imagine His Lordship’s recent convalescence has spurred this new resolve. Many who glimpse their own mortality as your brother did this spring attempt to set their lives in order. Right past mistakes. Amend what they see as failings.”
“So am I mistake or failing?”
“You’re his sister. I’m sure he wants to assure himself of your happiness here and be certain that your heart remains committed to a life among us.”
“Or does he want to use me to achieve the advantageous marriage he scorned when he married that . . . woman?” She still couldn’t bring herself to call her new sister by name. For some reason Aidan’s hasty, ill-thought marriage rankled, though she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as if she begrudged her brother his happiness. Only that . . .
“Sabrina, you came to us a wounded child. And we allowed you to hide among us. Use the peace you found here to recover. And you have. But now you’re a woman, full grown. You must test your strength. Return to a life beyond our walls. Only in that way can you make your choice and be sure of your path.”
“But what if he doesn’t allow me to return?”
“I’m certain your brother will not hinder you from following your heart and finding the future that is right for you.”
“Then you’ve never come up against Douglas determination. If Aidan wants something, he pounds away until he gets it.” Her imminent departure a case in point.
“Ahh, but you share that same tenacity. The irresistible force meeting the immovable object.”
How could this be happening? How could Aidan do this to her? Didn’t he know what the order meant to her? Didn’t he understand her need to remain here among the bandraoi? Where she felt a sense of belonging and community? Where she felt safe? But Aidan had never understood her. Never taken the time. It had been Brendan who strove to nudge her out of her shell. Or when needed, crawled into the shell with her and simply let her be her without criticism.
Sabrina clenched the chair back. Focused on the wood, cool and smooth under her hands. The draft of air moving the tapestries. All but one. The wall behind Ard-siúr’s desk gaped empty but for a frayed edge of wool caught on a nail. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from that torn tangle of cloth. Daigh’s crime drifting on a breath of wind.
One more man she’d built up in her mind. Though at least this one had fallen from his pedestal over the space of a few days rather than a lifetime.
“Go, child. I will send someone to assist you in packing.”
“Yes, ma’am.’ Sabrina turned to go, but, struck with sudden inspiration, swung back. “Ard-siúr, did Kilronan send a maid to accompany me?”
“I’m not aware of anyone besides Mr. Dixon. Perhaps His Lordship assumed one of the sisters would travel with you.”
“Might I request someone?”
“If we can spare them. Who did you have in mind?”
“Jane Fletcher.”
Drumming her fingers, Ard-siúr considered the request. “She has been distracted since the attack. Not quite herself. Perhaps a change of scenery would do her good.” Nodded her assent. “Aye, she may accompany you to Dublin and remain until you are well settled.”
“Thank you, Ard-siúr.”
“I am sure Lord Kilronan feels he’s acting in your best interest. You’re his only remaining family.”
Drunk on her teeny victory and resentment making her reckless, she volleyed, “Are you so certain of that?”
Ard-siúr’s drumming stopped, a new awareness in her gaze.
“You once asked if I’d ever received a letter from Brendan,” Sabrina brazened. “You believe the Amhas-draoi, don’t you? You think he’s alive.”
Ard-siúr spread her hands in a question. “I know only the rumors. Though they strengthen every day, they are still just that—mere speculation.”
The tangle of frayed threads caught Sabrina’s eye, the knot returning tenfold. “Do you believe he really did those things? That he was as evil and dangerous as they claim?”
Ard-siúr noted the track of her gaze. “And of whom do we speak now?” she asked gently. “Brendan Douglas or Daigh MacLir?”
Sabrina shrugged off her question with her regrets. “Never mind. It hardly matters anymore, does it?”
The wisest and most powerful of the priestesses steepled her fingers against her chin. “I believe to you, Sabrina, it matters very much.”
Cork teemed with life. Crowded, jostling bodies. The rumble and squeak of wheels through narrow streets. A choking press of sound and scents and life that only the salty, brackish sea air kept from overwhelming him. He focused on his quarry. Black Jacket had stabled his horse, threading the roads and alleyways on foot as he made his way through town. Found his way to a snug harborside inn and a private, second-floor parlor. All unheeding of the silent watcher tracking his movements. An ever-present shadow.
The parlor was located at the end of a narrow, rickety outside walkway. Below in the courtyard, ostlers shouted as carriages were hitched and unhitched, passengers chattered as bags were stowed and coaches set to. Horses pawed their
impatience upon the cobbles, and coachmen swore and stamped against the damp cold. Din enough to drown out the clumsiest of shadowing. But he wasn’t clumsy. And it took a moment’s skill to crack the door. Stand idly upon the walk outside as though doing nothing more than enjoying the spectacle below.
“. . . better be. Máelodor will have our heads otherwise.” Black Jacket’s associate. A light urbane voice. Almost effeminate.
“Has to be. I searched that place top to bottom. And look, it’s obvious this is the tapestry. The litter. The tomb. The Earl of Kilronan’s diary spoke of both.”
Daigh’s breath caught in his throat.
Kilronan. Sabrina’s brother. What the hell had he to do with this? And was Sabrina involved?
It didn’t matter. Sabrina didn’t matter. Not anymore. He ignored the gnawing ache that had been his since leaving Glenlorgan. The drag of useless emotions. Concentrated on the conversation.
A silence followed, movements within the parlor swallowed by the continuous come-and-go downstairs. Farther down the passage, a door opened. A man and woman emerging, their conversation of weather and passage bookings and the expense of their room seeming out of place among the dark plottings just a wall away. The man tipped his hat as they passed on their way to the staircase, the woman eying Daigh with blatant admiration.
“And Máelodor’s creature?”
Daigh strained to catch their words over the arriving blast of a mail coach. The jangle of harness, clatter of hooves, and a fresh bustle from the courtyard beneath him. Like ants from a kicked hill, the inn swarmed with activity, making eavesdropping nigh impossible.
Thoughts of crashing through the door in a storm of deadly violence elicited a thin smile and a twitch of hardening muscles, the serpent stirring from the darkest corner of his soul, but he fought it back.
Better to wait. To follow.
“. . . there . . . attacked me . . . not even a Domnuathi could have survived that.”
“. . . fool”—the scrape of drawn chairs—”. . . take it to Máelodor . . . tell him about Lazarus . . . what he wants to do with it . . . head to Dublin . . . the Amhas-draoi . . .”
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