Fiona smiled at him. She knew it was just Garda Roarke and his mother at home. He’d lost his father to a boating accident years ago.
“She’s a good woman. I’m happy to hear I was able to help her through an illness.”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s witchcraft or not, but I’d say the only type of magick you’ve done is the healing kind. And there can’t be something so wrong with that, now, can there?” Garda Roarke came over to collect her tray of food. When he was bent close to her, he paused.
“Rumor is that Father Patrick’s been stealing the donations at church.”
The words, just a breath of air by her ear, nearly didn’t register. Fiona’s heart skipped a beat as she realized what she’d been told. Her eyes wide, she watched as Garda Roarke busied himself with her tray of half-eaten food, letting himself from the cell without a backward glance. Had she not been certain of his words, she’d almost believe she’d imagined the entire thing.
Hope bloomed inside Fiona and she sat back on her cot and began to consider her options. If this was really the case, she might be able to call action against the priest.
Now all she needed was evidence.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’d like to see Fiona, please,” John’s voice echoed down the hallway to where Fiona sat, slumped over her legs on the cot.
“John!” Fiona couldn’t help but call out, knowing he could hear her. He’d come for her. A warm glow began to pulse through her just from knowing he was close.
“Fiona! Are you all right then?” John called down the hallway.
“John, I’m sorry, but you can’t be fraternizing with our prisoner. It’s against the rules,” Garda Roarke hissed.
“I’m doing well, John. Garda Roarke has been quite kind.” Fiona thought it wouldn’t hurt to butter him up a bit.
“Fiona, please refrain from shouting from your cell,” Garda Roarke called, and Fiona bit back a smile.
“Just a quick word, please, Garda Roarke? I really must see her,” John pleaded. Fiona held her breath and waited as silence came from the front room.
She gasped when John appeared at the bars of her cell, having quietly padded down the hallway. Garda Roarke must have given his silent approval for John to come visit her.
“John,” Fiona breathed, immediately reaching up to smooth her hair back, conscious that she hadn’t bathed in a day.
“Fiona, I had to see for myself that you weren’t hurt,” John said. Dark circles ringed his eyes and Fiona could feel the worry pulsing from him. Her heart tripped a little as she fell off that last little cliff into full-on love for him.
“I’m not hurt. Garda Roarke has been kind,” Fiona said, stepping to the bars so that her hands wound around the cold metal. John immediately reached up to place his hands over hers, his presence instantly calming her.
“Fiona, I’m worried. Father Patrick is on a warpath. The village is already torn. It’s the only thing people can talk about,” John said, his eyes searching hers.
“I’m not a witch, John. At least not like that. I’m a healer. There are many kinds of magicks,” Fiona whispered.
“I believe you. There is nothing evil about you,” John said, his heart in his eyes.
“Come closer,” Fiona breathed, moving until her lips pushed between two bars. In seconds, John’s lips were upon hers, heating her with the intensity of his feelings for her.
“John, listen closely,” Fiona breathed against his lips, and John froze, his lips but a hairsbreadth from hers. To anyone who came down the hallway, they’d look as though they were stealing a kiss.
John’s eyes widened as Fiona detailed what she’d learned from Garda Roarke.
“We’ll need evidence,” Fiona pleaded.
John straightened, a new light of purpose shining in his eyes.
“Say no more. Consider it done. I’ll arm the troops,” John said, winking at her before he turned to go down the hallway, Garda Roarke already calling down the hallway to inform him that his time was up.
“John… I… I…” Fiona called after him, and he turned, putting his finger to his lips to shush her.
“Say it when you’re out. I want to hear it the first time when we’re free to be together… walking the beach again.”
Fiona blinked back the tears that reached her eyes at his words, the hope that filled her chest, burning to the point that she couldn’t decide whether to squeal in delight or sob with anxiety. Doing neither, she clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, and began to plan. If she was to be accused of witchcraft in front of the whole village, she would need to anticipate the arguments against her. Hoping against hope, she leaned against the bars of the cell again.
“Garda Roarke, I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that now, Fiona?” Garda Roarke walked cautiously down the hallway, shooting glances over his shoulder towards the front room.
“Can you help me plan my counterargument? As in, lob at me any arguments you think Father Patrick will try to undermine me with?”
Garda Roarke considered his words. Fiona said nothing, biting her lip as she hoped against hope he would work with her.
“First off, you know the Maloneys will be backing Father Patrick. They’ll throw the argument at you that Serena shouldn’t have lived through that bout of flu she had last year…” Garda Roarke began and Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, so thankful for him that she almost began to cry in earnest.
“You’re right. They will. Go on.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Friday arrived more quickly than Fiona had anticipated. Even though Garda Roarke allowed Bridget to check on her once in a while, for the most part, Fiona was on her own. Garda Roarke had proved invaluable for bringing up potential arguments that would be thrown at her during her trial, and she worked obsessively to counteract each and every argument, fast-forwarding and rewinding all the potential scenes in her mind.
After that, there was nothing else she could do but wait and send her positive intentions out into the universe. Fiona had to believe she’d done nothing but provide help and healing to others― therefore, that positive energy should be returned to her.
Or at least that is how she hoped karma would work.
Fiona worried the crease in her pants, running her fingers over the edge obsessively, the thin fabric smooth beneath her palm. The trial was only hours away and for once in her life, she felt completely out of control. Being at the mercy of others was a new experience for her.
A voice from the front had Fiona turning her head before she recognized the lilting tone of her mother’s charming voice. Hopefully Garda Roarke would allow Bridget to see her daughter before the trial.
“Love, I’ve got a change of clothes for you,” Bridget said cheerfully as she made her way to the door of Fiona’s cell. Fiona was already waiting by the door, anxiousness beginning to claw its way through her stomach.
“Ladies, I’ll give you some alone time. No funny stuff, though, you hear me?” Garda Roarke said sternly, jingling the keys as he unlocked the door to Fiona’s cell. Today he wore his dress uniform, and Fiona knew it was to prove a point. He was following the rules of this village, even if he didn’t necessarily agree with them. The onus was on her now to prove her innocence.
Bridget shot Garda Roarke a quick smile and then bustled into the cell, her hands full of clothes. A brilliant green blouse, with gold and pearl buttons, was tucked into a lovely tweed skirt that fell to her ankles. Gold drops winked at her ears and her hair had been woven into two braids pinned into coils at the nape of her neck. She looked lovely, put together, and carried an air of confidence that Fiona prayed would carry over to her.
“You look nice,” Fiona said into her mother’s neck as Bridget embraced her. For a moment, the women stood together, holding each other for strength. For a second, Fiona could feel her mother’s worry before it seemed like a veil was drawn over the emotion and it was replaced with hope and strength. Her mother had
done that on purpose to protect her. Even though Fiona had glimpsed the worry beneath the strength, for now she would focus on the courage that radiated from her mother. She absorbed her strength ravenously, feeding on it. It was a gift to be used later in the day.
“There now, love. You’ll be just fine. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Bridget said briskly, pulling back to dig through the bag of items that she had brought with her. “You’ve bathed then?”
“Aye, Garda Roarke allowed me a sponge bath earlier today,” Fiona said. It had been a cold and awkward experience, but one she was grateful for nonetheless.
“Good, let’s get your hair together then,” Bridget said, gesturing for Fiona to sit on the edge of the bunk. She pulled a pearl handled brush from the bag and began to run it through Fiona’s hair. There was something incredibly soothing about someone brushing her hair, and each stroke helped to calm Fiona’s frayed nerves.
“I think I’ll pull it half up and then wrap it into coils at the nape of your neck,” Bridget decided, “No sense in looking less than your best.”
“Yes, thank you. That’s a lovely look on me,” Fiona agreed. She waited as her mother combed and pinned, knowing her to be an expert at hairstyles. Much like the magick she used when weaving strands of wool together, Bridget took pride in creating sophisticated hairstyles. Fiona supposed it was just another type of weaving when it came down to it. Different material was all.
“You know, John has been coming around this week to speak with me and your father,” Bridget said evenly and Fiona’s head shot up. Bridget nudged her to put her chin down again.
“What has he been saying?”
“We’re working together on your case. As well as the tidbit of information you’ve passed on,” Bridget said softly. Fiona drew in a deep breath, feeling a sense of calm work its way through the worst of her nerves.
“You’ve a plan then,” Fiona said finally.
“We’ve worked out a plan of sorts. But since we can’t dictate the proceedings, we’ll have to just wait and see how it all unfolds. I’m here to tell you to have faith, though. Trust in us to have your back.” Bridget patted her shoulder once.
“I do. I also trust that, because I’ve spent my time helping others, it will come back in a good way,” Fiona said.
“Aye, ‘tis true. It will. But we can’t always control or rush how these things unfold. I like John, by the way. He’s a good match for you. Steady, with a kind heart. You could do far worse for a partner in life.”
Fiona felt her heart clench at the thought of being with John for life. It was such an absurd idea when only months ago she’d barely even considered marriage as an option. Funny the twists and turns life could take.
“Aye, I really do fancy him,” Fiona admitted.
“Well, let’s make you look your best then. I suspect you’ll have one very happy gentleman caller after we get through this nonsense of a trial,” Bridget said matter of factly, pulling back to study Fiona’s hair. “There now, you look lovely. Just a touch of makeup and to pick your outfit now.”
Bridget held up a simple white blouse and a navy skirt, but Fiona shook her head and pointed to the slash of red silk she saw jutting out from the bag.
“What’s the red one?”
“Ah, yes, I picked it up by chance. It may be a little risky, but I always consider red to be a powerful color,” Bridget said, drawing a red silk dress from the bag with long sleeves and a skirt that went to mid-calf. White cherry blossoms peppered the red print, the hint of green in their leaves a lovely juxtaposition against the red. It was a demure dress, yet it spoke of confidence and an air of womanhood that Fiona wasn’t even certain she’d achieved yet.
“This is stunning,” Fiona mused, running her hands over the silky fabric. “But I’m concerned it may be all wrong for the trial. I suppose it would make sense to go with the staid blouse and navy skirt― much more Catholic school uniform.”
The women eyed each other for a moment, considering their options.
“Red,” they both said at the same moment, causing Fiona to let out a small laugh.
“No sense in doing the expected,” Fiona said and Bridget laughed.
“Plus, you’ll look beautiful in front of the whole village and for once everyone will be able to see the real you,” Bridget pointed out, and Fiona paused in the process of unbuttoning her blouse.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you have a tendency to dress to hide yourself― in khaki pants and work blouses, always scurrying through the hills, not a stitch of makeup on. It was nice to see you dress up for John the other night. I think the village will be surprised by what a beauty you’ve turned into. They want a show? Let’s give them a show,” Bridget said, handing the dress to Fiona.
“I didn’t realize I’ve been hiding myself,” Fiona said softly. “I just thought I was wearing serviceable clothes for the work I do.”
“Aye, and there’s certainly a time and a place for that, sure there is. But there’s also a time and place for celebrating the power that a pretty dress and a nice hairdo brings you. Today is not the time to be a shrinking violet.”
No, today was the time for Fiona to blossom― claiming her power in front of the whole village.
She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat as she slipped the red silk dress over her head.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“No need to bind me, Garda Roarke. I’m not going anywhere,” Fiona said with a smile when Garda Roarke stopped by the front of her cell to collect her. Bridget had left at half ten, wanting to arrive early and get a front seat at the trial. Fiona wondered if John would walk with her or if he would be sitting at the front of the trial. A part of her was struggling with trying not to be embarrassed in front of John and his family. It wasn’t exactly the impression she wanted to make on her boyfriend’s parents.
Garda Roarke paused as he took in her dress.
“Too much?” Fiona asked, running her hands nervously over her skirt.
“Just right, I think,” Garda Roarke said, a ghost of a smile on his face as he unlocked the door and ushered her out. Fiona squared her shoulders, feeling a new resolve sweep through her at Garda Roarke’s approval, and lifted her chin.
“Where’s the trial to be held?”
“In the church. Only place large enough to hold the whole town,” Garda Roarke pointed out as they left the small constabulary building and stepped into the street. Momentarily blinded by the cheerful rays of sun peeking from behind a cloud, Fiona held a hand up to shield her eyes and steadied herself. So the trial was to be in enemy camp then.
The village was like a ghost town, Fiona observed as they began the walk towards the church. Where typically she would find people bustling about their day, stopping at the market or the baker’s, the streets instead were silent. Which meant the entire town was already in the church. The only sound Fiona heard as they approached the church was the gravel crunching under her shoes and the occasional cry of a gull hovering over the water of the bay.
They paused for a moment at the doors of the church. Garda Roarke turned, his glance sliding over her once before he straightened his face into an impassable mask.
“Ms. Morrigan, follow me to the front please,” he said, his hand on the handle of the door. “I’m rooting for you,” he whispered, before his face slipped back into a stoic expression. Pulling the door open, he gestured her inside.
The waft of incense hit Fiona first, the smell so pungent that her eyes almost watered with it. Hundreds of candles lined the foyer, and Fiona couldn’t help but give Father Patrick a point for his flair for drama. Silence greeted her as she stepped forward, stopping at the beginning of the aisle. The building was packed to the rafters and where people couldn’t fit in the pews, they lined the walls of the church and the balcony housing the organ above. Every last inch of available space held a villager, and Fiona had to immediately throw her mental shields up or be taken under by the wave of emotions that rolled o
ver her from the crowd.
At the front of the church, Father Patrick stood beneath the stained glass window, a cross in his hand. He nodded to Garda Roarke, assuming command of this show and Fiona could immediately tell that Garda Roarke was miffed. Even though this was being held in a church, Garda Roarke would still be the one overseeing the trial.
Fiona kept her chin up as they walked the aisle, her eyes on Father Patrick’s. She’d taken in where her mother was sitting, surrounded by friends in the front row. John sat on the other side of the aisle, his shoulders thrown back and a mutinous look on his face.
His parents were not with him.
Fiona refused to look around, instead keeping her eyes only on Father Patrick, telegraphing her intent to take him down in any way she could. She saw him swallow deeply, just once, but it was enough of a tell that she knew her proud demeanor had gotten to him. He’d obviously expected her to be a broken shell of a woman after having spent a week in jail.
They reached the dais and Fiona smiled brightly at Father Patrick.
His face blanched and he crossed himself.
“Fiona Morrigan, you are here to answer the charges of practicing witchcraft. A trial before your peers will make the decision as to whether you shall meet your death,” Father Patrick boomed, swinging his arm around dramatically.
“Excuse me,” Garda Roarke said, and stepped in front of Father Patrick, deliberately cutting him off to face the crowd. Fiona watched as rage boiled across Father Patrick’s face, though she kept the smile off her face as she turned to face the crowd, aligning herself with Garda Roarke.
“Father Patrick has brought charges against Fiona Morrigan. The charges are of practicing witchcraft. The only reason Father Patrick was even able to do so is because of a loophole in the law that has never gotten fixed. I am introducing a bill to fix that loophole, which will also be voted on at today’s meeting. Let me be clear in stating that Father Patrick is not, in fact, in charge of this trial― I am. Father Patrick is allowed to produce any evidence he would like, but I am in charge of today’s proceedings. So, with that, I’ll ask Father Patrick to take a seat on the other side of the dais and Ms. Morrigan to be seated on this side. I will allow both sides to present evidence and refute any arguments brought against them. If any new charges or information are brought to light during this time, we will adjust the proceedings accordingly,” Garda Roarke said, stepping backwards until he pushed Father Patrick from the center of the dais, forcing him from the platform to the side.
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