Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  “How is your head?” she asked softly, after a few minutes.

  “It’s bleeding a lot. I can feel it running over me.” He slowed, reaching his free hand to touch his face, then stared at his clean fingers. “But I can’t see it. What the hell kind of spell did you put on this hat?”

  “I don’t know. I just made it up. Come on. Let’s get you safe before you lose too much blood. I don’t want to risk you fainting and having the hat fall off.” She tugged impatiently on his arm.

  “Why aren’t you fainting, then? I thought gentle-born young ladies always did at the sight of blood.”

  Pen ignored him, but began to walk faster.

  “All right, that was uncalled-for. I’m sorry. But why are you helping me, anyway?” He scowled at her, then winced.

  “I don’t know. Does it matter? Come on. Just a few more blocks.”

  At the Carrighars’ house she didn’t ring and wait for Norah to let her in, but opened the door herself. “Downstairs,” she mouthed at him, pushing him toward the door to the cellars.

  Halfway down the stairs, she created a bubble of cool flame and tossed it into the air above them to light their way. Doherty paused and blinked up at it as it bobbed along ahead of them but said nothing. She led him into Corkwobble’s room and pulled the door shut.

  “There aren’t any chairs, so you’ll have to sit on the table.” She gestured toward it, then turned away. “Corkwobble? Are you there?”

  An annoyed sniff came from behind the ale casks. “And since when are ye bringing strangers unannounced down to me home, me only sanctuary in this cold, cruel—”

  “What the—” Doherty exclaimed, jumping and knocking the table over the stone floor.

  Pen tsked and bent to right it. “Sit down,” she commanded. “And don’t be so jumpy. It’s just the Carrighars’ clurichaun.”

  “Pardon me, bean draoi, but I’m just me own clurichaun, if ye please.” Corkwobble sounded even more annoyed.

  “I know you are, Corkwobble, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I needed to bring Mr. Doherty somewhere.” Pen pushed Doherty back down on the table and took Niall’s hat off. Instantly he was himself again, bloodstained and disarrayed.

  “Mr. Doherty, is it?” Corkwobble appeared next to her and cackled. “Oh, ho ho! One of Draiodoir Carrighar’s students, then? Not a pretty sight, I’m thinking. So did ye finally get tired of him sneering at ye and give him what he deserved, cailin? Ye must have a mean right arm on ye.”

  “Could you find me some wine or brandy to give Mr. Doherty while I figure out what to do for him?” Pen tried not to laugh at the mental picture Corkwobble’s words had drawn.

  “Ho, could I!” Corkwobble chuckled evilly.

  “Human spirits, if you please. Not any of that fairy stuff you once offered me. I don’t want him asleep in the cellar for the next twelve hours.”

  “Ye’ve no sense of humor,” said the little clurichaun, looking disappointed.

  “Yes, well, it would be your cellar he’d be snoring in.” Pen gestured the ball of light into place above Eamon’s head and began to examine his injuries. “You choose.”

  “Ah.” Corkwobble put a finger next to his nose and nodded. “When ye put it that way . . . I’ll be right back.” He vanished in a small pop! of displaced air.

  “Th-th—” Doherty swallowed hard. “That was a clurichaun.”

  “Yes, I know it was.” Pen took his chin in her hand. “Hold still. I want to see if I can heal this on my own.”

  “B-but you were talking to him . . . and he . . . he was real . . . I saw him.”

  “Jolly good, yes. You saw him. Well done.” Why wouldn’t he stop babbling and let her think? It would be so much easier to just close his cuts and sneak him out of the house than to bring Dr. Carrighar or anyone else into this. First thing was to get rid of the blood and see how badly he was hurt.

  “Purgare,” she murmured, and the blood vanished. The wound that had produced it all was above his left eyebrow, a gash that trailed into a shallow cut. It still oozed, though not as profusely as it had before. Blood seeped from his nose as well—it must have been broken—and now it was obvious that both his eyes had been blackened.

  “Aye, I was right. A pretty sight indeed, isn’t he?” Corkwobble reappeared next to her, holding a bottle. “Give him a swig o’ that. It’ll take his mind off whatever ye’re going to do to him next.”

  Doherty flinched.

  Pen thought about stepping on Corkwobble’s toes but didn’t. “Thank you,” she said instead, taking the bottle from him and uncorking it. Plain brandy, good. Nothing from the fairy world. “Drink.” She shoved it into Doherty’s hand.

  “Miss Leland—”

  She sighed. “Yes?”

  “What are you . . . why are you doing all this? I’ve . . .” He stared at her, the pupils of his eyes slightly dilated.

  Had he been hit over the head and concussed? Ally had given them a course of practical training in medical emergencies two years ago and had discussed head injuries. “I saw no reason for you to be tossed into jail and prosecuted, or worse, just because you’re a hotheaded idiot,” she replied tartly. “Dr. Carrighar might have been dragged into it, which I did not want to have happen.”

  His pupils contracted again as his eyes narrowed in anger that blazed up briefly, then died. Good. Probably not concussed, then. She wasn’t sure she could do anything for a concussion without help.

  “I’m not an idiot, I’m a patriot,” he said automatically. “And why are you helping me, after the way I’ve treated you in Dr. Carrighar’s classes? That spell”—he picked up Niall’s hat and looked at it, shaking his head—“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I know you didn’t. Now take a drink of that brandy and let me treat you. The sooner you’re healed, the sooner you can leave my odious presence.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  Pen snatched the bottle from his hand and shoved it toward his mouth. He reached up quickly and took it from her before she could break his teeth with it, tipping it up and downing a good mouthful.

  “Good. Now, for the last time, hold still.” She held his chin in her left hand and leaned forward till they were nearly nose to nose. She very gently ran her right index finger over the bridge of his nose until a muddy brown feeling of not-rightness told her where his injury was. Ah, there. Definitely broken. So what now? Ally had said that most healing spells were simple in form but required an immense amount of concentration: “You must exert your will on the injury and undo it. Not all that hard to do on yourself, but on someone else’s injuries, it can be difficult, indeed. Many witches never learn to do healing magic, though some excel at it.”

  Hah. Doherty would just love it if she tried to heal him and couldn’t. So failure was not an option. Straightening her shoulders and doing her best to ignore his eyes, fixed on hers, she told the bone to heal.

  An enormous pressure seemed to build inside her head as she concentrated, along with a buzzing sound in her ears and, oddly, a burning sensation over her scalp. Then all awareness of her body abruptly ceased. All she knew was that there was a broken place in front of her, and that when she willed it to, it would heal.

  The thin seepage of blood from Doherty’s nose stopped.

  “All right,” she murmured, exhaling. When had she held her breath? But she’d done it! The muddy, not-right feeling was gone when she touched the bridge of his nose again. She swallowed a triumphant “so there!” and said instead, “I can’t promise you won’t have a bump there, but it should stop hurting.”

  He stared at her.

  “Is that all right, Mr. Doherty? Shall I continue?”

  “D’ye think ye ought to, cailin?” Corkwobble interjected. “He doesn’t seem as appreciative as he ought, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Hush, Corkwobble.” She flexed her hands, then brushed her fingertips several times under first one of his eyes, then the other, willing the lurid bruising to undo itself. The purple str
eaks faded to green, then yellow, then disappeared completely. As when she had healed the bone, all sense of self disappeared. Only when she let her hands fall to her sides was she aware of a peculiar throbbing, half tickle, half pain, running through them.

  Doherty’s stiff posture relaxed slightly. “My head’s almost stopped aching,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “How amazing,” she muttered. His head may have stopped aching, but hers had begun to feel like an anvil under a blacksmith’s hammer, and a deep weariness had settled on her shoulders. Ally hadn’t exaggerated when she said healing spells were difficult ones, and Pen had never tried to do more than one at a time before. But there was still that gash above his left eye to take care of. She sighed and blinked, willing her eyes to stay open and focus properly.

  This time she stroked the skin all around the cut, murmuring softly, asking it to close and be whole. This spell felt a little easier. The gash was where she could see it, which made focusing easier. The edges of the torn flesh slowly pulled together, like a flower closing at sunset. She leaned forward and breathed gently on his brow, barely an inch above it, and the skin once more was white and unbroken. She felt a tremor run through him as she did, and had to smother an exclamation of annoyance. Good God, she was helping him. He didn’t have to shudder with dislike quite so openly.

  “I’m sorry if my closeness was distasteful, Mr. Doherty,” she said, pulling away and dropping her hand from his face as the last of the power ebbed from her fingertips. “But I think you will find that your injuries are mostly gone.”

  Her head was pounding so hard that it was difficult to see clearly, and her entire right hand had gone icy and numb, but an excited elation filled her. She’d done it. The power she’d felt coursing through her in those seconds was stronger and more pure than anything she’d felt before. This was what true magic felt like. All her work of the last months had begun to bear fruit. Persy might have been able to do what she’d done without missing a beat, but Persy wasn’t here. She, Pen, had done it!

  Doherty raised tentative hands to his brow, then stared, wide-eyed, at his clean, unbloodied fingers. Now if only he would leave, so that she could go lie down with a cold cloth on her head and savor the triumph of the magic she’d just performed.

  “There’s a door out the back of the cellar, which is probably the easiest way to leave without anyone seeing you,” she said pointedly. “Wear the hat. No one will stop you if you look like Mr. Keating. But don’t dawdle. I can keep the spell going another half hour, but I’m a little tired.” She gestured to the light that still hovered above them and closed her eyes, feeling herself sway slightly. “And take that to see by. I can find my way up without it.”

  “Here, bean draoi.” She felt a tug on her skirt at knee level. “Hold on to the table and get some o’ that brandy on yer insides. Ye’ve fair done yerself up.” Corkwobble’s tone was quietly respectful. “I’ve not seen such a neat bit o’ healing magic in many a day.”

  “I hate brandy,” she muttered, but took the bottle that someone pressed into her hand and drank anyway. The dry, pungent heat of it made her want to sneeze, but it also made the pain in her head recede slightly. She opened her eyes.

  Doherty still stood there, running his hands over his face. “You did it,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t believe it.”

  That was annoying enough to make her stand up straight and try to ignore her headache. “Do forgive me for succeeding, Mr. Doherty. Would you have preferred it if I hadn’t? I promise I won’t do it again if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation. Now, please, don’t let me detain you any longer.”

  “But . . .” He stared at her. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t have done this magic. You—you’re—” He took a step toward her.

  She set the brandy bottle on the table and sighed. “Be careful. You’re coming perilously close to admitting that a mere female, and an English one at that, might be competent at magic.” The last of the brandy fumes in her head faded, and the fierce ache redoubled. If her head hadn’t hurt so badly that she couldn’t think straight, she might have tried the teleportation spell she’d been reading about and sent herself to her room. Or maybe dropped Doherty off the nearest bridge into the Lee.

  “Miss Leland,” he whispered.

  A sharp, staccato knock sounded upstairs. Pen started, then remembered. “That will be Mr. Keating. Please excuse me, Mr. Doherty, but I must go.” So much for a rest. Hopefully Niall would understand and stay only long enough to make sure she was all right.

  “If you will be so kind as to put on the hat and leave, you should be able to make it home safely. Corkwobble, will you show him out?” Without bothering to curtsey or say good-bye, she turned and hurried toward the stairs.

  The next morning, Pen rose before breakfast. After dressing swiftly, or at least as swiftly as she could without help tying her corset, she sneaked downstairs to Dr. Carrighar’s study to get the book she should have read four chapters of in time for today’s class.

  Her head had finally stopped throbbing, thank heavens, and her right hand tingled only slightly instead of being totally numb. She’d left Doherty yesterday and answered the door herself to an indignant Niall, who’d slumped against the doorframe in relief, then half threatened to ask Dr. Carrighar to lock her in her room to prevent her from doing anything quite so foolish again. But he’d left after assuring himself that she was home safe, and she’d dragged herself gratefully upstairs to her room. Yes, she probably should have gone back down to Corkwobble’s cellar to make sure Doherty had gotten safely out, but quite honestly, she no longer cared.

  Then Norah had brought her some tea and asked anxiously if she shouldn’t bring the doctor up to charm away her headache, but Pen had refused. The last thing she wanted was Dr. Carrighar asking questions. So she’d drunk her tea and gone to sleep almost as soon as dinner was over.

  But that meant she hadn’t done her reading for today. Well, that could hardly be helped. And at least today she had a better excuse than that she’d been out at a dinner or concert with the Keatings. Not that she wanted anyone to know she hadn’t done her reading. Surely she could finish it now, if she hurried.

  Norah was in Dr. Carrighar’s study lighting the fire and promised to bring breakfast up to her room. “An’ I wish you’d visit that scoundrel in the cellar when ye have the time, miss. Cook and I can hear him bangin’ about down there, moanin’ that he’s bein’ neglected,” she added. “He’s become dreadful spoilt, with you visiting him an’ all. Not that I’m complainin’, mind you. He watches his manners with me now, an’ I’m grateful.”

  “Of course I will,” Pen promised. “I’ll bring him a treat after class is over.” She owed Corkwobble for his help yesterday . . . but neglecting him? Surely she’d just been to see him a day or two ago, hadn’t she? She’d meant to, anyway.

  She lugged the heavy book up to her room and set it on her bureau, planning on combing her hair while she read. Drat. Another book written in strange, sixteenth-century language, with bizarre spelling and difficult grammar. At least this one was in English, though. Last week one of the readings had been in Latin, and she’d always relied on Persy, who was more fluent, to help her read any Latin texts Ally had set them. If only Persy were here now.

  Norah brought her toast and coddled eggs that she ate without noticing, absorbed in her reading. When the clock on the landing bonged its single note marking the three-quarter hour, she jumped and flipped through the book. Still a chapter and a half to go. There was no way she’d be finished by ten, when the other students usually arrived. Oh, why hadn’t she just ignored that headache and gotten this done last night? The only thing she could do now was to make sure she participated in the discussion of the first chapters and hope no one noticed if she fell silent on the latter ones. But for now she had to get the book back to Dr. Carrighar’s study; there was no reason to make it obvious to everyone that she’d just been doing her reading minutes before the start of class, even if it
was the truth.

  She slipped down the stairs and paused, listening. Good; Dr. Carrighar was still in the dining room talking to Cook, it sounded like. She dashed down the hall and had reached for the latch on the study door when voices from within the room stayed her hand.

  “Nudge me if I fall asleep, won’t you?” Quigley’s voice drawled. “Late night, you know.”

  Pen closed her eyes and tried not to groan out loud. Why, of all mornings, had anyone arrived early?

  “It’s not my problem if you can’t pay as much attention to your watch as you do to Mary Connor at the Rose and Nettle of an evening,” Doherty replied loftily.

  Doherty! Double drat! Why did it have to be those two? If it had been O’Byrne and Patrick Sheehan, she might not have minded slipping in to return the book. But there was no way she’d go in there now and let Quigley and Doherty stare at her and make scornful comments under their breath. Nor was she quite sure she wanted to face Doherty anywhere but in a formal classroom setting, after yesterday’s events. What should she do?

  “Huh. You’re just jealous because she won’t give you the time of day.” Quigley’s tone was smug.

  “No, I just have more important things on my mind than pub wenches, thank you.” Doherty’s was equally contemptuous.

  Pen remembered the blood running over Doherty’s face yesterday and his angry “I’m a patriot.” Of course he preferred politics to female company.

  “Oooh, ‘more important,’ is it?” Quigley mimicked him. “Mary’s no pub wench. Her da owns the Rose and Nettle, and she’s his only daughter. She stands to inherit a pretty piece of change from her old man someday. Or isn’t that good enough for you?” He laughed suddenly. “I know what it is. Only got eyes for English aristocrats, haven’t you? Why look at Mary when you can come to old man Carrighar’s and ogle Miss Lela—”

  Pen nearly dropped the book.

  “Shut your gob, you idiot!” Doherty nearly shouted. There was a scraping sound as if he’d risen from his chair and shoved it aside.