I grab a pair of solid boots from the bottom of the cupboard, then stuff them and a pair of socks into the duffel bag Óisín used to take to sea with him. They go on top of a change of clothes, a loaf of black bread, a pouch of tealeaves, a flask of winter-lemon whiskey and some dried meat that Maura packed earlier today, plus a largish bag of salt for ‘dealing with things’. She means all the things she told me stories about when I was a child. Right at the bottom are Isolde’s letters. The little poppet is still in the blanket box; I retrieve her, wrapped in the shawl, and push it into a space down the side of bag.
There’s a small velvet purse on the bedside table, containing the ten gold coins from Aoife’s reticule, all scored with lines for where to break them to make change. Not mention the jewellery, hers and mine; I pull the engagement ring from my finger and add it to the glittering pile. It’ll be the first thing I get rid of, I promise myself. When the strings are tightly tied, the purse goes into the duffel too.
I tie my hair up tightly, fix it with copper pins so it won’t come loose, then open the window.
Unlike the Breakwater townhouse, the path from my bedroom window on the second floor is not impassable. Admittedly, I’ve not climbed out this way for a year or two, but when needs must. I toss the bundle of my coat out first, careful to make sure it lands as far from the house as possible, then I sling the duffel across my back and take a deep breath. The roof is not too sharply sloped and I’ve a good handhold on the slates, my feet grip exceedingly well. I only almost slip twice and when my heartbeat comes back under control – Hush, I say, even falling to your death is better than having Aidan to husband – I finally get my hands around a drainpipe and shinny down to the ground. I pull on my socks and boots, grab the coat and push it into the newly freed space in the bag, then pick my way through the front gardens.
I don’t go to the stables for the lads have been sleeping in a back room beneath Malachi’s quarters, but to the ruined gates that mark the boundary of Hob’s Hallow. Malachi is waiting there with Aidan’s black horse all saddled and ready – our old nags would never get me far enough or fast enough away. We did not know I would need to flee this night, but it’s never hurt to be prepared. Gods know I’d hoped my intended would simply accept my refusal, but I know my family too well; I spoke with both Malachi and Maura before Aidan arrived this morning. Had I not needed it, the food would have simply been returned to the kitchen, the horse to the stable. Malachi shouldn’t have been out here waiting, I’d told him to tether the horse then go to bed.
‘He’s dangerous,’ I say. ‘Aidan. He’s dangerous. I hate to leave you—’
‘Don’t fear for us, missy.’ Malachi nods. ‘We’ve been dying a long time, maybe he’ll do us a favour and make the waiting shorter.’
‘But—‘
‘If we come now, we’ll just slow you down and you’re sure to be caught. Ah, missy, we’ll die rather here now.’ He takes off his flat cap and puts it on my head. ‘Cover that face.’ He grins. ‘When you find your mother, give her our best.’
I hug him hard and after a moment he hugs me back; I think of Maura’s arms around me this morning, imagine her standing at the window of her attic room, staring into the darkness, imaging me here. Malachi smells like porter, pipe smoke, winter-lemon whiskey and dust. Then he pushes me away, his tolerance for affection spent, and helps me into the saddle. The beast is well-trained, obedient, for Aidan likes his things broken.
Malachi clears his throat, lips quivering. ‘Be on your way, missy,’ he says sternly. Then: ‘Run, Miren, and don’t look back.’
* * *
It wasn’t even close to midnight when I left Hob’s Hallow, and I estimate I’ve been on the road for almost two hours now. The sensible thing would have been to take Óisín’s pocket watch, but Aoife gave it to Malachi after my grandfather’s death and it felt wrong to ask for it back. I’ll buy another somewhere along the way, perhaps trade one of the earrings in the bag for a timepiece to set my life by. The night’s cool as it can be by the sea, but not cold. There’s little light to see by as the sky is clouded, which is all the better for a night-time flit, but it also means I don’t give the stallion his head. What’s the point in escaping if I’m found the next morning with my neck broken beside a horse whose leg’s been snapped in a ditch or fox hole?
I do urge him up to a trot, I must admit, as soon as we’re far enough away that the sound won’t carry back to the mansion and alert, well, anyone. I think, briefly, of going to Breakwater and reporting what’s happened to someone… who? The archbishop who’ll do Aidan a grand favour by marrying us? Or the Queen of Thieves who does nothing without a pound of flesh in payment? The last remaining former councilman who kept his skin intact by poisoning two of his former colleagues to please Bethany Lawrence?
There is no one who would see justice done for Aoife’s death and there’s no one I can rely on not to return me to the tender mercies of my betrothed. The moment he put the engagement ring on my finger was the moment, apparently, when he took over the reins of my fate. One day, perhaps, I’ll be able to send for Maura and Malachi. Perhaps they’ll be safe. I feel sick with guilt and fear. I could turn back, sneak into the house through the kitchen. No one would ever know. But I think of Aidan’s expression at the theatre and my wrist aches where the bruises are still blue. No. Flight is my only option.
In the distance, I see the lights of Breakwater, or some of them at any rate: some cantons are pure darkness where the good citizens are abed, others ablaze where denizens carry on their existence in the gloom, the assassins market, the courtesans quarter, the inns and dancehalls where entertainment of a particular sort might be found. But I’m not going to those areas, no. I know precisely where I’m headed, if only for the shortest of times. An hour, perhaps before I’m there and I need to figure out how to do what must be done.
There’s a noise in the seagrass to my left and the horse snorts with fear and rears. I smell a foul odour over the scent of the salt water, something rotting. The moon breaks through the clouds as I try to calm the animal and I can see what’s caused this whole ruckus: a corpsewight close.
All but hunched at the shoulders as if so very cold, clothes tattered and still dripping from the sea where surely it met its end. Blond hair in draggled ripples around its face, and that face grey-green in the strange moonlight. Mouth agape and only holes where eyes once were, eaten away by fishes or perhaps birds; it’s blind poor thing, poor monster.
It’s so near to the road, I think – then I realise we’ve strayed from the path. At a glance I can see where we’ve come adrift, where the road actually is, not so far away and clear in the sudden moonlight.
A dreadful moan issues from the corpsewight and though I feel sorry for it lost as it is, unable to rest, I’m even more terrified of it. I dig my heels into the stallion’s sides and urge it back towards safety. We race towards the city lights, unheeding of holes or hazards, just desperate to get away.
* * *
I dismount some way outside the walls, tie the horse to a clump of bushes and thank him. If I take him into the city it will be clear where I’ve gone and that’s not what I want; besides, I can’t know who might recognise Aidan Fitzpatrick’s favourite steed. Leaving him here, at a crossroads where travellers converge and meet, join caravans for safer passage, that will confuse anyone in pursuit of me. No one keeps track of those cavalcades, no passenger lists, so I might be anywhere.
I wander towards the gates and wait for a gaggle of night-revellers to push their way out from the city, those going to homes outside the walls, small farms and the like, those heading off to do mischief elsewhere. I pull Malachi’s cap down over my forehead so my face is shadowed, square my shoulders and push into the group, pressing against the flow. I’m taller than most of them, I make a point to walk like a man, lay claim to all beneath my feet as if it’s my right; other men step aside and soon I’m inside Breakwater proper.
I take a moment to get my bearings, then contin
ue on through the avenues, doing my best to stay away from lamplights and overly lit windows, keeping my face turned away, my head tilted just so. No one speaks to me. The crowds dissipate the further I get into the expensive neighbourhoods, and at last I’m in front of my goal.
I check to make sure no one’s around then sneak down the thin alley between one townhouse and the next. The room I was in was too high to climb from, but Brigid’s is on the first floor and a drainpipe runs right by her window (where I can see pink lace curtains). The sash is up to allow in the fresh air at night.
I take off my shoes and socks again, secure them to my duffel, swing it behind me and begin my ascent. I’ll admit I’m puffing a little when I tumble over the sill – I do a fair amount of physical activity, but it doesn’t generally involve climbing the sides of houses. I sit on the floor for a few moments, back against the wall. I vow no more windows this night if I can help it. I watch my slumbering cousin, curled on her side, mouth open like a child’s and a slight whistle as she breathes, in and out, in and out, different tones for each. I wonder if everyone looks innocent when they sleep, even though you know what they’ve done in their waking hours?
When I’ve caught my breath, I open the duffel and pull out the shawl. I crawl over to Brigid’s bed and unwrap the cloth, which I then use to keep between the poppet and my hand. Gingerly I lift the mattress from its base and push the wicked little doll into the gap, as far as I can. It’s only as I’m withdrawing my arm that Brigid stirs.
She rolls onto her back and begins snoring in earnest, the little whistle still there but accompanied by a stentorian bellow of a thing. What a delightful surprise for the husband to whom she will no doubt one day be sold in order to further Aidan’s schemes of empire. I wait a moment or two, then press my palm firmly over her mouth.
My cousin’s eyes fly open and I hiss, ‘Hello, Brigid.’
14
There’s just darkness and close air, the creak and rattle of wheels on the road, the peculiar rhythmic shake of the cart, the occasional snort of the horses pulling us along. The driver and his companion speak only a little and then in tones so low I cannot make out the words. Beside me is a hard form, cold despite the heat, uncaring of my presence but no less disconcerting for all that. The hot, quiet dark, the unmoving form; I have Brigid to thank for all this.
* * *
I pressed my hand down harder, felt the teeth grind behind her lips, thought about pressing harder still until there was blood, blood like she made come from poor Maura’s mouth, but I didn’t. It took her a moment to recognise me with my cap and male attire, my hair hidden. I could see in her gaze though, in the lambent glow from the last of the hearth-fire, that she was wondering not just why I was there, but why I was hale and hearty and not coughing my lungs out. I put a finger to my lips, and when she nodded, I removed my hand. She managed to stop herself from asking, ‘Where’s the quilt and why didn’t it work?’
Instead she said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I, cousin dear, am running away.’ I sat on the edge of the bed and she scootched herself up against the pillows, staring big-eyed as I continued, ‘And you are going to help me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because, Brigid, you don’t want me to marry Aidan any more than I want to marry Aidan.’ I folded my arms. ‘And this is easier than trying to kill me, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t want to kill you…’
‘I gave the quilt to Maura.’
A tremor travelled through her features and I thought she might cry. She has no reason to hate Maura, who was always kind to her. Maura would give Brigid the pick of the fresh biscuits in the kitchen – when I complained later she told me that I lived at the Hallow and always had the first of treats, but Brigid wasn’t there all the time. Couldn’t I share, just a while? I could. Look where it got me.
‘I found her in time. She’s well enough.’ Well enough until Aidan decides to ask her where I was.
‘It wouldn’t have killed you,’ she said defensively.
‘Maybe not, but I’m young. Maura?’ I shook my head. I wondered how much Brigid knew of Aidan’s plans, and decided it was just enough to make trouble for him. ‘Trust me, Brigid, you don’t want any death on your conscience. And I swear I will come back and haunt you.’
‘Well, if anyone was going to… I… I just wanted to make you sick, hurt. Just a little to teach you a lesson,’ she said, then asked, ‘Does Aoife know?’
I stared at her. Or perhaps she knew even less of Aidan’s plans.
‘Aoife is dead, Brigid. She… she died the morning after we returned to Hob’s Hallow.’ And she stared at me in return, shocked. Her brother came out to the Hallow without telling her why. I tossed up whether or not to tell her how Aoife died; decided no. ‘But Aidan still thinks to marry me.’
‘Of course, he does.’ She shook herself.
‘Help me get away now and I’m out of your hair forever.’
‘That’s too good an offer to refuse,’ she sniped, and I was suddenly pierced. In these last few days I’d lost my grandfather, buried my murdered grandmother, discovered my dead parents were actually alive and left me behind to pay a debt, abandoned Maura and Malachi to an uncertain fate, and been promised to a husband I knew wanted to hurt me. Brigid’s casual snark slipped between my ribs when I’d thought myself armoured against her.
‘Why?’ I cried out, too loudly, then bit down on my sobs. ‘Why do you hate me so?’
‘Because you hate me! We were so close then one day… one day Mother said I wasn’t allowed to come and visit, and that you didn’t want to see me again.’ She hissed at me, arms wrapped around her curled-up knees, fists clenched. Her face turned red with anger, but tears gathered in her eyes.
I rose and turned my back to her, then swiftly pulled up my sweater and shirt so she could see the mess Aoife had made of me. Once a year, perhaps, I arranged two mirrors in my bedroom and examined the landscape of my own flesh to see if it had changed. Brigid gave a sharp intake of breath. What she saw was a relief map of scars, turned that strange white of mounds of skin raised over deep wounds when they heal.
‘Do you remember Rian O’Meara? Do you remember he kissed me? I was so excited and I told you… and you told Aoife…’ I paused, licked my lips. ‘You told Aoife and she did this to me because she thought I was going to be a whore like my mother.’
‘No—’ Brigid sounds strangled.
‘That’s what she yelled at me as she beat me. That I was no better than a slut, letting a common cur touch me.’ I felt my cousin’s fingers on my skin, so light as if they couldn’t believe what was beneath them. I pulled my clothes into place and faced her again. ‘And she made sure that I knew you had told her.’
Brigid’s face was stricken, her lips moving lips a fish gasping to be put back into a pond.
‘Rian disappeared not long after. His body was never found. And his mother always looks at me in the same way, as if it was all my fault.’
Tears made dark marks on Brigid’s nightgown and the white bedlinen. ‘She… Aoife asked me… she told me how important you were to the family, that you had to be protected from anyone who might harm you, because that would harm the family.’ She was in full flow now, tears and snot and sobs, the words being pushed out over the top. ‘And you talked, when you told me, of running away with him.’
And I remembered then all the stupid girlish things I’d said. Things that meant everything to me in that moment, and nothing in the ones since. Because I could see years later that the words that had come from my mouth then had been a child’s infatuation, no more no less. But I didn’t know it then, and nor did Brigid. And she’d feared so she’d told.
And Aoife… my grandmother had the best use of her little spy and didn’t think she’d need her again. Perhaps she was jealous, herself, of my closeness with Brigid when she’d not had anyone like her. Perhaps – and I thought this might well have been the most likely – she was just so
enraged that I might be like Isolde, that I might so easily derail her plans by opening my legs too soon, so she visited a revenge on me that she hadn’t been able to deliver to my mother. Because Isolde had a baby inside her and the O’Malleys’ salvation depended entirely on new blood and that could not be risked.
‘I didn’t know,’ continued Brigid, ‘that she’d done this. I… I only knew that you didn’t love me anymore and it hurt.’
I sat on the edge of the bed and ceased trying to contain my own weeping. We held hands and sobbed. We cried until there were no more tears, and it felt – for me at least – as if poison had been drawn from a wound.
‘Where will you go?’ she asked at last.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, but it’s best if you have no idea. If Aidan thinks you know, do you think he’ll stop at anything to get the information out of you?’
‘No. You’re right.’ She put the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other as if soothing bruises.
‘But I need to get away from here, by a means he can’t easily trace.’
‘I… I can get you to someone who can help. He can take you elsewhere, then…’
‘I can make my way from wherever to wherever.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Brigid.’
‘Will you… will you perhaps write to me? One day?’
‘One day. When I’m safe.’ I almost said One day I will send for you, but refrained. Who knows what might happen to either of us? I would not make promises I might not be able to keep.
While she dressed in dark clothes, I surreptitiously took the little doll from beneath her pillow and threw it onto the flames in the hearth. It went up terribly quickly, with a snap and a pop like bones breaking.
‘What was that?’ she called from the dressing room.
‘Something in the fire,’ I said, then under my breath, ‘bad dreams and ill wishes.’
* * *
In the little courtyard at the back of the Paragon Theatre, the troupe was moving to and fro, packing their carts and wagons, seven in all, when we arrived. I waited in the shadows while Brigid approached. It seemed strange that they’d be preparing to leave so very late – or rather, so very early for it was almost 3 a.m. – but my cousin had said Ellingham liked to get a head-start on their travel. They always departed after the final performance so they weren’t trying to exit a city in the morning at the same time as every other merchant or caravan.
All the Murmuring Bones Page 12