I nod, and Ren takes my arm and we go through to the kitchen. I sit and he fills a glass. When I sip from it, the water tastes faintly of smoke and peat, last night’s whisky still clinging to the sides.
I look at the clock. Two hours until Duncan leaves. And with him my only chance. I’ve waited too long, worked too hard for this not to take it.
“You should go,” I say, standing up. “Before Giles gets here. And I should clean up. Board that window.”
“I’ll board the window.”
“No, best if I do it.” My eyes dart again to the clock.
Ren follows my gaze. “What’s wrong? Why do you keep looking at the clock?”
“I’m not,” I snap. “I just think you should go.”
There is a pause. Then understanding lights Ren’s face. “One o’clock is when the mail cart is leaving, isn’t it? I heard you asking Duncan yesterday.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake.” I move, but Ren’s hand darts towards me, his fingers closing over my wrist.
He scours my face, his eyes narrowed. “Did Duncan offer you a ride? No… You’re stowing away, aren’t you?”
I force myself to sound calm. “Murren Ross, I’ll say this for you – you have one hell of an imagination. And that’s coming from the girl who saw a monster last night.”
“You only ever use my full name when you’re lying,” he says, triumphant.
He releases me suddenly and darts out, heading towards my bedroom.
I follow, in time to see him awkwardly kneel and peer under my bed. He gives me a wicked smile as he reaches under and starts to pull the bag out.
“So if you’re not planning to stow away, what, may I ask—”
We both freeze at the sound of boots outside my window. Our eyes lock, his expression as horrified as mine. And then a key slides into the front door.
THIRTEEN
I hiss at Ren to get under the bed, not waiting to see if he obeys as I race to the hall, my heart in my mouth. Da. He will see what I’ve done. His bedroom and the kitchen are ransacked; there’s wood and glass all over the washroom floor. And in his study, the window seat with the forbidden Naomhfhuil logs lies open, one of the books on the desk, there for all the world to see.
My father enters the cottage, the long guns over his arm, his plaid splattered with mud.
He starts when he sees me standing in the hall. Then he looks beyond me, to his bedroom, where the drawers are pulled open, his clothes on the floor. When he turns back to me his eyes burn with dark fury.
He turns and walks to his study.
“Alva,” he barks over his shoulder. “Get in here.”
My whole body is screaming at me to run, but I force myself to follow. I hover in the doorway, watching as my father sees the logbook.
He puts the long guns down on the desk, one by one, bracketing the book, a bag of ammunition beside them. Then he sighs, closing his eyes briefly, a hand rising to rub the bridge of his nose.
“Why did you have to do that?” he says softly. “Why did you have to look?”
I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t do anything but watch, as he takes the flintlock pistols from the holster at his waist. He puts one on the desk, and the other…
The other he hefts in his hand.
And I know, right there and then, I’m going to die like my mother.
Everything happens so slowly; my father’s fingers tighten around the handle of the pistol, his head lifting, his gaze meeting mine, eyes cold. My thoughts flicker briefly to Ren, hidden under my bed. I hope he has the sense to stay there until he can chance an escape.
Finally, this is how it ends.
It’s almost a relief.
But the next moment panic hits – I don’t want to die, not like her, without a weapon, without hope.
I hear a rushing like wings as my death approaches and I bend over, making myself small, covering my head, keening the word no over and over. I want to live. I want to live.
Suddenly I’m hauled upright, my father gripping my shoulders, lifting me until we’re face to face. The gun he held is on the table.
“What the hell, Alva?” His voice is rough, shocked. “What did you think I was going to do?”
“You shot her…” The words fall from my mouth like water.
He freezes. “What?”
“You shot her,” I say, my voice louder.
My father lets me go and staggers backwards, into the desk.
“I heard you.” Seven years of fear and grief and rage and bewilderment leave me in a torrent, unstoppable as a winter thaw. “I heard you fighting and I heard her screaming and then you shot her. Four times. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.” I spit the words at him, my own bullets.
He stares. His face is grey. “Alva … I…”
“I knew it.” We both turn towards the voice in the doorway. “All this time, I was right.”
Giles Stewart stands in the hall, Jim Ballantyne and Dizzy Campbell the baker just behind him. Giles’s face is maniacal, almost gleeful, his smile twisted, as though he’s caught between laughing and screaming.
I turn to my father. His eyes are wide and panicked. We both look at the guns on the table, and as he reaches out I dart forward, pushing them aside.
“No, Da. Enough!”
Then Dizzy Campbell pulls me away as Jim Ballantyne, muscular from years of hustling giant, log-dragging horses for a living, yanks my father’s arms behind his back and forces him to his knees.
Dizzy holds me firmly, though his grip is gentle as he pins my arms to my sides. But I don’t struggle. My father isn’t struggling either. He’s docile as a lamb.
There’s something wrong with seeing my da like this; cowed and silent, his head bent meekly like a man at prayer. For years he’s been my enemy, a waking nightmare that’s hardened my heart and my mind. My entire world has revolved around keeping him happy to keep myself safe. This should be a triumphant moment.
But it’s not. It doesn’t feel right. This isn’t how I thought it would end. I didn’t think I’d have to witness it.
Giles enters the room, coming to me. He takes my chin in his fingers and turns my head side to side. “You lied to me, my girl,” he says softly. “I asked you, after your mother disappeared, if he hurt her. You told me no. You told me she’d left.”
“She was a child,” my father growls.
“She’s not a child now,” Giles says, and something about the way he says it makes my skin crawl.
My father hears it too, I think, because his gaze darkens. “Let her be. It’s me you want.”
Giles turns to him with a crooked smile. “Take him to the gaol,” he orders Jim Ballantyne, who doesn’t hesitate.
As my father stands, we lock eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I turn aside, wincing when I hear him stumble as Jim forces him out.
Giles jerks his head at Dizzy. “Go with him. I’ll deal with Miss Douglas. And take the guns – they’re evidence.”
Dizzy does as he’s bid, picking up all four of my father’s guns and carrying them out of the house, leaving me alone with Giles.
He looks me over, sizing me up like a man at a livestock market, gaze lingering on my legs, my chest, my face. I half-expect him to open my mouth and inspect my teeth. I’m in danger here, I can feel it.