He was unaware of falling asleep, but found himself wandering a foreign landscape, a darkened wood with twisted trees and blackened branches. There was little sign of life as he wended his way down a narrow path leading to an unknown destination. The moon appeared as a glowing yellow eye, glowering coldly at him with neither goodwill nor compassion, as if daring him to solve the pressing questions that consumed him.
A thin sheet of mist covered the ground, and he could not see his feet. He felt as if he was floating rather than walking, gliding through the withered woods lightly as a cloud. As he approached a clearing, he felt inexorably drawn to it but also frightened of what he might find there. He stepped from the line of forest into the scrubby field and heard a long, low whistle. The sound pierced him to the very bones, freezing him where he stood. It was the signal his mother had used to bring him and Donald in for dinner. The sound carried surprisingly well in the glens and hills of the Highlands, and could be heard half a mile or more away. And here it was again, in this barren and lifeless landscape.
He looked wildly around the clearing, nothing stirring save the fog swirling at his feet. Then, across the stretch of abandoned grassland, his eye caught a flicker of movement. The mist seemed to be forming itself into a thin white tornado, spinning and whirling upward in an ever-rising funnel of fog.
Before his astonished eyes, the vapor congealed and transformed. Shadowy as a breath, it became more solid, finally assuming the shape of a hooded human figure. Frozen to the spot, he watched it glide slowly toward him. It, too, seemed to hover just above the surface of the earth, as if riding on the thin blanket of mist still swirling over the ground. Terror gripped him as it approached, but his limbs were as dead as the gnarled trees behind him. Try as he might, he could not move. He could only watch helplessly as the specter floated toward him, arms outstretched.
He tried to see the creature’s face, but it was hidden deep within the folds of the robe—he feared worse, that it had no face at all. But the apparition raised a hand to pull back the hood of its garment, and Ian caught his breath as he recognized his mother’s face.
She gazed at him sadly, her mouth moving as if in speech, but no sound came from her pale lips. His mother’s ghost—for so he knew it must be—stretched a hand toward his face, as if to stroke his cheek tenderly. But instead of a caress, Ian felt a sharp burning sensation, as if its fingers were on fire. He cried out and tried to pull away—and awoke in his own bed with the sound of his voice still ringing in his ears.
Gingerly, he put a hand to his left cheek, which still stung, and felt a thin line of raised flesh, as if a scar had already formed where the specter had touched him. Throwing off his covers, he sprang from his bed and lit the gas lamps with trembling hands. Going to the dresser mirror, he examined his cheek, which did indeed bear a red, throbbing gash. The burn scar on his shoulder began to pulsate as if in response, a constant reminder of the fire that he had so narrowly escaped.
But had he truly escaped? He sank back into bed, perspiration soaking his nightshirt. The familiar objects of his bedroom, usually so comforting, were overshadowed by the memory of the vivid and disturbing dream. His hand went to the raised mark on his face, still burning and twitching. Surely it was impossible for a dream to infect one’s waking life—he must have thrashed around in his sleep, somehow scratching his cheek in the process. But he could still feel his mother’s fingers upon his skin, a touch he had yearned for these long seven years, only to find it carried not loving tenderness, but fire. And if he had scratched his own cheek, why was it in the exact spot his mother had touched?
The mark of Cain. The words appeared, unbidden, in his mind, as a shiver went through his body. But Ian had taken his brother in, sheltered him, cared for him. If anything, was he not the opposite of the murderous biblical figure? Why, then, did the phrase embed itself in his brain, repeating over and over like the terrible clanging of a death knell?
Pulling the covers up to his chin, he gazed out at the careless moon, with its ridiculous grin, so removed from human striving and suffering, and waited for the dawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Donald’s efforts to coax Ian into eating the next morning met with limited success. Ian’s dream of the night before clung like a succubus, leaving him queasy and unsettled. Luckily, his brother was in such a cheerful mood he scarcely noticed Ian’s depressed state.
“So you missed her again, I see,” Donald said, slathering gooseberry jam onto his toast. “It’s getting to be a habit with you.”
Ian just nodded, slipping Bacchus one of his kippers. He never fancied smoked fish for breakfast, something Donald had either forgotten or chosen to ignore. The cat dragged the fish under the table and devoured it in three gulps.
“What happened to your cheek?” Donald said, peering at Ian’s face. “Did Bacchus do that?”
“No. I must have scratched it in my sleep.”
“Tell you what,” Donald said, pouring a liberal amount of cream into his coffee. “Why don’t you come to the infirmary with me? If she’s there, you can apologize. Mind you, she might tell you to bugger off, but might as well give it a go, eh?”
Ian stared at him.
“Am I being too vulgar?” said Donald. “You should hear the way medical students talk among themselves. Absolutely scandalous.”
“I don’t see what good an apology would do at this point.”
“Now you’re just sulking.”
“Is it my imagination, or is the cat starting to look more like you?” Ian said, pointing to a considerably more bulbous Bacchus, busy cleaning himself. “He certainly seems to have acquired your appetite.”
“You should know by now changing the subject is useless with me,” Donald said, rising from the table. “Come along—you’re going with me, like it or not.”
Ian offered little resistance—exhausted, he was relieved to let Donald step in and decide things for him. It was early, and as it was Saturday, he had plenty of time to get to the station house.
Since the weather had turned warmer, they elected to walk. It wasn’t far, and the exercise and brisk breeze lifted Ian’s spirits. Feeling revived, he took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the city—meat pies and fish frying in oil, boiled cabbage, and fried onions all mixed with the smell of horse manure. The cries of seagulls hovering overhead blended with screeching children dashing down dank alleys; the calls of street vendors mixed with the cackling of geese being led to market by their owner, a plump, apple-cheeked woman in a snowy bonnet and apron. Edinburgh was not a quiet place, nor a peaceful one, but it was rarely dull.
“Oiy, Guv!”
He turned to see the flushed face of Derek McNair, scrambling to keep up with the brothers’ long strides.
“Hiya,” Derek said, hopping along beside them, taking two steps for each of theirs.
Donald gave him a dour glance. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“What happened to yer face?” Derek asked Ian, ignoring the question.
“A bar brawl,” said Donald.
“Last night? What happened?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already heard,” said Ian.
“Heard wha’, Guv?” said Derek as they swung onto the Cowgate from West Bow Street.