She wished she could discuss his remark for she and her father had shared endless conversations on strength and survival, and she missed such stimulating conversation.
“I will not be long.”
He seemed reluctant to leave her so she tried to convince him that she would be fine and that he should not worry.
“I will not be long,” he repeated gruffly and then marched off.
He worried about her, she knew, but then he was her responsibility too. He put himself in danger because of her. Magnus had requested help of the Dark One, who granted him this favor.
She wondered if Magnus knew Michael’s true identity. On second thought, she doubted if any knew the Dark One’s identity. Michael would not allow that. It would increase the terrible danger of the people he rescued.
She returned to the castle, entering through the door and closing it behind her as though she could lock out the world. She busied herself with cleaning the large table in front of the fireplace and clearing away as much debris as she could. She then took the cauldron off the hook in the fireplace with plans for Michael to carry it to the stream for her to scrub.
She was about to clean the area around their sleeping pallet when she suddenly dropped down to sit on the broken bench at the table. The bench was missing one leg but if she balanced herself carefully the bench remained sturdy.
Was she attempting to find balance and a sense of sanity by treating this ruined castle as her home? This place was as battered as she, and perhaps in repairing a few things she was repairing herself.
She stood and the broken bench toppled over.
She could topple that easily if she did not remain balanced in strength, thought and conviction, as her father had often cautioned.
Mary walked out the front door, looked around at the beauty of the lonely valley, and walked to the stream where she stood, hugging herself.
She wanted to cry out of frustration, out of despair, out of fear for all that had happened to her, but she did not. She just held it all back.
She was not aware of much, looking out over the water, until the first tear rolled down her face, followed by a flood of tears. Michael came up behind her, turned her around, and hugged her tightly in his strong arms. Then she was aware only of the comfort he gave.
Her tears continued, wetting his black robe but he did not let go of her; he held her firmly. And when her soft tears turned to sobs, his hand stroked her back.
“Cry, Mary,” he encouraged. “You have the right.”
She pressed her face to his chest and wept in the safety of his arms.
Chapter 9
When Mary’s tears finally subsided the Dark One wiped her face dry with the sleeve of his black robe.
“I had expected many tearful episodes before this. With all you have been through, shedding tears is natural.”
She did not agree and expressed herself by shaking her head vehemently.
“Sit,” he said, releasing her hands. “We will talk.”
She shook her head again, reminding him that was not possible.
“Have faith, Mary.”
He sounded like her father who had repeatedly cautioned her to have faith. In what should she have faith? She had been robbed of her family, of her life not once but twice now. With no one finding her after ten years she had thought her nightmare had finally ended, but perhaps she had finally woken up. So what about faith? Where was it? She stared at Michael, draped in darkness, and then slowly reached her hand out to him.
At this moment he was the only thing she had faith in.
He grasped hold of her hand and gave a reassuring squeeze before helping her to sit near the water’s edge. He looked around and grabbed hold of a good-sized stick before sitting down beside her.
He broke the stick in half and handed her a piece. “Your voice.”
She smiled, taking the stick from him, and cleared the ground in front of her with the brush of her hand. And wrote, grateful gift.
“Tell me what you would like to discuss.”
Many things, she wrote quickly.
“Something tells me that when you reclaim your voice you will never stop talking.”
She heard the teasing in his voice and Mary suspected it was closer to his own true tongue than the harshness she often heard.
Love to talk and sing.
“I heard you have a lovely voice.”
Who told you that?
He hesitated then quickly said, “Magnus.” Then even more quickly added, “I hope to hear you sing.”
Will there be time?
“I do not know.”
Decimus is relentless.
“That he is. He lets nothing stop him from finding and persecuting those who believe differently, and the Church has given him the power to do whatever is necessary to bring heretics to justice.”
Her hand touched his arm and he turned his head.
Decimus hates.
“In more ways than anyone understands,” he said.
Even Decimus himself?
He pondered her question.
Decimus hates for he cannot love.
“Why say you that?”
Hate and love, a fine balance. She shook her head and wrote. A balance he has not found.
Michael made no comment.
I pity him.
“You pity the man who hunts you?”
She nodded. Prisoner of his own hate, she wrote. How very sad to torture yourself.
Michael remained silent.
I am free. He never will be.
“You are free?” he asked, confused.
She tapped her head and wrote. Free in thought, he will never imprison my mind.
She tossed the stick aside, ending their discussion, tapped her chest, patted her stomach, then pointed to Michael.
“Aye, I am hungry too, which is why I snared two rabbits.”
Her smile was broad and she scrambled to stand. Once on her feet she motioned for him to clean the animals. She reached down and grabbed the stick she had tossed aside, then wrote on the ground in front of them hunt onions.
“Do not go far into the woods,” he cautioned.
She nodded and wrote in the dirt. Edge of woods.
“Good, I can see you while I clean the rabbits.”
She tossed the stick aside and hurried off, eager to find wild onions and hopefully an herb or two to flavor the rabbit stew.
Michael watched her go as he walked slowly to the castle. She was graceful in her haste, her body swaying as if in rhythm with a melody, a soft, subtle melody. He watched her dip down and swing up, a smile of delight on her face and a plucked onion in her hand. She repeated the movement several times and he could not take his eyes from her.
She mystified him, this woman of strength and tears, of pity for the least deserving, of injured voice yet eloquent words.
Mary waved to him with a handful of onions, he smiled and waved back.
He had forgotten the simple pleasures of life.
A woman’s smile. A woman’s wave. A woman’s love.
“Damn,” he swore beneath his breath.
He thought all feeling had died. Died along with those he loved.
But damned, if she had not sparked life in his cold heart.
He stomped off to clean the rabbits when suddenly he sensed something. He froze, barely breathing so that he could hear, sense, feel another’s presence.
In a second he felt it, a presence, strong and powerful and knew it to be a wild boar.
His glance shot to Mary. She was bent down, her interest caught by something on the ground. He tried to signal her but she did not take notice.