He must have been in quite a bit of pain to relent as easily as he did. She felt his shoulders sag under her hand. “Poor Adelle. I didn’t mean to leave her unprotected.”
Oliver didn’t rush off as she expected him to. He stood there, eyes focused on his grandfather and yet not. Hands clenched into fists that looked as though they were meant to moor him to some invisible line.
Mr. Gibson looked up at him. “Sorry, my boy. We only wanted to find Beth. I shouldn’t have . . .”
Oliver crouched down again and rested a hand on the shoulder Libby wasn’t already anchoring. “I think, before I go tearing off in search of Mamm-wynn, we had better pray.”
Pray? Now? When it was so imperative that he find his grandmother as quickly as possible? Libby opened her mouth to tell him that was a foolish idea, but no words escaped her lips.
And she was glad of it, when she heard the words coming from his.
“Father God, here we are before you. On our knees quite literally. Begging you, our Father and our Lord, to walk before us. Lead us. Show us where to find Mamm-wynn and even Beth. We know that you love them both even more than we do. You have numbered the hairs on their heads. You know their innermost thoughts. You call them by name.”
Libby drew in a slow breath, silently, so as not to interrupt him. This wasn’t the sort of prayer she was used to, with recited words and memorized phrases. This . . . well, this was the sort one took the time to say. Not an anonymous petition to a King or Creator, as she would have made, but an earnest supplication to a Father.
This was a sort of prayer that at once bemused and intrigued her.
“We ask that you guide my steps now to them. That you keep your hand on them, protecting them. We ask for your healing touch upon Mabena and Tas-gwyn.”
Oliver went quiet, but Libby’s heart added a plea. I ask that you show yourself to me, God. If you are there, if you are the loving Father Oliver claims . . . please show me. Show me by showing us Mamm-wynn. If anything happens to her . . .
She wasn’t entirely sure it was the right sort of petition to make. Was it testing God? Wasn’t there a Scripture that warned not to do that? But Gideon had asked for proof—she remembered that story well enough. Twice he’d asked. And twice he’d been given what he asked for, to know that it was truly God instructing him.
Well, the Lord hadn’t called her to lead an army, so He wouldn’t answer her as He had Gideon. But if He knew her name, if He loved her, if He really did number the hairs on her head, perhaps He would do this now. Not just to show himself to her, but for Mamm-wynn’s sake. For Oliver’s. For every Scillonian who loved her.
“Amen.” Oliver whispered the word, opened his eyes, squeezed his grandfather’s shoulder. Met her gaze.
She had the strangest sensation that he knew exactly what she’d prayed for. That he’d waited for her to finish her wordless petition before he breathed that last word. She dredged up a small smile to offer him.
In her mind, God had always been distant, abstract. But now, here, with these people, she couldn’t help but think that He’d come near. Or that she had.
With a nod, Oliver stood again. And ran.
19
Oliver didn’t slow until he reached the overgrown path that led to the skeletal remains of the cottages, and only then because a spot of orange caught his eye. He stopped, bent, and plucked up the daisy from the path. Cleanly cut, like the ones outside his own garden gate. Beth’s favorites. Had their grandmother cut them for her, thinking to come here and give them to her?
But why? And what would make Mamm-wynn think Beth was here, of all places?
The wind danced around him, laughing in his ears. Why not? it seemed to say. She’d known Beth was gone, after all, was “not where she ought to be.” She’d known Libby needed a necklace and a shawl. Perhaps the Lord had whispered those things to her. And perhaps He’d done so again.
Spotting another too-bright daisy farther along, closer to the cottages, he followed the trail, praying anew with every step. Lord, help me to find her. To find them. Show yourself to Libby.
That last one seemed strangely tied to the others, which made precious little sense. Except that he knew that, even having only known her a few weeks, she loved his grandmother too. And her faith—which was really more stale teaching and a newborn curiosity waiting to bloom into proper faith—might just shrivel and turn cold if it was dealt this blow right now. But he wanted more for her. Wanted her to love the Creator with the same boundless fascination with which she loved His creation. Wanted her to trust Him as she had so quickly come to trust Oliver.
Another shock of color that didn’t belong with the greens and browns and greys of the cottages stole his attention—a deep scarlet, too big to be a flower, too solid to be a patch of them. But the very color of Mamm-wynn’s favorite shawl. He flew toward it, blinking until the shape was close enough to be more than a blur of color. To be shoulders and back and a precious white-crowned head resting on the earth as if it were a pillow. “Mamm-wynn!”
Unlike his grandfather though, she didn’t stir at hearing his voice or her name. She just lay there on her stomach, face turned away from him, one arm extended—a bouquet of orange, yellow, and pink daisies still clutched in her hand.
No! His soul screamed it, fear pounding at his ears with every burst of his pulse. “Mamm-wynn! Mamm-wynn.”
Still she didn’t move, didn’t answer. But he was there now, dropping to his knees on the flagstone path to one of the cottages, blown over with sand and stray leaves and petals. He reached out, his prayers too desperate for words now, and touched her face. Warm. Her throat—there, her pulse fluttered, faint but present.
“Mamm-wynn.” He said it more quietly now, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. But her eyelids didn’t flutter; her breath didn’t hitch. What was wrong with her? He guessed Tas-gwyn had been struck on the head much like Mabena, given the way he’d been holding it and wincing. But when he set his fingers on a light probing of her skull, he found no bumps or gashes, nothing to indicate a physical assault. Did he dare try to turn her over?
He hadn’t much choice. He couldn’t exactly leave her here. Careful to cradle her head with one hand, he eased her onto her side with the other, then onto her back. Though he held his breath against what he might see, no horrors met his gaze. No injuries visible here either. She simply looked like she was sleeping.
But she never slept so deeply that a voice wouldn’t rouse her.
He leaned over to take a closer look, reaching into his pocket for his watch so he could get an accurate gauge of her pulse. His fingers brushed against paper rather than metal, giving him pause. Had he not put his watch in his pocket when he flew out of his room upon hearing Mrs. Dawe?
Apparently not. He pulled out what was in there—the nub of a pencil and the letter he’d been writing when sleep had abandoned him.
He’d meant it for Beth, though he’d had no idea how he meant to get it to her. It was half angry exhortation to return home at once, half plea to let them help. Full of all the facts that backed up both. That Lady Elizabeth Sinclair had been mistaken for her, that she was paying the price for whatever Beth had involved herself in. That Mabena had been injured last night by an armed man. That they knew Johnnie’s death was linked to it, and that the man had threatened Mamm-wynn.