“I’m going. Come, or don’t come, I don’t care. Go back to Scotland—go back through the stones by yourself, for all I care! But by God, you can’t stop me!”
And then she was gone.
* * *
Lizzie’s eyes shot wide as the door banged open against the wall. She hadn’t been asleep—how could she sleep?—but had been lying with her eyes closed. She struggled up out of the bedclothes and fumbled for the tinderbox.
“Are ye all right, Miss Bree?”
It didn’t sound like it; Brianna was stamping to and fro, hissing through her teeth like a snake, stopping to kick the wardrobe with a resounding thud. There were two more thuds in succession; by the wavering light of the newly lit candle, Lizzie could see that these were caused by Brianna’s shoes, which had hit the wall and fallen to the floor.
“Are ye all right?” she repeated, uncertainly.
“Fine!” said Brianna.
From the black air beyond the window a voice roared, “Brianna! I shall come for you! Do ye hear me! I will come!”
Her mistress made no answer, but strode to the window, seized the shutters and crashed them shut with a bang that made the room echo. Then she turned like a panther striking, and dashed the candlestick to the floor, plunging the room in suffocating dark.
Lizzie eased herself back into bed and lay frozen, afraid to move or speak. She could hear Brianna tearing off her clothes in silent frenzy, the hiss of indrawn breath punctuating the rustle of cloth and the stamp of bare feet on the wooden floor. Through the shutter, she heard outside the muffled sound of cursing, then nothing.
She had seen Brianna’s face for a moment in the light; white as paper and hard as bone, with the eyes black holes. Her gentle, kindly mistress had vanished like smoke, taken over by a deamhan, a she-devil. Lizzie was a town lass, born long after Culloden. She had never seen the wild clansmen of the glens, or a Highlander in the grip of blood fury—but she’d heard the auld stories, and now she knew them true. A person who looked like that might do anything at all.
She tried to breathe as though she were sleeping, but the air came through her mouth in strangled gasps. Brianna seemed not to notice, though; she walked about the room in quick, hard steps, poured water in the bowl and splashed it on her face, then slid between the quilts and lay flat, rigid as a board.
Summoning all her courage, she turned her head toward her mistress.
“Are ye…all right, a bann-sielbheadair?” she asked, in a voice so low that her mistress could pretend not to have heard it if she wanted.
For a moment she thought that Brianna meant to ignore her. Then, “Yes” came the answer, in a voice so flat and expressionless, it didn’t sound like Brianna’s at all. “Go to sleep.”
She didn’t, of course. A body didn’t sleep, lying next to someone who might turn into a ursiq next thing. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark again, but she was afraid to look, in case the red hair lying on the pillow next to her should suddenly be a mane, and the delicate straight nose changed to a curved, soft muzzle, over teeth that would rend and devour.
It was a few moments before Lizzie realized that her mistress was trembling. Not weeping; there was no sound—but shaking hard enough to make the bedclothes rustle.
Fool, she scolded herself. It’s no but your friend and your lady, with something terrible that’s happened to her—and you lyin’ here sniveling over fancies!
On impulse she rolled toward Brianna, reaching for the other girl’s hand.
“Bree,” she said softly. “Can I be helpin’ ye at all, then?”
Brianna’s hand curled round hers and squeezed, quick and hard, then let go.
“No,” Brianna said, very softly. “Go to sleep, Lizzie; everything will be all right.”
Lizzie took leave to doubt that, but said no more, lying back down and breathing quietly. It was a very long time, but at last Brianna’s long body shuddered gently and relaxed into sleep. Lizzie couldn’t sleep—with the fever gone again, she was alert and restless. The single quilt lay heavy and damp on her, and with the shutters closed, the air in the tiny room was like breathing hot molasses.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Lizzie slid quietly out of bed. Keeping an ear out for any sound from the bed, she crept to the window and eased open the shutters.
The air was still hot and muggy outside, but it had begun to move a little; the dawn breeze was coming, with the turn of the air from sea to land. It was still dark, but the sky had begun to lighten as well; she could make out the line of the road below, blessedly empty.
Not knowing what else to do, she did what she always did when troubled or confused; set about to make things tidy. Moving quietly about the room, she picked up the clothes Brianna had so violently discarded, and shook them out.
They were filthy; covered with streaks of leaf stain and dirt, riddled with bits of straw; she could see it even in the dim light from the window. What had Brianna been doing, rolling about on the ground? The instant the thought came into her head, she saw it in her mind, so plain that the notion froze her with shock—Brianna pinned to the ground, struggling with the black devil who had taken her away.
Her mistress was a fine big woman, but yon MacKenzie was a great tall brute of a man; he could have—she stopped herself abruptly, not wanting to imagine. She couldn’t help it, though; her mind had gone too far already.
With great reluctance, she brought the shirt to her nose and sniffed. Yes, there it was, the reek of a man, strong and sour as the smell of a rutting goat. The thought of the wicked creature with his body pressed to Brianna’s, rubbing against her, leaving his scent on her like a dog who marks his ground—she shuddered in revulsion.
Trembling, she snatched up the breeches and stockings, and bore all the clothes to the basin. She would wash them out, rinse away the reminder of MacKenzie with the dirt and the grass stains. And if the clothes were too wet for her mistress to wear in the morning…well, so much the better for that.
She still had the pot of soft yellow lye soap the landlady had given her for laundering; that would take care of it. She plunged the breeks into the water, added a finger’s dollop of the soap, and began to work it into a scummy lather, pressing it through and through the fabric.
The window’s square was lightening. She cast a stealthy glance over her shoulder at her mistress, but Brianna’s breath came slow and steady; good, she wouldn’t wake for a time yet.
She looked back to her work, and froze, feeling a chill colder than those that came with her fevers. The thin suds that covered her hands were dark, and small black eddies spread through the water like the ink stains of a cuttlefish.
She didn’t want to look, but it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen. She turned back the wet fabric carefully, and there it was; a large, dark blotch, discoloring the cloth just where the seams crossed in the crotch of the breeks.
The rising sun oozed a sullen red through the hazy sky, turning the water in the basin, the air in the room, the whole spinning world, the color of fresh blood.
41
JOURNEY’S END
Brianna thought she might scream. Instead, she patted Lizzie’s back and spoke softly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. Mr. Viorst says he’ll wait for us. As soon as you feel better, we’ll leave. But for now, don’t worry about anything, just rest.”