The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (10 page)

Leaves rustled. Branches creaked. Dappled greenish light blinded her one moment and the next caressed her in drowsy shadows. The smell of damp soil permeated the air.

Her dress was carelessly draped on a bush. As she stared at it, she remembered dancing in nothing but her underthings, calling upon long-dead female deities to share their secrets.

“God help me,” she said, though she’d long known man’s mysterious creator never bothered with women.

The sound of a twig snapping alerted all of her senses. If anyone saw her like this, covered in dried mud, they really would lock her away in a madhouse. She might belong there, but she didn’t want to go.

She waited, fighting the urge to bolt like a startled partridge. Silence stretched; when she heard nothing else she slipped into the pool, keeping close to the protective cover of long reeds. At last, convinced the sound had been caused by nothing more dangerous than a foraging bird or cat, she floated to deeper water and began scrubbing, humming an old ditty as she used her fingers to comb the last of the mud from her hair.

She’d almost forgotten her reasons for running away by the time she dunked her head for a last rinse, only to see Nicky reclining against the trunk of an oak, one arm slung atop a propped knee, a stem of grass protruding from his mouth.

“Awake at last,” he said, as calm as if they’d just sat down to breakfast.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you’ve lost what little wits you ever hoped to claim.”

He’d seen her, covered in mud like an aboriginal.

“You should’ve let me know you were there.”

He shrugged. “And miss this?”

“Turn around so I can dress.” Not bad, the casual tone she managed. She hoped it hid the mortification. After he’d obligingly scooted to the other side of the tree, she climbed from the pool and wrung out her hair. “Were you sent to drag me home?” She shook out her dress, but it was no use. It would need time with a hot iron before it would again be presentable.

“Maybe you’d prefer I bring Da here. He’d appreciate this new sport you’ve invented, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure he’d join us for a swim.” Though the day had grown sultry, a shiver ran down her spine as she fastened the top two buttons at her throat.

After a long moment, he asked, “What happened?”

She frowned at the ragged earth where she’d dug up piles of mud. “I don’t know. I never know.”

“Did you swoon?” His voice was carefully neutral.

While she could usually hide her bouts of explosive rage, there was no way to disguise the fainting spells. The only warning came in a blinding flash of light and a piercing stab of pain through her left temple. Time and awareness fell away into a fathomless hole, leaving nothing but shadows, echoes of voices, and lingering vertigo when she woke. So far, only Beatrice, and once, Nicky, had been present when it happened. Morrigan lived in fear that one of these swoons might overcome her when she was in town shopping, walking along the shore, or serving guests their dinner.

After the third spell, Beatrice told Douglas, and suggested Morrigan should see the apothecary. But Douglas, squinting at Morrigan contemptuously, said she would “grow out of it,” and a doctor would be a “waste of coin.”

“No,” she said. “Not this time.”

Nicky sighed. She heard him rip up a fistful of grass. “I mind him carrying you around on his shoulders, calling you his ‘wee mouse.’”

Douglas, carrying her, giving her a nickname? She couldn’t imagine such a thing. Anyway, it hardly mattered. He hated her now.

Robins warbled overhead. A pair of dippers swooped down to splash beneath the baleful eye of a goosander.

“You can come out now,” she said.

When he did, he gave a derisive laugh. “Bloody Christ. Here….” He brushed, rough-handed, at her skirt, but soon gave up, shaking his head. “It’s no use. I swear, when he sees this….” His gaze landed on her jaw. He frowned and put two fingers on her chin, turning her face gently. “Bastard.”

“Is it bad?”

“Swollen. Bruised. You’ve had worse.” He paused. “Will you visit me in Edinburgh?”

“Take me with you.”

He kept his regard steady. “Da would have me thrown in prison if I did that.”

“But, after you’ve set yourself up, why couldn’t I come on my own? I could cook and clean. I could find a fee. Laundry, or sewing. If he comes searching for me I could hide.”

He hesitated, gnawing at his lip. “Why d’you give him so many reasons to beat you? If you’d wait till you’ve finished your chores before you run off to the moor, you could be happier. Then he’d ignore you.”

“My chores are never finished. You know that. You don’t care what happens to me. All you care about is yourself and your own freedom.”

His heavy black brows knotted. “That’s not true. You can’t live with me because I don’t have a clue what’ll happen, or what my life will be. I’ve never been to Edinburgh. No doubt I’ll struggle, for a while at least. I can’t be
fashing
over you as well as myself.” He dropped his gaze to the ground, scuffing at the mud with the worn toe of his boot. “I can’t thole this anymore.”

Washed in guilt, she said more gently, “Aye, you’re a man and can make your own way. Of course I want you to go. I’m envious, is all.”

“I do want to bring you with me. I’ll try to think of a way….”

“Perhaps another lad will solve the problem.”

“Well.” He grinned and cocked a brow. “I’ll not tell all I know about that.”

“What? What d’you know?” She grabbed his arm.

His smile was satisfied and mocking. “I know what lass one of my best mates is so taken up with the fool can scarce speak of anything else. I almost broke his nose over it.”

“Is it—”

“I’ll betray no confidences.”

“You wouldn’t say a word if—”

“Come, jo, time to face your punishment.” His expression gave nothing away as he asked, “Has that unicorn let ye keek it yet? All silver-white… standing beneath your window?”

She couldn’t help laughing. “You know I haven’t, because I haven’t the eyes of a madman.”

“Speaking of madmen,” he drawled, “I’d suggest you make certain Da never sees that mark on your neck.”

Her cheeks grew hot as brushfires. “Aye…” she said weakly. “That’s good advice. We’ll be brave, won’t we?”

“We will.”

* * * *

Like the fields he ploughed, Douglas’s face was deeply furrowed. It was a testament to over fifty years of strife and labor, of the fight to survive. Though grey now dominated, his hair and beard had once been deepest black, or so Isabel claimed. The one feature on Douglas that never seemed to change were his eyes— for as long as Morrigan could mind, they had been as cold as a winter sea. She could hardly remember a time when they hadn’t sent fear springing through her.

He was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea when she and Nicky returned. Beatrice was there as well, and Aunt Ibby. Morrigan made a downcast apology, speaking faintly around the lump of terror in her throat. Douglas’s gaze flickered over her then veered to her brother. “You were sent to bring her home, not play in the mud,” he said. “Where have you been all this while?” He paused only an instant before jerking his head at the door. “Go and wait for me in the barn.”

This was his well-worn method of letting his children know they were about to be whipped. But Douglas hadn’t touched his son with hand nor lash in years. Nicky was nearly twenty-two, far too old to be punished like a misbehaving wean. Morrigan watched her brother’s face whiten. “What are you on about?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. His hands clenched though he kept them at his sides, and the air nearly crackled with threat.

“You’re right.” Douglas rose. “It’s her punishment to take. Be off. Do whatever you please.” He shrugged, grabbed Morrigan’s arm, and began pulling her to the door, his grip tightening as she tried to free herself.

“Stop it.” Nicky’s jaw worked. “You’ve already blackened her jaw. Beat me then, if you must beat someone.” Grimacing, he lowered his head and went out, striding across the close.

Morrigan didn’t have the courage to tell her father what a monster he was, though the words shrieked inside. She wanted to tear his face open with her nails, but she could only stand, frozen, disbelieving.

“What are you doing?” Ibby was no coward. She got right up in Douglas’s face. “You can’t mean to beat Nicky.”

He turned from her and went out the door, not bothering to reply.

“No!” She went after him, grabbing his arm. “He’s a grown man. It’s humiliating!”

“Get off me, Isabel.” He flung her hand off his arm.

“Beast! You’re an inhuman, uncaring beast!” She stopped and stood, wringing her hands. “You don’t deserve to have children!”

There soon came the distinct crack of a leather strap against skin. Ibby returned to the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

“You enjoy listening?” Beatrice said coldly to Morrigan, who remained by the door.

“He does it to punish me,” she said.

“Your mischief brought this about, aye. Maybe he thinks it’s the only way you’ll learn.”

Morrigan ran from her aunt into the close, stopping outside the half-open barn door.

She heard six sharp cracks, followed by a strangled gasp, and imagined herself ripping Douglas Lawton’s eyes from their sockets, hearing
him
scream. Feeling
his
blood pour, warm and sticky, over her fingers.

Douglas came out, scowling as though the lashing had only increased his anger. There was so much hatred there, in his eyes, on his face.

She wished she could explode, leaving nothing but a mess of blood and slivers of bone.

“Tend your brother,” he said, and walked away.

She ran into the barn. Nicky lay on his stomach, unmoving. For one instant, she thought he might be dead. The strap marks crisscrossed his back, red and swollen. A few were bleeding. They seemed an enigmatic roadmap, leading the way to some dismal place no one with any sense would choose to go.

“Nicky?”

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Stretching out next to him, she wiped tears from his cheek with her thumb.

Beatrice brought a bowl of warm water, clean cloths, and her special deadening liniment. Morrigan cleaned the welts and applied the ointment.

Dust motes careened through shafts of light. At last Nicky put his hands in the straw and pushed up. Using one of the wooden beams, he dragged himself to his feet, releasing a harsh sound of pain and almost losing his balance as he reached down for his sark.

Morrigan grabbed it and gave it to him. She rose, putting her shoulder under his arm.

His face was different. There was no light in his eyes. Always generous with smiles, his mouth now lay flat, tight and colorless. Douglas had extinguished his merry spark, what she’d loved most about him.

The rage that had sent her to the forest reared again, but this time it twisted inward like a bitter poison.

“I’m going,” he said. “Tonight.”

She covered her mouth with her hand.

“I’ll send for you.” His teeth grated and he shook his head. “Be careful until I do.”

He draped his sark over his shoulders, grimacing.

No beating on earth could have matched the one Morrigan proceeded to give herself in the dusty barn. Which was, no doubt, her father’s plan.

CHAPTER SIX

THE HONEYED SCENT
of woodbine floated through the open window, bringing memories of lost summers, of wrapping barley into fat droopy stooks and Nicky carrying her
cockerdecosie
around them. Morrigan leaned against the casement and observed her world.

Peewits chirped and a hidden dove cooed. The sun peeked over the roof of the barn, throwing peach-stained streaks across a cobalt sky. In the meadow, Leo kicked, snorted and shook his black mane. With a half-rear and a whinny, he raced to the stone wall and carved a trench in the soil with one gigantic hoof. The more sedate old mare, Widdie, ignored her restless companion as she ripped up mouthfuls of grass.

Such a peaceful scene offered encouragement after the
dreich
weather of two days ago, when the skies had wept for Nicky.

He’d slipped out like he said he would, in the night. When Douglas discovered it, he’d raged through the house, cursing his son, his daughter, the rain, the crops. Morrigan had hidden, frightened yet triumphant. This was one time events hadn’t bowed to the cruel bastard’s demands.

Douglas let her know he blamed her by pointedly leaving whatever room she entered, sometimes with a disgusted growl.

She had seen her brother off, pressing her hoarded two shillings into his hand, and a packet holding three thick sandwiches, for he was always hungry, and one of her books, to keep him company on the train, and finally, the unicorn he’d carved for her tenth birthday. He’d stood for several moments in the doorway, his forehead pressed to hers, before he sighed, kissed her, and went off into the night.

She pictured him arriving in Edinburgh, looking for a place to stay, maybe starting his fee with the newspaper. He’d planned to go anyway, after the harvest. Now Papa would have to hire a strong lad or two to help him get the wheat and barley in, unless he added that to her chores as well.

“You’re lucky to be gone,” she said. As for his promise to send for her, she wouldn’t let herself hope.

Thankfully, there were no travelers to be perturbed by the shouting and tension. She would finish the laundry and hang it in the sun to dry. Beatrice planned to roast a chicken or two and would expect her help. Today she would try to be what Nicky had so often advised: quiet and industrious. It might help soothe Douglas’s anger.

Not a hair lay out of place nor a crease marred her skirts when she finished her toilette.
Nick is well away
, she chastised her selfish grief.
No one will ever lash him again
.

With a firm pinch on each cheek to coax some color, she descended to the kitchen, where her aunts were slicing leeks and peeling potatoes.

Ibby gave Morrigan a sad, subdued glance and patted her hand. “Good morning, sweet,” she said when Morrigan bent to kiss the older woman’s soft, wrinkled cheek.