The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (60 page)

“Where have you been?” Seaghan demanded. “I thought you frozen solid somewhere.” He tore off his coat, hat, and muffler, shaking snow on the floor.

“Nowhere in particular. Come warm yourself. Have you been to see the lass?”

Seaghan choked and sputtered as he tried to swallow tea and speak at the same time. “She’s better. The doctor called it a miracle. It’s true. I saw for myself.”

“Good.” Aodhàn appeared pleased but not surprised.

“What have you done?” Suspicion lifted Seaghan’s brow.

Aodhàn’s answer was low. “Probably nothing. There are things beyond our ken. Things we can’t sort or explain.” His gaze lifted. “No doubt Eleanor saved her. She’s a good midwife. But I had to do something, so I walked. Now Morrigan is better. That’s all that matters.”

“Aye, that’s what matters.” Seaghan held Aodhàn’s gaze. “She has another chance, and I’ll do whatever I can to help her take it. No matter the cost.”

* * * *

“You had a lass, just as you predicted.” Curran lay next to Morrigan and perused his daughter as if he was slightly afraid of her. He ran one finger over her diminutive fist. “Do I sound sure of myself?”

“As always,” Morrigan said.

“I was a
bit
fashed.” He kissed the baby then Morrigan on their foreheads, tender kisses with hints of relief. “To be honest about it.”

Morrigan hadn’t realized how frail the child would be. Why, she couldn’t even hold up her own head, and she was so infinitesimal, like the most fragile of dolls. It was disquieting.

“Rachel’s been nursing her,” Eleanor said. “She’s willing to go on doing so, if you’d like.”

“Can I? Is it… is it possible?”

“Oh, I think so,” Eleanor said, grinning her approval. “I think your milk will come if you work at it.”

With the help of Diorbhail’s advice gleaned from her own premature child, the mother guided the wee hungry mouth to her breast. “Livvy,” she murmured.

She searched for signs of deformity or illness and found miniature perfection. But the baby was so frighteningly small, her skin translucent. Sometimes her lips and fingers turned blue and she was still so wrinkled. The danger wasn’t over.

They’d kept Olivia wrapped in clouds of wool, near the fire, for such a wee babe could hardly be expected to generate any heat of her own. For the mother’s sake, they performed the protection spell again, placing Olivia in the specially prepared basket, filled with freshly baked bread, chunks of cheese, and folds of clean linen. They held her above three lit candles. Then they shared the bread and cheese, which promised good health in the coming year. A sense of continuity, of belonging, made Morrigan’s spirit soar as she joined in the old Highland ritual.

Time ceased to matter as mother and daughter cuddled, day after day, in the great bed. Warm nape, milky breath, and satin skin. Delicate heartbeat and the clutch of toy fingers. If they could remain here in the bed together, Morrigan thought she would be content until the day she died.

No one had prepared her for this losing of herself. Her entire substance… bones, skin, blood, and heart, clear down to her intangible soul— all now belonged to Olivia Therese Ramsay.

“Be strong, Livvy,” she said, again and again.

Was this the elusive love she’d always desired? No. Somehow she knew this was more. Love was for men and women, for misty sunrises and Chopin. This was consummation. Deliverance. Every feeling she had ever experienced was barren counterfeit.

She kissed each perfect toe, laughing at how they lifted and stretched. Men couldn’t do this, could they? Of course she should be sorry for them. They couldn’t begin to comprehend what happened to women through the growth and emergence of their children, but they knew—
they knew
— it was wondrous. It was the most powerful thing on earth. Maybe that was why they made such a business of shackling females. Now she saw it for what it was, a pathetic dominance born from envy.

Woman was man’s only pipeline to this joy, to this exquisite love for one’s own offspring. That’s why they fought it, ridiculed it, and pretended it didn’t exist.

They fear we’ll win back our power
.

Diorbhail had said that, long ago in Stranraer, to a Morrigan who no longer existed, a child throwing her fists at life as though it were glass she could shatter.

She finally understood not only the words, but also the rage that had glittered from Diorbhail’s eyes.

Thinking of what Diorbhail had suffered,
still
suffered, made her tremble with an answering swell of fury. She wanted to find the bastards who had thrown rocks at her. She wanted to bring an army, an army of females, like Queen Boudicca’s, and send Diorbhail’s tormenters fleeing in terror. She envisioned finding the boy who had run down Diorbhail’s child with a horse, and doing the same to him.

Unless a woman was properly married when she bore a child, she was outcast, turned into a whore— that ugly word branding women who gave men what they most desired. The innocent child was condemned along with her, of course. Yet men suffered no ill effects whatsoever when the seed they carelessly planted grew fertile. Males enjoyed unspoken freedom to experience and enjoy however many women they could, and move on to the next.

When would it change?

Never, if men had their way.

* * * *

Eleanor urged various healthful concoctions upon Morrigan and ordered her to remain in bed. “I’ll delay it as long as possible, but you’ll have to be kirked again, like you were when you married. This time, it will cleanse you. Until the kirking, whatever you touch is tainted.”

“Tainted? How? Will I hurt Olivia?”

Eleanor snapped open a napkin and tucked it into Morrigan’s neckline. Balancing a bowl on her lap, the midwife scooped broth into a spoon and held it to the mistress’s lips. “No. You misunderstand. A new mother is unclean in God’s eyes until purified by prayer or other customs. She’s to stay in bed and touch nothing until her kirking. She can do neither work, nor cooking, nor visiting. We Catholics have an entire ceremony for it, but you’ll only have to go and walk round the kirk with the other women of Glenelg, then attend the regular service.”

Morrigan snorted. Eleanor tried to maintain a sober demeanor but when Morrigan began to laugh so did she. They laughed until tears ran from Eleanor’s eyes and Morrigan was looking down her nose, saying pompously, “Females are unclean,” in a fair imitation of William Watson.

Olivia’s fist closed around her mother’s index finger.

Unclean, for bringing this marvel into the world? Aye, indeed, the envy was clear to see.

“I think I was wrong about Aodhàn Mackinnon,” Eleanor said as she wiped away her tears.

“Why?”

“He’s walked deiseal around Kilgarry every night since you went into labor. I saw his face in the light of the brand he carried. He honors the old ways, from before Christianity.”

At Morrigan’s bemused expression, Eleanor said, “If a man walks round a property in the same direction as the sun, holding a lit brand in his right hand, it casts protection over all inside. Doing it after a woman gives birth protects both her and her newborn from faeries and evil spirits. Someone should tell Agnes and Diorbhail about this. It might make them look more kindly on the man. Anyway, it’s thanks to him that I don’t fear putting off your cleansing and Olivia’s baptism.”

The image of Mackinnon walking round and round Kilgarry in the dark, in the bitter cold of February, simply to provide her and her child with supernatural protection, moved Morrigan profoundly. Several times she dreamed of watching him from her window seat, of him turning up his face to hers as he passed beneath the window, his gaunt cheekbones thrown into relief by the flaming brand.

During one of the few afternoons she was left alone she extracted the ring from its hiding place.

Why did this trinket seem so familiar?
Gaol mo chridhe
. She wished she could ask someone what
chridhe
meant, but no one would tell her without asking why she wanted to know.

“Morrigan. You’re up.”

She nearly squeaked. Her fist closed around the ring and swept it behind her as Curran came in.

“What?” he asked, taking in her expression. “It’s only me.” He grinned. “Did I catch you looking at a naughty book?”

“No, but I would appreciate something to read. That is, if you think my touch won’t pollute it.”

The weather finally relented, allowing Ibby to come from Mallaig. She was inconsolable at having missed the birth, though Curran told Morrigan he was glad. “It was harrowing,” he said, “and I’m not quite sure her constitution would have survived it.”

Morrigan remained cloistered until March was waning. By then, she was so sick of being cooped up that even the idea of the kirking wasn’t enough to keep her hidden any longer. Leaving Olivia in Diorbhail’s care, she went off to Glenelg and walked around the church as Eleanor and the other village women watched, then downed the dram of whisky they handed her, and magically, she was cleansed.

The pews were crowded. This time, William Watson said nothing suggesting disdain for Kilgarry’s mistress. Afterwards, Morrigan was admired and exclaimed over, praised for the way she’d fought off death’s embrace. Childbearing was a chancy thing. To see recovery gave everyone cause enough to celebrate, though there remained a pall of anxiety over wee, frail Olivia.

Rachel confided that Padraig had made a coffin shortly after Olivia entered the world— that’s how certain they all were she would expire. She shed a few tears over the poor babe, weightless as a feather, and so weak she could hardly manage to make a sound. But now, Rachel said with assurance, she no longer feared. Olivia would survive.

Diorbhail had said the same thing. But it was Eleanor’s promise Morrigan most wanted.

Seaghan’s grin revealed how pleased he was that she’d overcome the dangers of childbirth. “I see Mackinnon didn’t come,” she said, when Curran’s attention was elsewhere.

He shook his head with a rueful grimace. “But he promised to attend Olivia’s baptism, and he’s no’ one to break his word.”

Curran returned to Morrigan’s side, laughing at some quip made by Malcolm Campbell. “Come to dinner tonight,” he said to Seaghan. “And bring that moody recluse who lives with you. I feel like celebrating, and Morrigan’s been shut in with only Eleanor, Diorbhail, and me. She seems to appreciate the both of you, though I cannot fathom why.”

“If you let us bring the main course,” Seaghan insisted, and they shook hands on it.

* * * *

“To Glenelg’s newest father.” Aodhàn touched his glass to Curran’s before sipping his whisky. Curran glimpsed no animosity in the fisherman’s face or tone. Still, he couldn’t quite vanquish an interlacing of anger and bewilderment. The man had helped Morrigan, but….

He discreetly studied his wife, searching for any betraying gestures between her and this tall, quiet man he’d always considered a spiritual brother, though he didn’t know why.

Morrigan left the piano and joined the men who stood chatting before the fire. Dimples appeared when she smiled. There was a beautiful blush of color in her cheeks, showing how far she’d come in her quest to regain her health after that terrifying fortnight when he’d nearly lost her.

Placing a hand on Seaghan’s forearm, her fingers caressed, perhaps unconsciously, as she described Olivia’s angelic expression while sleeping that afternoon. Then she blushed and apologized for being one of those tiresome, obsessed mothers.

“You’ve truly returned to us,” Seaghan said, voicing Curran’s own thoughts. “You’re the picture and pinnacle of health.” He covered her hand with his own. “When I mind how sick you were, and I look at you now, I can hardly credit my own eyes. You’re bonny, Morrigan. Bonny as a West Highland sunset. You’ve become a
bean-uasal
, a true Highland lady.”

She blushed again, ill at ease as usual when receiving compliments. “Come and sit,” she said. She and Curran settled on the loveseat, while their guests took the matching armchairs.

Curran rested his arm along the back of the loveseat behind Morrigan. When she smiled at him, he ran a finger over her cheek.

He stole a glance at Aodhàn, but the man was staring at Morrigan’s portrait on its easel by the fireplace. Curran inwardly cursed, having completely forgotten about that when he’d brought them in here, thinking only that this was one of Kilgarry’s warmest rooms.

Yet, as the laughter and conversation continued, Morrigan paid scant attention to Aodhàn. No more than she paid Seaghan, and every bit as inoffensive.

Maybe she
had
only been trying to make him jealous at Michaelmas. Damn her, she’d succeeded, and he was ashamed of his weakness.

Seaghan though, was puzzling. His voice audibly gentled when he addressed her. His eyes revealed the pride of a father or husband. Curran observed the phenomenon as Morrigan began telling a story. All three men watched her, never interrupting, as though whatever she said was the height of wit and wisdom. Aodhàn kept his features guarded, but Seaghan’s lay guilelessly unmasked. He was obviously, openly, happily enraptured.

Curran caught himself wondering if Seaghan could be his true rival, and almost laughed. He feared her affections straying like a rutting stag whose favorite doe was in season.

“Aunt Ibby and I went exploring the first time Curran brought me to see Kilgarry,” Morrigan was saying. “She got tired and wanted to rest, and I left her. The hills were covered in mist. I felt I was walking in another world. It was completely quiet; there wasn’t even any birdsong. In Stranraer it was never quiet. There were always folk about, carriages, ships coming and going, and the train. In a way, the silence was frightening. It made me feel someone was watching.” She paused. “Then I heard something. You’ll think me daft, that’s why I’ve never told anyone.” Giving them each a challenging glare, she said, “Bagpipes. It was the saddest sound. And I heard a woman singing.”

“Could you make out the words?” Seaghan asked.

Curran propped his cheek against his palm, captivated by her voice, the lash-shadows, the habitual restless gestures she made with her hands, and her mobile expressions.