“If ye’re not busy, that is…” His gaze moved behind her to the table, where she’d been composing her letter to the Wizard of the North. Rose froze, her gaze darting from the parchment lying innocently on the tabletop back to her uncle. He moved fast. He was around the bed and at the table before her.
Rose tried to snatch the letter, but he grabbed it first. She ended up ripping it, and in the end, she had nothing to show for it but a ruined letter, which her uncle was now reading. Rose watched him, sullen, as he scanned it, his brow furrowed, and resigned herself to the impending tongue-lashing.
When he looked up from the letter his face was grim. “What did I tell you? Did I not warn you to cease writing this man?”
“You’re not my chief yet.”
Red suffused his neck. “But Iamyour uncle.”
Rose had never been one to back down from a fight, especially when it came to one of her patients, and this was no exception. She did not fear her uncle. Beneath it all she knew he loved her and her sisters, but of late, he’d been especially hard on her.
She took a step forward so they were nearly toe to toe. Though a big man, Roderick was not tall. He stood but an inch or two above Rose’s height.
“I am a healer—healing is what I do.” She gestured helplessly at the bed. “But I can do nothing for my own father. This man can help. I will not stop writing him because you are afraid of witches.”
Though Roderick tried to remain stern, his blue eyes were merry with the effort to contain a smile. Finally it burst forth and he shook his head, chuckling. “Afraid, aye? And here I am, surrounded by them.” His smile faded and his eyes grew serious again. “It’s not the wizard I’m afraid of, but the trouble he’ll bring.”
“I don’t care about that.”
Rose turned away, but Roderick grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him again.
“You should. He is a hunted man. His own clan has turned against him. They say he can change forms—turn into wolves and such, and has familiars. It’s said he goes nowhere without a demon rat.”
Rose made a dismissive sound and rolled her eyes.
Roderick’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Nonsense it might be, but the fact remains people are talking, and they are frightened of him. It takes less than that fora burning. He’s too dangerous. I have heard, too, there is a witchpricker traveling the Highlands, searching for work. If he gets word the Wizard of the North is here at Glen Laire, where do you think he will travel next, aye? Would you really bring this upon your family in these times?”
Her jaw tightened.These times. They were bad times. Burning times. At one time, only the king could burn a witch—legally, but witches were often lynched and burned anyway. Rose’s mother was the perfect example of such a transgression gone unpunished. Five years ago, the king had granted commissions to any body of men in any village, giving them the power to try and burn witches. Churchmen and villagers had wasted no time rooting out suspects and singeing the air with pitch and fire. There was still no end in sight.
And that was exactly why there was no time to lose. What if Lord Strathwick were lynched as her mother had been? The urgency of the situation descended on Rose with renewed force. She could take care of herself, and her sisters had able husbands. Bringing the wizard here was an acceptable risk. This traveling witchpricker need never know a thing. But there was no convincing her uncle of this.
She let out a defeated sigh and nodded, eyes averted.
Despite twelve years apart, in the few months they’d been back together her uncle had gotten to know her relatively well.
“I mean it, Rose. Ye’ll not convince me so easily. No more letters, understand?”
She glared at him, which seemed to be what heexpected from her. He nodded and went to the door. He turned back, his hand on the latch, and asked pleasantly, “Ye’ll be up to tend my Tira, aye?”
Rose managed a curt nod.
When he was gone, her father’s guard, Hagan, entered, his heavy brow creased apologetically. “I’m sorry, lass. Roderick just told me I was not to aid you anymore.”
The enormous Irishman had been helping her smuggle the missives to Lord Strathwick out of the castle so they could be given to travelers heading north. Hagan stood at the door, dark head lowered, thoroughly sheepish.
It seemed there was nothing left to do but fetch the wizard herself.
Rose found her sisters in the great hall. They were both seated near the largest fireplace at the west end. Isobel’s gloved hands were extended out before her, draped with wool yarn. Gillian rolled the red yarn from Isobel’s hands into a ball, gray eyes on something in the corner that only she could see.
“Well, dear, whatisthe last thing you remember?” Gillian asked the empty air.
Isobel watched the corner avidly, as if she might see something materialize.
“Any luck with the bairns?” Rose asked, sitting on the bench beside Isobel.
The ghosts of two wee lassies haunted this hall. They’d been spotted on occasion by servants, laughing and playing, but when someone got close they always disappeared. Gillian not only saw them all the time but spoke to them, too. It hadn’t always been this way forRose’s sister. Someone had cursed Gillian after their mother was burned, and she’d only recently regained her ability to communicate with the dead.
Gillian ignored Rose for a moment, soft gray eyes intent on the corner, apparently attending to something the ghost children said to her. She was as lovely and perfect as always, in a green silk gown draped with a red-and-green arisaid. Thick sable hair was pulled away from her face, the glossy curls packed into a jeweled caul. The perfect countess.
