He closed himself up in his chambers and threw back the heavy rug. He kept his instruments beneath the floor. He drew out a bowl containing naught but a blob of wax. He lit a fire beneath it and waited for it to melt. As he waited, he withdrew the strands of curly black hair he’d retrieved from Gillian and the earl’s chambers after the bairn had returned to her father. Deidra was her name. The name meantsorrow.But the sorrow she brought would not be his. He would make certain of that. She was the one kink in his plan, the one thing he’d not anticipated.
There are bad things here…the animals are afraid, they say there is a bad man here.Childish fancies, most likely, but he had to be certain. He couldn’t have her messing things up for him. Her father might be useful, but she could be cause for concern.
The wax bubbled and swirled in the bowl. He dropped a few of the hairs in, saving the rest to place on top. He drew a razor across his thumb and watched the blood ooze and drop, mixing in with the wax. He added the rest of the ingredients and said the words. He removed the wax from the fire to cool. When it became malleable like dough he would give it form. Then she would be his puppet. No longer a threat but useful.
Peace settled over him as he waited. Events were unfolding exactly as he’d planned. Soon it would be over, and another witch would burn.
By the next morning, William had formed a plan. Perhaps not a great plan, but it was the best he could cobble together. It had been the countess’s idea, really, or at least she had been the inspiration for it. She had brought Deidra to him the evening before after feeding her and giving her a poppet.
Deidra had chattered on and on about the countess’s wonderful deerhound and how much fun she’d had with the countess, her earlier fears—to William’s relief—completely forgotten.
“She was so wonderful with Broc,” the countess said, smiling fondly at the child. “He is a difficult hound yet he responded so well to her, as if they understood each other.”
William gave her a strained smile and slid his daughter a sidelong look. She was oblivious, playing with her poppet’s curling hair. How many times had he heard those same words and thought not a thing about them? How blind he’d been.
“Forgive me,” Lady Kincreag said. “You must be tired. I ken she is.”
Deidra yawned, as if on cue.
But the countess did not leave. She tilted her head and asked, “I heard the healing did not go well.”
William shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry I could not help your father.”
“Prithee accept our thanks for your effort. You came a very long way, and we do appreciate that.”
William inclined his head.
“I wonder if I shall see him after he passes,” she mused, her large gray eyes distant, and William had surmised she was the necromancer.
“Are there many restless spirits here at Lochlaire?”
“Not many that I’m aware of. But then, I’ve learned spirits are territorial, and I haven’t been all over Lochlaire since I regained my ability. So there may be more.”
That had been the seed of the idea. Isobel and Gillian were wasted resources, and with their permission, he planned to make use of them.
When Rose came to fetch him, he told her of his plan. “Whoever is responsible has surely covered their tracks well. Your sisters are privy to information no one else is. With their help we might see what is otherwise hidden.”
“I told you we’ve already tried that.”
“Aye, but did you send Dame Isobel to sort the dirty laundry?” From the look on Rose’s face, sending her delicate sister to do such a lowly task hadn’t occurred to her. “Has she touched the dirty dishes? And the countess told me she’s not yet been all over the Lochlaire in search of ghosts. There might be more to discover yet.”
Rose nodded thoughtfully. She looked tired, her skin pale, a soft bruising beneath her eyes. She’d withdrawn from him days ago, but it had been a studied, deliberate withdrawal, likely done for the same reasons he’d withdrawn from her. This was different.
William caught her arm outside her father’s door. “What is it, Rose? You did not sleep last night? Nightmares again?”
She looked down and to the side, then nodded.
His jaw hardened, wondering if her nightmares had been brought on by his failure to heal her father. He longed to heal whatever caused her such distress, to make it all go away so that she smiled again.
“I promise, Rose, if I can help your father, I will.”
“I know.”
Her smile was small and sad as she opened the door to her father’s chambers, hollowing out his heart. She didn’t believe there was anything he could do. She’d given up.
The room was dim and quiet except for the crackling fire. Alan MacDonell was asleep; his dog was curled up beside him. Hagan sat in a chair nearby, darning his hose. He looked up when Rose entered and nodded a greeting.
“Hagan,” Rose said in a harsh whisper, crossing to the bed and picking up the sleeping terrier. It didn’t stir. “What did I tell you about this?”
