Patrick smiled, then looked at Oliver. “Then I suppose you’ll live another day. Have you fed her suitable things? And how was it you two met? I missed that answer.”
“You missed it,” Oliver said pointedly, “because you didn’t ask, not that I would have answered for fear I would frighten her by admitting that you had been chasing me all through the forest, threatening to slay me, and I’d run directly through that faery ring in the grass and into her time.”
Mairead realized her mouth was hanging open, but she shut it when Patrick winked at her.
“I had nothing better to do that morning,” he said with a shrug. “Hunting a wee fool like this one here seemed like a decent bit of sport.”
“My nephews do that to each other,” she managed. “Though I don’t think they intend to slay each other.” She paused. “Not all the time.”
Patrick laughed, Oliver shook his head, and she wondered how it was she would ever go back to a life where the souls around her were so full of bile that they rarely smiled. Ambrose did, of course, because he was a sunny lad in spite of his sober nature. Her niece and other nephews smiled as well, true, but they were young and still full of life and curiosity. Her father, in his time before her mother had died and he’d been wounded, had been a cheerful man in spite of the burden of leading the clan.
Perhaps they needed to find another minstrel who played in tune with a bit more success. It might make evenings less torturous, at least.
And that, she realized an hour later, was the last gloomy thought she’d entertained. It came as a surprise to realize she’d passed a morning in pleasure. Patrick MacLeod was a delightful man with a dry sense of jest that left her laughing more than shehad in years. He seemed to take an especial delight in poking at Oliver which earned him half-hearted glares and dire threats muttered under the breath. And if most of the conversation revolved around the worst things both she and her uncle had eaten—to Oliver’s satisfyingly displayed horror—well, simple pleasures were a man’s daily delight as her father always said.
What she did know was that for the first time in years, she felt safe.
And happy.
Patrick rubbed his hands together suddenly. “Best get her back home, lad,” he said. “Before she’s missed.”
Mairead couldn’t argue with that, though she wished she could have given that home was not where she wanted to go. She wasn’t one to shy away from difficult things, though, so she helped Oliver pack up his gear, shook her head at him one last time over the blanket he made a valiant effort to brush off, then shook hands with her uncle before he made her a slight bow and walked off toward the forest.
She walked with Oliver up the meadow to the doorway, though she couldn’t find anything to say and he seemed to have the same problem. He stopped a pace or two away from the faery ring, then looked at her, silent and grave.
“Thank you for coming,” he said finally.
She nodded. She knew she had to go and she knew with equal certainty that she shouldn’t come back. The thought of that was terrible, perhaps because it was so unexpected. Who would have thought that a book would have gotten her into so much trouble?
“Ta-rah, Oliver,” she said with as much of a smile as she could muster.
“Safe home, Mairead,” he said quietly.
She had one last look at him, beautiful not-a-duke lad that he was, then turned and walked through the gate.
She heard it close behind her, so she didn’t bother to turn around to see if Oliver had been closed on the other side.
Well, she only took five steps before she glanced over her shoulder, but she thought that showed a remarkable amount of restraint. She found nothing there but meadow and a storm brewing, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.
A half hour’s slow walk home, however, left her facing things that were definitely not ordinary. She had no idea where the disturbance had started, but her clan was in a complete uproar. ‘Twas a blessing she was accustomed to slipping along the edge of things to keep out of the sights of those with too little to occupy their time, for she gained the kitchens without trouble and put herself in a useful spot for remaining unmarked. If that allowed her to watch the doorway, so much the better.
She was somewhat surprised to find Cook standing next to her a few moments later, his brow creased as if either his stew had turned out poorly or he hadn’t slept well the night before.
“Trouble afoot,” he said in a low voice.
“What sort?” she murmured.
“Officious looking man from down south,” he said with a frown. He glanced at her then. “Hunting witches, he is.”
She felt something very unpleasant slide down her spine. “Why here?”
“Prides himself on being thorough.”
No doubt. She shared a silent moment of disgust with him, then decided there was no reason not to see for herself what sort of madness was being combined. At least there was space enough at the back of the hall where she could have her look without being marked.
Cook hadn’t erred with his judgment of the chaos that seemed to be multiplying with every voice adding itself to what could scarce be called a conversation. She found Ambrose and his weesiblings and sent them off to the kitchen with a look that her nephew received with a nod. They would be safe enough.
For the rest of the clan, she wasn’t as confident. Her father was sitting in his usual place, staring at things only he could see. Her uncle Lachlan stood behind him with his hand on his elder brother’s shoulder. She spared a brief wish for Patrick MacLeod to have been standing there as well, then turned to the rest of the madness on display.
