Isobel gasped and this time inserted her body in the doorway when Effie tried to close it. “What do you mean? Gone?”
“I didna even remember him or that place until he turned up at my door—and I dinna welcome the memories now! There was a reason I forgot.”
The door latch was digging into Isobel’s ribs, and Effie was pushing at her, trying to shove her back through the opening, but Isobel held fast to the doorframe.
“You don’t understand. Your father is a chieftain, your family has mourned your loss for twelve years—how can you deny them—”
“Mourned my loss?” Effie hissed, coming close to Isobel now, eyes so fierce she resembled Philip. “You know nothing. Now go away!”
Strengthened by her anger, she gave Isobel a hard shove, dislodging her from the doorway. The door slammed before Isobel could say another word, and she heard the bar drop on the otherside, locking it.
Isobel stared at the door incoherently, her mind a blank wall of panic. What now? Where could Philip be? How would he react to Effie’s denying him? Had he lost faith in Isobel? Decided she’d led him astray? That she was a charlatan? Or had this been the final blow to his dream of finding his sister?
She started to turn away from the house when she caught sight of something caught in the door. The towel Effie had been wiping her hands with. Isobel grabbed it and tried to pull it out of the door, but it was stuck. She fumbled about in her skirts until she found her knife. She sliced a hunk off the towel and carried it back to Gillian.
“From where I was standing, it didn’t go well.”
Isobel shook her head, stuffing the piece of towel into her satchel.
“What is that?” Gillian asked.
“Something for me to look at—but not now. Now we have to find out where Philip and Stephen are.”
“She didn’t know?”
“She denies that she’s his sister.”
Isobel was suddenly afraid. She had dragged Gillian far from home, and they were alone as they’d never been before. And Isobel did not know what to do. They stood in the street with people milling about them. Gillian watched her, waiting patiently for her to reveal her great plan for finding Philip.
Finally, Isobel said, “I can’t imagine Philip giving up so easily. I’ll wager he’s still here somewhere, trying to decide how to approach her again.”
Gillian raised a dark brow. “So what do we do? Go to every inn and alehouse until we find him?”
“Aye, I think we must.” She felt better for having a plan. They found a public stable and boarded their horses. The day wore on, one stinking alehouse dissolving into the next. They visited scores of public houses that day. At each one Isobel went through the speech she’d practically memorized by now, describing Philip and Stephen.
It was full dark when she stood before the ostler at the White Hare, one of the cleaner establishments, and finished up her description with, “They might also be with a third man—he’s not as tall as the other two, but he’s big. Red hair and beard.”
The ostler shook his head. “No, Fergus hasna been here.”
Isobel started to turn away, dejected, then realized she’d never mentioned any names. “How did you know his name was Fergus?”
The ostler hesitated, then said, “I was told, if a big redheaded man named Fergus came looking for them, I was to send him up.”
Isobel and Gillian exchanged excited looks, but the ostler shook his head. “They gave no instructions on sending anyone else up. And the young one, he’s in no condition for trouble, lassies, so get you gone.”
Isobel caught the ostler’s arm as he tried to turn away. “No, we mean them no harm—we’re—we’re family. We’re their sisters. We’ve been looking everywhere for them.”
The ostler frowned. “Well, it’s just the one now. I do fear he’ll be wanting some family close soon. The other was killed or he left, or some such.”
“What do you mean?” Isobel cried, her voice rising. “One was killed?”
Gillian took Isobel’s hand and squeezed. “Just take us to our brother, I pray you.”
The ostler led them up a flight of narrow steps and down a dark narrow corridor. He hammered on a door at the end of the corridor, and, when no one responded, he tried the latch.
“He’s not always in his head, ken? And he canna get up to answer the door.”
It was dim inside, a single candle lit near the bed. The small window was open, letting in fresh air. Isobel followed the ostler across the room. An anguished sob clogged her throat as she stared down at the man on the bed. He lay on his stomach, shirtless, bloodied linens piled on his lower back.
