Roderick’s mouth flattened. He looked as if he wanted to protest further; instead he blew out a breath. “Fine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rose and asked, “What’s she looking for? Does she ken what ails ye, lass?”
Gillian nodded. “Aye, she does. But we don’t know what to do about it.”
“Well?” he asked, when Gillian was not forthcoming.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, face leaning on his fist so that his mouth was hidden. His eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Gillian glanced at Rose. Her sister nodded encouragingly.
“We believe I’ve been cursed.”
Her uncle said nothing. His normally ruddy skin paled.
“Uncle Roderick?”
“Cursed?” he sputtered. “Who would do such a thing, and why?”
Gillian shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Roderick sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. “This is terrible tidings. If there is aught I can do to help, pray tell me.”
Gillian squeezed her uncle’s hand in appreciation. It was unsettling to think she held the key to punishing the person responsible for her mother’s murder but could not recall it without nearly killing herself. The witch who’d done this to her must be very powerful, for this was no simple spell. Gillian was not a witch herself, but she remembered her mother performing complex spells and still being skeptical that they would work as she’d hoped. Lillian MacDonell had counseled that magic was dangerous and should never be dabbled with, for many spells had unintended effects, and even the most conscientious witch couldn’t predict all of them. That was another very important reason to stay away from the dark arts. Curses and black spells let loose evil in the world and were just as unpredictable.
Roderick leaned forward, his dark blue eyes intense. “In the hall you said a name—Cinnie. You said you were talking to her. I know of no Cinnie at Lochlaire. Could that have aught to do with the curse?”
Gillian shrugged, her mind shying away from the name. “I-I know not.”
Roderick rubbed his lips thoughtfully. “Rose, is there something you can give her to suppress the pain so she can think of it?”
“No,” Rose said shortly.
Roderick glanced back at Rose. “What are you looking for in those?”
Rose let the manuscript she leafed through flutter shut. “Mother had a grimoire . . . it was also a sort of diary. She left it to me with all the rest, but as she did no healing, I rarely look at it. She worked in charms andspells, so perhaps there’s something in it about breaking curses.”
Roderick mulled this over for several minutes before standing. “I’m not a witch, but if you find a task for me, let me know.” He leaned over to buss Gillian’s cheek. “Rest, love.”
When he was gone, Gillian looked shyly at her betrothed. He’d been very protective of her, as if she already belonged to him. As if he truly cared. It did strange things to her belly.
He still leaned on his fist, but he looked troubled, frowning meditatively at Broc.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking . . .thisis the reason so many innocent people burn.” He dropped his fist to his thigh and straightened, turning his hard black gaze on her. “People like your mother.”
Gillian’s brows drew together in confusion. Had Rose’s medicine muddled her head? “What do you mean?”
“Just because we don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it’s witchcraft.”
He didn’t believe. And so he thought this was a bunch of foolishness. A flush stole up Gillian’s throat, from both anger and embarrassment. Rose shook her head condescendingly but remained uncharacteristically quiet.
“How else can you explain what is happening to me?” Gillian demanded. “Surely a real ailment wouldn’t strike only when I think of certain things?”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right—if this were asickness of the body. But what about a sickness of the mind?”
Gillian wilted against the pillow. Such a thing had not occurred to her, but hearing him say it, as well as the resigned way he looked at her, made her pray itwasa curse and that she was not going mad.
“I’m not insane,” she said, but her voice was strained and unsure.
