Broc whined softly and wiggled closer. Gillian put her arm around the dog and laid her head on his, her eyelids heavy.She was a witch.
Rose’s pacing stopped. “Oh, Gilly, I forgot I’d given you the infusion. You sleep. We’ll talk more later.”
She pulled the bedclothes around Gillian and Broc, and Gillian drifted to sleep, her last conscious thought that she was not mad but a witch. What would Nicholas think? She feared he’d prefer madness.
When she finally woke, the sun had set. The room was bathed in purple hues, and a single candle flickered on the nearby table. Gillian stretched luxuriously. Her headache was gone. Something very warm pressed against her side, and when she pulled back the covers, she was amused to find Broc had not left her. The doglifted his head and panted, so that he looked as if he were smiling.
She slipped on her shoes and went to her father’s chambers, Broc at her heels. Hagan ushered them in, grinning cheerfully. Gillian smiled back at the enormous Irishman, his rare good spirits lightening hers. Isobel sat beside their father’s bed, Sir Philip and Stephen Ross were at a table nearby, playing cards. Rose was across the room, in front of the fire, reading one of her manuscripts. Everyone was together again. Gillian savored the moment, knowing how ephemeral it was and how quickly things change, always with such finality.
“You look much better,” Isobel said. She rose and embraced Gillian. Sir Philip came to greet her as well, pecking her on the cheek. Stephen stumped over, leaning heavily on his ebony cane, and gave her a heartier greeting, embracing her tightly. “Glad to see ye well.”
Stephen was friend and companion to Sir Philip. Several months ago he’d been beaten and shot in the back, and Gillian had been pressed into nursing him. In that time they’d become fast friends.
“Stephen,” Gillian cried, clasping his shoulder and staring down at his legs. “You’re walking!”
He looked exceptionally well, considering the severity of his injury and the fever that had followed. He’d lost weight due to the fever, but already the thickness of his shoulders had returned, and the hollows of his cheeks did not seem so pronounced. His long, golden hair had been cut so the deep gash in his head could bestitched and tended, but he’d apparently chosen to keep it shorn, as it was still cropped close to his head.
“I wouldna call it walking, exactly.”
“I would.” Gillian smiled warmly at him before settling herself on her father’s bed.
“How are ye, lass?” Alan asked, gripping her hand and studying her face.
“I feel better, thanks to Rose.”
Alan scratched his dog’s head but frowned when Broc moved away to position himself next to Gillian. “Methinks he likes you better.”
Gillian shrugged helplessly. “It’s the oddest thing. He won’t leave my side since this morning.”
“Huh.” Alan eyed his dog. “Then he’s yours. If you want him, that is. He obviously wants you.”
“Thank you, Da,” Gillian said, pleased with the gift.
Alan smiled benevolently, quickly reconciled to his dog’s abandonment. “Now, to more important matters. Rose told me everything.” He shook his head slowly, brows raised. “I never knew, love. Your mother never told me you spoke with the dead. Useful magic, that.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know either?” Gillian wanted to think back but was afraid to. She would let it be for now, but eventually she would have to force the memories, regardless of the consequences.
“That’s what we’re going to find out tonight.” Alan gestured to Isobel’s husband. Sir Philip fetched a wooden casket, about two feet long and a foot deep. He laid it across Alan’s legs. Alan opened the lid and removed a child’s striped smock.
“Your mother kept certain things that belonged toyou lassies. She’d put them away and not let anyone touch them.” He gazed at the garment sadly. “You ken she was like Isobel, she could divine things from touching an object. She always made sure she had objects belonging to all of you, so she could watch over you in her own way.”
Alan handed the smock to Isobel, who’d removed her kidskin gloves moments before. Looking at her older sister, Gillian’s chest hollowed. She’d been ten when Lillian MacDonell had died, but her image was burned in Gillian’s memory. Isobel looked just like Lillian. Fine, fair skin, curly, copper-blond hair, silver green eyes, delicate and ethereal as a fairy.
Isobel took the smock and rubbed it between her palms, eyes closed. Sir Philip had risen from the table to stand at his wife’s shoulder, watching her anxiously. He was an exceedingly comely man, with longish, chestnut hair and whisky-brown eyes. Gillian knew from Isobel’s letters that though Philip accepted his wife’s magic and her need to exercise it, he was uneasy about it, always fearing she would harm herself or get caught by someone bent on burning witches. To ease his mind, she only did it in secret, helping people surreptitiously.
Isobel frowned and rubbed at the cloth vigorously. Her fingers skated along it until she touched the large horn buttons. She gripped these in her fingers, but her frown only deepened.
She opened her eyes. “What else is in there?”
“You saw nothing?” their father asked.
Isobel shook her head, perplexed. “Well, I wouldn’t say nothing . . . it’s as if there’s a mist . . . it has color,silvery gray. And I can’t see through it. Very odd. The only other time I’ve seen such a thing was the letter you sent me, Da, the charmed one, in which you tried to hide your illness from me.”
Alan frowned at the smock uneasily, then removed another item from the box, a piece of parchment covered with childish scrawl. “A letter you wrote me once, Gilly.”
Isobel passed her palms over the slightly discolored surface, eyes closed again, coppery-blond lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. The small vertical line appeared again between her brows, and she opened her eyes.
“The same.”
