There were several more items in the box, but everything Isobel touched gave her the same image, that of a thick, silvery mist, resisting her efforts to strip it away.
“I’m sorry,” Isobel said. “I don’t understand it . . . I rarely have this much trouble.” She laid a hand on her flat stomach. “Perhaps it’s because I’m with child? I have noticed some difficulties recently . . . but nothing like this.”
“It’s not the baby.” Rose had been watching from the end of the bed, silent until now. “Someone with knowledge of all our gifts has gone to great effort to hide something.”
“You think these garments are cursed, too?” Sir Philip asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.
“Not a curse . . . just a spell. One we might be able to unravel a lot easier than Gillian’s curse. Mother wrote some about countering spells, though not a concealingspell such as these, but I think, if I study it more, I might be able to counter it.”
Alan combed his fingers through his gray beard, his mouth pursed thoughtfully. “You’re a healer. You don’t do spells.”
“Aye, but you do, Da. So I’ll need your help.”
Their father wasn’t a powerful wizard, but he did have some skill, as well as the uncanny ability to know before a child was born whether it was a lad or a lassie.
Alan sat up straighter against his pillows, his face glowing with purpose. “Aye, let’s do it.”
As disappointed as Gillian was that Isobel’s effort had proved fruitless, she couldn’t help but be pleased that unraveling the spells gave her father a sense of purpose he’d lacked for many months now. His determination to see his daughters married to men of his choosing was nearly accomplished and no longer required any effort from him. He’d turned over the entire running of Glen Laire and his other estates to Uncle Roderick, and now he did little but answer correspondence and lay in bed, wasting away as he waited to die.
Rose settled herself on Alan’s bed, spreading her books out around them.
“Is there something I could do?” Gillian asked.
Rose shook her head. “No. We don’t know if something we say or do will trigger your pain. You just stay well and keep your mind free of it for now.” She gave Gillian a grim look. “The day may come when you’ll be forced to think on it. I want you strong for that day.”
Gillian nodded, subtly frightened by her sister’s words but unwilling to show it. She crossed the room, drawn by the silvery glow and cool breeze spilling through the open window. She stood at the window, staring at the nearly full moon, her mind filled with fear and wonder. Theremustbe a method to break a curse.There must.She was afraid, yet it vexed her that whoever had cursed her had achieved their ends. This was what they wanted, her fear and reluctance. She resolved to be strong and brave and do her part. After all, she was a real MacDonell now.
Stephen’s cane echoed hollowly on the wooden floor, drawing nearer. Gillian turned with a welcoming smile. Stone benches were built into the wall on either side of the deeply recessed window, creating a small alcove. Stephen lowered himself onto one of the benches to catch his breath.
His mouth curved self-consciously. “Sorry. It tires me just to cross a room. But Rose says if I do her wee exercises I’ll be better in a few months, though I’ll never lose the limp.”
“Many men limp, and it hinders them not.”
“Aye. Sometimes the pain is unbearable.” He stared down at his hands folded over the top of his cane, golden lashes hiding his eyes. “And I take poppy juice. Rose gave me some, after, but told me I mustna keep using it, else I’d go mad from it.”
Gillian sat beside him. “Are you still using it?”
He shrugged, his charming grin back in place as he slid her a look. “Och, no. Never mind me, babbling on, I am. The reason I mention the poppy juice is becausewhen I take it not only does it ease my pain greatly, but I’m not myself. At times I feel . . . detached from my body.”
Gillian sensed he was doing more than sharing his experience with poppy juice, and she didn’t like this description. Other than for the surcease of pain Stephen required, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to feel that way.
“I was thinking,” Stephen went on, “that if you took some, mayhap you’d not only be able to bear the pain . . . but be able to step away from it.”
“My thanks,” Gillian said softly. “That’s a fine idea.” Though she really didn’t think so. She’d been given poppy juice once years ago and had no desire to repeat the experience. She’d had horrible nightmares.
“You’ll need someone there, of course,” Stephen continued. “Once you take it, you may find you dinna care much about magic and curses . . . or anything much anymore.”
He stared hard out the window, his jaw set, blue eyes icy hard.
Gillian put a hesitant hand over his, folded on the cane. She sensed that his injury caused him far more than physical pain.
He looked down at their hands for a moment, then grinned at her, shaking off whatever dark emotion had momentarily possessed him. His eyes shifted to look past her. He nodded to something behind her.
“Yer man is here.”
Gillian turned to see that Lord Kincreag had entered the room. He stood near her father’s bed, but hewatched her and Stephen with a narrow, assessing gaze. Gillian removed her hand from Stephen’s.
“You look recovered,” he said when she joined him, his impassive black gaze passing over her. He was as darkly handsome and subdued as always in his black attire, unrelieved by a ruff or bit of lace. Gillian wanted to undo the silver buttons of his doublet and loosen the small collar of his white linen shirt so he did not seem so hard and implacable. She couldn’t now, but one day she would be able to touch him without fearing rejection.
