It took her a moment to catch her breath, but when she did, she moved hesitantly back to the desk. She couldn’t read the words. They were strange, another language that she didn’t recognize. Over and over the same words were written—a hundred times or more. Gillian’s breath wheezed in her chest. What was happening to her? She snatched all the papers up and threw them in the fireplace. With shaking hands, she started a fire and watched them burn. At the last moment she snatched one out of the fire and slapped at it. She must show it to Rose. Her sister would understand it.
She sat on the hearth, hands over her mouth. Why would she write such things? She’d been writing to her sister, and then she didn’t remember anything. The theriac. The cold. The aching throb in her temples, making her stomach churn. What had Stephen said?If you took some poppy juice, mayhap you’d not only be able to bear the pain . . . but be able to step away from it.
She lowered her hands and stared at the burning parchment, the edges glowing red and curling. Was it a message? A spirit trying to contact her? She looked down at the partially burned parchment on her lap, willing herself to understand the letters, but they meant nothing to her. Only one word was familiar.Nave.But in context with the rest, she could only suppose it meant something else in some strange language. What of her dream? Had it been a dream, or a premonition of thingsto come? That she might end up haunting the cliffs, just like Catriona?
As Gillian sat there, thinking, she remembered the other dreams she’d had, of the man beside her bed, begging her forgiveness.He made me do it.Of the servant, repeating the same actions over and over, as if caught in some horrible loop.
Gillian put the parchment facedown on her writing table and threw on her heavy velvet dressing gown, hooking it as she hurried to the great hall. Several servants turned toward her, startled. It was late, the wee hours of the morning.
“Where is Sir Evan? I must see him at once.”
Someone pointed toward the courtyard. The enormous double doors to the great hall stood ajar. Gillian ran to them and slid through the opening. Sir Evan stood just outside the door. He turned toward her and stepped back in surprise.
“My lady! What are you doing out here? You should be in bed.”
He grabbed her arm, trying to turn her back toward the doors, but she pushed him off. “I’m fine! I must talk to the man on the gatehouse—the one that dropped the ballast.”
Sir Evan’s face went slack. “I’m afraid that’s impossible—”
“What do you mean, impossible?” Her voice rose in anger and anxiety. She’d not gotten a good look at the man on the tower that the men-at-arms had been fighting with, but as she’d raced through the castle, she’d felta strong certainty it was the lad who’d come to her bedside to weep.
Sir Evan opened his mouth, then closed it in a thin, flat line. The muscles of his jaw bulged and hardened. He stepped aside, giving her full view of the courtyard and gates. She heard the slow creaking of the rope before she saw the boy. His limp form hung from the gates, feet swinging lazily in the breeze.
The air rushed out of Gillian, her knees weakening. “You hanged him? Why did you hang him?”
“He tried to kill you, my lady.”
“What evidence have you of that? I am unharmed! It could have been an accident!” But she knew it hadn’t been. Someone had made him do it.
“It wasn’t.”
“Did he confess?”
“Aye, he did.”
“And did he tell you who made him do it?”
Sir Evan started violently. “What?”
“He told me someone made him do it! Who?”
Sir Evan only stared at her, eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible, my lady. You could not have spoken to him. We hanged him immediately after.”
Gillian’s hand went to her mouth, and she sank to the ground. She sat on her knees, staring at the figure on the gate. The courtyard was silent except for the obscene creaking. Sir Evan’s hand was on her arm, lifting her to her feet.
“Come, my lady, you’re distraught. I’ll fetch Gilchrist.”
As he led her through the castle, she noticed several of the servants making the sign of the horns as she passed, warding off evil.
Gilchrist attended her shortly after with his little vial of theriac.
“No,” Gillian said, pushing it away. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Aye?”
“I’m afraid. . . . I can’t write now—please, send word to Glen Laire. I need my sisters. Tell them to come.”
His bushy gray brows drew together, clearly worried the ballast had addled her brain, but he nodded. “Aye, my lady, I will.”
