He placed a hand to his chest, cocking his head from side to side, much as the owl had, before striding to the table where he slowly and with great care worked the open scroll into a tight roll and placed it inside the wooden box.
With the box under his arm, he crossed to the great fireplace, only feet away from her hiding spot.
Brie concentrated on maintaining her silence, picturing herself in the trees on a hunt, invisible to her prey.
His hand moved from one stone to another below the mantel until at last he pulled one stone free and shoved the box into the opening, before returning the stone to cover any trace of the hiding place.
Again he paused, his head swiveling back and forth, before he turned to cross back to his restingspot. Rather than lying back down, he lifted his clothing, one piece at a time, shook each one, and quickly dressed. With one last look around the room, he lifted a hand and all the candles were extinguished at once as if snuffed out by a chorus of maids in unison.
Magic! She’d suspected it before, but what she’d just seen was proof. She’d heard her father’s stories of the MacDowylt having descended from his people’s ancient gods, but she’d never believed them.
She didn’t move, not even when she heard the laird cross the room and shut the door behind him. She waited on her little stool, realizing only after her legs began to cramp and she at last stood, that the stool was in fact a pot, apparently used as the laird’s own private privy.
An almost hysterical giggle formed in her throat, contained only with a great reassertion of self-control.
Brie continued to wait for what felt like hours, but in reality was much more likely minutes. Her sense of time was as skewed at the moment as her nerves.
At last, after she felt sure MacDowylt was well and good away, she silently stepped from behind the screen and crossed the room to slip out the door and pull it shut behind her.
Once it was closed, she leaned against it, gulping great draughts of cold air to steady her resolve before she sprinted from the tiny anteroom.
Never before had she experienced the likes of what she’d encountered behind that door.
Dinna trust yer eyes, lass. Looks can be deceiving.Her father’s warning rang in her mind as she raced down the narrow staircase, desperate to get outside the gates of this wretched place.
Never had her father’s words made more sense. For all Torquil MacDowylt’s beauty, one touch had stripped it all away, confirming what her eyes had doubted at first sight of the man.
The laird’s body housed naught but pure, unadulterated evil Magic.
OceanofPDF.com
Twenty-one
IF THERE WASanything Orabilis owned that he hadn’t spent time repairing today, Chase couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be. From the rickety fencing meant to keep her chickens out of the garden next spring to the chair turned upside down in front of him right now, the old woman had kept him busy from the moment he woke up.
The only bright spot in his day had been Christiana’s limping after him as he’d moved from one chore to the next.
Funny, how she could be both the best and the worst parts of his day. Best by virtue of her conversation and the rare reward of her quiet laughter that had made his day go by so quickly. Worst by virtue of what he suffered at her hands right this very moment.
He reached for the mug of ale at his elbow and downed a great swallow before continuing to work on strapping the chair leg.
It wasn’t fair to hold her responsible for his currentdiscomfort. He had only himself to blame for this predicament. Himself and his overactive imagination.
It had beenhissuggestion, after all, that a long soak in a hot tub would likely soothe her aching muscles;hewho had carted bucket after bucket of water from the fire to the tub in the back room; and worst of all,hisimagination that couldn’t seem to think of anything but her sitting in that tub, bare-ass naked at this very moment.
Something sounding suspiciously like a growl crawled up his throat.
“What’s that you say?” Orabilis looked up from the pot she stirred. “Is that yer stomach announcing hunger yet again?”
He grunted, a thoroughly noncommittal noise meant to allay her questions without his having to tell her an untruth.
“I’ve been out here by my ownself long enough that I’d forgotten how much a braw young lad like yerself could eat. Pardie!” she huffed, after reaching into the jar in which she kept her cooking herbs. “I’d forget me own head, I would, were it no so firmly attached.”
With an ongoing series of ever-louder grunts, she hoisted herself up to her feet and waddled over to the stack of cloth sacks she’d prepared for Christiana to take back to Tordenet with her. She quickly untied the one on top and dipped her clay jar inside, filling it before retying it and returning to her stoolby the fire to toss a handful into the bubbling porridge she cooked.
“Wait a minute.” Chase couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. “Why are you putting that in our food? Isn’t that the special mixture you prepared to send Christiana on her little vision quests?”
He’d heard of weed brownies, but this was ridiculous. Was the old woman senile?
