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Alistair found a basket of warm rolls on the sideboard and took one; then he wandered into the hallway again. He wanted to be present when his sister made her belated entrance. He munched on the bun, strolling down the hall toward the kitchens, and then he heard it. The sound sent a prickling chill down his back and turned the bun in his mouth to ashes.
Weeping. A child weeping.
Helen hadn’t gotten to this part of the castle yet, and there were several unused rooms off the ancient hallway. He strode from door to door until he located that forlorn sound, and then he pushed it open. The room was dim, dust motes floating in the feeble ray of sun creeping in from a dirty window. At first he couldn’t see her, until she moved and whimpered.
Abigail crouched in a corner, next to a sheet-draped settee, the puppy clutched in her arms.
He started forward slowly, not sure of the problem or if he could do anything about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wiggins sneaking from the other door at the far end of the room.
Red washed over his vision.
He had no memory of moving, no memory of intent, but when next he was aware, he had Wiggins’s scrawny neck in his grasp, and he was throttling the life from the man and knocking his head against the flagstones in the hallway.
“Alistair!”
Someone close by called his name, but he was interested only in the foul, reddening face in front of him. How dare he? How dare he touch her? He wouldn’t again. Never, never again.
“Alistair!”
A soft, feminine palm was laid against his scarred cheek. Gentle pressure turned his head. Then he was staring into harebell-blue eyes. “Don’t, Alistair. Let him go.”
“Abigail,” he rasped.
“She’s fine,” Helen said slowly. “I don’t know what he said to her, but he didn’t physically harm her.”
That, finally, was the only thing that restored reason to his brain. He abruptly let go, straightening and backing up a step. Only then did he see that Sophia and Miss McDonald stood at the bottom of the stairs, still in their wrappers. Miss McDonald had one arm around a wide-eyed Jamie. Helen stood shivering only in a chemise. She must’ve run down the stairs without even stopping to put on a wrapper. And Abigail was behind her, her face tearstained as she held the puppy in her arms.
He took a deep breath to steady his voice and asked low, “Did he touch you?”
Abigail shook her head mutely, her eyes locked with his.
He nodded and looked back to Wiggins, who was gasping for breath on the hall floor. “Get out. Get out of my castle, get off my lands, and make sure you never show your face near me again.”
“Ye’ll regret this!” the little man rasped. “See if ye don’t. I’ll be back. I’ll take that little bitch—”
Alistair balled his fists and took a step toward him. In a flash, Wiggins was on his feet and running out the castle doors.
He closed his eye, trying to regain his civilized mask, and felt little arms encircle his waist. He knelt, his eye still closed, and wrapped that small body in his arms.
“Never again,” he whispered into her hair, so like her mother’s. “I’ll never let another hurt you again. I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
The next evening, Truth Teller let the swallows out of their cage for a third time. The sorcerer had barely run from the courtyard when the monster turned into Princess Sympathy, and Truth Teller approached the cage.
“How can I free you?” he asked.
The princess shook her head. “It is a dangerous task. Many have tried and all have failed.”
But Truth Teller merely looked at her and said, “Tell me.”
The princess sighed. “If you were to do this thing, you must first drug the sorcerer. In these mountains grows a tiny purple flower. You must gather the buds of this flower and grind them into a powder. When the time comes, blow the powder into the sorcerer’s face, and he will be unable to stop you for as long as the light of the moon is upon him. Take his milky-white ring and bring it to me. Lastly, you must have ready two horses, the swiftest you can find, so that we may flee him.”
Truth Teller nodded. “I will do these things, I swear.…”
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen watched Alistair enfold Abigail in his arms, and something twisted and broke open in her heart. He held Abigail so tenderly. It was impossible not to make the obvious comparison. Alistair held the little girl like a father would. Except her real father had never held her.
