Page 93 of The Changeling

Mam and Nan had sacrificed themselves so that I might live. Their deaths could not be in vain.

I did everything I could to make Sorcha and me safe, stringing rowan berries on thread to make us necklaces and taking my hazel stick everywhere. When the moon was dark, I crept down the hill to the ruins of our cottage and scavenged anything I could find. Mam’s spinning-wheel and loom were both charred to cinders, but I found her silver needle and thimble, glinting in the ashes, and my iron pot. The big chest where we had kept our clothes had been damaged, the chemises and kirtles within singed. I put them all in a sack and took them back to the cave, where I sat night after night sewing and patching.

At first, I’d simply wanted to make the thickest, warmest quilt I could, but after a while I had realised each fragment of cloth held memories, and that I could use them to tell the story of those remembrances. It was the only way I could think of to honour my loved ones. I cut the shapes of flowers, leaves, birds and beasts out of the damaged material, carefully stitching them into place on four big quilt blocks, one each for Nan, Mam, Sorcha and me.

Nan’s block was abuzz with bees and golden with honeycomb. Mam’s square was sewn with butterflies and ladybirds and a singing bird, busy weaving a nest just as she had done for us. Sorcha’s block was pretty with all the flowers she most loved, forget-me-nots and sweet peas and cottage pinks.

And all this time, Sorcha spoke not a word and scarcely ate a thing. A pale fuzz grew over her cheeks and her forehead, spread down the back of her neck and across her shoulders, furred her nose. I did not know what was wrong or how to help her.

On the night before our twenty-first birthday, Robbie’s sister Beatrix came to the cave where we hid, led by a great flock of ravens and a path that opened before her where no path had been before. Robbie lay in a strange cursed sleep, she told me, and each morning the soles of his boots were worn into holes.

My fear for Robbie was so acute, I could scarcely breathe. I loved him, and I had, unwittingly or not, done him harm. I had to try to save him.

So back to Inchbrakie Castle we went, though every step felt dangerous.

Everything had changed in the seven years since I had last been there. The castle was dark and sorrowful, and Lady Marjorie lay dying. She begged me to save her son, and pleaded with me to grant her absolution.

‘I beg of you, absolve me of my sins,’ she whispered to me. ‘Take them from me so I may rest in peace. Please, do not let me die in a state of sin.’

I knew what she wanted of me. I knew she wished me to eat her sins. I did not want to. The thought sickened me. But there was no-one else left to do it. Nan was dead, Mam was dead, I was the only one left alive who knew the old ways.

‘Promise me?’ she begged.

And so I promised.

What harm can it do me? I told myself. I’m a faery changeling, a fiend from hell. I have no soul.

And if I do it, they will owe me. They will have to let me stay. It was the only way I could try to help Robbie.

‘Is my lady truly dying?’ the laird of Inchbrakie asked me, his face furrowed with sorrow.

I jerked my head in assent.

‘And she wants you to eat her sins?’ Lord George’s voice was full of disbelief and revulsion. ‘What sins? She is a loving wife and devoted mother, who never hurt anyone in her life!’

I looked at him steadily, my chin up and my fists clenched, unable to speak for the emotion that engulfed me. So was my mam! I wanted to rage.

But Nan had always said a good word is as easy said as an ill one. ‘I ken Lady Marjorie meant no harm, that she spoke against my mam out of fear and anger,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘But her conscience is uneasy – she longs to unburden herself. And I was taught that I must help if I could.’

Despite myself, I sounded cold and proud. So I added with difficulty, ‘Mam would want me to.’

Something in his face eased. He looked back at me. ‘And you are truly willing?’

I shrugged. ‘I need the coin.’

Lord George nodded. That was something he could understand.

‘Can I take a bowl of soup to Robbie and my sister? She has no’ eaten.’ I did not add, in days.

He gave his assent, then added, ‘I am sorry for your troubles.’

Again I jerked my head in response, my sorrow too deep for words.

‘I will need the key. To the pantry.’

‘I’ll send a boy to wake Master McGregor.’ Lord George issued a quick order to the pageboy drowsily standing by the door, then sat by his wife’s bedside, taking her hand in his. For a moment I stood quietly, gazing at the dying woman in her soft bed, her grieving children clustered about her. A good death, she would have. A peaceful one. Something my mam had been most cruelly denied. I hated them for it. But sow hatred, reap hatred. I had to find a way to plough a new furrow.

Slowly I went down through the dark, silent tower, the frail light of a single candle quavering before me, my satchel slung over my shoulder. The kitchen door stood ajar, light gleaming out. Beyond, a cavernous room, a long scarred table, herbs and game hanging from hooks, an oaken dresser crammed with pewter dishes. A big man dressed in a nightgown and furry slippers bent over the hearth, stirring something in a pot.