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“Oh,” I say, looking away but that only brings the gathering of village women and their glares into view.
One of them mouths ‘witch’ then makes the sign of the cross. Nausea clamps my stomach tight. I want to tell them off. I want to storm down there and yell, scream, and generally throw a fit but it won’t do any good. If anything, it would only make things worse.
A scream in the distance stops any ideas of telling the women off. Alesoun and I leap to our feet, and the other women do the same. That scream sounded like a pained voice and as I look around to find a source. The sound repeats.
Alesoun and I pick up our skirts and run around the backside of her house. The sounds of rustling cloth and hard shoes follow us as the other women come behind us. A way off, dark shapes rush towards the village. What was fear dials up towards terror. Alesoun and I stop in our tracks, and I stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed, unable to speak or move.
“Are we under attack?” I ask, forcing the thought into words as numbness makes my limbs tingle.
“Are ya daft?” Agnes barks, appearing next to me and speaking with scorn and derision in her voice. “That’s our men.”
The terror in my heart doesn’t diminish but instead switches purpose as deftly as a boxer weaving around his opponent’s jabs. Our men and one of them is hurt. Badly, judging by the cries of pain. One thought pounds in my head and I give it voice.
“Duncan!”
I run. The men are distant shadows looming larger. Fear pulses in my veins, wicked cold, slicing through my heart. If he is hurt… or worse. The last words I had with him were harsh. He didn’t deserve that and what if he—Another scream stops my runaway train of thought.
“Slow down, lass,” Rob Macgregor says, grabbing me by my shoulders.
I struggle to get past him, but he tightens his grip and holds me in place.
“Let me go,” I shout. “Who’s hurt? Who is it?”
“Patrick,” he says. “It’s Patrick.”
Patrick. Not Duncan. Guilt washes in behind the sense of relief that it’s not Duncan. But if it’s Patrick and not Duncan, then where is Duncan?
I grab Rob in return.
“Where’s Duncan?” I ask, my voice is a hoarse whisper. “Where is he?”
The dreams that have plagued me are right there, dancing behind my wide-open eyes. Duncan returning bloody and hurt. Dying or close enough.
“He’s fine,” Rob says.
“How bad is he? Is he hurt?”
“No, lass, I said he’s fine. He’s a way back, bringing the herd in,” Rob says.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.
I repeat it over in my head. Breathe, Quinn, breathe. Furious with myself and this ridiculous display of emotion, I roughly grab a hold of myself, take a deep breath, and hold it. When I let it out slowly, I imagine calm and control spreading through my body. I repeat the breath again and do the same thing.
“Good, that’s good,” I say. The group of men carrying Patrick walk past on their way to the village. “I should help with Patrick.”
“What do ya know of healing?” Rob asks.
“More than you’d think. I was training to be a—” I stop myself from saying doctor, knowing that would further mark me as an outlander witch. “A healer back home.”
“Ah, no wonder you get along so well with Alesoun.”
“Right,” I say. “That’s exactly it.”
“Well, let’s be about it then. If you’n know some healing arts, Patrick will need all you’ve got and I’m sure Alesoun will appreciate the help.”
Together we run to catch up with the other men. They carry Patrick on their shoulders and straight inside Alesoun’s home. Most of the men group outside the door, muttering and talking among themselves. All of them are stained with fresh blood. I’m not sure if anyone else is hurt or if the blood isn’t theirs.
“Get some oil boiling,” Chief Johnne MacGregor barks. “She’ll be needing it.”
