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“How?” she asked in a thready whisper.
“A master-mage named Máelodor.” The man he’d asked her about. The man hunting Brendan.
Every time she thought she’d gained a hold on the increasing chaos, a new piece of information turned her topsy-turvy. She latched on to the one constant between them. “You said you remembered me. That I was the face in your dreams. Even that first night you said that. How? If the life and the faces you remember are those of—”
He glared at the book as if his answers might be between the pages where his death read in four short lines. “I don’t know, Sabrina. I don’t understand. I’m as lost and confused and afraid as you. When I close my eyes I see you as clearly as if those moments between us happened yesterday. Why you see them too?” He shrugged. Drew a heavy, sorrowful breath. “Your brother Brendan knew Máelodor. Perhaps he would be able to answer our questions. Have you heard from him? Any word?”
“No.”
His gaze sucked her in like a whirling black hole. Empty of light or warmth or humanity, they were a glimpse of the eternity he’d been denied. But she recalled the gray-green eyes of her dream. Vibrant. Passionate. And was not af
raid.
He gave a bark of humorless laughter. “At least now we know why I can’t be killed. I’m already dead.”
The healer in her needed to ease his suffering. Needed to show him he was more than what Máelodor had created. Without thinking, she placed a hand upon his chest, the warmth of his body and the steady thump of his heart igniting a slow heat low in her belly. Then taking up his hand, she placed it over her heart, embarrassed at the runaway gallop drumming her insides.
Their eyes met for a long, quivering moment. “Tell me, Daigh”—she offered a shaky smile—“where the difference lies.”
“I won’t drag her into this. Not for Máelodor. Not for you.”
Daigh stalked the narrow confines of Miss Roseingrave’s parlor. Ran his hand along a shelf. Snatched a glance at the flat, charcoal sky beyond the window. Pain dogged his every thought. A dragging weight, as though his brains were being pulled down into his spine. It had been this way since he’d risen at dawn. Muscles cramping. Nerves jittery as a drunkard’s. His vision splashed in grisly shades of violence. Whatever evil lived within him woke and woke hungry.
Miss Roseingrave glared at him. “She’s a Douglas. She’s already involved whether she likes it or not.”
“Sabrina will think I betrayed her.”
“That’s not my problem. I’ve asked what questions I could of the people I trust. So far, there’s nothing connecting St. John to Máelodor other than the fact the Amhas-draoi was present at the execution.”
“Keep digging.”
“If I’m to risk my reputation in mad accusations, I need more. If Máelodor wasn’t executed, who covered it up? Where is he now? How was he able to summon a Domnuathi”—she curled her lip—“when all my sources tell me it can’t be done? Who besides St. John might be part of this conspiracy? How widespread is it?”
“You’d do better to ask these questions of St. John. Forget Douglas.” The presence glided between the chambers of his mind like an intruder. Knowing his thoughts. Feeling his fear. Thriving on his pain. He flinched, sucking in a sharp breath.
“Douglas was part of the failed Nine. The group formed and headed by his father, the last Earl of Kilronan. He’ll know.” Strolling across the parlor, Roseingrave wrenched open the door, almost pulling the figure huddled at the keyhole right off her feet. “Isn’t that right, Grand-mère?”
The hobbled, bent old woman straightened. Tossed a golden-yellow scowl at her granddaughter before shuffling into the parlor, plopping onto a sofa with a huff. “What would I know about such things as that, ma minette? Fire-starters and rabble-rousers, the whole group of them. And so I told Henry Simpkins when he sought me out with his sly good looks and his snake-oil sweet talk. Calling himself Máelodor as if that might make him seem grander than he really was. I’m too old and ugly for such tricks to work on me. I sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
Roseingrave’s eyes gleamed with tender amusement. The first glimpse of humanity in an otherwise armored exterior.
“I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to,” Daigh said. “Sabrina’s hemmed in by chaperones. There’s no chance to speak with her privately.”
“She goes out, doesn’t she? Then we go where she goes. Sir Lionel Halliwell is hosting a ball in a few days. You can corner her there.”
“How do I get in?
“With me.”
“Why go to such lengths? Why not gain her confidence yourself?”
“The Douglases don’t trust the Amhas-draoi. No doubt Lord Kilronan has filled Lady Sabrina’s head with his suspicions of our intentions. But you”—her lip curled in a cynical smile—“she trusts you. Flex a few muscles, and she’ll tell you anything.”
“Can you blame her?” Grand-mère piped up, a girlish flush to her withered features.
“Fine,” Daigh snapped. He was backed into a corner. To expose St. John he needed Roseingrave’s help. And once St. John was exposed, the rest would fall into place. The Amhas-draoi would realize where the true danger lay and Brendan Douglas’s innocence would be revealed. Sabrina would understand. “I’ll ask her what she knows, but Douglas goes free after. I want your word.”
“I can’t agree to that. What would happen if Scathach and the brotherhood discovered I let him escape?”
