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“What happened?” The first words out of Helena’s mouth upon pushing open the door of the dingy dram shop. “You were supposed to be following him.”
Rogan rose from a chair, pipe clenched between his teeth, his gaze flicking over Elisabeth. “Should she be here?”
Helena’s dark eyes flashed. “My grandmother thought it best for her to be at her new husband’s deathbed.”
Elisabeth caught back a gasp, her hand tightening on Madame Arana’s.
Rogan shot her a comforting shake of his head. “Here, now, it’s not as bad as that. Lyddy’s in with him. He’s sleeping.”
“What happened, Rogan?” Helena asked.
He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Douglas slipped his leash. I spent a half day crisscrossing this blasted city before I picked up his trail. He’d hidden his magic well. There was barely a trace to follow. I finally found him near Meath market covered in blood and out of his head with battle magic. Said he’d been set on by an Amhas-draoi but managed to knife him before he escaped.”
“Devil take it!” Helena muttered. “All I need is Douglas killing one of the brotherhood for this whole scheme to unravel.”
“Let me see him,” Elisabeth interrupted, lifting her chin, squaring her shoulders.
Rogan hesitated.
“Now, please,” Elisabeth asserted with chilly authority.
“Aye, of course. He’s upstairs.”
Rogan led the way, pushing through a curtain at the back of the room, the rest of them following. Down a narrow passage, out a back door, up a rickety flight of stairs.
“How did he get away?” Helena demanded.
“He wasn’t up to much talking, but I caught the word ‘chase’ and what I thought sounded like ‘naked man,’ at which point he passed out.”
“Did you say ‘naked man’?”
“Could have been ‘baked ham,’ or mayhap ‘wicked plan.’” Rogan scratched his head as Helena sighed.
“You did well,” Madame Arana said, a gentle hand upon the harper’s shoulder.
He shook his head. “If I’d found him before the brotherhood, we’d have saved ourselves a peck of trouble.”
He tapped at a door that opened on a tiny young woman, her eyes darting from face to face, her hands wrenched into her apron.
“I’ve brought the help I promised, Lyddy.” Rogan motioned to Elisabeth. “And the man’s wife.”
Relief visible in her face, the woman opened the door, ushering them into a shabby little room. The only light coming from a tallow candle upon a battered table. Beside it, a plate held a gristly piece of fat swimming in grease and some burnt potatoes. “I tried feeding him, but he wouldn’t take nothing, so I gave him a sleeping draught. It seemed to help for a bit, but now he’s moaning and thrashing as if he’s got the devil after him.”
Brendan lay restless upon a straw-filled mattress, a grimy blanket over him. Sweat plastered his hair to his head, his shirt to his chest where he labored to breathe as if he were running. He was awake, his staring bloodshot eyes locked on some invisible scene, neck muscles taut as he hissed, “Freddie, damn it, just do as they ask.”
Freddie?
A memory nagged at the back of Elisabeth’s brain as a shiver of apprehension licked over her skin. “It wasn’t laudanum, was it?”
“Aye, it was. I’d a little from an apothecary what . . .” Lyddy’s words trailed off as she noted Elisabeth’s troubled expression. “Was that not right to do?”
“Laudanum makes him ill,” Elisabeth explained, crossing to crouch beside Brendan, a hand upon his forehead.
Lyddy’s brows snapped low, her chin jutting forward in a belligerent frown, hand on one hip. “Well, how was I to know? Rogan shows up with a man half dead and says nurse him. I did what I could. I did my best. What do I look like? A surgeon?”
Helena studied her with a bloodless twitch of her lips. “I don’t think anyone would mistake you for that.”
Not to be outdone, Lyddy eyed Helena with a sharp, catty gaze. “At least I’ve got me a man. From what I’ve heard, you’ve naught but cobwebs between your legs since that fellow of yours up and died.”
