Page 55 of Fletcher

She knew Duxor had promised Erskin her as his mate, and while she pitied him she had no intention of servicing him. Still, she had acquired a curious tenderness toward the cowardly creature, and suspected his allegiance to her might prove of some value. Letting her body slide against his for a moment, she touched his ghastly face.

Once we’re finished here I shall take you hunting. She tugged the strands of silver hair from his mouth and let them drift away. You must learn control the hunger.

Teach me. He nudged her palm with his face like a dog eager to be petted.

The water at the entrance to the cave thrashed with movement and air bubbles as Duxor dragged a writhing, drowning mortal male inside, and thrust him at Fiacail. She caught him reflexively, and looked into his young face. His eyes, one brown and one blue, did not match.

Kill him, Duxor ordered, and become him.

Two days after the attempted abduction, everything at Dun Ard seemed to be settling down at last. Lark nearly wept with joy when she went to the infirmary to find the seamstress awake and alert, and persistently nagging Duncan to let her return to her own bed.

“I’ve but a small headache, healer,” the older woman told him as she rose from the pallet, and stretched out her arms. “You ken I’ve no’ spewed since yesterday night. If you dinnae let me out of this privy of a chamber, I vow the smell of those weeds you’re forever grinding shall drive me mad.”

Duncan frowned at her. “You’re yet weak, and your wound doesnae heal as well as I wish.”

“I’m old, ’tis what plagues me. I vow I shall do but a bit of fine stitching in my work room,” Idonea assured him, tucking her arm through Lark’s. “My bed chamber adjoins, so I may take a lie-down when I grow tired. My apprentice shall look in on me as well, aye?”

“Of course I will,” she promised. “I’ll spend the day with her, just to be sure.”

That seemed to satisfy the healer, and he came over to wrap the seamstress’s narrow shoulders with a light shawl.

“You mustnae traipse about the stronghold, nor go up or down stairs. Bid the maids fetch and carry for you.” He regarded Lark. “Should her headache worsen, her words slur or she grows dizzy, sleepy or confused, send for me at once.”

“I will,” she promised.

“Whenever should I traipse about when ’tis work wanting finishing? Wretched man,” Idonea grumbled as they walked from the infirmary to the sewing room. “I’ve no time to wander idle, and now shallnae finish our lady’s gown for her birthing day celebration. I promised the laird I should.”

“I thought I would put on the finishing touches, if that’s all right with you,” Lark added quickly. “That way you don’t have to rush.”

The older woman sniffed. “You reckon I’ve grown too old and feeble for serving in the Hall of Makers, I reckon, but dinnae wish say as much.”

“Let me do it,” she said. “It’s the only way I can make up for what happened to you.”

“Aye, well, ’twas your jinx got me hurt.” Idonea stopped and looked ahead at all the weavers, spinners and cobblers who had stepped out into the passage, which had been bedecked with colored ribbons. “Och, what do you here?”

Lark grinned and joined in as everyone applauded.

“Cook sent a great cranachan for our brave seamstress.” Meg came forward carrying a large bowl of whipped cream and toasted oats covered with tiny fresh berries. “Brochan also bid me say he’ll send up your meals, and should you stir even once from your chair, he’ll burn them first.”

Idonea chuckled and waved at the other makers before she went into the sewing room, where Meg and Lark sat and shared some of the sweet treat with her. As they ate, the maid told the seamstress about the croft where she would be working, and together they speculated on which of the young men might prove a good husband for her.

As she listened to the two women gossip, Lark picked up the nearly-completed gown Idonea had been working on before the attack. The thin, light wool had been dyed a soft rosy shade, which would look gorgeous on the laird’s fair-haired wife. The seamstress had been embroidering the cuffs and hems with orange-colored silks, a color pairing that should have looked odd and yet didn’t. The scrolling stitches appeared to be stylized renderings of a backward letter C and a Y, which confused her until she recalled the alphabet must be quite different in this time.

She brought the garment over to the seamstress. “The embroidery is all that needs to be finished from what I see. Are these letters?”

“Aye, ’tis for the laird and lady’s given names,” Idonea said as she leaned over and poked a finger at the stitching, pointing out the two letters. “Entwined as their love. ’Twas a secret sign in the olden days. You stitched together your name letter with that of the one you wished wed.”

“Och, that old notion?” Meg rolled her eyes. “A waste of good thread, if you ask me.”

The seamstress smiled a little. “Some called the twining a charm. Never shall they love another, my mam claimed.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty.” Lark smiled at her. “Lady Valerie is going to look beautiful in this gown.”

“Aye, for she’s like a goddess in rose pink. If only we ginger lassies could wear the same,” Meg said, sighing as she looked down at her pale cream work dress. “’Tis white, green or brown for us, Mistress Lark. What I’d give for fine silks the color of the sea at noon. Och, I best go downstairs and help with the clearing.”

“Oh, I forgot to bring my sewing kit,” Lark said, rising from her chair. “Meg, can you stay with Idonea for a minute while I run and get it?”

“Aye, go on with you.” The maid made a shooing gesture.