Page 7 of Fletcher

Will you stay with me?

Aye, lass. For as long as you wish.

The echoes of the voices in her mind fell silent at last, and breathing became easier. She let the breeze from outside cool her hot face as she swallowed one last sob. She’d given herself a headache, or jarred the wound, judging by the steady pounding at her temples, and pain pulsing down her neck. Worse, she’d wasted her wish on something that should never again happen to her. Wasn’t her disaster of a wedding day the final proof of that? No one could love her and escape whatever it was that snatched away or killed everyone that mattered to her. She wasn’t followed by the jinx, Lark thought, she was the jinx.

I’ll live.

When the door opened again she composed herself and wiped away the tear tracks before turning around to face a red-haired young woman, slender and tall, carrying a bundle of clothing and a bucket of steaming water.

“I’m Meg, the laird’s chambermaid,” the younger girl said in an accent slightly different than Fletcher’s. “Seneschal bid us help you, Mistress.”

Lark went over to take the clothes from her, and then stepped back as two older women came in carrying more buckets, which they placed near the hearth. A third young man carried in a large metal tub, which he put down next to the buckets before he bowed and then left with the two women.

“’Tis a shame you spoiled such a fine gown,” Meg said as she began pouring the buckets into the tub. “Once you’ve removed your garments, place them in the basket there and we’ll launder them. Need you my aid undressing or bathing?”

She wanted her to take a bath, Lark realized. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

“Och, you speak like our lady, then.” The chambermaid eyed her with a slightly softer expression. “Dinnae fret. The MacMar, they’re kind, and doubtless the laird’s wife shall befriend you.”

Lark wondered why these people would even care to make the effort. “Are they like that with everyone who drops into the bay?”

“Wearing that ring? Aye.” She took a small, corked crock from a cabinet and held it up. “Soap we use for bathing. ’Twill clean the salt from your hair as well.” She set it by the tub. “The linen atop the pile, ’tis for drying after your bath. You might soak while the water’s still hot.”

“I will, thank you.” Lark watched her bob and go, and then started to untie the laces on the back of her gown. After pulling her arms from the sleeves and working the bodice down to her waist, she took hold of the side seam to ease it over her hip. Without really knowing why, she ripped it open down to her knee. The sound of the tearing fabric and threads ruined all her handwork, but proved strangely comforting.

Stepping out of the ruined mess seemed the same as shedding a thousand pounds.

For a moment she considered flinging the remains of her wedding gown into the fire, but instead folded it up and placed it in the basket. Because she had nothing else to wear she dipped one of the buckets in the tub, filling it so she could soak her lingerie after she took it off. Seeing the water gave her a momentary flashback to being on her back in the fountain, aware she was losing consciousness, convinced she would drown.

No. I’m alive, here and now, wherever this is. I got another chance. I won’t make the same mistakes again.

Carefully stepping into the tub, Lark sat down, took a deep breath, and then leaned back. The water embraced her, just hot enough to make her whole body relax, and it smelled faintly of roses. A good, long soak would help chase away the headache.

I’ll live.

Chapter Three

Morning turned to afternoon at the promontory cliff house in Aberdeen, but Fiacail, the shape shifter pretending to be Rona Haig, remained abed. Somewhere else in the house belonging to her dead husband, Magnus Haig, the Fae enchantress Derdrui was amusing herself with yet another mortal male. From the fading pitch of his screams, which not even two pillows over her head could block out, he would soon die. The sovereign would then summon Fiacail to keg whatever remained of him, drive the cart out to the bog, and dispose of his remains, which promised to become the only peaceful hour she’d had of late.

Since Derdrui had escaped a prison in the Fae Elphyne otherworld to return to the mortal realm and again seek vengeance against Clan MacMar, peace and quiet had dwindled to fond memories.

“Gods.” Fiacail didn’t believe in them, but as she cast aside the pillows she wished to. “End me.”

As leader of the half-Fae Cait Sith, Fiacail had done much to serve the enchantress who had taught them how to live with their strangeness. Because she and her many sisters had been born to mortals after being sired by a Fae Therion shape shifter, their existence disgusted their full-blood Fae cousins. Long ago before her imprisonment, however, the enchantress had overcome her aversion to gather them and reveal their otherworldly abilities, and teach them how to use their talents so they might better live among mortals. Like Derdrui they could change shape at will, although first they had to kill and drink the blood of those whose forms they wished to use.

In return for the enchantress’s kindness, they had pledged to serve Derdrui for the rest of their immortal lives. Yet the cost of that vow had become heavier by the day, for their sovereign cared for nothing but finding and murdering the half-mortal sons of the Fae elemental prince who had betrayed her.

The clan had been in hiding for well over a thousand years. All that the Cait Sith knew thus far was that the MacMar dwelled on an enchanted island guarded by some species of merpeople somewhere beyond the mainland. No one had ever found the place, and many of those who had tried in the past had vanished, never to be heard from again. Their first battle with the MacMar had cost the lives of two of their sisters, and injured five others, some permanently crippled.

I should run away. Far away, mayhap to Albany or Francia. I might kill a princess or duchess, and live in splendor.

The bedchamber door suddenly flung open, crashing into the wall beside it, and a broad figure marched over to hover at the side of the bed. The faint odor of salt and raw fish came from her skirts, which bore small blobs of slime and a spattering of scales. Some years ago this Cait Sith had slain and replaced the widow of a fish monger in Aberdeen, and still shifted into her corpulent, unsightly form when troubled.

“Do you mean hide in here all the day, then?” Speal demanded.

“I escorted the sovereign to the dock tavern last night so she could seduce that strapping sailor now wailing. It took until near dawn.” Fiacail rolled away from her accusing gaze. “’Tis your turn mind her.”

“I did, for as long as my belly wouldnae heave. Derdrui wishes take the boat out before nightfall. Again, with half our sisters yet unhealed from the last battle with those MacMar facks.” Speal kicked the bed post. “Attend our princess, or so help me Gods, I shall send Dearg.”