Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Donag’s cackle makes me jump, and I yelp like a startled child.
She only grins, eyes flicking from the amulet to the candle, then back to me with a tut-tut.
“Look at your precious wee charm.”
I stiffen. “It’s a spell. To take me home.”
She shrieks with laughter, wheezing by the time she catches her breath. “Who told you such nonsense?”
“Are you saying I can’t cast my own spells?” I press on, sidestepping the question. I have to know if I’m on the right track, or if I’ll need an actual witch to help me. “Is it because the magic isn’t in the chant but in the person who recites it?”
She studies me, calculating.
I can’t let the opportunity pass. I need to find out all I can.
“Please,” I beg earnestly. “I just want to understand. There’s no harm in telling me, is there?” I add a little flattery for good measure. “It’s incredible, what you do. You’re so powerful. I’ve never met anyone so…” I let the pause linger. “Formidable.”
She takes the bait. A smirk crooks her mouth, proud and satisfied. “Power flows thick in my family’s blood.”
I make a mental note. Sorcery runs in families.
“What if someone isn’t born with power? Could they still cast a spell?”
“A person can recite all they like, but if there’s nae magic in their blood, then it’s just a waste of breath.”
To cast a spell, you need at least a little inherent power.
I quickly press another question, eager to capitalize while I can. “What about the moon? Does it have to be in a certain phase?”
“Every bit helps. If the season is right, or the moon is ripe, or if you’re in a place of magic.”
That confirms what Callum’s told me already.
“So it’s like cooking,” I muse. “The more ingredients you add, the stronger it gets.”
She nods, and it’s not one of the impatient head-jerks she usually gives me. It’s gratifying. Almost as though she no longer believes me a complete idiot.
I stupidly let my guard down, joking, “Though the kitchen isn’t exactly a magical place. I was talking to one girl who—”
Sudden fury distorts her face. “Who did you speak to?” When I don’t answer right away, she snaps her fingers. “Out with it.”
Her quick change jolts me, as startling as a thunderclap on a clear day. “I didn’t tell anyone anything. I’m not that stupid.”
“Are you nae?” She snatches the amulet from the floor with a scowl. “Then explain this foolishness. Who taught you to make this?”
“It was Margie. But I didn’t give her any details, I swear.”
“That huddy?” Rolling her eyes, she throws the amulet to the floor. “She’s dim as a new moon on a cloudy night. Charms will get you naught but scorched fingers.”
I keep my face blank, but inside I’m spiraling. “Maybe you’re just scared I’ll figure out how to cast spells for myself.”
“You?” Her face goes mock serious. “And a pig might whistle.”
Her mockery is a cold wave of reality. I stare at my charm for what it is—child’s play, as ridiculous as a Harry Potter Halloween prop. I sigh deeply, hope hissing from me like air from a dying balloon.
I can’t give up. I need this.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Then you help me.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she says blandly.
“Please. You can. I’m begging you.” I get to my knees and shuffle toward her.
I’ve got nothing left, not even my pride.
Startled, she backs up a step but I keep scooting closer.
“I need to get home. I didn’t do anything.
I’m one of Janet’s victims, too. Do you think she loves me?
Me disappearing isn’t a punishment for her.
She probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.
Or if she has, she’s probably relieved.”
“Get up.” Donag glares down at me. “Even Janet’s too proud to beg.”
I scamper to my feet. “So you’ll help me?”
“I am helping you,” she snarls. “I put a roof over your head. Food in your bowl.”
“I mean help me get home. Why do you want to keep me here?”
She curls her lips into an exaggerated frown. “Think you can just appear then disappear? The Campbell would set my head on a pike if another lass vanished from under him.”
“But. No.” The words come out pathetically weak. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I thought Donag had warmed to me, that we’d reached an understanding and maybe she’d help. “I thought—”
“Stop.” Her voice lashes me, cold as iron. “Enough whinging. Forget where you came from. This, here, now”—she waves her hand, taking in the cottage—“this is your home.”
“But I don’t want to be here.”
She sucks on her teeth, gaze scouring me from head to toe. “I dinnae want you here neither, trust me.”
This disdain, this feeling of not being wanted, the familiarity of it hardens me.
“I don’t care what you want,” I say, finding my voice. “I’ll figure it out, with or without your help.”
Her voice plunges an octave, booming, “You?” The room grows dimmer as she steps toward me. “You’ll do as I say or swim in the bog.” She nudges the amulet with her foot, muttering, “Unbiddable lass. I should’ve guessed—blood will tell.”
Blood will tell. Is she saying I’m like my mother?
Am I?
The question haunts me for days. Every time I see Donag, her words echo in my head. This is your home. I can barely stand to be in the cottage. I throw myself into kitchen work, staying late, arriving early, doing anything to avoid her withering stare.
I’m lost in these bleak thoughts when Callum finds me in the kitchen one evening.
His broad frame materializes beside me, sliding next to me on the dining bench like he’s always belonged there. The moment his thigh bumps mine, it’s like a switch ignites every cell in my body.
I tell myself it’s because he startled me.
“Christ and all the saints,” he exclaims. “You’re harder to find than a hen’s tooth.”
I want to sag into him. It’s been a long, lonely, miserable time. And Donag’s renewed ire isn’t helping.
Forget where you came from.
This, here, now, is your home.
It takes two tries before I choke down my bite of stew. “If you’re looking for the cook staff, they’re up serving dinner. A special mass thing, I think. For some guy named Martin.”
For a moment, he looks perplexed. Then his expression shifts—first to realization, then amusement. “Do you not celebrate Martinmas where you’re from? For Saint Martin?”
He’s amused. I’m not.
My throat tightens. Yet another thing I don’t know. Another thing that makes me feel impossibly alone and far from home.
I stare into my bowl. “Never heard of him.” I stir my stew mindlessly. “Well, the cook should be back in an hour or so.”
An impatient sound bursts from him. “Och, I’m not looking for the cook. I came for you. You’re avoiding me, I think.”
“No,” I lie. “Not avoiding you.” My voice is tight, strangely overcome by emotion. I avoided him. But he still found me.
“Then where’ve you been? How’ve you been?”
He’s obviously just looking out for me. Checking in. I’m alone in a dangerous and foreign place, and he feels responsible for Donag’s actions.
How have I been? I want to look at him. Lean on him. Tell him everything. How I’m quaking with exhaustion by the time I crawl into my cot every night. How my stomach is one continuous hunger cramp. How despair is a never-ending weight on my chest.
My throat has ached constantly from an ocean of dammed-up tears, yet all Callum has to do is sit next to me, and my walls crack faster than spring ice.
I scoot away. Clear my throat. “I’d like to go home.”
“Aye.” He slumps against the table. “For certain you do. I’m trying.
I’ll make this right. I swear it. I learned how to find the isle—the one I told you about.
I’m not yet knowing the exact magic we’ll need, but I’ve an idea who to ask.
And I mean to ask. It’s simply”—he drags a hand through his hair—“my time is nae always my own.”
Of course he’s helping me. Probably spending every free moment trying.
“I know it’ll take time.” I give my food a stir, but the scent turns my stomach. I let go of my spoon. “I get that.”
“Then why are you angry? Is it because I let you tend my wound?” He curses himself under his breath. “That’s it, isn’t it? ’Twas inappropriate of me to let a lass like you lower yourself on my account.”
“That’s ridiculous.” My gaze flicks to his, just for a second, before jumping away. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Then what is the matter? You can tell me.” He pitches his voice to a pained whisper. “Please, Rosie.”
I pick up my spoon again, scraping at the side of my bowl, pushing the gravy into an oily puddle. Because why does he have to call me that? This new nickname, in his voice. It’s kryptonite.
Every nerve in my body crackles to life as Callum’s fingers wrap around mine. Gently, he guides my hand, setting my spoon aside. But he doesn’t let go.
I can tell he won’t until I meet his eyes.
A vital energy hums from him. I try to ignore it, but something deep inside me recognizes it. Wants to react.
My gaze lifts to his as surely as the sun rises in the sky.
He releases a shaky breath. “Has anyone given you trouble?” His expression matches his voice. A little broken, a little dark.
How can I create distance when there’s this force between us, drawing us together?
No. I’m just tired. Needy. Vulnerable. I need to dig deeper for a little longer. I slide my hand free. “No trouble.”
My skin pulses where he touched me. I flex my fingers, then dig a fist into my thigh.
I wait for him to speak. But he’s silent. Intent. A vibrating force along my side.
I make myself glance up again, and I find him waiting. His focus is complete, consuming.
“Oh, Rosie,” he murmurs, voice a low rasp. “Why do you avoid me?”
He sounds so anguished and earnest.
Irresistible.
It demolishes the last of my barriers. “It’s just…I’m upset.”
“With me?”
I shrug. “No. Not with you. Or yes. Maybe a little. Well, no. Mostly at everything.”
“Is that a yes or a no?” His eyes crinkle with humor, transforming him from roughened fighter to mischievous young man.
Mostly, it transforms me. Makes me want to laugh at myself. Lean into him. Smile along.