Chapter Twelve Murieall #3
I snorted. “Gossip travels fast at this stronghold.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but ’tis mostly the lasses that have stirred it to the frenzy it’s at. They can speak of little else but how brave ye were to catch Bess, and how ye and Munro had a ‘fight that was nae really a fight.’” His lips quirked in amusement. “Their words, nae mine.”
I sighed, knowing there was no point in pretense with this very watchful man. “We quarreled,” I admitted. “About life and plans and grief.”
“Ah,” James nodded, guiding me through a turn. “Heavy matters indeed. And did ye reach any conclusions in this debate?”
“Only that we disagree on much,” I replied, though even as I said it, I wondered if that was truly the case. Beneath our apparent differences, there had been a strange resonance, as if we recognized in each other a similar wound, differently dressed.
“Time is quickly running out on yer bargain with Munro,” James remarked casually, though his eyes were intent upon my face. “Do ye think ye’re any closer to making him feel again?”
The question caught me off guard. I’d been so caught up in the day-to-day tasks of caring for the lasses, in navigating my own tumultuous feelings, that I’d almost forgotten my original purpose. “I do nae ken,” I answered honestly. “He seems to care for his daughters more openly, but…”
“But that’s nae enough,” James finished for me. “Nae to truly heal him, as I said last time we talked.” He guided me through another turn, then lowered his voice. “Have ye considered what I suggested? About listening to the voices instead of fighting them?”
I tensed beneath his hand, nearly missing a step in the dance. “I’ve thought of little else since we spoke,” I confessed.
“And?”
The music swelled around us as I considered my answer.
Munro’s words about the way I was living, leaving no room for joy, for possibility, came to me.
“Perhaps ye’re right,” I said begrudgingly.
“Perhaps I’ve been so determined to silence the dead that I’ve missed what they might be trying to tell me. ”
James’s eyes lit with approval. “The voices chose ye for a reason.”
“They did nae choose me,” I muttered. “I was cursed.”
The dance ended, and James bowed over my hand. As he straightened, he said, “Mayhap ye have been looking at it incorrectly. Mayhap if ye listen, if ye help others, ye will find some peace of yer own.”
I made my way back to the high table as Jame’s words echoed in my mind. Had I been wrong to fight so hard against the curse? Could there be purpose in what I’d thus far seen only as punishment? The thought was terrifying yet strangely liberating.
As I took my seat, I decided that the next time a voice spoke to me, I would listen. I barely had time to settle this in my mind before a woman’s voice, soft and sorrowful, filled my head.
My locket lies beneath the loose stone in the far corner of the kitchen hearth. I was to pass it to my Mary as my mama passed it to me. Give it to my Mary. Ease her grief.
I froze with my goblet halfway to my lips. In the past, I would have tensed, fought to ignore the voice, pushed it away with all my mental strength. Now, I let it come, let the words wash over me, through me.
“What’s the matter, Murieall?” Bess asked from beside me.
“Nae anything, lass. I just remembered something I need to attend to. Please excuse me.”
I rose from the table, aware of Munro’s gaze upon me, but I offered no further explanation. I hurried out of the great hall to the kitchen, where some servants were busy preparing the next day’s bread. Several women looked up in surprise as I entered.
“May I help ye, my lady?” asked an older woman, wiping floury hands on her apron.
“I’m looking for Mary,” I said, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.
A young woman stepped forward, perhaps seventeen or eighteen summers, her face pinched with wariness. “I’m Mary,” she said with a small curtsy. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Nay,” I assured her quickly. “I…” Embarrassment rose, but I shoved it aside. “I’ve come about yer mama’s locket.”
She frowned. “How could ye possibly ken about that?”
Instead of answering, I moved toward the massive hearth at the far end of the kitchen, guided by the persistent whisper in my ear. I crouched down, ignoring the curious stares of the kitchen staff, and probed at the stones in the corner. One moved slightly beneath my touch.
“Here,” I said, working my fingers into the gap.
“It’s here.” With some effort, I pried the stone loose.
Behind it was a small cavity, and nestled within, gleaming dully in the firelight, was a silver locket on a tarnished chain.
My heart pounded as I lifted it carefully and turned to Mary, whose eyes had grown wide with disbelief.
“I believe this belongs to ye,” I said softly, holding it out to her with my trembling hands.
She approached slowly, as if in a dream, her hands trembling like mine were as she took the locket from me.
“It was my mama’s,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
“And before that, my grandmama’s. It went missing after my mama died last winter.
I thought it was lost forever.” She looked up at me, wonder and confusion warring on her young face. “How did ye ken where to find it?”
The truth would sound mad to these people who didn’t know me or my curse. Instead, I said simply, “Someone told me where to look.”
I rose quickly and turned to leave before she asked me anymore questions, but at the kitchen door, Mary called from behind me, “Thank ye!”
I gave a nod and departed, but the happiness in her voice made me smile.
For the first time since the curse began, I had used it to bring joy rather than fear, comfort rather than distress.
It was a small thing, perhaps, a trinket restored to a grieving daughter, but the gratitude in Mary’s eyes had been genuine, the relief in her face palpable.
Had this been Morgana’s intent all along? Not punishment, but purpose?
I wanted to be alone to think, so I made my way to my bedchamber and prepared for bed, then went to Munro’s. I sat on the massive bed, and I closed my eyes and, for the first time in three years, I opened myself fully to the voices.
They came rushing in like relentless waves—dozens, perhaps hundreds of whispered pleas, fragments of stories, names and places and secrets long buried.
The sheer volume was overwhelming, pressing against my skull from the inside, each voice fighting to be heard above the others.
I trembled and clutched the furs as if they might anchor me against this flood of spectral need.
Suddenly, the bed dipped. My eyes fly open to find Munro watching me, concern etched across his features. “Ye’re shivering,” he said, his voice gruff. Was he worried?
I tried to respond, but the voices were too many, too insistent.
I could only shake my head, teeth chattering despite the relative warmth of the room.
Munro rose and moved to a chest against the wall.
He returned with additional blankets, which he placed around my shoulders with unexpected gentleness.
“Better?” he asked.
When I nodded, he said, “I’ll go fetch ye a hot drink.”
“Nay, just stay,” I managed to whisper, the words slipping out before I could consider the wisdom of the request. And surely, surely, it was not wise, for as I took in his powerful presence and reassuring gaze, my belly tightened, and yearning sprang deep in my core.
I wanted this man as I had never wanted before.