Chapter 36
The streets are daily thronged with moving skeletons. The fields are strewn with dead … the curse of Russell, more terrible than the curse of Cromwell, is upon us.
The Cailleach’s fiery presence dissipated in the wake of what I had done, despite the fact that I was still wearing the triskele charm—satiated, calm, retreating in euphoric bliss.
Through searing tears, my stomach heaved as I stumbled from the bed.
There was only one last thing to do. One final instruction in Lady Catherine’s letter.
“Michael!” I called, stumbling out into the hallway, not daring to glance back at the carnage I’d wrought.
It wasn’t a clean death. Blood had spurted and gushed from the wound in Teddy’s throat, and the gargling rattle of Teddy’s last struggling breaths would likely haunt me for the rest of my days.
He didn’t deserve this end—no one did. It had been easier to paint him as the villain incarnate, but to know the whole truth at last?
I shook my head. I had no other choice. Diarmuid was the only option.
Steady. My brother’s gentle voice ebbed somewhere near, drawing a sob up my throat.
“I d-did i-it,” I whispered, gripping my skirts to keep my hands from shaking.
Ye did.
“Why did ye never tell me? That I wasn’t meant to return?”
Would you have believed us if we’d told ye? Would things have gone any differently if we had?
I shook my head, for what was done was done. He was right. I still would have tried to meet with Teddy, to hear it from his mouth, and everything would have unfolded as it had.
But a new dream awaited—a new life. One where I would raise my son, and watch him grow, and provide for him as best I could.
Finish it now, Maggie. Or that new life of yers might not happen.
I nodded and strode down the hall, sweeping up the flight of stairs that led to the third floor, then the fourth.
Catching my breath on the landing, I homed in on my target—the hidden door to the attic. The final piece to all this. The last hurdle.
You’ll need to set her free if you ever wish to leave this place, Lady Catherine had written.
She is bound to the one who owns the triskele, and the triskele is bound to the land.
The choice, of course, is yours. You could always don the mantel of Wilhelmina proper and continue to provide for the village if you so choose.
But, if you do not, the window to untether the Cailleach from our earthly plane opens the moment a sacrifice is made and closes soon after, so you must make haste.
Please, no matter which path you select, provide for my people as best you can …
I had no interest in staying here longer than necessary, and no matter how strange and cruel I found the Cailleach’s methods, no being deserved imprisonment without means of release.
For I—former inmate 1-3-4-0, O’Shaughnessy, Margaret—would have never been able to pay back the debt that accumulated daily in the workhouse.
Not on my own. Not without a sponsor like Lady Catherine.
Likewise, the Cailleach was in a similar position—fixed in an endless cycle of sacrifice and providing for this small group of people, unable to assist what was left of the rest: the people she’d watched over for millennia. Ireland.
Aye. It was time to let her go.
As I hooked the velveteen drape to the side, the door to the attic revealed itself, and I got to work.
One by one, I slid each bolt to the side, then placed the old key in the final lock.
It was full night now, and naught but moonlight illuminated the dark hallway, but no mind.
If memory served, Lady Catherine had hung a lamp inside this slab of rotting wood and decaying hinges, and I’d place my hand on it soon enough.
“Now or never,” I muttered, glancing over my shoulder as an icy breeze ruffled the little hairs on the back of my neck.
I turned the key and winced as the grating of metal against rust-eaten mechanisms set my teeth on edge. It clicked, and taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.
A stray moonbeam, from the landing above, guided me toward the glinting glass case of the lamp, nestled neatly upon a dust-ridden shelf, and I made quick work of lighting it.
“I’m coming,” I called, trying to keep the lamp steady as I hurried up the narrow staircase. My heart thundered in my chest, unsure of what might greet me above. For this was the place, the sanctum, in which Lady Catherine had practiced all her conjuring. Or so her letter had said.
But when I reached the landing and stepped into the near-barren room, my eyes widened. Given the size of the house, the attic’s dimensions were surprisingly spare. Mayhap the length and breadth of my own bedchamber.
The window where I’d oft spied shadows from outside now lay ahead, sitting proudly in the wall at the back of the room, the almost-full moon in a perfect landscape beyond.
Before it, a worktable stood—rough-hewn but sturdy—with neatly labeled jars of ground lavender and sage carefully placed together at one end, a hand-cranked grinder next to them.
Row upon row of drying racks, filled to the brim with those unusual, trumpet-shaped white blooms lining the walls, creating an aisle—dead center—that led toward the table. An intruder might think her ladyship industrious, with a mind to provide perfumed sachets to every noblewoman in Ireland.
A sad smile twisted my lips, and I took a deep breath to steady my nerves.
“Are ye ready?” I asked, aloud, unsure if my intent would be welcomed or scorned.
But my answer drifted along the icy draft that spelled a spirit’s presence, and the Cailleach’s voice washed over me—warm, inviting.
Please, she said.
And I nodded, before striding toward the worktable.
“I release ye,” I announced, my stare fixed on the grinder. No doubt it had pulverized pounds upon pounds of dried herbs and flowers over the years, but tonight, it would serve a different purpose.
Wait. The Cailleach’s order stilled me, and my attention was drawn down, down, below the table, to the freshly swept, unvarnished floor.
“What is it?” I asked aloud.
Beneath.
Brows furrowing, I plucked the lamp from the table and squatted, only to find a large wooden chest under the table, an open lock looped through its hinges.
You must do this first, or I’ll not go.
“What is it?”
The source of her power, the power you could now take for yourself if you wished. You must give back what they paid for her protection, or I will remain to ensure that protection is given.
“But if yer released, I could do naught with it.” Even as I said the words, I placed the lamp on the floor and reached out to pull the chest by the handle. Whatever this was, I’d do it, for she’d done enough for the people of Gortacarnaun.
I might be gone, but that wouldn’t stop you from drawing on what’s inside to work a new conjuring. A new magic.
“I wouldn’t mess with that stuff.” With a final yank and the chest clearing the table, and I unhooked the lock before pushing up the lid. My brows furrowed. “What’s all this?”
Hundreds of small glass jars lay nestled within, each clearly labeled with a person’s name. I held up the first toward the lamp—Paddy MacNamara—but the jar appeared empty.
“There’s nothing inside.”
Open it.
Pursing my lips, I unscrewed the tin lid, and as soon as it came free in my hand, a tiny spark of light shot out.
“Oh!” I reeled back, landing unceremoniously on my behind, as I watched the light dance from the ceiling, to the table, until it finally settled in one of the windows, darting from side to side.
Let it out.
And I knew then that I must open the window.
“What is it?” I whispered, scrambling to my feet, surprised my pulse did not stir. Perhaps it was the Cailleach’s influence … or perhaps there was simply no danger.
I strode toward the window and pulled the latch before pushing the pane. It gave way easily—unlike the window in my bedchamber—and the light darted out into the night, flitting in the direction of the village.
The price they paid for protection. A piece of their souls.
My eyes widened. That was the payment Aggie had mentioned? I would have been desperate to see it returned to me too! “The villagers?”
Yes. She drew on the power of their combined souls to control me. Release them now.
I did, hands aching as I unscrewed almost four hundred jars. Four hundred sparks of light. Four hundred streaks flying out into the night.
Payment returned.
You’ll find another way to care for them?
“I will,” I replied, pushing up from the ground. Placing two fists against the small of my spine, I stretched backward, then straightened. “Are ye ready now?”
Yes.
I blew out a heavy breath and stepped toward the table.
“I know I didn’t seem very grateful before, but I do thank ye.
For guiding Diarmuid to me. For helping me work through my own pain so I could move forward.
For closure.” I reached across the table and pulled the grinder toward me.
“Thank ye for helping those other Wilhelminas do the same. And thank ye for keeping the people here safe all this time. The methods might have been strange, but they’re alive and well because of ye. I release ye now.”
Reaching up and around, I unknotted the black ribbon at my nape before placing the triskele charm in the well of the grinder.
“Take care of the country. Help it heal,” I whispered, before cranking the handle to destroy it.
The cogs screeched against the golden charm, resisting, but my second hand joined the first, and with all my strength, I rotated the crank.
Thank you …
A chill wound up my spine as the Cailleach’s distant voice echoed in the shadowed attic, and as the shards of the destroyed charm dropped into the waiting bowl below, a boom reverberated somewhere within the house, shaking the foundation for the space of a heartbeat.
Inexplicable tears welled in my eyes as my chest constricted, and I bent over the grinder to catch my breath. In. Out. Breathe.
Ye did well. Michael.
A sob tore from my throat, sending a wracking shudder through my shoulders.
Ye did very, very well, my Maggie-pie.
The cool touch of his spirit form stroked my back, and we stood there, together, in the attic of Browne House, until I was ready to face the world.
“Ye should go now, Michael. I’ll be fine. Go to Da and Mam and the others. Tell them all is well, and that I’m sorry. I don’t need ye anymore.”