Chapter 18
The moment Mr Lanyon opened the front door, Halverton strode inside with Aoife in tow.
“Lanyon,” Halverton said as he entered, “I shot a bear.”
Mr Lanyon straightened, face politely blank. “Indeed, my lord?”
“Enormous creature,” Halverton said as he handed over his gloves. “Black as pitch. Have you ever seen one, Lanyon?”
“Can’t say that I have, sir.”
“It was on the estate,” said Halverton, barely pausing long enough to hear the butler’s reply. “I was about to leave when I saw the thing towering over Miss Aoife. It would’ve torn her apart if I had not been there.”
Aoife stood behind him, saying nothing.
Mr Lanyon gave her a quick, concerned glance before turning to Halverton. “Most fortunate you were there, my lord.”
“Fetch tea for Miss Aoife. Her nerves are in tatters.”
Aoife opened her mouth to say she was fine, or didn’t need tea, or hadn’t been in danger at all, but Halverton was already guiding her toward the drawing room with a hand at the small of her back.
“Come. Sit.”
Aoife hesitated. Her clothes were mud-caked from her adventures in the woods. She couldn’t simply sit on the fine upholstery.
“Oh, do not worry about that.” Halverton gestured, realising her discomfort. “What are servants for?”
Mr Lanyon arrived with a large cloth, which he draped over the chair behind her. She smiled at him appreciatively before she sank down onto it, her skirts clinging to her legs. Halverton took the seat opposite.
James arrived with the tray a few moments later and set it carefully on the table between them.
Halverton leaned forward and launched into the story again.
“It had Miss Aoife in its sights.”
James looked at Aoife. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, cutting off whatever sympathy he meant to offer.
“Only because I arrived when I did,” Halverton said, accepting the cup James poured for him. “Another moment and—well.” He shrugged grandly.
Aoife wrapped her hands around her own cup, letting the heat soak into her chilled fingers. She forced herself to sip. The tea was over-steeped. She barely tasted it.
He told the story again when Mrs Harrow brought more logs for the fire. Then again, when James returned to clear the tea things. With each retelling the creature grew taller, Aoife’s escape narrower.
Aoife stared into the fire, letting the words wash over her. She nodded when prompted, murmured polite agreement when he paused, and waited for an opportunity to excuse herself.
Halverton lifted his empty cup and frowned. “We should have something stronger. Brandy would—”
“That’s very kind,” Aoife interrupted, rising quickly, “but I should change out of these clothes. Thank you, my lord. Truly.”
Halverton looked pleased enough not to object. “Yes, yes, of course. Rest. You have had a trying afternoon.”
Aoife curtsied and left the drawing room before he could start the story again.
The corridor was dim. The skies outside were grey, no longer the heavy grey of a storm, but the pale wash of steady drizzle. Kit, standing discreetly by the door, stepped forward at once.
“Miss Aoife.” He offered a candle, already lit.
Aoife accepted it with a nod. “Thank you.”
As she climbed the stairs, the flame guttered in the draft, throwing long shadows ahead of her.
Behind her, faintly, she could still hear Halverton’s voice carrying through the halls, beginning the story all over again.
She climbed the stairs slowly, thoughts circling. Was the Athraith alive? She should go after it, take bandages, herbs, anything that might help, but she did not know where to begin. And what would Halverton think if she were caught wandering in the rain.
She was still thinking of that when she opened her bedroom door. The room was pitch-black. Clara must have forgotten to open the curtains. Aoife lifted her candle, the small flame spilling light over the carpet.
Then a voice from the dark said quietly, “Aoife.”
She nearly dropped the candle. “Curse the crows, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Clara’s shape emerged from the shadows, seated on the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to do with him.”
“With whom?”
Clara stood. Aoife moved closer, raising the candle, and froze.
A man lay sprawled across her bed. The flicker of the candle caught the outline of his jaw.
“By the Shee,” she whispered. “Cormac.”
She moved the candle quickly, trying to see what was wrong, her eyes darting over his body. His face was pale and waxy; his shirt soaked through with blood. Clara took a taper and lit the candles by the bed, and the light showed a deep red patch spreading from his left shoulder.
Aoife grabbed a bundle of sheets and pressed them against the wound. “What happened?”
Clara shook her head. “Soldiers found him.”
Aoife’s head spun. “How did he get here? Why would the soldiers help him?”
Why wasn’t he in the cells?
Clara shrugged. “I don’t know why they helped him. He said your name, that’s all I know.”
The pool of blood beneath Cormac was still spreading.
Questions of how and why would have to wait.
Aoife shifted him slightly, searching, and found another hole, on his back this time, larger and uglier. Panic clawed at her throat. She grabbed more cloth, pressing from both sides.
Cormac groaned.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I know it hurts. Stay with me.”
His head lolled, eyes fluttering. “Aoife…?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Stay awake.”
He tried to focus on her face, but he was fading. She shook him, and he opened his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“Trying to save your life. Now stay awake.”
Aoife forced herself to think. Panic wouldn’t help him. Stop the bleeding. Protect the wound from evil spirits. That was what mattered. “I need towels, water, alcohol, and a flathead chisel.”
Clara hesitated, hand on the door. “Aoife… if Lord Halverton finds out—”
“If you don’t help me now,” Aoife said sharply, “he’ll die here, in my bed, and we’ll both have to explain how.” Her voice softened. “Please. Help me, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
Clara met her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “All right.”
She turned to go, then paused. “What’s the chisel for?”
“To stop the bleeding,” Aoife said. “I’ll heat it in the fire and use it to seal the wound.”
Clara went pale. “We don’t have chisels in the house, but we have a poker.” She hurried to the hearth and seized the iron tool from its stand. It was broader than Aoife would have liked.
“It’ll do,” Aoife said grimly.
Clara struck flint and coaxed the fire to life, then laid the poker across the flames.
Aoife pressed harder on the wound, whispering a prayer to the Sheedar under her breath. Cormac groaned again, his breath shallow.
“Hold on,” she murmured. “Please hold on.”
Clara dashed out of the room to gather the other things they would need.
Aoife tried to keep Cormac awake, talking to him and asking questions. His answers came as a tangled mix of nonsense and delirium.
At one point he tried to sit up, mumbling that he was putting them in danger. Aoife pressed him down gently. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
For a moment he was lucid. His hand gripped her arm, eyes finding hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted to see you. To know you were all right.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered. “But you’re here now.”
His breathing hitched. “Promise me you’ll get away from here. Halverton’s dangerous.”
The words caught in her throat. “Did he do this?”
Cormac’s eyes went wide, and he turned his head away. The weight of the truth hit her then. Not only had Halverton shot Cormac, but she had seen him do it.
Clara returned, closing the door firmly behind her. She dragged a chair across the floor and wedged it under the handle. “Just in case,” she murmured.
She carried the supplies to the bedside and laid them out neatly. “What do I do?”
“Give him a little of the alcohol,” Aoife said.
Cormac took a swallow, coughed, then sagged against the pillow. Aoife held out her hand for the bottle.
“Clara,” she said. “Whatever happens here, I’ll stand between Halverton and you. I can’t say it’ll count for much, but you have my word.”
Clara blinked at her, startled. “Thank you, miss.”
Aoife managed a faint smile. “We’re friends, aren’t we? This is what friends do. It’s why we’re both in this mess,” she looked down at Cormac, “because friends help each other.”
“This is going to hurt,” she warned. Then she lifted her hand from the wound and poured the alcohol over it.
He cried out, thrashing weakly.
“Quiet,” Clara hissed, listening for footsteps.
Aoife tugged the leather bracelet from her wrist, the one Cormac had made her, and pressed it between his teeth. “Bite down.”
The poker glowed dull red in the fire. Clara wrapped a blanket around the handle before pulling it out and passing it over. Aoife took it carefully, her hand trembling faintly.
She hesitated, meeting Cormac’s eyes. He gave her a small, weak nod. The trust in that gesture nearly broke her.
She pressed the hot iron to the wound. The hiss was instantaneous. The smell of burning flesh threatened to choke her. Cormac’s body arched once, then went limp.
Clara turned away, retching into the bedpan. Aoife didn’t move until the hissing stopped.
“Is it over?” Clara asked, voice shaking.
“Half.” Aoife’s own voice sounded strange in her ears. “We have to do the other side.”
They set the poker in the coals. The metal disappeared beneath the flames, swallowed by the heat.
For a moment, neither woman moved.
Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, still pale. Aoife pressed a damp cloth to Cormac’s forehead, though he didn’t stir.
The fire popped as a log settled. The poker did not yet glow.
Clara whispered, “How long…?”
“A few minutes,” Aoife murmured. Her voice sounded scraped raw. “Not long.”
But the minutes stretched thin.
They knelt there in the flickering light, watching the faint dark outline of the poker grow red at the edges.
Clara’s breath hitched once.
Aoife swallowed; her arm shook as she applied pressure to the wound.
The iron brightened dull red, then hotter.
“It’s ready,” Aoife said at last.
Clara helped roll Cormac over, and they repeated the process. The sound, the smell, it was worse this time. By the end, both women sat on the floor, too drained to speak.
The fire crackled gently, throwing warm light over Cormac’s still body.
Aoife’s hands were trembling. She pressed them together in her lap, but the shaking only worsened.
“You can breathe now,” Clara whispered.
Aoife gasped a deep, full breath. A fresh wave of dizziness rolled through her, not from the work, but from the fear she had held tight against her ribs the whole time.
“I thought we’d lose him,” Aoife said. Her voice broke on the last word. “I thought… if he dies here, I’ll have killed him trying to save him.”
Clara reached for her hand and squeezed it. “But he didn’t.”
Aoife took a steadying breath. They sat in silence for a while after that.
“Who found him?” Aoife asked, breaking the silence.
“I don’t know their names.”
“Can you describe them?”
Clara thought. “One looked like his nose had been broken too many times to count. The other had long hair, tied back off his face by a strip of leather.”
Aoife smiled. “That’s Lugh and Norin.”
“Is that good?”
“We can trust them. They won’t tell anyone he’s here.”
Aoife let out a breath that shuddered. “Thank you. Truly.”
Clara nodded slowly. “I hope I never have to do that again.”
They fell quiet. The fire popped, sending sparks drifting up the chimney. Whatever they had been before, mistress and maid, strangers orbiting the same house, was gone. A new relationship had taken its place, built on blood and fear, and trust.
After a while, Clara’s voice broke the silence. “Who is he to you?”
Aoife looked at Cormac’s unconscious form, the rise and fall of his breath, slow but steady now. “My best friend,” she said. “He was there when my mother died. When my brother and sister died. He’s always been there.”
Clara hesitated. “It isn’t something more?”
“No,” Aoife’s answer was quick, instinctive. “He’s as good as family, if that’s what you mean.”
Clara toyed with a loose thread on her apron. “I thought maybe… maybe you felt for him the way I feel for Alton.”
Aoife blinked, startled. “No. Nothing like that.”
Clara nodded.
Eventually, they both knew they had to rise. There was more to do before they could rest. Aoife pushed herself up on unsteady legs and offered Clara her hand.
“We’ll need comfrey, slánlus, and yarrow,” Aoife said, voice steadier as she focused on the practical. “If you can’t find them, ask the gardener, the one you took the ointment to. He’ll know.”
Clara squeezed her fingers once before letting go.
Aoife turned to Cormac, the smell of burnt flesh still lingering in the air.
When Clara returned, they worked in silence. Aoife crushed the herbs, mixing them into a thick green poultice. “To keep the evil spirits out,” she explained to Clara, as her mother had once explained to her. She wrapped the mixture in cloth and bound it to both sides of Cormac’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said again when they were done.
Clara gave a tired smile. “Let’s hope we never have to do that again.”
Aoife nodded. “Tell Lord Halverton I’ve a headache. I won’t be joining him for dinner.”
“I’ll bring breakfast up to you here, and I’ll tell the scullery maid not to come in.” Clara paused at the door. “You should barricade it behind me.”
When she was gone, Aoife pushed the chair against the handle as instructed.
Cormac hadn’t stirred since he passed out. Her bracelet lay beside his head on the pillow and she quickly slipped it back on. Her wrist had felt empty without it.
She lay beside him, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, as she had done in the treetop. Was that only two weeks ago?
This time she was too scared to touch him and listened from a distance. This time his breathing wasn’t deep and rhythmic but shallow and strained. This time she didn’t listen for comfort. She listened because she was afraid it might stop.
She lay there for a long time, afraid to sleep. When her eyes closed, she forced them open again, struggled out of the bed and walked the perimeter of the room, murmuring a prayer to the Sheedar to keep the evil spirits away. The pattern repeated again and again and again.
Near dawn, exhaustion clawed at her. She sank onto the bed, counting each shallow rise and fall of his chest.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes.