The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (81 page)

Beatrice rose heavily. “Have you finished that letter, girl?”

“Aye,” Violet replied, her voice squeaking, “but for a postscript saying Mistress Ramsay has seen an elephant.”

“Well, I’m away for a walk. I won’t listen to this bellyaching over two such spoilt weans.” Off she went, slamming the door.

* * * *

Patrick Hawley fought through bouts of sweating and convulsive spasms. He could hardly lift his head. He foggily remembered coming to Glenelg on the ferry from Skye. It seemed like he’d hired a pony so he wouldn’t have to walk, but there was no pony now. His clothes were wet, as though he’d been caught in a downpour; mud was caked under his nails, and ground into his palms, and an all-too-familiar stench told him he’d soiled his trousers.

After Curran Ramsay broke his nose and knocked out a tooth, Patrick left Glenelg. He’d wanted to be far enough away to feel safe while he healed, but not too far, for he meant to have his revenge on the bastard who hurt him, and Aodhàn Mackinnon, and finally, most especially, Morrigan Ramsay.

He’d found an inn across the strait in the village of Kyleakin. A healing woman had provided salve for the oozing sores that erupted all over his body after that bitch knifed him. His tongue had swelled, making it impossible to eat anything but the thinnest broth.

It was still swollen, but he no longer felt hungry.

He had improved, though, hadn’t he, over on Skye? He was certain of it. The moment he felt better, he returned to Glenelg and skulked around the outskirts, keeping to the forest cover where he could. He saw Aodhàn Mackinnon, but only at a distance, and never Morrigan Ramsay or her husband. Every thought of her brought him to the edge of insanity. He’d almost had her squirming and bleeding under him again. He would have, too, if it hadn’t been for the cursed knife.

This was the second time Aridela of Crete had nearly killed him with that knife. His fever brought the memory into startling clarity… the battle on the shore at Amnisos, between his army and the army of the Mycenaean king. She had pulled the knife from her own chest where he had buried it, and with one clean, quick swipe, cut his throat from ear to ear. He remembered the pain, the terror, the sensation of his life draining swiftly away with the cascade of hot blood. If a warrior hadn’t happened to run past, near enough to seize, he wouldn’t be here.

Years later, Chrysaleon almost managed to complete what his dead wife started, not with the knife, but simple starvation and a fancy cage. Harpalycus could be seen, mocked, tormented… by all the inhabitants of Knossos, but not touched. The guards had been given strict orders about that.

How much time had passed? Where was he?

He could answer but one of these questions. Every time he woke from feverish stupor, he saw the same curved rock wall rising around him. Vaguely, from better days, he knew he was lying inside one of the ruins near Curran’s estate. Dun… something.

You have forced your way into my design
.

The voice echoed, bouncing off the fitted stones. He pushed it away. He no longer knew if it belonged to the oracle who had foretold his future, or to Athene, but he couldn’t bear the taunt in it, not now.

He needed a physician, medicine, and water. He was so thirsty. But the idea of standing was more than he could bear, and he was afraid. What if Aodhàn Mackinnon found him?

In lucid moments, he fantasized. The first one he’d take his rage out on would be Aodhàn Mackinnon. He could hardly believe his old enemy had survived being stabbed in the chest and dumped in the ocean. Patrick had ferreted out the story in Àrnasdal during one of his property searches, for it was a popular tale up and down the coast. Seaghan MacAnaugh happened along at the perfect moment to rescue poor drowning Aodhàn. So here he was, alive, twenty years older and far poorer. Not only had he survived, he’d found Aridela, and, according to incensed yet delighted gossip, was working hard to separate her from her namby-pamby husband, the loyal hound, Menoetius. Would these three never change? They kept being reborn, living out the same useless existence, over and over again, and for what? Perhaps Athene had expired at some point, leaving her human playthings to forever spin in some self-generating rotation that couldn’t be stopped. If so, he was caught up in it with them.

Patrick drifted in the ocean of his delirium. He saw himself as a young prince, the son of Lycomedes of Tiryns.
Every one of your kin, to the lowest bastard you have sired, will perish on my sword
, he’d promised Chrysaleon. His brain dredged up other bodies he had consumed and used, too many to count. He’d learned how to listen to the sensations that warned him of the triad’s presence. He’d learned how to follow and find them. At first he’d done what anyone in his position would— killed them. But he quickly realized two things: killing them did not mean they were dead; toying with them, making them suffer, prolonged the thrill and added spice to his very long, often tedious, life.

One of his favorite recollections was as Heinrich Baten, Papal Inquisitor, who forced Chrysaleon to watch without recourse as he’d tortured Aridela.

How he loved Christianity! It leant itself so perfectly to his own goals and passions.

Once he learned that Chrysaleon could look directly at him and not know who he was, that was when he really began enjoying himself. As long as he kept Chrysaleon from smelling him, he was safe.

He had to admit he went too far during the German Inquisition. Confident in his terrifying role and in the protection of his guards, he made sure Chrysaleon recognized him, and that arrogance had come close to finishing him.

“He hasn’t succeeded yet,” Patrick told himself as he tumbled and pitched on dirt turned to heaving waves. Would it, in the end, be a simple flesh wound that proved his undoing? The fever and hallucinations were worsening. Again and again, he relived the ordeal in the cavern at
Lebadeia
, on the Greek mainland, where he had gone to receive the oracle’s revelation. He heard the voices, felt those unearthly hands upon him, and most especially he saw the eyes glowing out of the darkness.

I shall use you
.

One morning, he woke in the ruin outside of Glenelg unusually clear-headed, and knew he was dying.

He forced himself to his feet, groaning, waiting for the vertigo and hammering to lessen. When he could see the ground in front of him, he staggered from the ruin, intent on one thing. Finding a body, any body, to consume before it was too late.

CHAPTER SIX

OLIVIA WAS SQUALLING
when Diorbhail brought her into Lily’s sitting room, but Morrigan soon had the child giggling with a game of keekaboo, then soothed with the newly available powdered milk formula Lily had convinced Morrigan to try, telling her it was high time Olivia adapted to something other than her mother’s breast.

“Did you and Ramsay go to Covent Garden?” Lily asked as she poured tea.

“Aye. I mean yes,” Morrigan said.

“A wagon-load of flowers arrived with instructions to put them in your bedroom.”

“I swear he bought every bloom I admired until I caught on and made him stop.”

“Your husband is the rarest of fabled creatures. A romantic male.”

Morrigan had been afraid of embarrassing herself or worse, Curran, with her provincial speech and mannerisms. But after a week with Lily, her nervousness disintegrated. It was a pleasure to put this raven-haired lady in the category of
merry
, and Richard, her husband, as well.

“What else did you do?” Lily offered her a plate of star-shaped biscuits and fancy lemon teacakes.

“We walked in Hyde Park.” Morrigan closed her eyes to better enjoy the sweetness of sugar mixed with the tang of lemon. “Mr. Disraeli was there. We saw Buckingham Palace. Then it was off to Piccadilly and Knightsbridge. I bought twelve yards of watered silk from the Orient for my Aunt Ibby, and a collar for my dog, embroidered with rubies— sham of course. Can you imagine, I saw a dog collar with real diamonds! And they were meikle— I mean, large.”

“Every taste is catered to in London,” Lily said, a bit darkly. “What shall we do tomorrow? We could take Olivia to the zoo in Regent’s Park, and afterwards we could picnic, if the weather allows.”

“Would you like that, lassikie?” Morrigan asked her daughter. Olivia kicked her plump legs, caught at her toes, and giggled.

Lily begged to hold her. Olivia returned her hostess’s smiles for a moment but soon twisted in search of her mama. She had little patience for anyone but Morrigan, Curran, or Diorbhail.

“The Hamiltons are having a ball. They’re vulgar money, like us, so we’re invited. There’s enough time to have a dress made, thanks to my dressmaker. I’ve never seen anyone sew so fast. And my maid, Hélène, is a genius with hair. What do you think of baby’s breath? Sprigs of white against your dark hair would be enchanting.”

“Oh, aye. Thank you.”

“Ramsay’s been so vague about your travels.” Lily handed the squirming baby back to her mother. “And he kept blushing like a naughty schoolboy. I could sense mischief was afoot. Ah, now you’re blushing. I adore mischief. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Of course Morrigan couldn’t tell her what had precipitated their flight from Glenelg. “It… was an adventure,” she said, as her cheeks grew hotter. “He wanted to show me a place he visited when he was young. Then I wanted to go to Cape Wrath, because I’d heard a story about it. Then he wanted me to meet you.” She shrugged. “It grew and grew.”

One of Lily’s brows lifted. “You make it sound quite ordinary, but I have a feeling there’s more to it. In fact, it sounds as though you and Ramsay are on a pilgrimage of sorts.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Morrigan said, and dropped her gaze to Olivia’s face, embarrassed.

Lily moved closer so she could stroke Olivia’s head then she clasped Morrigan’s fingers. Gently, she said, “It’s more than an adventure. It’s a journey to a spiritual place, a place of meaning. It’s something that changes you. Sometimes a pilgrimage happens nowhere but in the heart. In others, the body comes along, as with you. I know of what I speak, having gone on my own, which brought me out of darkness to Donaghue, and this life.” She glanced fondly at the room’s opulent furnishings and rich wallpaper.

Morrigan hesitated to ask for details, fearing it might be uncivil.

Lily sipped her tea. “Where will you go after London?”

Morrigan could only blink. She had made no plans. She hadn’t allowed herself to hope for anything beyond each unfolding moment. But, if all remained the same, Curran would ask her where she wanted to go, as it would be her turn. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll have to think on it.”

* * * *

Morrigan woke in the silent hours after midnight. Curran lay next to her, breathing evenly, one arm thrown across her stomach.

She donned a robe and padded barefoot through the mansion, thinking how different it was from the daytime, when servants were everywhere.

Surely she could find a novel to keep her company. The sumptuous library was dark inside, but warm. She lit a lamp and picked up a leather-bound volume from the table beside it.

It was a book of poems. Settling into the wing chair, she opened it and scanned until a heading caught her eye.

Tristram and Iseult
.

* * * *

How could I have known that your waist would fit my hands like it was made for them? That your body would mold into mine and mine into yours as though we were twined within the same womb?

“Morrigan? Morrigan, dear?”

Morrigan woke with a start. Lily was bending over her, smiling as she brushed a lock of hair off her face.

“Did you sleep all night down here?”

“I came down to read. I must have dozed off.”

“Are you hungry? Breakfast is ready in the dining room. What were you reading?”

Lily picked up the book, still open on Morrigan’s lap. “Ah, one of my favorites,” she said, glancing at the cover, then turned it to the open pages. “A gorgeous tale.”

“Aye.” Morrigan fought to extricate herself from the warm, scented dream. In that shadowed place of fantasy, her lover offered seductive confessions that Morrigan knew instinctively were hers alone; he had never said such things to any other woman.

She’d been imagining Tristram and his Irish princess, Iseult, before she fell asleep, and the imagining had entwined with her dreams. It was hard to push away the entreaty in the man’s voice, hard to return to dull, bright reality.

“Did you like it?” Lily hooked her arm through Morrigan’s and they climbed the stairs so Morrigan could change out of her nightgown.

“I loved it,” Morrigan said. “It was braw, so braw. But sad.”

The lines returned.
Tristram! — Tristram! — Stay— receive me with thee! Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! Never more.

Lily stopped on the landing and gestured to a painting, one Morrigan had noticed several times over the last few days. It depicted a woman, a man, and a dog very similar to Antiope. Both the dog and the man regarded the woman adoringly.

“Hugues Merle, a Frenchman, painted this,” Lily said. “It is his imagining of Tristram and Iseult. I had to have it, and Richard obliged me.”

“It’s beautiful,” Morrigan said dutifully. But the painted Iseult was remote and expressionless, like a marble statue, her face turned away from the man and the dog. Her left hand rested on the dog’s neck, but she didn’t seem aware of the man, who touched her arms so lightly he might have been plucking the strings of a lute. Such detachment didn’t match the Iseult in the book of poems. That woman was passionate, her grief at the dying Tristram’s bedside palpable.

I will always be with thee; I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, join’d at evening of their days again.

Lily chattered gaily as they continued to Morrigan’s bedroom, telling her about the time she, Richard, and Curran had traveled to Munich to see the Wagner opera,
Tristan und Isolde
at its premiere. She described the sets, the orchestra, the women with their opera glasses and lacy gowns. “One of the conductors was so overcome with emotion he had to be committed to an asylum!” she claimed with delight.