Page 6 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

6

BLOOD AND MOONING

* * *

M uirsglen, The Black Isle…

Brigid shoved the needle against the stubborn leather. It was like trying to mend sinew. The old satchel that lay in her lap was already patched and worn from a lifetime of carrying the potent herbs of Muir witches through the Red Hills. But maybe this year, they could delay their journey until after Mabon. Perhaps they could wait until spring…

The needle broke through, quick and sudden. A hiss escaped her, and she jerked back her wounded thumb. A heavy drop of crimson welled from the small hole, a betrayal that rolled to the fleshy pad and threatened to spill onto the leather.

A fierce tremble seized her heart. Blood brought memories. Blood called to visions.

She pressed the wound to a rough square of cloth tied at her waist, and she clenched her jaw tight against unwelcome images, but they invaded anyway.

Death. Darkness. Chaos.

She let them pass through her mind and breathed them away again.

In the distance, the soft rhythm of the sea was a familiar and comforting melody that mingled with scents she might never smell again, if this was the year those visions would come to pass. The tang of sea brine from Moray Firth mixed with sweet broom, tangy heather, and the bright clusters of whin blooms sprawled defiantly nearby. An ancient oak spread protective branches at the edge of the family's yard, casting shadows over valerian plants grown waist-high around its great trunk.

A perfect summer's day. She ought not fret so, shouldn't mourn already over events yet to come. But a woman plagued by visions could hardly live as carefree as any other.

Pain throbbed in the bone of her thumb as her mind went back to the Mabon of four years ago. On that chill night, beneath a thin sliver of moon, she'd crossed paths with Flanders Leesborn. His face had remained sharp in her thoughts ever since: blond hair catching stray beams of moonlight, blue eyes fierce enough to pierce the night, and a leather jerkin molding perfectly to broad shoulders. And somehow, impossibly, she’d slipped into his mind…and he into hers. She could almost feel the tickle of his deep, soft voice. A shared secret. A connection her sister, hopefully, had no inkling of.

She dreamt of him altogether too often for it not to mean something. But since her sister never mentioned him, she had reason to hope those dreams were private. Sadly, they often mingled with those darker visions—the ones she'd seen only after Flanders brought her hand to his warm lips, all courtesy and charm. All that sweetness chased away by that maw of darkness…

If only she knew what happened afterward, in that swirling chaos. Would tragedy strike others? Would Flanders?—

No. Swallowing hard, Brigid forced away such thoughts. She would not allow despair to take root, not when the warmth of the sun fell across the wildflowers and danced on the sturdy herbs tied into bundles all around them—stalks of mugwort and leaves of rosemary twisted into tight crowns, and young angelica whose sweet, earthy scent now mingled with the leather and blood…

Forceful footsteps brought her out of her thoughts. Bella marched around the corner of the cottage into the yard wearing a smile until she caught a thread of Brigid’s thoughts. Her feet halted and her eyes narrowed. Her attention dropped to Brigid’s bloody hand. Then she dug deeper, blinked, and tilted her head to one side. "Ye're trying to find a way to convince me not to go this year. Again."

Brigid pulled the cloth from her waist, wet the corner with spit, then cleaned the traces of blood from her skin. "And why not? Why not let everyone fend for themselves just this once? Mayhap next summer they'll appreciate us even more."

Bella dropped to sit beside her on the low bench and gave her a gentle smile. "They appreciate us now, sister. They depend upon us. Would ye rather they suffer without what we bring?"

"All our stores can be found elsewhere."

"Ha. Ye know as well as I do, those other stores are rubbish compared to ours and nowhere as potent as what we grow here in the black soil of Muirsglen." Bella made a tsking noise. "This is selfishness. But if I recall, ye get this way every year around this time…”

Brigid's chest tightened, and for a breath, she stared at the elderberry bush beyond Bella’s shoulder, its dark berries fattening in the sun. "Am I selfish to want to live?"

A long silence stretched while arguments of the last few summers bubbled back to the surface and drained the joy out of the world. Before that fateful vision, they’d rarely disagreed, let alone argued. Now it looked like they might as well plan on it happening each time they began sorting their harvest.

Bella exhaled loudly to signal she was ready to talk about it. Finally.

"Every one of us dies when our allotted time is spent,” she said. “Just because our deaths will be...terrible…does not mean we should hide from the life we were given until then." Her sister lifted a shoulder dismissively. "Like most, we do not ken the when. And I will not sit by the hearth, waiting for Death to come to me. When the bell tolls, what does it matter whose lands we stand upon?"

Brigid stared blankly for several moments, mouth slack with disbelief. "But Bella, we do ken the when!"

Bella stilled instantly, her face pale beneath the bronze of her summer skin. All bravado gone. "What do ye mean?"

Brigid leaned closer and clutched her sister’s hand. "The vision," she said softly. "Our death. It comes upon Mabon. Surely, ye recall that much—aye?"

Overhead, a lone bird wheeled across the sky, calling sadly to its mate, the pitch so mournful perhaps it did not expect an answer.

At last Bella shook herself and forced a smile. " My vision revealed nothing of the sort. Though truly, can it matter so much, when we cannot know which Mabon? This year, or ten years hence. Perhaps we’ve a hundred summers yet to live."

"Ye know that's not true," Brigid cut in. "The vision showed us as we are now. Young. And it will happen when we travel south."

Bella cut short any further argument with a slicing gesture. "I will not speak of it again," she said flatly. "And I will be goin' south. Stay home if ye wish. Thomas and Torquil will keep me safe."

The discussion was over. There was no use trying again. There might be no stopping Bella from heading south, but Brigid had never once abandoned her sister, nor hidden from Fate when it leaned close and whispered promises. They belonged together, all the days of their lives. No matter how many days that meant.

“If ye won’t postpone the journey until spring, then that is that. Ye can stop pretending ye’d truly leave without me.”

Bella’s stubborn chin lowered and her scowl melted into a grin. “Of course I wouldn’t, fool. Who will carry the needle and thread?”

Brigid rolled her eyes, then stood and brushed dirt from her knees. “I'll come," she said quietly. "I'll come and I'll pray that we age slowly, aye?"

“By all means,” Bella said, laughing as she went inside.

Brigid shrugged off her worries in favor of the golden summer’s day. She set aside the mending and went into the garden to let the burgeoning life refill her heart and her soul. Densely tied rows of silver-leafed mugwort moved softly in the breeze, fanning out among valerian and the wound-healing blossoms of celandine. She stroked gentle fingers across feathery fennel fronds and inhaled the pungent aroma of rosemary, strong enough to clear away any dread lingering in her mind.

Aromas of angelica, vigorous and stubborn, drew her closer and rewarded her when she ran her fingers through their leaves. And farther back, delicately stemmed horehound, and the strangely beautiful clusters of deadly nightshade—all thriving in the dark, magic-rich earth that gave the Black Isle its name.

Soon, the seasons would change along with this garden, and she and Bella would journey a path that would take her very close to the walls of Todlaw and the man she should force herself to forget.

She brushed back a wavy lock of hair in a move that mirrored pushing Flanders Leesborn out of her mind, lest her sister catch one of those tender thoughts. But the query lingered—when they reached the southwestern edge of the Red Hills, would her path cross his again?

Bella’s low chuckle and taunting voice came from the cottage doorway. “If it is a man who inspires such mooning, Brigid, perhaps our travels south won’t be such a hardship to ye after all!”

* * *

Flanders stood on the ramparts, his gaze fixed on the distant hills, though in truth, he saw nothing of the night-cloaked landscape. The cool air tasted of heather and pine and reminded him of that Mabon night four years past when he'd encountered the Muirs with Gerts, outside Gallabrae.

Or rather, he remembered Brigid.

Her name whispered through his mind like a puff of air. He could still see her face in the dappled moonlight, those eyes that caught and held his attention. That half-smile meant just for him. The delicious thrill when she'd laid her fingers on his. And that impossible moment when her voice had slipped into his head as easily as his own thoughts.

Laird Stephan is not as powerless as ye believe. He need not leave home to bedevil ye.

He'd heard her clear as day, and she'd heard him. The chiming of her private laughter was a memory he cherished like a laddie with a treasure.

Flanders closed his eyes now and leaned on the cold stone of the parapet. He focused on the words and gathered his intentions behind them like so many arrows before letting them fly.

Brigid Muir, hear me!

He quieted his breathing and waited, listening without his ears.

Nothing.

Again, nothing. Just like the hundred times he'd tried before. How far away was she? Did distance matter in such things? Or was it simply that she chose not to hear him?

"Bloody fool," he muttered to himself, opening his eyes to stare at the stars. "Perhaps I dreamed the whole cursed thing."

But he knew he hadn't. The connection had been real—brief but undeniable. He could never have imagined what it was like to be touched inside his own head. The very idea couldn’t have come from him.

He rubbed his forehead now, a habit that repeated whenever his thoughts turned to her, as if he could pull out those memories and examine them with his eyes.

The moon hung low in the sky, a waning crescent marking time. How many days until Mabon? Twenty? More?

Would she return to meet Gerts this year? For three summers past, he'd hoped she might stop at Todlaw—for a respite and refreshment if for nothing else. But perhaps she'd forgotten his offer of sanctuary and welcome.

Perhaps this year...

He flatly refused to believe that the foresight of her own death might have come to pass. She was out there, he was certain, wandering across Scotland like the stars wandered across the sky, following a path he didn't understand.

"Ye're brooding again," he chided himself and pushed away from the wall. "And over a witch, no less."

But even as he turned to make his way back to the stairs, he cast one last thought into the darkness, more from habit than hope.

Brigid, lass, remember me!