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CHAPTER TWELVE

H?ra could rip out Jonathan’s throat.

He hadn’t gotten anything useful from Sister Madeleine.

As they cleaned the house, he said he’d been too shocked to ask any relevant questions, so overwhelmed was he by seeing her again.

“I was in Annie’s Crafts,” he’d said, looking around the living room as if he’d never seen it before.

“Checking in on the wool order, not that wool’s worth anything these days, and having a natter with old Annie. We’re having tea in the back while Ellie’s at the front—not Jean, she’s working at the kirk today?—”

“Jonathan,” H?ra said hoarsely.

She was supposed to be hoovering, but the vacuum handle sat uselessly in her hand.

“Right, sorry! So we’re just talking. And all of a sudden, as if it’s naught, Annie tells me Harry Duggan rang her not half an hour ago to say the nun’s back. The one who fell in the sea. I thought I was dreaming, as if I fell asleep after you and I talked about her just this morning. Couldn’t be real, could it? But Annie was serious. Asked me, ‘Weren’t you the one who found her?’ And I just left my tea and ran out. She’ll let me have it for that one. Never forgets that shite.”

Jonathan enjoyed telling long stories.

H?ra usually enjoyed hearing them.

“ Jonathan .”

He looked remorseful.

“Ah yes. I ran out, thinking…not thinking, really. Just that I’d find her, see if it was true. And then I ran straight into her.”

Had H?ra collided with something too?

Not Sister Madeleine, but something even bigger and less visible?

That would explain her breathlessness.

“Tell me!”

Jonathan took the vacuum from her hands and turned it on.

He didn’t have to raise his voice for her to hear him.

“Starting where? We didn’t know what to say! I said I was looking for her, and she said she was looking for me too, and we had to talk. She wanted to talk to me right away. But I couldn’t. Not…”

“Why not?” H?ra nearly screamed it.

How could Jonathan not get all the information he could manage?

Jonathan glared at her while he pushed the vacuum about.

“Not without you.”

Oh.

Her indignation receded like the tide.

“So I told her, come for dinner, and we’d talk all she liked. Then I went to the provisions shop. I dunno what she likes to eat, but it’s not what you do. Can you do with cooked meat tonight?”

H?ra could do with anything, even vegetables, if it meant Sister Madeleine sat at their table.

“Yes. Does she know I’ll be here? Does she…” She swallowed hard.

“Know who I really am?”

“Am I daft? Of course she doesn’t. I said my daughter would be here. That’s all.”

All right.

That might be all right.

H?ra took a deep breath.

“How will she get here?”

“I offered to pick her up, but she said she’d rather bike and ‘see more of the island.’ She might change her mind for the ride back.”

“Perhaps I can fetch her,” H?ra mused, only half joking.

She was more than capable, and not just in a car.

What would it be like to assume her horse form and carry Sister Madeleine on her back to the farm?

Or elsewhere. H?ra could carry her to the sea and devour her.

Her father told her that once a human rode an Each - uisge within sight of the ocean, the human could not dismount.

Sister Madeleine would surely belong to H?ra then.

How strange that hadn’t been her first instinct.

She looked away from Jonathan, who wouldn’t understand such an instinct at all.

He still thought H?ra was in love with Sister Madeleine.

It was easier not to disabuse him.

Jonathan turned off the vacuum so he could ask, gently, “All right?”

“Of course I am. I’m always all right.”

“That’s good. Listen, go and collect yourself. Let me finish up here and get started on dinner. Shepherd’s pie, I think—our meat’s good, and we’ve got to show her what we’ve done, yeah?” Jonathan spoke in his most encouraging tone.

“Won’t she be impressed?”

Would she?

She ought to be. How often had H?ra imagined showing Sister Madeleine everything she and Jonathan had made?

There hadn’t been a farm before.

Now there was. Everyone said it was a good farm.

You couldn’t do that without strength, could you?

Without that strength of character Sister Madeleine had, the strength that had proven her worthy prey.

Now she’d see that H?ra was worthy too.

“Oh, one more thing,” Jonathan said.

“She looked different.”

H?ra, who had been turning toward her bedroom, stopped in place without turning around.

“How different?”

“She was in ordinary clothes. I dunno if that means anything. I think there’s nuns who don’t wear habits anymore, so maybe her convent just changed.”

H?ra’s body prickled from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes as she absorbed the implications of this.

“You saw her?” she asked quietly.

A pause. Jonathan knew that tone in her voice.

The one that rose from the deep with its teeth bared.

H?ra couldn’t help it.

Jonathan had seen what had been concealed…

seen it before H?ra had.

Sister Madeleine’s hair, her throat and ears, the shape of her body.

He said, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but stop thinking it. And you can’t sound like that when she’s here. It marks you straightaway. Put your human voice on and hope she doesn’t recognize you before you’re ready, although…”

The world seemed to turn in the ensuing silence.

“Are you going to tell her what you are?” Jonathan asked.

I don’t know what that is.

H?ra had never thought those words before.

She hoped never to again; how strange and disturbing that they’d come to her now, of all times!

She shook them off with a snorting sound that—she had to admit—didn’t sound very human either.

“Just follow my lead,” she said.

Without waiting for his reply, she continued on to her room, where he’d told her to collect herself .

As if bits of her were scattered all over the place.

She imagined a seabed pitted with pearls, shell fragments, bleached bones.

Would she gather them more efficiently with sharp horse’s teeth or soft human hands?

At the moment, she had only the latter.

H?ra closed her bedroom door and looked around the space, spare and familiar: a twin-sized bed, a bureau, and a closet.

There was little decoration, save for a photo of her and Jonathan from the day he’d purchased the farm.

He held up the deed for the camera, smiling broadly.

H?ra stood at his side, her own smile smaller, but her satisfaction real.

That was all, and it was still more than she required, since she didn’t need the bed.

The one window looked out over the farm, where sheep grazed in the distance.

She strode to her bureau, opened the top drawer, and fished around in the clothing there until she found what she sought at the bottom.

With a shaking breath, she withdrew Sister Madeleine’s rosary.

When H?ra had first brought the treasure chest to Jonathan, she’d explained to him that the rosary was the one thing he must not sell.

She hadn’t wanted to give it to him, but on land, the wooden beads wouldn’t rot like they would in the sea.

He’d kept it for her in the cottage, and she’d looked at it during many of her visits as a reminder of her mission.

Once she’d moved in with Jonathan full time, she had taken the rosary for her own again.

Properly speaking, it belonged to Sister Madeleine.

If need be…if H?ra had to prove who she was…

she could return it to her.

She ought to take a shower and put on fresh clothes.

Instead, with a groan, she fell down on her back on the bed.

The rosary’s wooden beads clacked together.

It was happening. The Great Mare had finally taken pity on H?ra and willed Sister Madeleine to come to her.

Now all H?ra had to do was hold up her end of the bargain and take what she’d been given.

She would. She closed her eyes as the breath shuddered out of her.

She clutched the wooden beads and thought of Sister Madeleine’s sea-green eyes and soft, full mouth.

H?ra would take, and take, and take.

Madeleine’s rented bike wobbled back and forth on the road as she made her way to ?tlaquoy, her teeth chattering in spite of her sweater and jacket.

The Orcadian wind turned biking into a miserable exercise.

Summer, my foot .

She should have taken Jonathan up on his offer to pick her up.

Instead, she’d had the foolish idea that biking would get out her nervous energy, as well as giving her ample time to think.

So much for that. She could only think about how cold she was.

Her bare hands ached on the bike handles.

At least the place was easy to find.

She was already at the turn from the main road down the gravel path to the farm.

A handsome painted sign marked the turn, reading, “?tlaquoy.” She’d already forgotten how Jonathan had pronounced that.

Madeleine made the turn.

The farm’s buildings were easily visible.

Thank the saints, she was almost there, although she had to admit that parts of the ride hadn’t been totally unpleasant.

A bit of sunlight had emerged, and in a few hours there might be an actual sunset.

It was a spirit-lifting sight.

She needed that lift.

It didn’t seem real that she was here, about to have a conversation with Jonathan about what had happened on that beach six years ago.

Possibly Jonathan would have no answers for her.

This dinner might be no more than an exercise in mutual bafflement.

The gravel driveway led past green pastures dotted with white sheep.

In the distance stood some cattle.

Madeleine knew nothing about sheep farming, so she supposed this number of animals must be impressive.

Harry Duggan had said Jonathan’s farm was successful.

Then again, Harry Duggan had said a lot of things.

If only she’d realized he’d been talking about Jonathan, she’d have paid closer attention.

As it was, she at least remembered Harry mentioning a “bairn” who lived with Jonathan—his illegitimate child.

Someone who’d been beaten when she’d arrived and undoubtedly had a difficult background.

It was hard to imagine Jonathan, even with a neat beard and clear eyes, taking care of a surprise daughter’s trauma—but what did Madeleine know about him?

By the time she reached the cluster of buildings at the end of the drive, her thighs burned and her lungs ached.

She’d thought she was in better shape than this.

Where had Jonathan said to go?

Oh, right, the office building, which also served as his home.

“It’s not much,” he’d said, sounding self-conscious.

“But we’ve got room for one more for dinner.”

Madeleine had thought of her tiny shared room in the convent, and the little apartment she now shared with Becca.

“That’s extremely kind of you.”

The office sat next to the gravel drive, while the barn and a couple of other buildings lay not a far distance off.

It was a brick structure that did indeed look like a residence.

Another building sat on the other side of the nearest field—a little stone cottage that looked older than everything else.

It seemed homey from this distance, just the sort of thing you imagined when you thought of Scottish cottages.

In the United States, a plaque probably would have designated it as a historic building.

The gravel crunched beneath her tires as she braked.

Be calm. Deep breath, deep breath.

That was hard when she was already breathing heavily from the ride.

Her hands stung from the wind.

She should have brought gloves, but who thought of that in June?

Madeleine walked the bicycle to the steps that led up to the front door.

Just as she reached them, the door opened, and Jonathan emerged onto the porch.

Was she imagining things, or did his smile seem nervous?

“Welcome, welcome,” he said.

“Happy you found us. You look as if you’ve been blown about a bit!”

Madeleine touched her tousled hair.

She must be a mess. “Just a bit.”

He chuckled.

“If you like, I’ll drive you back. Come in, come in.”

She followed him inside.

A couple of desks filled the front room, both covered with papers and binders.

One desk also had a computer.

Jonathan had made some effort at neatness, but he was clearly not a natural organizer.

Madeleine was already itching to put everything in good order.

Jonathan led her through a corridor to the living quarters: specifically, a living room with a small sofa, some armchairs, and a TV.

It was a homely, homey space, perfect for a man whose business and life were so entwined that he needed to keep them in the same building.

Madeleine thought of the convent.

She could relate to that too.

An appetizing smell floated through the air.

Her stomach growled, and she shot Jonathan an embarrassed look.

She’d only had that sausage roll for lunch, hours ago.

He grinned. “Shepherd’s pie all right, then?” Suddenly he looked anxious.

“Or are you vegetarians? I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I?”

Vegetarians, plural?

Were there suddenly two of her?

Madeleine looked at him in confusion.

“Nuns, I mean,” he clarified.

“Do you eat meat, Sister?”

Madeleine’s mouth opened slowly; she closed it again.

She looked down at her secular clothes, and then back up at Jonathan, wordlessly begging him to put it together on his own.

Nothing seemed harder, in this moment, than saying, I’m not a nun anymore.

She didn’t have to. Jonathan’s eyes widened in comprehension.

“Ah. I did wonder. It didn’t seem the time to ask.”

Thank goodness she didn’t have to say the unsayable.

Madeleine smiled again.

“You were right. You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks. It’s not much, but we like it. What shall we call you then, if not Sister?”

“Madeleine will do just fine. Madeleine Laurent.” Guided by an impulse, she chuckled and held out her hand.

“Nice to meet you again.”

Jonathan grinned and shook her hand.

His own hand was warm and callused: a reassuring grip that let go without holding her too long.

“Likewise. We’ve got the pie and some veg. Tea, of course.” He cleared his throat.

“No alcohol. We don’t keep it about. H?ra doesn’t drink either.”

H?ra —that must be his daughter.

It was a lovely name.

In fact, something about it sent a pleasant shiver up and down Madeleine’s spine.

Moreover, it seemed Jonathan really had changed his ways.

It was comforting to know you could do that no matter how old you were.

She said, “Tea sounds wonderful.”

Jonathan seemed relieved.

Then he looked around.

No doubt seeking the other part of the we he’d just mentioned.

“Where is that lass?” he muttered.

As soon as he said it, the floor creaked in another room with the sound of a footstep.

Madeleine’s heart did something strange.

At the creak of the floorboard, it suddenly pushed hard, almost painfully at the inside of her chest. She managed not to clutch at her shirt, but couldn’t quite muffle a gasp.

Jonathan looked at her in swift concern.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she managed.

“I just…it must be…” She didn’t have time to imagine what it must be, because then a woman entered the room.

Madeleine had spent fifteen years of her life surrounded almost exclusively by women.

Those women had come in all shapes, sizes, and aspects.

She’d thought, somehow, she’d seen every kind of woman there was.

She had never seen a woman like this.

Jonathan’s daughter was tall, long, and lean, and appeared to be in her mid-twenties.

She wore a white buttoned shirt with its sleeves rolled up, men’s pants, and boots.

Straight black hair fell down past her proudly set shoulders.

Her face was long, her cheekbones high, her mouth wide.

Her skin was so pale it was almost blue, as if she’d come here straight from freezing waters.

Her eyes made up for it.

Madeleine looked into the hottest eyes she had ever beheld.

They were an unusual color.

She supposed “amber” was the closest word to it, but she’d never known amber to catch fire before.

They were almost…yellow, in a certain light.

The woman stepped closer, openly looking Madeleine up and down.

It should have been presumptuous, even rude.

Fire should not have swept over Madeleine as those eyes assessed every inch of her.

Then the woman looked into her eyes again, seeking something.

Madeleine had no idea what it could be, but what if she didn’t have it?

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak. Was her mouth hanging open?

Were her eyes bugging out?

She’d been tormented by women for so long—women with pretty faces, enticing figures, and delicate hands.

Feminine women. Women she’d managed to resist. Now Madeleine looked at this entirely new kind of woman and thought: I didn’t know about you.

“Sister Madeleine,” the woman said softly, and her voice rolled through Madeleine’s blood like the tide.

It was deep, almost throaty.

For a moment it seemed familiar, although it couldn’t be.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Good to see you.

That wasn’t the half of it.

H?ra hoped she had control over her eyes.

When she wasn’t careful, she could wear a devouring look, or so Jonathan had warned her.

Sister Madeleine was even more worth devouring than she remembered.

There was more to see now.

Sister Madeleine’s wavy hair was dark brown, nearly black, and fell just past her shoulders, looking wind-blown.

She wasn’t wearing that dowdy habit anymore.

Instead, she had on a blue jacket and jeans.

H?ra couldn’t make out much of her top half thanks to the jacket, but the jeans showed the curve of her hips followed by long legs—not as long as H?ra’s, but few women’s were.

Sister Madeleine’s cheeks were flushed, undoubtedly from the cool air that never troubled H?ra.

She was…beautiful.

That is, as humans went.

She met their standards of beauty.

That was an objective fact.

It didn’t mean anything in particular for H?ra to notice it.

Something else had changed from last time.

Sister Madeleine had a scar on her forehead just over her right eyebrow.

H?ra remembered that spot with all the clarity of pure water.

She remembered tasting it, too.

Their encounter had marked Sister Madeleine as permanently as it had H?ra.

How wonderful .

H?ra’s hand was already rising into the air.

This wasn’t the first time her human body had acted without her permission concerning Sister Madeleine, but it had been so long.

She realized, with a jolt, that she was about to reach out and cup Sister Madeleine’s face, touch that soft, blushing skin.

Slide her fingers back into the dark hair.

And then press her lips to the scar, tasting the memory of blood.

H?ra’s hand froze in midair.

Luckily, that was the perfect position for Sister Madeleine to reach out so she could shake it in greeting.

For the first time in six years, H?ra’s bare skin touched Sister Madeleine’s.

Time stood as still as if the moon had stopped in its course, holding the tides captive.

It was just like last time.

Sister Madeleine’s flesh was cool from the elements—the ocean then, the brisk air now.

It still didn’t banish the heat that flared inside H?ra immediately.

Maybe because, this time, Sister Madeleine was the one who’d reached out.

The one who had sought the touch of H?ra’s human hand.

And their hands fit together perfectly now, two currents curling together to form a whirlpool.

Unbidden, H?ra thought of the whirlpool witch.

Bring me your despair, the witch had told her.

She’d be waiting a long time.

This was the most triumphant moment of H?ra’s life.

Then Sister Madeleine brought it all crashing down around her ears.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m not Sister Madeleine anymore.”

H?ra stared at her, certain she had misheard, waiting for a correction that didn’t come. “What?” she said.