Page 31 of Time of the Druid (Stones of Scotland #7)
Chapter 31
N orah didn’t go to dinner. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Matthew, now that she knew what she had to do. She waited in the guesthouse and ate the scraps of food that Jack thoughtfully brought back for her. And then, once the crannog grew quiet again, she slipped out to the stillroom.
Half in a dream, she mixed up the perfect poison, her hands moving with the eerie precision of muscle memory while her mind lagged behind, fogged and distant. Night had already fallen, but tonight the moon hung bright and full in the sky, casting a harsh silver glow through the stillroom window. The light flooded the space in sharp angles and ghostly reflections, illuminating the glass vials and herb jars like relics in a shrine. It was too bright, too cold—like the glare of an operating table—unflinching and merciless.
Norah’s breath felt thin in her chest as she crushed the dried leaves, the rasp of pestle against mortar grating through the heavy silence. Her skin prickled with the chill and with something deeper—a dread that slithered along her spine, whispering that she was crossing a line she would never uncross. The moonlight pressed against her like a witness, and though no one else was there, Norah felt watched, judged, and unforgiven.
She planned carefully. Not for a fast death—it should creep up without him knowing. Gentle, though. She could not bear to see him in pain. No, he would gradually find his body tiring, until he slipped into an exhausted sleep from which he would never wake. There were far worse ways to die. She would just have to time this very carefully, so that he would not have a chance to complete the destruction of the stones. The poison would take a full day to settle, though, so she couldn’t act tonight, not if she wanted to be sure of success. Damn it, she should have prepared for this much earlier. What a fool she’d been, thinking that she and Matthew had a future together. She shook her head, disgusted at herself.
When will you learn, Norah?
She couldn’t help but wonder how she would feel when Matthew took the first sip. What she would do when he stumbled, and then when he finally fell to the ground. Would she collapse beside him, crying for the man she loved? Or would she feel nothing but quiet satisfaction at a job well done? When it came to it, her feelings didn’t even matter, as always. The only important part was Edmondson. If he was pleased, Norah could be free at last.
Matthew’s plan will ruin so much for so many people , she’d told Jack. As if she was some noble saviour, coming to save the love of Sadie and so many others like her. But here, in the silent darkness of the stillroom, Norah could admit the truth to herself: death terrified her. For all she’d dealt it out to others, she feared its dark fingers more than she could put into words. Edmondson held her life in his hands, and she would do anything to win it back.
I don’t want to die.
There. At least she could be honest with herself. She’d chosen her own life over Matthew’s, and she would have to live with that decision—but better living with that terrible truth than facing death. Gritting her teeth, Norah worked on transferring her mixture to a tiny glass vial. A day to mature, and this should do the job. She didn’t even want to know why the previous herbalist had kept all these plants prepared and ready to use.
The door creaked.
Norah moved as fast as she could, tucking the vial into her skirt pocket and shoving the remaining herb jars back onto the shelf. Only a skilled herbalist would guess what she was doing.
But that was the least of her problems. As the figure in the doorway stepped into the pool of moonlight, Norah shrank back against the wall of cabinets behind her. Bedwyn.
She braced herself, pulse hammering against her ribs as she gauged the space between them—the narrow aisle, the solid table, the way the moonlight slanted just so across the flagstone floor. Her fingers curled around the edge of the cabinet behind her, nails digging into the wood. If she timed it right, maybe—just maybe—she could dart past him, knock the door wide, and disappear before he could close his thick, greedy fingers around her arm. It would be a fight. He was bigger, faster, and vicious. But she would claw and scream and gouge if that’s what it took. Bedwyn would never lay a hand on her again. Not without blood.
But then he staggered a step closer, unsteady and slurring, the stench of ale reaching her nose even across the distance. His expression had changed, softened—not lecherous, but wistful, his gaze unfocused like he was peering through her and into some long-forgotten memory. That, somehow, was even more unnerving.
"Hello, little Norah," he said. "Working your black magic by night, are you? I hope my wife hasn’t learned anything from you. She’d kill me if she could, you know."
Norah stood there, frozen. What was he talking about?
"Oh, don’t look so surprised," Bedwyn said. "There are few secrets on this crannog, and I know the history of every person who crosses that causeway. Poisoner for Matthew’s father? I admit, you don’t look like much of an assassin, but you’ve clearly got a bit of fight in you."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Norah said unsteadily, trying to keep the table between them as she moved toward the door.
Bedwyn rolled his eyes.
"I’m a drunkard, not a fool, and my sources are impeccable. I know who you are. And I assume that you’ve been mixing up a delightful concoction for the delightful Matthew."
His voice sounded far too casual, almost as if he was amused.
"Matthew is your friend," Norah said. She wasn’t far from the door now, and Bedwyn had wandered further into the stillroom. She could make it.
"Matthew is an asset who outlived his usefulness," Bedwyn shot back. "I don’t have friends."
"Then why did you let us stay here?" Norah asked. She was just buying time now, trying to keep him talking while she edged toward the door.
"Perhaps his daddy had a little word with me," Bedwyn said, and winked. "Now there’s a man worth sticking with. You choose your leaders well, Norah."
Edmondson .
Norah didn’t want to hear another word. Horror slammed into her like a wave, and she reeled back from it, heart lurching in her chest.
Her vision blurred with panic as she turned and bolted, the soles of her boots slapping against the cold flagstones. She shoved open the stillroom door with both hands and fled into the night, moonlight catching on her skirts as they tangled around her legs.
Behind her, Bedwyn’s laughter chased her like a curse, rising and echoing into the dark like a tolling bell of doom. She ran faster, stumbling over uneven ground, her breath ragged in her throat and the poison vial burning like ice against her thigh where it pressed through her skirt pocket. She could still hear him, she could still hear him—God, would she ever be clean of this?
Once again, Edmondson’s fingerprints were all over everything. Wherever Norah went, whatever she did, he had been there first. She would never escape him.
But, if he could visit this time period at will—if he’d come here at least twice—then why did he need Norah? Why not kill Matthew himself?
Wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the worst of the evening chill, Norah fought down her shivers and rushed back toward the guesthouse. The why was not her problem. She only had to focus on the how . And soon, even that much would be over, and she could finally escape this nightmare.