Page 50 of Fletcher

Through the infirmary’s open door she saw the clan’s healer sitting and holding his head in his hands next to a pallet where Idonea lay. She had some kind of compress on her brow and appeared to be sleeping.

Duncan glanced up and came out into the passage to look all over her. “Did the Finfolk harm you?”

“I got grabbed and scared, but otherwise I’m fine.” She touched the back of her head, which he came around to inspect. “How’s Idonea doing?”

“She took a hard blow to the head that left her dizzy,” he said, and gently probed her scalp with his fingertips. “’Tis a patch of hair missing here.”

“Just a little.” She winced as he brushed his fingers over the sore spot. “Could you spare some of that pain salve you used on Meg when she was hurt?”

“Aye.” He gestured for her to come in, and went to unlock a dark cabinet.

Lark went over to sit on the stool by the pallet, and for the first time realized just how thin and frail the seamstress appeared. The woman had so much energy it was hard to remember she was in her seventies.

This wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t gotten close to me. I jinxed her.

Idonea stirred, and then looked at her, squinting several times as if she couldn’t make out her face.

“Lass. You escaped them,” she murmured, looking surprised.

“I had some help.” She hated that she had done this to the seamstress, who had become her only friend at Dun Ard. “Are you okay?”

“Aye, dinnae fret.” The seamstress patted her hand. “Healer shall look after me. Seneschal reached you before the Finfolk could meddle with you?”

“He’s the reason I’m not breathing water right now.” She clasped the older woman’s hand between hers. “I’m so sorry they hurt you. King Merrick promised they’d be punished for what they did.”

“I reckon ’tis because I care so much for you,” the seamstress said, and made a sound as if she were swallowing a sob. “Your jinx, ’tis very real, I fear. Take care, lass, no’ to hurt anyone more.”

Idonea then drifted off, and to keep from thinking about what she’d said Lark got up and went over to the table where Duncan was adding herbs to a mortar.

“Is she really okay?” she asked.

“Donnie, she’s no’ a young lass, and she took a harsh blow,” the healer told her. “I shallnae ken more until the morrow, when she shall either show some improvement, or grow worse.”

Lark’s stomach dropped. “What if she’s worse?”

“I’ll do what I can.” He met her gaze. “Lady Valerie’s told me of the wonders of healing in your time, Mistress. You must ken ’tisnae the same in our time. Mortals of Idonea’s age often die from such injuries.”

After she left the infirmary Lark wandered down the passage, so filled with dread she thought she might throw up. She already knew what would happen tomorrow morning; someone would come to tell her that the seamstress had died of her injuries. She’d have to attend yet another funeral of someone who had cared for and been close to her. She’d considered Idonea one of her best friends at Dun Ard, the same way she’d regarded Meg, in fact. Had she caused the maid’s near-death experience, too? It seemed no one was safe around her no matter what time she lived in. At this point she might as well tell Fletcher to start digging his own grave.

Or I could do the other thing.

She found herself standing in front of the watch tower stairs. Fletcher had promised to take her up to the top and show her the view of the island from there; he’d said it was the stronghold’s highest point.

That should work.

Lark found it odd how detached she’d grown as she started up the stairs. She had thought about ending the jinx this way several times, but she’d always had hope that she was wrong, and that it was all just a lot of terrible coincidences. Yet the thought of Fletcher dying because of her made her keep climbing, her hands tightening into fists until she reached the door at the top and stepped out onto a narrow, circular platform of stone with only a low battlement wall around the edge. No one else occupied the place, so no one would stop her.

A cold, damp breeze needled through Lark’s wet clothes as she walked to the battlements and looked over to judge the distance to the ground. She was probably seven or eight stories up, which was good. The very last thing she wanted was to survive and have to live paralyzed or in a vegetative state.

“I cannae imagine the laird’s asked you serve as watcher.” Shaw joined her at the wall and gave her a sideways glance. “You shouldnae stand out in this wind when you’re soaked, lass. Or do you mean leave my brother for good? I confess, of late I’ve wondered if I should do such.”

She didn’t know if he was joking, and she really didn’t care. “All of my people in my time are dead or gone. Meg was hurt because of me. Now Idonea may die, and then Fletcher will be next, and it’s all because of me. It has to stop.”

“Even an immortal half-Fae cannae survive such a drop.” A gorgeous smile spread across the chieftain’s face as he held out his hand. “Shall we make the leap together, then?”

She recoiled. “I’ve killed enough people.”

“Ho, I’ll wager I’ve slain far more,” Shaw countered, his grin growing even broader. “Indeed, I spent twenty years serving as the killing tool of a tribe of evil renegades. You never wish to ken how many lives I’ve taken so that I might go on living. Still, I’ll happily serve as your last victim. Or does such make you mine?”