Juliet Marillier - Hearts Blood

Something flickered in her lovely eyes. “How can you understand?” she said. “This place is not like the outside world, Caitrin. If you have any wisdom at all, remember that some secrets are best not revealed. Some tales are best left untold. Now I must go; I am required elsewhere.You can find your own way back.” Before I could say another word, she went out the door.

Rather than obey my instincts and bolt downstairs, I decided to wait until I could be sure she was gone. Her cryptic warnings had unnerved me; I needed time. Plainly she had convinced herself that my presence in the household was bad for Anluan. He did often seem weary and despondent, that was true. And he never seemed to do very much. Most days he spent time in Irial’s garden, where I could see him from the library window. Sometimes he would write in his little book, but more often he simply sat on the bench, staring into space. Tomas and Orna had implied he left the Tor only rarely, if ever. Such isolation must be bad for him. No wonder his manner was so odd. I vowed to myself that I would stay, dire warnings or not. Perhaps by the end of summer I could both finish the job and make friends with Muirne. She was the only female in the household. It must get lonely. Perhaps she had simply forgotten how to talk to another woman.

Now that she was not watching me, I took time to examine the garments more carefully. Not only could they help clothe me for the summer, but they might also provide insights into the history of Whistling Tor. The library held the ink and parchment records set down by men. But that was only half the story. Women talked to their daughters and granddaughters, weaving memories. If no living women remained, one might still learn something from what they had left behind: a garden planted in a certain pattern, a precious possession set away with careful hands, a gravestone for a beloved pet. And clothing. I did not know who had owned these gowns, these delicate undergarments, but perhaps they had something to tell me.

It seemed to me that this apparel had clothed three different women. The newest garments included the violet gown I so liked and a russet one of the same size and style.There was a head-cloth that matched the violet, embroidered with jewel-bright flowers.This woman had loved color.

The oldest gowns were tattered and decaying. Their fabric was dark and plain, but had once been of good quality—this had helped preserve them, I thought. The woman who had worn these had been tall and thin, someone with neither the time nor the inclination for frivolity.There was a third set of clothing, in better condition than the dark things but older than the colorful ones. These garments had been made for a small, slight person. I mused on what I knew of the family at Whistling Tor. Perhaps this tower room contained items from the wives of the three chieftains who had preceded Anluan. Nechtan the sorcerer—his was the tall, serious wife. The son, Conan, whose birth had been acknowledged in Nechtan’s records—his wife had been the little woman. And the bright things, those I had planned to take away and wear, had belonged to Irial’s beloved Emer: Anluan’s mother.

The door creaked, then slammed shut, startling me. I had felt no draft. My heart began to race. I got up and strode over to pull on the handle. It refused to budge.

“Muirne, are you still out there?” I called.

No response. She’d probably gone so far down the stairway that she couldn’t hear me. “Muirne! I can’t open the door!”

Silence. She was gone; I felt it. I mustn’t panic. The door could not have locked itself. It must simply be wedged by the force of the draft that had blown it shut. I tried again, hauling with all my strength, but the thing wouldn’t move an inch. Perhaps the wood was warped by damp—this did seem a curious place to store clothing, with that trapdoor to the elements. The trapdoor! Thank heaven for that. I could climb up to the roof, then shout until I attracted someone’s attention. Embarrassing as that would be, it would be better than waiting until Muirne realized I had not returned from our exploration—that might take all day.

I climbed the steps, one hand on the stone wall for balance, and set my other hand to the square of wood, which Muirne had pulled across the opening when we came down. There was no bolt or catch to hold it in place, but try as I might I could not move it. I needed a stick or other implement to help me; my efforts with the door had taken all the strength out of my arms and my back was aching. I looked around for an old poker or length of firewood, anything useful, but there was nothing in the little chamber but the two chests and clothing spread out everywhere. And a mirror. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? It hung on the wall by the steps, tiny, oddly shaped, in a frame of weathered wood. The surface glinted dimly in the light from the narrow window.Whatever I did, I must not look in it.

Breathe slowly, Caitrin. I took stock of the situation. Eventually someone would notice I was gone. Eventually someone would ask Muirne if she had seen me. I just had to wait. This calm advice did nothing to cool my flushed cheeks or slow my racing heart. Something was wrong here. Someone meant me harm. I recalled a tale of an unwanted wife who had been walled up in just such a tower room to starve to death while her husband enjoyed himself with a younger and more fecund bride. Nothing I could do. Nothing. No way to help myself. I knew this feeling well; it had shadowed every moment in Market Cross, once Ita and Cillian came. You are powerless. Useless. Hopeless.You are nobody.

I descended the steps and went over to the window.“I’m not at Market Cross,” I muttered. “I’m here. I can be brave. I can.” The window looked down onto a section of roof; nobody was going to see me from below. I tried the door again. Had Muirne used a key to let us in? It wasn’t possible, surely, that she had done this on purpose.

There seemed no option but to wait the time out. I folded the violet gown and the russet, placing them on a spread-out shawl. I added some shifts and smallclothes, then tied up the bundle. I packed the other garments neatly away into the chests. Magnus and Olcan were probably both out on the farm, with my activities the last thing on their minds. Anluan had not troubled himself to attend supper even once since my arrival; how likely was it that he would check whether I was at work today? As for Eichri and Rioghan, I had no idea how or where they spent their days. Rioghan probably caught up on sleep; those nights spent pacing the garden must take their toll. I kept my eyes off the mirror.

Time passed in an endless slow sequence of little sounds, creaks in the walls, rustling in the corners as of small furtive creatures about their business. We had not brought a candle or lamp with us and the chamber was dim.The patch of light from outside shifted slowly across the floor. In my mind, Muirne was speaking to Anluan. Your little scribe’s gone already , she was saying. She couldn’t bring herself to stay. Packed up her bags and was off down the hill at first light. I saw Anluan looking at the welter of documents in his neglected library.

A pox on this accursed place! Even when I was sitting all alone, something played havoc with my thoughts. I kept seeing the visions from those mirrors in the great hall: myself as a wizened crone, the same age as the poor soul Nechtan had tortured to death; a woman trapped in a terrible fire, screaming for help that did not come.Worst of all, I could hear a voice from the mirror on the wall, the one I was trying so hard not to look at. It did not speak aloud, but secretly in my mind. Its tone was a woman’s, sharp and practical. Use me, Caitrin.You got yourself into this silly predicament. Use me and escape. Stay there staring at the floor and you may stay there forever.

“ I’m not looking in any mirrors,” I said aloud. No doubt the thing was bursting with visions of murder and mayhem.

Just turn your head, Caitrin.

I forced myself not to do so, but I must have moved a little. Something caught the light from the window, something shiny hanging from a nail in the wall just above the mirror. A key.

There, said the mirror voice. Off you go now, and tell no tales or they might come back to haunt you.

I snatched the key without looking at the mirror’s surface. My hands were shaking as I inserted it in the lock. The door opened smoothly. “Thank you,” I muttered, grabbing the bundle and going out.The landing was empty. I locked the door behind me and slipped the key in the pouch at my belt.

I was not setting foot in the great hall again, ever. Instead of retracing my steps along the route Muirne had used, I looked for a door at the foot of the tower and found one, unbolted. Why hadn’t she chosen this far simpler way? I ran through the grounds—the scarecrow lifted a hand in greeting and I nodded as I passed—and back in the front entry. Once inside the house I discovered that even this shorter path had its difficulties. Doors seemed to be in unexpected places, steps led up where before they had gone down, windows let light onto formerly dark landings. It was like the day I had first come up the hill, when my surroundings had seemed to change at random. By the time I reached the library, through a process of trial and error, it was at least midmorning.

I halted on the threshold. Anluan was seated at one of the larger tables, writing in his little book. He had not seen me. His left hand curled around the quill, holding it in a death grip; there must be pain in his fingers and all along the forearm. I studied the angle of the page, the slant of the pen, and wondered how hard it might be to correct the bad habit of many years. He had forgotten to conceal his right hand; he was using it to keep the page steady as he wrote. Though the fingers lay unmoving, they did not look in any way deformed.There was a certain grace in the curve of the hand. There was beauty in the very concentration on his face, an intensity of purpose that made him look different; younger. There is another man here , I thought. One whom folk seldom see.

I must have moved or made some small sound, for he looked up and spotted me before I could retreat. With a practiced gesture he whipped a fold of his cloak over the limp right hand, then closed the book. “You’re late,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Muirne took me to look at some old clothing. Then the door shut of itself. It took me a while to get it open again.”

He said nothing, simply regarded me gravely.

“May I ask you a question?” Such opportunities were rare indeed, so I might as well seize this one.

“You have too many questions.”

This felt much like reaching out my fingers to Fianchu, not knowing if he would make friends or bite. I pressed on.“I walked through the great hall just now. I saw some things in the mirrors, I couldn’t avoid them. And there was a mirror in the tower room. It—it seemed to speak to me; it told me how to open the door. Did Nechtan make those mirrors? How could he learn to do such things?”

Anluan’s sigh was eloquent. I am weary of this.Why don’t you do your job and keep quiet?

“ Did he have a hereditary gift of some kind, or did he study the art of . . .” I found I could not quite say what I had intended.

“Go on,”Anluan said.“You think my great-grandfather was a sorcerer? A necromancer? Hereditary gift, you say. Perhaps you see evidence of the same dark talents in me. No doubt those folk down the hill have a theory as to what secret practices may have warped me in both body and mind.”