Warm light spilled from its windows. It begged her feet to hurry so she could find a soft chair and warm her toes by the hearth. The thatched roof stood a rigid sentinel over a small croft filled with wildflowers. Its pitch hung low but proud. In the summer, the soft buzz of midges had filled the garden. But winter had driven them away and left only a pleasant hush.
Until a horse whinnied. The sound made Effie smile. It meant visitors. She cast out her senses and found a pair of horses in the small stable on the cottage’s far side. Letting herself roam within the cottage, her throat suddenly caught. She recognized the auras of those within. The visitors were the last she’d expected. Or, one of them, at least.
She felt Rose Brewer exit the cottage a moment before she spied the fey woman’s ginger ringlets and slender frame. Rose wore a flowing dress in the Bohemian style, with a thick woolen blanket pulled over her shoulders. She raised a smug eyebrow as they embraced but kept her lips pressed together. Mischief twinkled in her gaze.
Caledon greeted her with a wry grin and kissed her hand softly. He introduced Clara, while Gaelyph greeted her with a formal familiarity. Rose relaxed at Caledon’s touch, as if she had held her breath in his absence. Her eyes begged of him a hundred questions, but she held them in and instead slung her arm through Clara’s.
“Whist, lass, come in afore you catch your death,” she said. She prodded the girl toward the cottage door. “We’ll get a hot tea in you and some soup.”
Effie brightened at the motherly fussing. Though she’d barely known Rose a year, she’d welcomed such attention herself in the past months. It reminded her of the family she’d found, one she’d never imagined she’d have in the early years of her life.
Her thoughts returned to those in the cottage as she watched the women trudge away. Her head swam. That Rose had not yet mentioned the visitors was equally a mother’s teasing.
“Will you nah… I…” Effie stammered, but her tongue couldn’t quite form a witty riposte.
Rose stopped. She pulled herself and Clara around to stare at Effie. Her face finally broke into a broad grin. “Och, my manners,” she said. “I’d nearly forgotten. You have a pair of callers, Effie of Glen Coe, and a penchant for picking up strays.”
A flush rushed to Effie’s cheeks, tickling up from her stomach. She wanted to feign indignation but grabbed her skirts instead and hurried inside.
8
Effie all but leapt through the cottage door. A fire crackled in the hearth. Its warmth buffeted her flesh. The scent of honeyed tea and salted fish lingered in the air. A table held a stack of broadsheets and musty, leather-bound books. One thin tome lay open atop the stack. Inked drawings covered its aged parchment. Effie couldn’t make sense of them, but she knew they had something to do with alchemy and the research Rose and Jane Porter had been doing.
On a sideboard nestled in the corner, sat a cage meant for carrying songbirds. Within, three goblins scrambled about, brought to a frenzy by her entrance. Their skin was a pale grey, their ears pointed and teeth wickedly sharp. They stood only as high as a loaf of bread, with wisps of hair that stood upright and tiny claws for hands that grasped the bars of the cage, rattling it and making the whole thing teeter. That they had once been pixies, a race of wee, colorful fey who zipped about open glens on translucent wings, always brought a twinge to Effie’s heart.
But it was the men in the chairs near the hearth that drew Effie’s attention.
Conall Murray rose and tugged awkwardly at his brown morning coat. She watched his throat tighten as he swallowed hard. His hand moved to brush back the black, curly locks that had sprung loose by his movement.
“Hello, Miss Effie,” he said. He bowed, and her chest constricted as if all the air had sucked out of the cottage. The last time she’d seen Conall, they had parted on a sour note. Though they had drawn close for a time, she had been reminded of their different paths. Of their different desires. She did not know what it signaled that he had come to her, only that every part of her had wanted it.
Forgetting her manners, Effie only stared in return to his greeting. A damp piece of wood popped in the fire. The goblins chittered. Their clamor highlighted the awkward silence that hung in the air.
The man next to Conall saved Effie, as he had done for years. Stuart Graham rose, huffing as he swung his stockier and older frame about. He didn’t stand on ceremony but crossed the cottage to embrace her as a favorite uncle might. Lines etched his rosy cheeks. Whisky coated his breath. Years earlier, he’d been one of the first to show her kindness after Thomas Stevenson had taken her as a ward. From that day onward, it felt as if they’d been kin.
“’Tis good to see you, lass,” he said. “I’ve news, but I think perhaps a turn around the grounds might do our young friend here some good. We’ve been cooped up in the cottage for a spell after some hard riding, and the legs do need a stretch.” The hint of a grin broke across his lips. He turned to Conall. “Not mine, of course, but your younger ones.”
Conall started. He broke his gaze from Effie. “Oh, aye, um…yes.” Graham clapped him on the back and winked at her.
The familiarity relaxed her. She took in a soft breath. “It is a pleasure to see you both, of course,” she said. She reached to take Conall’s arm as he extended it. The touch sent electricity crackling through her. She had just a moment to savor the closeness before the door banged open. A wash of cold came with it, dampening the heat that had arisen in her.
“We’ve tomes aplenty,” Rose was saying as she led the others in. “But those old pages only go back so far, and the farther they go, the more they reek of fanciful tales rather than fact. None living, not even in Elphame, know what Fey Craft existed prior to Sidhe Righm.”
She sighed as her gaze flitted to the birdcage. The warden’s eyes lit up at the sight. His hand strayed to the pommel of his sword. The goblins screeched, rattling the cage and threatening to tip it over.
Caledon placed a gentle hand on the warden’s arm. He smiled kindly at Graham and made introductions as if they all strolled in a sunny garden. The warden’s expression turned into a blank mask. His fingers dropped from his sword, and he nodded as each man was introduced. Yet Effie could tell fury still burned behind his gaze.
“The books of man will tell you nothing of the Unseily,” he said, clipping the words to show his contempt.
“That may be,” Rose replied, “but it does not rule out other means of Fey Craft.”
“I agree,” said Effie. At their questioning looks, she explained to Graham and Conall what Gaelyph had told them earlier regarding the fate of the alchemy victims. She tried not to let each word feel like an admission of defeat, yet her shoulders sagged by the time she had finished.
“We had thought Cyrus Reed the only man with such vile knowledge,” she said. “But others have gained the eldritch lore. We’ve run afoul of them, and their creations—grindylows and bogills.”
“Aye, but certainly not too many as can’t be defeated?” said Conall. He gave her a curt nod. The gesture made her straighten a little. They’d always had that effect on one another. When one shuffled toward melancholy or sorrow, the other lent whatever speck of hope they could muster.