Twenty-two

Practically speaking, the demon’s attack was almost a blessing when Sophia thought about it. For the cost of a few bruises, a knot on the back of her head, and a short stretch of literally mortal terror, she’d tested her potion and found it successful. She’d encountered a new form of life, even if it was horrible and evil. To top it off, as she was cleaning up her laboratory and periodically glancing at the demon’s corpse, she’d realized that there lay a potential new source of both materials and a connection to Valerius.

Sophia hadn’t worked with demons before, naturally. She didn’t know of anyone who had, and what little she did know warned against it—but against calling them up, not analyzing their bodies after they’d met their well-deserved fate. Very gingerly, she pried off two of the demon’s claws, wrapped them in linen, and tucked the package into a corner of her box of supplies. The blood would probably burn through any container, she thought, and while either its heart or eye would likely have the greatest power, the risk of mischief from that direction was too great.

The claws would be enough to go on. She’d test half of one for elements and planetary correspondences; that would give her at least a hint to whether the rest could be at all useful. Then too, she wanted to consider the protective elixir further—with time and other processes, it was possible that the effect could last longer, or that it could guard against, say, being strangled—and there was the other potion for Fergus, which had fortunately not been upset during the fight.

Sophia had many roads to go down, many discoveries she could make, much work that she could do—and she rejoiced in it. She always would have, when the projects were new, but for the first time in her life, she felt that she would lose herself in it as a need, and not just as an inevitable result of progress and curiosity.

She didn’t—couldn’t—regret the moments she’d spent in Cathal’s arms. She knew she’d flung herself at him as she’d told Alice she wouldn’t, though out of neither recklessness nor despair, and that nothing had changed since that conversation with Alice. The reward had been worth the act.

For most of her life, Sophia had thought she understood desire tolerably well for an unmarried woman. Men were part of the world. A few of them were well made. She’d noticed, imagined more than noticing from time to time, and responded accordingly—but she was unmarried, and had never before had the time or the opportunity to be truly tempted into misbehavior. Despite her reading, she’d never really been able to imagine much beyond kissing, if that. It had never occurred to her that she would feel faint and dizzy, that her sex and her breasts would ache, and that she would not only find all of those phenomena pleasant but actually crave the chance to feel them again.

Lust was its own kind of alchemy, it seemed, and as full of contradictions. In Cathal’s arms, she’d ached and not noticed pain, had all the strength go out of her limbs while she’d felt full of new energy as bright as the noon sun. It was fascinating.

It was not an area of knowledge Sophia could rationally pursue further. She was glad of the time they’d had. Until she died, she would remember the heat of Cathal’s mouth, the intoxicating glide of his thumb across her nipple, the way his manhood had thrust against her. When she was alone at night, or in the depth of age, she knew she would take out the memories and comfort herself with them. Had they not stopped, she would have let him take her on the floor, and she doubted she would have had many regrets after.

They had stopped. She’d started thinking again—and while giving herself to sensation in the moment would have been one thing, there were too many obstacles for Sophia to overlook when her mind was clear.

For instance, the castle and the village might not care overly much about an alchemist in a tower, but people talked about a mistress. She didn’t know what jealousy and spite might arise if she went to Cathal and word got around, but she did know that word would get around.

Also, she planned to leave when her job was done. Travel would be perilous as it was. If she had a child with her, in her belly or out of it, she’d be risking her life and its—not to mention the reception they’d likely receive back home. Her parents tolerated and even encouraged her eccentricities. She wouldn’t ask them to accept her shame.

Another concern: she hadn’t needed to broach the subject with Cathal when they were embracing, only to follow his lead. She didn’t know if she could go to the man and offer herself. There was a certain kind of courage there that she doubted she had.

So, later, when she was far away from Scotland and Cathal, she would remember their time together fondly. For now, she wouldn’t let herself think of it more than she could help. For now, she would turn her mind to purely intellectual paths and be thankful for the work at hand, that she might concentrate on that and keep herself separate.

For the most part, the endeavor went very well for a few days. Sophia rose early, worked long and late, ate when Alice reminded her, and made polite conversation with Cathal when they met. Her throat and her head healed. She slept as well as she could and had no dreams. She began to research, in what little time remained, the right planetary alignments for visions and demons to anticipate when Valerius might make his next attempt. She went around guarded by men with crosses on their swords. One stood outside her laboratory, while another kept watch over her bedchamber. One had given her a silver dagger.

None of them was Cathal.

Sophia understood that, or told herself she did. He was a busy man, and busier now. Often she heard noise from the rooms below her, or saw light beneath the door when she came up and down the stairs. His duties went far beyond her, or Fergus, or the disruption that both of them had brought to the castle, and perhaps he’d had the same sort of second thoughts she had. A foreign mistress, and one who dabbled in magic, probably wouldn’t help his reputation with his men or his tenants. This distance was for the best. She told herself that too.

Then, on a day warm enough for the snow on the trees to melt and splat down to the still-frozen ground, she noticed that she was running short of herbs.

Donnag kept a small house near the edge of the village. It was humble in comparison to the buildings Sophia had known in France, and even more so compared to the castle, but Sophia got the impression that it was spacious for an old woman living by herself in the country. She and Alice both managed to fit around the fire with the midwife, even though Alice’s elbow came dangerously close to Sophia’s stomach when she gestured.

The midwife also made excellent cakes, far better to Sophia’s mind than the ones the castle cook managed, and her ale was none too bad either.

“I don’t brew it myself,” she said, when Alice complimented her. “Black John down by the river does that. It’s come up a bit under him. His father’s wasn’t near so good. Drank too much of it in the process, I’d say.”

When the conversation was leisurely like this, Gaelic was easy enough now for Sophia to understand. She thought Donnag might be going slowly on purpose, being easy on the foreign girl, and she didn’t have too much pride to appreciate that. “That happens back home too,” she said. “Temptation’s a hard thing.”

The old woman grunted affirmation. “Black John’s got a stronger will. From his mother’s side. I brought both his parents into the world, aye, and she knew her own mind from the very first.”

Alice laughed. “My oldest was that way…even in the birthing.”

“From the mother,” Donnag repeated, nodding. “Now, Munro there, his sire and dam are both calm, peaceable sorts—you’ll not have met them much, saving the blizzard—so the Lord only knows what made the boy go in for a soldier.”

Leaning against the wall, eyes alert and priest-blessed sword on his belt, Munro only waved a hand.

“There are these unexpected strains in the blood. Sideways, much of the time. My parents are neither of them scholars. My brothers either. That was down to my uncle, and then to me in my way.” Sophia smiled. “But it must be easier to see the pattern from where you stand.”

“Anyone old enough. Anywhere small enough. I heard stories of cities, of London, but I never fancied going. You can’t see the patterns there.” Donnag crackled laughter. “And here I’ll never anger the lord by bringing him a daughter.”

“They do seem not to mind girls,” Alice said.

“Aye,” said Donnag, “and besides, I’ve not yet been present for one of their births, and it’s likely I’ll be in the ground before the next.”

“Long-lived folk,” said Sophia, carefully neutral. The people of castle and village must not be entirely ignorant of the MacAlasdairs’ true nature, she thought, but that didn’t mean they knew it fully. “And none of the grown children have married yet.”

“One of the girls. There was a grand feast, and then she went away. The boys… Well, they’re men, aye?” Donnag glanced up at Munro again, shook her head, and chuckled. “At least the village girls have naught to fret over.”

The fire was very hot, and Sophia leaned back, letting the cool air hit her face. “That’s very…courteous…” she said with even more care than she’d used before. She didn’t meet Alice’s eyes. She didn’t even let herself think past the words.

Unnoticing or uncaring, Donnag shrugged. “Courteous or not, they can’t breed. Can’t even do it with their proper brides, my gran once said, without going off into the mountains for a fortnight.”

“Gossip.” Munro finally spoke.

“Could be. But you were a boy here, and a young man. Ever seen a child that took after one of their lordships more than it did its father?” Donnag stretched gnarled hands out toward the fire, the knuckles cracking. “It’s generally plain enough to those with eyes. And it’s not as though they look common, is it?”

Sophia reached for her cake, took a bite, and didn’t taste it at all this time. She thought of Cathal’s brilliant green eyes and the clean lines of his body. No, he didn’t look like most people. “They could just be very, um…pure?” she suggested. “Or…keep such things outside the village?”

“Not from what I’ve heard. Not about old Artair or his eldest, at any rate. Sir Cathal…he’s not been around here long enough. But I’ve never yet heard of a soldier who’d keep his hands off the women, given a chance.”

No longer able to ignore Alice’s gaze, Sophia turned to her friend and gave a quiet shrug, all the answer she could provide at the moment, and perhaps the only one she’d ever be able to manage. After all, what they’d heard was only gossip and the conjectures of a single old woman, midwife though she was.

Even if it was true, that wouldn’t change very much. Sophia and Cathal would still be in a castle, still surrounded by witnesses; she would still be leaving; and it would still go against what she’d been taught was proper. One wall had a few cracks in it. All of the others remained standing, remained sturdy.

That was another thing that she could tell herself—another thing that she suspected she’d need to hear.