Agnes was not one to miss an opportunity.

She knew that time was of the essence.

Fergus’ whore was clearly determined to earn the goodwill of those at Killairic and to do so with haste. It was astonishing to Agnes that the infidel had made so much progress in only one day—by the end of their handfast, it might not be possible to be rid of her.

Already, it was becoming impossible to avoid the sound of some fool singing the praises of Lady Leila. Laird Fergus was the worst of them all—he looked to be besotted with her since his return the night before, his gaze trailing after her every step. The old laird scarce showed less esteem. Agnes could not make sense of their acceptance of a woman with such dark skin. From the sounds that had carried from the solar the night before, Laird Fergus showed great enthusiasm for the task of fathering a son.

Agnes knew she could see to her laird’s pleasure better than any infidel whore. A notion had occurred to her and had steadily grown in appeal. What if Agnes were to replace the whore in the young laird’s affections? What if she were to bear the son who would inherit Killairic? The old man already liked her, and she made every effort to feed his affection. When she had a moment to spare from the witch’s commands, she saw to his comfort. She knew what he liked. A sweet from the kitchens in the afternoon. A warm cup of goat milk in the evening. A little assistance on the stairs and a flirtatious comment about his vigor. Agnes knew it all.

She also knew that the whore did not remove the lace from her neck with the keys. This was vexing and gave Agnes a challenge. What had they secured in the treasury? Could she use knowledge of it to be rid of the whore? Agnes had to oust the whore soon if it was to be done and she was convinced that the item in Duncan’s saddlebag would assist in that quest.

It could be stolen and the whore blamed.

On the day after his return from Dunnisbrae, Laird Fergus had a second set of keys made. He might have heard Agnes’ wish and she had to hide her delight at the tidings. When he climbed the stairs to give the newly made set to his father, Agnes’ plan was made.

Only two sets of keys, and no one would blame the old laird for the loss of any item from his own treasury.

Agnes waited until midday meal had been served, and the whore had assisted the old laird with his stew. She waited until Laird Fergus and his whore rode out, waited until she could hear the hoofbeats no longer, then waited some more.

She tapped on the door to the old laird’s chamber, though it was standing open. He was dozing and the keys gleamed on the lace around his neck. She was tempted but waited for the right moment.

“Agnes!” he said, pushing himself up to a more seated position.

“I thought your knees might be troubling you, my lord,” she said demurely. “It is oft so after the rain.”

“And so it is on this day. It is kind of you to ask, Agnes.”

“Let me rub some of the liniment into them, my lord. It always gives you relief.”

“Thank you, Agnes!”

“Would you like a cup of warm milk as well? It seems a day to linger abed, especially after such a late night.”

“Indeed, indeed. You are thoughtful, Agnes.” He smiled at her and she bowed, hastening down the stairs to gather liniment and milk. Her palms were damp for she stood on the threshold of opportunity but she dared not give herself away.

She wished she had a bit of valerian to put in the milk, but there was no midwife in Killairic any longer. The hut of the former one had been left untouched after her death, but Agnes could not have identified the right herb by herself. She knew better than to guess. The old midwife would not have granted it to her, either for she had distrusted Agnes.

When Agnes had delivered a son to Fergus, the villagers would know better than to disdain her.

She returned to the old laird with the liniment and the milk. He thanked her effusively. She helped him to his chair, positioned in the sunlight by the window, and tucked pelts around him. Then she knelt before him and rubbed his favored liniment into his knees, striving to appear fascinated as he recounted the same stories that he had told her a hundred times. She exclaimed in all the right places and encouraged him, watching as he sipped the warm milk.

“Surely, you did not need to abandon the solar, my lord,” she said. “I am certain Laird Fergus would wish for you to be comfortable.”

“I like the view here, Agnes, and this room is more cozy. The wind is diminished here.” He leaned back his head and yawned mightily. She saw the cord around his neck and looked down as if disinterested. “Stir up the coals on the brazier, if you please, Agnes.”

“Of course, my lord. Would you like more milk?”

“Nay, but I thank you.” He yawned, doubtless because the room was so warm, then waved her away. “Leave me sleep, Agnes, but do not let me miss the evening meal. Tell Iain that I must be awakened when Fergus and Leila return, for I would hear of their day.”

“Of course, my lord,” Agnes agreed, but his lids were already drooping. She waited, watching and listening, still rubbing his knees but with diminishing force. The old laird slipped into a deep sleep, his head drooping and his hands slack. Agnes waited a little longer, scarcely daring to breathe.

She heard Xavier and Iain arguing in the kitchens. She knew the Templars played chess in the hall. No one came up the stairs. The sounds of the village seemed remote.

Laird Calum began to snore.

Agnes held her breath as she stood. She waited, then stepped closer to his shoulder. She reached and slowly lifted the knot on the cord away from his skin. She did not even dare to breathe. He murmured to himself in his sleep and she froze, waiting until his snoring began again.

Slowly, carefully, she untied the knot. The keys fell into her palm with a soft tinkle and she caught her breath, fearing she would be caught.

But Laird Calum slept on.

Agnes left the cord around his neck. She retreated with care, closing the door behind herself, and stopped to listen while she stood on the stairs. No one was near.

This was her chance.

She hastened up the stairs on silent feet, unlocking the door of the solar as quietly as she could. She breathed a sigh of relief that the key worked, then ducked inside.

She closed the door quietly behind herself, then locked it again so she could not be discovered at the worst moment. Her heart was racing. She crossed the solar, avoiding the floorboards that creaked. Her hands shook a little as she unlocked the treasury, and she feared that the saddlebag had been removed.

But it was there, on the floor just inside the door, just as it had been from Laird Fergus’ return. There were also chests of coins and one of documents, but this was the bag that intrigued Agnes.

She listened, but there were no indications that anyone climbed to the solar or sought her. She crouched down and unlocked the buckles, threw back the flap. There was a wrapped bundle within the bag. It smelled faintly of manure, which surprised her, but she lifted it out of the bag and carried it to the window.

Agnes set the bundle on the table beneath the window and studied the way it was wrapped. She took careful note of the details so that she could return it with the appearance that it had been untouched. Then she opened the bundle. There was a great deal of cloth wrapped around whatever was inside, as if it might be fragile. It was round and of a goodly size. Agnes thought she felt metal and could not make sense of it.

Until the last length of cloth was removed and the sunlight fell upon the golden reliquary in her hands. Agnes’ mouth fell open in astonishment. The treasure was gold, gleaming gold and studded with gems, marked with inscriptions and crosses.

Agnes could not read the inscription but she knew this was a prize, a treasure beyond price. She traced a cross engraved in the surface with a shaking fingertip. This explained the presence of the Templars. They guarded this marvel and were yet in the keep. She licked her lips, wondering how best to use this treasure to see the whore discredited.

The answer was clear. Of course, an infidel would not hold such an item sacred. An infidel might steal it, perhaps to finance her journey home. Agnes smiled. She would steal the reliquary and make it look as if the whore had taken it. Laird Fergus would challenge the whore, she would deny that she had done anything amiss—as one would expect—and he would cast her out.

Leaving his bed cold and his father yet in need of an heir.

The scheme was simple, yet flawless.

Perhaps Agnes would be rewarded for restoring the prize, when all seemed to be lost.

Certainly, she could grant Laird Fergus all he needed.

Agnes lifted the reliquary out of its protective wrappings and rolled it instead in one of the whore’s dirty chemises. She left the saddlebag splayed open in the treasury, and placed the wrapping in the bag, but in disarray. It looked as if someone had hastened to seize it and not cared that its absence would be obvious.

Well pleased with herself, Agnes locked the door to the treasury again. She ensured that there was no sign of her presence, then left and locked the door from outside the solar. She hugged the treasure as she descended the stairs, praying that she would not be spotted.

The bucket for slops was outside the old man’s door. It was empty but only Agnes knew that. She put the bundle in the bucket, replaced the lid, then took a deep breath. She eased into the old man’s chamber, where he still snored, and placed the keys back on the cord. Her hands were still trembling, but her excitement rose as she neared success. She knotted the cord again, holding her breath all the while, and worked both cord and knot beneath his chemise. When she was certain he slept uninterrupted, she backed slowly out of the chamber.

The bucket was just as she had left it. Agnes hefted it to descend the stairs.

Iain had come into the hall. She smiled at him, noting that one Templar was playing chess with Murdoch while the other looked on. That second one spoke while gesturing to the board, apparently giving advice, and Murdoch snorted.

Disdaining it, no doubt.

“Laird Calum is asleep but wishes to be awakened for the evening meal,” she said to Iain and the steward nodded.

His gaze dropped to the bucket with a frown. “My lord does not usually evacuate at this hour of the day.”

“And so he did not,” Agnes said, concocting a lie. “But I forgot that I was to take his bucket this morning. I am sorry.”

Iain was stern. “See that you do not make such an oversight again, Agnes. His lordship should not have to endure the smell for a moment longer than necessary, and the hall must be kept clean, by request of her ladyship.”

“Of course, Iain. I apologize again.” Agnes bowed and apologized and said whatever was necessary to convince the old busybody to look the other way. Finally, she was able to leave the hall. She took measured steps to the stream on the far side of the keep where the sewage was dumped.

Instead of emptying the bucket, though, she placed it on the ground. She looked back but could see no one. She tipped off the lid and seized the treasure. Agnes jumped the wall and crossed the stream, clutching her prize. She ran for a hiding place she knew well.

The reliquary would be safe there until she could give it to Laird Stewart.

How soon could she convince someone to look for the reliquary to ensure that the whore was condemned for its loss? Agnes was not certain who knew about the prize and doubted that Laird Fergus would hear a word against the infidel in his bed.

She would have to watch and listen and seek her chance.

Laird Calum might provide the opportunity she sought.

---

It had been a fine day and one that gave Leila much hope for the future. She and Fergus had ridden the perimeter of Killairic and he had shown her the bounty of the holding he called his home. She had been much impressed by Killairic’s beauty and more so by Fergus’ affection for the people and the land.

Even better, they had talked of those in the village and she had seen his talent for taking responsibility without meddling. They discussed how best to aid the miller’s son, and he had shared his scheme to send Hamish to help.

He had told her about the midwife who had passed away in his absence and had conferred with her about seeking out a new healer for the village. They had discussed the possibility of tempting one to move from Dumfries and what inducement such a woman might find appealing.

Leila liked that Fergus was concerned not only with her own welfare, should she conceive, but with that of the other women in the village. They had agreed that Radegunde could test the knowledge of whoever they chose, for Fergus expected she would pass through Killairic either with Duncan or in search of him by the fall.

They spoke of Hamish and his future, the possibility of him training for his spurs at Haynesdale, and agreed that the boy might be glad of the opportunity. This, too, Fergus resolved to discuss with Hamish.

Their conversation was easy and companionable, and she liked the glances that Fergus cast her way. He asked for her advice on the administration of the keep itself, and they considered who should accompany them on the journey to Iona.

The sun was setting when they rode back into the village. Farquar beckoned to them to share Nellie’s progress and it appeared the mare would be well enough to pull the plow within a week or two. The priest smiled and waved at them, and Leila agreed to meet him the next morning for more lessons.

All went aright.

Calum was coming down the stairs when Leila and Fergus climbed to the solar. They were muddy from their ride and both meant to change their garb for the evening meal. Fergus changed course and accompanied his father to the hall, tactfully ensuring that the older man did not fall, while Leila continued to the solar.

She was unlocking the portal when she smelled manure.

She had crossed the threshold when she smelled Agnes. The girl was not as clean as Leila might have preferred in a maid, but she knew better than to give that one counsel. And truly, it was not all bad for Agnes to have a distinct scent, since Leila did not trust her.

Agnes smelled of perspiration, and faintly of sexual pleasure, as well as onions. Undoubtedly, she had peeled vegetables for Xavier before her change of post though Leila wondered who the girl’s lover could be. It was somewhat disgusting that she had washed so little in two days.

Leila thought at first that the girl’s scent lingered from earlier in the day, but it was stronger in the middle of the solar.

It was strongest yet by the window with the trunk beneath it.

Had Agnes been in the solar in their absence?

But how?

There were more keys, just as at Châmont-sur-Maine.

Leila felt cold.

She saw then that the soiled chemise she had left for the girl to wash was gone, though the other laundry was not. Fergus’ plaid was still stretched out to dry and his chemise from the day before had not been moved.

She was frowning at the door to the treasury when Fergus entered the solar.

“What is amiss?” he asked immediately and she indicated that he should close the door. He locked it before coming to her side, his eyes alight with curiosity.

“There is another key,” Leila said quietly. “Agnes has been in this chamber in our absence.”

“How can you tell?”

Leila touched her nose and Fergus nodded.

“Alone?”

“If not, her companion is cleaner than she.”

They both looked at the door to the treasury as one.

Fergus put out his hand even as Leila drew the cord with the keys over her neck. She handed the keys to him, fearful of what he would find yet having a curious conviction of it all the same. He opened the door to the treasury as her heart pounded in fear and she knew immediately that her suspicion had been right. His posture changed, his shoulders drooping, then he glanced back at her, his lips a hard line.

“It is gone,” he said softly.

“As is my chemise.”

Fergus nodded. “Whoever took it meant for you to appear to be the villain.”

Leila watched him, wondering what he would decide. He closed the door and locked it again, then he came to her. His eyes were dark, his expression solemn. “I will keep the keys now, as that will cast doubt on any accusation.”

Leila nodded, feeling that her position was precarious.

Fergus slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Do not look so fearful. I know that you have defended the prize with your life. I know your innocence. But what scheme does our villain have? Agnes is yet in the hall, so if you are right—”

“I am right. I know her scent.”

“Then she has not gone far to hide it. That means it can be found.” Fergus smiled down at Leila. “Let us say naught and let her provoke the display of the reliquary. There must be some plan to reveal your supposed theft.”

“And we may find the treasure before that,” Leila concluded.

“I will ask Hamish to follow Agnes and see if he can find it, but we will confide in no one else.” Fergus raised his brows. “Certainly not our guests, the Templars.”

Certainly not.

---

Leila was clearly shaken by the theft of the reliquary. Indeed, Fergus was worried about it, as well, but he strove to appear more confident than he felt in order to reassure his wife. He guessed that Leila feared she would be blamed and did not doubt that she was right.

He had to find the reliquary first.

He spoke to Hamish after the evening meal, striding to Rodney’s abode to speak to the boy in confidence. Hamish was thrilled to be entrusted with the responsibility of watching Agnes and Fergus knew the boy would do whatever was necessary to aid Leila. His loyalty was indisputable. Fergus chose to wait a few days before sending Hamish to aid the miller, and asked instead what Hamish thought of journeying to Haynesdale to train for his spurs.

Hamish’s shout of joy brought Rodney and Mhairi and offered a suitable guise for Fergus’ mission.

“It was Leila’s idea,” Fergus said. “She was the one who guessed your ambitions.”

Hamish’s eyes glowed and his aunt and uncle were most grateful.

Fergus returned to the hall to find Leila laughing with Calum beside the fire. Agnes was cleaning the board without enthusiasm and he wondered where she might have hidden the reliquary. He recalled that glimpse he thought he had of her in the stables and resolved to look there the next morning.

At this hour, though, he wanted naught more than his wife’s companionship.

And truth be told, he wanted to give Agnes a surprise.

Fergus caught Leila’s eye and smiled at her, glad that she smiled warmly in return. He pulled the keys from his purse and let them swing on their cord, catching the light. Agnes stared at him. “You have the keys, my lord?”

“Aye, Agnes. After my lady locked me in the solar the other day, I vowed that would not occur again.”

The girl flushed and stammered an incoherent reply, then glared at Leila before she returned to her cleaning. Fergus thought she deserved no less, for it was clear to him that she meant to let Leila be blamed for the loss of the reliquary.

Leila’s distrust had been deserved, after all.

He could only hope that Agnes would soon lead Hamish to her hiding spot.

In the meantime, Leila spoke to his father, who rose to his feet and the pair crossed the hall to Fergus.

“You will not have a protest from me when you summon your lady wife to bed,” his father jested and they climbed the stairs together. Calum retired, Iain coming to assist him, and Fergus escorted Leila to the solar. “Since I have the keys,” he said. “I would serve as your maid this night.”

Leila smiled. “I would wager that you wish for a boon from me for your trouble.”

“Of course. I have waited all day to learn whether the merchant escaped the djinn or not.”

She laughed aloud. “You could have asked me during our ride.”

“I could have, but our discussion was so lively.”

They entered the solar and Fergus locked the door behind them, even as Leila lit some of the candles. The chamber was chilly and Fergus lit the braziers, then drew the curtains around the bed.

“If you recall, the djinn had lifted his sword, intending to behead the unfortunate merchant,” Leila said as she sat on the edge of the bed. She slipped off her shoes and began to untie the laces of her kirtle.

Fergus shed his own garb with haste, then came nude to the bed.

She spared him a glance and a smile. “It is cold for such enthusiasm,” she said.

Fergus laughed. “Then hasten yourself, woman, and warm me.”

Leila laughed again, and Fergus helped her with her stockings. He coaxed her out of her kirtle and chemise, then tugged her beneath the coverlet and pelts.

She licked her lips, her eyes shining, and continued the tale. “Just before the djinn made his blow, the merchant cried out. He asked the djinn to delay his execution, so that he could return home and say farewell to his family. The djinn was not inclined to do as much, but the merchant noted that he had not yet made a will and that his affairs had to be left in order. He begged the djinn to let him see that his property was divided and his family provided for—and he vowed to return when all was done. The djinn was skeptical that the merchant would return, but he swore an oath that he would return in exactly a year and a day, to the very spot, to accept his fate. They agreed and the djinn disappeared.”

Fergus did not fail to note that the term was that same as that of their handfast.

“The merchant raced for home, both glad he had escaped a dire fate and fearful of his future. He knew he could not break his word, yet he was not ready to die. His family greeted him with great joy, but his wife noticed that he did not share their jubilant mood. Husband and wife were much in love and knew each other very well...”

“All the couples in your tales are much in love,” Fergus noted, even as his hand slid from Leila’s breast to her stomach.

Leila smiled. “Why should stories not mirror the most ideal of marriages?”

“I will guess that the merchant confided the truth in his wife.” He held her gaze as his fingers slid ever lower and he smiled when she flushed a little. He touched her gently and she gasped, then parted her thighs to welcome his caress.

“Of course!” she said, her voice a little more husky than was usual. “And she was much distressed, though she could not find a solution either. The merchant then began to arrange his affairs. He made his will and paid his debts. He set his slaves at liberty and divided his property amongst his children. He appointed guardians for those who were young and saw his eligible daughters married well. There was much to do, but to him, the day that he had to depart to keep his appointment with the djinn arrived all too soon. His wife wished to accompany him but he could not bear for her to see him so struck down. He embraced her and took his leave, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he would not return.”

“Let us consider for a moment as to how they might have spent that last night together,” Fergus said, then bent and kissed Leila.

She sighed, winding her hands into his hair, and arched against him, her tongue slipping between his teeth to tease him. “Like this, I would think,” she whispered when he gave her a chance, then caught his nape to pull his head down again. “Since they must have believed they would never meet again.”

Fergus gave her a long and languid kiss. “But did they?” He kissed her ear, her throat, and the hollow of her shoulder.

Leila sighed. “I cannot tell you the end of the story before the middle.”

“I come to think this story has no end,” he complained and she laughed. He caressed her slowly and any reply died on her lips. She whispered his name and Fergus liked the breathless sound very well. “Aye, she must have begged him to please her,” he said and Leila did the very same. “She must have tried to convince him to remain.”

“But no woman of merit would truly want to convince the man she loved to break his word,” Leila protested. She rolled suddenly atop Fergus, and he was content to be her captive. The covers fell away and the light from candles and braziers made her skin look even more golden than it was. “Perhaps she held him down and took her pleasure from him,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling.

“Perhaps he willingly surrendered to her,” Fergus replied. “For he wanted naught more than to see her delight.”

“Perhaps you do not truly wish to hear the tale.”

“Perhaps I would be satisfied first,” Fergus replied. Leila laughed, then knelt above him and he was surprised to realize how prepared she was to welcome him. He had intended to pleasure her first but she sat upon him, the sweet heat of her making him dizzy. She moved slowly, casting a spell of her own, and Fergus knew he never wished to be freed of this enchantment.

“I would wager they did not sleep at all that night,” he murmured and she smiled. “After all, they believed it to be their last night together.”

“Is it possible to love more than once or even twice a night?” Leila asked and Fergus grinned.

“Aye,” he said, pulling her down for a thorough kiss. “Let me show you.”

---

Thrice Fergus seduced her before they doused the candles to sleep. When the solar was dark, save for the burning coals in the brazier, he gave Leila a squeeze. “Do not go to sleep before you tell me the merchant’s fate,” he growled and she smiled in the darkness.

“Well, after a sweet farewell from his wife, he left his home to keep his word to the djinn.”

“Of course, he did, for he was a man of honor.”

“Of course. That was why his wife loved him so well,” Leila agreed. “The merchant arrived at the designated spot and sat down to await the arrival of the djinn. While he sat there alone, he saw an old man came into view, leading a hind. The old man halted in surprise when he noted the merchant. He warned the merchant immediately to leave the area, for he said it was infested with evil djinn and a dangerous place to rest. The merchant confessed that it was too late and told the old man his tale. The old man lamented with him and admired his honor in keeping his word. He asked if he might remain to witness the merchant’s meeting with the djinn. The merchant thought the old man might be able to take word to his family of his fate, so he agreed.”

“That seems a sensible arrangement,” Fergus murmured.

“The pair sat together until they saw a huge cloud of dust rise in the distance. It swirled into a tall column and spun to the spot right before them. The djinn with the white beard appeared in the midst of the dust and made to seize the merchant. ‘Wait!’ cried the old man with the hind. He threw himself at the djinn’s feet and begged for him to show mercy to the merchant. ‘He has kept his oath and shows himself to be of more merit than most.’ The djinn agreed with that, but refused to surrender his right to take the merchant’s life in retaliation for the loss of his own son.”

Leila lifted a finger. “But the old man indicated the hind and asked the djinn why he thought he kept it with him. The djinn did not know why any man would keep a deer, and the merchant quickly saw that the old man had caught the djinn’s attention. ‘I will tell you the tale,’ offered the old man. ‘If you will consider releasing this merchant if you find my tale to be wonderful.’ The djinn considered this offer, then agreed and seated himself to listen.”

Fergus chuckled. “Another tale nested with the tale. I tell you this saga knows no end.”

Leila ignored him. “The old man then began his tale. He confided that the hind was not truly a hind, that it was his wife and she had been enchanted. The djinn was clearly intrigued by this detail and begged the old man to explain. He confessed that he had married his wife when she was very young and that he had fallen deeply in love with her.”

“More loving couples,” Fergus teased and Leila smiled before she continued.

“They were married for thirty years without her bearing a child, which gave them both considerable grief. Because he had need of an heir, the old man bought a female slave, and she soon bore to him a son, just as he had hoped. The boy was clever and handsome, and the old man was glad to have an heir. His wife, though, was unhappy in her jealousy and feared that her husband would prefer the slave over herself. She hid her fears well, though, so well that the old man had no awareness of them. When the boy was ten summers of age, the old man had been obliged to undertake a journey and leave his family behind. He knew he would be gone for a year. He left both slave and son in the custody of his wife, entreating her to take care of them both, then he departed.”

“I will guess that all went awry,” Fergus said. “I think you mean to teach me a lesson about spurned women and their jealousy.”

Leila did not reply to that. She had not considered how well these tales echoed the truth they were living. “The wife had spent those years studying the arts of magic. Soon after the old man had departed on his journey, she cast a spell upon the son, turning him into a calf. She gave the creature to the steward, as if she had bought it in the market. Her jealousy was not sated by this, though. Next, she turned the slave into a cow, which she also surrendered to the care of the steward. When the old man finally returned home, his wife pretended to be contrite. She told him that his slave had died and that his son had disappeared. The old man was much troubled by this, for not only was he without an heir, but he had loved both slave and son dearly.”

“A liar, though she was beloved,” Fergus murmured. “How interesting.”

“He knew his duty, though, and called for a celebration of his return. In this place and time, it was customary to sacrifice a cow for such a feast, and the wife ensured that the enchanted slave was the cow so chosen. The old man himself was to make the sacrifice, but the cow wept at the sight of him and made a mournful sound. He found this so curious that he could not strike the killing blow. His wife chastised him for his whimsy and he tried again, but again failed to complete the deed. His wife had much to say about this and the shame that would come upon the house if the guests were given no meat. The old man asked his steward to perform the sacrifice. It was done, but the cow did not have sufficient meat for the feast when she was skinned and prepared. Though she had looked fat, in truth, she had not been.”

“Not all is as it appears,” Fergus noted.

“The wife insisted they had need of more meat, and commanded the steward to bring the calf that was the enchanted son. This calf, too, acted most oddly, weeping before the old man and putting its head upon the old man’s feet. He thought it also meant to entreat him to spare it and again found he could not strike the blow. Once more, his wife chastised him, but the old man would not be swayed. He bade the cook add dishes for the guests that were without meat and sent the calf back to the stables. The wife was livid, and finally, he agreed that the steward could kill the calf the next day.”

Fergus was drawing little circles upon her belly but Leila continued, despite the distraction he offered. “When the steward led the calf back into the stables, his daughter was there. She laughed at the sight of the calf, then burst into tears. He thought this a most curious reaction so asked her to explain. The daughter had some skill with magic herself and told her father that the calf was the enchanted son of the master who had just returned, just as the cow that had been sacrificed had been the enchanted slave who was the son’s mother. She named the wife as the one responsible for the spells, and the steward was so astonished that he immediately told the master about this. The master came to the stable and asked the girl to tell the tale herself. He wept that his faithful slave and mother of his son had been killed.”

“For he had been deceived,” Fergus said.

“Then he asked the daughter if she could break the spell upon his son. She said she would, but in exchange, she wished to marry the son and that her sorcery required that the wife be punished for her deed. The master gladly agreed. The daughter then took a bucket of water and murmured some words neither master nor steward could hear, then cast the water over the calf. The son was restored to his usual form and embraced his father with joy. He professed himself pleased to marry the daughter of the steward, and there was much merriment. Before their vows were exchanged, though, the daughter cast a spell upon the wife, turning her into the hind. ‘It has been many years since these events, and my son was widowed,’ the old man concluded. ‘He left our home to travel with his sons and it is long since I have had word of them. I left in my turn to seek him out, and thought it proper to take my wife with me.’ The old man smiled at the djinn and the merchant watched with hope. ‘Do you not think this a most remarkable tale?’ The djinn nodded agreement, thanked the old man for sharing his tale and patted the hind. He forgave the merchant, then disappeared in a swirl of white dust. The merchant was most thankful and embraced the old man, inviting him to journey home with him and enjoy the hospitality of his family, for they would rejoice that he was returned.”

“One tale ends, at least,” Fergus noted.

“The king, Shahriar, applauded the conclusion of Scheherazade’s tale, but Dinarzade shook her head. ‘It was a fine tale,’ she told her sister. ‘But not my favorite of the ones you recount so beautifully. Do you not think, my lord king, that the tale of the fisherman and the djinn is a better one?’ Shahriar was compelled to admit that he did not know the tale of the fisherman and the djinn and entreated his new wife to tell it. Scheherazade, though, gestured to the pink in the morning sky, and apologized that there would not be sufficient time to share the tale before she was to be executed. The king fingered his beard, considering the matter, then promised Dinarzade that her sister could live another day, if only to share the tale of the fisherman and the djinn.”

Fergus laughed. “I will wager that it was not recounted in a single night,” he said.

“I could not spoil the tale by admitting any such detail,” Leila said, then yawned. “Do you not wish to sleep this night?”

“How long did Scheherazade beguile the king with her stories?”

“The story is called the Hazar Afsan, or the thousand stories. Scheherazade entertained the king for a thousand and one nights, until he could not bear to be without her. In some versions, they have a son by then, while in others, they have two.”

“And what is your design in telling me this story.”

“To tempt you to return to this bed each night.”

“I need no further temptation than you, Leila,” Fergus said, kissing her most thoroughly.

Leila was reassured, even though she wished for even more. She had only three hundred and sixty-three nights to win Fergus’ heart, but his words made her dare to hope that she might succeed.