Liking the metaphor, she smiled. “Indeed. And I, for my part, shall see what my notes and experiments can bring forth. Practically”—she raised a hand—“and I swear this is no ruse, a stronger catalyst may even be able to improve the potion I just tried. Dragon scales, for instance.”
“That could be.” Cathal nodded slowly, while Sophia watched his expression for suspicion or offense. She saw none. That didn’t mean none existed, but she didn’t think Cathal would bother to conceal either, not from her, and so she relaxed a little. “Would you need them now?”
“No, nor yet tomorrow… I’ll need to work out the rest of it. Adding a new substance, especially one as powerful as I believe this to be, requires a very careful balance.”
“Explosions again?” he asked with a quick grin that lightened the air in the room.
“Quite possibly,” she said, teased into mirth for a second and then subsiding, “or a substance whose effects are more bane than balm, at least as far as you and Fergus are concerned. I doubt either of you would wish him to…grow scales himself, perhaps, or start breathing fire. If you do that.”
“I can,” said Cathal, “and I wouldn’t wish that, no.” He stepped toward her, stopped himself after that one movement, but held her still as firmly with his gaze and the solemn question on his face as he could have done with his hands. “Do you truly think this can succeed, madam? Knowing what we know now?”
Sophia considered it: turned the question over to look at its other sides, prodded the soft spots of her own doubts and fears, and finally nodded. “I told you before that I make no promises, and I hold to that. But I’m not a woman for blind hope. Valerius has your friend in his grasp, yes…but men and kingdoms have slipped away before or broken free. We may yet find Fergus a way around the hold.”
“Or make him strong enough to break some fingers?”
Cathal’s smile was wolfish this time. In theory, it might have been frightening; in reality, Sophia found herself smiling back and felt a sympathetic heat in her chest. “Or that,” she agreed.
Twelve
More messages; more time on the roof of the tower, talking to spirits of the air; and little enough in reply. Douglas spoke of waiting and intrigue, and expressed regret but couldn’t help. Moiread didn’t write at all. Cathal could only hope that was carelessness on her part, not inability.
Some of the men have heard tales of an English necromancer. I’ll find what more I can, said the letter from Artair, but Cathal didn’t expect very much, nor a quick arrival. His father was dealing in the fates of lords and nations, not of one man, and even his time was limited.
A letter to Agnes got a response as well, though she was busy with her own home and affairs.All the same, she wrote,I am loath to think of a loyal retainer like Fergus suffering such a fate, or of this man having the presumption to dictate to you. Souls and their capture are unfamiliar to me, but I shall look to the library here and to my contacts elsewhere. It does sound, she added,as though your alchemist has the right idea of it.
Even as Cathal read to the end of the letter, he kept looking back to those two words,your alchemist, and glaring at the paper. He couldn’t have said why, save that he could hear Agnes’s voice as it had been in their childhood when she would frequently imply that he, if he made an effort, might not becompletelyand hopelessly stupid. Over the years, she’d stopped doing so maliciously, just as Cathal had stopped pushing her into the horse trough when she was wearing her best gown, but the echoes still lingered.
She has a name, he thought, and then,And you’re but five years older than me. Oursiredoesn’t speak of mortals as pets, not often. Stop showing off.
And yet he was certain she meant no harm.
Family: they never quite stopped needling you, even by accident. It had been a while since Agnes’s affectations had bothered him—but then, Cathal knew, he’d grown touchy enough over the past few months. Doubtless it was only that.
Yet, when Sophia asked him to show her the holly he’d mentioned, he felt a certain incipient smugness toward Agnes and a hope that whatever Sophia discovered would work on its own, that this human scholar was good enough to solve the problem herself, without any assistance from a condescending quasi-mortal sorceress. She didn’t have as many years as Agnes had, and she had not the bloodline of Cathal’s mother’s side, but all the same, he was beginning to suspect Sophia could hold her own in argument with any of them.
She could certainly surpass any of them for enthusiasm, he thought when he met her and Alice by the castle gate. Sophia was talking, explaining some principle that Cathal couldn’t overhear. Her gloved hands were flying about as they’d done in Fergus’s room, and he could see her dark eyes sparkling even in the depths of her fur hood.
Alice, in the way of friends, listened with a combination of interest and tolerant amusement. The two of them had clearly been down this road a few times before. When Cathal approached and Sophia stopped talking, Alice turned and gave him a long look, one not as sharp as her gaze had been at first but still extensive and thoughtful.
“Madam,” said Cathal, tempted to ask what she was searching for and if she’d found it.
Adding to the impulse, he received a few more of the same glances as the three of them left the castle, and Alice’s gaze returned to Sophia after each. Whatever message passed between them was foreign to Cathal. He had the vague feeling that hemighthave come up to some obscure measure, in Alice’s eyes, but only just.
In truth, he couldn’t fault her. With Fergus up in the tower, he could have nothing but admiration for a friend’s concern. And, like Sophia, she made her way through the snow without complaint, both of the women following in his tracks along the path he made. It was hard work for them, hindered by skirts as well as weaker frames, and the journey between the castle and the forest was a quiet one. The crunch of feet in snow and their quick breaths fell into the empty air, and made in time a rather companionable rhythm.
Once they reached the forest, the going was easier in some ways. The trees had kept down the worst of the snowdrifts, and fallen pine needles made for an easier foothold. Cathal forged ahead still, finding buried logs and boulders before they could become a hazard, but simply walking took less effort than it had done on the way.
“It’ll be your Lent soon, will it not?” Sophia asked.
Cathal had to count the days, tapping his fingers against his thigh, before he nodded. “Aye, I suppose. Hardship for you?”
“No, not generally,” said Sophia. “If nobody’s eating meat at all, you see, I’m far less conspicuous. Toward the end, of course, there’s Passover, but…” She spread her hands, long fingers in black gloves opening as if to let go. “That’s toward the end. Time enough to think about it.”
“I always liked the day before Lent, back home,” said Alice. “They’ll parade an ox down the street, and children go from door to door for crepes.”
Sophia laughed. “You only liked not having to cook as much for yours.”
“If you’d ever had to feed a man and two huge boys every evening, you’d be just as happy,” said Alice.
