“And the scales of a dragon will provide those?”
“They could. What notes I’ve read aren’t clear, nor do they cover all they might—nothing ever does, I find—but all of alchemy is about transformation. Metal or stone, mind or body, it’s all one thing changing into another.” Her face lit as she talked, revealing the inner fire of the scholar on a pet subject. “The dragon has always been the symbol for the power to change.”
“How apt,” said Cathal.
“Yes.” Sophia smiled at him, for the first time with more than politeness. “Yes, and perhaps that was because one of our early scholars knew one of your ancestors, but there might be more to it. The notes I’ve found suggest that the body of a dragon would have great catalytic power, could allow an alchemist to achieve great things, perhaps might even make possible experiments that otherwise could not come to fruition. And—”
“And so I should thank God you decided on scales and not my heart.”
“You—” Once more she bit back a comment. “It seemed a request even less likely to find favor with you. And I’m no murderess.”
“And I would have to have one,” Cathal said, and was pleased to see a blush spread over Sophia’s face. He’d guessed, or at least come close to guessing, what she’d stopped herself from saying.
“I’m sure that’s not for me to say.”
“I’m sure.”
Thinking, he looked down. The accounts were drifts of parchment and ink, as meaningless as the snow outside. His shoulder ached, a reminder that he was far from the only one with more-than-human gifts, and that the other side was amply endowed.
As always, with each complaint of slow-healing muscles and still-raw nerves, he thought,Could have been worse.
“What are you offering?” he asked.
The blush deepened. She was remembering how he’d opened this conversation. With such prompting, he thought of the exchange too, and of the possibilities he’d denied. Desire sparked briefly within him this time, tightening his groin for a moment—but no. He was tired, she was no serving girl to take such things lightly, and they’d both already dismissed that possibility.
“My skills,” she said. “With herbs and with potions. I’m no doctor, nor even a midwife, but those in both professions have found my remedies useful at times. Perhaps you have need of such services here…and if you don’t now, you may. Winter is a time for sickness.”
“Any season is,” said Cathal.
He stood up. Sophia caught her breath at the sudden motion, or maybe at his height, but she didn’t flinch. Cathal came around the desk and stood in front of her, looking down into her face as if he could read an answer there.
As usual with augury, nothing useful came. There was only his judgment.
“We may strike a bargain,” he said. “Here is my end. You carry out your experiments here. You may take the results home, but I’ll not risk you traveling with anything so connected to my person. While you’re here, you provide what aid the castle and the village require of you.”
“Yes, gladly,” she said, knowing there was more and waiting for it.
“And you go home after you accomplish one thing for me…or prove that you cannot.”
Her eyes met his, wide and serious. “I would need to know the task.”
“You will,” said Cathal. “Come with me.”
* * *
Castle MacAlasdair had never in Cathal’s life lacked room. Alasdair himself had built for a legion or more of men-at-arms, not to mention the brood he’d sired on various women, and his work had lasted for generations, with occasional reinforcement when one of his descendants was in a generous mood. Now, with Cathal alone of the family at home, halls full of closed doors marked a half-dozen disused bedrooms. Playing the generous host with Sophia and her friend had been easy.
Finding the room at the end of one hall had been easy too…the only easy thing about the whole damn business.
As always, he braced himself before he opened the door, readying his muscles as he’d always done before the breastplate of his armor settled into place, telling his body it could take the weight.
On the other side, candlelight flickered in the darkness. A shadow rose within it and came to meet them. As it neared the door, it became a middle-aged woman, brown hair streaked with more gray now and face more lined than it had been a year ago. “Sir Cathal,” she said and curtsied. “He’s asleep.”
“I would hope,” he said. “I’m going to show him to our guest.”
Sithaeg allowed herself no expression. Cathal wasn’t cruel enough to even hint at hope, and she wasn’t cruel enough to expect it. “Aye,” she said and stepped out of the way. She watched Sophia, though, and Cathal knew she was as helpless not to look, and to wonder, as he had been to speculate.
Thinking not of propriety but only of darkness and the limits of mortal sight, he took Sophia’s hand. It lay stiff and cold in his, but she didn’t pull it back or protest, just allowed him to lead her across the small room to the large bed in the center. One candle flickered on the table beside the bed, casting feeble light over bottles and glasses and even less over the figure who lay under the blankets.
