“Lady Fitzhugh, would you leave us?” Iain asked. But it was not a question, even if his tone was polite.
Eleanor hugged Alana once, and said to Iain, “She is precious to me—and to you, I suspect.” With that thinly veiled warning, she left.
Iain closed the door but did not step any farther into the room. “So ye have had visions since ye were a child,” he said quietly.
Her gaze riveted to his, she nodded. “Yes.”
“Visions, not dreams?”
“Visions,” she said hoarsely. Would they now calmly discuss her ability to see?
“What kind of visions? How often do ye have them?”
Dismay began. Was this an effort on his part to comprehend her—or to avail himself of her power? “I have never had a vision that is pleasing. I only foresee tragedy, bloodshed and death.”
He flinched.
“They happen when I least expect it,” she continued, “and when I am fully awake, and always, when I have glanced into a body of water.”
“When ye look into water?”
“I could look into a puddle of water, or a lake, and suddenly I am dizzy and faint, and then I am inside my own vision, as if it is really happening.” She wrung her hands. “I am always sick afterwards. Why do you ask me this, Iain?”
“We have been sleeping together since December, and suddenly I learn you are a witch, with the power of sight. I am not to ask questions?”
She could not decide what he truly wished to gain. She shrugged, indicating he could ask what he wished.
“How often do ye see the future? Once a month? Once a year?”
“It varies. A few times a year, perhaps.”
“And do the visions always come true?”
She nodded without hesitation. “Yes, Iain—always.”
He stared now, silently, still standing by the closed door.
He finally said, “Ye said ye saw the battle for Boath Manor a few days before it happened. Is it always that way? Do yer visions come true so swiftly?”
“No. It might be weeks or even months before my vision is reality.” She thought of the visions she had so recently had, of the destruction of Buchan’s earldom, of her father’s death, of Iain about to be slain by her uncle.... “It has never been more than a few months,” she whispered.
He was grim, wary even, but he no longer seemed angry. He was thoughtful. She knew Iain well now. He was trying to understand her abilities. If he also meant to use her in this war, it was not clear.
Until he spoke next. “What other visions have ye had, Alana, of the war—of me?”
She hugged herself, dismayed. “Is this why you have sought me out? To ask me about the war?”
He shot her a puzzled glance. “If ye have seen the future of the war, I must know.”
“That is why my uncle locked me up, Iain, the first time. He wanted me to have visions for him. That is why he summoned me to Nairn. And when he learned I cannot whistle a tune and sing a tale of the future upon command, he locked me in the tower—with a large clear bowl of water. I was not to be released until I had a vision.” She knew she sounded bitter. “I cannot see when someone asks me to! I cannot summon up a vision like one orders a maid to the kitchen!”
“I am not surprised yer uncle wanted a vision from ye,” Iain said. “What happened?”
“Do you condone what he did?” she cried, standing. “Will you lock me up with a bowl of water, until I have a vision for you?”
“Have I locked ye up?”
She was shaking wildly. “I don’t know. I feel like a prisoner!”
