“Theyareancient, though?”
“There’s no way to actually date them, but they look old and discolored. You don’t have to worry about your spy ring chopping up witnesses and sticking them in here as they distill whiskey.”
“A balm for my nerves.” Rose said the words flippantly enough, but part of her meant it. Her emotions were bouncing around like an uncontrolled rubber ball, and she was thankful for Myrtle’s reassurance.
“It is simply a marvelous find.” Myrtle gazed at the mass of femurs with an adoration that a miner would give to a vein of gold. “Thankfully, the crofters haven’t disturbed them.”
“They are the remains of their forebears,” Rose pointed out.
“Oooh. I think I spy pottery behind them—complete bowls and not just shards. And there to the right? Could those be beads? Thisisa treasure trove.”
Most people wanted to find objects that glittered, but not Rose’s best friend. Even a fragment of dried clay could send Myrtle into a state of euphoria.
“I shouldn’t have left all of my supplies back at Muckle Skaill.” Myrtle bounced impatiently on her heels. “I can’t touch anything until I’ve properly recorded it.”
“The tide should still be out, and I can wait here while you walk back to Hamarray. I promise I won’t disturb any pieces of antiquity, but just because the villagers are hiding one secret in this cairn doesn’t mean that someone else might not have had the same idea.”
“Still looking for where the viscount hid his report about the spy ring?”
“I’m afraid that will be written on my tombstone, but yes.” Rose sighed.
“You do comprehend that if I return with all of my tools, I shall be here until at least sunrise or even after.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we stayed awake all night. This might not be one of the parties we used to attend, but I don’t mind keeping you and a pile of femurs company.”
Myrtle bobbed her head excitedly before she disappeared, wiggling down the long dark tunnel leading back into the world. Rose resolutely marched to the next shelf, ignoring the sense of discomfort that came with her friend’s departure. A new assemblage of disarticulated remains greeted Rose, and old memories of broken bodies danced at the edges of her mind. She forcefully held them at bay, telling herself that this was different. This was an ancient tomb where the dead had been laid respectfully. It wasn’t a battlefield. Yet it became harder and harder to focus on the difference when each cavity revealed a similar collection.
Squaring her shoulders and trying to ignore the increasingly brutal pounding of her heart, Rose held her lantern aloft as she headed toward the back chamber that she’d noticed upon entering the cairn.
“Let’s see what new macabre discovery is awaiting me now,” she said, her voice echoing through the empty rock structure.
Just as the golden light from the lantern illuminated a wall of skulls, a boom rocked the chamber.
Rose heard only an exploding shell on the Front. Pebbles and dirt fell on her head, bringing with them both pain and panic. Perspiration drenched her, and her lantern slipped from her sweaty palm. Rose’sfrozen limbs ceased cooperating, and she could not coax her muscles to dive after the glass-encased light. When it crashed to the floor, the skulls seemed to grin before the bulb broke.
Instead of being plunged into darkness, Rose was dropped back into the war. The bones she saw now had been ripped apart by shrapnel as the sounds of shelling filled the air.
Sinclair awoke from a deep sleep with a start. He’d been a boy again, fishing with his older half brother for the trout the earl stocked in the loch on Hamarray. But their laughter had been interrupted by the sound of a nearby hunting rifle, and Sinclair had tried to scramble into a hiding place. Although the earl approved of his heir engaging in all sportsmen’s activities, Mar did not wish for his bastard son to despoil his fishing grounds. And the earl had a way of displaying his displeasure with his fists.
Scrubbing his face, Sinclair knew he wouldn’t easily fall back asleep. After grabbing the patch he used to hide the mess Mar had made of his face, he tied it securely. Next, he pulled on his boots. There was always a chore around that needed doing. He’d just finished donning his sweater when someone began pounding on his door.
Sinclair, who slept in the loft, quickly climbed down the ladder. In the back room, he could hear the children’s sleepy, confused voices. He didn’t take time to soothe them—not when he didn’t know the problem himself. When he raced through the front room, where his stepfather slept, Sigurd lifted his head and grumpily asked, “What is that muckle noise?”
Sinclair didn’t answer as he pulled back the front door to reveal a very rumpled, very muddy friend of Miss Van Etten’s. “Miss ... Miss Morningstar?”
“There’s been an accident,” she gasped out. “Up at the mound in the middle of Frest.”
“Fornhowe?” Sinclair asked. Why in bloody hell would Miss Morningstar be at the ancient structure when any sane person was abed? Shite, had she discovered the still? If the exciseman found out about it ...
“Yes! The central earthen mound.” Miss Morningstar unceremoniously grabbed his arm and dragged him into the moonlit night. “The entrance caved in, and Rose is inside. I can’t move the rubble myself, and you were the closest person I could think of who could help.”
Miss Van Etten.
All questions about why the women were poking around the illicit distillery fled, replaced by sharp, clawing concern. “Is she hurt?”Alive?
“I ... I don’t know.” Miss Morningstar’s panicked voice broke, and the brief pause reverberated in Sinclair’s own heart. “I went to gather my tools from Muckle Skaill. I’d just recrossed the strand when I heard the awful sound. I thought I saw ...”
“Saw what?” Sinclair asked, scanning the darkness for more trouble as they began to race to Fornhowe.
