There was a pen made of willow twigs and sticks outside Moire’s door, near enough that no harm would come to any wounded creature that occupied it, yet far enough away from the hut that the stink of her human ways would not frighten it. Moire deposited the sleepy fox inside on a bed of soft grass and tied the door shut.
She went back inside her hut to see Fia looking at the bundles of herbs that hung from the rafters. Moire folded her arms.
“Have you come for a cure for him?” she asked. “There isn’t a healer at Carraig Brigh—none will stay to tend Alasdair Og. Those that come usually bring their own medicaments. What did you bring?”
The girl spread her empty hands, her fingers long and white in the dimness of the hut. “Nothing. I did not know what I’d find.”
“Hmmph. No matter. ’Tis a fool’s errand anyway.”
Fia’s eyes were luminous in the dim light, magical. “Why?”
Moire wondered if she should warn Fia MacLeod to flee, that there was danger at Carraig Brigh, but the girl raised her chin. There was stubbornness in her, determination, so Moire left the warning unspoken for the moment. She shrugged. “He might still die.”
“The wee fox’s road to healing will be a long one. It was mad with pain and fear, and it might still die. Without a doubt it will forever move with a limp, be slow, in danger,” Fia said. “Yet you saved its life instead of offering the kindness of a quick death. Surely that is the first assessment a healer must make. You saw something to give you hope that the creature’s life was worth saving. I have heard that Alasdair Og’s bones were broken, his wounds corrupted, that he was indeed ill enough to die. But he didn’t. He lives still.”
The answer surprised Moire. She folded her arms over her chest. “’Tis simple enough to heal a wound, press out corruption, bring down a fever. A man is not a fox cub.”
Fia clasped her hands. “That’s why I came to ask for your help. I have set the broken wings of birds, bound the paws of lame dogs, rescued injured badgers and wolf cubs, but other than simple things, I have never tended a person. My father would not allow it.”
“Proud, is he?” Moire asked.
Fia nodded. “He is. He’s also protective of me.”
“Something mild to help you rest, somewhere quiet and safe to heal.” Moire repeated what Fia had prescribed for the fox earlier. Fia looked at her in surprise and nodded.
“Yes. That, and I’m a wee bit clumsy. He fears I might choose the wrong herb, mix a tincture incorrectly.”
“But you never do.”
“Never.”
“Come along then,” Moire said, and walked out of the hut She took the path that led through the trees to the goddess’s spring, not looking back to see if Fia MacLeod followed her. When she arrived at the spot where the ancient spring bubbled up between ferns, Moire listened for a moment. The water flowed along a channel into a black stone basin that had been set in place by hands centuries dead.
The trees around the spring were tied with scraps of cloth and faded ribbon, and the earth was thick with coins, buttons, and smooth white pebbles, all gifts to the goddess in thanks for her assistance. They were old things—few people visited the goddess’s spring now, and if they did, they came secretly, slipping in at dusk or dawn when their Christian neighbors wouldn’t see. With midsummer coming, there would be more visitors, more offerings. The Scots were a superstitious race, and even if they devoutly attended church on Sundays, they kept the old beliefs in little ways, just in case.
Moire reached into her pocket for a smooth shell she’d plucked from the beach at Carraig Brigh and added it to the offerings.
When Fia arrived, Moire pointed to the basin. “Look into the water, and tell me what you see.”
Fia knelt, her face flushed from the heat of the day and the exertion of the walk. Moire watched as Fia’s shadow blocked out the glitter of the sun on the surface of the water, turned it dark and deep.
“Well? What’s there?”
“I see a face,” Fia murmured.
“Yourself?”
“No, it’s not my reflection. It’s someone else. A fair face, golden hair, blue eyes . . .”
Moire’s skin prickled with dread. She darted forward and swirled her fingers across the surface of the pool, shattering the image.
“’Tis a warning. Flee, Fia MacLeod, leave this place. There is naught but danger and death here.”
Fia rose slowly and shook her head. “I’ll stay. There’s hope for him still,” she whispered. “And hope is stronger than fear.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It seemed as if the whole of Clan Sinclair was waiting in a long queue outside the kitchen door to see Fia. She’d promised a scratched clansman or two that she could help ease the sting of the injuries Beelzebub was dealing out, and they’d all come. Ina Sinclair, Carraig Brigh’s cook, let Fia have a corner of the kitchen to tend Bel’s victims and give the curious a chance to get a look at the virgin healer. Fia was surprised at just how many scratches and injuries there were, though many of them had nothing at all to do with Bel.
