Page 43 of Fletcher

“I didnae wish pry,” Duncan said drily. “Aye, and I’m happy for you, if ’tis what you truly wish.”

“Dinnae prod me with your clever words,” he warned him. “I’m in no mood for jests about her.” Then, because he knew the healer meant well, he said, “I’ve revealed all, and she yet desires me as her lover. She’s no’ afraid of my curse.”

“You’re no’ cursed, you eejit,” Duncan said firmly. “’Twas coincidence and happenstance that the three females you cared for died young and without warning. Ken you how many of my lovers did the same?”

Fletcher frowned. “I reckoned you a monk.”

“Then you’re a fool as well as an eejit.” The healer held up one hand. “Five ladies who shared my bed all met untimely ends. ’Tis two more than the curse you blame for yours, aye? For a time I blamed myself as well, but ’tis a curse of immortality, no’ love.”

“How fash you such?” he demanded.

“Most female vassals on Caladh do live long lives, just as the males do,” Duncan told him. “Yet I still see unto the shroud many who do dangerous work, such as the salt-maker’s daughter. Shoran always shed her boots while working the tide pans. The day she died, she likely tread barefoot on some creature with venomous spines. Although most only suffer injury, some mortals die from such.”

Fletcher had never once considered that. “You ken ’twas surely the cause?”

“I didnae attend her after her end, but ’tis more reasonable than any imagined curse,” the healer said.

Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck. “Even if I dinnae blame myself for Shoran, Tilly died in my bed, and Aili before my eyes.”

“Tilly’s heart didnae beat evenly, so her parents sent her for treatment. The cause, ’twas a problem from birth, and ’twas naught I could do. Indeed, ’twas growing worse by the moon. She begged stay and work here, so I permitted such that I might watch over her during her decline.” Duncan grimaced. “I didnae ken she’d taken you as lover, or how truly frail she’d grown. She never told you about her illness, or that she faced an early end?”

“She never spoke a word.” He recalled how cheerful Tilly had always been, as if every day delighted her. Now he realized every single moment of her life must have been precious to her. “Why didnae you tell me anything?”

“Tilly begged me keep silent,” the healer said. “She wished live as other, ordinary lasses. Now I reckon ’twas her love for you that caused her hide her state.”

Could he have been so wrong? “You cannae blame Aili on illness.”

“’Twas a mishap, Fletch.” The healer gripped his shoulder. “’Tis tragic you watched her die, but you cannae blame yourself for her end. ’Tis the nature of mortal life. Unhappily we live on to see such happen time and again.” Duncan gave him a rueful smile, and then walked away.

Fletcher stood watching the night sea for a long time before he left the tower and made his final rounds of the stronghold. This time he gazed upon some of their mortal vassals, and for the first time noted things he’d never before noticed. Worth, Brochan’s young, clumsy scullery, had recently shot up in height, and yet moved stiffly, like an old man. Such rapid growth often caused pains, Fletcher knew, as Nyall had suffered the same for a time when they had been lads.

Does Brochan ken such, or does he blame himself as a poor teacher because of Worth’s ungainliness?

When he passed the sewing room in the Hall of Makers, he saw Idonea peering into a box of threads. Although he could not see her face, he had gazed upon her when Lark held his hand, and knew her eyes had a particular milkiness to them. She had passed into her seventies, and was likely losing her sight due to old age, as many on the island did.

The seamstress straightened and turned toward him. “Need you something mended, Seneschal?”

“No, Mistress.” He stepped into the sewing chamber and looked around at the many forms on which she had placed garments in various stages of finishing. “How fares Mistress Ambrose with you?”

“Finer than I ever did with old Gerta,” Idonea said, referring to the seamstress before her who had taught her to sew. “She’s a deft hand and sharp eyes. In truth, I may retire tomorrow untroubled.”

“I hope you shall stay for as long as you wish,” he said. “The lady admires you greatly, and wishes learn all you ken.”

“Och, she learnt that the first day, I reckon.” The older woman touched his arm. “She’s a good lass, and ever so kind. Take care with her, Seneschal, for she’s been hurt, and doesnae need another heartbreak.”

When he reached his bed chamber Idonea’s words made Fletcher hesitate to go inside. If he told Lark what Duncan had related, she would still refuse to give him her heart. She yet believed she, too, was cursed, and had lost everyone she’d loved, even the man she’d vowed to marry.

What if ’twas all coincidence?

Fletcher had no means to prove that to her, and until he did Lark would go on believing love only resulted in death or parting. Then something he had refused to acknowledge welled up in him.

I’m in love with her.

The door suddenly opened, and Lark smiled at him. “What are you doing out there?”

He stepped inside, catching her up in his arms. “Idling away time I might spend with you, uiseag.”

Chapter Fourteen