“You don’t know the worst of it,” he murmured into my hair.
“Don’t I?” I thought of the fossegrim’s song, of the way my feet had nearly marched me over the cliffs. Of Fynn’s stubborn wounds, and of the serpent’s razor teeth. To kill the fossegrim, I’d have to find a spear and let it try to lure me to my death again. I couldn’t let Fynn fight it while he was still injured.
That is, if he hadn’t already sped out of Port Coire, and my life, for good.
“She was with child.”
Lugh’s words jarred me from my thoughts. “Your mam was—?”
“Aye. That’s why she’d gone to my aunt’s for supper. To share the good news.”
I pressed my trembling hands to the sides of his face. His eyes held the same haunted look shared by everyone in town these days. “I promise you, I’ll make things right. I’m going to find out what happened to your mam, and to the others, and make sure the guilty party never harms another soul.”
Lugh frowned. “How can you promise that? Bridey, do you know something about the disappearances? Who’s behind them?”
“Nothing you would believe.”
“If you’re planning to do something daft—”
“No more questions,” I said quietly, stepping back and nodding toward the tavern. “Just trust me. And I’d best hurry. I’m trying to find Fynn. But will I see you and Cat at the wedding?” I shook my head. “Mally picked a terrible time to fall in love.”
“That she did. But I wouldn’t miss the wedding for anything.” Lugh squeezed my shoulder. “And I’ll try to make things right with him. With Fynn. If you trust him, so do I.”
I smiled. “Thank you.” I wished I had something more to offer Lugh, something stronger than comforting words. My hand brushed over the Bollan Crosses bulging in my pocket. “Here, I want you to have this. Give one to Cat, too, would you?” I untangled strands from the mess and handed them to Lugh.
He studied them, frowning. “How many of these awful things are you carrying around?”
I adjusted the sleeves of my blouse. “Seven, now.”
“Is this some new English fad?” Lugh turned a cross over in his hands. “They don’t seem to be very well-made.”
“No, they’re no fad. But they just might keep you from drowning if you find yourself someplace where swimming for your life won’t save you.”
Lugh narrowed his eyes. “Does this have anything to do with your story about your grandad? Because, Bry, it’s past time to—”
“Look, if you care for me as much as you say you do, you’ll wear it. Please. I can’t lose you, too.” As I turned and ran the short distance to the tavern, Lugh called a farewell. I waved over my shoulder. “Be safe! Don’t go near the water! And I’ll see you at the wedding.”
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the heavy tavern doors.
The fug in Ms. Katleen’s was even thicker than the humid, storm-charged air outside. The stench of dark ale, mildew, and salt crawled down my throat, banishing all desire for food. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend I was back in Morag’s cottage.
Why Liss liked working here was a mystery.
Pressing against the wall, I scanned the faces of the patrons, no easy task in the dim lighting and swirls of bluish smoke. Unlike the deserted market, the tavern was crammed with bodies. It seemed everyone was keen to drown their sorrows lately, even some of the most devout churchgoers who hadn’t, to my knowledge, touched a drop in years.
Near the front windows, a woman buttered bread while her husband smoked. Several older fishermen lounged at a table, gulping steaming bowls of soup and looking as though they had nowhere else to be. Their wives had all left them in one way or another by now.
Younger men sat at the bar, frowning over the rims of their mugs. They didn’t have to point or curse as I passed—the gleam in their eyes said it all: strange girl, witch child, madwoman.
I squared my shoulders and moved deeper into the room, past a man who chomped on a pipe as he made eyes at shapely Ms. Katleen. Seated in the darkest corner at the back of the room, his face half in shadow, was Fynn, staring into a glass of ale, prodding the foam above the dark liquid. He didn’t look up until I dropped into the chair opposite him.
My stomach flipped as his eyes met mine. He offered me a half-smile, and in that moment, every word I had wanted to shout at him vanished. I glanced at the beads of sweat from his tall glass collecting on the table. “Since when do you drink ale?”
Fynn’s lips twitched. “I don’t. But it seems to be the drink of choice, so I thought I’d give it a go. The foam is awful.”
I traced patterns on the table with the moisture from his glass. At least when I looked at them instead of Fynn, talking was easier. “I’m glad you didn’t leave. I’m sorry for everything I said. All of it.”