Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

I t had been two days since Enya had last spoken to Cillian; two days that, in theory, should have been peaceful and devoid of any further arguments.

While the latter was true, Enya’s days had been anything but peaceful. At first, she had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t think about him, that every time Cillian popped up in her mind, she would chase the thoughts of him away in any way she could. For a while, she had managed to remain distracted, keeping herself busy with Mrs. Selkirk and the preparations for the Yule celebrations, which had turned out to be much more time-consuming and demanding that she would have originally thought, as there were so many decisions to be made, from the seating arrangements all the way down to the number of candles.

She had brought it on herself, she thought. She had been the one to insist about the candles and every single detail, but she had never thought Archibald’s list would have made it to Mrs. Selkirk’s hands or that the two of them would try their best to accommodate all her requests. Now, not only was she forced to take on the role of the hostess, but she had also inadvertently roped two other people in this mess. Poor Archibald and Mrs. Selkirk were trying their best to give her what she had asked for while tending to their duties at the same time.

I should have never asked tae be responsible fer the preparations!

Had it not been for them, though, Enya wouldn’t have even gotten a second of respite from her nagging thoughts. Even now that she was sitting under the shade of a large oak, cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders to battle the morning chill, she could hardly focus on the book in her lap. Though she had lost track of time and couldn’t say how long she had been sitting there, she had only managed to read a few pages after much toil, her eyes dragging sluggishly over the same sentences again and again while her mind refused to comprehend them.

With a frustrated sigh, she shut the book and slammed it on the bench seat beside her, frustration crawling up her spine. Thinking about Cillian was unavoidable, given the simple fact that she was in his home, surrounded by his people and his things, but never before had Enya been plagued by another person like this. Try as she did, her thoughts kept straying back to the night of their last argument, when the tension between them had been so heavy that she could almost still feel it like a weight on her chest, pushing down on her whenever she caught a glimpse of him around the castle.

Enya was about to head back inside, for the first time realizing that she was chilled to the bone after sitting there for so long. Just as she stood, though, she heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground and when she whipped her head around to look, she saw one of the older servants laying by the barracks, right next to a ladder that led to the roof of the structure.

Giving the matter no second thought, Enya shot up from the bench and rushed to the man, wobbling over the icy path on her way. At the same time, soldiers rushed to him and among them, Enya saw Cillian.

Why did he have tae be here?

Cillian’s presence didn’t slow Enya down, though it fazed her. As much as she didn’t want to be around him, the man who had fallen from the roof of the barracks was still on the ground, clutching onto his arm while blood poured from a wound that Enya could only assume was on his head. The fact that he was conscious was a good sign, but it wasn’t enough to reassure her; for all she knew, he had hurt himself badly and was in need of urgent care.

She could have let the soldiers take him to the healer, of course, who was more than capable of caring for the man, but Enya was reluctant to risk the head wound. She could make sure he was well and she could take away his pain with little more than a simple touch, and so she was willing to risk healing him in front of the others. She’d simply have to do just enough to help without doing so much as to expose her powers—a delicate balance she didn’t always manage to strike.

Enya was the first to reach him, being the one closest to him, and she crouched down next to the man, taking his hand gingerly between hers. “What is yer name?”

“Samuel,” said the man through gritted teeth as he looked up at Enya with a pair of warm brown eyes. “Dinnae fash, me lady. I’m alright.”

“Ach, I’m sure ye are, Samuel,” said Enya in a placating tone. “Ye seem like a strong man! But yer arm hurts, does it nae? I can help ye with that.”

Gently, Enya took Samuel’s arm between her palms, pushing and prodding at its length. It had already begun to swell a few inches above his wrist and Enya would have known the bone was broken even without his shout of pain when she pressed against it.

Taking a deep breath, she channeled her energy into the injury, healing the fracture along with the wound on his head. As always, a tingling sensation spread over her hands, all the way up to her elbows, warmth flowing from her touch and into Samuel’s body. Just like everyone else who experienced her gifts for the first time, Samuel looked at her in wonder and confusion, but Enya hoped he would simply attribute any strange sensations as his bones being put back together and the flesh stitching itself back up to the shock of falling from such a height and the fact that he had hit his head.

With any luck, he will hardly remember any o’ this.

As she healed him, Enya also took Samuel’s pain away. She was used to it by then, the first, sudden jolt of pain that she drew out of her patient and then the constant, relentless flow of it through her, and she knew to clench her jaw and even her breathing, allowing the pain to pass through her without putting up any resistance. She had found it was easier that way, surrendering to it, giving in until it finally subsided for the most part, until it became bearable for her.

With an injury like this, she would feel it for the rest of the day, an insistent ache that would soon spread to her whole body, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Compared to the times when she had to tend to multiple people—healing battle wounds or illness—this was nothing but an inconvenience.

Enya didn’t realize her eyes had fallen shut until she opened them, blinking a few times at the sudden brightness of the day. The first thing she saw was not Samuel or even her surroundings; it was Cillian, his gaze piercing and curious as he watched her.

Cillian watched in horror as one of the servants who had been working on the roof of the barracks slipped on the icy sheet that covered it and lost his footing, falling to the ground with a thud. He was too far to be of any help, too far to even identify the man at first glance, but he and three of the guards quickly made their way towards him to offer their assistance. Watching the incident, Cillian’s heart froze with fear, as at first, the man didn’t move and he couldn’t help but think he had met his death. Even as he approached and saw that it was Samuel—one of the older men who had been serving Clan MacDonald since his father’s ruling days—and that he was alive and conscious, the fear didn’t subside. If anything, a new wave of it surged through him when he saw the blood on the ground, dark and thick and viscous, forming a small lake under his head.

And then he saw Thora hurry towards Samuel and kneel next to him to check on his injuries. Cillian recalled her love for healing and the way she had spoken about helping people—it was what she had always wanted to do, she had told him, helping those in need, but it was the first time he had ever seen her in action.

Even in a situation like this, Thora seemed calm, and though Cillian couldn’t hear what she was telling Samuel, there was an air of peace and competence about her; something that reassured even him, as though subconsciously, his mind understood that she was the right person to help the man. It was a feeling he had never experienced before and for which he had no name, but he, too, found it easier to calm himself, his heartbeat slowing and his breath evening out as he approached. Around him, though there had been a strong breeze only moments prior, now the air seemed to stand utterly still, as though nature itself was holding its breath.

It was a curious thing. In the short distance, Cillian could clearly see the tops of the trees swaying. The banners on the castle walls still fluttered. The clouds above his head still moved rapidly, racing over the land, but in the courtyard, there was nothing but an eerie stillness and the scent of ozone in the air, as though another storm was fast approaching.

This, too, was unlike anything he had experienced before, but the calmness and serenity that had washed over him didn’t fade. Despite the sudden strangeness of his surroundings and the knowledge that something was wrong—or at least unnatural—he was not afraid.

Rather, he was curious.

By the time he and the soldiers had reached Samuel, Thora was cradling his arm and her eyes had fallen shut. Even so, she looked as though she was far away, as if nothing but her physical body was there with them, and Cillian didn’t know what to make of that. It was only when she opened her eyes, her gaze instantly finding his, that she seemed to return, her presence like a gravitational force that pulled him closer.

What an odd lass.

A few moments seemed to stretch into eternity as Cillian gazed at Thora, trying to figure out what it was that had just happened—or rather what, precisely, it was that she had been doing. He was certain she was at the center of this, the driving force behind everything he had experienced, though he couldn’t possibly understand what said experience was or how she could have caused it.

When she broke their eye contact, she also seemed to break the spell.

“Are ye alright, Samuel?” Thora asked, and Samuel raised his arm, looking at it in confusion.

“Me arm…”

“Aye, I think ye bruised it,” said Thora before Samuel could finish his sentence. “But it’s naething some rest an’ some paste willnae fix. Daes it hurt?”

“Only a wee bit,” said Samuel. “But how?—”

“An’ yer head?” Thora asked, once again interrupting him. “How is yer head?”

Samuel frowned, one hand reaching behind him to stroke the back of his head. Though his fingers came away coated in blood, it was blood that had already congealed, as though the wound was already several hours old and that was what remained in his salt-and-pepper hair.

“I think me head is fine, too,” he said. “What happened? I thought I hit it.”

“Ye did,” said Thora. “But head wounds are as quick tae heal as they are quick tae bleed. It’s a shallow wound. There’s nae reason tae fash.”

They’re nae so quick tae heal. It couldnae have taken mere minutes.

It was impossible, Cillian was certain of it. No wound had ever healed so quickly, not even a paper cut, and yet he no proof nor even an idea of what had happened.

“Ye should take him tae Skye. She will want tae bind his arm an’ clean the wound,” Thora said. The men rushed to help Samuel up, but for a man who had taken such a serious fall, he was more than sprightly, even going so far as to stand on his own. Still, Cillian had his men support him and half-carry him to the healer’s cottage, just in case this was nothing but an illusion or a short-term fix.

For a while, he watched the soldiers as they took Samuel away, trying to decipher if there was anything different about him or anything that was alarming, but he found nothing. Dissatisfied by his observations, or rather the lack of them, he turned to Thora, who was looking anywhere but at him.

“That was a terrible accident,” Cillian said, testing the waters. “I thought he would have harmed himself much more seriously.”

“Well, the human body is very durable, much more than ye may think,” said Thora, staring off into the distance. “He was lucky tae fall the way he did. He could have injured himself very badly.”

Cillian hummed, not bothering to hide the fact that he was not convinced. “It was lucky that ye were so near,” he said. “Who kens what may have happened tae him if ye werenae here?”

“I didnae dae anythin’,” Thora said, in a way that seemed like an automatic denial to Cillian, as though it was something she had said several times before and was now simply used to it. “I simply asked him if he was alright an’ made sure he wasnae in any immediate danger.”

Cillian was certain, then, that Thora wouldn’t explain any of this to him. Her adamant denial of everything he had experienced, coupled with the hardness of her gaze, made it clear to him that all of his questions would once again go unanswered.

Who is this lass? Are all the MacLeods so strange?

“If that will be all, I think I will visit Skye meself,” said Thora before Cillian could ask her anything else. “I wish tae see if there is anythin’ I can dae tae assist.”

Just like that, she turned around and walked away without offering another word and Cillian was left to stare at her retreating figure with more questions in his mind than ever before.