Page 96 of The Scottish Bride
“Indeed,” he said with a quick scowl.
“Some are at Holyoak, locked in a small iron chest in the library where Gideon allowed me to keep some things. Even if the place should burn—I am sorry that happened, Liam—the pages should survive.”
“And neither Edward nor Bruce can get them, unless you decide to share.”
He sighed. “Before I knew all this, before I knew you”—he lifted her hand to kiss it—“I thought Bruce should see the book, not Edward.”
“I would rather finish the work before Bruce saw it. Never Edward. But we could decide together what is best,” she added. A little thrill of hope rose in her.
“We could.” He was quiet for a moment. “What of your own prophecies? You saw fire at Holyoak. Will you write that and others down?”
“I have. I will put others in words too, aye. There might be some worth to them.”
“It seems to be a family trait.”
“Like hair and eyes and height?” She laughed. “They say Thomas got his powers from the Queen of Faery. He never admitted it, but he was very wise. I wish you could have known him.”
“I hear he visited my grandfather, his friend, more than once. But I was a small boy. If I saw him, I do not recall it. But they say he made a prediction for Dalrinnie.”
She straightened, taking his hand, remembering what her cousin had said. “Kirsty mentioned a Dalrinnie curse. Her father knew about it. Do you know the words?”
“Best I recall, it went like this.” He began to recite in a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through her.
Dalrinnie, Dalrinnie,
Towers high, walls bold
Knight nor baron can hold
Nor good fortune unfold
When Dalrinnie falls
Three times and more
No king can restore, nor harp sing its lore
And Scotland will burn.
He let the last word fade. “That is what I learned.”
Tamsin drew a long breath. A feeling tapped softly at her. “Holyoak and more has burned in Scotland. Dear God. You say this is a curse?”
“My father called it so. When I was a lad, I took up the harp, thinking I could change the luck of Dalrinnie myself if I could play the harp and sing the castle’s lore. But it made no difference. My grandfather lost the castle. My father got it back, but I lost it again. Sir John Witton lost it too, by dying,” he added, glancing at her.
“He did. Three times and more,” she said. “Malise too, as the fourth?”
“With luck,” he huffed. “I should have told you. But I thought of it as a curse, not a prophecy. Not something we are proud of, we Dalrinnie Setons.”
“So you kept it to yourself. I understand. You have that way about you—that reserve, that need for secrets,” she said gently.
“I do. But you are bringing them out of me somehow.” He gave her a crooked smile in wry admission.
Her heart filled to hear that. “But Liam, Thomas did not lay curses. He did not claim to be a wizard in that way.”
“All I know is the castle has had poor luck, and the verse spoke of ruin for Dalrinnie, and Scotland too.”
“Wait—he wrote a curious line once—I wonder.” Something forgotten tapped insistently as she found her leather bag and retrieved the narrow wooden box with the quill, stoppered ink bottle, and scraps of parchment wrapped in leather. She had left the larger pages safely boxed at Holyoak, but now, recalling that odd line, she searched.
