Page 2 of The Butterfly
“Hm,” the earl murmured, his voice sounding far away as Niall neared the shelves. “Three horses in a fortnight, you say?”
“First the gelding, then two of yer four carriage greys, Master. The gelding is half-dead as o’ yet, I’m afraid.”
Niall reached out, his spine tingling as he became aware that he was now going against his father’s specific orders. There would be hell to pay if he were caught, but he only wanted to touch a book for a few moments. There were none in their cottage, as neither of his parents could read. His da tended horses, and his maw slaved in the kitchen … there was no need for either of them to know how to read, and so, he had never been taught.
He grinned as the men went on talking on the opposite side of the room, his da telling the earl that the fever, lack of appetite, and fatigue seemed to be contagious and could wipe out the entire stable if certain measures weren’t taken.
The leather that kissed his fingertips had looked quite hard bound over the spines of these books, but proved soft and supple. Curiosity prompted him to move his hand over more of them, finding that each one felt slightly different, those with the gilded adornments his favorites. The texture of them tickled his calloused fingers. He bet that Sam and Glenn, Dunvar’s other stable boys, had never touched anything so fine. He would enjoy rubbing this in their faces.
“Is there a way to quarantine the sick beasts?” the earl asked. “Perhaps that will keep the disease from spreading. If they can be nursed back to health, all the better. Otherwise, it might be best to put them out of their misery.”
Niall glanced over his shoulder and found that his da was still intent upon the earl, head bobbing as he nodded in agreement.
“Aye, Master … a shelter can be put up in a matter of hours. I’ll keep ye advised …”
Niall turned back to the shelves, finding other little objects he had not noticed before—large wooden things wedged between books, as well as little glass and porcelain figures. Senseless things that seemed to serve no purpose other than demonstrating that the earl was wealthy enough to own them for no reason.
His eye was drawn by a white sculpture edged in gold—a warrior of some sort, holding a sword with a hilt made of solid gold. The man was fierce, his bare chest edged with deep grooves, his arms bulging with sinews. It was just the sort of knight his maw had told him stories of from the days of old. A rebel laird perhaps, leading his people in battle wearing nothing more than his tartan, baring his chest in a show of fearless pride.
Biting his lip, he gave in to the urge to touch it. Just for a moment. He’d never handled porcelain, which was what this figure seemed to be made of. He had touched the book without repercussions, and his da was still engrossed explaining what would go into constructing a makeshift shelter for the sick horses.
He smoothed the tip of his first finger over the side of the soldier and released the breath he’d been holding in wonder. The porcelain was cool, and quite possibly the smoothest thing he’d ever touched. It was too good to walk away from, so he kept touching it, his fingers skimming over the point of the sword, then down to its golden hilt. So enraptured was he by the figurine that he was quite startled when his da’s voice came lashing out at him from across the room.
“Niall!”
He flinched, his heart leaping into his throat as he swiveled to face his da. In his haste and fear, he moved far too fast, his hand knocking into the figure and sending it falling from the shelf. He grappled for it, but was too clumsy and ungainly, his long limbs still taking a bit of getting used to. The thing slipped right through his grasp and bounced off a lower shelf, the delicate porcelain shattering upon impact and raining all over the rug at his feet.
His face heated with embarrassment as he glanced up with wide eyes to find his father descending upon him, hands balled into fists, face gone crimson with rage.
“Ye bumblin’ fool!” he bellowed, reaching out to grasp Niall by his shirt collar, hauling him away from the shelves. “Look what ye’ve done!”
“I-I’m sorry, Da,” he blurted, his stomach twisting as he became acutely aware of the earl, who had risen to his feet and begun to approach, displeasure written all over his face. “I didnae mean t’!”
Conall shook him so hard, his teeth rattled. Then, he was swung around to face the master.
“Dinnae apologize t’ me … tellhimhow sorry ye are!”
Niall’s throat clenched as he gazed up at the earl, the frigidity in those odd eyes making his blood run cold. “S-sorry, Master. It were an accident!”
The earl cast a glance at the shattered porcelain upon the floor with a heavy sigh. “That piece was quite expensive, you know. In the future, you ought not touch things that do not belong to you. The lairds in the days of old might have had your hand for such an offense. Clean this mess up, and while you’re at it, thank God you live in less barbaric times.”
“Aye, Master,” he said, grateful for the chance to get out of his father’s hold so he could pluck the bits of porcelain off the floor.
“Conall,” the earl said, biting off his father’s name in that brusque tone of his. “If your little whelp is to come crashing through here like one of the horses, leave him outdoors with them.”
Niall’s face heated even more, and he was surprised his hair did not go up in flames. He felt his da’s glare settling on him and his stomach clenched, instinct preparing him for the crash of a fist.
“Of course, Master,” Conall said, his voice gentler than Niall had ever heard it—softened to placate the earl. “The lad knows better … he’ll be dealt with.”
“See that he is,” the earl snapped.
By then, Niall had finished gathering all the bits of porcelain in his hand, along with the whole pieces of the sculpture that had remained intact—a head, a leg, the sword. It was the weapon he pilfered for himself, slipping it into his boot when his da wasn’t looking. The earl would likely discard the ruined art, but that bit of porcelain and gold was worth something to Niall. It would be the most opulent thing he’d ever touched … the prettiest thing he’d ever owned.
His da jerked him up by his collar and pushed him toward the desk, where he deposited the fragments with another mumbled ‘sorry’. Then, he was being shoved toward the door, and out into the corridor. With a few more words exchanged between his da and the earl, that door slammed, leaving them alone in the passageway.
Which gave his father the opening he needed to let loose, cracking the back of his hand across Niall’s face. The blow sent him reeling against the wall, the sting of it radiating across the entire left side of his head and making his eye water. The heat of it lingered, burning with the flush of shame he would carry for the rest of the day.
He knew not to cry out or sob, so he pinched his lips together and held it in, his chest burning from the effort. Straightening, he raised his chin, knowing his da would only beat him more for cowering or showing weakness.
