Page 7 of The Splendor of Fire
Words failed him. He knew the guard had heard his outburst. The same kind of outburst every prisoner at Cràdh had. Tormented cries echoed down the corridors at all hours of the day and night.
The guard grunted as the door clanked open. “You have a visitor.”
“Father Allen?”
The motion of the door admitted a less stale gust of air and he breathed it deeply, catching a faint note of lavender. His heart jumpedinto his throat at the thought of a few hours to converse with the old man who helped him to cling to the bit of sanity that he had left.
The guard’s gruff voice sounded from behind the heavy door. “Father Allen’s not here today; it’s the girl.”
Unable to comprehend, Léo stood wild-eyed, unable to make sense of the visitor who stepped into his room. Spirals of blond hair, eyes the color of the Hebridean Sea, lips that formed a bright and hopeful smile.
“It’s you.” The door slammed shut behind her. It was the woman from the prophecy, the woman who had visited him the day he’d arrived at Cràdh, the one who transformed from eagle to woman in his dreams each night. He searched his hazy fog of memory from the last time he’d seen her but could not recall much of that first day at Cràdh. “Morag.”
A sudden urge to cling to her overwhelmed him, and he took a step closer. For a moment, her bright blue eyes went wide as eggs, and she took a step back. Léo looked down at his beard that nearly reached his dirty, bare chest, his ripped hose, the dirt stuck beneath his nails, and felt for the first time in his life ashamed of his appearance.
Cowed, he stepped away from her and walked toward the opposite wall, resting his back against the stone. Morag sat a large basket upon the hearth and he found himself unable to stop staring as she busied herself with the benevolence meal. She was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in months, and he scavenged the withering recesses of his mind, trying to remember anything he could about her.
“Your father is Father Allen? The disgraced priest who comes once a week to bring an extra portion of porridge and bannocks?”
She nodded and took a jar from the basket, her eyes narrowing as if something was missing.The cauldron.They spotted it at the same time, and he scrambled to help her. “That’s my fault.” He wrestled the pot from her grip. “Let me help you, Morag. It’s heavy.”
He hefted the cauldron in his hands, her eyes searching him. Why was she staring? Why did she not speak? All week he felt desperate for these visits, for the conversation that would help him survive. Just the thought of her voice made his stomach knot, and he was desperate to hear it.
“Here.” He placed the cauldron onto the hearth. “Is this right?”
Silent, she nodded and poured the contents of the jar into it, then set it on the fire and stirred.
Stomach cramping with hungry anticipation, he craned his neck trying to see over her shoulder, realizing what she made was not the usual oats and bannocks. “What are you preparing?”
Dark lashes fanned across her cheeks for a bare moment before her thick brows lifted, and icy eyes looked up at him. Familiar blue. As if he had known her before, maybe as a lad. Yet surely he would’ve remembered her.
She opened and closed two fingers beside her mouth, then tapped them into her left palm. He tried to understand the strange gestures, noticing that she made no move to speak.
Awkward silence filled the room and she looked at him with expectation. He raised his eyebrows. “I asked you what I’m having for supper.”
She repeated the motions, waving one elbow outward.
Frustrated, Léo felt in no mood for games. “Speak.”
Her mouth drew tight and she brought a hand to her hip. Silhouetted by the fire, her tight curls of blond hair affected the look of a halo. She was a tall woman, high-angled cheekbones, plump lips the color of a ripe peach, and desirable of form. Yet soft in the head.What a pity.
Morag tapped her throat, then repeated the hand motions, pinching her fingers together and then tapping them into her palm. She looked at him with the senseless expression of one mentally touched and he cringed, knowing he too would be touched if he had no one to speak to. It was only a matter of time.
Walls closing in on him and awkwardness stealing his air, Léo grunted in frustration. “By the saints. Why couldn’t your father come today? The one time a week I get to see another human being and I get you, an uncommon idiot.”
Silent, Morag turned back to the fire, uncomprehending. The smell of onion, meat, and broth filled the room and his mouth watered. He hadn’t had meat in months.
“Smells good.”
She didn’t move or give any sign she understood what he said.
“You look familiar. Have we met before? At Dun Ringill?”
She continued to stir.
“Something about your eyes. They’re familiar.”
Nothing, not even hand gestures. He sighed.
