Page 8 of Crown of Tides and Fury

“We have come to ask, aye.”

She smiled. “T’isnae me. I have little power and wasnae a Third. I can only lure the odd crab to my nets and keep my wits under water. Ye’ve come to the wrong place.”

Wickham sighed. “Ye’re the first Muir we’ve found near a lighthouse. And the legend includes a lighthouse. Perhaps ye ken of another witch near Tarbat Ness?”

She shook her head before the question cleared his mouth. “Nay. Nay more witches in these parts. Sorry.” She started to lift off her chair, but her brow furrowed, and she settled again. “This power ye seek. What is it? And why might it drive the witch to kill herself?”

“They are called the Eight Ideals. We believe she will have the power of Hope. But with the Eight Ideals come the Eight Corruptions—or so we believe—which means she is also plagued with Despair.”

“Hope and despair,” Annag was back to muttering. “Something we all possess. So…if ye find her, what do ye plan to do with her?”

“Ye’re right, of course. We all possess them. But when we find this woman—or man, I suppose—I plan to take that Naming Power from them, to leave them with their natural measure of hope, a normal measure of despair. Removing that power would naturally remove that doom. It is believed every witch who wielded it has ended her own life. Apparently, the power of Hope isnae an easy thing to wield.”

As he spoke, his voice had grown louder out of necessity. The wind had gone from breeze to howl while we’d been sipping whiskey and listening to Wickham lay out our quest to the wrong witch. Faces and shoulders had fallen when we realized we were still empty handed, but we all sat up straight when the windows rattled.

Annag jumped to her feet. “I hadn’t realized! I have to find Fallon! Storms rouse her and she walks in her sleep!”

Kitch reached the door first and held it open for her. “Will she go outside, do ye think?”

“She has before!” Annag ran out of the room and we followed. She hurried up a set of stairs behind the cash register, already calling the girl’s name. “It’s all right, pet, just a storm!”

The rest of us headed for the front door. Two waitresses darted into the kitchen, sweetly calling for Fallon like she might be playing a game of hide and seek.

Outside, the clear sky had been replaced by a blanket of clouds that blocked out any hope of moon or starlight. The strings of swinging lightbulbs lit the ground twenty feet out from the building but no farther, so the distance to the cliffs could only be judged by the sound of crashing waves. I said a quick prayer that Fallon was wearing something bright.

Without discussion, the four of us spread out, determined to keep the child away from the cliffs. Wickham took off down the beach to the south. Kitch circled back to check the parking lot behind the building. Persi hurried north toward our cottage, and I headed for the cliffs straight ahead, where I’d first met the girl and her grandmother.

The staff poured out the door behind me. A girl shouted, “She’s not inside!”

Annag appeared behind her and after directing the young people in different directions, she joined me. We locked arms and hurried into the void, shouting Fallon’s name as we went.

One minute, the malicious wind convinced me the cliffs were only feet away. The next, I was sure we had a hundred yards to go. If it weren’t for the grandmother propelling me forward, I would have moved much slower, just in case, but I had to trust that she knew exactly where we were.

Finally, it was she who urged me to stop. I willed my eyes to adjust and felt a cold mist of sea spray on my face. I searched the ground for the start of the path and finally saw it ten feet to the right. I wondered if we should try to reach the beach, but just then, a series of waves hit the wall below us.

“I dinnae understand,” Annag shouted. “I wasn’t expecting a neap tide tonight. And it’s too early for a king tide. I must have missed a storm report!”

A hand dropped on my left shoulder and made me jump. It was Kitch. “Surely, no lassie could sleep through this!”

“She’ll hear nothing unless someone shakes her awake!” Annag shook her head, distraught. “Too much excitement today. I should have expected her to sleepwalk!”

I tried to console her. “Don’t worry. Someone’s probably found her by now.”

She shook her head again. “They’d have rung the bell.”

“Oh, God!” Kitch pointed straight ahead. The clouds had parted just enough to lend a pale glow to the crests of waves and the wet rocks. And there, standing on the tower of stone thirty feet from shore, the figure of a little girl, her back to us. Though her hair and white nightie whipped around her, she didn’t move.

“My bairn!” Annag tried to pull away, her attention on the head of the path, but I yanked her around to face me. “The last thing she needs is a dead grandmother! Trust me. Wickham can get her. If she was able to climb that rock—”

“She knows it like the back of her hand. Could climb it in her sleep—”

“Then Wickham can get her. Trust me.” I shoved Kitch’s shoulder. “Wickham went south. Get him. Hurry!”

The Grandfather of the Muir witches could pop himself onto the tower rock in a heartbeat, then pop himself and the child back to shore just as fast. The trick would be to do it before the girl woke up and panicked, and to avoid mortal witnesses. But what would witnesses matter if it meant saving a child from sure drowning?

Besides, he could adjust memories when necessary. Unpleasant, he said, but it could be done.

Annag tried to pull away again, her gaze glued to the top of the tower rock.

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