Page 14 of The Falconer

‘Do you think so?’ He removes a needle and thread from his bag. ‘When I was young we showed off our trophies, danced around them and gorged ourselves on fruits.’

‘I don’t know how to respond to that.’

Derrick merely grins and begins to sew my dress. ‘Ah, happy memories.’ I shake my head, and as I lean to pluck the turnscrew off the table, he adds, ‘I have news.’

I go still, my breath catching in my throat.News. When Derrick has something to share, it’s always to do with the faery who killed my mother, her latest murders. He has a network of tiny faeries – brownies and will-o’-the-wisps andbuachailleen, to name a few – who chatter, always willing to share information in exchange for honey. Lately, her kills have become more frequent, once every few days.

‘Aye?’ I try to sound calm, try to keep the ache of vengeance from rising. Every night, I hunt in the hope that the next faery I find will be her. It never is. The fae I kill are merely substitutes for the one I want most.

‘Stirling, this time.’

‘How many?’ My voice shakes.

‘One.’

I rise from the chair so hastily that it wobbles and nearly falls. I stride to the back of the room and stand in front of the mounted schooner helm. Embedded in the wood is a small, barely noticeable button which I press gently, fingers shaking. A portion of the wall presses outwards and twists to show a hidden map of Scotland on the reverse side.

Aberdeen. Oban. Lamlash. Tobermory. Dundee. Inverness. Portree. Dozens of places around the country, into the islands and the Outer Hebrides. I’ve marked each of them with a pin and tied crimson ribbons around them to count the kills at each location.

As far as I know, she is the lastbaobhan sìthin existence. The murder pattern is always the same for her – no more than three victims in the same place. She never stays anywhere for too long. She finds her prey on a road at night – lured there either by her strong mental influence or her unearthly beauty. Once there, she tears open their throats and drains their blood. There is one exception to her pattern: my mother. She ripped out my mother’s heart.

I screw shut my eyes against the memory.Don’t think about it, I tell myself.Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t—

‘Aileana?’ Derrick asks hesitantly.

Clearing my throat, I open my eyes and grab a pin and ribbon out of the leather bag hanging next to the map. ‘I’m all right.’

I jab the pin into the map and knot the ribbon around it.

The map is awash with pins and crimson bows; so little land is left unaffected by her spree. One hundred and eighty-four kills in the last year. She’s been busier than I have. I began tracking her a fortnight after my mother’s murder. I could never catch up with her or find her before she moved to another place. I can’t prevent any of her kills. So I’ve been biding my time, preparing for her, training for the day when I’ll meet her again.

She’s been toiling away in the Highlands for the last fortnight, moving closer and closer to the city. It’s only a matter of time now. And I have become very patient.

Derrick lands on my shoulder, wings gently brushing my cheek. ‘They tell me she’s on her way here.’

‘She is indeed.’ I smile and press the button to hide the map from view.

I sit at my work table again and unscrew the fob’s back casing. Once removed, I carefully lift out the middle section, with its tiny wheels and wires still intact.

Frowning, I study the three separate sections of the fob, how each part works and how they fit together. I slowly dismantle the mechanism, memorising the position of each component as I remove it. Some parts are so wee that I have to wear my brass magnifying spectacles to see them better.

Nearly every night I find a new project. When my mother was alive, she used to help me build little contraptions for the house. Lanterns that turn on and off with the snap of my fingers, a self-delivering tea service, a floating metal hand to grasp the books on the highest shelf in the drawing room.

I destroyed all of them when she died. I stopped making frivolous things. Now my scraps are turned into weapons, all from my own designs. Whenever one is destroyed, I build another.

I never know in advance what I’ll create. Sometimes I sit down with little more than a notion and build through the night to turn it into something real. Anything to keep me from sleep for as long as possible. This time, it’s in preparation for thebaobhan sìth.

I reach inside a drawer and take out my journal. When inspiration strikes, I sketch until my fingers are black with charcoal, and soon I have designed the fob’s parts and the additions necessary to turn it into a weapon. I do some calculations and write the quantities for sulphur, charcoal, saltpetre andseilgflùron the corner of the sheet.

Derrick looks up from his mending. ‘What weapon are you making this time?’

I smile. ‘Oh, you’ll see. It’s going to be magnificent.’

When thebaobhan sìthreturns, I’ll be ready for her. I’ll make her regret all one hundred and eighty-four of her kills.

Chapter 7

The following night, I prepare for my hunt.

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