Page 26 of The Falconer

Another secret. No matter how much Derrick might despise Kiaran, they share a past that I fear I shall never know fully. Faeries might be incapable of lying, but that has only forced them to develop more inventive ways of circumventing the truth.

Derrick turns from me. ‘It’s someone who hunts with a trained falcon, of course. What else could it mean?’

‘Right,’ I say, not without a hint of sarcasm. He won’t give me the truth, not tonight. I’ll have to wring the rest out of Kiaran when I see him. I set my clothes next to the fireplace to dry. ‘I’m certain that’s what he meant.’

A lie in exchange for his half-truth.

Chapter 11

Iprimp and dress myself to receive visitors the following morning, so Dona won’t see my injuries. Silk gloves hide the cuts on my knuckles and fabric tied at my neck conceals the faint bruising on my skin. The bow rests at my nape, below the loose chignon I managed to pin up by myself. It matches my day dress of soft green, one of the only colours in creation that complements my freckled skin.

I walk downstairs, inappropriately carrying a cup of tea from one room to another. Sunlight – a rare thing in Scottish winter – shines through the drawing room windows and into the large hallway. It’s late morning, but the sun is already low on the horizon. Its light catches the chandelier, and tiny rainbows dance over the blue urn-and-coral-patterned wallpaper in the hallway.

All I can think of is what Derrick told me last night. I have to find that blasted seal before more redcaps escape . . . or worse. When Kiaran shows up, I’ll wring the information out of him. Thedaoine sìthwould have been the most powerful of the creatures trapped inside, and I can’t come near to besting even Kiaran. If he won’t help me fight them, I’ll convince him to tell me what I need to know to defeat them. I’ll do what I have to.

The desire to kill again uncoils inside me, so strong and relentless that for a moment I can’t breathe.

I set the teacup on a table and reach into the pocket of my day dress. My fingers fumble over the tiny parts inside until I find my turnscrew and the small automated valve I’ve begun to construct for a fire-starter. I place a screw and twist.

Tinkering like this helps me think, but the release from a kill would allow me breathe again. It would ease the ache in my chest. Find the seal, then continue to track and prepare to kill thebaobhan sìth. The same as every night.

No. Not yet. I place another screw, twist it. I must remain focused. It’s time to socialise, to act the perfect lady. Time forsit up straight, shoulders back, smile.

‘Lady Aileana?’

I jump and my hand knocks the teacup from the table. It hits the Persian carpet with a muffledthunkand tea spills onto the cloth. ‘Oh my,’ I say to my father’s butler. ‘That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?’

MacNab smiles under a full sorrel-coloured beard. He leans his immense form down to pluck the teacup off the carpet. The china is dwarfed in his palm as he straightens. ‘Not to worry, my lady,’ he says. ‘I had every intention of sending the carpet to be cleaned.’

‘How very timely.’

MacNab bows. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘More tea would be wonderful, thank you.’

‘Very good, my lady.’ He nods to the table closest to the door. ‘Some gifts arrived this morning from your gentlemen admirers.’

Prominently displayed on the drum table are four bouquets of various flowers: roses, violets, tulips, heliotrope, heather, wild flowers – expensive arrangements that can only be obtained from hothouses this time of year.

The antechamber has never been bereft of bouquets or calling cards since I came out of mourning two weeks ago. The controversy surrounding my mother’s death has only increased the interest in me, though I’m not certain that would be the case if I lacked a substantial dowry.

I stare at those arrangements and quell the urge to throw them out the front door. They are part of a future I cannot control, where I exist as a wife whose foremost concern is producing bairns and being presentable on my husband’s arm. My weapons will be replaced with lace fans and parasols.

It takes every ounce of careful control to return my attention to the fire-starter’s automatic valve. I slip another screw out of my pocket. Insert, twist, repeat.

MacNab clears his throat. I didn’t realise he was still there. ‘Will you require anything else, my lady?’ he asks. ‘Shall I send some replies, perhaps?’

‘Just the tea, please. I’ll take it in the drawing room.’ I pluck a calling card off the table.

William Robert James Kerr, Earl of Linlithgow. I’m fairly certain Lord Linlithgow’s prerequisites for a wife do not include:trained for battle, highly aggressive, slaughters faeries.

The front door opens and my father, William Kameron, Marquess of Douglas, strides into the antechamber.

I straighten in surprise. Father has been away at our country estate for more than a month, with not even a letter to inform me of his intended return home.

I pocket the valve and grasp my skirts, forcing a smile. ‘Good morning, Father,’ I say.

My first instinct upon seeing my father used to be to embrace him. When I was young, I liked to imagine he would gather me into his arms and kiss my cheeks. I pictured resting my face against the broad wall of his chest and inhaling his soft scent of pipe smoke and whisky.

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