Page 63 of The Falconer

Chapter 22

Istare through the window of the drawing room, listening to the pattering rain outside as heat from the fireplace warms the back of my neck. Raindrops fall onto the windowsill and splash onto the carpet. I don’t care how much the cold draught from outside makes me shiver, even with the fire roaring in the hearth. Because I feel nothing, empty. For once, I relish the lack of emotion. Every pretence I’ve built around myself is perfectly intact.

A couple walks by the steps leading up to the front door, their umbrellas dripping. They stop and the woman whispers into the man’s ear, discreetly nodding to our house. They both shake their heads. Society, it appears, is more accepting of a rumoured murderess than a ruined woman, whether she’s reported to be engaged or not.

I rub my moist temples. The dull headache has returned, exacerbated by the fever that continues to burn. Absently, I reach to my shoulder blade to scratch the wound thecù sìthgave me. It doesn’t hurt any more, but it itches like the devil.

Only then do I notice the taste of earth and nature that has become so familiar. Then there’s a knock at the door. ‘Kiaran?’ I say in surprise.

Kiaran saunters in and shuts the door behind him. I might have been more shocked if I weren’t so ill. First, that he camehereto see me, and second, that he doesn’t even have the decency to announce his arrival in the proper fashion.

‘Still alive,’ he says, leaning against the door. ‘I’m impressed.’

He has a different wardrobe from when I last saw him at the Nor’ Loch, but it’s still expensive gentleman’s clothing. Immaculate black trousers, white dress shirt, black overcoat. No hat. That might be too proper for him. All his clothes are soaked through, his hair clinging to his forehead, but he doesn’t even appear to notice.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rethinking that, I put up a hand before he can respond. ‘Actually, don’t answer. Just get out, MacKay.’

I should be more furious than I am that he kept my heritage from me, that he never told me about the seal or the danger the city was in. But I can’t summon the anger I would have felt. My father has just laid out my entire future for me, and stolen what little choice I had left. I’m in no mood to deal with Kiaran right now.

He doesn’t appear to be at all surprised by my reaction. ‘I came by for a visit.’

‘I don’t want you here.’

Without any preamble, he strolls over to the fireplace, picks up one of the small vases from the chimneypiece and inspects it. I almost tell him to put the bloody thing down and explain himself, but I bite my tongue and watch him. He doesn’t look remotely uncomfortable being in my home, or touching things without asking permission.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ he says. ‘Your pixie told me you accept visitors during the day.’

Damn Derrick. I should never have sent him to Kiaran last night while under the influence of honey, the little traitor.

I sip my tea and watch him study the ornaments as though he’s never seen such things before. ‘I recant what I said. I give you permission to cut out his tongue.’

‘What a generous offer,’ he murmurs.

‘Didn’t it occur to you,’ I say, ‘that I have a butler who will happily announce your presence? Being invisible doesn’t give you leave to sneak inside someone’s home. It’s called courtesy, MacKay.’

Kiaran sniffs one of the vases. I frown. What is he doing? Is this some strange faery habit I’m not familiar with?

‘Your butler,’ he says. ‘Large chap with the beard? I introduced myself to him, told him I was here to see you, and then I compelled him to go away so he wouldn’t interrupt us.’

‘I’ve noticed that’s becoming a habit of yours.’

Kiaran holds up the vase. ‘Why do you have empty pots on your chimneypiece?’

‘They’re decorative.’

He regards it with what might be disappointment, but it’s too difficult to tell with him. ‘Seems a waste. Do you know, they’re quite useful for storing viscera.’

I choke on my tea and cough. Then, unable to stop myself, I bend over and keep coughing. My throat is thick and swollen and it’s painful to swallow. I put up my hand in indication of an apology.

‘Are you ill?’ Kiaran asks, setting the vase on the chimneypiece.

I nod and recline against a pillow when the spasm passes, wiping the dampness from my burning forehead with a kerchief. ‘I fell into the Forth.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a well-thought-out plan.’

‘There weresluagh.’

Kiaran is quiet for a moment. ‘Ah.’

---