Page 86 of The Falconer

I stifle a sigh. There are so many places I would rather be than here. Seeking out Kiaran and threatening him with my lightning pistol for a start. I still haven’t processed the anger and shock I awoke to this morning after everything Sorcha revealed. Everything that Kiaran has been keeping from me.

‘Lady Aileana?’

‘Aye, quite lovely,’ I say absently, plastering on a pleasant smile.

‘Or look at this ivory silk,’ she says, pulling out another swatch. ‘It would go so beautifully with your colouring.’

Dona nods her approval, but Derrick buzzes near my head. ‘Is she kidding? Ivory? Does she want you to look sallow? Why don’t you just tell her to shove off and that you aren’t marrying that bloody basta—’

‘Blue,’ I say firmly, interrupting Derrick’s rant. ‘I think I would prefer blue.’

Miss Forsynth blinks in surprise at my outburst. ‘Blue? That’s certainly quite . . . old-fashioned – ivory has become a popular choice among modern brides. Her Majesty herself wore it at her wedding and looked very beautiful indeed.’

‘How splendid for Her Majesty. I, however, would prefer blue. Do you have this in blue?’ I don’t want to spend a minute longer in this place than I have to.

The modiste purses her lips, wrinkling the corners of her mouth. ‘Of course. Marvellous choice.’ She forces a tight partial smile. ‘Shall I show you some design choices?’

Damnation.

She brings out some drawings and samples of other dresses. I nod at the appropriate intervals, barely comprehending her words. I must have agreed to something, however, because before I can make an excuse to leave, she escorts me to the back room to take my measurements and pin fabric on me.

I stand on a stool in the centre of the room and Dona steps up on her own stool to unbutton my day dress. She pulls the sleeves of my dress down my arms, revealing my chemise. I glare at Derrick, who’s grinning wickedly. He sits on the chimneypiece and wiggles his fingers at me.

‘Oh, fine,’ he says as I shake my head subtly. His wings fan behind him as he turns away. ‘Why must you always ruin my fun?’

I stand stiffly as Miss Forsynth takes her measurements. ‘My lady, could you raise your arms, please?’

I lift my arms, a mute doll.

Three days. Three days until midwinter, three days until the world ends, and I’m doing this. I suppose it’s appropriate. If I live through the battle, I will go right back to this – to being a plaything, a show horse for people to stare at and gossip over.

It will be as if nothing happened. I’ll still have to marry Gavin in a fortnight. I’ll still be forced into my neat little cage where ladies are never supposed to feel anger, where they must always be accommodating and complaisant no matter what grief they suffer under their pleasant demeanour.

What you want isn’t important.

Miss Forsynth pokes at my upper arm and glances at me in surprise at the muscles there. Ladies are not encouraged to engage in the sort of physical activity that might make our bodies look less feminine.

By the time the modiste finishes measuring and pinning, I’m stiff from holding still for her. Before I leave, she says, ‘In a few days time I shall stop over at your house for the first fitting.’ She pats my hand. ‘Fear not, my lady, you will make the most beautiful bride in Edinburgh. The blue is a lovely colour on you.’

I grit my teeth in a farewell grimace that I hope passes for a smile as I step out of her shop and into the rain. Most beautiful bride, indeed. If only that were my foremost fear. I wonder if I’ll survive – if anyone will survive – to attend my wedding.

Later, at home, I stand in front of my hidden map of Scotland, studying the path of Sorcha’s kills. One hundred and eighty-six kills. No one will know how they really died, except me and Derrick.

I brush my fingers over the ribbon that represents my mother’s death, the first one I ever marked. God, I’ve planned for so long, trained and fought and killed and overcome everything I thought would weaken me if I ever faced this faery. I’ve built weapons, imagined myself slaying her in a multitude of ways. I planned. I tracked her. I practised. I waited.

In the end, none of it mattered. I was so consumed by my own memories, my grief, that she took advantage of it with little effort at all. I can place some of the blame on Kiaran for stopping me, and claim a small victory in hurting her for a brief moment. But before that, thebaobhan sìthplayed with me. She broke into my mind, reduced me to that pathetic little girl who knelt in blood, too afraid to move. She could do it again if she wanted.

I grasp the bottom edge of the map and rip the paper off the wall with a sharp jerk, scattering pins and ribbons across the hardwood floor at my feet.

‘Aileana?’ Derrick sounds concerned.

‘This is stupid,’ I say, tearing the map into pieces. ‘It was a waste of time.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ he says, flying around me. ‘It’s—’

I toss the paper into the fireplace and light it. I watch the map burn, curling and blackening at the edges. I let go of my hard work, all the effort I put into believing that I’d find Sorcha one day and slay her so magnificently.

‘Aileana,’ Derrick says from his perch on the table.

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