Page 109 of The Falcon Laird
“Someday I will tell you why we can both do this wonderful thing. But I’ll keep your secret.”
“And I’ll keep yours,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “And thank you for showing me.” He was aware how silent, how still John had been throughout the last few moments.
Looking up, he saw Christian standing not far away, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, her face pale in the fading light. She was staring at Michaelmas. He knew, suddenly, that she had been there long enough to see what had happened.
Michaelmas ran toward Christian. “Màthair!” she called. “Will you play the harp for us now?”
“Soon,milis,” Christian said. “Go in, now, Mìcheal. It is getting dark.” She kissed her daughter and went to Gavin.
“Did you know she could do that?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “I have never seen that in her. But she has a way—with animals, and with people. Gentle. Caring. But this—how is it she may have a gift like yours?”
“I believe,” he said slowly, “that she is my mother’s daughter. My half-sister.”
She stared. “Is it possible?” Her voice was hushed.
“I wondered about it before, but now I am certain. There is no proof.”
“There is some proof, I think,” John said, coming near. “I’ve been wondering about the wee lass from the first. I saw your mother’s face in her, just as she looked when we were children. Michaelmas has the healing gift. And she has our fingers. No document could give us greater proof of her birth.”
“Fingers?” Gavin asked.
“Aye,” John said, holding up his hands. His smallest fingers were curved distinctly inward. “These crooked wee fingers run in our family. Michaelmas has them. She has the healing touch as well, that often goes with those hands.”
Gavin splayed out his hands and saw the same gentle but certain inward curve. “I have them too. I never knew it was a family trait. John—do you have a healing gift, and never said?”
“Me? Nah.” John grinned, shrugged.
Gavin wondered, but let it go. Then he frowned. “But her father—I wonder if Henry was her father after all. I can think of no other explanation.”
“I always suspected it, though he denied it,” Christian said. “But he took her in so readily, and he was always kind and patient with her. He treasured her in ways he did not value others.”
“Years ago, before she married Gavin’s father,” John said, “your mother told me that she loved Henry. But their families would not let them wed. Later, she was happy with her husband.”
“What—ah. I see it. A long attachment, never lost. And when she was a widow, Henry might have come to her,” Gavin said.
“Henry was good to her, though I cannot say I liked our cousin much.”
“Mother took a widow’s vow of chastity after Father died,” Gavin said. John nodded. “Two years later, she went into the convent. I always thought it was a sudden decision.”
“If she found herself a widow with child, she might have gone into a convent,” Christian said.
“And she would have chosen that priory because Dame Joan was there to help her,” Gavin said.
“They were always close as girls.”
“Dame Joan and Henry must have discussed all this when we came to see her and took Michaelmas with us.” Christian looked at Gavin. “Henry must have loved your mother very much. I knew he always resented that he was wed to me. Perhaps he wanted her instead, and it could not be. Perhaps he grieved for her.”
Gavin glanced toward the doorway of the tower, where his little half-sister had gone. “Surely my mother loved the child well. She is likely the one who named her for Saint Michael. Mother venerated the angels particularly. She believed her healing gift came from them.”
Christian took his hand. “We have had this bond all these years, and did not know it, Gavin. My adopted daughter is your half-sister. Henry brought us that bond, all unaware. Kind of a miracle.”
“It was meant to be, that bond. Someday we will go back to the place where she was born,” Gavin said. “A local priest may have some document or some memory of her birth or baptism. If there is proof, we will find it.”
“I, for one, am certain o’ her parentage,” John said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll go inside now. There’s some spiced wine waiting for me. And I would not want the sweet lass stirring it to think badly o’ me for being late.” Grinning briefly, he walked away through the thickening shadows.
