The Silver Rose (10 page)

“No, that would be the happiest day of my life,” Martin insisted, squeezing her hands. “But in the meantime, I hope that at least my humble gift will insure you don’t forget me.”

“As if I ever could.”

“Couldn’t you?” he asked wistfully. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Miri tugged one hand free to touch his cheek. “And sometimes I think you would be far better off if you forgot about me.”

Martin shook his head, his eyes darkening with a rare expression, tender and serious. “It would take a mighty spell to make me do that, milady. I have adored you since the moment I first set eyes upon you. I—I know you have suffered a great deal of heartbreak, that you don’t feel ready to become any man’s bride—”

“And I may never be,” Miri tried to warn him as she had done so many times before.

“It doesn’t matter.” Martin brushed a kiss against the back of her hand. “I will wait for you forever . . .”

Forever. Miri tucked the locket back inside her gown, feeling that Martin had already waited long enough for her to emerge from her shadow world of regrets and memories. Despite his overly dramatic expressions, Miri had never doubted his devotion to her, the truest friend she had ever had. He loved her and yes, she believed she loved him. Perhaps Marie Claire was right. It was time for Miri to leave the past behind her, to return to Bearn and bring an end to Martin’s questing. And her own.

“Miaow!”

The urgent cry from her cat roused Miri from her musings. She straightened away from the tree, realizing that while she had been lost in her thoughts and memories, she had lost track of Necromancer as well. Her aged cat, accustomed to considering himself a mighty hunter, often disregarded the fact that in these woods, he could end up prey himself.

Glancing anxiously about her, trying to determine the direction of his yowl, Miri called, “Necromancer?”

To her relief, the cat burst out of the underbrush, appearing unharmed and unpursued. He raced toward Miri and scratched at her skirts, his thoughts barraging her in a frantic and chaotic jumble.

“Daughter of the earth . . . must come. It needs your help. An orphan.”

Miri frowned.
“Whatever is in trouble, I hope you have had nothing to do with orphaning it. If you have been after some poor titmouse again—”

Necromancer’s amber eyes glowered reproachfully.
“No foolish mouse or wretched rabbit this time. It is one of your kind. A human child.”

A child? Miri gaped at the cat, torn between consternation and disbelief. What would a child be doing out here alone in these woods? Before Miri could question him further, Necromancer streaked off again, urging her to follow.

“Hurry.”

Miri ran after him as best she could, moving with none of her usual reverence for the woods, impatiently shoving branches out of her way. At least there was some semblance of a path, for Necromancer was leading her down the track to the stream that cut through a large portion of Faire Isle. Miri frequently made her way there to fill her buckets or wash clothes, sometimes just to stare absently into the sparkling waters as she remembered, grieved, and dreamed.

Necromancer had left her far behind by the time she emerged from the woods and scrambled down the embankment. She spied the cat waiting for her by the flat rock where she was wont to sun herself or lay out petticoats to dry.

Something else occupied the rock this morning, something bundled up in the folds of a brightly colored shawl. Miri came to an abrupt halt, her heart slamming up against her ribs, Simon’s words returning to haunt her.

“Human sacrifice. Babes, some scarce hours old, abandoned to die of hunger and neglect. So small, so still and cold.”

No. Miri could not believe anything so terrible could have happened. At least not here on Faire Isle. Despite her denial, her heart thudded with apprehension as she crept closer. Necromancer prowled nervously about her skirts as she loomed over the rock, but she scarce noticed him, her gaze riveted on the small bundle. So quiet and unmoving.

Miri’s mouth went dry. Dreading what she might be about to find, her fingers trembled as she reached down to draw back the folds of the shawl. She choked out an anguished cry at the sight of the small face. The babe looked scarce hours old, some of the fluid that had sheltered it in its mother’s womb crusted on the cap of its head.

Miri laid one finger on its small cheek. It was not stiff and cold as she had feared, but warm. The child was still alive. It stirred beneath her touch, emitting a thin cry.

Half-sobbing with relief, Miri bent down to gather the babe up into her arms. The shawl fell back enough to reveal that the child was male. Swathing the garment back snugly about the tiny boy, Miri cradled him close, her voice soothing him in a ragged whisper.

“There now, mon petit. You are safe now, but who could have done such a wicked thing, leaving you here all alone?”

But Miri already knew the answer to that question, recognizing the bright-colored shawl, having seen it recently gracing the shoulders of a defiant young girl heavy with child.

“Oh, Carole, what have you done?” Miri murmured. Or more accurately, what had the girl been persuaded to do?

Miri froze, her breath catching in her throat as she stared down at the object that had been concealed behind the infant, but now sparkled in the sunlight upon the rock. A flower whose petals should have appeared vibrant, velvety, and warm, but instead looked encased in frost, glittering deadly and cold.

A silver rose.

Chapter Five

M
IRI HASTENED AWAY
from Marie Claire’s empty cottage, peering anxiously down the dusty lane. The entire town of Port Corsair seemed eerily deserted this morning. She balanced the infant in a makeshift sling fastened about her neck, fighting down a sensation akin to panic. She had been doing her best to quell her fears, keep her imagination from running riot, ever since she had stumbled across that deadly silver rose and realized Simon had been telling her the truth. The evil he had described was all too real and it had found its way to the shores of her island.

While she had dismissed his warning, the followers of the Silver Rose had already prowled Faire Isle, luring in young Carole Moreau. Miri winced now as she recalled the girl’s boast, a remark Miri had paid little heed at the time.

“I have friends, very powerful friends who will look out for me.”

No, not friends, Miri reflected grimly.
Witches.
Never in her life had she applied such a vile term to any woman, but she could not think what else to call creatures so depraved that they could prey upon the misery and desperation of a confused young girl, persuade her to do something as dreadful as sacrificing her own child.

Where was Carole now? And what of Simon? When he had left Faire Isle, had he had any inkling his enemies were so close by? Or was it possible he had been taken unaware and—?

Miri’s chest tightened and she thrust her fears to the back of her mind. There was nothing she could do about Carole or Simon at the moment. Her immediate concern was the babe clutched in her arms. As near as she could tell the tiny boy had suffered no ill effects from his ordeal, but he needed care that Miri could not provide.

She had to find him a wet nurse and quickly. And she had to locate the child’s kin, Carole Moreau’s aunt and uncle. For both those things, Miri needed Marie Claire’s help. But to Miri’s dismay, the older woman was not at her cottage. She forced herself to remain calm, to think where Marie Claire was most likely to have gone.

Much as the former mother abbess had often chafed at the restrictions of the convent life, she missed the old routine of her days, the orderly round of devotions. Miri knew that Marie Claire often slipped off to the church to tell her ave beads and pray. Commanding Willow to stay, she left the pony cropping grass by Marie Claire’s gate and dashed off down the lane.

As Miri approached the small stone cruciform structure that was St. Anne’s, she sent up a silent prayer that Marie Claire would be there. She paused outside the heavy oak door to adjust the weight of the babe, the knot of the sling starting to chafe the back of Miri’s neck.

Miraculously, the child had fallen asleep. Miri only hoped it was a natural one. She had rescued the foundlings of many creatures in the wild, but a human infant seemed disturbingly more fragile, more lacking in any sort of instinct for survival. Cradling the child close to her, Miri shouldered open the door to the church.

The interior of Saint Anne’s felt dark and cool after the heat and brightness of the summer’s day. Miri squinted as she searched the hollow emptiness of the nave, the main altar appearing solemn and deserted.

But a candle had been lit at the niche where the statue of St. Anne presided with gentle open arms. Someone had prostrated herself before the mother of the blessed virgin. As Miri approached, her heart sank as she realized it was not Marie Claire, but a much thinner woman, her brown hair flecked with gray.

Her thin arms were stretched out rigidly before her, her hands clasped in a posture of supplication. Miri had no difficulty recognizing the gaunt figure of Josephine Alain, even though her head was bowed. Miri started to beat a swift retreat, but the sound alerted Madame Alain to her presence.

Madame Alain’s head snapped up. As she scrambled to her feet, Miri tensed, her arms tightening instinctively around the babe, hardly knowing what to expect from a woman who had hated her enough to betray her to a witch-hunter.

Madame Alain went white at the sight of Miri. “Dear God,” she rasped. “I thought that—that you might be—be—”

“Captured by that witch-hunter you sent after me?” Miri filled in bluntly. “No, I regret to disappoint you, madame, but Simon Aristide had no interest in arresting me. He is long gone and I am still here.”

“Oh!” Madame Alain’s hand flew to her mouth. She sank back to her knees, crying, “Oh, thank you, God. Thank you.”

Miri blinked. This was hardly the reaction she had been expecting from such an angry, vindictive woman. She crept closer. Tears tracked down Josephine’s face as she wrung her hands together. She bore the haggard look of a woman who had not slept for days, dark hollows beneath her eyes. She shrank down as Miri approached, averting her head as though she could not bear to meet her gaze.

“I thought you had b-been taken by that man or you m-might even be dead,” Josephine wept. “And I c-couldn’t find the courage to tell anyone what I had done until this morning.”

Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I—I am so ashamed. S-selling another woman out to a w-witch-hunter. Dear heaven, what kind of horrible person have I become? I have been praying to God that I may not burn in hell for it.” Her shoulders shook with a suppressed sob. “No w-woman on this island will ever forgive me or s-speak to me again.”

Despite all that Josephine had done, Miri was moved by the woman’s miserable state. She rested her hand gently on Josephine’s shoulder. “Of course, everyone will forgive you.
I
do.”

Josephine risked a glance up, torn between wonder and disbelief. “You-you do? I cannot imagine why you s-should. There is nothing I can ever do to make you amends.”

“I need no amends, only your friendship. And your help.” Miri eased herself down beside Josephine and nudged back the edge of the blanket that had fallen across the infant’s face.

Josephine sniffed and mopped the tears from her eyes. “Why—why, it’s a babe.”

“And a very hungry one, I fear,” Miri said. Even in his sleep, the tiny boy sucked earnestly at his fist in a way that tugged at Miri’s heart. “I tried to feed him a little goat’s milk.”

“Goat’s milk!” Josephine exclaimed in horror. “That is far too harsh for a babe of this age. Surely he cannot be more than—than—”

“A day old, I think.”

“Where on earth is his mother?”

“I don’t know. I found him abandoned in the woods.” Miri hesitated before adding. “He—he is very likely Carole Moreau’s child. I am terribly worried about her, madame. I believe she may have fallen under an evil influence and I can’t find Marie Claire either—”

“Then you have not heard?” Josephine interrupted.

The grave look on the other woman’s face deepened Miri’s sense of dread.

“Heard what? Has something happened to Marie?” she asked sharply.

“No, it’s that wretched girl. Carole has gone missing and her aunt is nigh frantic. That is where Marie Claire has gone and much of the town to aid in the search. They are likely looking for you as well since—since I finally confessed what I did.” Josephine flushed guiltily. “Did you see none of them on the road as you came into town?”

“I did not take the most direct way. I looped round behind the woods on the longer, but easier path, because of the child.” Miri flinched, imagining what a jolt it must have been for Marie Claire to hear about Simon’s visit to her cottage from someone else, how worried her friend must be.

“I have to find Marie at once,” she said. “But what of Carole? Does no one have the least idea of where she has gone?”

“The only report comes from Sebastian, a fisherman who lives in a hut the other side of Luna Cove. But the old man spends more time in his cups than he does at his nets, so his word is not always reliable.”

“What did he say?” Miri asked anxiously.

“He tells some wild tale of seeing Carole with two women, strangers to the island. One an elf and the other a veritable giantess.” Josephine paused to roll her eyes. “Carole appeared to be terrified and she was crying, at least according to Sebastian. But as I said, most of the time the old man drinks himself half-blind.”

Josephine touched the babe’s cheek, her work-worn hand surprisingly gentle. “And you think this is Carole’s son? No one even knew she had given birth. Her aunt and uncle meant to adopt the infant if it was a boy, give her a permanent home as well. This child would have been her salvation. Why would Carole just abandon him?”

Miri had not yet decided how much to reveal about the existence of the Silver Rose. She had no wish to raise more alarm among the women of Faire Isle, at least not until she had consulted Marie Claire.

“I don’t know exactly how Carole came to abandon her child or go off with these strangers,” she hedged. “Perhaps she was desperate, seeking the kindness and compassion she failed to find on Faire Isle.”

“That rebuke is meant for me, I suppose.”

“It applies to me as well. I made little more effort to reach out to Carole than anyone else did. But right now we must decide what is to be done with her little boy.”

As Miri shifted the child in her arms, the babe stirred and began to cry. Josephine held out her hands diffidently, “May I?”

Miri eased the child out of the sling and handed him off a little awkwardly. Josephine drew the babe close, shushing and rocking him with a tenderness Miri would never have imagined the woman capable of. She envied the easy confidence with which Josephine handled the fragile infant, the experience of a woman who’d had six babes of her own.

Holding the child to her shoulder, Josephine rose to her feet, nodding to herself and saying, “Helene Crecy.”

Miri followed suit, also rising. “I beg your pardon?”

“Helene had a child herself six months ago. She’ll help with this wee one. The woman has breasts the size of melons, enough milk to feed an army of infants.” Josephine’s lips quirked. Her thin face still held a trace of her former prettiness when she allowed herself to smile. She strode back through the nave, making crooning noises to comfort the whimpering babe. Miri hastened after her. The woman paused at the church door long enough to glance back at Miri.

“I didn’t keep the money that dreadful man gave me. I donated it to the church and, well—I—I wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you,” Miri began, but Josephine had already vanished out the door.

M
IRI PACED
the confines of Marie Claire’s cottage while the older woman carefully pulled back the ends of the linen towel Miri had wrapped around the poisonous rose. Its frosty petals glittered against the snowy white cloth as Marie Claire studied the strange flower through the lenses of her copper-framed spectacles.

She looked exhausted from the fright she had had regarding Miri’s safety and from helping in the fruitless search for Carole Moreau. The girl was nowhere to be found. She and her mysterious companions, whoever they were, had vanished from the island, along with old Sebastian’s battered fishing dinghy.

Carole appeared terrified and she was crying . . .
that was what Sebastian had said. However the girl had first felt about these new friends of hers, Miri did not believe that Carole had departed with them willingly.

A chill swept through her despite the warmth of the day. She wrapped her arms about herself, arms that felt strangely empty since she had surrendered Carole’s child to the care of Josephine Alain. Miri felt a trifle guilty about that, as though by being left in her woods, the babe had somehow been entrusted to her. But she could do no better for the infant than turn him over to more capable hands.

When the other women had trudged home from the search for Carole, all exhaustion, all tension and enmity melted away at the sight of the helpless babe. Madame Crecy of the enormous breasts had immediately put the babe to suck while her neighbors crowded about cooing, offering up all manner of advice. Many of them were the same women who had joined with Josephine in persecuting Carole only days ago.

Perhaps like Josephine, they were stricken with remorse. Perhaps it was the innocence of the babe that had softened them. Or perhaps it was possible the gentler, kinder spirit that had once pervaded Faire Isle was not as dead as Miri believed. Grateful as Miri had been to witness it, she had felt shut outside that magic circle surrounding the babe. But it had been her own mind that had distanced her, carrying her far from the island to the man she had banished from her doorstep.

She had but to close her eyes and she could still see Simon’s harrowed face as he vanished into the storm. And she had just let him go, determined to be willfully blind to the threat he had described. If she had paid more heed to what he had said, paid more heed to anything in the world outside her own snug cottage, could she have detected the evil that had invaded her shores and saved Carole from it?

Simon had been battling the forces of this Silver Rose alone for months. Those witches had already tried to kill him several times. For all Miri knew, they might have succeeded by now. She was tormented by disturbing memories of her recent dream, her vision of the broken knight. The nightmare had been disjointed and vague, the face of the man unknown. It was only when the symbols in her prophetic dreams became crystal clear that they ran the danger of becoming true. Miri tried to draw some comfort from that thought.