The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

ruin your shirt, considerin’ as ‘ow you ain’t got many to spare.”

“Fred. . .”

Although the drawn-out syllable was muffled by the linen, Fred knew that his former employer had reached the end of his tether. He helped his master untangle himself. “Aye, ‘tis the little one alright,” he said, eyeing the crude stitches used to sew the sleeve shut.

“You take care that the tower stays closed,” Duncan commanded, his lips setting in a straight tight line. “Ramshackle though the door may be, it suffices to keep the little one out.

“You ain’t ‘ired me back yet, Major,” Fred informed him. But the look that his master gave him was enough to send him scuttling back towards the roof. In the distance, he could see the child, running through the heather and over the hill. She had stayed to watch her handiwork, the little minx.

. . .

Duncan moved swiftly, years of skill combining with boyhood knowledge to make his passage silent. The small marks of Anne’s erratic course were as vivid as signposts to him. Prints of paws and tiny bare feet marched side by side showing clearly where girl and dog had passed, stopped to look under a rock or pluck a wildflower. She was roaming far afield indeed, nearly the full length of the island. Abruptly, the trail veered, disturbed stones and foliage pointing their path up the steep hillside and a smile played on Duncan’s lips. So, Anne had discovered the fairy grotto.

Carefully, Duncan edged his way to the lip of the overhang, testing the wind’s direction to make sure that the dog would not scent him, before peering out over the ledge, almost fearful to see if time had altered this special place.

But it had not changed. Silver water spilling into a misty pool while ferns waved their feathery tails in the breeze. This was the childhood kingdom where his dreams had held reign, where dragons had kept watch with their fiery breath, searing strangers who would have dared disturb his peace. The dryads dwelt here in the trees, whispering in the summer storms, telling secrets that no human could decipher. His mother had promised him that if he closed his eyes and believed with all his might, he could hear the fairies singing in this place.

“Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,

In the forests of the night

What himmortal hand or eye. . .”

The voice was high and reedy, the melody like none that Duncan had ever heard. Who had met Anne in the grotto?

“In what distant deeps an’ skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he perspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?”

Duncan smiled at the substitution of “perspire” for “aspire.” From the pitch of the voice it was clear that Anne’s companion was another child. The tune changed to one he recognized, a snatch of an old lullaby that his mother used to sing. But two verses later, the melody changed once again.

“When the stars frew down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears . . .”

Blake’s meter did not fit to the tune of “Cherry Ripe,” but the voice cut and sliced the words to fit, elongating syllables here, garbling words there until the very end, soaring high to a rousing finish

“What himmortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful sinnet-treeeee!”

It was only as the last echo faded that the thought dawned. It could be no crofter’s child who mangled Blake below, but the obvious answer was an impossible one.

The little girl who never uttered a word scrambled on to a rock, followed by her dog. She picked up a stick and heaved it into the pool. “Bring it, Cur,” she called. “Fetch it to me.”

It was obviously a familiar game, for no sooner did it splash then the dog was in the water, paddling toward it eagerly and then returning to the rock and shaking dry to Anne’s delighted squeals. “You bad dog,” she said, wagging a scolding finger with a voice that was a perfect mimicry of Daisy. “You’ve gotten me very wet an’ Mamma will be mad if I come home soaking.”

She was speaking. The silent child was not just talking, but chattering and singing with words spewing from her mouth like a dam that had just burst. Duncan listened in puzzlement as she prattled to her canine audience, seemingly repeating everything she had heard that day.

He was hard put not to chortle when he saw Fred, Daisy and Kate herself through the mirror of a child’s eyes. But it was Anne’s impression of himself that hit him like a well-aimed blow. She threw her chest out, arranging her face in a sneering scowl. “I can’t smile,” she bellowed, pantomiming his struggles with his shirt. “It hurts when I smile. Anne can do funny things, but I won’t laugh.” Her voice dropped back to normal, but the words carried clear. “D’you think it was the Frenchies that hurt him like that, Cur?” she asked. “Or maybe The MacLean is really a truly prince, under a spell.”

The thought of himself as an enchanted prince nearly made him laugh out loud.

“He’s a lord, just like Papa was, an honest truly lord,” Anne explained earnestly. “Even though they call him ‘The,’ instead of ‘Lord’ MacLean, Mamma said so.”

Cur barked in canine concurrence.

So, Papa was a lord, but that confirmation of Fred’s suspicions was the smallest of Duncan’s concerns at present. He drew back, his thoughts in a jumble as he wondered what to do. If he challenged Anne, he might very well deprive her of the only place where she felt safe enough to use her voice. Confrontation might be the worst possible tactic.

“Did you see the castle, Cur? So many people.” Her tone was disapproving. “But Mamma was happy. She hasn’t been happy in so long. Remember how she used to laugh all the time before He came? Do you think He used to hurt her too? I saw Him pinching her once, when He thought nobody was looking. He promised not to, if