“Tell that to the baby.” Clarissa linked her fingers with Alice’s. “I’m frightened, Ally.”
“I know, darling. But you’ll be fine.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Clarissa relaxed her grip and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes. The sun had risen to the level of the window by now and lit the honey wood of the floor, the samplers of letters and animals and fairies that decorated the walls, the work of generations of Blackwell girls.
“I have a promise of my own,” Clarissa finally said.
“And that is?”
“I will never teach my daughter to embroider chair cushions!”
Alice laughed. “A good thing, too!” She glanced up as Sorcha appeared in the doorway, red-faced and breathless. “What is it?”
“Oh, miss,” the maid gasped, “something terrible has happened!”
Alice was already on her feet. “Grandfather.”
“Nay, nay. ’Tis the master . . . er, Mr. Blackwell.”
Fear like an icy fist clutched in Alice’s stomach. “Sorcha . . .”
“They’ve just carried him in, Miss Alice. He’s been shot.”
Gareth opened his eyes to muted light and shadows. His shoulder burned like fire; he felt as if someone had taken a mace to his head. He blinked to clear his slightly hazy vision. The canopy above his head was familiar; he was in his own bed. A noise to his right caught his attention. He turned his head slowly, carefully toward the window.
Alice was there. She was quietly setting a candlestick on the window ledge.
“Not starting the wake yet, I hope,” he grunted.
She spun, dropping the unlit candle to the floor. She ignored it and hurried over to the bed. “Oh, thank heavens. Oh, Gareth!”
She grasped his hand. He wanted very much to wipe away the single tear that slid down her cheek, but his free arm was attached to his injured shoulder. Instead, he squeezed her hand gently. “I’m all right, elf.” He tried rotating his shoulder and decided it wasn’t a wise move. “Your grandfather shot me.”
“Yes, I know. He feels absolutely wretched about it.”
Gareth grunted. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive him. He should have done it eight years ago when I abandoned you.”
“Hush. Don’t be silly—”
“No, Alice, I need to say . . .” He grimaced. “Christ, my head hurts!”
“You hit it on a rock.”
“Of course I did. I couldn’t have merely been shot. I suppose there’s as reasonable an explanation as to why my mouth feels as if someone swabbed it with a sheep.”
Alice released his hand and poured him a glass of water from a carafe beside the bed. “Mr. Gladbury was a bit liberal with the laudanum, I imagine.” She gently helped him sit up and held the glass while he sipped. “He’s a great believer in it.” She plumped several pillows behind Gareth’s back and he leaned back with a muffled groan.
“I always thought he was aptly named. Glad to bury his patients. Giving a man laudanum after he whacked his head. God help us.”
Gareth remembered now: a lot of shouting, a lot of blood. And, to add insult to injury, he’d suffered through an intensely uncomfortable carriage ride into the village, the local physician with very cold hands and a large draught of something wretched-tasting. He didn’t recall anything after that.
Alice’s hand was cool on his forehead. “You should rest now. I’ll just light the candles and leave you.”
He wasn’t about to let her leave, but she was already back at the window, collecting the candle and setting it carefully in the brass holder. There was one already sitting on the second windowsill. “I thought we’d decided to postpone the wake.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Candles in the window on Christmas Eve. To guide the spirits of those who’ve died in the last year home.”
“Arthur.”
“Mmm. And to guide anyone in need of shelter and hope.”
That, Gareth decided, was him. He needed hope, needed it desperately. “Alice—”
“Be sure to make your Christmas Eve wish before you go to sleep again.”
He watched as she struck a flint and lit the candles. The soft light brought a glow to her skin, burnished the loose curls around her face. He knew he had never seen a lovelier sight. “I already made my wish, as it happens.”
“Did you? Good. I hope it comes true.”
“Oh, so do I.” Gareth saw another tear slip down her cheek even as she turned her face to hide it. “Alice. Come back here.”
“You should rest . . .”
“Please.” He patted the mattress beside his hip. She came back, perched herself tensely right on the edge, and stared down at her hands. “Don’t you want to know what I wished for?”