it back. Quickly!” When Sophie simply pressed her hand upon the smaller parchment and closed her eyes, Nella edged nearer again. “What do ye see?”
“Morvyn. That is the name of the one who wrote this. Morvyn, sister to Rona.”
“The witch.”
“Aye. No ink,” she muttered. “That is why this is written in blood. Morvyn had naught else to write with and she was desperate to record this exactly as it was said.” Sophie opened herself up to the wealth of feeling and knowledge trapped within the parchment. “She tried to stop it. So desperate, so afraid for us all. She prays,” Sophie whispered. “She prays and prays and prays, every night until she dies, sad and so verra alone.” She quickly removed her hand and took several deep breaths to steady herself.
“Oh, m’lady, this is no treasure, is it?”
“It may be. Beneath that despair was hope. That would explain the words carved upon the chest.”
“Can ye read the writings?”
“Aye, though I dinnae want to.”
“Then dinnae.”
“I must. That chest carries the words ‘truth’ and ‘salvation,’ Nella. Mayhap the truth as to why all the women of my line die as poor Morvyn died—sad and so verra alone. I willnae read it aloud.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she felt chilled as she read the words. “I cannae believe Morvyn wrote this. She feared these words.” Sophie turned her attention to the larger scroll. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it?”
“I fear Rona deserves her ill fame. She loved Ciar MacCordy, The MacCordy of Nochdaidh. They were lovers, but he left her to marry another, a woman with land and wealth. He also left her with child.”
“As too oft happens, the rutting bastards,” muttered Nella.
“True. Rona was hurt and her pain twisted into a vindictive fury. One night she cursed The MacCordy and all the future MacCordy lairds. Morvyn tried to stop it, but failed. Her fear was that the Galts would pay dearly alongside The MacCordy, if in a different way. She writes out the curse again and, trust me, Nella, ’tis a bad one. She expresses the hope that some descendant will find this and have the courage and skill to undo what Rona did. Ah, me, poor Morvyn tried her whole life to do just that, with prayer and with healing spells. She wrote once right after the curse was made, and again when she was verra old. She leaves her book of cures and spells as well as her stones. The use of the stones is explained in the book.
“Morvyn says she thinks she has discovered the sting in the tail of Rona’s curse. A Galt woman of their line will know love only to lose it, to watch it die or slip through her grasp. She will gain land and wealth, but such things will ne’er heal her heart or warm her in the night and she will face her death still unloved, still alone.” Sophie wiped tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And she was right, Nella. She was so verra right.”
“Nay, nay. Your ancestors just chose wrong, ’tis all.”
“For over four hundred years? This is dated. It was written in the year 1000. The verra first day.” Sophie muttered a curse. “That fool Rona sent out a curse on the eve of a new year, a new century. It was probably a night made to strengthen any magic brewed and she stirred up an evil, vindictive sort.”
Nella wrung her hands together. “There isnae any of that evil in this house, is there?”
Sophie smiled at her maid. “Nay. I sense that magic has been stirred in here, but nay the black sort.”
“Then from where comes the fear and sadness?”
“Heartache, Nella. Lost love. Loneliness.” Sophie cautiously picked up the two small bags inside the chest and gasped. “Oh my, oh my.”
“M’lady, what is it?”
“Morvyn’s stones.” She gently placed one bag back inside the chest on top of what she now knew was Morvyn’s book of cures and spells. “Those are her healing stones. These,” she clasped the small bag she held between her hands, “are her blessing stones.”
Nella stepped closer and shyly touched the bag. “Ye can feel that, can ye?”
“Morvyn had magic, Nella, good, loving, gentle magic.” She put everything back inside the chest. “How verra sad that such a woman suffered heartache and died unloved because of her own sister’s actions.” She closed the chest and started out of the room.
“Where are ye taking it?” asked Nella as she hurried to follow Sophie.
“To my room where, after a nice hot bath and a hearty meal, I mean to read Morvyn’s wee book.” She ignored Nella’s mutterings, which seemed to consist of warnings about leaving certain things buried in walls, not stirring up trouble, and several references to the devil and his minions. “I but seek the truth, Nella. The truth and salvation.”
It was late before Sophie had an opportunity to more closely examine her find. The house, lands, and fortune her Aunt Claire had bequeathed her were welcome, but carried a lot of responsibility. Aunt Claire had been ill during her last years, mostly in spirit and mind, and there was a lot that had been neglected. Although wearied by all the demands for her attention during the day, Sophie finally sat on a thick sheepskin rug before the fire, sipped at a tankard of hot, spiced cider, and looked over what her ancestor had left behind.
A brief examination of the book revealed many useful things, from intricate cures to simple balms. Sophie only briefly glimpsed the spells, few and benign, before turning to the explanation of the stones. She considered them a wondrous gift, having long believed in the power of stones, which were as old as the world itself. Sentinels and possessors of the secrets and events of the past, Sophie was sure all manner of wonders and truths could be uncovered if one understood the magic and use of them.
Still sipping at her drink, Sophie next turned her attention to the scrolls. She read both Morvyn’s letter and the curse several times before replacing them in the box. The truth was certainly there, but Sophie was not sure she could see the salvation promised. Nothing in Morvyn’s writings or the words of Rona’s curse seemed to indicate a way in which to end the despair suffered by so many Galt women.
Staring into the fire, she grimaced, for she could feel the spirits of those who had gone before, including poor old Aunt Claire. Generation after generation of Galt women, who briefly savored the sweet taste of love only to have it all go sour, had returned to this house to die or spent their whole sad lives here. Each one had spent far too many years wondering why love had eluded them, why they had held it for so short a time only to see it trickle out of their grasp like fine sand. Although she had only been at Werstane for a fortnight, several times she had felt the despair of all who had gone before, felt it weigh so heavily upon her that she had come close to weeping. If Aunt Claire had felt it too, had spent her whole life feeling it, it was no wonder she had become a little odd.
And now that she understood the curse Rona had set upon the MacCordys, understood the “sting in its tail,” as Morvyn called it, Sophie knew her fate was to be the same as Aunt Claire’s, as that of all the lonely, heartbroken spirits still trapped within Werstane. Her own mother had suffered the sting of their ancestor’s malice, but had let that despair conquer her, hurling herself into the sea rather than spend one more day in suffering. As Sophie faced her twentieth birthday, she was surprised she had not yet suffered the same fate, but love had not yet touched her.
