“I am here, little one, right here.” Esmé began to hum in rhythm with her deft fingers.

  As long as she kept the fawn’s head in her lap, it was quiet.

  “Now for the stitches.” Magnus spoke so low she barely heard him. He brought out a thread she had never seen before. “It’s catgut, “ he said, answering her unasked question. “Sturdier than thread, and natural to a body.”

  And then he did the strangest thing: he dragged the needle and thread through the deep red oil from the St. John’s Wort. “More caution to make sure it won’t become putrid.”

  Nodding, she smiled. How wise he was. Especially with this weak little deer. Taking a deep breath, she held the sides of the wound together, as she had on many a rabbit or vole or fox, and began to sew gently but firmly. She kicked her recorder toward Magnus with a raised eyebrow, but at first he was too fascinated with her dexterity to look anywhere else.

  They had given the fawn a draught to put it back to sleep again, and asleep it stayed. Magnus stared open-mouthed at the precise stitches Esmé took as she carefully closed the wound. They were so small they held the sides together evenly—and were, themselves, straight besides.

  Not until the third time she kicked him did he pick up the recorder in his large hands. His father had given all three boys lessons, desiring that they be cultured as well as strong. Like Magnus, his father was ready for a new kind of world, or he had been long ago when his wife still lived. But Graeme and Hugh were not. They wanted to be soldiers, heroes, fighting for clan and home. Playing the recorder was not part of their plan. Nor Diarmid’s. Not anymore.

  Magnus had tried, but his brothers had stayed around to mock him and his big hands, so he had given up. He picked up Esmé’s instrument and idly blew a note or two. Then two more. She looked up from her work and smiled at him, and that was all it took. He found his lessons came back to him, at least enough for him to play quietly. He watched the fawn’s heart beat through its wounded chest—through stitches and red oil and puckered burned skin. He saw that the heart beat slowed as he played, and though he could not feel what the small animal felt the way he now understood Esmé could, he could at least see the difference.

  He could see, as she continued to sew, and stroke the fawn’s head and hold its feet in her palm, that she had given herself over heart and soul to the wounded animal.

  When she finished sewing, he gave her drops of the red oil on her fingers and showed her by motioning in the air, how she should drop it onto the burns without rubbing. “We’ll have to wait till tis somewhat more healed for that,” he said.

  She met his gaze and both realized they would stay as long as necessary to be certain the fawn would heal fully. They smiled at each other and did not mind.

  When Esmé had finished treating the burns on the animal’s side and back, she once again followed Magnus’s instructions and lightly bound the wound with more medicine, to keep it clean, and the burns to keep the oil in place. Finally, she gently lifted the fawn into her lap and took the warm medallion from her pocket. It was cool now, but still gleaming—infused with magical light. She placed it on top of the bandages as a final offering, a final gift of healing from the long ago past. Then she began to play her recorder, soothing all within its melody.

  It came upon her and Magnus that they were bone-weary from their journey.

  They closed their eyes, for all they could do now was wait.

  That was when the white celestial deer finally lay down nearby and began to speak. For a long moment, they were awestruck by this spiritual figure. Both knew long ago deities had taken the shape of the sacred deer.

  Only now that he sleeps can I take the time to tell ye why he has been calling ye to him for so long.

  “It’s a male,” Magnus said in surprise, for he had thought it a female. But Esmé only smiled a secret smile.

  Yes. The first—and only—white celestial deer born through these two centuries, for that is how the ancient gods proclaimed it. We are the protectors, the fertile, the honorable the loyal. Because the line had gone unbroken for thousands of years, the seasons change as the months pass: summer into autumn, autumn into winter, winter into spring and spring into summer. But from the moment of my son’s birth, he has been in danger.

  People have mostly forgotten the old ways, the ancient gods, the magic of sun and moon and stars. And because their belief is weak, so are we, who represent the oldest of the old, born of the Druids and before the Druids, of Celt and Roman and the Kingdom of Dalriada. There is also darkness in this world, which seeks to defeat the light. It has sought my son since birth, determined to destroy him, but an old woman came to us and let him choose two humans to help when he was most desperate. He could only speak inside their heads and not appear before them. He chose you, and I see that he chose wisely.

  Last night the darkness came and set the blaze all round us, and I was powerless to fight it, for my son was surrounded by dark fire, and the forces of light cannot fight such a threat. Then we heard your voices coming, and even that was powerful enough to douse many of the flames. And then we saw you, and more fire consumed itself. And then you offered your tender hands—the greatest gift of all. For if he dies, our line will cease to be once I am gone. We are given one chance to procreate, and one chance only. That is why I ask you to save him.

  I do not know yet if my son will live, but I know tis because of this danger that winter lingers oe’rlong.

  Touch him, the deer instructed them. It would not have occurred to them to disobey.

  Magnus moved as close to Esmé as he could and they leaned over the sleeping fawn, with her long blond hair for a curtain shutting them off from all but each other. Magnus rested his hand on top of hers upon the fawn—too young, yet, to be called a buck—and at once they had one vision and one sight. It spun with designs of Druid and Celt, with the gods on the walls and left free in the air. Century spun back upon century, belief upon belief, odd clothing upon jewelry of gold and copper. The history of the men and women who wore those clothes and that jewelry spun its story and then they moved on, and culture upon culture spun through their sight. The Old Ones, the sacrificed, the Celts and their gods, which Esmé recognized and shared into Magnus’s open mind, and then century upon century, folktale upon truth upon herb upon Sight, upon healing upon war, upon death upon learning. It spun and it spun through darkness and light, and then, finally, everything grew still.

  Magnus and Esmé gasped as if their bodies had actually travelled so far and so fast. But by the time they caught their breath, the fawn was still sleeping, as if there had been no disturbance at all. The two healers sat unmoving, wondering at all they had seen and felt and known in those brief flashes, from ancient times to the present. In the space of a few moments, miraculously, they had been allowed to understand for themselves the importance to the whole of Scotland of saving this tiny fawn.

  Without him, the winter would never release its grip. It would become eternal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Several times in the next few days, Esmé cleaned the wound and treated the burns, then applied fresh dressings, according to Magnus’s instructions. The fawn slept on as long as Esmé sang or played the recorder.

  Meanwhile, Magnus set up a crude camp, using his last flannel blanket as a kind of half-tent. He built a larger fire in the center of the fire-swept ring; it was the only place nearby where the snow was not thick and too cold to rest on. Besides, he and Esmé needed to stay close to the fawn and keep him warm. Esmé wrapped the injured animal in her plaid, which seemed to give him comfort, though she could tell he was floating somewhere away from them, because of the draughts to keep him sleeping and the fever that began to burn through his body.

  Eventually, both Magnus and Esmé fell asleep, and when they woke, there was fresh prey to cook, and their damaged clothes had been replaced with sturdy new ones. Neither had spoken their concerns out loud, but they had wondered how they would survive in the cold, without food.

  On that first new morning, after they ate, they began to talk.

  She nestled next to him, grateful for his warmth and his wisdom and his kindness. “Ye don’t believe, do ye?”

  “In what?” he asked idly, concentrating on keeping his hand in his lap rather than running it through her soft gleaming hair.

  “That he’ll…” she swallowed dryly, “that he’ll survive.”

  That took his attention away from her hair. Looking away, he rumbled, “Ye believe enough for both of us.”

  She was silent for so long that he thought she might be angry. Just when he was searching frantically for something to say, she raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I’m not sure that is enough. I think, no I’m certain, that believing is part of the cure.”

  She held his gaze, awaiting his response, but he could not think what to tell her.

  “And what of the Celestial Deer? Do ye believe in him? Do ye believe that if the fawn should—” She broke off, unable to say the words.

  Magnus drew her closer and felt her trembling. “Tis just…it doesn’t make sense.”

  Esmé could not help herself; she began to giggle. “And the dream? Does that make sense? The one who haunted us and called us here, now? Waking in this snow world when we never traveled so far or so high? The crone along the way? The white buck who fades in and out of our sight? Does even one small part of it make sense?”

  Shaking his head, Magnus wondered, not for the first time, if he was following in the footsteps of his ancestor, Magnus the Mad. “No, none of it. Not one tiny crumb.”

  She elbowed him gently in the side. “But look ye, here we are.”

  “Here we are,” he echoed with a flicker of hope. Oh, how he wanted to believe in the enchantment that had brought him to the moment when he sat here talking magic with this amazing woman. How could he deny it, after all? She was right; all those bewitching things had happened. But he was too afraid to speak of them out loud. Afraid to admit what he felt for Esmé.

  “Can ye at least believe that?”

  “Aye, well, it’d be foolish to argue. But why are ye so passionate about this? Why is it so important to ye that I believe?”

  Esmé drew back, struck by the question. “I just…” she hesitated, afraid to express what neither had even alluded to. “I thought, when we touched his beating heart…I felt I knew ye, that I’d always known ye. As if…as if we were brought here for some reason other than the healing.” There. It was done. She could not believe she had said it out loud. If he laughed at her, or looked puzzled or blank, it would break her heart. But I won’t give up, she thought. Not anymore.

  Astonished by her courage—and his own cowardice—Magnus raised her chin with his finger. “Yes, I felt it too. But I was too afraid to say so. I’m an eejit; I’ve always been an eejit. And too big. Everyone says I’m too big. I’m a healer who can’t even do his own stitches because of my clumsy large fingers. And ye are so tiny and fragile. I fear I would break ye, if no’ with my body, then with my small doubts. I’d no’ normally speak like this, so openly. I can no’ believe I’m doing it now, but these are extraordinary circumstances. I think…it seems to me…” he stumbled over his words, “that mayhap we have known each other for a long, long time. And it frightens beyond battles or death or dishonor.”

  “Fear is no’ the same as disbelief, Magnus.” Esmé’s voice shook just a little.

  Just then the fawn whimpered and they turned as one to their work, to the task that had brought them together.

  Esmé had been giving the animal sips of water and broth whenever it awoke. Now the fever was at its peak and the fawn shuddered and shivered. Magnus brought her handfuls of snow which she melted on a cloth and then smoothed over its body, trying to cool the fever. She was busy constantly, wetting the cloth, caressing the fawn with it, taking more melted snow from Magnus, who also saw to the broth he had made from the rabbit they’d eaten the first day.

  “Isn’t it time for the yarrow?” she asked him. She herself was drenched in sweat; it ran into her eyes and down her chest, and her trews were soaked.

  “I’m sorry, lass, but ye have to let the fever run its course to some extent, or the poisons stay locked inside. I’ll let ye know when tis time.

  It seemed like days she had been battling the fever, refusing to give in, and then she heard Magnus rustling among his herbs and smelled heated yarrow leaves. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and sighed with relief. Because she believed in Magnus.

  He came to her with the poultice, but she refused to take it. Instead she guided his hands to the fawn’s forehead, placed the poultice across two of his fingers and steered them to lay the leaves there gently. Magnus used his little finger to smooth the leaves down and then sat back, triumphant.

  “I would never have risked it without ye.” He reached for Esmé and nuzzled her neck.

  She turned fully toward him. “Twas no’ a risk, Magnus. Twas a gift.”

  They gazed at one another for a brief moment that lasted years, then moved closer until their lips were a breath apart. “Ye have saved me,” he whispered.

  “And ye me,” she replied.

  Their lips met tenderly, and he tasted her sweet, sweet kiss. He knew without asking that this was her first: full of innocence and passion, need and the gift of her heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For the next several hours, both hovered over the fawn, alternating tisanes of pennyroyal and yarrow leaves and trying to make the fawn more comfortable with the cool cloth. Esmé was delighted the first time she prepared the leaves properly, just as she was the first time Magnus managed to blot the cloth over the animal’s body.

  They smiled at each other constantly, and Magnus could not help but wonder if Esmé was right, and the believing helped, because at last the fawn began to sweat, which meant the fever was breaking. Magnus gave it some water from Esmé’s small cup, and she fed it broth, a little at a time.

  Esmé opened the dressing to see that the swelling had gone down and the stitches were now completely visible. And when she met the white fawn’s eyes, they were clear—no longer delirious—and she swore she could see gratitude in the silvery depths.

  It was still in pain, so Magnus prepared the leaves of All-heal and Esmé placed them on the wound and burns. The fawn went back to sleep.

  “The Voice is gone,” she said sadly, as they ate their own broth.

  Magnus put his arm around her and felt her sorrow through her clothes. “Why is that, do ye think, my love?”

  It was the first time he had used the word love and it sent warmth furrowing through her body. She leaned into him, into the heat and the welcome of his body. “I think tis no’ necessary anymore—for us to communicate, I mean. I think its soul must rest with its body so it can fully heal, and that the voice took a great deal of energy and spirit.”

  Tis odd, Magnus thought, that she can be so practical and useful and precise, and yet so fanciful. But he did not speak the words, because she would only point out that the voice had spoken to him as well and brought him here, and because of that, he had met Esmé. There was no getting around that one. It was, indeed, a miracle. “Aye, no doubt you’re right.” To punctuate his point, he kissed her.

  Esmé climbed up in his lap, and curled against him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back with every bit of her passion and belief.

  The gesture took his breath away; no woman had ever made him feel like this before. Fingers of fire raced through his veins, and he wanted her with a desire so intense it blurred his senses. He wanted her this instant—all of her—but that would have to wait.

  Clinging to his greatcoat, Esmé shivered at the sensations rushing through her. She had never imagined sensations like these, even in her dreams, when she awoke hungry and aching. This ache was more than pleasant; it was ravenous and greedy, and she felt her whole world lay within it, waiting to be born.

  “Do ye love your family very much?” Magnus asked at what she thought a most inappropriate time. But he knew better.

  She glared at him in silence, tried to kiss him again, but, reluctantly, he drew his lips away. “I’m waiting.”

  “Do ye really want to know?” she asked in exasperation. “Now?”

  “I most sincerely want to know. Right now.”

  “But why?” She wanted nothing more than to kiss for a while longer and then fall asleep in his arms.

  “Ye said ye believe in me,” he pointed out.

  She nodded, again reluctantly.

  “And when ye asked me your questions, I answered them at once, though I was afraid of your response. Is that no’ so?”

  “Aye,” she said. She could hardly disagree.

  “Weel then, please answer mine. Tis only fair.”

  Esmé got out of his lap, because she surely could not talk of everyday matters while she was there; it was against her desire, her will, and her common sense. “All right then.” But she did not give up entirely—not while she continued to breathe. She took the leather thong from the bottom of her braid and began to unwind her long blond hair. She knew without being told that Magnus loved her hair.

  “Aye, I love my family dearly. They’re the best people I know, except for Breda the Brat—” she added automatically. Then she remembered all the help her sister had given her to get Esmé out of the house and on her journey. “No, even Breda the Brat. I must remember to stop calling her that.”

  She explained about Breda, and then it was only natural to tell him why she had needed Breda’s assistance, and that led to the story of Ewan and her father and the bear, and then she had to stop to take a drink of water.

  Magnus was fascinated that the amazing woman snuggled beside him had been hidden away in her home for years until The Voice called her away. Yet she had come. Had never considered staying at home where she was safe. She was more remarkable than he’d imagined.

  Now that she was talking about her family, Esmé had forgotten all about kissing—for the moment. She went on to describe her much beloved Grandmother Caelia, and her great-grandmother Clare, and her grandfather Rory and her father Connall Fraser and her young brother Geordie.

 

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