Lady Miracle by Susan King Page B

that Michael would use far more sense than the first physician, and would perhaps know more than the local herb-wife. And he hoped that she would consent to use her unique power to heal the child. That, truthfully, was all that he wanted to see done.
    Michael’s image floated through his mind. Her serene face framed in pale, silky hair, her calm voice and gentle touch were easy to recall, as if he had committed their exquisite details to memory. He remembered, too, the soft, sweet taste of her warm lips, causing his loins to surge suddenly beneath the water. Scowling, he reached over and doused his head with the cooled water that remained in the bucket.
    He flexed his left hand, remembering how she had touched the scars, examining his hand beside the pool. During those brief moments, he had felt something wondrous and dynamic, like a sweet lightning over his skin. She might deny her healing ability, but he was sure it was still there.
    Her gifted hands were the answer Brigit needed, that he needed too. Like a bit of rag tied on a hazel tree for hope, he had placed the last remnant of his faith in Michael’s ability. She could help him fulfill the vow he had made to Brigit.
    He shoved a hand through his wet hair as if the simple motion could rake away the worry that plagued him. His own medical knowledge told him the cold truth: no treatment could make the child whole. But each time he saw the brightness in her eyes, he resolved to see her well.
    Rinsing the water over his shoulders, he thought about the surprising refusal Michael had given him. He had been unprepared for it. Her counter demand had astounded him even more. He shook his head in dismay. He could sooner win the moon and stars for Michael than Glas Eilean. Breaking through its barriers would be no problem—that was not what stopped him. He held back because he feared for his sister’s welfare and her health.
    Sighing, he stepped out of the tub and dried himself with a linen sheet, then crossed the dark room to open a wooden chest to grab a thick, soft woolen tunic of dark green, one his sister had made for him in the English style. Dressed, he left the room to go find Brigit.
    Michaelmas awoke, startled, when she heard the small cry. Soft and whimpery, the sound came again. She heard pain in it, and more. Troubled, she sat up, listening through the dark.
    She had been asleep on a narrow pallet bed in a tiny room above the great hall. Cold air leaked through a tiny slit window, hung with a piece of hide to keep out the strong winds. She slid out of bed, feeling the chill through her silk chemise and the cold impact of the wooden floor against her bare feet. Grabbing her surcoat, she tossed it on over her chemise; although it was improper to go about with a surcoat over a thin undergown, she hardly thought it mattered just now. No one would see her.
    She heard the faint, frightened sound again. Opposite her bed, a doorway, covered with a heavy curtain, led to another chamber. The soft cries seemed to come from that room. She picked up the cold candle by her bed and ignited the wick at the iron brazier, filled with glowing peat, that warmed her chamber. Holding the flaming candle, she went to the adjoining door and parted the curtain.
    At the far end of a dark, spacious chamber, faint firelight spilled over a bed draped in pale blankets. Michaelmas heard a whimper and a sniffle.
    “Who’s there?” she whispered. “Are you ill?” She stepped forward. A tiny girl lay in the middle of the great curtained bed, propped on pillows, her body thin and small beneath the blankets.
    One of the dogs had been asleep by the fire. He rose up and came toward her—the larger one, Padraig, she remembered. He sniffed at her and seemed to recall her as well, for he accepted her pat on his huge head. Then he went back to the heathstone to lie down.
    “Brigit?” Michaelmas asked softly. “Is that your name?”
    “It is,” the child whispered “Who are you?”
    “My name is