Chapter Text
It wasn’t fair.
Fergus knew he shouldn’t complain. Because really, he was grateful for the life Milord and Milady had given to him here at Lallybroch; it was peaceful, and safe, and after three months of being here, it was starting to feel like home. And most days and with most tasks, Fergus didn’t mind helping out. It made him feel useful, knowing that each stable cleaned, each fish skinned, each bale of hay rolled made it possible for the people of Lallybroch to continue to thrive. It took him a while to adjust to these tasks, of course—farm life was different, indeed, to the cacophonous clamour of Paris—but he was eager to learn and made up for what he lacked in raw skill with enthusiasm, secretly delighting in how his occasional bouts of cluelessness made Milady laugh. It was good to see her laughing again.
All this to say, it wasn’t as if he was some lazy ne’er-do-well who didn’t want to pull his weight. This was why, he thought, it was particularly unfair for the grown-ups to keep saddling him with this particular task, this, which he loathed more than anything else: babysitting.
This was not to say he didn’t like the younger children. They made him laugh, and from time to time, he did enjoy looking after the littlest ones—the cooks’ twin daughters, Helen and Alice, who were six months old and had the chunkiest arms and legs Fergus had ever seen, were undeniably his favourites. Aunt Jenny’s children had, of course, become dear to him, too. He got along splendidly with Young Jamie, who was only a few months his junior, and the rest of them were quite sweet. Young Ian, the littlest, worshipped Fergus as a god.
But it had become increasingly clear over the past few months that his newfound cousins were every bit as mischievous as they were sweet. This would normally be fine—Fergus had grown up pickpocketing, for Christ’s sake, he was hardly a stranger to mischief. Now, though, aside from the older girls of a few of the families that lived on the property, Fergus was essentially the eldest brother of a wild, noisy band of troublemakers. As such, responsibility too often fell on him to keep any number of them entertained, under control, out of the grown-ups’ way, and far from trouble.
Young Jamie didn’t need looking after, and Maggie was quite able to take her of herself, as well. (As a rule, she enjoyed her books and her embroidery more than climbing trees and rolling in muck.) It was the younger four—Kitty, Janet, Michael, and Ian—that were cause to be concerned about. All four had nearly done Fergus’s head in at one point or another, but it was Janet, the second youngest of the pack, that Fergus had clashed with the most since his arrival to Scotland. Milady and Milord reminded him frequently that she was only seven and she needed to be shown a bit of grace, but he still could not help but scowl when she threw her fits, especially because she always seemed to get away with everything.
Milord agreed with him on this, he knew, because Fergus had overheard him talking with Uncle Ian about her behaviour once. It was the day after the incident in Milord’s study in which Fergus had thrown a book at Janet’s head—which he still was somewhat convinced that she deserved.
“I ken she’s small,” Milord had said, “But she must learn to mind her tongue. Refusing to correct her does her a disservice.”
“I dinna ken how qualified you are, brother,” said Uncle Ian, not without affection, “to educate me on correcting the behaviour of children when it was your wee rascal who thought it necessary to hurl a book at the forehead of a bairn half his size.”
“A foolish decision,” agreed Milord, and from his hiding spot, a blush came over Fergus’s face. “For which he suffered.” Milord heaved an impatient sigh, and Fergus could picture him—eyes rolling, jaw tight with annoyance. Fergus and Milady were deeply familiar with this particular expression; Lord Broch Tuarach had many virtues, but patience was not among them.
“He was goaded, Ian,” continued Milord. “Poked and prodded until he gave wee Janet the reaction sought. Fergus never had a mother or father to teach him right from wrong, ye ken. That he’s as kind-hearted as he is, is a miracle. The taunting of a lass who doesna ken how the things she says hurt people will hardly help him control his impulses. It isna fair to him.”
“Since when have you been concerned with fairness?”
Milord was silent for a moment. Then, he said gravely, “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.”
“Aye, right, I understand,” snorted Uncle Ian. He sounded strangely amused in the face of what sounded to Fergus like very harsh criticism—a millstone? “Ye need not lecture me wi’ the words of Christ. Ye ken your mother always thought you’d be a priest.”
“I sin too frequently and too gravely to be a priest,” said Milord, and there was a smile in his voice now. “But heed His words, Ian. Ye must, for little Janet’s sake.”
The conversation had taken a strange turn towards the end—Fergus wasn’t sure at all what Milord or Jesus meant by the millstone comment—but either way, it was undeniable: Janet was a Terror with a capital T, and Fergus had no patience for it.
So, yes, it was entirely unfair that he’d been sentenced today to an entire afternoon of babysitting the youngest four Murrays while Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ian sorted financial matters with a few of the tenants. Rabbie would be tagging along, too (he was for all intents and purposes an honourary Murray sibling), and he was no less troublesome than the rest. Fergus couldn’t help but fight as hard as he could to get out of it.
“Please, Milady,” he’d said as Milady kneaded dough on the kitchen counter, “Let me stay and help you here. I’ll work very hard. Jamie can look after the children—he’s the same age as me!”
Milady gave him a somewhat sympathetic smile. “True. But he doesn’t take anywhere near as wonderful care of them as you do.”
“What do I do that is so wonderful?” complained Fergus.
“You play games with them. You kiss their scraped knees, and pick flowers for their hair, and carry them when they’re tired.”
Teasingly, Milady continued, “It’s your own fault, you know, that you’re stuck with them so often—you’re just so good with them.”
“I do not like being good with them,” grumbled Fergus. “I will start being terrible to them, Milady. Then Aunt Jenny will make Jamie look after them.”
“You don’t mean that,” said Milady mildly, “and if you did, I would be very disappointed in you.”
She shot him a look that made him blush and squirm in embarrassment. She was right. He hadn’t meant it, not really, and he hated that she seemed to always see through him. Frustrated, he tapped a foot on the floor (he’d gotten in a bit of trouble for outright stomping before, and he had no desire to repeat the incident) and whined, “Mais j’ai pas envie!(But I don't want to!"
“Tough.”
“It’s not f—”
“Life isn’t fair, Fergus,” said Milady. She caught him by the chin, her face serious around smiling eyes. “So you’re just going to have to suffer a bit, I’m afraid.”
She reached across the counter and handed him a large picnic basket. “Now, go on. There are enough sandwiches and such in here to feed an army. All that's left to do is fetch a blanket.
“And Fergus?” she said as he turned to leave. He looked at her in desolation over his shoulder. “Check the very bottom of the basket, in the blue cloth. There may be a few sweets there. Just for you.”
With a token roll of his eyes, Fergus smiled.
So he set off, the heavy picnic basket on his shoulder and raggedy blanket tucked beneath his arm, as five wild creatures circled him like hawks. He asked them where they wanted to go for their picnic, and after a few minutes of squealing and squabbling, it was decided—by Janet, of course—that they would venture to the giant oak tree near the far side of the stream. Fergus rolled his eyes when they told him this. Of course they’d pick the one place they weren’t allowed to go.
The bit of the stream that ran close to the house and powered the mill was relatively safe—not too deep and not too wild, and even then, the children weren’t meant to play in it unattended, Fergus included. The far side, nearly a mile away from the manor house, sported a small waterfall that emptied down into a wooded area too thick with brambles and vines to enter. The decline of the fall itself was not sharp, the rapids leading up to it were treacherous. Water foamed and hissed as it careened over jagged rocks that were smooth enough to slip on and sharp enough to injure, and Fergus wasn’t entirely sure how deep it was in the middle of the stream. The volatility of the water ensured there was no way to see beneath the surface. The area flooded frequently, so the banks were soggy and slippery. One bad step and the clay would give out beneath your feet and send you tumbling into the water.
None of the children were ever, ever allowed to play near the stream here, let alone in it. The grown-ups had set a geographic boundary for them in the form of the giant oak tree. A root of the tree stuck up from the ground, large enough to be around the height and twice the length of a bench, and the rule was that they couldn’t go beyond the root, no matter what. To be honest, Fergus felt it was a bit of a silly rule, and he himself had snuck beyond the root on a few occasions, but that was beside the point.
He reminded the Murrays of the boundary, and he was met with a series of complaints, most of which he ignored. Then Janet argued, “We’re no’ meant to go beyond the root, but we can still sit next to it and eat. If we stay on the closer side, we’ll no’ be doing anything naughty.”
And that, Fergus had to admit, was pretty solid logic. He just wished Janet wouldn’t look so damned smug about it.
So, though his stomach felt a bit sour, Fergus agreed to a picnic beneath the somewhat-forbidden oak. The tree was a good bit away from the edge of the water, he thought, perhaps a hundred yards or so uphill, so even if one of the little rats tried to sneak away, he’d have plenty of time to wrangle them back before they stumbled into any real danger.
Probably.
It took over an hour to reach the tree. It should have taken thirty minutes at most, and Fergus on his own could have done it in fifteen without breaking a sweat. But the children kept straying to admire rocks and pick flowers, and they had to stop not once, not twice, but three times because Young Ian had to go off into the woods to pee. After the third time, Fergus confiscated Ian’s canteen of water, which led to Ian melting down into tears because the water cooled him down while he walked and without it he would surely die. Unwilling to give the water back but unable to stand any more whinging, Fergus ended up carrying Ian on his back. When they reached the tree at last, Fergus’s arms felt like they were made of jelly. He set down the basket, the blanket, and Ian perhaps a bit more carelessly than he should have, if Ian letting out a loud oomph! upon hitting the ground and rolling a few times downhill was anything to go by. If the aching in his back wasn’t so severe, Fergus might have actually cared.
They set out the blanket and dove into the sandwiches. Fergus, who hadn’t realised until he saw the food in front of him how hungry he was, began to relax. The others were too tired from their walk to do much more initially than sit and chew in silence, though soon, conversation began to stir. The chatter was amicable, and Fergus let himself smile at and even participate in a few of the jokes and stories. When the wind, that crisp breeze that signals the end of Summer and the dawn of Autumn, began to rustle the leaves of the oak, Fergus shrieked in faux panic and tackled Kitty and Michael so they wouldn’t blow away, delighting in the laughter that elicited from the group. When Ian demanded back his canteen, Fergus gave it back without scolding and actually found the look of gratitude on Ian’s face quite cute. And when he withdrew the small cloth from the bottom of the basket, he considered for a brief, selfish moment, then decided to give all the sweets to the others, and the looks on their faces were reward enough for parting with that which was meant just for him. He’d dreaded the picnic, but now he had to admit he was having a nice time.
To think that it could all go downhill so quickly!!
The trouble began with Janet. She finished eating before the others, and subsequently grew antsy. When a few minutes of her wriggling on the blanket, tapping her toes, and running the fingers through the hair of her dolly (which accompanied her wherever she went) passed, she spoke up. “I have an idea.”
Fergus, who had taken the last scone as a kind of consolation prize for not being able to have sweets, looked at her with a small amount of scepticism. “What?”
She smiled sweetly. “We should sit over there!”
“Where?”
She pointed a skinny index finger to her right, and Fergus didn’t have to follow her gaze to know exactly what she had in mind.
“No,” he said firmly, swallowing a bite of scone. “We are not to go near the root. We will find something else to do.”
“Mama says we’re not to go past the root,” said Janet, “not that we canna sit on it.”
Fergus felt a twinge of annoyance at the recycled argument—it was half as convincing and twice as annoying the second time around. But even as he told her no again, Janet was rising to her feet, scooping up the half-empty picnic basket to carry with her.
“Ian, look,” she said, smiling down at her brother, who watched her with wide, nervous eyes. “It looks just like a bench! ”
Fergus watched in mild astonishment as Janet sauntered away from the blanket and over to the root that was, again, admittedly bench-like in design. He shook his head and called, “Janet, come back. You’ll get in trouble.”
“No, I’m allowed to sit here,” insisted Janet. Her eyes glittered as she lifted herself up to sit on the root. She added, “Maybe ye misunderstood what Mama and Papa said because ye dinna speak English.”
“I do speak English,” said Fergus tightly.
“Not really,” she said. Fergus closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the way Milady had taught him. She’s seven, she’s seven, she’s seven, she’s seven…
“That wasna very nice, Janet,” said Kitty, the gentlest of the bunch.
“It isna very nice of you to tell me I’m no’ being nice,” retorted Janet. She pushed her plait behind her shoulder and began digging in the basket. “Look! Auntie Claire made oats with honey! Ian, you can pick what piece ye want first!”
Janet held up a brick of oats and honey, and Fergus thought Ian’s eyes might pop out of his head. Apparently one piece of toffee was not enough to satisfy his sweet tooth. Ian looked over to him for approval, and Fergus shook his head. “No, Ian.”
“But Auntie Claire made it for me,” said Ian sadly.
“Yes, but we have to wait for Janet to come back over here,” said Fergus, forcing himself to be patient. “You cannot go to the root.”
“Dinna mind him, Ian!” called Janet. “He isna in charge of you.”
“I am!” snapped Fergus, and though he meant to aim the retort at Janet, he was still looking at Ian when he said it, who shrank in fear. His lower lip began to quiver, and Fergus reached out for him. “No, Ian…”
But it was too late. Ian was already getting to his feet and trudging over to his sister, eyes cast woefully back at his big cousin. Fergus drew his mouth into a thin line. This was political now. War, and strategy. He eyed his opponent dangerously. “Janet. Come back, now.”
“Come on, Michael,” called Janet to her twin as she took Ian’s hand to help him up next to her. “There’s room for more. And Rabbie, you come, too. Come on.”
“What about me, Janet?” asked Kitty as Rabbie and Michael walked over to the root.
“You’re no’ invited,” said Janet simply, “because ye were mean to me. We’re going to eat all of this, and you can’t have any.”
And while Fergus was happy not to lose his only ally in the present coup d’etat, his satisfaction was dimmed by Kitty bursting into tears. He tsked and patted Kitty’s shoulder. “Ah, Kitty, t’en fais pas(don't worry. Milady will make more just for you. Yes? You do not need to cry.”
But cry Kitty did. Just when it seemed she would never stop, an exaggerated sigh came from nearby. “All right, Kitty, you can come sit with us. There’s no’ much room, but ye can sit on the other side on the ground, behind us.”
Fergus was almost too caught up in cursing Janet for turning Kitty against him to notice what she had said. He rose to his feet then, fists tight at his sides. “No. None of you go past the root. It is not allowed—Janet said so herself.”
Janet rolled her eyes. “I didna say that. Sit down there, Kitty, and I’ll give ye some. Ye have to have the smallest bit because ye were so mean…”
Fergus watched in horror as meek little Kitty slipped behind the damned forbidden root. She sat down, and for the first time that day (aside from Ian’s trips to the woods), one of them was out of his sight. Anxiety swelled within him, threatening to overtake his anger. How had he let it get this far? That was it. He had to stop this now, before it got any worse. He strode over to where the children sat and stared hard at Janet. “Get down. We’re going back.”
His tone must have been just as scary as he’d intended, because Janet, in all her boldness, had the good sense to blush. She wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Why d’ye want to ruin a bit of fun, Fergus?”
“I don’t—just get down, Janet. Kitty, come back around here.”
“But Janet said—”
“It does not matter what Janet said!” said Fergus, barely registering that he was probably being sharper with her than she deserved. One last time, he commanded, “Get down, Janet.”
And Janet, she-devil that she was, stuck her tongue out at him.
Fergus saw red. Gone were any thoughts of She’s only seven, lad and Show her some grace, darling; Milord and Milady’s voices in his head disappeared. He began yelling—what he was saying he wasn’t quite sure, and what language he was saying it in he definitely wasn’t sure. He was so upset that he felt no sympathy when both Kitty and Ian began to cry, or when Janet yelped in pain after being yanked off the root by her wrist.
“You are all spoiled beyond rescue!” he found himself saying. “When we go back to the house, I will tell your mother how horrible you all have been! You will all be banned from picnics for the rest of your lives!”
Kitty and Ian cried harder, but all the children finally, finally obeyed him by getting down from the root, each looking suitably scolded and sorry. Each, of course, except Janet, whose mouth looked like she’d been eating lemons and whose eyes glimmered with anger. She rubbed her wrist gingerly.
“Michael, pick up the blanket,” ordered Fergus. “I’ll get the basket.”
“I can get it,” said Janet. Fergus ignored her, walking around behind the root to fetch the basket. Footsteps shuffled in the grass, and he turned around, basket in hand, to see Janet standing a few feet downhill of him, eyes gleaming with delight and curiosity. She was challenging him—seeing what he would do. His eyes flickered to the ground, checking for slippery patches of mud near her feet. His heart hammered in his chest.
“Janet,” he said.
She took off running, her plaited hair flying behind her, doll still in hand.
Fergus had no choice but to follow her. He called a quick order to stay put to the others, realising a moment too late that he’d spoken in French, and followed her at a sprint. He was almost twice her size and was, he thought, quite a fast runner—for the first few paces, he was confident he’d be able to catch her and haul her back to where her siblings stood. But Janet was surprisingly quick, too, and the five second lead she had on him turned out to be a major advantage to her. He yelled at her, ordering her first to stop at once. He threatened her, telling her he’d personally ensure she would never be allowed to play ever again until the day she died. He pleaded with her, insisting that it wasn’t safe, the ground was wet, there were bumps and craters and tree roots everywhere.
She did not listen. She kept running. She ran until she was only a few feet away from the banks of the stream. And she slipped.
Fergus wasn’t sure what caused the stumble—a rock or root or dip in the ground or muddy path. He watched in slow motion as Janet attempted to turn towards him, and he caught a glimpse of her face. For the first time that day, her expression held something other than pride, or annoyance, or moral superiority. Her eyes grew large with terror. The colour fled her cheeks. Her mouth flew open in a horrified scream as she went tumbling into the water.
With a violent splash, Fergus threw himself in after her.
The stream was deep. He plunged swiftly downwards, propelled by the force and speed at which his body hit the surface. Dirty water stung his eyes, so he screwed them shut. His ankle clunked against something smooth and firm, and deep pain spread like tongues of flame across the top of his foot and along the side of his lower leg. For a brief, stupid moment, he wanted to cry. But there was water going up his nose and into his ears, and something thrashed nearby—Janet. He bent his knees and used both feet against the rock beneath him to propel himself upwards. Air hit his face, and he gasped it in.
He opened his eyes and saw her, a foot or two to his right, splashing and gurgling in panic. He bobbed over to her, took a hold of her wrist, and swam back over to land. Angry water slapped his face and tried to force him downstream. He braced his knees on the banks and used every bit of strength in his body to yank Janet around and up, pushing her up onto dry ground. He pulled himself up after her. On land, the ache in his ankle intensified. He was sure it was broken.
He got up on his knees, hovered above her, examined her as best as he could. He took a hold of her shoulders and shook. “Tu es blessée?(Are you hurt? Did you hit anything? Can you breathe?”
Janet wailed, “My dolly!”
“What?”
“My dolly!” she howled again, and a finger that trembled with cold pointed over Fergus’s shoulder. He whipped his head back around and scanned the water. Among the raging rapids, caught between two jagged rocks, he spotted a few strands of bright yellow yarn. He turned back to see Janet weeping ferociously, her little chest heaving. “I need my dolly! My dolly!”
Fergus considered for half a second, then pushed her more firmly against the earth. “Stay right here.”
He dove back in. The water seemed angrier now, incensed by the children that dared disturb its rhythm and routine; it foamed up into his face as he attempted to swim, making it impossible to see. He tried to remember the shape and location of the rocks that trapped Janet’s doll. He kept himself afloat by kicking his uninjured ankle while he used grasping hands as his eyes. The keen edge of one of the rocks sliced his palm open. He yelped at the pain but gripped the rock all the same as his other hand reached desperately for yarn, for cloth, for buttons, anything.
Then, his sightless search proved fruitful. Coarse wet string touched his fingers, and he yanked. The doll did not budge. He tried again, attempting to plant his good foot against something for leverage, but there was nothing in reach. His third and fourth attempts were unsuccessful, but on the fifth he felt something give. Encouraged, he brought up his other bleeding hand and gave a sixth, final pull, using the full weight of his body, and the doll flew forwards into his grip…
…and Fergus flew backwards into his water.
He realized his mistake too late—the doll, stuck between the rocks, had given him some ability to resist the pull of the flowing water. Now he was falling, floating, sinking, struggling, as the stream pushed him wherever it wanted him. He tried to swim upwards, left towards the shore—or was it right? Water was in his mouth; he must have opened it. Stupidly, he swallowed, then even more stupidly, tried to gasp in air that was not there, receiving more water instead. His chest began to burn. The pain in his ankle got worse, and worse, and then suddenly it was no longer there. He was dizzy, and numb, and then warm all over. Delightfully warm. Something was in his hand. There might have been noises, voices nearby—or there might have not. He’d figure all that out later.
He’d just take a quick nap first.
Painful pressure exploded on the back of his neck, and the warmth surrounding him went away. Cold air shocked his body. He’d been right—there were noises nearby, and the noises were voices, though he couldn’t quite make out what anyone was saying. Too many voices all at once. His ankle, screaming with pain once more, smacked against what felt like someone’s body, and he tried to cry out, but no sound came forth.
“I have him!” The owner of the hand at the back of his neck and the arm wrapped around his waist was yelling to someone nearby, who yelled something back. Fergus felt his body hit the ground; grass tickled his hands and neck. “He’s warm!
“Lad, can ye hear me? Wake up, Fergus.” Hands smacked his face; he reached up to push them away, annoyed—he was awake. No need for such dramatics. He opened his eyes to see Milord crouched above him, completely soaked and wild-looking. Surprised, he tried to gasp, but most of the breath caught in his mouth. The tiny bit that reached his lungs only seemed to make them ache more, and his hands instinctively moved to claw at his throat. He was on land—why couldn’t he breathe?
Milord’s eyes glimmered, furious and determined. “Damn it.”
And he flipped Fergus over, jammed his meaty thigh beneath Fergus’s hips and lifted it in a bastardised genuflect, and promptly began spanking him.
Blood rushed to Fergus’s head, making him dizzy again. Or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen in his lungs. Either way, through his haze, he was deeply insulted. How rude to give him a spanking while he couldn’t breathe. And it was a strange place to be spanked, between his shoulderblades instead of his backside—Milord had never done that before.
Then he coughed, and he was throwing up—no. Not throwing up. All that came up was water; it spattered against the grass. Air rushed into his lungs.
“There ye are, lad.” Milord’s voice was breathless—had he swallowed water, too? His hand still patted firmly at Fergus’s back, and Fergus realized that this may not be a punishment, after all. It was more like he was a nursing infant being burped. Milord’s other hand began pushing at the top of his belly; Fergus opened his mouth to ask what the hell that was about, and another stream of water erupted out of his mouth. He tasted acid and partially digested bread, so he knew he’d actually vomited this time. The hand on his belly eased up a bit. Milord continued speaking. “Good. Good lad. Can you breathe now? Can ye speak?”
Fergus nodded his head, noting vaguely how sore the muscles in his neck were. “Aye, milord,” he tried to say, but no sound accompanied his words. He frowned and tried again—nothing. His lips moved, but all that came out of his mouth were more tiny trickles of water. He turned his head and gave Milord an alarmed glance.
“Dinna fash,” said Milord, though he himself sounded as though he were “fashing” quite a bit. “It’ll come back to ye. We’ll get ye to Milady, and she’ll fix ye right up.”
“Brother, the horses!”
Milord swore in Gàidhlig. He flipped Fergus off his knee, setting him down on his back. A hand that shook more than Fergus had ever seen it shake ran across his face. “The horses are on the run. You’re safe. D’ye hear me? You’re safe. I’ll be back. Dinna move.”
As if he could. Fergus watched, blinking slowly, as Milord’s went out of view and a cloud-filled sky replaced it. Deciding that was not interesting enough to focus on at the moment, he let his tired eyes, sore after being splashed with water, close. The grass beneath him was wet with muck and his own vomit, and his back ached, and the water of the stream smelled awful, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of that. He was so damn tired. Milord said he was safe. Perhaps he could take that nap now.
“Fergus!”
Oh, Lord, was his first thought. Please, no more Janet.
Janet. Fergus opened his eyes and tried to push himself up on his elbows, but his body was too weak, and his head smacked back down hard against the ground. She’d seemed all right when he dropped her off on the banks of the stream, if only slightly mortally terrified, but he wasn’t sure how long ago that had been. Seconds? Minutes? Probably not hours, or the sky would be darker. Still, his heart began to pound again at the memory of her struggling in the water. He needed to see her. To make certain she was safe.
Luckily for him, her little face soon appeared above him. She was crying, but some of the colour had come back to her cheeks. “Fergus, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”
Knowing he could not speak, he just gave her a smile and nodded. She was a demon…but he supposed she’d probably suffered enough for the trouble she gave him. He closed his eyes, satisfied that she was safe, and tried to rest.
“Fergus, ye canna tell Mama and Papa!”
His eyes opened again. He frowned in distaste. Janet’s gaze was intense, her tears dripping down onto his face, hot and kind of gross. She whimpered, “Ye canna tell them. Please, Fergus, promise. Papa promised the next time I was naughty, he’d strap me. Please, please, please, dinna tell them.”
Strap her? Fergus himself had never been on the other end of the strap, though he knew a few of his other friends around the estate had been. Just that last week, Young Jamie had his introduction to the fearsome implement; he’d apparently given Aunt Jenny too much sass, and Uncle Ian had taken him quite firmly in hand. Jamie found Fergus sketching in the barn afterwards and had, without a word, ripped off his breeks to show off the four crimson welts marring the skin of his arse and thighs. His eyes were misty, but he’d seemed almost proud, as if he wanted to prove to Fergus how tough he was. The nakedness hadn’t bothered Fergus—he and the other boys skinny-dipped with one another fairly regularly—but the ugly stripes had. He spent the rest of that day unsettled, praying that God would protect him forever from the wrath of the strap.
Janet was evil, but she was little. She seemed especially small today, shivering with cold, soaked from head to toe, and more distressed than he’d ever seen her. The thought of her being strapped made his stomach turn. He grabbed her hand, trying to convey to her with his eyes that the second he got his voice and his strength back, he’d advocate for her. She’d been really horrible, but she hadn’t meant to fall in the stream and nearly drown. He’d tell Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ian she was too little for such a terrible punishment. He’d even stand between her and the strap if it came down to it. There was no way, under his watch, that Janet would be whipped.
“Janet Murray!”
Aunt Jenny sounded cross, or maybe that was just how she sounded when she was scared—Milady was the same way. Janet was gone, then, from Fergus’s vision, and nearby he heard Aunt Jenny’s skirts swishing.
“What in the name of God did you mean by going down to the stream,” she shouted, “when ye ken fine well the danger!”
Fergus wasn’t sure if she was talking to him as well as Janet, or just Janet, but either way, he was in no state to answer. He settled for grunting remorsefully, unsure if he could even be heard. Janet, for her part, howled but also did not answer. Aunt Jenny’s voice went up further in pitch. “Tell me, now!”
I can’t! Fergus wanted to snap. He couldn’t, of course—his throat was broken, and even if it wasn’t, Aunt Jenny would certainly bring him back downhill and toss him in the water herself if he spoke to her that way. She wasn’t a woman to test.
“It was Fergus’ idea!” wailed Janet suddenly. “He said it was allowed!”
Fergus blinked. No. He’d heard that wrong. He listened more closely.
“What?” Aunt Jenny sounded confused. Fergus wasn’t the only one who’d misheard, then.
“He told me to come with him!” wept Janet. “And then he took my dolly, and then…and then…”
“Then what, lass?” Here now was Uncle Ian’s voice.
Yes, thought Fergus in crazed disbelief, then what? What the hell was happening?
“Then he pushed me in the water!”
Ohhh....cette petite morveuse.(Ohhh....that little brat.
Fergus went hot with rage. He opened his mouth and tried to speak again, really tried, but all he produced were strangled wheezes and gurgles. His head was too heavy to lift now, too heavy to even shake. All he could see were the clouds. He had no way to defend himself.
“Then how did he end up in the water?” Uncle Ian’s voice rose now.
Yes, exactly! Fergus relaxed a little. He could count on Uncle Ian to sort this out for him.
“I don’t knowww,” mourned Janet. “I think…I think he slipped. I heard a splash.”
Aunt Jenny sighed, or maybe it was Uncle Ian. But it was his aunt who spoke next. “Janet Murray, if you’re lying to me, you’ll get such a whipping!”
“No, no, Mama!” pleaded Janet. “It’s no’ a lie! Dinna strap me! Please!”
Well, thought Fergus simply. Merde.(Shit.
It was no longer a simple case of advocating for her, or standing between her and her punishment. She’d shifted the entirety of the blame onto him—made him the villain of the story, and quite a wicked one at that. If he admitted to it, he’d be beaten with an inch of his life. If he told the truth, Janet would likely face worse. Before the day was out, someone in the main house of Lallybroch would be meeting with the business end of a strap.
Fergus just had to decide who it would be.
Hot tears of anger dripped out of his eyes and down the sides of his head. Again, he thought, Merde.(Shit.
Merde, Merde, Merde. (Shit, shit, shit.
Galloping hoofbeats approached, and Milord’s voice rang out in a stern bark. “Give me the bairns!”
“Just take your lad,” said Uncle Ian, and Fergus was promptly scooped up beneath his shoulders and his knees. Fergus averted his gaze—he could not look at his uncle’s face, afraid of what he might find there. Uncle Ian carried him over to Milord. “We’ll carry Janet back. She’s no’ as weakened by the water.”
“Fine,” agreed Milord, and he took Fergus in his strong arms, adjusting his legs to straddle the horse. “But hurry. Claire will want a look at her, too.”
“She’s frightened more than anything,” said Uncle Ian. He was silent for a moment, and his voice was tight as he said, “Mind his hand; it’s still bleeding. Jamie…he’s done a terrible thing.”
Milord was quiet, and more tears slipped from Fergus’s eyes. Surely his uncle hated him. He felt Milord adjust his grip on the reins. “Later. He needs examining.”
“Aye,” said Uncle Ian, and Milord clicked his teeth, and the horse was off, galloping at full speed back to the main house. Fergus gripped hard onto the horse’s mane, gasping in pain as his wounded ankle slapped against the beast’s side with each of its strides. He wondered if you could double-break a bone, and, if you could, if anyone had ever double-broken a bone from riding a horse. Perhaps he would be the first. If he survived the day, that might be an interesting thing to brag about years in the future.
As the house came into view, Milord began yelling Milady’s name. By the time they came up to the gates and Milord bid the horse stop, Milady was already running through the front door. Fergus winced at the jostling as Milord swung himself off the horse and lifted Fergus down.
“Jesus Christ, what happened?” cried Milady. “Fergus, my God!”
“He nearly drowned,” said Milord, and they were off, running into the house. “I had him cough up what I could, but I dinna ken what else to do. Something’s wrong wi’ his leg, and his hand’s been ripped open.”
“Upstairs,” ordered Milady, “quickly. Our room. I have my supplies there.”
A few minutes later, Fergus was stretched out on his back on Milady and Milord’s big bed, and Milady hovered above him, poking and prodding and murmuring to herself. They’d stripped him naked, cutting his clothes off so as not to jostle him further, and Milord, following Milady’s instructions, piled warm blankets over him. When one cooled, Milord brought it back to hang by the fire and replaced it with a new one. Milady used a strange metal device to listen to the going-ons in his chest, held down his tongue with a small ruler to peer at the back of his throat, palpated his stomach, and made him follow her finger with his eyes.
“It’s a nasty cut,” she mused, holding Fergus’s sliced palm up to examine. “Do you know how he got it?”
“On the stones, I’d rackon,” said Milord. He leaned against one of the pillars of the four-poster bed, arms crossed as he watched his wife work. “They’re sharp as knives.”
“He’ll need stitches,” said Milady, and Fergus impulsively tried to yank his hand away—he’d been through enough today, the last thing he wanted was a needle poking in and out of his skin. Milady looked briefly like she wanted to scold him, then she sighed and touched his face with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, my darling. I’ll be very quick, and as gentle as I can be.”
Milord gave Fergus a long sip of scotch (were he in less pain, he might have been excited about this) and took a firm grip of his other hand. Then Milady got all the supplies she needed and got to work. She kept her promise and was quick, but Fergus still cried the whole time, squeezing Milord’s hand hard and using every bit of willpower he had to keep his injured hand still. Four stitches later, Milady was done, and Fergus was rewarded with her kiss on his forehead and another drink.
Milady confirmed that his ankle was, indeed, broken, and he’d need to keep weight off it for a while, which was discouraging. He was happy to hear, though, that she thought it felt like a pretty clean break of something called his fibula, meaning his long-term ability to walk or run probably wouldn’t be affected. She wrapped him up in tight bandages, lifted his ankle to rest on a stack of cushions, and instructed him to be still.
“And his lungs?” The question was sharp with nerves. “Is there water in them still?”
“I don’t think so,” said Milady. “I’ll keep listening every few hours. You did well to get him to cough up as much as you did. You saved his life, Jamie.”
Saved his life. For the first time, a cold wave of fear came over Fergus’s body. He’d been so caught up in the pain, the chaos, the sadness, that he hadn’t yet thought about the danger to his own life. He could have died. He nearly did die.
It happened before he could stop it—he lurched forwards and vomited.
Milady cleaned him up as thoroughly as she could, though he imagined he’d still need quite a thorough bath at some point in the near future, and she sat by him and stroked his forehead. Milord changed out of his own wet clothes and wrapped himself in one of the warm blankets, then sat at the small table by the window in silence. After what felt like hours, Milady encouraged, “Try to say something, Fergus. Just a whisper.”
Fergus swallowed. He croaked, “Milady.”
Milady smiled.
She carefully redressed him in dry clothes, claiming that putting him in a nightshirt would only make him sleepier, and he was pointedly not allowed to go to sleep. She said it was to monitor him and make sure his breathing stayed regular. Fergus still thought it was torture. All he wanted was a damned nap. Milord, too, looked like he might fall asleep sitting up at the table, and Milady’s body next to his was tense. Guilt twisted in Fergus’s stomach—seeing Lord and Lady Broch Tuarach so upset by his own stupidity was worse than any pain in his ankle or hand.
“I’m,” he began hoarsely, then fell into a coughing fit. Milady patted his back through it, murmuring that the lack of water coming up was a very good sign, and handed him a cup of cold water. He took a sip. He continued, “I’m really sorry.”
“Not now,” said Milord gruffly from his spot at the table.
"Tu m'en veux?(Are you mad at me?" asked Fergus, though he knew it was stupid. Of course Milord was angry with him. How could he not be? He didn’t have the full story yet.
And, thought Fergus with a swallowed grimace, he never would.
He’d already decided some time ago that he’d allow Janet’s lie to stand. He didn’t want to be strapped—the thought of even a spanking made him want to cry, and he knew he’d never get away with something so mild over such a serious offense. He doubted Milord would just give him four strokes, either, as Uncle Ian had with Young Jamie. Uncle Ian, as a rule, was a soft touch. Milord, though always kind and always fair, had a strong sense of justice and was ever-strict in his meteing out of it. He’d only properly raised his hand to Fergus twice (once in Paris over a stolen bottle of perfume, and once on the ship to Scotland after Fergus snuck out of his room at night), and they were hardly forgettable experiences. The thought of how severely Milord would punish him for this—recklessness, disobedience, cruelty to a child he was meant to be looking after…it almost made him wish he’d drowned, after all.
But as he saw it, he was already in a good amount of pain. His head hurt, his throat hurt, his chest hurt, his stomach muscles hurt, his hand hurt, his ankle hurt. It was a lot of hurt. If more hurt was inevitable, even in the form of the dreaded strap, it may as well go to the same person. Besides, Fergus knew he was old enough for it. He’d scream and cry and probably hate himself and Milord for a while afterwards, but if Young Jamie got it and didn’t die, surely Fergus would live, as well. Janet, on the other hand…he wasn’t confident she’d die, exactly, but he knew the strap, if used severely enough, could easily break skin and leave scars. He knew Uncle Ian wouldn’t want to harm her; he was hardly a brute. But with Janet being so small, it just didn’t feel worth the risk.
It didn’t mean he wasn’t furious about it. He was planning on standing up for her anyway, and to be turned into a monstrous bully in her story hurt deeply. As far as he was concerned, Janet was dead to him—excluding absolute necessity, he would never speak to her again. Seven years old or not, he was done showing her grace.
Milord did not answer his question—instead, he looked up as a gentle triple-knock struck the door to the master bedroom. Opening the door revealed Uncle Ian, who stepped in at the nod of Milord’s head. “All is well in here, I trust?”
“Aye,” said Milord.
“I’ll be down to examine Janet in just a moment,” said Milady. “Is she coughing?”
“No.” Uncle Ian shook his head. “No, she’s the picture of health. Thank God. Jamie, if ye wouldn’t mind…?”
He gestured towards the hallway. Milord followed him out, and Fergus listened as their footsteps disappeared first down the hall, then down the stairs.
“All right, darling,” sighed Milady. She slid out of bed, too, and began gathering up her medical supplies. “I’m going to go see to your cousin, make sure there’s no water in her lungs, either. You stay here and rest—don’t move that ankle, and don’t pick at your stitches. I’ll be back to check on you shortly.”
“Thank you, Milady,” murmured Fergus.
“Try to get some rest,” she advised him, and with that, she was out the door, closing it behind her.
Rest. Funny. Fergus’s body felt heavy, and his eyes felt heavier, and he imagined a nice long sleep would indeed help the aches and pains in his body heal. But with the way his heart was pounding and his stomach was twisting, there was no chance of sleep in his immediate future. Maybe after Milord was done beating him into his next life, he’d feel differently. The thought of that—the hope of rest, alongside the agony of waiting—was almost enough to make him wish Milord would just come back, take the damn strap to him, and have the whole thing done.
Almost.
When Milord’s footsteps once again appeared in the hall, any desire to speed things up disappeared entirely from Fergus’s mind. His head began to spin. For a wild moment, he considered bolting up from the bed and locking the door—all right, he did more than consider it, but the moment he tried to lift himself up, his ankle screamed in pain, and he swore and fell back against the pillows. The door opened. He squeezed his eyes shut. Merdemerdemerdemerdemerde.(Shitshitshitshitshit.
“Look at me.”
Fergus had expected shouting, but Lord Broch Tuarach’s stony command came in barely more than a whisper. This only made it that much harder to resist—when Milord bellowed at him, Fergus tended to feel brave enough to bellow back. It felt more like an argument, a fight he could win (even if he never did). This, though, this gentle fury…it made Fergus’s blood run cold. He could not disobey. He opened his eyes.
Beneath raised eyebrows, Milord’s eyes were dark. “Tell me your uncle and aunt are wrong. Tell me Janet is lying. Tell me the child that I brought into my home, that I have provided for as my own, isna capable of such cruelty.”
His lungs may as well have refilled with water, Fergus’s chest ached so terribly. In a crackly voice, he said, “I cannot, Milord,” and it was not a lie.
Milord’s eyes narrowed. He strode over to stand by the bed, towering over Fergus and casting his shadow over the blankets. “I dinna believe you.”
Fergus swallowed—how could he respond to that without lying? He settled for a helpless shrug and shake of his head.
“You love those children,” growled Milord. “To lure one to the stream, steal her doll, and shove her into the water—what reason would ye have to do any of that? To laugh at her? To punish her? To kill her?”
“No, Milord!” cried Fergus. That was too much to bear—surely he could still protect Janet without admitting to being an attempted murderer. Wincing, he dragged himself up to sit. “No, never, never, never!”
“Then why do it?” Milord took a step back. He was close to shouting now, but the window during which Fergus might have felt combative or dared argue back was long gone. He’d been accused of trying to kill someone; he had no choice but to plead his case as best as he could. But Milord’s keen eyes flashed with something between fury and wild amusement. “Ah, but that's a question ye canna answer. Ye canna explain another’s lie, can ye?
“Your wee cousin is lying through her teeth,” he continued. “I ken it. Milady kens it. I daresay even your aunt and uncle ken it, deep beneath their anger. But hers the only story we have, and the only evidence I have to contrast it is my belief in the quality of your character.”
“I shouted at them,” confessed Fergus in a whisper. “I told them they were terrible, that I was going to tell Aunt Jenny they should never be allowed on picnics again.”
“Now, that I believe,” said Milord. “But shouting at children isna the same as shoving one into a damned river.”
A stream, Fergus nearly corrected on instinct, having recently mastered his English vocabulary for different bodies of water—the sea versus the ocean, a river versus the stream—but Milord was incensed, and though he’d never hit Fergus in the face before, Fergus had no desire to prompt him to start. So, with nothing else to say, he sat in silence, hands folded in his lap and eyes fixed upon them. Milord heaved a sigh and, at last, said the words Fergus had been dreading.
“If ye willna offer me any other explanation,” he said, “if I—we—Milady, your aunt and uncle, and I—must take Janet’s word as truth, I’ll have no choice but to strap ye. Do you understand that? There is no world in which the events that unfolded today would not bring punishment with them. And if ye did as you are accused, the punishment will be severe.”
Fergus wanted to cry already. Part of him felt like running. Another part longed for Milady to burst through the door and throw her arms around him, to shield him from Milord as he’d vowed to shield Janet from her parents. But neither running nor the protection of Milady would solve the problem. The only way out, it seemed, was through. “I understand, Milord.”
Apparently, this was not the response Milord was hoping for. He swore loudly and Fergus heard him sink into the chair by the window. After a long, painful pause, he spoke again.
“Please, lad,” he said, and Fergus’s head shot up, was surprised to hear the very real desperation in Master Fraser’s voice, “Dinna make me whale away on ye wi’out knowing what’s happened, or why you’ve done what you’ve done. There’s a fine line between discipline and…cruelty, and I’ve no desire to dance along it.”
One last time, Fergus considered. He thought of the strap, how much it would hurt, how afraid he was of its sting. But over each of these thoughts came the image of Janet’s tear-stricken face and fearful eyes. He couldn’t let her be strapped. He just couldn’t. He kept his jaw clamped shut.
“Ye willna tell me, then?” said Milord.
Swallowing, Fergus shook his head. His guardian eyed him for another long moment, then rose to his feet.
“Well, then,” said Milord at last. “Let’s have this done.”
He came over to the bed and man-handled Fergus carefully but impersonally onto his stomach. He pulled Fergus to the foot of the bed, shoving pillows beneath his belly and hips, then his injured ankle.
Grabbing yet another pillow to set beneath Fergus’s recently-stitched palm, Milord explained, “My father’s tawse is in the armoire, but ye may consider yourself lucky that it hasna been properly oiled in years. I have only my belt to take to ye—but I’d rackon it’ll be more than enough to impress upon you the seriousness of your actions.”
Fergus, bent over, could not see Milord’s face, but his tone at the end of this little speech was biting—nearly sarcastic. Hands went to the waistband of his breeches, seemed to hesitate, then committed, yanking the garment down to Fergus’s knees. Normally, being seen in his drawers by…well, by just about anybody, really, would have been nothing to Fergus. Now it made him want God to strike him down with a well-timed lightning strike.
“Does your ankle pain ye?”
Fergus nearly nodded—it was broken, what kind of ridiculous question was that? Then he realised Milord probably meant if it hurt more because of the position he was in, and he shook his head. Honestly, given the state of his injuries, it was impressive how Milord had manipulated him into a position that didn’t hurt like hell. Though, he supposed with a glum kind of wryness, it would hurt like hell soon enough. He was drawn from his thoughts by the horrible sound of Milord’s belt clinking somewhere behind him. His heart picked up its pace once again.
“Last chance, mo laochain(my little hero," rumbled Milord, and the nickname brought tears to Fergus’s eyes. Milord’s hand came to rest on his back, applying just enough pressure to keep Fergus steady. “Tell me why ye were in the water.”
Fergus shook his head, trying to swallow down his nerves. “I cannot, Milord.”
“Ye certainly can,” said Milord gruffly. “Ye can tell me anything. But ye willna do so, and that’s all that matters now. Fifteen.”
Fifteen??
Fergus barely had time to panic before the belt swooshed through the air and landed with an awful crack against the seat of his drawers. He jumped, which irritated his ankle, and yelped as a fierce burn bloomed across his skin. His eyes grew wide with panic. There was no way he could survive fifteen of those. He’d die before the last stroke fell.
“Ye ken you’re not to go near the river on your own,” scolded Master Fraser as a second stroke of the belt came down beneath the first and set more of Fergus’s skin ablaze, “let alone when you’re meant to be watching the bairns. Ye could have easily drowned today, all because you willna—obey—instructions.”
Each of these three words came with three more brutal strokes, and Fergus keened in displeasure, toes curling in his socks. Collapsing into tears, he shook his head and, unable to stop himself, blurted out, “It isn’t like that, Milord! Please!”
“I believe you,” said Milord, and his voice sounded odd. He landed another firm blow. “But I gave ye the opportunity to tell me what it is like, Fergus, and ye refused.”
“Milord…” wept Fergus, his shoulders shaking. Somehow this was even worse than he’d expected it to be.
He heard his guardian inhale sharply, and then the belt was whistling through the air again, and it landed wrong.
Fergus wasn’t sure what happened—maybe he’d moved, or maybe the belt had broken somehow, or maybe Master Fraser had just misjudged his aim. The tip of the belt wrapped around his hip, snapping hard against bone and searing part of his stomach. The pain was blinding. Fergus screamed.
“Jesus Christ,” breathed Milord. The belt clattered to the floor. Fergus heard Milord back up a few steps, his breathing rough and nearly as shaky as Fergus’s own. He swore a few times in English, then in Gàidhlig, then in English again, before finally saying, “God forgive me, I’m no’ able for this.”
Fergus’s breath hitched—what did that mean? Then a firm hand once more pressed into his back, more firmly than before.
“Promise me,” he growled, “that you will never, ever put me in this position again.”
“I promise,” wept Fergus easily. “I promise, never!”
Then Milord’s palm came down across the seat of his drawers a few quick times, light enough in its impact that had Fergus not already been beaten with the belt, he likely would not have felt it. Milord’s restraining hand left him. His entire body trembled as he wept into the covers. He wasn’t sure how many blows he’d gotten between the belt and his master’s hand, but he hoped to God it would be enough to satisfy his aunt and uncle downstairs, and to pay whatever cosmic toll the universe demanded for the chaos that had ensued today under his watch. Maybe now it would all be all right—once the stripes from the belt stopped hurting.
“Let me see,” said Milord, and he seized Fergus, gently turning him onto his side. He lifted Fergus’s shirt up further, revealing the spot on his hip where the final blow from the belt had struck. Apparently satisfied or at least not overly concerned with what he found, he lowered the garment and smoothed a hand over Fergus’s hair. “That wasna meant to happen.”
Fergus sniffled miserably and did not respond. He believed Milord, but he was still rather upset about it—he thought for a moment that he might end up sporting a broken hip alongside a broken ankle, which would take much longer, he imagined, to recover from. He wondered angrily what had happened. Looking back, he was certain that he had not moved. Milord had a keen eye with weapons, and skillful and steady hands. It made no sense for him to have missed his target.
“Now, then. Milady says ye must get back into bed to rest.” Milord’s hand continued its slow movement across the back of his head. “I’ll need to shift ye onto your back.”
Fergus thought of his sore skin coming into contact with the too-firm mattress and immediately said, “No.”
“Fergus—”
“No,” he said again, firmer this time. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, looking Milord in the eye. “I won’t cooperate. It will be like moving a corpse.”
His tone wasn’t particularly respectful, and probably he should have been scolded for it. But Milord, as it was, looked too tired to argue at all with him, let alone reprimand him further. He said, nearly pleadingly, “Milady will have my head. She wants your ankle raised.”
“I don’t care,” said Fergus. “Leave me here. Like this.”
“Well, I canna do that,” said Milord. “But we can try this.”
With that, he maneuvered Fergus forward on the bed, readjusting the pillows so there were two beneath his head and just one beneath his ankle. Truthfully, it did make the ankle throb a little more than it had earlier when he lay on his back, but given the state Fergus’s backside was in, there was no chance he could relax if he was facing the other way. It felt like the upper layer of his skin had been scraped off, and the raw flesh beneath seared over flame. Even with no pressure on it, the pain was severe enough Fergus didn’t know if he would be able to sleep. He was unable to stop himself from squirming and tensing his legs, trying desperately to get comfortable—had Milord not been present, he would have reached back to try to rub some of the sting away. As it was, he still had a bit of pride left in him. He would not let the damned Scotsman see him lick his wounds in such a childish way.
The bed creaked beside him, and Milord’s hand returned to his hair. Fergus would typically find such a gesture comforting. Now, though, he found himself flinching away from it. He was exhausted, and he feared that if Milord stayed with him much longer, his tongue might loosen enough to let something slip about what really happened today. His punishment was over, but he was certain that, were the truth found out, Janet could still find herself in trouble. As much as Fergus hated her, he’d made a promise to himself that he’d keep his mouth shut. He would keep his promise.
“May I…” he began, and he cleared his throat. “May I be alone, please, Milord?”
Milord’s hand on his head stilled. Fergus turned his head to look at him, and the concern on the man’s face was so intense that he nearly caved. But Milord was already nodding. “Aye. Aye, lad, of course.”
And he got up from the bed, and he left the room, and he closed the door behind him, and behind the safety of this closed door, Fergus pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and wept harder than he’d wept for as long as he could remember.
The lovely pillowcase beneath him became soaked with tears, mucus, and saliva, but Fergus couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He tried to console himself by saying that he’d done the right thing, that Janet wouldn’t suffer because of him, that he’d protected her just as he was meant to do. But even as one side of his mind assured him of this, the other put forward an equally promising point: since he’d done the right thing, he had no reason to feel this miserable, and all these tears were just further proof that he was wretched to the highest degree, and this self-pity he was wallowing in was nothing but sin and selfishness and a symptom of an evil, evil heart. If he actually cared about Janet, he’d have taken his punishment gladly, without complaint, and yet here he lay, wailing like a sinner denied entry to the heavenly gates. He thought of the verse that Milord had spoken in his conversation with Uncle Ian in the study: It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.
Finally, Fergus thought he understood its meaning. He’d been so angry at Janet; he’d yelled at her and scolded her and even thought of hitting her. Even when they were in the water together, his concern for himself had been nearly greater than his concern for her. Surely he was going to Hell.
So, Hell-bound, he lay there and sobbed, crying for his fate, and for his selfishness for crying, and for crying about crying, and for disappointing Milord and Milady, and for being a bad influence on Janet, and for complaining during his punishment, and for soiling the pillowcase, and for the soreness of his throat and the tenderness of his backside. For an eternity he lay there, tears burning his eyes, until at last he had cried himself out, and even then he lay still, staring at the wall somberly. At last, a knock came at the door.
“Fergus? Fergus, I’ve brought you supper.”
Milady. Fergus couldn’t move much, of course, and even if he could have, he wouldn’t have—he wasn’t sure he wanted to let her know he was awake. How could he eat when he was this miserable? He wasn’t even sure he deserved to eat—perhaps he’d starve himself to death, so that he could go to Hell more quickly and escape the threat looming over his head. So he continued to lie there, and lie there, ignoring the subsequent knocks and calling of his name, until the door finally opened with a gentle creak.
“Fer-gus?” called Milady in a sing-song, her footsteps light on the wooden floor. “Are you asleep?”
Then she came into his view and gave him a sympathetic look. “There you are. Not up to talking?”
Fergus said nothing, and Milady came and sat at the edge of the bed. A small plate rested on her lap. “Darling. Will you have something to eat? Roast chicken. Carrots and potatoes. Your favourite.”
Fergus opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. Milady’s hand went to his hair, stroking gently. “No? Not even a few bites?”
Again, Fergus shook his head. Milady sighed. “Oh, darling. I’m sorry. Was Milord that hard on you?”
No, Fergus wanted to explain, It’s not that. (Though he imagined she would be furious indeed to learn of the bruise still in formation on his hip and lower abdomen.) But he couldn’t. So he merely shrugged, and tried to avoid eye contact.
“Are you in pain?”
Another shrug. He glanced up at her for a split second to see her furrowed brow and thin mouth. “Fergus, if you’re that sore, then I need to…”
“I’m fine, Milady,” whispered Fergus.
“But you won’t eat?”
Again, Fergus shook his head. Milady shifted her body a bit closer to his and continued to play with his curls. She was quiet for a moment, before trying again: “Listen, darling, I understand if you don’t have much of an appetite—the water you swallowed might be upsetting your stomach. Why don’t I go downstairs and bring you back a piece of bread and butter?”
“No, thank you, Milady,” murmured Fergus. Milady moved her hand from his hair to his cheek.
“No? You won’t eat at all?” When Fergus shook his head, she asked, “Well, whyever not?”
Fergus considered for a moment, before finally answering in what was meant to be a steady voice, “I don’t deserve to, Milady.”
Her face twisted in confusion, and she began to stroke his cheek with her thumb. “What, darling?”
“I don’t deserve to,” repeated Fergus. He shook his head. “I have been horrible.”
“Fergus,” whispered Milady, and she took him in her arms, cradling his head to her chest. “It was only a bit of mischief. You mustn’t be so hard on yourself.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
Fergus did not answer, but neither did he pull away from the hug—Milady was warm, and her arms were just the right combination of strong and gentle. Clinging to her, he fell asleep, and he dreamt of the churning water and his cousin’s screams.