"But they won't, because it isn't a changeling," I said, sucking in my breath at the touch of the melted snow water. "It's only a sick child. It might very well not survive a night in the open!"
"It won't," she said briefly. "It will be dead by morning. And I hope to God no one saw us near it."
I stopped abruptly in the midst of putting on my shoes.
"Dead! Geilie, I'm going back for it. I can't leave it there." I turned and started back across the stream.
She caught me from behind and pushed me flat on my face into the shallow water. Floundering and gasping, I managed to rise to my knees, sloshing water in all directions. Geilie stood calf-deep in the stream, skirts soaked, glaring down at me.
"You bloody pig-headed English ass!" she shouted at me. "There's nothing ye can do! Do ye hear me? Nothing! That child's as good as dead! I'll not stand here and let ye risk your own life and mine for some crack-brained notion of yours!" Snorting and grumbling under her breath, she reached down and got me under the arms with both hands, lugging me to my feet.
"Claire," she said urgently, shaking me by the arms. "Listen to me. If ye go near that child and it dies—and it will, believe me, I've seen them like that—then the family will blame you for it. Do ye no see the danger of it? Don't ye know what they say about you in the village?"
I stood shivering in the cold breeze of sunset, torn between her obvious panic for my safety, and the thought of a helpless child, slowly dying alone in the dark, with wildflowers at its feet.
"No," I said, shaking the wet hair out of my face. "Geilie, no, I can't. I'll be careful, I promise, but I have to go." I pulled myself out of her grasp and turned toward the far bank, stumbling and splashing in the uncertain shadows of the streambed.
There was a muffled cry of exasperation from behind me, then a frenzied sploshing in the opposite direction. Well, at least she wouldn't hamper me further.
It was growing dark fast, and I pushed through the bushes and weeds as quickly as I could. I wasn't sure that I could find the right hill if it grew dark before I reached it; there were several nearby, all about the same height. And fairies or not, the thought of wandering about alone out here in the dark was not one I cared for. The question of how I was going to make it back to the Castle with a sick baby was something I would deal with when the time came.
I found the hill, finally, by spotting the stand of young larches I remembered at the base. It was nearly full dark by this time, a moonless night, and I stumbled and fell frequently. The larches stood huddled together, talking quietly in the evening breeze with clicks and creaks and rustling sighs.
Bloody place is haunted, I thought, listening to the leafy conversation overhead as I threaded my way through the slender trunks. I wouldn't be surprised to meet a ghost behind the next tree.
I was surprised, though. Actually, I was scared out of my wits when the shadowy figure slid out and grabbed me. I let out a piercing shriek and struck at it.
"Jesus Christ," I said, "what are you doing here?" I crumpled for a moment against Jamie's chest, relieved to see him, in spite of the fright he had given me.
He took me by the arm and turned to lead me out of the wood.
"Came for you," he said, low voiced. "I was coming to meet you because night was comin' on; I met Geillis Duncan near St. John's brook and she told me where you were."
"But the baby—" I began, turning back toward the hill.
"The child's dead," he said briefly, tugging me back. "I went up there first, to see."
I followed him then without demur, distressed over the child's death, but relieved that I would not, after all, have to face the climb to the fairies' crest or the long journey back alone. Oppressed by the dark and the whispering trees, I didn't speak until we had crossed the brook again. Still damp from the previous immersion, I didn't bother removing my stockings, but sloshed across regardless. Jamie, still dry, stayed that way by leaping from the bank to a central boulder that stood above the current, then vaulted to my bank like a broad-jumper.
"Have ye any idea how dangerous it is to be out alone at night like that, Sassenach?" he inquired. He didn't seem angry, just curious.
"No… I mean yes. I'm sorry if I worried you. But I couldn't leave a child out there, I just couldn't."
"Aye, I know." He hugged me briefly. "You've a kind heart, Sassenach. But you've no idea what you're dealing with, here."
"Fairies, hm?" I was tired, and disturbed over the incident, but covered it with flippancy. "I'm not afraid of superstitions." A thought struck me. "Do you believe in fairies, and changelings, and all that?"