I’m on my hands and knees, brushing out the grate in Plaustrell’s old bedchamber when I swear I catch a whiff of the exotic incense he used to burn here – oranges and cloves, ghostly aromas of that fateful Christmas returning to haunt me. Pinching my nostrils, I stand up sharply, only to be confronted by the Lion Rampant stamped into the tiles above the fireplace. There is no escaping the merchant, or what he has done to me. And as I trace the outline of the beast set into the clay with my small soot-caked fingers, I choke on the questions that torture me, over and over again.
Where is he now? That wizard, that fiend? And what has become of my body and the wicked child that resides within it? My natural body will now be worn out – close to forty years old, perhaps nearly at the end of its life. Or could it be that, like this one, it has remained quite unchanged? For Plaustrell had fed both of us with his potion that night – I had swallowed Sylvia’s hot broth all too eagerly. Two girls’ bodies intoxicated with fresh unicorn blood, so that the souls that dwelt within them could be swapped. I lower my hand from the tiles, shivering as I recall the moment I stared down horrified into the trough in the sunken garden – and saw a face that was not my own.
So afraid am I still of being confronted with Maria’s face, I avoid all mirrors, all reflective surfaces that hold potential for its manifestation. I’ve learnt to polish glass without looking, to avert my eyes from the pail as I carry water to my duties, even to avoid the gaze of others in case I should see it materialize in the glaze of their curious pupils.
For although I have been taken on as a maid by the handful of families that have moved through the estate since Plaustrell’s departure, my presence here has not passed completely without question. The new owners do not stay long, each leaving after only a few years, citing business or urgent matters elsewhere (when, really, it is the merchant’s estate itself that drives them away). But I catch them looking sometimes, either with pity or revulsion, at the sickly little maid, the brown-skinned yet pale bloodless child who keeps herself to herself, who hardly eats a thing but has an endless thirst for water, who, as long as they have known her, has never grown an inch. But luckily, I am treated with the obscurity fitting for the lowliest household rank. I can go about my work invisible, largely ignored, enduring back-breaking hours of mopping, fetching and scrubbing, a distraction from my unnatural situation.
And every night in the kitchens, whilst the rest of the servants snore fitfully, I lie quite still on my pallet, relishing the heavenly limbo between consciousness and sleep. For that is when the unicorn comes back to me, its presence announced by a purr reverberating around the blackened stone walls. Then I feel the spark of electricity brush the skin between my eyes, the very spot that had once touched its tiny, pink horn, allowing me to experience its own happy memories.
Now, as I stand by the fireplace in this moment of unexpected peace, it is like it is with me again. My whole being vibrates in ecstasy as the unicorn returns my memories of the islands.
I’m barefoot on the beach, the sky above a blanket of glittering stars, soft shell-white sand pushing up between my toes. And as the waves pound against the jagged rocks of the cliffs and my lungs are infused with sprays of seaweed and salt, my soul and body are once again reunited.
As suddenly and unexpectedly as it arrived, the vision leaves me, and I’m left standing on the cold, sobering hearthstone. But as always, the feeling lingers, stays with me – like the imprint of a kiss to the lips: it never fails to renew my resolve of returning to the islands even though there might not be a person alive that still remembers my name.
I look back up at the lion with resentment. Mammy would be long dead by now, her old age tortured with the uncertainty of what had become of her eldest daughter. And Artair? Eilidh? Would I never know what had become of them?
My hand strays to the necklace sitting below my rough maid’s smock. Whenever I’m troubled with thoughts of home I find myself pulling out the pearl, its resounding whiteness a source of comfort. Still good, I tell myself; still pure of heart. Despite the corruption of this body, my soul remains untainted. My people would be proud of me, for every day I try to be kind to others and work hard to fulfil all that is expected of me. But now, looking up at the lion, I think: why? If everyone I loved is now gone, what am I still being good for?
‘Iseabail, whatever are you doing?’ comes a sharp voice from the doorway. ‘Stop your daydreaming, girl, and get on with your duties!’ It is the housekeeper, a terrible old nag with no patience for dallying or idleness.
Quickly, I tuck the pearl back into my smock, just as that familiar, terrible thirst creeps up on me again.
‘If I catch you slacking off,’ she goes on spitefully, ‘you’ll feel the back of my hand!’
I stoop to pick up my bucket of ashes, ignoring my parched throat. Someday, I must find a way to be free of the mineral water, find my way back home. And if I cannot, then maybe I won’t care about keeping the pearl white any more.