He turned his attention to the Lady Grim. “We are going to try to free you,” he said. “If we succeed, will you allow us passage to the gargoyle?”

She dipped her head in agreement. This was their chance, then.

In a bit of dirt under a nearby tree, Duncan began to dig. He’d no implements, only his fingers. He clawed at the soft dirt. Sorcha soon joined him. They didn’t dig a large hole, nor a deep one. Simply enough to bury the animal sent with him.

As they dug, the wind picked up and swirled the tree branches. The smell of rain filled the air. He glanced at the Lady Grim as he continued his effort. Her hair and dress whipped with greater vigor, greater motion. She, he did not doubt, was creating this storm, but whether out of excitement or nervousness, he couldn’t say.

At last, the hole was of sufficient size. He placed the vole in it, and he and Sorcha pushed the dirt back in to cover its resting place. They packed it down, making certain the remains were hidden, held fast, and safe. Sorcha placed a rock at the grave site, allowing it to act as a headstone.

They both stood and stepped back, looking from the tiny, makeshift grave to the Lady Grim. Was it enough? Would it work?

Lightning once more cracked, sending flashes of light across the sky. It disappeared quickly and with it the guardian of the graveyard. She’d come without a word, left without a warning. In the next instant, the sky opened, and rain began to fall.

Duncan and Sorcha rushed across the churchyard, crossing as quickly as they could over the rough, unkempt land, directly to the corner of the church where the gargoyle stood sentinel.

All that remained in Duncan’s bag was the bottle. He pulled it out, realizing what its purpose was. In it, they would collect the water that would save Donella’s life. He pulled off the stopper and held the vessel directly beneath the grotesque stone face. As rain filled the gutters of the church, water began to pour over the teeth and snarled lips of the carving. It splashed off Duncan’s hands, off the sides of the vessel, soaking him and Sorcha but also filling the vessel.

Once the water reached the very brim, he plunged the stopper in place once more, then returned it to his bag and pulled the bag onto his back. He hoped it would be enough to heal young Donella.

He and Sorcha huddled beneath the archway of what had once likely held the church doors. It offered minimal protection from the elements, but it was enough. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him as the rain fell.

“We’ve managed it,” he said. “We’ve managed it together.”