FORTY
The shutters were tightly closed when Calum awoke, blocking out all but a thin rectangle of light around them.
He was about to light the lamps when he caught sight of the bed next to his, Sorcha’s hair a spill of ink over the white pillow.
Something loosened in his chest at the sight of her home and safe.
Instead of waking her, he rose and dressed in the dark, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him. The lights were already on in the stairwell, and when he reached the kitchen he found Aly clumsily making tea with her right hand, her left arm tucked inside her coat.
“I’ll do that,” he said, reaching for the kettle.
His fingers brushed hers as he took hold of the ceramic handle, and she jerked her hand back as though she had burnt it on the hot copper.
Neither of them spoke as Calum poured the water into the teapot and settled the quilted tea cosy over it.
Calum could feel her presence at his side, though they were too far apart to touch.
He felt the urge to apologise for his behaviour the previous night, but he wasn’t quite sure for what—was it for pushing her away, as though she was incapable of making decisions herself, or for kissing her in the first place, when nothing could be more inappropriate?
“I’m sorry,” Aly said, as he reached the cups down from the shelf in the dresser.
“I shouldn’t have—” She broke off, wetting her lips.
“What I mean is, you have every right to refuse me, and it was churlish of me to react as I did when you were kind enough to give me an explanation.” She straightened her shoulders, as much as she could with the sling, and lifted her chin.
“So I’m sorry, I behaved abominably towards you last night. ”
“I could have handled it better as well,” Calum said, the tension melting from his muscles as she smiled tentatively at him. “Apology accepted.”
A cold breeze bit at his fingertips as he opened the casement window, his fingers closing around the cool glass bottle on the sill.
He pulled the milk bottle into the kitchen and slammed the window shut, throwing the iron bolt across.
The grey light of a winter morning filtered through the diamond panes, barely seeming to penetrate the room.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned to see Sorcha entering the kitchen, plaiting her hair as she walked.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked, crossing to where Aly sat at the table and sitting next to her. “Are you all right?”
Aly murmured a reply that Calum didn’t quite catch. He set the milk and the tea service on the table, passing cups and saucers to Aly and Sorcha.
“You were out late last night,” Calum said, as his sister took the saucer he offered.
“How did you keep her distracted so long? She can be very single-minded.” Aly poured tea into her cup, her movement shaky with her non-dominant hand.
Sorcha leant back, stretching her long legs out before her. “Took her to the pub.”
Calum spluttered, his tea going down the wrong way. “You were supposed to distract her, not flirt with her.”
“Flirting is a form of distraction.” Mirth creased Sorcha’s eyes as she spoke.
Aly snorted into her teacup.
“She’s a crime lord, Sorcha,” Calum said.
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “And it was just a drink. Don’t be such a hypocrite.” She glanced at Aly, who was studying her teacup as though it might hold the secrets of the universe.
Calum’s cheeks warmed. He didn’t want to have this conversation with Aly in the room—he didn’t want to have this conversation at all, for that matter.
Sorcha, thankfully, seemed to feel she’d tormented him enough, because she said, “So did you get it?”
Aly dug in the pocket of her coat, setting the tiny jar on the table.
Sorcha let out a low whistle. “Awful lot of work for something that wee.” She said this with a look at Aly’s shoulder. “Let’s hope it works.”
Calum peered out the window. “It’s getting light enough to try, anyway.”
He stood and went into the parlour, fetching Flora’s watch from the box on the mantel, and returned to the kitchen.
“Who should do the tracking spell?” The hair on his scalp lifted at the prospect of smearing the fae ointment on his face and he held a cowardly hope that one of the others would volunteer.
“You,” Aly said. Calum’s heart sank.
Sorcha nodded in agreement. “You’re the only one of us who knows how to do it.”
Calum stared at the jar of fae ointment. His mouth was dry, and he tried to reach for his tea to take a sip, but he couldn’t seem to get his arm to move.
“You know it’s not actually from Faerie, right?” Aly said, her voice gentle.
Calum gave a stiff nod. He wasn’t sure what he feared—perhaps that he’d see glamoured fae, or that the use of the ointment would somehow attract their attention, like moths to a candle.
Or perhaps he was just afraid because the tracking spell, if the fae ointment did as expected and magnified the spell, would lead him to a demi-fae.
Aly sat next to him, moving the jar closer. “Here, I’ll apply it for you.” She flipped the catch, flicking the lid up. “Close your eyes.”
Calum did as he was told. The sudden absence of sight magnified his other senses, so that he could hear her steady breathing beneath the crackle of the fire and feel the warmth of her fingertips as she applied the balm.
Her touch was tender, if a little clumsy.
The ointment tingled as she spread it over his eyelids and around his eyes, and it was pleasantly warm, not at all cool as he had expected.
“All right, you can open them,” Aly said. There was a tinny sound as she closed the latch on the lid again.
“Did it work?” Sorcha asked.
Calum opened his eyes. Aly was positively radiant, as though backlit by a star, the light blotting out the dim illumination from the fire. He turned to look at Sorcha. She looked the same as she always did, no unusual light at all.
He peeked at Aly again. She was still glowing. He looked away quickly, his heart twisting. No doubt it was a response to his own feelings for her.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” he said to Sorcha, reaching for the watch. He barely had to think of what he wanted when he felt the tug behind his navel. He stood and headed for the front door, Sorcha and Aly following on his heels.
The wind drove through his coat like a thousand blades of ice as the spell pulled him onwards through the town.
There was an eerie sense of familiarity to the streets they took, as though they were retracing their steps from the previous night, but now in grey daylight, with the bustling sounds and occasional stares of passers by.
One young lad, walking with a group of friends, called out to him, asking if he was in a theatre production.
Calum slowed, glancing at Aly and Sorcha on each side. “Do I look . . .?” He wasn’t sure what to ask.
Aly’s eyes were bright with humour. “Your eyes are sparkling. The lad’s right, you look like an extra from a performance of The Tale of Tamlane or something like that.”
He supposed there were worse things than looking like a thespian.
Sorcha echoed his thoughts. “At least you’re not covered in cow dung, like that time when you were ten and you tried—”
“Yes, Sorcha, thank you,” Calum said, as Aly cackled.
A waterbus stopped beside them, the conductor lowering a ramp to let the passengers board and alight, whispering a word that steadied the rhythmic rocking of the boat before a young woman with a cane stepped onto the ramp.
They continued, winding through the streets until they reached the harbour, the air now filled with the shouts of labourers and sounds of life. Calum followed the tug of the spell onto a dock, straight to an empty berth at the end, and then there was nothing. The spell had finished.
He looked around, taking in the ships and gulls and the grey expanse of sea. “I don’t think it worked. I must have tracked the fae ointment, not the watch.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Aly said. “We’re further west.” She pointed to the mainland ferry docked in the next berth. “Coming from Vaedhoun, there’s no reason the fae ointment would have come up this side of the city.”
Sorcha stepped closer to the edge of the dock, peering down as though she might see Flora in the dark waters. “Does that mean . . .?”
Calum’s heart sank. He turned to Aly. “Remember what you said about her being dead in a canal?”
Aly closed her eyes, bowing her head. There was nothing more to say.