Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Before we return to Tír na Lune, Lachlan has a stop to make. He begs my pardon, says it could take a while, but as neither the crypt attacker nor the báshound liberator have been identified, he’s not keen on sending me back alone.
Honestly, I don’t mind. After the scene below the church, I’m a bit disheartened.
Acquiring the first fragment of the Bannrhorn was simple; I hoped the rest might be as easy.
And after that pathetic first outing with Duke áine, I am worried I will not be able to maintain the man’s attention long enough to request his clue.
Nor am I thrilled at the prospect of spending more time with him.
I’ll take all the reprieve I can get.
Lachlan and I arrive at an old stone building that’s mostly intact save for two boarded-up windows on the lower level. Beneath the portico—upon which is carved a name in the fae script—a column is in the midst of being re-plastered.
Lachlan, back in Vesper’s form, hovers at my temple, then says, “Come on,” in her squeaky voice. Cute, but I’d rather hear Lachlan’s deep, sultry tone any day. I chuckle, imagining Lachlan’s real voice coming from Vesper’s tiny mouth.
The laugh dies in my throat as an enormous faerie man with acorn-brown skin and close-cropped ashen coils whips the door open and aims a sword at my chest. “State your business.”
I throw my palms up, my heart racing and my brain grappling for an answer. “I … I … I … ”
Lachlan zips up to the man’s face, then trills, “Is that any way to speak to a lady?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The man swings the tip of his sword over to Lachlan, who merely steps up onto the blade and fluffs his lavender hair.
“You don’t recognize me, Garred?” Lachlan drops the glamour from his voice. “I’m insulted.”
I choke back a laugh; yes, just as hilarious as I thought.
The man thinks so, too, burping out a hearty bellow before surveying the street and ushering us through the door with a low, “Get your tiny purple ass in here, you idiot.”
As soon as we step into the foyer, Lachlan dissolves the glamour and crushes the man into a hug full of grunting and back-slapping. Garred’s slightly taller than Lachlan, all solid bulk compared to Lachlan’s lean musculature.
“Sorry for the warm welcome,” Garred says.
“áine’s been pitting the villagers against each other.
Offering tithe reductions for anyone who reports seditious activity.
Strangers at my door have led to nothing good lately; things are extremely tense.
What are you doing back here so soon? Wasn’t expecting you for another few days. ”
Lachlan gestures toward me. “Miss Fitzroy and I had some business in the Vale. I convinced her to take a detour on our way back to Tír na Lune.”
Garred’s gaze bounces between us. “So … pretty boy finally got himself a woman after—”
“She’s not my woman,” Lachlan blurts, blushing furiously. Which removes a bit of the sting from how swiftly he objected. “She’s my charge. And this Season’s candidate.” He holds up my hand to show Garred the ring. “Garred Smythe, meet Miss Charlotte Fitzroy.”
Garred’s soil-dark eyes blow wide, and he flips the tip of his sword into the floor so swiftly, I fear he may have pierced the wood. He drops down beside the blade, head bowed. “I’m a blind old fool. And we don’t get much news from the other territories anymore. Please forgive me, Your Majesty.”
I encourage him to rise as Lachlan teases, “Danu spare us, don’t go calling her that yet. It’ll go straight to her head.” He winks at me, and now I’m the one blushing.
Garred takes my hand and plants a kiss upon my knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Charlotte.”
“Likewise,” I respond before Lachlan’s swatting him away.
“None of that, either. She’s a betrothed woman.”
Garred chuckles, addressing Lachlan. “You here to teach this afternoon?”
“Do you mind?” Lachlan’s fists curl at his sides as a vein in his jaw jumps. Like he’s got excess energy to burn after the day’s frustrations. I think I’ve got some, too.
“Nah,” Garred answers. “Lads’ll be thrilled. Lasses won’t get too much practice, though. They’ll be too busy gawking, like usual.”
Sounds about right.
“I’ll go out to the barn and let them know you’re coming.”
“Did Tula arrive?” Lachlan asks.
“Beats me,” Garred sighs, digging his fingers into his upper shoulder.
“Been upstairs hunched over a desk all day trying to figure out how we can possibly house one more child and answer all our neighbors’ pleas for protection.
I’ll check on my way out.” He has the weary yet determined look of a man who shouldn’t say yes to an additional task, but will despite himself.
“No need,” Lachlan is quick to answer. “Perfectly capable of checking the stable myself.”
Garred turns to me, offering a quick bow. “You are most welcome here any time, Miss Fitzroy. I hope Sir Cathal is taking good care of you.”
“Better than any man in my life.” I smile, something incandescent flickering through my chest when I realize it’s more than a pleasantry. It’s the absolute truth.
Garred wanders down the hall, and Lachlan turns to me.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“Officially? Smythe Children’s House. But most of us call it the Eyrie. Sounds more badass.”
“You grew up here.” It’s not a question; I remember him informing me he’d grown up in an orphanage during our ride to Tír na Lune.
“Since I was an eleven-year-old eaglet,” Lachlan jokes.
I turn to study the space, starved to know what kind of environment could have formed such a kind, formidable man.
To our left is a large living area with a wide brick fireplace; to our right, a dining room with a long wooden table and two benches.
There are chips in the tabletop, several deep gouges as well, and the chairs surrounding the fireplace are worn and lumpy.
Overstuffed. Probably supremely comfortable.
Both spaces are messy—tin horses and knights march across the dining room floor, and the living area is littered with open books, plaid wool blankets, and an overturned bucket of colored pencils.
It’s a home.
Perhaps the most home-like place I’ve been since I arrived in the Otherworld.
It reminds me of Granny Maggie’s colorful, haphazardly decorated cottage.
Especially with all the art on the walls.
Most is the charmingly crude work of little children, but there’s a large painting atop the mantel.
Lachlan doesn’t stop me when I walk toward it to get a better look.
The piece centers on a younger version of Garred, who has an arm around the shoulders of an older man to whom he bears a striking resemblance.
They’re very nearly upstaged by the brood of thirty, maybe more, pointy-eared children of various ages, ranging from ruddy-cheeked toddlers to young men and women who’ve just shed their adolescence.
I search the canvas for—
There. At the very edge of the front row. A lanky fae boy with long limbs, untidy auburn hair and unmistakable lake-blue eyes. He’s looking out of frame, wearing an expression of such sadness and anger that I wish I could go back in time and give him a hug.
“I did not have the happiest childhood. Despite Mr. Smythe’s kindnesses.
Nor was I the easiest ward to corral.” He circles his thumb over the center of his callused palm.
“I’m trying to make up for it now. By teaching self-defense classes to Garred’s wards and any villagers who feel safe enough to attend. ”
“The carvings you work on every morning at breakfast. Those are for the children?”
“Well, I don’t arm the toddlers. But the older children deserve a chance to defend themselves. Garred has more here now than he ever has, due to the occupation. He never turns anyone away. I wish I could do more, but I’m … beholden to Desmond.”
The lump in my throat hardens, getting more difficult to swallow past the longer I stare at the sad boy in the painting. “I’m sure Garred is very grateful for whatever help you can offer.”
Lachlan sniffs, turning away from me. “Right. Well, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be teaching for a few hours, and then we can head back. There are some books in the cabinet over there, but, fair warning—I don’t think Garred has any of those raunchy ones you like.”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to attend your class.” He looks shocked, but pleased. “I want to learn how to defend myself, too. I can’t be much worse than the children.”
“You sure about that?”
I thump his arm.
“Didn’t feel a thing.” He smirks, and my insides glow.
“Come, Your Majesty. Let’s teach you how to throw a punch.”