Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
It’s been three weeks since the Harroways arrived at House Cernunnos.
And three weeks since Aowen abandoned our information gathering to assist Sabre with his renovations instead.
I have not teased her yet, but I have grand plans.
I don’t really need her help anyway. I’ve been through every nook and cranny of Granny Maggie’s rooms. Her numerous sketchbooks are mostly filled with portraits of Sabre.
Given that only seven years have passed here in the Otherworld while nearly fifty have passed in the human world, he doesn’t look much different in the sketches except his hair is a bit shorter, his eyes a bit livelier.
In addition to the portraits, there are a few drawings of flora—purple heather, bright green bracken, pink willowherb.
All far more colorful than the skeletal black and gray that coats most of the land now.
Though I did see a tiny green leaf poking its head aboveground last week and I swear the black elder bushes are starting to show berries.
Perhaps Sabre is enjoying his new company more than he anticipated.
Outside of the sketchbooks, Granny doesn’t seem to have put her stamp on anything else within the manor.
I was hoping to find some journals, maybe even a letter or two.
I should have known better. She always expressed herself best through imagery.
But I cannot figure out what story, if any, she was trying to tell within these drawings.
The ring has not warmed at anything. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for anymore.
And now, two days before Mabon, I am running out of time to find any hint at all of where to start in the human realm.
Tonight, I’ve decided to let my thoughts wander.
Sometimes I can pick up unforeseen patterns or snatch a piece of missing knowledge from my idle mind.
I’m curled in an overstuffed armchair before the fireplace in Granny Maggie’s bedchamber.
I’ve taken to sleeping here instead of the sparse but comfortable quarters Sabre prepared for me.
My sketchbook is open in my lap and I’m working on my own piece instead of poring over my grandmothers’ for the thousandth time.
I don’t dare turn back the pages. I know what I will find. Portraits of Lachlan in various stages of undress. Half-rendered illustrations of couplings that still have the power to make me blush. That drawing from our final night together and the note he left me.
You helped me, too, Charlotte. More than you know. With my deepest affection, Lachlan.
I cannot decide who I miss more lately, him or Granny Maggie. It’s hard not to view her secrets as betrayal, even if she lost her memories the moment that ring fell from her finger.
The piece I’m working on is a portrait of her at my age.
I’m taking the woman I remember—the wild mane of gray hair, the pale blue eyes, the wicked grin—and trying to imagine how she must have looked when Sabre met her.
She had deep copper hair when she was younger—a point of great pride.
She loved how the color made her stand out in a crowd.
My mother had strawberry blond hair, a mix of Granny’s and Grandpa Edward’s.
And then there’s me with my pale blond waves.
As if the color dulled with each new generation.
As if I am a washed-out imitation of the bold, adventurous women that came before me.
There’s a vise around my ribs, a deep ache that is less due to Granny Maggie’s failure to hint her faerie stories were real—did she even know?—and more due to her passing. I will never get a chance to share my faerie story with her.
The door behind me cracks open. “You’re still awake. Want some company?”
“Not really,” I say to Aowen, pulling pencil across paper without looking up.
“I thought you might say that. Which is why I brought reinforcements.”
I glance over my shoulder, and she wiggles a basket of caramel tarts.
Damn her.
“Come on, then,” I sigh, gesturing to the other armchair. She sweeps in and sets the basket onto the small table between us. “Where’s Vesper?”
“Mending garments for the Vale refugees. Three more groups arrived today. Including another family with small children. The upper floors of the east wing are very lively.”
“How does His Grace feel about that?”
“Do you know I caught him smiling this morning? Revolutionary.”
I smirk, folding up my sketchbook and tucking it beside me. Better there than on the table where Aowen might be tempted to pick it up and peruse its scandalous contents. “And where is the House’s illustrious master? You seem very reluctant to leave his side lately.”
Aowen shrugs, pursing her lips. “He’s walking the grounds with Skadi.”
Of course, I know this. Sabre and his necrowolf run the same route every night. But I’ll never pass up a chance to needle Aowen about him.
“How is your information gathering going?” she asks.
I groan, grabbing a warm tart from the basket and sinking my teeth into gooey, buttery deliciousness.
“Not well. There’s barely anything in Granny’s sketchbooks save drawings of your maybe-future-husband.
There are no journals, no secret notes in any of the other books, nothing.
I am beginning to wonder if she took the fragment on impulse. Or …”
“Or what?”
“Are we entirely sure Sabre is telling the truth of how it disappeared?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he asked her to take it away?”
Aowen scrunches her nose, defensive. It takes everything in my power to not croon you like him. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“You heard what he said when we arrived. That he was so heartsick, he never wanted to be king. What better way to kill that opportunity than sending your human lover home with the magical relic needed to make it happen?”
Aowen props her chin in her hand and stares into the fire.
“I cannot explain it, Charlotte, but I … I trust him. I believe he has his people’s interests—the whole kingdom’s interests, really—at heart.
” I sigh, because despite my playing devil’s advocate, I agree with her.
“He wants the fighting to end. And for the first time in a long time, he believes it may be possible.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I say, polishing off my tart. I want to reach for another, but I stop myself. I’m already restless; the sugar will make it worse.
Frustration drills my skull. I am not going to find any clues here among Granny Maggie’s abandoned treasures.
And Death continues to stalk me, patient yet ever present.
If I fail to find the fragment, I suppose I could stay in the human realm, let the ring fall off and forget everything that’s happened to me here.
But then what would become of Aowen? Of Vesper? Of Garred? Of the people of the Vale?
Of Lachlan?
Bugger it. I’m eating another tart.
“Have you heard any news from Desmond?” I ask, nonchalant, digging back into the basket.
“What kind of news?”
“Oh, you know. How fare the people of Tír na Strelle? How are preparations coming along for the Wild Hunt? What does he have Lachlan working on?”
She must have caught the hitch in my voice because now she’s the one smirking. But it falls from her face when she answers, “I am not speaking to my brother.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Is that wise? With the Hunt so close and how high the stakes are?”
“He betrayed me,” she spits. “We had an agreement. I would help him become king and in return, he would leave me to a life of my choosing. Instead, he used me as a pawn to achieve his own ends. I … I am not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.”
“Well, I do hope that won’t make family dinners awkward once we’re sisters.”
She huffs a laugh, but deep hurt darkens her eyes. “I was nine years old when he was born, have I ever told you?”
I shake my head.
She stares into the dying fire, shivering.
“He was such a beautiful baby. Everyone said so. Mother and Father were over the moon. House Macán, at last secured by a male heir. There were no celebrations when I was born, only tense whispers and hand-wringing. But I loved him so much, the jealousy was easier to bear. I was the eldest, but what did that matter?”
Her expression shutters, frozen once more by her imperviousness.
“A woman as the head of House? What could possibly be more absurd?”
Aowen would make a wonderful queen. She’s confident, open-minded, and she cares for every living creature in the Otherworld. She’s brave, she’s not afraid to make difficult decisions, and she steps aside when needed to let others shine.
Yes, she would make an excellent queen.
A far better queen than me.
I wrap my hand around hers, squeezing gently in a silent moment of solidarity.
Because if I don’t find Sabre’s lost Bannrhorn fragment, there will be no queen at all.