Chapter 8
EIGHT
The following morning, when we opened the bedroom door, I was surprised there was no one there.
From the shadows and movement the night before, I was expecting people set on interrogating us.
There should have been questions, especially from Giles.
Where was he? Didn’t he want to murder me on sight? Frankly, I was confused.
“Interesting…” Lorne commented, glancing around. “Giles is usually out here first thing, asking me what my plan is for the day.”
“And do you give him a list?”
“No. Never. I tell him the same thing every day, which is that after I eat, I need to go check on everyone in the mansion. I start on the bottom floor and work my way up.”
“Why do you think he’s always here?”
“Same as with locking me in at night, he’s trying to show he has some kind of power over me.”
“That’s so petty.”
He shrugged.
“So we should go downstairs and get something to eat?”
“Yes. I’ve been cooking for myself and Argos, but now that you’re here, it’ll be nice to share the duties.”
“It’s how we do it at home.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed, reaching out and slipping a stray piece of hair around my ear.
“Then we should go and—”
“Look,” he said, tipping his chin at a large tray that had been carved from a single piece of cherrywood. I knew that because it was mine, or more precisely, belonged in my home and normally lived above the refrigerator.
My grandmother had named it the “near death” tray, the one she used when my grandfather was allegedly too sick with a fever or the flu to help her with chores.
Because he was so “near death,” so dying of some communicable disease, she would leave it at the door with his food on it and walk away.
Eventually, he understood she thought he was a hypochondriac, and worse, simply a man.
The tray reminded me of them and made me smile. It did the same for Lorne as I told him the story.
“There’s coffee.” I pointed at the mugs on the tray.
“Yes, there is,” he said, crossing the room to the blanket chest the tray was on. “You want to check that for me?”
“The cottage conjured that tray for you.”
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh, picking up the large mug of steaming coffee.
There was nothing small, nothing dainty, none of the tiny coffee-service cups I’d seen carried around last night by servants.
There was no cream and sugar, as he preferred to drink it black.
And the mug was his too—one of his many ugly mugs—this one emblazoned with the words Osprey Police Department in the most revolting shade of blue known to man.
Not navy, not royal or peacock blue, but instead a sickly color no one liked.
“This is mine,” he said, then took a sip. “And this is excellent coffee. Thank you, my cottage.”
The special smell the cottage had adopted for Lorne wafted through the room.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he apprised me as I picked up the other mug, full of Irish Breakfast and cream, a stoneware one in the shape of a cauldron. It had been purchased by Amanda, and on the other side, in gold metallic script, were the words Witch, please.
“Caffeine to start the day is always helpful,” I told him, just as four men strode into the room ahead of Giles and Ilara.
“Drinking what another has made for you?” Giles said to Lorne, his tone snide. “How brave of you, MacBain.”
Lorne ignored him. “Lady Ilara, this is my husband, Xander Corey, and, Xan, this is Giles’s companion, Lady Ilara.”
She didn’t address him or even acknowledge he’d spoken to her, instead narrowing her eyes as she sneered at me. “You’re the witch,” she said disgustedly. “Giles thought you were dead. He threw you into the deep snow after cutting your throat and left you there.”
“Well, I suspect Corvus loves me more than he knows,” I said, studying her. “Tell me, lady, what kind of witch are you?”
“Witch?” she asked, noticeably offended from her sharp tone and the furrowing of her brows. “I am no witch.”
“Why lie? I can feel the magic on you.”
“Blasphemy,” she screamed, striding toward me, only to have Giles grab her arm, yanking her close beside him.
“She has no magic. She’s a mundane,” Giles assured me, “just like your man. I would know if she had any power.”
“Yes,” Ilara retorted. “This is why Giles has vowed to imbue me with magic so I will be a hedge-rider as well.”
I scoffed. “You’re both lying. You are a witch, and he could no more make you a hedge-rider than he could turn me into one.
I feel bad you believed such lies from him, and I’m sorry she’s been lying to you,” I said to Giles.
“How you can’t see the magic on her is beyond me.
But perhaps that’s how that wraith placed a curse on you, as short-lived as it was, because you didn’t see the danger until it was too late.
Are you unable to discern magic in others? ”
“He won’t change into a werewolf anymore?” Lorne asked me.
I shook my head. “Any curse dies with the originator, unless it’s a blood curse.”
“Like Eleanor and her earrings.”
“Correct.”
“So when Argos killed that wraith, no more curse on Giles.”
“Yep.”
A loud noise from our bathroom startled us, like a wall had collapsed.
“What was that?” Giles yelled at Lorne, clearly rattled.
“We’re having some redecorating done,” Lorne said cheerfully, enjoying his coffee, and I was betting even more so, the normalcy of having me there and the cottage caring for him. “Would you like to see my shower? It’s a beauty.”
Giles visibly recoiled.
“Nothing can be changed without permission,” Ilara said, darting into our bedroom, needing to see for herself.
“Wait,” I said, pointing after her, looking at Lorne. “I thought you said she couldn’t go in there? No passing the threshold.”
“Yeah. Weird. What is that about?”
“Changes?” I suggested, smiling. “Like maybe it’s not necessary to keep her out of there because everything’s about to be different?”
“That makes sense.”
“Your presence will not alter my house,” Giles shouted at me.
“It will, though, and let’s face it, it’s already begun. And believe me when I tell you, the cottage likes me a bit, but it is in love with Lorne.”
“If it so loves him, why has it allowed me to imprison him, to keep him weak from lack of food, to slowly drain his life force as my house ages him?”
I shook my head. “I suspect your beloved Ilara has bespelled your mirrors and your vision, because the only one being drained is you.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Lorne agreed, getting closer to Giles, studying him. “What the hell, man? I thought you were maybe twenty-four, twenty-five when I first saw you. What happened?”
“You’re trying to trick me.” He was adamant. “I look at myself all day long, every day, in every mirror in this mansion, and see myself plainly.”
I didn’t doubt that. He was a very vain man. “Maybe come check the one in my bathroom,” Lorne suggested.
“No. Any you lead me to would be bespelled by your witch to scare me.”
“I use my magic solely for good, to help,” I conveyed to him, “and would never hurt you purposely, unlike you, who tried to pull me through the mirror at Lorne’s brother’s house.”
“I was close. I nearly had you.”
I nodded. “It doesn’t matter. We would have ended up right here regardless, and because of Lorne, this cottage will change.”
“It’s a mansion, not a cottage, and it cannot ever—”
“It can, for him. And you’re wondering why it allowed him to be imprisoned, but it knows that outside, on Corvus, it’s not safe right now.
And let’s be honest, even with all your magic, all Ilara’s, you still couldn’t breach his bedroom door and enter his room at night.
And yes, having a daemon with him helped, but it’s the cottage that—”
“That cat is a daemon?” he roared.
“Which you knew, and should have retained, as he was the one who was certain you were the real Giles Corey, instead of the wraith.”
“Wraith?” he said under his breath.
“Honestly, I don’t know what he was. You’re the one who said he was a wraith, but perhaps you lied. I may never know, but whoever or whatever he was, Argos judged him as the true danger between the two of you, so that’s all I needed to know.”
“I—”
“But the fact that you don’t remember means Corvus isn’t doing such a great job of sustaining you. So now you must ask yourself, how can that be? What has changed from when you made the decision to wrest the land from me and now?”
The way he was staring, his face crumpled with emotion, both confusion and pain there to see, I couldn’t help it, I felt sorry for him. He’d gotten so far away from the witch he was supposed to be, learning, growing, and discovering life’s mysteries.
“Ask yourself, what did you do to Corvus when you made it bigger than it was ever supposed to be?” Lorne asked him. “What have you changed?”
“Nothing,” he declared, but he sounded unsure, his voice thready.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. Adding more acres, increasing the area of Corvus would make no difference.
The only one who would ever care would be the guardian,” he said, glaring at me.
“But you’re right. I didn’t consider the ramifications of taking the guardian from the land. ”
“Where there has always been one.”
“Yes. True.”
“And you didn’t just take me.”
“What are you—”
“This slip you created,” Lorne began, drawing his attention from me, “has corrupted the timeline. You took Xan from the present, and you took—was it William?”
“Yes, William,” I answered, smiling at him.
“You moved William from his time, where he belonged, here in 1799, and left Corvus without a caretaker, without a guardian.”
“I—”
“You left both past Corvus and present Corvus unprotected. There is no one to guard the rift, no one to call the wards, no one to harness the great power of the land.”
“I can do that. I’m a Corey too!” he thundered at Lorne.