Chapter 31 Tangled #2
All this was too much to expect Harker to understand in this moment, so I settled for, “There is no happiness waiting for me in a life where I choose not to save my brother.”
He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. I took a long breath and glanced at the window. Twilight had fallen, and the clouds had cleared. A bright moon hung in the sky, silvering the heath below.
“Even if we set every other argument aside,” said Harker, his tone finally softening, “we can hardly assume this would be the end of it. If we give in to this, Goosevar would likely only keep at us. Find more ways to compel us.”
“But it would buy us time,” I said. “Everything continues. We keep working together to discover a way to stop him. And Harker, I could help you in other ways. Ways that might make your life easier.”
His eyes came back to me, flashing. “You of all people should understand what it means to get that close to me.”
Refusing to flinch from his gaze, I replied, “I understand that when we’re careful, we make do.
You have your laboratory, and I . . . well, I could keep to this room at night.
This chair is like sleeping on a cloud compared to my straw mattress at home.
And it wouldn’t have to all be torture, Harker.
Think how we could ease each other’s loneliness. Think how we have already.”
His eyes narrowed. “You hardly need convince me of what light you would bring to my life. I’ve gotten a glimpse of that myself these last days.
But never mind the bloodlust; have you thought about the normal temptations?
Married in the eyes of God, always in one another’s company?
You might be able to bear it, Mina, but I . . .” He trailed off and shook his head.
He does feel something of what I do. Gazes lifting over open books. Hands brushing as we passed teacups. Huddling before the hearth on cold winter nights.
“It wouldn’t be easy,” I admitted, trembling now. “For either of us.”
Harker raised his hand, thumb and fingers pressing his temples. “Even if we found a way to stop Goosevar—to sever his connection with my family—there is no reason to think I would change. There is no reason to think I’d be anything other than what I am now.”
“And what are you, Harker?”
He dropped his hand, frustration drawing his brows down.
“A kind man,” I continued. “A gentle man. A brave man. A man willing to deny himself for the sake of others. These are things Goosevar has failed to take from you.” I held his gaze. “Don’t make my sacrifice out to be greater than it is.”
His expression one of mild shock, his eyes drifted to the hearth. There were long moments of needed quiet, the soothing sounds of the fire drawing the charge out of the air.
It wasn’t nothing, the fact that I might never have a true family of my own.
But unless we were children, decisions couldn’t only be about what we might like best. Jack had taught me that.
And if Harker agreed to my proposal, I would have him.
I would have Jack. And I would have Mrs. Moyle, because Harker would never ask me to give her up. Did I really need more than that?
Finally Harker shifted, sitting up in his chair.
“After what you did today, I would give you almost anything you asked for, and not for that reason alone. But this . . .” He shook his head, and my heart sank.
“I know how worried you must be about Jack, but I need to leave it for now. I need time to think. And there’s something else we must speak of. ”
Steadying myself with a breath, I said, “Of course.”
He bent toward me, elbows on his knees. “When I was dying, I saw something, too. Different from before—more like a memory. I lived it as if it were my own, but when I woke, I knew it wasn’t. It was Goosevar’s.”
My brows lifted. “Tell me!”
“It began with an artifact that had a likeness of Goosevar hammered into it. A silver ceremonial bowl filled with blood.”
The scene he then described sounded very much like it could be the story of Goosevar’s beginnings. His history. But I found much of it puzzling.
“Did you understand who any of the people were?” I asked.
“Not at the time. But while you were sleeping, I consulted what books I have on the history of Britannia, and I believe I do now. The robed chanters were druids. Does the word mean anything to you?”
I nodded. “Mum talked of druids sometimes when we left offerings at the sacred well in Coldvreath. She said they were holy men of the old religion, before priests, and that they, too, had once left offerings at the well.”
“That’s right. Druids were the priests—and priestesses—of this isle before the Roman army invaded.”
“Father Kelly talked about the Romans when I looked at the bell tower painting with him. He said they went to war against the old religion and won. Do you think the man the druids gave to Goosevar was a Roman?”
“I do. They wanted the creature they’d summoned to have a taste for their enemy’s blood.”
I shuddered. “After what you told me about the disturbed ruins, I had thought Goosevar might be a kind of fairy. My mother believed this heath belonged to the fairies, and that fairies could be vicious in protecting their homes.”
Harker rubbed his chin, thinking. “That may yet be true. He seems to have his roots in nature and the ancient Celtic people, as do fairies. He also reminds me in some ways of the Celtic god Cernunnos, who was worshipped as the lord of nature.”
“Well, whatever he is, it seems he’s outlived all of them—druids and Romans.”
“And he is still what they made him. He might not know how to be anything else.”
“A blood-drinker.”
Harker got up, stretched his limbs, and tossed more turf onto the fire. The shadows in the room had deepened; outside, night was falling.
“It would be helpful to know whether they had any plan for unmaking what they had made,” he said. “But that knowledge seems far beyond our reach.”
Holding the blanket in place, I sat up and lifted the teapot. Harker’s eyes followed the movement.
“The tea will be cold,” he said, “and bitter. I can make more.”
I smiled, remembering that this was how our first conversation had begun, at The Magpie. I felt less skittish of him now—in some ways. More so in others.
“I don’t mind,” I said, filling my cup with the dark brew.
As he stood watching the fire, something occurred to me. “I wonder if your connection with Goosevar becomes stronger when you drink blood. Maybe that’s why you can see his memories.”
His brow furrowed. “I think that would stand to reason, except that my father never mentioned anything like this. I suppose if he never discovered Goosevar’s existence, he would think them no more than strange dreams.”
“It seems to me our handfasting visions must be related to the connection, too, though they are not memories of the past but—”
“Expectations for the future,” he muttered.
With a sigh he turned and began collecting the dishes, a deep frown on his lips. I finished my tea and handed him the cup. As he took it from me, he froze.
My heart skipped. “What is it?”
His expression flat, he handed the cup back to me without meeting my gaze.
A few leaves had stuck below the handle.
They formed a ring.