Chapter 5 Rhys #2
“You are at my estate, madam, in the center of Hereford Labyrinth.” Clearly she was addled.
Or else this was a ruse and she was a fine actress.
Dressed like a maiden from a past century to await his discovery.
Everyone within miles knew the lore for this place.
Then just as quickly he dismissed the cynical thought.
No, something was not right with her head.
It was obvious she had a mental affliction, because now she had her eyes closed and was humming.
What a shame for such a lovely woman. She was enchanting, really.
Did Flora and Fauna have a third daft sister they were hiding away from everyone?
Fiona or Festa or Merryweather perhaps? She must have escaped her room.
He spoke slowly, as if she were a child. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet, but you must be a guest. You are in the labyrinth at Hereford Manor. I am the Earl of Liron, at your service.”
Her eyes popped open and she stopped humming. “Liron? From the institute?”
“What institute?” Now they were talking in riddles.
“The Liron Institute! You sent me the diary by Merlin’s sister.”
He froze in disbelief. “How do you know about the diary?”
“Because you said it’s mine.”
“Who did?”
Instead of answering, her eyes rolled up and she promptly fainted.
He lunged forward to catch her with a surprised “oomph” and swooped her up in his arms, almost losing his balance too.
Now thoroughly alarmed, he looked down at her.
This would not do. This would not do at all!
Hefting her more securely, he hurried back through the labyrinth, muttering the whole way.
This most certainly would not do. It looked like they had just had a private tryst. Fortunately, the labyrinth was some distance from the house behind the ground’s expansive gardens.
When Rhys exited the labyrinth’s entrance, he saw his mother in the distance.
The countess was busy gathering flowers, no doubt to make girlish bouquets for today’s luncheon.
She saw him and let out a startled cry, throwing the flowers up in the air theatrically and hurrying toward them.
If he hadn’t been so concerned about their precarious situation, he would have laughed.
His mother was a short blond cherub of a woman, adorably plump in her dotage and not used to running.
“Vhat has happened?” she asked in the thick Austrian accent she had never lost in all the years she lived in England. She reached him out of breath, her cheeks pink. “Who is zis?”
“I have no idea.” Rhys forced himself not to look at the lady in question, who looked more and more like the woman in the painting the longer he stared at her. “I found her lying unconscious in the labyrinth. She awoke briefly and was highly confused. I assume she is one of the guests?”
“No, she is not!” His mother puffed out a breath. “I have never zeen her before.”
“Are you sure? She’s not a sister being hidden away?”
“Dressed like zat?” His mother was staring at the young woman in wonder. “She looks like a magical fuh-ree.”
“Fairy,” Rhys corrected automatically. His mother tended to butcher the English language, as well as possess a romantic sensibility that knew no bounds.
His nostrils flared with impatience. He was the one holding the fairy.
The mad fairy. “When she awoke, she had no idea where she was and then fainted.”
He didn’t mention the diary. Was it just as his father said?
His mother’s eyes had grown wide as if she was suddenly remembering something, then she gasped and whispered in German, “I do not believe it! It must be her.”
“Who?” he asked sharply, fluent in German too. “So you do know her?”
His mother shook her head, looking like she may faint herself.
“All right.” Rhys glanced toward the house. “What do we do?”
“Vell, vee cannot just stand here vis her in your arms like you are starring in zome opera!”
“Should I leave her on the ground, then?” Rhys couldn’t help but retort.
His mother shot him a reproachful look and hurried along the garden path away from the manor, ordering him, “Come zis way.”
He dutifully followed but slowed when he noticed where she was leading him. “Not there.” He stopped in disbelief. “Anywhere but there.”
“Vee have no choice!” She arrived at the small cottage nestled behind the garden’s back hedge and held the door open. “Hurry! Before someone zees us. Zhink of the scandal.”
Rhys reluctantly stepped inside his father’s old laboratory. A place he hadn’t been since his death. A pungent sulfur odor assaulted his nose.
“Vee must revive her immediately,” his mother was saying, heading to the open doorway in the back.
“Surely the rotting smell in here should do the trick.”
He should have ordered this place cleared out after their official year of mourning had ended, but his mother had forbidden him.
The laboratory looked like a madman’s lair, littered with candle-powered contraptions, charts, and shelves lined with jars that were filled with dead animals and their organs.
His father had kept a spare bedroom in the back for when he worked late.
Behind the bedroom was the art studio, where Rhys had found the painting. Now he was back with a real live woman who looked just like her. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking. He’d have to look at the painting again to be sure. It was hidden away in his closet.
His mother asked him, “Did you talk to her?”
“Briefly. She had an accent. American.” He forced himself not to think about their strange conversation. How could the diary be hers? “She kept talking about a wedding. She thought I was a guest and with an institute.”
“How strange,” his mother said as she led the way to the back room. “Lay her on zee bed. I vill find zee smelling peppers.” She hurried from the room.
“Smelling salts,” Rhys corrected her, but his mother had already gone. He placed the woman gently on the bed and allowed himself to study her openly.
Not a houseguest, not a servant. Who, then?
She must have been visiting a neighboring estate and gotten lost. Or taken a dare by her friends to enter the infamous Hereford Labyrinth. But alone? Surely not alone. Then there was the question of the diary. She claimed it was hers, just as his father had said.
Rhys did not know why his father had been keeping it for this young woman. Perhaps he had been friends with her family. Rhys didn’t know what to make of any of it. But his mother was right. She did look like a fairy. A medieval fairy.
His eyes traveled over her graceful curves revealed by her unusual gown.
He had never seen silk shimmer in the candlelight like that.
The material looked rare. Her head was turned to the side, exposing a long, lovely column of neck.
His eyes traveled farther along . . . he cleared his throat and turned away to study her feet, a much safer view.
Then he noticed her strange slippers and peered closer at them.
“Here vee are!” His mother came rushing back, waving a cloth like a white flag and holding the smelling salts. Rhys turned away, not wanting to be caught gazing at the lady’s shoes, or her ankles either, which were lovely too.
His mother placed the smelling salts under the woman’s nose, causing her to lurch awake with a startled gasp. Rhys immediately turned to stare into the woman’s eyes, and for the life of him he could not look away because she did look like the painting.
He was hit with a feeling he could not describe, and his mind searched for the right word and settled on the Persian word goya, the moment when a fantasy feels so real it becomes reality.