Chapter 42 Rhys
Rhys
“You’re awake.”
Rhys was speechless as he stared at his father in the doorway. So young. He was so young. Rhys had never seen his father this full of vitality. He must be somewhere near his own age. A man in his prime, hearty and hale.
Godwin came forward, his gaze trained on Rhys in fascination. “I’ve never met you, but you’ve surely met me I would hope.” He had a twist of a grin on his face.
Rhys still could not answer. All the agony and sadness from his loss was returning full force and stubbornly wedging in his throat.
Here was his best friend back from the dead in a younger incarnation of himself.
His heart hurt to look at him. He finally forced out the word “Yes.” Then he motioned to his wrapped chest. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Never trust a Renaissance doctor.” His father tried to make light of it. He had always loved humor.
Rhys was afraid he was going to cry, so instead he laughed. Soon they were all laughing. Magellan was the one who quickly brushed away a falling tear.
Rhys cleared his throat. “I hear you have the diary and are translating it.”
His father nodded, ringing for tea, and he took a seat beside Magellan. They were both staring at him, looking fresh and clean—and beautiful together side by side. When does he paint her? And why?
Rhys tried to focus on the matter at hand. “How much has she told you? About our . . . purpose.”
“She said I was to read the diary first. Then she would explain everything.”
A familiar promise. Rhys cocked an eyebrow at Magellan, and she had the good grace to blush. It was the same carrot she had dangled in front of him. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had thought she was stark raving mad and living in a fantasy world. They locked eyes.
“Well.” Godwin interrupted their silent exchange and stood up. “I’ll excuse myself to the library. I’ll have someone come to help you get clean and changed into fresh clothes. We’ll talk more later. Do rest.”
Magellan stood up too. “I think I might go to the parlor and play the piano.”
Godwin grinned at her and then at him. “Have you heard her play? She is exceptional.”
Rhys couldn’t decide whether to choke on laughter, sputter in anger, or die of jealousy all over again. Had he heard her play? Magellan gave Rhys a rueful look.
“Yes, I have,” he simply said.
His father nodded and left. Rhys felt Magellan’s gentle fingers brush the hair away from his brow, and immediately his ire lessoned.
“Don’t be cross,” she said softly. “He doesn’t know what we’ve been through.”
“Has he tried to sit on a piano bench with you?” The moment he said the words he wanted to take them back. Oh, that was a horrid, horrid question brought on by another wild swing of jealousy.
“Rhys Sherwood!” She put her hands on her hips, looking adorable in his grandmother’s dress.
“Forgive me.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Truly.” Deciding it was best to change the subject, he asked her. “Are we here for someone, do you think? The fourth woman.”
She nodded, now looking pensive. “I think so. But I have no idea who it could be. No one here in 1799 comes to mind. I need to finish reading the diary first.”
“I’m sorry I lost it.” He looked away from her.
Frankfurt still seemed like yesterday. What she must have gone through.
He knew she had left out the grisly details in her account.
While he had been unconscious and of no help, somehow she had found the song in the Renaissance and delivered them both here—where the diary had returned to her again.
Unknowingly retrieved by his father who’d had no notion of its power.
That fact alone was incredible. Rhys could no longer deny the book’s magical effects.
Gwynedd’s diary was tied to Magellan like a cord.
What did the last pages say? What were Gwynedd’s final words to Magellan?
For it had become apparent Gwynedd had written the diary for her.
Rhys didn’t begin to understand the mechanics behind it.
Or know if Magellan was truly Gwynedd. He wasn’t sure he believed in reincarnation or had given the idea much thought before now.
Until he’d met Magellan, he had lived every day within the boundaries of his own life.
Yet always yearning for something more, though never quite knowing what more was.
Had he always been a part of this story?
Had he known on some level he would meet Magellan and go on this journey with her?
Now he was almost afraid to know what else Gwynedd had to say.
Magellan had only one more piece of the song to find.
When she did, he didn’t know what would happen.
A feeling of trepidation gripped him. Torschlusspanik was the German word for the fear of running out of time to do something important before “the gates close.” And he couldn’t help but feel with a certainty in his bones, their journey in the labyrinth was about to end.