Chapter 33
As seamstresses bound her into a green-and-gold robe à la francaise gown that was stretched wide to either side by robust panniers, Hayleigh’s mind raced with thoughts of what came next.
She was no longer under a magical obligation to do anything. The Wild Hunt was done with her, and her life could go back to the exact course it had been on.
She should have been relieved.
But she wasn’t. The tugging sensation that had been driving her to end the curse lingered, and she found herself thinking of forgiveness.
And of Stephan.
“I don’t think you can blame anyone for not necessarily seeing all the possible consequences of their actions. What matters is what we do once we do know. How we repair whatever damage we did.”
She hadn’t been sure whose forgiveness she’d been seeking at the time. The source of the curse? Naveah? Had she thought forgiveness would break the curse?
Because it hadn’t—truth had broken the curse. Honesty about the path she had been on.
Yes, she wanted Naveah to forgive her, but it wasn’t what she needed.
She needed to see this through. For herself. To be the person she had sworn in that cottage she would become.
If she could help the Western Mining Action Project prove responsibility, there would be restitution for the people of Eucharist. The guilty parties would be forced to clean up their water, to pay for their medical bills, and more.
She needed the documents that had been in that folder. She had a feeling Baba Yaga had shown her those specific documents not only to wake her up to what had happened, but as a nudge toward what she might do next. Not that the old witch would have admitted it—that would have been too easy.
But Hayleigh had a feeling—a strong one. The sort of feeling the witches said not to ignore. That feeling said there was a copy of those documents waiting to be found.
Here in this house.
Which was why she allowed herself to be laced into a gown twice as wide as she was; why she sat still as her head was jabbed with pins in the effort to attach a massive pouf-style wig to the top of her head.
One last show at being the obedient daughter—Hayleigh of Christmas Past. She could do that. Her mother took her by the arm and led her downstairs as Noel at Versailles began.
The Gray house had been transformed into Rococo-Christmas opulence, staffed by servants in powdered wigs and gilded livery. Père Noel had made an appearance—bedecked in burgundy satin, sitting at the base of a tree at least twenty feet tall in a shock of white lights and fake snow.
Just before they could enter the grand ballroom, her mother pulled her into an alcove.
Assuming she was about to be assaulted with last-second touch-ups or perhaps interrogated as to the location of the motanka (she had hidden it in her rental car, as promised), Hayleigh was caught off guard as Luda pulled her into a hug.
“You look so beautiful,” her mother said, pulling back to run a hand down her cheek.
“I…thank you,” said Hayleigh, not quite sure how else to respond.
“You know I just want you to be taken care of, don’t you? I know I’m hard on you, but I just…” And then her eyes dropped, looking not like a queen but like an aging woman keenly aware of the way she was slipping past her time. “I just want you to be secure.”
Hayleigh drew a shaking breath. “I know, Mama.”
And then Luda released her, and the woman’s face was once again a queenly mask. She swept them toward the ballroom, where Hayleigh was delivered to Grayson, whose look of self-satisfaction had her second-guessing her commitment to playing this part.
There was nothing in the way her ex looked at her to suggest desire or appreciation, just victory. Luda melted away back into the crowd with Grayson’s stepmother, a former model who wore a red-and-white-striped robe à la polonaise and carried a candy cane crook.
From around the room, the sight of Hayleigh and Grayson together attracted nods of approval but also sharp glances at Hayleigh—as if to say We are giving you one more chance; don’t blow it.
Her skin crawled. How had she tolerated all this for so long? How had she ignored how this life cut her into so many pieces, denying her the chance to be whole?
“Merry Christmas, Hayleigh,” said Grayson, dressed in a richly embroidered justaucorps jacket, brocade waistcoat, and velvet knee-length breeches in the same color as her gown.
He was good-looking in the generic way the selective breeding of many generations of wealth usually produced, but there was nothing about him that excited her. No sparks flew as he offered his arm in an escort position.
“Merry Christmas, Grayson,” said Hayleigh.
And then a mischievous thought, Grayson Gray, flitted through her mind, and she lifted a gloved hand to her nose to let out a snort.
“What?” asked Grayson, eyes darting around the room to figure out what she was laughing at.
“Nothing,” she said.
They were left to stand around awkwardly, sipping champagne as the surrounding crowd wove and laughed, enjoying the night’s indulgences. What would they have normally talked about under these circumstances? She couldn’t remember.
An alternate version of that night played out in her mind, if she’d made a different choice three days ago.
She was sitting in the back of the Guardians booth, petting Ozzy as they both huddled under a sheepskin, drinking boozy cocoa and watching as Stephan etched a symbol for protection on the back of a cedar bear.
Maybe they’d have ridden the festival’s ridiculous snowflake Ferris wheel together when his shift ended, and she might have found out what he meant when he said that riding in every car was a little different.
Of course, then she wouldn’t have had the opportunity the night had presented either. If she could only just slip away from Grayson, she could use the chaos of the party as cover while she broke into her father’s office.
A server with a poorly drawn fake beauty mark on his cheek sidled up and bowed as he offered them a tray of tiny marzipan Jesuses in mangers.
“Those look unholy,” said Hayleigh.
“I assure you they are…divine,” said the server in an outrageous French accent.
“Pass,” said Grayson, grimacing. “These parties are always so tacky. We will not be carrying this tradition on.”
She was caught off guard by how casually he talked about a future together. Did he not sense the same complete lack of chemistry she did?
“Do you actually want this?” she blurted, unable to keep the bewildered tone from her voice.
He glanced her way. “What do you mean?”
“Do you actually want to get back together?”
“Of course,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “We’ve put years into this, Hay…” She winced at the nickname only he had ever used for her. It felt less like affection and more like he was too busy to say her full name.
Nothing like Sunshine.
“Those are years we won’t get back. We had a plan. I want us back on track.” He paused to greet a group of men she recognized as colleagues, laughing and clapping back in a chorus of “Bros!”
“You had a plan,” she said, after the crowd finally moved. “In which you slotted me into the spouse role. Is the only reason you want me there because it saves you time?”
“We make sense.” He gestured to the room around them. “Our families are linked, our businesses are linked.”
“But do you love me? Never mind that, do you even like me?”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? Despite the fact you treated me like trash. I’m still willing to take you back, assuming you’re willing to work on yourself. I’ll give you a good life. Our children a good life.”
She stared at him. At one time, it had been a compelling enough pitch. A man who could keep her comfortable, from a good enough family to satisfy her parents.
But she knew now she didn’t need him, and she definitely didn’t want him. She deserved to be more than a checkbox on someone’s life plan, and security meant nothing if you had to sacrifice all happiness to get it.
Laughter bubbled out of her lips, and she shook her head. “God, you’re such a tool.”
His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t even hear how transactional all that sounds. Like I’m an asset in a deal? Well, this is one merger that will never take place.”
His face went red. “Then why are we even here?”
“That is an excellent question.”
She marched into the crowd, leaving him dumbfounded at the side of the room.
The house’s east wing was empty. She stole to the spot where she used to seek out the domovoy years ago, slipping out the kitchen doors and into the night without being stopped or bothered.
Chiding herself for not changing from the ridiculous dress first, she struggled to kneel by the hedges lining the brick exterior of the fireplace, nearly toppling over as she did.
Her pulse beat rapidly. She’d possibly made an enormous tactical error. Grayson had likely gone straight to her mother, which would mean Luda would be looking for her. She’d meant to be a bit sneakier, but she hadn’t been able to stand him a moment longer.
This life, which she had once called her own, was now as ill-fitting and burdensome as the robe à la francaise.
“Domovoy?” she called. “Are you there?”
She’d created a bucket with her skirt and filled it with treats on her way through the kitchen.
One after another, she lined them up in offering.
First, a buttery millefeuille dripping cream; next, a pale green apple macaron; and finally, an éclair that left her fingers covered in chocolate as she unwound its napkin cover.
Memories glimmered back. Other treats filched from kitchens and Halloween bags and Easter baskets and stocking stuffers, left in this exact spot—gifts for the domovoy. Who would then emerge and whisper all the most interesting secrets of the house and tell her stories of all the other folk nearby.
At his urging, she’d left treats for the others, and while she never came to know them as well as she had him, they’d been comfortable with her in their presence, and that had been a gift.
Those brushes with the extraordinary had begun opening her mind in a curious way. Understanding that there were beings out there operating on rules far beyond the walls of human control had started to cure her of the idea of walls and control in general.
And then those lessons had stopped, and she’d allowed herself to be pushed into a world full of walls, where control was a currency that kept you secure.
She tried calling out again. “Are you in there? Domovoy?”
At first, it seemed like nothing would happen, and her stomach wavered as she momentarily doubted.
But then there was a shift in the shadows, coalescing into the shape of a little man.
Slowly, a familiar face emerged from the brickwork.
He was thinner than the domovoy at Baba Yaga’s, dramatically so, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the thought that she’d been the only one taking care of him. And then she’d stopped.
He regarded her curiously. “I thought you forgot me.”
“I let people convince me I’d made you up. I’m sorry.”
He gave a little shrug. “Most humans have forgotten. We are used to it.”
“Well, I brought some apology gifts,” she said, waving her arm over the line of treats. “And there’s more.” Then she dumped out her skirt, letting the rest scatter. The domovoy’s eyes gleamed as he snatched them up hungrily.
“You want something in return,” he observed, bits of pastry crumbling down his hairy chin. “Ask it.”
“Do you have access to all the rooms in the house?”
The little man nodded.
“Do you think you could open a door for me?”
He nodded again.
“One more thing—do you know the Baba Yaga?” The little creature’s eyes widened, but he nodded a third time. “Do you think you could get her a message?” This time, he hesitated but finally agreed with a wary look.
And then she leaned in to tell the spirit her plan. When she was done, the little creature gave a nod before vanishing back into the walls. Gathering her skirts, she rose to her feet and turned toward the party.
Only to be brought to a halt at the sight of a person rounding the side of the house.
Tall and broad, with an achingly familiar gait.