Chapter 33
The bushes were heavy with crowberries.
Aoife reached into the tangle of branches, careful of the thorns, and withdrew her hand slowly, a small cluster of dark fruit resting in her palm. She turned them in the light, checking for ripeness before popping one into her mouth.
A small voice piped up behind her.
“More please.”
Aoife turned. Bríd stood a few paces away, her mouth already stained a deep purple, her grin wide and unapologetic. Beside her, Tadhg was worse; his hands, his cheeks, even the tip of his nose were smeared with berry juice.
Aoife laughed. “I see you’ve both been very patient.”
Tadhg beamed at her, holding up his hands as though to show off the evidence.
Cormac stepped through the trees, a bundle of pale green in his hand.
“Mistletoe,” he announced, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
“It was a dangerous undertaking,” he added solemnly. “You should take it as proof of how much I love you.”
Aoife smiled, stepping toward him. “I’m sure I should.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Cormac shifted the mistletoe to one hand. “We should head back, or it’ll be dark before we get home.”
“I’ll race you!” Bríd shouted.
Before Aoife could answer, the girl darted forward, and in the space of a breath, her form shifted. Limbs lengthened, spine arched, and where Bríd had stood a moment before, a sleek Athraith no larger than a pony bounded through the trees.
“Bríd—” Aoife started. The girl was already gone.
Tadhg’s face crumpled.
“Bríd!” he cried, stumbling after her.
Aoife scooped him up. “She has to stop doing that. Someone’s going to see.”
“I’ll get her.” Cormac’s shape shifted in a smooth, practised motion, and a moment later he was gone too, moving swiftly through the undergrowth.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, wiping berry-stains from Tadhg’s cheek. “We’ll catch them.”
She followed the path at a slower pace; the trees thinned as the light grew brighter ahead.
They were waiting for her at the edge of the woods, thankfully in human form.
Cormac stood beside Bríd, one hand resting lightly at the back of her neck, holding her in place. She was grinning from ear to ear.
Aoife put Tadhg down and crouched to speak to Bríd. “You can’t change whenever you feel like it, sweetheart. You have to be more careful.”
Bríd shifted from foot to foot. “No one saw.”
She looked up at Cormac, who nodded.
“It worked out this time; that doesn’t mean it will next time. Try to be more careful.”
Bríd pouted. “I will, ma.”
Together, they stepped out into the open.
The path that once led neatly along the edge of the estate was half-lost now beneath wild growth. The fence ran beside them; creeping vines wound around every post.
Even the gardeners had gone.
The land had begun to reclaim what belonged to it.
Beyond the fence, the estate stretched in quiet neglect.
The empire had other concerns now. Wars to the south, unrest in the capital. Aoife sometimes wondered if Lord Oswin had anything to do with that. Sometimes she hoped he did.
No one had come to visit Blackthorn Hall in years.
No one had asked after Lord Halverton.
It suited them all fine. Still, the villagers talked. Children whispered of a figure seen sometimes at the upper windows, too broad and hunched to be any man.
Bríd slowed as they reached the gates, her gaze drawn through the bars toward the house beyond.
“Is it true,” she asked, her voice quieter now, “what Uncle Eoin says? That there’s a monster living there?”
The distant shape of the house that for a short time had been her home sat at the end of the long driveway, dark against a bright sky. Its windows were black; its stone dulled by weather and time.
“Yes,” Aoife said.
Bríd shifted her weight, peering harder, as though she might catch a glimpse.
“But he was a man once.”