CHAPTER 31
A soft breeze swept through Bristol’s open window, gently billowing the sheer curtains into ghostly companions.
Shadows danced on the ceiling, and an occasional rumble of thunder made Bristol smile.
How quickly everyone scrambled to escape summer storms, while she had always loved them.
She and her sisters would rush outside to dance in summer downpours and catch the drops on their tongues, the warm water mysterious and sweet.
It was one of those things that was even more magical if shared with someone else.
She wondered if it was raining in Bowskeep too.
Are Cat and Harper outside, dancing together in the rain?
A pang of longing pinched in her chest. The rumbles grew fainter. Soon the storm would be gone.
She rolled to her back and stretched, feeling the emptiness of the bed.
It was well after midnight, and she couldn’t sleep.
Tyghan would sometimes skim her temples or shoulders with his fingers when she couldn’t sleep, to release her tense energies, as he called it—fae shorthand for a massage.
It always worked, helping her to let go of the day and fall asleep.
He used it on himself too—which explained how he slept like the living dead.
But he wasn’t here now, and the night stretched on forever.
A single candle burned low in the corner.
She wondered if he was still entrenched in meetings at the garrison.
She missed the warmth of his body beside her, the sound of his slumbering breaths, the stretch of his arm reaching out for her, even in his sleep.
For hours, her mind had jumped from one thought to the next.
There was still no word from Jasmine about removing her tick, though Ivy assured Bristol the message had been delivered.
She knew Jasmine’s health was delicate, but she would go to Celwyth Hall in the morning herself to make sure the Sisters understood the urgency of her request. There could be no more waiting.
She had to be as powerful as her mother if this whole thing was going to work.
She turned on her side, eyeing Anastasia’s encyclopedia on the nightstand, remembering the unexpected entry she had found in it.
She had been looking for more information about ticks in the chapter on fairy animals and legends when, for the first time, she found a mention of the Danu Nation, a legend about a prince turning a queen into a frog.
Most of the legends seemed to be about scorned or star-crossed lovers, and a ridiculous number of the stories involved flies.
Strangely, she hadn’t seen a single fly since she arrived here, but she had seen numerous frogs, holding court on giant lily pads like kings and queens on thrones.
She had skimmed the rest of the chapter in the encyclopedia and found nothing on ticks.
They were, perhaps, a more shameful secret of Elphame—the creation of vermin to steal magic—and not worthy of inclusion.
Anastasia’s book was a whimsical one, after all, a guide to customs and fantastical creatures, not the airing of dirty laundry.
Or was it? Bristol had never read any other informational books about Faerieland, so she had nothing to compare it to.
Was it completely fictional? Anastasia had certainly gotten some things wrong—like about fae not being able to lie.
Just like mortals, they were quite accomplished at it.
But other things seemed too precise—like the mention of the Danu Nation or her descriptions of the gossiping and idle gentry.
And a door. The universe opened a door for me, and who was I to look away?
Did she stumble upon a portal? Those details made it seem as if Anastasia had actually been to Elphame.
It would have been decades ago, since the copyright on the inside page was 1940.
Or maybe Anastasia was simply regurgitating old myths from other sources.
Fairies had certainly been around for a long time.
Bristol also searched the encyclopedia for funeral and flower traditions, still wondering about the posy left at her door.
All she found was a general tradition of leaving flowers on doorsteps and windowsills to ward off evil and illness, or maybe just bring a smile.
She remembered the loose petals Deek and his fellow sprites often left on her windowsill.
But the spray of flowers tied up with sisal?
That had Willow’s fingerprints all over it.
As Bristol tossed and turned, she alternated between certainty that it was Willow, and certainty it was only a fae tradition.
Sisal twine, after all, was as common as field grass.
But then there was the weeping she had heard. And Willow always came to funerals. Except her father’s funeral—because she knew he wasn’t dead. Was she here looking for him too?
Tyghan opened the door gently. He pulled off his coat, boots, and then shirt, trying to be quiet.
“I’m awake,” he heard through the darkness.
“The storm?”
“No. I just couldn’t sleep.”
He was relieved because he wasn’t tired. He was too wound up and wanted to talk. He fell back on the bed beside her, half-dressed.
“You can’t exhaust yourself,” she warned. “It was only a few nights ago that I—”
“I’m not tired,” he said. “But you’re right. I’ll be careful. I know I can’t expect you to sing me through another night of demon visits.”
She rolled over, slipping her arm across his ribs, her cheek against his arm. “Tyghan Trénallis, I would sing you through a thousand nights. I would sing you through as many nights as it took to keep you with me.”
He squeezed her hand, his fingers memorizing her touch, the softness of her skin, the feel of her knuckles beneath his thumb. Each little bump, small, but everything. A thousand nights. That’s what he wanted. That was all he wanted.
His chest grew tighter, like Dalagorn was sitting on it, and he forced himself to rise, shifting on the bed to look down at her.
The single lit candle in the corner of the room had burned to a nub, barely illuminating her head on the pillow, but even in the dark, every inch of her was perfect.
Tell her, Tyghan. Get it over with. He flicked his finger, lighting two more candles on the candelabra so he could see her face clearly.
“Bri, I have to talk to you.”
He tried to say it casually, but she immediately pushed herself upright. “Something’s wrong.”
“No,” he answered. “I mean, yes. But it’s not something we can’t figure out together.”
“You’re scaring me, Tyghan.” She searched his face.
“I went to Celwyth Hall today and met with the Sisters. I ordered them to ignore your message until I spoke to you. I said they had to wait at least a few more days to remove the tick, so you could really think about it.”
She pulled her hand from his. “I don’t need more time. It’s my choice—”
“Yes,” he said. “It is your choice. But you need to know all the facts. There’s something about the tick I’ve been holding back.”
She rolled off the other side of the bed and stood, her fingers raking through her hair. “Okay. Say it. Just say it.”
He circled around the bed and grabbed her hands—the hands she always kept glamoured. “Show me,” he whispered.
She released the glamour, and the sharp blue nailbeds appeared. “Does it have to do with these?”
He nodded. “Other changes have surfaced. Ones you haven’t seen.”
Confusion creased the corners of her eyes. “Where? I haven’t seen any—”
“Your back.”
She paled. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It was just after Madame Chastain stabbed the tick on your shoulder. I didn’t know what the changes meant—I still don’t know—and you were so happy about closing the portal and—” He paused, taking a breath. “I didn’t want to worry you about something that might mean nothing.”
“But?”
“The markings have spread.”
“Markings,” she repeated, and her hand went to her middle, like she was going to be sick. “What kind of markings?”
It was better that she saw for herself. There was no way to say scales that wouldn’t panic her. “Do you want to see them?”
She nodded, but as he stepped up to her floor mirror, she whirled around, her thin gown billowing out behind her. “Wait,” she said. “Not yet. I need a minute. Maybe a few minutes.” Her pupils were pinpoints even in the dim light. He could almost hear her pulse racing.
“Or a week, or as long as you need,” he said.
“I don’t know what the markings mean, but I remember what you said in the throne room, about profound changes, and not wanting to turn into something else.
This has to be your decision.” Something else?
He silently cursed himself for his poor choice of words. But was there any good way to say it?
Her brows pulled together, her tone suddenly angry. “Why can’t they figure this out?” she asked. “It shouldn’t be that difficult. With all their magic and libraries and powerful witches and wizards, why don’t the Sisters know?”
“Because they’ve never encountered anything like this before,” he answered. “Because your parents’ bloodlines are unknown to them. Because you’re equal parts fae and mortal, and that makes you a mystery.”
An unexpected laugh rippled through her chest. “Looks like I won’t be sleeping tonight.” The faint roll of thunder floated through the room. Her eyes glistened. “And now the storm is gone. I should have gone outside when I had the chance.”
He studied her uncertainly, wondering what a passing storm had to do with anything. The despair in her eyes overwhelmed him. “I can make it rain for you.”
She looked away, as if embarrassed. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. It’s the miracle of catching the moment.”
He was desperate to do anything for her. “What about swimming? You wanted to do that last night. I can take you. And I know a secret place where it always rains.”
“A secret place?” She shook her head. “It’s late, Tyghan. It’s not important—”
He turned her to face him. “I want to, Bri. Please, let me give you swimming and rain and the night of peace you wanted. Let me take you there.”