Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Conrad stands at the very edge of the jutting rock and gazes out at the landscape, dressed in a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and tight riding breeches tucked into his boots.
The wind breaks over the bluff like a wave, ruffling his shirt and hair.
He’s just finished telling me another story of faerie exploits, this one involving two angry fae dueling one another with spoons, after Conrad convinced them that was how disputes were settled in the human world.
“I would like to see it again,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder at me, surprised. “What’s that?”
“Elfhame. You know, I remember so little of that night,” I go on. “Perhaps if I returned with you again, it would further convince Morgaine that you and I are . . .”
“Nay,” he says, his tone brusque. “You don’t understand, Rose. I can’t take you there, even if I wanted to. My vow to her does not allow it.”
I grimace with disappointment, even though I’d known that would be his answer. But a part of me had hoped, pathetically, that there still might be some easier path.
“Well, I suppose it does not matter,” I say stiffly. “After all, I’m meant to leave in two days’ time. We had a deal, did we not?”
He looks away, his back straight, and gazes over the moor toward the purple hills sloping in the distance. All around us, a dark ring of clouds is slowly closing in, congealing into thunderheads.
I rise from our picnic blanket and walk to his side, to see another storm gathering in Conrad’s eyes. His mood is turning again, sun to shadow.
“There is no rush,” he says at last. “When I said a fortnight, I meant it . . . generally.”
My hand shakes as I take hold of the truth knot in my pocket.
It’s a smaller one than the great net Conrad wove over me in the cottage, meant to last for only a minute or so, but that will be all the time I need.
And though I half wish my heart would choke for once, it gives me no trouble at all when I channel into the thread.
Conrad stands up straighter, his face smoothing slightly, the only indication I have that the spell is working. But there is no awareness of it in his eyes. Even if there were, I am already prepared to Weave the memory spell which will erase this conversation and my treachery from his head.
I open my mouth, knowing I have to get straight to the point while the truth knot still holds, and find some way to pry the portal spell from him. He cannot tell me it straight out, but perhaps he can tell me where a drawing of it might be hidden, or at least what sort of spell it is.
But he speaks before I can.
“I don’t want you to go,” he says.
My breath catches; I turn my face fully to him. Conrad’s eyes, glazed from the truth spell, nevertheless fix me in place until it feels I am made of stone. The wind pushes at us both, twisting my skirts and dragging his dark hair over his forehead.
“You said you would go if it would please me,” he says. “But nothing would please me less. These past weeks with you have been like . . . waking after a long sleep. Not since my mother was alive has Ravensgate been so full of life. I’d forgotten it could be like that. Like a home.”
“You know nothing about me,” I whisper. As if I haven’t already shared more of myself with him than with anyone I can remember. As if there aren’t a thousand more things I want to tell him, if they weren’t buried behind a wall of secrets. But if he knew everything . . .
“I know you’re an excellent teacher. I know you’re passionate and clever and stubborn as a mule, but that in that stubbornness is a strength I cannae help but admire.
I know that you care fiercely for your students, for their futures and safety, and for defending those who cannae defend themselves.
And for all that you stand no taller than a spring colt, you will go toe-to-toe with any bloody-minded bastard you deem unjust.”
I look away, my cheeks warming, unable to bear the directness of his gaze. “What, like you?”
“Like me.” He smiles. “And if you leave now, I’ll never have the chance to learn more.
I want to learn. I want to know where you go in your thoughts when you look out the window and your brow furrows.
I’ve noticed how you drift away. Who captures your mind so?
Is there someone else, someone you’ve left behind? ”
My mind flashes to Lachlan, and a chill scurries up my spine.
Conrad seems to notice my hesitation. He lifts his chin. “There is someone.”
“No. That is, not in the way you think. I have obligations, Conrad. My employer—”
“Your employer.” He twists the word on his tongue. “You rarely speak of him. And when you do, your voice shakes.”
“Nonsense.”
“Who is he? Why did you leave your teaching post—which you speak of with such pride and passion—to follow a cloth merchant around the backwaters of Scotland?”
“I needed a change. I wanted to travel.” I hear the defensive edge to my tone and know he is not fooled. “Surely you can understand that. My employer offered me the opportunity, and so I took it.”
Conrad’s jaw flexes. “Does he have some claim on your heart?”
My hand moves to my hair before I can think, remembering the feel of Lachlan’s cruel fingers. “It’s nothing like that.”
“So you’ve no obligation to this man.”
“I—I do, but not in the way you imagine.” What is happening? I’m supposed to be the one asking questions, not him. But I feel as if he has turned my own magic against me. This is not at all the sort of truth I’d hoped to steal from him!
Hands shaking, I fumble with the truth knot, tugging desperately at the thread.
“Rose,” he says. “I cannae let you slip away from me. Damn me, for it’s foolish and selfish, but I believe I’m falling—”
“Stop talking!” I cry, my voice ragged. My fingers finally work into the tight knot, pulling the threads apart and collapsing the spell.
Conrad blinks once, slowly, then shakes his head a little. The glaze in his eyes fades, and I breathe out in relief.
He looks around, confused. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me just now.”
“It’s all right,” I reply shakily. “We should probably go back, don’t you think?”
I nod at the encroaching clouds.
“Aye,” he says, but he still seems slightly baffled.
We pack up our dinner and mount the horses. To avoid Conrad and his dangerous confessions, I ride ahead for once. My thoughts whirl with panic and dread. I relive the past two weeks, turning over every moment Conrad and I spent together, searching for where I went wrong.
I’ve been so careful. I’ve kept my distance, even when it felt like I was locking my heart away. Even when I ached to touch him, I stopped myself, because I would not—will not—let Lachlan use me against him. I will not be his undoing.
Have I failed so miserably?
No matter how fast I ride, I cannot escape his words: “I believe I’m falling . . .”
No, no, no.
I won’t let him make that mistake. I am not who he thinks I am, and I should never have agreed to stay at Ravensgate after I learned Lachlan’s true plans. This has to end.
My resolve hardens. I will go to Elfhame tomorrow night, one way or another. I’ll get that damned branch, and I’ll be gone by the next sunrise. Conrad will never see me again, I will go back to my humble classroom where I belong, and I will do my best to forget everything that happened here.
It is the only way I can escape this place with both my magic and my soul intact.
We don’t get far before the clouds break and release their rain.
We are still miles from the manor, and it is a long and soggy ride over the moors.
The horses plod miserably, and Conrad apologizes repeatedly for getting us caught in the downpour.
I only shake my head and clench my hands around the reins, my bedraggled hair swinging in wet ropes.
At last, we reach the stable and Conrad helps me down.
I’m so exhausted and drenched I can’t even refuse him; I just slide awkwardly into his arms, and he sets me on the ground, then wraps a horse blanket around me.
While I stand in the hay and shiver, he unsaddles Bell and Roman, gives them a thorough currying, and then fills their troughs with sweet oats.
I find a barrel and perch on it, watching him work.
How at ease he is with the animals; they respond to him with soft, affectionate nudges.
Once the horses have been seen to, we head into the manor. I walk quickly ahead, determined to go straight to my room.
“I am truly sorry,” he says.
“It’s just rain. I’ll dry off.”
“Not about that. Well, not just that. Rose. Rose, can we please talk?” He catches my arm and holds me fast. We stand in the narrow kitchen doorway and face one another, his eyes pleading, my heart rioting.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“No, you’re not. You’re angry, and I am sorry.
” Rain drips from the lintel and drums steadily beside us, a curtain of water.
There is a lantern lit inside, and it strikes one side of his face, while casting the other into shadow.
“For what I said out there. It was wrong of me. You owe us nothing. Of course you must go, and I am just a fool for wishing otherwise.”
“You’re not a fool,” I whisper. “But you’re right. I must go.”
I should turn away now. I should put one soggy foot in front of the other and take myself upstairs, putting an end to the whole affair.
But I don’t.
I stay frozen, unable to force my body into motion. My back is against one side of the doorway, his against the other. He lowers his face, trying to get me to meet his eyes.
Finally, swallowing hard, I do.