Chapter 17
Ceri
The warm sun shone on my face when I awoke the next morning, which was how I immediately knew something was wrong. I jolted upright in a panic as I looked out the window to see the sun hanging high over the treetops.
Godwitches be. I’d slept in far later than I’d meant to.
Father was likely already awake, already fretting, and already working himself into a spiral.
He needed his breakfast, his tea, and his tonic, and while he could normally do those things for himself, I wanted to be there for him the morning after the first trial.
I’d wanted to be awake before him so I could have everything ready for the day and ease his anxieties.
I bolted out of bed, feet hitting the cool wooden floorboards. I didn’t even bother changing out of my nightgown before rushing out of my bedroom and into the hallway. I stopped short when I heard laughter.
My father was . . . laughing. Oh no. This was even worse than I thought. He’d become manic. Memories of the last time this happened, right after my sister died, flooded me. When my father had been so out of his mind with grief, the town healer had said he’d needed to be drugged.
I couldn’t handle going through that again, watching everything that was my father ebb from him, leaving nothing but a husk.
For weeks we’d kept him in that state until the healer thought we could safely bring him back.
We had to slowly decrease his dose, and I had to watch him in a confused haze for a long time as we weaned him off the tonic.
If that was happening again, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive it. I steeled myself for the worst, tiptoeing down the hall with clammy hands and a bubbling stomach. I stopped when I heard laughter again, only this time it wasn’t just Father’s—it was . . . Margaret?
I stumbled into the living area of our apartment, where Father sat in front of our hearth, Margaret in a painting that was perched on the stone shelf. The fire crackled and Father drank tea while Margaret chattered away.
“And then Sir Arthur challenged Ambrose to a duel. Unlike other residents of Fairwitch Isle, Ambrose wasn’t offended at all. He’s amused by the knight. So he agreed to the duel.”
“He did not,” Father said with a gasp.
“He did too! I swear it.” Margaret leaned closer in the painting, and I tilted my head.
When did this painting show up in our apartment? And who had brought it? My father certainly wouldn’t have gone to the castle and taken a painting, and that was the only way Margaret could travel—through castle paintings.
Father chuckled, taking a bite of a scone. “So what happened next?”
“Ambrose dueled the knight, but poor Sir Arthur, well, you know he’s just a piece of armor brought to life by Castle’s magic.”
“Mm-hmm,” Father said through a mouthful of scone.
I peered at the scones. I hadn’t baked those. Where had they come from? Was I the one losing my mind? Imagining all of this? I pinched myself just to be sure, but I didn’t wake up from a dream. I was still standing here, watching my father and Margaret chat like old friends.
“Ambrose purposely let Sir Arthur win the duel.”
“How did he manage that without getting stabbed?”
Margaret waved a hand. “Well, they took away Sir Arthur’s real sword months ago, after he accidentally stabbed Wolfe.
” She paused. “Actually, he purposely stabbed Wolfe, but because he’s just a sentient piece of armor, everyone was more forgiving, and Prince Cillian decided we should take away his metal sword and replace it with a wooden one. Sir Arthur didn’t even notice.”
“Ah, so he stabbed Ambrose with the wooden sword.”
“Exactly! And then Ambrose was so nice about losing, Sir Arthur declared that he was the best opponent he’d ever faced and let him pass.”
“I would’ve loved to see that.” Father shook his head, still chuckling.
“You should visit the castle sometime,” Margaret said.
“No, no, I don’t think so.” Father shook his head. “Though I do like your stories. It makes me feel like I’m out there, living life with all of you. I like the visits too.”
My heart swelled, and I had to swallow back tears.
I had no idea how any of this had happened, but it brought me so much joy to see someone visiting Father, talking with him, not just forgetting about him, which was what it so often felt like in Fairwitch.
Like I was his only connection to the world.
Other than Cillian, who visited as much as he could.
I strolled out into the living room. “Well, good morning to you two.”
Margaret beamed. “Ceri!”
Father turned to give me an assessing look. “Someone slept in this morning. Did you have a late night, dear?” He sipped his tea, and I could smell the hints of rose and cardamom.
My cheeks heated, and I had no idea why I was blushing. “I must have just been tired after yesterday’s events.” I came to sit next to him on the little couch in front of our fire, the piece of furniture upholstered in yellow floral daisies that I’d stitched myself.
My father’s face darkened at the mention of the trials, and I winced, wishing I hadn’t said that. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“I heard you all had to put together a puzzle!”
Father’s brow lifted as I reached for a blueberry scone with a dusting of sugar on the top that added the perfect sweet crunch. “You didn’t tell me that! Your trial was a puzzle?”
That was a very mild way of putting it, but I was thankful to Margaret because I could already tell that little detail put my father more at ease.
“Well, yes. We were in a tower, and there were loose stones in the wall. Well, we—I—discovered the stones fit together like a puzzle, and once we completed the whole picture, that was our way out.”
I didn’t mention how we’d had to descend steep stairs in the dark or how we’d fallen down those stairs or how Liadan had disappeared and we had no idea where she’d gone. But he didn’t need to know all those details.
Father smiled wide and looked at Margaret. “That’s my girl. She can solve any puzzle you put in front of her.” He reached out and patted my knee. “I’m proud of you. Though it doesn’t exactly sound like you were trying to lose.”
Margaret let out a laugh, and I glared at her. She quickly covered her mouth.
“Why does everyone find it so hard to believe I could lose at something on purpose?”
Margaret and my father shot each other looks, a secret conversation happening between the two.
“You just get a little excited when it comes to games and challenges,” Margaret said. “I’ll never forget when you almost hit one of my paintings with your game piece after losing in the castle library.”
I scoffed. “It slipped from my hand.”
“And launched straight at poor Margaret?” my father mumbled into his tea.
I settled back into the couch, munching on my scone. “You two are insufferable.”
I wanted to ask Margaret how she’d managed to get a castle painting into our apartment.
Knowing her, she’d probably convinced someone else to do it.
She liked to be in as many places as possible around the city of Fairwitch Isle.
Her paintings had popped up in the bakery, our local tavern, and even the blacksmith’s shop.
Several people had a key to our apartment in case of an emergency, so any one of them could be who’d brought her painting, but I did wonder why she’d want to come here.
She already had a painting down in the dress shop, and surely she didn’t just want to visit with my father.
I was about to ask when the city bell rang in the distance, signaling that it was midmorning.
Godwitches be. I needed to get myself together and open the dress shop. Thankfully I hadn’t had any early morning appointments.
“Oh my!” Margaret’s eyes widened. “I have errands to run for the prince. I should probably get going, but I’ll be back next week!”
I narrowed my gaze. I’d question her later.
My father raised his cup of tea. “Come with more stories!”
Margaret winked. “I always do.”
She dashed out of the painting, and I turned to face my father. “Since when do you get visits from Margaret?”
He stroked his stubbled jaw. “Oh, today was the first one. Quite a surprise. I came out here this morning, worried when you weren’t awake, but Margaret was in the painting, chattering away. I got so distracted, I didn’t even realize how late it was.”
“It sounds like you’ve made a new friend. Are you going to tell me more about her visit?”
His shaggy white brows bunched together. “Well, I don’t share every part of my life with you, Ceri, dear.” His gaze bore into me. “Just like I’m sure you don’t share every part of your life with me.”
I squirmed as I remembered last night—Cillian coming into my room, his arms around me as he showed me how to hit with that ridiculous club.
Both of us falling asleep on the rooftop.
Wait a minute. We’d fallen asleep on the roof.
How had I ended up in my bed this morning?
There was no way Cillian could’ve carried me off the rooftop and through the window without waking me.
I shook my head. I’d have to ask him the next time I saw him.
“I suppose there are some things I don’t share with you.” I took another bite of the scone. “Where did these come from?”
Father’s face brightened. “You know, I’m not entirely sure. They were sitting on the coffee table this morning, along with a steaming pot of rose tea and plates and cups. I thought you’d arranged it all for me, but then you were still sleeping, so I really don’t know.”
My brows furrowed. It had to have been Cillian. No one else would’ve brought us food.
I patted Papa’s hand. “Well, I’m glad you have a friend to talk to.”
“Oh yes, she’s so entertaining. I always loved the stories she’d tell you in the dress shop, and now I get my very own. You know, that Sir Arthur is a lively one.”
I thought of the sentient armor that basically threatened everyone who walked through the castle’s doors and never seemed to remember who anybody was. “Yes. Lively is one word for it.”
“So what were you up to last night?” My father peered at me. “I heard some clomping on the roof.”
The memory of the brush of Cillian’s hand against mine burned through me, and my cheeks heated. I felt like a schoolgirl instead of the thirty-five-year-old woman I was. His hand had accidentally touched mine, for godwitches’ sake. It certainly wasn’t worth blushing over.
“I was just star gazing, getting some fresh air.” Thinking about my best friend in ways that were completely inappropriate.
“Mmm,” Father said as he took another sip of his steaming tea. “Sounds like a lovely night.”
“It was.” I kept my voice as airy and unbothered as possible.
These trials were affecting me far more than I wanted them to, putting romantic ideas in my head that I had no business having. I reached for a cup of tea and took a sip, determined to banish these thoughts from my brain once and for all. How hard could it really be?