Nelly shakes her head, and her sunburned crow’s-feet deepen. “You can’t be fiddling around with the Fae’s powers without paying a price.”
“What are you talking about?” Cathy feigns anger, but there’s fear in her eyes. “You’d better answer me, Nelly.”
“You love both those boys—Linton and Heathcliff. But the ancient powers here won’t let Linton keep meddlin’ for nothing. Sometime, somehow, they’ll come calling for one of you three. And I know, either one of those headstrongboys will sacrifice themselves for you. Even I’ll admit, the love between you three is rarer and deeper than what the Fae can conjure. They’ll be threatened. Jealous. You can bet on that and mind me they’ll come a-calling.”
Cathy shakes her head, lip quivering slightly. “You’re wrong, Nelly. We have it all under control. Heathcliff and I just need to keep Linton from taking all the magic for himself.”
“But it doesn’t work that way. You can’t control it, and a sacrifice will be required. It might not be for years to come—but it’s coming nonetheless.”
31
Six Years Earlier
I wipe away the breast milk splashed across my laptop keys as I get back to work. At two months old, Heathcliff seems to be settling into a three-to-four-hour feeding schedule. It’s 7:00p.m. now, so perhaps I can cram in three good writing hours before his next session, when I’ll likely crash from exhaustion. My at-home desk has never looked so messy. In addition to my laptop, course binders, and committee folders, now I have a breast pump, stained burp cloths, and nipple ointment for my very sore breasts.
“How’s it coming?” Philip asks as he walks into the den with a hot mug of tea. I hear the repetitive music of Heathcliff’s swing from the nursery.
“Thanks,” I say as he gently sets the cup in front of me. Steam and the warm, tart scent hit my nose. Elderberry. One of my favorite flavors when I’m trying to focus.
“Good.” I push my blue-light glasses up on my nose. “It’s coming along. I’m twenty thousand words in, and it’s basicallyWuthering Heightswith magic. There’s an enchanted cave and lots of teen angst. Just tell me this isn’t a complete waste of time.”
“You want to do it, right?”
“It’s why I’m sitting here keeping my fanny at my desk instead of sleeping.”
“Well, there you go. I’ve never seen you work on committee meeting notes in your spare time just because youlikedoing it. I’ve never seen you review a journal article because youlikedoing it. I haven’t seen you this motivated about a project in a very long time. I support you and want to do whatever I can to help you along.”
This is another moment where I feel how much he loves me and how very lucky I am.
“You really mean that?”
“I do.” He leans down, kissing my temple lightly. “Now write.”
Present
Five days later, Henry and I are on our way to the Azalea Dream.
I tried kindly to reach out to Mirabel to meet. But she refused, responding only with three more lawsuit text threats in slightly different wording. After much debate and some surprising twists in the case, Henry and I developed a plan to talk to Mirabel today because we know she’ll be home. She’s hosting a Methodist Women’s League fundraiser in her front yard. I feel guilty crashing her party, but this is important. I’d prefer not to think of my presence as an ambush, but rather a loving intervention.
Except in my dreams, I haven’t been to the property sincePhilip’s death. Bittersweet memories surface, like sand stirred up at the bottom of a pond. As we ease off of 1–95 South and deeper into the Low Country, we pass through black water swamps bordered by tupelos and weeping willows, algae and lily pads blanketing the surfaces. I still see toddler Heathcliff bouncing gently from the carrier on Philip’s back during our weekend hikes. As a child, Philip roamed these woods and canoed through the lakes and swamps. He knew the location of the rarest bald cypresses, every tucked-away mossy chapel ruin. I can never be here without feeling Philip close by.
“We have the plan down?” Henry asks as he pulls into the driveway.
“Yes. I handle Mirabel while you take care of your side of things.”
“Sounds good. You’ve got the sharper end of the stick, though.”
We drive up Mirabel’s long driveway shadowed by towering pines and lined by sturdy azalea bushes. The house and lawn come into view.
It looks like the event just started. Two large white tents stand in the middle of the lawn sheltering long, linen-draped tables with platters of shrimp on ice, creamy grits, and collard greens. A slew of well-dressed servers stroll about with trays of champagne flutes.
“Fuck. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”
“Ahhh... you’ve got this,” Henry says.
He’s right. But still—it’sMirabel. She pointed an arrow at me in my dream.
He lets me out of the car, tells me he’ll return soon, and heads back down the driveway.
