Catherine scowled at him. Was she a joke to him? “You don’t need to follow me. And don’t call me that.”
“I didn’t call you that. I called you nothing as you requested.”
“This isn’t funny!” she shouted. The words burned in her throat and scared birds in a nearby tree, who squawked as they took flight.
His expression was somber and partially cast in shadow. The sun was sinking on the horizon behind him. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the ball. And a part of her feared looking at him face to face again. If she hadn’t tried to save him, then Edward would be alive. She wanted to hate him for that, but she couldn’t. And it only made her hate herself more.
“What shall I do? I don’t know the name of my two-time savior,” he said with a faint smirk on the corner of his lips. The wind rustled through the trees and caught strands of his long brown hair.
“I release you. Do not feel indebted to me. I don’t deserve your loyalty.” He stood a few feet from her. As if there were some invisible line between them that neither dared cross. She’d felt it since the forest. Just as Faery called to her, something in him cried out to her.
“Why would you say that? Do you regret saving my life?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then let me serve you,” he said and took a step toward her.
She couldn’t. She took a step back.
The wind rippled through the knee-high grass as if an invisible giant brush its hands over the tops.
“You shouldn’t. I’m not worth anything. I’m broken.”
“That’s not true.”
“If you really want to help me, take this power away from me. Give me the life of a normal woman.” She threw her arms out.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Of course, he couldn’t that. It was too much to ask for, wasn’t it?
“Then what can you do?” she asked, bitterness rising up in her throat.
“I can teach you how to harness your power, to learn to tame it, and its wild ways.” Another step toward her, this time, she didn’t step away.
The temptation was there. If she had just learned, if she just knew how to control it, maybe Edward would have lived. Then she thought of Mrs. Rosewood at the gateway, her warning against the fae. She had done awful, horrible things, but what if there were a seed of truth to her words. What if this power only caused pain?
Catherine took a step back, and then another and another. “I don’t want it. I don’t need any of it.”
“But you do,” he said. “And one day you’ll see that. And when that day comes, I’ll be here waiting for you.”
She turnedto run from him again. But in the end, there was no use. She couldn’t run from Edward’s last gift. She couldn’t run from Mr. Thorn. And she couldn’t run from her power. Now that she had passed through the gateway, her story was only just beginning...
Epilogue
The faint scent of incense lingered in the chapel. Orange and pink light from narrow windows flitted across the oaken pews where Isobel knelt as if in prayer. The flames on the altar flickered as the doors at the back of the chapel flew open. A chill wind blew in with it, the last touches of the winter before the spring. The wind extinguished the candles, and slender tendrils of smoke rose up from the wicks.
She kept her veiled head lowered. Her visitor strode cautiously toward her. The uncertainty plain in their cautious steps. The reverend had left her. Shrouded as she was in mourning black, he had not asked questions when she had knelt in the aisles. She did not pray, because she had long ago given up on having those prayers answered. If there were a god, then why would he look away when the fae had ripped everything from her? When they had stolen her daughter from her arms? Perhaps it was his punishment for the sins she had committed. The things she had done in search of what had been stolen from her had carved a mark into her very soul. If there was damnation waiting for her on the other side of the veil, then she would gladly pay that price and endure a thousand years of torment if it meant keeping her daughter free of the fae.
The visitor slid into the pew beside her, skirts rustling as she knelt.
“Mrs. Rosewood?” Mrs. Morgan spoke just above a whisper.
She, too, wore the mourning black. And though Isobel knew she wouldn’t cry in front of others, Mrs. Rosewood’s eyes were puffy, and her nose was red. They’d only just put the casket in the ground. Mrs. Morgan was surprisingly sentimental. But then again, she had practically raised Edward and Lydia after their mother Grace died. After Isobel had killed her. Strange how fate led people down twisted paths.
“You need not whisper; the priest will not interrupt us,” Isobel said and stood up. She glanced once more at the cluster of candles upon the altar.
Grace.
