Is she okay?
Rowan wrapped his arms around me next. I breathed in his comforting scent, fresh dew and autumn leaves and flour.
As soon as we were around the corner and out of Kelly’s line of sight, I grabbed Corbin’s hand and squeezed. “It’s going to be fine,” I said. “Your dad’s willing to meet you. That’s a good thing. Even if we don’t get any useful information out of the archive, today is still a win.”
Corbin nodded miserably. “I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CORBIN
Idragged Maeve up the steps of the Ashmolean Museum. The building was more modest than the museums we saw in London, and I briefly wondered if she’d find it as interesting as I always did. But then I remembered why we were here, and another shiver ran down my spine.
Dad was getting older – he must’ve had a senior moment on the phone with Maeve earlier, forgotten who she was and what she represented. As soon as he saw us he would turn away and refuse to speak, and we’d be right back where we started again.
Except worse, because the faint flicker of hope flaring in my chest at the thought that Dad might be reaching out, trying to reconnect, was about to be snuffed out again.
At the front desk, it took me three tries to get out to the docent I needed to speak to Professor Andrew Harris. She buzzed us through and we picked our way around the Egyptian exhibit to the archive room, where Dad was ‘supposedly’ waiting for us.
I’d believe it when I saw it.
I pushed the door open and there he was, sitting at a table with archive boxes strewn around him. He’d taken off his academic dress, and wore a wool jersey and grey trousers that looked oddly informal for an Oxford don. His dark hair had greyed around his ears, a fact I hadn’t noticed the last time I’d seen him. His eyes behind their horn-rimmed glasses were bright, if a little shifty.
“Corbin.” He extended his hand. I stared at it in shock. It wasn’t the warm, heartfelt greeting I’d hoped for after the last five years, but he wastalkingto me. He offered to touch me.
I took his hand and we shook. His hand was warm, soft, the tips of his fingers slightly rough from a lifetime of sifting through ancient books. I hoped he couldn’t feel the tremors in my grip.
“Dad. Thanks for seeing us. This is Maeve.”
“Of course.” Dad smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.He is nervous. That makes two of us.“Hello, Maeve. It’s lovely to meet you at last.”
Maeve’s smile was genuine. She tucked a strand of her pink bangs behind her ear and shook Dad’s hand vigorously. “Thank you so much for getting us in here today, Professor Harris. It means a lot to me and Corbin.”
“Call me Andrew. And it’s my…” Dad cleared his throat. I guess he couldn’t quite stomach the wordpleasure. “I’ve set out the books for you.”
“Thank you.” I pulled out a chair for Maeve and sat down opposite her. “You can leave us here if you have work to do.”
“Nonsense. I may be able to assist.” Dad pulled out the chair beside me. He glanced at me and dared a tiny smile. “Besides, the museum won’t let you look at these unsupervised.”
“Ah.”
“So why the sudden interest in Smithers? You’ve never been bothered with the artwork at Briarwood before.”
“It’s fine, Dad.” I opened the first case and pulled out a stack of yellowed papers, which mostly looked to be sketches. Maeve slid a binder filled with letters across the table and flipped through them. “You don’t want to know.”
“Corbin, if you tell me what’s going on, I might be able to help.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to know, because…” I lifted an eyebrow toward Maeve, who was already engrossed in one of the letters.
Dad gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I’m trying. Go on, son. If I need you to stop, then I’ll tell you.”
I met the ocean of pain in his eyes, and that flicker of hope flared another inch higher. “Do you remember the big portrait of Aline on the upper landing of Briarwood? Ever since Maeve started living with us, we noticed it moving. I know it sounds insane, but I saw it with my own eyes. The features on the painting went from serene to terrified. And we found out from Clara at theAstarteshop that the artist, Robert Smithers, was a witch so…” I gestured to the table. “I don’t know what we hope to find, but there’s got to be something here that will tell us what’s going on.”
Dad leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. “The painting moved? It’s not a fae glamour?”
“That was my first thought, too, especially since—” I was about to explain about Blake but stopped myself. I didn’t want to bombard Dad with too much stuff, not when he actually soundedinterestedin something involving the fae. Instead, I coughed into my sleeve. “But it’s not. The magic is part of the paint.”
“Andrew, you must have met Smithers when you were at Briarwood,” Maeve looked up, smiling at him. “Can you tell us anything about him?”
