“Um… I think the line is, ‘we cannot make bricks without clay’.”
Blake’s smirk widened. “You’re correct. That other thing is an old fairy idiom. Supposedly an ancient Seelie king said about humans. But to the task at hand, I’m going to try to get into Maeve’s dreams. It won’t be easy, because dreamwalking isn’t my specialty, but there might be a few things I can try. We need to see what she sees in that dream.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Yes. I’m going to need some of that sleeping potion you used for the original spell. It’ll put Maeve in a state where we can more easily slip into her dream. Can you do that?”
I nodded. I’d seen racks of herbs on the shelves in Ryan’s pantry. It looked as though I’d be able to find everything I needed.
“There’s one other thing,” Blake continued. “You know Corbin better than me; his habits, the way he thinks. When we go back to Briarwood, check his desk and any other little secret places or hidey holes. Look for spells, notes, objects… anything that might tell us what he did. I’ll distract Maeve so you can have as much time as you need to find something useful.”
I thought of Corbin’s desk piled high with books, each one littered with post-it notes and torn sheets of scribbled translations. How would I find anything in his mess?
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
“If there are answers to be had, they’re in that library. We must keep this quiet from Maeve, you know that? She’s not in any state to accept the possibility that her dreams are actual messages.”
“I know.”
“You okay with lying to her, then?” Blake’s smirk deepened. “I’ve discovered humans have quite an aversion to lying.”
I didn’t want to keep secrets from Maeve, but Blake was right. Maeve wouldn’t accept anything less than scientific evidence of Corbin’s survival, and I needed to follow this. I needed the hope, otherwise…
“And Arthur and Flynn – we can’t tell them either.” Blake’s eyes darkened at their names, which was weird. It was as though Arthur’s display in the drawing room had actually impacted him. But that wasn’t true. Blake lounged on the couch and met Arthur’s rage with his usual indifference. I was the one cowering from the rage of my friends.
I nodded. Arthur walked the knife edge of his control – another angry outburst and Raynard Hall would join Briarwoodin conflagration. And Flynn, as I’d discovered, couldn’t be trusted not to blab to the wrong person.
Blake’s smirk widened. He put out his hand, and I shook it. “I knew you’d agree. Welcome to the Blake Beckett Deception Club. I usually do this sneaking around stuff with Flynn, but you’ll do in a pinch. Be prepared, darling Rowan. Tonight you might be speaking to lover boy again.”
CHAPTER TEN
TEN: FLYNN
Stomach bursting with carrot cake, I moved on to my next mission. Operation have-a-conversation-with-the-famous-artist. Ryan Raynard was in the house, and I’d be a gammy Irish fool if I let this opportunity slip me by because of a little fae chaos.
I needed something to take my mind off everything. Losing Corbin had distorted everything, made. All the progress we’d made as people undone in a moment because that idiot had got a knife through the guts. Maeve may have been the epicentre of our coven, but Corbin was the glue. Now that he was gone everything was coming unstuck.
I was coming unstuck.
Arthur’s twisted face as he lashed out at Blake flashed in front of my eyes.
When Arthur got in one of his moods, I could usually wrangle a smile out of him and dissipate some of his fiery magic. Corbin was the only one who could talk him down, but I coulddistracthim. That’s what I did. I was the funny guy. I made people laugh so they didn’t cry or burn things.
I skipped down the hall, flinging open doors and peering into darkened rooms, searching for Ryan’s studio. He had to haveone somewhere. Of all these ghastly rooms, one of them would make a decent?—
Ah hah!
I flung open a pair of double doors, revealing a bright, elaborate ballroom. A marble floor stretched across the enormous space, and a vaulted ceiling rose high above, held up by arched stone pillars hung with industrial lights. Much of the space had been painted white, and the bright walls reflected light from the high mullioned windows, and modern skylights, casting interesting shadows on the elaborate plaster detailing.
Bold, detailed paintings were stacked against the walls and along the sides of a white grand piano in the centre of the room. Along the far wall at the back ran a mural depicting a wild fox hunt. In front of the mural shelves of paint cans and brushes and stretched canvases. It was an artist’s paradise.
Ryan sat at an easel near the window. Light from a floor lamp streamed across his canvas, which he painted in deft strokes.
“What are you doing in here?” he growled, kicking the foot of his easel to turn the canvas around so I couldn’t see it.
Shite.I backed toward the door, my hands up. I’d forgotten that Ryan, for all his hospitality, was a recluse. He wasn’t used to other people in his space, let alone in his creative studio. I was trespassing.
“I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I backed toward the door. “I just… wanted to see where you painted.”
