Bookshelves lined either side of the fireplace. I touched the edges of the volumes. Dana – my mother – had even arranged them in size order. “Did she ever… have panic attacks?”
“Only every other week. We took her to all sorts of specialists abroad. She was having cognitive behaviour therapy down in London, and she was getting better, until she metthat man.” She spat out the words like she’d swallowed something foul.
Her words rocked through my body.My mother was in therapy. My mother heard the voices, too. She was just like me.
There was a photo album on top of the bookshelf. The picture on the front was of a lovely white girl with the same dark hair as her mother, only hers was long and free, encircled with achainmail headdress. Beside her was a tall black man with a wide, genuine smile.
My parents.I never got to know either of them, but I felt like I understood my mother now. We had a connection – we were both messed up in the head/
Lady Pembroke took the photo album from my hand and placed it back on the shelf, so the photo faced down. “Your friend who died…”
“Corbin.”
“Was he the boy killed in the fire at the castle?”
I nodded.
“Nasty business. I hope you’re making someone pay for it.” She held the door open, sniffing at the air as though it gave her allergies. “Well, you have seen what you wanted.”
“Thank you.”
“If you want to come again for tea, that would be fine.” She frowned at me. “Don’t bring your friend next time.”
“I won’t. Thank you, Lady Pembroke.”
“Yes.” She nodded. Downstairs, she held open the door while I shoved my feet into my sneakers. Outside, Blake stood on the steps. He flashed her with his unnerving smile. She slammed the door.
“What a warm, kind-hearted soul,” Blake mused as we walked back through the manicured front garden.
I nodded, my mind a million miles away, back in my mother’s room, in her perfectly symmetrical candlesticks and her arms around my father.
Corbin had kept this information from me to protect me. But it had given me something to cling to. If only Corbin was alive to see how well I was doing,
I was determined that he would be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NINETEEN: FLYNN
“You’ll love this one, mate. An Irish priest is driving down the M1, and he gets stopped for speeding. The constable smells alcohol on the priest’s breath and then sees an empty wine bottle on the floor of the car. He asks the priest if he’s been drinking. ‘Just water,’ says the priest. ‘Then why do I smell wine?’ asks the constable. The priest looks down at the bottle and gives a start, ‘Good Lord! He’s done it again!’”
It’s weird telling jokes to an audience that didn’t react. Arthur’s face should be crumpling with resignation, not pointing flaccidly at the ceiling. Even Maeve couldn’t muster a reaction. From across the bed, her eyes stared right through me.
After Blake and Rowan went off, I’d stayed with Maeve and Arthur, racking my brain for every shite joke I knew to fill the gaping silence of the room. At least my voice drowned out the beeping machines, and there was always the chance Arthur would wake up and marmalade me.
I’d never looked forward to a beating so much in my life.
Someone knocked at the door. Maeve didn’t move, her eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. I opened it as Aline, Clara, and Smithers bustled in, declaring they’d come to relieve us and weshould go back to the hall. Maeve refused to leave, as I knew she would, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to witness the moment when Ryan’s finished painting would be revealed to the world.
“Go, Flynn.” Maeve kissed my cheek. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
When I entered the studio ballroom, Ryan and Simon had the finished painting mounted between two stone pillars on a bare white wall, surrounded by lights and filters. My breath hitched as I got the first glimpse at Ryan’s masterpiece.
He’d painted a woman who might’ve been a storybook witch, complete with black cloak and hood and pointed black shoes with buckles. She sat on a fallen log in a forest of twisted trees – a signature detail of Ryan’s work – tossing scraps of food to animals that scurried around her. Foxes, rabbits, and other critters leapt and scrabbled at her feet, while bright-coloured birds perched on her shoulders. The scene was idyllic, if not for the witch’s stance. She paid no heed to the animals. Her body twisted as she peered over her shoulder to gaze longingly at a group of women walking through the trees behind her. They were dressed in bright, modern clothes, and their heads bent together, their hands over their mouths as though they were whispering secrets or stifling cruel laughter. The canvas dripped with loneliness and isolation – the witch who did good deeds but had to hide in the forest, her desire to be part of a community showing in the hunch of her shoulders. The gossiping girls who had no concept of the damage they did. In the trees, a pair of gleaming emerald eyes surveyed the scene. A fae hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. Ryan had titled it,The Witch’s Lament.
It wasn’t the picture I’d expected to see – it was a gazillion times better. After everything the villagers had faced on the meadow, and how Maeve and Blake had planted the idea thatwitches were on their side, this poignant scene would remind them that they played a part in turning witches into the bad guys.
Simon snapped pictures from all angles, then spoke into Ryan’s phone as he made a quick Youtube video, zeroing in on details of the witch’s face and the playful animals. It was weird that even though Ryan was the artist, the face of his social media was the laconic old butler. Ryan told me that Simon even had his own Facebook fanpage, where he posted videos about etiquette and traditional British baking.
