But she was already throwing off her blankets.
The castle stirred around her as she dressed with trembling fingers, but no one stopped her as she slipped through the kitchens and out the small door that led to the stable yard. The sky had darkened to the colour of bruises, purple-black and swollen with the promise of violence. The wind whipped her hair across her face and sent dry leaves skittering across the flagstones—summer debris from the great oak in the courtyard, torn loose by the gusting wind.
“My lady?”
She spun to find Marian emerging from the kitchens, arms full of kindling. The girl’s eyes were wide with concern.
“Just getting some air,” Elodie lied, her voice too bright. “The storm’s fascinating. Weather patterns, you know. Very—very scholarly interest.”
Marian’s brow furrowed. “’Tis nigh on to rain, my lady. You’ll be soaked through.”
“Fine. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
She wasn’t fooling anyone. She bolted before Marian could respond, ignoring the girl’s startled cry, racing across the yard and through the gate and onto the moor path before her courage could fail her.
The clearing wasn’t far. She’d known exactly where it was since the beginning—had felt its location like a splinter under her skin, impossible to ignore even when she refused to look. A rough circle of grass surrounded by gorse and heather, a few stunted trees bent by the constant wind. The place where she’d first opened her eyes in this time, soaked and terrified and utterly alone.
She’d never gone back. Not once. Not even when the homesickness grew so sharp she could barely breathe.
Until now.
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to rattle her teeth. The first fat drops of rain splattered against her face—warm rain, summer rain, carrying the electric charge of the storm.
Yes. Yes, this is it. This has to be it.
Elodie stumbled into the centre of the clearing and turned her face to the sky. Rain streamed down her cheeks, soaked through her gown, plastered her hair to her skull. Lightning forked across the clouds once, twice, three times in rapid succession, and the air smelled of ozone and wet earth and something else, something almost like?—
“Take me back!” she screamed into the storm, holding her bloody palm up. She’d scraped it on a tree as she stepped into the clearing. “I want to go home!”
The wind howled. The rain fell harder. Lightning struck a tree at the edge of the clearing with a crack like the world splitting open, and Elodie threw her arms wide, waiting for themagic to catch her, waiting for the pull, waiting for the falling sensation that would mean she was going home?—
Nothing.
The storm raged around her, but she remained exactly where she was. Solid. Earthbound. Trapped.
She had no necklace. No blood on the object, because there was no object. The magic wasn’t coming, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
The realisation crashed over her like a wave, and her knees buckled. She hit the sodden ground hard, mud squelching beneath her palms, and the sound that tore from her throat was barely human—a wail of grief and frustration and terror that the storm swallowed without a trace.
She screamed until her voice gave out. Sobbed until her chest ached. Pounded her fists against the earth until her hands throbbed with the impact. And still the storm raged, indifferent to her suffering, offering no magic, no escape, no hope.
Elodie didn’t know how long she knelt there. The rain soaked through every layer of clothing, warm against her skin but somehow still leaving her shivering—the cold coming from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside. Her life was gone. Her world was gone. Everything she’d worked for, everyone she’d known?—
A cloak settled around her shoulders.
She jerked her head up to find Gareth crouching before her, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made something crack open in her chest. Rain ran down his scarred throat and dripped from his jaw, and he didn’t seem to notice or care.
He’d come for her. Of course, he had. He always seemed to know when she needed him, as if some invisible thread connected them across the distance. She tried to speak, but her voice was gone, shredded by screaming. So she signed instead,her hands shaking so badly she could barely form the shapes.I wanted to go home.
Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe. Or understanding. Or both.
He reached for her, and she let him pull her up, let him wrap his arms around her, let the solid warmth of his body anchor her against the wind. He smelled of horses and smoke and rain, and when he lifted her into his arms—as easily as if she weighed nothing—she buried her face against his neck and let the last of her tears fall.
The castle was in an uproar when they returned. Servants rushed forward with linens to dry them, their exclamations of worry echoing off the stone walls. Someone herded her toward the enormous hearth, where a fire crackled despite the warmth of the summer evening—built, she suspected, specifically for her return.
“Witless thing to do,” she heard Old Wynne mutter as she passed. “Running about in a tempest. ’Tis a wonder she weren’t struck dead.”
Gareth hadn’t left her side. He dismissed the hovering servants with a gesture, wrapped a dry cloth around her shoulders, and pressed a cup of small ale into her trembling hands. The pottery was cool against her fingers, and she clutched it like a lifeline.
