Chapter
Forty-Two
It’s been three weeks since the Harroways arrived at House Cernunnos.
And three weeks since Aowen abandoned our information gathering to assist Sabre with his renovations instead.
I have not teased her yet, but I have grand plans.
I don’t really need her help anyway. I’ve been through every nook and cranny of Granny Maggie’s rooms. Her numerous sketchbooks are mostly filled with portraits of Sabre. Given that only seven years have passed here in the Otherworld while nearly fifty have passed in the human world, he doesn’t look much different in the sketches except his hair is a bit shorter, his eyes a bit livelier. In addition to the portraits, there are a few drawings of flora—purple heather, bright green bracken, pink willowherb. All far more colorful than the skeletal black and gray that coats most of the land now. Though I did see a tiny greenleaf poking its head aboveground last week and I swear the black elder bushes are starting to show berries.
Perhaps Sabre is enjoying his new company more than he anticipated.
Outside of the sketchbooks, Granny doesn’t seem to have put her stamp on anything else within the manor. I was hoping to find some journals, maybe even a letter or two. I should have known better. She always expressed herself best through imagery. But I cannot figure out what story, if any, she was trying to tell within these drawings. The ring has not warmed atanything.I’m not even sure what I’m looking for anymore.
And now, two days before Mabon, I am running out of time to find any hint at all of where to start in the human realm.
Tonight, I’ve decided to let my thoughts wander. Sometimes I can pick up unforeseen patterns or snatch a piece of missing knowledge from my idle mind. I’m curled in an overstuffed armchair before the fireplace in Granny Maggie’s bedchamber. I’ve taken to sleeping here instead of the sparse but comfortable quarters Sabre prepared for me. My sketchbook is open in my lap and I’m working on my own piece instead of poring over my grandmothers’ for the thousandth time.
I don’t dare turn back the pages. I know what I will find. Portraits of Lachlan in various stages of undress. Half-rendered illustrations of couplings that still have the power to make me blush. That drawing from our final night together and the note he left me.
You helped me, too, Charlotte. More than you know. With my deepest affection, Lachlan.
I cannot decide who I miss more lately, him or Granny Maggie. It’s hard not to view her secrets as betrayal, even if she lost her memories the moment that ring fell from her finger.
The piece I’m working on is a portrait of her at my age. I’m taking the woman I remember—the wild mane of gray hair, thepale blue eyes, the wicked grin—and trying to imagine how she must have looked when Sabre met her. She had deep copper hair when she was younger—a point of great pride. She loved how the color made her stand out in a crowd. My mother had strawberry blond hair, a mix of Granny’s and Grandpa Edward’s. And then there’s me with my pale blond waves. As if the color dulled with each new generation. As if I am a washed-out imitation of the bold, adventurous women that came before me.
There’s a vise around my ribs, a deep ache that is less due to Granny Maggie’s failure to hint her faerie stories were real—did she even know?—and more due to her passing. I will never get a chance to sharemyfaerie story with her.
The door behind me cracks open. “You’re still awake. Want some company?”
“Not really,” I say to Aowen, pulling pencil across paper without looking up.
“I thought you might say that. Which is why I brought reinforcements.”
I glance over my shoulder, and she wiggles a basket of caramel tarts.
Damn her.
“Come on, then,” I sigh, gesturing to the other armchair. She sweeps in and sets the basket onto the small table between us. “Where’s Vesper?”
“Mending garments for the Vale refugees. Three more groups arrived today. Including another family with small children. The upper floors of the east wing are very lively.”
“How does His Grace feel about that?”
“Do you know I caught himsmilingthis morning? Revolutionary.”
I smirk, folding up my sketchbook and tucking it beside me. Better there than on the table where Aowen might be tempted to pick it up and peruse its scandalous contents. “And where is theHouse’s illustrious master? You seem very reluctant to leave his side lately.”
Aowen shrugs, pursing her lips. “He’s walking the grounds with Skadi.”
Of course, I know this. Sabre and his necrowolf run the same route every night. But I’ll never pass up a chance to needle Aowen about him.
“How is your information gathering going?” she asks.
I groan, grabbing a warm tart from the basket and sinking my teeth into gooey, buttery deliciousness. “Not well. There’s barely anything in Granny’s sketchbooks save drawings of your maybe-future-husband. There are no journals, no secret notes in any of the other books, nothing. I am beginning to wonder if she took the fragment on impulse. Or …”
“Or what?”
