The wind blew tamely, and the expected whispers of the unknown remained silent. It is just a wood, she thought. The shadows in the trees shifted, and through the mist it almost appeared as if figures hung back behind the gnarled oaks, waiting for her to come near and snatch her within.
She hesitated as something flittered in the darkness beyond the fog. A bird shrieked, and she twirled in place. As she did so, she swore she saw a pair of glowing eyes staring at her from within the mist. She stumbled back as a large shadow emerged from the woods and headed towards her.
She turned to run as a shadow flew over her. She thought of the black bird and decided she should head back inside. Perhaps she had gotten too much sun as of late. That could be the reason for her hallucinations. Maybe Mrs. Moira had some sewing for her at the least—though she would have to admit she never had a knack for sewing and embroidery.
A flash streaked past. Catherine stopped and upturned her head to regard a great brown owl that had perched itself upon a branch at the edge of the garden path. It blinked large liquid eyes and hooted softly.
She pressed her palms to her chest. Just a bird. She calmed herself. “A bit late for you, is it not, Miss Owl.”
The owl hooted back, “Careful, missus.”
Catherine shook herself. There was no such thing as talking birds; yesterday was just a hallucination.
“She’ll know you crossed the barrier,” the owl elaborated.
“Owls cannot talk,” Catherine said, but her palms had become slick, and she bunched her hands in the fabric of her coat.
“You are correct. They do not in the other realm.” The bird ruffled her feathers and tilted her head to watch Catherine.
Common sense dictated that she turn and head back inside, lie down, and forget talking owls and mysterious woods, but nothing about Thornwood lent to common sense. If she were hallucinating again, she may as well play along. “What do you mean by other realm?”
The owl clicked her beak. “A creature like you should know, unless…”
“That’s enough, Tabitha,” Mr. Thorn stepped up. She had not seen him approach. He appeared as if manifesting from the mist.
She rounded to face him and snapped her jaw shut. Mr. Thorn heard the owl too, or rather, Tabitha, as he had addressed her.
The owl, Tabitha, gave him a pointed look, if owls can do such a thing, and clicked her beak at him as well. She shifted on the branch, rocking from one foot to the other. She turned her dark eyes back to Catherine. “It was nice to meet you, missus.” Then with the flutter of wings, she was gone.
Catherine stared after her, dumbfounded.
“That bird talked.”
“It did,” Mr. Thorn said.
The initial shock had dissipated, and Catherine found coherent thought a difficult task. “Birds do not talk.”
“Well, apparently they do.” Mr. Thorn smiled, and it sent that same squirming uncomfortable sensation over her skin. She wanted to flee in equal measure to wanting to have him tell her more.
She shook her head as if to shake off the very notion of talking birds. It was all too much. She needed to run away. “I am sorry—” she started to say, but Mr. Thorn stepped in front of her, blocking her way.
“I closed the gate. It’s time we talked.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“What are you talking about, what gate?” She knew very well she was stalling, but she feared facing the truth. The woman yesterday had dredged up memories of her past she would like to leave in her past. Birds did not talk, monsters were not real, and there were no such thing as the fae.
“The gateway between your world and the Other Side. I must admit, I am impressed you found it on your own. We thought you would need help for the first crossing.” He motioned to the place where the manicured path met the wilds of the woods.
She wanted to laugh, but the sound came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat instead, to cover the sound, and said, “You’re speaking nonsense, Mr. Thorn. I must be getting back.”
She tried to walk around him, but he shot his arm out to stop her once again. “You cannot until I release my spell. I guard the gate, and none pass without my permission.”
She fought the urge to look into his dark eyes and lost in the end. A twinkle of humor crinkled his eyes. He was enjoying this!
She attempted to sidestep him. What would Edward think if he found her conversing with the gardener! She could just imagine Mrs. Moira’s disapproving stare. “This is highly improper, Mr. Thorn. Let me pass, please.”
He shook his head and blocked her exit once more. The infernal smirk never left his countenance. “Not until you hear what you must.”
“I demand you let me leave!” Her heart thumped audibly in her ears, and she shook a bit from adrenaline. She had never felt more alive in her life. She had never commanded someone before, and she liked it, though she would not say as much aloud.
“That’s more like it. But I am still not letting you go.”
“And why not?” She fought the urge to place a hand on her hip. That kind of action was not becoming of a lady.
“Because it’s time you faced the truth about yourself.”
Catherine felt a ball of dread grow in her stomach, and the elated feeling sunk with it. “What truth might that be?”
“The monster, Miss Smith, the black bird on the road yesterday, and all the strange things that happened as you were growing up that everyone told you just to ignore.”
Her breath caught. How could he possibly know?
“I want to leave,” she gasped. She was torn between fear and intrigue.
“No, Catherine, you want to know what’s happening around here. I know you do, but you have to face the facts first.”
“And what are those, Mr. Thorn.” Her voice shook despite her attempts to remain indifferent.
“That Those Who Dwell in the Thorns are real, and I am one of them.”
She laughed. He was being absurd. Those that Dwell in the Thorns, monsters, talking animals, they were all her imagination. Mr. Thorn shook his head. His skin darkened, taking on the hue of oak. His hair corded and bunched tighter like a series of vines, and his features became more angular and sharper in their beauty, and his eyes were dark like forest shadows.
He stood before her as a creature from a picture book. Catherine, overwhelmed by the sight she could not process and could not run away from, fainted.
The servant shuffled outside the door, he was hesitant to bring his mistress the news, though delaying it may result in a more severe punishment in the end. As he paced outside the door, debating whether or not it would be wise to interrupt his mistress while she was taking her afternoon tea, he received a summons.
“I know you are hiding out there. Come in.”
The servant swallowed hard and pushed open the double doors that led into the parlor.
“My lady.” He bowed low in hopes of appeasing her probable anger at the news.
“What is it? I was not expecting you to return so soon.”
“Well, my lady, there is urgent news.”
“Oh?”
“She has made contact. She crossed over the border today.” He flinched, waiting for her to strike.
The lady reached forward and grabbed a teacup off the table beside her. “Has she now. I have to say I am impressed. Was she helped across?”
“Not that I can tell,” he said whilst wringing his hands. “She just stepped across the threshold.”
“His little puppet did not interfere, then?”
“It would appear not.”
“How delightful, she has much more power than I would have suspected. Keep a close watch on her, and report back to me with any other changes in her condition.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed, his shirt cuffs almost touching the ground.
“One last thing, take this.” She tossed a vial into the air, and it gleamed red by the firelight.
“What shall I do with it, my lady?”
“I want
you to slip it into her food or drink. Things are progressing much quicker than I planned. This will help keep her in line with my aspirations for her.”
He placed the vial into his shirt pocket and bowed again. “Yes, my lady, will there be anything else?”
“No, that is all.” She dismissed him with a wave of her pale, long-fingered hand.
He fumbled out of the room, glad to be away. The lady stood and went to stand before the fire. She muttered under her breath, and a blue blaze erupted in the fireplace.
The lady brushed her hand through the blue flames, and the image of Edward erupted there. He sat at ease in his office. He held some documents loosely in his hand, and he folded one leg over the other. She turned her hand over, and a red crystal materialized in her palm. She reached into the fire with it and sunk her hand into his chest. He stopped reading and pressed a hand to his breast. He set down his papers as his brows furrowed. She removed her hand, and the crystal flashed beneath his vest before disappearing entirely.
“Time to play, my dears.” She laughed as Edward doubled over in pain.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Thorn carried an unconscious Catherine into the manor, much to the dismay of the household. Mrs. Moira announced the grave news to Edward. He hurried down the steps in a most ungentlemanly manner. Mr. Thorn stood at the base of the steps, a frail Catherine cradled in his arms. Her dark hair had come loose and fell onto her pale cheeks. Edward took his wife into his arms from the gardener with a nod.
“Thank you for bringing her in. I owe you a debt, Mr. Thorn.”
“It is my honor to be of service to you, steward of the thorns.” Mr. Thorn bowed and made his exit. Had Edward not been worried for his wife’s wellbeing, he might have wondered at the form of address, but given the circumstance, he dismissed it as a peculiarity of the gardener.
Edward carried Catherine to her chambers, much to Mrs. Moira’s chagrin for him to do otherwise.
“Call for Dr. McCrae!” he instructed the housekeeper. She gave him a curt bow and hurried to do her master’s bidding.
He laid Catherine down on the bed and took a seat by her side. Catherine’s eyes fluttered and then opened. Edward exhaled a sigh of relief. I do not know what I would have done if she had not been well! he thought.
“Darling, you collapsed while exercising. Are you unwell?”
Catherine paled further and held the back of her hand to her mouth. “I am, perhaps, a bit fatigued. I believe I had too much sun.” She lowered her lashes and did not look him in the eye.
“Dr. McCrae will be here shortly to examine you. Just rest for now, darling.”
She looked past him without responding. He worried it was more than too much sun but did not press her in her fragile condition and left her to rest. On his way out, in the hall, he met Dr. McCrae, who was rosy cheeked from hurrying to their need. The speed with which the doctor had arrived was surprising.
“Dr. McCrae, thank you for coming so quickly. Catherine collapsed in the shrubbery during her morning exercise!”
“I heard. A servant came to fetch me but a few minutes ago, and luckily enough, I was on my way to call! I am sorry to hear she is not well. I do not have my things with me, but I will look her over. Though I expect a woman in delicate condition is prone to be easily fatigued.” He smiled between huffs of air.
“What are you saying, that my wife is of ill health?”
The doctor laughed. “Not at all, Thornton. However, it is not uncommon for a newlywed couple to expect new blessings.”
Realization settled over him, and he was too shocked to speak. A child so soon? They had been married but a fortnight. He, of course, wanted a son to inherit his land and household, but this was an unexpected development, indeed.
Edward forced a smile and a show of excitement as Dr. McCrae looked on expectantly. “That would be a great blessing.”
“It will be some time before we will know for sure, of course,” Dr. McCrae added, “but I do believe you shall have a son before the year is out, my friend.”
“I can only hope!” he said. “She lies within, if you could put my mind at rest and examine her…”
“I shall hurry to it, then.” Dr. McCrae smiled and let himself into Catherine’s chamber, shutting the door behind him.
Edward stared at the closed door for some time. How can Catherine be pregnant with my child when I had only taken her maidenhead two nights ago? Unless she was no maiden at all… Pain constricted his chest, and he found it difficult to breathe for a moment.
He clutched a table nearby and gasped to catch his breath. No, it is not possible. Catherine would not betray me in that way. Yet a niggling voice at the back of his mind begged to differ. He knew very little of his bride, given their brief courtship and his insistence they marry quickly and return to Thornwood Manor. They had not even taken a honeymoon journey! Upon reflection, he could not remember why he had been in such a hurry. There had been no pressing matters to attend to and the season in town had been in full swing, an ideal time to visit.
The pain ebbed, and Edward was able to stand upright once more, but the gnawing doubt had not subsided.
Dr. McCrae had left an hour before, and Catherine, confined to bed, sat about reading and making every attempt to forget the preposterous notion that Mr. Thorn was anything other than a gardener or that an owl named Tabitha had spoken to her. She had not spoken a word about her delusions to the doctor for fear he would tell her husband. She could not stand the thought of Edward thinking her mad. Catherine was still trying to forget the notion when a tap-tap at her window drew her eye. None other than Tabitha, the talking owl, awaited her there.
Catherine looked down at her book, resolving to ignore her. Owls did not talk, and her husband’s gardener was not some fae creature. Tabitha, for her part, continued to tap on the glass with her beak. After several minutes, Catherine went and drew the curtains on her, effectively shutting out her madness from herself.
The tapping, of course, persisted. Catherine set aside her book and decided perhaps it would be a good time for a nap. She rolled over and pulled her covers up high over her head. The tapping became more urgent, and a few alarmed squawks accompanied the rattle of glass as if Tabitha were throwing herself against the window.
Fearing that Tabitha would injure herself, as silly a thought as that was, Catherine jumped up and threw open the window. Tabitha flew in with a gust of wind, which brought with it a chill. Tabitha swooped across the room and landed on a chair by the fire. She ruffled her feathers and fidgeted on the back of the chair as if warming herself by the fire.
“Why did you keep me waiting?” Tabitha accused.
“Because birds do not talk or knock at windows!” Catherine insisted, though she was not sure why she was talking to her hallucination, despite her resolution to ignore it.
“You keep saying that, and yet here I am.” The bird spread her wings.
She had collapsed from too much sun, and she was imagining things as a result. That’s what she kept telling herself, yet she could not escape the madness. “Why are you here?” she asked. Since ignoring it was not helping, maybe if she gave her imagination room to roam, she could get this out of her system.
“I’ve come with a message for you.” Tabitha puffed up her chest, and Catherine suspected she was proud of her errand. Strange she would give imaginary talking birds pride.
“What sort of message is that?” Catherine asked with a raised brow.
Tabitha was not listening, however. She had her head cocked to one side. “I best hurry, the parlor maid will be here with your lunch shortly.”
“I am certain she will. Perhaps you should leave, then?” Only in her mad ravings would she ever be so condescending and forward.
“I’ll be brief, then. You are invited to join the forest dance, two nights hence. It is being held in your honor to welcome you home.”
The word home hung on the air. Catherine had never been to Thornwood in her life. Why would she imagine
such a grand thing, unless this was a dream to tie in with her own ball that Edward planned to host in her honor. “The forest dance? I will be sure to wear my best gown and ribbons,” Catherine replied and shook her head. She wanted to lie down or wake up, whatever the case may be. The day’s events had been taxing beyond measure, and she wished to forget everything.
“That won’t be necessary. Come as you are. We do not put on airs in the Thorn Dwellers’ Court,” Tabitha said. It would appear the owl was not affected by Catherine’s bluntness.
Catherine laughed. This was utterly absurd. Even in her wildest fantasies she would never have imagined something this strange, being invited to a dance in the forest by an owl? “Shall I wear my nightgown, then? Is that to suit?” She felt a thrill talking to Tabitha in this way. It was indulgent in a way she would never let herself be in reality. It felt freeing.
Tabitha’s large golden eyes raked Catherine up and down. “I have no eye for human garb, but I am sure that would be fine.” She hooted as if amused at her own joke. “Now, I must be off. Make sure to come once you hear the music playing two nights from now, and remember to shut the window after me.”
Without so much as a by your leave, Tabitha spread her wings and flew out the window. Catherine went back to the bed, hoping to lie down and wake once more in a saner place. However, before climbing into bed, she remembered the open window. It seemed rude to ignore a direct request, even if she had dreamed it.
As she was walking towards the window, she heard footsteps on the landing. By the time she had closed the window and climbed back in bed, the maid had entered with a tray.
“Lunch, mistress.”
Catherine watched, her mouth agape, as she set the platter down on a nearby table. Am I not mad? Could the owl have been right? She shook her head. It could not be real. Perhaps this, too, was a dream.
The maid poured her tea, and Catherine picked up the cup without thinking. The water was scalding, and her mind on her dream, Catherine accidently spilt it, and the scalding water burnt her hand. Catherine hissed at the pain and sucked the injured finger.
Those Who Dwell in the Thorns Page 5
