I didn’t care about the DNA results, but maybe Flynn needed the distraction.
I flipped the envelope over and slid my finger along the seal. My mind flashed back to the last time I opened a letter – standing in the library at Briarwood, sliding Corbin’s sword-shaped letter opener under the wax seal of my mother’s letter, a letter he’d saved and guarded for me since he took over the castle from his parents.
Ten sheets of A4 paper fell out into my hands. I scanned the first page. I expected to read a form letter about decoding my history and unlocking the secrets of the past, but instead I had a personal letter from the laboratory’s director, inviting me in person for further study. “Inconclusive results… never seen anything like it before… almost appears as if you have two fathers, which is of course completely impossible… please contact the lab immediately…”
My hands trembled. The letter slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the ground.
“Maeve?” Flynn waved his hand in front of my eyes.
My head spun. In my lap, graphs fanned out, dotted with anomalies marked in vivid red ink, as red as Arthur’s blood.
It was irrefutable scientific proof – I had two fathers.
I was part fae. I carried inside of me some of Daigh’s magic.
18
ROWAN
“Rowan… Rowan!”
Blake’s voice followed me down the echoing hallway. I stopped next to a vending machine, supporting my body against its snack-filled belly, and waited for him to catch up.
“She won’t believe me,” I whispered, staring at the Post-it notes in my hand. I felt so sure I held the key to saving Corbin, but Maeve didn’t want to see it. If everything he’d said in her dream was true, then with every minute we were moving closer to the Slaugh and Daigh’s attempt to usurp the throne of the underworld. Although how he’d do that locked up in Raynard Hall without his powers, I couldn’t guess.
“I did tell you,” Blake grinned. “We’re on our own for this, darling Rowan.”
“Did you want something?” I needed to be alone right now, get my thudding heart back under control.
“Only to show you this.” Blake grabbed a Post-it note out of my hand and held it up. It was the alchemical diagram, with symbols and arrows pointing in every direction.
“I’ve seen it,” I said, exasperated. “I don’t know what it means—”
Blake flipped the note over.
Cold crept down my spine, and my chest clamped so tight I struggled for breath. There was writing on the back. Corbin’s spiky handwriting spelled out an address, and above it, the words, Rowan, I’m sorry.
I hadn’t even thought to look on the backs of the Post-its. I missed this personal message from Corbin.
I wrote it all down for you.
I knew without looking it up who lived that that address. My grandparents, Lord and Lady Pembroke, who disowned my mother after she married a black witch. The grandparents who knew I existed and that I was an orphan but instead of taking me in, allowed me to enter the foster care system and cycle through abusive homes until I’d broken and went to live on the street.
“I take it from your expression that this address means something to you,” Blake said.
I nodded.
Blake snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, then.”
“Huh?”
“Corbin left you this note. He obviously wants us to go there. Maybe it’s a clue.”
“Blake, I don’t think—”
But Blake was already heading to the entrance, his fingers swiping across the screen of his phone, calling up a rideshare. Numb with fear at what I’d discover at that house, I trailed after him.
The heavy knocker fell on the door, hammering in my chest like an earthquake.
Pembroke Hall towered over me, a Georgian facade of gleaming white columns and high, narrow windows. Although it was only a stone’s throw from the castle, I’d never seen this part of Crookshollow before. I never had much cause to leave the house. This place looked like the kind of house filled with chairs you couldn’t sit on and golden toilets you weren’t allowed to piss in.
It looked like the kind of house filled with secrets and ghosts.
My teeth rattled in my mouth. What are you doing here? Go back to Briarwood. You’re dealing with enough right now between Corbin’s death and Arthur’s hospitalization, without adding this to the mix. Maeve needs you, even if she is being a stubborn science nerd. Go back to her.
I turned away from the door. Behind me, Blake’s mouth curled up into a smirk. He reached around me and battered his fist against the door.
My heart stopped. My legs froze in place. I stared at the door, willing it to open and at the same time hoping it would remain closed forever. When no one came I turned away, relief surging through me. No one’s home. I’ll come back tomorrow, or maybe next week, after the Slaugh. That’s a good idea—
The door jerked open, startling me. In the entrance stood a stern-faced woman with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her hip cocked haughtily, in a similar way Maeve did when she wanted one of us to listen to her. “What do you want?” she frowned at me.
“Ah…” The careful speech I’d composed flew out of my head. I fumbled for my pocket where I’d stashed the paper. “Um… you see, I…”
“Didn’t you read the notice on the gate?” the woman snapped. “No solicitors.” She tried to shut the door, but Blake shoved his foot into the gap. She slammed the door against his foot, but all he did was whistle between his teeth.
Thank the gods for Blake.
“My name’s Rowan.” I muttered, staring down at my shoe as she battered the door against Blake’s boot. “I’m Dana’s son.”
The door flew open as the woman stumbled back, her hands on her mouth. Her eyes – deep and dark and green, a mirror image of my own – widened, shot with fear.
“You’re not supposed to contact us,” she gasped. “I gave very strict instructions.”
“He never got your instructions,” Blake said easily. “He grew up in the street.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said. “I know you’ve got your life here. I don’t want money, and I’m sorry about my friend putting his foot in the door. I just want to talk… please?”
She glared at me, but she did hold the door open. “Fine. Only you. Your friend waits outside.”
“Fine by me,” Blake lifted his boot and grinned. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“I’ve got a panic button under the table, and the police will be here in a moment if you try anything.”
“Noted. Thank you for your hospitality.” I slipped my boots off and padded across the foyer after her. She led me through an opulent Georgian hall decorated in shades of white, and into a pale yellow drawing room. The house was silent, save for the ticking of an antique clock over the mantelpiece. Shelves on either side of the fireplace housed gold and crystal objects.
No wonder she never wanted a child in this house. This was no house for a nervous kid. I’d have spent my entire childhood sitting on my hands, so terrified I’d break something that my magic would’ve rebelled and built into a localized earthquake that would’ve broken everything anyway.
The woman – my grandmother, Lady Pembroke – sat in a high-backed chair in front of the fireplace and rang a bell. A moment later, a short, stocky woman in a black dress and sensible shoes appeared by the door. Her skin matched mine – a dark smudge against this white house and its white furnishings. I wondered if she ever accidentally tried to scrub herself away.
“Some tea for me and my guest,” Lady Pembroke barked without looking at the maid.
“Yes, Mrs. Pembroke.” The maid ducked away. I stared at my knees, too terrified to speak.
My grandmother didn’t speak either, and after an eternity punctuated by the ticking clock and a white cat slinking into the room and curling up at my feet, the maid returned with a tray of tea. She placed the silver tea service on the table next to my gr
andmother. Lady Pembroke poured the tea with meticulous attention to old fashioned service, and proffered me a cup and saucer.
I took the cup, just to have something to do with my hands. As I moved the saucer to my knee, my shaking hand splashed hot tea on my lap. I set the cup down and picked up a shortbread instead.
I took a bite of shortbread. Big mistake. It was a terrible recipe – too sugary and dry. It stuck in my throat and crumbled all over my jeans. Across from me, Mrs. Pembroke frowned as she observed my atrocious table manners, no doubt second-guessing her invitation. I wondered if right this moment the maid stood outside the door, her finger poised over the panic button, waiting for a signal to turn me in.
“Let us get straight to the point,” Lady Pembroke said. “If you are Dana’s child – which I refuse to believe until I see your paperwork – you’ll get no money from us. We made it very clear that we were not to be involved in your life in any way.”
“I already told you, I don’t want money.” Blood roared in my ears. The yellow walls swelled and buckled in front of me. Opposite the fireplace was a white bookshelf containing rows of books with matching white and gold spines. I counted them. One, two, three…
“If that is so, you have until the bottom of this teacup to tell me what you want, or I’m calling the police.”
“My best friend just died,” I said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She sipped her tea, not sounding sorry at all.
“He took me in when I was on the streets, gave me the first real home I ever knew. I was in foster care before that. I ran away. I couldn’t take the abuse. It was the bravest thing I ever did, but also pointless. I lived on the streets, and the abuse never stopped. I’m easy to hurt.”
The words caught on my tongue, arriving stilted and out of order. I’d never said this many words to a stranger in my entire life, at least not without drugs coursing through my system. “I didn’t come for you then. Corbin came for me instead. I was lucky enough to have a family. I live at Briarwood Castle. It’s just over the hill. It burned down the other night.”
“I saw that in the newspaper. Unfortunate business. I’ve visited the castle for the historical tour. You have an admirable topiary maze and some fine antiques, although your guest amenities could use some work. Why are you here?”
Seven, eight, nine…
“I see that you and Lord Pembroke never had any other children, and I thought… I wondered… could we get to know each other? Could you tell me about my mum?” The word was so foreign on my tongue. It had been years since I allowed myself to think of my parents are real people. “I never knew her and I see now that… that it’s important to keep alive the memories of people who meant something to us.”
Lady Pembroke glared at me from across the table, her teacup hovering in midair. I braced myself for her dismissal. I thought I heard the stomping of standard issue police constable boots clattering down the hall, coming to arrest me for daring to approach a woman of her status. Instead, she set down her cup and rose to her feet. “Follow me.”
I trailed after her up the staircase, not daring to touch the gleaming mahogany bannister or the textured white wallpaper. The first floor was decorated in the same grand Georgian style as the rest of the house, all in shades of white and cream that made my dark skin seem even more out of place.
Lady Pembroke threw open a door at the end of the hall. “I’ve left it exactly as she did.”
I stepped into a bedroom about the size of the Great Hall. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the space, hung with white lace curtains and made up with cream silk pillows. A white dresser stood under the window, the mirrors angled inwards. White, white, white. The starkness of it stifled me. The girl in this room had no place in her life for a messy, dreadlocked black baby.
It reminded me of the room at Corbin’s parents house, the one that captured a moment in time that had never really existed. A memorial to the two sons they’d lost. A place to remember, and to forget.
A vase at the windowsill held a bunch of cream roses, their petals browning at the edges. I touched my hand to the flowers, sending a thread of magic through my palm. When I withdrew my hand, the roses bounced back to life, and their fresh scent wafted across my nostrils.
Mrs. Pembroke gripped the door jamb with white-knuckled hands. “Earth magic,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered back.
She shook her head. “It’s been many years since I have seen it.”
“You don’t use yours…?”
“Heavens, no.” She scoffed. “I’ve worked a long time to restore my reputation. I won’t sully it by associating with sorcery.”
I walked around the room, taking in details, trying to piece together my mother from these ancient remnants of her life. Details leapt out, the kind of details that were only obvious to someone like me. Objects on her dresser lined up so all the edges were parallel. The toes of her shoes perfectly even. The tops of the candles shaved off so they were at the exact same height. Posters hung at exact right angles to each other. And everything in even sets – two pillows on the chair, two paintings above the bed, two scarves on each hook. Two candlesticks on the mantelpiece when three would look more aesthetically pleasing.
A weird look crossed over Lady Pembroke’s face as she saw me looking at the candles. “Dana was always doing that – lining up objects in her strange way. She was obsessive about it. We’d go to cocktails with our neighbors and she’d be rearranging their mantelpieces. Lady Shetland once accused her of stealing a Wedgwood plate. She made a huge fuss in the middle of a ball and all Dana had done was move it to another shelf so it was in a pair.”
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 behavior therapy down in London, and she was getting better, until she met that 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 a chainmail 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.
19
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 was weird telling jokes to an audience that didn’t react. Arthur’s face should have been 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 we should 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-colored birds perched on her shoulders. The scene would be 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.
The Castle of Spirit and Sorrow Page 13
