by Shona Husk
She nodded, her lips twitching in a sad semblance of a smile. “It needs repairs.”
That was the problem with old houses. They were old and needed to be maintained. He made a couple more notes. In the silence he listened to the house creaking and for a moment he felt more than the history. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but even as he lifted his gaze and glanced casually around he knew there was nothing there. But he’d felt it. A Grey. The one he’d seen earlier or a different one? Neither option was appealing. He turned around and faced the row of doors as if nothing had happened. Lydia was watching him too closely for him to slip up. Maybe he was just being overly paranoid about fairies.
In the first room a wrought-iron bed covered in a frilly quilt took up the center. To the side was a matching dressing table and mirror. None of it looked cheap. Against his better judgment, he crossed the threshold and touched the wooden top of the dressing table.
A young woman cried as she packed away makeup. But there were other women before her. He skipped past those impressions without stopping, back to the piece’s creation at the turn of the century.
Slowly he drew his hand back. If Callaway House had antiques in every room, he was going to be here far longer than he’d expected. He looked more closely at the glass in the mirror, but nothing moved beyond the surface. What were the odds he’d find two fairy-touched mirrors in one day? One should be enough for anyone. And two Greys? Dylis hadn’t been joking when she’d mentioned the increase in fairy activity in the area because of the hunt for the Window.
“Is all the furniture original?”
“It may not all be totally original, but most if it’s quite old. We haven’t altered anything since closing to the public.”
“That was nearly thirty years ago.” His eyebrows drew together but only for a moment. Probably around the same time Lydia was born.
“My grandmother didn’t use these rooms and saw no reason to change them.”
He looked at Lydia again, this time seeing the expensive suit and the careful grooming. She looked like a businesswoman—but not any businesswoman; she looked like one at the top of her game who’d eat for breakfast anyone who flinched in her presence. Madam Callaway would’ve been the same, he was sure. She’d taken serious risks to keep the house. A widowed woman opening her house to other men’s mistresses? While he could almost hear the scandalous conversation that would happen in town, the house didn’t give off that vibe at all. It seemed empty when it wanted to be full, hanging on the memories of when it was in use and the parties were in full swing.
“What do you do for a living?”
She glanced at him. “Public relations.”
He smiled, seeing the connection immediately. “You learned from your grandmother.”
“It’s all about presentation. Callaway House was always spoken about as the place to party. Everyone knew what really happened, but it was the guests and the entertainment that kept people coming back for more. Once the mistresses left, people still came. Musicians and poets, artists—it was always a gathering place for… interesting people.”
“You’re very open about it.”
“I can’t really hide that I’m a Callaway.” She glared at him as if daring him to challenge her. Her dark brown eyes weren’t nearly as fierce as she thought. He could see the sadness and the many hours spent fighting to prove herself respectable.
He knew because he fought those same battles, only he could never talk about his family secret. Fairies didn’t exist. It was much, much safer for the average person to believe that instead of the truth.
He walked past the other open doors, glancing in and making a quick assessment. He knew he’d have to spend more time up here to assess properly. Time would have dulled many of the everyday impressions, but the stronger emotional ones would linger. They were all around him. He let the back of his hand touch the wall experimentally.
She wrapped her legs around his hips as he lifted her against the wall. Her back arched as her lover pressed closer, unable to wait until they reached her bedroom.
Caspian drew his hand away, but the memory of lust was hot in his blood. The house groaned around him as if reluctant to let him forget. He drew in a slow breath and tried to clear his head before moving on.
Lydia led him up the next flight of stairs. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, for a moment he was seeing someone else, someone younger, but no less aware of what she was doing as she led him upstairs. He blinked and Lydia was back, one eyebrow raised—but she wasn’t leading him up the stairs for an illicit liaison. He swallowed hard as the idea took hold with far too much ease. The house was sliding under his defenses and blurring reality with the impossible.
He wasn’t going to be sleeping with anyone in Callaway House. But it was just another reminder of everything he’d been missing since his divorce. Of course, if it weren’t for the fairy blood in his veins, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’d be able to have a nice, normal relationship. Yet when he glanced at Lydia’s back, he couldn’t shake the image of exploring these rooms in a far more intimate fashion. His fingers curled, and he pressed them against the still tender iron-burn to help tamp down any further visions.
On the third floor the grandeur disappeared and was replaced with a homier feel. She opened two doors. One room looked lived in. This must have been Madam Callaway’s bedroom. But instead of talking, Lydia just stood back, her face a little paler. As with the other bedrooms, it was beautifully furnished in a matching suite. He turned and faced the other room, unwilling to ask anything when Lydia’s loss was so fresh.
The other bedroom was different. He crossed the corridor and went in. This one only had a single bed. The white suite looked much more recent than the rest of the house. He touched the bed for half a heartbeat.
“This was your room.” His words were little more than a whisper. Lydia had grown up here.
“Until I went to college. After my mother left me here, Gran stopped the parties.”
“How old were you?”
“Three months.”
He opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like his childhood had been conventional, but at least his had been private. People had thought he was imaginative when he’d mention seeing fairies, but Lydia had grown up in the shadow of her grandmother’s business and without a mother. That couldn’t have been easy.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t remember her. She had me at seventeen and took off. I had a nanny and Gran and that was all I knew until I went to school. Then I realized how different my family was.” She crossed her arms as if shielding herself from the cruel barbs kids made. But there was no defense.
He knew he shouldn’t pry—he was here to assess the estate, not chat up its owner—but he couldn’t help wanting to know more about her, wanting to melt her cool façade. “And your father?”
“No idea. I think Gran blamed herself and that’s why she shut down the parties. Helen had started joining in, but Gran didn’t realize until she was pregnant and then it all fell apart.” Lydia leaned against the door as if she needed the support. “And they’re just the recent skeletons. Wait until you start digging.” She forced a smile. “Still, I loved growing up here.” Her voice softened as if she was remembering happier times. “The stories, the dress-ups—there is a whole wardrobe of fancy clothes—I was surrounded by people who loved me. It could have been worse. She could have taken me with her.”
They looked at each other for a moment, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t change her past no matter how much of it he could see. He wouldn’t assess the room that had been hers—not by using his talent, anyway. The furniture wasn’t antique; he could just make a visual judgment the way a more human assessor would.
Lydia broke the silence. “Shall we go downstairs?”
“Is there much more to see?” Already he was tallying the hours.
“Not much. The kitchen, the yard, an
d the old stable building that hasn’t been opened in too many years. Plus the three cabins on the verge of collapse—rumor is they were used to make and store whisky during Prohibition.” She closed the doors and they began walking down the two flights to ground level.
“Are any of them full of antiques?”
“That would depend on your definition, Mr. Mort.”
“Caspian.” The decorative light fixture in the stairwell looked as though it had been installed around the same time electricity was connected. “I think assessing the house is going to take me longer that I thought.”
“You sound dismayed… Caspian.”
His name on her lips sounded nice. He wanted to hear it again. The walls seemed to sigh around him, the slow languorous sigh of a satisfied lover, reminding him there was a reason he hadn’t dated since his divorce. He saw too much and could never be honest. He wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake; the next person he was with would know the truth.
“Not at all. I love old furniture and looking into its past.” Spending more time with her wasn’t going to be difficult at all.
“But?” She paused on the landing, one hand on the railing.
Caspian stood opposite her and let his fingertips brush the wood. He didn’t have to imagine the parties that went on below; he could see them. Laid over each other in a haze of alcohol, perfume, and skin. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he’d be able to separate them all instead of just feeling the rush of excitement and the heat of desire. The yearning that lingered long after everyone had left. Just being in the house was crumbling the walls he usually put up against getting lost in the past.
Could he do this job without drowning? He didn’t need it, but he wanted it. There was so much here—and then there was Lydia. This close he could smell her floral perfume, something soft and almost faded that she’d probably put on in the morning, and he wasn’t sure if the heat in his blood was entirely from the past.
She was watching him. He needed to get a grip and focus on the present. She tilted her head a fraction, a small smile on her lips as if she was appraising him and liking what she saw. If only she knew… she’d run.
“But it’s going to take time.” This was not a one-evening job, or even a one-weekend job. And if there was furniture or items in the outbuildings it could really drag on. Although there were worse places to be working.
“I know. But it has to be done.”
He nodded. He didn’t want anyone else to do it, even though he wasn’t sure he could do it without getting lost in history. “Has the house been valued?”
“It will be. Once that’s done and you’re done, the carve-up can begin.” Her words caught in her throat and she turned away to walk down the last flight of stairs.
He felt the shock as a physical blow, breaking apart the pieces that made up Callaway House would be like destroying any artifact. He suppressed the urge to voice his objections. This wasn’t his house, and he knew nothing about Madam Callaway’s will, only that Lydia obviously didn’t want that to happen either.
“You’re selling?” was all he managed to say as he followed her to the rear of the house and into the kitchen.
“Hopefully not. But the will may be contested, so I have to be prepared.” Her lips turned down, but she lifted her gaze to him. “Still, it’s got to be done and it’s not your problem. So, when will you start?”
Caspian looked at the notes he’d made, then back at Lydia. Her eyebrows were slightly raised as she waited for his response. He wanted to be something else, someone else so she wouldn’t see him and think of her grandmother’s death. No matter what he did, death surrounded him. The joy of being fairy.
He should finish this job as fast as possible because an attraction to Lydia would only end badly. Yet he wanted to see her blond hair loose and without the suit she wore like armor. When he blinked, the image of her leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms remained. A taunt? A glimpse of the future? Or the past teasing him with things he couldn’t have?
“Did your grandmother have any of the furniture valued previously? Or did she keep a list of items for insurance?”
Lydia pushed a black folder over the kitchen table. “This is everything I could find. But I don’t know how complete it is, or how accurate. I know it’s not recent.”
He picked up the folder without touching the table. He was very used to not touching surfaces. Usually his defense against unwanted information was better, but the sheer weight of history around him was unavoidable.
Caspian flicked a couple of pages and saw the handwritten list. Spots of water had stained the page. Tears. He didn’t need to see the past to know that. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Most people won’t be.” She forced a smile that held no warmth, and he knew it was one that got well used. “Once the press finds out…” She shook her head.
He could imagine. The house’s history would be in the news again, and Lydia by default. “You don’t have to be here while I work if you’d rather keep your distance.”
Her eyes flashed, hard as stone. “I want to be here. This is my house.”
“I’d like you to be here too, to answer any questions I have.” Now he would have to ask some questions, otherwise she might ask a few too many of her own about why he insisted on touching everything. Everything but her, even though he wanted to reach out and run his fingers over skin instead of lifeless wood and metal. Old memories of other people’s lives were a hollow reminder of everything he’d walked away from. “Evenings?”
“Weekend?”
“I have a shop to run on Saturday.”
She pressed her lips together as she thought. “You don’t mind coming here for just a few hours at a time?”
“Not at all.” He was sure that would be all he’d be able to handle of the past, and of being near Lydia. Maybe it was the house causing such a strong reaction. It wasn’t easy being surrounded by lust and not feeling something. His blood warmed at the acknowledgment. He would not be driven by instinct like a sex-crazed fairy. It was the house getting to him. Next time he would be better guarded.
“Great. Six o’clock tomorrow? I’ll try not to get caught up at work.”
“And if you are?”
“You’ll have to wait.” She neatly put him back in his place with a few words and a smile.
If he hadn’t glimpsed the heat in her eyes that sparked for just a second he would have thought the attraction was only going one way. Instead his heart kicked over again as he shook her hand and said good-bye. The heat of her skin seared into his palm, and her fingers trailed over the back of his hand for a moment too long.
As he slid into the seat of his car, he couldn’t be sure whether it was Lydia’s lingering touch or the lure of the fairy-touched mirror in the backseat that had his pulse racing. Both were dangerous. And yet he couldn’t help wanting more of each…
Chapter 3
Caspian pulled into his garage, the call of the mirror humming in his blood. It was almost as if he didn’t have any choice but to pull it out and do a further examination from his workbench. He hesitated, not wanting to give in to the lure. But the sooner he could give the mirror a proper assessment, the sooner he could get rid of it, and the trouble it would bring.
He’d worked too hard for too long to avoid all politics of the Court. No one needed to know he was the Prince’s son. The father who’d raised him certainly hadn’t guessed Caspian’s real heritage, and he had a feeling his mother had never said a word about her affair with the irresistible fairy Prince. The Court of Annwyn was dangerous, and the less he had to do with it, the better. If this was what they were looking for, they were welcome to it. The four hundred and fifty dollars was a small price to be free of fairies—yet still in their good favor.
He carefully pulled off the wrapping he’d put on the mirror to protect it during transportation. His finger trailed over the carved walnut frame. The detail was beautiful, the scrollwork smooth and even. A well-made piece ev
en without the fairy influence. He kept his gaze on the wood and not the glass, yet even at the edges of his vision he saw the shadows move, thickening and becoming clearer. He closed his eyes against the distraction and let the wood’s past form pictures in his mind.
Caspian saw a middle-aged woman, then a younger version receiving a gift. A wedding gift. The house where it had hung for one hundred years and back to the man who’d carved the frame. His first impression had been right. The frame was authentic, which made it worth far more than what he’d paid. It also made him doubt it was what the fairies were looking for. This was human made, not fairy crafted. Merely enchanted, and not the Window.
Keeping his eyes closed, he let his fingers drift to the glass, not sure what he’d see in the enchanted pane, only that the magic was in the glass, not the wood. Darkness, storage. The back of the wardrobe where it had been kept. He went deeper, older. Something shifted and the glass cooled beneath his skin. Then he saw the fairy who’d placed the enchantment on the human-made mirror. A pregnant woman—a fairy—who smiled as she stared and Caspian knew she was seeing the Court. She had charmed the mirror so she wouldn’t get homesick. Images skipped past and he saw she was in lust with a human man, and to satisfy her desire she was playing his wife and in return he was giving her what a fairy man couldn’t—children.
Caspian’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. The fairies sneered at humans unless they wanted heirs; then they used magic to lure and seduce the unfortunate human to their bed. Fairy men took human women, and fairy women took human men. It was the only way fairies could breed and usually the children were born in Annwyn, ensuring continuation of the line.
Somehow his mother had convinced the Prince to let her go and give birth to him in the mortal world. Not a fairy and not quite mortal yet bound by the rules of both worlds. Still, it could have been worse; he could’ve actually been a fairy.
