by Shona Husk
He followed her back into the house. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
She bit her tongue to keep from saying the obvious. “I’ll let you know if I find anything really special.”
Caspian nodded, then with a last glance picked up his laptop bag and went upstairs. For half a moment she was tempted to follow. In part because she liked to watch him work, so calm and careful, looking at each piece, logging it and making notes with a faint look of concentration on his face that pinched his eyebrows as if he’d forgotten she was even in the room. She’d love to know what he was thinking as he worked.
Later. She’d find a reason to go and watch him, talk to him. She was sure he wouldn’t mind. She pulled the keys out of her pocket. There were a dozen keys on an old fob, a man’s, embossed with the name T. Thomas Callaway. Her grandfather. He’d been killed in war, but she’d seen a photo of him in uniform before he left to fight. He’d been so young, only twenty, and a year older than Gran. The choices she made after his death must have been difficult, and yet she’d managed to keep Callaway House in the family. And here she was, seventy years later with more opportunities and options and she was still thinking of selling. No, she had to look at ways of keeping it and fixing it. If Gran could, she could.
Lydia fingered the keys, sure that some belonged to locks that no longer existed. There were three little keys that looked like they’d fit the trunk locks, which probably meant there was a third trunk hidden at the back of the stable. She studied the keys, as if she could guess which one would fit the more frequently used trunk, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t see a difference between a used key and an unused key.
In fact, to her eye the locks on the trunks looked the same. She shook her head. Caspian obviously saw something she didn’t. The second key fit and the lock popped. She took a breath before lifting the lid. The hinges squeaked but didn’t resist. Inside were more books.
Lydia groaned. Really, Gran? Did you never throw anything away? Then she noticed all of them had plain covers. She picked one up, a dark blue one that didn’t look too old, and flicked it open. The first page was dated and filled with shaky script. Gran’s neat writing had deteriorated over the last five years. This was a diary from two years ago. She put it down without reading and picked up another. It was older. Then she lifted out a pile and picked up the bottom one. It was black, the pages yellowed but otherwise undamaged. Lydia carefully opened the diary, trying to guess the date as she did. 1970? Older?
Twenty years older. Nineteen forty-nine. Callaway House in its early days as a mistress hotel. She flicked through the pages. It was less of a diary and more of a journal. This one ended after only four months, which meant the rest of 1949 was still in there. That meant… she exhaled slowly. That meant she had the history of the house in one trunk. Every time Gran had finished a book she’d locked it in the trunk and never told anyone she kept a diary.
Her skin came up in gooseflesh as if a cold gust of air had touched her flesh. Gran had never said anything because she knew that people would kill to get ahold of them. She put the books back in and closed the lid, then relocked it. What was she supposed to do with the diaries?
Something scuttled over the kitchen floor. She jumped up expecting to see a spider or roach, but there was nothing there. No doubt it was already hiding somewhere, ready to surprise her. Yuck, God knew what she’d brought out of the shed and into the house.
She wiped her hands on her jeans and ran up the stairs to tell Caspian what she’d found. He wasn’t in the first two rooms. In the third room he was standing next to the bed, his hand on the footboard, eyes closed. He didn’t seem to have heard her and he didn’t move. His lips curved in a small smile.
What was he doing?
Was he imagining what had gone on in the house and having some kind of weird fantasy?
Lydia coughed. It was just too strange to see him standing perfectly still yet obviously thinking something.
Chapter 9
Caspian’s eyelids flew open. Lydia stood in the doorway looking like a beautiful thundercloud. His stomach sank. How long had she been standing there? Had she heard him talking to Dylis while sifting through the furniture’s past? He hoped she wouldn’t notice the tightness of his jeans. The trouble with sifting through impressions in a bedroom was it was like scrolling through a porn video. It didn’t matter where he looked, there was flesh, and that’s all he was. He couldn’t help his body’s response. He was sure even a fairy would’ve been affected by the things he saw.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
“I…” The truth rested on the tip of his tongue. Dylis sat on the sideboard, her sword in hand. “Sometimes it helps to put myself at an auction. I remember something similar being on the floor a few years ago.”
He was going to trip over his lies and fall into the river of damned souls. Dylis huffed and rolled her eyes.
Lydia raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. She didn’t believe him. Ah well, it had been nice to see that look of desire in her eye while it had lasted.
“Right. I never saw you doing that before.”
“I did look pretty stupid standing there, and I make a point of trying not to look stupid in public.” He’d done that too many times growing up. Tripping over fairies no one else could see, touching something and getting caught in the vision. He changed the subject and hoped she’d let it drop. “Some of this furniture is really old. It predates the notorious years.”
Some of it he suspected was as old as the house.
“Really?”
He tapped the wood. “Guest bed. The one down the hall, an old master suit. Do you have photos? It’s like a museum, as if your grandmother was trying her best to keep it as it was even as she earned a living.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
Because I’m psychometric and half fairy didn’t seem like an appropriate response. “I don’t know. I’m making educated guesses,” he said instead.
Her face softened a little. He was off the hook but not out of trouble. The tension in his muscles eased. Dylis should’ve warned him Lydia was coming up, but they’d been discussing the sudden increase in Grey activity. It was no longer just the ghost—which Dylis hadn’t found. Maybe it was hiding from the interlopers because it was tiny and weak. That made sense if it had been here for as long as Lydia claimed. The ghost was probably close to death.
Tonight there’d also been imps in the garden, hanging around the stable as they’d pulled out the trunks and trying to trip him up, and Dylis had scared off a boggart that had been creeping around the house. While he knew this was part of Shea’s campaign to annoy him into making a deal and he needed to ignore it, it was wearing him down. Which was the whole idea. Shea could keep up this low-level annoyance for a very long time. If Shea were using stronger magic, he’d be killing himself faster, so this was much more effective. Had Lydia noticed anything strange about the house yet—aside from him spending quality time with the furniture?
“I think I’ve found something that could confirm your theories.” She turned and went down the hallway.
Caspian followed. In the kitchen Lydia opened one of the trunks. He knew exactly what he was looking at—diaries.
“Are they your grandmother’s?”
She nodded. “They go back to World War Two. Well, that’s the oldest I’ve found. And I only had a quick look.”
Caspian rubbed his hand over his jaw. The diaries complicated things. “They have a value I can’t begin to estimate, and not just in monetary sense.”
“I know. What if she listed mistresses and the men? Some of the same families would still have weight in the community. And then there were the deals done at the parties. And then there were the other parties. It only closed twenty-eight years ago…”
She was thinking exactly what he was; there could be very sensitive information in there wrapped up with the real history of the house. Had Gran kept the diaries as a who’s who in case there was trouble, o
r were they simply diaries of her life?
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. What can I do? This is her life. I can’t burn them.”
“No, no. You can’t do that, but you need to keep them safe.” They were part of the estate. Most times a person’s personal diary didn’t matter. But this was different. Madam Callaway was a well-known person from a well-known family and her diaries went back. Her diaries had historical significance as well as social significance. “I think you should read some of them, get a feel for what’s in there. If it’s names, we’re going to have to handle things differently.”
How desperate would people be to keep their association with Callaway House quiet? The artists probably not much, judges and lawyers and politicians, very much so. And if they were making backroom deals here, he was willing to bet they had the pull to make the diaries disappear.
Lydia slumped down onto the lid of the other trunk, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her gaze glued to the floor. “I can’t do it. There’s too much here. I can’t keep everything and I don’t want to get rid of anything. I don’t want to sell and I don’t know what to do.”
Then she began to cry. The kind of half-smothered sob as if she didn’t want him to notice. But how could he not notice? Her hiccupping breaths cut at his heart. In that moment he knew it was more than simple attraction. He wanted more of Lydia than just the time at the house. He wanted to see where what they had was going. For a moment he hesitated, not sure what to do, or what she would want him to do. Would she rather be left alone to pull herself together? He didn’t know her well enough to answer that yet. However, he couldn’t walk away when she was so upset. He sat next to her and put his arm around her, drawing her close. She let herself be pulled into his embrace.
“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. You don’t have to decide anything now.” His hand stroked her hair. He wanted to kiss her tears away, but after the look she’d given him when she’d caught him feeling the bed, that probably wasn’t a good idea. So he let her cry.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know what it was like to lose someone close, but he could imagine the hole that would be left when his parents died. It wasn’t just her grandmother; this was the woman who’d raised her.
After a few moments Lydia sniffed. Her head was still resting on his chest as if she was reluctant to pull away. Her breathing steadied. “God, you must think me pathetic for falling apart like that.”
“No. Everyone is entitled to grieve.”
She eased up to sitting, a few tears still on her cheek.
Caspian lifted his hand and wiped them away. The moment he did he knew he’d gone too far. That simple gesture was more intimate than anything else they’d shared. For a heartbeat neither of them moved. His fingers lingered against her skin as if he was unable to pull away.
Slowly she moved closer, her lips brushing his in the lightest of kisses, yet it was far more intense than anything he’d seen in the memories of the furniture upstairs. The hunger woke, reminding him that it had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms. He swept his tongue over her lips and was surprised when her mouth opened and she responded. He immediately wanted more, but knew that was impossible. He couldn’t fall in love with someone he had to keep lying to. It wasn’t fair to Lydia, and he couldn’t go through that heartbreak again. He drew away, missing the taste of her lips.
“Thank you for understanding.” She placed one hand on his thigh, a soft kiss on his cheek, and made no effort to move away, her head resting on his shoulder. “Sorry my family is so messed up.”
Most men were nothing like him. He understood the weight of family secrets; the only difference was he could never talk about his. “Every family has its secrets and skeletons.”
“Even yours?”
“Especially mine.” The heat of her palm on his leg sank into his blood. He didn’t care how odd her family was, he would always win that competition hands down. How much did he dare to tell her and how much would she believe?
She drew back enough to look him in the eye. “Like what?” Her brown eyes were still glittery from the tears. She was trying to find more common ground. Did she realize what she was asking? Could he even come close to telling her the truth?
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.” He tried to make light of it but knew he’d have to tell her something close to the truth.
She tilted her chin and held his gaze. “That’s not fair; you know all about my scandalous family.”
It was probably a good thing she didn’t know exactly how much he knew. Caspian chewed over the truths he could drag out and in the end went with the safest one. “There’s the pirate in the family tree.”
“So you said.”
And he was going to have to do better. He wanted to do better so she knew more about him. He glanced at her before speaking. “My father isn’t my father.” It was much easier to say than he’d expected. Probably because he’d lived with the knowledge for so long it no longer mattered to him.
Her forehead furrowed. “Your mother had an affair?”
“She did, and to this day I don’t think she’s told my dad about it—my dad who raised me, I mean.”
“But she told you.”
He’d stuck his foot in that one. “When I was older she did. My younger brother had been teasing me about how I looked different from him and saying I was adopted. She promised me that I was loved and wanted, even though I had been an accident, but she also made me promise not to tell.” And he’d never told anyone until today.
“That’s rough.” She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze that went straight to his heart.
“That’s the way things are. If I changed them, I wouldn’t exist. But my brother was right. We both have dark hair but that’s where the similarity ends. My mother told me I have my father’s eyes.”
“Have you met him?”
“No, but I know who he is, and I know it’s better I never meet him.” It was really nice to tell someone. He’d never shared the details with Natalie because he’d been afraid what she’d think, and what she’d say. With Lydia it was different. She knew what it felt like to have a family scandal and she knew that some things were best not discussed in public. However, telling her his father was the Crown Prince of Annwyn, what she would know as heaven, hell, and the afterlife all rolled into one, might be too much.
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re not going to tell me who he is?”
“He’s a powerful man who seduced my mother with sweet-talk. That’s all I need to know. That’s all you need to know.” Telling Lydia anything more would be unwise. Even among fairies most didn’t know who his father was, according to Dylis.
“So when you told me your father was a mechanic you weren’t being entirely truthful.”
“I was.” In his mind he only had one father; the other one had just contributed DNA and magic. “He’s the man who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike, drive a car, and do an oil change. Aside from genetics he’s my father, and I’m sure in his heart he considers me his son.” Caspian stood, bringing Lydia with him.
Their hands linked without thought. He knew the time for walking away before he got in too deep was gone, and he was quite happy to sink if it meant spending more time with Lydia.
She slid easily into his embrace, her head on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other was still holding her hand. Against his chest she took a few deep breaths as if she wasn’t ready to let him go. Every small movement made his skin crave more. He wanted to feel her hands on him. It wasn’t just talking easily to someone that he missed; it was the skin-to-skin contact. And yet he knew that everything he shared with Lydia was still only a half-formed shadow that wouldn’t become real until she knew the truth. One piece at a time. He’d never been a rip-the-bandage-off-fast kind of person when small steps and caution worked just as well.
For the moment what they’d shared was enough. She knew more
about him than anyone.
Dylis peered around the corner, glanced at him, then backed away just as fast.
Lydia looked up at him as if sensing a change. He took that moment to kiss her and pretend that fairies didn’t exist and weren’t trying to mess with his life for the next thirty seconds. Her hand swept over his chest until her fingers brushed the curls at the nape of his neck. As the kiss deepened he let himself fall into the fantasy that everything would be fine. His hand cupped her butt and she moved against him in a way that tempted him to do more than kiss. And he was sure she noticed the hardness that had formed between them.
But she didn’t pull back. Her tongue traced his lip, and danced with his. Her body molded closer.
Then they heard a sharp screech and heavy thump.
* * *
“What was that?” Lydia whispered, glancing over her shoulder. Her ears strained, trying to listen for another bump or strange noise.
“The ghost?” he asked.
Lydia shook her head and listened again, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. Her pulse had been accelerating before being startled. Caspian had that effect on her. She was glad she had an effect on him. His arm was wrapped around her as if he would protect her, his hand on her butt, but his shoulder was tense beneath her hand. She looked up at him and was caught in his gaze. His eyes were mesmerizing. He lowered his lips to hers once more, but it was just a last taste.
“Want me to have a look?”
She should say yes, but she didn’t want to move. Not when she’d chipped through his defenses and had learned a little bit more about him. And in exchange he’d seen her crumble and unable to cope. She let her fingers trail down his chest, enjoying the hint of muscle beneath his shirt.
“I’ll do it, you… you can get back to cataloguing in the bedroom.” Even as she said it she knew that was the wrong thing. The warmth of the embrace faded and the moment fractured as Caspian released her. As his fingers slid away she caught his hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
