At Euston, I bought a one-way ticket to Rhydgoch, Wales. The agent handed me three tickets: Euston Station to Chester, Chester to Wrexham, and then the little puff-puff local to Rhydgoch. Two changes—not bad for the trek to my aunt’s remote village.
I bought a phone card and found a bank of phones. There, I made a quick call to the Cross and Crow and left a message in case Mab or Jenkins came in, letting them know the time of my train. I talked to someone named Anna, who said she was the day cleaner and seemed annoyed I was asking her to play secretary. I’d rather have spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Cadogan; they knew me and would make sure Mab got the info one way or another. But it was okay. Once I made it to Rhydgoch, I’d be on familiar turf.
But first I had to get there. I stopped in a newsagent’s and bought the thickest magazine I could find, then made my way across the concourse, past kiosks and coffee stands, dodging briefcase-toting, rush hour-crazed commuters determined to mow down anything in their path. I double-checked the large electronic boards for my train, found the platform, and walked, oh, five hundred or so miles along that platform until I reached the right car. Clutching the railing, I heaved myself up the steep steps onto the train. I staggered a bit as I walked along the aisle in search of my seat, and my head spun with the effort of lifting my duffel onto the luggage rack. At last, I could plop down into my seat.
All that effort left my heart pounding as though I’d sprinted across London. I was moving into that stage of exhaustion where every little motion wrings you out. Just as well. With my heart racing the way it was, I wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon.
Whistles blew, doors closed, and the train lurched forward. We rolled out of the station into the thin winter daylight, past soot-stained, graffiti-covered brick walls, then the backs of tiny, run-down row houses with graying net curtains at the windows. London. It felt unreal to be here. I could almost believe I was dreaming—all I needed was to have Difethwr pop up and wave to me from someone’s back garden.
After a few minutes of watching buildings go by, I pulled out my magazine and opened it to a random page. Hostile-looking models with pointy chins and even pointier elbows wore dresses that looked like burlap sacks with ruffles. So not my style. Another fashion spread showed models in gray-green makeup posing stiffly in torn gowns. Zombie chic. Tina would love it. Maybe she’d take up modeling next.
The train picked up speed as we moved beyond the city, and I gazed out the window, feeling dizzy as suburban London houses gave way to fields and villages. An attendant wheeled a snack trolley down the aisle. I bought another cup of coffee but passed on the plastic-wrapped sandwiches and muffins. Hang on, Vicky. I sipped the hot, bitter drink. You’re almost there, only six hours, two train changes, and a dozen more cups of coffee to go.
Trying to shake off the heaviness, I wiggled my shoulders, crossed my legs one way, and then crossed them the other way. I stood up, stretched, walked to the end of the car, stretched again, came back, sat down. Eventually, I went back to flipping magazine pages. When I saw a familiar face smiling at me from a moody black-and-white photograph, I blinked—twice—thinking maybe I’d finally started hallucinating. But no, there was Mr. Cadogan, his sleeves rolled up, leaning over the bar at the Cross and Crow and looking serious, despite the characteristic twinkle in his eye. The caption read, “Lloyd Cadogan owns the Cross and Crow, in the Welsh village of Rhydgoch, whose resident ghost is nicknamed ‘Spooky Lil.’ ” Below the photo of Mr. Cadogan was another black-and-white shot of the pub’s interior, showing a blurry column of mist in front of the massive old fireplace. For this photo, the caption asked, “Fact or figment: Does ‘Spooky Lil’ haunt the site of her centuries-old murder?”
I turned back the page to find the name of the article: “Britain’s Most Haunted Pubs.” Half a dozen pubs were featured; I skimmed until I found the part about the Cross and Crow. I’d known Mr. Cadogan since I was a little girl, so the story of Spooky Lil was a familiar one. According to legend—or at least the legend dreamed up by Mr. Cadogan—Lil was an eighteenth-century barmaid who’d gotten pregnant by the local squire’s son. When the boy wanted to marry Lil, his enraged father ordered his henchmen to get rid of the problem. They’d strangled Lil and buried her body in the cellar. Ever since, Spooky Lil had haunted the pub, moaning for her lost love.
Even though Mr. Cadogan swore Lil was real, his tragic tale of a strangled barmaid was a ploy to draw in tourists. The Cross and Crow had half a dozen rooms for rent, and Mr. Cadogan could charge double the usual rate for the haunted bedroom—somehow, the bedroom that was “haunted” always seemed to be the highest-priced room available. Nothing like sleeping in a haunted bedroom for a good, safe thrill. Maybe that was because so many real monsters had come out into the open in the past few years that norms preferred their close encounters to be of the make-believe kind.
Norm psychology. Who could tell?
The haunted pubs article kept me diverted until it was time to change trains in Chester. For the rest of the trip, time lost all meaning and everything went by in a blur. I’d long ago grown used to the itchy eyes; the sparkly, bleary, wavy vision; the feeling of moving underwater. I was sick with tiredness, but I could deal with that, too. I was getting there. I switched trains again in Wrexham. Wales, I thought, looking around. I’ve made it to Wales.
When the slow-moving local train finally pulled into Rhydgoch station, brakes screeching, I wanted to sing with triumph. There it was: the sooty, one-story, redbrick building, the crooked RHYDGOCH sign. If this were summer, there’d be hanging baskets overflowing with red and white flowers. But it was late January, and the only decoration was a dusting of snow on the station roof.
Several people waited on the platform, scanning the train’s windows. I didn’t see Mab or Jenkins, but they might be in the car park. Or maybe they hadn’t gotten my message. No problem. I knew where I was now.
Eager to get off the train, I stood. The car seemed to slide away from me, and I had to grab the back of the seat in front of me to steady myself. My ears rang, and I was sweating despite the cold air pouring in through the open door. I’d gone so far beyond tired that tired would feel refreshing. But I was almost there. Almost safe. When I got to Maenllyd, Mab would take away the burden I’d been carrying since Difethwr had entered my dreamscape. I didn’t know how, but I trusted that she would.
I yanked on my duffel bag to pull it down from the luggage rack. As its full weight hit my chest, the ringing in my ears clamored to a roar and darkness edged my vision. My legs turned to spaghetti and the car tilted at a crazy angle. My vision shrank to a pinprick, and that was the last thing I knew before I hit the floor.
15
THREE OR FOUR FACES HOVERED OVER ME. I LAY ON MY BACK, in a narrow space that felt way too crowded. The faces wouldn’t come into focus. I closed my eyes and tried again.
“Give her some air,” said a man’s voice with a Welsh accent. Oh, right. I’m in Wales.
The blurred, shadowy faces pulled back. Above me was a curved white ceiling, bright with fluorescent lights. I turned my head a little to the right, and it felt like the floor tipped with the movement. Again I closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to subside.
Before it could, my eyes flew open and I sat up in a panic. “I’m not asleep!” I shouted.
“Take it easy, miss,” said the voice. “You fainted.”
I searched my memory—no dreams of Difethwr. I relaxed a hair. “How long was I out?”
“Only a minute or two. We’re still at Rhydgoch station. Are you hurt?”
I did a quick survey. No sharp pains anywhere, just a dull ache pressing at the backs of my eyes and a feeling like someone tried to mummify my head. “No,” I said. “I’m all right.”
The conductor—the guy who’d been speaking—wanted to call an ambulance. I think he was afraid I’d broken my neck or something when I fell on his train. I convinced him an ambulance wasn’t necessary, and he was happy to carry my bag off the train. I drew the line, though,
at carrying me off. Hands reached down and grasped my arms. I got my legs under me, and leaned on my helpers as I got vertical again. Shakily, I made it onto the platform on my own.
My duffel bag waited by a bench. I sat down and bent over, trying to clear my head. A minute later, I heard the train chug out of the station. Someone put a hand on my back. “Here, dearie. You’ll feel good as new.”
I looked up. The world didn’t slide away with the movement of my head; I took that as a good sign. A grandmotherly woman—not Mab—smiled and offered me a plastic cup. I took it and sipped the hot tea it held. Yuck, awful—the tea had come from a machine and she’d loaded it with sugar—but it revived me. “Thank you.”
She nodded, picked up her shopping bags, and went inside the station.
I was alone on the platform. The chilly air felt good on my sweaty face, and so did the hot tea going down my throat. Despite being so close to my goal, I was in no hurry to get there. Part of me didn’t see why I couldn’t just sit on this bench, sweet tea warm in my belly, forever. Jenkins hadn’t met the train—I was pretty sure of that. Or if he’d stayed with the Bentley out in the car park, he’d have seen the train pull out of the station and figured I missed a connection. Maybe he’d gone to the Cross and Crow for a pint to pass the hour’s wait for the next train.
I supposed I should go and see. If Jenkins wasn’t there, Mr. Cadogan would call a taxi for me. I dropped the empty cup in a bin next to my bench and started to get to my feet.
That’s when I noticed someone standing directly in front of me.
I blinked. The figure was still there, silhouetted against the low sun. I wondered if maybe I’d passed out again briefly. One second I’d been alone, the next a man was right there, invading my personal space.
“You must be Vicky,” he said with a Welsh accent. “So sorry I’m late.”
I squinted up at him. He was about five-eleven and close to my age, with black hair and pale skin. Long, black lashes framed the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. They were velvety and opaque and seemed to suck the light in. He was handsome, but there was a touch of grimness in the way he held his mouth. He wore a black cashmere coat with a gray scarf, and I had absolutely no idea who he was.
“Do I know you?” When in doubt, be blunt.
“Where are my manners?” he said, grasping my elbow and helping me stand. “I’m your cousin Pryce. I’m here to give you a lift to Maenllyd.”
I stared at him. Cousin? He might as well have said, “I’m a talking chicken” for all the sense he made. Mom was an only child, and Dad’s only sister was Mab. As far as I knew, I was completely cousinless.
A door opened, and the Rhydgoch stationmaster came out onto the platform. “I see you found her, Mr. Maddox.” He tilted his head at me, “All right, luv?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”
Pryce hoisted my duffel bag. “Let’s get you to the house. I know Mab is anxious to see you.”
A BLACK PORSCHE WAITED IN A NO-PARKING ZONE IN FRONT of the station. Pryce tossed my bag in the trunk and then opened the passenger door for me with a sweeping gesture. “Your carriage awaits,” he said with a grin.
The smile emphasized how good-looking he was, erasing his grim expression and making the corners of his eyes tilt up. Yet there was no sparkle or gleam. You know how some people’s smiles light up a room? Pryce wasn’t one of those people. His smile felt more like a cloud had crossed the sun. It was those dark, light-eating eyes.
Then again, the whole world felt darker around the edges in my sleep-deprived state.
I’d barely fastened my seatbelt when Pryce accelerated and sped across the car park, fishtailing. Maybe we were going to fly to Maenllyd.
On the main road, though, he slowed down. Good thing, too. Once it left the village, the road became a country lane with high hedges on both sides as it twisted up and down through the hills. The road was too narrow for two cars to easily pass each other, so there were periodic lay-bys where one car could squeeze up against the hedge to let the other go past.
I studied Pryce’s profile as he drove. He had a square jaw, with hints of a five-o’clock shadow at half past three, and a long, straight nose. Those features kept his dark eyelashes from making him too pretty. A shock of black hair fell sideways across his forehead.
He didn’t look like anyone in my family.
Should I be worried? I’d climbed into a car with a complete stranger. Admittedly not my smartest move. But the stationmaster had called him by name, which made Pryce seem a little less sinister. And we were on the road to Mab’s house. If he passed Maenllyd’s gate, there was a sharp turn up the road that was impossible to take fast. If I had to, I could jump out of the car at that spot.
Or maybe Pryce could clarify the family connection and I could quit feeling paranoid. That sounded like a better idea than gearing up to hurl myself from the car.
“I’m probably too jet-lagged to think straight,” I said, “but I can’t figure out this cousin thing. I didn’t know I had a cousin. I mean, Mab is my only aunt, and she never had children.”
Pryce threw his head back and laughed. “No, you’re right there.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Our Mab as a mum. Amusing to imagine, you must admit.”
“But my dad had no other siblings. So …”
I thought he was going to laugh again, but he swallowed it. A small, tight smile returned the grimness to his face. “Surely you don’t believe Mab was Evan’s sister.”
Well, he knew my father’s name, at least. “She’s my aunt.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. More like … a great-aunt.” Again, that private smile.
I thought about the last time the three of us had been together—Dad, Aunt Mab, and me—at dinner the night my father died. We’d been laughing around the table; Dad was the only person I knew who could make Mab crack a smile, let alone laugh. Even to my eighteen-year-old eyes, Dad had looked young that night, his eyes sparkling with good humor. Mab, at the head of the table, had caught that sparkle, but her white hair and lined face made her seem old enough to be his mother. She could easily have been seventy to his forty-five. Now, I realized that I’d always lumped Aunt Mab in with all the other grown-ups. Like my parents, she was older than me and therefore just old. It was the perspective of someone very young and self-centered, but I’d never thought to question it.
Okay, it was possible. Maybe Mab was my grandfather’s sister, not my father’s.
“So where do you fit into the family?” I asked.
He slid his gaze sideways toward me, then went back to watching the road. “Don’t you ever wonder about dear Aunt Mab? Who is she, exactly? What’s your actual relationship?”
“No, I don’t.” I didn’t like his oily tone. “She’s always been my aunt Mab, ever since I was born. I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but—”
“I? Insinuate? My dear cousin, I would never presume to insinuate anything. My apologies if it seemed that way.”
I half-turned in my seat to see whether he was mocking me, but he radiated sincerity. I’d probably misunderstood him. Half an hour ago, I’d passed out from exhaustion and hunger, so misunderstandings were definitely within the realm of possibility.
The Porsche turned right, and I relaxed as we passed through a stone gateway and onto the driveway that, after a long curve, led to Maenllyd. I craned to get a glimpse of the house.
“To answer your question,” Pryce said, “I’m what you might call a distant cousin. We share a common ancestor at a more remote point in history.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense.” He was Cerddorion—that was all he meant. Probably a sixth cousin twice removed or something like that. But I lost interest in Pryce as Maenllyd came into view. Breathtaking. A gray stone house, L-shaped, three stories high with a slate roof against a distant background of misty purple mountains.
Home. If there was any place in the world I could really call home, it was Maenllyd.
“Can you guess?” Pryc
e asked.
I kept my eyes on the house. “Guess what?”
“Our common ancestor.”
“I don’t know. A great-grandparent, I suppose. On Mom’s side?”
He laughed. “Further back than that, cousin. Much further. I’m referring to the goddess Ceridwen herself.”
“But—” Exhaustion was fogging my brain, because from what I’d just heard, Pryce was stating the obvious, like saying we had a lot in common because we both breathed air. “But all Cerddorion are descended from Ceridwen.”
He pulled into the gravel courtyard in front of Maenllyd and stopped the car. When he looked at me, his opaque eyes tugged unpleasantly at my soul. “Ah, but I’m not Cerddorion.”
“Then what—” The front door opened and Mab came down the stone steps. She was as poker-straight and dignified as always, but I could see she was hurrying.
God, it was wonderful to see her.
I opened my door and leapt from the car. The world wobbled as a fresh wave of dizziness hit, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I ran to my aunt and threw my arms around her. It was a little like hugging the wooden statue of Saint David in the village church, but I was used to that. She smelled like lavender. Mab tolerated my embrace, then gave me three brisk, light pats on the back: onetwothree. I’d always counted those pats—there were always three—ever since I was a child. Now, Mab followed them up with a quick squeeze. She was happy to see me, too.
I stepped back and grinned at her. She looked past my shoulder and frowned.
I turned. Pryce had gotten out of the Porsche and was leaning against the driver’s side door. “Hello, Mab. You never told me your niece was so charming.” He put a slight, sour emphasis on niece.
“I’m sure I’ve never told you anything about her.” Mab’s eyes were as cold as if she were staring down a demon. “And now you may leave my property.”
Pryce’s smile didn’t falter, but it grew as icy as Mab’s stare. He walked to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and got out my bag. He kept his distance, setting the bag down near the car. Then he bowed to me, a stiff, courtly movement. “A pleasure, cousin.”
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