Gideon surveyed the room, his face carved in stone, stopping as he looked directly at me, questioning my silence.
“Don’t you care at all?”
I felt a flicker go through me, a question, a longing, and with it a snag of pain, of the grief that had consumed me. Grief that had gripped me for a year, grief that had lifted, absorbed and washed away by the energy of the ley. I returned his stare with an indifference I couldn’t and didn’t want to overcome.
A pulse snagged in his jaw, and he strode from the room, pausing only to collect the sleeping child from her uncle’s arms. He pivoted in the doorway, his glare landing first on me, then back on Fidelma, his jaw clenching before he turned on his heel and left.
Fidelma’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder.
“You are doing the right thing,” she said. “Once you have mastered your power, and the line is healthier, you will be better able to protect her. Then you will have time with her.”
“Yes, I can be with her after,” I said, then lifted my head in the direction of the music and laughter. “Shall we rejoin the party?”
Rion looked vaguely troubled but offered me his arm.
With another turn of the dial, the spring equinox passed, and the land bloomed again. Summer came and my daughter turned one. She was fine – Gideon watched over her, a protective giant as she tottered about on the grass, hovering, picking her up when gravity got the better of her.
The ley lines felt strong and healthy at the summer solstice when I travelled with Callum further south, crossing Anglia to visit Fidelma and Marina at Glastonbury Tor.
The solstice tide was different here, in the direct path of the corrupted May line. As the tide surged and turned, I felt the song change, the notes shifting almost imperceptibly but then more noticeably, and wisps of something other creeping into the line. It came from the south as the line reversed its flow, luring me from my boat to try and counter the dissonance coming in on the new tide. I could do more, clear more, if I went a little deeper, a little further into the depths. My boat took me further out and the rope in my hands frayed as we journeyed home.
Rion was furious when he learned how far south we had ventured. Glastonbury was far too close to the borders, but we weren’t at war with Londinium, so it wasn’t clear why he was fussing. Fidelma had looked well, and I had encouraged her to allow me to take on more of the burden that she had been carrying since my mother died. Now that I had become more adept, I could see how much more I could achieve before I became exhausted, and it made little sense for Fidelma to continue to overextend herself doing comparatively little. Marina’s abilities were also impressive for a latent. Not only did she have command of earth and air, but her abilities to soothe and sing to the ley were astounding. She was increasingly picking up the primary duties at Glastonbury and encouraged me to return so she could show me Stonehenge on the borders, perhaps at the winter solstice.
By the autumn equinox, Callum felt I should take a break from the ley line and spend more time working on other skills. I still struggled to command the elements at his instruction. It seemed trivial compared to the ley lines, and I was more focused on keeping the song flowing through the land.
Another spectacular Samhain blazed by and I returned to Carlisle from Penrith too late to celebrate at the castle, for which Rion berated Callum on our return. If it had been up to me, I would have been happy to live at either one of the stone circles. I wanted to keep going – the line needed more and I needed to go deeper. In my dreams the tether was so thin now, my boat almost faded, the water’s call irresistible.
I sat on the window seat of my rooms overlooking the bonfire blazing below. I rested my head against the cold stone walls. Occasionally, the little girl came into view amongst the crowd below – Gideon knew I was there, his movements stilted as he kept watch over the girl, holding the lead of her puppy.
His anger would be warm. I missed heat, I missed emotion.
The dark head finally turned to look up at me.
“Cassandra, you should be in bed.”
“Yes, Oban,” I returned softly, not wanting to break contact with the gaze that fired up at me from the courtyard. It was cold outside, but she was well protected against the elements. Her little hands were inside warm gloves, her sturdy shape bundled up in warm, rich clothes.
“You’re freezing,” Oban fussed, laying a wrap across my shoulders. I pulled it around me and looked back, but he was gone, and so was she.
“I think I need to take a day off tomorrow. I’m tired,” I said as I moved back over to my bed, shrugging under the covers and curling up. Oban threw an extra blanket on the bed, muttering about how tired I was all the time. I wasn’t here often now and it was a pleasure being back in a soft bed, under the heavy weight of the blankets. I recalled the first time I had stayed in a Briton bed in a freezing cold castle. Marcus had been there. I wondered where he was now. Had they curbed the Mallacht yet? I suppose they would have by now. He had killed Devyn to steal the treatment; I hoped it had been worth it. I should find out – maybe I would ask at dinner tomorrow.
I slept, and when I woke, I slept some more. Sometimes I woke to find Callum or Oban, and Rion came too. Breath came into my lungs but it took effort. Light hurt me and darkness was a blessed relief. I felt so tired, so weary, my bones and flesh ever less substantial. As everything else receded, my little boat somehow grew sturdier and the current stronger, as if it would take me away… not to the light of the depths, but away into the dark of the soft night.
That was okay. I had wanted to make them pay, I had planned to make it better, I had tried, but it was cold now.
“Cat.” Gideon stood at the end of my bed, his tall frame outlined by the brightness of the fire behind. I smiled and lifted my hand. I hadn’t felt anything in a while. I remembered the last time he had taken my hand. Féile, when Féile was a baby. He took my hand and sat gently at the end of the bed.
“Cat,” he called again. “This is not how it ends. You need to get up.”
He’d said that before.
Everything felt so far away.
I sucked in a breath; it came in jerkily.
“I’m cold.”
Chapter Six
His body warmed mine, heating it all the way through. His words called to me, coaxing me, berating me. I needed that. I needed his anger at me. It felt invigorating.
I dreamt. I dreamt in colour, music dancing through the boughs, my feet stepping lightly over the ground. Arms circled me, sweeping me around until I was giddy, laughing into almond-shaped dark black eyes, strong arms holding me close, the eyes warming in colour, becoming golden and sombre as they watched me.
I was awake. Gideon lay still on the pillow, his dark hair wild. His amber eyes were unwavering as they contemplated me. The tattoos that started just below his collarbone were a riotous swirling pattern, twists and spirals spreading across his skin. I recognised my brother’s red rose and lake emblems and I reached out and traced the pattern. Devyn had had this one, too; he had placed it over his heart. Gideon had a different one there, the white roses and sword of Anglia, the different sigils entwined in a flurry of intricate Celtic interlacing. A newer tattoo sat above them, a butterfly. I traced it lightly.
“For Féile,” he said softly. “In the language of the gaels, féileachan is a butterfly. She’s like one, a summer baby; she brings colour, joy.”
A wave of sorrow and longing flowed through me.
He caught my hand and held it still against his chest, the beat of his heart pulsed through my palm into me until I felt my own catch and answer his rhythm. Tears welled up and spilled over. The release was freeing, and I smiled tremulously at him. His brows drew together in bewilderment and I almost laughed out loud as Gideon’s expression wavered between wariness and relief. Apparently I wasn’t going to die. I felt stronger than I had in a long time. More in myself. Present.
I leaned across and pressed my lips softly to his. The room was gently warm from the still
burning fire, I was aware that he had left me on occasion through the night to ensure the heat never dipped. I remembered him doing so, last night, and the night before maybe. My fingers curled up around the back of his head, holding him to me. The warmth of his kiss was intoxicating. Desire sparked to life within me. I was alive, alert, and I felt hope, joy. Me? Him? I wasn’t sure, it was so long since I had experienced emotion. I felt like I had been on the other side of it, cut off, the world and people drifting by while I attended to tasks. My lips smiled into the kiss. I felt wonderful, strong.
I twisted so that I lay on top of him. I needed more, I needed touch. I pulled the soft silk gown over my head. Amber eyes looked up at me in consternation.
“Cat,” his voice was a vibration in his chest. “What are you doing?”
I smiled in response.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I bent to take his lips again. His response was still soft and gentle but I could feel his want, his need answer my own. The kiss became deeper, his tongue sweeping as he engaged. I teased him, pulling up, and he followed me, growling. He pushed up and rolled me under where I had no escape, no respite, as he kissed me deeper and deeper before he pulled away, and oxygen flushed in, lighting up my brain. I pulled him back down again, grinning, our teeth clicking as he responded in kind. He groaned again, and his broad hand splayed in the small of my back and pressed me to him. There was only the velvet whisper of skin against skin, my hands playing up along his sculpted arms, my head falling to the side as he kissed his way down my neck. Lower and lower, he was kissing and licking, nibbling as my skin came back to electric life…
I was a quivering mass of flesh. I was alive inside, fire and passion bursting out of me, his dark hair tickling as its fall followed his delicious, talented lips across my skin, stoking the fire, higher and higher.
He paused as his knee came between mine, dilated eyes meeting mine. He pulled me into him and then over until I was on top of him and his hands rested at his sides, his chest heaving, glistening in the flickering light, those saturnine eyelids heavy as he watched me. As he waited for me. The next move was mine; he would not lead. He had worshipped every inch of my skin, but this, this moment had to be me.
I bent down and took him in an open-mouthed kiss, manoeuvring until he was inside me and we were one. The rhythm built again, and we moved together until we splintered into dazzling pieces. I lay trembling across him, little skitters of electricity snapping and crackling through me.
I tumbled to the side, my head damp against the steady thump of his heart.
I fell asleep in his arms, but this sleep didn’t feel like the end. It felt like the beginning.
I woke to find the room still in darkness, a dark figure stoking the fire.
“Gideon,” I called softly.
The figure fell back on the wooden floorboards, dropping the poker with a clatter.
“No, lady,” a familiar voice came across the room. “That is, it’s Oban.”
I smiled at Oban. I knew Oban. He looked like a little sparrow that was about to take flight, anxiously looking at me and the door, unsure what to do.
“Hello, Oban,” I said.
He smiled nervously back, still half looking like he was about to jump for the door.
“Do you know where Gideon is?” I asked. Now I was the nervous one. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here? He was angry at me. I had vague memories of him shouting at me, pleading with me to take more care of… It all felt so far away.
But last night felt very present. I stretched, the feeling of wellbeing flooding through me as I lengthened muscles and ligaments.
“Uh… he’s at the ball,” Oban answered, seeming to settle into being in the room, no longer looking like he needed to raise the alarm.
Wait… “What ball?”
“The Midwinter ball,” he answered slowly like I was a halfwit. Which I actually felt like. Mid-winter? How could that be? It was November, wasn’t it? How long had I been ill? What time was it? If I got up now, would I see her? Would Féile be with Gideon? I needed to see her. My heart felt like it was pumping again, rusty from disuse but working.
It was dark; had I slept through the day? No, if it was Yuletide I had slept through a couple of months.
“Can you bring me some warm water?” I sat up properly. Ah yes, no clothes. I pulled the sheet around my torso and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Here goes nothing. I stood and felt… steady. I took a couple of steps and, looking up, smiled broadly in response to Oban who looked like he was about to fall over as he took me in, his jaw practically on the floor.
He gulped and pointed to a jug that sat beside a large bowl and some cloths on a side table. Ready to give me my daily bed bath, I guessed. How embarrassing. Oban’s cheeks flushed as he saw me realise his intended purpose.
“Um… I’ll do this,” I said. “Could you pull out something to wear?”
His mouth opened then closed as he turned to the wardrobe. I poured some water into the bowl and, bending my head, splashed some on my face. The liquid felt delicious in my fingers, soothing and cleansing, the cloth fine as I patted my face dry to find Oban returned and holding a brown cloth dress of some kind in front of me.
“Is there something more…?” I didn’t want to offend Oban’s once impeccable taste, but really, I couldn’t go to a ball in that – I shouldn’t even go gardening in that. Though that was what it looked like I had used it for, the hem still muddy. “I’d like to go to the ball.”
“Go to the ball?” Oban looked even more shocked than he had been to discover me awake and then walking. I was going to end up damaging his health if I kept doling out the shocks this way.
“Yes, I… if that’s where everyone is.” I explained my motivation gently.
He nodded jerkily. “Yes, that is, everyone is at the ball. Well, almost everyone. I stayed with you. If you woke again we wanted someone to be with you. But it’s Winter Solstice so they’re all at the ball. You know what a big celebration it is,” he clarified, his head shaking in wonder. “Not that I mind.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be downstairs dancing?”
“Cassandra, you’re alive. I am dancing,” he said, his broad grin finally meeting my eyes directly.
Oban looked down at the dress in his hand and then back at the wardrobe, his mouth pulling down as he turned back to me. “They’re all like this.”
“Oh.” What to do? I could ask Oban to have Gideon come to me but suddenly I really wanted to see everyone. To be in the world. To dance. “Do I have any other dresses, in another part of the castle maybe?”
How odd. Had Oban really been dressing me in such clothes? Oban’s lips were pursed, his tongue in his cheek huffily. “You threw them away.”
I did? I had no memory of owning fancy dresses. No, wait, when I was pregnant, I had allowed Oban to dress me in finery, but afterwards it had seemed the height of foolishness while I trained with Callum and tended the lines to ruin the fine silks and satins. Rion had asked me why I didn’t wear them, so I had gathered them up and let them flutter off the side of the castle, pretty coloured petals floating in the wind, carried away on the breeze.
“I’m so sorry, Oban, all your fine work. Is there someone else who might have something I could borrow?”
It was Yuletide – surely the castle was heaving with fancy ladies and their fancy dresses.
Oban cocked his head slightly to the side as he did a mental inventory of whoever was residing at the castle for Yuletide. I could practically see him check off the options, his eyes running up and down my figure as he thought of each possible candidate before he dismissed it. Running out of candidates, his brows drew together, and his mouth turned down before his eyes lit up. Then turned doubtful.
“There’s no one. These Britons, they are all too big. You’re small compared to most even back home, and the few who share your height, well, those ladies are a little… fuller,” he finally said apologetically.
“There was someone
that might do, though?” I asked. I had seen him think of a possibility.
His mouth opened, but he struggled to find words.
“The owner can’t be that fearsome.” I smiled encouragingly. Whoever it was I’m sure they could be prevailed upon to lend me something.
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s that, well, when we first came here, and you stayed up in the nursery, there were dresses here but I had them moved to the attics because they belonged to…”
My mother. These rooms had been hers. Tears sprang in my eyes, and I chewed on my lip as I struggled to contain the swell of emotion that came over me at the thought of wearing something my mother had worn. The woman I had never known, never mourned. By the time I had learned who she was and that she was dead, I’d had other things on my mind. Rion had told me a little about her when we met at Conwy but I had never asked for more information since we came here, to her home.
“They saved my mother’s dresses?” I asked. At his nod, I ploughed on. “Do you know where they are kept? Could you bring me a couple?”
“Yes, they aren’t locked up or anything. They were all kept by his majesty’s father. Nobody ever touched them,” he said. “I had them aired properly and put away in case you wanted to move into those rooms. They were in surprisingly good condition, perfect really. Perhaps there are one or two that would do, with a few small adjustments.”
He was still muttering away to himself about the options as he headed out of the room. I cleaned myself as best I could with the basin of water. What I really felt like was a long bath, but it seemed I had already wasted enough time.
I waited impatiently for Oban to return. How long could it take to pull a few dresses out of storage? While I waited, I pulled my hair up into intricate braids, my fingers remembering how to accomplish the styles of which my mother, Camilla – my Roman mother – had been so fond.
I had nearly finished when Oban backed into the room laden with opulent gold and red and green gowns. There was even one in my favourite turquoise – had my mother favoured this colour as well, I wondered, or was it just one of many colours in her wardrobe? Oban had made me the most stunning gown of my life in that colour in Londinium.
Legend of the Lakes Page 8