Weald Fae 01 - The Steward

by Christopher Shields

  I also thought about the Water trial. The brief image of Chalen’s face leering at me brought my trepidation back in full force, shattering my calmness like a fragile china cup hitting a stone floor. I wanted to tell Candace about everything, maybe Ronnie, too. I wanted to share with someone. I also knew that would be a mistake.

  How would I tell my best friends that I’m surrounded by ancient beings who can destroy cities with earthquakes, or cause spring to come early? How would I tell them that werewolves are really just pissed-off fairies playing dress-up, or that one of the meanest lives at the top of the hill? How would I tell them I’m inescapably in love with a being that has no natural physical form and witnessed the evolution of mankind first hand? And how would I tell my friends that I’ve recently learned to morph rocks with my mind, or that I’ve decided to live the rest of my life in a storybook cottage by a lake in the middle of the Ozarks? I huffed at the ceiling. “I can’t.” But I wasn’t going to lie there and worry about it, either.

  “Get up!” I grumbled.

  It felt seventy degrees outside when I swung my bedroom window open. The perfume of the garden poured into the room, but seemed more intense today than before. Even though I’d seen it evolve each morning this month, I once again stood at the window in awe of this place. Aunt May and Mom had apparently decided to have my birthday breakfast alfresco—I watched them taking things out to a table overlooking the lake.

  Candace and I joined the rest of my family in the garden. As we sat underneath a few straggling clouds floating by in the bright blue sky, Candace gushed about the setting. Each compliment she offered gave me deep satisfaction. I hadn’t thought it possible, but the dew-laced blooms were even more profuse today than ever—thank you, Gavin. The rich colors of the garden came alive as the morning sun slowly topped the eastern mountain.

  The plants in the garden were packed tightly together and looked random. I knew from Aunt May and Sara that they only appeared that way. Generations of my family had been involved with the garden, each one adding to and improving on what the previous had done. There was nothing random about any of it. The colors of the blooms and the shapes of the plants all fit together—an orchestrated plan hidden just under the surface of what appeared to be chaos in blooms. It was brilliant. The most impressive part to me was that it changed every few days as some plants finished their show and others came into bloom. We were a few weeks into the season, but I knew the garden had only begun telling its story.

  I realized something about myself over breakfast. First, I wanted to know all the stories about my ancestors and the garden. I felt I needed to know them. Second, I was actually moved that Candace appreciated the gardens. That was important, oddly, because it meant she appreciated the work that generations of my family had put into this place. I shook my head, realizing a third thing—I was developing sentiment.

  At breakfast I opened a few gifts. Mom made me an elegant pale yellow tea set with blue flowers. It was very whimsical, but sleek, and painted in an Asian style. Dad gave me several worn leather-bound books—they were old journals belonging to my ancestors dating back to December of 1825. The pages were fragile and a yellow-orange color. The ink was faded and brown, but still legible. The name on the first page was Pete O’Shea, the forefather who’d settled here. I read a few lines, English with Irish words mixed in. It was his personal journal.

  “That tells the story of how the O’Shea family found this place and settled here. He didn’t stop writing until the day he died,” Dad said. “They belonged to me and I’m giving them to you, Mags. I thought you should have a record of the family.”

  My chest felt full, and I fought the tears that welled in my eyes. Aunt May handed me the next package. Inside I found several more old journals. The top one was very large and thick and worn, but it didn’t appear nearly as old as Pete O’Shea’s journals. The handwriting was considerably more beautiful. As I scanned the first page, I read the name Lola O’Shea inside the cover.

  I turned to Aunt May. “Oh, my gosh, thank you. It’s Lola’s journal!”

  I looked through a few pages and didn’t understand anything at first, but a moment later I realized what I was reading–it was a garden journal. Lola had documented the garden each year starting in 1915, and she provided a detailed description of when every bulb or perennial was planted. She drew diagrams and sketches, some in color, and wrote notes in the margins. I saw where she listed every plant she moved from the original garden down in a place she called ‘the fern grotto’ to this site. It all happened decades before the engineers built the dam and flooded the valley—she clearly knew what was up.

  “The wisteria growing on the pergola,” I said, pointing across the garden, “is part of the original plant that Catherine O’Shea Williams planted in 1852. My gosh, it’s all in these pages, every plant.”

  I flipped ahead and saw entries made by my grandfather and, further on, by Aunt May—it was a living record.

  “These are better birthday gifts than I could have hoped for,” I said. My eyes completely misted over.

  “It’s up ta ya ta keep the journal now. I’ve cataloged everything this year. Next year it’s yer turn,” Aunt May said.

  Mitch flipped through one of the journals Dad gave me. “Mags, look at this,” he said. “It’s called The Fae of the Weald. The stories are all fairy tales.”

  “I’d love to read that book,” Mom said, looking over Mitch’s shoulder. She’d been reading another book Aunt May gave her about Dad’s great uncle, Alton O’Shea, Alton’s Kitchen Table Prevarications and Other Bald Faced Lies. She used the stories as inspiration for her art.

  “They all need ta be read.” Aunt May rocked back in her chair. “I think that book in particular needs ta go ta Maggie. Never know what ya’ll learn from a good fairy tale.” Nice hint, Aunt May, I’ll be sure to read it.

  In the early afternoon, Dad was busy directing several people who set up tables under a huge tent he had erected behind the cottage. Mom and Dad had spent hours last night stringing white lights in the trees and over a dance floor that Aunt May insisted we rent. The party was going to be over the top thanks to Aunt May. I offered to help, but Dad hurried me off to my room.

  While Candace got ready, I soaked in the tub. I think I’d drifted off when Mom knocked on the door and suggested that I speed things up. Drying off, I let her in so she could help me put my hair up. I always enjoyed it when she did. We chatted about boys. She said she liked Gavin, but suggested I try not to get too attached. You know what they say about a mother’s intuition. After Mom left, I worked on my makeup and heard the chime going off on Candace’s phone—texts came in furiously.

  “Anything going on?” I asked, heading to my closet.

  “Ummm, yeah. Apparently, Rhonda dumped Doug this morning over breakfast. She texted me for pity, of course, and wanted me to drive out to her house at Holiday Island. Afraid Holiday Island Barbie is outta luck. I’m fresh outta pity.”

  Candace grinned at me and I knew what was coming.

  “Green light birthday girl,” she said softly. “And to think, you haven’t even blown out your candles yet.”

  “Don’t start! Doug is my friend … that’s all,” I said.

  I found the dress I’d picked out two months ago and had hidden in the back of my closet. Studying it again, I started to question whether it was a smart move, however. It was pink, of course, but that was where it departed from the average sweet-sixteen attire. It was short, low cut, formfitting, covered in pink sequins, and sure to give Dad nightmares.

  Her phone alerted again. “Oh, that’s too bad. Hey Mags, guess what?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Your dearest friend, Princess Adair, has decided to pass on your big day. She was kind enough to send along a birthday wish, courtesy of me, and hopes you’ll understand.”

  I laughed as I put my heels on. Suddenly I looked forward to my party more than ever. I stepped out and spun for her.

  “What do yo
u think?”

  “Your dad is going to hate that dress ... well done,” Candace said, arching her left eyebrow. Then she exhaled loudly. “You look ... well ... statuesque. Damn, I should have taken up swimming.”

  “Please, you look great. You look like a model.”

  She grinned devilishly. “Oh, I know that. But you look … wow, you’re so cut, so buff. Totally off the chain.”

  I spun in the full-length mirror. It was a great dress. Just at that moment I heard a car through the open window. It was a familiar exhaust note, unmistakably vintage Maserati. My heart jumped in my chest and I struggled to keep myself from sprinting to the window. I could tell the car had pulled up to the cottage wall and stopped. I walked slowly toward the window and heard the driver’s side door open and shut—it made a slight squeak and a small rattle that was all too familiar. When I reached the window I saw him standing at the gate, staring up at me. My heart stopped for a moment and my eyes blurred. Thank god he was here. He smiled and walked into the garden.

  “Oh ... ho ... lee ... crap. He looks more beautiful than ever,” I heard Candace whisper behind me before going silent.

  Gavin wore linen pants and a pale blue polo with the collar turned up. He had a white sweater tied around his shoulders and a pair of sunglasses tucked into his perfectly spiked black hair. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad today. Mitch yelled at him from downstairs and Gavin’s face lit up. I melted.

  When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Gavin briefly looked up from Mitch, who was explaining something terribly important. He smiled at me and focused on Mitch again. He seemed okay. When Mitch saw me he stopped talking and his mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, my gosh … Wow, Mags, you look so beautiful.” I love that kid.

  “Yes, she does,” Gavin agreed, flashing his playful half-smile.

  The parade of arriving friends began and the living room quickly filled up. Rachel came over to me, staring at Gavin the whole time.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “When do you get to unwrap him?” she whispered in my ear.

  I laughed. “You’re impossible.”

  “No, it’s your birthday, Maggie, you should at least get a spanking ... mmmmm hmmm,” she growled, bumping hips with me.

  I tried to force a perturbed look and managed only an awkward smile. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

  “Hhhhmmmph!” she exhaled, pouching her bottom lip out. “You’re no fun, Maggie O’Shea,” she said, feigning disappointment. “B.T.W., you hear about Rhonda and Doug?”

  “I did, it’s too bad,” I said.

  She looked at me and shook her head. “Who are you kidding? That’s one more hot guy back on the market. Rhonda’s my best friend and all, but it’s every girl for herself in this podunk hill town!”

  The cottage grew crowded and it wasn’t possible to keep up with all the people arriving, so I grabbed Candace and Rachel and dragged them outside with me. The high afternoon sun backlit the white pedals on the dogwoods, transforming them into a feathery white ceiling. While the back of the cottage didn’t have the presence of the front, it was spectacular nonetheless with the shimmering blue lake providing an amazing backdrop.

  With more music than anyone I knew, Rachel’s dad, Lance, had volunteered to DJ for me. Rachel only agreed to let him come after he promised to leave everything from the eighties, especially the Depeche Mode albums, at home. Rachel was embarrassed already, but I thought he was awesome. He had his headphones on, and was dancing and bobbing his head to Usher at the moment. When he saw me, he grinned really big and mouthed “happy birthday” without missing a beat.

  The music slowed while I scanned for Gavin. There was still no sign of him. Dad tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to dance.

  “Love the dress, honey, you look beautiful,” he said as I wrapped my arms over his shoulders.

  I laughed. “I thought you’d hate it—Candace was sure of it.”

  He looked me up and down with a handsome smile, and then peered over my shoulder, whispering, “Seriously? You’ve spent half your life in a bathing suit. I’d say you’re relatively well covered today. But it wouldn’t bother me if the boys stopped staring quite so hard.”

  I laughed.

  “I did tell you that you’re not dating until you’re thirty, right?”

  “Yes, Dad, you did,” I whispered back.

  “Well ... maybe twenty-nine, as long as you have your pepper spray.” He chuckled.

  We danced around under the tent for a few minutes before I noticed Gavin. He was dancing with Mom, and staring at me. After a few turns, we were next to one another. Mom grabbed Dad and pulled him away, giving me a wink in the process. I owe you big-time, Mom.

  Gavin lowered his chin toward his chest and looked at me through his dark eyebrows. He took my hand and I wrestled with the butterflies in my stomach as he pulled me to him. The warmth of his hand, when it made contact with the small of my back, lit me up like a Christmas tree. I focused on the hollow where his neck met his chest—I couldn’t handle his eyes right now. It was the first time I’d been this close to him, and I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I felt his body move and it sent electricity through every cell in my body. I took a deep breath and concentrated on calming down. It was my chance to talk to him, and it might have been the only one I would have before the end of the night.

  “Where were you?” I whispered.

  “Sorry, I’ve been inside talking with Ronnie and your brother.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I looked up at him briefly. The lights in the tent danced off the amber flecks in his chocolate eyes, and my stomach fluttered.

  He looked down at me and smiled, making it hard for me to swallow. “Oh, that. Sorry about Friday—I had to help your dad with something.”

  I thought about it for a moment and felt the tension leave my body. “Why didn’t he tell me that?” I asked.

  Gavin flashed a devastating smile and my knees got weak. “Maybe it’s a secret,” he whispered. He caught my weight and looked puzzled.

  “Sorry … lost my balance—I’m not used to these heels,” I said quickly.

  In a deep melodic whisper, he said, “You know, Maggie O’Shea, you are the most beautiful person here. I think you may very well be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

  The breath caught in my throat for a moment. Did he actually just say that … to me?

  I wheezed out, “No, you are.”

  “Maggie, your beauty is real, mine is a mirage.”

  He pulled me a little closer and my body reacted. Delirious, hot and cold at the same time, I fought hard to keep what I thought in the back of my mind. But I knew the emotion started to bubble through. It was there again—I felt the same chemistry between us that I’d felt on Friday. Oh my god, it’s real. This time I was sure. I had to look away from his face or I’d lose it. The first person I saw was Sara—her eyes were fixed on me, and emotionless.

  I felt a pang of terror. I knew that if I found Victoria and Sherman they’d probably have the same look on their faces, each of them peering into my mind, trying to discover my thoughts. I’d been careless and I knew it. If I slipped, even for a fraction of a second, it would be all over.

  I smiled at them, then threw my head back and forced a laugh. I hoped the act would lighten my mood. I was careful to avoid meeting Gavin’s gaze while he stared a hole through me. I looked over to Rachel. She and Candace stared at Gavin like two ravenous dogs with a pork chop between them. They only made matters worse. I could just imagine what images they played in their minds for the Fae to see. Ronnie was there, but he didn’t look at us. He was smiling at someone behind me. Thank god, something I can focus on other than Gavin. I turned my head and saw Doug. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, smiling at me.

  He looked like he’d just walked off a plane from Bora Bora. His sun-kissed blond hair was tousled over his handsome, tan face. He didn’t seem to fit in Arkansas. He wore a loose fitting, l
ong-sleeved linen shirt, unbuttoned down to his waist, over a tight white tank top that hugged the muscles of his chest. He’d rolled the sleeves up to the middle of his tanned forearms, and stood there, feet spread, with his hands buried in the pockets of his linen slacks. He waved. I saw an opportunity.

  I allowed his image to fill the front of my mind, and I pulled the stopper off the emotions I felt for Gavin. I felt a change in Gavin’s body immediately—his back stiffened. Not only were Sara and the other Fae reading me, he was too. I hated doing this—I wanted to write a note in my head telling Gavin that my feelings were for him, not Doug, but I couldn’t.

  I told myself it was for the best. The consequences of the Fae finding out how I felt were too terrible for any other course of action. I’d find a time and let Gavin know. It would all be fine. When the song changed, Gavin let go of my waist and we walked off the floor. I stared up at him. He looked at Doug and then he looked at Rachel. Oh crap, I could only guess what debauchery was going through her mind.

  Gavin started to pull away, but I wouldn’t let go of his hand. There was more than one way to send a message, I thought. He smiled at me like he always did, and gently pulled his hand free to shake Doug’s hand. It was odd, seeing both of them standing there. When Gavin let go of his hand, Doug reached out and hugged me.

  “Happy birthday, Havana,” he said with a grin.

  I studied his eyes, looking for some sign of the sadness I knew he had to be feeling, but found none there. They were crystal blue and as intense as always. I glanced back over to Sara and Devin, who were talking with Dad. I sighed. Apparently the ruse worked.

  “I heard about you and Rhonda. I’m so sorry.”

  Doug shook his head. “Don’t be, it was a long time coming. But let’s not talk about that, please. Everyone keeps apologizing and I’d just like to forget about it.”