"You want me to do what?" Paddy asked.
Guaire puffed out his cheeks. He'd known the idea would be unpalatable to the old man. "And you have to mean it," he added. "It's the only thing that will work. Otherwise it'll be hours or even days before he's ready to travel again, weak as he is."
Imogen's father might be looking better, but his continued somnolence suggested that the exposure to iron had eaten away his strength. Even if he could walk to the spot out in the snow where Guaire had found him, Finn surely didn't have the strength to access a fairy portal now.
Paddy crossed his arms over his chest, scowled down at his boots for a moment, and then marched off toward the kitchens. Guaire let loose the breath he'd been holding. He could offer sustenance to Finn himself, but he doubted it would do any good. It had to come from human hands--like Paddy's.
Paddy returned with a torn-off hunk of bread in his hand. The warm scent rising from it reminded Guaire that his own stomach was empty, and he hoped Mrs. Dougherty had made more than one loaf. They were going to need them.
"Let's get this over with," Paddy said in a gruff voice. "Is there something magic I'm supposed to say?"
Guaire shook his head. "No. Just offer it to him."
Paddy shook his head again, but marched into the front parlor, where Imogen's father had roused somewhat. Finn sat with his head back against the sofa and his eyes closed. Not too gently, Paddy tapped his foot against Finn's to get his attention. Finn's dark eye opened--the other still appeared to be swollen closed--and fixed immediately on the bread in Paddy's hand.
"An offering," Paddy said simply, and handed over the piece of bread.
Finn took the bread and tore off a piece. Before eating it, he glanced up at Paddy's face. "Thank you."
"Help find my grandson. That'll be thanks enough," Paddy said, and stalked out of the room. He stopped in the hallway where Guaire waited. "How long?"
"Give him a bit." Guaire cast a careful look inside the parlor, up at the lines of cracks in the plaster. Imogen had done that, he'd heard, a rare lack of control from her. He turned his eyes back on her father, chewing a second piece of the bread now. "You're not a puca at all, are you?"
"Come now, boy," Finn said. "You should know better."
The swelling around his eye had receded, Guaire noted. "Our kind doesn't respond to offerings of food, other than in kindness."
Finn opened that second eye and wiped at the crusted corner with the back of one hand. He tore off another piece of the bread and chewed thoughtfully.
After a moment of silence, Guaire left him alone in the parlor, reckoning Finn's strength still faded enough to keep him from leaving. He headed back to the office where he found Imogen pacing, cradling one of Patrick's wooden blocks in her palms.
She came to him and grabbed his hand. "What happened?"
"Your father accepted an offering of bread from Paddy," he said. "His strength is coming back."
Imogen licked her lips, clearly picking up what he'd not said. "Only real fairies do that."
"He has to be part 'real' fairy then, Ginny, else he wouldn't gain strength from it. Which means you are, too...and Patrick." It would explain a great deal about Finn, especially why his behavior seemed more like that of one of the Fair Folk than a puca. "Blood forges ties between this world and theirs. Children with human blood are like anchors, giving a fairy a hold here once they're acknowledged. Whatever she wants of him, she knew that you and Patrick would be leverage against him."
"So what does she want? Could he have stolen from her? Cheated her?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "And I don't think he's going to tell me."
Her lips pressed together. "It doesn't matter. As soon as he's able, I want to go after Patrick."
"He won't take you with him, Ginny. I'll go."
Her eyes blazed. "Oh, he'll take me."
Mother Hawkes would be proud of her daughter-in-law at that moment, Guaire reckoned, for such a demonstration of willfulness. "Then he'll take us both."
***
"No," her father said. "There's no point in your falling into her hands as well."
Imogen felt surprisingly calm and collected at the moment. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm going with you. He's my son, and if I have to cut out some fairy's heart to get him back, I will."
Her father's single brow rose. The one that had burned away hadn't grown back yet, despite the fact that the burns across his face had faded, little more than a sunburn now. "You would do that?"
"For my son, yes." In truth, Imogen doubted she could do anything of the kind. With fairies, though, posturing was almost as good as action. Guaire held his tongue throughout, letting her take the lead.
Finn nodded approvingly. "You do have a backbone after all, child. Perhaps you can face her down."
"What do you owe her?" she asked. "Why does she want you to come to her?"
"I owe her no more than you owe me," her father said. "As for why she wants me to come to her, I cannot know the motivations of another."
He'd answered, when he strictly didn't have to--a gift to her, of sorts. But his answer didn't make sense. Imogen took a deep breath to calm herself. "I want to go now."
Guaire had remained silent until then. "Can we get back through that portal?"
Her father's eyes flicked toward Guaire. "You, as well?"
"He comes along, too," Imogen said. Whatever had to be done, she and Guaire would handle it best together. "No argument, Father."
"You've never called me that before," Finn said, fixing her with an odd expression.
Imogen didn't know how to respond, uncertain what her slip of the tongue revealed. She only hoped it wasn't too much. "May we go now?"
His head inclined. "After you."
Imogen lifted the bag that Mrs. Dougherty had loaned her, which held two more towel-wrapped loaves of bread. There had been enough left from the first for Guaire to get something to eat, but her nerves had been too jangled for her to stomach it.
Guaire stepped behind her and leaned close to whisper in her ear, "Well done."
***
Imogen waited atop Guaire's back near the railroad tracks. She'd hastily crammed his clothing into the bag along with the bread. Last bits of snow lingered about the rocks. The sun had started its downward trek, casting long shadows. The rails stood out in relief against the old wooden ties.
It was the first time she'd seen her father's horse form, his pale hair translating into a creamy mane, striking against his chestnut coat. She watched him with a troubled eye, not entirely certain he would do as he'd implied. He hadn't actually made a bargain with her, which left her dependent on his goodwill.
A sharp yip caught her ears, and she saw a fox jump up onto one of the stones near the tracks. It was white, exactly as Guaire described--the white dog of Moira's dreams. It let out a long string of yips which sounded oddly accusing to Imogen's ears.
"I will follow." Her father's voice, deep and sonorous in this form, startled her. It didn't come from his muzzle--not possible in horse form at all--but from somewhere within.
The fox turned about on the rock and leapt off. It darted toward an open area in front of the tracks and then disappeared. Guaire raced after it, faster than her father. Imogen dug her fingers into his mane, and the world changed between one step and the next.
PART 6
Guaire's breath steamed as he picked his way though rows of snow-capped tombstones. An early snow had hit this place as well, more heavily than at the farm.
They hadn't asked enough questions, Imogen thought, or not the right ones. She shivered and tugged her field jacket tighter about her neck, grateful it wasn't full dark yet. Guaire stopped and she slid from his back. "Where are we, do you think? And where is my father?"
He tossed his mane, which she took to mean that he didn't know. She laid one hand on his withers and looked around, trying to figure out where they had ended up. A wooded mount rose behind them, with graves laid out in tight lines i
n its shadow. Red oaks and maples grew on the mountainside, not the sort of trees they would find around Saratoga Springs. She inspected the expensive stones about them, crosses and obelisks each with a cap of snow. "LeClaire, Monette," she read aloud. "Papineau. They're French names. Could we be in France?"
Guaire snorted.
This seemed like a place in their world, not any fairy realm. A black squirrel climbed up on a dark stone nearby, its bushy tail fluffed out. Imogen regarded it cautiously, thinking that it might be another of their adversary's minions, but when she moved toward it the creature dashed away up a tree. Likely a real squirrel after all.
"Are we really in this place or not?" she asked.
Guaire walked a distance away from her and changed, a hot wind heralding his return to human form. The snow on the ground about him melted for several feet in all directions. Imogen dusted off a tombstone with one gloved hand and set her bag atop it to draw out his clothes. Guaire wouldn't feel the cold for some time, but she would feel better if he weren't naked in this strange place.
"Look over there." He pointed toward a spot near the crest of the mountain's slope.
Imogen turned to survey it while he drew on his trousers. A small cluster of buildings had been constructed near the high point of the mountain. Overlooking the countryside, a cross marked the apex of a chapel. No bell-tower, though; fairies hated the sound of church bells, if she recalled correctly. "If this is a graveyard, then this must be consecrated ground. Fairies can't live on consecrated ground, can they?"
Still shirtless, Guaire ran a hand through his dark hair. "Well, it must be named for her. That would make it her territory."
"You mean the graveyard is named for her?" She looked about, but didn't see anything that would tell her the cemetery's name.
"I'll bet this is one of those Catholic graveyards," he said with a shrug. "There are old churches and such named for her—the Lady of the Snow. She can claim those."
Imogen tried to recall why that sounded familiar. "You mean Our Lady of the Snows? That's another name for the Virgin Mary, Guaire, not some fairy."
"She's old, Ginny," he said as he buttoned his shirt. "She had that name long before your Virgin Mary did. Think about it. Do you think the Virgin Mary ever even saw snow, living in Palestine as she did?"
Imogen couldn't argue with his logic. "So even though the church named the place after the Virgin Mary, the fairy can still claim it because…she had the name first?"
"Names are important." He drew on his jacket. "Every time someone uses that name, the Lady can draw on it--sort of the way an auction house gets a percent of the money from a yearling sale."
She shot him a guarded look, not sure if he'd slipped into blasphemy there. "So they're inadvertently…feeding her?"
He nodded. "She can draw strength from their prayers, I suppose, and use it to gain footholds in the human world."
"Like this place," Imogen said, looking about the chilly landscape. She hoped her son was warmer than she was.
"Until they build a bell tower," Guaire added, with a nod toward the chapel on the hill. "Then it won't be so welcoming for her. She'll have to find another foothold."
If her father could use Patrick as an anchor to the human world, Imogen wondered what the fairy could claim once evicted from this cemetery by the sound of church bells. She brushed snow off another French-inscribed headstone. "Do you think this might be Quebec? They speak French there, don't they?"
Guaire cast a blank look at her, which told her he was the wrong person to answer that question. They didn't race their horses in Canada, so he had no reason to take an interest in that country.
"Do you have any idea where my father is?" she asked then.
He took her hand. "I suspect our guide took him through, and dumped us in the human equivalent of their location. So now we need to beg for help."
She could feel the warmth of his fingers, even through her glove. "What do you have in mind?"
"Bread?" He shrugged. "Could be just more squirrels out here, though."
"Well, they need to eat, too." She dug in the sack and pulled out one of the loaves. "Where should we put it?"
***
Guaire regarded the torn chunks of bread Imogen had piled on one of the tombstones. The light was almost gone. Soon they wouldn't be able to see much of anything, and the wind carried the scent of more snow on the way.
"What if they aren't here?" Imogen asked, worry leaking into her voice. "What if we're alone? How do we get home?"
He shook his head. Usually she was the strong one, but this all had to be far outside her experience, and doubly frightening. "They're here, Ginny. I smell them. Hobs, I think. They're watching us."
"Are they dangerous? Would they hurt Patrick?"
He shot a glance at her under his brow. "I think not. He's bait, so there's no profit in hurting him."
She wrapped her arms about herself and pressed her lips together. A black squirrel climbed up onto the stone where the bread lay and picked up a chunk in its paws. It chittered at them, sounding not too different from the fox they'd seen earlier.
Guaire took a careful sniff and caught that earthy scent that spoke of hobgoblin. "We need to speak with her. We need to go to the other side."
The squirrel tossed the chunk of bread at them, a supremely un-squirrel-like action.
"Please," Imogen begged. "Please, I must find my son."
A wave of cold swept over them as the sun set, sharp enough that even Guaire could feel it. He moved to draw Imogen into his arms, but paused when he heard familiar childish laughter. Imogen turned and ran toward the sound, her feet sure in the snow. Guaire followed. Even if it was a trap, they had little choice.
He saw the Lady then, a tall slender creature standing at the place where two of the snow-garbed paths crossed. On her hip she carried a child. Wrapped in a tattered quilt, Patrick seemed unaware of any danger, but laughed and waved at them, his dark hair as wild as ever, despite the fairy's gentle attempt to straighten it with long, delicate fingers.
Her hair was white and wild--not the smooth cream of Imogen's hair, but the icy white of frost. Her skin had a similar pallor, only enough color in it to show that some blood flowed within. She stood barefooted in the snow, her garments like a fall of silken rags in shades of mossy green, but laced close about her waist. She was beautiful in a way that spoke of cold and remote places.
One of the old ones and still powerful, she had no real use for them, Guaire knew. The Lady of the Snow needed no fairy court to adore her; she held enough borrowed power not to require anyone's supplication, but seeing Imogen and the Lady together, he suspected he knew now what the Lady wanted from her. They were startlingly alike.
Imogen had stopped in her tracks as if a wall prevented her from going closer, only a couple of feet from Patrick's outstretched hands.
"Mama," Patrick cried merrily.
"Hush," the fairy said, her voice like the fall of dry snow.
Patrick fell silent. Guaire bit his tongue and stopped a few feet farther back.
"My son," Imogen said, reaching toward Patrick. "What do you want in return for my son?"
"Imogen!" Finn's voice thundered through the twilight. "Don't bargain with her."
Imogen glanced back. Guaire heard hooves nearby, careful steps plodding through the snow. He could smell Finn approaching from behind, still in horse form, but he didn't take his eyes off the Lady, certain she was more dangerous.
"This is unfair," Finn said.
"Hot-tempered father of an impetuous child," the Lady said. "She has already offered. There is nothing now to do save make a deal." Her fingers stroked through Patrick's hair again, a gesture Guaire had seen Imogen make a thousand times.
"I gave you my word." Finn followed that with angry stamp, a thump on the snow covered pathway. "You have what you want. Don't trifle with my daughter."
"She wanted to talk with me," the fairy said. "I heard her say so."
Guaire stepped to h
er side, drew her back and inserted himself between them. "Lady, deal with me in her stead."
He felt Imogen's fingers knotting into the back of his jacket. "No," she hissed.
But he had the Lady's attention now. She surveyed him with dark eyes, startling in so pale a visage. "You are the rarest creature," she said. "A puca with a constant heart."
Not knowing how to react to that statement, Guaire gazed down at his son instead. Patrick scowled mightily, a mulish expression, irritation at being restrained rather than true anger. A square of fabric floated to the snow, a pale bit of blue floral cotton, and then another.
"Yes, he would escape me eventually," the Lady said, stroking Patrick's hair. "One can't hold a puca against his will, I learned long ago. Not without their true name." She glanced up at Guaire. "I've watched over you for years, young one."
She definitely meant him, Guaire decided. "What do you mean?"
"A question for a question?"
Foolishness all his own, blurting out a question like that. It implied he was willing to bargain. He took a deep breath. "Yes."
"Then tell me." She pointed behind him with her chin--at Finn. "Why did you help Imogen's mother leave him?"
That query surprised him. It must be the one thing the Lady couldn't know--his reason for helping Eugenia Villiers escape Finn's grasp so long ago. "He took up with another woman, and she felt betrayed. She begged for my help to return to her family. She'd lost her love for him, she said."
The fairy's pale head tilted. "Do humans lose love? Misplaced like a necklace left behind, tangled among rumpled bedclothes?"
A rhetorical question, that one, and not part of their bargain. More squares of cotton dropped from the quilt to the snow. Guaire felt Imogen's shuddering breaths against the back of his neck. She was right to be afraid, for this creature was far more powerful than anything she'd met before, and colder.
The Lady shifted Patrick on her hip. "You were punished for your compassion. It is, I suspect, a trait from your human side. The puca are not known for that, either." Her dark eyes flicked up to meet his, startling in the suddenness of the movement. "I wonder what you would give to get your wife and son back home."
Snow Comes to Hawk's Folly Page 6