by Deb Marlowe
“How?”
“Perhaps Paul will show himself to you, too?” she asked into the air.
The boy popped into the space between their chairs. Her father did not react in the slightest.
“He won’t see me,” Paul said.
She decided to try another tactic. “Is it this part of the country?” she asked. “Haven’t you felt it? The servants talk of ghosts, the villagers whisper about witches and . . . pixies.”
“Stuff and nonsense. Don’t let them corrupt your pretty little head, my dear.”
“It too late. Something’s happened to me since I came here. I can show you, Father.”
He shook his head, started to rise.
She reached out and took his hand. “Please?”
Sighing, he sat.
“Think of something I don’t know.”
“Excuse me?”
She cast about and her gaze fell on her mother’s wardrobe. “Think about what mother wore on your wedding day. I don’t know what it was. Now, tell me about it—but make it a lie. Tell me something different than what she truly wore.”
He started to bluster again, but met her gaze and gave in. “Your mother wore a yellow dress on the day we married.” He waved an impatient hand in the air.
The truth bubbled into clarity between them. An image of her mother joining him at an altar. “No.” She stared in wonder. “Mother looked beautiful in ice blue, with white rosebuds in her hair.”
The earl paused. “Your mother could have told you.”
“She didn’t.”
“Someone in the family, then.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Father. Test me again. With something I could never, ever know.”
He frowned, thought a moment, then started to speak.
“Make it a lie!” she reminded him. “And I’ll see the truth.”
“When I was a lad of twelve, I was thrashed. I stole a box of cigars from my father’s desk.”
The image formed, strong and clear.
“It wasn’t you, but a ginger-haired boy. You didn’t tell the truth, but took the punishment.”
He gaped at her.
She looked closer, even as the vision faded. “It wasn’t cigars. It was . . . Father!” She blushed a little. “It was a book of naughty pictures.”
He drained of all color. “How?” he asked. “No one knows. Only that lad knew—and he died before you were born.”
“I told you, Father. Before we came here, I had no idea that these sort of things happened, that the old myths and stories were real—”
Something sharp rapped upon the door. “Lord Banfield?” It was Rowencourt! “We had an appointment this morning.”
“No!” She lunged to stop him when her father would have stood. “Don’t let him in, Father, he is not what he seems!”
“What do you mean, girl?” He still looked spooked.
“He’s lied about who he is.”
“About what? His fortune? His connections?”
“I don’t know about those—but I know he’s here because he wants something from you—something to do with that Lancarrow land—and what’s on it.”
The rapping came again.
“Don’t let him in. He’s not a strapping young man, Father. He’s ancient and decrepit and unnatural. I think he means you harm. I have a friend, an unusual friend, but he can protect you—”
The door opened—without anyone touching it. Paul faded away.
“Good morning,” Rowancourt said enthusiastically. “What have we here?”
“Good morning to you, sir.” Her father assisted her to her feet. “Just talking with my daughter.”
“Not a happy consultation, it would seem.” Rowancourt smiled at her and her skin crawled. “Having troubles, Lady Tamsyn?”
“Just girlish worries,” her father demurred. “She will be fine.”
“What? Worries?” Rowancourt fixed an intent stare on the earl. “On a fine morning like this? Utter nonsense.”
“That’s right.” Her father visibly relaxed. “No need for worries. Or nerves. Beautiful day, eh?” He smiled. “We were to walk out this morning, were we not, Rowancourt?”
“We were.” The old man transferred all of his attention to her. “I think perhaps, you should come with us, Lady Tamsyn.”
His will felt palpable and amorphous, surrounding her at first like a mist, then tightening into a fist. Her mouth opened. She could feel herself beginning to agree, but she fought it, imagined herself throwing her arms wide to fight off the closing grip—and wanting to cheer when she felt it recede.
“No, thank you, Mr. Rowancourt. And if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to reschedule your plans with Lord Banfield. We have some urgent matters to attend to.”
Rowancourt made a small, quick gesture with his hand and her father immediately objected. “What? No. Too beautiful a day to waste on weighty manners. Come and walk with us, my dear.”
Before she could answer, Rowancourt made another, larger motion, as if he threw something her way.
The jolt hit her hard. She felt as if she were falling, falling—but after a moment realized that she hadn’t moved. She couldn’t move. Saints, but it was horrible! She gagged. She needed to run, to escape, but her every limb was clamped, frozen in a vise grip that smelled, felt and tasted of him.
“Now then,” he said with satisfaction. “You are an interesting one. Do you know how long it’s been since I had to resort to a direct spell like that?”
She struggled silently while he sauntered toward her and circled around, running a measuring gaze over her, touching a finger to her brow and finally, leaning in to sniff her.
“Ah, there it is. Such a familiar smell, the whiff of pixie magic, but how it does take me back!” Crossing the room, he looked out the window and over the courtyard. “I had just meant to pick up a stray gardener, you know. Perhaps a groom. But the more I learn about you, Lady Tamsyn, the more I think that you might be the right choice.” He came back and smiled brightly at her father. “Well now, let’s have a walk, shall we?”
Her father agreed, and turned to her. “Coming, Tamsyn?”
“Oh, yes, she is.” The pair of them left the room. To her horror, she felt her body, heeding another’s will instead of her own, move to follow.
“Thank you, Hunt.” Gryff breathed a sigh of relief as the solicitor handed over the papers. “I do apologize for requesting this at the crack of dawn, but believe it or not, it is important.”
Hunt shrugged. “If you say so. The papers were signed, in any event. I asked the earl to make the transfer after we last talked.” He yawned. “Will you join me for breakfast?”
“Thank you, but I must be going.” He put the papers in a leather bag and strapped it over one shoulder and across his chest. “Urgent matters, you see.”
“Very well. Will I see you for the reading of the will? I suppose it’s not necessary, now.”
Gryff paused. “I don’t know.”
“Well, then, just in case, let me say it was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Hunt.”
Gryff left the study, his mind busy. Now, at least, Tamsyn’s father should be safe. Gryff might not know exactly what they were dealing with, but he was better armed than Lord Banfield.
He hesitated at the end of the passageway. He wanted to see Tamsyn. Wanted to see her bright smile, touch her soft skin, kiss her eager mouth. And he wanted to ease her fears about her father and assure her that whatever came—they would face it together.
He let his feet carry him toward the front of the house. A footman found him at the entry hall and Gryff asked after Lady Tamsyn.
“She’s likely at breakfast with the family, sir. Would you like me to announce you?”
Paul appeared on the stairwell behind him. “Rowancourt has her!” he called. “Her father too.”
Gryff froze. “Where?”
“In the dining room, sir,” the servant answered, looking at him like he wa
s mad.
“He’s taken them outside. I think they are heading for the barrow. If you hurry, you can catch them!”
The footman stared as Gryff turned and ran.
Chapter 7
Every fiber of her being recoiled from what was happening to her. Her skin crawled. Still, she walked on, following her father and Rowancourt.
Her mind was her own, though, thank goodness, and though she fought as they made their way through the gardens, past the oak and into the forest, it took until they reached the stream before she regained control of her tongue.
“You will not harm my father,” she bit out.
“Stars, but you are strong.” Rowancourt seemed almost delighted. “No, my dear. I will not harm your father. He has no taint of pixie magic, which means he is still of use to me. You on the other hand . . .” He let his words trail away.
She would have closed her eyes, if she would not likely have fallen on her face.
“You’ll have to believe me when I tell you that I am conferring an honor on you. Never, in all of these years, have I chosen a woman as a substitute. I have been curious, to be sure, but my reluctance always won out. It wouldn’t be wise to choose an inferior sacrifice and how might it affect my regeneration? No way to know.” He cast an appraising glance over his shoulder. “But here you are, strong of will and mind, supple of body and already touched by magic.” He shrugged. “It seems time to experiment, if only to keep you from hounding me over the next years.”
Crossing the fallen log was terrifying, with no control over the placement of her feet. And when she reached the end, she did slip, landing with one foot in the stream.
Rowancourt looked back and smirked. “Stop there,” he commanded as she struggled up onto solid ground. “Stay until you are called.” He beckoned her father. “You come with me, but hold a moment while I prepare.” He waved his hands in the air and a rich cloak of grey appeared between them, flared high and settled over her shoulders. He moved to face the tangled snarl that hid the barrow and said something low to the earl.
She jumped when Paul popped in next to her. She had to strain to see him from the corner of her eye.
“Thank heavens,” she breathed. “Help me! Is there anything you can do?”
“I don’t think so,” he said miserably.
“Please.” She struggled against Rowancourt’s hold. “Can you get Gryff?”
“He’s already coming!”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Across the meadow, Rowancourt raised his hands and spoke something she didn’t understand. The complicated twist of foliage shuddered, then parted like a curtain, exposing the barrow and the small clearing before it.
Tuft stood in the middle.
“Who is that?” her father asked affably and Tamsyn groaned. Now he believed?
Tuft’s expression lit up. He raised his hand but Rowancourt drew something from his cloak and tossed it at the pixie. It bounced high off of his hat, shining like a coin and then sprouted quicker than the eye could follow, becoming a metal cage that completely surrounded Tuft.
“Oh, ho!” Rowancourt crowed. “So long have I waited to use that! So much work to perfect it!” He sighed in dramatic fashion. “And every effort well worth it.”
Tuft struggled. He clapped his hands, but nothing happened. He touched a bar and recoiled at once.
“It’s iron, of course, you old fool. Your magic is nulled.”
“You call me an old fool? You are the one who has committed atrocities in your quest for more years on this earth—and accomplished nothing with them.” Tuft shook his head. “That is beyond foolish. It is tragic.”
“Wait. Paul!” Tamsyn exclaimed softly. “I think I have it! I need you to call me!”
“What?”
“Stay until you are called, that’s what he said. It might work! Go back—back to the woods behind us, and call me—quietly!”
“I’ll try.” He popped out.
“We cannot let this continue,” Tuft was saying. “You pollute our home with your evil deeds, warp our magic with your dark sorcery. We will find a way to stop you.”
Rowancourt laughed.
“Tamsyn!” Paul’s voice floated softly from the forest. “Tamsyn!”
Watching Rowancourt carefully, she struggled against the spell. The call came again, her name on the wind and—there! She moved her head, just the smallest bit.
“Did it work?” Paul was back, and this time she could turn her head to look at him.
“Yes! It’s draining away, but slowly.” She tucked her head down, but couldn’t yet move her arms.
“Enough!” Rowancourt declared, across the way. “You are powerless, imp. I will continue on as I have before.” He beckoned. “Lord Banfield, come here to me now.”
Her father obeyed.
“Here is where your help is needed. The pixie has blocked me, you see. I cannot enter the clearing. See the doorway, there?” He pointed to the barrow.
Her father nodded.
“Your daughter and I need to enter there, together.”
“No! He’ll kill her!” Tuft called. “Do not grant him access! He’ll take her in there, leave her dead body in his own place and live out her years—and as far past as magic can stretch them!”
Tamsyn gasped and her father shook his head.
But Rowancourt gestured and the tension eased from her father again.
“Only the holder of this land can grant me permission to go in there,” the old man said. “It’s a bit of ancient lore that the sprite forgot, when he tried to banish me.”
“How interesting,” her father said.
“Lord Banfield,” Rowancourt said.
“Yes?”
“You are the land holder. You must grant me permission.”
“I’d rather not.” Her father’s expression grew strained again.
“But you will.” Rowancourt’s words rang with command.
“Oh, I will? Well, then.” He waved a hand. “Go ahead.”
“No!” Tuft slumped down in his cage.
Rowancourt grinned. He raised his hands and stepped forward.
And drew up short, bumping into an invisible wall.
He let out a curse that made several of the small pixies at the opening squeak and withdraw. “What is this, old one?” he rasped. “What have you done?”
Tuft looked up, big eyes hopeful.
Rowancourt cried out in anger. He shouted to the sky and called down a ball of blue fire. Snarling, he launched it at Tuft, but it bounced harmlessly off of the cage.
The sorcerer’s face reddened. He called again and this time he threw his sphere of anger and destruction at her father.
Tamsyn screamed as the blast knocked her father back and into the underbrush.
“Come here!” Rowancourt yelled at her. Her legs and feet, still under his spell, carried her over, though she fought each step. He pulled her close, whipped a knife out from beneath his cloak and held it to her throat.
“Remember your power,” Tuft told her softly.
“Now,” he said, breathing heavily. “You will say the words.” He addressed her father, who lay dazed on the ground. “Grant me access with the precise words, you blubbering dolt. Do you understand?”
“It won’t work.”
Tamsyn gasped. She knew that voice. Gryff! Rowancourt whirled around to face him, taking her with him.
“Who are you?” the sorcerer asked.
“Cardew.” Gryff met her gaze. “Let the girl go.”
“Cardew? But he sold—” Rowancourt’s grip on her tightened. “Ah, you are the younger? And you took possession of the land early.” He shook his head. “I would think you clever, had you any chance of benefitting from the move.”
“Let the girl go. Let her father go, as well. We’ll settle this between us.”
“Gryff! No!”
“Ah, like that is it?” Rowancourt laughed. The blade pressed closer and she felt a trickle of blood run down her neck. “Let me in there. Do
it now or they will both die.”
“I’ll let you in, provided you do one thing.”
The sorcerer snorted and rolled his eyes. “What is it you want?”
“Take me in there instead. Let them both go.”
He meant it, she knew. There was no image forming over his head.
“Agreed,” Rowancourt said at once.
She also knew that the sorcerer did not mean to keep his word. “He’s lying,” she shouted. “He means to kill us all,” she said on a sob. “Tuft, too!”
“How do I make him keep his promise?” Gryff asked Tuft.
“A blood vow,” the pixie answered. “He’ll have to fulfill his promise.”
“Then we’ll do it. You’ll make a blood vow with me, or you’ll never get in there,” Gryff told the villain.
Rowancourt sighed. “Agreed.” He thrust her away and she fell to her hands and knees in front of him.
“You can stop him,” Tuft whispered from his nearby cage. “Remember the power of the truth.”
She didn’t understand. In despair, she looked up—and saw what the sorcerer intended. “No!”
Gryff had bent to pull his knife from his boot, but Rowancourt held his at the ready. Before he could launch it, she lurched to her feet and fell on his arm, knocking them both to the ground.
“Interfering she-devil!” the sorcerer spat. He rolled her over and held his blade just below her eye. And at last she felt a flicker of understanding. So close—and facing him—she realized what she had missed before. His rich cloak. It was held closed at the shoulder by a brooch—an intricately carved piece with a raised hawk’s head in the middle.
“Say the words,” he shouted to Gryff. “Let me in or I will start carving and not let up until you do!”
Gryff dove at him and they rolled away together. She scrambled to sit up, her mind racing. He was the same man. So many hundreds of years. The boy from the mine. The old man from the painting. The sorcerer tormenting them today. All the same man!
“Truth has power,” Tuft shouted. “Recognize his truth and you can elevate or destroy! Who is he, Lady? Name him!”
What was the name? The butler had spoken it. The brooch, the carving . . . a child named . . .
“Grindan!” she shouted. “Your name is Grindan!”