by Kate Pearce
Her heart, which had been beating nearly double time all afternoon, gave a lurch. He looked like a knight of old, his silhouette so broad and strong as he came through the arched doorway, his hair loose and flowing free. For the first time in her life, her knees literally grew weak.
“Gryff! Thank heavens you are here!”
Maids and a footman converged on them, drawn by the dog’s noise.
“I understand this might belong here?” Gryff put the dog down and it proceeded to run in noisy circles around the foyer.
She drew a deep breath and commanded her dancing innards to behave. “Yes. This must be Oscar.” She shot an imploring look at one of the maids. “Will you be sure that he gets back to his mistress?”
The maid called the dog to order and he followed her willingly, thank goodness. They hadn’t gone far when she saw Lord St. Giles intercept the girl. The poodle looked happy enough to see him, so she turned back to matters at hand.
“And will you fetch my cloak?” she asked the footman. Tamsyn took Gryff’s arm. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Cardew. Why don’t we step outside and I’ll help you brush the mud off of your coat?”
Chapter 4
She hustled him along with a hand on his arm, making him feel as exquisitely alive as a struck tuning fork, thrumming with anticipation.
“I’m grateful for the chance at a few moments alone,” he told her. “I wanted the chance to tell you . . .” He stopped walking abruptly, interrupting her headlong pace and pulling her around to face him. “I wanted to tell you that I am sorry.”
Her chin went up. “About what?”
“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have judged you so quickly or harshly.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” She pulled her hand away. “Yes, I am a lady, but I am also a woman. I am far more than just a fragile piece of porcelain.” She leaned toward him, her expression fierce. “I am nuanced.”
A gust of wind blew, as if in accompaniment with her words. It carried a few raindrops from the nearest tree and scattered them across her brow and cheeks, marking her like the dew on a petal. Her brave statement summoned a well of curiosity in him. He stepped closer. “Yes, I can believe that.” Reaching out, he brushed a drop from near the corner of her mouth. “Nuances. I’d like to get to know them all.”
“Well.” She swallowed. He was thrilled to see that she was as affected by their proximity as he. Her hand reached up to stroke a lock of his loose hair—even as she stared at her fingers, bemused, as if they acted on their own volition. “That is good news,” she whispered.
They stood there, the air between them alive with heat and promise—until she abruptly withdrew, taking a step back.
“Oh! Well, lovely as that thought is . . .” She shot him a saucy look. “And as much I would like to return to it, we must talk first. Let me tell you what’s happened today.”
She pulled him on, speaking as they went through the gardens. He listened, growing more irate and concerned, until she brought him to a bench near the entrance to the maze and pushed him down upon it. He almost laughed. It was too adorable, he felt like a great hound being led and pushed about by a kitten. But his smile faded when she sat next to him.
Rather closer than strict propriety dictated.
His blood started to heat.
“Tell me more about what your Rowancourt looked like,” she demanded.
Well, that cooled him off. He thought back. “Tall, blonde, dressed in the height of fashion.” He shrugged. “Good-looking enough to set the maids to tittering.” He frowned, suddenly struck. “Is that not what you see?”
“No! I see an old, old man, so withered and decrepit, it seems a miracle that he moves, still.”
Realization dawned. “So I see what the rest of the world sees and you see the truth of him.” He hated to gloat, but . . . “So that Second Sight has come in handy?” He grinned, but it faded quickly and he shook his head. “But what does it tell us?”
“That Rowancourt is not a normal man,” she answered.
They looked at each other, each wondering the same thing.
What then, was he?
A loud cry startled them both. Suddenly a large bird swooped over the tall hedge wall of the maze. Tamsyn shrank back into Gryff even as he realized it was a peregrine falcon, a big one—and it was struggling. The mighty wings flapped madly and the animal fell lower before climbing higher than the hedge again. He shaded his eyes, the better to see.
“It’s got something,” he said, registering the delicious feel of her against him with part of his brain. “And it’s fighting back.”
The bird screamed again. It was close now and he put an arm around Tamsyn—even as the falcon dropped its prey. It fell to ground not far from where they stood.
“Sweet saints in heaven—” Tamsyn leaned forward, peering at the thing, then drew back with a cry as the falcon made another run for it.
The intended victim, a large white hare, jumped up, its sides heaving and blood streaming from the marks left by the bird of prey. Gryff watched, stunned, as the animal didn’t run, but turned to face the oncoming bird. As the cruel talons descended, it dodged, but then it leaped and tried to sink its teeth into the falcon’s leg.
“What in—? Get back!” He pulled Tamsyn away as an extraordinary battle ensued, the like of which he’d never seen. The bird hovered, flapping furiously, taking swipe after swipe at the hare and even coming about for another swoop at it. But the hare continued to stand its ground and fight, leaping high, out of the way, and in an effort to take the bird down.
At last, it succeeded, sinking its teeth into the falcon’s meaty thigh. The screech was deafening and the hare dropped away with a mouthful of feathers as the falcon gave up and flew away.
The hare waited until the bird was out of sight, then collapsed to the ground.
Gryff exchanged a look with Tamsyn. Together they gingerly stepped over to examine it.
“What under the heavens?” She sounded fascinated. “What kind of creature is that?”
He looked between her and the injured animal. “It’s not a white hare?”
She crept closer. “Not unless Cornish white hares spout rams horns below their ears, sharp claws and a ridge of spiked dark hair along their spines?”
“It’s Jump.”
They both started as a young boy stepped up behind them. Gryff glanced at the gravel path and then at Tamsyn. “Did you hear him coming?” he asked.
She was focused on the boy. “Jump?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s his name. He’s Tuft’s mount—and his friend. They work together.”
“And Tuft is . . ?” She waited, eyebrows raised.
But Gryff was blinking, trying to reconcile what he was seeing. “Tamsyn? Who is your friend?” He could swear that where the sun’s rays hit . . . he could see through the boy to the path behind.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, meet Master Paul Hambly.” She paused and turned a surprised expression to the child. “Oh, I hadn’t thought. We’re cousins, of a sort, aren’t we?”
“Paul Hambly is dead, Tamsyn.” Gryff announced, still staring.
The pair of them just stared back at him.
He sucked in a breath.
“You are the one who told me Cornwall was a land of magic and mystery,” she reminded him with an impertinent grin.
“Fine, then. I am pleased to meet you,” he said with a short bow to Paul.
Tamsyn turned back to the animal in the grass. “The poor thing is hurt.” She removed her cloak and crouched down beside it. “We should take it to the castle,” she said, folding the cloak.
“We should take him to Tuft,” Paul said.
“Who is Tuft, Paul?” she repeated.
“He’s a . . . pixie. The pixie, really, the most ancient and powerful one. He can heal him. He takes care of . . . everything.”
“Fine, then,” she said, echoing Gryff’s words. He had to admit, she was handling the exceedingly strange situation well. “I’ll wrap him up.�
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“No, let me. Wounded animals can be dangerous.” He bent to ease the creature onto the cloak, but it raised its head and bared its teeth at him. “Since when do hares growl?” he exclaimed.
“Let me try.” Tamsyn gently ran a hand over the long ears and the creature submitted, its breath coming fast.
“Here.” He fashioned a sling from the cloak and she tenderly laid the animal in before he fastened it around her shoulders and back. “Let’s get you home, Jump,” she said and looked to Gryff.
He looked to the ghostly boy. “To the barrow?” he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Then let’s go.” He cupped a hand under Tamsyn’s elbow and they set out.
She knew she was flushing more and more as they walked that never-forgotten path, but she could not help it. Passing the gnarled oak was bad, but she nearly groaned out loud in embarrassment when Gryff helped her navigate the fallen log with her burden.
Paul walked with them and he drew close to her as she stepped into the open meadow. “There’s something you should know,” he said slowly.
She arched a brow at him and waited.
“Hares can growl and spirits can look nervous,” Gryff remarked to no one in particular. “I am learning so much today.”
Paul ignored him, obviously gathering his courage. “Tuft is the one who gave you the ability to see . . . to see the truth in a man.”
She stopped in her tracks. “Tuft did,” she repeated flatly. “The pixie?”
The spirit boy nodded.
“Why? Why would he do such a thing?”
“He meant it as a gift.”
“But—” Jump moved against her just then and emitted a pitiful moan. She started forward again, her lips pressed tight, trying to move smoothly and not jostle the poor creature. Gryff kept a light touch on her arm as they crossed the clearing and she was grateful for his presence. He led her across the meadow to a corner that was bordered by an impenetrable-looking thicket of trees, vines, thorns and shrubs.
“It’s through here. I’ll try to clear a path for you. Stick close behind me.”
He pushed and pulled and hacked, and held branches and vines aside for her as she gingerly followed in his steps. And then they were through and out into another smaller clearing.
The barrow rose up, dominating one end of the spot. An earthen mound standing taller than a man and covered in grass and moss and the detritus of the forest, it stretched back, longer than she could make out. A doorway, lined with thick stone, opened into the clearing. Nothing but black gloom showed past the entryway and there was no noise or movement in the clearing. Even the birds and the sough of branches in the wind had gone silent.
“Tuft!” Paul called. “It’s Jump! He’s been hurt!”
Suddenly, he was there.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was small, perhaps the height of her knee, and ancient, but in an absolutely different way from the old man masquerading at the castle. Rowancourt reeked of wrong and a faint taste of decay. This creature—his nose was bulbous, his mouth wide with deep grooves etched at the sides, but his eyes were large and . . . knowing. He looked weathered, like he’d drunk in a thousand sunsets and sighed happily at the end of each one.
He looked at her makeshift sling and his expression darkened. His large ears tilted slightly toward her and then moved closer to his head.
Gryff immediately stepped closer, as if to protect her and Paul followed suit. “It was the falcon,” he explained.
“He fought valiantly,” Tamsyn said as Gryff untied the sling at her back. She knelt down. “But he is hurt.”
The small face twisted in dismay. He clapped his hands and behind him, closer to the barrow, the meadow grasses leaped in answer. They sprang upright, growing several feet in an instant, then began to loop and weave themselves together, forming a soft platform about six inches off of the ground.
Pixie and wounded creature disappeared, then popped back in at the makeshift bed. Tuft leaned over his friend, while behind him, several smaller creatures, all of different aspects, emerged from the dark mouth of the barrow.
Tuft looked up and without a word they scattered. One, fuzzy and dressed in brown, took to the trees. Two little green creatures, their heads wrapped in soft, new leaves, scurried away through the grass, while a bluish sprite concentrated, sprouted wings and took to the air.
“He’ll know what to do,” Paul said as the pixie bent over Jump once more.
Tamsyn was still on her knees. Gryff knelt down beside her. “Might as well get comfortable. I don’t think we should leave until the creature is safe.”
She sat down, her mind gone numb at all of the things she’d witnessed today. “Pixies,” she whispered. She looked at Gryff. “Your family was right.”
He shook his head. “I always knew it . . . but this . . .” He sighed. “My aunt will be fair green with envy, when she hears about it.”
But the thought had seized Tamsyn again. She turned on Paul. “Why?” She nodded toward Tuft. “Why did he do it?”
The ghostly boy hung his head. “Because I asked him to.”
“What?” Not the answer she’d been expecting. “Explain.”
“You did him a favor. I thought he owed you one in return.”
She snorted. “Unlikely. How could I do him a favor? I knew nothing—hadn’t an inkling pixies were real before this moment.”
Paul sighed. “He was the one who laughed at you.”
She froze. A flush started low, in her belly and traveled upward until even the tips of her ears felt hot. She did not dare glance at Gryff.
“You made him laugh,” Paul rushed on, “and a good, heartfelt Pixie laugh is powerful. It swept through the forest like a flood, doing good wherever it touched.”
“Oh.” A nurse, two governesses and her mother’s endless lectures—none of them had prepared her to answer to a statement like that.
Beside her, Gryff ducked as the blue sprite whizzed over his head, returning on its errand. Tuft accepted the fistful of offered leaves. He whispered over them and tore them apart, sprinkling them over Jump’s wounds. The other pixies trickled back too, bringing herbs and an acorn cup of liquid. Tuft made use of them all and his assistants retreated to the barrow, peering out as the old pixie chanted softly over his friend.
They waited. “I thought it might have been a curse,” she said quietly. “My father inherited an earldom, a castle, and I had inherited a curse.” She sat silent for a moment. “This is not the new life I’d envisioned.”
She started a little when she felt Gryff touch a wayward curl, lying against her neck.
“You weren’t wearing a bonnet the second time I saw you, either,” he said.
She thought back. “Of course I was. I dressed properly for a visit to the village. Mother would have had a conniption, otherwise.”
“It wasn’t that day. I saw you, you know, out riding with your father. I’d been working with one of the tenants, repairing the thatch on his home. I was covered in dirt and sweat, so I didn’t dare approach. I watched as you raced the earl along the cliffs. I thought you looked like a sprite, then, with your hair throwing fire back at the sun, a living flame, so light and confident on that horse.” He shook his head as if clearing it and smiled at her. “I was struck even harder than our first meeting, at Keyvnor—and I made sure I was in the village that day, so I could meet you again.”
She reached her hand up and touched his, where it still hovered around her nape. “I’m glad you did,” she said.
“It may not be the life you envisioned,” he gestured around the glade, “but you are handling it like it was the one you were born to.”
Suddenly, the chanting stopped.
She got to her feet. Tuft’s head bowed as he rested it on the edge of the makeshift platform. Before him, the creature heaved a great breath.
Tamsyn held her own breath as Jump stilled—then let it out on a huge sigh as the creature lifted its head to nuzzle Tuft.
Paul moved closer to her. “I know you aren’t happy with your gift,” he said soberly. “If you ask now, Tuft might lift it from you.”
Her heart leapt. To be free, to go back to her normal self in her normal life . . . She paused. Glanced at Gryff and then around the glade. Could she go back? Did she want to? They had a mystery to solve and an unsavory character to deal with—and her ‘talent’ might be of help in both regards.
“I . . .” She looked at Gryff again and held his gaze. “I don’t think I’ll ask it, right now.”
“You’ve done me a greater favor today,” a deep voice rasped. Across the small space, Tuft looked at her. He caressed Jump’s ears then crossed the space to stand in front of her. “Because of that—had you asked, I would have done you the favor of not granting your request.”
She nodded and Gryff reached for her hand. She took it, grateful for the support.
“So few humans heed the magic in the world. They cannot, some of them, or will not. But you—you have not closed yourself off—and so you were able to accept my gift.” The pixie lifted his head high. “And a gift it was. To know the truth of a man is no small thing. To see the truth of a thing, whether it be a fact, a heart or a name, gives you power over it.” He peered up at her. “Real power. I trust you to use it wisely.”
He stood, his manner expectant, so she nodded. “I promise.”
“Very well.” He stepped back and looked from her to Gryff. “Now then, this falcon.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “The bird belongs to a dangerous man.”
“Rowancourt, yes?”
She shivered as Tuft’s expression darkened.
“That is not his name . . . but you’ve met him?”
“Yes. He is a guest at the castle.”
Tuft breathed in sharply. “Has the will been read?”
“No.”
Gryff stepped in. “This man was here before, was he not? He tried to wrest this place from my father.”
“Your father was clever—and saved himself, quite literally.” Tuft looked at Tamsyn. “It is your father we must worry for now. Is he much like you? Is his heart open?”