Moon Shadows

by Nora Roberts

  When they came out the other side of the woods into pale spring sunshine, Daisy laid her ears back and became fractious. Phoebe urged her reluctant mount on to where a tumble of rocks hid her from view of the house and reined in.

  “I’ll leave you here and go on afoot.”

  After tethering the horse, she started up the steep moor. It was a vast and lonely place stretching out toward the far horizon. An ancient, windswept land cut by scuffed trackways older than recorded time. She followed one that led straight to the dolmen.

  It took a good half hour to reach her goal, and she arrived feeling overwarm and slightly out of breath. The stones that formed the prehistoric monument loomed dark and massive.

  As she approached the dolmen, clouds scudded across the clear blue sky and the silence was eerie. No sighing of wind through the dried grasses, no rustling of small animals or cry of birds broke the stillness.

  A small, stunted tree grew before the dolmen’s entrance, and Phoebe pushed the branches away to look inside. The scraping twigs brought a stinging shower of pebbles, stones and clods of dirt raining down on her head.

  She brushed the debris from her hair and shoulders and walked between the huge upright stones with the great roofing slab overhead, uneasily aware that she was entering an ancient tomb.

  Inside the air was chill, the atmosphere foreboding. The farther she went into the dolmen, the more uncomfortable she became. Especially when it continued on and on and the dim light was crowded out by deepening shadows. She stopped, deciding what to do.

  It didn’t seem nearly so long a passageway from the outside, she thought. Perhaps it goes back into the hill itself.

  Just as she thought of turning back, the darkness seemed to retreat before her, luring her on. She reached the end of the long structure and felt something slither around her neck. Phoebe jumped and brushed at it, then burst into laughter. It was only her talisman necklace. The clasp had come loose somehow. She picked up the chain and silvery-black stone and dropped them into her pocket.

  She was immediately blinded by a sudden burst of light. Phoebe shielded her eyes against the glare. Where dark earth had blocked her way an opening appeared, leading out to a fantastic garden in the high bloom of summer.

  Birds called merrily and colored butterflies flitted from rose to rose. She hesitated only a moment, then stepped through.

  When Phoebe glanced back over her shoulder, the dark interior of the dolmen was gone. In its place a lofty castle rose, its white stone and flying pennants gleaming in the sun.

  She looked around in wonderment. There were swans in the moat, splashing fountains in the extensive gardens and dragonflies flitting over the lush lawns.

  But something looked very odd. It took Phoebe a moment to figure it out. There were no shadows, even beneath the trees.

  Except for hers.

  And the butterflies weren’t butterflies at all. She held out her hand and one of the slender sprites alighted on her fingertips. The dainty creature did a quick pirouette across Phoebe’s palm, then flew off in a shimmering blur of gossamer wings.

  There was no doubt in her mind what had happened. Somehow she had passed over the threshold between the world she knew and the magical Kingdom of Faerie.

  Phoebe jumped aside as a hare bounded past her, a laughing boy on its back. Other tiny creatures in acorn caps peeked out at her slyly from among the flowers. It was extraordinary.

  “Oh, if only Father could have seen this!”

  He had been convinced that faeries existed, although in ever-dwindling numbers. His theory was that they were an ancient, long-lived race gifted in some unknown methods that humans called magic, and that they had fled to the secret and inaccessible places of the British Isles where they lived hidden from mortal eyes. Gordon’s uncle had dismissed the idea. In his view, folktales and legends were fascinating stories conjured to beguile children and frighten the ignorant. The one belief both men shared was that the stories must be collected and preserved for posterity.

  They were both partially right, Phoebe thought, but they didn’t carry their ideas far enough.

  She realized that the Kingdom of Faerie was as real as her own, that they existed side by side occupying the same space, and certain spaces—like the Faerie Stables—were portals, leading from one to the other.

  Phoebe stepped along a garden path, alert and wary. In the Kingdom of Faerie she knew, nothing was as it seemed to mortal eyes. It was possible to break their rules without intending any harm, but the wrong word or action could have far-reaching consequences.

  And those who sipped or supped of faerie fruit were trapped forever.

  The hair at her nape prickled. She spun around. A beautiful woman clothed in floating blue robes stepped forward, a tall and handsome man at her side. The diadems on their brows were crusted with jewels, marking them as royalty.

  Phoebe had never seen such a dazzling pair. Despite their exquisite garments, their stately and graceful movements, there was something wild and inhuman in their eyes.

  The woman smiled. “Welcome, Phoebe Sutton. We have been eager to meet you.”

  Phoebe raised her brows. “I’m at a disadvantage, ma’am, since you know my name, and I do not know yours.”

  “I am the Lady Rowan, and this is my consort, Lord Ash, king of all elves.”

  “Rowan and Ash,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “The names of sacred trees in the ancient legends.”

  “Ah, you know the lore.” The king looked pleased. Phoebe curtsied and looked down. They were so beautiful she felt blinded by their splendor.

  The king swept her an elegant bow. “Welcome to my realm, Lady Phoebe. I hope your visit with us will be joyful and long.”

  His words struck her as ominous. “My visit is fleeting. But how do you know me?”

  “We have been waiting for you.”

  Lady Rowan held her hand out. A bubble formed, iridescent as a rainbow, then solidified into a crystal globe. In it, Phoebe saw herself, Lady Rowan and Lord Ash as they were now, standing in the enchanted garden. She had no doubt that if she looked at the little globe inside the larger one, she would see miniature versions of the same scene repeating endlessly, each one smaller than the last into infinity.

  Rowan smiled. “I have a great interest in your fortune. That is why I summoned you here.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No one summoned me. I came today of my own free will.”

  Rowan frowned. “You are very bold!”

  “So are you, my lady, otherwise you would not have brought me to your castle last night in my dreams.”

  “And very clever,” Rowan added.

  Phoebe laughed. “If so, I would not be here, I’d be safely back at Thorne Court.”

  “You are not welcome there,” Rowan told her. “But you are very welcome here. In the Kingdom of Faerie all is happiness and light. You have struggled long and hard, Phoebe Sutton. There are no struggles here as you will see, when you join us in the feast.”

  She tossed the globe into the air and it winked out of existence. “Come, Pippin, my little page,” the queen of Faerieland commanded. “Our guest requires refreshments.”

  A young boy with Rowan’s golden eyes and Ash’s coloring appeared bearing a silver tray. He was the same one who had been riding the hare, Phoebe noted. His feathered hat was an acorn cap, his tunic of oak leaves girded with a silver belt. A gleaming sword with a wickedly sharp tip hung from it.

  The boy snapped his fingers and a silver tray appeared bearing three, intricately wrought golden cups. Their sides were studded all around with topaz and pearl.

  Rowan lifted one goblet and held it out to Phoebe. “A refreshing drink of nectar and mead. It is my own recipe, distilled from wild roses and the juice of poppies. Come, Phoebe Sutton. Let us drink to your health.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not thirsty,” Phoebe replied.

  “Oh, but you are.” Rowan tipped her head to one side. “Very, very thirsty.”

  In an instant the
warm June sun changed to the molten bronze disk of a torrid August day. The air was scorching. Stifling.

  Phoebe’s mouth grew dry as a husk. A film of sweat formed on her upper lip. She wanted that cup of cool liquid more than she’d ever wanted anything before.

  She looked down and gasped. Her plain riding habit had become a gown of green cut velvet slashed with ivory silk. Emeralds and diamonds winked on her fingers, sparked at her wrists.

  “You see how easy life is here for those mortals who join us,” Lady Rowan said. “Take the cup and drink.”

  Oh, how Phoebe wanted that cool cup!

  Her hands reached out and touched the bedewed metal. Her fingers wound around the cold stem as if they had a will of their own. She knew exactly how the nectar and mead would taste, so deliciously cool and refreshing.

  Once she drank it there would be an end to pain and struggle and sorrow. She would feel nothing but ease and joy and merriment. She could stay in this country of the beautiful forever.

  The cup of mead and nectar focused all her concentration. The great pearls rimming the cup glowed like moons, the topaz like captured sunlight, offering ease and delight.

  Phoebe struggled against the urge, but her thirst was too desperate, her desire to quench it too strong. As her left hand reached into her pocket for her protective talisman, Phoebe’s right hand took the cup and still she struggled against her thirst. She’d read the old legends. She knew that mortals who ate or drank within the Kingdom of Faerie were kept captive for a hundred years.

  And still she wanted to drink from the fateful cup.

  She took the goblet and raised it to her lips.

  A furious masculine voice ripped through the air like thunder. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  The cup was dashed from Phoebe’s hand with such violent power that the jewels were ripped from their settings.

  Lady Rowan looked past Phoebe and her slanting eyes grew wide. “Lord Jack!”

  Before Phoebe could turn the world around her shrank to a pinpoint of light and winked out. She felt herself falling into blackness.

  Chapter 8

  “WAKE up, Phoebe! Oh, my dear, my darling girl. Wake up, for the love of God!”

  Phoebe felt the brush of fingertips at her temple and fought her way through engulfing blackness. When she opened her eyes, a nightmarish face loomed over her. She recoiled instinctively.

  Then she realized she was lying outside the entrance to the Faerie Stables, propped up in Gordon’s arms. She didn’t know exactly how she’d gotten there, but she had enough sense to realize how her shrinking from him had hurt.

  “I . . . I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” she stammered.

  It was too late. He’d already seen the revulsion in her eyes. His features hardened to stone and his voice was cold and angry.

  “You little fool! Didn’t I tell you to keep off the moor? What the devil did you think you were doing?”

  She sat up and rubbed her aching temples. “I . . . I went out for an afternoon ride.”

  “Yes. Five hours ago! We’ve had search parties out since Daisy returned to the stable without you.”

  “Five hours?” She was surprised to see the sun setting in the distance. It had been the middle of the afternoon when she’d ridden away from Thorne Court. “What happened?”

  “I found you up here behind the rocks, unconscious. Can you move? Are you in pain?”

  She wiggled her feet and hands, but when he touched the back of her head she gave a little cry.

  “Ow! That hurts.”

  Gordon’s hand came away streaked with blood. “Hold still.” He lifted her head gently and cursed beneath his breath. “You’ve got a great knot and a nasty gash.”

  Phoebe vaguely recalled a cascade of small rocks and stones when she entered the dolmen—but surely not any large enough to cause damage.

  He smoothed her tumbled hair back from her cheek. “Tell me what happened.”

  Her memory was returning in brief flashes of remembrance. “I went inside the dolmen. There was a light . . .” She tried to grasp the bright, elusive memories dancing through her mind. They fragmented and dissolved like colored mist. “Was it just a dream?”

  He frowned, his eyes a fierce blue blaze against his tanned skin but his hands were gentle as he bound her head with his linen handkerchief.

  “Tell me about it.”

  She was still groggy. “There was a castle. Gossamer-winged faeries so tiny I could hold half a dozen on the palm of my hand. A lady came. Lady Rowan . . . and Lord Ash. She offered me a cup of nectar and mead . . .”

  He froze. “Tell me at once—did you drink from it?”

  “No. I thought if I did, I could never leave. Then I heard your voice and . . . and I woke up here in your arms.”

  “Thank God for that!” He picked up a long-barreled gun. “Cover your ears and I’ll signal to the other search parties that you’ve been found.”

  He fired a shot into the air, then reloaded and fired another. The sharp reports rolled across the moor like thunder. “There. That will have the men coming on the run.”

  Phoebe was glad she’d covered her ears. The powerful report made her head ache. Gordon knelt down beside her again. “It’s getting late and you need that cut attended to. It’s best we start back to the manor. Are you well enough to ride?”

  She nodded and Gordon lifted Phoebe in his arms. He limped through the dried grass and withered stalks of last summer’s wildflowers with her head cradled against his chest. She closed her eyes and pretended, just for a moment, that seven years had not gone by, that she and Gordon were in the meadow beyond Willow Cottage in happier times.

  Phoebe felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek and was comforted by it. Had she imagined the brush of Gordon’s lips at her temple, the desperation in his voice when he’d called her his “darling girl?”

  Gordon lifted her up to the saddle. After making certain she could hang on safely, he led his horse away from the Faerie Stables. All the long way back to Thorne Court Phoebe watched his painful progress. She was filled with guilt. If she’d done as he’d told her, she wouldn’t have been hurt or caused so much trouble for everyone.

  Wouldn’t have had that strange dream . . . was it a dream?

  Before she knew it she was back at the manor and bundled up in her own bed. Mrs. Church bandaged Phoebe’s head, while Elsie bustled about plumping pillows and generally driving Phoebe to distraction.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to sit with you, miss?” she asked for the tenth time.

  “Perfectly sure,” Phoebe answered. “A short rest and I’ll be as good as new.”

  Elsie wasn’t happy about leaving her, but gave in. “You have only to ring and I’ll be there in a trice.”

  Phoebe had no intention of napping, and once she was alone she lay awake, trying to sort out the day’s events. At the time the dream had seemed so real. It was hard to believe that she’d imagined the secret entrance in the chamber tomb, the lovely winged sprites.

  As for the lovely enchantress and her magical potions . . . Lady Rowan—was that her name?

  There was a knock at her door, and she made her voice sound sleepy. “Come in.”

  A wave of guilt and regret ran through her as Gordon entered, his limp more pronounced, his scarred features gaunt and etched with pain.

  He approached the bed. “Elsie said you were still awake. I wanted to speak with you, if you are up to it.”

  “So serious! Am I in you black books?” Phoebe tried to make a joke of it, but her voice cracked just a little. “I’m sorry to have caused such an uproar,” she added. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry—not with you.” He stood looking down at her with a strange expression on his face. The roses had fled her cheeks and she looked wan and fragile.

  She saw the bleak look in his eyes and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might shatter like glass. “You’re send
ing me away,” she said.

  He didn’t bother to deny it. “It’s for the best.”

  “No. That’s not true.” She still loved him. She always had and always would. And the tragedy was that he loved her, and would never admit it.

  The question was why?

  “Why did you never return for me?” she asked. “You owe me that much, Gordon. Did you fall in love with someone else?”

  “No! I’ve never stopped loving you.” The answer was wrested from him, just as she’d intended.

  “Then why? Was it because of your injuries? Did you think so little of me? That my love for you was so slight your injuries would make a difference?”

  “They made a great difference to me,” he said curtly.

  “But was that the reason?”

  He looked away. “There were many reasons.”

  The finality in his voice was like a vault door slamming shut. She closed her eyes against a sudden rush of pain and disappointment.

  “You’re tired,” he said abruptly. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” His voice gentled and he brushed the back of his hand lightly over her cheek, as if he couldn’t resist the chance to touch her. “Rest well, Phoebe.”

  “I won’t leave,” she said fiercely. “You can’t force me to go.”

  His face was infinitely sad. “No. But I can leave Thorne Court. I must!”

  She watched him go out, still feeling the warmth of his touch upon her face. Still mourning what might have been between them, if fate and his damnable pride had decreed otherwise.

  The door opened again but it was only Elsie. “I’m that glad you’re awake, miss. I was brushing the mud from your riding habit, when these came rolling out of your pocket. I didn’t know where you would want me to put them.”

  Phoebe held out her hand and Elsie dropped what felt like two pebbles into her palm. They were smooth and cool against her skin.

  She examined the items in her hand: a glowing topaz lay winking up at her beside a very large and lustrous pearl.