“Quit shoving at me.” Adrienne took the book blindly, her eyes squeezed shut. “Go away now,” she mumbled. There. That wasn’t too bad. She applauded herself for performing a simple function with precision. No tears. Not one thought of … the thing she wasn’t thinking of. Adrienne took a deep breath and forced a grim, tight smile.
She was going to be fine. Small things now—big things soon.
“I think I make for you some tea,” Marie said.
Adrienne’s stomach heaved and rolled. “No.”
“I think, then, I make dinner for señorita.”
“I’m not hungry. Go away.”
“Okay. I move things to garage,” Marie grunted.
Move things? Leave the house? “No!” Adrienne controlled her voice with a tremendous effort. “I mean, that’s not necessary, Marie. God knows this old house is big enough for both of us.”
“Eees no good. I no good to you. I move now back to garage.” Marie watched her carefully.
Adrienne sighed. Marie simply had to stay in the house. She couldn’t stand the huge, aching silence, the empty rooms. The hum of the refrigerator might drive her mad.
“Marie, I don’t want you to move back out. I really want you to stay with …” Adrienne opened her eyes, her voice trailing off as she stared in horror at the book in her hands. A Study of Medieval Falconry.
Stay tight!
Would you soar for me, falcon? I’ll take you higher than you’ve ever been. I’ll teach you to bank heights you only dreamed existed.
He’d certainly made good on that promise. And now she was falling from those incredible heights without a parachute, or a Mary Poppins umbrella, or anything else to break her fall. Adrienne de Simone Douglas squeezed her arms around her stomach and started screaming.
The tiny Cuban woman dropped to her knees and very carefully pulled Adrienne into her arms. Then she rocked her, smoothed her hair, and did her best to comfort her.
For days and days Adrienne lay on her back replaying every precious memory on the blank screen of her ceiling. She’d pulled the drapes shut and turned all the lights out. She couldn’t stand the world to be bright without him.
Marie floated in and out, bringing food and drink that remained untouched, and Moonie stayed at her side unceasingly.
Adrienne just drifted in and out of consciousness, as the mind does when grief runs too deep to handle. Eventually she came back to herself, but she went the long way around.
On the glistening silica sands of Morar, Adam Black sauntered with arrogant grace to his Queen’s side.
“Where have you been wandering, minstrel-mine?” Queen Aoibheal asked silkily. “What new tales and entertainments have you collected for me?”
“Oh, the finest of tales! An epic, grand adventure,” Adam bragged, drawing the elegant courtiers near.
The Fae loved a good tale, the thicker the subterfuge, the more intense the passions, the more aroused the court. They’d long since tired of happy endings; immune to suffering themselves, they were enamored with mortal struggles and casualties. The Queen herself was most especially partial to a tragicomedy of errors, and this new tale did suit that genre well.
“Tell us, jester, sing and play for us!” the court of the Tuatha De Danaan cried.
Adam’s smile gleamed brightly. He met his Queen’s eye and held it long. “Once upon a time there was a mortal man. A man so fair even the Fae Queen herself had noticed him …”
The Queen’s eyes glittered brightly as she listened, at first in amusement, after a time with obvious agitation, and finally with a sensation that vaguely resembled remorse.
CHAPTER 32
LYDIA SIGHED AS SHE PICKED THROUGH HER SEEDS. THE NEW Year had inched past them as if it traveled on the humped back of a snail. She didn’t even want to recall the grim scene Christmas had been. Winter had descended upon Dalkeith in force—icicles twisted obscenely from the shutters, and the dratted door to the front steps had been frozen shut this morning, effectively sealing her in her own home.
Lydia could remember a time when she’d loved the winter. When she’d reveled in each season and the unique pleasures it brought. Christmas had once been her favorite holiday. But now … she missed Adrian and Ilysse. Come home, children. I need you, she prayed silently.
The sound of splintering wood suddenly rent the air, causing her to jerk her head up in an involuntary gesture that sent her precious seeds flying.
Damned inconsiderate of them to split firewood right outside the window.
Lydia pushed irritably at her hair and began to reorganize the scattered seeds. She dreamed of the flowers she would plant—if spring ever came again.