"I already did."
"Oh." I paused. "How did it go?"
He tensed. "Fine."
Another pause, longer, then I pushed the words out. "Are you okay?"
I'd hesitated
before asking, because this was one of those boundaries. Don't ask him how he's feeling. It presumes that he would have an emotional reaction, and, moreover, that he'd deign to share it with me.
So why did I ask? Because every time we drew closer, I had to press my fingers against those boundaries and see if they were still there. See if I'd made any progress.
I got as far as "Are you--" before the wall slammed down. His shoulders stiffened. His gaze cooled. Any hint of emotion emptied from his face.
"Yes, of course," he said, words clipped.
I slumped back on the pillows.
There'd been a time when I'd imagined how many women over the years must have thought they'd be the one to break through Gabriel's wall, and I'd decided I would never be so foolish.
Respect his boundaries. Don't test them. Accept this relationship for what it is, because hoping for more is like hoping for that damned cat to race in here, cuddle up, and start purring.
I was closing my eyes when the door clicked, and my gut dropped, and I hated it for dropping, hated myself for reacting to him walking out.
The faint creak of chair springs made me jump. I rolled over to see Gabriel there again. The door was closed.
"I don't think she knew exactly what Cainsville was," he said, his voice low. "I may be deluding myself in that. I think . . ." He cocked his head as if searching for phrasing. "I believe she understood at some level but never articulated it."
"Which is why she was always joking about fairies and hobgoblins and wards."
He nodded. "She wants to talk to us about your vision. I'll bring you breakfast, and we'll talk."
"No, I'll come down," I said. I peeled back the covers and a wave of dizziness made my gorge rise.
Gabriel pulled up the covers. "Dr. Webster said the fever will drain you for a few days. Either you stay in bed or you go to the hospital--"
I tugged the sheets to my chin.
A brief smile. "I thought so. I'll bring Rose and food."
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
This Tristan called you Mallt-y-Nos," Rose said as we settled in. "You dreamed that you were a young woman named Matilda--"
"No, she wasn't me. I was inside her."
"All right. Mallt-y-Nos is, not surprisingly, a figure in Welsh folklore. Otherwise known as Matilda of the Night, or Matilda the Crone."
"Crone, huh? That's flattering."
"Perhaps you'd prefer the other translations? Night Curse. Night Fiend. Night Hag."
"And the story with Matilda is . . . ?"
"She's associated with the Wild Hunt, again not surprisingly. She's the only woman who rides with them. In some stories, she leads them. The Hunt rides in pursuit of the recently dead, and if she captures a soul, it goes to the Otherworld. If she fails, it has a chance to pass to heaven."
"So the Otherworld is hell?"