The whole room fitted her perfectly. He could see, as clearly as if she was present, how she would move around the kitchen, humming. Taking quiet joy in sweet, simple things—honey on fresh bread, hot tea on a cold day, the silent companionship of her dog.
He had grown up in the wild, hunting for his meat and curling in burrows for shelter. When he had come to Maeve’s court, he had been overwhelmed by the elegance, the grandeur, the sheer beauty of the high sidhe. He had thought that there could be no finer place in any realm. He had hungered to belong there, with his whole soul, his whole being.
Maeve’s entire palace was nothing compared to this one cozy room. Shadows and glamour, cold and hollow.
He had fought and bled and endured a thousand slights to win a place in the sidhean. He would have traded it all in a heartbeat for one day, one hour with Tamsin, here, in her home.
“I didn’t know,” he said to Angus, softly. “I am truly a fool. I did not know.”
Angus looked up from his water bowl. He licked his wet black nose, as if in agreement.
Cuan sighed. He put Tamsin’s belongings dow on the worn kitchen table. “Guard these for her, faithful hound. Until she returns. For she will return.”
Angus cocked his head to one side. One of his pointed ears swiveled. He barked.
“You are right. I have wasted enough time.” He strode for the door, which stood ajar—just an ordinary door now, not a portal back to his own realm. “Stay here. I must find—”
And that was as far as he got, before someone hit him very hard over the head with a cast-iron frying pan.