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At least, that had been old Mrs. Epstein’s comment when she accidentally came through our gate instead of her own one day, and had a group of “such nice young men” take her back to her front door. She’d never know that she’d had an escort of royal fey guards, and they’d never know that I’d seen them, several times since, hopping the fence to help her take in her weekly groceries.
It was strange how . . . human . . . people could be, given a chance.
“It is my people’s belief that Faerie is a living thing,” Caedmon said, “an organism with a soul of its own. And that each of its children are parts of that soul, experiencing life in different ways: as a tree, a breath of wind, a person. When one of us dies, our soul rejoins the soul of Faerie, and will one day live again.”
“So reincarnation, then.”
“In a way. Although, from what I understand of your Earth religions, they view the cycle of rebirth negatively, as something to be escaped. They long for the peace of nonexistence, or at least for an end to the cycle, something that would make very little sense to my people. We look forward to experiencing everything life has to offer, in all its many . . . permutations.”
He smiled suggestively at me.
I shot him a look. “Then why do your people hate the Dark Fey, and vice versa? If you’re all part of one soul—”
“I, for one, do not hate them,” Caedmon demurred. “And I did not say that everyone believes so; indeed, many do not. But the little troll does, which is why he asked to have his bones returned to our soil.”
I waved a swan leg at him. “How would a bunch of bones help with that?”
“The fey view the soul and body as inseparable. The idea that our bodies could be one place and our souls another, separated after death as some of your people believe, is quite . . . disturbing.” He actually did look disturbed for a moment, before his good humor returned. “It is thought that the soul bonds particularly well with the bones, which are so much sturdier than the fleshy bits—”
I removed his hand from one of my fleshy bits.
“—and thus the íviðja swore to help him live again, by returning his bones to Faerie, to be reabsorbed. The fist to the chest gesture you saw is a solemn vow among her people. She would have to do as she swore, or die trying.”
“But she didn’t know him,” I pointed out. “She’d risk her life going back there for someone she doesn’t even know?”
“She is probably one of those who believe that if Faerie’s children do not return, they cannot be reborn. That their souls will remain trapped here, where their bodies lie, and be forever lost. Both to their people and to Faerie.”
“So the fey who die here . . . they’re all sent back?”
“That has always been the practice among my people, certainly.” He thought about it. “Well, most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“There is the story of the dastardly Princess Alfhild Ambhofði—a cautionary tale of greed and pride still told to children.”
I put on my interested face, and Caedmon laughed. “Do you know, I haven’t told a bedtime story in some years?”
“Then you can use the practice. For Aiden.”
He sighed. “I need to spend more time with the boy. Claire is right about that.”
“But you don’t.”
“Things have been . . . tense lately.”
“Want to tell me why?”
“Yes, in fact,” Caedmon said, surprising me. “But I don’t know that I should.”
“Why not?”
He picked up my greasy hand and kissed it. And then mouthed away a little swan grease that had fallen into the well between my thumb and forefinger. It was . . . surprisingly erotic. I pulled my hand back, and he looked pleased.
“Because, my dear Dory, I do not know if I am talking to you or your father.”
“My father isn’t here.”
“Isn’t he?” He scanned my eyes for a long moment, and then he sighed. “Perhaps not. I should certainly like to think so.”
