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He gave a quick bark of laughter, but there was no mirth in it this time. “No. The view was that she’d already had one, and no one wanted to see what she would do with a third! And not just in this life; they were also worried about the next. What if she came back? What if she remembered? Would they ever be safe? Would their families?”
I narrowed my eyes. “So they did . . . what? Take her back to the tower to molder some more?”
“No. They took her to Earth. And killed her here, it was said, in front of a great throng of those she had wronged. My great-uncle swung the blade himself, lest any of his people be targets for her partisans’ revenge. And afterward, her bones were burned, releasing her spirit into a cold, alien world, ever to walk unfamiliar pathways, moaning and crying and dreaming of revenge she’ll never have. For she can never now go home.”
I shivered; I admit it. The story was bad enough, but Caedmon’s delivery was worthy of an Oscar if they have one for “seriously creepy.” And then he suddenly stopped, dead still, and turned to stare at something outside the tent.
“What is that?”
I dropped the wineskin and grabbed the knife. “What is what?”
“Not sure, but I feel a sudden chill . . . something ominous . . . something cold . . .”
I started to head out, but he grabbed my arm.
“No, wait. I think . . . I think . . . oh. Oh no!”
“What is it?”
“Dory—”
“What?”
“I think it’s Alfhild!” And then he lunged at me, from zero to a hundred in about a nanosecond, and I jumped and yelped and smacked him, over and over, and he laughed and laughed and laughed.
“You bastard!”
“I assure you,” he gasped, “my parents were married with great ceremony!”
I smacked him some more. It did not appear to help. “Some bedtime story! Do not tell Aiden that one!”
Caedmon grinned at me from the floor, where he’d ended up. “Well, not until he’s older.”
“Not at all! Or God help you if Claire finds out!”
He watched me from under spilled golden hair. “Claire must stop smothering the boy. I understand her concern; we all do. And it is not without merit. But keeping him here, on Earth, tied to her apron strings—”
“He’s a year old!”
“Yes, but he won’t stay that way. Sooner or later, he must come back to court.”
“Maybe when you’ve figured out who tried to kill him!”
Caedmon frowned. He didn’t like to be reminded that his grandson was here because he’d been in danger in Faerie. But it was nonetheless true. If Claire hadn’t been unable to face one more dinner among a court whose lips smiled and smiled, and whose eyes shot daggers, Aiden wouldn’t be here now.
She’d decided to take her baby for a walk, because he was fussy and teething and it seemed to soothe him, rather than hang out at the high table. And when she went back to the nursery, it was to find the maid on the floor, in a puddle of blood, and an unknown assassin probably lurking nearby. So she turned around and ran, and didn’t stop until she reached New York, and who could blame her?
Caedmon, apparently.
“You don’t approve,” he said, watching me.
“Of Aiden going back to Faerie? Hell no. But it’s not my call. It’s Claire’s.”
“My son did have a small role to play in the boy’s conception.”
“Uh-huh. And if you want him to be able to conceive anymore, you’d better not drag him into this.” I looked pointedly downward. “Or get involved yourself.”
Caedmon looked pained and crossed his legs. I knew he was joking with me, but I didn’t think he realized that I wasn’t. If he got Aiden hurt, Claire would freaking geld him.
