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“It looks nothing like it did.”
“Parts of it will.” She took his hand and squeezed. “Nice job with the weather, by the way.”
“Well, that at least, is familiar.”
King trotted over, wet as a seal. His thick dreads dripped rain. “Cain’s arranging for most of the stuff to be delivered by truck. Take what you can carry, or have to have right now. The rest’ll be along in a couple hours.”
“Where are we going?” Glenna demanded.
“He’s got a place here.” King shrugged. “So that’s where we’re going.”
They had a van, and even then it was a tight squeeze. And, Glenna discovered, another sort of adventure altogether to sweep along through the pouring rain on wet roads, many of which seemed as narrow as a willow stem.
She saw hedgerows ripe with fuchsia, and those hills of wet emerald rolling up and back into the dull gray sky. She saw houses with flowers blooming in dooryards. Not the one of her quick image, but close enough to make her smile.
Something here had belonged to her once. Now maybe it would again.
“I know this place,” Hoyt murmured. “I know this land.”
“See.” Glenna patted his hand. “I knew some of it would be the same for you.”
“No, this place, this land.” He pushed up to grab Cian by the shoulder. “Cian.”
“Mind the driver,” Cian ordered and shook off his brother’s hand before turning between the hedgerows and onto a narrow spit of a land that wound back through a dense forest.
“God,” Hoyt breathed. “Sweet God.”
The house was stone, alone among the trees, and quiet as a tomb. Old and wide, with the jut of a tower and the stone aprons of terraces. In the gloom, it looked deserted and out of its time.
And still there was a garden outside the door, of roses and lilies and the wide plates of dahlia. Foxglove sprang tall and purple among the trees.
“It’s still here.” Hoyt spoke in a voice thick with emotion. “It survived. It still stands.”
Understanding now, Glenna gave his hand another squeeze. “It’s your home.”
“The one I left only days ago. The one I left nearly a thousand years ago. I’ve come home.”
Chapter 7
It wasn’t the same. The furnishings, the colors, the light, even the sound his footsteps made crossing the floor had changed, turning the familiar into the foreign. He recognized a few pieces—some candlestands and a chest. But they were in the wrong places.
Logs had been set in the hearth, but were yet unlit. And there were no dogs curled up on the floor or thumping their tails in greeting.
Hoyt moved through the rooms like a ghost. Perhaps that’s what he was. His life had begun in this house, and so much of it had been woven together under its roof or on its grounds. He had played here and worked here, eaten and slept here.
But that was hundreds of years in the past. So perhaps, in a very true sense, his life had ended here as well.
His initial joy in seeing the house dropped away with a weight of sadness for all that he’d lost.
Then he saw, encased in glass on the wall, one of his mother’s tapestries. He moved to it, touched his fing
ers to the glass as she came winging back to him. Her face, her voice, her scent were as real as the air around him.
“It was the last she’d finished before…”
“I died,” Cian finished. “I remember. I came across it in an auction. That, and a few other things over time. I was able to acquire the house oh, about four hundred years ago now, I suppose. Most of the land as well.”
“But you don’t live here any longer.”
