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“Sounds delightful.”
“This house had stood for hundreds of years. Never changing. Always there,” he continued, warming to his theme. “A sanctuary for the family that sheltered within its protective heart. A heaven for mischievous little boys.”
“I can only imagine.”
As he spoke, his heart ached for Belfoyle. For the comforting solace of its aged strength. For the sharp sea salt air and the endless cloud-raced sky that made up his earliest memories. He’d been away from it since autumn—an eternity. Since he’d discovered the diary among an overlooked box of his father’s papers. Since his determination to find the truth had driven him to Dublin. Straight into the waiting arms of catastrophe.
But could he call it so? His search had brought him Cat. A glimmer of precious light in a world suddenly topsy-turvy with every memory called into question.
“What happened then?” Cat’s sleepy murmur drew him back to the story.
He tightened his arm around her. “And then a great storm came. A tempest that threatened to destroy the house and the family. It pounded at the foundations. Scattered the family. All seemed lost until . . .” His voice faded.
“Until what? How does the story end?” Barely audible. Naught more than a whispered breath.
He glanced over. Eyes closed, her lips parted in a wistful smile. She slept.
Sighing, he looked for the answer in the ceiling’s tangle of shadows. His duty remained with Miss Osborne. But his heart lay nestled beside him. Squeezing his eyes shut against an ache tearing at his insides, he brushed a kiss upon her damp brow.
“I wish to the gods I knew, Cat.”
“I think I’ve found something!”
Cat’s excited shout broke through the thunderous silence. Jerked Aidan upright in his chair. Hours spent staring at the ceiling last night had made today one long sleepy, nap craving. Coffee had brought temporary relief, but the effects wore thin. And he didn’t think he could stomach another gut-griping cup of Maude’s vile brew.
“Listen. It’s an entry from seven years ago: Those chosen to guard these sacred objects held them in trust for all generations of Other. Not as dry artifacts to be kept in dusty vaults or locked away in dazzling treasure houses. But to be cared for until such a time as there were those to use the knowledge locked within them. Now is that time. And we are those people. And someday those who revile us as murderers will laud us as heroes.” Cat massaged her temples, wincing as she did so. “The tapestry. The stone. Those must be the sacred objects he’s talking about.”
“But what are they? What do they do? We still don’t know.”
“There’s a snippet of an entry a few pages earlier talking about the High King’s resting place. He refers to it as the hidden tomb.” She licked her thumb. Leafed back through. “What does Daz say?”
“I tried asking, only to have him tell me a story about my mother’s cousin and a man by the name of Lawrence with a thing for feathers. I interrupted before he got too descriptive.”
“Now how on earth would he know—”
Aidan held up a hand. “I didn’t ask and I don’t want to find out.”
“So it’s up to the diary to tell us.”
Aidan pinched the bridge of his nose. His whole body was one strained muscle, and he hadn’t had a restful night since . . . since the night before he walked in on Cat in his library. The more they sought to tease meaning from his father’s words, the deeper the swamp shifting beneath him. His father’s life had been a sham. His brother, a mirage disappearing with every revelation. What else would he find out if he kept digging? What new horror waited to spring out at him?
“Maybe it’s best to leave this for now,” he suggested. “After all, we’re just assuming that’s why Brendan wants the diary. We don’t know for certain. There might be a whole chapter of death spells or a thousand and one ways to kill your enemies and destroy your friends.”
“You’ve changed your mind about Brendan?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? The Amhas-draoi certainly seemed assured of his guilt. Who am I to argue with the logic of Scathach’s brotherhood?”
“You’re his brother,” she answered flatly. “You knew him better than anyone. Could Daz be mistaken? Could he be lying to you for some purpose of his own or simply not remembering correctly? We’ve already established his less-than-firm gr
asp on reality.”
“Not when it’s counted. Then he’s been sharp as a damned knife through the heart.”
“I’ve found it!” Daz entered the dining room, triumphantly waving a thick leather-bound book, the corners of which looked gnawed, the binding broken and split. “And the last place I expected. Under ‘authors who died under mysterious circumstances.’ ”
Maude looked up from her third cup of gin-laced tea. “What are you prattling on about, you chatty old scalawag?”
“The book. It’s in the book,” he shouted, shuffling about the table in a rickety dance.
