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Firm on that point, he pulled up a chair, opening the book, leafing the index for any Arthurian reference. What had he missed? Where had he gone wrong? And what more could he do to stop Máelodor?
“Something has happened.” Madame Arana stood at the door, eyes gleaming strangely in a solemn face. “I feel the change.”
He started up. “Lissa? Is she all right? What’s—”
The woman smiled. “Miss Fitzgeral
d is safe. Whether she remains so resides with you. But you know that already, don’t you? The safety of us all lies in your hands.”
He’d had his questions about Madame Arana. Here was his answer. “What do you know of it?”
“I know that you search to leave the path your father laid for you. That there is a war inside you always. A struggle against your past, your guilt, your very power. This battle colors all you do.”
“What the hell would you know of my struggles unless”—he arched a brow in question—“you scryed me. Clever old girl. Like what you saw?”
She drew herself up in indignation. “There is no need for scrying when all lies clear upon the surface for any to read. Your mask slips, son of Kilronan. The growing strain of these years is written in every line and every shadow upon your features.” She shivered, her bony hands pressed against her stomach. “But I woke this morning with a new vision shifting the patterns like fingers stirring the water. Ripples that cloud the surface of my sight, making all unclear. A man. A sword. I will know what it means, or”—she folded her arms over her chest, lifting her chin in a look of defiance, her eyes throwing a challenge—“no lunch for you.”
As if on cue, his empty stomach growled in protest. “That’s hitting below the belt.”
“I did not want to resort to such diabolical means, but you leave me no choice.”
He pondered bodily lifting her out of the doorway and locking it behind her. Doubted Roseingrave would countenance manhandling her grandmother. Withholding meals would be the least of what she might do to him. And now Madame Arana . . . Fine. She wanted to poke her nose into his business? Why not? Serve her bloody well right.
“What do you know of the history of Arthur the king?”
“He is dead and must stay that way if our people are not to be drawn into a war we cannot win.”
“But what of the man himself?”
A smile creased her eyes. “I may be old, but I’m not quite that ancient.”
“Very funny. You asked what changed. I’m trying to tell you. I discovered something about Arthur I need to verify. Something about a Fey curse. A fate that cannot be changed.”
“I know nothing of Arthur, but the Fey are known to play deep games with us. They do not define good and evil as we do. Nor does the race of man—Other or Duinedon—figure largely in their lives. Only when they see a threat to themselves will they notice us, and more often than not it is to our detriment. Tread carefully if you seek to tamper with a curse laid by the Fey. You may stir up more than you bargained for.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m expert at bringing trouble down upon myself and anyone else standing too near me.”
“Yes, but Máelodor, for all his malevolence, still holds a human soul. We can understand the forces pushing him, even if they are repugnant to us. The Fey exist beyond our comprehension. We can no more know what moves them than we can know what moves the universe to spin. That is trouble of an unimaginable scale.”
“I can imagine a lot more than you think.”
“Search if you must.” The far-seeing diviner shrank back into the wizened little old lady, but there was no stuffing that genie back in the bottle. He knew her for what she was now. He’d not underestimate her again. She patted him on the shoulder, chuckling as she left him. “I will keep your lunch warm.”
Elisabeth lifted her face to the sun, warmth seeping through her chilled body, though the limpid breeze fluttering at her skirts was more redolent of coal smoke and cisterns than green fields and shaded glades.
Killer pawed at the flower beds lining the trimmed garden path, his little nose twitching with excitement. At least someone was happy with the odors.
“Stop that, you naughty dog,” she scolded. “Miss Roseingrave and her grandmother won’t let us out here if you insist on destroying their narcissus.”
Was it her imagination, or did Killer pause in his digging just long enough to spear her with the same sneering contempt she’d seen on Brendan’s face last night?
The poor narcissus didn’t stand a chance.
She couldn’t blame Killer. In another moment, she’d get on her hands and knees to join him. What else was there to do? Inertia was driving Elisabeth mad. Unable to leave the house without an escort. No occupation for her hands but needlework, which she’d always detested. Helena Roseingrave didn’t even have a library to speak of. At least not the kind with books one would read for entertainment.
Boredom gave her far too much time to think. Never a good thing. Especially now, when thinking invariably led to Brendan. Then thinking about Brendan and last night. Then thinking about last night and her humiliating surrender. Thinking about the seductive kisses, caressing hands, a torrent of dizzying emotion and feeling that left her barely able to . . . think.
A circular roundaboutation bringing her right back where she started. The April sun wasn’t the only reason her cheeks burned and her gown clung uncomfortably to her back like a damp second skin.
