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He roared with the irony of it all.
Did he blame Daz? No. The time for that was long gone, if it had ever been. The blame lay squarely at his own feet. If he’d gone himself to the Amhas-draoi instead of sending Daz as emissary . . . But he’d hoped still to salvage the disaster to come. Still had visions of reasoning with Father. Of making him see where the Nine had lost their way. Of the grim conclusions he’d come to over hours and days and weeks of planning.
Such a conversation had never happened.
He’d never been able to work up the strength or the courage needed. Father had always seen him as his golden son. The pride of his house. Against Aidan’s athleticism and charm, it had been a source of delight to be seen as superior in any way to a perfect brother who floated through life on a cloud.
To confess his fears or reveal his treachery would have resulted in the loss of that prized status. So, in the end, Brendan had said and done nothing.
Father had died beneath an Amhas-draoi blade.
Brendan had run for his life.
He laughed until he cried. Chest aching, ribs throbbing and br
uised, breath coming in unsteady gulps. A feeling he’d not experienced in years too long and dark and painful to dwell on.
Hope.
twenty-two
“What do you think?”
Elisabeth held the gown in front of her, turning this way and that while Killer watched from his permanent spot on her bed.
“I know. I’m so glad I followed the dressmaker’s advice. It looks much better than I thought it would from the illustration in La Belle Assemblée.”
The mirror reflected a printed muslin in the first stare of fashion, ribboned in apple green at hem and collar with cap sleeves. The style drew attention to her height while minimizing her less-than-waifish shape. And the color brought out hints of green and gold in her brown eyes.
In a desperate attempt to keep herself from reliving the scrying’s indelible images, she snatched up a second gown, a beautiful silk in apricot that gleamed in the late afternoon light streaming through her window. Swirled it around her, posing again in front of the cheval mirror. Loving the feel of it against her skin. The way it threw gold and bronze and copper highlights into her hair. She’d never take nice clothes for granted again.
She smiled, recalling Brendan’s eager gaze as he’d revealed his gift. The almost shy way he’d offered her the bolts of fabric. As if she’d reject his present. As if what she thought mattered to him. It had been a heady realization. Brendan had never cared what she thought. Or felt. Or did.
Elisabeth clenched her jaw, refusing to let the bitter tears swimming at the backs of her eyes gather force. She would not weep. She would remain positive. Madame Arana had said the scrying glass showed possibilities. No way to know how the tiniest twist in events might affect the future. Brendan would not die. He would return to her. They would travel to Dun Eyre as a couple. If she believed it strongly enough, she could make it happen.
She tossed the gown across the bed. Threw a worried glance out the window. Please, whoever might be listening. Keep him safe. Watch over him. Don’t let him vanish out of my life again.
Today had passed in murmured conversations and worried looks. Madame Arana had departed. Then Helena. Both had been gone for hours. Both had assured Elisabeth before they left that Rogan would remain in case there was trouble. She was safe.
As if on cue, a strumming chord shivered up the stairs to her bedchamber. It grew into a lively bouncing tune, one where feet had no choice but to tap. It brightened her somber mood and she caught herself humming along before branching off into a harmony that seemed to augment the sweet laughing melody. Even Killer wagged his stump of a tail, his beady black eyes alert, his nose twitching.
The music changed. The harp’s song growing quiet and sad and full of pensive longing. Her own song altered to match the new tone. A bride’s fears. A woman’s desire. A life unknown.
So engrossed in her own confused jumble of thoughts, she at first didn’t notice the harp breaking off in a sudden disparate jangled chord. Didn’t note the ominous listening silence. The creak of a house that wasn’t as empty as she’d imagined.
It was only Killer’s low-in-the-throat growl that started her from her musings. He scrabbled to his feet, a ridge of raised fur down his back.
Men’s voices belowstairs. Raised. Angry. Arguing.
Amhas-draoi? Máelodor? A quiver of fear raced up her spine, cold washing through her. Heart slamming against her ribs.
She would not panic. She would not swoon. She would not curl into a ball and pretend to be invisible. Gazing around the room, her eyes lit on the heavy iron poker leaning by the chimney. Perfect.
Plucking it up, she clutched it like a cricket bat. Crept toward the door to await any intruder stupid enough to try and enter her room.
Killer’s nose lifted to the air, hackles raised, growl ominous, teeth bared. He followed her to the door, glancing up at her as she pressed her ear against the panel.
She strained to catch any more sounds, but there was only a muffled shuffling from belowstairs. A quiet murmur.
