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He must have shown his surprise as he fell into a chair across from her.
“Call it a mother’s gift.” She smiled. “And your grandmother’s nosiness. She told me what you were trying to find. And why.” She leaned forward, put out a hand. “Is there really no other way?” Just before she touched him, she withdrew, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry.” She took off her glasses, wiped them with a corner of her skirt. “You’re a grown man now, aren’t you? Well past a mother’s worry.” She disguised her obvious discomfort with a dismissive laugh as she settled the spectacles back on her nose.
But it only illustrated how deep their estrangement was. How much separated them. Even now.
“I anticipated your coming—eventually,” she said, her tone clipped and business-like.
“I’ve been looking through the Book of Cenn Cruaich. The writer delved extensively into the witch, Carman’s attempted overthrow of the fey world.”
“Have you found anything to help me?”
“No. But did you know the sorceress, Bechuille, who imprisoned the Triad originally spent the last years of her life on the Isle of Man?”
“I’ll be sure to tell Asher when I see him,” he mumbled. She raised her head. “What’s that?”
He straightened. “I said that’s fascinating information,” he said, speaking louder.
She shook her head, laughing, “Liar,” as she pushed a pile of parchment toward him.
“Here. Begin with these. They’re earlier translations of poems discovered in the library at Clonkellin. Dense reading, but you never know what you’ll find if you suffer through.”
The pages were damp. Mildew furred the corners and darker blotches of who knew what stuck parts of them together like glue. And the smell was incredible. Decay mixed with old shoes and urine.
Where had his mother dug these stories up? Or was this her way of getting him to leave? Give him the filthiest manuscripts in the archives. See how fast he runs.
Determined to both find the key to Asher’s imprisonment as well as show his mother she wouldn’t scare him away so easily, he pulled off the top piece of vellum, smoothed it out in front of him. Bent his head to the task.
He never looked up, though he felt her eyes on him from time to time. He knew what he’d see within them if he did.
Always close, he’d felt the distance when he’d come home right after Ysbel’s death. The grief in his mother’s face and the chill in her gaze when it rested on him had been as painful as any wound. To avoid it, he’d simply stayed away. He didn’t have to face the guilt that chewed at him. The disillusionment in his parents’ faces.
He’d let them down. Ysbel’s death was his fault. The clock ticked away the hours. He read page after page. Gaping holes in the shelves where volumes had been now littered the tabletops, the floor. Neither had spoken. But with every minute gone and every entry read, his body wound tighter. His muscles twitched with impatience. His head throbbed with tension.
It was as if Ysbel’s ghost sat at the table between them. Giving him a not so gentle elbow in the ribs. Screaming in his ear. Forcing him to confront his mother.
The words started in his chest, clawed their way up his throat. “To answer your question,” he blurted out, “no. Unless I find something here,” he gestured at the mess piled around them, “there is no other way. And of course it’s your business.” Once he’d begun, it came easier. “I’ve probably never needed a mother’s worry more than I do now.”
“Conor,” she whispered, her voice shaky with emotion.
“My son. We’ll find a way. We must.”
She sounded so sure in his success he didn’t have the courage to contradict her. She’d lost one child to Asher. If she needed this belief to hold the fear at bay, so be it.
He began reading where he’d left off. But the air in the room was different. The mood broken by their confidences. The silence between them now brought comfort. Reassurance.
This time it was his mother who spoke. “I know everyone says I’m lost in a world of books. That I don’t know what goes on around me half the time.” She paused as if he might argue. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat. Started again. “But I know what you think. What you’ve thought since word came of your sister’s killing.” Her voice was hesitant. “None of it was your fault.”
He wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t search out the truth in her eyes to find nothing but empty platitudes. That would hurt worse than the chilly indifference. He kept his eyes on the page.
“I mourned her, Con. I hated Asher for sending me such pain. Hated Simon for his greed. Hated Glynnis for her weakness.” Her voice calmed. Steadied. “But I never hated you. Never blamed you.”
His eyes swept up to meet hers. A soft honey brown that belied the steel behind them. He read real sorrow. Old griefs. New strengths. But no reproach. Her words spoke the truth. “You’re all I have. The only child left to me. And I will protect you as fiercely as a she-wolf.” This time when she leaned forward, she touched him. Ran her hand down his face. Patted his shoulder. “I only wish you’d come home earlier to hear me say it. It might have spared you a year’s worth of regrets.”
The urge he’d felt pushing him toward this showdown eased. Almost as if Ysbel were sitting back, arms crossed, congratulating herself on a job well done. His gaze flicked to the empty chair. He gave it a lopsided watery smile before turning back to his mother. “As you said yourself—better late than never.”
Ellery rambled the orchards, Mab sniffing ahead of her, tail waving like a flag as she searched the brush for game.
She’d used the dog as an excuse to wander out here. Poor thing needed a run, she’d told the skeptical grooms as she’d urged the dog away from its dinner. What she really wanted was to get away from the apologetic glances and sheepish, awkward conversations that had marked her days since Conor’s confession. They probably wished she’d disappear and let them get back to their normal well-ordered life. Or throw herself on Conor’s dagger and end Asher once and for all. Not bloody likely. She was no hero. She liked living, thank you very much.
