CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As we walked, I kept glancing at Gabriel. The quieter he was—and the faster he walked—the more I suspected he really would rather be resting at Rose’s.

“We can go back,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

We reached the park. It was empty, the swings twisting in the breeze. We both stopped near the fence, as if each was waiting to see if the other planned to go in or continue on. I broke the impasse by opening the gate and walking through.

We sat on the bench in silence. I wanted to explain why I’d been going to the Carew house. In talking to Ricky, I’d realized that I needed to get these damned visions over with. To see whatever I was supposed to see. Otherwise, we wouldn’t know enough context to figure out what had happened to James.

The problem was that the visions came with a price, and if I mentioned my plan to Gabriel, he’d snap and snarl and insist that I really didn’t need them, that I could just ask the elders or Patrick. I couldn’t, because everyone had an agenda and they’d slant the story to their advantage. So I was stuck.

I need these answers. I can’t help him without them.

The thought flitted through my mind . . . and then I was standing in a field. A perfect midsummer field, the grass long and sweet-smelling, tickling me in the breeze. A dragonfly landed on a stalk in front of me, its jeweled body glittering in the sun. I could hear the distant trill of a bird and the burble of a brook.

I knew what lay beyond that brook. The forest. Dark and shadowed, yet in its way as wonderful as the sunlit meadow—peaceful, shady, and cool. Two halves of the whole.

“Two halves of your whole,” said a voice beside me.

The little girl reached for the dragonfly, laughing as it zipped away. This is where I’d first seen the bean nighe, down by that stream. I’d been the girl, walking through the meadow to the forest. When I lifted my hand now, though, it was clearly mine.

I turned quickly. “Gabriel . . .”

“He’s fine. Would you rather try to talk him into returning to your house?”

“My house?”

The girl smiled. “Of course. It was built for you, long before you were born.”

I shook off the illogic of that. “But Gabriel—”

“You want the rest of the story. You can’t convince him to let you see it, and you wisely won’t attempt to without him, so this is the best answer. A blameless way to get what you want.”

“Except it’s not blameless, is it? You’re in my head. Meaning I called you up to get the rest of the story. Which is also in my head. Locked away.”

She grinned like a teacher with a slow pupil who has finally learned to read. “Clever girl. Yes, you have the memories. We all do. Now, do you want to finish Matilda’s story?”

Guilt flickered, but my answer came quickly. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ve seen how it ends, in fire and death. Now see how it begins.”

—

She pointed to a rise about twenty feet away. A boy shouted beyond it. Then a girl laughed. I crested the rise and saw them below. A girl with long, light brown hair sailing behind her as she ran from a blond boy. They were both no more than eight or nine. They tore through the meadow, the girl laughing as the boy tried to catch her. Then a blur shot from the forest. Another boy, dark-haired, riding a black horse. He raced up alongside the girl, leaned over so far I thought he’d fall, grabbed her arm, and swung her onto the horse. Then he tore off, laughing as the blond boy stopped and stared after them.

The girl clung to the horse, her hair whipping behind her, eyes narrowed in rapture as the horse galloped ever faster. They leapt over the stream, and the girl shrieked with delight. In the meadow, the sun itself seemed to dim as the fair-haired boy stood abandoned. Then they shot from the forest and tore back. The dark-haired rider launched from his horse and tackled the blond boy. The girl swung off, too, and moments later they were all walking through the forest, running, laughing, and playing.

“Matilda, Gwynn, and Arawn,” I said.

“This is how it begins. With two boys and a girl, back before Romans set their filthy boots on our shores. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn are the two sides of fae—light and dark. Light is not good nor dark evil.”

“Just two sides of the same coin. Or stone.”

She smiled. “Yes. Light and dark. Day and night. Meadow and forest. The living and the dead. The ties between the two were strong, and the ruling families were close. So, too, then, were the children of those kings. Gwynn and Arawn grew up together, along with a girl from the most respected family of dyn hysbys and dynes hysbys. Cunning men and women.”

“Which means witches and seers. That’s what Matilda was.”

“She was also Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Half of each. Both sides claimed her. She grew up with Gwynn and Arawn, separately in their lands, and together as three friends. Which is fine for children, but when a woman comes of age, things change . . .”

I heard a shout, but it was deeper, Matilda’s answering laugh more musical. Three horses shot from the forest, a coal-black stallion and a dappled mare leaping over the stream, their riders Arawn and Matilda, no longer children but perhaps seventeen, eighteen. They raced into the field.

Gwynn crossed the stream behind them on a white stallion. Then he climbed off and walked back to crouch and peer into the water. Matilda circled around. She swung off and went to kneel beside him. He pointed out something in the stream, and they talked, serious and intense, until he reached into the water, took out something, and laid it in her palm. Her hand closed over it, and when she looked at him, it was not the look a child gives a friend.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

Arawn rode back. Before he reached them, they climbed onto their horses, and the three took off across the meadow.

“And so there was a dilemma,” the little girl said. “One girl, two boys. The young men knew that if they vied for her hand, their friendship might not survive, and the ties between their kingdoms could weaken, as the boys turned to men and warriors, on the path to inheriting their respective crowns. So they made a pact that they would remain friends—all three of them. Neither would court Matilda. What the men forgot was that there was a third party in this arrangement, one they did not tell of it.”

I heard the shout again, and the laugh, and once more it was Gwynn and Matilda, in the meadow. They were older now, early twenties. Matilda had a basket, Gwynn a blanket. He laid it down and she set out a meal: cheese and bread and wine. She was leaning to pour his wine when he moved forward to take a piece of cheese, and they nearly collided. Matilda leaned forward, her face a few inches from his. Then she darted in and kissed him on the mouth before pulling back quickly, blushing. He froze there, touching his lips. Then, after a long, careful look around, he pulled her to him and kissed her again.