CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

This Tristan called you Mallt-y-Nos,” Rose said as we settled in. “You dreamed that you were a young woman named Matilda—”

“No, she wasn’t me. I was inside her.”

“All right. Mallt-y-Nos is, not surprisingly, a figure in Welsh folklore. Otherwise known as Matilda of the Night, or Matilda the Crone.”

“Crone, huh? That’s flattering.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer the other translations? Night Curse. Night Fiend. Night Hag.”

“And the story with Matilda is . . . ?”

“She’s associated with the Wild Hunt, again not surprisingly. She’s the only woman who rides with them. In some stories, she leads them. The Hunt rides in pursuit of the recently dead, and if she captures a soul, it goes to the Otherworld. If she fails, it has a chance to pass to heaven.”

“So the Otherworld is hell?”

“That’s a late interpretation. Post-Christian, obviously. In the early stories, the Otherworld is merely the afterlife, undifferentiated, as in many pagan religions. In those older tales, I would presume Matilda just captures them and sends them on their way.”

“Like the grim reaper on horseback. In those versions, then, the Hunt chases spirits, not the living.”

“Sometimes. Other times, they hunt those not yet dead, those who may deserve death. Matilda sets the hounds on them, and they rip the victim limb from limb, and she seizes the soul.”

“Lovely. So my vision has nothing to do with the story, then. Except for the hunt aspect.”

“No, that part, I believe, relates back to Matilda’s origin legend. One version says she was a beautiful noblewoman who loved to hunt. She declared that if there was no hunting in heaven, she did not wish to go there.”

“And so, on her death, she was doomed to hunt forever.”

Rose smiled. “You’re good at this.”

“Legends. So predictable. That’s not quite what I saw . . .”

“The other story is that Matilda was due to wed, and her husband disapproved of her hunting, so she promised never to go again after they were married. But she snuck out. He caught her and doomed her—”

“To ride forever,” I finished.

“And, yes, again, not what you saw but rather a variation on it. In your vision, you—or Matilda—were to wed a fae king or prince.” She paused. “Did you hear his name?”

“I . . . don’t think so.” Some faint memory twitched. Had I heard names? Other than Matilda? I couldn’t remember.

“All right,” Rose said. “So Matilda was to wed this man, but she could not resist the call of the Wild Hunt, despite a vow never to join it again. In making that impulsive decision, the fae realm was closed to Matilda forever. Given what you’ve said of Cainsville and what’s happened to you, that has its parallels here.”

“Two sides wooing me. I must choose one. Despite the fact that I have no goddamned idea why they want me.”

“Mallt-y-Nos,” she said. “Mallt-y-Dydd. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Day. Those are your options.”

“When you put it like that . . . it still doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll keep looking. Though I don’t know how much more I’ll find that will be useful. Folklore is a way of explaining the inexplicable. It’s humans guessing at the mysteries of the unknown. If there’s a true story, it’s not going to be in my books.”

I glanced over at Gabriel. He’d been silent during the discussion. Now his brows arched as if to say, Don’t ask me. I’m as confused as you are.

“Okay, so back to the real world,” I said. “I need to—Shit! Work. My shift starts at—”

“I’ve called in sick for you,” Gabriel said.

“Thanks.” I paused. “I’m sure you have work to do, though.”

He fixed me with a cool look. “If I wanted to leave, I would. If you want me to leave, I should hope you would tell me to go. I do not feel obligated to stay. Nor do I require false niceties if you’d prefer I didn’t.”

“Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it?”

“I don’t see how it could be simpler. If I want—”

“Enough,” Rose cut in. “Don’t dissect the question, Gabriel. Just answer it.”

A pause. Then, “It’s Saturday. I do not need to work. However, my laptop is in the car, and I was going to retrieve it to do some work, but I drifted off.” He rose. “I’ll go get that, if it will make you feel less like you are imposing on my time.”

“It would.”

—

“He’s right,” Rose said as we heard Gabriel’s footsteps going down the stairs. “He didn’t stay because he felt obligated. If Gabriel does something, it’s because he wants to.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know what he would have done if anyone else had passed out at his feet? Called an ambulance. Oh, he’d stay until it came, but only because he might be sued for negligence otherwise. Then he’d be gone. He carried you back here. Running the entire way, I’m sure. You feel like you aren’t making progress—”

“Before he comes back, we need to talk about something.”

I pushed myself from the bed and joined her at the window. Gabriel was talking to Grace.

“Patrick is Gabriel’s father,” I said.

Her mouth opened, and I braced for the expected responses. Was I crazy? How could that be possible?

“Did Patrick say that?”

“He didn’t admit it outright, but he didn’t deny it, and I get the feeling that’s as much as he can do. As much as he’s allowed to do.”

She lowered herself to the bed, her fair skin paling. “Did you tell him?”

“Gabriel? God, no.” I glanced out the window again. Gabriel seemed to be talking to some guy getting out of a van. “Patrick screwed around with Seanna and fucked up her life. Then he fucked off on Gabriel. Abandoned him. He saw what was happening. Hell, all the elders apparently knew, because they wanted to do their changeling trick with Gabriel, but Patrick wouldn’t let them. He left Gabriel in that situation, with no support. And do you know why? To toughen him up. That’s what he said.” I realized how harsh my voice had gotten and stepped from the window. “No, I’d never tell him.”

A long silence, as Rose stared at the wall, her expression blank but her eyes moving, as if seeing something there. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose stood quickly, maybe worrying he’d overheard, but his steps kept coming at his normal pace, steady and deliberate.

A single rap on the almost-closed door.

“Come in.”

He pushed it open and stepped through, holding . . . daisies. He was clutching a bouquet of daisies with sprigs of small purple flowers. The stems were short, his hand dwarfing them, and he held them awkwardly, as if they were something he’d found on the road and didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Yours,” he said, thrusting the bouquet at me as Rose stepped out. “Ricky.”

“Ricky?”

“He called your cell this morning. I answered and told him you weren’t feeling well. Mild food poisoning. That seemed the simplest way to explain the situation in a way that wouldn’t bring him on the next plane.”

I took my flowers to the bed. “He’d know better than to hop a plane unless I was in critical condition, but yes, that’ll keep him from worrying. Thanks.”

The card with the flowers said only, “Check your e-mail when you’re up to it.” He’d left a longer message there:

Hope you’re feeling better. I told you I’m not good at flowers, but these reminded me of the ones at the cabin. I just hope they aren’t actually weeds. If they are . . . um, sorry. Either way, I’ll make it up to you with an actual trip to the cabin when I get back. Call me, but only when you feel better. I mean that, too. Rest up. All is fine here. Talk soon.

I fired off a Love the daisies. Call in an hour? and then laid my phone aside and said, “Okay, so where are we on everything?”