Spellcrossed (34 page)

“Did you stay with me all night?”

“Yes.”

“Just lying here? Awake?”

“I slept for a few hours. The rest of the time, I just listened to you.”

It was impossibly sweet: Rowan holding me in his arms, listening to the soft sound of my breathing.

“You snore.”

I bolted upright. “I do not!”

“You snore and snuffle and mutter and thrash. You’re a very lively sleeper.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t sell tickets.”

“It was endearing!”

“Snoring. Endearing.”

“Yes. It was so…unexpected. Like you.”

He pressed me back onto the mattress and kissed me. Expecting the usual developments, I was surprised when he rolled over onto his back.

“I’ve never fallen asleep with anyone. The Fae always sleep alone. Each in his own secret place. That way no one can find you when you’re vulnerable.”

“Well, it’s always hard sharing a bed when you’re used to—”

“It’s more than that. I can’t shield myself when I’m asleep. I’ve always worried that I might sense my partner’s dreams. Or that hers could bleed into mine. I think that might have happened last night.”

I fought down my panic. Although I knew Rowan would never deliberately invade my dreams, it still felt like my last bastion of privacy had tumbled.

“Say something. Please.”

The upwelling of love caught me off guard. He could have used his power to sense what I was feeling. But he was deliberately shielding himself to restore the privacy I might have lost during the night.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing: we’re not sleeping in separate beds.”

His embrace was bruising, but his lips were very gentle as they roamed over my face. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

“The same dream I’ve been having for months. I was alone in a forest glade…”

“Dancing with fireflies.”

Another shiver of panic, but smaller this time and easier to subdue.

“I’ve had the same dream,” he whispered. “All summer.”

“All…? But how is that possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see the staff? Were they there?”

“No. You were alone.”

So it was not my dream, but his—or some strange blending of the two.

“You sensed my presence. I thought at first you would run away, but you waved your hand, beckoning me. And when I hung back, you ran across the glade and pulled me out of the shadows and ordered me to dance.”

“God. Even in dreams, I’m a bossy cow.”

“You started twirling around and told me to twirl, too. I was oddly…clumsy. But you took my hands and spun around and around with me. And the fireflies surrounded us in light—beautiful golden light. And we were laughing and happy. And then…”

“And then?”

“The fireflies vanished. And so did you. And I was alone in the dark.”

The desolation in his voice shocked me. I rested my left palm against his chest and raised my right to cup his cheek.

“You’re not alone. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither of us wanted to state the obvious: that one day, death would take me away from him. Maybe that’s why I kissed him so fiercely—to drive away that specter.

When he didn’t respond, I kissed him again, more gently. I let my hands and my mouth offer the reassurance we both needed: that we would have thousands of nights together, thousands of days to work and play. We would celebrate the end of summer by walking in our woods. We would lie together, warm beneath our blankets, while snow silently drifted onto the skylights. We would see the first crocuses bravely pushing through the snow in the spring and stand on our plateau, admiring the fiery glory of autumn.

Trust me, my hands whispered as they skimmed over his back. Cherish what we have, my body urged as I guided him inside of me. Give me your doubts and your fears; I am strong enough to bear them. Fill me with your magic; I am brave enough to accept it.

His heart pounded against mine. His power ebbed and flowed, eternal as the tide. Golden sunlight poured through the skylights, caressing our bodies, seeping through flesh and bone and blood to dance inside us like a cloud of fireflies, the light pulsing to the rhythm of his power, the rhythm of our bodies.

A single note, bittersweet and beautiful, vibrating with possibility, blossoming into fullness. An answering chord, resonating with my love, my longing, my hope. Melody and harmony, faery and human. Bodies and hearts and spirits entwined in a single song that swept us over the edge of the precipice and carried us safely back to earth again.

Share my dreams and I will share yours. Offer me your heart and I will give you mine. Trust me, my love. And, together, we will defy all the powers of this world and Faerie to come between us.

She astounds me. Her strength, her determination, her bull-headed stubbornness that sees every impossible obstacle as an annoying hurdle.

And her love. Not fascination, which I have encountered from many humans. Or awe, which the elders assured us was our due from such an inferior race.

Love.

As a child, I sniggered at the stories about humans who stumbled upon our kind and wandered mazed through the world for the rest of their days. I smiled indulgently at their depictions of our realm and dismissed as sheer invention those stories in which a human outwitted the Fae.

We knew all their tales. Throughout the ages, the Fae have slipped through the veil to lurk outside their homes or stand just beyond the light of their fires, watching and listening.

Only when I returned to Faerie and was inundated by the questions of my clan did I appreciate the symbiotic relationship that has evolved between human and Fae. If they are fascinated with us, we are just as intrigued by them: their minds, so easily controlled; their senses, so easily beguiled; the gamy smell of their flesh; the hairiness of their bodies. Try as we might to hide our wonder behind a facade of disparagement and detachment, we have always marveled at the fire they carry inside, the passion with which they devour life, the fierce emotions that roil through them: fury and joy; grief and longing; hatred and love.

Even after living among humans for centuries, I could not adequately describe those emotions to my clan. When I tried, they regarded me with confusion and thinly veiled contempt.

What is more pathetic than a Fae in thrall to a human?

Yet Maggie has never made me feel pathetic. Furious, incredulous, uncertain, joyful, but never pathetic. Even when I revealed the shameful truth about my panic attacks and the recurring dream in which she always, always leaves me.

How can she love my weaknesses? Do they make me seem more human?

I must never suggest that; Maggie would fly into a temper if I equated weakness with humanity. Besides, so many of the human qualities the Fae ridicule as weaknesses are—paradoxically—their strengths: their blind loyalty to those they love; their willingness to accept the flaws of others; their ability to forgive.

I maintained a distant professionalism with Reinhard, yet he stores my belongings without ever knowing if I would return for them. I brushed off Alex’s overtures of friendship for decades, yet he risks the possibility of being hurt again to try and forge a genuine relationship with me. Janet can put aside a lifetime of resentment to invite me into her home. And Maggie can forgive me for leaving and open her heart and her life to me again.

Will I ever understand them? Will I ever understand her?

Yet I trust her with my heart and my life. I have shared my secret name. I will even risk sharing my dreams. But how can I share the truth of what really happened on opening night of
The Secret Garden
?

It might be kinder if I did. It would help her understand Jack’s determination to go on seeking the elusive portal to Faerie. And prepare her for the inevitable moment when he tells her he is leaving—again.

But she is so confident that this show will change him. And perhaps she is right. I have to give her—and him—the chance to find out.

So I will lock away the truth. I will let Maggie believe that Jack saw his daughter on the stage, that he rushed to aid his
child in her moment of peril. I will let her overlook the obvious: that the peril had already passed when Jack leaped up, that child and father had already found each other, that it was only when the Dreamers drifted away that Jack cried out in despair.

Just as he cried out when my clan slipped into the forest on that long ago Midsummer.

Nearly thirty years since that night. And Jack is still running after the faeries who beguiled and abandoned him, his longing only whetted by the passage of years.

Oh, Maggie, your love is your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. It blinds you to the truth about your father—and the truth about me.

No matter how many times you pull me into the light, I will always have to retreat into the shadows. One day, you will grow tired of coaxing me out.

And when that day comes, I will lose you.

EVER AFTER

I
FLOATED THROUGH THE NEXT WEEK on Cloud Nine. Performances for
The Secret Garden
were great. Rehearsals for
Into the Woods
were great. Life was great.

So what if Jessica was struggling with the role of the Baker’s Wife? She’d get it eventually. So what if Kanesha was tentative? So was Cinderella in Act One. I’d make it work. I could make anything work.

The students playing Little Red Ridinghood and Jack blended smoothly with the adults. Our Baker was rock solid. Our Rapunzel was a terrific singer. Our two princes—one a Mackenzie, the other a professional—got along so well you would have thought they’d been friends for years. And they looked so much alike—tall, dark, and handsome—that Mei-Yin dubbed them TweedleTim and TweedleTom.

Directing Rowan was a breeze. He brought a hint of danger to the mysterious man that nicely offset the comic moments.

Best of all, Daddy was happy and confident. The reservations of his cast mates faded when there were no further outbursts or bragging about his past performances. As the week progressed, he even began joining them for meals.

I was thrilled that he was making friends, delighted that he was getting out into the world—and a little hurt
that he could dump me so easily. I knew it was stupid. I was the one who had pushed him to mingle. Now, I was acting like an abandoned child.

Been there, done that, not doing it again.

I made up my mind to let Daddy fend for himself and enjoy my time alone with Rowan.

After which I promptly began lurking: inventing some vital item I needed at the grocery store so I could drive past the Ptomaine Stand at lunchtime, popping into restaurants for takeout while he was eating dinner. Hal chided me for reverting to Maggie Graham, Stalker. Janet advised me never to consider a career as a private investigator.

Rowan just said, “Let him go, Maggie.”

“I am letting him go. I’m just following at a discreet distance.”

“If you’re so discreet, then why did Jack ask me if you were checking up on him?”

“Oh, God. What did you say?”

“I lied and said you were running errands.”

“Did he believe you?”

Rowan gave me his “What do you think? I’m a faery!” look.

Debra’s rendition of “Stay with Me” inadvertently put an end to my lurking. She captured the Witch’s fury at discovering Rapunzel has admitted the prince to her tower; her bitterness at learning she is not “company enough;” her fear about the dangers lurking in the world; and her tender plea for Rapunzel to remain a child, safe with the mother who loves her. As I watched that rehearsal, I realized I’d run through all those emotions in my relationship with Daddy. If I hadn’t begged him to remain a child, I’d certainly shadowed him like an overprotective mother.

Been there, done that part deux.

I backed off and prayed that the greatest danger he would encounter in the world was the fat content of the Ptomaine Stand’s burgers.

Our first run-through went so smoothly that I was shocked when the staff began speculating about when the other shoe would drop.

“We’ve got a terrific show,” I protested.

“A terrific Act One,” Alex corrected.

“So let’s enjoy the moment.”

“You know who you sound like?” Mei-Yin asked. “The BAKER’S Wife. Right before the giant SQUASHES her.”

“A tree squashes her.”

“The point is she gets SQUASHED.”

I waved away Mei-Yin’s observation. Of course, Act Two would be more demanding; the show got a lot darker, characters died left and right, and those that remained faced difficult choices. But the cast was strong and united, and I was confident we could pull it off.

Some of the credit went to Otis and Debra. With only the tiny part of Cinderella’s father to master, Otis spent most of his time calming nervous Mackenzies and running lines with Daddy and the kids. Even the professionals seemed to rely on his easy laugh and quiet strength to ease them through the occasional rough patch. If Otis was the cast’s unofficial den mother, Debra had become its head cheerleader, her acid humor balancing his warmth, her “let’s get this done” practicality offsetting his easygoing attitude.