Spellcrossed (49 page)

It was another photograph, the colors even more faded, the corners ragged. But it was the same Christmas. I was asleep under the tree, clearly worn out by the festivities. Moondancer was still clutched to my chest, but my head rested in my mother’s lap. Her hand was frozen in the act of brushing my hair off my face. Hers was almost masked by the dark waterfall of her hair, but you could just make out the tender curve of her mouth as she gazed at me.

I wept then, as silently as my father. For the happiness we had known and lost. For the man who had safeguarded this photograph for decades. And for the woman who could forgo blame and resentment and anger to offer him another keepsake of that time—once upon a time—when we had been a family.

I
SPENT A CHEERLESS MORNING HELPING DADDY write his farewell notes and listening to the incessant pounding of rain on the roof. I was on the verge of demanding that we postpone his departure when the rain abruptly ceased. Like a scene from a Biblical movie epic, the dark clouds parted and sunlight streamed into the apartment.

Daddy’s mood brightened just as quickly. “Good-byes aren’t your father’s strong suit,” Mom had told me. But his relief still hurt and as usual, I did a poor job of hiding my feelings.

“It’s not that I want to leave,” he explained. “I just hate dragging it out.”

“Maybe it would be best to say your good-byes here,” Rowan said. As I started to protest, he added, “I don’t want you there when I open the portal. You know what happened to Jack after his encounter with my clan. It’s even more dangerous for a human to look upon Faerie. All the legends tell us that.”

“You told me most of the legends were crap.”

“Most of them are. But the allure of Faerie is very real. Do you want to spend the rest of your life always seeking it, always wanting it? Will you risk everything we have here, just for a few more moments with Jack?”

I gnawed my lip, bitterly acknowledging the truth of his words. But I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. Not yet.

Rowan sighed. “All right. Come with us as far as the cottage. You can wait there while Jack and I go on alone. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I whispered.

I put on my boots. Rowan shouldered Daddy’s bulging backpack. Daddy grabbed his guitar and Rowan’s knapsack and left the apartment without a backward glance. I wondered if he would leave me the same way.

The birds mocked me with their cheerful warbling, as did the chinks of brilliant blue sky that peeked through the forest canopy. The earth had a better handle on my mood, releasing my foot with reluctance each time I sank into a soggy mass of leaves and pine needles and mud.

The rain had transformed the low-lying places into swampland. We picked our way around the worst spots and tottered across others on fallen logs. The rain-slick leaves made climbing the smallest rise a monumental effort, even with Rowan steadying us as we clambered up one side and skidded down the other.

It was almost a relief to see the stone walls of the cottage through the trees. The glade lay deep in shadow, although sunlight still gilded the treetops.

Rowan gazed skyward. “We have a little time left. Let’s rest here for a few minutes.”

We scraped our boots against a rock by the doorway before traipsing inside. The first time I’d entered the cottage, I’d shuddered to imagine Rowan living in this gloomy little room. After slogging through the woods, I was just grateful to slump onto one of the benches flanking the wooden table.

Rowan unearthed supplies from his knapsack: a plastic bottle of lemonade, a crusty loaf of bread, a bunch of grapes, a hunk of cheese. He retrieved crockery plates and cups from the hutch near the open fireplace and laid them
on the table as well. Then he took a bone-handled knife from a drawer and sliced off cheese and bread for us.

Daddy stoically shoveled food into his mouth. I picked at the grapes. Rowan studied me. Desperate to break the silence, I asked, “Is the portal nearby?”

“Not far,” Rowan said evasively.

“Has it always been here? In these woods?”

“It’s not a physical place, Maggie. The Fae can open a portal anywhere.”

“Then why did we come all the way out here?”

“Opening a portal leaves traces of energy behind, no matter how carefully I seal it. Although they fade quickly, it would be unwise to draw attention to the theatre or Janet’s house. And since my power is weaker than most of my kind, I have to choose a place where all four elements are present—earth, air, fire, and water.”

We lapsed into silence again. When Daddy finished eating, Rowan carefully wrapped the remaining food in linen napkins. As he reached for the backpack, Daddy said, “I’ll do that.”

“All right. And then we’d better be going.”

Rowan slung Daddy’s guitar across his back and walked outside. Panic quickened my pulse as I hurried after him.

“Can’t I go just a little farther with you?”

“No. And I want you to promise not to follow us.” When I hesitated, he added, “I don’t want to use my power to keep you here. I’ll need all of it to open the portal. But if you won’t give me your word—”

“I’ll stay.”

His arms came around me. “I know you want to be with him. But it’s safer this way.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. Daddy emerged from the cottage with his pack on his shoulders, and I swallowed again.

As many times as I had imagined this moment, I’d never come up with the right words of farewell. How do
you say good-bye to a father you barely know but whose presence has been with you every day of your life?

As I groped for something to say, Rowan reached into the pocket of his jeans.

“I meant to give this to Maggie one day. But I think you need it more.”

He thrust his fist toward Daddy and opened his fingers. I gasped when I saw the gold ring in his palm. Daddy backed away, shaking his head.

“Take it,” Rowan said brusquely. “There are markings on it my clan will recognize. It might ensure your welcome.”

“Or they might think I stole it.”

“My chief warded it against theft. They’ll know it came to you as a gift.”

I gazed at the ring of faery gold—the ring Rowan had surely meant to give me on our wedding day. With shaking fingers, I plucked it from his palm. The ring was warm from his body and seemed oddly heavy for such a small circlet of gold, but if there were markings on it, they were too small—or too magical—for me to see.

Rowan’s sweet smile brought on a fresh upwelling of tears. I blinked them back and held the ring out to my father. He slid it onto his pinkie, grunting a bit as he wiggled it over the swollen knuckle. Then we just stared at each other.

“I’m lousy at good-byes,” he said. “But you know that.”

“I wanted to buy you a gift. Like the staff did. Something to remember me by.”

“Do you think I could ever forget you?”

They might make him forget. They might banish every memory he had of this world, including our years in Wilmington and these last two months.

“I just wish I had something to give you.”

“Oh, Maggie. You’ve already given me so much.”

Our embrace was clumsy, the stupid backpack making it hard for me to hold him. Finally, I wriggled my
hands beneath it so I could hug him. Even after two months, he was still so thin I could feel every rib.

“Be happy, Magpie.”

He wrenched free, staggering a little from the weight of the backpack. Rowan took his arm to steady him. Then he led my father away.

The leaves squelched obscenely as they walked across the glade. I swiped my fists across my eyes and followed the bobbing red backpack as it moved deeper into the woods.

I should have told him to be happy. I should have begged him to be safe.

I should have assured him that these last two months have been a gift. I should have promised him that he would always have a home at the Crossroads.

I should have asked if he had a message for Mom. I should have asked him to stay.

The backpack was just a red spot among the trees, as small as Rudolph’s nose on those silly pajamas.

I should have told him that I loved him.

The red spot grew brighter as Daddy walked into a patch of sunlight. As I opened my mouth to call to him, it vanished.

Oh, God…

Something gleamed in the sunlight. A tiny spark no bigger than a firefly.

The ring. He must have turned back to look at me one last time. He must be waving good-bye.

I ran to the edge of the glade, waving frantically as I shouted, “I love you, Daddy!”

The spark disappeared. For just an instant, I glimpsed that spot of red. Then it, too, was gone.

Had he heard me? If not, Rowan would tell him what I had said. I tried to take comfort in that as I trudged back to the cottage.

I wiped off the cups and the plates and returned them to the hutch. Screwed the cap back on the bottle of lemonade and returned it to Rowan’s knapsack. Found a
broom in one corner and tried to sweep the drying mud from the floor. I looked around for another task—anything to keep busy—and spied something on the bed that interrupted the patchwork pattern of the quilt.

Even in the gloom, I made out the moose-headed cows. The T-shirt had been carefully folded and obviously left for Rowan. Daddy must have placed it there while we were outside.

I frowned when I saw a dark smudge on one corner of the shirt. As I attempted to brush it away, I touched something hard. Wood, I realized, as my fingers curled around it. I carried it to the doorway, seeking more light, but the glade was as shadowy as the cottage.

I fumbled around the hutch, feeling along shelves and opening drawers until I found a box of matches. I lit two candles and carried them over to the table. Then I sat down to examine the mysterious object.

It was a model of a bird—a crow judging by the black substance that covered most of its body. Too dull and rough to be paint. Charcoal, perhaps. Was it some sort of protective talisman he had carved in the Borderlands to ward off the Crow-Men?

The body had been worn smooth. Only the grooves of the tail feathers were faintly discernible under my fingertips. The charcoal had chipped away on the wings and belly, leaving patches of bare wood. I stroked the belly gently, then frowned at the smudges I left behind and the white residue on my fingertips. Chalk?

Even then, it took another moment for me to grasp the truth.

Not a crow. A black-and-white bird, carefully carved, carefully painted with whatever materials he could find, and carefully preserved for decades to remind him of the child he had left behind.

His Magpie.

I don’t know how long I sat there, sobbing. Minutes, probably, although it seemed like hours. Finally, I rose and wiped my face with the same towel I had used to clean the dishes. Then I carried the magpie back to the bed and set it atop the T-shirt.

As I turned away, I noticed something pale peeking out from under the bed. I crouched down and picked it up.

The photograph must have slipped out of his backpack when he set out his gifts. I had to hold it close to the candles to determine that it was the faded picture of Mom and me, the photo he had carried for more than twenty years, preserved just as carefully as the magpie.

I ran out of the cottage and plunged into the woods, shouting Rowan’s name. He would open the portal at sunset. There was still time to reach them. There had to be.

I skidded into a tree trunk and clung to it for a moment, gasping. The shadows under the trees were too thick to risk running. One misstep might bring the disaster of a twisted ankle, a wrenched knee. But my mind screamed at me to hurry.

I shoved the photo in the back pocket of my shorts. If I dropped it, if I lost it…

Don’t think about that. Just keep moving.

I clawed my way up a slope, slipping and sliding on wet pine needles. At the top, I paused, trying to get my bearings. The sky was a deeper blue now, but up ahead, the trees thinned, and the light was brighter. All I could do was follow the dying sun.

I sidestepped down the slope, reeling from one tree trunk to another to keep from falling. When the ground leveled out, I quickened my pace. I forced myself to ignore the sharp stitch in my side, to concentrate on the next step and the next and the next after that. If I thought about my father vanishing from this world before I could reach him, the panic would rise like bile.

I searched the shadows for tree roots that might trap a foot, vines that could ensnare an ankle. But still, I tripped over something hidden under the leaves.

Pain lanced through my wrists as I tried to break my fall. My cry was cut off as I bellyflopped onto the ground. Precious seconds ticked away while I lay there, panting. Only when the cold dampness penetrated my T-shirt did I drag my forearms through the muck and use them to leverage myself onto my knees.

The light through the trees was now a rich orange-gold. The twittering of the birds grew louder as they saluted the sunset. But even their chorus failed to drown out the sound of splashing water.

I gave a hoarse croak of laughter when I realized how close I had come to sliding headfirst into the stream. I’d made so much noise crashing through the woods that I had failed to hear it. For once, my clumsiness had served me. Rowan needed water to open his portal and this stream meandered through the thin screen of saplings. Between them, I could make out the undulating line of the distant hills, dark against the bright stripes of the rose-colored clouds.