Chapter 17

Maura grabbed one branch and hoisted herself up to clutch another. Aiden waited until she was safely perched, then grasped a bough and lifted himself. They climbed, branch after branch, until they were high in the magnificent tree. The smoldering wave curled along the base of the trunk as if it considered coming after them. It lifted beside the trunk, but instead of climbing, dissipated.

Taking a deep breath, Maura peered at the ground below. Everything on the ground shrank into miniatures. Aiden was behind her, closing the distance as she clung to the tree. Suddenly, she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but tighten exhausted arms around the trunk and hope they held. Time had suspended in the stillness of pine needles and branches. Somehow the shawl had survived the climb and still draped her shoulders.

“A few more branches,” Aiden said, cheering her on. “Then we’ll stop. I promise.”

Maura thought about reaching up to find another branch, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t move.

“Okay, we’re good,” Aiden said. “We’ll stay here.”

Maura snuck another peek below, where a wide canopy of branches spread out. All she had to do was sidle down the trunk until she could sit. But her arms refused to move. Aiden climbed onto the branch where she stood and wrapped his arms around her. She felt the warmth of his breath against her face. “It’s okay to let go.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Hey, I have the scroll. And we’re in a good place. The branches will keep us from falling.” His hands were bleeding against bandages now ragged and torn.

“How do you know we won’t fall?”

“This from the woman who escaped a raging demon, a writhing horde of venomous snakes, and a noxious wave?”

“Nice adjectives. Like I said—how do you know?”

“You can’t hang here all night. The sun is going down, and we need to get settled.”

“In a tree?”

“We’ll figure it out. For now, release one hand. Just a little. I’ll be right here.”

He had gotten them out of the Gunters’. And she’d watched him rescue children from the fire. She relaxed her hold with one hand and grabbed the trunk tighter with the other. Then lowered her hand, creeping it down the tree trunk until it rested near her side. Before she could protest, Aiden pulled himself under the arm she’d released and held her.

“Oh.” That was all she could say. He pivoted away from the tree as she let go with the other hand. They sank along the trunk until a crook in the branch signaled their destination, and she settled on her bottom, landing in Aiden’s lap. She flinched in sympathy at the raw skin that stretched from his neck to arms and hands. The arms and hands that had been injured when he’d saved others.

“Wait until you’re sure,” he said.

“Sure of what?”

“Sure you won’t panic and wrestle me out of this tree.”

She laughed. And suddenly wanted to rest her head against his shoulder. Then remembered she was on his lap. She grabbed a branch and scooted over to another sturdy limb next to him. The shawl had slipped off her shoulders and lay on the branches in front of them. Somehow, it joined the branches and became a tiny, fragrant nook set apart for the two of them.

There was no end to the beauty and diversity of Hildegard’s shawl. Soft needles curled around its fabric, supporting, and releasing a delightful scent. Maura even dared to gaze outside the sloping tree limbs to the world below. The wonder of the view from their perch almost overcame her fear of the dizzying height.

Aiden’s red curls stuck out in wild freedom and his legs spread out on a branch as if he were an adventurous ten-year old. Except he was a grown man, handsome in a way that twisted her belly and made her flush at their closeness.

He followed her gaze over the city.

Maura couldn’t decide whether to cry in relief, scream in fear, or laugh in giant belly guffaws. “Everything about this city has been mystifying and terrifying at the same time. Tobias couldn’t explain why my uncle is gone. I don’t know what happened to Nicolaus.” Her breath quickened. “The fire, trying to get help—and my trial tomorrow. Then we were chased out of the Gunter home by the hostess turned demon.” She stopped and realized… “Wait. The scroll obeyed you.”

She studied him. He stopped bouncing one leg against the branches and became silent. His rakish exterior disguised a man with uncanny knowledge of the scroll. Who had taught him? The scroll, safe in the embroidered pouch, peeked out from under his tunic. He shifted it to one side and leaned back against the trunk, then hoisted his legs up to rest on a nearby branch.

“Where did you find my scroll?”

“In Lilith’s room.”

“I never realized it was gone. Or that Lilith had it.”

A soft breeze whispered through the branches. Aiden kept his eyes on a squirrel that dashed from its nest onto a nearby branch, then dodged back near the trunk. “Did Benjamin ever tell you stories about the Magi?”

“Yes. My parents did, too. When I was a child.” Maura felt her back scrape against the rough bark as she turned to face Aiden. “Wait. How do you know about Benjamin and Magi stories? And you called me Star at the Gunters’ home. Only my family called me that.” And Lilith, but she didn’t mention that. “Did you grow up near our village?”

Aiden was the one who’d started this conversation, but again, he was silent. The longer she waited for his answer, the more she realized how much he was like her uncle. Even-tempered, wise. But other than a lowly carriage driver, who was he really?

Maura scanned her memory for early days when Benjamin had forced her to go to the village school. That hadn’t lasted long. She’d refused to go back when children laughed at her strange eyes and giggled about her unchildlike love of the universe. Her dear uncle had conceded after more than a few impressive tantrums. He’d taught her more than she would’ve learned in school, anyway.

Aiden’s gaze shifted into an interest in the sky above. Freckles and stubble met and formed a muddy jumble of auburn and copper. Ragged burns splotched his neck and hands. The climb against rough bark must’ve hurt. He’d said nothing about pain as he’d coaxed her down from her perch, paralyzed with terror.

She’d seen his strength with Sir Taylor. And his bravery when he’d rushed into the burning factory. He seemed to show up at the right time and didn’t appear surprised to see her—except when he’d stared so intently at their first meeting.

She rubbed her temples, exhausted, and too confused to do anything but ask the question one more time. “Please. Tell me how you know Benjamin.”

He was so close that she felt the rough texture of his tunic against her arm. He smelled like—well, like he’d finished a race against a diabolical wave. So unlike Tobias, who rarely had a hair out of place, much less ever broke into a sweat.

Aiden stared into the sky, now turning to rosy dusk. He fingered a loose pinecone and tossed it. Finally, after taking a deep breath, he let it out long and slow. “I was there,” he said, simply.

She probably smelled as bad as he did. Her gown was torn and stained with tree sap and who knew what else. He could at least pretend to pay attention to her, though. Aiden seemed to love riddles. What a time to be obtuse.

“At the chateau.” His expression didn’t change.

Three words, but she drew back at them. Shocked. It couldn’t be true. “No. I don’t understand. Not the same…”

“When I was little.”

Maura saw an image of a freckled face, scarlet in late afternoon heat. They’d raced, climbing flight after flight of narrow stairs to the watch tower. He’d won. Again. He’d strut around like a fiery bantam rooster, taunting her and chortling with pure joy over his victory.

“Paddy?”

That crooked smile appeared, lighting his face.

“You knew my parents too.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me. Tell me what happened. I’ve waited so long. My parents said they’d come, that they’d find me.”

Aiden’s body stiffened.

“Tell me!” Maura beat her hand against a nearby branch, which jumped up and down in protest.

Aiden lowered his head to his chest and closed his eyes. A leaf feathered his cheek in a small breeze.

“Please,” she whispered.

“I hid when the soldiers came,” he said, opening his eyes and staring into the clear evening air. “No one saw them approach. We’d said good-bye to you. There were suitcases and boxes of supplies by the front door so we could leave early the next day.

Maura remembered seeing the lights as she and Benjamin had driven away. Torches.

“They smashed windows with axes and burst through the doors. I heard the adults scream, ‘Hide, little ones!’ They formed a shield between us and the soldiers as we scattered. I ran upstairs with two of the smaller children and tried to get them to hide in the chimney, but they were too afraid. They ran.”

Paddy. He’d stayed when she’d been safely spirited away. They’d all been taught to hide, to disappear at a moment’s notice. He’d done that.

Maura held her ears and rocked back and forth. She imagined she could hear the stomping boots, frantic cries, and screams of pain. Had her parents been cut down protecting the children? She wanted to ask more but didn’t. Instead, she considered the terrible knowledge of what she had escaped, but others hadn’t.

Aiden was silent, but she didn’t press him. Not now, not anymore.

“It must have been hours later,” he said, after she’d given up hope of hearing any more. “I’d curled up so long against the blackened stone in the fireplace that my legs were almost frozen in place. Finally, the chateau was quiet. I climbed out, ran into the darkness. Until I arrived here.”

All this time, she thought her parents would come for her, that they were out there, searching for her. Now, she wept with understanding. Aiden’s grief and hers mingled in a web of sorrow that had no beginning or end. Tendril after tendril woven in unspeakable pain, face after face, hope after hope destroyed. She took him into her arms and held him as if he were still that little boy. Overtaken by what he never should have experienced.

They held each other through dusk and then darkness, when night creatures skittered nearby, and the great horned owl mourned with them. Then fell into an exhausted sleep, resting against soft branches that secured them by a power that held them against all odds, together.