Theo drove the little black two seater phaeton to Lord Holmwood’s estate the next day. Lily sat beside him, quietly admiring his skillful driving and enjoying the soft breeze that blew over the hills carrying the sweet scents of hay and heather.
“Is everything all right with Lord Selby?” she asked impulsively.
Theo glanced at her. “Yes. Why should it not be?”
“I just wondered. Your mother said he sometimes comes to your father for advice.”
Theo gave a quiet huff that was almost an affectionate chuckle. “He does, yes. He is no longer able to help a certain friend, and my father has been in the same situation. He wanted to speak to my father about how difficult he feels that position to be, and what he might do about it.”
“Is there anything to be done?” Lily asked with interest.
“No.” Theo smiled at her, his hazel eyes warm. “Anyway, the friend can manage without Lord Selby’s assistance.”
“Does that hurt his feelings?”
“He’s far too selfless for that. No, he’s genuinely grieved, and the feeling does him much credit.” Theo turned his attention back to the road. “Please don’t speak of it at the party, my love. A man’s private concerns brought to a close friend do not bear repeating in public.”
Lily swallowed. “Of course not.”
Because Theo had driven them himself, he took the phaeton around to the side, where one of the grooms took the horses, and helped Lily down onto the brick path beside the driveway.
The garden party was ostensibly to celebrate the first day of fall, but really to show off the expensive new fountain Lord Holmwood had recently had installed. The spread was not half as luxurious as that at Theo and Lily’s wedding reception, but it compared well with nearly every other garden party hosted that summer. The garden was bright with brown-eyed Susans, goldenrod, stonecrop, heleniums, and chrysanthemums.
As Theo led her toward the gathered nobility, his customary cheerfulness and sparkling wit descended upon him as if by magic. Lily had all she could do not to stare at him in awe; for a month he had been shadowed by some secret grief, and now, before all these people, he was as carefree and sunny as a beloved puppy.
Was the grief not real, or did it only trouble him in her presence? Lily could not help feeling a little hurt. Perhaps instead he was merely a talented actor, able to hide his true emotions. She did not want to doubt his love, but the ease with which he assumed this façade brought a tiny, terrified little undercurrent of doubt that nothing had been genuine at all. She squashed it. Whatever was going on, this was only an act. It must be!
At the party they greeted Lord and Lady Holmwood, then were free to greet other friends and acquaintances. Theo was, of course, always terribly popular, and as newlyweds they were greeted and congratulated by everyone. He complimented everyone with practiced ease, leaving ripples of laughter in his wake.
“Will you honor me with this dance, Lily?” He turned to her.
The dance almost felt like nothing had ever happened between them, and Lily had a strange moment in which she felt utterly disoriented. She smiled up at him and saw only the familiar, beloved warmth in his eyes, the slight crinkles beside his eyes as he smiled back, the scattered freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hair shone like copper in the brilliant sunlight. Her left hand felt the strength of his shoulder, and the other the gentleness of his hand as he guided her into the next turn.
After three dances, for he did not even pause between them, Theo guided her to the side, where he procured a glass of wine and a tiny plate of some sort of cheese drizzled with a fruit sauce.
“How do I eat this?” She glanced up at him.
“With your fingers.” He picked it up and presented it to her, so that she might eat it from his hand. It seemed ridiculously, scandalously intimate behavior for a party, but when she met his gaze, he quirked one eyebrow at her and smiled a little, as if daring her to accept it.
She did, carefully, quickly, and as discreetly as possible, and he leaned forward to murmur, “We are married. If they want to talk, let them talk. I certainly don’t mind everyone knowing that I adore you.”
But when he withdrew so that she could see his face, there was that faint uncertainty in his eyes. She took his hand in hers and smiled.
From his position near the much-vaunted fountain Lord Willowvale watched with interest as Oliver Hathaway danced with Lady Araminta Poole a third time. His Majesty Silverthorn had sent an alarming message to Lord Willowvale that very morning, noting that the mountains were quite lost in the mist and that the indigo forests were only pale gray. There were other concerning symptoms of the Fair Lands’ malaise, but those two had been the ones that could be most clearly appraised from the palace itself.
Time had nearly run out.
Lord Willowvale stepped forward and asked, “Lady Araminta, would you honor me with this dance?”
The young lady swallowed and said, “Yes, my lord.”
He danced with her, noting the paleness of her cheeks and the tremor in her hand. She was frightened, but she did not want to show it. He was quite a good dancer, and it was as easy as thought to put a faint glamour over them both and whisk her right off the dance floor and into the garden. She danced all the while with him, her eyes locked on his; he smiled at how easily manipulated humans were. She only heard the music, and felt the rhythm of his movements, and saw his steady silver gaze on hers. She did not notice that the stone beneath her feet had turned to grass, or that they were surrounded by rose bushes no longer blooming rather than other dancers.
He opened the door to the veil with a gasp of effort and jerked her into the darkness before she had a chance to cry out. The door to the human world snapped shut, and Araminta stood in a stunned silence beside him.
“Where are we?” she said in blank incomprehension.
Lord Willowvale said roughly, to cover his breathlessness, “The veil between worlds. Come along.” He caught her wrist and began to tug her along.
He hated the veil. He hated the squishy damp lichen beneath their feet now and the broken bricks that followed. He hated the sudden buzzing of hornets from a distant cavern. He especially hated the things that lived in the veil, or were of the veil, the silver bull he’d once barely escaped, the tentacled thing that lived down that corridor, and the kelp-like plants that sometimes clung to his feet.
The darkness only made it more frightening. He could easily conjure a light, but it would only draw the predators more quickly.
“Where are we going?” Araminta asked tremulously.
Lord Willowvale did not answer for a moment as his heart thudded raggedly at the effort of keeping the veil open around them. The stone walls had an unnerving tendency to want to close in around him, and he had long suspected it would crush him if given half a chance. All Fair Folk knew the veil was treacherous at best; by its very nature it was changeable, and it often appeared to have something of a personality, if not sentience. It had taken a disliking to Lord Willowvale almost immediately, but it bore no such antipathy for the Marquess Camphor or his brother Aspen, who had been tasked with the actual procurement of the children from Aricht. Lord Willowvale had, as indeed had many others, been forced to conclude that the dangers were simply to be avoided if possible, and opposed if necessary.
“The Fair Lands,” he said quietly. “It will be safer for us both if you don’t speak.”
“Why?” Araminta whispered.
He pulled her forward, his grip bruising her wrist.
“Ouch!” She yanked her arm futilely.
“Quiet, human, before something decides to eat us both,” he snarled.
At that she quieted, partly because of his words, and partly because she heard something large padding quietly behind them.
“There’s something back there,” she murmured after several minutes.
“I know. We’ll be out before it reaches us.”
True to his word, Lord Willowvale opened a door only a few minutes later, while the unknown thing stalking them was quite a bit closer but had not yet reached them.
He stepped out into his own garden and breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. Araminta shuddered beside him, then looked around. It was twilight in the Fair Lands, and the garden itself was mostly dark. Only the luminescent fronds of moon grass glowed at ground level. A few bright spark bugs danced among the drooping limbs of a willow. Above them, the pink and turquoise streaks in the sky were faded and dim; Lord Willowvale doubted whether human eyes could even perceive them now, especially if they were not looking for the beautiful colors.
“Come.” He pulled her forward, still gripping her wrist.
“Where are we?”
“My garden.”
“Why did you bring me here?” She attempted to pull away again, but the strength of a pampered human lady was nothing compared to that of a Fair Lord, superior by nature and refined by training in both the sword and other arts.
He did not answer. Instead, he tugged her, resisting all the while, to a room on the third floor. Here he pushed her into the middle of the room, closed the door behind himself, and stood against it. He waved a hand and the chandelier high above them brightened.
Araminta looked around, then stepped to the window to look out over the darkened gardens. There was a bed against one wall and a little water closet visible through an open door on the opposite wall.
“This shall be your room while we wait for the Wraith.” Lord Willowvale smiled, not entirely cruelly. “You are merely bait. I have no love of humans, but I also have no particular grievance against you personally. The bed is comfortable enough, and you shall have adequate meals three times a day. There is a space for personal needs through that door.”
Araminta blinked at him, too confused to be angry. “Why should you think the Wraith would come for me?”
The fairy’s smile grew wider. “Why should he not? If he will come for children he has never met, he should certainly come for his beloved.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“We shall see.” Lord Willowvale added, “you may turn the light on and off by touching this section of wall.” With that, he turned and strode out, closing the door behind himself.
With a growing sense of impending disaster, Araminta tried to open the door, but she was not surprised when it was impossible. She tried turning the light off and back on, and was relieved to note that the chandelier cooperated as promised. She turned the light off and let her eyes adjust to the darkness, then looked out at the garden. What she could see of the landscape was just alien enough to be disconcerting.
The concept of a garden was there, but the look of it, even in the darkness, was more frightening than any she had seen before. There were several trees in a bunch that clustered together, their long, drooping fronds like those of a willow, but they seemed to be dancing together, though no other plants seemed to be affected by any wind. Another area had a group of long, spindly trees with spiky needles for leaves, and one of them, quite unexpectedly, exploded silently, sending needles out in all directions. The resulting bare trunk and branches crawled with lights so tiny she almost thought she was imagining it.
Araminta had infinite faith in Oliver; she had admired his quick mind, handsome visage, and kind heart since she was ten years old. However, she did not believe him to be the Wraith. It had never really crossed her mind, and she wondered that Lord Willowvale had come to that conclusion.
He was brave, of course; her loyal heart was sure of that. But the Wraith? Surely not.
Nothing else happened that night from Araminta’s perspective. She was left in solitude, and eventually lay down on the bed. After a while she undressed and slid under the covers.
Once she was safely and securely imprisoned in one of Lord Willowvale’s more modest guest rooms, the Fair lord made his way back through the veil to Lord Holmwood’s party. He returned scarcely an hour from the time he had left; the hurried passage through the veil left him winded and even more bad-tempered than usual, because the fear that threaded his veins was allowed no other outlet.
He threw himself morosely into a stone bench near the dance floor with a glass of wine and watched the gathered crowd for fifteen minutes. The Overton idiot and his new wife were dancing again, their eyes locked on each other in adoration. It made him vaguely ill; how could a pretty woman, who appeared reasonably intelligent for a human, tolerate such an empty-headed, frivolous fool?
He pushed the irritation aside and focused on Oliver Hathaway, who had begun to circle around the dance floor with more purpose in his steps. The youth had apparently realized that he had not seen Lady Araminta for quite some time, and had begun looking for her. Lord Willowvale let him look for a few more minutes, then stood and stalked over to where he had positioned himself near the edge of the dance floor.
“You’re looking for Lady Araminta, aren’t you?” he said quietly.
Oliver glanced at him. “Yes. I haven’t seen her recently, and was hoping to dance with her again.”
Lord Willowvale smiled. “Your little admirer is currently my guest in the Fair Lands.”
“What do you want with Lady Araminta?” Oliver said in shock.
“You, of course.” Lord Willowvale’s white teeth glinted as his smile widened. “When the Wraith took children from us, we did not know what to look for, and the necessity of the children’s work dictated that they be held in certain locations. Lady Araminta is necessary only as bait. We can hold her in a more secure location.”
“I’m not the Wraith! I’m not who you want and he has no reason to rescue her.”
The fairy shrugged. “Be that as it may, the trap will spring at the appropriate time.” His thin lips curled in a small, mirth-filled smile. “I will wait to see what we catch.”
Oliver gaped at him.
Lord Willowvale gave him a slight, mocking bow, and stepped back, letting a faint glamour fall over himself. No one would accost him now, with an air of unimportance layered over a general impression of a footman’s garb.
Oliver stood in shock for a moment, his gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance, before he shook himself and looked back toward Lord Holmwood’s merry guests.
He went first to his father and pulled the older man aside, whereupon they engaged in an intense, murmured conversation.
Interesting. Was Sir Jacob involved in the Rose’s work?
Then Oliver and Sir Jacob together approached Araminta’s father, the Duke Brickelwyte. Lord Poole listened to them without speaking, though his gaze roved over the crowd, looking for the offending fairy.
Lord Willowvale watched, unnoticed, while Oliver, Sir Jacob, and Lord Poole continued their quiet conversation. He stepped close enough to hear Oliver’s quiet, passionate plea for Lord Poole’s forgiveness, and his assertion that although he had no idea why Lord Willowvale seemed to think he was the Wraith, he would gladly go rescue Araminta, if he could find his way to the Fair Lands.
Lord Willowvale was not discouraged by this. Humans lied with great regularity, and he did not expect the Rose to announce it, even privately, to reassure someone he did not yet know well. Some time later, Oliver and his parents departed for home. About half the guests had taken their leave by then. Lord Willowvale retrieved his black phaeton and followed them home, staying far enough back that they apparently had no idea anyone was there, much less that it was he.
He retrieved his satchel from beneath the seat and sent the horses with the phaeton back to his house with a will-o-the-wisp for a guide. The grooms would handle the horses. Lord Willowvale stationed himself near the front door of Hathaway residence beneath an overgrown hedge.
No one left the house that night, and indeed there was no sign of magic at all. Lord Willowvale ate one of his two pears and half his sausage, and enjoyed a few sips of exquisite Fair brandy as a nightcap near midnight, but otherwise nothing but the birds broke the monotony until morning.
When the sky began to turn from grey to blue, Lord Willowvale rubbed his eyes tiredly. Still, nothing happened.
At last, near noon, Oliver emerged from the house. He began walking toward the road where he would be able to hire a carriage. Lord Willowvale jumped up and followed with his satchel over his shoulder.
Oliver hailed a little phaeton for hire, a worn-out little vehicle driven by a worn-out little man. Lord Willowvale hopped on the back as it drove away, unnoticed.
The phaeton drove Oliver to the Overton estate. Apparently the boy felt the need to tell his sister of his predicament as well. Lord Willowvale’s scornful assumption of Oliver’s purpose was proven correct, as only a few minutes after Oliver’s arrival, he and Lily were walking in the garden.
Lord Willowvale followed at a distance. The grounds intrigued him more than Oliver’s conversation with his sister, although he did listen enough to understand that Oliver was telling his sister that he was not the Rose. There was a great deal of fairy magic throughout the grounds; there had been a passage made into the veil, and presumably all the way to the Fair Lands, only a few days before, somewhere nearby.
His attention snapped back to the conversation when Oliver said, “Please help me, Lily. I need to get there.”
“What will you do?” Lily’s voice was anguished.
“I don’t know! Skewer that Lord Willowvale through, I should hope.” Oliver lowered his voice.
“How will you even find her?”
“I have no idea. But somehow it’s my fault that he targeted her, and I cannot let that stand.”
“No, of course not.” Lily sighed. “What of the Wraith? Can we ask him for help?”
“How can I? I have no idea who it is.”
Lord Willowvale narrowed his eyes and turned half his attention back to the magic beneath the garden. It threaded through the roses, making them bloom more exuberantly than any others he had seen in the human world. That proved nothing, of course, about Lily, her brother, or the Overtons; there were places with a greater concentration of Fair magic innate in the very soil.
If Oliver were the Rose, though, why would he be asking his sister for help to get into the veil? The Rose, whatever other qualities or abilities he might have, clearly had an unnaturally strong ability to enter, navigate, and leave the veil. He would not be asking for help from his confused and frightened younger sister.
Oliver and Lily eventually made their way back toward the house, but not before Lily had entreated Oliver to devise at least an outline of a plan before he ventured into the Fair Lands.