“Here. Stop. Please!” Clarissa shook the driver by the shoulder and the car jerked as he hit the brakes.
“What are ya playin’ at? Ain’t nothin’ round here as far as the eye can see.”
“I know. I’m… meeting someone.”
“All the way out here?” The spotty-faced man wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn’t ya rather I keep on to someplace…” He surveyed the wall-to-wall green surrounding them. “Well, someplace else?”
She popped open the door and grabbed her rolling bag from the trunk, then walked around to his window and handed him another wad of bills. “Thank you for your help. I have my phone fully charged should I need any additional assistance. Don’t you worry.” She held the device up as evidence and then backed away from the car.
He gave her a curt nod and slowly drove away.
Among the rolling, bucolic hills near Waterleys Copse in Bicester, Clarissa stood at a crossroads facing north. How apropos that this was where she’d end up. Four directions. Four choices. And none of them led to her destination. Just as in life, she’d reached a point where no paved road would take her where she needed to go, no list of pros and cons would lead her to a decision that could solve this problem with her voice, a problem that would ruin her, would ruin all she had in the world if Nate couldn’t fix it.
With a firm grip on her bag, she moved to the center of the crossroads, closed her eyes, and spun thrice around to her right and once to her left. Once she stopped, she said in a loud, clear voice, “By the blood of the dragon, open.”
The rumbling clank of a portcullis rising vibrated against her skin, and she opened her eyes to find the crossroads gone. She stood at the base of a cobblestone drive leading to the house she hoped would be her salvation.
Mistwood Manor had been erected in 1699 by an architect named Nicholas Hawksmoor who was a member of the first Order of the Dragon. To Clarissa, it would always remind her of Downton Abbey, although Mistwood, with its magical upkeep, had better weathered the ravages of time. Despite the castle-like sound the magical gate had made when it opened, this was not a medieval fortress but a grand estate, a marvel of seventeenth-century architecture that always gave her a sense of airy lightness. She was safe here to be sure, and not because anyone would be shooting arrows from the roof but because the magic that saturated every inch of this property was the strongest she’d ever encountered as a witch. Not to mention it was usually guarded by the fiercest, most unforgiving dragon.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as memories of her old life at Mistwood came flooding back. The first time Nathaniel had brought her here, she couldn’t keep her mouth from gaping. By that time he’d revealed what he was to her, although she could scarcely believe it. He’d swept her off her feet. The idea of going home with him had seemed so romantic, far better than another night in the cheapest hostel she could find. So she’d said yes and proceeded to be blown away by the history, the magic, the excitement she’d found behind the doors of the house on the hill. If only those things had been enough.
Hoofbeats pounded on the drive behind her, and the carriage that always brought guests to the manor arrived. Pulled by one of Nate’s prized sleek black Percherons, the carriage had no driver. The door opened for her of its own accord, and she climbed inside. The moment she was seated, the vehicle lurched forward and headed for the estate.
By the scene out the window, things at Mistwood hadn’t changed much since she’d left. The same brook traversed the property, bubbling over rocks worn smooth from its current. Off to her right, she could see the orchard, as green and lush as when she’d left. The walnut, apple, and fig trees bore their fruit year-round thanks to Nate’s magic, and she remembered the scent of the blossoms like the first time she’d walked its rows. She wondered if everything was the same in the orchard, but that was a question for another time. She could drive herself crazy thinking about it now.
The carriage passed a strip of packed dirt that carved through the rolling green, and she wondered if Nate still rode the trails every morning before breakfast. What was his horse’s name? Diablo. Was the stallion still alive? She supposed yes. How long did horses live?
They rounded the circular garden in front of the estate, and the carriage came to an abrupt halt. The door opened. When no help appeared, she grunted and wrestled her luggage out herself. She stumbled down the step and had to use her bag to steady herself. The scent of eucalyptus filled her nose.
“Tempest, I don’t expect you to help me, but you could say hello. It’s not as if we’ve never met before.” The oread was here. He was the source of the scent. But the mountain nymphs who cared for Nate and this estate, Tempest and Laurel, were notoriously shy and secretive. She’d lived here just over a year, and it had taken months for them to trust her enough to reveal themselves to her then.
“I’d prefer it this way, madam. You won’t be long in our care, and a professional distance seems appropriate.” The oread’s deep tenor had a tinny quality, and she pictured his polished marble skin, blond curls, and gossamer wings despite his invisibility. The cold shoulder didn’t surprise her. Oreads bonded to magical creatures like Nathanial with unparalleled loyalty.
She snorted. “For what it’s worth, it’s nice to, um, hear you. I’ve missed this place.”
A puff of air grazed her cheek and the heavy wooden door with its iron lion’s-head knocker swung open for her.
When Tempest’s voice came again, it was curt. “Your room is prepared. I assume you remember where it is.”
“Of course I do.” She stepped into the marble foyer, and the door closed behind her. Another draft fluttered her hair and he was gone, his herbal scent fading like a dying rose. He did not offer to carry her bag. “Okay then, I’ll just find my own way,” she called in his wake.
She popped the telescoping handle of her bag and strode toward the curving staircase, the rattle of the caster wheels echoing through the wide, empty foyer. The place looked like a museum, all cream marble and white and gold trim with a red runner that she followed like the yellow brick road up the majestic staircase.
Hoisting her bag, she climbed to the second floor, cursing her blasted stilettos the entire time, and rolled her way to the room where she’d stayed all those years ago. But when she opened the door, she wasn’t prepared for the emotions that flooded her heart.
Nothing had changed.
“Holy crap,” she whispered. It was exactly the same. Exactly. Down to the Rihanna pin she’d wedged into the side of her mirror. The place was like a shrine.
It was the first and only place that ever felt like home to her. She had no idea who her real parents were, but her adoptive parents were killed in a freak accident when she was five. She barely remembered them, but she’d been told a sinkhole had opened up and swallowed half her Florida home, taking her parents with it. Although her memory of that day consisted only of blurry, timeworn images, the social worker told her she’d been recovered while dangling her legs over the side of the hole.
After that she’d become a ward of the state and gone from foster home to foster home, and the accidents had followed. Every time a family sent her to her room, the pipes would burst and flood the rest of the house. One time, when she was ten, a guardian had tried to paddle her for smoking his cigarettes. The curtains caught fire and soon the entire house was engulfed in flame. When she was sixteen, a wealthy host family had served her escargot. The snails had animated and climbed off her plate, sending Barb, her foster mom, into hysterics. She actually liked that family, although they seemed indifferent when she moved out a year and a half later.
College wasn’t in her future, but she’d always had a talent for music, so she’d earned enough money singing on street corners and in the subway terminal to get by until the summer of her twentieth year when she’d saved enough to come to London. She’d longed to visit Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and follow their musical journey. Young and foolish, she’d run out of cash in days and was singing for her supper in the tubes of London when Nathaniel found her.
She remembered it like it was yesterday. The song by Norah Jones that was her go-to when she was desperate for tips. Clarissa’s version of “Come Away with Me” always held a certain power, but that day the sound had become a palpable thing in the underground. The crowd exiting the trains stopped to listen. That’s when he strolled up to her. She noticed him right away. Everyone noticed him. All that dark energy moving toward her, framed by white subway tiles. She was never the same.
“He refuses to let me change anything.” A silvery voice rang behind her. She whirled to find the delicate, pale features of Laurel, Tempest’s mate and the other oread who cared for the house. Her gossamer wings swayed gently behind her. “The master hasn’t been the same since you left.”
“Laurel, it’s so good to see you!” She opened her arms to hug the nymph but embraced only cool air. The oread had disappeared. Clarissa sighed. Truly she had no allies here.
“You must excuse me.” Laurel’s voice came as if from a distance. “The room may be the same, but nothing else is. You’re a ghost here now. We’ve grieved you, you understand. And I’m told your visit won’t be a long one.”
“He told you that?” She frowned. Although it was true she didn’t plan to stay any longer than it took for him to fix her, it was a bad sign that Nathaniel was counting the days until her departure. She had two weeks at most. If her voice hadn’t recovered by then, she might as well return to America and look into business school because her career as a pop star would effectively be over.
“Can you answer me one thing?” Laurel asked from the shadows. “Did you ever love him, or was it all just…?”
She didn’t finish the question, but Clarissa knew what she meant. Nathaniel had been her muse. Still, she froze at the word love, the faces of foster families rushing through her mind. She couldn’t even remember most of their names. And then Nate. Darkly handsome Nate. How tempting it had been to curl up with the devil in his magical estate back then, when he had become her everything. But their time together had always had an expiration date. How long could it last? Until the ceiling caved in on her, or he returned to the place he’d come from and said goodbye? Did anyone stay in love with the person they loved when they were twenty?
She cleared her throat. “Laurel, I learned many things living here. Magic is real. Dragons are real. Nymphs like you are real. I learned that I am a witch and during a full moon, I can feel the night itself like warm velvet against my skin. But there is one thing I know down to my soul, and it’s something I learned long before I ever came here.”
“What’s that, miss?”
“Love isn’t real.” She lowered her eyes, slipped into her room with her bag trailing behind her, and closed the door.