Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

“It’s a bit out of the way for me, and not convenient to my work or pleasures. I have a caretaker whom I’ve sent off until I order him back. And I generally come over once a year or so.”

Hoyt dropped his hand, turned. “It’s changed.”

“Change is inevitable. The kitchen’s been modernized. There’s plumbing and electricity. Still it’s drafty for all that. The bedrooms upstairs are furnished, so take your choices. I’m going up to get some sleep.”

He started out, glanced back. “Oh, and you can stop the rain if you’ve a mind to. King, give me a hand will you, hauling some of this business up?”

“Sure. Very cool digs, if you don’t mind a little spooky.” King hauled up a chest the way another man might have picked up a briefcase, and headed up the main stairs.

“Are you all right?” Glenna asked Hoyt.

“I don’t know what I am.” He went to the window, drew back heavy drapes to look out on the rain-drenched forest. “It’s here, this place, the stones set by my ancestors. I’m grateful for that.”

“But they’re not here. The family you left behind. It’s hard what you’re doing. Harder for you than the rest of us.”

“We all share it.”

“I left my loft. You left your life.” She stepped to him, brushed a kiss over his cheek. She had thought to offer to fix a hot meal, but saw that what he needed most just then was solitude.

“I’m going up, grab a room, a shower and a bed.”

He nodded, continued to stare out the window. The rain suited his mood, but it was best to close the spell. Even when he had, it continued to rain, but in a fine, misty drizzle. The fog crawled across the ground, twined around the feet of the rose bushes.

Could they be his mother’s still? Unlikely, but they were roses, after all. That would have pleased her. He wondered if in some way having her sons here again, together, would please her as well.

How could he know? How would he ever know?

He flashed fire into the hearth. It seemed more like home with the fire snapping. He didn’t choose to go up, not yet. Later, he thought, he’d take his case up to the tower. He’d make it his own again. Instead he dug out his cloak, swirled it on and stepped out into the thin summer rain.

He walked toward the stream first where the drenched foxgloves swayed their heavy bells and the wild orange lilies Nola had particularly loved spread like spears of flame. There should be flowers in the house, he thought. He’d have to gather some before dusk. There had always been flowers in the house.

He circled around, drawing in the scent of damp air, wet leaves, roses. His brother kept the place tended; Hoyt couldn’t fault him for that. He saw the stables were still there—not the same, but in the same spot. They were larger than they’d been, with a jut to one side that boasted a wide door.

He found it locked, so opened it with a focused thought. It opened upward to reveal a stone floor and some sort of car. Not like the one in New York, he noted. Not like the cab, or the van they had traveled in from the airport. This was black and lower to the ground. On its hood was a shining silver panther. He ran his hands over it.

It puzzled him that there were so many different types of cars in this world. Different sizes and shapes and colors. If one was efficient and comfortable, why did they need so many other kinds?

There was a long bench in the area as well, and all manner of fascinating-looking tools hanging on the wall or layered in the drawers of a large red chest. He spent some time studying them, and the stack of timber that had been planed smooth and cut into long lengths.

Tools, he thought, wood, machines, but no life. No grooms, no horses, no cats slinking about hunting mice. No litter of wriggling pups for Nola to play with. He closed and locked the door behind him again, moved down the outside length of the stable.

He wandered into the tack room, comforted somewhat by the scents of leather and oil. It was well organized, he saw, just as the stall for the car had been. He ran his hands over a saddle, crouched to examine it, and found it not so different from the one he’d used.

He toyed with reins and bridles, and for a moment missed his mare as he might have missed a lover.

He passed through a door. The stone floor had a slight slope, with two stalls on one side, one on the other. Fewer than there had been, but larger, he noted. The wood was smooth and dark. He could smell hay and grain, and…

He moved, quickly now, down the stone floor.

A coal-black stallion stood in the last of three stalls. It gave Hoyt’s heart a hard and happy leap to see it. There were still horses after all—and this one, he noted, was magnificent.

It pawed the ground, laid back its ears when Hoyt opened the stall door. But he held up both hands, began to croon softly in Irish.

In response, the horse kicked the rear of the stall and blew out a warning.

“That’s all right then, that’s fine. Who could blame you for being careful with a stranger? But I’m just here to admire you, to take in your great handsome self, is all I’m about. Here, have a sniff why don’t you? See what you think. Ah, it’s a sniff I said, not a nip.” With a chuckle, Hoyt drew back his hand a fraction as the horse bared his teeth.

He continued to speak softly and stand very still with his hand out while the horse made a show of snorting and pawing. Deciding bribery was the best tack, Hoyt conjured an apple.