Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

Father Cesare—who looked much the same despite being several years younger—came to stand beside me.

“What do you think of our patron saint, Your Highness? His name is Urso. It means ‘bear.’”

“He looks like him,” I said, pointing to Kellan.

“Urso had no family of his own,” Cesare said, laughing, “but he loved the Greythornes, even convincing the king of that time to grant them the manor and the land around the Stella for cultivation.”

The memory faded, but the statue and the sanctorium remained. I looked up at Urso with new eyes and finally understood.

Urso and Mathuin were both names for “bear.”

Galantha’s blood spell commanding him home had sent Mathuin back to the place of his origin; just a hundred years too early.

The church, the maze, the statues, the legacy of protecting witches . . .

Urso was Mathuin. Mathuin was Urso.

Which meant the Ilithiya’s Bell was at Greythorne. It had to be.

I could save Kellan.

I surged into wakefulness with a gasp, then rolled over, coughing, hurting everywhere, bits of gravelly sand and debris shaking from my hair.

Onal.

I scrambled to the rocks against which she was sagging; she had pulled herself up to a sitting position to look out across the water as the first fuchsia streaks of morning began to stretch across the sky. She normally kept her iron-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, but it had come loose in the water and now cascaded down either side of her shoulders, just as long and thick as it had been when she was a child.

She turned her head toward me and said weakly, “My bag. There. Would you get it for me?”

I did as she asked, saying, “What do you need?”

“There’s a little red bottle with a dropper. Yes. That’s the one. I stole it from that fool of a physician. It’s a marvelous pain reliever . . .”

“Onal,” I said, sighing in exasperation. “This is belladonna.” I gave it a sniff. “Highly concentrated, too. A mere drop or two of this will kill you.”

She smiled widely. “Good girl.”

I dropped the bag carefully and knelt next to her. She could barely lift the hand she used to pat mine.

“I did this,” I said. “You were getting better. And you told me what using blood magic would do to you. I shouldn’t have . . .” I trailed off, unable to finish.

“If you hadn’t used my blood, we’d have been crushed,” she said. “And we never would have gotten to see this.” She nodded to where the first beams of sun were breaking into sparks of golden light and skipping across the water. “A much better way to go, if you ask me.”

Tears were streaming down my face. I shook my head. “Onal, no. No.”

Her hand went to the single silver button at the top of her collar. With a sharp tug, she yanked it off and laid it in my hand. I turned it over: it was in the shape of a flower. A lily.

“I had them made when I knew I was expecting. I gave two of them to Iresine. Four, I sewed to my daughter’s first gown. And this one . . . this one I kept for myself.” She said, “That’s what I was going to name her. Lily.”

I nodded. “I’ll make sure Conrad gets it. He can pass it down to his daughters, and they to theirs.”

“It’s not for Conrad. It’s for you.”

“But, Onal,” I tried to argue, “I’m not going to . . . I don’t have . . .”

“Stop moping. It makes you look like a sullen marmot. Listen to me.” She pulled me by the collar. “You are my granddaughter. You are not going to give up. You are no delicate flower that wilts at the brush of wind. You are made of nettle, my girl. You’re stubborn. And spiteful. And just stupid enough to keep fighting when smarter folk think there’s no reason to try. No one is going to pull you up without getting stung. Do you hear me? Not Castillion, not Arceneaux. Not even the Empyrea herself.”

She let go of me, then settled back against the rock. “I don’t regret this,” she said, her voice drifting. “I got to choose my end. Now go and choose yours.”