The herbs she sprinkled in the water make my shoulder spasm as the flesh begins to knit itself back together. The wound was deep and it’ll take time before it fully heals, even for a faerie of my power.
She tsks when I rise unsteadily from the water, but helps me dry off and wraps me in another fresh towel before she sits me in a chair. She packs the wound with one of her herbal concoctions and wraps it quickly. She orders me to stay there and begins putting away the bath supplies.
With her distracted, I return to my task. She hasn’t put out my clothes yet, but there’s a stack of things at the top of my bag. I tug on my boxers and jeans. The shirt seems impossible. Bridget overlooks my snarling and discards the tee shirt in favor of one of my button-down flannels from my closet. Although it requires less movement to get on, I’m still sweaty and shaking by the time we finish.
“I need to go,” I keep repeating the entire time.
She ignores me as I ignored my mother and gets me to slip my feet into my boots.
“My phone,” I demand.
She puts it in my hand. “I turned it off so it wouldn’t run down while you were gone. Where do you need to go, young master? Shall I prepare an exit from the sídhe for you?”
“No.” I’m already at the door. “I know where I’m going. I’ll do it.”
I forced Smith to give me directions, but I don’t really need them. My power roils under my skin, ready to explode outward, and the sídhe responds instinctively. I close my eyes and focus on the fine details of the picture Smith gave me. The picture I memorized because I stared at it so often. Then I reach out with my glamour and ask the sídhe to take me there.
The ground shivers beneath me. Warm sunlight pierces through my eyelids and I blink, spinning around slowly to make sure I arrived in the correct place.
There’s the hill. The white farmhouse. The fields, although they’re partially harvested already. No machines running. Hopefully I got here in time for their meal break.
My shoulder hurts too much for me to run on the dirt road angling its way up to the house, but I walk as quickly as I can manage. Each step I take soothes that deeper, invisible wound, reminds me that I’m a step closer to making up my broken promise to Finn.
I’m not sure what to do when I’m finally in sight of the house. Do I call out? Go to the door and knock? Should I try texting Finn?
A light breeze buffets the back of my neck and I shiver as it cools the sweat there. I probably look like hell. A hint of glamour, just enough to save my pride. Maybe Smith will give me a quick hit of the ley line. Where is he? I reach out, but don’t sense him.
Odd.
I pull out my phone and turn it on, but before the home screen appears, the door to the house opens and a woman steps onto the porch.
She’s shorter than me. Curvy. My heart skips a beat when I notice she has Finn’s blonde hair and impossibly warm smile. She gives me a little wave. I return it, careful to use my good arm, wondering why she’s the only one here greeting me.
“You must be Roark,” she says whe
n I’m nearly to the steps. She laughs at my surprise. “Finny’s told us a lot about you.”
“He has?”
“Of course. I’m Rose.”
Once I’m on the porch, she reaches for me a little cautiously and wraps me in a hug. I squeeze her back as gently as I can, careful not to jostle my shoulder. Glamour covers a lot, but it struggles to hide dripping blood. She releases me once she feels me straightening.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, already on her way inside.
It only seems appropriate to pause on the threshold. This is Finn’s home. This is the place that shaped him into the man I love. Crossing through its doorway reminds me of the song the bard once sang in our court, about the knight reaching for the cup and finding heaven in his grasp. A moment of transcendence. And when I step into the house, that holy dark drowns me.
I drink it in. The bones of this house proudly boast of its inhabitants living here. Appearances be damned, this is a place where joys and sorrows fill the rafters to bursting. The paint on the walls has faded a little, but the colors aren’t muted. They’ve settled comfortably into the open rooms. A few boxes are stacked in corners, probably holding whatever used to be on the empty shelves. Smith didn’t mention they were moving, though... Perhaps they’re redecorating?
“What would you like?”
I turn to my right, where his mother’s voice drifts from what I assume is the kitchen. It’s a small space, packed to the gills with pots and pans and cooking supplies and handmade curtains which hide the old shelving. I should take off my shoes.
Rose commands this space with the same grace of my mother on her throne. Holding a glass in her hand and watching me expectantly from her place near the fridge, I have the strange urge to bow to her.
“Anything is fine,” I hear myself say.
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s not an answer. We have water, pop, iced tea—”