Copyright
Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cat‟s Quill Copyright © 2011 by Anne Barwell Cover Art by Anne Cain
[email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61581-894-5 Printed in the United States of America First Edition May 2011 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-895-2
Dedication
This story is dedicated to Dad, who introduced me to reading and the wonderful what-ifs within the pages of his favorite books, and to Mum, who read this story and encouraged me to get it published. Both of you have given me so much support in so many ways. Thank you.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on. ~ Prospero The Tempest
Acknowledgments
THANK
YOU to everyone who has been involved with this story on its journey from inception to manuscript with comments, brainstorming, beta reading, and the like. With life doing its thing, it‟s taken a while to get this far, so instead of risking naming names and leaving someone out—you all know who you are. To Ruth, who suggested I submit this to Dreamspinner Press, and the wonderful people I‟ve met along the way since joining their “family.” To Amanda, Rebecca, and David. Love you guys. And last but definitely not least, to my friends at Hutt City Libraries.
Cat’s Quill | 1
Chapter 1
TOMAS watched the train pull out of the station, his eyes following it until it was a memory under the glare of the sun. The platform was almost deserted, save for two old ladies talking, nodding, and laughing as they walked toward the ticket office, disappearing through the old wooden doors into the unknown of the outside world. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he swatted at the invisible hand, tilting his head in response to a whisper just out of reach, a feeling of almost déjà vu. There was no one there. He was alone. This holiday had been his sister Kathleen‟s idea, a chance for him to get in touch with his inner self and find the elusive muse which seemed to have deserted him for a better place. Tomas was a writer, but he hadn‟t written anything in months. He‟d start, type one or two lines, delete them, and start again, repeating the process for hours at a time. Nothing felt right; the magic was gone. Two bestsellers and a publisher who wasn‟t taking too kindly to the non-appearance of book number three. Yes, Tomas knew it was a three-book deal. Yes, he knew he hadn‟t decided what this last book was about yet. Actually, that wasn‟t exactly true, but the idea was only a seed, a kernel just out of reach, a rainbow with colors misty after rain, not quite solid, not quite real, just frustrating as hell. Not quite real because he didn‟t want it to be. This book would come from the soul, his soul, and he didn‟t want that on display. The muse could go to hell. He was not writing this. He shivered as a chill ran up his spine. Sighing, he bent to pick up his backpack. It was old, tattered, and comfortable, yet still large enough to carry everything he needed; with each journey he picked off more threads which had come loose, yet the fabric still managed to hold together. It had accompanied him everywhere over the last ten years and was something familiar to hang on to. He needed that right now. Tomas liked the familiar; it made up for the feeling of not belonging, of being on a journey that he wasn‟t sure was ever going to end. He traveled light, and always had; it made leaving easier. If he left first, others would not leave him. Not that that was exactly a
2 | Anne Barwell
problem these days. He had very few friends; his habit of switching off and ignoring what he didn‟t want to answer had alienated most, but he liked his privacy, and if people couldn‟t deal with it, that was not his issue but theirs. One last glance at the platform and he walked through into the ticket office and out the far door. Kathleen was wrong. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere was not going to do anything. However, it was a way of avoiding his publisher, especially as Tomas‟s mobile was still broken and he had not bothered to get it fixed. Hopefully, Fraser would give up and find someone else to hassle. The man was persistent, if nothing else, and while Tomas had not exactly been averse to their few meetings over coffee, he also felt bad in having to tell Fraser he was still not writing. Tomas took his commitments seriously, but this was different, and a matter on which avoidance could only work for so long. The street outside the station was empty apart from a long-haired grey cat which was lazily washing itself. It stopped, looked Tomas up and down, and then returned to what it was doing, obviously deciding that this human was not worth the effort. Tomas wasn‟t sure whether that should be taken as a compliment or not. Not worth the effort also meant he was not considered a threat. Tomas preferred animals to people. They didn‟t bother hiding under a façade of polite disinterest while nodding and pretending to care about what he had to say. Expressing himself through the medium of print meant that he did not need to deal with people directly but could still speak his mind. Dumping his backpack on the ground, the messenger bag holding his laptop still across his shoulder, Tomas found a shady spot and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. His ride was late. He would wait. It wasn‟t as though he had a deadline to meet. It was quiet here. After London, the village of Oakwood felt like stepping back several decades in time to a world less complicated and slower. For the moment, at least, he‟d embrace that illusion and focus on the thought that perhaps this place might have potential after all. He could just keep to himself, find a nice tree to sit under, and catch up with some reading. The sound of a car engine interrupted any hope for a short nap before Tomas had the chance to close his eyes. He didn‟t bother moving, but instead waited for the car to pull up in front of him. If this was his ride he would find out soon enough. If it wasn‟t, he could wait a while longer. Whoever it was, the driver did appear to be in a hurry, the brakes squealing as the car came to an abrupt halt. “Damn it, I thought I‟d fixed that problem.” A man about Tomas‟s own age, although he could have been slightly younger than his mid-twenties,
Cat’s Quill | 3
climbed out of the car, slamming the driver‟s door behind him. He glanced around, his mouth curving into a grin when he saw Tomas. “Trouble with these old cars is that they can be temperamental as hell at times,” he said conversationally. “Love them, though, just gotta know how to treat them right.” The accent was very definitely American, although strangely it did not seem out of place in the middle of an out-of-the-way English village. Tomas nodded, running an appreciative eye over the car. It was a green Morris Minor, probably from the early fifties, and very well-restored. An interesting choice for this man, who was dressed in a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, his nails stained with grease even though his hands were clean. His hair was a messy, nondescript brown, a little on the long side but not enough to need tying back. “That is true of most things and people,” he replied. “Yeah, it is.” After wiping his hands down his jeans, the man offered his right one to Tomas to shake. “Donovan Campbell. I‟m guessing you‟re Tomas Kemp, and that for once the train was on time, or if my luck‟s really screwed today, early for the first time in ten years.” Accepting the handshake, Tomas couldn‟t help but smirk. “That would depend on whether you consider five minutes enough time to be sufficiently screwed.” Donovan stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “That would depend on who I‟m with.” He bent to grab Tomas‟s bag. “You are Tomas, right? I‟d kinda like to make sure I have the right guy before I take off with your luggage.” He raised an eyebrow. “Like to travel light, huh?” “You wouldn‟t be holding my bag if I wasn‟t.” Tomas shook his head when Donovan reached for his messenger bag after stowing the backpack in the boot. “I‟ll keep this with me, thank you.” “Guess you‟ve got all your stuff in it?” Donovan opened the driver‟s door, gesturing toward the passenger side. “I‟m not a writer, but I‟ve heard how protective you guys can be about your manuscripts.” He waited till Tomas was buckling himself in and then turned the key in the ignition. “Heidi‟s a big fan of yours; she‟s read both your books. She was really excited when she found out you‟d be staying at the inn.” “Wonderful,” Tomas muttered under his breath. He didn‟t need a fan hounding him about when his next book would be published. “I don‟t talk about what I‟m working on,” he said, not bothering to pretend to be apologetic when he wasn‟t. “She will have to wait for it like everyone else.” Donovan shrugged. “Not a problem, just smile and be nice to her, okay?” He glanced at Tomas and then back at the road before pulling out into the nonexistent traffic.
4 | Anne Barwell
“Whatever,” Tomas said, his arms tightening around his laptop as the car hit a pothole, lurched, and continued on its way. There was a lot to be said for the idea of going back to writing by hand. This village was quaint and rural. It might be interesting to do things the old-fashioned way and see if that might jolt the stubborn, pig-headed muse into submission. Not that Tomas was going to write this, but he might write something else. Anything else. “Look,” Donovan said. “I don‟t care whether you‟re a paying customer or some big shot writer Heidi‟s got the hots for. If you‟re rude to her, I‟ll throw you out on your ass.” “I have no intention of being rude.” Tomas shifted his attention to the scenery passing by his window at a rapidly increasing speed. “I came here for some privacy and I would appreciate that wish being adhered to.” Green followed green, broken by the occasional brown-thatched cottage, the distance between them growing the farther out they traveled. Crossroads Inn was on the outskirts of the village, far enough to be private, close enough for convenience. Rural England at its best or worst; Tomas hadn‟t figured out which yet. “Whatever.” Donovan rolled his eyes, throwing Tomas‟s earlier word back at him. “Life is easier when people get along.” He indicated left and turned into a country lane. “I don‟t know what your problem is, but if there‟s anything I can do to help, I‟ve been told I listen well over a beer.” “You don‟t know me. Didn‟t your mother tell you it‟s dangerous to offer help to strangers?” Tomas knew he was alienating Donovan further, but he didn‟t care. This was easier, he told the part of his mind that whispered loudly that he needed a friend. Letting someone in as a friend gave them the power to hurt him later by leaving. This way it wouldn‟t matter. Donovan slammed on the brakes. “I thought you were okay,” he growled, “and I‟m usually good at reading people.” He glared at Tomas, then shrugged. “If you change your mind, you‟re paying, though. I might be a nice guy, but you‟ve just pissed me off.” “Fine with me.” Tomas returned to looking out the window. Ignoring was preferable to arguing and usually achieved the same result. It was also less effort. Another left turn, this one up what appeared to be a long driveway, revealed an old wooden building covered in ivy, roses climbing up the front wall by the door. However, Tomas‟s attention was taken by the grounds, but more in particular, by the large tree sitting in the middle of what appeared to be an empty field to the side of the inn. Tomas didn‟t know much about trees, but this one seemed very old, and for some reason, very much alone. It stood tall and proud, its branches overhanging to offer shade, surrounded by the
Cat’s Quill | 5
green of the grass, a mixture of brown and gold, leaves prematurely changing color as though to herald the autumn which was still several months away. “That‟s our oak.” Donovan stopped the car. Tomas climbed out and took a few steps closer toward the tree, still staring at it, his fingers clutching the strap on his bag. “It‟s an old guy for one of these and nearly a thousand years old according to the locals. It feels like it‟s always been here and always going to be. One of those universal constants you can rely on, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.” “Nothing lasts forever.” Tomas shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the moment. Dreams were for those who had the energy to pursue them. “Cynical kind of guy, huh?” Donovan retrieved Tomas‟s backpack and began walking toward the front door. “No.” A warm breeze ruffled Tomas‟s hair, brushing it from his face. He swatted at it. “Just realistic.”
THE next day he woke to find a small black cat sitting on the end of his bed, watching him. It had rained during the night, drops of water dancing across the window and pitter-pattering on the roof in an erratic rhythm, keeping him awake until after midnight. A glance at his watch informed him that it was nearly lunchtime, making the comment he was tempted to make about loud music playing downstairs at an ungodly hour a moot point. Even a shower didn‟t improve his mood, although the cat seemed to find him standing dripping wet, only clad in a towel, somewhat amusing. Finally, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he wandered downstairs in the direction of what he vaguely remembered from the day before as the kitchen. Heidi looked up as he walked in, and smiled. She was a slender woman with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed casually in jeans and a shirt, with laugh lines already forming around her eyes, although she appeared to be similar in age to himself and Donovan. Tomas hadn‟t yet figured out whether she and Donovan were a couple. The evening before they‟d constantly been in each other‟s space, laughing and teasing each other, yet for some reason he didn‟t get that vibe from them. There was a level of comfort there; their banter had reminded him of the evening he and Kathleen had spent together celebrating his birthday earlier in the year. Their surnames were different, so it was unlikely they were siblings, although he still didn‟t rule it out as a possibility.
6 | Anne Barwell
“Not one for being up at the crack of dawn with the birds, huh?” She too seemed amused by his bedraggled state. He pulled his T-shirt down where it had started to ride up. It was his favorite, and he wasn‟t about to throw it out, even if it had shrunk several sizes and gone through at least one load of washing with Kathleen‟s red underwear. Heidi giggled. “Not very many guys would feel comfortable wearing something that shade of pink.” “It‟s caramel red,” he told her, helping himself to coffee. “Am I too late for breakfast?” Heidi laughed. “Sure it is, and no, you‟re not. Donovan‟s gone into the village to get supplies, but I can make you some bacon and eggs if you‟d like.” “Thank you. That would be appreciated.” Tomas sipped his coffee, added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar, and settled himself at the table, waiting for the caffeine to kick-start his system. “You‟re welcome,” she said, pulling out the pan and looking through the fridge for the ingredients. “There‟s some black pudding in here too, if you‟d like some. I‟m not fond of it, but some of the guests like it.” “No, thank you.” Tomas shuddered. “Just bacon and eggs will be fine.” He closed his eyes and breathed in the coffee aroma. “This is good. Is it local?” “No.” The smell of frying bacon filled the air. The fridge opened and closed again, followed by the sound of cracking eggs. “It‟s Colombian, and you can‟t buy it here. Donovan has a few connections and a serious coffee addiction. Where there‟s a will, there‟s a way.” Tomas opened his eyes just in time to see her grin at him. “Although I suspect you could match him on it. He‟s like you in the mornings, except he starts his somewhat earlier.” “Most people start their day earlier than I do,” Tomas admitted. He was a night owl, often seeing the dawn rise before falling into bed and sleeping until lunchtime. It had always suited his routine for writing, the words flowing through the vampire hours to fade with the first rays of sunlight. Heidi placed a plate in front of him. “Eat up,” she said. “Man cannot live on coffee alone.” Helping herself to a cup, she sat down opposite him. “You‟re not what I imagined.” “Oh?” Tomas raised an eyebrow; a fork full of bacon paused midway to his mouth. “I expected someone more….” Heidi shrugged. “You seem very sad, very lonely. I didn‟t get that feeling from reading your books.” She took a gulp of
Cat’s Quill | 7
coffee, watching him carefully. “They say that writers often put something of themselves into their characters, but I can‟t pick which one might be you.” “You‟ve only just met me,” Tomas pointed out, lowering his fork. “Don‟t presume to know me, or to judge me.” She did seem genuinely interested, and he didn‟t get the feeling she was prying, more that she was a person who cared about others. That was rare, too damn rare, but it didn‟t mean Tomas was going to just go along with it either. “Donovan was right.” Heidi shook her head and drained her coffee, walking over to place the empty cup in the sink. “Just rinse the dishes and leave them in the sink when you‟re done, okay? I need to go do some paperwork. This place doesn‟t run itself.” Reaching the door, she turned to look at him. He mopped at the egg on his plate. “It stopped raining while you were in the shower. Go for a walk and get your head out of your ass. It might help.”
BOOK under his arm, Tomas tried to ignore the cat at his feet. Once he got to the front door, he slipped through and closed it behind him. The animal seemed to have attached herself to him, following him around. It was unnerving knowing that someone or something was watching him. He didn‟t like being watched, even though he spent many hours observing others. He hated the spotlight; it made him feel as though he was on show, that all his thoughts and dreams were out there for the world to see. Heidi had been right about writers often putting something of themselves into their characters, but he had not been about to tell her that. It had taken him long enough to admit to himself the reason why Alan Blackthorn had been so good at infiltration. It was bad enough that his friend Ethan had read the first draft of Red Sunset, figured it out, and called him on it, noting the similarities between Tomas and a character able to blend in to his surroundings and become anyone he wanted but the one person he needed to be—himself. Ethan was a little too observant at times and one of the few people Tomas had allowed to get close, only to find that he now couldn‟t be convinced to back off. Stepping off the front porch, Tomas scanned the grounds for a suitable place to sit and read his book. The old oak stood before him, demanding his attention as it had upon his arrival. It was alone, standing guard in the middle of the field, a good five-minute walk from any buildings. The ground was still damp underfoot, but Tomas had his jacket to sit on and use as a makeshift
8 | Anne Barwell
blanket. Above, the sun peeked through what was left of the earlier storm clouds, bringing with it a welcome warmth in contrast to the persistent breeze. Ambling across the field, he stopped midway, turning to look at the old building behind him. The cat had her nose pressed to one of the upstairs windows, watching him, reminding him of a small child who had been chastised. Tomas felt a moment‟s guilt for leaving her behind, but he needed to be alone. He would make it up to Blackthorn later. Sighing, he rolled his eyes. It had been no surprise to learn that Heidi was responsible for the name. She really was a fan of his books, and he had been rude to her over breakfast, even if he‟d attempted to deny it. He was here to find peace and quiet. A good rest would help him write again. If he ignored this particular muse long enough, another would take its place, and that stupid story idea would disappear into the ether where it belonged. A voice in his mind whispered to him about being true to himself, and how it would be so much easier if he just gave in now as he would have to eventually anyway. “Go away,” Tomas muttered, picking up his pace again. “You‟re not prepared to help me, so why the hell should I even listen to you.” He stopped again, his face turned up toward the sky. “I‟m arguing with myself. Happy now? Are you?” As he expected, there was no answer. There never was. Tomas wasn‟t sure what he expected, but a voice from the heavens wasn‟t high on the list. He was going crazy. Yes, that was it. He could live with that. It was better than the truth. Fantasy often was. It was one of the reasons he had turned to writing in the first place; it provided a safe outlet for everything the world could not be allowed to see. Unfortunately it was also not real. Some days he wished it was. Tomas had spent hours lying on his bed, imagining what it must be like to truly fly in space, to pilot the machines his imagination had created. To fight for an important cause. To find someone to love and have that love returned in kind. He frowned. Where the fuck had that come from? His books were about a war, about friendships, not romantic relationships. The pilots did not have time for that kind of thing and could not afford to risk becoming close in that way, however many hints there were that those friendships could have led to more. Reaching the tree, he sat down, leaning back against it, trying to find a comfortable spot. He placed his book on the ground, his reading mood gone. Above him the sun peeked through the foliage, giving the leaves closest to
Cat’s Quill | 9
him an almost unearthly glow. He hadn‟t been in the village twenty-four hours and he was already wondering if coming here was such a great idea. A bee flew around him, watching him, then continued on its way. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the breeze, the feel of it through his hair, against his skin. It was gentle, warm, and inviting. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to his cheek, wondering what it would be like to have real fingers caressing him, wanting him. A twig snapped on the ground beside him, and he opened his eyes. A man was standing watching him. Tomas swallowed, returning the man‟s smile with a shy one of his own before he had even thought about what he had done. The man had long legs, enclosed in tight, form-fitting brown trousers and black boots to mid-calf. Tomas opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. “I‟m sorry, did I disturb you?” The man‟s voice was soft, a light tenor. His hand came up to brush blond hair from eyes that were the color of the ocean, or was it the sky? The white shirt he wore was loose and untucked, the top laces undone to expose a well-muscled yet lean chest. Tomas shifted back against the tree, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his own very scruffy jeans and T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth down the ends, which always insisted on spiking up at awkward angles. “No.” Tomas glanced around the field, not sure what he was expecting to see. It was empty apart from the two of them. Surely he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes. It wasn‟t enough time for someone to cross the distance between the tree and the inn. On the other side of the field was some kind of shed, but it was too far away. “I didn‟t see you before. Where did you come from?” The blond chuckled. “It‟s nice to meet you too.” He sat down next to Tomas without waiting for permission, propping himself against the tree. Holding out his hand, he smiled again. “My name is Cathal.” “I‟m Tomas.” Tomas shook Cathal‟s hand. The blond‟s handshake was firm, the skin-to-skin contact sending heat through Tomas‟s body. He licked his lips; they were dry. Cathal let go of Tomas‟s hand, it seemed to Tomas almost reluctantly, but he put that down to wishful thinking. “I know. I saw you arrive yesterday.” “Oh.” Donovan or Heidi hadn‟t mentioned Cathal, even though they had talked about all their neighbors, giving Tomas a heads-up on whomever he might come across while out walking, with a warning to be polite, as though they expected that he would not be. “I didn‟t see you.”
10 | Anne Barwell
“Very few do.” Cathal picked up Tomas‟s book, turned it over, and began reading the blurb, frowning. “Is this good? The cover illustrations look interesting. I don‟t see new books very often, and I love exploring ideas.” “Yes, it is.” Tomas watched Cathal run his fingers over the dustcover of the book; his touch seemed almost reverent. “Would you like to borrow it? I have other books to read.” “I would like that a lot, thank you.” The wind pulled at the pages of the book in Cathal‟s hand, flipping them back and forth. He laughed. “I may have it a while. I think my sister would like to read it, too, if that is all right with you.” “That‟s fine with me.” Tomas frowned. “Do you live near here? Do you come here often?” He wasn‟t sure how long Cathal was going to stay but wanted to make sure they could meet again. It wasn‟t a reaction he usually had to people he‟d just met, but something about Cathal intrigued him. If Cathal had the book, it gave him good reason to want to see Tomas again. “I can come here as often as you would like,” Cathal said, looking up from the book. He cradled it against his chest. “I enjoy talking to people, especially those who listen.” A slow blush colored his cheeks, his pale complexion dusting a faint pink. He glanced around, suddenly nervous, his voice dropping to a half whisper. “I like talking to you, Tomas. I was hoping we might be friends, if you would allow it.” Tomas frowned at the turn of phrase, wondering how anyone in their right mind could turn down the opportunity to spend time with Cathal. Meeting his eyes, Tomas risked another smile. “I like talking to you too, and I would like to get to know you better.” He paused. “If you would allow it.” Tilting his head as though listening for something, Cathal‟s smile faded to a frown. “I need to go,” he announced, pulling himself up to stand. “Will you be here tomorrow? I might be able to return this evening, but I can‟t promise it for certain.” Again, he glanced around nervously. “Evening might be better, or early morning.” Cathal nodded firmly. “Yes, morning. That would be safer.” “Safer?” Tomas didn‟t like the conclusions he was drawing. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Cathal?” Cathal smiled again, but it didn‟t reach his eyes. “No, of course not.” He bent over and, without giving Tomas the chance to move, brushed his lips against Tomas‟s. “My friends call me Cat.” “Cat,” Tomas whispered. “I….” God, this wasn‟t like him at all. Something tugged at a corner of his mind, telling him that he knew Cathal
Cat’s Quill | 11
from somewhere, but that was impossible. “I‟ll be here this evening, in case. Can‟t you stay longer?” “No.” Cathal shook his head. “I will be here when I can. I‟m sorry I can‟t promise more than that.” “I‟ll wait for you, Cat,” Tomas promised, knowing that he would. However long it took, he would wait. He reached out his hand for Cathal‟s. Cathal smiled sadly and shook his head again. The sun winked at them, the brightness making Tomas‟s eyes water. He brought up his hand to shade his face, closing his eyes temporarily against the light. When he opened them again, Cathal was gone.
12 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 2
THE
next morning, Tomas was up at dawn, ignoring his instincts to bury himself under the covers after being woken by the alarm. He pulled back the curtains, blinked against the light, and closed them again, deciding that he would deal with the thought of being out of bed at this ungodly hour later. Still bleary-eyed and groggy from lack of sleep, even after his shower, he grabbed his messenger bag, the laptop hidden safely in the bottom of the wardrobe, and stumbled downstairs, nearly tripping over the cat. Mumbling an apology, he followed the coffee aroma toward the kitchen, searching for his fix. He had come home the previous afternoon after meeting Cathal and written for the first time in months, the words flowing like they used to, better than they used to, so quickly that he struggled to write fast enough to keep up, quite an accomplishment considering he hadn‟t handwritten anything in a very long time. He didn‟t know why the muse had suddenly decided to cooperate, but it had never been one for logic. Perhaps it had taken a liking to the leather-bound journal he‟d found sitting on his laptop? His sister had written him a note on the first page: Dear Tomas, On the journey through life, there are different ways of traveling. I hope this helps, Kathleen. Kathleen had always worried about her younger brother, ignoring his attempts to withdraw from her. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she was his sister and that families stuck together through thick and thin, even when certain members of them needed a swift kick up the arse. Protests that he wasn‟t withdrawing but merely busy, after attempts to ignore her failed, earned him more glares and a reminder that she still loved him, though at
Cat’s Quill | 13
times she did wonder why. He was not about to tell her the real reason for his slow decline into apathy and cynicism; it was difficult to explain and a subject he wished to avoid. He wanted to work things out for himself rather than be subjected to her sympathy and risk her rejection. It would be better this way. Too many people argued that talking about problems helped, that sharing lightened the load, but Tomas disagreed. This was his life to live alone, his choices, whether they were the right ones or not. There might be different ways of traveling through life, but at the moment it felt as though his lack of options was closing in around him. Yes, he knew part of this was his current state of mind, but for now he would focus on today and the possibility of spending time with Cathal. Entering the kitchen, Tomas dumped his bag on the floor just inside the door. Donovan was sitting at the table, finishing off a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and drinking coffee out of a large pottery mug inscribed with the words “so what if I do mornings, deal with it.” He looked up at Tomas and grinned. “Cat steal your bed?” “No.” Tomas poured himself a mug of coffee. Despite him tripping over her, Blackthorn had followed him into the kitchen and was now watching him carefully. Gulping the hot coffee, he ignored the heat scalding his mouth and throat and instead focused on the aroma and taste. “Is she yours?” “Nah.” Donovan shook his head. “She showed up during a storm right after we moved in and has been hanging around ever since. Heidi insists on feeding the thing even though I told her we‟d be stuck with it if she did. She named her too.” The grin grew wider. “Blackthorn. I told you she was a fan of your books.” “I know her name,” Tomas said, sitting down at the table. “Heidi already told me but was evasive when I asked whose she was.” As though on cue, the cat jumped onto the table, her little pink tongue edging toward Donovan‟s plate and the smattering of leftover egg. Heidi hadn‟t appreciated the comment that she‟d named a female cat after a male character, either. Some things, it appeared, were better left unsaid. “Get off there!” Donovan grabbed the cat and dropped her onto the floor. She glared and blinked at him, washed her paws very slowly one at a time, and then curled up around Tomas‟s feet. Tomas put his mug on the table and stretched, but the cat didn‟t move. His neck and shoulders were still stiff and sore. Spending several hours last night with the trunk of the tree rough against his back was something he would pay for over the next few days. Although it had been more than obvious as the evening had progressed that Cathal was not coming for whatever reason, Tomas had waited anyway, just in case. It was just as easy to
14 | Anne Barwell
write there as in his room, and this way if Cathal showed, at least Tomas had kept his promise to be there. “Late night?” Donovan drained his coffee. “I didn‟t hear you come in, but I figured that you had a key and you‟d show when you were ready. Heidi stays up watching some late-night thing, but I‟m not one for TV. I prefer a good book. Early to bed and early to rise, and all that.” “I need a Thermos,” Tomas said, ignoring the question. “Is there one I can borrow?” He paused. “Please.” Donovan stared at him, raising an eyebrow. “It has manners!” He leaned over, lowering his voice, his eyes narrowing. “What happened out there last night? You‟ve even been making conversation this morning. Come on, something must have happened. It‟s the end of the world, right? And no one bothered to let me in on it. Figures.” “If I see the four motorcyclists of the Apocalypse, I‟ll be sure to let you know,” Tomas replied dryly, unable to resist the reference and doubting that Donovan would recognize it for what it was. “In the meantime I would appreciate the loan of a Thermos and a supply of strong coffee.” He yawned, not used to starting an early morning on less than four hours‟ sleep. “You‟ve read Good Omens?” Donovan didn‟t seem to be able to decide whether he should be amused or impressed. It was not the reaction Tomas had been expecting, and it shot holes in the reasoning he had been carefully building as to why bothering to make any conversation with Donovan, apart from what was required, would be a waste of time and energy. “I find it amusing,” Tomas said, using the tone that implied that this line of conversation was not one he wished to pursue. Most people shrugged and walked away. Donovan just grinned, pushed back his seat, and walked over to the pantry. Opening it, he peered inside, shifting several packets before pulling out two Thermoses, one large, the other somewhat smaller. “Yes!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew Heidi kept them in here somewhere.” He strode back to the table and put them down in front of Tomas. “For you we have an extra-special offer. You get to choose which one you want for the day.” He pointed to the larger one. “Six cups for the day tripper who gets really thirsty or—” Donovan‟s finger went up into the air, then down again to rest on the other Thermos. “—two cups so you don‟t need to come home so often to pee.” Lowering his voice, the grin changed to a smirk. “Of course you could just use the tree, depending on how shy a guy you are. The hedge does block most of the view, at least from the kitchen windows, even though Heidi keeps threatening to trim it back so she can see what exactly you writer types get up to over there.”
Cat’s Quill | 15
“Hedge?” Tomas looked at Donovan blankly. All he could remember was the tree and the surrounding grass. “It‟s green and made up of bushes growing closely together,” Donovan said helpfully. “I know what a hedge is, Donovan.” Tomas stopped, a smartarse remark paused on the tip of his tongue, his brain backtracking to what else Donovan had said. “What makes you think I‟m going anywhere near that tree?” “That tree, huh?” Donovan looked smug. “Not just any tree, but that tree.” Although Tomas hadn‟t answered his question about the Thermoses, Donovan walked back over to the pantry and put the smaller one away. He turned to face Tomas again, smirking. “Let‟s see. You‟re a writer. For some weird reason that tree seems to inspire writers; we‟ve had some staying before and they used to sit out there all odd hours scribbling whatever it is you guys scribble in notebooks or the like. So, what‟s the attraction? I‟m missing something. I must be.” A slow flush crept across Tomas‟s cheeks. The tree was merely a peaceful place in which to write. He was going to sit under it again today because of that, nothing more. If he met Cathal again, so be it. After all, Cathal had borrowed Tomas‟s book and had promised to meet so that he could return it and maybe read another. Tomas‟s imagination was merely bridging the gap between fantasy and a reality he craved. He needed to keep the two separate, even if meeting Cathal had made that part of himself he had refused to listen to difficult to deny. He stood, grabbed the Thermos off the table, and walked quickly over to the kitchen counter, intending to rinse it and then fill it with hot coffee. He was not in the mood for breakfast; there was no point eating just for the sake of it. The emotions playing tag across his mind could go to hell. Tomas lunged for what was left of his rationality, with the intention of dragging it back kicking and screaming as it spotted the open kitchen window and dived through it. A streak of black leapt from the floor to the counter, meowing loudly as it, too, disappeared through the gap between the window ledge and the bottom of the lacy, sheer curtains. “Fuck!” Tomas exclaimed as the coffeepot fell from the counter to land at his feet, splinters of glass spreading across stained wood, hot coffee barely missing him as he jumped back out of the way. “What the hell?” Donovan glared at the path of destruction Blackthorn had left behind her. “Stupid cat,” he muttered. “Are you okay? Something must have spooked her.” “I‟m fine.” Tomas bent to help Donovan clean up the mess, picking up the larger pieces of glass while taking care not to step in the rest. Cats did not
16 | Anne Barwell
follow rules, preferring to do what suited them on their own timetable. Attempting to understand them was a waste of time. Something may have spooked her, or she might have just decided that leaving through the window was a more interesting option. Collecting a brush and pan from the cupboard by the back door, Donovan efficiently swept up the rest of the glass and threw it into the bin under the sink. Walking back to the pantry, he pulled out another coffeepot. “I used to be a Boy Scout,” he explained in response to Tomas‟s raised eyebrow. “I met one of your neighbors yesterday,” Tomas said, deciding he did not want to dwell on the thought of Donovan as a Boy Scout. “Yeah?” Donovan filled the new pot with water, placed it on the hotplate to brew, and began spooning coffee into a paper filter. “I knew there was a reason for that shade of pink before, buddy,” he said triumphantly. “What‟s her name?” “His name is Cathal.” Cathal had told Tomas to call him Cat, that his friends called him that. Tomas hadn‟t decided whether Donovan was a friend yet. “Weird name.” Donovan looked Tomas slowly up and down, the spoon that had been in his hand landing in the sink with a loud thunk. “Sorry, I don‟t know him. Did he say he came from around here?” Had Cathal ever answered that question? Tomas frowned, trying to remember, his brain helpfully supplying images of Cathal and the brief sensation of his lips against Tomas‟s but not the words he needed. Suddenly Tomas wasn‟t sure about anything. One of his favorite fantasy books was missing. Cathal had been fascinated by the pictures, hand-drawn watercolors of fairies, dragons, and other mythical beings. It was a book Tomas had found in an old secondhand bookstore years ago, buried behind a stack of old magazines, the only book by this particular author. Attempts to find another had been met by blank looks and dead ends. The story itself was magical and had drawn Tomas into a world he still turned to when he wanted to escape his own. “Is that coffee ready yet?” Tomas asked, avoiding Donovan‟s gaze, and with it, his question. Cathal had borrowed the book. Tomas wanted it back. He had never loaned it to anyone before. It was one of his most treasured possessions. “I don‟t want to be late.” “A date, huh?” Donovan checked the water level in the kettle, put it back on one of the gas hobs, and turned it on. “I can make instant if you‟re in a hurry. It‟s not as good as the real thing, but I can bring you out some decent stuff later.”
Cat’s Quill | 17
“No!” This was something Tomas needed to do alone. Besides, if Cathal didn‟t show up, he would feel like an idiot. Illusions were easier to hang onto when they were not shared, and Tomas felt weirdly possessive about this one. An inner voice chastised him for being rude. It sounded familiar, and rather than attempting to work out why or argue with it like he would have normally done, Tomas was too tired to care. “I‟m sorry, that was out of line. I didn‟t get much sleep last night.” Donovan grinned. “You‟re gonna need the decent stuff to get through the morning then.” He waved a hand toward the coffee machine. “Another ten minutes while I make you some bacon sandwiches to take with you.” Walking over to the fridge, Donovan took out a packet of bacon, sprayed the frying pan with cooking oil, and began cooking the breakfast Tomas had not asked for. “Do you always take notice of what your guests actually want or don‟t want?” Tomas sat down at the table again, picking up what was left of his coffee. He stirred it again, leaving the spoon in the cup, and drained it. “It‟s part of my charm.” Donovan buttered bread and pulled a roll of greaseproof paper out of a drawer. Tomas closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, opening them with a start at Donovan‟s next words. “Must be quite the guy if he‟s done this kind of a number on you in under twenty-four hours. That‟s damn impressive.” “I have no idea what you‟re talking about,” Tomas said very calmly. “Cathal borrowed a book from me, and I need to find him so that he can return it.” His stomach rumbled, and Donovan smirked. “It‟s important to keep your energy levels up for the writing.” Donovan took the bacon off the heat, added it to the bread, slapped another slice on top, and then repeated the action. “Don‟t worry; this is the lean bacon you Brits like, not the streaky kind I‟d cook if Heidi would let me get away with it. Besides, she‟d take a piece out of my ass if I didn‟t feed you right.” Tomas opened his mouth, his ability to find a sarcastic comment to suit the occasion deserting him completely. “Thank you,” he said lamely. “You‟re welcome.” Donovan wrapped the sandwiches in the greaseproof paper and filled the Thermos with hot coffee, adding milk and sugar. He put them down in front of Tomas. “The offer is still there for the beer sometime if you want to talk. You‟re still paying though.” “I‟ll think about it,” Tomas said, with no intention of doing anything of the sort. He had nothing to talk about and better things to do with his time. “You do that,” Donovan replied, already turning his back on Tomas to start clearing the breakfast dishes. “Say hello to this Cathal guy and invite him over some time. I like to know my neighbors, even the ones who don‟t bother
18 | Anne Barwell
to introduce themselves or take up the offer of a beer.” He retrieved the washing-up detergent from the window ledge and began filling the sink with hot water, still not bothering to turn around. “See you at dinner, Tomas. I‟m guessing you won‟t be in for lunch. Heidi usually leaves sandwiches in a plastic container in the fridge if you get hungry. Help yourself.” Tomas dropped his mug into the soapy water on his way past, pausing to pick up his bag. Glancing at Donovan‟s back, he shrugged and walked out of the kitchen, not sure how to answer. It was easier not to bother. Walking briskly to the front door, he opened it and stepped outside. The radio was already blaring from the kitchen, the volume loud enough to be annoying, and a stark contrast to the peace and quiet that beckoned. Shoving the sandwiches into his pack and holding the Thermos under one arm, Tomas closed the door behind him, focusing on what might lie ahead for the day rather than on what he had just left behind.
THE sun was out, yet the air was crisp and the breeze had a bite to it. Tomas was glad he had worn his jumper, although he had left his jacket hanging on the back of the door in his room. Something moved to his right, and he turned, eyes scanning his surroundings for any signs of life. He still couldn‟t believe how he had missed the hedge the day before; it outlined the perimeter of the field except for the gaps in the middle of each of the four sides to allow access. His mind must have been focused on something else. A loud meow interrupted his thoughts, and Tomas groaned. “No, you don‟t,” he muttered, reaching up to retrieve Blackthorn just as she leapt off the top of the hedge toward his head. She stared at him and meowed again, struggling to free herself. He bent and placed her on the ground. Immediately she rubbed around his ankles and looked up at him. “Okay, you can stay,” he told her, wondering why the hell he was talking to a cat, especially one who would not listen. Cats were like people in that regard at least, although he always suspected they understood much more than they were given credit for. If cats could look smug, this one certainly gave a good approximation of it. Tomas wondered why she had attached herself to him. He was no one special and wasn‟t even the human who fed her. Adjusting his messenger bag over his shoulder, he began walking across the field, keeping his pace slow so as not to appear to be in a hurry. Tomas preferred to take things leisurely, everything in its time; it was part of the casual, disinterested demeanor he projected to the rest of the world. Once past the shadow of the hedge, Tomas paused and shaded his eyes against the early-morning sun. He caught a glimpse of someone in the
Cat’s Quill | 19
distance, blond reflected in light, a touch of white lifting and falling in the breeze. Cathal? Picking up his pace, Tomas reached the tree quickly. Cathal was leaning against it, book in hand, his eyes unfocused as though he was looking at something or someone just out of sight. As Tomas approached, Cathal smiled. “Hello, Tomas.” He met Tomas‟s gaze directly, unflinchingly, but he didn‟t shift his position. Whatever had taken his attention before seemed to be gone, or he had lost interest in it. “Cat.” Tomas nodded a greeting. “I wasn‟t sure you would be here.” He gestured toward the book. “Are you enjoying it?” “I am sorry about last night,” Cathal said. “I could not get away.” His tone was polite but still had the wistful quality in it that Tomas had heard the day before. “I hope you did not wait long.” “It wasn‟t a problem,” Tomas reassured him. “It is just as easy to write here as in my room at the inn.” Cathal‟s fingers caressed the cover of the book still in his hand; they were long and slender, nails well cared for and neat, although he had some calluses which suggested he was not averse to manual labor. “You are a writer.” Cathal‟s words did not sound like a question, but more a statement of fact. He smiled. “Many hear the words, but few listen, let alone step out in faith to share them with others. I believe that it is important to share what you have, to give of yourself rather than hide who you really are, but unfortunately the worlds in which we live are complicated.” “Worlds?” Tomas raised an eyebrow. Cathal shrugged and smiled. “No one lives in only one world, Tomas. As a writer, you know that.” A black streak ran toward them, and Cathal chuckled and shook his head, taking a step away from the tree to drop to one knee. Blackthorn purred, pressed up against him, and he patted her. “Are you here to see me, or did you come with Tomas, I wonder?” “Do you know her?” Nothing that cat did would surprise Tomas at this point. She certainly seemed to have her paw on the pulse of whatever went on in the inn and the surrounding area. “Where do you come from, Cathal? Donovan had never heard of you, and I doubt he misses much.” “Cat.” Cathal frowned. “Yes, I know her.” Blackthorn growled, and Cathal grinned, although when Tomas looked around he couldn‟t see the reason for either of their reactions. She then rolled over onto her back so that Cathal could tickle her stomach; he obliged, and she purred loudly. “Everyone misses something. Donovan and I have not talked. You are looking through
20 | Anne Barwell
different eyes than he is. You see a world he does not.” One lock of hair fell over Cathal‟s face. Leaning forward, Tomas brushed it back without thinking. It was soft, fine under his fingers. Cathal raised his head to look at Tomas. “Touch is something that should never be taken for granted.” “I‟m sorry.” Tomas removed his hand immediately and went to take a step back. Cathal shook his head. “No.” Cathal sounded apologetic, almost sad. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You misunderstand.” He watched Blackthorn roll over and curl up into a ball, her tail wrapped around her. “It should not be taken for granted because it is something that needs to be given freely, and between people who trust each other.” Tomas‟s eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ever touched you in a way they shouldn‟t?” Cathal shrugged. “That would depend on your definition of shouldn‟t.” He glanced at Tomas and then averted his eyes. “I have a history of doing what I shouldn‟t. Rules do not work if they are too rigid, and some need to be broken for the greater good.” Blackthorn meowed. “Yes, I know,” Cathal sighed. “I‟m sorry.” “Cat?” Taking the step back anyway instinctively, Tomas‟s backside connected with the trunk of the tree, and he slid down to sit down on the grass beside it. Ignoring the dull ache spreading across his bottom, he tugged at a clump of grass, examining the blades one by one, his brain trying to make sense of what Cathal had just said and failing. “Are you all right?” Cathal sounded concerned. Tomas did not look at him. “Who are you?” Tomas had always prided himself in getting straight to the point rather than wasting time with small talk. “I ask you questions and you talk in riddles. Either I‟m missing something or you‟re not being honest. Where do you come from?” “My name is Cat. I already told you that,” Cathal said quietly. “I cannot tell you where I come from, although you could figure it out if you allowed yourself to think beyond the boundaries of what your world dictates to be normality.” He sat down on the grass next to Tomas and placed the borrowed book in Tomas‟s lap. “I could be whoever you want me to be, but for you I am simply who I am. No more. No less.” “You are still speaking in riddles,” Tomas pointed out. He had asked a question and expected an answer. “Riddles are like puzzles. I can give you the pieces, but how you put those together is up to you.” Cathal shook his head. “I‟m sorry, Tomas. I cannot do
Cat’s Quill | 21
any more than this. I still have to follow some rules. I do not know you well enough to risk any more, but I would like to be your friend.” He smiled, but it was sad. “Some questions I can answer, others I cannot. It is the way things are.” “Friendship is built on trust.” Tomas shrugged, his gaze settling on the book in his lap. His fingers brushed against the worn edges, seeking solace in something familiar. “You are asking me to trust you, but you will not do the same in return.” “Cannot,” Cathal corrected. “It is the way things are.” He looked down, his gaze following Tomas‟s to rest on the picture of the dragon that was the centerpiece, the other illustrations mere shadows bordering it. “I enjoyed the story. The main character risked everything to be true to himself, to follow the path he was meant to, not the one dictated to him.” “Yes, he did.” That was one of the things that had drawn Tomas to the character of Christian. The setting was wonderful, dragons and knights, mythical lands to explore, but it was Christian who had haunted him, spoken to him, made it impossible for Tomas to put the book down or part with it. That and a hope that one day he might find someone or something he would feel that passionate about to fight for in that manner. “He was prepared to give up forever for the person he loved.” “He lost her,” Cathal said quietly. “Would you give up forever if you loved someone like that, Tomas?” “Would you?” Tomas countered. “I have never been in love. It is not a question I can answer.” Cathal pulled up several blades of grass, arranging them in a circle on the ground in front of him. “None of us know how we will react unless we come face to face with any given situation. We can hope and guess, but we cannot be certain.” “That sounds very cynical.” Tomas picked a daisy and placed it in the middle of the circle, pointing to it. “The flower represents the dragon on the cover of the book. He is surrounded by an unbroken circle of shadows, an eternity that can‟t be changed.” Tomas removed a blade of grass, breaking the circle. Letting it rest on the palm of his hand for a moment, he took a deep breath and blew, watching it be carried away by the wind. “Now his future isn‟t so certain. It only takes one blade of grass or one gust of wind, and everything is different.” “Or merely the idea that things can be different.” Cathal smoothed over the remainder of the circle of grass, using his hand to flatten it so that it no longer existed. The flower he picked up and put in his pocket. “I‟m keeping it safe,” he explained.
22 | Anne Barwell
“Safety is an illusion.” Tomas couldn‟t help but smile at the serious look on Cathal‟s face. “Nothing lasts forever, only in our imaginations, and even we grow old and die. That flower will wilt now it has been picked. You‟ve already squashed it by putting it in your pocket.” “I thought I was the cynical one.” Cathal met Tomas‟s smile with one of his own. “Not everything grows old and dies, Tomas. I expect in Christian‟s mind, his love remains the same, his memories keeping her alive. They say if you don‟t forget someone, they never truly die. I don‟t think he would have forgotten her, the same way she never forgot him.” “He might have found a way to come back to her, for them to be together.” Tomas preferred a happy ending in his fiction; reading was supposed to be a means of escape from the realities of life, rather than reinforcing the futility of it all. “So romance is allowed in fiction but not in reality?” Cathal raised an eyebrow. “I know the difference between the two,” Tomas said firmly. “And never the twain shall meet.” He picked up the book to put it safely in his bag. “So you don‟t think there was a possibility that things might have been different after the book ended?” “Once a book ends, the story is finished.” Cathal‟s tone suggested that this was a statement that was not open for argument or discussion. “Some books have sequels.” Tomas had never taken any notice of that tone when anyone else had used it. He wasn‟t about to start now. “The story is finished,” Cathal amended. “Some stories take longer to tell than others. Unfortunately often the true story is rushed and not told properly, and so the endings are lost. This one was finished.” “I never thought this one was,” Tomas argued. One of the reasons he had searched for more by this author was that he had been convinced there had to be more. “You were wrong.” Cathal stood and brushed the grass from his trousers. “Christian lost his love. Alice grew old and died without him. They never saw each other again. That is what happens when lines are crossed and rules are broken.” Tomas snorted. “And you would know this how?” This was his favorite book, the only story for which he had ever allowed himself to hope for an ending that was different to the one written. “Just because he didn‟t write a sequel didn‟t mean there was not meant to be one. Sometimes they get lost or the writer just runs out of time because life happens.”
Cat’s Quill | 23
“Time is merely a concept used to measure things that have a beginning and an end, and there was no sequel.” Cathal tilted his head as though listening to something Tomas could not hear. “I‟m sorry, but I have to leave. I will be here tomorrow if you wish to continue this discussion. I would prefer we spoke about something else.” “You seem to have one hell of an insight into an author of a book you haven‟t read before.” Tomas did not want to change the subject. “Writers put something of themselves into their work.” Cathal sighed. “I told you that I would prefer to speak of something else.” He tilted his head again. “They grow impatient. I have no time.” “Time is merely a concept.” Tomas wasn‟t ready to end this conversation yet. “Are you always this argumentative when someone disagrees with you?” Cathal sounded more amused than annoyed. Tomas muttered something under his breath, but Cathal just smiled. “I will presume that is yes.” “Maybe.” It had been a while since someone had stood his or her ground like this with Tomas in a conversation, refusing to back down and yet remaining polite. “Could you bring me another book to read?” For someone so annoyingly evasive, Cathal had no qualms in getting straight to the point when he was asking the questions. “Please.” Tomas stood, picking up his bag. If Cathal was leaving, Tomas would walk him home and at least find out where that was. “All I have with me is one of mine.. I‟m sorry.” He hesitated, knowing the words weren‟t exactly true. “I would like to read one of your books.” “It‟s not as good as what you‟ve just read,” Tomas mumbled. He had reread his last book on the train journey down, hoping it might inspire him to write again, and had thrown it into his bag this morning, not sure why he had done so. “Let that be my decision, rather than yours.” Cathal shivered, although the air around them was growing warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky. “Please, Tomas. I have to go.” “Okay, but on the condition that I walk you home. I‟d like to see some of the area, and I‟m guessing you must be from around here.” Tomas fished the book out of his bag, holding it back, waiting for Cathal to agree. “You already have.” Cathal‟s fingers brushed Tomas‟s as Tomas relinquished the book. His voice dropped to a whisper, his skin warm to the touch. “This is as far as you are allowed to go. I cannot take you any further.”
24 | Anne Barwell
Tomas frowned. “You‟re not making any sense. I don‟t understand.” “No, you don‟t.” Cathal looked up at the sun. “No time,” he said sadly, his voice growing quiet. “I will come tomorrow. Will you be here?” “I will,” Tomas promised. He risked a smile. Although they had disagreed, he had enjoyed the conversation and wanted more. “Thank you.” Cathal smiled, but he was still watching the sky. Tomas looked up to see what Cathal was looking at, his eyes watering against the light. “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.” Tomas rubbed at his eyes. Cathal appeared to be fading, disappearing into nothing. “Cat?” He closed his hand around Cathal‟s, sure that he must be seeing things. But Cathal was already slipping through Tomas‟s grasp, intangible, a shadow he could not hold onto. “Tomorrow.” Cathal‟s hand came up to brush Tomas‟s face, his voice a whisper caught in a wisp of morning wind, of something imagined in a dream. Tomas stood alone, his hand cupping his cheek, fingers curled over the touch of a dream, a reality that no longer existed, if it ever had. In the distance a car engine spluttered into life, birds squawking in protest, the combined noise jolting Tomas back into his present with a start. He shook his head, but it was still as clear as it had been moments before. At his feet, Blackthorn stirred, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Sitting back down against the tree, Tomas reached into his bag for his sandwiches, deciding that even if this had been his imagination, which he doubted, he would at least have breakfast before giving in to the suspicion that he had finally crossed that line between sanity and whatever lay beyond. The book Cathal had returned lay on top of the bag, although Tomas had sworn he had tucked it farther down. There was something peeking out of one of the pages. Opening it, he found, pressed and perfectly intact, a single white daisy.
Cat’s Quill | 25
Chapter 3
FOUR
hours later, his stomach was grumbling about the lack of food, the sandwiches he‟d consumed merely a memory. Reluctantly deciding to leave the welcoming shade of the tree, Tomas pulled Blackthorn off his lap and stood. She meowed in protest, giving him a glare only a cat could manage. Stretching out to full length to enjoy the warm spot he‟d left, she purred loudly. The sun was much higher in the sky, the rise in temperature making him uncomfortably hot. Stripping off his jumper, he linked his fingers together behind his head, waiting until he heard a familiar popping noise, and then yawned. There was a reason he did not do mornings, namely the grogginess that was beginning to set in now his coffee was wearing off. Bending to pick up the Thermos from where it was leaning against the base of the tree, he unscrewed the lid and upended it. A couple of sad-looking drips of grey, almost white, disappeared into the grass, confirming the fact that there was no more. The thought crossed his mind, not for the first time, as to whether lack of sleep and coffee deprivation could cause hallucinations. Memories of blurred images of piles of books, of dust coating his fingertips, merged with that of a computer screen and a stack of reference books. He‟d always been interested in the obscure, a few of those less-than-useful facts making it into his novels. Research was a wonderful thing, even if most of it would only ever be to satisfy his own curiosity. He was sure he had read something about the effects of coffee once, a long time ago, but he couldn‟t remember where. Four cups of coffee over two hours could be considered deprivation, especially in comparison with his normal intake. Donovan‟s brew was very good though, and a lot stronger than what Tomas was used to. He decided to scratch that idea, even if it was preferable to the thought that he just might be losing his mind. Sighing, he tucked the empty Thermos into his bag, throwing it over his shoulder. People did not usually disappear into thin air the way Cathal had. It made no sense. Tomas loved reading fantasy, but he knew the difference between that and reality.
26 | Anne Barwell
He would ignore this, and it would go away. In theory, yes, but in practice that less-than-bright idea had lasted all of five minutes, if that. Closing his eyes, he could see Cathal, his smile and the way in which he had caressed the book as though it was as precious to him as it was to Tomas. Cathal understood. Tomas wasn‟t sure how he knew that or why he believed it, but it was the truth. Even if Cathal had argued the point, he had seen that this was more than just a story. It had touched him, moved him. Tomas had never felt like this after a mere conversation before. While it had been frustrating with questions unanswered, it was, at the same time, exciting, knowing there were further discussions to look forward to. Topics to explore, answers to find, a world to discover seen through a point of view that was not his own. “Idiot,” Tomas muttered under his breath. He didn‟t know Cathal, was not even sure he was real, and it was ridiculous to make conclusions about what had touched him or not. Tomas snorted. Yes, he was finally losing it. Lack of sleep and too much coffee was addling his brain, giving it the excuse to go into hyper drive just like Kathleen had always warned him it would. That must be it. From her place under the tree, Blackthorn growled low in her throat, blinking at him, and began washing one paw. She, at least, had seemed very unfazed by Cathal‟s disappearance. A rooster crowed from several fields over, having missed the memo about dawn being several hours ago. Another answered. Tomas‟s stomach rumbled, adding to the chorus of noise, although he was not hungry; it obviously had a mind of its own. Something caught the corner of his eye, brown against green, tucked into the long grass on the other side of the tree. Blackthorn sauntered over and sat on the object, tucking her head under her paw as she focused on cleaning an ear. Walking closer, Tomas dropped to his knees to examine it more closely, swearing softly under his breath when he realized it was his writing journal. He could have sworn he had put it back in his bag when he had finished his last cup of coffee. Ignoring her protests, he pushed the cat off, shifting to stand again. Tucking the notebook under his arm, he couldn‟t help but run his finger over the leather, smiling when he realized he was mimicking Cathal‟s earlier action. It didn‟t matter whether Cathal was a part of his imagination or not. Tomas liked it here; it made him feel alive and inspired him to write. That was more than he‟d had in months, and he should be thankful for it. He would worry about the rest later.
Cat’s Quill | 27
IT TOOK
several more bacon sandwiches and approving looks before Heidi was satisfied that Tomas had eaten enough. He couldn‟t remember the last time he had felt this hungry, even taking into account the fact that he had a tendency to forget to eat when he became absorbed in whatever he was working on. Ethan had sent him a box of energy bars once, each labeled breakfast, lunch, or dinner with a date and a threat of what would happen if Tomas did not adhere to a decent eating schedule. Kathleen had giggled and written something in her diary. Tomas suspected she and Ethan were working together but had never proved it. He had, however, spent an evening unwrapping each bar and sending the wrappers back by post at the end of each week as Ethan‟s instructions had dictated. Thinking outside the box was something in which Tomas had always taken pride, and if that was what it took to make his friend happy, that was what he would do. Besides, it had the added bonus of stopping those monotonous lectures. Heidi and Donovan exchanged a glance, and Donovan shrugged. She glared at him. Tomas pretended to ignore them. If they chose to carry on a conversation without words in his presence, that was their business, not his. He had a full stomach, topped up by caffeine, and plans to write that afternoon. “I‟m heading into the village to pick up some stuff,” Donovan said. “Do you want to come along? I‟ll be a couple of hours, which would give you a chance to look around.” He paused, giving Heidi another look which read suspiciously like “why am I even bothering.” “If you‟re interested, that is.” It was an intriguing invitation. Tomas was curious as to what lay beyond this inn. An online search of the area had revealed a decent-sized library, which would be a good place to start looking for the sequel for In Hidden Places. Cathal might believe that one did not exist for their book, but Tomas was not quite ready to give up yet. Just because he had already spent several years hunting for it didn‟t mean it wasn‟t out there somewhere. He‟d found the original in an old out-of-the-way bookshop collecting dust; the sequel could be in a similar place. Or on the shelf in a village library. Besides, giving Donovan the answer he was not expecting would be more than worth putting up with his company for the half hour or so trip into town. “Thank you. I‟d like that.” Tomas even managed a smile for the occasion, although it was difficult to fight the urge to make it a smirk instead. Donovan stared at him and then grinned. “I‟m heading out in ten minutes. If you haven‟t changed your mind by then, be waiting by the car. You can buy me a pint at the pub.”
28 | Anne Barwell
That presumption was met by a loud snort. “I didn‟t realize there was a charge. I‟ll walk.” Tomas had better things to do with his afternoon than sitting in a pub with Donovan. “He‟s being a smartass, Tomas.” Heidi leapt into the conversation quickly. “Of course there is no charge.” Her tone lowered. “Right, Donovan?” “He owes me a beer,” Donovan said, shrugging. “Right, Donovan?” Heidi‟s tone didn‟t budge. While she was shorter than Donovan by at least several inches, it was very clear who was in charge and that she was very used to standing her ground with him. “Of course if you boys are going to argue like a couple of five-year-olds, I‟ll just have to do the village run myself. Your precious library books can wait another week.” Donovan muttered something under his breath. “Geez, Heidi. Hit a guy where it hurts, why don‟t you?” He mumbled something under his breath. She kicked him under the table. “There‟s no charge, okay? I wouldn‟t want to force you to actually show some manners.” Donovan stood, pointedly ignoring both of them, and walked out of the kitchen. “I‟ll find a bus,” mumbled Tomas. Even the school bus would be better than half an hour with Donovan now. “No, you won‟t,” Heidi said firmly, shaking her head. “He hates it when people are rude, especially when he‟s going out of his way for them.” Now Tomas was at the receiving end of that look and tone. It was not a pleasant feeling. “I don‟t know what the hell your problem is, but I suggest you do something about it. Donovan is my friend, and if you pull that again I will not hesitate to throw you out, bags and all.” “I‟ve paid you two months in advance,” Tomas pointed out, knowing full well he was treading on very thin ice in doing so. He took a gulp of coffee, focusing on the taste and aroma rather than Heidi‟s growing annoyance. “It can be refunded.” She fixed her glare on him, eyeing him up and down like he was something the cat had dragged in. “Donovan‟s leaving in ten minutes. Be there and apologize. He‟ll probably accept it. If you‟re lucky. Otherwise it‟s a long walk into town. You should be back for dinner. If not, you have a key.” The thought crossed Tomas‟s mind that she and Kathleen would get along a little too well. Idly he wondered if they had the same speechwriter. He opened his mouth to inform her of that fact and then closed it again. Sighing, he drained his coffee, stood, and walked out of the kitchen. He really did want to explore the village now the offer had been made, and he had ten minutes to brush up on his groveling skills.
Cat’s Quill | 29
Five minutes later, after following the sound of a steady stream of curse words, Tomas was just in time to see Donovan‟s feet disappearing underneath the Morris Minor, which was propped up on a jack in the middle of the garage. “Hand me a wrench, will you, babe?” Donovan asked, his voice muffled, his hand peeking out the other side of the car. The toolbox wasn‟t particularly well organized, and it took Tomas a few moments to find what Donovan had asked for. Hoping it was the right size, he placed it in Donovan‟s outstretched hand. “I came to apologize,” he said, “but I wasn‟t expecting quite that response.” Another curse word followed, and Donovan rolled out from under the car, rubbing his head. “Crap,” he muttered. “Give a guy some warning before you do that.” Tomas smirked. “Do what?” he asked, glancing around. The garage was a decent size, but only for one vehicle. A sturdy wooden bench lined the back of it, an assortment of tools scattered across it, the air heavy with the smell of oil. Taking a deep breath had not been a wise idea. “You have quite the setup here.” “Old girl needs it,” Donovan admitted. He stood, wiping his hands on an old rag. “She‟s temperamental as hell, but I love her anyway.” “And a temper to boot, judging from the dressing-down we both got in the kitchen,” Tomas agreed. Laughing, Donovan rolled his eyes. “I was talking about the car. Heidi‟s something else. The sister I never had. Probably long-lost or something, the way she carries on. She seems to think it‟s her job to mother everything that moves, and she‟s darn good at it too.” Donovan sighed and threw the rag onto the bench. “Came to apologize, huh?” A glimpse of black caught Tomas‟s eye, and he frowned, turning just as it disappeared from view. Was there anywhere that damn cat didn‟t go? “Yes,” he said absently. Donovan coughed loudly. “Umm, yes,” Tomas repeated. “I don‟t like owing anything to anyone, and I‟ll buy you that beer on my terms when I‟m ready, okay?” “And?” Donovan gestured with his hands for more. Tomas looked at him blankly. “And what?” He had said all that was needed and explained the reason for his earlier behavior. “Usually an apology contains the words „I‟m sorry‟,” Donovan said, shaking his head. “You really do suck at social skills, don‟t you?” “Usually when someone apologizes, you say thank you,” Tomas countered, wondering why the hell he had bothered. He wanted this trip into town, and on a scale of one to ten, this had only rated about a level four
30 | Anne Barwell
grovel. It could have been a lot worse. “Sorry,” Tomas mumbled under his breath. “Not the greatest, but it will do,” Donovan said. “You‟ll just have to practice. I‟ve heard it gets easier the more you do it. Louder too.” “Don‟t push it,” Tomas snorted. He gestured toward the car. It appeared his groveling skills had been put to use for no reason. “Just how temperamental is she today?” “We‟re not going anywhere in her,” Donovan sighed, and then shuddered. “I guess you‟re not the only one who‟s going to have to grovel.” He looked at Tomas hopefully. “If you‟re really, really sorry, you could ask Heidi if we could use her Land Rover.” Tomas shook his head. “I‟ve apologized, and you were the one who offered me the lift into town.” He shrugged, keeping his expression carefully nonchalant. “I can wait until your car is fixed.” His self-preservation skills were more finely honed than his need to see the village today. Groveling to Donovan was one thing; doing the same to Heidi was quite another story. “Crap,” muttered Donovan, “I‟ll have to ask, then, and I still haven‟t heard the end of it after the last time I had to borrow that damn thing.” He rolled his eyes, his voice shifting up an octave into an imitation of Heidi‟s. “Bring it home in one piece, Donovan. I‟ve had it a long time, Donovan, and I‟ve seen the way you drive.” He mumbled something under his breath. “Wait for me by the barn. I‟ll be there in about ten minutes.” Stomping toward the door, he paused when he reached it to add one last comment. “If you‟ve got a pair of dark glasses, grab them. I swear the thing gets brighter every time I look at it!” “Brighter?” Tomas arched one eyebrow, but Donovan was gone, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders slumped, already priming himself for the task at hand. Tomas‟s mind conjured up a helpful image of a battered, not exactly new Land Rover, struggled to connect it with the word bright, and failed. Land Rovers were nothing special out in the country, a dime a dozen, and Heidi struck him as a very practical person. A meow interrupted his thoughts. Blackthorn sat on the bonnet of the Morris Minor, washing herself. She met Tomas‟s gaze straight on and stared at him. After several minutes he admitted defeat and headed for the door of the garage. One day he would find a cat he could outstare, but she was obviously not going to be it. Stepping out into the sun, he went to pull the roller door down behind him. Blackthorn stretched, jumped off the car, and sauntered toward him, taking her time. Once she reached the door, she meowed again, walked through with her tail in the air, broke into a run until
Cat’s Quill | 31
she reached the hedgerow, and then dived through one of the gaps beneath it into the field beyond. “Crazy cat,” he said to himself, testing the door was shut properly. From what he had seen, Donovan was rather protective of his car, and Tomas did not wish to provoke him further by leaving it exposed to the elements. However, cat fur and paw prints were not his problem. Cats were only responsible for themselves. It was one of the laws of the universe. Deciding that the warning of dark glasses was merely Donovan being a smartarse, Tomas started walking slowly toward the large barn behind the inn. Glancing back to the hedgerows, he was able to get a clear view of the tree as he passed the gap that was one of the entranceways into the field. A small black shape was poised, stalking something, at the far end of Tomas‟s vision. All of a sudden it pounced, stilled for a moment, wriggled its back legs, and then took off running, speeding up until it grew smaller and smaller and could no longer be seen. Feeling something wet land on his head, Tomas shifted his attention to the sky. He had not expected rain out of a clear blue sky, although the few clouds that had formed were quickly turning to grey. Another drop followed, then another, and Tomas broke into a run to avoid getting wet, hoping that either the barn was open or Donovan would be already waiting. The barn was locked. Tomas tugged on the door a couple of times, water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The rain grew heavier and kept falling at a steady pace. Pressing himself back against the door, Tomas attempted to shelter under the eaves, hoping that Donovan would not be too much longer. It was growing chilly. He regretted leaving his jumper in his room. For a moment he debated risking a dash back to the inn to collect it, but he didn‟t want to miss Donovan or get any wetter. They could stop on their way out. After what seemed a lot longer than the ten minutes he had been waiting, Tomas saw a lone figure walking slowly through the rain toward him, a large bag slung over one shoulder. Donovan was wearing a black jacket, cap, and… sunglasses? Hadn‟t he noticed the rain and lack of sun? Snorting, Tomas gestured to the door with his hand and mouthed the word “locked.” Donovan didn‟t see him. “It‟s locked,” he yelled, pushing back hair from his eyes. Water dripped down his face. This was past getting annoying. Donovan kept ambling slowly, fingering something in his pocket. His shoulders were hunched. He was not happy. “Damn coin toss,” he muttered, coming into earshot. Walking past Tomas, Donovan pulled out a set of keys.
32 | Anne Barwell
Counting off two from the left, he inserted a key into the lock in the side door and turned the handle. Throwing the keys to Tomas, Donovan walked inside the barn. Tomas looked down at the collection of silver and gold in his hand and stopped, unsure whether to be amused or disturbed. A small fluffy white rabbit grinned up at him. It was dressed in worker boots and a bright pink and green coverall. Next to it a plastic plaque proudly proclaimed that it was important to save the earth as it was the only one with chocolate! “Interesting key ring,” Tomas said, following Donovan into the barn. Shaking the excess water off his clothes and bag, he glanced around his new surroundings. It was bright and airy, shelving covering one half of the wall space on the right side. Boxes were stacked in neat piles across the back wall. In the center of the barn was Heidi‟s Land Rover. It was…. Tomas looked again, just to make sure. “It‟s pink.” “Cerise,” Donovan said rather testily, “but not all of it.” He shuddered, adjusting his dark glasses. “It looks like something that damn cat brought in and puked on.” “Thanks for that visual,” Tomas said dryly, trying to dismiss it from his mind. Schooling himself not to react, he circled the vehicle carefully. Donovan was right. Not about the cat, but about the color. Once it had been green, camouflage green, to be precise, but no longer. Patches of pink, cerise, Tomas corrected, were now splattered across it at random intervals. “Interesting paintjob. I didn‟t know Heidi was an artist.” Donovan snorted, pulling his cap farther down and tucking his braid up into it. “I told her she should just get those dents fixed, but no, can she do that? That would mean admitting she‟s not a great driver, which of course she won‟t. It‟s not her fault cars keep getting in her way. They should watch where they‟re going.” He pointed to a big patch of cerise on the left side of the Land Rover. “That one was Daisy.” “Daisy?” Tomas stared at Donovan blankly, his imagination supplying visuals of Heidi ripping through the countryside like a player in a computer game clocking up points for everything hit and extra for each pedestrian. This was crazy. He definitely needed more sleep. Early mornings did not agree with him. “The neighbor‟s cow. It took a fancy to Heidi‟s baby, God knows why.” Donovan indicated another spot farther toward the front. “That one was the tree outside Sally‟s place. Apparently it moved during the night.” Donovan rolled his eyes. “But yeah, no driving issues, and she gets bitchy as hell if you imply otherwise. She‟s got her pride, you know, and all that, and I kind of like my balls where they are, if you know what I mean.”
Cat’s Quill | 33
Fighting the instinct to cross his legs, Tomas settled for leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Of course she has, and that sounds like a very sensible decision on your part.” “I call it self-preservation. I‟ve got finely honed skills. Needed them to get this far.” Donovan shrugged, opened the driver‟s door of the Land Rover, threw his bag onto the back seat, and climbed in. “You‟ll have to open the door first.” He indicated the keys he‟d thrown to Tomas. “I didn‟t give you those just to look at. The padlock‟s a bit temperamental, but once it‟s open, the doors shouldn‟t give you any trouble.” “A padlock on the inside?” Tomas strode over to the double doors. “Isn‟t that a bit extreme?” “Heidi thinks that it keeps her precious car safe.” Donovan rolled his eyes. “There‟s a padlock on the side door on the outside and another on these doors on the inside. If a thief is that determined, he deserves this thing.” Turning the key in the padlock, Tomas frowned when it cooperated halfway and then jammed. He pulled it out slightly and tried again. The lock looked older than the barn, and that was saying something, even if the barn was much more impressive on the inside than the outside. “She‟s very thorough,” he said, trying the lock for a third time. Donovan was right. Anyone that determined to go through all this for a bright pink Land Rover more than deserved it. “Yeah, considering she won the damn barn because of a coin toss.” Donovan shrugged. “She was smug about it too, but hey, even friendship needs some give and take. I wouldn‟t hang out with someone who doesn‟t respect that, and Heidi and I have been friends a long time.” Another turn of the key, and the padlock came free. Tomas opened the doors and waited, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, unsure as to why Donovan was taking so long in getting whatever he was retrieving. Glancing between the vehicle and the now-open doors, his brain finally registered that the Land Rover was their mode of transport into the village. He walked around the other side of it, climbed inside, and examined the interior closely. The bright pink certainly seemed to be a consistent theme. The fluffy bunny hanging from the front windscreen in lieu of dice could only be described as disturbing. He took his bag off, putting it down at his feet, and leaned back against the seat after closing the car door carefully. It was comfortable, he‟d give it that. “I need to change into something dry and get a jumper before we leave.” “There‟s a spare one and a T-shirt on the back seat. Help yourself.” Donovan started to back the Land Rover out of the barn. He grinned. “It‟s mine, not hers, and not pink like that T-shirt you were wearing yesterday.
34 | Anne Barwell
Sorry. I have my pride, and this thing is not stopping until we reach town. The least amount of time I have to spend being seen in it the better.” “The T-shirt was caramel red,” Tomas reminded him, pulling his current one over his head and using it to dry the excess moisture from his hair. Reaching over the back seat for the dry clothes, his shoulder hit the upholstery with a thump when Donovan crunched the gears and stalled. “Fuck,” Donovan muttered. The vehicle took off again, skidding through the gravel, sending small stones scattering into a nearby flowerbed. “You do know how to drive this thing, right?” Tomas looked in Donovan‟s direction, but he had his eyes squarely on the road, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. Tomas opened his mouth to make a comment about being unaware that driving licenses were now available as giveaways in cereal packets but decided against it. “Yes,” Donovan replied curtly, his eyes still on the driveway. Shifting gears again, Donovan put his foot down, and the Land Rover shot past the inn, making a sharp turn toward the road leading off the property. Shrugging on the clean T-shirt, Tomas tugged on it, trying to cover the gap between it and the top of his jeans. Donovan was about four inches shorter than he was, and the T-shirt looked as though it had shrunk. Donovan also seemed to have a preference for black, Tomas was noticing. He had worn not much else since they had met, and it matched the current choice of jacket and cap. And the dark glasses, of course. The jumper, luckily, had stretched. Tomas pulled it on; the bottom of it hung loosely just below his hips, giving him some protection from the temperature, which was continuing to deteriorate along with the weather. Folding his arms, he settled back on the seat and fastened his seat belt. His wet T-shirt he left draped over the back seat, hoping it might dry somewhat before they returned. Donovan, for his part, seemed to have lost his tendency to talk about everything and anything, no matter if anyone was actually listening. The next five minutes were spent in an uncomfortable silence, with Tomas wondering what the hell he had done wrong now. Maybe questioning Donovan‟s driving ability had not been the wisest of moves, even if he had not said as much on the subject as he would have liked. Finally Donovan leaned forward and turned on the car stereo. It was tuned into a local radio station which seemed to be stuck in a time warp, judging by the DJ‟s ramble about how wonderful the nineties were. The music might have been okay, but the time itself was not one of which Tomas had any fond memories. He had felt like an outsider through high school, not part of the incrowd but not fitting in with any of the others either. It had been a very lonely
Cat’s Quill | 35
time in his life, with reading giving him the opportunity to escape to the realities he preferred. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and tried to focus on the noise of the engine. Getting a feel for the village would be good research for his book, as it was set somewhere similar. Tomas preferred to have a template on which to base his descriptions; it helped him to keep things real, and that sense of reality would be as important in this kind of novel as it had been in his earlier ones. Changing the genre did not change the fact that stories were about people and relationships; those were what hooked the readers in and what had always drawn Tomas to the books he had enjoyed. Therefore, he tried to make his own characters as three-dimensional as possible when he wrote, something made easier when they, like their surroundings, drew their origins from what already existed. The radio blared suddenly and then went quiet. Donovan muttered something under his breath and fiddled with the dials. Music obediently began playing again, the lyrics proclaiming some rubbish about love conquering all. Tomas snorted, folded his arms tighter around himself, and tried to ignore the fact his foot was keeping the beat. “Not one of your favorites?” Donovan asked. “I don‟t know it,” Tomas said, opening his eyes. Donovan was watching him, although he was pretending to keep his eyes on the road. “I have no desire to send a search party after my lost teenage years. Once time is past, it is gone. I prefer it that way.” Donovan shrugged. “Memories are what you make of them. Life is full of good and bad. Perception‟s important too.” The fields on either side of them were beginning to give way to cottages. They were getting closer to the village. Glancing at his watch, Tomas was surprised to see that twenty minutes had passed. He had lost track of time. “Maybe.” Tomas shifted his attention to the scenery outside. Many of these cottages still appeared, at least on the outside, to look the same as they had for hundreds of years. The illusion that time had stood still while the outside world had continued onward was ruined by the poles on either side of the road linking the old with the modern with their double-edged sword of communication and power. “You‟re a hard guy to get a handle on, Tomas.” Donovan slowed, slamming on the brakes when an old man and his dog stepped out onto the road without looking. The man looked up, pulled his coat tightly around him, and grinned at Donovan. When Donovan did not return the grin, the man shook his head and continued quickly across the road. Upon reaching the
36 | Anne Barwell
other side of the road, he turned and waved, his dog barking loudly at the Land Rover when Donovan did not wave back. Tomas watched in the side vision mirror as the old man opened the gate leading to one of the cottages. The man had seemed amused rather than angered by Donovan‟s lack of response. Donovan hunched farther down into his jacket and started driving again, adjusting his dark glasses. “A dark jacket and glasses only works as a disguise if you‟re in a bad movie.” Tomas smirked. “Or trying out for a role in Men in Black, and you don‟t strike me as the type to go kicking alien arse for the good of the planet.” “I am totally capable of kicking alien ass,” Donovan said indignantly, glaring. “If I want to wear black it‟s none of your damn business. I happen to like the color.” “I prefer it to pink.” Tomas‟s smirk threatened to expand into a grin. He stopped it just in time. It wouldn‟t do to let Donovan know this soon how amusing it was to wind him up, or how easy. “Oh excuse me.” A well-timed pause was worth far more than any words. “It‟s cerise.” “And here I thought it was caramel red,” Donovan drawled, his expression unreadable. Tomas froze, suddenly unsure whether he had gone too far, stepping over an invisible line that would disappear, never to return. The Land Rover groaned in protest when Donovan ground the gears down as he turned a corner, the vehicle shuddering to a stop in front of a large wooden house which seemed newer than the cottages flanking it on either side. The sign in front proclaimed it to be the local library. There was a quote of some sort at the bottom of the sign. Tomas strained his eyes but could not make it out. Turning off the engine, Donovan grinned. “But I won‟t tell if you don‟t. We guys have got to stick together.” “If you say so,” Tomas said, distracted. He opened the passenger door, climbed out, and closed it behind him. The gate which provided entrance through the white picket fence creaked loudly when he opened it, the old hinges protesting his action. The smell of some kind of perfume permeated the air even before he reached the sign, which was fastened to the trellis work at the left side of the verandah. The black paint proclaiming “In the beginning was the word” was fading on more than half of the old-fashioned lettering. Further investigation and running his fingers across the smooth word revealed that the letters were carved into the wood, the paint merely highlighting something that already existed before it. Strangely, the sign seemed older than the building itself, although, of course, Tomas was no expert on architecture, not having had the need to research the subject before now. Something brushed against his cheek. He brought one hand up to capture it, frowning as
Cat’s Quill | 37
he found himself holding a single rose petal, dark pink in color. Glancing around to see where it could have come from, he ignored the other buildings farther up the road. He would explore those later. This had come from somewhere closer. Donovan shook his head, already heading toward the steps leading to the verandah and shelter, his bag tucked under one arm. Once out of the rain, he stopped to pat the ginger cat which was rubbing itself against his legs and eyeing up Tomas from its spot near the front door of the library. “You‟re getting wet, and I‟m going to be a while,” he said. “Meet back here on the library verandah in a couple of hours, okay?” “Okay.” Although Tomas heard Donovan‟s question, it only registered on the edge of his mind, as his attention was already elsewhere. Overhanging the main entranceway were three climbing roses, two intertwined, the petals tugging, trying to break free to answer the invitation given by the wind. They were the same color as the roses that climbed one of the walls of the Crossroads Inn. His fingers closing over the petal in his palm, Tomas‟s hand went to his cheek again. The third rose seemed to embrace the other two, supporting, separate yet not, the color strikingly different than anything Tomas had seen before. The tips of its petals were also lavender, but inside, hidden unless the rose was fully opened, were petals that were sprinkled with a dusting of deep pink like the one he was holding.
38 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 4
STARING
after Donovan as he disappeared through the door, Tomas absently put the rose petal into his pocket. The rest of the village could wait. He wanted to see the library. It held answers; he was sure of it, but not of why he felt that way. His imagination was beginning to work overtime again. The events of the last few days had definitely addled his mind. Wiping the rain from his face, he shivered. His clothes were damp rather than soaked; the rainfall had eased from a heavy downfall to a light shower, although it was still showing no signs of letting up completely. The sun peeked at him from behind a cloud and then disappeared again. So much for autumn; it seemed as though winter had suddenly started early in this part of the country, or it had, at least, this year. The library door opened, and a woman slightly older than Tomas walked out. She smiled at him, eyed him up and down, and held the door open. “It‟s warmer in than out,” she said, shifting her books so that they were balanced under one arm. Her jacket was zipped up to her neck, the bright red of a woolen jumper barely visible hanging below each sleeve. The idea of somewhere warm was looking much more inviting with every passing minute. Tomas missed his own jumper and T-shirt; while he was thankful for the clothes Donovan had loaned him, they were not as comfortable and familiar as his own. He supposed he should be thankful that the overstretched jumper hid the too-short black T-shirt, which kept riding up. Even so, it was not his preferred style or color. He nodded and walked inside, mumbling a thank-you under his breath but not introducing himself or giving her the chance to do so either. The door closed behind him as he crossed the threshold into another world. Or at least that was the way it seemed, in stark contrast to the cold wetness outside. The entranceway in which Tomas found himself was bright, homey, the heat radiated by the old-fashioned oil-filled radiators on the walls warm and inviting, the wooden floors polished and covered in large mats the color of autumn leaves. A spiral staircase led upward to his left, but the sign
Cat’s Quill | 39
hanging above it proclaimed that it was for staff only. To the side of the double doors which he presumed he needed to cross through to enter the main collection, there was an old-fashioned writing desk with an old book sitting on it. Immediately his eye was drawn to a tapestry above it. He took a step closer, running his hand over the glass protecting it. The stitching was very fine, the color that of sepia, giving it the look of something handwritten rather than the product of a needle and thread. Around the frame was an unusual design etched into the wood. Tomas frowned, something tugging in the corner of his mind, whispering to him that he should know and recognize it, even though he did not. It appeared to be made up of three swirls but wasn‟t defined enough to be described as a specific shape. Looking closer, they seemed to touch, but barely, existing as separate entities with a dash of color where the background meshed and merged, the depth of the carving shallow in some places, deeper in others. A faint ray of sun strained through the stained glass windows in the far wall, illuminating the carving briefly. For an instant Tomas could have sworn they looked like roses, but when he blinked the illusion was gone. The words on the tapestry itself were framed by a double heart, the inner one the color of lavender, the outer dark pink. Tomas blinked, his hand going to his pocket, his fingers absently caressing the soft surface of the rose petal. Slowly, he read the verse aloud, deciphering the letters into words, pausing at the beginning of each line. Poetry was meant to be read aloud. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Love me now, love me never, but if you love me, love me forever.” He peered closer, trying to read the name of the poet, but all that was written under the poem was the word “unknown.” Two letters were embroidered down the bottom right of the fabric, merging into one another. Could they be initials? “Hey, Tomas, Phoebe wants to meet you.” Donovan interrupted Tomas‟s thoughts. Jerking his head up and instinctively taking a step back, Tomas glared at Donovan, who was standing with his arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. Tomas wasn‟t sure how long Donovan had been watching him, but it was certainly long enough to be amused, if the look on his face was anything to go by. “Phoebe?” Tomas asked, attempting to regain his composure. “Yeah, she‟s the librarian. It‟s not every day she gets to meet a real live writer.” Donovan grinned when Tomas groaned. “Be nice,” he warned. “She‟s good people, and you don‟t want to get that wicked sense of humor aimed at you. Trust me on that.” Donovan opened the doors in front of them. “I only did it once,” he muttered.
40 | Anne Barwell
“What happened?” Tomas gave the tapestry one more glance. He would look at it again before they left and attempt to decipher those initials. Donovan shrugged. “That would be telling.” He grinned. “Buy me a beer and I might think about it. Maybe.” “Maybe,” Tomas replied. The translucent glass inserts in the heavy wooden doors made it difficult to get more than a glimpse of the room they were entering; it was like seeing an image that wasn‟t quite real or was slightly out of focus. “I‟ll think about it.” Pushing past Donovan, Tomas opened them, curious as to what lay beyond. “Mr. Kemp, it‟s very nice to meet you.” A woman walked out from behind the counter and held out her hand. She was tall, although still an inch or so shorter than Tomas, very slim, with long brown hair pulled back off her face into a bun and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Tomas shook her hand politely. Her grip was firm, her smile friendly. “It‟s nice to meet you too, ma‟am.” His eyes darted around the room. Bookcases lined the walls, with more shelves in rows filling up the interior. The walls were painted rather than wallpapered, although it looked as though they might have been papered once; hints of a pattern showed through the paintwork in between some of the shelves where the book sizes differed. The counter behind Phoebe was a heavy, dark wood; the computer looked out of place, an anachronism, almost, with the sense of the old being what was meant to be. To the left of the counter was a sandwich board, but instead of a modern whiteboard, it was made of wood, a blackboard that would have not been out of place in a classroom at the turn of the century. The words “quote for today” were written in block letters along the top with what were presumably the pearls of wisdom for this particular day in neat handwriting underneath. To his amusement Tomas noticed that all that t‟s were crossed and the i‟s dotted. “„The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn,‟” he read aloud before he‟d realized what he‟d done. “An interesting idea from an interesting man,” Phoebe commented, watching him carefully. “And there‟s no need to call me ma‟am. Phoebe or Miss Gordon will do nicely. The other makes me sound so much older than I am.” She lowered her voice. “If you were to ask, I‟d admit I am over the age of twenty-one, but a lady has to have some secrets.” Donovan snorted. “Yeah, more like twenty-nine a few dozen times over and then some.” She peered at him over her glasses. He shrugged. “Phoebe‟s one of the town‟s mysteries; we‟ve tried to guess her age for years. The local pub takes wagers each birthday, but she won‟t even tell us if we‟re close.”
Cat’s Quill | 41
“H. G. Wells is very interesting,” Tomas agreed with Phoebe‟s earlier comment, “but the past is gone, and the future hasn‟t happened yet. I prefer to think about the here and now.” “It, at least, is something you can do something about,” Phoebe said, nodding slowly. As Donovan had said, it was difficult to gauge her age. Definitely over twenty-one as she had said, although Tomas‟s guess would be more in line with mid-forties, but then he wasn‟t very good at working out ages. Besides, it wasn‟t age that mattered; it was what kind of person someone was. He much preferred what was on the inside, although he did have an appreciative eye for certain things. Blond hair, blue eyes, and…. No, it was what lay beneath that counted. Looks changed with time; people aged and grew old, but truly connecting with someone and loving them… compared to that, the other paled into insignificance. “Although the past and future are also something worth exploring,” she added, indicating the bookshelves with one hand. “The past is still gone,” Tomas said firmly, not prepared to back down. “Books are just a record or a way to dream; they aren‟t reality.” He had spent his life being very careful not to confuse the two, even though as a writer that was often easier said than done. His characters were not two-dimensional, and while working on his novels, he had woken several times caught between sleep and wakefulness, sure that he had almost crossed that line, reaching for something or someone who did not exist apart from within his imagination. “Nothing is truly gone if it is not forgotten. Words keep dreams alive, the same way that if we don‟t forget someone, they never truly die.” Phoebe shook her head. “I would have thought that you, as a writer, would know better.” She smiled. He tried to look away but couldn‟t. “A close friend told me that a very long time ago. We make our own reality, Mr. Kemp. It‟s something this generation needs to remember.” “I am making my own reality,” Tomas said, her words echoing, the voice not hers but the sentiment still familiar. Daisies and circles. Cathal had said the same thing in regard to Christian and Alice. Tomas smiled in spite of himself. Perhaps this library did hold some answers. “Would it be possible for me to borrow some books? I can join the library if that is a problem.” “You can use my card,” Donovan said. “Right, Phoebe?” “It‟s against regulations,” she frowned, “but rules are meant to be bent. Broken, however, is another matter.” Pushing her glasses up her nose, Phoebe was suddenly all business. “I will issue you a temporary card. After all, you will be with us a while, and I will not stand in the way of a quest. There are
42 | Anne Barwell
dragons to be slain and worlds to be discovered.” The ginger cat Tomas had seen earlier leapt onto the counter, sat on one of the books, and washed one paw. Phoebe gave it a pointed look and was ignored in favor of its other paw. “Find what you will and bring it to the counter. If you need any help, let me know. I‟m afraid our computer system is down yet again, but we do have a card catalogue I can access for you. Technology is only as good as it is allowed to be.” She glanced at the cat again and sighed. “Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” “Actually there is,” Tomas said. “Something you can help me with, that is.” “Yes?” The less-than-impressed look Phoebe had been giving the cat was now directed at him. “The staircase in the foyer,” Tomas began. “That collection is not available to you yet. Anything else is fine to borrow, but those do not leave the library.” She glanced at his bag. “Nor are they read by those I do not know. Trust has to be earned, Mr. Kemp.” “Fine.” Tomas shrugged. He had only been going to ask what was up there, nothing more. Phoebe seemed to have an odd interpretation of how libraries worked. Books held by them were to be shared and were owned by the community, not the librarian. He pondered the wisdom of pointing this fact out to her, caught a glimpse of Donovan miming his throat being slit, and decided against it. “I suppose by the same token asking about the tapestry would be a waste of time too.” “Knowledge is something that also needs to be earned.” Phoebe smiled. It was unnerving. Somewhere in the past few minutes Tomas had crossed some kind of line and ventured into the weird. “It was a gift from our patron. She—” The phone rang, the high, shrill sound interrupting whatever she had been about to say as she lifted it from its cradle and held it to her ear, nodding in response to the person on the other end. “We‟ll come back later,” Donovan said hurriedly, pulling Tomas away. “She‟s way possessive of her books,” he explained when they were out of earshot, “and especially the collection upstairs. Apparently only a few people have ever been up there.” “She seems a bit….” Tomas hunted for a word that seemed appropriate. “Weird.” “Yeah, nice lady, but almost a split personality at times. Friendly, then speaks in riddles. She knows her stuff, though, and has kept this place running smoothly for years.” Donovan mimed the throat cutting again. It was a somewhat overdramatic gesture. “I‟m going to browse for a bit and grab my
Cat’s Quill | 43
reading fix. If there‟s anything you want, yell. I know my way around, and that way you don‟t have to risk the wrath of Phoebe.” Tomas shrugged. Apart from his favorite authors, whom he read as soon as they published their new books, he had a tendency to know what he wanted to read when he saw it. While he appreciated recommendations, he preferred to explore libraries and bookshops himself. Finding each new treasure was an adventure he did not want to taint with preconceptions and opinions that were not his own. Once the story was an old friend, it did not matter, in fact quite the opposite. His friend Ethan understood Tomas‟s logic, even if he was amused by it, but he also respected it, and they only discussed books they had both read or Tomas wished to recommend without spoiling any of the details. “Suit yourself.” Donovan studied the books in front of him, pulling one off the shelf, flicking through the pages, and beginning to read. “I was only being helpful, but obviously I‟m wasting my time.” “I‟m not good with social skills,” Tomas admitted, leaning back against the wall behind him and crossing his arms. It had been a long time since he had talked to anyone like this, and now he‟d done it a number of times in a few days. The change of scenery must be getting to him. “My sister says I act like I‟ve been dragged up instead of brought up.” Donovan raised an eyebrow. “I think I‟m gonna have to meet your sister. She seems to be one sensible lady.” He grinned, a smirk crossing his lips that made Tomas very uneasy. “Better yet, I bet she and Heidi would get on really well. They could compare notes.” “God, no.” Tomas shuddered. They might enjoy it, but he certainly wouldn‟t. Just the thought of it was the stuff of nightmares. Donovan needed to be distracted from this line of thinking, and quickly. “There is an author I‟m looking for. I‟ve only ever been able to find one book, but I‟m sure he must have written more.” “Why?” Donovan closed the book in his hand. “Why what?” Tomas looked at him blankly. His tone was casual, but he didn‟t uncross his arms. “Why are you sure he must have written more?” Donovan indicated the room they were in. “Some of the really good stuff is a one-time thing. Sometimes writers only get inspired once.” He grimaced. “Thinking of some of the crappy sequels I‟ve read, I wish some of them had only written one book. There‟s some good stuff out there, but others are not worth the paper they‟re written on. Shakespeare, monkeys, and typewriters, if you get my drift.”
44 | Anne Barwell
“It‟s not finished,” Tomas said. “There is a sequel. I just haven‟t been able to find it yet.” Cathal might get away with arguing the point on this. Donovan would not. “So, are you going to help me find it, or do I have to unsheathe my sword and take on the Phoebe dragon myself?” Donovan snorted. “I doubt you‟re gonna unsheathe it for her, but yeah, I‟ll help. I‟m a nice guy that way.” “The author is Wynne Emerys,” Tomas said, choosing to ignore Donovan‟s last statement. “His novel is called In Hidden Places.” It would be just as easy to look on the shelves first on his own, but if Donovan wanted to help, Tomas was not going to stop him. This would be easier with two of them, and his priority was finding this book. That and showing Cathal that his argument, while logical, could be proven wrong. “Never heard of him.” Donovan shook his head. “Or the book. What genre is it? Some kind of war story?” “It‟s a fantasy.” Tomas hesitated, not wanting to share something as personal as this story with Donovan. His tone shifted, warning that if Donovan made some kind of smartarse comment it would not be tolerated. “A romantic fantasy, to be precise, although it is much more than that.” “Of course it is.” Donovan‟s tone was not mocking, but Tomas could not place it either, or the expression on Donovan‟s face. In lieu of that, it was easier to ignore both of them and continue onward with the details needed for this quest. He scanned the shelves, looking through the authors. They were standing in front of those beginning with T, so E had to be several shelves back. “Does this library have a separate section for fantasy, or is the fiction inclusive of all genres?” “We have a very good fantasy section.” Donovan seemed amused by the question. “I wouldn‟t speak such sacrilege in Phoebe‟s hearing. All genres together, indeed. She‟s way too anal about stuff like that.” He pointed to a bookcase on the wall by the window. Next to it was a chair with a crocheted rug draped over its back and a comfortable-looking cushion on its seat. “You can find them there. I don‟t remember seeing that author there, though, but then I‟m not really into fantasy. I prefer an historical setting. Some time travel‟s cool though. Give me something with elements of both, and I‟m happy.” “I like fantasy because it creates realities.” Tomas nodded his thanks and briskly walked over to where Donovan had indicated. Scanning the shelves quickly, he ran his fingers almost reverently over spines of the books, giving a low whistle of appreciation. Some of these were very rare, but there was a
Cat’s Quill | 45
good mix of classics, both old and modern. Damn it. There was nothing by Emerys, not even the novel Tomas had already read. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Tomas rubbed at it absently, turning slightly. Phoebe was watching him, her hand on the phone she had just returned to its cradle. Just because something was not on the shelf did not mean the library did not possess a copy. She had mentioned a catalogue earlier. And, of course, there was that special collection at the top of the spiral staircase. Making a decision, he walked over to Phoebe‟s desk. “I‟m looking for a book,” he said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. An elderly woman, browsing in the detective section to his right, looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. Unsure as to why, he found himself returning the gesture. “This is a library, so you are in the right place to do that.” The side of Phoebe‟s mouth twitched. “Perhaps you would like to be more specific? A title or author is often something we librarians find useful.” “I don‟t know the title,” Tomas had to admit. “Helpful is another word which means the same thing.” Phoebe shook her head, amused. “Do you know if this book exists, or are you looking for a sequel you hope has been written?” He stared at her. “It exists.” “I see.” Phoebe picked up a pen from her desk. “You‟d be surprised how many people ask for nonexistent books. Just because you enjoyed the story doesn‟t mean the author chose to continue it.” She paused, looking around for notepaper. He spied a pad buried under a book and handed it to her. “Thank you. So no title, but you have an author?” Phoebe glanced up at him; she seemed to not only be looking at him, but through him, into the private part of himself he kept well hidden. “You do have an author, don‟t you?” “Wynne Emerys,” Tomas said, forcing himself not to avert his eyes. “He wrote In Hidden Places.” “I see.” Phoebe wrote the information on her pad. “When was the original book written? Sometimes that can be helpful.” The fact that she hadn‟t appeared to have heard of Emerys was not encouraging; none of the other librarians he‟d asked had either. “It was published in 1941.” Tomas watched her as she placed the pad on top of a set of small wooden drawers, pulling out the fifth one down on the left. “I can look, if you‟re busy. I have used a card catalogue before.” “I‟m sure you have, Mr. Kemp.” Phoebe began flipping through the cards. “Emerys. Emerys. I wonder if you‟re as immortal as your name suggests.” The rather strange statement was said with a completely straight face, her
46 | Anne Barwell
attention focused on her search. Was this part of the wicked sense of humor Donovan had mentioned? Tomas shifted his attention to the bookcase by the door again. Sometimes books could be misshelved. Even by librarians as efficient as Phoebe. “Oh my!” Phoebe backed away from the card catalogue, her hand to her mouth. “Oh my!” she repeated, louder this time. “Trouble, my lady?” Donovan was by Phoebe‟s side before Tomas had a chance to move, giving her a mock bow and a grin. “Something moved in there!” Phoebe peered in for a closer look. “How dare they? In my library!” she shrieked. Tomas instinctively moved forward, ready to help, but Donovan was faster. “Here, let me.” Donovan pushed in between Phoebe and the card catalogue, pulling the drawer out farther. Cards flew in all directions as he yanked rather too enthusiastically and the drawer fell to the floor. “You idiot!” Phoebe yelled. “They‟re getting away!” Out of the corner of his eye, Tomas saw something tiny dive out of the stack of cards, followed by another, and another. The library door opened and closed with a bang. Phoebe didn‟t notice. She was too busy trying to eliminate the small creatures who had invaded her library. “Donovan! Catch them!” She stamped one foot, a heel barely missing one of the silverfish. “Donovan! They‟re getting away!” Her tone was growing hysterical. “My books, my poor books.” There was not much Tomas could do to help the situation; he would only be a hindrance. The growing crowd of people in the area around Phoebe‟s desk began joining in with her and Donovan in chasing and stomping the floor at any sightings of anything vaguely resembling the silverfish. The library was erupting into chaos, and Tomas didn‟t hesitate. This was his chance. His conscience argued with him for a split second, but he ignored it. He needed to do this to prove his point. This might be his only chance. Backing away slowly, he quickly made for the door. Closing it behind him, he climbed the spiral staircase leading to the attic floor, to the collection Phoebe guarded closely. What the hell was so special about these books, anyway? Many of those in the main collection were rare and valuable. Surely these would be no different. Nevertheless, his heart was beating faster, however much he told himself he was being foolish. This was not a quest, and he was in no shape or form an adventurer. He was merely a reader who wanted more. More than just wanted. Tomas craved the answers the original novel had left unanswered. He had no idea why this particular book had spoken to him
Cat’s Quill | 47
the way it had, but the first time he had seen it, he had been drawn to it, captivated by it. That first day, he had tried to talk himself out of buying it. After all he had just been browsing, looking for something special for Kathleen‟s birthday, and he had a stack of books at home to read already. The shop was one he had visited many times before. In fact he wasn‟t sure why he had entered it that day. Kathleen wasn‟t even into old books, let alone the type this shop specialized in. Her preferred reading genre was what she referred to as “racy romances.” The books were chosen based on the cover illustration having as much male skin on display as possible, the more revealed the better. The only other person besides Cathal that Tomas had loaned the book to was Ethan. It apparently wasn‟t Ethan‟s kind of book either. Ethan preferred action stories, set against a realistic background, and accurate researched. Still, he had read it, more out of politeness than anything else, and returned it with a comment that it had been interesting. A small smile graced Tomas‟s lips. Cathal had understood; it had spoken to him as well, even if they had argued over it. No, not argued, but discussed their differing viewpoints. The noise from downstairs was still loud. Phoebe was not happy, but it was only a matter of time before someone calmed her enough to phone for help. If the silverfish infestation was severe, the library might have to be closed for fumigation, which meant that this could be Tomas‟s only opportunity to look through this part of the collection. He still remembered a similar incident in his hometown when he was younger. The librarian there had not been impressed either and had explained to him in very concerned tones the damage the tiny creatures could create. Tomas opened the door at the top of the staircase to find himself in a small room. A stained-glass window filtered in the light from outside, producing a muted glow. Tomas‟s head brushed against a thin cord hanging from the ceiling. He pulled on it, and the room lit with the harshness of the naked electric light. A solitary bookcase stood against the wall by the window. A vase of flowers was arranged on top. Roses, the same as those he had noticed outside. To the side of the bookcase were a wooden rocking chair and a footstool. Someone came here to read, although it was impossible to tell how often. The roses were faded but not dead, their scent still permeating the room. The books on the shelf were old, muted colors and covers to match the mood of the room. Tomas moved closer, browsing the titles quickly, hoping he would find what he was looking for. The oversized books were arranged in order of size on the bottom shelf. Although he scanned them, he knew they would not hold any answers. The rest were arranged by author in alphabetical order. Arthur. Baker. Cameron. DeMille. Emerys.
48 | Anne Barwell
Emerys. Tomas froze. Oh God. Trembling, he stopped, his fingers caressing the spine. Holding his breath, he read the title. In Hidden Places. Damn it. It was the original novel. He reread the titles on either side, looking through the rest of the books, hoping something might have been misfiled. There had to be a sequel. The story didn‟t end there. Cathal was wrong. He had to be. Still, this was another copy of his novel. Maybe there was something within the pages his own didn‟t have. Pulling the book from the shelf, Tomas flipped through it, coming to a halt when he noticed something that shouldn‟t be there. Opening the book completely, resting it so it lay across his open palms, he found himself staring at a postcard. Sitting down on the footstool, he shifted the book onto his lap and examined the postcard. Its date of print was faded to illegibility, as though that part of it had sat in the sun too long. He turned it over. A young woman smiled back at him from a black and white photograph. She was dressed in dark clothing in the style of the era preceding the Second World War, her hands clasped on her lap, her fair hair waistlength but loose and softly framing her face. The smile didn‟t reach her eyes; her gaze was fixed on something beyond the camera. A sudden thump from downstairs made Tomas jump. Quickly he shoved the book back into its place on the shelf and, walking briskly to the door, turned the light off. He couldn‟t risk being caught here. If Phoebe had a copy of this book in this collection, she might have clues to some of the answers he needed. It would not do to invoke her wrath still further. It wasn‟t until he had reentered the main part of the library with Donovan approaching him, talking nineteen to the dozen, that Tomas realized he was still holding the postcard in one hand. He carefully slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Cat’s Quill | 49
Chapter 5
“IF I
wanted to buy a postcard, the post office would be the best place, wouldn‟t it?” Tomas ushered Donovan out the front door of the library and onto the street, not wanting to get stuck in the middle of the crowd of two dozen people or so who were beginning to mill around the outside gate, peering over the fence but not daring to come closer. Word had spread quickly that something had happened to make Phoebe lose her legendary composure. “Yeah, probably.” Donovan frowned, his gaze darting back to the library where Phoebe was waving away some well-meaning but foolish individuals who were trying to convince her to calm down with a nice cup of tea while she was still talking on the phone with the manager of the company of the local exterminators. “Why the sudden interest in postcards?” Tomas‟s hand went to his back pocket, his fingers stroking the edges of the cardboard peeking out, checking yet again that his precious clue was still where he had put it. He pulled his jumper down to cover the top of the postcard, hiding it completely from anyone who might be watching. “I need to send one to my sister,” he explained, not wanting to share what he had discovered. The postcard was connected to his book, he was sure of it. Until he discovered how, he would take good care of it. “And you‟ve just thought of this now?” Donovan shook his head, his attention returning to Tomas. Did he suspect something? Instead of answering, Tomas shrugged. If he discovered where the postcard had come from, he could return it to its rightful owner. He took a step back toward the library. Surely there would be something in Phoebe‟s records concerning who had borrowed the book last, but that would mean he would have to admit he‟d seen it. Several people filed out of the library, talking in low tones amongst themselves. The door slammed behind them; high-heeled footsteps could be heard angrily fading into the distance as Phoebe disappeared into the depths
50 | Anne Barwell
of her sanctuary. The crowd at the front gate swelled closer like a wave about to descend on shore, hungry for information. Donovan grabbed Tomas‟s sleeve and began to drag him away from the scene. “Trust me,” he muttered, “we don‟t want to get caught up in this. They‟re nice people, but give them some juicy gossip and they‟re like vultures.” Glaring, Tomas pulled free. “Thank you, but I can take care of myself,” he snapped. No one touched him like that without permission. His hand went to his back pocket again, but this time his fingers curled around something soft, almost delicate. How the hell had the rose petal got in there? He‟d let it drop from his hand and watched it carried away on the breeze. There was no way it could have got into his pocket, let alone wrapped itself around the edges of the postcard, especially as it hadn‟t been there a few minutes ago. “Geez.” Donovan shoved his hands in his pockets. “That attitude‟s getting old real quick. I was only trying to do you a favor.” He looked Tomas up and down very slowly. Tomas flinched, his skin crawling. “I have to run some errands.” Donovan glanced at his watch. “I‟ll be at the pub in about an hour. Be there or you‟re walking home.” “Fine,” Tomas replied, fully intending to walk back to the inn. He needed the time to think anyway, and it was difficult to do that with Donovan talking. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of walking away, Tomas spun on his heel and did it first, not caring what direction he went. He‟d worry about that once Donovan had gotten the message and left him in peace. It was a good five minutes later before Tomas realized that he had been walking in the wrong direction. Something sniffed around his legs, and bending down, he met the gaze of a black and white dog. It barked at him several times, tilted its head to one side, panting, and then started running toward one of the nearby houses, diving underneath the front gate to disappear into the yard. Watching it, Tomas realized it was the same dog that belonged to the old man Donovan had nearly run over earlier. Damn it, how could he not have noticed that the distance between the houses was growing farther apart? The lack of anything remotely resembling a shop should have been a clue as well. That was, if Tomas had been taking any notice. He did have a tendency to get lost in his thoughts. Sighing, he turned around and began walking back to town. At least this time he had caught himself before he had gotten too far. He still remembered the lecture he had received from Kathleen the last time he had been totally preoccupied and started walking only to realize several hours later that he was lost. She had threatened to give him a GPS tracking dot and presented him with a cell phone so that she could get hold of him. For some reason that phone had
Cat’s Quill | 51
never worked properly, and Tomas wasn‟t about to tell her it was mostly because he didn‟t bother to switch it on. Shrugging farther into his jumper, Tomas began walking back toward the center of the village. The sun peeked out from behind grey clouds, the sky a muted, washed out, dirty not-quite-blue, the air still chilly, although it had stopped drizzling while he had been walking. Reaching inside his back pocket, he pulled out the postcard and examined it again. Who was she? He turned it over, not having wanted to risk getting it wet before nor having it seen in his possession while there were others who might notice. Alice Finlay. The name was followed by two dates, that of her birth and death. A saying Tomas had heard once whispered in his mind, a memory of him and his sister exploring a graveyard as children. Kathleen was five years older, so she had known things he hadn‟t and had been keen to show her superior knowledge. It wasn‟t the dates that mattered, she had told him in a hushed tone, but the dash in between. Everyone was born and died. What you did with your life was the important thing. Flipping the postcard over so he could see the photo again, Tomas stared into the eyes of a woman who had died nearly sixty years ago. Artist, the word after those dates had said, although he had never heard of her. In saying that, however, it did not mean that she did not exist. He‟d thought that once as a small child, scared that if he ever forgot his parents it would be like they had never existed. Even now, as an adult who knew better, the idea sent shivers through him. Everyone should be remembered by someone, and by more than one word. Surely, Alice had been a person who had done something with her life and lived between the dashes to the full. Or was this all that was left of her, a faded postcard marking an almost forgotten book? A bell sounded suddenly, and Tomas jumped, shoving the postcard back into his pocket, narrowly missing the bicycle heading straight for him. The boy riding it swerved, slamming on his brakes, his cap flying off his head to land at Tomas‟s feet. “Hey, that‟s mine, mister.” The boy held out his hand for it, his glare matching Tomas‟s, neither of them backing down. “Didn‟t anyone ever tell you about watching where you‟re going? You‟re lucky my dad fixed my brakes yesterday.” He couldn‟t have been more than fifteen, his bright red hair sticking up on end, the top of it flat where his cap had been. “Cap, mister,” he repeated, shifting his bike forward so that the front wheel of his bike was almost on Tomas‟s foot. “Didn‟t anyone ever tell you about manners?” Tomas held the cap just out of reach. “You apologize for nearly running me over and I‟ll give it back.” The boy‟s attitude was already beginning to annoy him. Where the hell did he
52 | Anne Barwell
get off being arrogant and self-righteous when he was so obviously in the wrong? The bicycle wheel edged forward so that it was on Tomas‟s foot. He glared. The boy glared back. “You weren‟t watching where you were going. And now you‟ve stolen my cap. I‟m not moving until I get it back.” “We‟re going to be here a while then, aren‟t we?” Tomas placed one hand on the handlebars and pushed the bike away, adjusting his bag when it began slipping off his shoulder. The boy pushed back. Neither of them moved. The bike was damn heavy, and the boy, for someone who appeared to be of very slight build, was stronger than he looked. “That‟s up to you, mister.” The boy shrugged but did not back down. Tomas begrudgingly had to admire that, but it did not mean he would give in. He could be very stubborn when he put his mind to something; it was one of his biggest strengths but also a weakness which had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. “You apologize and I‟ll give your cap back.” Tomas was not fooled for a moment by the boy‟s quasi-polite tone. “Do you live nearby? Maybe we should talk to your parents.” The boy shrugged again, his eyes darting toward the main street and back again. “My dad works at the post office. You let go of my bike, give me back my cap, and I‟ll tell him you stepped right out in front of me.” He paused, eyeing Tomas up and down, his lips curving up into a smile that could only be described as sweet. “I‟ll even forget to tell him you stole my cap if you make it worth my while. My teacher says it‟s really important that adults show by example, so you could apologize as well. I could have been hurt coming off my bike.” His tone grew thoughtful. “Maybe I was.” “You little shit!” Tomas pushed the bike off his foot in a sudden burst of anger. Still hanging onto the cap, he grabbed the bike and began wheeling it down the street. The boy stood still for a moment and then ran to catch up. “Hey, you can‟t do that!” “Watch me.” Tomas paused at the entrance to the main street, if it could be called that, wondering which way to go next. On either side of the road they had entered from were cottages, and to the left, several other buildings which looked suspiciously like they might be business premises rather than homes. It was difficult to tell. Making a decision, he turned toward the left, the boy trailing behind him at first and then falling into step to walk alongside him. “So, what‟s your name?” The boy kicked a stone with his sneaker, aiming it for a nearby window. It hit the wooden sill underneath, bounced back onto
Cat’s Quill | 53
the footpath, and then rolled to a stop midway along the grass verge between that and the road. The village didn‟t appear to have gutters as such, the grass serving to separate the traffic and pedestrians, although there was the occasional iron-barred drain, presumably to aid in water drainage and sewerage. “What‟s yours?” Tomas countered, noticing a two-storied white building a couple of doors down on the opposite side of the street. It appeared to be brick, the front and sides of it whitewashed but its natural dirty red left to outline the shape of the building and the windows, and matching the wooden front door. Slatted wooden tables and chairs were arranged outside, inviting people to sit and rest. “I asked first.” The boy followed Tomas‟s gaze. “That building‟s way old, same as everything else. Nothing ever changes around here. It‟s boring as hell.” He gestured toward the bike. “That‟s why I want a motorbike next, to get away from here. Get a life, ‟cause I‟m sure as hell not going to find one here.” “Other places can be boring as well,” Tomas pointed out. Checking the road for traffic automatically though there was nothing in sight, he stepped off the grass onto the concrete. “Old things have history. That often makes them more interesting than something that is more recent.” As he drew nearer, he saw the faded letters on the green-painted wooden sign swinging over the front door of the building, proclaiming it to be the elusive Oakwood Post Office. Tomas leaned the bike against the outside wall, balancing the handlebars to keep it upright. The boy shot past him through the door, the bell above it ringing several times as he disappeared from view. Tomas followed more slowly, the cap still in his hands. Until he got that apology, he would not be giving it up. The man standing in front of the counter spun to face the door when Tomas entered. He was middle-aged, brown hair beginning to grey at his temples, his eyes the same bright blue as the boy‟s. “You must be Tomas,” he said, holding out his hand. “I‟m Edward Flynn, Mikey‟s father.” “How do you know my name?” Tomas frowned, his eyes narrowing. This was his first trip into the village apart from his arrival. He had not been introduced to anyone but Phoebe so far. This had better not be another fan of his books. One of the reasons he‟d agreed to come here was to escape recognition. It was a serious drawback of his profession. It had been a severe lapse in judgment on Tomas‟s part for agreeing for Fraser to handle the publishing of his books the way he saw fit. Including a photo on the back cover had never occurred to Tomas until it was too late.
54 | Anne Barwell
Edward grinned, for a moment scarily echoing his son‟s expression. “It‟s a small village. News travels fast.” He shrugged, withdrawing the offered hand. “Besides, Donovan was in here earlier and said you‟d probably come by.” His gaze dropped to the cap Tomas was holding. “Mikey wasn‟t looking where he was going, huh?” “He walked out in front of me!” Mikey protested, his mouth turning down into a sulky pout. “You always take their side. Parents are supposed to believe in their kids, you know?” “I believe in you, son,” Edward said. “But in saying that, I also know you a little too well.” He locked eyes with Mikey, both of them quiet for a moment, the battle of wills fought in silence. Finally Mikey shrugged and looked away, examining a speck of dirt on his jacket. “He‟s still got my cap, and I‟ve got pamphlets to deliver for old Mrs. Muir. I promised her, and it‟s important to be reliable. You told me that yourself, Dad.” “Yes, it is.” Edward mimicked his son‟s shrug. “However, it‟s also important to apologize, and I‟m sure if Mr. Kemp says he is sorry for walking out in front of you, you will then admit your inability to watch the road.” “I was distracted, okay?” Mikey huffed and stuck his hands in his pocket. “I was trying to figure out how to get the shading right on my drawing. Stupid thing isn‟t doing what I want.” “I don‟t see the need to apologize for something which was not my fault,” Tomas said stiffly. He folded his arms and leaned back against the nearest wall. “However, I will return the cap so Mikey can deliver his pamphlets.” “See, he doesn‟t see the need to apologize either!” Mikey muttered, giving his father a smug look. “I said I don‟t see the need for me to apologize,” Tomas corrected, “as it was not my fault.” “Then why are you returning the cap, huh?” Mikey demanded, glaring at Tomas. Tomas glared back. Who the hell did this kid think he was? “It‟s not my place to stand between you and your ability to perform a community service.” Edward glanced between them, a slow smile tracing his lips. He seemed amused, although given the situation, it was an odd reaction. “Heaven forbid that you would think about doing such a thing. Good works need to be encouraged, don‟t you think, Mikey?” He looked at the cap sandwiched between Tomas‟s crossed arms, at Mikey, and then back to the cap.
Cat’s Quill | 55
“Whatever,” Mikey said sullenly. “I‟m sorry, okay?” He dived for Tomas, snatched the cap, and ran for the door, banging it behind him before Tomas had a chance to react, let alone reply. “Interesting kid you have there,” Tomas said, not bothering to follow Mikey. The boy would be long gone, already on his way to run over another unsuspecting pedestrian. “He has a few attitude problems,” Edward confirmed, “but he‟s a good kid at heart. Just at that stage where he thinks no one understands him.” He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I‟m afraid I don‟t have the same worldview that his mother had, and he never got the chance to know her as she died shortly after he was born.” Tomas nodded, unsure of how to respond. He‟d never been good at social niceties and had been told on occasion he had the tact of a bull in a china shop. Finally he broke the silence, unable to shift the feeling that he needed to at least try. “I‟m sorry. It must have been difficult.” At least Mikey had a father who loved him, rather than having been through foster care, Kathleen fighting so that the two of them could stay together. “Yes, it has been on occasion.” Edward‟s eyes clouded over, and he was quiet for a moment. “I tell him to seize the moment and live each day as though it‟s your last because you never know when it will be.” It was an interesting philosophy and somewhat cynical but also hit rather too close to home for Tomas‟s liking. Unsure as to why this man he had only just met was being so open to a stranger, Tomas attempted to ignore his growing unease by glancing around the shop. After all, he had come in here to find answers about the postcard in his pocket, not to exchange sob stories. While he did not mind listening, this conversation had already caused him to reveal information about himself that he would not usually. A revolving metal stand caught his eye. It was full of postcards, some colorful and modern, others black and white, looking somewhat faded as though they had been sitting a while, stock not moving in a village which itself was a mixture of the two. Sitting in a pile on a shelf behind the postcards was a stack of last year‟s calendars. “Each month features artwork of local scenes,” Edward explained. “It‟s been years since we‟ve had something like that in print, so I‟m reluctant to get rid of them. The odd time we get tourists through here, they like them.” “You get tourists?” Tomas raised an eyebrow, his imagination balking at the thought of lots of people swarming around the village, or worse, in the surrounding countryside.
56 | Anne Barwell
“Small coach loads on occasion, elderly folks out for a day in the countryside. Ada at the café does a Devonshire tea for them, and they seem to enjoy it. Several of the old dears have never been out of London, so it‟s good for them, and we like the change in company too.” “And the business,” Tomas commented. “I expect that doesn‟t hurt either.” Reaching behind the stand, he picked up a calendar from the top of the pile and flicked through it, his hand stilling when he saw one of the inn. It had an almost ethereal look to it, washed-out watercolors capturing the feel of the old house and its surroundings rather than being a photo-like representation. The roses stood out, their colors vibrant, alive on the page. His eye dropped to read the name of the artist, his breath hitching when he repeated the name out loud, his voice barely a whisper. “Alice Finlay.” “You‟ve found our Alice, I see.” Edward‟s tone was quiet, almost apologetic. “Who is she?” Tomas glanced from the scene brought to life in front of him to Edward and back again. The picture reminded him of something, but he couldn‟t think what it was. Damn it, he should know why this seemed familiar. It wasn‟t the inn itself but rather the style of the illustration, the way in which it had been sketched almost lovingly and then gone over carefully to bring dashes of color to what would have otherwise been a drab world of grey. “She‟s about the only person with any major claim to fame from around these parts.” Edward gestured toward the calendar in Tomas‟s hand. “She owned the inn once upon a time, long before Donovan and Heidi bought it. The house belonged to her family for years. It was almost a shame it had to be sold, but sometimes you don‟t get a choice in these things.” Tomas nodded. “Can you tell me anything else about her?” He hesitated for a moment and then took the postcard out of his pocket, handing it to Edward. “I found this in an old book.” “Where?” Edward turned it over in his hand, frowning. “I haven‟t seen one of these in years. It was a limited run print done about ten years ago featuring a series of artists, writers, and the like who had local origins. We have a few of them, although not as well known as Alice was in her day.” He shrugged. “A number of aspiring types like yourself come here. Some find what they are looking for, some don‟t.” Usually Tomas would have replied with a tetchy reminder that he was not an aspiring writer but a published one, but he didn‟t want to risk alienating Edward and cutting off a potential source of information. “In the library.” The admission received a raised eyebrow in return. “Phoebe must be slipping,” Edward mumbled under his breath. “Where in the library, exactly?”
Cat’s Quill | 57
“Inside a book,” Tomas replied, wariness still whispering that he needed to be careful. Admitting too much would not be wise. “It appeared to be used as a bookmark.” “I see.” Edward turned it over again. He stared at it for a few moments and then shrugged. “Betty used to say that nothing happens without reason. She had more faith in such things than I have ever had. Maybe if she‟d lived, things would have been different, but you have to make do with what life dishes out.” “Betty?” Tomas put his hand out for the postcard, not wanting to let it out of his sight, Edward‟s words bringing back memories he‟d rather forget. Even though he‟d been a small child when he had lost his parents, death was something which had haunted his dreams for a very long time, that and a feeling of great loss. Sometimes he still woke in a panic, sure that he‟d lost something or someone very important, the sensation of reaching but not being able to hold, leaving him shaking for several minutes until he convinced himself that it had only been a dream. “My wife.” Edward cleared his throat, giving Tomas back the postcard. “I guess if you found it, it‟s yours. It‟s not as though anyone is going to want it back now, is it?” He gestured to the calendar in Tomas‟s other hand. “Take it if you want it. After all, my son nearly ran you over. It‟s the least I can do.” The bell on the door of the shop rang, heralding the entrance of another customer. Edward‟s tone shifted, suddenly all business. Tomas quickly slipped the postcard into the pages of the calendar, hiding it from view. “Mrs. O‟Neil, what can I do for you today, dear?” “Hmph.” Tomas looked up to see a well-endowed, somewhat elderly lady waggling her finger at Edward. “You know full well only the late Mr. O‟Neil, God rest his soul, had the privilege of calling me by that endearment.” Edward gave her a cheery smile. “Of course he did. I keep forgetting.” The comment was answered by a shaking of Mrs. O‟Neil‟s head. “If I didn‟t know better I would think you were teasing me, Mr. Flynn.” “Now, would I do that?” Edward moved back behind the counter, bringing out a small square parcel. “This came for you this morning.” “Yes, you would.” Mrs. O‟Neil put her hand out for the parcel, pausing to look Tomas slowly up and down over the top of her spectacles. “Mr. Kemp, I presume? Your reputation precedes you, young man.” She lowered her voice. “Not that I put much stock in that kind of thing. It‟s more important to make your own judgments, don‟t you think?” Without waiting for his opinion, she placed the large carpet bag she was carrying onto the counter, opened it, and put the parcel inside. “Thank you, Mr. Flynn. I‟ll be in next week again, of course.”
58 | Anne Barwell
“Of course,” Edward replied. “It‟s a pleasure doing business with you as always, Mrs. O‟Neil.” “And you, Mr. Flynn.” Mrs. O‟Neil scanned the room again before finally settling onto Tomas. “Heidi tells me that you are planning to be here several months.” Her mouth turned down in a show of disapproval. “She also informs me that you are a writer.” She shook her head sadly. “Young men these days need to return to earning an honest living and keeping their feet firmly on the ground, and then the country wouldn‟t be in the mess it‟s in. Now, my late husband, he was very reliable. One could set one‟s clock by him, I always said.” “Yes, I am a writer,” Tomas confirmed, feeling somewhat annoyed by this woman‟s attitude. “I earn an honest living by it too.” He looked her up and down in much the same way she had done him, taking in the many-timesmended cardigan, the way the buttons on her practical seersucker shirt were done right up to the neck, and her lace-up brown shoes. “Keeping your feet on the ground is one thing, but I think it‟s important to explore other avenues of higher thinking as well.” He paused for effect. “Don‟t you?” Mrs. O‟Neil tsk-tsked. “Didn‟t your mother ever teach you about manners, young man? It is very rude to stare like that.” “You were staring at me,” Tomas pointed out. Behind the counter, Edward muttered something about needing extra stamps and disappeared out the back of the shop. “Poor man.” Mrs. O‟Neil shook her head sadly. “He had such a bright future ahead of him before he married into that family. A lovely girl, but no one can hide secrets forever.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “Her poor father is crazy, you know, just like his mother before him. They saw… things, or so the stories go.” A loud sigh escaped her lips. “I pity that poor child with his drawings. He‟s obviously touched by the same. I‟ve told Edward that the boy would do better with portraits or local scenes; they at least would bring in some money, but he insists on letting Michael go his own way.” “What kind of things?” Tomas frowned, unable to resist the question. Mikey had seemed like a normal teenager to him, if somewhat rude, a trait that Mrs. O‟Neil appeared to share. “Why, it wouldn‟t be good manners to disclose that type of information, dear.” Mrs. O‟Neil glanced around the shop, seemingly perplexed. “Oh dear, I seem to have mislaid my umbrella. I expect one of those children has taken it again. I must go find it. The forecast is for rain later today too.” The bell above the door rang. Donovan entered the shop, an umbrella in his hand. “Hey, Mrs. O. I found this outside; it‟s yours, right?”
Cat’s Quill | 59
“Mrs. O‟Neil, if you please, Mr. Campbell,” Mrs. O‟Neil huffed, taking it from him. “Yes it is. Thank you for locating it for me.” She hooked it over her free arm. “Well I must be off. Places to be and people to see.” Her voice raised in pitch and volume. “Good day, Mr. Flynn. It is good manners to see your customers off when they leave, you know.” Edward poked his head around the corner, his hand over the receiver of a phone. He looked over apologetically at Donovan and Tomas. “There‟s a problem with one of the recent orders. I‟ll be with you shortly.” Mrs. O‟Neil received a tilt of his head. “Good day, Mrs. O‟Neil. Now if you‟ll excuse me….” He disappeared into the room at the back of the shop again. After shaking her head in resignation, Mrs. O‟Neil began walking toward the door of the shop. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kemp. Good day to you, Mr. Campbell.” She paused, giving Donovan a look over the top of her spectacles that was a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. “I‟m presuming as I‟m taking my weekly constitutional tomorrow that you will be conveniently absent upon my arrival.” “I plan to be, Mrs. O‟Neil.” Donovan grinned, giving her a shrug and an innocent look that Tomas didn‟t believe for a moment. “We both know that routines are very important. You have yours, I have mine, and never the twain shall meet.” He moved to the door, holding it open for her. The comment was met by a very unladylike snort. “We‟ll see, Mr. Campbell, we‟ll see.” And with that, Mrs. O‟Neil walked out of the shop, the door swinging on its hinges several times before closing behind her.
60 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 6
DONOVAN
shook his head. “She always has to finish every damn conversation with that.” He shifted his voice up an octave or so. “We‟ll see, Mr. Campbell, we‟ll see.” Muttering something under his breath, he tilted his head in the direction of the back of the shop. “You nearly finished out there, Edward? I need to pick up some stamps for Heidi.” “She seems rather—” Tomas paused, looking for the right word to describe Mrs. O‟Neil, but there wasn‟t one. In the end he settled for “— unique.” The word received a snort in reply. “Yeah, thank God.” Donovan tapped his fingers on the counter. “Enough to drive a guy to drink, I tell you. There‟s a theory her husband died just to get some peace and quiet, that it was the only way he could escape her.” “Ah yes, but I‟m guessing you don‟t know who started that rumor.” Edward put down the phone and came out to join them, reaching under the counter to pull out a large red book. He flipped through the pages, giving Donovan a grin, already ripping out stamps from first one page and then another. “You‟ll want the usual for Heidi, I take it?” “Yeah, thanks. I forgot them earlier.” Donovan reached into his wallet. Dropping several notes on the counter, he glanced around the shop, almost as though checking it was safe before lowering his voice. “So I‟m guessing you know?” Edward blinked. “Know what?” he asked. “Who started the rumor about Mrs. O‟Neil‟s husband,” Tomas replied for Donovan, his own curiosity getting the better of him. “Your comment strongly suggests you know.” His eyes narrowed. “Was it you?” “Me?” Edward laughed. “I wish.” He counted the money Donovan had given him, punched the keys of the cash register, and smacked the side of it when it refused to open. Finally, after several minutes of convincing it to cooperate by threatening to update it with something more modern, he handed
Cat’s Quill | 61
over the stamps and the change. “Now, that would be telling,” he said, tapping the side of his nose, “and there are enough foul rumors in this village as it is.” “You‟re protecting your source,” Tomas said slowly, adjusting his bag so he could slide into it the calendar Edward had given him. It was an instinct he could relate to. While not a reporter, he had still interviewed several people for some of the less than nice details of his previous books on the proviso that he did not share their identities, as they had done things they were not proud of. War and human nature did not often mesh in favorable ways. Neither did gossip and small villages. “I‟m protecting myself.” Edward nodded sagely. “Things told in confidence are meant to stay that way.” He grinned. “Besides, trusted sources keep getting information, so it‟s in my own best interests to do so.” “Interesting reasoning,” Tomas remarked, agreeing with it at least in principle, even if it meant he was no closer to learning the truth. “Damn convenient, more like,” Donovan mumbled, folding the stamps carefully so they fit into his wallet. He glanced at his watch. “If we hurry we can get a beer before we need to go back. I seem to remember you owe me one.” “I seem to remember I don‟t.” Tomas‟s stomach growled. “I might consider it, though, if this pub has decent meals.” Donovan grinned. “Yeah, they do. One of Tricia‟s pies and a decent pint of Guinness and I‟m happy.” “Pies?” Tomas gave Edward a nod of thanks. “Please tell me they have more on the menu than pies.” He‟d done research on what went into some of the commercial ones once for an article he‟d written for a university magazine. It wasn‟t a magazine he particularly wished to be associated with nor the article he‟d wanted to write, but it had helped toward that week‟s rent. However, he now had an aversion to anything that combined meat and pastry. Fieldwork, the editor had said. Testing and eating pies of all shapes and ingredients, he‟d meant. “Steak and kidney.” Donovan ticked off on his fingers as he waved to Edward and walked out the door Tomas had already opened. “Steak and cheese.” He licked his lips. “Hmm, and steak and mushroom. Her steak and mushroom pies are to die for.” “I bet they are.” Tomas shuddered, wondering if the village had a local chip shop. Surely the pub would at least sell those small bags of peanuts which might keep him going until he could find some real food. “I don‟t suppose they sell anything else?” he asked hopefully, wondering if he held his nose and closed his eyes he might be able to imagine the pies were really
62 | Anne Barwell
something else. Of course there was also the option of picking off the pastry top and fishing around the inside for whatever lurked beneath. “She also does a real good shepherd‟s pie,” Donovan said, adjusting the collar of his jacket against the fine spits of rain which were beginning to fall again. Tomas shrugged down farther into his jumper, deciding this would be the last time he ventured into the village without his jacket. He missed the fleecy lining in particular, his mind casting back to the warmth there had been in the sun just mere hours ago. “There‟s that pie word again,” Tomas snorted. “How far is this pub?” He glanced up and down both sides of the street as they walked away from the post office, Donovan leading the way. Donovan shook his head, amused. “It‟s not a pie—” He paused. “— exactly, and you‟ve obviously had a bad experience.” He eyed Tomas up and down for a moment. It was unnerving. “We‟ll have to do something about that.” “I don‟t like them,” Tomas said firmly. “Pastry brings back very bad memories of some research I did once. I‟d prefer to avoid anything even vaguely associated with it.” “Pastry?” Donovan looked blank for a moment before he pointed to the wooden building up ahead which appeared to be their destination. “Shepherd‟s pies don‟t have pastry. You need to try one of these. Buy me that beer and I‟ll get you one of Tricia‟s pies in return.” He grinned. “I‟m a reasonable kind of guy, and for this I‟ll compromise, as you‟re in sad need of a decent education.” “How self-sacrificing of you,” muttered Tomas dryly, looking both ways before they crossed the road to the pub. He wasn‟t sure why he bothered, as there wasn‟t a car in sight, just an old lady on a very wobbly bicycle. At least she would not be the risk to pedestrians Mikey had been. A cat dived out onto the road, barely missing her front wheel as she swerved, one hand ringing the bell attached to the brightly colored cane basket strapped to the handlebars. A very loud, unladylike curse filled the air. Donovan grinned, following Tomas‟s line of sight. “You haven‟t had the honor of meeting old Mrs. McPherson yet either, huh?” “Thank God.” Tomas shifted his attention to the sign above the double doors of the building in front of them proclaiming it to be “The Worthington.” Smaller letters informed him that it had been established in 1818 by someone called Lucius Worthington, Esq. There was a snigger beside him. “You‟d better not let her hear that,” Donovan warned. “While it‟s okay for her to swear like a sailor, take the
Cat’s Quill | 63
Lord‟s name in vain and you‟ll get rapped over the knuckles with whatever she has handy. She takes her job as local church organist very seriously. Drives the local minister crazy, although I think it‟s just a cover for the fact he‟s got it bad for her.” Taking a moment to stare at Donovan, Tomas digested this latest piece of information. The rumors he‟d always heard about small-town, or in this case village, gossip were apparently true. “I think I could do with that beer now,” he said hurriedly, not wanting to dwell on that idea in the slightest, especially as he had argued with Kathleen that they only existed in those books she kept trying to inflict on him. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, glancing around his new surroundings, letting his senses drink in the mixture of warmth, inviting smells, and the roaring fire in the hearth at the far corner of the large room. A black and white collie was lying at the feet of an elderly man who was nursing a beer at a table under one of the windows. The dog lifted its head, looked at Tomas, whined, but didn‟t move. It seemed familiar, and Tomas searched his recent memories to try and place as to why. “Hey, Kip.” Donovan crossed the room, dropped to one knee, and scratched the dog between the ears, ignoring the other patrons who for the most part seemed to dismiss his presence in turn. One of the women talking animatedly two tables down stopped, glanced at him, and then returned to her conversation. The dog whined again, giving a sharp bark. “How are you doing, boy?” “Fine, considering you nearly ran both of us over,” the elderly gentleman snorted. “I knew it wasn‟t Heidi driving that thing.” The snort turned into a grin, and he tapped the table with the end of his shepherd‟s crook. “Take a weight off if you want until young Craig decides to serve you.” Tomas hung back by the door, letting his eyes linger on the room. New places, especially those with character like this one, were to be savored. The pub was fairly old, and the fireplace, with its intricate carved mantel, looked as though it could have been the original from when the building had been constructed. The diamond pattern in the wood was echoed in the coarse felt carpet on the floor, the fawn-colored shapes alternating against a cream background. In contrast, the blue padded material cushions on the barstools, although pale, broke the old-fashioned feel of the place, almost as though a glimpse of modernity had broken through into the past, the same way in which the slivers of sunlight through the windows bathed sections of the polished wooden bar. Behind the bar, above the oval alcoves which were home to old-fashioned barrels, bottles, and varying-sized glasses, was a selection of horse brasses.
64 | Anne Barwell
Walking over for a closer look, Tomas peered at them at best as he could, trying to remember what he‟d read about them online a few months previously. He had been fascinated by them at the time, especially some of the legends attached to the early stories of them, after seeing one referred to in a book he‟d been reading while researching something else. It was weird how he‟d often become caught up in a piece of information that had nothing to do with what he‟d started out looking for, to the extent that it fueled whatever he ended up working on. His last series had begun that way, the historical drama he‟d anticipated turning into a study of human nature and relationships set in a future that had taken shape in his mind over several months. The Worthington‟s collection was quite impressive, some older designs ranging from the classical designs associated with early sun worshippers to the more common heart motifs. Some even appeared to be hand-cast; Tomas wondered if they pre-dated the pub itself. One in particular, a circular amulet with a Staffordshire knot in the middle of it, caught his attention, and he edged closer for a better look, wishing for a moment that he could step back into times gone by and see the heavy brass discs displayed as they were meant to be as decoration on the tack of the working horses of the area. “The board lists the specials for today,” Craig, the bartender, informed him, interrupting his train of thought. He was a young man with bleached blond hair, in his early twenties. Another wipe of the bar and he threw the cloth to land in a spot on a shelf behind it. It missed and fell onto the floor. Donovan grinned at Kip, petted him again, and ambled over to the bar. Helping himself to one of the barstools, he propped both elbows on the counter and patted the seat next to him. “Eating while sitting down is better,” he drawled. Settling himself on the seat Donovan had indicated, Tomas dumped his bag on the ground but still within reach. “Two pints of Guinness,” he told Craig. “Donovan‟s buying lunch.” “You‟re having the usual?” Craig didn‟t even bother to wait for a reply but reached into the pie warmer to retrieve whatever the usual was. Putting a good-sized pie, cutlery, and sauce in front of Donovan, Craig disappeared out the back into what looked suspiciously like a kitchen, only pausing to pick up the cloth he‟d dropped before. “Yeah, well, guess I am now.” Donovan shook his head, used his knife to cut around the top of the pie, and laid the pastry top to one side of his plate. “And a shepherd‟s pie for Tomas!” he called out, shaking out a good dollop of Worcestershire sauce onto the pie and mixing it through the exposed meat and vegetables.
Cat’s Quill | 65
“He appears to have forgotten the beers as well,” Tomas noticed, watching the contents of Donovan‟s pie very carefully, as he suspected they were probably related to what would be in his own lunch. “He‟ll do that when he‟s ready.” Donovan added salt and pepper before tasting the first mouthful. “Hmm, good as ever,” he pronounced. Voices sounded from the kitchen, one of them slightly raised, and the door opened again. The middle-aged woman looked slightly flustered, but she gave both of them a friendly smile, her large, dangly hoop earrings swinging from side to side. “The shepherd pie‟s nearly done,” she said. “There was a bit of trouble with the kids today and I had to go sort them out, so things are running behind.” “Tricia, Tomas.” Donovan paused in his eating to wave his hand. “Tomas‟s got a few issues about pies and some kind of weird aversion to pastry.” He paused. “The kids okay? Brendan hasn‟t been fighting at school again, has he? I can come have another talk to him if you want me to.” “Brendan‟s fine. Some kid tried to bully him, and he stood his ground like you told him.” Tricia nodded in Tomas‟s direction. “Nice to meet you, Tomas.” She glanced at Donovan. “The name‟s Patricia. Donovan likes to shorten names, and it doesn‟t matter how many times I remind him, he just keeps doing it anyway.” Turning around for a moment, she retrieved two glasses and poured them each a beer. “As it‟s your first time in here, Tomas, and you‟re with Donovan, this one‟s on the house. The refill you‟ll have to pay for.” “Trevor, then?” Donovan put down his knife and fork, frowning. “He wasn‟t feeling well at school today, and the nurse called me. Nothing to worry about, I‟ve had him looked at by Dr. McKenzie, and his Aunt Margaret‟s staying with him until I finish here.” Worry lines creased her face for a moment before disappearing into an overly bright smile. “Unfortunately we can‟t always be where we want to be in life, and I need to work today, if only for a few hours.” Her voice raised, and she tilted her head back toward the kitchen. “Turn that saucepan down! I can hear it overflowing from out here.” Tomas couldn‟t help but smirk. It was fairly obvious who was in charge. “It‟s nice to meet you too, Patricia.” Taking a swig of beer, he nodded toward the kitchen. “How much longer will the shepherd‟s pie be? I had an early breakfast, and my stomach is protesting somewhat.” As though on cue, his stomach grumbled loudly. It had been complaining a bit of late, something it usually didn‟t do. “One shepherd‟s pie, as ordered.” Craig backed through the door, turning once he‟d closed it with one foot to give Tomas a grin. He put the plate down
66 | Anne Barwell
on the bar, together with cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. “Enjoy.” Patricia raised an eyebrow and nodded her head toward the kitchen, and he mockbowed. “I‟m on it, your highness,” he said, vanishing back into the kitchen again. Shaking his head, Tomas unwrapped his knife and fork and poked at the round crockery dish in front of him. Not seeing anything faintly resembling pastry, he took a small forkful to his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed, hoping that if he couldn‟t see it, it might disguise the taste. “Hey, it‟s not bad,” he admitted between that and the next mouthful, opening his eyes again to grab another forkful before shoveling that in as well. Actually, it was very good. Donovan laughed and shoved the salt, pepper, and sauce at him. “You might want to try these as well, buddy,” he said, “if you can slow down long enough.” A whining noise sounded at Tomas‟s feet, and something brushed against his leg, hot breath panting through his jeans. “Kip!” The old man sounded annoyed. Leaning heavily on his shepherd‟s crook, he lumbered across the pub floor to retrieve his dog. Kip, for his part, ignored his master and looked up at Tomas with what could only be hope reflected in his big coffee-colored eyes. “Awww,” said Patricia, smiling, resting her elbows on the counter and peering over the edge to the floor. “He‟s found a new friend.” “A new friend with shepherd‟s pie,” Donovan corrected. Spearing a piece of meat from his own pie with his fork, he flicked the beef cube into the air. Kip jumped up, grabbed it, swallowed, and shifted his attention to Donovan. “See?” Donovan said smugly. “Cupboard love. That dog will do anything for food. Obviously you‟re not feeding him enough, Eoin.” Eoin snorted. “If you believe that, you‟ll believe anything. He gets plenty to eat.” He gave a low whistle, and Kip‟s ears pricked up. “Too fat and too well-fed, according to my dear, beloved sister.” Donovan rolled his eyes, and Eoin leaned against the counter and gestured at him with one knobbly finger. “Ever since we were youngins, she knew everything and couldn‟t be told. But still, she‟s good folk, and that‟s what counts.” He tapped at the side of his nose. “That‟s what her dearly departed husband always said too, God rest his soul. It was a sad day when he passed away, but still they had forty good years together, which is more than most of us get.” Patricia and Donovan both nodded very solemnly. Tomas‟s suspicions were already growing as to who Eoin‟s dear beloved sister might be. This village was growing smaller by the minute, and he doubted whether he would
Cat’s Quill | 67
soon be able to sneeze without everyone, his dog, and his sister knowing about it before he‟d even finished wiping his nose. His fork paused midway to his mouth, and a thought struck him. “Alice Finlay,” he blurted out. Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Correction, four. Even Kip seemed interested in the name. Tomas shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though he‟d said something he shouldn‟t. “I saw some of her work,” he said quickly, “and Edward wasn‟t very forthcoming when I asked about her.” In fact, in hindsight, Tomas realized that the Postmaster had changed the subject. “I was wondering….” Tomas paused, took a breath, and wiped his hands on his jeans, fighting the urge to squirm as the entire pub seemed to quiet. “Where might I be able to look at more of her paintings?” “Sketches,” Donovan said slowly, after what seemed several long minutes, “and watercolors. There‟s one hanging in the inn.” He grinned suddenly; it was as though a signal had been given to the others in the room, and once again the conversation picked up and carried on as though nothing had happened. “At least I heard there‟s supposed to be sketches.” He shrugged. “I‟ve never seen any. For a so-called famous artist from around here, it‟s real hard to find anything of her stuff. Heidi tried after we first moved here, as she likes to know the history of places where she‟s living, but she gave up.” Tomas frowned. Although he hadn‟t known Heidi long, she had given him the impression very quickly that “giving up” was not a part of her vocabulary. “I don‟t remember seeing a painting.” Surely he would have noticed it if there was one. “It‟s on the floor above yours,” Donovan said helpfully. “Oh.” Tomas hadn‟t ventured up there as yet, his mind being preoccupied with other things, or rather another person, since his arrival. “If you want sketches, I think the family has them,” Eoin said in a brisk tone, “but they aren‟t sharing, and frankly I wouldn‟t be interfering. They‟ve been through enough.” He lowered his voice. “I heard it broke Elizabeth‟s heart when they had to sell the house, even though the sale never went through until after she died. It sat vacant for a few years after the last people who were there moved out too. That was before you and Heidi bought it, Donovan.” He shrugged, took an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, carefully folded it into four quarters and methodically into eighths before replacing it in his pocket. “Yeah, it seemed way forlorn, or at least that‟s what Heidi said. The previous owners never did anything for all their plans for the place.” Donovan shrugged. “Heidi tends to personalize places, has done ever since I‟ve known
68 | Anne Barwell
her.” He drained his glass, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, ignoring the disapproving look Patricia gave him for the action. “Speaking of which, we need to think about getting back, as she wants that damn pink thing before two. She has things to do and places to be, though she wouldn‟t say who with or where.” “A woman has to have some secrets, Donovan,” Patricia grinned. “Where‟s the mystique if you guys know everything about us?” Donovan snorted. “Yeah, well, it‟s not like she‟s my girlfriend or anything or ever likely to be.” He stretched, joints popping loudly. “It‟s the principle of it,” Tomas said sagely. “Or so my sister has always said.” He had mostly ignored Kathleen when she monologued about the differences between men and women, especially as those speeches usually followed something he had done and, according to her, shouldn‟t have. Taking a final forkful of pie, he chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and then washed it down with the last of his beer. “Sisters are good at that,” Eoin agreed, placing a couple of coins on the counter. “I‟ll have another beer, thank you, Patricia, especially if these boys are going to desert you.” “We‟re not deserting her,” Donovan protested, getting up off the stool, “although we do have to go if Tomas has finished his lunch.” He glanced at Tomas‟s empty plate. “I think you missed a bit.” Tomas peered at his plate carefully until it dawned on him that Donovan was teasing. “It was very good,” he admitted. “Although it was not a pie, as such, as it didn‟t have pastry.” “So one with pastry next time, hmm?” Patricia‟s eyes narrowed when Donovan reached into his pocket for his wallet, took out a couple of bills, and threw them on the counter. “Craig‟s been feeding you without getting the money first again, huh? I‟ll have a word with him about that.” She rang up the cash register and handed him his change, ignoring his comment to keep it in lieu of payment for the company. “He was distracted by my brilliance,” Donovan said with a grin. “See you next week, Tricia. Take care, okay?” Kip whined, and Donovan leaned down to pat him. “You too, boy, look after the old guy for me. I‟d kinda miss his bad sense of humor if anything happened to him.” “My work here is far from done,” Eoin told him. “Until it is, you‟re stuck with me.” He picked up his glass of beer and slurped it appreciatively. Sliding off his stool, Tomas picked up his bag and hoisted it over one shoulder. “Next time will be more shepherd‟s pie,” he corrected Patricia. It would still be a cold day in hell before he ate pastry again. He swallowed, the
Cat’s Quill | 69
memory of the depths to which he‟d once been driven flashing across his mind, complete with dripping grey gruel masquerading as gravy. Never again. “I‟m ready to leave if you are,” he told Donovan, who looked at him and then at Patricia and coughed loudly and not very subtly. “Thank you for lunch,” Tomas said politely. “It was very nice.” Donovan mimed a tally mark on an invisible blackboard and sniggered. “Good boy,” he said, giving Kip another pat. Tomas eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. For the moment he was more interested in getting back to the inn and taking a look at this painting. Getting on the wrong side of Donovan would hinder that. It was only once they got outside that Tomas realized just how warm the pub had been. The wind had come up since they had stopped for lunch, although the rain had stopped. Behind the clouds, the sun was peeking through, but not enough to make any difference. “It was warm this morning,” he grumbled. “The weather can be weird around here,” Donovan confirmed, leading the way back down the street to the outside of the library where they had parked Heidi‟s Land Rover. He gazed up at the sky. “It will probably be warm again by the time we get home. Once the sun comes out, it makes all the difference.” “Eww, I don‟t know how you can drive this thing!” A dramatic voice came from behind the other side of the car, and Mikey popped his head up, grinning. He handed Donovan a pamphlet. “Heidi wanted one of this month‟s newsletters, so here it is. I was going to tuck it under the wipers, but the wind got the last one.” Donovan scanned the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. “Yeah, I‟ll pass it along. Thanks, Mikey.” He pulled out the key ring. “You wanted to say something?” he asked. Unlocking the car, he gestured to Tomas to jump into the passenger side. “It‟s just so… pink,” Mikey explained, shrugging. “And that rabbit is so gay.” He mock-shuddered at the key ring. Climbing into the driver‟s seat, Donovan opened the window and eyed the rabbit as though debating its sexuality. “Nah, that rabbit isn‟t gay, I am.” “Yeah, but you‟re cool.” Mikey seemed uncomfortable. “Don‟t you worry about people seeing you driving it and, you know…?” Donovan shook his head. “I might be gay, but I sure as hell didn‟t choose the color. It‟s Heidi‟s car, and she likes it even if I don‟t.” He shuddered. “The only good thing about it is that at least from the inside you can‟t see how bad it is.” Without missing a beat, he started the engine. “I learned a long time ago
70 | Anne Barwell
that people are who they are and you have to accept that.” His voice dropped in pitch. “It‟s an interesting concept, you should try it sometime. It works great when people are giving you shit too.” He glanced in the rearview mirror; there was a glimpse of a sad, almost wistful expression, but then it was gone. “You need to talk about anything, come see me, okay?” With that he jammed his foot on the accelerator and the Land Rover took off, jerking from first to second gears in under a minute, leaving Mikey behind them, staring as they drove off into the distance.
Cat’s Quill | 71
Chapter 7
THE journey back to the inn was fairly uneventful, but even so, Tomas was pleased when the paddock and then the large oak came into view. Although he had only been here a few days, they and the inn felt like home, offering a refuge to which he could escape. Grabbing the clothes he‟d left on the backseat, he was opening the passenger door of the Land Rover before Donovan had turned off the motor. Now he knew about the existence of this painting, he needed to take a look at it. “Where do you think you‟re going with those wet clothes?” Heidi called out from the kitchen as Tomas tried to sneak past. He froze in his tracks, wondering what had given him away. Did anything happen under this roof that Heidi didn‟t know about? “Half wet and stinky,” she continued, drying her hands on a towel before walking over to the kitchen door. Her eyebrow rose, and then she grinned. “That jumper looks better on you than it ever did on Donovan. You should keep it.” He stared at her for a moment, not sure whether to take it as a compliment or not. In the finish he mumbled a thank-you and went to walk away. She coughed loudly and held out her hand. “Yes?” he asked somewhat blankly. “I‟ll take those clothes,” she said. “They need washing. You‟ll also feel warmer if you ditch that black T-shirt I know you have on underneath the jumper. Give me that as well and I‟ll wash it while I‟m doing these.” Handing over the garments in his hand obediently, he began to take pull his jumper over his head but then stopped. She was not Kathleen, although this was something his sister would do. “You‟ll get the T-shirt once I‟ve changed my clothes.” Glancing up the stairs, he debated heading straight for the painting or giving in to Heidi‟s demands first. If he did what she wanted, he‟d be free to take his time to examine the painting without an audience. “I need to do a few things first, and I‟ll throw it in the laundry hamper on my way out.” “Thank you,” Heidi said. “I‟m nearly finished in the kitchen, and there‟s a new pot of coffee brewing. Bring me your Thermos and I‟ll refill it for you.
72 | Anne Barwell
I‟ve also made some scones, and you can take a couple of those with you for afternoon tea.” She turned to walk back into the kitchen and through to the laundry. “I hope you like sultanas in your scones.” Cooperation appeared to reap positive results, Tomas noted. It was something he needed to keep in mind. “Yes, I prefer fruit scones to plain ones.” He paused, a persistent voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he‟d forgotten something. Apparently on some occasions a mumble did not cover every need to use the phrase. “Thank you.” “You‟re welcome,” Heidi yelled from the kitchen, the strains of the latest pop song already blaring from the radio. She must have turned it down when they‟d pulled up, although there was still no sign of Donovan. Presumably he was returning the Land Rover to its garage before coming inside. Tomas began climbing the stairs. Pausing on his own landing, he hesitated before continuing on into his room. If he changed first and got what he needed for the afternoon, he could head out as soon as he‟d seen the painting. Throwing his bag on his bed, something colorful caught the corner of his eye. His hand went to the rose petal still in his pocket at the same instant his mind registered the presence of the single rose in the crystal vase on his bedside table. It was the same as the one he‟d seen at the library, although it was not fully opened, the sweet scent of the lavender-colored bud filling the air when he took several deep breaths. His fingers caressed the smooth surface of the flower, taking care to avoid any thorns, as he retrieved the petal he had been carrying since that morning. A quick comparison showed that they were the same, the color of the loose petal not as obvious in the complete flower, as it was only partially open, but still there. He frowned. The roses on the wall of the library were the same as those climbing the trellis outside his bedroom window. At least two of them were. Unable to remember whether the third variation was present here as well, he crossed the room and opened the window to make sure. Beneath the window the three roses intertwined, but once reaching the sill, they split, two going one way, the third, which here too seemed to offer them support, taking its own path, all of them reaching toward the light of the sun. Heidi must have left it, all part of the room service, apparently. Tomas sniffed the air again. While he was not a fan of strong perfume, it did have a very pleasant scent and could be described as subtle rather than overpowering. Leaving the window open so that he could continue to breathe in the scent of the roses, he sat down on the bed, the single petal still in the palm of his hand. The book, In Hidden Places, he pulled from his bag, placing it on the bedside table next to the vase, the rose almost casting a shadow over it. He shivered.
Cat’s Quill | 73
His mind must still be playing tricks after what had happened that morning. Cathal had not disappeared into thin air, and someone local obviously had a fixation for roses. While Tomas did not usually believe in coincidences, some days they served good purpose. Opening the book, he placed the rose petal he held next to the daisy already sitting inside the front cover and closed the book on both of them. Removing his jumper, he took off the T-shirt he wore underneath, reached into the bottom drawer of the dresser, and rummaged around for a longsleeved top. If he was going to spend the afternoon sitting outside, he was going to be warm. Feeling more comfortable in his own clothes once more, he hesitated, grabbed the jumper from the bed, and put it back on. It was nice and warm; he‟d always liked Aran knitwear and missed his old one when it had mysteriously disappeared after Kathleen had complained about the holes in it breeding even more holes. This jumper, though there was a slight variation in the cable pattern across the front of it, was very similar to the one he‟d worn out, right down to the off-cream color of the wool, which was weird in itself as it was Donovan‟s, and he had a definite preference for black. Shoving what he needed into his bag, he headed toward the door, paused, and then picked the T-shirt up off the floor where he‟d thrown it. He‟d promised to give it to Heidi, and she had offered scones in return. Idly, he wondered if Cathal liked scones. Or if he‟d be there. Tomas shoved any thoughts that maybe Cathal was a product of wishful thinking, or an overactive imagination, out of his mind. People didn‟t just fade into nothing like that, yet Tomas had a feeling that if he confronted Cathal about what had really happened, a straightforward answer would probably not be forthcoming. He sighed. While it would be reassuring to know he wasn‟t losing his mind, for the moment he‟d settle for time and conversation. Knowing his luck, he‟d find an empty field and spend the afternoon with a pen and a blank page in his journal, as even his muse decided to desert him for better prospects elsewhere. Banging the bedroom door behind him, he stalked out into the hallway, already halfway down the stairs when he suddenly remembered the painting on the landing above. Unsure as to how it had slipped his mind when he‟d been so intent on looking at it, Tomas changed direction and began climbing upward. He appeared to be the only visitor at the inn. The doors of the other guest quarters were ajar to, presumably, let the sun shine through and to air the rooms. Curious, he peered into the one directly above his own to confirm his suspicions that it was outfitted identically. Disappointed that it was, he pulled the door to again. Although he knew it was unreasonable, he‟d hoped his was unique.
74 | Anne Barwell
Like you? The smirk was obvious in the voice in his head. He scowled. Yes, he was definitely losing it. Hearing voices, even that of his obviously illtempered muse, was supposed to be the first sign of madness, wasn‟t it? No, he assured himself; that was if he ever fell into the trap of answering back. After all, it was common knowledge that arguing with muses was a waste of time as they either ignored whatever didn‟t suit their purpose or just went their own way. Much like a lot of people he knew. It took him a few minutes to find the painting. Instead of being in a place that displayed it in full glory, it was hung at the end of the corridor outside the door that led into what once must have been the master bedroom, as it was twice the size of the other rooms. The sun from the window of the bedroom streamed into the hallway, flooding the watercolor painting with light and giving it a feeling of warmth that seemed to reach out and touch him. Taking a step closer made it more difficult to make out the details, the swipes of silken colors made by the artist‟s brush flowing into each other. Resisting the urge to reach out and run his finger over the canvas, Tomas moved back a bit until he could view it as a whole, and it was far enough away so that he could ignore the temptation to touch. He‟d always been a tactile person when it came to things, loving to caress the covers of books in particular. People were a completely different matter. Inanimate objects were safe; they couldn‟t react in return and demand what he found difficult to give. The painting was of a tree standing proud, its branches lifting toward an orange-red sky, the sun disappearing, the in-between-times of old Celtic mythology caught perfectly, neither day nor night but that moment when one merges into the other. Tomas‟s breath hitched, caught up in the magic of it. Figures stood under the tree, grass growing past their ankles so that they appeared to be a part of the landscape rather than trespassing onto it. Vague rather than defined, caught out of time yet giving the impression that they were exactly where they were meant to be. He shivered suddenly, unsure why. The landscape of the painting seemed familiar, as though he had seen it before somewhere, but his memories refused to cooperate, telling him that it couldn‟t be, as something was not quite right about it. Peering closely, he confirmed the artist‟s name, his lips turning up into a smile that at least one part of this puzzle was falling into place, even if it just brought with it more questions. Although she was not a part of his quest to find the sequel to Emerys‟s book, it felt as though they were connected somehow. Tomas shrugged, reading the date under her name. 1916. If Alice knew any of the answers he sought, it was far too late to ask her. Although he‟d known she had died, the date on the painting brought it home.
Cat’s Quill | 75
She had lived a lifetime ago, close to two lifetimes ago. The tree stared back at him through time, the figures beneath it probably long gone as well. It was an oak, the same as the one that stood outside, the sun catching the hair of those standing under the tree, soft white-blond strands shifting in an invisible wind making the whole scene feel as though Tomas was sharing a private moment he had no right to be a part of. He blinked, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of déjà vu. This inn and the surrounding area and people felt more welcoming than anywhere he‟d been before; he would almost be tempted to give in to the feeling that it was a place he could belong but for the sheer ridiculousness of the notion. Tomas had let himself feel as though he belonged before, not only to places but to people, and it had never lasted. Nothing ever did. Even between himself and Kathleen, there was still a final, thin wall he would not allow her to cross for fear of the risk of losing her as he‟d lost everyone else he‟d ever truly cared for. “Tomas! Where is that T-shirt?” Heidi yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “I‟ve got the machine set to go, and I‟m waiting on you.” Picking up his bag, he swung it over his shoulder, retrieving the T-shirt from the floor. After one final glance at the scene on the wall, he walked briskly down the stairs, torn between wanting to stay and stare at it longer and needing to get away from the memories it had unearthed as quickly as possible. The smell of freshly brewed coffee met him at the kitchen door, and he sniffed the air appreciatively. In her hands Heidi was holding a Thermos and a warm tea-towel-wrapped package. “I‟ll swap you,” she said. “This for the Tshirt.” His eyebrow rose. “That‟s bribery,” he said, handing over the black, scrunched-up material. Even so, it was a very fair arrangement. “Yes.” She grinned, keeping her side of the bargain. “It‟s very effective though, isn‟t it?” “You‟re an evil woman, Heidi.” The scones felt wonderfully warm through the linen tea towel, although Tomas pointedly ignored the two leprechauns drawn on the fabric who appeared to be smirking at him. His imagination really needed a good talking to. “I can be, if I‟m sufficiently motivated.” Her tone was quite serious, and he looked up at her in surprise only to find her smiling at him. “Go sit under your tree and do whatever it is you writers do.” She mock-pushed him out of her kitchen. “I have things to finish and places to go.” Heidi paused. “You and Donovan did look after my Land Rover, didn‟t you?”
76 | Anne Barwell
“I wasn‟t driving,” Tomas was quick to point out. Her eyes narrowed. “But yes, we were very careful,” he added rapidly, “to make sure nothing happened.” Heidi snorted. “I‟ll have a word with Donovan before I head out this afternoon, once I check to see if I still have a gear box and a clutch left.” Her brow creased to match her eyes. Tomas decided this would be a very good time to leave, before he got an interrogation that would put the Gestapo to shame. “I‟ll go now, shall I?” He paused in the doorway to readjust his bag so he could balance the Thermos and scones. “After all, you have things to do and places to be.” Her eyes narrowed still more, and she muttered something under her breath. “It‟s nice to see you boys have been bonding,” she continued, her smile firmly back on her face but not as reassuring as it had been several moments beforehand. “Umm, yes.” It was time for a very strategic and much more rapid retreat. Without waiting for an answer, Tomas headed for the front door, feeling a sense of relief wash over him as he stepped outside into the fresh air. Heidi reminded him a little too much of Kathleen. He shuddered at the sudden mental image of them together comparing notes; it truly was the stuff of nightmares. Something soft yet insistent rubbed up against his leg, and he glanced down to see a familiar black cat staring up at him. Bending down, he patted her, rewarded for his effort by loud purring and her sniffing the carefully wrapped scones. “Cupboard love, I see,” he told her, shaking his head. “If you‟re around when I eat them, I suppose you might get a small piece if you ask nicely.” The cat‟s ears stood up on end and then settled back against her head, almost as though she‟d understood. She meowed softly and began trotting toward the field where the old oak stood. Tomas watched her for a moment and then followed, ignoring the nagging feeling that he was being led, the very idea ridiculous as he was going there anyway. The grass was damp after the rainfall they‟d had that morning, long enough in places to brush against the bottoms of his jeans; he wondered when it had been mowed last or whether it was kept this length deliberately. In the distance a cow mooed, protesting something, and he shaded his eyes from the sun, which had decided to peek out from clearing skies, to see if he could spot the animal. Instead, a glimpse of white-blond caught the corner of his eye. He blinked, turning in the direction of the tree, but could only see Blackthorn sauntering slowly toward it.
Cat’s Quill | 77
Long grass. An oak tree. Blond hair. Tomas stopped, his heart thumping as realization struck. God, how could he have missed this? Forcing himself to turn full circle, he made himself slowly take in his surroundings, comparing them piece by piece until he had two pictures in his mind side by side. Ninety years was a long time, and even nature changed and aged, though at a slower pace than people. “Only love and imagination are always young,” he whispered, the Keats verse coming unbidden to his mind. This had been what he‟d seen in Alice‟s painting, the magic he‟d been unable to put a finger on. The inn had been hers, this field somewhere she had loved. He swallowed, shivering. Even though he‟d been here before, the painting was like seeing someone familiar but much younger, out of reach, intangible, only viewable as a watercolor of a frozen snapshot of time, its present, much older version merely an echo of that. This place still had some magic to it though, didn‟t it? What Alice had captured was not truly gone, just faded. It was still the same place, just older, and he was being an idiot. The tree stood unmoving, its leaves a painted picture in the breeze which caressed like fingers against Tomas‟s face. Bringing his hand to his eyes, he rubbed at them. He had work to do today, and being distracted by fanciful ideas of personifying nature was something he could not afford to do. Novels did not write themselves, and he had already spent far more of the day out socializing than he had originally intended. By the time he reached the base of the tree, Blackthorn was sitting under it washing herself, one paw examined in detail before rubbing it over her ear and starting on the next. Dumping his belongings on the ground, Tomas sat down himself, leaning his back against the large trunk, ignoring the dampness seeping through his jeans. At least the foliage had provided the ground with some shelter from the rain, although the occasional drop of water landing on his hair was somewhat annoying. Readjusting his position to avoid the branch in question, he unscrewed the lid of the Thermos and took an appreciative whiff of the freshly brewed coffee. Blackthorn stopped washing herself and gazed at the tea towel on his lap as if to say “What about me?” He opened his mouth to tell her she was pushing it but closed it again, something brown moving out from behind the tree just as he realized he was about to waste his time attempting to get the better of a cat. Blackthorn shifted her attention to the small hedgehog immediately, her body moving from relaxed to ready to stalk. Ignoring the cat, the small animal sniffed the air, scampering toward Tomas‟s lap. Tomas glared at it and Blackthorn. “My scones!” he muttered, determined they were not going to steal more than just crumbs.
78 | Anne Barwell
Both animals looked at him, almost as though they thought he was delusional. Yes, his imagination was out in force today. Next he‟d be hearing them speaking, further proof as to the state of his mind, or lack thereof. “Are you going to share those?” The soft voice by his ear made Tomas jump, the tea towel he‟d been opening falling toward the ground only to be caught just in time. Cathal chuckled. “Sorry,” he apologized when Tomas glared up at him. “Did I startle you?” “No, of course not.” Tomas tried to sound casual. After all, people appeared out of thin air every day, just as they made a habit of disappearing into it. “I had the situation completely under control.” Cathal raised an eyebrow. “So you make a habit of talking to cats and hedgehogs and not sharing your scones with them, hmm?” Blackthorn meowed. Cathal handed Tomas the tea towel and sat down against the tree next to him, holding out his hand for Blackthorn to sniff. The hedgehog turned to look at him as well, staring for a moment before rolling into a still ball. “How did you know I have scones?” Tomas demanded suspiciously, watching Blackthorn lick Cathal‟s hand and jump onto his lap. Bloody cat. She might be lucky and get some crumbs, but she wasn‟t taking over completely. “It‟s nice to see you again too, Tomas.” Cathal seemed almost amused by Tomas‟s reaction. “Yes, I know you like them,” he told Blackthorn, petting the cat under her chin. “Let‟s hope Heidi‟s made the kind with raisins she usually does.” “Sultanas,” Tomas corrected absently, noticing the twinkle in Cathal‟s eye as he spoke and feeling very much like Cathal had an advantage over him. There was so much he didn‟t know about Cathal, so much he wanted to know. “I didn‟t know you knew Heidi. She‟s never mentioned you.” Cathal smiled. “We‟ve never met.” Blackthorn growled low in her throat. “Ah yes, sultanas.” He sighed, leaning back against the tree, the movement causing his leg to brush against Tomas‟s. Tomas grabbed his bag and looked for the spare mug he could have sworn he‟d thrown in there earlier that day, and hoped Cathal wouldn‟t notice the heat spreading across his face. “I‟ve never had the privilege of actually tasting her scones. I‟ve only admired them from a distance.” His tone grew wistful, and his eyes clouded over in memory. “It‟s the simple things like stealing fresh baking that I miss.” There was a pause and a rueful smile. “Even if I did get my hand smacked for it.” “You stole baking?” Tomas tried to visualize what Cathal must have been like as a child. One of those who could get away with just about anything with wide eyes and an innocent expression, he figured. “From whom and what
Cat’s Quill | 79
happened?” His voice softened. “I couldn‟t imagine someone staying mad at you for long.” “You‟d be surprised.” Cathal‟s tone was bitter for a moment, his hands clenching into fists. Tomas looked up at him in surprise, but the angry expression fled Cathal‟s face instantly as though someone had taken a cloth and wiped it away to replace it with a smile that didn‟t reach his eyes. “She was a very dear friend whom I miss terribly.” The cat on his lap whined in her throat, and Cathal stroked her absently, soothing her. “It was a long time ago, but I remember it still as though it was yesterday.” “I‟m sorry.” Tomas moved a little closer, wanting to put an arm around Cathal to comfort him but unsure as to how the gesture might be taken. “It‟s difficult when friends are angry with each other.” “No! She—” Blackthorn meowed loudly and jumped off Cathal‟s lap, stalking off before settling in the grass a short distance away. “We were friends; the anger was never between us.” He gave the cat a stubborn look and shook his head, his next words soft. “It wasn‟t your fault either.” “Cat?” Tomas wondered if she, whoever she was, had been allowed to use the nickname. “Are you okay?” Normal people did not talk to cats as Cathal was doing now. Whatever had happened to Cathal, however long ago, it still hurt him badly. Even though they had only known each other a very short time, there was no mistaking the regret in his voice, the slumping of his shoulders, and the way he was moving slowly away, putting emotional as well as physical distance between them. “I am fine. This is something I should know better than to talk about.” Cathal dragged himself across the grass, putting more distance between them. He settled down on his bottom, crossing his legs, his body language suggesting Tomas should not attempt to get any closer. “Could I have some of your coffee, please? And a scone, if you don‟t mind sharing? Perhaps you could show me what you‟re working on today?” The change of subject was abrupt and not at all subtle, but Tomas decided, for the moment at least, to respect Cathal‟s need to move on. Once he got to know him better and felt more confident, he would attempt to broach this topic again. “I brought an extra cup in case you wanted some. I wasn‟t sure you liked coffee.” Again Tomas was treated to the fake smile. “I enjoy coffee and don‟t get the opportunity often. It‟s not a common beverage where I am from.” Cathal ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I‟m sorry, Tomas. It‟s better this way.” He took the cup of hot coffee Tomas offered, their fingers brushing briefly.
80 | Anne Barwell
“It‟s all right, Cat,” he said softly, trying to sound reassuring. “One day when you‟re ready, we can talk. In the meantime we can share coffee and scones, okay?” Tomas unwrapped the scones, laying the tea towel out on the grass between them so they could both help themselves. “Heidi‟s sent more than enough, so have what you like. They‟re better fresh.” Not letting go of his coffee, Cathal edged forward until he was sitting closer but kept the tea towel between them. Slowly he picked up a scone and took a tentative bite, chewing thoughtfully. He grinned, his mouth full. “This is very good, much better than the last scone I had.” A slight chuckle escaped his lips. “Alice‟s cooking always smelt wonderful, but the taste left something to be desired. Her skills lay elsewhere, but she was determined to be domesticated. It could be quite amusing at times.” “Alice?” Tomas stilled, scone midway to his own mouth, his brain making connections that had to be impossible. “Did she live locally? I don‟t think I‟ve met her as yet.” “She used to.” Cathal finished his scone and took another gulp of coffee, throwing the couple of large crumbs on his lap in the direction of the rolledup hedgehog. “But I doubt you knew her.” His tone was suddenly very factual. “Alice Edmonds. She and my cousin were together a long time ago.” “Were?” Tomas felt himself relax, chastising himself for thinking Cathal‟s Alice and his could be connected. After all, it was a common enough name; even Emerys had used it. Even if they were distantly related, which was unlikely, and Cathal might have some clues to what Tomas was seeking, that would mean confessing that he‟d had no luck finding the sequel to the book, and he wasn‟t ready to admit to that as yet. “Nothing lasts forever, Tomas. Love isn‟t always enough.” Cathal glanced toward the sky, his gaze lingering on a patch of white meandering across an otherwise uninterrupted sea of blue. “However much you want it to be.” He placed his cup on the ground, his eyes darting to the tree and back. “It has to be, sometimes,” Tomas insisted. “It‟s one of the reasons I write, to create a place where it could be, rather than just a hope that never eventuates.” He followed Cathal‟s line of vision to the tree, but there was nothing there apart from Blackthorn, who was watching the hedgehog, who had uncurled and was eating the crumbs Cathal had tossed it. Cathal raised one eyebrow. “I didn‟t think you wrote romances, although I thought there were some hints that one of the couples could have been together.” He paused. “But it was never confirmed or denied. It was one of the things I liked about the book you gave me. The other was that they were making their own future rather than the one dictated for them by the expectations of their society.” Cathal looked suddenly embarrassed, almost
Cat’s Quill | 81
guilty. “I haven‟t returned it, as my sister wanted to read it too. I hope that is okay. She was curious but promised to be careful.” “That‟s fine,” Tomas reassured him, wondering if he would get to meet this sister or in fact find out where exactly Cathal was from. He frowned, realization striking. “There weren‟t any couples as such in that book,” he pointed out slowly. “Just the two men who….” “I thought had a connection,” Cathal finished, picking up another scone and chewing thoughtfully. “I‟m sorry, was I wrong?” He sighed. “I was almost certain they might kiss when they were watching the stars on that last night before they went into battle, especially as there was a good chance that Alan might not return.” “No, you weren‟t wrong.” Tomas ran his finger around the edge of his coffee cup, biting down on his lower lip. “I….” It felt weird admitting this to someone, but also a weight off his shoulders in light of his current project. “They were meant to, but I felt uncomfortable writing two men kissing.” His muse had refused to talk to him for weeks afterward, but Tomas had refused to give in or admit to himself why considering changing the ending of the book made him so uneasy. “Why?” Cathal‟s rather direct question wasn‟t what Tomas had been expecting. Actually he wasn‟t sure what reaction he had expected. His fingers going to his mouth, he remembered Cathal‟s lips brushing against his in passing when they had just met. But that hadn‟t been a kiss, just a…. “Why did it make you uncomfortable?” Cathal was staring at him intently. Tomas told himself there was not a right or a wrong answer to this. He would be honest, and if Cathal didn‟t like it, that was his problem. “I….” Tomas swallowed, giving himself a swift mental kick. He could do this. “I thought if I wrote it, people might think I was, um….” Those bloody leprechauns stared back at him when he examined the tea towel. He chose to ignore them. “You know… gay.” Cathal looked at him blankly. “Gay?” Wherever he was from, he obviously had no idea what the word meant. Fuck, that meant Tomas would have to spell it out. Another gulp of coffee did nothing to steady his nervousness. This was definitely not the reaction he‟d been expecting, especially after the effort it had taken him to admit it. Speaking slowly, Tomas forced himself to meet Cathal‟s gaze straight on. “Gay,” he repeated. “That I‟m… interested in other men.” Cathal was watching him very intently, as though waiting for him to elaborate. “Romantically and sexually,” he finished somewhat lamely. There, it was done, and he was out.
82 | Anne Barwell
“Oh,” said Cathal, frowning. “I‟m sorry, but I don‟t understand why this would be an issue. None of us choose who we fall in love with, and what does it matter whether it is with a man or a woman?” Where the hell was he from? Tomas stared at him, trying to force his brain and his voice to work, ignoring the slow flush spreading through his body as Cathal‟s gaze didn‟t falter. “Some people don‟t think that way.” “I see.” Cathal looked Tomas up and down. “So,” he continued softly, “are you?” “Am I what?” A strand of hair fell over Cathal‟s eyes, and Tomas wanted very badly to reach over and brush it from his face. He took another sip of coffee, feeling uncomfortable. It wasn‟t that he didn‟t like the way in which Cathal seemed to be focusing on him so intently, which was odd in itself, as he normally hated being the center of attention even in a one-on-one situation. Cathal smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Interested in another man romantically and sexually?” Why couldn‟t he have just asked Tomas if he were gay? That would have been much easier to answer. Wouldn‟t it? Tomas licked his lips slowly, his mouth still dry. “I might be.” His mind screamed at him not to be such a bloody idiot, but he ignored it and blurted out something else, something that was supposed to be safer and would change the subject. “It wasn‟t the only reason I didn‟t write them kissing.” “Of course it wasn‟t.” It was difficult to tell whether Cathal was agreeing or teasing. “So….” Cathal was still watching him intently. He seemed somewhat flushed himself, or maybe that was wishful thinking on Tomas‟s part? After all, Tomas had only said he might be interested in someone. The statement wasn‟t specific enough to be an admission one way or another. “Are you going to tell me the other reason, or do I have to guess?” Instead of answering, Tomas dug into his bag and pulled out his writing journal. Leafing through it, he found the scene he was working on and handed the journal to Cathal. “I have the same problem with this scene,” he explained. Damn his bloody muse, who sure as hell wasn‟t going to take the same excuses Tomas had made last time, especially after what he‟d just admitted to Cathal. “I umm….” He swallowed, noticing how Cathal seemed to be almost devouring the words he was reading, even though it was a snippet out of context. “I‟ve never been kissed by another man,” he finally said. Cathal looked up at Tomas, his voice soft, wistful. “Neither have I.” His head lowered again quickly, his attention once more taken by the words on the page in front of him. “I really like this,” he said finally, the journal still open on his lap. “They both feel so awkward and yet it‟s obvious they have
Cat’s Quill | 83
some kind of feelings for each other.” He blushed, pink dusting his pale skin to spread from his cheeks down his neck and throat to disappear into the top of his loose shirt. “At least it reads like that to me.” “They do,” Tomas said, crossing his legs at the ankle and then uncrossing them again. “I just….” How could he explain this without feeling like a complete idiot? “I don‟t want to ruin it by writing something I know nothing about.” God, why had he put it like that? Maybe it wasn‟t too late to just ignore this whole conversation and find a large hole to bury himself in. “I see.” Cathal wiped his palms on his trousers and then turned the page of the journal back and forth, his eyes scanning the words again. “Maybe I could help?” he suggested. “Can you tell me what the story is about so I can get more of an idea of what this kiss should, er… involve?” “Involve?” Tomas‟s voice sounded strained to his own ears. He coughed, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Umm, it‟s about a writer who meets someone he thinks might be a muse.” “I see.” Cathal nodded slowly. “Why does he think that?” He edged closer to Tomas, the book still balanced carefully on his lap. “He‟s drawn to this person he‟s not long met.” The explanation sounded somewhat weak now that Tomas had to actually explain it to someone else. “It‟s like they have a connection….” “Like Alan and Roger in your other book?” Cathal frowned. “That doesn‟t explain why—” He checked the name. “—Deimos might be a muse though, but then I haven‟t read enough.” Tomas opened his mouth to explain more, how Deimos seemed to appear and disappear out of thin air, how he seemed otherworldly, how Mark kept thinking about him all the time. Cathal placed one hand on Tomas‟s knee, his breath warm against Tomas‟s face. “Cat? What are you doing?” “I‟m getting into character.” Cathal reached over and brushed Tomas‟s hair from his face. “You‟re a writer, so you need to be Mark. That leaves me the role of the muse.” His voice was barely a whisper. “This scene is too good for it to be abandoned like the other one.” His eyes dropped to the page and back again. He licked his lips, his fingers tightening on Tomas‟s knee. Tomas‟s breath hitched. “Yes, it is.” He swallowed again, reaching out his own hand to caress Cathal‟s cheek, echoing Mark‟s actions in his book. “I don‟t want you to leave,” he whispered, his words following the script, his heart speeding up. Cathal closed his eyes as he followed Tomas‟s cue, slipping into a role that could have been written for him. “I think I‟m in love with you,” he murmured.
84 | Anne Barwell
Their lips brushed together, tentatively, awkwardly. Tomas pulled away, unsure, his breathing growing ragged, Cathal‟s skin warm under his fingers, soft but for the slight stubble across his lower cheek, blond facial hair almost invisible. Tomas leaned in again, his lips parting this time in invitation as he pressed their mouths together. Cathal moaned softly, opening his own lips, leaning into it, his fingers threading through Tomas‟s hair. Wet skin, soft and inviting, tasting of coffee and something else Tomas could only describe as uniquely Cathal. It felt right, better than anything Tomas could have imagined. He whimpered, pulling Cathal to him, convincing himself for that moment they weren‟t playacting, that this was real, that the man in his arms was someone who loved him. The need to breathe drove them apart. Cathal‟s eyes opened with a start, searching Tomas‟s. “I‟m sorry,” he whispered. “Don‟t be.” Tomas traced Cathal‟s lips with his fingers, committing the scene to memory, allowing himself a photograph he realized he wanted frozen in his mind forever. “I‟m not.”
Cat’s Quill | 85
Chapter 8
INSTEAD
of answering, Cathal kissed Tomas‟s fingertips, removing them from his lips one by one, and then, threading his fingers through Tomas‟s, he rested their joined hands on his own knee. Leaning in, he kissed Tomas again, this time on the lips. Tomas moaned softly, losing himself in the sensation, embracing Cathal, pulling him closer. Something sharp dug into his leg and pain raced up his thigh. Breaking the kiss, he glared down at whatever had dared interrupt. Blackthorn glared back at him, a low growl deep in her throat, pressing her paws down onto his leg, the pressure from them reminding him of her presence although she‟d now retracted her claws. Cathal muttered something under his breath but kept holding Tomas‟s hand, stroking it with his thumb. Blackthorn edged herself between them, watching both of them in turn. She growled again. Tomas pushed at her, but she refused to move. This was ridiculous. The first time he‟d kissed someone, and better still someone who had kissed him back, and the moment was lost to some bloody cat. After several minutes of said cat eyeballing both of them, Cathal sighed. “I‟m sorry, Tomas. Maybe we should just talk for a while instead.” He let go of Tomas‟s hand slowly. Blackthorn purred loudly, stuck her tail in the air, and walked away, settling down about half a meter away, still watching both of them carefully. While Tomas didn‟t blame him for not wanting to give the thing a show, he could have quite cheerfully roasted the cat over an open fire. “We could,” Tomas finally said, wanting to tell Cathal how much he‟d enjoyed the kiss and how he‟d like to do it again. “Can you stay awhile? I‟d like to spend some time together and get to know each other.” “I‟d like that, and I can stay while it is still light.” Cathal gestured toward the Thermos. “Could I have another cup of coffee? It was very good.” “You have to be home by dark?” Tomas couldn‟t help but raise an eyebrow while he grabbed the Thermos and poured Cathal more coffee. He seemed a little old for a curfew. Though appearances could be deceiving, he
86 | Anne Barwell
would put Cathal‟s age close to his own, if maybe a couple of years younger, but that still made him in at least his mid-twenties. “While the light is still on the tree, yes.” The wording was odd, and Cathal looked somewhat apologetic. “I broke rules a long time ago, and now I am on somewhat of a short leash.” He glanced at Blackthorn. The cat curled herself into a ball and closed her eyes, looking bored. Cathal dropped his voice to a whisper. “I enjoyed the kiss. I‟d….” He blushed, his voice lowering still further. “I‟d like to do it again sometime.” “I enjoyed kissing you too.” Tomas offered Cathal a scone, then refilled his own cup. “I‟d like to kiss you again.” He kept his voice low to match Cathal‟s. Taking the scone, Cathal smiled. “I‟d like that too, but today I think we should just talk.” He cleared his throat and ran his hands through his hair; it was obviously a nervous gesture. “So, as we were discussing your book, is there anything else you‟d like some help with?” A helpful suggestion ran through Tomas‟s mind, but he squashed it quickly. They had only shared a kiss. He did not want to scare Cathal off by suggesting anything further. It was important they get to know each other first. Cathal took a bite of his scone, his Adam‟s apple bobbing as he chewed. Staring at it, at the pale complexion of Cathal‟s skin, Tomas wondered what it would be like to kiss him there. Grabbing his coffee, he took a quick gulp. “Umm, now they‟ve kissed, I‟m not sure what should happen next.” He retrieved the journal from where it had fallen from Cathal‟s lap onto the grass. “I know the overall plot, but it‟s the day to day details I‟m hazy about.” Cathal nodded thoughtfully. “If you want them to have a relationship that is going to last, it might be better if they get to know each other properly rather than rushing into anything.” The last of the scone disappeared to be followed by more coffee. “It‟s difficult to love someone you don‟t know, although the heart does not always listen to that reasoning.” “No, it doesn‟t.” Tomas leaned back against the tree, flicking through the pages of his journal. “There is more to the plot than just their relationship though,” he revealed. “Considering Mark thinks Deimos is a muse, I had thought there might be.” Cathal‟s expression was perfectly straight-faced, although the corner of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “So, is he?” “Hmm?” Tomas met Cathal‟s gaze blankly, his brain caught between attempting to remember what exactly had been said and working out the color of Cathal‟s eyes. They seemed to shift between blue and green depending on his mood, a reflection of the countryside around them and yet unique like Cathal himself. When they had kissed the second time, the color had
Cat’s Quill | 87
deepened to a shade reminiscent of the depths of the ocean during a storm. Tomas had been caught in a boat once a few years ago when he‟d been talked into going fishing; being exposed on the turbulent waters with little protection had been both scary and exhilarating. “Is he a muse?” Cathal helped himself to another scone, pushing the last one toward Tomas. “He certainly doesn‟t seem to have the knowledge of Mark‟s world that he should, but there could be other explanations for that.” He split the scone open and picked out a sultana, tongue curling around it to disappear back into his mouth. Forcing himself to stop staring, Tomas swallowed, his hands gripping the sides of his journal, the leather binding damp under his fingertips. “I don‟t know yet. I‟m waiting for Deimos to tell me.” He‟d long given up on planning too much of his novels in advance as the very mention of the word “plot” seemed to lead to arguments with muses who did what they wanted anyway. “I‟m sure he will when it suits him.” He paused, noting the bemused look on Cathal‟s face. “Don‟t tell me, you think I should know because I‟m the writer, and the characters aren‟t really real?” It was a topic he and Ethan had debated many times over, both refusing to waver from their point of view. But then Ethan wasn‟t a writer; he didn‟t realize what was involved in the writing process and had gone as far as to tell Tomas that he was a little eccentric at times. “Do you believe they are real?” Cathal‟s question seemed serious enough, although Tomas found himself checking to make sure he was not being made fun of. No, Cathal seemed to be taking this whole conversation at face value. Tomas did not get the opportunity to talk to other writers often, and although Cathal had not shared a manuscript of his own, he appeared to respect Tomas‟s views and wanted to discuss them further. “That would depend on your definition of reality.” Tomas was still cautious in his reply. “They are real in my mind,” he explained further when Cathal nodded slowly, waiting for elaboration. “If they weren‟t, I couldn‟t write them realistically, and after all, how can I expect readers to believe in something I don‟t?” “Belief is important,” Cathal agreed. The hedgehog edged out from under the shade of the tree, and he threw it a few crumbs. “It is also very much tied into how you define reality.” Drawing his knees up close to his body, he rested his arms on them now he‟d finished his coffee and scones, his attention still intently focused on Tomas. “I think that if you believe in something, it‟s real on some level. If Mark believes Deimos is his muse, maybe he is. In the end, I‟m not sure it matters who Deimos is, just that he inspires Mark to write and become the person he needs to be in order to express his thoughts and emotions.”
88 | Anne Barwell
Tomas had not really thought about it in that way before, but it made sense. Picking up his pen, he turned to the back of his journal and noted down Cathal‟s theories, sure that he could incorporate them into the story somewhere. Realizing what he was doing, he looked up, suddenly embarrassed. “Is it okay if I use some of this conversation in the story? I‟ll credit you, of course, as having had some input.” “That‟s fine.” Cathal shook his head. “But there‟s no need to give me any credit. I enjoy talking with you, and I don‟t often get the chance to discuss ideas such as these.” He sighed, shifting his arms and stretching his body out, his shirt riding up slightly to expose the lacings at the top of his trousers. “Why not?” It seemed odd that same-sex relationships were acceptable where Cathal came from, but subjects such as this appeared not to be. “I can‟t believe someone wouldn‟t want to spend time with you. I‟ve been hoping all day that you would be here when….” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he‟d said. “I mean… um….” His voice trailed off, the damage already done. “Thank you.” Cathal rewarded him with a shy smile. “I‟d hoped that you would be here too.” He edged closer, placing his empty cup in front of Tomas‟s bag, his fingers playing with the zipper on the side pocket for a few moments until he noticed what he was doing and stopped abruptly. “I‟ve been somewhat ostracized amongst my people since….” He shrugged. “I keep to myself mostly, apart from a few friends I can trust. It‟s lonely, but at least that way I get to keep the little freedom I do have.” “Your people?” Tomas felt his anger rise that they had treated Cathal in this way. What the hell could he have done to elicit that kind of behavior? Did the short leash he‟d spoken of and the reference to having to be home before dark mean that he was under some kind of house arrest? Cathal glanced around nervously, lowering his voice. “I‟m not from around here, but don‟t ask me to tell you any more than that, because I can‟t.” He lifted his head, his tone stubborn. “It is not safe for you to know, and I will not put you at risk. I know what it‟s like to have your life ruined and to lose what you hold dear, and you deserve better than that.” “Don‟t tell me what I deserve or don‟t.” Tomas snorted. “I think that‟s my decision to make, not yours.” Cathal flinched at the anger in Tomas‟s voice, even though it was not directed at him but at whoever was responsible for whatever had happened. Tomas took a couple of deep breaths and reached over to place his hand over Cathal‟s. “What happened, Cat?” he asked softly. “What did you do that they thought was so bad?” “I broke the rules, and apparently society has them for good reason.” Cathal closed his eyes but didn‟t pull away. “I did what I thought was right,
Cat’s Quill | 89
and I stand by that decision. People are more important than any damn rules, but unfortunately we got caught and they decided that „transgressors needed to be held up as an example in case others were tempted by the same evil‟.” After finishing what sounded suspiciously like a lesson that had been repeated several times, his voice suddenly grew distant and sad. “The punishment the elders chose for my part in it is a reminder of that and, according to them, fit the crime.” He opened his eyes again but didn‟t meet Tomas‟s. “It was still preferable to what was done to those who were with me. They lost each other, Tomas. It was too high a price.” Tomas searched for words that might comfort Cathal, but he couldn‟t find any. Nor did he want to ask anything further, his curiosity taking a backseat to the need to offer comfort in whatever way he could. He edged closer, deciding that it didn‟t matter how his desire to hold Cathal was taken; it would provide what words couldn‟t. “No.” Cathal shook his head, removing his hand from under Tomas‟s and putting space between them. “I have said far more than I should have, more than I have in a very long time. You listen to me, and you care.” A smile creased his lips, although his eyes remained misty. “I should be more careful. I‟m sorry; it‟s just been so long since I‟ve had anyone to talk to like this.” “Anything you tell me remains between us.” It was important that Cathal knew he was safe, that Tomas wouldn‟t betray his trust. He reached out his hand, but Cathal folded up the tea towel and placed it between them, marking a line he appeared not to want to cross. “We can talk about something else if you‟d prefer.” Cathal stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Yes, I know I can trust you,” he said softly. “But I have said enough.” Gazing at the sky, which was beginning to cloud over, he held out one hand. Tomas stared at it. After what they‟d talked about, the kiss they‟d shared, he wanted to shake hands? Nevertheless, Tomas pulled himself to his feet, a knot growing in his stomach, and shook the offered hand, the action more awkward even though it was far less intimate. “I‟d still like to see you again,” he said finally. “Will you be here tomorrow?” “I‟ll try,” Cathal promised apologetically. He let go of Tomas‟s hand, shaking the last of the scone crumbs from his shirt. “I‟d… I want us to be friends, more than friends if we can be. If that is what you want.” Blackthorn stirred, opening her eyes, although Tomas thought it unlikely that the cat had been asleep at all during their conversation. She seemed to be watching Cathal. Could she be a part of what had happened, there to ensure that Cathal did not break any more rules? No, it was crazy. She was a cat, nothing more.
90 | Anne Barwell
Suddenly Cathal gave Tomas a quick hug, breaking it before Tomas had registered what had happened, and darted past him toward the tree behind him. “Cat?” he spluttered. “What?” Tomas spun around, determined to follow. The faint sound of music caused him to pause for a split second, delicate, almost ethereal, the thread of melody calling to him yet bringing with it the strong feeling that it was out of his reach. “Cat?” he called, but there was no reply. He walked around the back of the tree quickly, but there was no sign of Cathal or that he had ever been there. But this time Tomas was not left alone. Blackthorn yowled, a pitiful sound full of loss and regret. She stared at the tree and then Tomas. Tomas flinched at the accusatory stare from the animal but glared back. Blackthorn flicked her tail in the air, turned around, and began walking slowly back across the empty field. The sky above darkened still more, dusk approaching with a vengeance. Tomas sighed, stuffed his journal and the empty tea towel into his bag, and swung it over his shoulder, hooking the Thermos under his arm. There was no point in staying here now. He‟d go back to the inn and take refuge in his room for the evening. Heidi would probably be cooking dinner, but Tomas found he had quite lost his appetite.
HEIDI and Donovan were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when Tomas attempted to sneak past the open door toward the stairs. Whatever was on the menu for tea smelled spicy and delicious, he thought, unable to resist the temptation to stop and pour himself a cup of coffee. He sniffed the air and sighed at the added smell of garlic bread cooling. “Do you want to join us?” Donovan sounded amused. “You can sniff for as long you want then. If you think the smell is great now, it‟s even better once it comes out of the oven.” He copied Tomas‟s action, a look of pure bliss washing over his face. “Heidi‟s special sausage casserole is to die for.” The look changed to a grin. “I knew I kept her around for a reason.” The comment got him a flick over the head from the end of the tea towel Heidi had draped across her shoulder. “You can do the dishes tonight for that.” She gave him a mock glare. “Or you could get off your ass and fix my dishwasher. It‟s been over a week; paying for a tradesman would have been faster.”
Cat’s Quill | 91
“And more expensive,” Donovan pointed out. “I‟m waiting on the parts. I told you that already. It will be fixed by the middle of next week, promise.” He gave a mock bow. “When have I ever let you down?” Heidi raised an eyebrow. “Let‟s see,” she said. “There was that time two months ago when you told me you‟d—” “Women!” Donovan snorted. “They don‟t appreciate what you do for them, just focus on the shit that‟s complicated and takes longer.” He patted the spare seat and grinned at Tomas. “Are you going to take a seat or just stand there overdosing on the smell of garlic and sausages?” Shaking his head, Tomas picked up his coffee. Images of the kiss he and Cathal had shared kept replaying in his mind, what Cathal had told him merging with jumbled thoughts of the novel he was writing. “I‟m going to my room. What time should I come back for tea?” He needed some space and maybe a long hot shower to make sense of how he was feeling. The kiss had been real, not playacting. Or had it? Cathal had said he wanted to be more than friends, and yet he‟d still disappeared. Tomas shivered. The memory of Blackthorn‟s yowl after Cathal had gone was something he would not forget in a hurry. That bloody cat knew something. Absently Tomas rubbed his hand over the spot where Blackthorn had dug her claws in. It was still tender. He and Cathal had only been kissing; there had been no need for Blackthorn to be so damn overprotective or whatever the hell the reason was behind what she‟d done. He frowned. Cathal had backed off after that too. “Tomas? Are you okay?” Heidi was watching him carefully, her brows wrinkled in concern as she exchanged a worried glance with Donovan. “Huh?” Tomas looked at them both blankly. He had a tendency to space out when he was thinking; it was something he‟d been told about before, and he‟d been working on hiding it better. This was the first slipup he‟d had in quite some time, or at least that anyone had commented on. “No.” He changed his reply quickly. “Yes.” Gripping his coffee in one hand, he began walking out of the kitchen before either of them decided to ask any more questions. “I just need to shower, that‟s all. I‟ll be down in time to eat.” Missing meals tended to lead to more questions. Experience had taught him that lesson very well. “If you‟re not back in an hour, I‟m coming to find you,” Heidi called after him. “There‟s a clean towel on your bed, and don‟t use all the hot water.” The directions were followed by the sound of a muffled conversation Tomas didn‟t quite catch. “If you need to talk, yell.” Donovan‟s offer made Tomas stop with his foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Shrugging, he didn‟t bother replying
92 | Anne Barwell
and kept going, ignoring the little voice in his head suggesting that maybe at some point that might not be such a bad idea. Trudging up the stairs, Tomas thought about revisiting the painting for a split second and then ditched the idea. He was tired, and it had been a long day. The journey into town followed by lunch at the pub and talking to Cathal seemed to merge together so that it was difficult to think clearly. He threw his bag on the bed, crossed the room, and bent to rest his arms on the windowsill, ignoring the way in which the temperature was dropping and the cool breeze ruffled his hair through the open window. Squinting, he peered out across the field, just making out the outline of the tree. Although it wasn‟t yet dark but merely dusk, the soft glow of the moon only served to reinforce that feeling of between times and the concepts of belief and reality Cathal had talked about. He shivered, remembering Cathal‟s words about the light on the tree. It was a weird way of describing his need to be home by dark, but then nothing Cathal said appeared to be straightforward. Piecing together the snippets of information he‟d given was difficult, like a puzzle where nothing quite fit, or once it appeared to, the central piece was discovered to be in the wrong place. Those kinds of puzzles had always frustrated Tomas. As a child he‟d tried to force the pieces together until they fit the way he wanted them to, but as he‟d grown older he had learned that he needed to step back and look at the bigger picture. Puzzles that were not of the jigsaw type, problems that needed to be solved with clues, he had found other ways of dealing with. It was one of the reasons he‟d begun writing; it was a way of formulating his thoughts within the safety of the illusion of fiction. This might be one of those times where it would be a good idea to merge fact and fiction and use his novel to attempt to work through the breadcrumb trail he had been following. After all, he and Cathal had already role-played the kiss scene and discussed how things should progress from there. He‟d always been told to write what he knew, and fantasy was not a genre he had written before. Neither was romance. However, he was getting to know this village, and it was an ideal setting for the ideas taking shape in his mind. Maybe Cathal would enjoy helping him explore possibilities. He shrugged off his jumper, throwing the T-shirt onto the bed with it. He‟d told Heidi that he needed to shower, and taking one often helped him think. He‟d got a lot of his writing ideas while in the shower, the steady stream of warm water clearing his mind and helping to calm him when he was uptight after chewing over a frustrating problem. Kicking off his shoes and removing his socks, he walked across the corridor into the shared bathroom opposite his room. Entering the small cubicle, he closed and locked the door
Cat’s Quill | 93
behind him and turned on the shower, pulling off his jeans while he waited for the water to heat up and stepping out of his boxers. The water felt good against his skin, the sound of it something to focus on and center himself. Lathering the washcloth with a rough brown soap that looked handmade and smelled suspiciously like cinnamon, Tomas washed himself slowly and then stood under the water, letting it run over him while his mind worked through the events of the day. The library and the inn were connected by the roses. Alice‟s family had owned the inn; maybe she had liked roses? But she had been an artist, not an author, so the library didn‟t seem to fit. Unless it had been someone else in her family or a descendent who had planted the roses? Donovan had said at lunch that Heidi liked to know the history of places in which she lived. She had also left the rose in his room, so hopefully she would be able to help. Pouring shampoo into his hand, Tomas massaged it into his scalp, the crisp apple smell mixing with the cinnamon reminding him of apple crumble, one of his favorite desserts. Both she and Donovan had told him that he could talk to them anytime he needed. He didn‟t feel comfortable telling them what exactly was driving him to discover the information he sought, but he suspected Heidi at least might be happy to tell him more about the history of the village. It was the backdrop of the fictional village in his novel, with there being clear parallels between the two, his mind already drawing inspiration for his own characters from people he had met. He wasn‟t sure how she and Donovan might feel about a fictional version of their area making its way into print. Hopefully, they would be enthusiastic about the idea rather than angry, especially when he made it clear that he would make enough changes so that the area and the people would not be recognizable. A plan in place and feeling like he had a path to follow, Tomas finished rinsing off his hair and turned off the shower, pulling back the curtain to feel around for his towel. Where the hell was it? He blinked water out of his eyes and forced himself to scan the room. His clothing was on the floor where he‟d dropped it, the bathmat outside the shower cubicle soaked through where he‟d obviously not pulled the curtain across properly. Bending over, he picked up the bathmat, dropping it when the soggy thing dripped over the polished wooden floor. Bloody hell. “Tomas! Dinner‟s ready!” Heidi called from downstairs, her voice loud even through the closed bathroom door. “Do I need to come and get you?”
94 | Anne Barwell
She sounded annoyed, as though she‟d been kept waiting long enough. The noise of the shower must have drowned her out earlier. Quickly, Tomas shook his head, trying to get some of the water out of his hair, droplets scattering in all directions. Giving the bathmat a glare, he debated his options. Either he could pull on his jeans and get them wet, which would lead to an embarrassing explanation as to why they were, or he could make a run for it. Or he could wear his boxers. Picking them up, he groaned, remembering he‟d thrown them onto the bathmat when he‟d stepped into the shower. They were now wet through; the thin cotton material would leave nothing to the imagination. He might as well walk across the hallway naked. He opened the bathroom door, eyes darting toward the end of the corridor and the stairwell, listening for any sound of someone approaching. So far, so good. Clutching his jeans in front of him to give himself some cover, he judged the distance between this door and that of his room. He‟d always been a good runner; this was simply another race that he did not intend to lose. The temperature had dropped since he had ventured into the shower, goose bumps making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He could do this, no problem. Drawing himself up to his full height, determined to be dignified about this, he swiftly crossed the corridor just as the door to his room blew shut. Fuck! Tomas fumbled around in his jeans pocket, hunting for the keys he knew had been there earlier. Something rubbed against his leg, and he jumped. Blackthorn stared back at him, a mixture of curiosity and smugness only a cat could manage across her feline features. “Move!” he hissed, ignoring his rising panic when he failed to locate his keys. The only response he got was a loud purr while she continued rubbing against his bare legs, sniffing him thoroughly. His jeans still held protectively in front of him with one hand, he tried to push her out of the way with the other, but the action only served to award him an indignant meow and a glare. Blackthorn had no intention of moving, and it was difficult to get past her to the door without exposing himself still further. Logically it should not be an issue, as there was no one there who would see anything. No one except for the bloody cat, he amended silently. Damn, where were those keys? Glancing toward the top of the stairs, Tomas held his jeans away from him and shook them, hoping against hope that his keys would fall out onto the floor.
Cat’s Quill | 95
They didn‟t. Blackthorn meowed louder, backing off to stand in front of the door. She looked him up and down slowly, looking every inch the Cheshire cat before putting a paw behind one ear and washing herself slowly. “Get out of the way,” he muttered, although he knew damn well it wouldn‟t do him the slightest bit of good. The door would have locked when it had slammed shut. Why the hell hadn‟t he checked he‟d had his keys? More to the point, how had he been stupid enough to forget his towel? The paw stopped mid-wash, and Tomas was glared at again. He glared back, determined that this… cat wasn‟t about to get the better of him. Maybe there was a towel he could borrow from one of the other rooms? Realization struck that as he was the only person staying at the inn, Heidi wouldn‟t waste time putting out fresh linen for nonexistent guests. “Tomas, how much longer are you going to be?” Heidi‟s voice echoed up the staircase, suspiciously closer than it had been the last time. He could imagine her standing on the bottom step. “Donovan, could you see what‟s keeping him?” Donovan laughed and said something Tomas couldn‟t make out. That was probably a good thing, he decided. “Blackthorn,” he warned. Blackthorn blinked up at him, the Cheshire smile taking on a look of pure innocence. The bloody cat needed acting lessons; it wasn‟t fooling anyone. Taking a risk, he leaned over, nearly dropping his jeans, and turned the door handle. Yes, it was well and truly locked. Footsteps sounded on the bottom stair, getting closer. “I hope you‟re decent up there, Tomas,” Donovan called, “‟cause I‟m coming up.” Oh crap. Tomas froze, eyes darting around the corridor, looking for an escape route. Maybe he could dive into another room and shut the door behind him until he could think of a plan. “I‟ll be down in a minute,” he yelled back, trying to keep his voice casual. “Just stay where you are.” “It‟s no trouble.” The grin was obvious in Donovan‟s tone even though Tomas couldn‟t see him. A jingly noise reverberated through the stairwell. “I have keys if you‟ve locked yourself out of your room. I heard a door slam earlier.” Donovan‟s voice lowered, although it was doubtful Heidi couldn‟t still hear it. “I won‟t tell if you don‟t.” “Like hell,” Tomas muttered, giving Blackthorn another glare just because he could.
96 | Anne Barwell
Blackthorn purred loudly and sauntered slowly down the corridor toward the sound of Donovan‟s voice. A patch of red caught Tomas‟s eye, sitting in the shadow of the doorframe as the cat walked away. They must have fallen there out of his jeans pocket earlier. The thud of Donovan‟s footsteps against the wooden stairs grew louder and closer together. Grabbing the key ring, Tomas shoved the key into the door, stumbling into the room and slamming it behind him. It wasn‟t until he got to his bed that he realized that he‟d dropped his jeans in the corridor on the other side of the door.
Cat’s Quill | 97
Chapter 9
IT WAS easier to focus on the food than the smirks Donovan kept shooting in his direction. Tomas had pulled on a pair of boxers quickly before answering the door, thanking Donovan very curtly for his jeans while trying to ignore the way in which he‟d been looked up and down. The comment about “no offense, but you‟re not my type,” he hadn‟t been sure how to answer. In the finish he‟d mumbled something about being downstairs shortly and closed the door in Donovan‟s face, barely avoiding catching Blackthorn‟s tail in it as she tried to dive into the room. “Don‟t dress for dinner on my account,” Donovan had called through the door, the wood between them barely muffling his laughter. Tomas waited until Donovan‟s footsteps had receded to a safe distance and then opened the door a crack to make sure he‟d gone. Heidi grinned when Tomas finally entered the kitchen. “Sit down and I‟ll get your dinner for you. Donovan and I already started. He said you might be a while.” Thanking her, Tomas sat down obediently, placing his notebook and pencil on the table beside him. Pausing from shoveling mouthfuls of food into his mouth, Donovan had given Tomas a wink and then continued eating as though nothing had happened. “There you go, Tomas.” Heidi placed a large plate of casserole in front of him. “There‟s bread to go with it, just help yourself.” She returned to her seat. “I hope you found the towel I left out for your shower okay.” Tomas choked on a piece of sausage and grabbed the water jug, pouring himself a glass quickly. Donovan grinned but said nothing. Heidi glanced between the two of them and rolled her eyes. “I‟m not sure whether to be pleased or scared that you guys are getting on so well,” she announced. “Yeah, we‟re way scary, Heidi.” Donovan attempted to spear a piece of carrot which was refusing to surrender despite his repeated efforts to capture it with his fork.
98 | Anne Barwell
The best form of defense wasn‟t attack in this case but distraction, Tomas decided, and preferably before Donovan passed any more smartarse remarks. Reaching for a piece of garlic bread, he pulled off a bit and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully and trying to decide how to introduce a conversation subject of his choosing. “I see you still have quite the appetite after eating all the scones for afternoon tea,” Heidi said, mopping up the gravy on her plate with a piece of bread. “I hope that cat didn‟t convince you to feed her. She was hanging around the kitchen earlier watching them come out of the oven.” “No, but C—” Tomas stopped himself in time, not wanting to talk about Cathal just yet. He took a gulp of water to cover his slip. “The hedgehog seemed to like the crumbs.” “Was there one in the field by the tree?” Heidi paused mid-swipe of her plate. “I‟ve seen one or two out there in the middle of the day. They pretty much keep to themselves rather than come near humans. I‟m surprised one got brave enough to come out for crumbs.” “It did seem a little confused,” Tomas remembered. It had rolled out of its ball to eat the crumbs Cathal had thrown it. Come to think of it, he hadn‟t seen the hedgehog since Cathal had disappeared. Absently, he picked up his notebook and pencil and hastily scribbled that fact. The more pieces of this puzzle he collected, the less sense it made. “Is there a hedgehog in your book?” Donovan gestured toward the notebook with his fork. “That‟s why you‟re carrying the notebook, right? So you can remember crap you might use later?” He shrugged when Tomas looked at him blankly. “I went through college with a guy who was a writer. He used to carry a notebook everywhere and write notes about the weirdest shit for that reason. Even wrote on a napkin once when he‟d forgotten the book. He said you had to grab inspiration when it struck because if you ignored it too often it would stop bothering.” “Did he use a lot of the ideas?” Tomas tucked his pencil behind one ear, a habit he‟d picked up when he‟d been working for the university magazine. “Nah.” Donovan shook his head. “All he ever did was scribble in notebooks.” He was silent for a moment, tracing a path through his leftover gravy with his fork. “He died the year after we left college. Swerved to miss a drunk driver and his bike went out of control.” Heidi laid a hand on Donovan‟s arm, but he pulled away. “I‟m sorry,” Tomas said finally, not sure what else to say. “It was years ago.” Donovan shrugged again. “Life goes on.” Heidi got up from the table, turning her back to them while she busied herself making
Cat’s Quill | 99
coffee. “So, what‟s your book about?” he asked Tomas a little too brightly. “Or is it a secret?” “It‟s not a secret,” Tomas admitted, “but I‟d prefer not to share the details.” Talking to Cathal about it had felt different for some reason. “However, I did wonder if you could help me with some background information.” “What kind of information?” Heidi collected their plates, motioning Donovan to stay seated when he offered to take them to the sink for her. “Setting, mainly,” Tomas revealed. “I….” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I‟m kind of using the village as inspiration.” “Cool!” Donovan leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “What about the characters? Are we going to see versions of ourselves in print? After all,” he straightened into a mock-heroic pose, “the main character has to be this guy who runs the local inn, right?” Heidi snorted. “You‟re forgetting his best friend who does all the work,” she quipped. A cup of coffee was set down in front of Tomas along with a plate containing a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese icing. “Actually,” Tomas said, “the main character is a writer.” He hunted around for his pencil and then remembered it was behind his ear. “But,” he added hastily when both their faces fell, “he stays at the local inn.” “Right.” Donovan nodded. “So this writer guy‟s best friend runs the local inn.” Heidi cleared her throat loudly. “He runs the local inn with his best friend,” he amended. So much for not sharing the details. Tomas sighed, turned over to start a new page, and noted that down as well. This was going to be more complicated than he‟d first thought. “I need some background information about the village. It doesn‟t mean that everything is going to end up in the story, but I‟m curious about a few things.” “We can help with that, can‟t we, Donovan?” Heidi tapped the table with her cake fork. “Mrs. O‟Neil would be a good person to ask. There isn‟t anything in this village that she doesn‟t know about.” “That‟s what she‟d like us to believe”—Donovan rolled his eyes— “although she doesn‟t know the answers to everything.” He gestured around them. “There are rumors that this place and that field out there are haunted.” Tomas‟s pencil hit the table with a clatter. “Haunted?” “The inn is not haunted,” Heidi said firmly. “Donovan and I have been here for about five years now, and we‟ve never seen anything we couldn‟t find an explanation for.”
100 | Anne Barwell
“There was that time you thought you felt someone watching you,” Donovan reminded her. “The summer we first moved in there was a freak storm. The lightning lit up the whole sky, and we thought that old oak was going to come down, but it only ended up losing a few branches. One of the upstairs windows shattered. I went to clean up the glass, and there were petals from those climbing roses all over the floor; the wind had ripped most of them off. It took another season before they bloomed again.” “That someone ended up being a certain cat.” Heidi dug her fork into her slice of cake. “She was wet through and looking very sorry for herself. I asked around to try and find her owner, but no one would take her and she didn‟t want to leave.” “She acted like she owned the damn place and has done so ever since.” Donovan ran one finger across the center of his cake, dividing the icing into two mounds before proceeding to lick his finger clean with an expression of pure bliss. “Blackthorn?” Tomas glanced around for the cat, but for once she was nowhere in sight. No, it couldn‟t have been her. Heidi had said they‟d been here five years, and Blackthorn was definitely a kitten, not a full-grown cat. “Yeah.” Heidi shoved a napkin in Donovan‟s direction when he piled his finger up with cream cheese again, a big blob of it landing on the table in front of him. “She owns us rather than us owning her, but then that‟s the way with most cats. Apparently this inn attracts stray cats; it has a history of them.” “Blackthorn‟s only a kitten,” Tomas told her. He‟d seen enough cats to know. “You must be mistaken.” “She‟s been that size since forever,” Heidi confirmed. “I took her to the vet to get checked out when we realized she wasn‟t growing. She‟s perfectly healthy and would eat us out of house and home if we‟d let her, but she‟s never gotten any bigger. The vet offered to run more tests to try and figure out what was the cause, but it would have cost money we didn‟t have, so we didn‟t pursue it.” “Weird,” Tomas mumbled, retrieving his pencil and sucking on the end of it. “So what exactly are the local superstitions concerning the inn?” He flicked over a few pages, reading over the notes he‟d made previously. “Alice Finlay‟s family owned it, right? Was she the one who planted the roses?” “Yeah, Alice planted the roses after her husband died. Rumor has it he fought in the war and never came home.” Heidi shook her head sadly. “It‟s a very sad story. She found out she was pregnant after he left, so he never got to see the child and she raised the boy by herself.”
Cat’s Quill | 101
Tomas decided to go out on a limb. “I noticed the roses at the library were the same type as these. Is there a connection?” Phoebe had mentioned that the tapestry in the library had been a gift from their patron. It looked fairly old, almost timeless in its design, as was the quote on it about loving forever. “Mrs. O‟Neil is the person to ask about that.” Heidi shrugged. “I‟m still learning about the history of the area, although both of us are on the committee for the Historic Society. I believe Alice organized the rebuilding of the village library. The original building was gutted during a fire, but I‟m not sure of the story behind that either.” She tapped the side of her nose. “It‟s one of those things no one talks about. Either that or they figure you‟ve lived here for so many generations so if you need to know about it you already do. They‟re bad for that. Even now I‟m sure some of the elderly folks think I‟m stepping in where I shouldn‟t by sitting in on their committees.” “Yeah, but they only tried to say that once.” Donovan grinned, remembering. “Mrs. O. gave them a piece of her mind. She‟s way protective of Heidi. The two of them are like this.” He crossed his fingers. “It‟s why I find shit to do when they get together.” His voice took on a very serious tone. “Tomas, take it from someone who knows. Wednesday mornings, you get up early and you take yourself off somewhere before they start trying to organize your life for you. Been there, done that. Learned my lesson the hard way.” Donovan shuddered. Heidi narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Mrs. O‟Neil is a very dear friend,” she said, “and she means well even if she does get a bit overzealous at times when she gets an idea in her head. Friends take other friends as they are, with all their quirks.” Donovan examined his cake intently, suddenly very focused on eating the rest of it as quickly as possible. Heidi smiled at Tomas. “Tomorrow, being Wednesday—” A meaningful glance was directed at Donovan, who ignored it. “—she is coming here for morning tea. If you would like to join us for a while, I‟m sure she‟d be more than happy to answer any questions you have.” “I might do that.” Tomas wrote a reminder in his notebook. It was an idea worth pursuing, especially if she could provide some answers. He was sure he could stand his ground with her for half an hour, although their meeting in the post office hadn‟t gone exactly smoothly. “You mentioned something about the Historic Society? Has it put out any pamphlets or books I could borrow?” “No books, but we are putting together some pamphlets about the village. You can look through the box with all the bits and pieces in if you promise not to lose anything. I‟ll find it for you later this evening. I need it for tomorrow anyway.” Heidi sighed. “This project is taking much longer than we‟d hoped. The last lot of fundraising we did went toward maintenance on the church organ.”
102 | Anne Barwell
“I thought you were the Historic Society?” Tomas frowned, trying to make connections. “Shouldn‟t church organs be the responsibility of the parish?” The church was somewhere he hadn‟t visited yet. He made another note. Parish records could be useful. Often in these small villages the births, deaths, and marriage registers went back hundreds of years. He might be able to use them to trace Alice‟s family to the present day and also discover more about her husband and his family. “The church is old; it‟s been there since the early 1800s, so we‟re responsible for it. Mrs. McPherson does her best keeping the parish accounts in order and things ticking over, but each year something needs doing on something or another.” Heidi finished her slice of cake and poured herself a cup of coffee. “The village has a few buildings about that age, and if we split the money evenly, there‟s not quite enough for anyone to get anything done. The last few years there‟s been a ballot, with whoever got funds last time being removed from the equation until everyone‟s looked after, and then we start again from the beginning.” “Can‟t the owners pay for their own maintenance?” Tomas scribbled more notes. “Surely not all of those buildings belong to charitable organizations?” The pub would be about the same age. “They do what they can,” Heidi explained, “and we top it up.” She ticked off on her fingers. “There‟s the church, the pub, and a couple of cottages outside town. It‟s not that many, and it‟s important to preserve history.” “What about this inn?” Tomas was curious now. “How old is it?” “Just a baby in comparison.” Donovan helped himself to coffee and offered Tomas a cup, pouring him one when he nodded. “Alice‟s father built the original house, I believe, when the family settled here. He fought in the Boer War and wanted somewhere to retire.” “Was she born here?” Tomas tried to remember the history he‟d learned at school, tying the dates into what he‟d discovered so far. Heidi shook her head. “I don‟t know. That would be something to ask Mrs. McPherson; she looks after the parish records. We looked up the plans for this place at the shire council once when we were thinking about doing some alterations, but the guy I talked to was really vague and not at all helpful. Eoin knew a bit more, but not that much.” “Hold on.” Tomas backed up his thoughts a bit, memories of an old lady whizzing past on a bicycle earlier in the day coming to mind. “Mrs. McPherson.” He turned to Donovan. “Didn‟t you say this morning that she was church organist?”
Cat’s Quill | 103
“Anything to do with the church and she‟s in there.” Donovan grinned. “Her and the Reverend. All for one and one for all and all that.” “There‟s only two of them,” Tomas pointed out, having read Dumas several times. “Wait till you see them in action.” Donovan faked a yawn. “Between them they have enough energy for a whole army. She talks nonstop; he nods politely, listens, and then acts. Heaven help anyone who gets in their way.” Tomas made a note to keep out of their way as much as possible. He‟d had a landlady once who‟d tried to mother him. If she‟d thought he needed anything, whether it be a meal, a new shirt, or information for a project he was working on, she‟d be like a dog with a bone, not giving up until he had what she thought he needed. It hadn‟t mattered if it was something he didn‟t actually require, or had once but didn‟t any longer. She thought he did, and that was what was important. Christine was a nice person, and a bona fide member of her local St. Vincent de Paul church group, but she‟d driven him crazy. Even now she still sent him Christmas cards every year asking when he was coming back to visit. Apparently she didn‟t do that to all her old tenants, just the ones she liked. He was still trying to work out how he‟d been lucky enough to make that list. “They‟ve achieved a lot more in the ten years Reverend Matthew has been there than in the past fifty, according to Mrs. O‟Neil,” Heidi pointed out. “That‟s because Mrs. McP. and the previous reverend didn‟t get on as well.” Donovan grinned and winked at Tomas when Heidi‟s attention was drawn to the sound of the phone ringing. “Excuse me a moment.” Heidi got up and walked over to the wall where the phone was. After a couple of minutes of nodding, she put her hand over the receiver. “I‟m going to take this in the other room as it‟s going to take a while.” “Take your time,” Donovan reassured her. “Tomas is going to help me with the dishes ‟cause he‟s a helpful kind of guy.” Tomas opened his mouth, closing it again when Heidi gave him a bright smile, and nodded lamely. “Thanks, guys.” Heidi walked quickly out of the kitchen, still listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the cordless phone. Whoever it was didn‟t appear to be letting her get much of a word in edgewise, a feat in itself which was fairly impressive. “Taking a while means at least an hour in Heidi-speak.” Donovan leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. He used one foot to pull the chair next to him closer and then plonked his feet up on it.
104 | Anne Barwell
“I thought we were doing the dishes,” Tomas couldn‟t help but point out, not wanting to risk the wrath of Heidi. “Yeah, in a bit.” Donovan stretched again, his T-shirt riding up to reveal tanned skin underneath. He burped, wiping his hand across his mouth. “There‟s a couple of bottles of lager in the fridge if you want to grab one each.” “Okay.” It had been a long day, and Tomas wasn‟t about to turn down a free drink. Getting up, he walked over to the fridge, retrieved the beer, wandered back to the table, and handed Donovan one of the bottles before mirroring his actions and putting his own feet up. The sneaking suspicion that Heidi would not approve he shoved to one side, already deciding he could blame Donovan for whatever happened. “Thanks,” he added as an afterthought, taking a swig. “It‟s either Mrs. O. about tomorrow or Sally about whatever it is chicks like to talk about.” Donovan cocked an ear in the direction of the living room and grinned. “Or not.” He nodded sagely, the bottle paused at his lips. “My bet‟s on Doug. That guy could talk a hind leg off a dog, especially when it‟s about his favorite topic. I have no idea what the hell she sees in him.” “Favorite topic?” Tomas yawned, glancing toward the window; he was sure he‟d seen a hint of black briefly reflected against the glass. It was difficult to tell against the dim glow of the lone outside light. “Yeah, he‟s the local Scout leader. Always going on about what his kids are doing and all the stuff he has planned. They‟re fundraising to go on some jamboree.” Donovan tapped the side of his nose. “Bet you a quid that Heidi will want one of us to help go through all the old crap in the attic for the garage sale next week.” He mock-sneezed. “It‟s dusty up there, and unfortunately my allergies would never survive it.” “You‟re allergic to dust?” Tomas stared at him suspiciously. “And a few other four-letter words.” Donovan took another slurp of beer. “You haven‟t been in that attic. There‟s crap up there dating back to when the place was built, including an old trunk. For some weird reason, the family didn‟t want it and said it had to stay in the inn.” He shrugged. “It was one of the conditions laid out in her will.” “Will?” Tomas‟s eyebrow rose; this attic was somewhere he needed to explore. “Whose will?” He paused. “What‟s in the trunk?” “That artist you‟re so interested in.” Donovan put his bottle on the table, his tone suddenly serious. “Just a pile of papers, letters and stuff. Some old clothes as well.”
Cat’s Quill | 105
“Wouldn‟t the letters be worth something?” Tomas was surprised some collector hadn‟t come looking for them. “They‟re personal.” Donovan still hadn‟t picked up his beer but instead was watching Tomas closely. “As far as Heidi and I are concerned, you don‟t sell personal stuff. It doesn‟t matter how much someone offers. Alice might have been a bit on the weird side, but she‟s due some privacy.” “You mentioned a will?” Tomas prodded, running one finger around the rim of his bottle and then licking the moisture off the tip. “And what do you mean by weird? Exactly?” At the first opportunity he was getting access to that trunk. “Her will states that the trunk stays in the attic.” Donovan picked up his beer and took a slow sip, his gaze riveted on Tomas. “And that the contents of the trunk are not to be removed from the premises.” He crossed his legs at the ankles, pulling the chair they were resting on closer. “Something about him coming back one day and wanting them.” He rolled his eyes. “I told you she was weird. Loses her husband in the war but doesn‟t believe he‟s dead. Apparently she wrote him all these letters in the hope he‟d come back one day and read them.” “That‟s not weird,” Tomas said quietly. “I think it‟s rather sad.” People had different ways of dealing with loss. This had apparently been Alice‟s. A thought struck him. “Have you read them?” “Yeah.” Donovan nodded slowly. “Just one or two though. As I said, they‟re personal. As soon as I figured out what they were, I didn‟t look further. That‟s what the first one says, what I just told you.” He lowered his voice. “I figured she was in denial and couldn‟t believe he‟d died. They say she went a bit weird afterward, used to sit under that tree you like for hours. The old guy was the same, at least until he had the stroke. He doesn‟t get out much now. He has days when he‟s lucid, others when he makes no sense at all.” “Old guy?” Tomas drained the rest of his beer, wondering if there was any more. Outside a dog began to bark, the noise carrying through the dark, another a few farms over picking it up and joining in. “Apparently her son‟s in the nursing home off the local hospital a couple of hours from here.” Finishing his beer, Donovan stood. “We‟d better get on with these dishes or we‟ll never hear the end of it.” He listened for a moment. “By the time she reaches the kitchen we‟ll be hard at work and she‟ll be eternally grateful.” Tomas scribbled a few notes, circling the words “trunk” and “nursing home.” “She won‟t kick your arse, you mean,” he translated.
106 | Anne Barwell
“Our arses,” Donovan corrected, already over at the sink, filling it with hot water and dishwashing detergent. Tomas caught the tea towel thrown in his direction. “We‟re in this together.” Donovan looked at him, his eyes reminiscent of a puppy, albeit a bad imitation of one. “Surely you wouldn‟t leave me all on my lonesome.” “That depends….” Tomas rolled his eyes. He cleared the table, found the dishcloth, and wiped it down. “I‟d like to look at the attic tomorrow.” It was too late tonight and he wanted to write for a while before bed. Besides, if he seemed too keen, it might arouse suspicions. “Sure. I can show you the way before I hit the sack tonight and then you can go check it out whenever you want.” Donovan washed a glass, upended it on the bench, and began washing plates, balancing them on the glass so that they would drain. “What‟s with the interest in Alice? You seem really interested in her, obsessed even.” He turned to glance at Tomas when he picked up a plate to dry it. “Has she got something to do with that book you were looking for?” “No.” At least he didn‟t think there was a connection. At least not a direct one, even taking into account where he‟d found the postcard. “I‟m researching the area and she‟s an interesting part of that.” “Right.” Donovan rinsed the beer bottles and deposited them in a cardboard box next to the bin. He opened his mouth to say something else but was interrupted by an amused chuckle from the kitchen door. “I do so like watching men at work in the kitchen.” Heidi hung up the phone on its hook. “Please don‟t let me interrupt. You‟re doing such a good job, even if it‟s a last-minute one and it took a beer to psych yourself up for it.” She tsk-tsked. “It would be less effort just to fix the dishwasher, Donovan.” “I‟m waiting on parts,” Donovan said stubbornly. “I already told you that.” “Yeah, I know.” Heidi opened the fridge, helping herself to a beer. “I‟ll come home one day and it will be fixed,” she told Tomas. “He‟ll be very pleased with himself, at least until it breaks down again. It‟s an old dishwasher and really needs replacing, but we can‟t afford to until we make more money on this inn. The last couple of seasons have been very slow.” She smiled. “We‟re very pleased that you are staying with us a while, and not just for the custom.” Tomas mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “you‟re welcome.” Her comment seemed very genuine. He hunted through his mind for something else to say, poking it several times in an attempt to elicit some
Cat’s Quill | 107
cooperation. “Thank you for the rose you left in my room,” he said finally, somewhat lamely. To his surprise she and Donovan exchanged a glance. “Rose? What rose?” “The one in the vase on the table,” Tomas explained, his fingers closing over the edge of the linen cloth in his hand. “The crystal vase,” he continued when both of their expressions remained blank. Heidi shook her head. “Whoever left that rose,” she said, “wasn‟t me.” She frowned, her puzzlement growing, her next words sending a chill through him. “I went in to air the room just before you and Donovan got back from town, but the window was already open. I remember admiring the vase, as it wasn‟t one of mine, but it was empty.”
108 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 10
TOMAS rolled over in bed, scrunching his eyes up against the glare of the early morning sun peeking through partially closed curtains. Finally, giving up on the idea that he might be able to go back to sleep, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the events of the previous evening. Whoever the rose had come from, it certainly hadn‟t been Heidi. Reaching over to grab the book from his bedside table, he opened it to find the daisy and rose petal. They were still tucked together between the cover and first page where they had been the night before, the edges of the petal catching the fragile flower of the white daisy to hold it close. The vase stood alone on his bedside table, the water cloudy but untouched. On a whim he had clicked his fingernail against it, the clear pinging noise it made confirming that it was indeed crystal. Who would leave an expensive vase with a single rose in it in a stranger‟s room? It didn‟t make sense. In the finish Donovan had shrugged and told Tomas that maybe his room was haunted after all and that it was the ghost who was leaving him flowers. Heidi had given Donovan a glare and repeated firmly, several times, that there had to be a logical explanation. There was for most things in life, she insisted, and this would be no different. They just had to think outside the box and the answer would be there waiting. Perhaps he‟d talk to Cathal about it later and see if he had any ideas. Running his fingers over the rose petals, Tomas let his mind wander, picturing Cathal‟s smile and his eyes crinkling in amusement at Donovan‟s suggestion. Hmm, maybe not. Cathal did not have a tendency toward logical explanations, often to the extent of not giving any at all. He was just as likely to seriously consider the ghost as a possibility. Not that the mental image of Cathal‟s brow furrowed in thought, his lips slightly pursed, wasn‟t equally as nice to think about. Tomas groaned and pulled the blankets back over his head, letting his mind drift still further. He and Cathal had kissed. It had felt good. Very good. Tomas wanted to do it
Cat’s Quill | 109
again. Feel the touch of Cathal‟s skin under his fingertips and have Cathal lean into that touch as he had done the day before. Cathal hadn‟t been playacting. He wanted more and had told Tomas that before he‟d disappeared. Throwing the blankets back, Tomas watched the curtains blowing in the breeze, the shadows in his room alternatively waning and growing dark again as the material moved back and across to let in and block the sunlight. Damn it. He needed to move and do something. A crash sounded from downstairs, and he jumped, pulling on his jeans and T-shirt, grabbing them from the floor. He was at the foot of the stairs before he‟d even realized he‟d moved on instinct. “Heidi?” he called out. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah. Sorry.” Heidi‟s voice sounded from the kitchen. Blackthorn slunk out of the door, looked Tomas up and down, and then, tail in the air, stalked across his path. “I tripped over the cat and dropped a skillet.” To Tomas‟s surprise, a familiar face poked around the side of the door, watching the cat disappear down the hallway. “Hey, Tomas. You forgot your shoes.” Mikey grinned. “Heidi‟s cooking me eggs and French toast. Want some?” “I thought Heidi was in trouble,” Tomas said, scowling. “Knights in shining armor are supposed to smile,” Mikey pointed out helpfully. “Their hair doesn‟t stick up at weird angles like yours does either.” “I haven‟t polished my armor yet,” Tomas snapped. Dealing with this annoying kid before coffee was not a great idea. The smell of eggs and fried bread made him stop mid-turn to sniff the air. “Save me breakfast and pour me some coffee, and I‟ll pretend you‟ve grown some manners overnight.” “I have manners,” Mikey protested. “After all, I am here to help Heidi sort through the attic. I don‟t have to do that, you know.” “Of course you don‟t.” Tomas raked his fingers through his hair, the floorboards cold under his feet. It wasn‟t only shoes he‟d forgotten in his haste but socks as well. He‟d rectify that before…. Hang on, what had Mikey just said? “You‟re not helping Heidi sort through the attic. I already offered last night.” Mikey stared at him. “I offered last week!” The stare turned into a glare. “She said I could have some stuff to use for the Scout garage sale. It‟s the only way I‟m going to get to the jamboree.” His voice rose, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “Heidi promised!” “Children!” Heidi yelled from the kitchen. “Eat breakfast first and work out your playground squabbles later.”
110 | Anne Barwell
“Pour my coffee and I‟ll negotiate.” Tomas dropped his voice to a loud stage whisper. He had no intention of letting Mikey anywhere near that trunk. If he wanted to sort through junk on the other side of the attic, perhaps something could be arranged, but that trunk was Tomas‟s. Besides, Heidi had already promised him. “That‟s my final offer.” Said offer was met by a loud snort. “It‟s not up to you; it‟s Heidi‟s decision.” Mikey looked smug. “I‟ll pour your coffee and talk to her while you find your shoes.” He sniggered. “Maybe it‟s where you left your towel.” Tomas glared at him. “You little shit!” Where the hell had Mikey heard about that? It was lucky that Donovan was nowhere in sight or he would have been dead. “Tsk tsk.” Mikey grinned. Tomas‟s eyes narrowed. The kid must have eavesdropped. Yes, that had to be it. Decision made, Donovan‟s life expectancy rose another couple of notches, although there must have been a conversation for Mikey to overhear. “If Heidi hears you swearing you‟ll be in the dog house.” The grin turned into a sweet smile which didn‟t fool Tomas for a minute. “I‟m going to get my shoes,” he muttered. “Coffee. Waiting when I get back.” Tomas turned and strode up the stairs, counting slowly in an attempt to curb his growing temper. He did not lose his cool often, but for some reason Mikey pushed all his buttons. “Would you like fries with that?” Mikey yelled up the stairs after him. “No!” Tomas‟s retort was equally as loud, his resolution not to respond to the brat from hell disappearing in an instant. Letters. He had to think of the letters; they were far too important to risk losing because he had allowed Mikey to get under his skin. Stomping into his room, he slammed the door and stood in the middle of the floor, taking several deep breaths. The curtains were open, as was the window, although Tomas didn‟t remember opening either of them. The sun hit his eyes, and he shaded them against the glare, walking over to the window to gaze for a moment at the field below. The tree stared back at him, hues of transparent color glistening through its branches, filtering the sun through the fading dew of the night before. Despite his bad mood, Tomas found himself smiling, remembering again the kiss he and Cathal had shared under that tree, its canopy providing a little privacy to partially obscure the view from his window, but not as much as he would have liked. He wondered if there was somewhere nearby which might offer them more shelter from prospective prying eyes. The last thing he
Cat’s Quill | 111
wanted was someone like the brat downstairs to get wind of his and Cathal‟s friendship and start spreading rumors. Another thought struck him, and he froze. God. Mrs. O‟Neil. If she found out, that would be far worse. Tomas‟s eyes were drawn to the alarm clock by his bedside table, his watch lying next to it. He hated wearing a watch to bed; the only time he‟d left it on was when he‟d been too drunk to care, collapsing into a restless sleep before groggily stumbling into the bathroom the next morning. It was the first and last time he‟d allowed himself to be talked into more than a couple of beers. Embarrassingly, he did not hold his liquor well; it was not a flaw he wanted advertised, and those who knew had been sworn to secrecy. Laughter from downstairs steered his brain back to the present and his immediate future. He needed a plan of attack. It was eight already, and Mrs. O‟Neil was due to arrive in two hours. Rummaging through his drawer, Tomas found a pair of socks and sat down on the bed to pull them on. Mikey would need to be dealt with first, but the trunk in the attic was a priority. He was convinced that it contained a few answers, at least. The letters Alice had written to her dead husband would give some insight into her life and hopefully throw some light onto why he felt so compelled to find out more about her. She wasn‟t connected to the book, but she was an artist. She knew something; he just wished he knew what. Tomas wasn‟t a great believer in intuition, but this, whatever it was, was growing more and more difficult to dismiss. His favorite worn brown boots joined the socks, and he finger-combed his hair, scowling when it refused to do what he wanted. Marching down the stairs again, he entered the kitchen, frowning when the conversation stopped the moment he did so. To his surprise, however, a mug of coffee stood waiting for him, a plate of scrambled eggs and French toast next to it. He raised an eyebrow in Mikey‟s direction. The kid shrugged, barely pausing to grunt something under his breath while he shoveled food into his mouth. “Mikey is here to collect stuff for the jamboree sale,” Heidi said, giving each of them a pointed look in turn. “Tomas is going to look through the old trunk in the attic.” Her eyes narrowed. “Neither the twain shall meet. Have I made myself clear?”
112 | Anne Barwell
“The attic‟s big enough for both of us,” Mikey muttered. “It‟s not my fault if he gets in my way.” He met Heidi‟s gaze squarely. “Besides, I asked first!” Tomas snorted. “You couldn‟t pay me enough to get in your way,” he exclaimed. “Just make sure you stay out of mine.” The last thing he needed was Mikey leaning over his shoulder and interrupting his train of thought while he was attempting to piece very important clues together. Kids and his creative process did not go hand in hand. They were almost, but not quite, as bad as cats. An old adage about never performing with animals or children repeated in his mind, and he shuddered. “Is that an offer?” Mikey perked up. “I do need money for this jamboree, after all,” he implored. “If I didn‟t, I wouldn‟t be anywhere near you.” “Mikey, you asked first, so you have every right to be in the attic. But so does Tomas because Donovan promised him that he could look through the trunk.” Heidi paused, her tone firm. “But don‟t forget your own promise to clean out my attic in return for what you can find for your garage sale. Promises are more important than any monetary gain.” “Much more important than any monetary gain.” Tomas wasn‟t going to let Mikey go down that track. “Heidi‟s right.” “Yeah, I suppose.” Mikey‟s face fell. “It was worth a go, though,” he added brightly, jerking a thumb in Tomas‟s direction. “It would have worked too, if Tomas wasn‟t such a tight-ar—” Heidi coughed loudly. Mikey returned his attention to polishing off the rest of his breakfast, making a point of avoiding Tomas‟s eyes. For his part, Tomas was too engrossed in finishing his own breakfast to be bothered wasting time encouraging Mikey to continue what he‟d been about to say. This kid needed a good sharp kick up his own arse. “Tomas?” Heidi was staring at him, frowning. Had he missed something? “Hmm?” Using the rest of the French toast to mop up what was left of his eggs, Tomas looked in Heidi‟s direction. She was watching him, an amused expression on her face. An apology would probably be a good idea at this point, the annoying little voice in his mind pointed out. “I‟m sorry, did you say something?” “I asked if you were still joining Mrs. O‟Neil and me for morning tea.” Heidi shook her head. “You get distracted from conversations easily, I‟ve noticed. Lot on your mind, huh?” “Something like that.” While Tomas might have said more, he wasn‟t about to admit to anything in Mikey‟s presence. The kid was pretending to focus on his food, but Tomas knew better. “I‟ll be down by then, thanks,
Cat’s Quill | 113
Heidi. If I‟m not, come and get me.” If the trunk proved to be the treasure trove he hoped, he‟d be lucky if he surfaced before tea that night, let alone mid-morning, without some prompting. “I‟ll remind you,” Mikey said helpfully, pointing to his watch. Tomas could almost see his mind ticking over, the little hamster wheel working overtime. “You‟re seriously going to have morning tea with Mrs. O‟Neil?” His brow wrinkled in disbelief. “Okay, what‟s she got on you? She‟s got to be blackmailing you or something.” He eyed Tomas up and down. “Unless you‟re crazy. Really crazy.” “Gee thanks, Mikey.” Heidi‟s tone took on a dangerous edge. “So I‟m crazy, am I?” “Of course not, Heidi.” Mikey corrected his statement quickly. “There‟s always an exception to every rule, and you‟re it.” Draining his cup, he burped loudly and put it down on the table. “Great breakfast, but Tomas and I have got a job to do.” He glanced at Tomas and then toward the door, his head jerking in that direction not exactly subtly. “Right, Tomas?” “Right.” Tomas gulped down the last of his coffee. If Mikey got Heidi up in arms, the chances of getting near that trunk would be very slim. While he usually took care not to take sides, some arguments were not worth getting into, or risking Mikey figuring out the reason for all the questions Tomas was asking. Standing, he collected his dishes and placed them in the sink before heading for the door. Mikey quickly followed suit, his hand tugging on the end of Tomas‟s T-shirt. “You forgot to thank her for breakfast,” Mikey hissed. “Um, thanks for breakfast, Heidi.” Tomas followed Mikey‟s suggestion without stopping to question it. “It was really great.” Heidi‟s smile reinforced that he‟d done the right thing. “You boys enjoy yourselves. Any arguments and I‟ll be up to sort you out.” Her gaze traveled from one to the other and back again. “Both of you.” Nodding, Tomas walked out of the room briskly, Mikey on his heels. It wasn‟t until they were halfway up the stairs that the thought struck him. “Hey,” he exclaimed. “What happened to you thanking her for breakfast?” Mikey‟s expression grew smug. “I already did that before I sat down,” he said. “I already told you. I have manners.”
114 | Anne Barwell
THE
attic was dark when they entered, the low wattage light bulb Mikey switched on adding little more than a dim glow to the room. It was smaller than Tomas expected, a little larger than his own, the ceiling beams exposed in triangle shapes following the slope of the roof. It was high enough for him to stand, but if he held his hand up, it brushed against the lower point of one of the supporting struts. Windows were curtained on either side. Mikey crossed the room quickly and opened them, the sunlight exposing wooden floorboards which looked as though they hadn‟t seen varnish for years, if ever, but they, like the attic, were clean and dust-free. That, Tomas presumed, would be down to Heidi. Boxes lined one side of the room, none of them labeled, newspapers stacked in one corner, pieces of cardboard next to them, cartons pulled apart but never disposed of. An old rocking horse with a faded mane and one remaining painted eye watched Mikey while he struggled with the latch on the window, finally getting it open, hooking it on the first hole, enough to let fresh air and a faint breeze in but not much else. He shivered. “I only come up here if I can open the window and the curtains. It feels weird otherwise.” Lowering his voice, he glanced around nervously, keeping a cautious eye on the rocking horse. “Old places where people don‟t go much do that. Even Blackthorn doesn‟t come up here.” He pointed to a series of mouse traps strategically placed along the skirting board. “That‟s why those are here.” Tomas raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning the room for the trunk he‟d been told about. “You don‟t believe in ghosts, do you?” “Of course not!” Mikey‟s denial was a little too emphatic; it didn‟t mesh with the way he kept watching the old rocking horse. Tomas walked past it, pushed on it lightly with one finger, the creaking noise as it began rocking raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Mikey jumped. “Why the fuck did you do that for?” “Does your father know you use language like that?” Tomas noticed something wooden peeking out behind a couple of boxes and headed in that direction. The trunk. It had to be! “Nah.” Mikey shrugged. “He wouldn‟t care anyway. He‟s too busy with work. Always has been.” “At least you have a father who cares about you,” Tomas replied almost absently, his attention drawn to the large trunk now in front of him. Fumbling with the catch, he opened it. Damn, it was heavy, the hinges stiff with disuse. It appeared as though no one had opened it in years, not since Donovan had originally found the letters.
Cat’s Quill | 115
“Don‟t you?” Mikey was by his side, helping him with the lid. Tomas looked up, scowling; he hadn‟t even noticed the kid move. “No.” Tomas answered after a moment‟s pause. Although Mikey was nosy as hell, there was no point in lying to him. “My parents died in an accident when I was young. I don‟t remember much about them.” “Oh.” Mikey was silent for a moment. “So what‟s in the trunk?” His tone brightened. “You‟re looking for something specific, right? I can tell.” “No.” This time Tomas snapped the word. “I‟m just looking.” He held the lid so that it wouldn‟t fully open, preventing Mikey from seeing what might be inside. “Don‟t you have stuff to sort through for your jamboree?” He indicated the old-fashioned hanger from which hung a selection of what looked like men and women‟s clothing in the style of the 1920s. “Why don‟t you see if any of that has survived being eaten by moths? My sister says retro‟s in at the moment. It might be worth a bit.” “I feel sorry for her.” Mikey straightened up, but instead of walking toward the clothes, he tried to peer over Tomas‟s shoulder. “I try to help and you nearly bite my head off. Geez.” “Sorry for whom?” Tomas glanced around the room, looking for something else to distract Mikey with. The rocking horse creaked in reply, the momentum of the tap Tomas had given it still lending it movement. “Your sister.” Mikey shivered, zipping up his hoodie. “Look in your damn trunk then. See if I care.” He stalked over to the other side of the room behind the rack of clothing, obscured from view, although the dull thud of something hitting the floor strongly suggested he‟d found something else to grab his attention. Hopefully, whatever box he was destroying would keep him busy long enough for Tomas to do what he needed. Gingerly, Tomas opened the lid, letting it go once he‟d satisfied himself that the hinges were intact enough to keep it upright without needing his assistance. Dropping onto his knees, he began carefully sorting through the contents, running his fingers across the fine cotton that lay across the top before pulling it free, almost dropping it when he realized he was holding a woman‟s undergarment. Chastising himself, he took a closer look, feeling himself relax when said undergarment turned out to be a cotton lace petticoat. Draping it over the lid, he examined the dress it had protected. It was white, very delicate-looking and long, with a high bodice and a brooch of pink roses at the neck. Peeking out from underneath where the dress was lying in the trunk was netting, stitched onto a comb, faded dried flowers clinging to it, holding the veil…. He stood, holding up the dress in order to see it properly to confirm his suspicions. It was an old-fashioned wedding dress, the petticoat and veil
116 | Anne Barwell
completing the outfit. Had it been hers? Something clattered onto the floor, shaking free as he‟d opened the dress out to get a better look. Tiny black pellets, solidified with age. Shit! Mouse droppings! Throwing the dress onto the petticoat, Tomas began sorting through the rest of the contents of the trunk, frantically remembering what he‟d read about mice. God no, the letters had to be still intact. They had to be. Muslin wrapped around something solid. A small wooden box. Fingers shaking, he took off the lid to come face to face with a crystal vase, the twin of the one that had been left in his room. Checking the box again, he noticed a card on the outside, the corners of it chewed but enough to make out the lettering. Alice, All my love, C…. Bloody mice. They‟d gnawed the rest of the name. “C. C what? Who the hell is C?” “Christian.” Mikey spoke softly, the sulky tone of a few moments before completely gone. “Her husband‟s name was Christian.” “How do you know that?” Tomas turned at the boy leaning over his shoulder, wondering if he moonlighted as a ninja. Alice and Christian were characters in a book. This had to be a coincidence. A hand dived into the trunk, Mikey sneaking past him quick as lightning to retrieve a half-gnawed pink ribbon already unraveling around its precious contents. Now loose from their constraints, previously wrapped groups of papers fell into the trunk. “No!” Tomas pushed Mikey out of the way, but it was already too late. Spread across the trunk were the letters he‟d been seeking, pages still together but now hopelessly out of any order they might have once been in. He picked the first one up and groaned aloud, cold fingers of disappointment crawling up his spine. Even without Mikey‟s help, his work was cut out for him. The mice had feasted well, nibbling through a gourmet of fancy rose-embossed paper to leave a hole right through the middle of it.
Cat’s Quill | 117
Chapter 11
“FUCK!” Tomas whispered hoarsely. He couldn‟t have come this far to lose to some bloody mice. Frantically he opened the first letter, hoping and praying that the damage done by the rodents was not too severe. The pages of the letter were numbered; the date at the top of the page read “17 November 1930.” Her writing was legible, a flowing hand that was easy to read. That, at least, was one small mercy. My darling Christian, Even now I still hope that you will return to me. Scanning the page and then the ones folded with it, Tomas sighed in relief. The ink was faded, but the words could still be made out. The mice had nibbled straight through the middle of each page, but he could guess at the missing words. Putting that letter down, he picked up another. It was obviously in the same state, with a ragged hole through the middle of each page. The second letter appeared to have been written several years earlier; it was dated 1925. It began the same way, addressed to her husband, Christian. Damn it. He‟d have to sort them into date order before he could start reading. This one referred to someone called Wynne. Hold on. Wynne? Wynne Emerys? Surely she couldn‟t have known him? Was that why the postcard had been left in the book? Was it a clue to a connection between them? Tomas swallowed, his excitement growing. Dropping from a half-crouch to his knees, he began picking up the rest of the letters, shuffling them into a pile. “You can‟t do that.” Mikey shoved in from the side of the trunk, grabbing the rest of the letters, holding them against his chest and taking a step back when Tomas glared at him.
118 | Anne Barwell
“Let them go!” Tomas hissed. “Heidi said I could look through this trunk. I want those letters!” He fought the urge to add a please on the end, determined not to let the little shit get the upper hand. “Why?” Mike smirked at him. “They‟re not yours.” He made a tsk-tsking noise. “You really need to work on those manners. Reading other people‟s letters is a no-no.” Keeping his grip firm, he opened one of the letters while shoving the rest of the pile under his arm. “But then you are my elder and I‟m supposed to respect you, right, so maybe it is okay to read them.” His voice rose into a false falsetto, his eyes scanning the letter in his hand. “My darling Christian. I miss you even as the baby I—” “Give it here!” Tomas lunged for the letter, but Mikey took a step backward. Damn it! He couldn‟t get this close to lose out to this bloody kid. If Alice knew Wynne, the letters could hold some of the answers he sought. Mikey grinned. “Heidi‟s going to hear us if you keep yelling at me.” He shook his head. “Even if it‟s okay to look in the trunk, I‟m sure neither she nor Donovan would be happy about you taking the letters.” Taking a deep breath, Tomas stepped between Mikey and the trunk. He needed to find some way to get the remaining letters back. Knowing his luck, those would be the ones containing the crucial bits of information. There was also the problem of keeping him silent. “How much?” he asked. “Excuse me?” Mikey‟s widening eyes didn‟t quite give the aura of innocence he was most probably aiming for. If the kid possessed a halo, which was highly unlikely, it was more likely to be black and have little horns attached. “How much do you want for them?” Mikey was after something he could use to fundraise for his jamboree. Everyone had a price. It was just a case of finding his. “Money?” Mikey stared at Tomas and then at the letters. A slow smile crossed his lips. “Or maybe something else? I am open to negotiation, you know.” He took another step back. Tomas frowned. This was not going the way he‟d planned. “Something else?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Like what?” “Tell me why you want them so badly, and I‟ll think about it.” Mikey tucked the letter in his hand back into his pile and opened another, this time reading it silently. There was no point in lying. Tomas took a deep breath. Telling the truth, or at least some of it, might be the way to go. “They were written by an artist who used to live in this inn, and I think she knew a writer I‟m researching.”
Cat’s Quill | 119
Mikey nodded slowly. “Yeah, I‟ve seen some of her stuff.” His grip on the letters loosened, but not enough that making a grab for them might work, especially with the distance Tomas would have to cover. “She liked dragons.” “What makes you say that?” There was nothing Tomas had seen to suggest that, and he wasn‟t about to believe anything Mikey said without good reason. “I‟ve seen some of her stuff,” Mikey repeated, waving the letter he‟d been reading at Tomas. There was something that could have been a dragon doodled down the side of the page, but it was difficult to see unless he got closer. “Dragons.” Taking a piece of gum out of the pocket of his hoodie, Mikey unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he refolded the letter and tucked it under his arm with the rest of his pile. “The way I see it,” he said, “I have these letters you want, and you could do something for me I want.” A pink bubble formed and popped before Mikey resumed chewing. “We could help each other out.” “What do you want?” Tomas sighed. Mikey was being far too cooperative. The other shoe had to drop. Whatever was doodled on the letter could have been an overgrown grasshopper, for all he knew. Mikey was yanking his chain; if he‟d found out about the book, he‟d know there were dragons on the front cover and could be using that information to get what he wanted. But what if that doodle really was a dragon? It could be further proof that Alice and Wynne were connected. A thought struck him, and his breath hitched. She was an artist, and In Hidden Places was beautifully illustrated. No, she hadn‟t been credited for the artwork. He was reaching. “I like dragons,” Mikey announced as though that explained everything. “I want to find out what the letters say. They said she saw stuff, but then they said she was crazy too.” He glanced at the door behind him, as though he expected to see Heidi there, lowering his voice when she wasn‟t. “I‟m not supposed to know about the gossip, but people forget I‟m there and I hear things.” Great, Mikey wanted to help. Tomas fought the urge to point out that this was his quest, and Mikey could go find his own. Hang on, when had this become a quest? He sure as hell wasn‟t a knight, and there weren‟t any damsels in distress who needed rescuing. The only person he was interested in was definitely no damsel and probably would not be happy being compared to one. However, Cathal did seem determined to believe that there was no sequel. The letters Mikey was holding could contain the proof that there was.
120 | Anne Barwell
“Okay.” Tomas tried to ignore the feeling he‟d just signed his soul away to a teenage devil with red hair. “You can help me.” He held his hand out for the letters. “No.” Mikey shook his head. “You get them when I know I can trust you and we have a working partnership. That‟s the deal.” Another bubble blew and popped. Tomas would have liked nothing better than to rub the pink goo all over Mikey‟s mouth, or better yet, use it to gag him with. “Part of it anyway.” “Part of it?” Tomas gritted his teeth, reminding himself that yelling at the kid—correction: his new partner, would only serve to bring the situation to Heidi‟s attention. “I want your help.” Mikey licked the gum off his face with his tongue and began chewing again. “I found some stuff to build this really cool skateboard ramp. I can‟t do it on my own, and my dad‟s too busy to help me.” He grinned. “But now I figure I‟ve just found someone who will.”
MIKEY was a difficult person to negotiate with. For every suggestion Tomas made, the kid had a counter one. In the finish they‟d each sat down on the floor opposite each other, holding onto their own pile of letters while they hammered out an agreement. Mikey refused to part with his letters until he was sure that he could trust Tomas, and nothing Tomas said convinced him that he could. A promise to meet in the field next to the inn the next afternoon to work on the skateboard ramp was about the closest they‟d got to a truce. Once the ramp was built, they‟d talk further. All of this could be simply solved by telling Heidi that Mikey had the letters, but for the moment Tomas wanted some privacy in which to sort through and read them before being placed in a position in which he‟d have to share the reason why he wanted them in the first place. That was his problem, not Mikey‟s, but of course Mikey didn‟t see it that way. If anything, the kid was stubborn as hell and smug with it. Tomas wanted nothing better than to wipe the smirk off his face. By the end of the conversation his mind had also come up with a list of rather inventive uses for the pink gum, none of it pleasant, the common theme being ways in which to shut Mikey up. Once he had started talking, he didn‟t stop. It took all of Tomas‟s willpower to stay polite and relatively calm. After all, he reminded himself, Mikey held the upper hand, at least for the moment. Once that changed, so would the way in which this game was played.
Cat’s Quill | 121
Revenge could be sweet if executed at just the right moment in the correct fashion. “Tomas, are you finished yet?” Heidi called from the bottom of the stairs. “Mrs. O‟Neil is here.” “I‟ll be down in a moment,” Tomas replied in kind, dropping his voice in volume and tone before giving Mikey a final word of advice. “You tell anyone about this and the deal‟s off. This is our secret, okay?” “Do I look stupid?” Mikey stuffed his letters into the front of his zippedup hoodie. “Don‟t worry. I‟ll keep your precious letters safe. I want to figure this out as much as you do.” Tomas very much doubted that, but he wasn‟t about to argue the point yet again. He‟d had enough of that for one day. Following Mikey‟s example, he used his jumper to hide his own stash of letters. He‟d go downstairs via his room and put them in his bag with his writing journal. They‟d be safe there for the time being. For a moment he wondered whether he should share them with Cathal. Perhaps he might be able to help put the puzzle pieces together? Hold on! Realization struck, and Tomas dived back into the trunk, retrieving the card that had gone with the vase and adding it to his letters. It was another clue and possibly the only thing he had which hadn‟t originated from Alice herself but from her husband. “Finished?” Mikey was watching him carefully but making no move toward the door. “You‟re not coming down for morning tea?” Tomas thought Mikey would have jumped at the opportunity to eat more of Heidi‟s cooking judging by the way he‟d wolfed down what she‟d served him for breakfast. “Nah.” Mikey shook his head. “I have stuff to find for the jamboree still.” He grinned. “Besides, why would I butt into your quality time with Heidi and Mrs. O‟Neil? After all, I have manners, remember?” Tomas snorted. “So you keep saying.” He smirked, a thought suddenly crossing his mind. “Do you want me to remind Heidi you‟re still here? I‟m sure Mrs. O‟Neil would love to see you too.” “Fuck no.” Mikey looked at Tomas in horror. “She‟ll ask me how school is and all that crap old ladies think is way important.” “Just you make sure you look after my letters,” Tomas reminded him, “and don‟t touch anything else in that trunk, or I might accidentally remember you‟re not finished already and gone home.” “Bastard,” muttered Mikey. “Just you make sure you‟re at the field tomorrow to help me build my skateboard ramp, or I might accidentally remember you‟ve got those letters.”
122 | Anne Barwell
“You‟ve got some too.” Tomas rolled his eyes. The kid had a lot to learn about blackmailing techniques. “Yeah, so?” Mikey grinned. “You‟re the adult. I‟m just a kid who‟s been led astray because I didn‟t know any better.” “Brat.” Tomas ignored the way in which Mikey‟s grin widened. The bloody kid was enjoying this. “Yep.” Mikey turned his back on Tomas and started walking toward the racks of old-fashioned clothing. “Have fun!” he called out in a stage whisper. “Oh, I intend to.” Tomas glared at the kid‟s back, wishing just for a moment that looks could kill. This whole incident had not gone the way he‟d planned at all. “Tomas!” Heidi was definitely not the type of person one kept waiting. “Coming!” Tomas yelled a little more testily than he intended, banging the attic door closed behind him, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the landing of his own floor. The letters quickly stashed, he made his way down the rest of the stairs, slowing down when he reached the bottom, taking a couple of deep breaths and running a hand through his hair, resetting his outward composure to cool, calm, and collected. “Good morning, Mr. Kemp.” Mrs. O‟Neil glanced in his direction when he entered the kitchen before returning her attention to the cat on her lap. Blackthorn yawned, stretched, and licked at Mrs. O‟Neil‟s hand lazily. “How nice of you to finally join us.” Reaching over, she picked up one of the mini quiches off one of the plates on the table. “I was busy,” Tomas said defensively, unsure why he even felt the need to explain himself. “So I see.” Mrs. O‟Neil began picking peas out of the quiche, placing them on a saucer to the right of her own plate. “Would you like some coffee, Tomas?” Heidi gestured to one of the empty chairs, and Tomas slid into it, noticing they‟d set a place for him. There seemed to be an awful lot of food for a mere morning tea: mini quiches, sandwiches, and scones, although the latter appeared to be of the cheese and bacon variety rather than sultanas like the day before. “Thanks.” Tomas debated informing Mrs. O‟Neil that taking apart food before eating was in very bad taste. Blackthorn purred, sat up, and looked at her attentively. “You‟re such a good kitty, aren‟t you?” Mrs. O‟Neil broke the quiche in two and placed the halves on her lap, petting Blackthorn as she devoured one and then the other. “This cat just loves human food,” she explained. “Doesn‟t
Cat’s Quill | 123
she, Heidi, dear?” Blackthorn pawed her lap and looked pitiful. “I always feed her when I visit. We‟re good friends, Blackthorn and I.” Another quiche joined the first, the peas already carefully removed. “Someone needs to tell her that it‟s important to eat your greens,” Tomas noted dryly, earning a dirty look from the cat for his comment. “But she doesn‟t like peas,” Mrs. O‟Neil said, stroking the cat under the chin. Blackthorn gave Tomas another look and then purred louder, lapping up the attention. “Nasty little squishy round things, they are, aren‟t they, Blackthorn?” “Spoilt brat,” Tomas muttered under his breath. He helped himself to one of the scones. “This is very nice, Heidi.” Heidi beamed. “Thank you, Tomas.” She pushed the plate of sandwiches toward him. “You must try one of these as well.” “I will when I‟ve finished this,” Tomas said through a mouthful of scone. “Heidi said you were researching the area for your book.” Mrs. O‟Neil‟s sudden change of subject took Tomas by surprise, a piece of his scone going down the wrong way. Coughing, he took a swig of coffee to wash it down, using the action to compose himself before answering. “Yes,” he admitted, holding his hand up to indicate to both women that he was all right and there was no need for them to fuss. The last thing he needed was mothering times two. Blackthorn settled back down on Mrs. O‟Neil‟s lap, having arched her back, her tail twitching as she kept a careful eye on him. “I have some questions I was hoping you might be able to answer.” “There is very little that goes on that Mrs. O‟Neil doesn‟t know about,” Heidi said, smiling, pouring the older woman another cup of tea. She refilled her own coffee and settled back in her chair, both of them watching Tomas intently. He cleared his throat, ignoring the fact that he was the center of attention. For a moment he debated forgetting this whole thing and slinking back into the shadows where it was easier to hide. No, he told himself firmly, this was information he needed, and Mrs. O‟Neil was the person to talk to. “I‟d like to find out more about Alice Finlay,” he said. “She was a local artist, and her family used to own this inn.” “I know who she is.” Mrs. O‟Neil frowned and sipped her tea. Blackthorn snuggled into her lap, still purring but more quietly, her eyes never leaving Tomas. “Why do you want to know about her?” For a moment Tomas wondered whether to tell or not. Several days beforehand he would have decided against it instantly, but for some reason that didn‟t seem the right thing to do now. But he also did not want to tell the
124 | Anne Barwell
whole story. Or rather, more importantly, he did not want to share the fact that Cathal existed until he knew more. “I‟m researching the area for the novel I‟m working on, and her name keeps coming up.” Putting down his coffee cup, he pulled out his notepad from his shirt pocket, and his pen. “I‟m also looking for a book, and I suspect she‟s connected to the author somehow.” If what he‟d observed of the gossip grapevine in this village already was accurate, it was alive and well, and he‟d asked Phoebe about the book at the local library within earshot of several people. Mrs. O‟Neil snorted. “You‟d be doing better than to worry about her, Mr. Kemp. Artists and writers, they‟re all the same.” She tsk-tsked. “Like attracts like, I always say, although of course my dear husband never agreed with me. It was one of the very few things we never agreed on, God rest his soul.” Tomas filed that comment away in the compartment of his brain reserved for the unexpected. From the little he‟d seen and heard about Mrs. O‟Neil, he was surprised her late husband had had the nerve to disagree with her about anything. “Thanks for the compliment,” he remarked dryly. “Tomas is a very good writer,” Heidi said proudly. “I‟ve read all his books. You can borrow one to read if you‟d like. I own copies.” She topped up Tomas‟s coffee even though he‟d never asked. The thought crossed his mind that she might ask for him to sign her copies, and he dismissed it quickly. No, Heidi had more sense than that, and she was much more down to earth than some of those women he‟d met on the last book tour he‟d been forced to take. He shuddered at the memory. It had been an experience he never wanted to repeat. “That‟s nice, dear,” Mrs. O‟Neil replied, “but I prefer not to waste my time on such endeavors. It‟s not as though he‟s written anything worth adding to my own library.” She suddenly gave Tomas a smile. He fought the urge to bolt as visions of a shark eying up prey entered his mind. “Detective stories, young man. Those I do enjoy. They‟re useful.” Her head nodded slowly, her hand reaching for a scone. Blackthorn‟s eyes watched her hand, ever hopeful, returning her glare to rest on Tomas when Mrs. O‟Neil ate the scone herself. “I always said this village would make a wonderful backdrop for a decent murder mystery, didn‟t I, Heidi?” Heidi nodded, her eyes lighting up. “This inn would be the perfect place too. A body found under the old tree out there in a storm, of course….” She trailed off. “Right.” Tomas pretended to write down what they‟d said. What was it with everyone trying to suggest ideas for his book? He already knew what he was writing about and certainly didn‟t need their help. A faint blush tinged his
Cat’s Quill | 125
face as he remembered the last scene he‟d written and how Cathal had helped him with it. The two women exchanged a knowing look. “So what‟s the heroine‟s name and how does he meet her?” Heidi asked. “I was right, wasn‟t I? About the body under the tree?” “There‟s no body under any tree,” Tomas snapped. “Nor is there a heroine. I‟m not writing a murder mystery.” “Manners, manners,” chastised Mrs. O‟Neil. “There‟s no accounting for taste, but of course that doesn‟t mean there might not be a heroine or a murder later.” She winked at Heidi, and Tomas counted slowly to twenty, reminding himself that being rude would not be a bright idea at the moment. “Besides, every good book has a heroine for the hero to fall in love with. It‟s the very nature of these things.” Twenty obviously was not a high enough number to aim for, Tomas decided, and besides, he‟d never done well with that method of controlling his temper. He didn‟t lose it often, but Mrs. O‟Neil seemed to know exactly which of his buttons to push. There was no heroine because the hero was going to fall in love with another man. He opened his mouth to give that retort and then closed it again, grabbing hold of his sanity just in the nick of time. “A writer doesn‟t reveal too many details until he‟s finished at least the first draft,” he said instead, ignoring the little inner voice which appeared to have returned from its all-too-brief absence. He didn‟t care what that voice said; that comment was not as lame as it sounded. “Or until he knows what is going to happen.” Mrs. O‟Neil sounded completely serious, but Tomas didn‟t trust her. “Now, if you are going to set your novel here, you need to get your facts straight. After all, there is nothing worse than shoddy research.” She gave him a look that suggested he better not be contemplating the idea. “It shows.” “I research all my stories thoroughly,” Tomas informed her, a little stiffly. The nerve of the woman! “That‟s one thing I liked so much about your books.” Heidi nodded her agreement. “Apart from the characters, that is; I really liked Roger and Alan.” Her voice grew wistful. “I don‟t suppose you‟re going to write another story so I can find out what happened to them?” “No.” Tomas shook his head. “Their story is done.” He hesitated, remembering that Cathal had thought they‟d had a connection. “What did you want to happen to them?” “They settled down with a nice girl each and lived happily ever after,” Mrs. O‟Neil put in helpfully. “As I said before, it‟s the nature of these things.”
126 | Anne Barwell
“No.” Both Heidi and Tomas spoke and turned to glare at Mrs. O‟Neil as one. Tomas felt himself turn bright red, hoping like hell neither of them would call him on it. “They settled down together and lived happily ever after,” Heidi said firmly. “Sometimes the nature of things goes differently.” Tomas stared at her. “If you want, that‟s what happened,” he said quickly, relieved and at the same time trying to wrap his head around what Heidi had said. How bloody obvious was it they‟d meant to be together? First Cathal, and now her. Hell, he hadn‟t even noticed it until he‟d got to that point in the book where the muses had wanted the kiss and he‟d fought them on it and eventually won. “You‟ve been hanging around Mr. Campbell too long, Heidi,” Mrs. O‟Neil snorted. “He‟s a nice boy, don‟t get me wrong, and I‟m sure he‟ll find someone eventually, but it doesn‟t mean that‟s what is going to happen here.” She turned her attention to Tomas. “Does it, dear?” “Whatever Heidi wants is what happened.” Tomas met her gaze stubbornly. Blackthorn meowed, jumped down off Mrs. O‟Neil‟s lap, and rubbed against his ankles. Tomas absently stroked her tail. Heidi grinned from ear to ear; he‟d obviously made her day. Mrs. O‟Neil didn‟t look quite as impressed, but screw it, if Heidi and Cathal both thought Alan and Roger should have been together, Tomas wasn‟t going to argue the point with either of them. He‟d denied himself that truth once; he wasn‟t about to do it again. “Make another pot of tea, Heidi, dear, and wipe that smug look off your face.” It appeared this was the closest Mrs. O‟Neil came to admitting defeat. “Mr. Kemp wanted some information about Alice Finlay, if I recall, and we‟re wasting his time and ours talking about novels that aren‟t going to be written when we should be focusing on those which are.” She narrowed her eyes, giving Blackthorn a disapproving look at the way in which she‟d switched allegiance. “After I‟ve refilled Tomas‟s coffee,” Heidi replied, already leaning over the table to do so. This was definitely a good time to shift the focus away from himself and onto Alice. Tomas wasn‟t about to look any gift horse from Mrs. O‟Neil in the mouth, or enter into any more arguments with her. “Thanks,” he told Heidi, ignoring the warm furball that had settled on top of his foot, preventing him from making a run for it even though that thought was looking rather attractive. There was one thing he‟d learnt very early in life. It did not pay to get in the middle of a conversation between two strong-minded women.
Cat’s Quill | 127
A fresh pot of tea on the table, and Heidi sat down again, her chair a little closer to Tomas‟s than it had been. “I‟ve already told Tomas what I know about Alice,” she said to Mrs. O‟Neil, “but it‟s not much. Just that her family owned this place and that her husband died in the war before their baby was born.” Mrs. O‟Neil nodded slowly; she definitely knew more. “Rumor has it,” she said, topping up her tea and taking an appreciative sip, “that they weren‟t married. Terrible scandal it was. No one knew where he‟d come from. Some place east, I believe, but of course, he could have come from Timbuktu and there was no way of proving it.” “Not married?” Tomas‟s pen stopped mid-stroke. “But the let—” He caught himself just in time. “What makes you think they weren‟t?” “Marriage license, young man.” Mrs. O‟Neil looked over her cup of tea, very disapprovingly. “There wasn‟t one. As I said, he came out of nowhere and probably went back to wherever he‟d come from. He got the poor girl in the family way and then deserted her. I suspect that‟s why she took his name, pretended there‟d been a wedding and that he‟d died in the war. It would have been far less scandal than the truth.” “Maybe it was the truth,” Tomas pointed out. “They could have got married overseas; she came home first and then he joined her. It‟s not unknown.” “She would have had to have left first for that to happen.” Mrs. O‟Neil glared at him for daring to disagree with her theories. “Alice was a real homebody. She never left the village in the whole time she lived here, at least physically. Her mind was all over the place after she had the child. She told stories of faraway places she said her husband told her about.” She sighed. “She was an artist, you see; it addled her brain just as it has with poor Mikey. He‟s just as bad with stories about seeing things that aren‟t there.” “Just like writing has addled mine.” Tomas couldn‟t help but add the comment. Her attitude was beginning to annoy him, and Mikey seemed completely normal to him even if he was the brat from hell. “Just because you don‟t know what actually happened doesn‟t mean it didn‟t.” Perhaps this was a mistake and the letters contained the answers he wanted. “Go look in the church records if you don‟t believe me.” Mrs. O‟Neil helped herself to a scone, munching it slowly. “It‟s got all the records of births, deaths, and marriages in the area that have occurred since it was built.” “They could have got married somewhere else, just not in this parish.” Heidi glanced between them, suggesting an alternative. “If she‟d eloped and gone somewhere for a couple of days, no one would have even noticed. It happens all the time.”
128 | Anne Barwell
“This isn‟t one of your romance novels, Heidi, dear.” Mrs. O‟Neil finished her scone and drained her tea. “I‟ve checked. Mr. Kemp isn‟t the only one in this room who knows how to research. There are no marriage records anywhere in Britain for an Alice Finlay and a Christian Edmonds. Why, he doesn‟t even have a birth—” Edmonds? Tomas froze, the coffee in his cup sloshing with the abrupt halt in motion. “Her married name was Edmonds?” Mrs. O‟Neil and Heidi turned to look at him. “I thought you‟d done your research, Mr. Kemp,” Mrs. O‟Neil stated, more than a little smugly. “According to the fairytale Alice would like us to believe, she became Mrs. Alice Edmonds in 1918 by marrying a man who never existed.”
Cat’s Quill | 129
Chapter 12
TO HELL with the fact he hadn‟t originally planned to meet with Cathal until that afternoon. As soon as he could do so without arousing further suspicion, Tomas excused himself from Heidi and Mrs. O‟Neil, his mind going nineteen to the dozen with possible implications of the bombshell that had been dropped on him. It would have been so much simpler if Tomas believed in coincidence, but he didn‟t. He could live with the fact that Cathal‟s friend Alice had the same name as the artist who had owned the inn, and maybe, if he stretched his imagination, that she and her husband shared the first names of the main characters in this damn book. For which there was a sequel; there was no way he was giving up on that thought now. But that her married name was also the same as Cathal‟s Alice. Who just happened to be involved with his cousin. That was pushing it. Even if Alice and Christian had been married, and lived here, over eighty years ago. Or not married, if Mrs. O‟Neil was to be believed. Fuck. None of this made any sense. His bag swung over one shoulder and a Thermos of coffee supplied by Heidi in his hand, Tomas stalked out of the inn and across the field toward the tree. If Cathal wasn‟t there yet, so be it. He‟d wait. Not that he was expecting any answers; Cathal had already shown that he wasn‟t the type to give any, at least any that made any sense, but Tomas was determined to talk to him about this anyway. So far, he was the connection, and as such should be given the opportunity to explain, or at the very least offer some kind of theory as to what the hell was going on. Blackthorn scampered ahead of him. The bloody cat had literally stalked him since morning tea, not taking her eyes off him the whole time, apart from the odd glare at Mrs. O‟Neil as the older woman had kept talking. St. Aiden‟s church was high on his list of places to visit. No matter what Mrs. O‟Neil had said, Tomas intended to still carry out his own research.
130 | Anne Barwell
Mrs. O‟Neil was not the fountain of all knowledge, no matter what illusions she wanted to live under. She could be wrong. And besides, what did it matter if Alice and Christian had not been married? The important thing was how they felt about each other and that the child had been conceived within a loving relationship. For a moment, Tomas‟s step faltered, and he looked up at the sky, shading his eyes from the sun as he took several deep breaths to calm himself. Would he feel that way about anyone, he wondered, to the extent that he wanted to settle down into something more permanent? Hell, he‟d never kissed anyone before Cathal. Warmth flooded through him at the memory. Relationships were not built on a single kiss, he reminded himself. He liked Cathal, but he wasn‟t prepared to go any farther with someone he didn‟t trust, and that quality wasn‟t high on his list of Cathal‟s attributes with all these unanswered questions. All Cathal had to do was offer an explanation as to why he couldn‟t possibly have had anything to do with someone who had been dead for over fifty years. God, his sanity had definitely left the building. What was he thinking? This whole scenario was impossible. Perhaps Cathal‟s Alice was a relative; yes, that had to be it. Cathal only appeared to be in his mid-twenties. There was no way he could have known someone that long ago. “Tomas!” A familiar figure began walking toward him; a smile lit up Cathal‟s face as he drew closer. How long had he been there, waiting? Guilt followed on the heels of Tomas‟s confusion and anger. He tried to plaster a smile on his lips to return Cathal‟s, and failed. Pretending as far as emotions were concerned had never been a strong point. While he could play disinterested, cool, calm, and collected without much trouble, the opposite had never come easy to him. It was too much like lying. “Something‟s wrong, isn‟t it?” Cathal‟s expression dropped almost immediately, a frown replacing the smile. “What‟s happened?” He searched Tomas‟s eyes as though looking for an answer. “Do you need to talk about it?” “Yes.” Logic said this all had to be a mistake. Seeing Cathal again, Tomas knew he‟d been an idiot in reacting this way. A name in common meant nothing. This was crazy. He couldn‟t allow the lines between fantasy and reality to blur like this again. “Can we sit?” “All right.” Cathal slipped his hand into Tomas‟s, and Tomas took it without thinking. They‟d kissed. It was only natural that Cathal would want to hold hands. Tomas squeezed Cathal‟s hand, determined to hang onto him, at least until after they‟d had this discussion. After that, if Cathal wanted to
Cat’s Quill | 131
leave, after learning just how crazy and unreasonable Tomas could be, so be it. Instead of leading him to the tree as Tomas expected, Cathal walked farther into the grassy field, sitting down in the middle of it, and pulling Tomas down to join him. “There‟s no shelter here,” Tomas said. “Don‟t you want to sit under the tree instead like we usually do?” If they stayed here, they could be easily seen from the inn. “No.” Cathal‟s tone was soft but firm. “I want to do something different. Besides, we‟re only talking, right?” “Right.” Talking and possibly yelling. With each passing moment, this was becoming more and more of a mistake. Tomas wondered where the hell his head had been. “So, do you want to tell me what happened?” Cathal seemed genuinely concerned; his reaction suggested very strongly that he cared. This was stupid. Of course he did. He‟d told Tomas that he wanted to see if they could be more than friends. That in itself suggested that he did. Perhaps, instead of getting straight to the point, Tomas could ask a question which would mean he wouldn‟t have to make a complete idiot of himself. He cleared his throat, still not letting go of Cathal‟s hand, ignoring the warmth from the skin-to-skin contact and how right it felt. “Remember how I brought the scones with the coffee last time?” Cathal nodded but didn‟t say anything, his gaze still firmly fixed on Tomas. “You told me you used to steal your friend Alice‟s baking and that she and your cousin were together.” Tomas swallowed. If Cathal didn‟t give the right answer, there would be no need to go farther. Tomas could just explain about what he‟d found out without having to admit what an idiot he‟d been. Two plus two did not always equal four. In this case Tomas rather hoped they didn‟t. “Yes.” Cathal frowned and let go of Tomas‟s hand. His voice was even but a little flatter than it had been. “Why?‟ “What was your cousin‟s name, Cat? You never told me.” “You never asked.” Cathal absently petted Blackthorn when she rubbed herself against him, meowing softly. “You haven‟t told me why you suddenly need to know.” His expression shadowed, a stiffness coming over it Tomas hadn‟t seen before. “It was a long time ago. You don‟t know him.” “Humor me.” Tomas tried to keep his voice nonchalant, his expression neutral, wondering exactly what Cathal meant by “a long time ago.”
132 | Anne Barwell
“His name is Christian.” Cathal‟s gaze didn‟t falter, although his eyes glazed over briefly. His voice softened. “You don‟t know him, Tomas.” “Obviously not.” Tomas‟s brain tried to process the thoughts running through it and his jumbled emotions. “After all, that would be difficult, considering he lived over eighty years ago, now wouldn‟t it?” “Excuse me?” Cathal went pale, his hand poised in midair from where he was stroking Blackthorn‟s back. He swallowed. “You heard me.” There was nothing better Tomas wanted than for Cathal to explain why this couldn‟t be true. “Alice Edmonds and her husband Christian lived in the inn in 1918.” He did the math. “Actually, make that ninety years.” Cathal opened his mouth and closed it again. “No,” he whispered, backing away and hugging his knees. “It couldn‟t be that long ago.” For a moment, Tomas‟s resolve to get to the bottom of whatever was going on weakened. Cathal‟s reaction didn‟t seem quite right for just a simple denial. What the hell was he hiding? He went to move closer to Cathal, but Cathal shook his head. “Cat, please. I need to know what‟s going on. They aren‟t the same people, are they? They can‟t be.” This was all falling to pieces because of some crazy theory that couldn‟t be true. “People have the same names, especially in families.” He tried to laugh it off, but all that came out was a choking noise; common sense and a need to know warring with a gut feeling that in this case his crazy-sounding theories were the truth. Cathal met Tomas‟s eyes again; there was a mixture of wistfulness, regret, and guilt in his own. His voice was very calm. “What do you want to believe, Tomas? That they are the same people, or that it‟s just that they share the same names?” The realization of what he did want hit at the same time the words tumbled out. “I want to believe in you. I need to be able to trust you.” His words trailed off. “I have never lied to you, and I‟m not about to start now.” Cathal sighed, stretched out and edged closer to Tomas, resting one hand on his knee. “However, I also refuse to put you at risk, and there are things I can‟t tell you.” Blackthorn rubbed herself up against Cathal again. He glanced at her and then back at Tomas, his gaze finally focusing on a small square of grass between them. “I know it‟s not fair to expect you to trust me, although you don‟t really know me, but I need you to be able to believe in and trust me too.”
Cat’s Quill | 133
“This is crazy, isn‟t it?” Tomas rested his hand over Cathal‟s. “I‟m accusing you of knowing people who lived nearly a century ago.” He managed a small smile. “I‟m sure my cousin and his wife were not the only people to have those names. After all, weren‟t they also used in the book you loaned me?” Cathal‟s head came up, but he still didn‟t quite meet Tomas‟s eyes directly. “They were.” Tomas had to admit that. “See, that‟s the thing that I can‟t get my head around. I don‟t believe in coincidences, and this is too much of one.” He wanted to believe Cathal. Fantasy was for stories, and the stuff of myths and legends; it was what he wrote about, not what he lived. The two were separate. They had to be. “Writers often use names of people they know. The Alice and Christian who lived in the inn might have been friends of the author who wrote the book. Maybe the names were supposed to be changed but the first draft got published by mistake by someone else? It happens.” Cathal was watching Tomas very carefully. “I suppose.” Tomas stroked Cathal‟s hand with his thumb, freezing suddenly when a thought struck. “That still doesn‟t explain why they shared the same last name as your cousin, though.” Cathal was silent for a few moments. “They might have been related,” he said slowly. “Christian‟s father wasn‟t local; he moved into my… area from somewhere else. He never spoke much about his family.” He smiled ruefully. “Names are also passed down between generations. I know I certainly never asked for mine. It‟s one of the reasons I asked you to call me „Cat‟.” “That‟s also possible.” The way Cathal explained it made sense, although Tomas felt a little disappointed as to the reason why he‟d been asked to use the name. He‟d hoped it was something special just between them. “If I find out any more about the Alice and Christian who lived in the inn, do you want me to let you know? Just in case they are family?” “I‟d like that, thank you.” Cathal frowned. “Are you researching their background, and can I ask why?” Tomas owed Cathal the decency of an explanation for that, at least. “It started because of the book I loaned you.” He had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I still think there‟s a sequel.” “There‟s not.” Cathal shook his head and sighed. “I wish there was, Tomas. They needed a happily ever after, and what happened was very unfair, but sometimes life is like that.” He noticed the Thermos on the grass next to Tomas‟s bag. “Is that coffee?”
134 | Anne Barwell
“Yes, Heidi wouldn‟t let me leave without it.” Tomas began unscrewing the lid. “Would you like some?” He peered into his bag, frowning. “I only have one cup. Is it okay if we share?” “I don‟t mind if we do.” Cathal smiled. “I don‟t have anything nasty that you might catch.” He blushed suddenly. “I‟m sure after that kiss, we can at least share a coffee cup without any ill effects.” “I enjoyed the kiss,” Tomas said softly. He poured some coffee into the cup and handed it to Cathal. The pink dusting suited his pale complexion. Watching Cathal sip the hot liquid, a thought suddenly struck Tomas. He frowned. “Are you trying to change the subject?” “I noticed you had coffee.” Cathal put the cup down to rest on one knee. One hand picked a few blades of grass, twisting them around his finger. “Tell me, then, how did looking for a sequel that didn‟t exist lead you to Alice and Christian?” “I found a copy of the original book in the library.” Tomas hesitated and then pulled his journal out of his bag, flipping through it until he got to the page which kept the postcard safe. “This was in it.” Carefully, he handed it to Cathal. “It‟s Alice.” Cathal smiled sadly, running his fingers over the photograph. He turned it over, reading the dates. “People are often remembered for what they did in life rather than who they were.” His voice softened. “Only the good die young. I sometimes wish that wasn‟t true.” “It‟s not always,” Tomas disagreed. “I don‟t think it matters how you live your life. When it‟s time, there‟s nothing you can do about it.” Watching Cathal with the postcard, he had a weird feeling he was missing something. Reaching out to take the postcard back, it suddenly hit him, his tone more accusing than he intended. “You knew who she was before you turned the photograph over.” “Yes, I did.” Cathal handed back the postcard. “The picture on it is a photograph of a portrait. I saw it hanging in the inn once, but the last time I was there it was gone.” “I‟ve never seen it in the inn.” Tomas frowned. The picture looked like a photograph rather than a painting, but his knowledge of painting and photography was very limited. “As I said, it was gone the last time I was there,” Cathal repeated patiently. “It used to hang on the second floor outside the master bedroom.” “The second floor?” Tomas frowned. “That‟s the one above mine. There‟s another painting there now. It‟s of this tree and the field.” Cathal paused, his
Cat’s Quill | 135
cup mid-sip. “Maybe you could come with me and I‟ll show you. It‟s very haunting. I think you‟d like it.” “I can‟t.” Cathal shook his head slowly. “We could go when Heidi and Donovan are out, if you don‟t want to talk to them.” Tomas was quite happy not to have to share Cathal with anyone just yet. “How long has it been since you‟ve been there?” Cathal had said when they‟d first met that he didn‟t get to talk to people very often. Yet he didn‟t strike Tomas as antisocial; quite the opposite, in fact, especially with the conversation they‟d shared though they‟d only known each other a short time. “I‟m not sure.” Cathal drained the coffee from the cup and handed it to Tomas, their fingers brushing, the touch lingering between them. “I don‟t seem to be as good at keeping track of time as I thought I was.” He frowned, his eyes glazing over in memory. “There was a storm, quite a bad one, in the middle of the day. The weather was very wild, more so than I‟d seen in the area for many years.” Blackthorn rubbed against him, climbing into his lap. He stroked the top of her head absently. “It was the day Blackthorn and I found each other….” His voice trailed off. Heidi had said that Blackthorn had come to them after a storm after they‟d first moved in five years ago. Could it have been the same one? “Donovan said there are rumors of the inn being haunted. He mentioned a bad storm too.” “Do you think it is?” Blackthorn lifted her head, and Cathal obediently shifted his fingers to under her chin. “Haunted, I mean?” “I don‟t believe in ghosts,” Tomas said firmly. “They only exist in books or people‟s imaginations. They‟re a way of explaining what we don‟t know yet.” He ignored the fact he was sounding a little too much like his friend, Ethan, who was practical and down to earth to the extreme. If something couldn‟t be explained, it didn‟t exist and therefore wasn‟t something to concern himself with. “Magic is merely science that we don‟t know about yet.” “That sounds like a quote from someone else, rather than something you believe.” Cathal nodded toward the Thermos. “I‟ve had enough, if you want some, thank you.” “It is.” Tomas opened the Thermos again, refilling the cup. “A quote from someone else, I mean. I can‟t remember who, though.” Balancing the cup between his legs, he refastened the screw-top lid. “That doesn‟t mean I don‟t believe it.” “You believe in muses. Some would say they are magic, or at the very least, a figment of an overactive imagination.” Cathal stretched his legs,
136 | Anne Barwell
shifting the weight of the cat, who seemed to have no intention of moving. Tomas felt a momentary pang of aggression toward the animal at the way in which it was taking some of Cathal‟s attention. “I believe my characters exist in my mind, so they are real in there.” Tomas retrieved his coffee and crossed his legs, balancing it between them to let it cool. “I never said that Deimos was a muse, just that he hadn‟t told me yet.” Cathal grinned smugly. “Ah yes, but he could tell you he is, and therefore that would make it true, wouldn‟t it?” Blackthorn‟s tail jerked up and down a few times. She glanced lazily in Tomas‟s direction, climbed off Cathal‟s lap, and settled down on the grass between them. “You‟re clutching at straws.” Tomas snorted, not ready to give in, although he was enjoying the discussion. “Muses aren‟t magic; they‟re a fact of life.” Cathal laughed, a light sound that echoed around them. His eyes sparkled. “So what do you do when you find something you can‟t explain? Ignore it and hope it will go away because it can‟t possibly exist?” “Of course not,” Tomas retorted indignantly. “That would be irresponsible, and besides, I‟m not Ethan.” At Cathal‟s blank expression, he explained quickly. “He‟s a friend I met at college. One of the few I‟ve kept in touch with.” Tomas would be very interested in listening to Cathal attempting to argue this point of view with Ethan. “I see.” Cathal smiled. “It‟s important to keep in contact with and be there for your friends. Is he planning to visit while you are here?” “Probably not,” Tomas said in part relief and part regret. “He‟s a teacher, and it‟s in the middle of the school term, so he can‟t get time off.” “That is unfortunate. I‟d like to meet him.” Cathal frowned, growing quiet. “Maybe I should talk to Donovan and Heidi sometime.” He reached over to steady the coffee cup when it almost tipped, handing it to Tomas. The sleeve on his shirt rode up, and he pulled it back down, but not before Tomas saw a bracelet of what appeared to be twigs around his wrist. “I can‟t remember the last time I sat in the field like this and talked to someone. Watching from a distance isn‟t the same. I‟m feeling very much like an outsider, both from my people and yours. It‟s as though I don‟t belong anywhere anymore.” “That‟s not true, Cat.” Tomas took a couple of gulps of coffee before putting the cup down again, this time to the side on an even piece of ground. He moved closer, ignoring the growl in the back of Blackthorn‟s throat. “You
Cat’s Quill | 137
can belong wherever you want to.” He hesitated, placing one hand on Cathal‟s knee. “With whomever you want.” “It‟s not that easy, Tomas.” Cathal placed one hand over Tomas‟s. “I wish I could explain why, but I can‟t.” He shuffled nearer, closing the distance between them, his hand still on Tomas‟s. Blackthorn huffed at both of them, glared at Cathal, but moved away a distance when he gave her a stern look, one which softened immediately when he turned his attention back to Tomas. “You said that you don‟t believe in magic.” “No, I said that it is science we don‟t know about yet,” Tomas corrected gently. Without thinking, he reached out one hand to stroke Cathal‟s cheek, the skin warm under his fingertips. Cathal turned his head slightly, kissing one of Tomas‟s fingers, leaning into the touch. “I believe in magic. I don‟t think it‟s necessarily just about such things as are written in fantasy stories but that it takes all shapes and forms.” Cathal smiled. “In nature, the world around us, in the words we speak and in the friendships and relationships that grow between people.” “You sound like one of the romantic poets.” Tomas couldn‟t help but smile. “Do I?” Cathal sighed. “I had a friend once who loved them. She used to bring poetry books with her, and we‟d sit for hours and read to each other.” “What happened to her?” “I don‟t know. One day she just stopped coming.” Cathal moved still closer, seeking comfort on some level. “The last time we talked, she was so happy, and full of plans for the life ahead of her and the baby she carried.” Tomas put his arm around Cathal instinctively, only half-aware that he was doing so. “Why do people leave, Tomas?” “I don‟t know.” It wasn‟t a question he could answer. “Perhaps I could find out about her for you.” He trailed his lips across Cathal‟s forehead, wishing he could do something to help yet suspecting he couldn‟t. Discovering the truth behind why people left didn‟t make the grief of that loss any less. “What was her name?” “It doesn‟t matter. People move on. I had hoped she wouldn‟t.” Cathal rested his head on Tomas‟s shoulder, threading his fingers through Tomas‟s. He sighed. “Perhaps the inn is really haunted and it‟s her ghost. I really don‟t know.” “I doubt it.” Tomas ran his other hand through Cathal‟s hair, marveling at the softness of it. “I‟m going to the church later this week to look through their records. If you tell me her name, I‟ll look for you. The baby‟s birth is probably listed as well.”
138 | Anne Barwell
“I don‟t remember her married name. We never discussed it.” Cathal closed his eyes. “I called her Libby, but that wasn‟t her real name.” He smiled at a memory. “I told her my name was Cat, and she said, well, I‟ll be Libby then, and we both laughed. I never asked her for any other, and she didn‟t either in return.” “Do you want to come with me? We could look together.” The information Cathal had given wasn‟t much to go on, but that wasn‟t going to stop Tomas from looking. Libby could be short for something, or just a nickname. “Do you know her maiden name?” “Edmonds.” Cathal opened his eyes with a start, meeting Tomas‟s. For a moment, they seemed almost wild, fearful, before he leaned back against Tomas. “She was related to my cousin; they shared the same last name.” Tomas nodded. “Another cousin?” He realized he‟d never asked Cathal whether he was the same age as his Alice and Christian. “I suppose she was, yes.” Cathal squeezed Tomas‟s hand. “I can‟t come with you to the church. I‟m sorry, but it‟s not possible. I would if I could.” “Okay.” Tomas had been about to ask why not but then decided against it. For now, he needed to just enjoy this time together, with Cathal in his arms. This was something he could get used to very easily. Conversation and closeness, both were rarities, and he was reluctant to let either, or Cathal, go just yet. “Sorry,” Cathal repeated, this time in a whisper. He tilted his head up to meet Tomas‟s eyes again, searching them for something. A reaction, perhaps? “It‟s okay.” Tomas bent his head to meet Cathal halfway. He could smell the coffee on Cathal‟s breath. What would it be like to taste it? Would it be the same as their first or different this time? Taking a deep breath, he closed the distance between them, threading his fingers through Cathal‟s hair, and kissed him on the lips. Not letting go of Tomas‟s hand, Cathal deepened the kiss, his lips moist, inviting. Breaking it briefly, he moved so that they were facing properly, licked Tomas‟s lips, and kissed him again. Tomas moaned softly into it, tasting coffee and Cathal, pulling him closer, wanting more. Finally breaking the kiss, Cathal smiled, his fingers tracing the outline of Tomas‟s mouth. “You taste good,” he said. “Very good. I think this is definitely something that gets better each time we practice.” “We‟ll have to practice more often then.” Tomas returned the smile, warmth flooding through him. He kissed Cathal‟s fingers. “You taste good too.”
Cat’s Quill | 139
“I like the idea of practicing.” Cathal ran one hand up and down Tomas‟s leg, lightly caressing it through the heavy denim. He edged closer still, sliding one of his legs over Tomas‟s so that he was nearly straddling him. Leaning in, he kissed Tomas again, pulling at his shirt. Somewhere in the back of Tomas‟s mind, the annoying little voice pointed out that they were in the middle of an open field where anyone could see. Tomas‟s shirt free, Cathal‟s hand explored underneath, fingers splaying and then contracting against bare skin. The little voice was quickly told to go take a running jump at itself. Tomas whimpered into the kiss. Blackthorn meowed loudly. Tomas ignored her. “Not now,” Cathal mumbled, breaking the kiss briefly, just long enough to wriggle up Tomas still further. The cat pawed at both of them, growing more insistent. “Go away!” Tomas snapped. Giving a yelp of pain, Cathal let out something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in a language Tomas had never heard. “I told you. Not now!” Still in Tomas‟s lap, he glared at the cat, rubbed at his thigh, and then froze. “Tomas….” Turning his head, Tomas followed Cathal‟s line of vision. Fuck, what was that bloody kid doing at the other end of the field? The moment shattered, Cathal quickly untangled himself from Tomas to land on the grass with a thump. “He‟s walking towards us.” Cathal sounded panicked. He glanced to the tree and back. “Do you know him?” Blackthorn glared at both of them, shaking her head from side to side. When they ignored her, she sauntered over to sit between them and the approaching intruder and began washing one paw and then the other. “Unfortunately, yes.” Tomas re-tucked his shirt, already devising several painful ways in which Mikey could die a slow death. How long had he been there? What did he want? And, more importantly, what had he seen?
140 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 13
MIKEY sauntered over. “Hey, Tomas, I just need to talk….” He froze, his gaze drawn to Cathal, looking him up and down. “Yes?” Tomas asked irritably, not exactly thinking good thoughts in Mikey‟s direction. The little rat had interrupted them! “I… um….” Mikey kept staring at Cathal, his mouth forming an O before he glanced at Tomas and then back at Cathal. “I need to go do my homework,” he finally stammered, backing away and walking briskly, almost at a run, toward the hedge at the edge of the field. “Little shit,” Tomas muttered under his breath. If the brat thought he could get away with being rude to Cathal like that, he had another thing coming. Cathal raised an eyebrow at Tomas‟s comment, his own expression a mixture of amusement and indignation. “We were kissing in the middle of a field. His reaction is understandable.” “Stay here,” Tomas told Cathal, glaring at Mikey‟s back. “I‟ll sort this out.” If Mrs. O‟Neil was still there and he told her what he‟d seen…. No, that was something Tomas was not going to contemplate. He had only got a couple of steps into his pursuit when Cathal caught up to walk alongside him. “I‟m coming with you. We‟ll talk to him together.” “He‟s heading for the inn. I thought you didn‟t want to go there.” Tomas could talk to Mikey and take care of the situation. There was no reason for Cathal to interact with him at all. “We‟ll talk to him together,” Cathal repeated, slipping his hand into Tomas‟s. “What is his name?” “Mikey,” Tomas said after a moment‟s hesitation. He squeezed Cathal‟s hand. “You don‟t need to do this, Cat.” “Yes, I do.” Mikey paused at the hedge, and Cathal raised his voice. “Mikey! Wait!”
Cat’s Quill | 141
“What are you doing?” Tomas stared at Cathal for a moment before he was dragged toward Mikey, the grip on his hand leaving him no choice. “I told you I‟d deal with this!” He hadn‟t realized that Cathal could be so stubborn once he‟d set his mind to something, although his insistence that there was no sequel had been a strong hint. “I am not some submissive who needs protecting, Tomas.” Cathal scowled, giving Mikey a wave when he spun around to stare at them. “I never said you were.” Tomas wasn‟t interested in a relationship with an unequal balance of power within it. How could Cathal have thought that was what he wanted? He‟d never done or said anything to suggest that he was into that kind of thing. Had he? Cathal kept walking toward Mikey, a reluctant Tomas following and wondering exactly when this situation had been taken completely out of his control. “He was ready to talk to you until he saw me.” He paused, relaxing his grip on Tomas‟s hand when they drew closer, giving Tomas the option to let go and put some space between them if he so wished. “Are you concerned that he saw you kissing another man?” Damn it, he should have never confided in Cathal about the reason he‟d resisted letting Roger and Alan get together in the book. Yes, he‟d had issues about people knowing he was gay, but Mikey had already seen them kissing, and… this was Cathal. “No,” Tomas said quietly, not willing to hurt Cathal by saying yes. After all, it wasn‟t as simple as that. Mikey could be persuaded not to repeat what he‟d seen; of that Tomas was sure. The smile Cathal gave in response confirmed to Tomas that he‟d made the right decision. He‟d denied how he‟d felt for too long. Before it hadn‟t mattered; he didn‟t have anyone he‟d take that risk for, but now…. He had no idea whether he and Cathal had what it took to build a relationship together, but one thing he knew for certain was that he wanted to at least try. Mikey was waiting for them by the hedge, his face pink and his eyes fixed on the grass under his feet. His thumb and forefinger gripped the zipper of his hoodie tightly, the metal going up and down repeatedly. His head came up, gaze lingering on their linked hands, and he mumbled something under his breath, lowering his eyes again. “I think you owe Cathal an apology,” Tomas said, placing himself between them. “If that was one, you need to repeat it so he can hear it.” “Sorry,” Mikey mumbled again, this time loud enough to hear, his eyes still examining the ground. He kicked at a stone. “I thought you were kissing a girl!”
142 | Anne Barwell
“I assure you, I‟m definitely not a girl.” Cathal let go of Tomas‟s hand and pushed past him. “Tomas said your name was Mikey.” He held out his hand. “My name is Cathal, but my friends call me Cat.” “Yeah, I‟m Mikey.” Mikey hesitated and then shook Cathal‟s hand very briefly. “Michael, really, but no one calls me that.” He glanced at Tomas and then looked Cathal up and down like he‟d done before. “Look, I said I was sorry, okay? I only came to talk to Tomas about the skateboard ramp he promised he‟d build with me tomorrow, and I thought he was talking to some girl, and then when I got closer I saw you kiss and….” His tone shifted accusingly as he turned his attention onto Tomas. “You never told me you were like Donovan! You know….” His voice trailed off again. “I‟m going to presume you mean gay,” Tomas said dryly. “As I‟m certainly not like Donovan, as you put it.” There, he‟d said it. But how much had Mikey seen? Cathal and he had been a little more enthused than just a chaste kiss, and as much as Mikey annoyed him, he wasn‟t old enough to be witness to anything more than that. Mikey grinned suddenly. “No, you‟re not like Donovan. I mean he‟s cool, and you‟re….” “Not?” Tomas‟s voice dropped dangerously low. Here he was trying to be polite and merely seek an apology for Cathal, and Mikey had to make a comment like that. Okay, so he wasn‟t Donovan, but that didn‟t mean he was boring either. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Mikey hunched his shoulders and mumbled something under his breath again. Tomas fought the urge to smack him. “What did you say?” he demanded. Mikey flushed. “The thought of kissing someone is just gross.” “I like the way he kisses,” Cathal replied softly. He seemed amused by Mikey‟s reaction. “Yeah, whatever. Just do it somewhere else, okay?” Mikey shuddered. “Not that I saw much, but it was enough. I‟m scarred for life, I swear.” “Thanks, Mikey, I‟ll take that under advisement.” Tomas bit back a sigh of relief in the knowledge that they‟d noticed him and stopped before he‟d got any closer. “We‟ll be more careful next time,” Cathal promised, his brow creased as though he was trying to figure something out. “Cat?” Tomas prompted.
Cat’s Quill | 143
“What did you mean when you said Donovan was cool?” Cathal asked Mikey. “It‟s not referring to temperature, is it?” “Nah.” Mikey stared at him. “You haven‟t heard that before? Even my dad knows what it means.” Tomas glared at Mikey. “It means he‟s okay, that he‟s fun to be around, that kind of thing,” Mikey explained hurriedly. “So is Tomas,” Cathal said. He smiled suddenly. “Maybe I should meet Donovan sometime after all.” “I bet Tomas hasn‟t told him about you.” Mikey observed brightly. “I bet Heidi and Mrs. O‟Neil don‟t know either, ‟cause she would have said.” “Mrs. O‟Neil doesn‟t know everything,” Tomas snorted. “She just thinks she does because she does research.” Cathal glanced between the two of them. “Who‟s Mrs. O‟Neil?” “Someone you don‟t have to concern yourself with,” Tomas said quickly. The thought of Mrs. O‟Neil and Cathal talking was not somewhere he wanted to go right now. Mikey was bad enough, but she‟d give Cathal the third degree and be convinced she knew everything just because she could. “I think that‟s my decision, not yours.” Cathal narrowed his eyes. For some reason he did not take well to Tomas trying to protect him in any shape or form. “Does she visit Heidi at the inn?” “Every Wednesday like clockwork.” Mikey grinned. “I know because Donovan‟s never around on those days. He and Mrs. O‟Neil have kind of a love-hate relationship. He hates listening to her opinions on everything and anything, and she loves telling him anyway.” “Where does he go?” Tomas was curious now. Donovan‟s old car was still in its garage, as was Heidi‟s Land Rover, so it couldn‟t have been far. “No one knows,” Mikey said, gesturing toward the inn with his head. “I think he does something in one of the outbuildings. There‟s a lock on the door, and I‟ve never been able to get in there. Even Heidi doesn‟t have a key.” Tomas raised an eyebrow. “I thought Heidi knows everything that goes on around here.” She hadn‟t said as much, but she struck him as someone who had her finger on the pulse, especially anything that took place on her premises and had any chance of impacting her. “When people are friends, they trust each other,” Cathal pointed out. “Privacy is also important, as is respecting the need for it.”
144 | Anne Barwell
“That wasn‟t what I was saying,” Tomas protested, wondering if Cathal‟s answers were just observations or the voice of experience. He suspected the latter, especially with the firm tone in Cathal‟s voice. “Cat‟s right,” Mikey butted in somewhat smugly. “Friends trust each other.” Tomas felt his temper bristle with Mikey using that name, but it wasn‟t his place to correct him, especially as Cathal had given permission when he‟d introduced himself. Placing one hand on Tomas‟s arm, Cathal gave Mikey a smile. “You said that Tomas had promised to build you a…,” he stumbled over the phrase as though it was unfamiliar, “skateboard ramp?” “Yeah.” Mikey‟s annoying grin was firmly back in place. “We‟re going to build it in the field over there.” He gestured toward a piece of open grassland backing onto hedge on the far side directly opposite where they were now. That section of hedge seemed to act as a boundary between the inn and the farm next door. It was difficult at this distance to tell which property the shedlike building to one side of it belonged to or exactly how big it was. “Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon? You could help if you want.” “I‟m sure he has other things to—” Tomas started to say. Cathal‟s smile widened. “I‟d love to help, thank you for asking.” “Cool!” Mikey poked his tongue out at Tomas. “How did someone like you manage to meet someone with such good manners?” He winked at Cathal. “I had to prompt him to thank Heidi for breakfast this morning, you know. And he‟s meant to be the adult.” “It wasn‟t like that at all,” Tomas scowled, not sure why he was justifying himself to some kid. “I‟m sure it wasn‟t,” Cathal agreed, his tone definitely one of amusement as he watched both of them. He opened his mouth to add another comment, saw Tomas give Mikey a smug look, and closed it again, shaking his head. “What?” Tomas and Mikey asked together. “Some thoughts are better not said.” Cathal moved closer, sliding his hand into Tomas‟s again. “It has occurred to me that I‟m not sure how much of a help I will be tomorrow.” He paused, looking a little sheepish. “Umm, what‟s a skateboard, and why do you need a ramp for it?” Mikey stared at Cathal. “You‟re kidding me, right?” He shook his head. “Everyone knows what a skateboard is, unless they‟ve been hiding under a rock for the last hundred years or so.” “I‟m sorry, but I don‟t know.” Cathal sighed, his attention taken for a moment by a familiar black speck heading toward them. When he continued, his words were slow as though he was choosing them carefully. “I‟m not from
Cat’s Quill | 145
around here, although I do visit from time to time. That‟s why I‟m unfamiliar with some of your customs and sayings.” “Oh.” Mikey frowned, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “I thought you were dressed a bit weirdly too.” He indicated Cathal‟s shirt. “It‟s kind of out of date. Something I‟d expect to see in an old movie or something.” “I like it,” Tomas said. The loose shirt with its laces instead of buttons suited Cathal‟s personality, giving him an air of being a little different, yet at the same time familiar. Come to think of it, he‟d been wearing the same clothing each time they‟d met and still hadn‟t told Tomas where he lived. Actually, these clothes were rather like he‟d imagined Deimos would wear in his book. No, he‟d had enough of crazy ideas for one day. But it was difficult to ignore the fact that since they‟d role-played that scene, every time Tomas visualized Deimos, he saw Cathal. “Thank you.” Cathal squeezed his hand and blushed slightly. “I‟ve had it a while, but it‟s comfortable, and I can‟t bring myself to throw it out for that reason. My sister made me another, but although she means well, new material is a little too stiff and formal for my liking.” He smiled as though remembering something, shaking his head. As if on cue, Blackthorn, finally deciding to grace them with her presence, walked over to Cathal, rubbing herself against his legs. He mumbled something under his breath, and she growled at him. “That cat knows you,” Mikey observed. “She doesn‟t do that to just anyone. I thought you said you weren‟t from around here.” “I did, but I also said I visited,” Cathal said mildly. His tone, though quiet, was firm and suggested he did not want to be questioned further on the matter. “Blackthorn and I have known each other a while; she insists on following me around at times.” The cat meowed, and he sighed. “Despite the fact it is really quite unnecessary.” “You don‟t argue with cats,” Mikey said. “They know stuff.” He bent to pet Blackthorn, and she left Cathal to sniff Mikey‟s hand, purring loudly. Cathal frowned, glancing at the cat and then at Mikey. “Same as dragons,” Mikey continued. “I like dragons.” “They‟re mythical creatures, Mikey,” Tomas said, amused. “They don‟t exist. Besides, they‟d probably be more inclined to breathe fire at you rather than be a pet. I don‟t think you can exactly compare them to a cat.” “They do too,” Mikey argued, scowling. “Just because you can‟t see them doesn‟t mean they‟re not there.” He picked up the cat, stroking her, and she curled into him, licking his hand. “I don‟t draw things that aren‟t there.”
146 | Anne Barwell
“You‟ve drawn dragons?” Cathal asked, a little too eagerly for Tomas‟s liking. What had happened to the need to know about skateboarding? “Would you be able to show me sometime?” “Sure.” Mikey beamed. “Do you believe in dragons, Cat? Tomas doesn‟t.” His smug expression wouldn‟t have looked out of place on the damn cat. “People believe in different things, Mikey,” Cathal said softly, stroking Tomas‟s hand with his thumb. “I‟m sure he believes in some things that you don‟t. That doesn‟t mean they don‟t exist either.” His eyes glazed over for a moment before he smiled at Mikey. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Perhaps you could bring them with you tomorrow and we could look at them after we‟ve built your skateboard ramp?” “Yeah, okay.” Mikey gave the cat one last scratch between her ears, and she jumped down out of his arms. Rubbing against Cathal‟s legs once more, she gave Tomas what could only be described as a very pointed look and then sauntered off toward the inn. “Didn‟t you have homework to do?” Tomas asked. Between Mikey and the cat both trying to compete for Cathal‟s attention, he wanted some time before Cathal decided he needed to go. “It‟s not due till tomorrow.” Mikey shrugged, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some gum. “I still have to explain to Cat what skateboarding is.” “Come to think of it,” Tomas said, “shouldn‟t you have been in school today?” Cathal was staring at the gum. It dawned on Tomas that he‟d be asking Mikey what that was next, and then they‟d never get rid of the kid. “You can show him tomorrow rather than explaining now.” “You want me to leave, don‟t you?” Mikey shook his head. “I told you,” he told Cathal, “that the guy has no manners. See?” “School?” Tomas asked again. If Mikey mentioned manners once more, Tomas would show him exactly how polite he could be when pushed. “Teachers-only day today, and it‟s a half one tomorrow, so we can build the ramp after lunch,” Mikey said, grinning. “Besides, I don‟t like the relief teacher. She‟s annoying.” Tomas bit off the retort he really wanted to say when Cathal‟s hand tightened around his in an unmistakable warning. “I‟m sure your parents will be wondering where you are, Mikey,” Cathal said. “I‟d also like a chance to spend some time with Tomas before I have to return home.” “My dad‟s too busy to notice,” Mikey said sulkily, “and my mum died when I was born, so I guess she doesn‟t care either.”
Cat’s Quill | 147
“Sometimes people don‟t have control over whether they are there when you need them.” Cathal shook his head sadly. “Just because she isn‟t here now doesn‟t mean she doesn‟t love you.” He was looking at Mikey very intently. When he spoke again, there was a trace of pain or maybe regret in his voice. “Your father is probably doing the best he can. It would have been difficult for him losing your mother too.” Mikey shrugged. “Yeah right. He loved her so much he never talks to me about her.” He kicked at a couple of stones. There seemed to be a few that had made their way from the path onto the grass. A pink bubble blew and popped. Tomas hadn‟t even seen Mikey put the foul stuff into his mouth. “I‟m sorry,” Cathal started to say, then stopped. “You‟re right; this is none of my business.” His stared at the ground, at the stones Mikey had kicked. “I don‟t know you or your father, and I have no right to pass an opinion.” “Cat….” Tomas slid his arm around Cathal‟s waist without thinking, trying to offer comfort. “Go home, Mikey. I think you‟ve done enough for one day.” “No,” Cathal said firmly, though there was a waver in his voice. “This was my fault.” He looked up at the sky and then at Mikey. “It‟s noon. I expect you haven‟t eaten lunch. You must be hungry. We‟ll meet in the field tomorrow, and Tomas and I will help you build your ramp for your skateboard.” “You‟re not angry at me?” Mikey‟s question was directed toward Cathal, Tomas very clearly ignored as though his reaction was either a given, not important, or both. Cathal shook his head. “See you tomorrow, then.” Mikey turned without waiting for an answer and started running across the field toward the section of hedge the furthest away from the tree. “You‟re going the wrong way!” Tomas yelled after him. “No.” Cathal shook his head again. “There‟s a lane on the other side of the hedge, I believe, and some sort of… vehicle stops there regularly. I‟ve heard it.” His voice was flat, his tone subdued, his gaze fixed on Mikey until he disappeared from view. “Cat?” Tomas cursed Mikey under his breath. While he understood that Cathal had attempted to give Edward‟s side of the story, his reaction to Mikey‟s comment still seemed a little off. It wasn‟t just the fact he‟d apologized to Mikey. There was something else.
148 | Anne Barwell
“I‟m fine.” Cathal slipped his hand out of Tomas‟s, bending to pick up one of the stones he‟d been staring at. For a moment he seemed almost in another world, standing so still and totally focused on something else, perhaps a memory, that only he could see. Tomas might as well not be there. “I hate this!” he said suddenly, throwing the stone with a force that surprised Tomas. “I‟ve waited so long, and then finally… and I do something stupid like that!” “Cat?” Tomas pulled Cathal into his arms, making reassuring noises and stroking his hair. “Hey, it‟s okay. This isn‟t just about Mikey, is it?” They stood for a few minutes, the wind coming up around them, Tomas with his arms around Cathal. When Cathal finally spoke, he didn‟t pull away but leaned farther into the embrace Tomas offered. “I just want to belong somewhere,” he said in a choked voice. “I don‟t here, and I no longer do with my own people. I don‟t want to live like they do. I just can‟t anymore, and I….” His voice trailed off. “You can belong wherever you want,” Tomas reassured him. What were his people like that they could have ostracized him like this? Tomas couldn‟t imagine anyone doing that to someone like Cathal. With the way he‟d spoken to Mikey, it was obvious as hell that he cared about people and had only been trying to help. “I wish it was that easy.” Cathal wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “I‟m sorry, Tomas. I shouldn‟t have lost control like that. It isn‟t fair on you.” “Let me decide that, Cat.” Tomas kissed the top of Cathal‟s head. “Do you want to sit and talk for a while? We have some coffee left, and I have some leftovers from morning tea in my bag that I brought for lunch. I thought you might like to try some more of Heidi‟s cooking.” He tried to keep his voice light. “You don‟t have to go yet, do you?” “No.” Cathal tilted his head up to brush his lips against Tomas‟s. “We can share lunch and talk for a while. I‟d like that.” He smiled. “I can stay for another few hours. I‟m not going back until I have to. Not this time.” “Why don‟t you stay longer?” Tomas asked. “There are spare rooms at the inn. I‟m sure Heidi and Donovan wouldn‟t mind.” He‟d almost suggested that Cathal could share his room but then decided against it. Although he was fairly sure that Cathal, like he, wanted more than what they‟d done already, he wasn‟t about to take advantage of the fact Cathal was upset. For some reason Cathal had issues about their relationship not being equal, and Tomas wanted to prove to him before they went any farther that it was. “I can‟t.” Cathal extracted himself from Tomas‟s embrace. “I wish I could. Right now I just want to walk away from them, but I can‟t.” He spread his arms in a gesture of frustration. “They‟ve made sure I can‟t.”
Cat’s Quill | 149
“What do you mean?” Tomas‟s eyes narrowed. Had Cathal‟s people hurt him or done something to him to curtail his freedom? He‟d already said that he was on a short leash. Surely he couldn‟t mean that literally? Cathal glanced around nervously. “I can‟t explain. I‟m sorry.” He sighed. “I‟ve already told you more than I ever should have. If they find out, we could lose this too.” “Where are you from, Cat?” Tomas‟s shoulders stiffened, his tone reflecting his anger. “Surely you don‟t need to go back if you don‟t want to? They can‟t make you. I won‟t let them.” “Neither of us would have a choice,” Cathal said flatly. “I disobeyed them once. If my family hadn‟t intervened, we would not even be having this conversation. I doubt they would be so lenient if I transgressed a second time.” “If you‟re in that much trouble and they are forcing you to do something against your will, we can call the police. This is England, the twenty-first century, and you‟re an adult. You don‟t have to just go along with this kind of crap.” Cathal shook his head. “No!” he said firmly. “It is not that simple. We do not follow the same rules as you do.” “Then stay with me,” Tomas suggested. This was crazy. He and Cathal had not known each other a week, and already he was offering him sanctuary from God knew whom and what. “No!” Cathal‟s fists clenched and unclenched. “I can‟t put you at risk. I won‟t. Don‟t ask me to.” He looked at Tomas in an expression that could only be described as desperate. “Don‟t ask me to,” he repeated. “Please.” “Can you at least explain?” The only time Tomas had felt this helpless was when he and Kathleen had been separated once while in foster care, neither of them wanting to leave the other but being told it was for their own good, as no one could be found who was prepared to take both of them. He remembered being dragged away from his sister, both of them crying and fighting adults who had more power than they did, but in the end they had lost. He‟d been too young to understand, and now, he wasn‟t given the chance to try. He couldn‟t go through this again. He wouldn‟t. “No.” Cathal‟s gaze dropped to the grass between them; the short distance could have been forever. Neither of them moved. “Why not?” If Tomas at least knew what was going on, then he could formulate a plan to help. “The less you know, the safer you are.” Cathal‟s finger twirled around one of the laces on his shirt, pulling it tight and then letting it go.
150 | Anne Barwell
“You don‟t trust me,” Tomas said slowly. “Hell, you haven‟t even told me where you live.” “That‟s the problem.” The lace raveled and unraveled again. “I trust you more than I have anyone in a very long time. I relax when we‟re together, and I say things I shouldn‟t.” Cathal‟s shoulders slumped. “Perhaps I should just go, and you can forget me. I‟m hurting you. I know I am.” “Come here,” Tomas whispered, opening his arms. Cathal shook his head. “I think I should go. This isn‟t going to work. It didn‟t for them; why should it for us?” “No!” Tomas bridged the gap between them, wrapping his arms around Cathal. “I‟m not letting you go. I won‟t!” “You don‟t know me,” Cathal protested, but made no move to free himself. “I can‟t tell you where I‟m from or who I am.” He was shaking. “I don‟t care.” Tomas held Cathal tightly. If someone came for him, they would bloody well have to drag him away, because Tomas wasn‟t about to let go without a fight. “You would. They‟d make sure you would. The price would be high. It always is.” Cathal lifted his head, searching Tomas‟s face. “Why do you want to protect me, Tomas?” “Why do you want to protect me?” Tomas countered. “Because….” Cathal faltered, his voice choked and little more than a whisper. “Because I think I‟m falling in love with you.” “You… what?” Tomas‟s arms dropped to his sides, letting Cathal go, his brain trying to process what had just been said. Those lines were the ones they‟d role-played. It couldn‟t be real. People didn‟t fall in love this quickly unless they were characters in a book. “You can‟t,” he said lamely. “You asked.” Cathal sounded miserable. “I told you. I thought….” He shook his head. “I say the words, and yet I put you at risk by saying them. If I loved you, I wouldn‟t be doing that. It doesn‟t make sense.” “You mean it, don‟t you?” Everyone Tomas loved, he lost. Kathleen had been the exception, but he‟d lost even her for a while. They were family, though; it was different. There was nothing tying Cathal to him, and if he was to be believed, there was no reason why, if his people, whoever they were, thought he was breaking their rules, that he wouldn‟t be taken away. Tomas couldn‟t afford to love in return. He couldn‟t take the chance of losing someone he cared about again. Everyone left, eventually. It was probably just a matter of time before Kathleen did as well. “You‟re scared.” The words were a statement, not a question.
Cat’s Quill | 151
Tomas answered them in the same manner, his voice very matter of fact. “Yes.” “So am I.” The scrunched-up material fell from Cathal‟s fingers. “I should not have spoken to you that first day. I knew I was taking a chance even then.” “Then why did you?” This was ridiculous. There was only the hedge between them and the inn. Anyone could come out and find them. That anyone could be Mrs. O‟Neil. Tomas didn‟t want to continue this conversation here. Hell, he just wanted it to have never happened. He didn‟t talk to anyone about this kind of thing. He just didn‟t. “I was curious and I was lonely. I wanted to talk to someone.” Cathal shrugged. “I‟d seen you arrive the day before, and you looked interesting. There was something about you I‟d never felt from anyone else before.” “Felt?” Tomas supposed he should feel complimented that at least he had looked interesting, that Cathal hadn‟t chosen someone else to talk to, or in fact the next person who had come along. His next words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, before he‟d given Cathal the opportunity to answer his earlier question. “Would you have taken the same chance with someone else?” “I took it with you,” Cathal replied simply. “That‟s not what I asked.” It was a question that, really, he should know better than to ask, especially as the answer could be one he didn‟t want to hear. “I really don‟t know. You were there, not someone else.” Cathal smiled, the first one he‟d given since Tomas had asked him if he could stay, but it didn‟t reflect in his eyes like his smiles usually did. “Would… would you prefer I hadn‟t?” “No!” Tomas shook his head. However much Cathal couldn‟t or wouldn‟t tell him, Tomas did not want to give this up, although at the moment he hadn‟t quite worked out what exactly this was. Cathal said he was falling in love. Tomas wasn‟t entirely sure how he felt yet, and it was something he would not say unless he could do so honestly. “Good.” Cathal seemed to relax slightly, and then his head came up as though he was listening. Reaching for Tomas and pulling him with him, Cathal ducked down so they were both crouching behind the hedge, completely out of sight. When Tomas opened his mouth to protest, Cathal placed one finger on Tomas‟s lips, his expression apologetic. The front door of the inn slammed shut, voices growing louder. Mrs. O‟Neil passed a comment about manners and young men these days, but
152 | Anne Barwell
Heidi‟s reply was muffled and Tomas couldn‟t make it out. Gravel scrunched under the women‟s feet as they walked by. Very aware of the sound of his own breathing and racing heartbeat, Tomas was sure that they were going to be caught. This was ridiculous! He and Cathal were hiding behind a hedge like a couple of kids scared of being caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar, and yet they were doing nothing wrong. Cathal‟s grip on Tomas‟s arm tightened. Heidi and Mrs. O‟Neil‟s voices grew fainter. It suddenly occurred to Tomas that he hadn‟t seen any strange cars outside the inn. Did Mrs. O‟Neil drive? Perhaps Heidi would have to take her home, and they were heading toward the barn which doubled as a garage for that pink… thing. After a couple of minutes, Cathal let out the breath he‟d been holding and straightened again, Tomas following him. “They‟ve gone,” Cathal said. “Sorry, but I didn‟t want to talk to anyone else right now, not after everything that has happened today.” “Don‟t worry about it,” Tomas reassured him. He didn‟t like being around other people and forced to make small talk at the best of times. A loud, mechanical purring noise, interrupted by the occasional splutter, filled the air, and Cathal jumped, glancing around fearfully. It was followed by an equally loud crunch. Tomas grimaced. So much for Heidi passing comments on good driving and the health of her gear box! As if on cue, the Land Rover whizzed past them, pausing when the brakes were slammed on. Another crunch followed as Heidi turned the corner out onto the main driveway leading onto the road. Cathal stood staring after it, leaning over the hedge to get a better look, his mouth half-open. “What was that?” “Heidi‟s Land Rover,” Tomas explained. “Her what?” Cathal looked blank for a moment and then nodded. “Is it a vehicle of some sort?” He hesitated, as though hunting for the right word. “A car? Or is it an automobile? The one I‟ve seen over the other side of the hedge is much bigger. It seems to hold more people.” “Don‟t you have cars where you come from?” Tomas was curious. Wherever it was, Cathal‟s explanation of not being from around here seemed to be rather an understatement. And yet he suspected if he asked Cathal directly, it would only serve to agitate him, especially as he was convinced that the more Tomas knew, the more danger he would be in. “No.” Cathal shrugged. “We use other means of transportation.” His voice softened, and he gave Tomas a suspicious look. “No, I‟m not allowed to
Cat’s Quill | 153
tell you what. And just because our methods of doing things differ does not make my people any less dangerous.” “How did you know I was thinking that?” Tomas demanded, wondering if he should add mind reading to the list his mind was already beginning to formulate on those so-called methods of doing things. “It‟s a logical assumption,” Cathal explained. “I‟ve also seen the mistake made before. Underestimation is dangerous.” He sighed. “I‟ve done it myself where they are concerned, and I‟m probably doing it again in still being here.” “Do they know you are here talking to me?” Tomas couldn‟t help but glance around, wondering if they were being watched. “I don‟t know.” Cathal slipped his hand into Tomas‟s. “I suspect they know I am doing something I shouldn‟t. After all, I do have the reputation for it.” He squeezed Tomas‟s hand. “We could be on borrowed time, or we could be perfectly safe and they have no clue. There‟s no way of knowing until it‟s too late.” “But the less I know, the safer I am?” Tomas wasn‟t so concerned about his own safety but about Cathal‟s. If his people were aware, what was to stop them from preventing him from coming here again? Each time they said goodbye or Cathal disappeared, it could be forever. “Yes.” Cathal leaned forward, kissing Tomas softly, tracing his tongue over Tomas‟s lips. “And the less I say the more chance we have of being able to see each other, because they will perceive you as less of a risk to them.” It wasn‟t the complete truth; Tomas wasn‟t stupid enough to believe Cathal‟s explanation that fully, but after what had already happened today, he wasn‟t about to push any farther. But for now he would go out on one limb, at least. “The inn‟s deserted, Cat.” Whatever their “methods of doing things,” it was doubtful they could see or hear through walls. “We could collect my stuff and have lunch and coffee inside. You said it‟s been a while since you‟ve been there, and it‟s probably safer, too, while there is no one around. It should be at least an hour before Heidi gets back, and Donovan‟s out.” He searched Cathal‟s face, trying to gauge his reaction. “I could show you the painting,” he added hopefully, though already knowing the answer would be no. Cathal‟s eyes flickered between the tree, the spot in the field where they‟d left Tomas‟s bag when they‟d gone after Mikey, and the inn. He let go of Tomas‟s hand, one finger tracing the twig bracelet around his wrist. Finally he took a deep breath. “Yes. All right, I will.”
154 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 14
IT DIDN‟T
take long to collect the Thermos and Tomas‟s bag from where they‟d been left. He‟d debated for a split second waiting until after lunch, but he didn‟t want to risk the letters or his writing journal. The food could be replaced; those couldn‟t. Cathal seemed to take a deep breath when they walked through the gap in the hedge toward the front door of the inn. How long had it been since he‟d done something as simple as this? “Are you okay?” Tomas asked when Cathal strengthened his grip on their joined hands. He‟d told Tomas that this was his first time inside the inn since the night of the storm, but surely that didn‟t mean that he hadn‟t ventured farther than the field during the last five years? “I‟m fine,” Cathal reassured him, although he did seem a little more pale than usual, and his words were very softly spoken. “All right, maybe not quite fine,” he admitted, noticing Tomas watching him carefully. “This is a bit of a step for me. I haven‟t been this far for quite some time, and it‟s more difficult than I thought it would be.” Tomas leaned over and kissed him briefly. “I‟m not going anywhere, Cat. If anything happens, we‟re doing it together, okay?” The pressure on his hand tightened and then relaxed. Cathal appeared to need that increased physical contact when he was nervous about something. “Okay.” They reached the door, and while Tomas was hunting for the key Heidi had given him, Cathal took a step back, his attention taken by the climbing roses, his lips curving into a slow smile. “Love at first sight,” he murmured. “Excuse me?” The key found and the door opened, Tomas turned to usher Cathal inside. He was slightly flushed, his hand brushing hair from his face. “Lavender roses,” Cathal explained. “They mean love at first sight.” The flush grew deeper. “Enchantment as well, apparently.” He pointed to the dark
Cat’s Quill | 155
pink rose which embraced the other two. “That one is often a way of showing one‟s appreciation.” “Oh.” Tomas remembered the rose that had been left in his room. “Umm, I didn‟t know that.” “Alice liked flowers, particularly roses.” Cathal followed Tomas into the inn. “She had a book about the meanings behind each one. It was very interesting reading.” He looked momentarily embarrassed. “I enjoy reading, so I tend to read anything I can. She used to keep me well supplied in books. Christian wasn‟t as inclined that way. He preferred to be out hunting, while I hated it.” Tomas led the way into the kitchen, pleased to see there was a pot of coffee ready to brew. All he had to do was turn on the element to heat it through. “It sounds as though the three of you spent a lot of time together. Did they mind that? Being a couple and you….” He trailed off, not sure how exactly to say what he was thinking without sounding rude. “I believe the term is playing gooseberry.” Cathal chuckled lightly, his eyes widening when he looked around the kitchen, taking in all the modern appliances of which Heidi appeared to be quite fond. “The three of us were not together in that way, if that is what you wanted to know. They were very much in love, and while we did spend time together as friends, I also made sure to give them their privacy.” His tone grew wistful. “I envied what they had, and I often wondered if there was someone out there like that for me.” “Is that what you still want?” Tomas pulled the food out of his bag, debated heating it and decided against it. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out plates, using the action to hide his reaction to Cathal‟s comment. Was that what Cathal wanted with him? He swallowed, the thought of himself and Cathal as a couple sending warmth running through him. He‟d never considered the possibility that he might find someone he‟d want to settle down with. “Yes.” Cathal attempted to open the microwave to look inside. “What does this do?” “It heats food, or you can use it to cook.” Hadn‟t the previous occupants had one? Microwaves were not a new invention. Tomas opened it, explaining briefly how it worked. “Didn‟t Alice use one? You said she liked to cook.” “She liked to do things the old-fashioned way. The house never really changed much in the year or so we were here. She said she preferred to spend her money on other things.” Cathal sat down at the table but didn‟t help himself to any of the food until Tomas had done so first. “I‟m not sure it would have improved her cooking skills. She really did not possess any, but I didn‟t want to upset her by telling her so.” He grinned suddenly. “I remember
156 | Anne Barwell
she made something she called rock cakes one day. They really were very much like their name. Christian used them for target practice, and she found out.” Tomas laughed, already biting into one of the scones. He gestured for Cathal to try whatever he liked. “These are bacon and cheese scones. They‟re very good.” He pushed the plate toward him. “What happened?” “She was very angry and threatened to shove the rock cakes down places that really are not repeatable in polite company.” Cathal shook his head. “Christian should have known better, but he lacks tact. He tends to state his opinion, and quite loudly. They were both very stubborn and well suited in that regard.” The coffee made a gurgling noise. Tomas got up to get the cups. “A family trait, perhaps?” he couldn‟t help but observe. “I‟m not stubborn, and I‟m not my cousin,” Cathal announced, scone poised in midair between the plate and his mouth. “He used to lead me into trouble, not the other way around.” “You may have some tact,” Tomas said, “but I‟ve noticed your stubborn streak already.” He poured the coffee, walked back to the table, and sat down again, handing Cathal his cup. “If I‟m stubborn, so are you.” Cathal put his scone down in favor of the coffee, his fingers brushing against Tomas‟s, lingering slightly, when he took the cup. “This is very good,” he said, sighing. “It‟s been too long since I‟ve done this. I didn‟t realize how much I‟ve missed it.” “You don‟t have kitchens and tables and use crockery where you come from?” Tomas couldn‟t resist the dig. Cathal poked out his tongue. “We‟re quite civilized, thank you.” “Mature too, I see,” observed Tomas, amused. “On occasion, when I feel the need and depending on what company I‟m keeping.” Cathal sobered suddenly. “I meant it‟s been too long since I‟ve done this here. I‟ve ventured a little farther than the field since that night I met Blackthorn during the storm, but I‟ve still had to be somewhat cautious.” He took a gulp of coffee. “It‟s difficult to see much peering through windows. I didn‟t even dare to borrow books from the library in case they were missed.” “The library?” Tomas frowned. The library was in the village itself, and yet Cathal had just said that he hadn‟t gone farther than the field. “This house used to have an extensive library before Donovan and Heidi moved in and turned it into an inn. Libby used to bring me books to read from it.” Cathal sounded disappointed. “Is it gone?”
Cat’s Quill | 157
“I haven‟t seen it.” Tomas shrugged. “That doesn‟t mean it doesn‟t exist, though. I could ask Donovan or Heidi about it.” He hesitated. “The library in the village has an extensive collection. You might like to look through there. I could take you, if you‟d like.” The suggestion had been a mistake; the expression of wistful longing on Cathal‟s faced chased away quickly by regret showed that all too clearly. “Or if you tell me what you‟d like to read, I could bring you some books.” “You‟d do that for me?” Cathal‟s fingers tightened around his coffee cup, his knuckles white. He leaned forward in his chair, his expression intense yet at the same time looking a little lost and unsure, the mask not quite hiding what was underneath. “Yes.” Tomas spoke softly. “I won‟t ask you to do anything you don‟t want to, Cat. Not with that, not with anything. I… whatever we do has to be because we both want it.” “Equal.” Cathal sighed. “That‟s all I want, Tomas. Someone I love who wants to spend time with me, rather than doing so because of societal expectations. I can‟t do that again. Once was enough.” Tomas put his own cup down with a bang. “Someone did that to you?” Bastard. It was lucky for whoever was concerned that he did not know where they lived, at least for the moment. “Don‟t be angry.” Cathal shivered, one finger gingerly stroking the side of his cup. “I‟m not.” “Yes, you are.” Cathal studied the wood grain of the table. He bit his lip. “Different societies have different ideas of courtship. Mine has customs and rules that must be adhered to, whether I agree with them or not.” “This isn‟t in the past, is it? You said „once‟, and then you said „must be‟ like it was still happening.” Tomas‟s voice dropped a notch in pitch, the tone very even. “Which is it?” Cathal flinched. “I‟ve told my family I don‟t want to do this. She is not the person I want, and I‟m not going to perform on demand.” He snorted. “She also seems to be of the opinion that I‟m some submissive who will just go along with what is expected because I can‟t afford to have any more black marks against me.” “What will they do to you if you don‟t agree to this?” Tomas wondered if there was some way to follow Cathal when he left. “I have no intention of agreeing.” Cathal put his cup down, looking directly at Tomas. “I need to be with someone who loves me for myself, and I don‟t love her.” His tone softened. “I love you.”
158 | Anne Barwell
“I want to help.” Tomas pushed his chair back and stood, ignoring the scraping noise it made against the floor. “No.” Cathal shook his head. “I shouldn‟t have said anything.” He sighed. “It would just make things worse, Tomas. Trust me.” He muttered something under his breath, words that Tomas did not understand. “But I can‟t just sit back and do nothing!” Tomas walked around behind Cathal‟s chair and put his arms around him. Cathal leaned back into the embrace. “Can‟t you just leave?” “If that was an option, I would have, believe me.” Cathal tilted his head and kissed Tomas softly on the lips. “Don‟t worry about me. I‟ve been fighting this for a fair amount of time, and I‟m not about to give in now.” He smiled. “Especially not now I have someone I want to be with.” “But….” The thought of Cathal being with another person, let alone it being against his will, sent a chill through Tomas. Cathal silenced him with another kiss. “No, Tomas. I can fight my own battles. I just want to enjoy the time we have. I will be fine, I promise you.” It was a promise Tomas was not stupid enough to think Cathal could keep. The way Tomas saw it, there were two choices. Either he could make the most of the time they had, or he could try and protect Cathal in any way he could, and that included discovering why he couldn‟t stay. Actually, there was a third: a combination of the two. “I wish I could believe that.” Tomas stroked Cathal‟s hair. “I won‟t argue with you now, Cat, but I‟m not forgetting this, okay? We need to sit down and see if we can figure out a way around it, even if we don‟t do it today.” “There isn‟t a way around it.” Cathal gave Tomas a stubborn look that was already growing a little too familiar. “Fine, there isn‟t.” Tomas couldn‟t help but glare in return. “Didn‟t you want to show me a painting?” Cathal tried to push his chair back to stand, but Tomas‟s position behind him prevented him from moving. “You‟re changing the subject!” At least Cathal could have had the decency to be subtle about it. A bull in a china shop would have fared better. “Yes, I am.” Cathal‟s tone dared Tomas to argue that point with him. “So are you going to show me or not?” “I‟m not dropping this, Cat.” The expression on Cathal‟s face was nothing less than frustrating. It was unbelievable that anyone could have ever thought he was submissive in any shape or form. They would have to be both blind and stupid.
Cat’s Quill | 159
“I know. I wouldn‟t expect you to.” Cathal sighed. “I know you want to help, but you can‟t. This is one battle you cannot fight.” He attempted to push his chair away from the table again, but Tomas wasn‟t prepared to move yet. “I don‟t want to argue with you, but there are situations over which you have no control. This is one of them.” It was not the right choice of words to put Tomas‟s mind at ease. “But you do?” “It is my life, and I will do what I need.” That statement was no better. “Need to what? Survive? And if it doesn‟t work? I might not see you again.” Tomas shook his head. That answer was not acceptable. “I won‟t take any unnecessary risks.” Cathal looked at Tomas and then the chair. “I‟m leaving the table. You need to move.” “And if I don‟t?” Tomas had every intention of moving; he wasn‟t sure why he‟d asked the question. “You will.” Cathal pushed the chair back hard against Tomas, who let go, stepping sideways at the same instant. Though slight of build, there was certainly nothing weak about Cathal‟s physique. He was much stronger than he appeared, the muscles in his arms visibly flexing through the fine cotton of his shirt when he leaned his hands against the table to steady himself after the chair suddenly flew backward. Forcing his brain to focus and himself to stop staring, Tomas mumbled a “sorry” under his breath. “You did that on purpose!” Cathal glared at him. “No!” Tomas protested. “I was going to move, I just didn‟t expect you to do that.” Truth be known, he hadn‟t expected Cathal to be able to do that. Cathal‟s eyes narrowed. “Didn‟t expect or didn‟t think I could?” “Umm.” Tomas examined the piece of grass stuck to the toe of his boot. “I suppose all of the above isn‟t the answer you want?” “Not really, no.” Suddenly he was pulled close into an embrace. “We‟re both being rather silly, aren‟t we?” Cathal sounded a little sheepish. “I‟m sorry, Tomas. I tend to get a little sensitive about such matters, and I shouldn‟t.” “No, it‟s okay.” Tomas lowered his head so it rested on Cathal‟s shoulder, wanting to be held, needing the reassurance that at least for the moment Cathal was still here. “I don‟t want to argue with you, Cat.” He took a deep breath. After asking Cathal to be honest with him, it wasn‟t fair not to be
160 | Anne Barwell
upfront himself. “I‟m scared that if I let you go, I‟ll lose you and never see you again.” “I can‟t promise that you won‟t.” Cathal bit his lip, his voice choked. “What I can promise is that it will not be because I don‟t want to be with you. If I can, I will come back to you and find you.” He ran the tip of one finger down Tomas‟s jaw line, the touch cool against his skin, their eyes meeting when Tomas lifted his head in response. “I know it‟s not enough and it‟s not fair of me, but it is as much as I can promise at this time.” He wasn‟t supposed to feel this way over someone he‟d just met. He had his own life to lead, and so did Cathal. They‟d kissed, that was all, and yet Tomas knew that already he wanted Cathal to be a part of his life. Or at least be given the opportunity to see if he could be. That was the thing he couldn‟t deal with; that the choice to at least try appeared to be out of both of their hands and in the control of someone who, as far as Tomas could see, did not have Cathal‟s best interests at heart. Forced to be with someone he did not love, how could that be right? It just wasn‟t. “At least you‟re being honest about this.” Tomas met Cathal‟s gaze unflinchingly. “I know you can‟t about everything else.” Cathal cringed at the words, but they needed to be said. “But,” Tomas continued, not wanting to make excuses about something he did not like but knowing this was their truth, at least for the moment, “you are about what you can be.” “About what I can be,” Cathal repeated, lowering his eyes. “I‟m sorry. I‟m asking you to trust me, and I‟m hiding things from you. I tell you I love you, and yet I‟m scared you‟ll be angry because I can‟t be completely honest.” He looked over Tomas‟s shoulder, out the window toward the field from which they‟d come. “I wouldn‟t blame you if you did want to walk away.” “I‟m not going to walk away, Cat.” Tomas smiled when Cathal‟s attention shifted back to him. “I‟m scared too, and I don‟t trust easily at the best of times.” He held out his hand to Cathal. “We‟ve talked enough, and this conversation is just going around in circles. Why don‟t I show you the painting? After all, that‟s what we came here to do.” “That and lunch, which was very enjoyable.” Cathal took the offered hand. “You lead and I‟ll follow. You said it was upstairs on the second-floor landing?” “Yes.” Holding hands was something Cathal seemed to enjoy, and Tomas had to admit he did as well. When he‟d written the last book he‟d spent many hours savoring coffee while sitting in cafes watching people walking by. Body language between people had always told him more of a story than actually taking the time to talk to them. On the days he‟d felt more morose, it
Cat’s Quill | 161
had seemed that there were couples everywhere he looked, each in the other‟s personal space, holding hands, and kissing. He‟d wondered if someone would ever want to do that with him. It was like telling the world they were together and comfortable with each other. Just as he and Cathal were now. “What are you thinking about?” Cathal asked, running his free hand over the wooden banister, climbing the stairs by Tomas‟s side rather than a step or so behind him. He seemed fascinated by everything in the inn, his eyes darting here and there, smiling at some things, frowning at others. How much had changed since he was last here? Tomas blushed. “I like people-watching. I….” It seemed so silly putting it into words. “I used to wonder what it would be like to have someone hold my hand like this, to do what I suppose you‟d call couple things.” They reached the top of the first landing, the first section of the stairs stretching below them. Cathal leaned in and kissed Tomas very slowly on the lips, threading his free hand through Tomas‟s hair. “I always wondered,” he said a little breathlessly when they parted, “what it would be like to stand in this particular spot and kiss someone I love.” “Why here?” Now it was Tomas‟s turn to be curious. Not that he minded Cathal‟s choice of location. The inn had another two landings. Kissing on each one was something he would not mind doing in the least. In fact, he decided, he enjoyed doing this even more than holding hands. “I walked in on Alice and Christian, er… kissing on this spot.” Cathal glanced at the ceiling and back. “It was Christmas, and someone had hung some mistletoe,” he pointed to a low-hanging beam, “just there, and Alice was explaining about some tradition that was very important, and Christian always was one for hands-on experience.” He flushed bright red. “They were so focused on each other that they didn‟t realize I was there, so I backed away very quickly. I felt as though I‟d walked in on a very private moment I had no right to intrude upon.” “We will have to make our own moments and traditions.” Tomas brushed his hand across Cathal‟s cheek. This was something else he found he was enjoying, the sensation of Cathal‟s skin against his own, and the way in which Cathal leaned into it almost on instinct, warmth and stubble under his fingertips. Tomas moved closer and inhaled. “What are you doing?” Cathal laughed, the noise reminding Tomas of music he‟d heard once when he‟d been out in snow. It was clear and bright, yet very natural-sounding.
162 | Anne Barwell
“Hmm.” Tomas pretended to think. “Earthy with a touch of peppermint.” He slowly licked a patch on Cathal‟s chin. “You don‟t taste like it, though.” “Oh.” A slow grin etched its way over Cathal‟s lips, mischief in his eyes before he copied Tomas‟s actions. “Cinnamon,” he announced, taking another breath and nibbling Tomas‟s earlobe. Tomas‟s breath hitched, and he let out a low moan. “With a touch of apple. Although you don‟t taste like apple pie.” “Do that again and we won‟t get as far as that painting.” He could think of other, better places than the top of the stairs to make out; his bedroom was just down the hallway. No! That thought was not helping. “Sorry,” Cathal said, not sounding in the least like he meant it. “No, you‟re not.” Tomas was breathing more heavily than usual. Focus. He had to focus. One more flight of stairs, and they would reach the painting they‟d come to see. Cathal answered him with another grin. “No, I suspect I‟m not.” He hesitated. “Do you still want to show me this painting?” “I think it‟s something you need to see, yes.” That pesky little voice offered several suggestions as to what other things Cathal would like to see. Tomas told it to be quiet. Cathal gave him a weird look. “Are you all right?” “I‟m fine,” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. “It‟s on the next landing. You go first, and I‟ll follow.” Cathal nodded and turned. Tomas knew immediately the request had been a mistake. Damn, those trousers Cathal wore looked good. Two steps and Cathal stopped. “I think it would be better if we went together,” he decided. “I would like to see the painting, and I‟m distracting you.” “Yes, you are.” Tomas swallowed, falling into step next to Cathal, both of them climbing the next flight of stairs together. “That‟s not to say I‟m not enjoying it, though.” “I‟m enjoying it too.” Cathal slid one arm around Tomas‟s waist, curving his fingers to sit on the waistband of Tomas‟s jeans. “You‟re rather distracting, yourself,” he said softly. Tomas blushed, feeling the warmth of Cathal‟s hand even through the thick material. “The painting is at the end of the hallway,” he said, trying to convince his hormones to focus on the task at hand. “Where the portrait used to hang,” Cathal remembered. “You told me that earlier.” He peered ahead, slowing as they drew close and coming to a
Cat’s Quill | 163
complete stop just before reaching the wall upon which it hung. “Oh,” he whispered, his mouth opening partly before he continued speaking. “I didn‟t realize it was this.” “You‟ve seen it before?” Unlike the first time he‟d seen it, it sat in semidarkness; the door of the adjacent bedroom was closed and therefore wasn‟t allowing the light in from outside. “I did say that it was of the tree and the field.” Cathal‟s reaction suggested that this was a painting with which he was already familiar. “Not this exactly.” Cathal took a step closer to it, taking him farther away from Tomas. He held out one hand, his fingers curved, then flattening before they dropped to his side, not quite touching the canvas. “I knew there was a sketch, but I hadn‟t seen the painting.” “Where did you see the sketch?” Alice‟s sketches were apparently difficult to find, and Eoin had said her family had most of them. “It looks so different.” Cathal kept staring at the painting. “It‟s like….” He made a choking noise. Tomas closed the distance between them instantly, putting his arms around Cathal, holding him tightly. “It‟s like what, Cat?” he asked softly. “Seeing a memory and knowing that‟s all that is left of it.” Cathal closed his eyes for a moment. “This is a glimpse into a time that is long gone, isn‟t it?” “Ninety years ago,” Tomas reminded him, kissing the top of his head. “A lifetime ago.” Cathal stilled in his arms. “A lifetime apart,” he whispered. “I couldn‟t do that. I don‟t want to do that.” “Cat?” Tomas gently turned Cathal so that they were facing, running one thumb down his cheek when there was no response. “What‟s wrong?” “I don‟t want a lifetime alone, Tomas.” Cathal searched Tomas‟s face, his expression intense, the look in his eyes wistful, scared, almost desperate. “You won‟t.” Tomas didn‟t know what else to say. Slowly, he brushed his lips against Cathal‟s and kissed him, showing him he meant what he said, that at least for the moment, neither of them were alone. A lifetime he couldn‟t do anything about, but for now he could at least do this. Cathal returned the kiss, parting his lips to allow Tomas access, already tugging his T-shirt free of his jeans. Shifting his hands, Tomas slid them under Cathal‟s shirt, running them up and down his back, skin smooth under his fingers.
164 | Anne Barwell
Letting out a low moan, Cathal caressed Tomas‟s buttocks through his jeans. Tomas took a step backward, taking Cathal with him, then another, stopping when he felt the wall against his back. His heart was thumping, hands roaming to explore whatever bare skin was within reach. “Cat.” Tomas whimpered into the kiss, pulling Cathal closer, molding their bodies together, heat spreading through him wherever they touched. Cathal broke the kiss and nibbled across Tomas‟s earlobe, repeating his earlier action. “I want you,” he murmured, fingers reaching for Tomas‟s belt. Fuck! How did the laces on Cathal‟s trousers undo? Fumbling, Tomas whimpered again, his fingers not cooperating. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stray thought pointed out that they were in plain view if anyone chose to wander in. He told it to shut up. A wet tongue licked the outer shell of his ear, then trailed down Tomas‟s neck. He groaned loudly. God, he wanted Cathal, and now. He redoubled his efforts to get the bloody laces undone, just as he felt his own belt come loose, followed by the top button of his jeans. “Cat….” Cathal kissed him hard, their eyes meeting when they parted. Cathal‟s were darkened with need. “I want you, Tomas.” He licked his lips. Tomas closed what little distance there was between them, sucking on Cathal‟s lower lip before sliding his tongue into the blond‟s mouth, the accursed laces finally coming free. Footsteps sounded behind them. Tomas ignored them. Someone coughed. Cathal groaned loudly, tugging at Tomas‟s jeans. “Don‟t mind me,” Donovan drawled. “I didn‟t realize you‟d been making friends.” Breaking the kiss with a snarl, Tomas turned his head in the direction of the interruption to see Donovan leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded, a smirk spreading across his face. “I don‟t suppose you‟re going to introduce us anytime soon?”
Cat’s Quill | 165
Chapter 15
A DOOR
slammed shut. Cathal jumped. Tomas pulled him closer, his arms encircling him protectively. Cathal molded his body into the embrace but turned his head to identify the intruder. “Donovan!” Heidi called out. “How many times do I have to tell you to put your dirty dishes in the sink? Your mother does not live here!” Donovan grinned, but there was a look in his eyes as he watched the way in which Cathal and Tomas interacted that Tomas couldn‟t quite put his finger on. “I‟ll be down in a minute, Heidi,” he yelled in reply. Winking at Cathal, he paused for a split second before continuing. “We have a visitor I think you‟ll want to meet.” “Donovan,” Tomas growled in warning. Damn it, this was turning into a day in which Cathal was meeting just about everyone. “It‟s all right, Tomas,” Cathal interjected softly, his voice still very breathy, his skin flushed. He kept holding onto Tomas tightly, their bodies pressed together, neither of them moving apart though Donovan was there. Whatever fabrics Cathal‟s clothes were made out of, they were very soft, and with the fastenings undone, Tomas was a little too aware of how aroused they both still were. “You don‟t have to do this, Cat,” Tomas whispered softly so that Donovan couldn‟t hear. “We‟ll be downstairs in a few minutes,” Cathal told Donovan. He didn‟t seem to want to let go of Tomas just yet, which was surprising. But then Tomas hadn‟t expected his own reaction, the need to protect Cathal overruling everything else. “Sure.” Donovan gave Cathal another glance, this time more obviously giving him the onceover, his lips smirking into what could have been approval. Tomas glared at him. Donovan‟s smirk grew wider. “Yeah, no worries. Just make sure you don‟t pass go and collect the two hundred, or it might not be me catching you next time.”
166 | Anne Barwell
“Smartarse,” muttered Tomas, watching to make sure Donovan was very definitely gone before returning his attention to Cathal. “What two hundred?” Cathal was staring after Donovan, frowning. “Monopoly,” Tomas explained, kissing the top of Cathal‟s head when he still looked puzzled. “It‟s a game.” “Oh.” Cathal blushed again, looking somewhat sheepish. He extracted himself from Tomas‟s embrace, his fingers lingering as he refastened Tomas‟s belt for him. “I‟m sorry. I should have realized he was there, but I was so focused on you and what we were doing, I….” His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued with a hint of annoyance. “Don‟t any of your friends understand the concept of privacy?” “Mikey is not my friend,” Tomas retorted testily, knowing full well that if they didn‟t make their way downstairs within a short period of time, Heidi would come looking for them, or worse still, send Donovan. His eyes dropped to just below Cathal‟s waist, hands moving to redo the trouser laces but unsure as to how to proceed. He pulled the loose shirt up so he could see better, flushed skin meeting his eyes at the top of the exposed undergarment, which appeared to be some kind of off-white linen fastened with a drawstring underneath the few laces he had actually managed to loosen. Cathal followed his gaze, placing his hand over Tomas‟s to pull the laces from his fingers. “I think I need to do this. Touch me there and I can‟t promise I will stop this time.” Tomas dropped his hand reluctantly, knowing Cathal was right. If they touched each other again there was little to no guarantee either of them would stop. One interruption in one day was bad luck, but two? It was a bloody conspiracy. Next time, he vowed, if there was one, he‟d find somewhere more private with a door that, preferably, had a lock. “I didn‟t want to,” Tomas admitted. “Stop, that is.” He watched Cathal redo the laces, fingers deftly moving, before pulling down his shirt again. Just how strong were those laces? Would they rip? Tomas cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to refocus his thoughts on anything but what they‟d just been doing. “Neither did I.” Cathal looked Tomas up and down, his tongue moistening his lips before they curved into a slow smile. “You suit the slightly ruffled look, and you blush well.” So much for calm and composed. Tomas blushed again as if on cue. Glancing down, he hurriedly tucked in his T-shirt. “So do you,” he replied,
Cat’s Quill | 167
unable to stop the smug smirk when the comment elicited a similar response from Cathal. “Tomas!” Heidi yelled. “I‟ve made coffee!” “It doesn‟t sound like it‟s a good idea to keep her waiting.” Cathal winced. “Is she always this loud?” He glanced toward the stairs and then examined the floor at his feet. “Today is not going anything like I thought it would.” “Are you okay with this?” Tomas took Cathal‟s hand in his to lead him downstairs. Cathal nodded. “It‟s something I should have done a long time ago.” They reached the top of the stairway. Cathal stopped, pulled Tomas closer, and kissed him briefly, enough for the reassurance of touch but not lingering as to deliberately arouse. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You‟ve done this, not me,” Tomas reminded him, unable to stop the smile crossing his lips. “I‟m not doing it alone.” Cathal began walking down the stairs slowly. Tomas‟s smile turned to a frown. This wasn‟t exactly the type of thing he did regularly either. While he did have a few friends, enough at least to not-quitecount on the fingers of one hand, he did not socialize as a rule and certainly had never had someone to introduce in this kind of situation. This was as unfamiliar to him as it probably was to Cathal. Cathal stopped a couple of steps down, waiting, and Tomas hurried to catch up. At Cathal‟s questioning look, Tomas shrugged. “I was just thinking that I‟m pleased you‟re here with me.” “So am I.” They took the rest of the stairs together, hands entwined. “I think,” Cathal continued slowly, “that it‟s time I stopped just observing people through windows and started to live again.” He sighed, glancing down at his wrist. “Although in saying that, there are still limits to what I can do.” What was it with that bracelet? Wishing that he could remember if Cathal had worn it the first few times they‟d met, Tomas added it to the growing list of questions to ask. The library might be worth investigating again if Cathal continued not to be forthcoming with information. The room of rare books probably had some reference books stashed in it too. “Limits can be pushed,” Tomas said firmly, “providing you have the information you need to know how to do so,” Cathal‟s head came up sharply, “safely.” “No!” Cathal‟s tone softened when Tomas opened his mouth to question the reaction. “Not now, Tomas. Please. I can‟t. One step at a time is enough.” “You wanted to start living,” Tomas pointed out.
168 | Anne Barwell
“I am.” Cathal squeezed Tomas‟s hand. “More than I have in a very long time.” The kitchen door opened. “There you are!” Heidi gestured toward the table inside. On it was a pot of coffee and several large plates of savories and scones. This was not going to be a short visit; it had all the signs of an interrogation, the food being a mere disguise for that fact. Donovan leaned back on his chair, the smirk still firmly in place. Tomas wondered just how much Heidi had already been told. Heidi‟s gaze dropped to their joined hands, and she gave Tomas a disapproving look. “An introduction before now would have been nice, Tomas,” she exclaimed. “Or did you just arrive this afternoon, Mr.…?” she asked Cathal. “Cathal.” There was the barest of hesitations before Cathal answered, although it was doubtful that anyone but Tomas had noticed. He let go of Tomas‟s hand and held it out to her. “You must be Heidi. I‟ve heard a lot about you.” She shook the hand, smiling. “It‟s nice to meet you, Mr. Cathal.” She ushered them into the kitchen. “Is there a last name that goes with that?” “My friends call me Cat,” Cathal replied, neatly sidestepping the question. He waited for Tomas to sit and then settled on the chair next to him. A faint blush spread over his cheeks. “I‟m sorry I didn‟t introduce myself earlier.” He paused. “And you would be Donovan?” “Yeah, that‟s me.” Donovan grinned and held out his hand. “Donovan Campbell, at your service.” He managed a mock-bow in the form of an overexaggerated nod from across the table when they shook hands. Heidi rolled her eyes. “I swear sometimes he thinks he‟s a character from some of those books he reads.” Donovan snorted but didn‟t correct her. She smiled at Cathal. “You‟re the first friend of Tomas‟s we‟ve met. I would have had a decent afternoon tea prepared if he‟d told us you would be visiting.” Cathal‟s eyes widened at the amount of food in front of them. “How long have you known each other?” “A while,” Cathal answered. Tomas quickly grabbed the plate of mini quiches from across the table and shoved them in Cathal‟s direction, much to Donovan‟s amusement. The plate connected with one of the coffee cups, knocking it over, the dark liquid spreading across the embroidered tablecloth Heidi had carefully arranged while they‟d been upstairs. Quickly snatching up a nearby tea towel, she began mopping up the mess, a look of annoyance crossing her features. Tomas flushed with
Cat’s Quill | 169
embarrassment, muttered an apology under his breath, and tried to ignore Donovan‟s smirk. Cathal was on his feet immediately. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, his concern evident both in his tone and in his expression. “It‟s fine, but thanks for the offer.” Heidi glared at the brown stain in the middle of her cream-colored cloth, marched over to the sink, filled it with cold water, and threw the tea towel into it. Walking back to the table, she eyed the cloth again. “No, it‟s going to have to go,” she decided, ordering them to pick up a cup and a plate each while she reorganized the table and removed the cloth, whipping it into the sink with the tea towel to soak. Sitting down, she gestured for him to do the same, muttering something about someone soaking dirty socks in her laundry tub. “I‟ll pour you some more coffee, shall I? As it was your coffee Tomas spilt.” Donovan‟s smirk faded when her attention turned to him. “And you didn‟t even have the decency to offer him one of the savories!” Donovan picked up a plate of potato top savory pastries and gestured to Cathal to take one. “I just hadn‟t gotten that far, okay?” he told Heidi indignantly. “And before you ask, there‟s no point asking Tomas if he wants one. They‟re pastry.” “Thank you,” Cathal said politely to both of them, helping himself to a savory. “What‟s wrong with pastry?” “They‟re pies.” Donovan grinned. “Nasty, horrible things,” Tomas confirmed, determined not to let Donovan use this situation to try to persuade him to change his mind. “I like them,” Cathal said mildly, taking a bite, “and this is very nice.” Heidi beamed. “Thank you. I make them myself.” She pushed the plate of scones over. “Please, try anything you‟d like. There‟s plenty.” He nodded, his mouth full, chewing slowly. “You‟re quite welcome to stay for dinner as well, and if you need somewhere to stay, we have plenty of room.” Swallowing, Cathal shook his head. “That‟s very kind, but I need to be on my way soon.” He picked up his coffee, inhaled appreciatively, and took a long drink, savoring the taste. “This coffee is wonderful,” he said, “especially when it is freshly made.” “Oh.” Heidi seemed disappointed. “Will you be visiting again, or is this just a day trip to see Tomas?” “I‟ll try and visit again,” Cathal promised. He seemed to have lost his nervousness and was enjoying the conversation. His left hand dropped below the table to rest lightly on Tomas‟s knee. “I told Mikey I‟d help him to build a skateboard ramp tomorrow. Tomas and I are doing it together.”
170 | Anne Barwell
Donovan stared at Tomas. “You‟re helping Mikey with the ramp?” He shook his head. “He‟s been trying to get Edward to do that for ages, but he can‟t leave the post office or shop unattended. Hmmm….” “Hmmm?” Tomas asked, unable to hide the suspicious edge in his voice. In his experience, that sound and a pause after it generally did not bode well. “I would have offered to help the kid myself, but I‟m working to a deadline.” He glanced at Heidi when she cleared her throat. “I‟ve got some timber, though, and some other stuff you could use. I can grab it for you when you‟re ready, if you need it.” “Mikey didn‟t say anything about having any of the materials,” Tomas realized, wondering what kind of project Donovan was working on. Did the inn make enough to cover their costs? The guestbook had seemed rather sparse in the way of entries for the last few months. “We just organized a place and time.” “The offer is appreciated, thank you, Donovan,” Cathal added quickly. His fingers brushed against Tomas‟s knee. “I have no idea how to build one, but I do have some skill with wood.” He gave Tomas a grin. “I expect Tomas knows what he is doing, or otherwise he would not have offered.” Tomas bit back a snort. He hadn‟t bloody offered. “I wouldn‟t worry about that,” he muttered. “I‟m sure Mikey knows exactly what he wants and won‟t hesitate to let us know.” Though he had a fair idea how to put one together, he wasn‟t about to tell Mikey that straight off. Let the kid stew a bit first. It would serve him right. “Skill with wood?” Donovan perked up, although his tone was casual. “Handyman or more serious?” “I‟ve had no formal tuition,” Cathal admitted, blushing slightly. “My cousin taught me how to use a penknife one winter when the weather prevented us from going very far. It helped to pass time in front of the fire when I ran out of books to read.” He smiled at the memory. “He said it was either that or his sanity; we were snowed in for several days, and he was very restless.” “Christian?” Tomas asked. Cathal and his cousin seemed very different in temperament, almost opposites, from the little that had been said about him. “Yes.” Cathal sighed, shifting his hand to wrap it around his coffee cup, the tips of his fingers overlapping to soak in the heat seeping through the crockery. His gaze shifted to the window in the far corner that looked out over the small courtyard, rather than the one facing the field, his smile mellowing into something that could only be described as melancholy.
Cat’s Quill | 171
Heidi and Donovan exchanged a glance and then looked at Tomas as though waiting for him to say or do something. He ignored them, not wanting to disturb Cathal‟s memories and unwilling to engage in small talk just for the sake of it. In the finish it was Cathal who broke the silence, his mood shifting very quickly to something much brighter. “There used to be a small library here,” he said. “I‟d like to borrow some books if I may.” “Library?” Donovan frowned, shaking his head. “You must be mistaken. The closest one is in the village.” “There used to be a library room here,” Heidi suggested helpfully. “I remember Mrs. O‟Neil mentioning it once, but the books were all donated to the village library years ago.” She refilled Cathal‟s coffee, though he hadn‟t asked. “They‟re in that room at the top of the spiral staircase. Phoebe‟s very protective of them.” “That can‟t be all of them,” Tomas started to say, then stopped, not wanting to give away the fact he‟d been there. Donovan raised an eyebrow. “That room‟s just for the rare stuff,” he said. “I went up there once when Phoebe was in a generous mood. It was kind of creepy, with the rocking chair and the vase of roses.” He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “There‟s other books in the main library which are old too, but I‟m not sure where they came from. Libraries cull stuff because they run out of space. It‟s damn annoying when you go to reread something good and it‟s gone.” He gestured with his head out toward the hallway. “I grabbed some of the books she was clearing out a couple of years back. She seemed pleased they were going to a good home. Come to think of it, some of them looked as though they might have come from a private collection.” “Books should not be destroyed.” Cathal looked at him sharply. “Each one is precious and is the culmination of someone‟s hopes and dreams.” He put his cup down on the table with a thud. “They‟re like paintings, a record of time, place, and imagination, except they sketch with words.” “There‟s crap out there too, Cat.” Donovan shrugged. “I‟m not one to condone getting rid of books, but sometimes you have to or there‟s no room for anything new. That‟s what she was doing.” “People do what they need, but that does not make it right.” Something in Cathal‟s voice suggested that he was not just referring to being rid of old books. “Yeah, well, not everything is how it should be in life,” Donovan said, draining his coffee. “Do you want to take a look at what I have? See if there‟s anything you want to borrow? You can give them to Tomas to return when
172 | Anne Barwell
you‟re done, if you want. I‟ve read them all, so it doesn‟t bother me if you keep them for a while.” “Thank you, I‟d like that.” Cathal finished his own coffee, placing the cup on the table. “I can return the books myself. That won‟t be a problem. I need to go home at intervals, but that does not mean I cannot visit on occasion.” He smiled. “Perhaps I could borrow one or two and swap them for others once I‟ve read them?” Heidi nodded, answering before Donovan had a chance. “That would work well,” she decided. “After all, you did say you liked the coffee and my baking. It would give us the opportunity to get to know you better.” She began clearing the table. “Tomas, would you give me a hand while Donovan shows Cat the books, please?” Tomas opened his mouth to inform her that he wouldn‟t mind looking at the books either, caught the look in her eye suggesting that was not the correct response, and closed it again. “I could do that,” he said, brushing his fingers against Cathal‟s one more time. “I‟ll meet you there when I‟m finished.” A thought occurred to him. “Where do you keep these books?” He didn‟t remember having seen any. “There‟s a room off the back porch I‟ve converted into a sort of library,” Donovan said. “It‟s just the right size for floor-to-ceiling cases and a comfortable chair. Good lighting too.” He grinned at Tomas. “So what kind of books do you like to read, Cat?” “Anything and everything,” Cathal said promptly. “I like both poetry and prose. Fiction or non-fiction, it doesn‟t matter. I‟ll read anything.” “Okay,” Donovan handed his empty cup to Heidi and pushed his chair out from the table. “That really narrows it down, huh? I have a lot of different genres. What was the last book you read?” “Red Sunset,” Cathal replied, “and before that, In Hidden Places.” Donovan‟s eyebrow rose. “Tomas‟s latest and that Emerys guy he‟s hunting for. Interesting choices.” “I gave them to him,” Tomas interrupted, daring Donovan to make something of it. “He wanted something to read, and I had them in my bag.” A cough interrupted them. “Perhaps I should just browse your collection and see what takes my interest,” Cathal said, glancing between them. Heidi stifled a grin, and Tomas glared at her. He knew what, or rather who, took Cathal‟s interest and didn‟t need comments from the resident peanut gallery. “Sounds like a plan to me,” Donovan commented, his features suspiciously bland, although the corners of his mouth were twitching. He waited until Cathal had thanked Heidi politely for the afternoon tea and then started walking toward the kitchen door. “I‟ve been collecting for years,” he
Cat’s Quill | 173
said. “Some of them are out of print. Heidi says they‟re harboring dust bunnies, but I can‟t bring myself to get rid of any of them.” Cathal nodded in agreement. “Are you sure it‟s all right for me to borrow them?” he asked, his tone almost wistful. “I promise I‟ll take good care of them.” “I‟m sure you will.” Donovan paused at the door until Cathal had caught up with him. “You strike me as the kind of guy who would.” Cathal smiled and said something to Donovan in a low tone, but Tomas couldn‟t quite catch the reply. “Tomas!” Heidi sounded amused. He turned just in time to catch the tea towel she‟d thrown in his direction. “I‟ll wash and you can dry.” She was already filling the sink with hot water and detergent, the smell of citrus wafting toward him when she swished the dish brush through the bubbling water. “We‟ll be done in no time.” “Okay.” He glanced over his shoulder, but Cathal and Donovan were already gone, their voices fading apart from faint laughter he recognized as Cathal‟s. There was no need to go after them. Cathal could look after himself, and Donovan was merely sharing his love of books. Cathal would find something to read, and they would return shortly. “Cat seems like a nice guy,” Heidi said casually, taking a wooden dish rack that Tomas hadn‟t noticed before off the wall. Donovan had just stacked the dishes against a glass, and he‟d presumed there wasn‟t one. Personal preference, he supposed, sighing. Why the hell was he focusing on dish racks, of all things? His thoughts wandered further, and he nearly missed Heidi‟s next comment. “He‟s very welcome to visit for as long as you‟re staying with us.” “Thanks.” Tomas picked up a coffee cup and started to dry it, realizing more and more that this was not where he wanted to be at this moment. Cathal should be here helping him dry dishes, not choosing books with Donovan. Who, incidentally, had been less than subtle in the way he‟d eyed Cathal up and down appreciatively earlier. “Are you sure you haven‟t missed a bit?” Heidi asked helpfully. “Huh?” Tomas glanced up at her to note the amusement in her eyes. Obviously subtlety was not one of his strong points either, but then he‟d suspected that for some time. “You‟ve been drying that cup in the same spot for the last few minutes.” Heidi placed another cup in the rack. “If you want to go, I can finish up, you know.” Yes, his skills were definitely more than just lacking; they sucked.
174 | Anne Barwell
His face flamed. “I‟m fine,” he mumbled. She gave him a look that reminded him of Kathleen‟s “you‟re not kidding anyone, not even yourself” one. It was obviously not as patented as he‟d presumed. “Umm, if you‟re sure, Heidi?” “I‟m sure.” She put her hand out for the tea towel, her smile widening. Not about to argue a second time, he gave it to her and bolted for the door. Once in the hallway, he skidded to a stop, his brain catching up with his instincts. Donovan had said the library room was off the back porch. Glancing left and then right, he headed right in the direction of the rear door. It made sense that the back porch would be off that. Sense, however, had nothing to do with it. Upon reaching said door, there was no sign of any room nearby. Nor could he hear voices. The heavy wooden door taunted him; Tomas berated himself for not asking for clearer directions and for only using the front and side doors up to now. Why on earth would a house need more than two doors? Correction, more than three doors, as one of the upstairs bedrooms had French doors which opened onto a small balcony. He was being an idiot. Grabbing the doorknob, he yanked on it, and when that failed, banged on the wood, muttering something extremely rude under his breath. Pulling back his foot, he was ready to give the door a swift kick when it opened. “Umm, hi,” he mumbled to Donovan. Cathal paused, his hand over a book on a shelf a little above his head as he reached up for it. “Tomas!” he exclaimed, his face flushed and eyes bright. Grabbing the book he was after, he strode over to the door. “You need to look at these books. Donovan‟s collection is just wonderful. There are so many I haven‟t read and authors I‟ve never heard of and….” His voice trailed off, his tone suddenly subdued. “What‟s wrong?” “The door must have closed behind us, and I forgot to leave the key in the other side,” Donovan interjected quickly, searching through his pockets. “Yeah, here it is. Force of habit, I suppose. It‟s deadlocked and needs a key on both sides to open it. The one in here I leave in, and I forgot the other one. Sorry.” “You lock your doors?” Cathal sounded surprised. He gestured with his hand to make a sweep of the room. Donovan had not exaggerated when he‟d said it had wall-to-ceiling shelving. The solidly built bookcases covered three walls of the room; a comfortable-looking rocking chair sat under the window, the small table next to it just the right size for a mug and the pile of books stacked on it. “But surely all this is to be shared, and no one in your community would take what is not theirs.”
Cat’s Quill | 175
“It‟s a nice thought, but unfortunately not everyone thinks that way,” Donovan said sadly. “Some of these books cost a pretty penny, and I‟m not prepared to take the chance.” Cathal nodded very slowly, seemingly digesting the information. “So what happens if someone is caught stealing?” he asked. “It depends on how much and whether it‟s a first offense,” Tomas explained, wondering again how different things were where Cathal came from. “There would be a court hearing, and then it‟s up to a judge as to whether the sentence involves prison, a fine, or community work.” “That‟s all?” Cathal frowned, flinching as though in response to a memory, the reaction gone as quickly as it had been noticed. His fingers absently stroked the cover of the book he was holding, tracing the outline of the embossed letters on leather. “Yeah. There‟s a maximum and minimum sentence and due process to think about, but that‟s the simple version.” Donovan was watching him carefully. “It‟s not as though we‟re in the Middle Ages anymore. Cutting off someone‟s hand for stealing seems a little barbaric, don‟t you think?” “I‟m not in favor of it, if that is what you are suggesting, but unfortunately if such societies still existed, my opinion would not matter,” Cathal replied a little stiffly. He gripped the book more tightly, his knuckles growing white. “So,” he continued slowly, “do you think consequences should be different depending on the nature of the crime?” Donovan nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do. It‟s important to look at each case individually and the reasons behind the crime. There are people who steal because they can, and others do it to stop their families from starving.” His tone softened. “I wasn‟t suggesting you‟d be in favor of anything either. For what it‟s worth, I think everyone‟s opinions should matter. Sometimes you don‟t feel like you can change things, but this kind of shit starts small and has to begin with someone.” “Yes, it does.” Cathal‟s fingers loosened around the book. “Unfortunately those in authority do not like u— those who do.” His fingers tightened again, and he visibly swallowed before speaking the next words in a rush. “History tells many tales of potential revolutionaries who were dealt with severely to keep the status quo.” Stopping suddenly as if realizing what he‟d said, his gaze fixed on a point between the top shelves and the beginning of a cobweb between it and the ceiling, his voice growing more distant. “I like to think that even something small, as you say, makes a difference, if not for the person concerned, then for those who come afterwards.” He shifted his attention onto the scene outside the window. “I just wish the price was not so high,” he finished quietly.
176 | Anne Barwell
Tomas didn‟t like the dots he was connecting. Donovan shot him a glance, part worry, part question. Instead of answering it, Tomas leaned back against one of the bookshelves and folded his arms, attempting to find something to say which might offer some kind of reassurance. But instead he found himself falling back on a cliché he‟d once vowed he‟d never use. “There‟s always a choice.” “To roll over and play along and be safe or to do what‟s right?” Cathal rolled his eyes, his voice bitter. “That‟s not really much of a choice, now is it?” “Life doesn‟t always give you choices you want, Cat.” Donovan shrugged. “But those are the breaks.” He cleared his throat. “I‟m missing something here, right? Are you in some kind of trouble and caught up in some weird shit I should know about? Sorry if I‟m crossing a line, but this is starting to sound personal.” “No, nothing you should know about.” Cathal‟s tone changed instantly to something much lighter, although his eyes did not quite meet Donovan‟s. “This is just a subject I feel strongly about.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I didn‟t mean it to come across as personal. I‟ll be more careful in the future.” “Nah, that‟s fine,” Donovan insisted. “If we can‟t talk about crap we feel strongly about, what‟s the point?” “Thank you,” Cathal said quietly. He walked over to the rocking chair and picked up the pile of books. Something caught his eye, and he stopped, putting them down again and staring at the top of the shelf behind the chair. “Cat?” Tomas asked softly, pushing away from the wall to join Cathal. “Is there something up there you want?” “I can grab the ladder if you want,” Donovan offered. “There‟s a lot of the older books up there, poetry, mostly. I don‟t read them as often, so I stored them up higher.” “If that would be no trouble,” Cathal replied absently, still staring at the book. Following Cathal‟s line of sight, Tomas peered up at it, trying to make out the lettering. “Keats?” he pondered aloud. Cathal had said he liked the Romantic poets. Placing one foot on the bottom shelf and carefully keeping his balance, he reached up, pleased that this was something that at least he could do with the extra couple of inches he had in height on both Cathal and Donovan. Fishing it out, he hopped back down again and handed it to Cathal. “Okay, maybe not, then.” Donovan grinned. “A man of many talents, I see. I‟ll remember that one next time I want a book on one of those shelves.”
Cat’s Quill | 177
Cathal‟s hands were shaking as he opened the book, his lips mouthing something, although he did not say the words aloud. Tomas peered over his shoulder, hoping to get a better look and to figure out the reason for Cathal‟s reaction. “Cat?” he asked again, but Cathal merely smiled, his fingers tracing what appeared to be faded writing written in old-fashioned ink. “May I have this?” he asked Donovan suddenly, closing the book and hugging it to his chest. “Yeah. I said you could borrow whatever you wanted.” Donovan shrugged. Cathal looked at Donovan directly. “No,” he said, his voice a halfwhisper. “I mean to keep.” He glanced at Tomas and then back at Donovan, quiet for a moment before he spoke again, his tone wistful. “I‟m sorry. That is a little forward. I‟ll borrow it, of course, and return it with the others.” “I‟ll pay for it if it‟s for sale,” Tomas offered. “Hey, if it‟s that important to you, it‟s yours.” Donovan‟s tone was light but underpinned by curiosity. “Just one thing, though, okay?” “Okay,” Cathal agreed slowly. “That is only fair.” His fingers curled around the book, not quite clutching it to him. “Tell me why you want it, and you can have it.” Donovan shrugged again. “I know you‟ll take care of it, and I‟m not that into poetry.” “It doesn‟t matter,” Tomas started to say. Donovan had already said he didn‟t read the books up on that shelf very often. Cathal wanted it for whatever reason. That was obvious as hell. Cathal swallowed, his attention fully on Donovan though he moved close to Tomas, their shoulders brushing briefly. “It‟s mine,” he explained very hesitantly. “I lost it a long time ago.” Taking a step forward, he opened the book carefully so that the inscription on the inside page could be clearly read. Cat, For your birthday as we know how much you love these, All our love, now and forever, Christian and Alice.
178 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 16
DONOVAN read the inscription, glanced
at Cathal, and then read it again. “Who are you, Cat?” he asked. “Those names… this doesn‟t make sense.” “Christian and Alice are my cousins,” Cathal explained, his voice very even. “They lived here briefly. It was before you and Heidi bought the inn.” “They weren‟t the people before us.” Donovan frowned. “Joshua and Lilith Patterson were; I remember them from the paperwork.” He read the inscription again, shaking his head. “The only person named Alice who has owned this place is that artist Tomas is so interested in.” He looked over at Cathal again, eyes running up and down, lingering. “That was ninety years ago,” Tomas reminded him. “Cat and I have already discussed this and figured out that it‟s a coincidence.” The explanation sounded even less feasible when explaining it to a third party. Whatever doubts Tomas had, he wasn‟t going to admit them to Donovan, and certainly not in front of Cathal. At least not at this point, and not until he had something more concrete upon which to hang his suspicions. “One hell of one,” Donovan said. “Next you‟ll be telling me the last names are the same as well.” The silence that followed seemed to stretch an eternity until Cathal broke it. “Christian‟s last name is Edmonds, yes.” He shrugged. “He‟s my cousin on my mother‟s side, and we don‟t know much about his father‟s family.” “So they could be related?” Donovan still didn‟t sound convinced. “As explanations go, this one‟s reaching,” he said. “The only thing it has going for it is the fact, as Tomas said, that Alice Finlay and her husband lived ninety years ago.” He spoke slowly; the little hamsters in his head were obviously working overtime. “I‟m a factual kind of guy, though I am partial to a good plot with some time travel in it.” Fingers rubbed at his chin for a moment. “You‟re not going to tell me you‟re a time traveler, right, and you knew these guys ninety years ago?”
Cat’s Quill | 179
“No, I‟m not going to tell you that.” Cathal managed a half-smile, although it was strained. “I can assure you I‟m not a time traveler.” He indicated the books around them. “Not everything you read in books is true. Writers often stretch the truth for the sake of a good story.” Tomas stared at Donovan, still wrapping his head around the fact he‟d suggested it. “Factual kind of guy, huh?” he teased, unable to resist the comment. “I wasn‟t expecting him to say yes,” Donovan retorted a little testily. “So, Cat,” he continued quickly, ignoring Tomas‟s smirk. “Where did you say you were from again? I‟ve got the deed for this place, and I don‟t remember any other people on it with those names apart from Tomas‟s artist friend, Alice.” “Christian didn‟t own it,” Cathal said. “He lived here for a year. We both did.” He still didn‟t quite meet Donovan‟s eyes. “I doubt he is listed on the deeds.” He closed the open book with a bang, his tone shifting into something suggesting that he would not answer any further questions. “I didn‟t say where I was from. I am merely passing through so I can spend time with Tomas. That‟s all.” “Okay,” Donovan raised his hands in surrender. “I‟m a curious kind of guy.” His tone hardened. “In my experience, if people aren‟t too open about where they‟re from, it‟s usually because they‟re hiding something. You seem like a nice guy, and it‟s obvious as hell you and Tomas have something going. I don‟t want to see either of you get hurt.” “He won‟t be.” Cathal offered the book to Donovan. “That I can promise you.” “No.” Donovan shook his head, refusing to take it. “Keep it. It‟s yours. The inscription says so.” Although the words were spoken to Cathal, he was watching Tomas carefully. “So let‟s see if I have this straight. You lived here for a while, you and Tomas have known each other for a while, and you‟re just passing through.” “That‟s right.” Cathal nodded slowly. “But you don‟t believe me, and you‟re curious and also concerned. Am I correct?” “Donovan!” Tomas stepped between them. “That‟s enough. This isn‟t a damn interrogation. You‟re just loaning him some books. I‟ll vouch for him.” “It‟s all right,” Cathal said softly. “He has every right to ask.” He glanced toward the window, his eyes glazing over for a moment. “I‟m not from around here,” he continued very softly. “I come from somewhere you‟ve never heard of, and hopefully never will.” His expression hardened. “If I tell you, it puts you at risk, and I‟m not prepared to do that. This might not be the Middle Ages, but some societies still exist who believe in punishments that
180 | Anne Barwell
supposedly fit the crimes committed against them. In my… village, the consequences of stealing another‟s property are so severe that there have been less than a dozen such incidents in the past two hundred years. No one would dare risk it. Fear is a great deterrent.” Tomas placed a hand on Cathal‟s arm. He shook it off. “I‟ve said and done enough. I‟m sorry.” Cathal glanced at the pile of books on the chair, not quite hiding the wistful expression spreading across his features. “This was a mistake. I should go.” “Hold it a minute.” Donovan moved quickly to stand in front of the doorway, blocking Cathal‟s exit. Cathal backed toward the window, his eyes darting between it and the door. A couple of drops of water hit the outside of the window in succession, blurring the clear glass. “You are in some kind of trouble, right? I‟m not going to stop you from leaving, but if you ever need somewhere to stay, or feel you can tell me the truth, the offer‟s there.” He and Cathal stared at each other for a moment. “Wherever this village of yours is, you‟re not there now. We can get the cops in on this and get you some protection from whatever or whoever you‟re mixed up in.” “I haven‟t lied to you, and I am still subject to their laws, wherever I might be,” Cathal said flatly, his eyes a mixture of sorrow and fear when he met Tomas‟s. “You don‟t know me. Why are you doing this?” “Instincts,” Donovan said. “I told Tomas when we met that I‟m good at reading people. You‟ve gotten around some of those barriers he‟s erected to keep people out pretty damn fast. That says a lot too.” He took a step sideways. “Take the books you wanted, Cat. Just bring them back sometime, okay?” Cathal bit his lip. “I‟m sorry,” he said again, his voice choked, his eyes again darting toward the window, the increasing raindrop staccato loud against the silence of the room. “I wish I could….” Suddenly he dived past Donovan and ran, the poetry book falling to the floor to land at Donovan‟s feet on his way out. “Cat!” Tomas yelled, glaring at Donovan. Why the fuck had Donovan pushed like this? Sure, he‟d only put into words what Tomas hadn‟t, but that didn‟t make it right. Cathal was scared, not just for himself, but for both Donovan and Tomas as well. Screw the risks. A hand on his arm stopped him following. He pulled it away. “Just be careful,” Donovan warned. “I know you‟re falling for this guy, but he‟s involved in something. All the signs are there. I‟ve seen it before.” “You don‟t know him,” Tomas hissed. “Just fuck off, Donovan, okay? You‟ve done enough!” He bent to grab the book Cathal had dropped and decided to leave it. Rain and books did not mix, and finding Cathal was more
Cat’s Quill | 181
important. It didn‟t take a genius to know where he would be headed, and Tomas wasn‟t prepared to let him disappear again, not until after they‟d talked, and perhaps not even then. The door slammed shut behind him, but he didn‟t turn around. A small part of his brain told him that he owed Donovan an apology, but Tomas ignored it, even though he knew it was right. “Cat, wait up,” he yelled, but the figure in front of him continued striding across the courtyard at the back of the house, heading around the side of it toward the gap in the hedge, the sky darkening around them. “Cat! Please.” Shoulders hunched, Cathal kept moving quickly, getting farther ahead, until he was nearly level with the hedge. Sitting almost under it, washing herself, Blackthorn paused mid-paw and meowed plaintively. “Not now!” Cathal hissed loudly. The cat launched herself at his feet. He moved to one side, but not fast enough. Losing his balance, he stumbled, grabbing at the wooden post at the side of the hedge to steady himself. “Go away!” Tomas sped up. “Cat! Stop! We need to talk.” “No!” Cathal shook his head, his whole body slumping. Blackthorn meowed again, rubbing herself against his legs, refusing to move when he tried to step around her. “Go away!” he hissed again, hoarsely. “Cat, please.” Reaching the hedge, Tomas ignored Blackthorn and pulled Cathal into his arms. Cathal tried to free himself, shaking. “It‟s okay,” Tomas whispered, holding him tightly. “I‟ve got you.” “No, it‟s not.” Cathal buried his head on Tomas‟s shoulder, his voice muffled. “I can‟t tell him what he wants to know.” He lifted his head briefly; his eyes were red and puffy. “I can‟t even tell you!” “I know that.” Tomas hated seeing Cathal upset like this, but Donovan had been right. “You‟re in trouble, aren‟t you? That‟s why you can‟t tell me. You‟re trying to keep me safe.” “I‟m not in trouble,” Cathal insisted, but he leaned further into Tomas‟s embrace rather than pulling away. Tomas caressed the side of Cathal‟s face gently with his fingertips, the skin damp under them though the rain was easing again. Cathal raised his chin, their eyes meeting briefly. “Yet,” he admitted very quietly. “It‟s only a matter of time though, isn‟t it?” Fur brushed against his legs, reminding Tomas that they were not alone. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked softly. Even if Cathal refused to talk about this, at least there might be less risk of them being disturbed. “I‟ve already told you I‟m not prepared to—” Cathal protested. Tomas silenced Cathal‟s words with a finger over his lips.
182 | Anne Barwell
“It‟s safer if we‟re not in plain view, right?” Tomas searched Cathal‟s eyes for confirmation that at least in that, he might agree. Cathal nodded but didn‟t seem convinced. He tried to pull away again. Tomas could not allow that to happen. “If you try to go back to wherever it is you come from, I‟m following you,” he insisted. Screw what he was or wasn‟t allowed or supposed to do. What Cathal had told them about the laws of his society had made Tomas all the more determined to learn the truth. “You can‟t!” Cathal removed Tomas‟s fingers from his lips, grabbing Tomas‟s hand to prevent him from repeating the action. “If you want me to talk to you, it‟s hardly fair if you‟re not prepared to listen to what I have to say!” “I am listening.” Tomas didn‟t think Cathal‟s comment was exactly fair either. “And so far you haven‟t said a bloody thing that makes any sense. All you do is answer in riddles and generalizations.” Cathal recoiled as though he‟d been slapped, but Tomas wasn‟t in the mood to let that stop him, however much the reaction hurt. “You expect me to trust you, but you‟re still not trusting me.” “I trust you,” Cathal insisted. “Or I wouldn‟t still be here.” He sighed. “I‟ve already told you what I‟m able. You know far more than you should. If they find out….” “Yes?” Tomas‟s voice took on a dangerous edge. “What will they do to you if they find out?” The more that was said, the more Tomas realized how little he knew about whatever Cathal was mixed up in. “I….” Cathal glanced around nervously, letting go of Tomas‟s hand. He took a step back, putting distance between them. “I don‟t want to talk about this.” “We‟re talking about it,” Tomas said flatly. Cathal had danced around this enough. Relationships needed to be built on trust, and Tomas wanted, no, needed to be able to believe what Cathal said. He was in trouble; that much was certain. “Where are you from, Cat, and who are you? Really?” “I‟ve already told you, I can‟t tell you!” Cathal hissed. He looked as though he was about ready to bolt, the nervousness coupled with something that appeared suspiciously to be fear. “And I‟ve already told you, we‟re going to talk about this,” Tomas said. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wooden post, his voice softening. “I don‟t want to see you get hurt, Cat, but I can‟t help you if you don‟t let me.” “You can‟t help me.” Cathal kicked a stone with his boot, watching it roll over the gravel to settle in the grass. He bit his lip. “Was this a mistake?”
Cat’s Quill | 183
“You tell me.” Tomas hated himself for pushing, but enough was enough. He‟d opened up to Cathal more than he‟d ever done anyone else, including his sister. There was something between them, he couldn‟t deny that, and he wanted nothing better than to take Cathal into his arms again and reassure him, find a way to keep him safe. “I… love you.” The words stumbled out of Cathal‟s mouth. He took another step backward. “I can‟t let you get hurt. Can‟t you see that?” “Right, and because of that I‟m supposed to just do nothing and let whoever the hell you‟re scared of do something to you?” Tomas shook his head. “Don‟t do this, Cat. Please.” He unfolded his arms, letting them drop to his side. “It‟s not safe,” Cathal said again, his lower lip trembling. He hugged himself, shivering. “Bloody hell, Tomas. Why are you so stubborn?” “I guess it takes one to know one,” Tomas snapped, his anger rising and taking any sense of tact with it. “How dare you? You come into my life and make me fall in love with you, and expect….” His words trailed off. He froze, the reality of the situation, of why he was so angry, hitting him squarely. He couldn‟t be in love with Cathal. He‟d only known him a few days! He didn‟t do this. He couldn‟t do this. Yet the thought of Cathal leaving, of walking into God knew what kind of danger on his own and maybe not coming back, was something Tomas did not want to contemplate. “What did you say?” Cathal was staring at him, his mouth opening and closing. “You… I….” He seemed to deflate emotionally, all the stubbornness and anger leaving him. Swallowing, he held out one hand to Tomas very tentatively. “We can‟t talk about this here,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do you want to go somewhere private? I know somewhere we won‟t be disturbed.” Tomas stared at Cathal‟s hand. “I tell you I love you, and suddenly you talk to me?” He shook his head. “Is that going to stop you leaving me afterwards? Give me an explanation, pacify me, and then leave? Is that it? Stop me from making a scene and people, maybe even your people, noticing?” His brain wasn‟t working properly, that must be it. Suddenly he felt very tired, and confused, his emotions fighting against his common sense. “You already told me you love me. Why the hell is this any different?” Cathal‟s hand slipped into his, holding it tightly. Tomas looked up at Cathal, his vision blurring. “How am I supposed to just go back to my old life and be alone after this? I can‟t and I won‟t.” He wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “Everyone leaves. Everyone I‟ve loved leaves. Why the fuck should you be any different?” There, he‟d said it. He‟d given Cathal his chance. Explanation or not, it wouldn‟t make any bloody difference. Except now he‟d at least have some
184 | Anne Barwell
story he could attempt to use to justify the why. Why it wasn‟t his fault. Why life happens and some things just were. Well, he was sick of it. He was no good with people, with relationships. Anyone who attempted to get close, he pushed away for good reason. To his surprise, Cathal didn‟t let go of his hand and instead pulled him close, holding him. “Oh, Tomas,” he whispered. “I‟m sorry. I‟ve expected too much. I let you get close, knowing that this couldn‟t have a future.” He kissed the top of Tomas‟s head. “I‟ve been so very selfish, hoping and pretending it could work.” “Why can‟t it?” Tomas demanded. “You‟re just talking in riddles again, Cat.” “No riddles, Tomas,” Cathal said softly. He relaxed his embrace but kept holding Tomas‟s hand. “Come with me, and I‟ll explain why it can‟t.” A sad smile passed his lips, but he didn‟t lower his eyes. “I thought I could just fit into your world, just for a while, but it was foolish. I can‟t do that to you or your friends. It‟s not fair.” “It‟s my decision whether it‟s fair or not,” Tomas pointed out. “Don‟t make that choice for me.” He‟d had that done for him most of his life, shoved from foster home to foster home, told who he could live with and reminded of what was expected of him. It was one of the reasons he‟d become a writer, to travel a path in life that was just his own, to work his own hours and be his own person. Tell him what to do, and he‟d do the opposite just because. The eternal teenager, Kathleen had called him once, with a fond smile. “That‟s what I told my uncle,” Cathal sighed. “And here I am trying to do it to you.” He squared his shoulders, glancing up at the sky, frowning at the dark clouds. “I suspect I am going to be later home than I anticipated, but to hell with the consequences.” “Won‟t you get into trouble if you‟re late?” Tomas asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I have a few hours yet.” Cathal‟s eyes darted to the bracelet on his wrist and then back to Tomas. “But once it‟s sunset, I will have to leave or risk not being able to return. It‟s less of one if I‟m closer to the tree.” This was starting to make even less sense, if that was at all possible. So they had until sunset. Tomas shivered, the temperature around them dropping, the wind coming up to give warning of the approaching storm. “Lead on, and I‟ll follow,” he told Cathal. Once he had the explanation, he‟d go from there. Risk be damned. If Cathal needed to be home by sunset and they hadn‟t finished, Tomas would follow and find out what Cathal was hiding.
Cat’s Quill | 185
Glancing up at the sky again, Cathal let go of Tomas‟s hand, holding out his own as a large drop of water fell onto it, followed by another, the rain finally beginning to fall with a vengeance. “Sometimes I think even the damn climate takes their side and is showing its disapproval,” he muttered, his hands dropping to his side as he began walking briskly across the field. Where was he going? Wherever it was, one thing was for certain. This time they would go together, and whatever happened Tomas would take in stride. Or at least pretend to. A frustrated sound escaped his lips. No. What the hell was he thinking? It was pretense that had gotten them into this mess. Now was the time for honesty. He couldn‟t expect Cathal to be open with him if he wasn‟t prepared to act in kind. Bending his head, he ignored the wind and the heavens opening above them. Cathal muttered again under his breath, but this time Tomas couldn‟t make out the words. Cathal began to run, Tomas following closely, the hedge getting farther behind them as they got closer to the tree. Brushing soggy strands of hair from his face, he called out to Cathal, raising his voice to be heard against the wind and rain. “Where are we going?” The wind snatched Cathal‟s reply; Tomas had to lean in closer to hear. Cathal‟s hair was plastered to his head, his shirt wet and sticking to him. Wherever they were headed would have to provide shelter until the flash storm had passed. “Somewhere safe,” Cathal yelled again, in response to Tomas‟s puzzled expression. Not having heard whatever had been said before that, Tomas just nodded. At the very least he could trust Cathal to lead them somewhere in which to ride out this weather. Suddenly realizing that Cathal was gesturing toward something directly ahead, Tomas looked up to see a small building in front of them. It was the shed on the boundary between the inn and the neighboring property that he‟d noticed when he‟d arrived. Getting closer, it seemed a lot bigger than he‟d thought, larger than some of the outbuildings he‟d seen but smaller than the converted barn that housed Heidi‟s Land Rover. Lifting the heavy metal latch, Cathal struggled against the wind to open the wooden door. Working together, they yanked it open, stumbled inside, and let the wind slam it shut behind them. A crackle of lightning lit the room briefly through the skylight in the roof directly above them. Cathal fumbled around in the half dark, running his hand against the wall, looking for something. The sharp cracking noise by his head made Tomas jump until he realized it was a match and that Cathal was reaching for the hurricane lantern that
186 | Anne Barwell
hung from a nearby rafter. Tomas squeezed water from the bottom of his shirt and looked around the room. The dirt floor was dry and covered in hay, the ladder a few feet away appearing to lead to some kind of mezzanine floor. Running one hand down the rough wooden wall, his fingers came away covered in dust. Sniffing the air cautiously, he caught a whiff of hay and mustiness. Whoever used this place didn‟t do so often. It definitely had a feel of disuse about it, although that could be merely due to the season. Farming was one subject he knew very little about. Hopefully the weather would clear and they would not have to stay long. “The inn would have been closer,” he remarked dryly, noticing that Cathal was just as wet. There wasn‟t anything they could use to get warm, and he wasn‟t about to strip out of his clothing and freeze still further. What was it with this microclimate and the way it went from one season to another in the space of a few hours? “Sorry,” Cathal said, brushing wet hair from his face and shivering, “but I wanted somewhere safe and….” He lifted the top of the lantern, ready to light it when the edge of his boot caught something shiny. Handing the lantern to Tomas, he bent to pick it up, color draining from his face. “No,” he whispered, turning the small object over in his hand. Outside there was an almighty crash of thunder, followed by voices. Cathal was back on his feet instantly, blowing out the match and plunging them into semi-darkness again. “Cat?” What the hell was going on? The voices drew nearer. A hand clamped over Tomas‟s mouth, preventing him from speaking, a wet body pinning him to the wall. “Quiet!” Cathal hissed in his ear, breath hot against Tomas‟s skin. Lightning lit the room momentarily. There was nowhere to hide, no way out except for the door. Not even a window to climb through. Nothing but the…. The skylight! Yanking Cathal‟s hand away, Tomas began pulling him toward the ladder leading to the floor above them. Whoever was outside was dangerous. Cathal‟s reaction had confirmed that. And if they were outside, it was only a matter of time before they searched this shed or whatever the hell it was. They had to find a way out, and as options went, this place was sorely lacking. “Tomas! We can‟t,” Cathal whispered, glancing toward the door again. “There‟s no way down off the roof!” The roof wasn‟t that high. They‟d find a way. The door creaked, the latch protesting when someone banged at it from the outside. Voices rose in argument, the door muffling the words. Fuck, maybe not. Get out and straight into the hands of whoever was waiting outside. Thunder rolled again. What
Cat’s Quill | 187
choice did they have? Stay here and get caught or at least try to hide or run. This at least was a chance of sorts. When they got out of here, Cathal had better have a damn good explanation of who these people were. Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Tomas tested it to make sure it was sturdy. It felt old, the wood rough and splintered in places, but it seemed secure enough. This close to the skylight, at least they could see better to climb, although what little sun was left was quickly disappearing behind the dark storm clouds, taking what remained of the daylight with it to herald a premature dusk. Shoving Cathal toward the ladder, Tomas whispered hoarsely, “Go, and I‟ll be right behind you!” Gripping the lantern with one hand, he looked around for anything else that could be used as a weapon but couldn‟t see anything. The movies lied. All this hay and not even a pitchfork! “No!” Cathal turned to glare at him, his eyes flashing in the dim light, a familiar stubbornness on his face. “You go first. It‟s me they‟re after. I won‟t—” “Go!” Tomas wasn‟t in the mood to argue. He pushed Cathal back toward the ladder again. They‟d yell at each other later when it was safe. This wasn‟t the time or the place. Behind them the door shuddered on its hinges. He wasn‟t sure whether to be relieved or disgusted by the fact that whoever these people were, they couldn‟t manage to work out how to lift a latch to open a door. The door opened with a sudden thud, light filling the room, shadowy figures piling through the doorway to block one of their escape routes. Argument forgotten, Cathal started to climb quickly, Tomas behind him. “There! On the ladder! Move!” The man‟s voice was sharp, the light from the open door capturing the ladder and their position as surely as a pair of deer caught in headlights. Tomas turned, pulling back the hand in which he held the lantern. The ladder swayed. A large man wearing some kind of uniform rushed it from the bottom, another flash of lightning highlighting the metal buttons on his heavy woolen jacket. “Go, Cat! Go!” Tomas yelled, taking aim at the mop of dark, curly hair. As weapons went, the lantern sucked, but it was still better than nothing. All they needed were a few minutes to get to the top of the ladder, although he had no idea what they‟d do then. Did the skylight even open? The man grabbed the bottom of the ladder. Tomas prayed and threw the lantern with all the force he could muster. Who the hell were these people? What did they want with Cathal? Well, they bloody well weren‟t getting him.
188 | Anne Barwell
Cathal shouted something. The ladder swayed again. The world tilted, the ladder falling backward, the floor coming up to meet them. Reaching up for Cathal, Tomas jumped, voices taunting him from the floor above. These men must have been already here. This place was not safe. It never had been. Cathal had led them, like mice, into a trap. Hitting the ground with a thud, barely managing to land on his feet, Tomas felt himself falling again, his legs giving way when a fist connected with his stomach. The room spun, his head colliding with something hard, pain shooting through him, his vision blurring. As though from a distance, he heard Cathal cry out. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Cathal being held down by another man in uniform, his arms being forced behind his back, his eyes meeting Tomas‟s in unspoken apology. “Leave him be,” Cathal yelled, wincing when the man holding him backhanded him across the face. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth, but Cathal held his head up, his expression nothing less than defiant. He struggled to his feet, the man behind him already tying his wrists together with some kind of coarse rope. A slightly built, short, red-haired man moved to stand between Tomas and Cathal, looking from one to the other. Tomas stared at him, trying to focus through the fog that was settling over his brain. “Who are you?” he managed to croak. “Leave him, Gwalch,” Cathal snapped. “There is no need to involve him in this argument.” Gwalch raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps this once, Lord Emerys,” he conceded, his tone as smooth as silk but the smug smirk belying his words. “After all, we have who we want.” Lord? Emerys? What the fuck? Tomas attempted to stand. The room gave a sickening lurch. He ignored it. Hands gripped his shirt, dragging him into an upright position. The red-haired man leaned in closer, watching Tomas carefully, shaking his head. “This is nothing to do with you. Forget what you have seen,” he warned. “No!” Tomas protested. “Cat, I….” His stomach heaved. The man sighed and let him go. Falling backward, Tomas‟s skull exploded in pain, and everything went black.
Cat’s Quill | 189
Chapter 17
“TOMAS?” Shadowy figures bent over him, the dying rays of the setting sun still bright enough to make his eyes water as he opened one and then closed it again to block out the light. “You okay?” “Go away, Kathleen, I‟m sleeping,” he mumbled, reaching for a pillow to throw at her. His head hurt. Why couldn‟t she just let him sleep? “Tomas?” Hang on. This wasn‟t Kathleen. The voice was too deep. Opening both eyes this time, Tomas blinked rapidly and attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his head. His stomach heaved. Arms held him, steadying him. Someone was holding Cathal down, restraining him. The bastard had hit him! No! Tomas began to struggle, his surroundings spinning as he tried to get to his feet. “Let me go!” he snarled. “You‟re not taking him. I won‟t—” He fell forward onto his hands and knees. “I won‟t let you,” he whispered, past catching up with present with the realization that he hadn‟t been able to do a bloody thing. “Cat….” Taking several deep breaths, he tried to persuade his brain to start thinking again. This wasn‟t the red-haired man holding him. This person was taller, and the hair color was wrong, as was the clothing. But the voice sounded familiar. Donovan. Of course. He frowned, his thoughts still jumbled, grabbing more bits of memory through a fog. He and Cathal had been in the shed or hay store or whatever the hell it was. And then the men… the soldiers… had come. “It‟s okay, Tomas. I‟ve got you.” Donovan spoke softly, reassuringly, helping Tomas to sit up again, propping him against the wall. “Cat‟s not here. What happened?” “Is he going to be okay?” Mikey was hovering, keeping a little distance between them, but not much. “Did something happen to Cat during the storm?”
190 | Anne Barwell
The storm? Tomas turned his attention toward the open door. The sky was a mix of red, gray, and fading blue, but there was only a slight breeze in the air and no sign of the bad weather that had forced them into this place. Tomas let out a groan. Even the ladder was propped back against the floor above. There was nothing to prove what had happened. Only the lump on the back of his head. “They‟ve taken Cat!” Tomas yanked Donovan close, determined that he realize the seriousness of the situation. “We‟ve got to go after them.” “There‟s no one here, Tomas.” Donovan glanced around the shed, frowning, his voice very calm and even. “There hasn‟t been anyone here. Mikey found you stretched out on the floor with a lump on your head. He came and got me right away. It was lucky that he was taking a shortcut through the field. Heidi‟s called for Doc McKenzie.” “No.” Tomas shook his head. His stomach lurched. He tried to move, but Donovan held him still, watching him carefully. God, what time was it? The sun couldn't be setting; it was only midafternoon. “You don‟t understand! He didn‟t want to go with them. They took him!” “Who took him?” Donovan glanced at Mikey briefly before returning his attention to Tomas. “We need to get you back to the inn,” he said very calmly. “Mikey, take my phone outside and ask Heidi to give Doug a call.” “You don‟t believe me, do you,” Tomas felt the back of his head, wincing when his fingers connected with a spongy lump. Who the hell was Doug? The name seemed familiar, like he should know. “You asked Cat whether he was in some kind of trouble. You were right.” “I never said I didn‟t believe you. That‟s why I want Doug in on this,” Donovan reassured him. “Who?” Tomas asked irritably. “Doug Greene,” Donovan explained patiently. “He‟s the local constable.” Great. First the doctor and then the local copper asking questions. All of this was just wasting time they didn‟t have. “You‟re not thinking too clearly at the moment.” He put one arm around Tomas‟s waist and helped him to stand. Tomas swallowed, but his stomach didn‟t heave as it had a few moments before. That, he hoped, was a good sign. “We‟ll get you looked at, and then you can tell us what happened.” “Who took Cat?” Mikey asked. “Donovan already asked you and you never told him.” He bent down and parted the hay on either side of his hands, his fingers tracing something through it, making no move to do what Donovan asked. “This place feels weird,” he mumbled, “just like that stupid tree.”
Cat’s Quill | 191
“What do you know about the tree?” Tomas demanded, one hand reaching for the wall to steady himself. Donovan‟s grip around his waist tightened. Tomas shook his head, ignoring the way the room spun again in response. He wasn‟t some invalid. He would be fine. They‟d find Cathal first and then worry about the rest. “Got it!” Mikey said triumphantly, straightening up again, something small and shiny between his fingertips. He turned it over in his hand, the action echoing something at the edge of Tomas‟s memory. “Give me that!” Tomas attempted to take a step toward Mikey, stumbling after pain jarred his head. His stomach heaved again, the muscles protesting when he tried to pull out of Donovan‟s firm grasp. “Hold it, you two,” Donovan snapped. “We‟ve got a problem here, and arguing won‟t solve it.” He glared at both of them, although it didn‟t hide the worry in his eyes or the crease of concern across his forehead. Mikey opened his mouth to protest, as did Tomas. Donovan silenced them with a narrowing of his eyes. Tomas had not seen him angry before, and if this was anything to go by, it wasn‟t an emotion he wanted to encourage. “We need to work together.” “I wasn‟t the one arguing,” Mikey sulked. He turned the object over in his hand once more, stroking one side of it with one finger. “Besides, I found a clue!” “Then you need to share it and not keep it to yourself,” Tomas pointed out. There was no way in hell this annoying kid was going to pull this kind of stunt again with Cathal‟s safety in the balance. It had been bad enough with the letters. The letters! They had to be able to shed some light on this. Alice and Christian were connected to Cathal; he was sure of it now. Cathal‟s evasiveness was further proof, and the name the red-haired guy, Gwalch, had called him. Lord Emerys. It was too much of a coincidence. There had been too damn many all the way through this, and Tomas had just gone along with them. No longer! “What is it?” Donovan removed one of his hands from around Tomas‟s waist carefully, making sure that he was going to remain upright, and held a palm out for the object Mikey was holding. Mikey shrugged. “I‟m not sure,” he admitted. “It looks like a button of some kind, but the insignia is kind of weird.” “Cat found something like this.” Tomas could remember it now. The small object Cathal had turned over in his hand, his actions the same as Mikey‟s, just before he‟d blown out the match. Cathal had been spooked by it.
192 | Anne Barwell
Tomas peered over Donovan‟s shoulder, trying to get a better look. Another memory gestured to him, taunting him to remember. He reached for it, not quite grasping the details he needed. “It‟s a picture of some kind of bird,” Donovan realized. “I‟ve seen buttons like this before, on military uniforms. Could it be off something like that?” “Yes!” Tomas exclaimed, everything falling into place. “The soldiers, or whatever they were, who took Cat. They had shiny buttons on their uniforms.” Donovan and Mikey exchanged a glance. Tomas chose to ignore the fact it looked suspiciously like they were each questioning his sanity, or lack thereof. “Don‟t you see,” he pleaded. “It‟s proof.” “It‟s just a button, Tomas,” Donovan pointed out a little too calmly. “You‟ve hit your head. People imagine weird shit when that happens. You could have a concussion.” “No!” Tomas needed them to believe him. He couldn‟t do this alone. That was becoming clearer with each passing minute. They needed to work out where Cathal was, and that meant telling them everything, as unbelievable as it might sound. His whole quest, the book, everything, it was connected to this. Of that he was sure. But what proof did he have? Cathal was gone, and now it looked as though he‟d never been here. Wait! God, why hadn‟t he thought of it before? Struggling free, he fumbled at his T-shirt, pulling it out of his jeans. “Look,” he exclaimed, pointing at his stomach. Donovan and Mikey both peered at it. “How hard did you hit your head, Tomas?” Mikey said. “So you have a bruise on your stomach. So what?” “Hold up, Mikey.” Donovan frowned. “Can I see your back, Tomas?” Obediently, Tomas shifted gingerly, adjusting his clothing to reveal his back too. Donovan shook his head, glancing at the wall and then back at Tomas. “Okay, that‟s weird. You‟ve got a lump on the back of your head and bruising on your front. Let me take another look?” “The guy had one hell of a right hook,” Tomas explained helpfully. “He punched me, and I hit my head afterward, when I fell.” No, that wasn‟t quite right. “Fell the second time,” he remembered. “One of them backhanded Cat across the mouth too. He was bleeding.” “Where?” Donovan asked suddenly, scanning the floor in their immediate vicinity. “Over where Mikey found the button!” Tomas moved to help look, but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he stopped, bending slightly to place his hands on both knees.
Cat’s Quill | 193
Mikey was already scrambling over the floor, parting the hay this way and that. “This is just like on those cop shows Mrs. O‟Neil watches.” he exclaimed. “Cat‟s been kidnapped, hasn‟t he, and we‟re hunting for clues.” Suddenly he froze, staring at something. Donovan was at his side in an instant, shifting into a semi-crouch to get a better look. Edging forward carefully, Tomas dropped to his knees, the sun trickling through the cracks in the wall highlighting the proof he‟d needed, confirmation part of him really didn‟t want. Donovan shook his head slowly, his expression grim. “Blood,” he said slowly, looking intently at the smeared, rusty brown clinging to a clump of hay beneath it. For a moment Tomas had a sickening flash of the color mixing with the blond of Cathal‟s hair as he oozed blood, the man holding him hitting him over and over. No! That hadn‟t happened. It wouldn‟t happen. “It‟s not much, but it might be enough for Doug and Doc McKenzie to do something with,” Donovan continued. Mikey reached out with one finger as though he was going to touch it, but Donovan shook his head. “No! Leave it,” he warned. “It‟s not only proof that something might have happened here but….” His voice softened, and he looked at Tomas apologetically. “It might also be a clue as to who Cat really is.” “I don‟t care who he is,” Tomas realized. “I just want to get him back safely.” Cathal had been going to answer his questions, tell him everything. Tomas had spent most of his childhood with choices taken away from him; he would do everything in his power to ensure Cathal would not have to go through the same. If Cathal had chosen to leave, it would be different, but he hadn‟t. A shiver ran through him, remembering something Cathal had said. His people had been lenient on him once; the second time, they might not be so forgiving. “What aren‟t you telling us, Tomas?” Donovan straightened into a standing position, watching Tomas carefully. “Not here.” Tomas wasn‟t sure what there was to tell. His headache aside, none of it had made sense. But one thing was growing clearer. This was not a puzzle he could solve on his own, not if he wanted to do so in enough time to help Cathal, if it wasn‟t already too late. “Once the doc‟s checked you over, we‟re talking, okay?” Donovan put up his hand to stop any protests before they started. “I want Heidi in on this as well.” “And me,” Mikey piped up.
194 | Anne Barwell
Tomas started to glare at the boy and then stopped. Mikey had met Cathal and had said something about this place feeling the same as the tree. That could be important; nothing should be dismissed. “Okay,” he admitted, another thought occurring to him. “But I need you to do something for me.” “What?” Mikey eyed Tomas suspiciously. “I‟m not running messages and stuff for you. After all, it was me who found you, and Cat was nice to me.” He nodded almost sagely, the expression looking a little off kilter on someone his age. “Besides, he believes in dragons.” “Yes, he does.” Tomas couldn‟t help but smile at the memory of another conversation he and Cathal had had. “And in magic.” He glanced around the room, lowering his voice to an almost-whisper. “Go home, Mikey, and bring me the rest of the letters we found. I think we‟re going to need them.”
“HMM.” Dr. Harry McKenzie mumbled the sound under his breath for the second time in as many minutes, and Tomas found what was left of his patience beginning to wane. Another light was flicked into his eyes, and he pushed the penlight torch to one side. “I‟m fine,” he muttered irritably. This was wasting time. He‟d hit his head. So what? Apart from the headache, he was feeling a lot better than he had been. A couple of paracetamol had taken the edge off, and his stomach had stopped trying to turn cartwheels and threaten to empty its contents whenever he moved. “Let me be the judge of that, young man,” Dr. McKenzie informed him. “After all, I‟m the one with the medical degree, not you.” He was a middleaged man, appearing to be in his early fifties, although looks could be deceiving. His hair was still dark except for patches of grey at his temples, and his gold-rimmed glasses insisted on slipping down his nose only to be shoved back up again when they attempted to escape completely. “Dr. McKenzie knows what he‟s doing, Tomas,” Heidi reassured him. She‟d been hovering since they got back, her hand going to her mouth when she‟d first seen Tomas and heard that Cathal was missing. Tomas had only agreed to the medical examination on the proviso that Donovan take Doug back out to the scene of the crime immediately. At first he‟d been reluctant to tell Doug what had happened, but both Donovan and Heidi had urged him not to leave anything out, as doing so would only hamper the investigation. Doug had raised an eyebrow at the description of the men Tomas and Cathal had encountered, said eyebrow going still higher when Tomas had repeated the dialogue between Gwalch and Cathal.
Cat’s Quill | 195
“I think he‟ll live, Heidi,” Dr. McKenzie announced finally. “With the extent of the bruising and his reactions, I suspect he may have a mild concussion, but I‟ll leave you with a list of symptoms to look out for that, and any other complications that might occur. Any concern at all and don‟t hesitate to phone me, either at the surgery or at home. I can organize further tests if we need them. If he‟s difficult to rouse at all, seems very disoriented, or that headache gets suddenly worse, phone an ambulance. It‟s better to be safe than sorry, I always say.” “I am in the room,” Tomas muttered, “and there‟s nothing wrong with my hearing.” “Normally I‟d say that irritability is another sign,” Dr. McKenzie continued as though Tomas hadn‟t interrupted, the sides of his mouth twitching, “but in this case, I‟m going to take an educated guess that it‟s his normal state.” He scribbled something on a pad and handed it to Heidi. “Get this script filled when you‟re able. They‟ll help with his headache.” “Thank you, Harry.” Heidi slipped the prescription into the pocket of her cardigan. “Now, would you like a cup of tea before you leave?” “That‟s very kind, Heidi, but I‟m afraid I‟ll have to decline.” Dr. McKenzie smiled at her in thanks. “I want a few words with Doug before I go about this blood sample you found.” He returned his equipment to his medical bag. “I hope your friend shows up safe and sound,” he said to both of them, shaking his head. “Nasty business, and something I thought would never happen in Oakwood.” Placing his cap on his head, he paused and tipped it to Heidi. “It‟s nice to see you again, Heidi. And to meet you, Tomas.” “I‟ll see you out, Harry.” Heidi gave the cup of untouched tea in front of Tomas a pointed nod before leading Dr. McKenzie toward the front door. Tomas watched them go for a moment and then leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. Dr. McKenzie seemed okay as doctors went, if a little oldfashioned. Still, both Heidi and Donovan seemed to trust him, even if the thought of him being the village equivalent of a crime lab made Tomas feel uneasy, to say the least. He ignored the visuals of Dr. McKenzie huddled over an old-fashioned microscope with a dog at his feet and his wife bringing him scones and hot milk while discussing the latest gardening news. He sighed. This was ridiculous. Cathal had been taken, and the only resources they had to call on were a village GP and one policeman who probably wouldn‟t know a major crime if it came up and bit him in the arse. Rubbing at his temples, he willed his headache to go away completely, but it didn‟t want to cooperate. Going to bed or resting was not going to happen, not while Cathal was out there going through whatever…. No, Tomas didn‟t want
196 | Anne Barwell
to dwell on that. His imagination had always painted a bleaker picture than reality, and for the moment he didn‟t want to deal with either of those. Closing his eyes, he bent his head to rest on his arms. Heidi would be back in a moment, and then they could talk. Or rather they would talk. She had made that very clear when she‟d exchanged worried glances with Officer Doug Greene, her current boyfriend who moonlighted as the local Scout leader in his spare time. Naturally that made him Mikey‟s Scout leader as well. If Tomas remembered rightly, that had been the whole performance behind Mikey‟s insistence of being present in the attic when the letters had been found. He‟d been looking for things that could be sold to make money for the jamboree. Did everyone know everyone else in this bloody village? It was a stupid question to which the answer was obvious. How long would it be before everyone knew about Cathal and that he‟d disappeared and that Tomas was telling some tall story about men in uniform who most probably didn‟t exist? He could hear Mrs. O‟Neil now. God no. Tomas groaned. That would be just what he needed. Mrs. O‟Neil deciding she could help find Cathal. The little voice in his head, which had been fairly well behaved for at least the time he‟d been unconscious, decided to remind him that at this point, he was not in a position to turn down any kind of help whatsoever. Even if it did come in the form of Mrs. O‟Neil. He could picture it now. Tracking down these guys and Mrs. O‟Neil waving her umbrella at them and telling them they had no manners and really, did they have any idea what they were doing? A laugh escaped his lips, a cocktail of bitter and wild, his sanity having fled the building completely at that idea. What had happened to the whole idea of the knight coming to the rescue of the damsel… er, okay, damsel in distress wasn‟t going to work here. He could see Cathal‟s glare at the mere suggestion. Although slender of build, Cathal was no weakling. The incident in the kitchen had shown that loud and clear. “Tomas, are you okay?” Heidi touched his shoulder lightly. “Do you want to rest in your room for a while? You‟ve been through quite a bit.” “No!” Tomas opened his eyes with a start, his thoughts still a jumble, unsure as to whether he‟d been drifting half between sleep and waking or whether he should blame the whole thing on the bump on his head. “You‟re not okay, or you don‟t want to rest?” Heidi sat down on the chair opposite him. There was a fresh cup of tea in front of both of them. She indicated that he should drink. He picked up the cup obediently and took a sip, noting the addition of quite a bit of sugar. The thought crossed his mind that he should point out he didn‟t actually like sugar in his tea, the odd time he drank tea, but decided that might not be in his best interests.
Cat’s Quill | 197
“I don‟t want to rest,” he clarified instead. A couple of slow sips of the hot, sweet liquid gave him the cover of time to try and put more thoughts together, ones which made sense and didn‟t sound like the mad ravings of someone suffering from more than a touch of delusion. “Okay.” Heidi nursed her own cup, the fingers of her right hand tapping a steady rhythm on one side of it. “One condition, though.” Her tone grew more serious, enough so that Tomas looked up and met her gaze straight on. “And that would be?” he asked warily. He was not in the mood to be mothered or anything of that ilk. There was neither the time nor the luxury for it. It was bad enough that he was sitting here now instead of out there looking for Cathal. Unfortunately he needed to feel steadier on his feet first, and he had no idea where to look. “That once Donovan gets back, you tell us everything.” Heidi held up her hand to silence him when he opened his mouth to protest that he already had. “Not just about what happened today, but everything that‟s happened since you and Cat met.” She shook her head. “I know evasion when I hear it, and he was a little too good at it for my liking.” Her eyes narrowed. “You aren‟t much better. That story you told Doug had pieces missing. I know it did, and so did he. The only reason he let it slide was because you‟d hit your head. He‟s a good guy, Tomas, and if something has happened to Cat, he can help. You need someone who knows the area and the people, and you don‟t. He‟s born and bred here. His family goes back several generations.” “You know the area,” Tomas said. The idea of sharing the events of the past few days with anyone was making him uncomfortable. The more he tried to piece things together, the crazier they sounded, with the thought of that damn sequel only serving to muddy the waters still further. Yet he still couldn‟t shake the feeling that it was connected somehow. Gwalch referring to Cathal as “Lord Emerys” had only served to confirm that, especially when Cathal had not denied the name. His hand went into his pocket, fingers curling around the button Mikey had found. Donovan had handed it to Tomas to keep rather than Mikey, despite Mikey‟s protests, for which Tomas had been grateful. It was his only tangible link with Cathal now, something to remind him that this whole situation was real. Besides the bump on his head and his sore stomach, that was. “I‟ve only lived here for about five years,” Heidi reminded him, her fingers stilling. “I‟m not a local, and although they‟ve been welcoming enough, that can still make a difference, especially when they decide to close ranks on something.”
198 | Anne Barwell
“Why would they do that about this?” Tomas wasn‟t sure how the comment was relevant to the current situation. “I‟m not local either, and neither is Cat.” He paused, frowning. “At least I don‟t think he is, not in the normal sense of the word, anyway.” “Where‟s he from, Tomas?” Heidi pushed a plate of scones in his direction. He wasn‟t hungry, despite her trying to persuade him to eat at least something other than the dry toast and vegemite she‟d insisted he have earlier. Picking up a scone, he munched on it absently, his stomach growling slightly to remind him that despite what he thought, Heidi was right and he should be eating. “I‟m not sure,” he had to admit finally. “He spoke a lot about his people, and not being from around here, but he never gave me a straight answer.” He nodded toward the window, choosing his next words carefully. “I met him by the old oak, and he just always seemed to be there.” No, there was something else, but it sounded crazy. Tomas paused, his second scone poised between mouth and hand. “But?” Heidi prompted, “or, and? I can sense it‟s one or the other.” She put her cup on the table, fixing her attention completely on him. He fought the urge to push back his chair and run, but in the end the need to be honest, as it was the only chance he had to find Cathal, won out. The scone lowered, and Tomas sighed. “I saw him disappear into thin air once too. I tried to reach out, but it was like he was literally fading away, and then he was gone. My hand went right through his.” Heidi stared at him, reached over the table, and placed her hand briefly over his forehead. “Was that before or after you hit your head?” “It was the second time we met,” Tomas told her. “It‟s real, Heidi, just like what happened this afternoon was too.” He dropped the scone down onto the table, ignoring the dull thud it made, lowering his head into his hands. “I‟m losing it, aren‟t I? I finally find someone I want, and I can‟t even talk about him without sounding like I‟m delusional.” His head came up, and he searched her eyes. “He is real, isn‟t he? This whole thing isn‟t a figment of my imagination? When I‟m with him, I feel like I‟m alive, that it‟s worth getting up in the morning. I want to write, I want to talk to him, spend time with him….” He slumped back in his chair. “He‟s real,” Heidi said gently; her hand reached out to cautiously rest on his to offer comfort. “Donovan and I met him, and he‟s very real.” She smiled. “You‟re not crazy, Tomas. You‟re in love.” Her tone softened further. “He acted and sounded like it was mutual too. There‟s probably some logical explanation for all of this.”
Cat’s Quill | 199
“I don‟t care what it is,” Tomas said. “I just want to find him before those bastards do anything to him.” He pulled his hand free and stared at the biscuit but made no move to pick it up. The front door opened and then slammed shut. Heidi got up from the table to re-boil the kettle. “In here, Donovan!” she called out. “I‟m making some coffee.” “I need to go get something,” Tomas decided, standing up from the table. It was time to share everything he knew. Even if it meant having to admit he‟d taken the letters. “I‟ll get it. You‟re staying there.” Donovan poked his head around the kitchen door, one arm still in his jacket. “What is it?” Not wanting to argue with both of them, Tomas sat down again. He was feeling a lot better, but he knew that once he got to his bedroom, the temptation would be there to close the door behind him and not come out again for several hours. He‟d had enough of company and questions for today, but unfortunately for the moment and until Cathal was found, they were going to continue to be a necessary evil. “My bag. Everything is in that.” For a moment he could have sworn he‟d had it with him; he‟d been carrying it everywhere lately, but as it wasn‟t here, it must be there. No. Wait. Hadn‟t he had it in the kitchen when he and Cathal had come inside for lunch? Confused, he looked around, panicking when he couldn‟t see it. “It‟s in your room,” Heidi said reassuringly. “I found it in the kitchen after you left and put it there for safekeeping. We‟d hoped that you and Cat had found somewhere dry to shelter from the bad weather. Mikey found you just as we were about to call Doug to ask if anyone had seen either of you.” “I‟ll get it,” Donovan repeated, giving Heidi a questioning look. She shrugged. “Make me some coffee, and we‟ll talk in a few minutes,” he continued before disappearing, footsteps sounding against the wood of the stairs as he ran quickly to retrieve Tomas‟s bag. “Would you like another cup of tea, Tomas?” Heidi topped up the plate of scones and placed another one of the biscuits next to it while she waited for the kettle to boil. “Coffee,” Tomas decided, hoping it might help to clear his head. “I‟m not really much of a tea drinker.” Her eyes narrowed. “Although I did enjoy the tea you made me, it was very nice,” he said hurriedly, helping himself to another scone. “So are these.” “Flattery is always good for winning Brownie points,” she told him, “even when it‟s obvious as hell.” She came back to the table with two cups of
200 | Anne Barwell
coffee, gave one to Tomas, and put the other down in Donovan‟s place. Taking his empty teacup over to the sink, she grabbed her own cup and sat down next to him. “Just be honest and direct with us over this. I‟m not in the mood for crap, and neither is Donovan. I don‟t think you are anymore either, are you?” Donovan walked back into the kitchen before Tomas could answer, dumping the bag down on the floor next to the table. “Are you lugging the crown jewels around there or something?” he asked. “It weighs a ton, even for a guy like me who‟s used to carting piles of heavy stuff.” “Piles of books, you mean,” Heidi corrected, “bibliophile that you are.” “Love you too, Heidi.” Donovan grinned and poked his tongue out at her before making a grab for a couple of the biscuits, helping himself to the chocolate ones hidden at the bottom of the pile. “So… Tomas, what‟s going on? Really?” He held up fingers, bending them down one at a time as he covered a point. “So far we have him not admitting where he‟s from, being evasive as hell, dressing and speaking like he‟s definitely not from,” he made inverted commas in the air, “around here, and you being knocked out by something or someone, him missing, and blood at the scene of the crime. What do you want to add to that?” Tomas took a gulp of coffee, not sure where to start. In the end, after several moments of Donovan and Heidi both watching him, he shifted uneasily, deciding that it might be easier to show them. Picking up his bag, he opened it and took out his journal, Emerys‟s book, and the pile of letters. Heidi spoke first. “Those are the letters from the trunk in the attic,” she said slowly. “I don‟t remember giving you permission to take them. I said you could look through the stuff up there, not help yourself to personal belongings.” “You didn‟t,” Tomas answered honestly, not even attempting to sound apologetic when he wasn‟t. “I needed them. They‟re clues. Mikey has the rest; that‟s what I sent him home to get for me.” “They‟re someone‟s private letters, Tomas!” Heidi exclaimed, banging her cup down on the table. “I don‟t care if they‟re clues. You can‟t just help yourself to other people‟s property. This isn‟t some damn mystery novel, and you sure as hell aren‟t Miss Marple.” “No, that would be Mrs. O‟Neil,” Donovan butted in, breaking one of the chocolate biscuits in two before munching on it. “I told him about the letters, Heidi, so some of this is probably my fault.” Her glare turned in his direction. “Did you tell him to take them?” she demanded.
Cat’s Quill | 201
“No, he didn‟t.” Tomas was not about to let Donovan jump in and take any of the blame for something he‟d done himself. “Do you want to hear what I‟ve found or not? I know you don‟t like what I‟ve done, but I‟m sure they‟re connected to what‟s happened to Cat, and I‟m not giving them back till I‟ve found him.” He softened his voice in an attempt to calm the tension in the air. Damn, he wasn‟t any good at this. Cathal would have done better; even in the little time they‟d known each other, that much was obvious. “Please, Heidi. I don‟t want those men to hurt him, and he said they wouldn‟t tolerate another transgression. I think he‟s in a lot of trouble.” “They‟d better be connected,” she muttered, ignoring the way Donovan was shaking his head. “Okay, tell us what you found. You can apologize about the letters and whatever else there is later once we find Cat and make sure he‟s okay.” “He‟ll grovel,” Donovan reassured her. “Now, spill, Tomas. All of it.” He glanced sideways at Heidi. “No interruptions till you‟re done. I promise. The floor‟s all yours.” “Okay,” Tomas said, definitely not agreeing to the groveling, but Heidi didn‟t need to know that. He took another gulp of coffee and cleared his throat. “I think that Alice Finlay, who lived in this house ninety years ago, is connected to a book I‟m trying to find a sequel to.” He pushed his copy of the novel toward him. “It was published in 1941 in London, and she would have been alive then. I‟ve looked for information on the author online and asked people I know in publishing but found nothing. The book is now out of print, and there‟s no proof of a sequel, but that doesn‟t mean there isn‟t a manuscript or something somewhere. The names of the characters in the book are the same as hers and her husband‟s.” Heidi nodded slowly. Donovan took another mouthful of biscuit, chewing thoughtfully. Neither of them interrupted. “I loaned the book to Cat to read, and he said it must be a coincidence.” Heidi nodded again. “But?” she prompted. “But….” Tomas wet his lips. This was the first time he‟d put these crazy ideas all out there at once and to anyone else, and he knew they sounded a little off the wall. “He also implied that it was a coincidence that they had the same names as his cousin and his wife.” His mouth dry, he gulped more coffee. “Alice and Christian Edmonds.” “Yeah, he admitted to that,” Donovan said. “So you think they‟re the same people?” He scratched at his head. “But they lived here ninety years ago, Tomas. As theories go, it‟s got a lot of holes in it.” “Look at the name of the author,” Tomas told him. “Wynne Emerys.” He carefully undid the ribbon from around the letters and opened the top one,
202 | Anne Barwell
reading from it, making sure he had the right one, even though he already knew he did. “In this letter to her husband, Alice talks about someone called Wynne.” “So maybe she knew this Emerys guy.” Heidi frowned. “They lived around the same time, and it would explain him using their names in the story. I still don‟t see where you‟re going with this and what this has to do with Cat‟s disappearance.” “When I was looking for the sequel for the book at the library, I found another copy of In Hidden Places with this in it.” He pulled the postcard out of his journal and handed it to her. “The picture on the front, it‟s Alice.” “So someone read the book and left the postcard in there.” Donovan‟s reply was logical, and a few days ago Tomas would have agreed with it. “There were quite a few of these printed.” He took it from Heidi and turned it over, reading the information on the back. “Cat said that Alice liked roses, and he knew about the ones growing here. He said that she and Christian had kissed at the top of the stairs in the inn, that they‟d lived here. Donovan said that Christian‟s name wasn‟t on the deeds. I think it was because it was Alice who owned it, not her husband.” Donovan let out a low whistle. “So you do think his cousin Alice was the one who owned this place originally?” He put down the half-eaten biscuit. “Is that possible? That would make Cat how old if he knew them? He looks about the same age as us. There‟s got to be another explanation.” “I kept telling myself that, Donovan, and he almost had me convinced.” Tomas tucked the postcard back into his journal once they‟d finished looking at it, not wanting to risk losing any of the clues he had. “Have you looked closely at the painting hanging on the upstairs landing? It‟s of the tree outside. When he saw it, it upset him, especially the fact it had been painted so long ago. He said he‟d seen the sketch of it before, seen the scene before.” “Tomas, that tree is still standing, and you said you meet him there.” Heidi frowned. “Of course he‟d seen it before.” “It‟s not like it is now, Heidi,” Tomas reminded her. “It‟s different. Places change over time. He said that it was like seeing a memory but knowing that‟s all that‟s left of it.” The last piece of information he had to share pulled it all together and was the one he was trying to get his head around. But there was no denying the connection now, although he still wasn‟t sure what it meant exactly. He took a deep breath. “There‟s also one other thing which confirms there‟s a connection, and it‟s what I left out when I told Doug about what
Cat’s Quill | 203
happened. When these soldiers or whoever confronted him before they took him, one of them addressed him by name. The guy called him Lord Emerys.” They both stared at him. “You‟re kidding me, right?” Donovan said finally. “Lord Emerys, like he‟s royalty from God knows where?” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like time travel. “That why I need your help,” Tomas admitted. “I have all these letters and church records to look through to try and confirm it. I need to find him before I lose him forever.” “But how is confirming it going to help us find him?” Heidi asked softly. She exchanged a glance with Donovan, mouthing something Tomas didn‟t quite catch. “You‟re hoping there‟s something in the letters, aren‟t you?” Donovan sighed. “There‟s twenty years of them to go through, and of course we‟ll help. But there‟s something you‟ve got to remember, Tomas, and I know it‟s blunt, but it has to be said straight up.” “And that would be?” Tomas glared at him; the answer he knew was one that had already niggled at him since he‟d put all this together. It was one he would not accept, not now and not ever. “Alice‟s husband died, Tomas.” Donovan shook his head. “Even if you think there‟s a connection and some clue in the letters, she lost him and he never came back.” “Cat is not dead. I can still find him.” Tomas pushed his chair back, intending to stand, suddenly needing to be on his own, fighting the urge to retreat into his room, to run, although there was nowhere to go. It was too late for that now. He couldn‟t go back, only forward, to a future he had to believe was still his. His and Cathal‟s. He picked up his copy of the novel from the table, the two pressed flowers falling from it to the floor, rose and daisy still intertwined. Bending to pick them up, he cradled them against his palm, his voice hoarse. “I have to.”
204 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 18
MY DARLING Christian… Tomas scanned the letter in his hand, the words blurring when his vision protested the strain he was putting on it. He rubbed at his eyes, placing the stack of paper on the table before getting up to refill his coffee and taking another couple of the pills that Heidi had picked up for him from the village pharmacy. His headache was a little better, but he was still tired, refusing any naps and frantically searching through the pile of letters in search of any clues. “Come on, Alice,” he muttered, “give me some help here, please.” He couldn‟t lose Cathal the same way she‟d lost her husband, but it was becoming difficult to hang onto any hope. The gossamer thread was unraveling before him, taking with it any chances they had to find Cathal before it was too late. Sitting down at the table and taking several gulps of coffee to fortify himself, he began reading again. Heidi had gone to the church to look through their records in the hope there might be something there they could use, or at the very least to find some information about Christian Edmonds. If he was Cathal‟s cousin and they could track down where he or his family had come from…. Tomas sighed. This was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. “Any luck?” Donovan glanced up from the papers in front of him, having offered to help Tomas go through the letters after dropping Mikey off at school, much to the boy‟s disgust. He‟d been promised he could come back and help afterward; with everything else going on, they didn‟t need Edward on their case about letting Mikey miss school. But after taking a couple of hours the night before just to sort the letters into chronological order year by year, Tomas was wondering whether they‟d made the right decision. “Not yet.” Tomas rubbed at his eyes again, blinking rapidly, trying to convince them that itching was not allowed. He and Donovan had split the letters between them, taking alternative years. Alice had written weekly letters, almost like a journal to her husband, up until the week before she‟d died. He skimmed farther down the page he was holding, before reading a
Cat’s Quill | 205
paragraph out loud, something they‟d taken to doing to give each other a fuller picture of what had happened. “This one‟s August 1930. It‟s Wynne‟s twelfth birthday….” “I found him today looking out his bedroom window at the tree. For a moment I could have sworn that he was a younger version of you, my love. He is so much like you, with your temperament and your looks. I wish you could see him, you’d be so proud. Christian, I miss you so much. His birthday is a reminder of just how long it’s been since that last day I saw you. I keep hoping you’ll return. I’ll keep writing these letters so that you’ll have something at least to remember me by, even if we never see each other again.” “I wonder if the old guy in the nursing home really is him.” Donovan idly munched on another chocolate biscuit, his hand reaching out for another and feeling around for the plate without registering what he was doing. “Hopefully Heidi can find something in the church records. If anyone will know how to track down the rest of the family, it will be Mrs. McPherson. She‟s like a pit bull when she gets her teeth stuck into something, and she‟s fond of a good mystery.” “Yeah,” Tomas said absently, picking up the next letter. My darling Christian… All her letters began the same way. Her address and the date were at the top of the page, but there was never an address for him; apparently there was not even a grave in the churchyard. She kept insisting that he wasn‟t dead, but her letters were phrased in such a way as to suggest that he had been taken from her against his will, vowing that he‟d find a way to return to her. He never had. It sounded too much like what had just happened with Cathal. Tomas shivered, taking another gulp of coffee. Donovan slammed his cup down on the table. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Listen to this.” “Wynne asked me to tell him a story today about his daddy. He doesn’t ask often although I do ensure I tell him about you. Do you remember what Cat used to say about people not truly being gone if they aren’t forgotten? I know you used to roll your eyes when he’d talk about that kind of thing, but I do believe he was right…” “Give me that!” Tomas snatched the letter from Donovan and read it over several times, trying, wanting to believe what he was reading. It was the proof they‟d been looking for, the first mention of Cathal by name in these letters. She‟d talked about the life she‟d shared with her husband before and of
206 | Anne Barwell
someone else, but the damn mice had chewed through the name, losing the confirmation of anything concrete down a literal hole. The little they‟d read of him had sounded very much like Cathal, but as Donovan had pointed out, it could also be wishful thinking and desperation. People saw what they needed, especially in situations such as these. Slowly he became aware that Donovan was watching him. A little sheepish, Tomas handed back the letter. “Sorry,” he mumbled, knowing that where good manners were concerned, he was heading on a downward spiral. “It‟s okay,” Donovan reassured him. “I‟d be reacting like that too if I was you.” He sighed. “I wish there was more we can do; this whole situation is just so damn frustrating.” “I do appreciate the help.” Tomas indicated the letters. “It‟s a big job. I can‟t do it on my own.” A smile slipped from his lips. “That letter proves they‟re the same people, that they knew him. It‟s something he told me.” It was also a phrase he‟d heard somewhere else recently. Where the hell had it been? Donovan shrugged. “Phoebe uses it too, on occasion, usually when she‟s in one of her weird moods. It seems to get around.” He helped himself to another biscuit, stared at it, sighed, and put it back on the plate. “He‟s not gone, Tomas. I only met him once, but I‟m not going to forget him in a hurry. I can‟t promise we‟ll find him, but we‟ll do what we can.” He went to put the letter down to pick up another, paused, and handed it back to Tomas. “You keep the letters that mention him. They need to be kept together.” “Thanks.” Tomas tucked it into his journal, knowing that wasn‟t the only reason he‟d been given it to safeguard but not wanting to discuss how he was feeling further after his outburst. Flicking through the rest of the pile in front of him for that year, he let out a sigh of relief. “We‟ve come to the last of the mouse damage, by the looks of it, at least for this year.” “Good.” Donovan picked up another pile. “On to 1933. This one looks fine, too.” He dropped the pile on the table in front of him, quickly checking the rest. They‟d sorted them into years and then into weeks, as the whole job in one go had been too daunting. “Up to 1940 seems okay too, but there are a couple of holes past that at the other end. I‟m guessing the middle letters got away with the least damage. Damn rodents.” “Yeah.” Tomas nodded absently, already working through the next pile. Although Alice hadn‟t given up hope, she‟d discovered very quickly that Christian hadn‟t left very much in the way of clues as to where he might be found. She referred to “his world” several times, but there was nothing in the way of detail. Either she hadn‟t been told much, or she was keeping the information to herself. Surely if they‟d had a year together, he would have
Cat’s Quill | 207
told her more? Cathal had let more slip to Tomas in the couple of days they‟d known each other than were in these bloody letters. Reading down the page, he frowned, a reference leaping out at him. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out the button they‟d found and turning it over again. “What kind of bird did you say you thought was on this again?” he asked Donovan. “I didn‟t.” Donovan frowned but kept reading, scanning each page quickly for clues. “Why?” “Alice makes some reference, very briefly, to a falcon, but it doesn‟t make sense in the context she uses. I‟ll read it out and you can see what I mean.” Tomas skimmed it again quickly and then took a deep breath. “I could have sworn I saw one of the falcons today. He was standing in the middle of the field looking up at Wynne’s bedroom window. I recognise the style of the jacket he wore; it is something I will never forget, that last time I saw you. I pulled Wynne behind me and drew the curtains quickly, not wanting to risk them finding out about him, for fear of what they might do. After several moments had passed, I risked peeking outside but there was no one there. I have been careful, my love. I do not speak of where you come from or what you told me of it, but on occasions like this I wonder if that is caution enough. Perhaps I should not even be writing these letters but I need something. The years pass and still there is nothing from you, no messages, no nothing. I fear I will never see you again and yet I cannot pass from this world without leaving something of our story for our son.” “Whoa, cool. You‟ve found some more clues!” Mikey stalked into the room and dumped his schoolbag on the table, sending papers flying in all directions. “I‟ve come just at the right time.” “Mikey!” Tomas grabbed for the letters, catching a pile of them before they hit the ground. How long had the kid been standing there? Hadn‟t he heard of knocking, or at the very least clearing his throat? “Have you any idea how long it‟s taken us to sort these?” “Oh right, yeah, sorry.” Mikey grinned, opened his bag, and pulled out a heavy reference book. “What‟s this?” Donovan opened it and flipped through the pages quickly without waiting for an answer. “It‟s about birds,” Mikey explained. “I found it in the school library today.” He snatched it back, turned a few more pages, and laid the book on the table. “There!” He pointed to the picture on the page. Tomas placed the button next to it so they could compare them. There was no mistaking the likeness between the two. “It‟s a falcon, the same as on the button. I knew I‟d
208 | Anne Barwell
seen the bird before somewhere, but I couldn‟t remember. I tried Googling, but it was a pain in the arse, and then I found this book.” “If the button came off the uniform of those soldiers or whatever the hell they were and Alice talked about seeing falcons the last time she saw Christian, they have to be connected,” Tomas reasoned. “Could they be some kind of police?” Donovan added his own theory. It made sense that the buttons on their uniform might reflect the name of their organization. “If they took Cat, it‟s not that out there that the same thing happened to his cousin, is it? Especially considering Cat said something about a second transgression; that might have been the first one.” “So he‟s been arrested for something?” Mikey shook his head. “But Cat‟s a good guy. Why would someone want to arrest him?” Tomas sighed. “Sometimes it is the good guys who get arrested, Mikey. If there‟s some kind of revolution going on where he comes from or he‟s done something he shouldn‟t have, that would be enough. It might not necessarily be something we think of as bad, but different societies have different rules.” “Well that sucks,” Mikey announced. “We‟ll have to mount a rescue party like in the movies and break him out of jail. That might be cool.” “We have to find him first,” Donovan said softly, not looking at Tomas. “Once we do, we‟ll think about getting him back, okay?” His mobile rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. “Hi, Doug. Any luck?” He nodded, frowning. Mikey and Tomas both waited silently; it appeared the kid could be quiet when it suited him. “Yeah, thanks, that part is interesting, suspected the other though. Let me know if you find out anything else?” Another pause. “If Tomas comes up with anything that might help, I‟ll let you know.” A slight grin crossed his lips. “Of course I‟ll tell Heidi you called. Bye.” He closed the phone with a snap, shoving it back into his jeans pocket. “Well?” Tomas got the word in a split second before Mikey, wondering when the hell Donovan had been going to tell them about this. Suspected the other what? Tomas had known Donovan and Doug had talked earlier when he‟d been with Dr. McKenzie but didn‟t know the details. “That was Doug.” Donovan started by stating the obvious. “I asked him to run a background check on Cat, using everything we know about him, which isn‟t much, and also on the name you heard the soldier—falcon,” he corrected, “use. I also asked him to run one on Christian Edmonds.” He paused, his eyebrows knitting together in thought. “And Wynne Emerys. If we‟re going to do this, we might as well go for broke.” “And?” Tomas already knew the answer but had to ask anyway. He‟d tried to track down Emerys before but with no luck. It was doubtful Doug
Cat’s Quill | 209
would fare any better. That trail was cold and long gone, a seventy-year-old puzzle probably lying in some graveyard somewhere. A slight trickle of indignation rose at the thought of Cathal being checked out like some common criminal, common sense a sharp, cold reminder that it was the logical thing to do. Cathal had not done anything wrong despite what those falcons thought. Tomas swallowed, the thought of Cathal being charged for God knew what sending a shiver through him, especially in the light of what had been implied about the severity of consequences for breaking laws in his world. “As far as the police database is concerned, or any records of births or,” Donovan looked apologetic, “deaths, Cathal Emerys does not exist and never has. Doug even pulled in a few favors from some computer hackers he knows but still came up with zilch.” “What about Christian?” Tomas wasn‟t surprised at what Donovan had said about Cathal; it tied in with what they‟d discovered so far. If he came from another world, as Alice had confirmed in the letters, there wouldn‟t be records of him in theirs. Christian, however, had married and fathered a child. There should at least be some record of that. Tomas regretted Donovan hadn‟t known about Wynne when he‟d originally talked to Doug, but hopefully Heidi‟s research should help them in tracking down the boy and his descendents. “He‟s listed on a birth certificate of one Wynne Emerys Edmonds, as his father,” Donovan said. “That was 1918, same as in Alice‟s letters, but there‟s nothing on him before that, and nothing afterward. No marriage certificate either, so I‟m guessing Mrs. O‟Neil was right about that. Alice must have used his name, rather than there being a legal marriage, as such.” Mikey stared. “You never said anything about a Wynne Emerys Edmonds,” he griped. “You‟re supposed to be telling me about this stuff. I‟m helping.” “Wynne‟s middle name is Emerys?” Tomas spluttered. He grabbed the pile of letters for 1918 and started looking back through them frantically. “She doesn‟t say that, I‟m sure she doesn‟t. I would have remembered!” Their son had Cathal‟s last name as part of his, and it was the same as the elusive author he‟d been tracking. No wonder Cathal had connected with the bloody book quickly and been so adamant there wasn‟t a sequel. But Tomas still wasn‟t convinced. Just because he couldn‟t find it didn‟t mean Alice and Christian‟s story had to end there…. Diving into his bag, he pulled out his copy of In Hidden Places, scanning the ending. How could he have been so stupid? Christian and Alice were the names of the main characters. He‟d lost her, she‟d grown old and died, and
210 | Anne Barwell
they had never seen each other again. Their story had ended on a very melancholy note, rather than the happy ending he‟d expected and wanted. It was one of the reasons why the book had haunted him. “Tomas?” Donovan laid a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tomas breathed, ignoring the fact that Mikey was in the room and he shouldn‟t be using that kind of language. He looked up, seeing Donovan and Mikey yet not, his mind going back to something Cathal had said to him when they‟d discussed the book. “This is what happens when lines are crossed and rules are broken,” he remembered out loud. No! This was not how it had happened, not how it was going to happen this time. He pointed to the final words of the book, handing it to Donovan, who read it aloud. “However long it takes, I will come back for her. I need to feel her hand in mine, kiss her and hold her again if only for one last time before we both pass on, each from our own world to the next. We will have our forever, a future together, whatever it takes. For she is mine and I am hers and they cannot take what we had away from us for our love will endure, even if our mortal lives do not.” “Don‟t you see?” Tomas waved one of the letters at Donovan. “She could have written this, or at least someone who knew her did. It‟s their story, not some work of fiction. It has to be.” “Why don‟t you ask him?” Mikey snatched the book out of Donovan‟s hand, turning it over so he could see the front cover. He ran his fingers over the illustrations and laughed. “See, I knew Cat believed in dragons! This proves it.” “What?” Tomas glared at Mikey. “Give that back,” he growled, but Mikey kept staring at the watercolor of the dragon on the front cover, smiling at it almost as though the attention he gave was returned. The creature was very ethereal-looking, the outline of its body solid yet somehow not quite real as it stood behind the man, providing him with protective shadow as he shielded the woman from some unseen foe. “You could just ask him,” the boy repeated as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, so obvious both Tomas and Donovan were missing it completely. “Ask who?” Donovan asked. “I know you believe in dragons, Mikey, and magic and all that crap, but that doesn‟t mean they exist.” “It does too!” Mikey clutched the book close to him. “Cat thinks they do, and so does my granddad. He‟s seen stuff too, just like I have.” He stared defiantly at both of them. “Just because everyone doesn‟t see things doesn‟t mean they don‟t exist.”
Cat’s Quill | 211
Tomas was beginning to lose his patience. “Ask who?” he snapped. “My granddad,” Mikey said. “Why would we want to ask your granddad, Mikey?” Donovan‟s voice was very calm, the same tone he‟d used with Tomas earlier in the day when he‟d hit his head. It was Heidi who answered from the doorway of the kitchen. “Because,” she said, “apparently he‟s Alice and Christian‟s son and, I‟m guessing, the guy who wrote that book.”
212 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 19
“DID anyone ever tell you how annoying you are when you pace?” Mikey leaned against the wall of the reception area of the nursing home, a pink bubble blowing out of his mouth and then popping several times over, each more irritating than the last. What was even more disturbing was the fact the color of the bubbles was a perfect match for the paint on the walls, long corridors of pale pink interrupted at intervals by paintings of what appeared to be local scenery. “What‟s taking them so long?” Tomas eyed the bell on the front counter again, logic reminding him that the nurse on duty had already told them it would be at least five minutes. After all, although they had shown up before the end of the residents‟ afternoon sleep, it was important to keep to established routines. While the place seemed nice enough and bright and cheerful, it was not somewhere he would want to stay long-term. Logically, he knew routines had their place, but he‟d hated them enough during his school years to know he certainly didn‟t want to spend the later years of his life being told when to eat, sleep, or… anything else. “Granddad sleeps until five every afternoon. I already told you that.” Mikey popped another bubble, picked up a magazine, turned it at several angles, looking at it this way and that, and then threw it back onto the large wooden coffee table. “I keep telling them they should have decent stuff in here to read, but they don‟t listen to me,” he griped, plonking himself down onto one of the comfortable stuffed couches. “No one does.” Tomas sighed, his helpful little inner voice, for which he already had a slow and painful death planned, having already pointed out connections he had been trying not to dwell on. That voice also sounded suspiciously like the annoying kid in front of him; that same kid to which, it appeared, Cathal was related. Fuck, how the hell had that happened? All this time of looking for clues, and everything had come together to this. They‟d all stared at Heidi as she‟d explained what she‟d found at the church and described her growing realization that they were about the only
Cat’s Quill | 213
people in the village who didn‟t know about Alice Finlay‟s descendants. Wynne Emerys Edmonds had married later in life to a woman called Sarah Maria Donaldson, shortly before his mother‟s death in 1945. They‟d had a daughter, Elizabeth Winifred Edmonds, in turn, and she had married one Edward Joseph Flynn, giving birth to Michael Emerys Flynn only to die three days later, leaving her husband a widower with a newborn baby to care for. “You didn‟t listen to me either,” Mikey continued. “If I‟d known all that stuff, I could have helped.” He grinned. “I guess Cat and I are cousins or something. That‟s way cool.” “Not from where I‟m standing,” Tomas muttered. If they found Cathal, brought him back, and his and Tomas‟s relationship continued, did that mean he might be related to Mikey as well? He shuddered, not wanting to go there in the slightest. One crisis at a time, and more importantly, they needed to find Cathal first. “Dad never said anything about my mum meeting him either.” Mikey chewed on his gum, his mood suddenly switching to something more thoughtful. “But then he never talks about her anyway.” He shrugged. “He didn‟t even tell me that our family used to own the house before it became an inn. Granddad always said I inherited the drawing thing from his mother, but he never mentioned her name and I never knew.” He frowned. Tomas wondered what else Mikey didn‟t know about his family history. Quite a bit, if his reaction to recent information was anything to go by. “Cat talked about someone called Libby,” Tomas reminded him. “Just because your mother‟s name is Elizabeth doesn‟t mean it‟s her.” “Granddad will know.” Mikey had moved away from the wall to stare at the window. “He knows a lot of stuff. No one comes to see him except for me. You need to be nice to him.” He lowered his voice. “People don‟t believe what he says sometimes, and he gets upset. You‟re not going to do that though, are you?” “No, I‟m not going to do that,” Tomas promised, wondering what the old man said that people didn‟t believe. Considering who he was, it could be any number of things, and nothing should be dismissed as not holding at least an element of truth. “Mr. Kemp?” The nurse who had greeted them earlier came striding down the corridor, the white of her stiff uniform catching what was left of the sun‟s rays through the skylight as she passed beneath it. “Mr. Edmonds will see you and his grandson now.” She smiled at them. “He‟s looking forward to seeing you again, Mikey, although he does seem a bit surprised that you‟ve brought a friend.”
214 | Anne Barwell
“Oh, Tomas isn‟t just a friend, Trudy,” Mikey said brightly. “We‟ve just found out he might be related one day, as he‟s going out with my cousin.” He grinned at Tomas, who glared back. “Oh, how nice,” Trudy beamed. She was a plump woman, at least in her late forties, graying hair secured up in a bun, except for one errant strand she kept tucked behind her right ear. “I didn‟t know you had any cousins living locally, Mikey. You‟ll have to tell me all about her.” “Cat‟s not from around here,” Mikey said, falling into step with the nurse, talking rapidly now he had a willing audience. “He‟s missing and we‟re trying to find him. He‟s really cool though. He and Tomas have promised to help build me a skateboard ramp. I‟m sure we‟re going to spend lots of time together once he comes back.” “I see.” Trudy glanced back over her shoulder toward Tomas, who was trailing just a little behind them. “I hope you find him, then, and bring him in to meet your grandfather, Mikey. We‟d all like to meet him too, of course.” “Of course,” mumbled Tomas. Trudy seemed to be taking Mikey‟s ramblings in stride; the look she‟d given Tomas was one of sympathy, although he wasn‟t sure of the reason for it. She hadn‟t batted an eyelid over the revelation that Cathal was male and that he and Tomas were in a relationship. Mikey grinned from ear to ear. “I drew you another picture too, but I haven‟t got it with me. I‟ll bring it next time, okay?” “That would be lovely, thank you, Mikey.” Trudy paused at the third door on the left along the corridor they were in. “I‟ll look forward to it. You should paint something to go on the walls here. They could do with a bit of life on them, rather than all this scenery where nothing happens.” “I don‟t paint,” Mikey said, his expression suddenly going blank, his tone more than a little nervous. “Just sketches for friends, that‟s all. I already told you that.” “Think about it, okay?” Trudy glanced at Tomas again before smiling at Mikey. “It‟s up to you, dear, but it is a shame for all that talent to go to waste. God gives us gifts to share, not to keep to ourselves.” “Yeah yeah, sure he does.” Mikey pushed past her into the room. Tomas went to follow, but Trudy stepped quickly between him and the door. “He‟s a good kid but short on friends,” she explained. “I went to school with his mother and promised her I‟d keep an eye on him when she died.” Her gaze bore into him; he met it squarely. “I don‟t know you, and from what I‟ve heard, you‟ve been saying crazy things about being attacked by people who don‟t exist. If something happens to Mikey, or you‟re using him to get close
Cat’s Quill | 215
to this cousin you‟re interested in, I shall hunt you down and make you regret the day you were born.” Didn‟t anything happen in this bloody village without everyone knowing? “I assure you, I do not need Mikey to get close to anyone,” Tomas informed her icily. “You don‟t know me, so don‟t judge me and then I won‟t judge you.” He glared at her. “Nothing is going to happen to him as long as I have any say in the matter. I‟m not some arsehole who is going to drag some bloody kid into God knows what, however much he wants to help. Give me some credit.” To his surprise, Trudy grinned. “Right answer,” she told him, “but my promise still stands.” Opening the door, she ushered him inside with a warning not to tire Mr. Edmonds out too much and that she‟d be back later. He turned to inform her that she needed to check the dictionary definition of “promises” because this was definitely more of a threat, but she‟d already gone. “So you‟re Tomas.” An elderly man, frail-looking with white hair, sat in a rocking chair, his legs covered by a blanket. His eyes were bright, a mixture of blue and green, similar to Cathal‟s but not quite the same, and his voice was firm, although the tone was light. Tomas stared for a moment before remembering his manners. “Yes, I‟m Tomas Kemp,” he introduced himself. “I‟m pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Edmonds.” He approached the chair and held out his hand. The grip on his hand was strong; this man seemed full of contradictions already, just in his appearance. “Finally?” Wynne Edmonds chuckled. “I didn‟t realize my grandson had talked about me so much.” Mikey reddened, looking a little sheepish. “I haven‟t, Granddad,” he mumbled. “Tomas has been looking for you and didn‟t realize who you were.” “Really?” Edmonds raised an eyebrow, his tone suspicious. “And who might you be that you‟re looking for an old man like myself?” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Mr. Kemp, do you believe in dragons?” What the hell was this bloody fixation with dragons? Tomas opened his mouth to reply that he didn‟t, then closed it again quickly, his mind racing as realization dawned that the way in which he answered this would very much result in how things progressed from here. “I‟m not sure,” he said finally, slowly. “I‟d like to, I think, but I‟ve never seen one.” He paused. “My friend, Cat, says that just because you don‟t believe in something doesn‟t mean it doesn‟t exist. I think he believes in them.” Another pause; he could see
216 | Anne Barwell
Edmonds watching him closely, his eyes widening very slightly, almost imperceptibly at the mention of Cathal‟s name. “And in magic.” “Shut the door, Mikey,” Edmonds told his grandson, not taking his eyes off Tomas. “Who are you, Mr. Kemp, and how much do you know of such things?” He pulled the blanket over himself more, his fingers turning the edge of it this way and that. “I‟ve met Cat too, Granddad,” Mikey butted in. “He‟s cool. He and Tomas were kissing.” Edmonds raised his eyebrow. “I see,” he said slowly, his tone softening. “Just how far have you fallen for him, Mr. Kemp?” “I….” There was something in Edmonds‟s expression that reminded him of Cathal, although they were not directly related as such. Tomas wondered for a moment how much of a family resemblance there was between Cathal and his cousin, or rather, how much there had been. He swallowed. “I‟m in love with him,” he admitted, wondering why he was telling this man he‟d only just met how he felt. “I see,” Edmonds said again. He sighed. “Mikey, I need you to do something for me before this goes any further. Your sketchpad is in the usual place. Do you think you could sketch me a picture of Cat so I can see what he looks like?” “Sure.” Mikey opened the bottom drawer of the tallboy in the corner of the room, taking out a sketchpad and a pencil case. Choosing a pencil, he settled himself down on the floor and began drawing. “I can draw them kissing, if you want.” Tomas glared at him. “Or not.” “Tell me a little about yourself,” Edmonds asked Tomas, “and why you‟ve been looking for me.” He shrugged. “I‟m not exactly someone anyone looks for, and I prefer it that way. I keep to myself, and about the only person who visits me is Mikey here.” He smiled fondly at the boy, but Mikey had his head down, busy sketching, and didn‟t appear to notice. “He reminds me of my daughter, Libby. He has her coloring which is the same as my Sarah‟s.” He shifted his gaze to the window, although his eyes grew unfocused. “Everyone leaves or dies, without even having the chance to grow old and live a good life. Why is that?” Mikey‟s head came up at the mention of his mother‟s name. He shot Tomas an “I told you so” look, but his grandfather gave him a curt shake of his head, and he returned to his sketching. “I don‟t know,” Tomas answered honestly, sitting down on the other chair in the room; it was cane and straight-backed with an embroidered cushion on the seat. “I‟ve often wondered the same thing.” He cleared his throat, not sure
Cat’s Quill | 217
how to start describing himself and not wanting to share too much. This amount of attention made him nervous, especially with someone he didn‟t know. He hadn‟t realized just how much he had opened up to Cathal until now. There was so much he still needed to tell him, so much to be learned in return. It just wasn‟t fair. “Mr. Kemp?” Edmonds prompted gently. “I‟m a writer,” Tomas explained in the finish. “I found your book In Hidden Places years ago, and I‟ve always been convinced there was a sequel. I tried to find you, but I couldn‟t.” He let the hope rise again just for a moment. There had to be more than what was in the letters. Maybe Christian had returned to her but she‟d hidden it, cautious right to the end. They‟d have to have seen each other again, even briefly. “My book?” Edmonds shook his head with a sad smile. “I wish it were that simple, lad, but these things never are.” He nodded toward the cup on his bedside table. “If you could hand me that, I‟d appreciate it. I was drinking it before you came.” He frowned. “It was lunchtime, or was it teatime? I can never remember.” For a moment he looked lost; the expression on his face was one of bewilderment. “What did you say your name was again?” “Tomas.” Tomas got up and retrieved the cup. It was cold. “Do you want me to get you another?” “Another what?” Edmonds frowned and then focused on the cup in Tomas‟s hand. “No, that coffee is terrible. If I let it go cold, they tip it out, you know.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Besides, I prefer the hot chocolate my mother used to make. Have you seen her today? She promised to bring me some if I was good and went to bed on time.” His tone lowered. “I think she‟s busy though, writing in that journal of hers. Do you want to see it? I know I have it here somewhere. She gave it to me, you know.” “Okay.” Tomas put the cup back on the table, suddenly unsure as to where he stood with Edmonds. He‟d seemed so with it, and suddenly…. “Mr. Edmonds, I—” “Wynne, that‟s my name. Mr. Edmonds makes me sound like some old guy, which I‟m not.” He grinned suddenly. “You‟re only as old as you feel, and for the moment I‟m feeling about twenty.” “Granddad.” The sketchpad tucked carefully under one arm, Mikey got up and walked over to his grandfather, kneeling by the side of his chair. “I‟ve finished the sketch. Did you want to see?” “You drew me a picture?” Wynne‟s face lit up. “My mother used to do that when I asked.” He took the sketchpad from Mikey and stared at it for a few long moments, his brow furrowing. “That‟s Cat,” he announced. “I met
218 | Anne Barwell
him once, or was it twice?” He bit his lip, his eyes clouding over suddenly, tears forming. “He was my friend, and he never came back. He promised he would try, and he didn‟t. My mother died and he wasn‟t there. Neither was my father.” “He‟s my friend too, Granddad,” Mikey said. “We‟re trying to find him. Can you help us?” He kept his voice low and even, obviously used to the changing mood and mindset of his grandfather. Tomas kept a slight distance, not wanting to come between them and knowing he was responsible for this in part, by bringing up old memories. Shoving his hands in his jacket pocket, his fist closed on the button he was still carrying, the metal hard against his palm, focusing on the bite of it to control himself. Wynne had met Cathal. He had to be able to provide them with a better idea of what had happened all those years ago. “I have something, I think.” Wynne reached out and ruffled Mikey‟s hair. “You look just like my dear Libby. She left me too, died just like my mother, just like my lovely Sarah. All of them too young.” He glanced at Tomas sharply, his eyes bright again. “Some love isn‟t meant to be, you know. It just leads to heartbreak. Rules are broken and people are lost. It‟s the way things are.” “We‟re trying to find him, Granddad. We can get him back.” Mikey‟s voice choked; he wiped his eyes quickly, turning away to avoid Tomas. He didn‟t know how Mikey could deal with seeing his grandfather change like this, and yet it was obvious he was a frequent visitor. “He believes in dragons, just like you. We‟ll find him, and then I‟ll bring him to visit you. You‟ll see. He promised he‟d come back, and he will.” “He would have if he could.” Wynne shook his head. “They bound him to that tree, he told me. He did something wrong, and they made sure he couldn‟t leave. He also told me to look after my mother and he‟d try to bring my father home.” He coughed, reached into his cardigan pocket, and blew his nose on a large handkerchief, folding it up neatly and placing it back in his pocket when he was done. “He looks older than I remember. I didn‟t think he got older. My mother said he looked the same twenty years later, although she got old.” “How old did he appear to be when you knew him?” Tomas asked softly, unable to stay quiet any longer. How much of what Wynne said was truth and how much the ramblings of a confused mind? What the hell had he meant by Cathal being bound to the tree? It didn‟t make sense. And yet on a disturbing level, taking into account what Cathal had said, it opened up possibilities Tomas wasn‟t sure he wanted to contemplate. He edged closer, peering over the old man‟s shoulder at Mikey‟s sketch. His breath hitched at the likeness that stared back at him. Cathal was smiling, his eyes alive. With a shock,
Cat’s Quill | 219
Tomas recognized the moment Mikey had captured and glanced down, remembering how Cathal‟s hand had felt in his, the reality of the smile, and the fact that it had been directed at him. “He was the same age as me,” Wynne said. “My mother cried when she saw him. She‟d got old, and she said my father would be still young too. She didn‟t want to grow old without him; they were supposed to do that together, she said. He‟d promised her.” He pulled the blanket tighter around him. “Everyone is supposed to grow old together, but look at me, I‟m like her. I got old all alone too.” “You‟re not alone, Wynne,” Tomas reassured him on impulse, moving to kneel on his other side. “You have Mikey, and we‟re going to find Cat and bring him to visit you. I promise.” God, he sounded almost as desperate as the old man, but he didn‟t care. “You said you had something of your mother‟s, a journal. Can I see it? I need to find Cat, to bring him back. Please.” There had to be an answer to all this, a way to bring Cathal back, something Alice and Wynne had been unable to do for Christian. Cathal had returned after his cousin had disappeared; that was a difference right there. The old man grew quiet and still, the blanket slipping out of long fingers. This time he didn‟t pull it back up. “In the bottom of the wardrobe there‟s a box.” His voice was cracked, thin as paper. “Mikey, be a good boy and go get it for your old granddad.” Mikey was on his feet in an instant, striding across the room and opening the wardrobe. He pulled out a pile of books and newspapers, finally tugging on something pale pink. Wrapping both arms around it, he brought it back to his grandfather. It was a large cardboard box, pieces of rose-embossed paper stuck over it, covering it. Tomas recognized the pattern instantly; it matched the stationery on which Alice had written her letters. “Is this it, Granddad?” Mikey asked. “Yes, that‟s it.” Wynne gave Mikey a smile as the box was placed carefully on his lap. With shaky hands, he undid the pink ribbon wrapped several times around the box to secure it. Tomas edged still closer, needing to see what was inside. He almost offered to open the box for Wynne, but instinct told him that this was very personal and only to be touched if the old man granted permission. A leather-bound journal lay on top of a faded sketchbook, some of the pages of the latter having come free as though trying to escape the confines of the book. The journal had a picture painstakingly etched on the front of it of some kind of musical instrument. Behind it was the outline of something else, drawn as though the two were connected, one bleeding into the other so that their individuality was indistinct. Tomas peered as close as he dared without
220 | Anne Barwell
encroaching too much into Wynne‟s personal space, then moved back again, finding that it was actually easier to make out the outlines farther away. “It‟s the oak,” he realized. The instrument appeared to be some kind of flute, although it didn‟t look like any Tomas was familiar with, being of oval shape rather than long, the light reflecting off the etching to contrast the sharp outlines against the dark of the leather. “My father gave her this journal,” Wynne said, running one finger over the outline. “He used his penknife for the design on the cover. The oak is the one that was outside where we lived, but when I asked about the flute, she just smiled, shook her head, and looked sad.” He sighed. “She did that in response to a lot of my questions. It was frustrating, although she said she did it to keep me safe. We argued over that several times. I told her he was my father and I had a right to know, but she just kept saying no, he‟d tell me himself one day. He never did.” “Can I look at it?” Tomas asked, not sure he had the right. He shivered slightly; Alice‟s words to her son echoed Cathal‟s own reservations a little too closely. “Please.” Wynne nodded slowly, caressed the cover one more time, and then handed Tomas the book. “We fought over this too,” he sighed. “She wanted it kept private. I thought their story needed to be shared, so I wrote it. To this day I‟m not sure who was right, but….” He looked up at Tomas suddenly, his brow creasing into a frown. “If it was this that led you to me, and to Cat, maybe… but then you‟ve lost him too, haven‟t you, so the ending hasn‟t changed. I wanted it to, I hoped it might, but it never has.” “I‟m sorry,” Tomas mumbled, not sure, really, what to say. Opening the journal, he began to read the first paragraph, his breathing speeding up when he recognized the words. Glancing at Wynne, he read further, his fingers turning the pages to skim the rest of the journal. “This is your book,” he said flatly. “Her journal,” Wynne corrected. “I had it published for her but didn‟t dare use her name. I also changed it so it was from my father‟s point of view. She was scared about keeping safe, so I tried to do that. Everyone knew who Alice Edmonds, or rather Alice Finlay, was. No one knew me, especially just by that name and not outside this village.” He picked up the sketchbook, cradling it to his chest. “I thought he‟d see it and come back to us. It was supposed to give her the happy ending she deserved, and all it did was to create a rift between us.” His voice cracked, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Even on her deathbed, she never told me I‟d done the right thing. She just kept asking for her Christian, and he never came.”
Cat’s Quill | 221
“It‟s okay, Granddad,” Mikey whispered, hugging Wynne tightly. He shot Tomas a glare, as though to say “see what you‟ve done.” “Do you want Tomas to leave? He will if you want him to.” “No!” Wynne shook his head. “This needs doing and sharing, Mikey. Don‟t you see? It‟s been waiting for the right person.” He handed the box to Mikey. “Give this to Tomas; the two of you can look through it and bring it back in a few days. I‟ve spent years trying to find a way. Everything I have of her is in this box. I have nothing left anymore; even the memories are slowly fading.” He hunched his shoulders, pulling his blanket around him again once Mikey let go to take the box, the sketchpad falling onto his lap. “Nothing lasts forever, not even when you love someone. It all fades away and dies. Time catches up with all of us, some sooner than others.” “I don‟t want to believe that,” Tomas protested stubbornly. He would find Cathal, bring him back, and give this story a happy ending. In Hidden Places would get its sequel by whatever means necessary. Placing the journal back into the box, he was surprised when Wynne gestured for him to come closer. “There‟s something else you need to see before you and Mikey go,” Wynne told him, opening the sketchpad. “This was my mother‟s too.” He turned the pages reverently, showing them sketches of the old church, Alice‟s house before it had been converted to the existing inn, and the tree. Tomas motioned him to stop; one particular drawing was a little too familiar. “It‟s the same scene as the painting that‟s hanging in the inn,” he exclaimed, peering at it and fighting the urge to take it from Wynne. In this version the figures in the field could be seen more clearly. “There are closeups,” Wynne said, smiling at him, although there was no mistaking the melancholy behind it. “Would you like to see?” “Closeups of what?” Mikey piped up, curious, but he didn‟t make a move to snatch the scrapbook, instead letting the two adults do what they needed. Wynne turned the next page. On it was a sketch of a man Tomas had never seen before. He was fair-haired, if the shading of the sketch was anything to go by, with laughter lines around his eyes, his mouth turned up in a smirk-like grin as though amused by some private joke. His build was slender, and in one hand was a knife poised over some kind of half-finished carving. “Who is it?” he asked, his mouth dry. Wynne pointed to the bottom of the page, confirming what was written there. “It‟s my father, shortly before he disappeared. This is one of the last days they shared together.” He watched Tomas carefully. “He and Cat share a
222 | Anne Barwell
few similarities in looks, although their personalities were very different. Chalk and cheese, my mother said. It amused her.” “You said closeups, as in plural?” Tomas‟s comment came out hoarsely. He already knew what was on the next page, what he hoped was the companion to this sketch. Wynne was right; the cousins were very similar in appearance, yet different too. It explained why he‟d seen some of Cathal in Wynne, yet not quite. “Yes.” Wynne turned the page again, this time handing the book to Tomas to hold. “Sit down if you need.” “I won‟t….” Tomas‟s heart sped up, his lips dry. “Oh God,” he breathed. In front of him was a sketch of Cathal, several years younger than he was now. He was laughing, gesturing to something in front of him, happy, and more carefree than Tomas had seen him. Tomas caressed the sketch with one hand, his fingers touching the penciled outline of Cathal‟s cheek. His eyes grew moist; he blinked away tears. Cat, read the flowing script at the bottom of the page. Alice Finlay Edmonds. 1918. “Cat,” he whispered, “my Cat.”
Cat’s Quill | 223
Chapter 20
“SCREW this!” Tomas threw the book he‟d been reading across the room, barely missing Donovan‟s coffee cup. “There has to be bloody something here.” What the hell was he missing? Donovan and Heidi exchanged a familiar glance. It was one they‟d been giving each other since he and Mikey had returned from visiting Wynne two days ago. Tomas suspected it meant that they thought he was finally losing it. “I think that you need to take a break from all this and go for a walk,” Heidi suggested calmly. “Or maybe take a long shower and try to nap. You haven‟t slept properly in days, and we‟re both worried about you.” “No.” Tomas glared at her and then at Donovan for good measure. “Napping isn‟t going to bring him back. He hasn‟t got time for me to bloody nap.” He rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the dull throb in his temples. His promise to take better care of himself had fallen through when he‟d begun looking through the cardboard box Wynne had given him. How many times had he gone through that box? The newspaper clippings had only served to confirm what they‟d already discovered about Alice. She‟d died in 1945 after a long illness, having achieved not only a reputation as an artist but also as a recluse. There had been a close friend mentioned, Rachel Lewis, but the woman, who also cooked and cleaned for her, seemed to have been the only person she‟d allowed close, apart from her son. So far attempts to track Rachel down had been fruitless, but Doug had offered to help and was in the process of following up on leads. The phone rang. Tomas dived for it, desperate for information, anything further that could help. Alice and Wynne‟s search for Christian might have failed; that didn‟t mean his would end in the same manner. “Yes?” he barked into the phone, regretting his tone as soon as Dr. McKenzie answered, asking to speak to Donovan. “It‟s for you,” he mumbled, passing it along. “Dr. McKenzie.”
224 | Anne Barwell
Donovan took from the phone from him, the lack of comment on Tomas‟s behavior saying more than words would have achieved. “Hey, Doc, what‟s up?” He motioned for Heidi to pass him a notepad and pen, which she did. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear, he began writing, nodding at intervals, and interjecting the occasional comment of “okay.” Careful not to disturb the piles of books, letters, and maps strewn over her kitchen table, Heidi removed the empty coffee cups quietly. Donovan had made a trip to the local library, pleading with Phoebe to part with any resources from her rare collection. While there were myths and legends connected to the area, many of which were documented, it was still easier said than done proving that any of them had a basis in fact. “Okay,” Donovan said again, scribbling more notes. “Yeah, I know, and I don‟t think so, but we‟ll let you know.” He held the phone slightly away from his ear. “Yeah, yeah, I‟ll do that, but he‟s stubborn as hell.” His eyes shifted to rest on Tomas. “I might just take you up on that, thanks.” Switching off the phone, he laid it on the table and sighed. “What did Harry want?” Heidi asked, adding more muffins to the empty plate before bringing it and more coffee over to the table. “He got the results of the blood tests,” Donovan explained wearily. For all his talk about Tomas getting some sleep, he wasn‟t doing much better. Tomas had heard him banging things downstairs the night before and seen him wandering around outside, but he‟d disappeared into his garage before Tomas could follow to ask what he was doing. This search was getting to all of them; they couldn‟t keep the pace up much longer. Heidi had threatened that if they still hadn‟t found anything they could use by the weekend, that would be it. “Cat‟s blood?” Tomas asked sharply. “Yeah, he sent it to another lab for a second opinion and pulled some favors someone owed him to push it through faster.” Donovan pushed his fringe back out of his eyes and took a gulp of coffee. “And?” Tomas knew that snatching the notepad at this point would not win him any extra Brownie points. As much as his friends wanted to help, he‟d been very difficult to live with the past few days, and he knew it. The few social skills he had tended to disappear very quickly with lack of sleep and tunnel vision. The feeling he‟d had of running out of time since Cathal had disappeared only served to make his personality failings worse. He stopped, taking a gulp of coffee, freezing suddenly as his thoughts caught up with him. He did think of them as friends, and good ones at that. When had that happened? If they weren‟t, they wouldn‟t have put up with the crap he‟d been dishing out the past few days, that was for sure.
Cat’s Quill | 225
“He thinks it must have been contaminated,” Donovan explained, “but I‟m not so sure.” His cup still grasped firmly in one hand, he scanned the notes he‟d made. “Apparently for the most part, it‟s perfectly normal….” “But,” Heidi prompted, her voice calmer than either of theirs but the redness around her eyes a telltale sign that she was just as tired and worried as they were. “There‟s a couple of other things in there they can‟t identify, shit they‟ve never seen before.” Donovan shook his head. “Are you trying to say he‟s not human?” Tomas bit off a rude comment about small-town doctors and their lack of resources, remembering in time that the sample had also been sent farther afield. “No.” Donovan‟s eyes ran down his pad. “He didn‟t say that, just that there‟s crap there they don‟t recognize. The only explanation he could come up with for it is that the sample must have been contaminated.” “What about the fact that everything we‟ve found out suggests that he comes from another world?” Heidi said slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Wouldn‟t there be antibodies from there that aren‟t here? I don‟t know much about this kind of thing, but could that show up in the blood tests?” “He‟s human,” Tomas insisted. “More so than a lot of people I‟ve ever met.” The very thought that Cathal might not be was ridiculous. Donovan held up his hand. “Hold up, Tomas. I‟m sure I just said the doc didn‟t say he wasn‟t.” He tapped the end of his pencil on the table a couple of times. “People develop different immunities depending on where they live, and that kind of thing shows up in their bloodstream. Heidi‟s theory has a hell of a lot going for it.” “I‟m part of this investigation for good reason,” she reminded them a little too smugly, although the expression faded quickly as another realization hit. “So, although this does confirm everything we‟ve discovered, it still doesn‟t bring us any closer to finding him.” She sighed. “All we‟re doing is building a case of fact as opposed to fantasy.” “That is not all we‟re doing,” Tomas snapped. “We‟re trying to find Cat. That‟s the whole point of this. I don‟t care what‟s true or isn‟t.” Cathal hadn‟t lied to him. Yes, he‟d been evasive as hell and sidestepped, but he hadn‟t lied. “It‟s been three days, and we‟re still no closer on that,” Heidi pointed out gently. “I know you‟ve gone down to that damn tree in the middle of the night and yelled at it. If there is a way of getting him back or following him wherever he might be, that information is not here.” Tomas felt his cheeks grow hot. “I didn‟t think I was that loud,” he mumbled, not particularly proud of what he‟d done the night before.
226 | Anne Barwell
Frustration had grown to a point he‟d just wanted to hit something, so he‟d gone out in the dark and taken out his anger on the bloody tree, yelling at it, demanding it send Cathal back. Nothing had happened. Not even when he‟d slammed his fist into it. It had just stared back at him, keeping whatever secrets it held firmly to itself. Everything seemed to lead back to that fucking tree and the immediate area surrounding it. It should at least have the decency to share a few clues. “You woke us, and several of the neighbors.” Donovan shook his head. “I had Doug on the phone asking if you‟d lost your mind completely after he received several phone calls complaining about the racket and wanting him to check whether everything was okay.” “It‟s not fucking okay.” Tomas knew his voice was rising, but he didn‟t care. “I can‟t find him. I‟m not waiting the rest of my life hoping but not knowing he‟ll come back to me. I can‟t do what she did. I won‟t. All I know is that he didn‟t leave by choice, and I intend to give that decision back to him.” “Sometimes choices are made for us and we don‟t have a say in the matter.” Heidi reached across the table to lay a reassuring hand on Tomas‟s arm, but he glared at her and pulled away. “Getting angry like this is not going to make things any better. You can only do what you can in life and hope it‟s enough.” “It‟s all right for you,” Tomas growled. “Everyone doesn‟t bloody leave you, do they? You‟re not getting this. It‟s not a fucking search for information or some quest to find the truth. Cat‟s more important than either of those. He‟s in trouble, and I can‟t do anything to help him. That arsehole hit him! God knows what else they‟ve done to him. And you sit there and talk platitudes to me. They don‟t work. Nothing does. What happens if he doesn‟t come back? I spend the rest of my life waiting for what?” His voice cracked. “I don‟t want to end up like her. I can‟t.” Donovan shook his head. “I think you owe Heidi an apology, Tomas.” His tone was very quiet, his eyes narrow. “Yeah, sure you‟re upset and hurting, but that does not give you the right to talk to her like that. You don‟t know anything about either of us. Life does not revolve around you, despite what‟s just happened.” “Of course it doesn‟t.” Tomas was past any semblance of logic. He needed to lash out, the anger boiling up inside of him. “It never bloody has. Stupid me for thinking this would be any different.” He slammed his chair back against the wall, ignoring the loud cracking noise. “That‟s enough!” Donovan walked over to Tomas so that there were mere inches between them. “Apologize now, or you can get out until you cool
Cat’s Quill | 227
down. I‟ve had enough of this crap. This is our home, and we‟re trying to be your friends. We don‟t have to do any of this.” His voice softened. “We‟re worried about Cat too. I know what it‟s like to lose someone you love. If I knew a way to find him, I‟d be doing it, but sometimes there‟s not.” “There is,” Tomas yelled. “There is.” His stomach churned, his head was hurting. “This isn‟t fucking fair!” His fist came down on the table, his cup jumping into the air. Heidi grabbed it before it hit the floor. “You need to calm down.” Heidi glanced at Donovan. “You‟re not going to help anyone like this.” “And that‟s different to what I‟ve already done, how?” Tomas shook his head. Donovan put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. He was a lot stronger than he looked. “You‟re going to go outside,” he said firmly, ignoring Tomas‟s efforts to pull away, “and do whatever it takes. Just scream, go for a walk or whatever, but you are not coming back inside until you have worked through this and are calmer.” “And if I don‟t?” Tomas told his logic to fuck off. He was past thinking, past caring about anything but what he knew he needed to do, and that did not involve wasting time going for some pointless walk. The thumping in his head was getting stronger, the rhythmic staccato reminding him over and over: lost him, lost him, lost him. Heidi picked up the phone. “I‟ll phone Harry and get him to sedate you. He will if I ask. I‟ve already warned him of the possibility.” He stared at her, his mouth dry. He hated sedatives; they reminded him of being in hospital after an accident he‟d had as a child. He‟d woken up alone, his head full of cotton wool, his stomach churning, convinced he‟d been left there, forgotten. “You wouldn‟t,” he pleaded, not able to hide the fear in his voice. “If she doesn‟t, I will,” Donovan promised, his grip easing but still firm enough that Tomas couldn‟t move. He slumped, the energy and fire draining out of him. “Sorry,” he mumbled, sure that the words were already spoken far too late. He‟d well and truly screwed up their friendship by letting his emotions get the better of him. “I‟ll go.” Tomas sighed; he hadn‟t yelled at anyone like that in years. In fact he‟d never done that to anyone but Kathleen. “I‟ll come back and pack my bags later so I don‟t disturb you.” Donovan stared at him. “What the fuck?” he spluttered. “For God‟s sake, get your head out of your ass for one minute and listen to what‟s being said. I
228 | Anne Barwell
never said anything about not coming back. All I‟m asking you to do is take some time out from this and calm down.” “You‟re our friend, Tomas,” Heidi reassured him. “You‟re going through a rough patch, and you‟re not thinking straight.” Donovan muttered something under his breath, and she glared at him. “Okay, wrong choice of words there, but you know what I mean. You‟ve been doing this for three days now, and not sleeping. It‟s time to take a break.” She sighed. Donovan let go, stepping back out of the way. Heidi closed the distance between them and pulled Tomas into a hug. “Go for a walk and clear your head. We‟ll still be here when you get back.” “Get any ideas of not coming back, and we‟ll kick your ass, after we‟ve dragged you back,” Donovan added. “You‟re not the easiest person to get on with, but you‟re growing on me, and life‟s too short to lose any more friends.” Heidi tightened her embrace, and Tomas let her, too tired to protest or pull away. “Sorry,” he mumbled again, feeling his vision blur with unshed tears. This was supposed to be a happy ending, something out of a novel, not another reminder of the reality of life. “Sorry means picking yourself up, moving forward, and trying to get in a better head space,” Heidi said gently, giving him another hug before letting go. “Go have some quiet time and think. Sit under the tree if you need to, if that reminds you of him. Just don‟t thump the poor thing this time.” He managed a watery smile. “I‟m not sure I can promise that, but I‟ll try.” Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair where he‟d dumped it earlier that morning, he bolted for the door, wanting to get away before he did something stupid like let go and cry in front of both of them. Heidi‟s voice echoed after him, the nature of her request not quite sinking in but his subconscious frowning in response. “If you see Blackthorn while you‟re out walking, bring her home, will you? She‟s got to be out there somewhere.”
THREE days, and still nothing. Tomas kicked gravel across the path alongside the drive side of the hedgerow, watching the small stones fly in all directions. As much as he hated to admit it, Heidi was right. It didn‟t matter how much research they did or how many times they discovered further proof that Cathal and his cousin had come from somewhere that, as he had put it, wasn‟t local; it didn‟t help to bring him back.
Cat’s Quill | 229
With the few details Cathal had let slip about his people, their laws, and their society, it was doubtful that it was anywhere Tomas had ever heard of. Fairyland? The helpful little voice inside his head suggested the obvious, and Tomas snorted aloud, his boot connecting with a large piece of stone in the path he was following. Cathal might believe in magic and dragons, but that didn‟t mean he was some mythical creature himself. Sighing, Tomas ran his hand across his mouth slowly, remembering the touch of Cathal‟s lips against his and how good it had felt, how alive it had made him feel, wanting and craving more. Whoever or whatever Cathal was didn‟t matter. Tomas just wanted to see that smile again, the light dancing in Cathal‟s eyes when he spoke. For some reason he and Cathal had connected almost instantly, although Tomas couldn‟t explain why. About to kick another stone, he realized that the ground beneath him had turned to grass. He looked up and about in surprise, the tree taunting him as he closed the distance between himself and it, the inn growing smaller behind him. He must have changed direction without thinking, walking subconsciously toward the place that held most of the memories he had of Cathal. His hands clenched and unclenched. Heidi had asked him not to take his frustration out on the tree again, and he intended to at least try. But sitting under it or walking around it wouldn‟t hurt. Brushing his hair back out of his eyes, he rubbed at them, ignoring the way his knuckles came away damp. History was not going to repeat itself. He was not Alice, and Cathal was not Christian. A choked laugh escaped his lips. Cathal was certainly no girl. No, wait. If Tomas had been the one left behind, didn‟t that make him the girl? Fuck that. Was that a line of thought he really wanted to pursue with Heidi in any shape or form? Remembering her reaction to Donovan driving her precious Land Rover, Tomas decided some trains of thought were better derailed before they left the station. He did, after all, have a tiny bit of sanity and selfpreservation left, despite recent events. He‟d be no good to Cathal at all if he‟d had his balls ripped out and fed slowly to that damn cat for supper, wherever the hell she had disappeared to. The little bit of sun there was winked at him through the clouds. It wasn‟t bright enough to shade his eyes from it but just enough to be annoying. Stomping his way through the grass, he ignored the dampness of it around the bottom of his jeans. There had been a heavy dew the night before, and with it being late morning, some of it still lingered, especially the closer he got to the tree. Autumn was definitely approaching, although most days the seasons
230 | Anne Barwell
seemed to have a few issues in deciding exactly which one they were supposed to be. Tomas rubbed at his eyes; they were itchy from lack of sleep. The coffee wasn‟t doing what it was meant to. He knew he needed to rest, but when he was pursuing something he wanted, he tended to see it through to its bitter end. Kathleen had called him stubborn and told him it would be the literal death of him one day. Sleep was important, and whatever research he was doing for whatever the hell he was writing could wait. He disagreed. The one time he‟d given in to her and slept, he‟d woken to find the idea he‟d had was gone, without even bothering to leave directions on how it could be reached again. Frustration was something he dealt with even more badly than lack of sleep. At that point she‟d thrown him out to calm down in much the same way Heidi had just done. God, those two women would get along so well. The more he got to know Heidi, the more terrifying the thought of her and his sister becoming friends became. He could visualize Cathal‟s amusement at the situation now. His mouth would turn up into a slight smile, and he‟d know exactly the right thing to say to prevent himself from becoming their next victim. Hopefully he‟d protect Tomas at the same time. After all, that was what people did when they were in love, wasn‟t it? Fuck, what was he doing? Or thinking? Cathal was gone, and still Tomas‟s subconscious kept trying to visualize a future where they were together. “Don‟t you get it?” he yelled to the deserted field. “He‟s gone, and I don‟t know where the hell he is.” This just wasn‟t fair. None of it was. He‟d done nothing to deserve this. Nothing. The tree stared back at him, the long grass around the base of its trunk glistening like tears. How much had it seen over the last ninety years? Christian and Alice must have sat here too, exchanging words, murmuring endearments, holding each other and kissing. The imagined scene in his mind shifted to show an older Alice and Wynne, still a child rather than the old, lonely man who had lost so much. Even Cathal and Libby had shared companionship and conversation under the shade of the oak. Tomas and Cathal had met here too and begun their all-too-brief attempt to get to know each other, and their discovery that the feelings they had for each other were mutual. Cathal had meant the words he‟d said in his role as a character from Tomas‟s manuscript. He was falling in love with Tomas, in the same way Tomas had already fallen for him, even if he‟d not wanted to admit it at the time. He‟d never believed in love at first sight; it was something out
Cat’s Quill | 231
of a romance novel, and his life certainly wasn‟t one of those. It never would be. “Oh, Cat,” he whispered, sinking to his knees in front of the tree and leaning his head against the rough wood of the trunk. “Come back to me, please.” His voice choked, tears running down his cheeks. “I love you. I want a future with you, not a life wondering what-ifs. I don‟t want anyone else. I want you.” He closed his eyes, the gentle breeze around him seeming to caress his cheek, just like it had done that first time. His fingers reached out, needing to touch, to be held, but there was nothing there. He was alone. The dampness on his knees spread up toward his thigh area, his jeans protesting the amount of water in the grass. God, why couldn‟t reality just leave him alone? Opening his eyes, he noticed a dry-looking piece of dirt at the very base of the tree. He shifted, sitting down on it with a thump, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose several times. His body felt heavy, his eyes puffy, yet a part of him felt better for having let go so totally. He sighed, guilt washing over him at the memory of the words he‟d said to Heidi and Donovan. They‟d been better friends than anyone he‟d ever known, Ethan aside, and yet he‟d got himself so caught up in his own grieving and frustration that he hadn‟t thought about how this situation would be impacting them. “I‟m sorry,” he mumbled, although there was no audience to hear him. How the hell was he going to make up for this? An apology would be a start but nowhere near enough. Tomas pulled his knees up, hugging them, resting his head on his arms. Where to now? Was there anything he could do? There were no more clues to follow, just this tree, which seemed determined to keep its secrets through several lifetimes. Apparently there had been a whole forest of these here years ago until the area had been cleared for farmland, leaving just a mere half-dozen standing. One by one, they had all fallen for a variety of reasons, the last couple struck down in a dramatic lightning storm just over a hundred years ago. What would happen when this last one was no more? Tomas knew, although he wasn‟t sure why, that it was connected to Cathal‟s world somehow. Would it, too, die one day, taking that final link between them with it? Whatever happened, it had better not bloody be before he got Cathal back. Without thinking, Tomas‟s gaze shifted upward, eyeing the clouds and the clear sky suspiciously. While he‟d fight if he had to in order to make his dreams a reality, he didn‟t stand a chance against the forces of nature or—he glared at the tree—those of magic, if that was what the hell this was.
232 | Anne Barwell
Dragons, knights, and magic. In Hidden Places had been full of all those elements, and yet it wasn‟t what the story was about, any more than it was what this was about. He‟d spent all this time searching for a sequel, and he‟d been living it. Cathal must have known as soon as he‟d read the book, yet he‟d been so insistent that the story was finished. Did he have even less hope than Tomas? Or had he merely lost his sooner? Fuck this! Using the tree to lean on, Tomas pulled himself to his feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and do something. Anything. He just didn‟t know what to do. There wasn‟t anything that could be done. Heidi was right. They‟d found out and confirmed so much, but none of it brought them any closer to getting Cathal back, or even to discovering where he was or how to get there. Tomas‟s right foot connected with something in the grass. Bending, he reached down to pick it up. “What the…?” he wondered aloud, turning the object slowly over in his hand. It was a little longer than the distance between the tip of his forefinger and the middle of his palm, a cylinder shape, carved out of wood of some kind, a reoccurring pattern etched into it. Peering closer, Tomas‟s breath hitched as he recognized the outline of a cat with a single rose on its back repeated around the edge of both ends. What was this? One finger gently stroked the wood; it was smooth to the touch apart from slight indents at intervals, worn into the wood, rather than maybe part of the original design. Holding it up to the light and peering inside confirmed the cylinder was hollow, and there were three holes along one side, one close to each end and another an equal distance between them. Curiosity getting the better of him, Tomas held one up to his mouth, his fingers over two of the holes, and blew. A haunting sound filled the air. He‟d heard this before, or something similar, but where? He blew again, this time shifting his fingers so that only one of the holes was covered. The sound altered slightly in pitch, but the timbre of it remained the same. It appeared to be a musical instrument of some kind, but where had it come from? Curling his fingers around it, Tomas allowed himself a sliver of hope. If this was connected to Cathal, which the cat and the rose suggested, maybe it was the clue they were looking for, the missing piece to bring him back. His mind raced, realization hitting home. Opening his fingers again, his mouth went dry. There had been a picture of some kind of instrument engraved into the cover illustration of Alice‟s journal.
Cat’s Quill | 233
It had to be a clue. It had to be. Tomas smiled, just a little, not wanting to jinx his discovery. He‟d take this back to Donovan and Heidi, and together they‟d figure out what to do next. It might even be a key, although that would mean they‟d have to find a door. He turned, ready to make his way briskly back to the inn. And froze. Instead of the field in front of him, with the inn in the near distance, there was a large stone he was sure hadn‟t been there before. The inn was nowhere in sight. Instead, he could see a few scattered cottages, half-hidden by a thicket of trees, the oak still behind him just one of many on the outskirts of what appeared to be a small settlement of some kind. “Oh, God,” he whispered, backing toward the tree, the flute or whatever it was still clutched between his fingers. Where was he, and what the hell had he done?
234 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 21
HE MUST have stood there for at least ten minutes before he forced himself to accept that reality as he knew it had changed. The flute must have been some kind of key, and the door between his world and wherever the hell this was had been unlocked by the music he‟d created when he‟d blown into it. The question was, did he risk recreating what he‟d just done to find the way back to his own world or explore this one in the hope it might be Cathal‟s? If it wasn‟t, he could end up stuck somewhere which was neither, cut off from his own friends and family, his hope of a future with Cathal disappearing still further from his grasp. What if the flute only worked within a certain timeframe and not using it immediately meant destroying any chance he had of returning home? More importantly, could he afford to take the chance that this wasn‟t Cathal‟s world and turn his back on what might be the only opportunity he had for a future with the person he loved? Decision made, Tomas put the slim wooden cylinder into his jacket pocket and hoped he wasn‟t making the worst mistake of his life. A future stuck God knows where was not something he wanted either, but he‟d never be able to live with himself if he discovered later that he‟d ignored a chance to find Cathal, however slim that might be. Holding his head high, determined not to show any weakness to whoever lived here, Tomas began walking briskly toward the nearest cottage. Cathal needed someone who could rescue him from wherever those Falcons had taken him, not someone who was nervous as hell and probably not even in the right bloody place. It was cold, much colder than before he‟d come through to this place. Glancing upward, Tomas noticed that the sun was much lower in the sky. Presumably that meant it was still early morning. The dew on the ground was much more pronounced, cobwebs spun between nearby bushes covered in tiny ice crystals. Surely it couldn‟t be winter here? Cathal always wore the same fine cotton shirt and no jacket. It wouldn‟t be enough to protect him from this.
Cat’s Quill | 235
Tomas buttoned up his jacket, pulling his collar up to protect himself further from the cold. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he picked up his pace, hoping that the smoke from the chimney meant it would be warmer inside the cottage than out if whoever lived there let him in. He‟d worry about the weirdness of seasons later; considering the rest of what had just happened, it was the least of his problems. Cathal would be able to explain it, just as he would be able to fill in the details of the rest of what Tomas was missing, which, at the moment, was one hell of a lot. The sound of voices, caught in the crispness of the morning air, reached him as soon as he opened the wooden gate and started walking along the path leading to the front door. They were women‟s voices, one higher than the other, younger, with less of an accent than her companion. “I‟m not asking for your opinion, Merran,” the higher voice snapped. “I‟m telling you what I require. The moon is full in three days. I do not have the luxury of time; either this will work, or it will not.” “Nature does not always obey your requirements, Lady Deryn,” the other woman replied, her tone respectful but with an edge to it. “Perhaps if you‟d come to me sooner, I might have been able to help more readily.” Lady Deryn snorted. “Unless you have a ready cure for stubborn and uncooperative males within your—” She stopped abruptly, her speech replaced with a sudden, sharp tsking noise. “Why, I do believe we have company,” she announced, the tone of her voice changing to one of soft silk, although Tomas could hear the undercurrent of treacle in it designed to catch an unsuspecting prey. He froze, looking around for somewhere to hide, suddenly unsure whether this was a place in which he really wanted to be. A step backward was quickly followed by another. A twig snapped under his boot, the sound ricocheting through the now silent air, pinpointing his location as sure as if someone had painted a target on him. “Fuck,” he muttered. His breathing sped up, his mind racing for an explanation as to why he was trespassing on someone‟s property. He‟d done nothing wrong. He was a visitor, looking for information, hunting for a friend. The best approach was probably to tell the truth, obviously not all of it, but enough to convince them that he was merely a harmless traveler in need of some assistance. There was nowhere to run, nor did he have any idea what these people were capable of. Until he knew more, his options were very limited. The door of the cottage swung open, but no one came out. Tomas didn‟t move. He was unsure of what to do next. If they weren‟t going to come after him, running would be the logical course of action. But doing that would not
236 | Anne Barwell
bring him any closer to finding Cathal. Hopefully, the women might know him, or at least of him. After all, the red-haired man had referred to him as Lord Emerys, so it was not as though he was an unknown commoner. Tomas sighed, wishing his subconscious had chosen different words. If Cathal had some kind of standing in this society, what chance did someone such as Tomas, who was no one here, or much of anyone in his own world—a couple of published novels hardly counted—have of convincing anyone that he had any right or business to be asking after Cathal? “Are you going to grace us with your presence,” Deryn asked, “or stay out in the cold?” She sounded amused. “It‟s a little chilly with the door open, and I assure you I don‟t bite.” Merran said something under her breath which Tomas couldn‟t catch. Deryn laughed. “That was an isolated incident when we were children,” she reminded Merran, “and besides, the boy in question returned in kind.” “You have two minutes and this door closes, boy,” Merran added. “My lady has more manners than I do, and these old bones feel the cold.” What would be the harm in asking? At the very least they had a warm fire he could sit by for a few minutes, and he might find out a bit more about where he was. Swallowing, Tomas took a step toward the open door, and then another. If this was some kind of trap, it was highly unlikely they would be expecting someone from his world to come after Cathal, and if so, it wasn‟t as though he could be viewed as much of a threat. Cathal needed him, and he‟d do whatever it took to find him. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, standing on the doorstep and peering inside, hoping he sounded less nervous than he felt. Social niceties were not his strong point, and he had no idea what was acceptable protocol here. The interior of the cottage was smaller than Tomas had expected; earlymorning sun streaming in the two window slits illuminated the center of the large room but didn‟t quite reach the corners. Two women sat on stools near a fireplace, flames crackling red in the low hearth. Neither of them stood when he entered, but the older one gestured to a third stool between them. He hesitated, not wanting to leave the safety of the door, knowing that once he moved, any chance of bolting would be gone. He‟d be hemmed in on both sides; there was too much distance to cover to the door. The old woman seemed harmless enough, her teeth yellow, with several missing as she smiled at him, offering him a wooden cup of steaming liquid. “Sit, and rest,” she advised him. “Tell us what brings a stranger visiting to our village.”
Cat’s Quill | 237
Deryn, on the other hand, made the hairs on the back of his neck crawl, although he wasn‟t sure why. She, too, smiled at him, but there was something in her eyes that made him uneasy. She watched him a little too carefully, her gaze taking in everything, lingering on his clothing, then his face. He met her eyes dead on, determined not to back down, reminding himself that she could know of Cathal‟s whereabouts and not wishing to alienate her until he had the information he needed. “Thank you,” he repeated, taking several steps into the room. A cat uncurled from in front of the fire; he hadn‟t seen it at first, its grey fur blending in with the nondescript rug on the floor. It lifted its head, stared at him, yawned, and then began to wash itself. “Far too polite, and yet he does not answer the question.” Deryn shook her head. “I think Merran is right and you are a stranger here.” She stood, placing a hand under his elbow, and he found himself ushered toward the remaining seat. The door to the cottage slammed shut; neither of the women reacted to the noise or seemed to notice him shiver. It might be warmer inside, but it still was a lot colder than he was used to. “I am not from around here,” Tomas began, sitting down on the stool with the realization that although his hosts were polite enough, they might not remain so if he did not at least appear to be grateful for their hospitality. Taking the cup Merran offered, his fingers curled around it. He sniffed the cloudy liquid inside it apprehensively and then took a very cautious sip. A slow warmth spread through his body; he felt himself begin to relax a little. Deryn nodded approvingly. “I am Lady Deryn, and this is Merran.” She took a small sip from her own cup, blonde hair falling around her face, momentarily softening her appearance until she flicked it back over her shoulder in a gesture of annoyance. “Do you have a name?” “Tomas Kemp, ma‟am.” Another sip of the liquid, and Tomas felt himself relax further. The fire was much warmer up close, and these women both seemed friendly enough. He licked his lips; his mouth was dry and becoming more so. “I‟m a traveler, looking for a friend who I‟m hoping might live nearby.” “Oh?” Deryn‟s eyebrow rose. “And what makes you think your friend might live nearby?” “I said I was hoping he might,” Tomas corrected her. The two women exchanged a glance. If they could not help him, he‟d move on and try somewhere else. This was but one cottage amongst several. He wasn‟t about to give up that easily. Gripping the cup tightly, he stifled a yawn. Three days of not much sleep were beginning to catch up, and this was neither the time
238 | Anne Barwell
nor the place for them to do so. Staying out in the cold might have been the better option; at least it helped to keep him alert and awake. “So… Tomas… does your friend possess a name?” Deryn reached down to retrieve a stone jug from the floor by the fire and topped up Tomas‟s cup. “Or can you give us a description perhaps? You seem to have come a long way in search of him. I do hope he is worth your effort.” Tomas found himself smiling just at the thought of Cathal. “He is very much worth the effort,” he confirmed softly, ignoring the little voice warning him that giving away any hint of an emotional attachment toward Cathal might be dangerous. Taking another sip from the cup in his hand, he took a few moments to collect his thoughts. He was very tired; his words were beginning to slur. He would give them a name, for starters, a description if they did not know of him later, perhaps. “A name or description?” Deryn prompted, taking the cup from him. “I think perhaps you are finding the wine a little strong.” “Wine?” Tomas looked at her blankly. It hadn‟t tasted like any wine he‟d had before, but then he wasn‟t much of one for that kind of thing. “Mulled wine with a few herbs to help you relax,” Merran added. “You‟re almost asleep on your feet, boy. A little assistance was in order.” He stood suddenly, feeling the urge to clear his head. No! He couldn‟t sleep, not now. He needed to find Cathal. He‟d rest afterward. “There‟s no time,” he mumbled, the room spinning. Deryn wrapped one arm around his waist to steady him. “He needs me.” “Of course he does,” she said soothingly. “Tell me his name, and I‟ll ask after him while you sleep.” Tomas opened his mouth to protest, but he was finding it difficult to focus. His vision was blurring, his mind shutting down. “No,” he protested feebly, his eyes already closing. Soft material brushed against his arm; confused, he reached for it. Cathal wore a shirt made of this. Didn‟t he? “Cat,” he whispered. They needed a name to help find him. He forced open his eyes, the words a little louder this time. “His name is Cathal.” He smiled, picturing Cathal‟s face in his mind as he struggled to stay awake. There was another name, one that might be important. What was it? His eyes closed again, his smile changing to a frown at the memory of when he‟d heard it, the darkness beckoning him further into sleep. “The man who took him called him Lord Emerys.”
Cat’s Quill | 239
TOMAS
awoke to the smell of herbs and spices permeating the air. Shivering, he snuggled down farther into the soft bedding, blankets rough against his bare skin, his brain trying to work out where exactly he was. The ceiling above him appeared to be made of some kind of straw, reminding him of pictures he‟d seen of an old-fashioned thatched cottage. A cool breeze wafted through a slit in the wall nearby, the air carrying a distinct smell of dampness with it. Damn, it was cold. Pulling the blankets farther up and around him, his brain suddenly caught up with an earlier thought. Bare skin? What the fuck? Sitting up with a start, he lifted the blankets to find he was completely naked. Blushing bright red, he contemplated his next move, not wanting to make a complete idiot of himself but certainly not about to prance around the countryside in nothing but his birthday suit. Where were his clothes? He had to get out of here, to find Cathal. What had those women done to him? Memories flooded back, and he groaned, massaging his temples in an attempt to get rid of the dull ache in his head. Mulled wine and some herbs. God, how had he been so stupid? He‟d relaxed, all right, into unconsciousness. How many hours had he slept? It was still light outside but definitely not as cold as it had been. A blanket carefully wrapped around him, he shuffled down the bed to squint out one of the slits in the wall. However, all he could see through what he presumed was meant to be a window was a shed of some sort and a horse grazing in the field behind the cottage. Slumping back down onto the bed, he shivered, focusing his attention on his surroundings. The women were nowhere in sight, but that didn‟t mean they weren‟t nearby. The fire still burned in the hearth, but not as bright as it had been; the embers were now more of a deeper red against a background of charcoal. Hanging above the fire on a metal tripod was what appeared to be a cooking pot; he wondered if it was the source of what he‟d smelled when he had first woken. Sniffing the air once more, he decided it well could be. In the greater scheme of things, he should be relieved that at least he hadn‟t woken up in a dungeon, a cell, or something of that ilk. Or, his mind helpfully supplied, not regained consciousness at all. He needed to make the most of the fact they‟d left him alone and make his escape. However, without clothing and with no idea where he was or where to find Cathal, that was going to be easier said than done. He sighed, glancing around the room again. The bed consisted of a slightly raised base on sturdy wooden legs but was nothing fancy. Pulling back the rough cloth led to the discovery that the so-called mattress was merely straw arranged
240 | Anne Barwell
underneath, the top cover tucked to hold it in place. Still, it was surprisingly softer than he‟d thought it should be. The question was, whose bed was this? Deryn—correction, Lady Deryn, had been dressed much more finely than her older friend. This cottage hardly seemed a place he could imagine her living for long, more somewhere she would tolerate or visit. Tomas frowned, backing up his thoughts a bit. He was jumping to a lot of conclusions in regard to her. She‟d seemed friendly enough, but his gut feeling told him she was not to be trusted, even if she had shown no reason for that suspicion as yet. They‟d drugged him and taken his clothes. Surely that was enough? Leaving him in his present state also meant he wasn‟t about to wander too far. What if she knew Cathal? Tomas had passed out before she‟d given him an answer. His options were limited. As much as he disliked the thought of relying on either one of the women, he first needed to find out if they held answers to any of the questions he sought. The only door opened, and he dived back down under the blankets, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep. Straining, he made out Deryn‟s voice and another deeper one. It was difficult to recognize her, as they both spoke barely over a whisper. “Is he the one?” the male voice asked, footsteps growing closer. Tomas felt a hand shift the blankets slightly; it took all his self-control not to pull them around him and tell the person to fuck off and leave him alone. “Yes,” Deryn replied. “It appears that our suspicions were correct. It explains rather a lot, doesn‟t it?” The man snorted. “Lord Emerys is not as subtle as he thinks he is.” The footsteps moved farther away. “You play a dangerous game. I‟m concerned for both of you.” “I do what I need for the future of our people,” Deryn said. “Cathal has a part to play in that whether he wishes it or not, and I intend to make sure he takes responsibility for at least part of it.” The door opened and closed again. Tomas found he was shaking. She knew Cathal and had to know where he was. Fuck whatever those responsibilities were. He already knew Cathal was being forced into living a life he didn‟t want. To hell with helping her take away his choices still further. Slipping off the bed, he looked around the room for anything that could be used as clothing. Apart from the blanket, there was nothing. Damn it! So close, and yet there was still nothing he could do!
Cat’s Quill | 241
They didn‟t know he‟d overheard any of their conversation, and although he hadn‟t understood the details or known who the man was, all that mattered was that Cathal was in trouble. There were two choices open to him. He could reveal what he knew, but he had no aces up his sleeve, nothing to bargain with but his life, and that was not worth anything. Or he could play dumb, pretend to take any offers of help at face value, and hope like hell she led him to Cathal. He had no idea what might happen then, but at least that way he and Cathal would be together, and that surely had to give them a better chance. What had been meant by “is he the one?” Tomas frowned, trying to make sense of it. The man‟s voice had sounded familiar, but surely that wasn‟t possible? He was a stranger here, and he‟d never met any of Cathal‟s people before. Hold up. The Falcons. Crap. That was where he‟d heard the voice before. It was the red-haired man, the one Cathal had called Gwalch. What the fuck was his connection to Deryn? Whatever Tomas had walked into, it had escalated quickly into something far more serious than a simple quest to find Cathal and bring him back. It was doubtful it had ever been that in the first place. The little Cathal had let slip about his people and his own situation had done more than hint that right from their first conversation. “Up and about, I see?” Deryn‟s voice cut across Tomas‟s thoughts. He hadn‟t noticed her reenter the room. She smiled. He forced himself to return it. “You appear to be well rested after your sleep. We decided it was better not to disturb you but let you wake on your own.” “I feel a lot better, thank you,” he replied politely. “However, I would appreciate you returning my clothes, as this blanket isn‟t exactly a very practical substitute.” She laughed. “I‟m afraid that‟s impossible. I‟ve burnt them.” “You‟ve what?” Tomas nearly dropped his blanket, grabbing it just in time, noticing her eyes following the path of it toward the floor with interest. His cheeks flushed. “You can‟t!” Fuck. What about the flute? It was his and Cathal‟s way out of this place. It had never occurred to him that she‟d do anything like that. Removed them so that he wouldn‟t go far, yes, but burning them seemed a little extreme. “They marked you as an outsider,” she explained calmly, a hint of amusement in her voice. “You want to blend in, not stand out.” He snorted. “I‟m sure dressed like this, that‟s a given.”
242 | Anne Barwell
“As much as I‟m tempted to leave you with just your blanket, I‟ve sent one of my servants to get you some suitable clothes.” Deryn smoothed down the front of her own dress, the hem of it swishing against the dirt floor as she walked over to sit on the bed, patting a space next to her to indicate he should join her. “Your servant?” Tomas looked at her blankly, not moving. “Why, of course,” she exclaimed. “Surely you do not think a lady of my standing would perform such a task myself.” Deryn laughed again. “Come now.” She indicated their surroundings. “This cottage is Merran‟s, not mine. I am merely a visitor in her home. My own is a good two hours‟ ride from here and certainly not as humble as this.” “What about Cathal?” Tomas still didn‟t move. The last thing he wanted was to sit on a bed with her with just a blanket wrapped around him. He felt exposed enough as it was. “Ah yes,” Deryn murmured. “Your friend.” Her eyes unfocused for a moment, and then she looked directly at him, something very hard fleeting across them for such a split second that he wasn‟t sure whether he‟d imagined it. “I know of him, yes. In fact, there are very few who do not.” Tomas decided he didn‟t like the tone in her voice. “Can you take me to him?” He paused for a moment, then reluctantly added, “Please.” “Why, of course.” Deryn seemed delighted that he‟d remembered his manners. “It would be remiss of me not to honor such a request.” The sides of her mouth twitched. “We merely need to wait for more suitable clothing.” There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” she instructed, raising her voice slightly. A young man dressed in plain grey trousers and a loose-fitting tunic opened the door and came into the room. He appeared to be several years younger than Tomas, although it was difficult to tell. After all, Cathal had been alive in 1918 and had only aged a few years since then. “My lady.” He bowed. “I have the items you requested.” “Very good,” she replied, rising to her feet. “I will take my leave,” she told Tomas, “and enjoy the sunlight we have left in the few hours until dusk.” She nodded toward the young man standing in the doorway. “See to it that Master Tomas gets any assistance he needs.” “Yes, my lady.” The man nodded, careful not to meet her gaze directly, keeping his head slightly lowered. She swept past him, and he closed the door behind her. “I can get dressed myself,” Tomas told him stiffly, not about to drop his blanket with an audience, however things were done here.
Cat’s Quill | 243
He shook his head, looking stubborn. “My lady has insisted that I help, and that is what I shall do.” He glanced somewhat nervously toward the door. “She‟ll have me whipped if I don‟t.” “Whipped?” Tomas felt his stomach churn. Surely he couldn‟t be serious. “Yes, Master Tomas.” The manservant bowed his head, awaiting instructions. “Just Tomas,” Tomas insisted. “And your name would be?” “Will.” Will suddenly grinned at him. “It‟s important I help you. After all, my lady is taking you to see Lord Emerys, is she not?” “Yes, but….” Tomas couldn‟t see why going to see Cathal meant he had to put up with this man insisting on dressing him when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Will looked more than a little smug. “It‟s not every day that a commoner such as yourself gets to meet with the king‟s nephew, now is it?”
244 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 22
“THE king‟s nephew?” Tomas stared at Will, his mouth dropping open. “You‟re kidding me, right?” Will smiled. “I would not joke about so serious a matter, Mas… Tomas.” He nodded at the blanket Tomas was still clutching to himself. “My lady does not like to be kept waiting. My orders are to dress you, and that is what I need to do.” Nodding slowly, still feeling a little numb, Tomas didn‟t protest further when Will gently removed the blanket and began dressing him. The undergarments were soft against his skin, the fastenings similar to what he remembered of Cathal‟s, laces rather than the zippers Tomas was used to. The trousers fit him snugly; the loose cotton shirt went over the top of a very warm undergarment; the outfit finished off with woolen hose and long boots. All were of a grey-blue color, although the boots were brown. A cloak still lay on the bed. Will draped it over Tomas‟s shoulders before fastening it around his throat. “There, that is much better,” Will murmured his approval, straight brown hair falling slightly over his face before he brushed it back in what appeared to be a practiced motion. “You are fit for an audience with Lord Emerys now.” “Where are we going?” Tomas felt much warmer, and his mind had begun to work again, although his thoughts were still spinning around in circles. He suspected that the materials these clothes were made of weren‟t entirely what they seemed. It was no wonder Cathal had not appeared to feel the cold. “Why, to Lady Deryn‟s castle, of course.” Will gave a small bow, more of an inclination of his head. “If that will be all, I have other duties to perform before we set off on our journey.” “There is something else.” Tomas spoke hesitantly, unsure as to how far he could trust this man to give him the information he sought. “Lady
Cat’s Quill | 245
Deryn….” He struggled to find a way to ask this without sounding too obvious that he had no idea of the situation in which he now found himself. “She knows Cathal… Lord Emerys. Are they related?” The little he‟d overheard did not imply they were friends as such. Will raised an eyebrow. “No, they are not related. Not yet, anyway, although,”—he lowered his voice—“she very much would like them to be, but he refuses.” “Refuses?” Tomas felt his mouth go dry, his mind racing to conclusions he did not like. Was she the one Cathal had spoken of? The one he was supposed to be with because of family expectations? “Lady Deryn says that they are betrothed, but Lord Emerys refuses to acknowledge it.” Will was quiet for a moment. He glanced around nervously. “Rumor has it that perhaps his interests lie elsewhere. But people talk, especially servants, and you can‟t always believe what is said.” The fucking bitch. Tomas scowled, sure now why his gut feeling had said not to trust her. He muttered something under his breath. “I‟m ready to go now,” he told Will. The sooner he got to Cathal, the sooner he could tell Deryn exactly what he thought of her. “All walls have ears, Tomas,” Will warned him, watching him carefully. “No one is to be trusted.” “Then why should I trust you?” Tomas demanded. “You shouldn‟t,” Will confirmed. “After all, my loyalties are to the person I serve.” He leaned in close to brush an invisible speck of dirt from Tomas‟s shoulder, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And like those I follow, I, too, believe in dragons.” What the hell was it with all this talk of dragons? Even Mikey and Wynne were fixated with them. “Do they exist here?” Tomas asked. But Will just shook his head, behaving as though his last words had not been spoken. “Loyalty does, yes,” he said. “As do rumors and lies. There is a fine line between all of them. Choose your path carefully, as often nothing is what it seems.” “You sound like you‟ve been speaking with Cathal,” Tomas snorted, beginning to wonder if this manner was merely a part of their society of which he was unaware. “Lord Emerys,” Will corrected gently, turning to leave. He paused before opening the door. “Do not keep my lady waiting, or give her confirmation that
246 | Anne Barwell
the rumors are true. She does not take competition kindly and is ruthless toward anyone or anything daring to stand in her way.” “What rumors?” There was no way anyone on this world could know of his and Cathal‟s relationship, and it was doubtful that Cathal would have spoken of him to anyone else. Will simply smiled. “Now that would be telling, would it not?” And with that he opened the door and slipped out, leaving Tomas on his own once more. Rumors and lies. Will‟s comments could simply be a combination of either, or perhaps he was telling the truth? Tomas knew all too well that often nothing was what it seemed; his trip through this particular rabbit hole had proved that. However, until shown otherwise, he would continue to believe in Cathal, and in the moments they had shared. Whatever was really going on, one thing was certain, and that was that Cathal was in trouble and needed his help. The idea of Deryn and Cathal together made Tomas‟s skin crawl. His eyes narrowed. Will had said that she was ruthless toward anyone standing in her way. If Cathal was continuously refusing to acknowledge their betrothal, that alone might be enough to place him in danger. Another thought struck him, and he froze, his fingers paused in adjusting his cloak and loosening it from around his throat. He hated tight clothing and feeling restricted, especially there. Surely she was not behind the Falcons coming after Cathal and dragging him back here? She knew Gwalch; that was suspicion enough to start connecting dots to build a picture Tomas did not like. There was a knock at the door, and Will called out. “Master Tomas, my lady is waiting for you.” His tone held more than a hint of disapproval. Apparently being tardy after she had requested one‟s presence was not the thing to do. Tomas bit back a snort. Lady, or whatever the title meant, did not guarantee that he would be at her beck and call, at least not once he had found Cathal. For the moment, though, as much as he disliked the idea, his choices were somewhat lacking. Sighing, he pulled his cloak around him and left the room. It appeared that the next part of this adventure was about to begin, whether he was ready for it or not. “Ah, I see you‟ve finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Lady Deryn greeted him, nodding in approval at his new clothes. “They suit you,” she decided, “and look so much better than the strange garments you were
Cat’s Quill | 247
wearing.” A slow smirk crossed her lips briefly. “I‟m sure Lord Emerys will agree once he sees you.” “Where is he?” Tomas demanded. Surely Cathal couldn‟t be expecting him? Unless…. He frowned, thinking about the flute. Had Cathal left it for him in the hope he‟d follow? Surely not, considering Cathal‟s concern in keeping him safe; it had been the reason he‟d repeated several times for not sharing the information asked of him. But then, a lot of this did not make much sense. “My, my, such enthusiasm.” Deryn gestured to someone standing in the shadows. “We really must be setting off then. After all, we‟ve kept your friend waiting long enough.” She handed him a pair of gloves. They were soft, appeared to be made of leather, and fit him perfectly when he put them on. “I am so looking forward to the two of you being reunited. It should be quite the touching moment.” Not liking her tone in the slightest, Tomas bit off a rude comment when a man started walking toward him leading a huge grey horse. It pulled at the bit in its mouth, shaking its head as it whinnied, apparently just as keen to meet with Tomas as he was to have nothing to do with it. He shook his head. Surely she couldn‟t be serious? He had no idea how to ride a horse, let alone an animal as large as this. It was a long way between it and the ground. The only time he‟d tried to mount one, during a school outing, he‟d fallen off and made a complete idiot of himself. Deryn took the reins of the horse Will brought to her. “Is there a problem, Tomas?” she asked politely, a hint of amusement in her voice. “No, of course not,” Tomas said quickly, not wanting to give her a reason to enjoy his discomfort any more than she did already. Scanning the horse, he noted stirrups and a saddle. All he had to do was get from the ground onto the horse. It couldn‟t be that difficult, could it? The horse stared at him, almost as though it sensed his nervousness. He‟d let Deryn mount her horse first and then copy what she did. “Then what are you waiting for?” Deryn nodded toward Will, who held the horse steady while she put one foot in the stirrup and mounted. “Ladies first,” Tomas told her, his mind helpfully supplying the added thought, although bitches don’t count. “Where I come from, that is good manners.” She laughed. “How quaint. It is a custom I might have to see if I can implement.” Will handed her the reins and then mounted his own horse. Tomas had not expected him to ride alongside her, given his apparent station,
248 | Anne Barwell
but then Deryn‟s response had not been exactly traditional either. “Normally I would wait for a submissive, but mine is a little preoccupied at the moment.” “Submissive?” Tomas wasn‟t sure he wanted to know the meaning of the word, especially in any context Deryn might use. It was one Cathal had used too, growing angry when he thought Tomas might think of him in that way. “Why, of course.” Deryn smiled, obviously waiting for him to mount. “In a relationship there is always a dominant and a submissive. Otherwise what is the point?” “The point is that if you love someone, there doesn‟t have to be either. It‟s meant to be mutual and equal.” Tomas turned his back on her very deliberately, his lips pursing into a thin line, focusing on the task at hand in an attempt to keep his temper under control. Fucking bitch. No wonder Cathal had reacted, thinking Tomas was implying their relationship was anything but equal. Tomas couldn‟t imagine Cathal being submissive for anyone, let alone her, and there was no way in hell she‟d be given the opportunity to attempt it. “You do have some interesting ideas, Master Tomas,” she chuckled, but there was hardness in her reply. He didn‟t turn around to see the look on her face. “You‟re an idealist obviously, the same as poor, dear Cathal. I‟m sure the two of you will have such a lot to talk about.” Tomas gritted his teeth, determined not to reply to her baiting. What had she done to Cathal? If she‟d hurt him, there wouldn‟t be anywhere safe to hide. The more she said, the further Tomas was convinced that there was anything but a formal audience with the king‟s nephew waiting at the end of this journey. Psyching himself up, he swung his left foot into the stirrup, hoping like hell the horse didn‟t move. Luckily, the man holding it tightened his grip on the reins, murmuring something in the animal‟s ear. It immediately settled, waiting placidly for Tomas to mount, which he did, surprisingly more easily than he had expected. Gripping the reins tightly once he‟d been handed them, he ignored the way his hands were shaking and wondered how he was meant to get it to move. “Come along, then,” Deryn said, already motioning her horse into a canter, Will falling in behind her and alongside Tomas. He leaned over, touching Tomas‟s horse lightly on its side, and it too started moving. “You haven‟t ridden before, have you?” he whispered to Tomas once Deryn was enough ahead of them so that they wouldn‟t be overheard. The man who had held Tomas‟s horse had since mounted another and kept pace with his mistress, leaving Tomas and Will to follow behind. Tomas was surprised that there were only the four of them riding together; with her title,
Cat’s Quill | 249
he had expected ladies-in-waiting or the like, but it seemed that Deryn traveled lightly with only the two servants. Merran had not appeared again, dismissed from both sight and mind once her purpose had been served. “No,” Tomas admitted, whispering back. “Is it that obvious?” While he was beginning to feel a little less nervous, his stomach was not happy with the up and down movement of the horse, and he had no idea what he would do if it decided to take off at a gallop in completely the wrong direction. Will grinned. “Very obvious, but don‟t worry, I‟ll look after you.” Deryn and the other servant moved farther ahead. She did not appear to want to waste too much time, and there was two hours ride ahead of them. “Thank you.” Tomas loosened his grip on the reins a little, his mind already running through likely scenarios of what he might find once they reached the castle. The annoying little voice in his head, which unfortunately seemed to have made the trip to this world with him, reminded him that he had no weapons and that his fighting skills were fairly nonexistent. “If I didn‟t and Lord Emerys found out, my life would not be worth living.” Will glanced around them, keeping one eye on their surroundings and the other on Tomas. “He is very protective of those he cares about, and it appears he cares very deeply for you.” Tomas‟s head came up sharply, unsure whether he should confirm or deny, especially considering Will‟s earlier comment that no one should be trusted. “What makes you say that,” he asked slowly, noticing that Will was also keeping a close watch on the riders ahead and maintaining a careful distance between them. “The risks he has taken,” Will said softly, inclining his head to whisper something into his horse‟s ear, coaxing it to do what he wanted rather than resorting to a riding crop such as Deryn was using ahead of them. He smiled a little, but there were slight frown lines around his eyes. It was as though he‟d seen more than he should have for his age; there was an air of maturity about him that Tomas would have expected from someone far older. “What risks?” Tomas asked, gripping the reins in his hands, glad that he‟d been given gloves so that the whiteness of his knuckles wasn‟t so obvious. Beneath him the horse kept up its slow but steady pace, each step taking them both closer to their destination, and to Cathal. “He hasn‟t spoken of you as such, but he hasn‟t needed to.” Will was watching him intently, for once his focus solely on Tomas. He fought the urge to squirm, not liking the feeling that his reaction was being noted very carefully, a test as to whether he met the criteria required of him for whatever lay at the end of this journey. “He‟s taken to disappearing over the past few
250 | Anne Barwell
days, a few moments here, an hour there, and when he returns, his demeanor is different. He thinks he hides it, but he does not.” Will sighed. “With everything at stake and so many dependent on him and his role in what is to come, he took a great risk crossing over into your world again.” Tomas opened his mouth to ask how Will knew that was where Cathal had been but shut it again when Will raised his hand to silence him. “To a man such as Lord Emerys, it could only be for one reason.” His tone softened. “And then there is the fact that he returned with the Falcons willingly and has refused to speak of what had happened. The rumors amongst those who know of his present situation are that he is protecting someone.” Will‟s eyes grew hard. “I hope you are worth what he has been through since his return, Master Tomas, and it is not just him that you need to convince of that.” “Been through?” Tomas edged his horse closer to Will‟s. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What‟s happened to him?” His stomach churned, visions of Cathal hurt, tortured, or worse, coming to mind. “He‟s okay, isn‟t he?” Please, God, let him be okay. “He protects those he cares about.” Will shook his head, his voice grim. “Even when it is at great cost to himself. It is one of the reasons why his followers are very loyal to him. But unfortunately, he is also very stubborn.” He laid a hand on Tomas‟s very briefly, snatching it away when he realized what he‟d done. “He is fine for now. Master Christian will do what he can to ensure that, but I am still not sure that this journey is wise. In going to him, you are playing into her hands and, I suspect, giving her the very weapon she needs to achieve her goals.” “Why are you telling me this?” Tomas eyed Will suspiciously, the younger man‟s sudden verbosity not reassuring in the slightest. Playing into Deryn‟s hands was the least of Tomas‟s concerns; he hid his reaction in hearing Christian‟s name. It was no surprise that Cathal‟s cousin would figure into what was going down somehow. From Alice‟s letters and what Wynne had said, the two were close. “You don‟t know me, and you just said yourself that I still need to convince you I‟m worth it, whatever the hell that means.” He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, needing the illusion of something between them. Before them, Deryn and her manservant paused on the edge of what appeared to be a river, waiting for them to catch up before crossing it. Tomas swallowed and plastered on a glare of his own, trying to ignore his growing realization that his fate and that of Cathal rested with people he barely knew or trusted. Will merely smiled. “Lord Emerys has no time for fools, nor would he be interested in one. He needs an equal in all things.” He leaned over, his voice dropping in volume still further, his mouth twitching. “Work it out, Master Tomas. Convince me and perhaps yourself as well.” Urging his horse to
Cat’s Quill | 251
move, he made his way toward the bank of the river, leaving Tomas no choice but to follow. It appeared that it was not only Cathal who spoke in riddles. Whatever the case, it was still damn annoying, and if Will was merely Deryn‟s servant, Tomas was the white rabbit complete with pocket watch! The light was beginning to fade, the temperature dropping still further, the trees around them casting shadows, grey shapes which moved forward and back, answering the call of the wind. Mud caked the sides of the riverbank, thick and oozing into the water‟s edge, seeming to swallow the ground, although it was fairly firm to the touch. Sharp rocks were visible at intervals through the fast-flowing current. Tomas‟s horse approached it gingerly and then took a step back, its front hooves pawing the ground. “Cross this, and we are almost home,” Deryn explained, her own horse already wading into the water. It was deeper than it appeared; she hitched up her skirt to avoid it becoming wet to reveal black stockings at the tops of her boots disappearing into a layer of a shift-like undergarment. “The darkness approaches. We need to hurry.” “How far is it?” Tomas eyed the narrow river dubiously. It wasn‟t as wide as some he‟d seen, but it didn‟t look very safe, his horse‟s behavior doing nothing to reassure him of that fact. “Another twenty minutes,” Deryn called over her shoulder. “Come now, Tomas, surely you are not afraid of a little water?” Her horse kept plodding through, keeping its pace slow but steady, shaking itself when it climbed out onto the bank on the opposite side. “Keep to my path, and you will be perfectly safe.” Tomas fought the urge to snort, the double meaning of her words not lost on him. Attempting to ease his horse to put one hoof in the water met with failure. The horse stopped right on the edge and refused to move. “What is wrong with that animal?” Will wondered, shaking his head. “It‟s never done this before. We‟ve crossed this part of the river dozens of times.” “Well, it‟s doing it now,” Tomas pointed out. It was only a river crossing, more like a stream in size, yet the horse was spooked for some reason. “Is there another path we could follow and avoid the river?” “No.” Will took the reins from Tomas, backing both of their horses away from the river to allow Deryn‟s manservant to join his mistress on the bank on the other side. “The light is fading quickly. We need to cross now or we‟ll be forced to camp here for the night, and that is not an option.” In the distance a low howling echoed around the surrounding hills, followed by high-pitched chattering. What appeared to be a dark cloud hovered over one of the trees and then dispersed into dozens of black-colored
252 | Anne Barwell
birds that hovered in the air for a few moments before disappearing into the forest. “Wild animals?” Tomas asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end, feeling as spooked by the noise as the birds had been. “That is one way of describing them, yes.” Will glanced around nervously. “Legend has it that they didn‟t always used to be, though.” “What legend?” Tomas followed Will‟s line of sight but couldn‟t see anything. “Were they domesticated animals left out to fend for themselves?” The use of the word “legend” was doing nothing to help his growing uneasiness. Surely this place didn‟t have its own version of Bigfoot? He frowned. Come to think of it, he didn‟t even know what this bloody place was called. Deryn waved to them from the other side of the river. “Cross now!” she ordered. “Do whatever is necessary, but get Tomas to this side of the river. Leave his horse if you have to. We do not have much time.” One of the birds they‟d seen earlier began circling above them, dipping in the air, its cry melancholy yet strangely familiar. Tomas tilted his head, watching it, trying to work out where he‟d heard it before, or at least something similar. The bird itself reminded him of a crow, but it was much bigger, the wingspan more that of a falcon. “It‟s a bird of prey,” he commented softly. “Yes!” Will‟s reply was sharp. “Either we leave your horse or we force it to cross this river. The lone bird is not a good sign. They travel by flock unless they wait to dine, and I have no intention of becoming a meal.” “I‟m not leaving the horse,” Tomas said, not wanting to be responsible for the death of any living creature. “Either it crosses with us, or I‟m staying behind.” He craned his neck, watching the bird. “Just how dangerous is that thing?” “It‟s not. It simply waits to dine on what is left.” Will gestured with his head toward the thickest part of the forest. “Not that the diawl leave much.” He shivered. “Or so I‟ve heard. Of those who have met them, there are very few survivors, and they usually do not live long. The healers cannot save them but merely ease their passing.” “Diawl?” This place was becoming less welcoming by the moment. The bird cried again, the sound echoing, surrounding them. Will strengthened his grip on the reins of both horses and urged his own into the water. This time it refused, as did Tomas‟s once again. Tomas frowned and sniffed the air. A stench filled his nostrils; he was sure it hadn‟t been there before. He choked, coughing. The smell reminded him of rotten eggs, but with a far greater degree of sulfur to it. Will swore under his breath
Cat’s Quill | 253
and reached into one of his saddlebags, all the while keeping an eye on the bird overhead. “Open this and hold it under the horse‟s nose,” Will hissed, shoving a small leather bag pulled closed with a drawstring into Tomas‟s hand and also returning his horse‟s reins. “Whatever you do, don‟t take a whiff of it yourself. It will addle your senses.” Watching Will open the bag and hold it against the horse‟s nostrils, Tomas followed his example, gripping the sides of his horse with his thighs when the animal protested and reared up onto its back legs. Biting his lip to avoid crying out at the pain that shot through his stiffening legs, Tomas held onto the reins and the horse‟s mane as tightly as he could. The horse settled a little and tried to back away from the smell, but to his amazement, Tomas managed to stay astride. Leaning forward, he tasted blood as he bit his lip still harder in his determination to do this without showing his audience just how inexperienced a rider he was. For a moment he debated dismounting but wasn‟t sure his legs would hold his weight, so he persevered with keeping the bag firmly in place so that the animal could not avoid getting a whiff of whatever was in it. Snorting its protest, the horse breathed in and immediately calmed, becoming docile, its ears pricking back against its head, its eyes glazing over. “What the fuck is this?” Tomas demanded, but Will shook his head, pulling his own bag closed and putting it back into his saddlebag. Tomas shoved his bag quickly into a pocket he had discovered on the inside of his cloak. “I‟ll explain later. The effect of the herbs only lasts a few minutes, but we need to hurry before the horse can think for itself again.” He motioned the horse into the water again, and this time there was no question of disobedience; it obeyed its master‟s orders, although it seemed sluggish in its movements. Tomas mirrored Will‟s actions with his own horse, the stench growing stronger the further the animal waded into the water. Why hadn‟t the other horses reacted to this, and why his at first and not Will‟s? Shaking his head, he stroked the horse‟s mane, talking softly to it. Just because it had been drugged, that did not mean that it did not register its fear on some level, and it was being put through this ordeal because of him. And to keep them both safe from whatever these diawl were. Above them the bird circled, the darkness closing in; it was growing more difficult to see Deryn and her manservant waiting for them. One step.
254 | Anne Barwell
Then another. Tomas kept his focus on the horse, realizing he did not know its name, and on the bank on the other side of the river. Just two more steps, and they would be there. Out of this water and back onto dry land. Something moved in the water beneath them, darting in and around the horse‟s hooves. Tomas got a glimpse of a long, grey, snakelike creature. He urged the horse to pick up its pace, but it took another step, the water splashing up against its forelegs, and stopped. “Move it,” Tomas hissed. One more step, and the bloody thing had stopped. Why him? Will‟s horse had crossed the river without a hitch and was now waiting on the other side. Tomas went to slide off the horse and into the water, thinking that he‟d lead it if riding was not going to work. To hell with his legs, it was better risking that and leaning on the horse to steady himself than being stuck in the middle of the water with the creature in it stalking them. The water snake‟s head and half its body rose out of the water. Tomas froze. It seemed bigger out of the water, the head at least the size of his hand and forearm. A small object flashed past Tomas, what was left of the light highlighting the blade for a split second before the knife ricocheted off a rock, barely missing the snake as it dived back beneath the water. Regaining his senses, Tomas reached out his hand, catching the handle of the blade before it disappeared after its prey, hiding it beneath his cloak, the horse hiding his action from those already safely on the shore. “Out of the water, now!” Deryn snapped. “Both you and that horse.” She stood on the edge of the bank, hands on each hip, glaring at him. “Never, never get into the same area of water as a snake. Don‟t they teach you anything in the way of common sense where you come from?” “If they did, I certainly wouldn‟t be here with you, would I?” Tomas replied in kind. His horse finally out of the water, he sat back in the saddle, catching his breath. “We do not have the fauna you do, obviously. My world is a little more… civilized.” He emphasized the last word, allowing himself a smirk when Deryn snorted her disapproval. She did not need to know that he had barely spent any time in the wilderness of his own world. “Civilization comes in many forms. Do not judge what you do not know, Tomas. The price for that can be very high.” She looked out upon the water and sighed. “That was my favorite knife. I do hope you are worth this effort.” Mounting her horse again, she shook her head. “From what I have seen so far, I doubt it, but then a prize is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”
Cat’s Quill | 255
“I am not a prize,” Tomas informed her. If she expected to be thanked for saving his life, she would be waiting quite some time. It almost evened the score for having drugged him and taken his clothes. “Of course not,” she agreed. “But then I am not the one beholding, am I?” Glancing up at the darkening clouds, she nodded curtly at Will. “Arthur and I are going ahead. Bring him. You know what will happen if you do not.” “Yes, my lady.” Will bowed his head, deferring to her, his tone quite different than when he‟d spoken to Tomas. “I do.” She smiled. “Stable the horses when you are done. I will send others to escort Tomas to his final destination.” Without waiting for a confirmation or reply, she tossed her hair back over her shoulders, her horse breaking into a canter, Arthur riding several paces behind her at a respectful distance. “Bitch,” muttered Tomas under his breath. “Careful, if you value your life,” Will warned. “We are close enough to the castle now that it is not safe.” He came up alongside Tomas, both horses seemingly alert again, if not a little restless. Speaking to Tomas‟s mount quietly and then his own, Will lowered his voice still further. “You did well to get the horse across the water. I suspect she picked up on the stench of the rotting diawl before we did, and perhaps even the snake.” He stroked her mane. “She‟s a good horse with good instincts, although Deryn is not fond of her. It is interesting that it is this horse that you ride.” “Why?” Tomas frowned. If one of those creatures had died upstream, it made sense that the horse would not enter the water. “What did she do to Deryn?” Will grinned. “Nothing, but she was one of the few gifts Deryn has received from Lord Emerys. An amusement on his part, I suspect, as the name he gave it makes absolutely no sense. She took it as an insult rather than admit her lack of understanding.” “Cat gave her the horse? It was his?” Why would he give anything to that bitch, especially if he refused to acknowledge their engagement? “Avoiding all that society dictates of a person in his position is dangerous,” Will explained. “Besides, they have been friends since childhood. It was merely a gift from one friend to another, and he made that very clear. And as I said, the horse has good instincts.” “So, what‟s she called?” Tomas was curious now, doubtful that Cathal would have chosen the name lightly. A chance to insult Deryn probably would have been an added bonus. It would have been to Tomas.
256 | Anne Barwell
“It is a name that makes no sense to me either.” Will gestured toward the direction in which Deryn and Arthur had headed several minutes beforehand. “Come, we should go.” He leaned over and whispered in Tomas‟s ear. “Tomas and Buttercup. The names work well together, don‟t you think?”
Cat’s Quill | 257
Chapter 23
TOMAS stared at Will for a moment and then snorted. “Buttercup? He called the horse Buttercup?” Despite the way he was feeling, or perhaps because of it, Tomas began to laugh. Whatever way Cathal had meant it, either in reference to Deryn or to himself, the irony was either a very good joke or a very bad one. “The reference is from your world then?” Will did not seem amused. “Yes, it‟s from a story.” Tomas decided that was the easiest way to explain it, not wanting to launch into specifics of popular culture. “A princess is about to be married, and her true love returns to rescue her.” Saying it aloud, the parallels of it to the current situation suddenly struck him. “It‟s a story about heroism, evil monsters, and swordfights,” he finished slowly. “Interesting,” Will remarked, shaking his head. “So one of the horses is called Buttercup?” He urged his horse into a canter, and Tomas followed. “No, that‟s the princess.” Tomas matched Will‟s speed and rode up alongside. He‟d be glad when this journey was over, and so would his aching muscles. Some hero he was; the way he was feeling now, he wouldn‟t be able to hold a sword, let alone fight. More likely he‟d end up skewered after he‟d made a complete idiot of himself. Or fallen off his horse. “I see,” Will looked Tomas up and down, his expression serious. “So what part in this do you play, I wonder?” “It‟s a story, Will, nothing more.” Tomas wasn‟t going to fall into that trap again. He was not the heroic type. Finding out Alice‟s book was true had been enough to deal with. Once he found Cathal, they would be out of here, and it would be the finish of this particular story, complete with their happy ending. All he had to do was figure out how to free Cathal and get them both home. “Most stories have a basis in some kind of fact.” Will frowned. “But unfortunately, reality isn‟t as simple as the fairytale version makes us believe,
258 | Anne Barwell
and just because something is worth fighting for doesn‟t mean that it is easy to achieve.” Tomas didn‟t like the way Will‟s words sounded as though they were a reflection of past experience. “Yeah, that‟s a given.” “Yes, it is.” Will smiled a little sadly. “But is the price too high?” He was quiet for a few moments, the only sound around them the horses‟ hooves against the grass, the dark closing in further around them. Straining his eyes, Tomas could see a faint light ahead, but before he could ask what it was, Will motioned both horses to stop, his breath a thin, off-white smoke as he studied Tomas once more. “What?” Tomas shivered, Buttercup restless beneath him. He stroked the horse‟s mane but didn‟t dare whisper reassurances this time. This moment was Will‟s; it was his place to break the silence that followed. “This is your last chance to turn back from this path, Tomas.” Will glanced between Tomas and the light ahead. “I cannot tell you what will happen once we enter the castle walls, just that there is great danger ahead. I will also be very limited in what I can do to help you; most likely I will not be able to at all.” “Is Cathal in there?” Tomas hadn‟t thought for a moment that this was going to be easy. Deryn had something planned for him, for both him and Cathal, and he doubted it would be pleasant. “Yes.” Will‟s horse whinnied softly. He stroked its mane to quiet it. The night was still, almost as though time itself were slowed, listening, waiting, the curtain poised halfway between acts. “Then I can‟t turn back, Will.” Tomas managed a shaky smile of his own. He nodded toward the light. “My future is with him, and I can‟t just walk away. I need to see it through, whatever happens.” “This isn‟t a story, Tomas,” Will reminded him very quietly. “Life isn‟t always fair, and love sometimes is not enough. If you turn back now, you get to live. You enter those walls, and there is a good chance you may not.” “I know that.” The light winked out for a moment, plunging them into darkness before returning again quickly. “But I love him, and I have to at least try. A few moments with him is better than a lifetime alone.” “You‟re either very brave or very foolish, but either way, I wish you luck.” Will‟s next words were spoken almost to himself. “If he thinks you are worth it, perhaps you are. I hope for both your sakes he is not mistaken.” “I don‟t care if I am or not. He is worth it to me, and that is what matters.” Tomas ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back off his face. It was time to stop hiding. For the first time in his life, he‟d found something worth
Cat’s Quill | 259
fighting for and someone he truly cared for enough to risk everything. That he‟d admitted that fact not only to himself but to someone else confirmed it very clearly. Will bowed his head in Tomas‟s direction in a gesture of respect. He went to return it, but Will shook his head and motioned toward the castle. “We need to hurry. Keep on her good side and show respect for as long as you are able. It may buy you some time.” Then, without waiting for a reply, Will urged his horse toward the light, and Tomas, hoping he hadn‟t just completely sealed his fate and Cathal‟s by what he‟d said, gritted his teeth, hung onto his horse, and followed.
THE
rest of their journey passed very quickly. Tomas had expected it to crawl, especially with the silence between them. His heart was racing, his mouth was dry, and his body ached, yet he felt an anticipation and excitement he hadn‟t before. Cathal was in this castle somewhere, and this hadn‟t been for nothing. Whatever happened, they would face it together. Tomas was not going to just sit and wait for the person he loved to return to him, not like Alice had done. Alice hadn‟t had a choice though, and Tomas‟s hopes could all crumble to nothing once he entered the castle grounds. Depending on what Deryn had planned, he might not get to see Cathal, let alone touch him, hold him, and reassure him. The light grew closer; there wasn‟t just one source of it as Tomas had originally thought but several torches burning to illuminate the side entrance. Will knocked on the door, and it opened slowly to admit them into the courtyard, the man on duty not saying a word, acknowledging them with a slight nod of his head. Footsteps sounded in the distance, boots hurrying against dried mud, but Tomas ignored them, wanting to examine his surroundings before the opportunity was taken from him. The tall tower inside the thick, fortified walls—it was called a keep if he remembered correctly—was a combination of brick and ancient wood. It too seemed to be designed to keep enemies out, or perhaps in, once they had been lured in by the resident spider, as he had been. Tomas shivered, feeling insignificant and very much a man out of his own time and place. It was as though he‟d stepped even further into the past of his own world, but at the same time some of the details didn‟t feel quite right, although he couldn‟t put a finger on what, exactly. Not that he was a historian by any means, but there was a feeling that he couldn‟t shake, a wrongness that made him very uneasy. However long the keep had stood, it felt older than anything he‟d seen before;
260 | Anne Barwell
generations had probably lived and died within its walls, and it would no doubt still be standing when he and Cathal were mere memories, more than likely forgotten by most. Tilting his head back, he looked up, trying to make out the symbol on the flag flying from the highest point of the tower, but it was too dark to see. He snorted. Considering who the owner was, he wouldn‟t have been surprised if the flag carried this world‟s version of a skull and crossbones. The footsteps grew closer, three men approaching them quickly. Will dismounted his horse, and Tomas followed suit, giving his reins to Will when he held out his hand for them. Swaying on his feet, his legs unsteady after being in the saddle, he forced himself to stand upright, determined not to show any weakness. “Tomas Kemp, the Lady Deryn has requested your presence,” the first man stated. He was tall, not very well built, his tone firm, its message that while this was worded as a request, refusal was not an option. He also was well armed; a longsword hung from his side, and there was a dagger tucked into his belt. “And you would be?” Tomas asked, standing his ground, hoping at least to get some kind of hint of what was going to happen next. Behind him, Will spoke softly to both horses and then led them away. They would need rubbing down, feeding, and watering before settling them down in the stables for the night. Fighting the urge to watch him go, Tomas instead glared at the blond man in front of him, ignoring the realization that he was now on his own, the one person who might have been his ally having just left him alone to deal with whoever these men were. “The person sent to take you to Lady Deryn.” The man gestured to the two men either side of him, both of whom drew their swords. “I was told that you were a stranger to our land and might need some introduction to the way we do things here. When your presence is requested, you do not ask questions, you obey. My lady did not say that you still needed to be in one piece, or in perfect condition. If she requires this, it is usually stated, and it wasn‟t.” “Oh.” Tomas knew the word wasn‟t the wittiest of responses, but the idea of being presented in pieces was one that his imagination was a little too prepared to play with. He let his hands fall to his sides, trying to look as harmless as possible. It wasn‟t difficult considering how tired and sore he was. “Does taking me to her also take me to Lord Emerys?” The question was worth asking, even if it didn‟t get a reply. “I am merely to take you to her, nothing more.” Conversation was obviously not high on his list of strong points, unless it was Threatening
Cat’s Quill | 261
Captives 101. Tomas was under no illusions that this was probably what he was now that he was inside the castle walls. Will had warned him of it in not so many words. “Okay, fine.” Tomas hesitated and then decided he‟d give this one more shot. “Do you have a name, then? Any of you?” The blond man laughed, but it was not an expression of amusement. “That, I suppose, is permitted, as you will find out soon enough. My name is Jasper.” He gestured to Tomas to follow, the other two men moving into positions behind so that their captive was surrounded. “Speak when you are spoken to, nothing more, and do not ask any more questions. I am a reasonable man; others who serve her are not.” If he was reasonable, Tomas didn‟t want to see an example of not. So, keep quiet and see what happened next. If he was not led to Cathal, he‟d demand that Deryn hold to her promise… or something. Of course it would be helpful if he had any idea what that something might entail, but one step at a time. Earlier that day he‟d doubted he would ever see Cathal again, let alone find a way into his world, so in that regard, at least, things were better than they had been. Now he was being marched by men with swords into a castle in the middle of nowhere. Yes, things were really looking up. Jasper led them down a side path which was more mud than anything. It did not appear that pavements were in common use in this world, if at all. Smaller buildings littered the inside of the stronghold; the smell of cooking came from one of them, men‟s voices from another. Although he could not see much with the little light there was, Tomas doubted that there was another way in apart from the door through which Will had brought him. The castles he‟d read about had drawbridges, but he‟d yet to see one. The chances of escaping, even if he did find Cathal, were becoming slimmer with each moment. All Tomas had focused on up to this point was finding Cathal; he hadn‟t given much thought to what would happen then. Some hero he‟d turned out to be, but this wasn‟t a story; maybe there didn‟t need to be just one. Cathal knew this world. Tomas didn‟t. With each other‟s help, they stood a better chance of figuring a way out. Stopping at a heavy wooden door, Jasper took a large metal key out of his pocket and ushered Tomas inside, the guards—for that could be the only thing they were—following him closely behind. Once they were all inside, Jasper relocked the door and replaced the key in his pocket. Taking a torch down from the wall at the beginning of the passage, he moved again to the front and began walking down a narrow corridor. The air around them grew colder, with the walls on either side of them damp to the touch. Although there were no steps, Tomas had the feeling of
262 | Anne Barwell
moving downward through several levels under the keep. As well as the torch Jasper carried, there were several on the walls at intervals providing enough light to prevent missing footing, but the farther they descended the more it felt as though the enclosed space was closing around them with only enough room to walk single file. If this was the only way out, he and Cathal were well and truly screwed. What did Deryn want with Cathal, exactly? The overheard conversation had mentioned responsibilities that he wouldn‟t accept, but surely it had to be more than just agreeing to marry her? Tomas sighed. He‟d rushed into this, thinking being here would make a difference, that just finding Cathal would be enough, but it was becoming clearer with each passing minute that it wasn‟t. He knew nothing about this world apart from what he‟d seen over the last few hours and the little Cathal had said. Neither boded particularly well. Jasper stopped, and Tomas, lost in his thoughts, almost walked into him. One of the guards behind him pulled him back by his cloak, holding him in place. “No further until my lady orders it,” the man announced in a flat voice. “Fine, whatever,” Tomas mumbled, not wanting to argue the point and aggravate him more. Finding Cathal came first; he‟d deal with the details later. The grip on his cloak tightened. He fought the urge to tell this guy to fuck off, bit his lip, and tried to work out what Jasper had stopped for. Ahead of them was a dead end, a wall made of brick blocking their way. Could they have taken a wrong turn? No, that was impossible, as there had not been any paths off the one they had followed. The torch in Jasper‟s hand flickered. Tomas felt a cold breeze around his lower legs. The man behind him let go of his cloak for a moment, sliding one arm around him, holding Tomas firmly against him so he couldn‟t move. Normally Tomas would have struggled, but he still ached all over, and he was tired. The man was taller than Tomas by at least half a foot, and well built. It would have been foolish to try. Besides, if Tomas appeared not to be a threat, they might relax their guard a little. He sighed, wondering who he was trying to fool. If he tried anything, it was doubtful he‟d get far. There was nowhere to go, and they were well armed while he had a dagger he wasn‟t sure he‟d be able to use against anyone if his bluff was called and a small drawstring bag of herbs that made horses docile but did God knew what to humans. Jasper ran his hand over a portion of the wall, took a wooden stick about six inches in length from the inside of his cloak, and used it to draw out a rough area about the size of a door. He then waited a few moments and recited a string of words in a language Tomas had never heard before. The bricks inside the drawn outline disappeared, leaving a door-shaped hole in the
Cat’s Quill | 263
wall in front of them. He stepped through, the guard restraining Tomas shoved him through, and then he and the other man followed behind. Landing on his hands and knees and face on a rough floor, Tomas tried to scramble to his feet, but a heavy boot shoved in his back kept him where he was. “Let me up,” he hissed. Cooperation was one thing, but this position was quite another. “I think I like you just where you are,” a familiar voice purred. “I much prefer a man on his knees, deferring to me and showing his respect.” Tomas spat out a mouthful of straw. Fingers grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head up, forcing him to look at the so-called lady in front of him. “I am not deferring to you,” he spat, “and respect has to be earned.” “We‟ll see.” She smiled and nodded, and the guard holding Tomas‟s hair let go. Tomas hit the floor again, grunting when a wave of pain went through his jaw. Another nod and the boot holding him in place was removed. He got to his feet as quickly as he could, ignoring the needles of stabbing agony in the small of his back. Blinking, he scanned what appeared to be a smallish room, trying to work out where the hell he was. Deryn stood in front of him. In her hands she held the riding crop she had used on her horse. The outfit she had worn for their journey had been replaced by a long green dress, the hem of which brushed against the floor. It was low-cut across her bodice and gathered under her breasts. Her hair was tied back off her face, dark netting holding it up in a bun. The rest of the room was empty apart from a table and two chairs; the table appeared to be wood, sturdy but nothing out of the ordinary, or so Tomas thought until he caught sight of the carving etched into the top of it. A small oval object about the size of his palm lay on the table, intricately designed, but he couldn‟t make out the detail from this distance. There were no windows; light was provided by a torch at each corner of the room, but there was another door at the far end of it. Tomas debated making a run for it, then decided against it. Apart from the fact the door was probably locked, he had no idea where it might lead. “Where is Cathal?” he demanded, anger overriding common sense, which dictated staying on her good side would be the sensible thing to do about now. “Now, now, such manners,” she chastised. “I promised to take you to him, and I am a lady of my word.” Shaking her head, she looked him up and down. “You do look a little worse for wear, but never mind, so does he, so that doesn‟t really matter at this point, does it?”
264 | Anne Barwell
“You bitch!” Tomas lunged at her, but the guard backhanded him across the face, sending him reeling. “If you‟ve hurt him, I‟ll kill you.” He lifted his head, glaring at her. The action earned him a hard punch to the stomach. Now that they were in her territory, all pretense of niceness was gone, the role she had played up to now discarded. “Tsk tsk, threatening your hostess like that really isn‟t good enough.” She smiled again. “And you have quite the temper when provoked, it appears. Respect does have to be earned on both sides, and so far you have failed to gain mine.” Her eyes hardened. “Bring him,” she ordered the guard, “and make sure he minds his manners. We can‟t have him encouraging dear Cathal to do anything they both might regret.” “Yes, my lady,” the guard replied in the same flat voice he‟d used earlier. He pulled Tomas to his feet. “Do you wish me to restrain him?” Deryn appeared to consider for a moment. “Perhaps that might be for the best,” she decided. “Bind his hands behind his back. It will be a reminder of his role in this, so that he does not get ideas above his station.” “Very well, my lady.” She nodded, took a large key from a pocket in her skirt, and walked briskly over to the far door, unlocking it quickly. “Bring him once he is ready. Jasper, you and Lucan stand guard. Make sure that we are not disturbed.” Tomas‟s hands were pulled roughly behind him. He struggled, but the guard ignored it and carried on with the task at hand, binding Tomas‟s wrists so tightly that the rope bit into his skin. His cheek stung where he‟d been hit; he could taste dull copper when he swallowed. Once restrained, he was pushed forward, with no choice but to follow Deryn through the door. “No!” Cathal‟s voice was filled with horror. Tomas scanned the room, desperate to find him. One side of the room was divided into two cells, more like cages, as this room was about half the size of the outer one. They ran from floor to ceiling several feet away from the wall, bars on either side, with another row dividing the prison into two compartments. In one was a blond man Tomas did not know but who looked familiar for some reason. In the other was Cathal, his hands bound in a similar fashion to Tomas‟s and the rope looped into a circular iron ring stuck in the floor. “Cat!” Tomas pulled free of his captor and ran to the cage. “Are you okay? What‟s that bitch done to you?” Cathal looked up at him; the side of his face was bruised, his mouth still split where one of his original captors had backhanded him, and his shirt ripped to reveal more bruising across his stomach. He held Tomas‟s gaze for a moment, his eyes full of fear before a
Cat’s Quill | 265
curtain seemed to come over them, all emotion wiped from his features, his shoulders slumping. On Deryn‟s order, the guard pulled Tomas away from the cage. When he kept struggling, a knife was held to his throat, a warning that his current actions were not advisable. He froze, the blade cold against his skin. “Let him go, Deryn.” Cathal‟s voice was calm, perhaps too much so. “This is not his fight, it is ours. He does not belong here.” “I do not wish to fight with you, Cathal dear,” Deryn reminded him. “I simply wish you to acknowledge what is yours. We‟ve had this discussion already.” “I‟ve already told you I won‟t do that.” Cathal shook his head. “The future of our people hangs in the balance, and I will not jeopardize that for a lie.” He glared at her. “That future hangs in the balance because you will not take responsibility and do the duty expected of you.” Deryn shook her head sadly. “I tried to understand. Am I so repugnant that you will not lie with me? That was all you needed to do.” She gestured toward Tomas. “And then I discover it is because you have rejected me for another.” Lie with her? Tomas opened his mouth to protest, but the knife pressed more firmly against his throat. All this was to get Cathal to have sex with her? No way in hell. “I will not be bedded by you or marry you, Deryn.” Cathal gave Tomas an apologetic look, his gaze lingering on the knife. “Tradition be damned. I will not be with someone I do not love.” He lowered his voice. “I‟m sorry.” “The bloodlines must be preserved for the royal house to continue.” Deryn sounded as though she believed what she was saying. The blond man in the other cell snorted. He was restrained in the same manner as Cathal. “Heaven help us if those bloodlines are reliant on you, bitch,” he said. “Stay out of this, Christian,” Cathal hissed at him. “This isn‟t your fight either.” “Sure it‟s not, cousin.” Christian rolled his eyes. Tomas stared at him. This was Christian? The guy Alice had fallen for all those years ago? Christian met the stare with one of his own and, to Tomas‟s surprise, winked in response. “Think about it. I‟m not in this cell for my health, any more than you are.” Deryn sighed. “You‟re in that cell, Christian dear, because you‟re a hindrance to what needs to be done, the same way you‟ve always been. It‟s your fault that Cathal does not play by the rules.”
266 | Anne Barwell
“I make my own decisions,” Cathal snapped at her. “My cousin is not to blame for this either. He‟s already paid his dues.” He pulled at his restraints, trying to reach the outer bars of his cell, but the rope was too short. “Let him and Tomas go. They‟ve done nothing wrong. I‟ll sign the damn confession and do whatever else it takes, but I will not bed you. That is my final offer.” Confession of what? If this wasn‟t just about him not marrying Deryn, what else was going on? Tomas croaked a “no.” The knife pricked his skin, burning as a drop of blood dribbled down his neck to soak into the edge of his cloak. He heard Cathal‟s breath hitch. “You are in no position to offer me anything.” Deryn sounded amused. “Just remember, my dear, you will be missed eventually, but Christian and Tomas won‟t be. Neither of them are supposed to be in our world.” “The council will already be aware that Christian is here,” Cathal reminded her. “He is bound to the tree on this side the same way that I am bound to it on the other.” Deryn smirked. “Ah yes, but Tomas is not. As you said yourself, he does not belong here, and this is not his fight.” “No.” Cathal‟s voice wavered slightly. “No.” Deryn strode over to his cage, smiled, leaned in, and whispered something. Cathal paled. She opened the door and gestured to the guard holding Tomas. The knife lowered, and he was pushed into Cathal‟s cell, his own restraints secured to the iron ring holding Cathal‟s. The door was slammed shut on both of them, and Deryn gave Cathal a slight bow. “I bid you good day for now, Lord Emerys. I do believe you have an offer to consider.” And with that she swept from the room, the guard following her, shutting and locking the door behind them.
Cat’s Quill | 267
Chapter 24
“CAT,” Tomas whispered, torn between wanting to kiss Cathal and being suddenly shy now that they were together again. Most of all, he wanted to hold him. He took a step toward Cathal, forgetting for a moment that they were both restrained, letting out a cry of frustration when the ropes holding his arms behind him refused to budge. “What are you doing here?” Cathal shook his head, backing away. “You‟re not supposed to be here. You‟re supposed to be safe.” The fear returned to his eyes. “I went with them so you wouldn‟t get involved with this.” His voice rose, although it was hoarse. “I wanted you kept safe.” “Cat, please.” Tomas bit his lip; the last thing he had expected after all this was for Cathal not to be happy to see him. “I couldn‟t just wait for whatifs, not when I knew they had you.” He ran his eyes over Cathal again, taking in the scrapes across his skin, the bruising and the dried blood on his face. “That bitch hurt you. What else did she do to you?” “And now she‟s going to hurt you.” Cathal‟s shoulders slumped again, the show he‟d put on for Deryn completely gone. “Oh, Tomas. Why couldn‟t you have just stayed in your own world?” He shivered; the goose bumps were more obvious on his skin now that he and Tomas were mere inches away from each other. “Because….” Tomas swallowed, his mouth dry. On impulse he leaned forward and kissed Cathal full on the lips, awkward at first and then leaning into it as Cathal responded eagerly. God, he wanted to just hold him. Damn these ropes, this place, this whole fucking situation. “I think he‟s trying to say he loves you, idiot,” Christian broke in dryly. Both of them turned to glare at him. Then Cathal‟s expression softened. “I know he does,” he whispered. “I love him too. Why do you think I didn‟t want him here? If I knew he was safe, I still had hope, something to hang onto when she‟d finished with me.”
268 | Anne Barwell
“You‟re a romantic, Cat.” Christian shook his head and sat down on the floor of his own cell, getting as comfortable as he could. It was no easy task on a cold, hard floor covered with dirt and straw and with his arms bound behind him just as theirs were. “You always have been. She‟d never finish with you, not while you weren‟t giving her what she wanted, and not even when you had. Why suddenly change her habits of a lifetime?” Tomas coughed. “Cat and I were having a conversation,” he snapped. “I don‟t remembering giving you an invitation to join in.” “You didn‟t.” Christian grinned. “It just was such the perfect moment for me to do so that I had to.” He ran an approving eye down Tomas. “The outfit suits you.” He stretched out his legs, almost lazily. “I still think the towel was better. No, wait, you couldn‟t find that, could you?” “Towel?” Tomas stared at him, his mouth trying to work, his face blushing bright red at the memory. How could Christian possibly know about that? “Christian.” Cathal spoke warningly. “Don‟t.” The blond man smirked. “Why not? He teases almost as well as you do.” Blue-green eyes sparkled. Tomas felt his temper flare. “This explanation had better be a damn good one.” He glared at Christian, his mind going through possible scenarios. There was only one…. “Meow.” Christian winked again, the smirk morphing into a wide grin that reminded Tomas of a Cheshire…. “No.” Tomas thought of Blackthorn and then looked at Christian. It couldn‟t be. He couldn‟t be. “Stop it!” Cathal lunged toward the bars separating him and Christian. The rope binding him to the iron ring pulled him up short and hard. Tomas‟s jaw dropped, Cathal‟s reaction confirming his cousin‟s claim. “How? What? You can‟t…. Oh God.” His legs wobbled, and he sat down with a thud on the floor of the cage. Christian was…? No, it was impossible. Wasn‟t it? “Yes, and I am.” Christian sobered for a moment. “Five years in your world as a cat.” He gestured toward the door leading from the room. “Fucking bitch.” “You have no proof it was her idea,” Cathal reminded him quietly. “It was the council who handed down the sentence, not her.” He moved away from the bars separating the cells to sit down next to Tomas, leaning into him, trying to get as close as their restraints would allow. “If it was anyone‟s fault, it was mine.”
Cat’s Quill | 269
“We‟ve already had this discussion.” Christian‟s voice was sharp, his mouth curled into a thin line. “I was the one who initially transgressed, not you. They should never have included you in this punishment.” He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. “This is a harsh world, Tomas, with laws that must be adhered to for the benefit of a few, not the majority.” Tomas found his voice again. “So why come back to it?” He frowned, trying to piece together this new puzzle. Glancing from one to the other, he watched Cathal and then Christian carefully. Alice had been right. They might be similar in coloring, with a strong family resemblance, but their personalities were like chalk and cheese. “If you were a cat,” he asked slowly, “why aren‟t you still one now?” “The portal,” Christian explained, rolling his eyes when Tomas looked blankly at him. “The oak tree you‟re fixated on, the barrier between our two worlds is thinner there. With the right key, someone or something can cross between them.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, because the area is strong in magic, the mages can also bind a person or a spell to it.” “Or both,” Cathal added, his voice bitter. He shifted slightly so that he was sitting next to Tomas again rather than a little behind him. “The council was very smug when they handed down the sentence.” “Too smug,” Christian agreed. “Punishment to fit the crime, indeed.” He muttered something rude under his breath. “I told them we had done nothing wrong, but they would not listen. They are a pack of self-righteous old men who have no clue as to what it means to be in love.” “You‟re not a cat now?” Tomas had already noticed how they tended to jump into each other‟s conversations and take them off topic. “Getting there,” Christian said. “Impatient, aren‟t you?” “Yes!” Tomas scowled; he hadn‟t intended to say that. Christian snickered. “It appears my cousin won‟t have to worry too much about his virtue, then, as it‟s supposedly linked to patience.” “Christian!” Cathal blushed an even brighter red. “Explain about the cat, or I will.” He glared, appeared to reconsider, and then smiled very slowly. “The female cat.” “I was trying to forget about that part of it,” Christian grumbled. “Being a cat was bad enough, but female? Have you any idea what it was like being in heat? I attracted all the males from the area, I swear.” He grimaced. “It could have been worse,” Cathal pointed out. “You could have got pregnant.” “That is not a topic we are going to discuss!”
270 | Anne Barwell
“Why not?” Tomas hadn‟t seen this side of Cathal before. He rather liked it. “Besides, you were the one who brought up the whole subject of virtue, and the two do appear to be related.” Cathal grinned, nuzzling the side of Tomas‟s neck. He instinctively tilted his head to give Cathal more access. “Right,” Christian said firmly, giving the two of them an amused look, which they both ignored. “We were discussing binding and trees.” “And female cats,” Tomas reminded him, unable to resist one final dig. “Says the man who lost his towel.” “Tomas. Christian. Please.” Cathal sighed, leaning his head on Tomas‟s shoulder and shivering. Tomas wriggled a bit and managed to drape his cloak over both of them. Cathal smiled his thanks. “Tomas at least deserves to know what exactly he‟s got involved in. I haven‟t been very forthcoming with details the few times we‟ve talked about it before.” Christian was silent for a few moments, staring into space, his expression wistful. When he spoke again, the joking arrogance was gone. “Our society has strict rules about many things, as I‟ve already said. Fraternization with someone from another world, such as your own, is strictly forbidden. So is spending a great deal of time there, which is what Cat and I did. I, of course, went a step further and fell in love. When they found us and discovered the extent of our transgression, the punishment was severe.” “They made an example of both of us to discourage it from happening again,” Cathal continued, his head still on Tomas‟s shoulder. “We were both bound to the tree. I could not venture past the shadow of it in your world, and Christian could not do the same in this. But for him, they went a step further.” “The cat,” Tomas guessed, frowning. “But that doesn‟t explain why you‟re not a cat now, and you‟re miles away from that tree, and Cat‟s been out of its shadow in my world too.” He wouldn‟t have been able to spend the time in the inn otherwise, or venture out of the field where the tree was. “As Cat said, for me they went a step further.” Christian looked down at the straw in his cage, refusing to look at either of them. “When I pass through the portal into your world, I am in the form of the female cat; on this side I am human. It meant that even if they‟d made up their mind about the sentence sooner, there was no way I could be with Alice again.” He kicked at the floor, angry. “My leash might be longer than Cat‟s, but it was limited to whatever could be seen from the tree. I haven‟t been able to go to the church to find her grave either.” “I‟m so sorry,” Tomas whispered, unsure of what else he could say.
Cat’s Quill | 271
“I can‟t communicate with anyone, and no one talks about her.” Christian‟s voice grew hoarse, his shoulders shaking. “I didn‟t know there was a child, our child, until a couple of weeks ago.” “Wynne,” Tomas said quietly. “His name is Wynne. I‟ve met him. He has drawings of both you and Cat, sketches that Alice drew.” “The book,” Cathal breathed. “Book?” Christian‟s head came up sharply. His eyes were damp. “Not that damn sequel you‟ve been looking for these past few weeks?” He shook his head. “How could I have been so stupid? I‟d hoped you‟d find something, that you and Cat together might be able to make things right, but I never dreamed of this.” His voice grew urgent. “Is the child all right? They don‟t know about him, do they? Please, God, tell me they don‟t.” “Christian.” Cathal started to say something, then stopped. When he continued speaking, it was almost to himself, as though he was trying to make sense of it all. “I knew the book was your story as soon as I started reading it, but I couldn‟t figure out how it could be. Wynne Emerys….” His brow furrowed. “He must be your son, but how did he know to tell it? I told Alice that she needed to be careful, that she must ensure they did not find out she knew anything about our world. It was the only thing keeping her safe.” “She wrote a journal,” Tomas told them both. “He had it published as a book, but with a few changes. They argued over it.” He bit his lip. There was no easy way to say this. “He‟s not a child anymore, Christian. The time you spent in my world, it was ninety years ago. He‟s had a child himself, and she‟s had a child.” His tone softened. He couldn‟t bring himself to look at Christian. “I don‟t know if they know about Wynne or not. Or his grandson.” “Ninety years ago? Grandson?” Christian closed his eyes. “I knew time had passed, but I never took much notice of such things. The longer I was in cat form, the harder it became to read. Everything like that was starting to slip.” “Slip?” Cathal looked at him, horrified. “No! That wasn‟t supposed to happen. They promised me it wouldn‟t. The king promised me.” Christian snorted. “You might be his nephew, Cat, but you are also a thorn in his side. Far enough from the throne not to be a threat to it but close enough that your vocal discontentment with the way things are is an embarrassment to him. Why do you think he‟s arranged this marriage for you to someone like Deryn? Think about it, cousin.” Pulling away from Tomas, Cathal got to his feet and tried to pace, swearing under his breath when the rope prevented him from taking more than three steps. “I am not some bloody submissive!” he said angrily, kicking
272 | Anne Barwell
at the straw under his feet. It didn‟t fly far, dirty, damp clumps sticking together, refusing to obey. “I don‟t care if he is my uncle or the king, I‟m not marrying her, and that‟s final.” “See what I mean,” Christian told Tomas. “He‟s vocal with that opinion too, and lucky it hasn‟t got him thrown into a nice comfortable dungeon before now. Add in the other risks he takes, although thank God he‟s a little more discreet in those, and this has the potential to be so much worse.” He shook his head. “I leave him alone for four months, and look at the mess he‟s in.” “You told me that you didn‟t get to talk to anyone,” Tomas said to Cathal, wondering just how much of the little he‟d been told was true. “That you felt isolated because of that.” “That would be the discreet bit I mentioned,” Christian added helpfully. “He‟s vocal about Deryn, but the rest he plays close to his chest.” He smiled a little. “You, he hasn‟t mentioned to anyone at all. But I doubt anyone who knows him even a little wouldn‟t have worked out he‟d fallen for someone recently, and hard, at that. He might be difficult at times to get information out of, but he‟s never learnt to hide his emotions very well.” “Be quiet!” Cathal ordered. “Don‟t talk about me as though I‟m not here. It‟s rude, not to mention insulting.” He sniffed. “I can hide my emotions when I need to.” He faltered, glancing at Tomas for a moment before turning away. “I have to.” Christian frowned. “What did she say to you, Cat?” He awkwardly got to his knees and edged closer to their cell. His clothes were ill-fitting and baggy in places, tight in others, and already turning from dark grey to black from his time in the cell. Tomas wondered what happened when he‟d changed back into human form. Were these his original clothes, or had he been given something to make do because he‟d been naked? They looked more like something someone in Will‟s position would wear, rather than the quality of cloth that Tomas had been given. “She tried to make a deal with you, didn‟t she?” The question was met with silence. Cathal shook his head. “I don‟t want to talk about it.” “Cat, please.” Tomas stood, trying to move closer, but Cathal kept just out of reach, shivering without the added warmth of the cloak. Even a day would be enough to make someone sick, let alone however long Cathal had been there. Tomas could already feel the damp seeping into his aching joints, aggravating the pain running through them, his muscles cramping when he shifted from sitting to standing. If he never got on a horse again, it would be too soon.
Cat’s Quill | 273
“I don‟t want to talk about it,” Cathal repeated stubbornly. “When the time comes, I will do what I need. There‟s nothing to discuss.” He kept his eyes focused on the door at the far end of the room, almost as though he was willing someone to come through it. Or wishing it would never open, especially if Deryn was on the other side of it. “To hell there isn‟t,” Tomas snapped. He‟d just about had enough of this crap. They were getting out of here, he didn‟t care how, but they‟d find a way. Deryn was not getting her claws into Cathal while Tomas had breath to draw to prevent it. “Excuse me?” Cathal turned to glare at him. “This is my life, Tomas. I‟ll do with it what I damn well please. This is my decision and mine alone. Stay out of it.” Tomas pulled at his restraints. “Christian‟s right. She tried to make a deal with you, and it doesn‟t take a genius to work out what that probably was.” “Don‟t do this,” Cathal begged. “I don‟t want my memories of you to be of this, of arguing with you.” He turned away again. “I need to keep you safe, and I‟m going to make sure I do whatever it takes to achieve that.” “What about what I need?” Tomas snarled, cursing the ropes holding him, wanting to force Cathal to face him. To kiss him senseless and show him exactly what he needed. Cathal stilled completely. “I can‟t give you what you need,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not in this world and I don‟t fit in yours.” “And besides, you‟re in a cell and not about to get into his….” Christian trailed off, catching sight of the expressions on both their faces. “Well, maybe later,” he amended hurriedly. “Shut up!” Both of them yelled at him simultaneously. “You two are so well suited.” Christian shrugged. “Both of you are stubborn idiots who won‟t back down. This relationship of yours is going to be very interesting.” He grinned. “I‟m looking forward to watching it develop.” “We don‟t need an audience, thank you,” Tomas said stiffly. “This is private, even if you have no concept of the word.” He cleared his throat, determined to carry on despite the interruption. “Come sit next to me, Cat, I want to talk to you.” Cathal met his eyes for a moment. His own were red, and he appeared very flushed. One lock of hair flopped down limply over one eye, but he didn‟t attempt to move his head to shift it. Shuffling his feet, he did what Tomas asked. “I‟m sorry,” he whispered, his voice muffled. “She threatened to kill you, and I don‟t know what else to do. I can‟t be responsible for your death and—”
274 | Anne Barwell
“Ssh.” Tomas kept his voice low. “It‟s okay, Cat.” Christian settled down cross-legged again and closed his eyes, his way of giving them some illusion of privacy. “No, it‟s not.” Cathal bit his lip. “This is my fault, all of it. Christian has been living as a cat, and now you‟re in this cell because you followed me.” “Because I made the choice to follow you,” Tomas corrected gently. “Christian made his own choices too. He fell in love with Alice, and it wasn‟t because of you.” He leaned over and kissed Cathal on the forehead. “Feeling guilty and blaming yourself doesn‟t change anything. Believe me, I know. I‟ve spent a lot of my life doing that for situations that were out of my control.” “This was within my control. I knew I was taking a chance going through into your world again. I was drawn to you the first time I saw you, yet I didn‟t stay away.” “It was mutual, Cat. I wanted to spend time with you, to be with you.” He smiled a little. “I could have stayed away and kept safe like you wanted, but I didn‟t. I‟d prefer a short time together like this than a lifetime of not knowing, of wondering what had happened to you.” “Like my Alice,” Christian whispered softly. “Did you really want that for Tomas, Cat? Leaving him forever like I had to?” “I never wanted to leave him. You know that. I had nightmares,” he shivered, leaning into Tomas, “about coming back too late.” Cathal was quiet for a moment. “I‟m so sorry, Christian, I don‟t mean to rub salt into your wounds. This must be very difficult for you, seeing us together.” Christian shook his head. “I don‟t begrudge you any happiness, cousin. I had a year with Alice. It‟s more than many get.” His voice softened and saddened. “I hope the two of you have longer than we did.” He shot Tomas a disbelieving look, his demeanor changing in a split second along with his tone. “It never occurred to me that you would be stupid enough to wind up in here with us. What happened to „Mr. I Don‟t Trust Anyone‟?” Rolling his eyes, he snorted. “Of all the well-laid plans of mice, men, and cats, but then I had no choice but to rely on you for the cavalry.” “Cavalry?” Tomas stared at him blankly before another part of the jigsaw locked into place. “You left the flute for me to find, didn‟t you?” “Flute?” Cathal paled. “Christian, God, tell me you didn‟t.” “I didn‟t,” Christian repeated obediently, his lips turning into a smug grin. “It wasn‟t me who dropped it, now, was it?” The flute was Cathal‟s. With the design on it, it had to be.
Cat’s Quill | 275
“I didn‟t drop it. I wouldn‟t have done that.” Cathal shook his head. “You weren‟t supposed to be able to get here. It was in my pocket, along with the pendant I‟d been carving. She took that, I never saw the….” He groaned aloud. “No. No.” “Oh yes.” Christian nodded. “As I said, you‟ve never been good at hiding your emotions. When you lunged for Gwalch, the flute fell out of your pocket. I managed to hide it in the grass before following you through. I knew Tomas would come looking for you, that he wouldn‟t give up where others might.” He grinned. “I know obsession when I see it.” “I am not obsessed,” Tomas started to say, reddening. “Okay, maybe I am,” he amended, “but it‟s a good kind of obsession, because I wouldn‟t have gone to the tree otherwise, right?” “Right.” Christian nodded in agreement. “Like a dog with a bone.” He stopped, visibly twitching. “You‟d think the cat vibe would wear off after a day, wouldn‟t you, but no.” “Give it time, cousin,” Cathal suggested. “The magic is probably still lingering. The bracelet only does so much.” He snuggled closer to Tomas. “I‟m sorry you got involved in this. It is not your fight. But, at the risk of sounding selfish, I am also glad you are here and I have you for a short time at least.” “You‟re not sounding selfish, Cat.” Tomas smiled, wishing again he could put his arms around Cathal. The smile faded to a frown, his brain catching up with Cathal‟s sudden change of tone and loss of concern for Tomas‟s safety. He‟d made a decision of sorts, that much was obvious. “Just promise me you don‟t do anything stupid like going along with what she says to keep me safe.” “It‟s not stupid.” Cathal raised his chin stubbornly. “I have no intention of being bedded by her, but I will sign the confession if I need to. After all, it is the truth, where the other is not.” “You will sleep with her over my dead body,” Tomas growled. There had to be a way to free themselves from these ropes, but however much he tried, he couldn‟t find an end or a knot to try to undo. “That would be her plan, yes,” Christian reminded him dryly, “and the whole reason why Cat‟s thinking about cooperating with her.” He looked Cathal up and down, an expression of what could only be approval on his face. “Confession, hmm?” His voice softened. “I see you‟ve been busy carrying on with our work while I‟ve been away.” Cathal‟s eyes narrowed; he didn‟t like Christian‟s tone. “Someone had to. The resistance needed a leader, and I‟m more than capable. Just because I
276 | Anne Barwell
preferred a different kind of battlefield than you did doesn‟t mean I‟m not capable of defending myself in a fight, or of attacking if I‟m provoked.” “Hold up!” Tomas ordered, his fingers stilling for a moment. They were sore already; the rope was coarse and heavy. “What resistance? What confession?” He shifted so that his back was against Cathal‟s, his fingers brushing against the blond‟s wrist, bare skin cold against his own. “And what bracelet? The one you usually wear is gone.” “I gave it to Christian,” Cathal explained. He wriggled, his fingers brushing against Tomas‟s, twisting his body slightly, his back digging into Tomas‟s side. “Ow!” Cathal jumped back. “What was that?” “What?” Tomas looked at him blankly. “It‟s my cloak, you leaned against it.” That was odd, the material was soft; it should not have got that reaction. Perhaps there was a hard piece of stone under where he was sitting. He stood up and shook himself to make sure. “Yes, I know that.” Cathal sounded a little annoyed. “I also know what a cloak feels like, and it wasn‟t just that.” He frowned, his brows narrowing in thought, shaking his head. “Your cloak has pockets, does it not?” “Well, yes,” Tomas told him, not sure where this is going. “But there‟s nothing in there that should….” His voice trailed off, and he blushed, feeling like an idiot. “Oh,” he murmured, his mind unable to supply anything more intelligent to say, which was rather apt, considering. “Yes?” Christian‟s voice was dangerously low. “What‟s in your pocket that we should know about, Tomas? What are you hiding?” Tomas mumbled something under his breath. He couldn‟t believe he‟d been so stupid. “Umm,” he said, looking everywhere but at his companions. “I have a knife.”
Cat’s Quill | 277
Chapter 25
“A KNIFE?” Christian stared at him. “Surely you aren‟t serious?” He shook his head, laughing. “You have a right one here, cousin.” Cathal opened his mouth and then shut it again. “All this time you had a knife?” he asked very calmly and slowly, his voice even. “Where did you get the knife from, Tomas?” “It‟s Deryn‟s,” Tomas said defensively. “I put it in my pocket when I retrieved it from the river, and I forgot it was there.” He colored. “I had other things on my mind.” Hopefully, no one would ask what those other things were, exactly. “I‟m sure you did,” Christian commented dryly, giving Cathal a smirk. Cathal chose to ignore him, much to Tomas‟s relief. “We‟ll worry about the details later,” he decided. “If we are freed from these ropes, we stand a better chance of getting out of here.” He wriggled closer to Tomas, who turned sideways, trying to grab his cloak with his hands so that his pocket was where Cathal could reach it. “Damn,” Tomas muttered when the task proved more difficult than it appeared. He stood, bent forward, and then to the side, the cloak moving with his body. Cathal managed to grab one end of it, and between them they maneuvered the cloth so that Cathal could rummage inside Tomas‟s pocket. “Be careful,” he warned. “It‟s sharp.” “What else is in here?” Cathal frowned, using his fingers to press the fabric back against Tomas so that he could get a better grip. Tomas went red. “Umm, that‟s not in my pocket, Cat.” He hadn‟t realized that the fabric was quite that thin when pressure was applied to it, although where Cathal‟s hand was felt very good. “Oh!” Cathal blushed, moving his hand back a bit. “I thought it felt a little soft for a knife.” Christian sniggered. “Keep doing that, and I bet it won‟t feel that way for long.”
278 | Anne Barwell
“Either come over here and do this yourself or be quiet,” Cathal snapped, still searching for the knife. Tomas felt something sharp prick the side of his leg, and then Cathal motioned him to turn around back to back. “Got it!” “Sorry, cousin, but he‟s not my type. You‟re going to have to grope him yourself.” Christian stood and walked over as close to the bars dividing their cells as he could, watching Cathal‟s progress closely. “There‟s also the fact that I‟m stuck in this cell all by myself while the two of you get lucky.” “Not yet,” muttered Tomas, trying to stay still while Cathal attempted to saw through the ropes with the knife. Biting his lip, Tomas hissed when it slipped, a sharp pain going through the base of one finger. “Sorry,” murmured Cathal, managing to grab the handle before the knife hit the floor. “Do you want to try? I don‟t want to hurt you again.” “It‟s fine,” Tomas reassured him. A little pain would be worth it if they could get out of here. “I trust you. Just do what you need.” “These ropes are made of horseweed,” Cathal complained. “It‟s going to take a few minutes, even if I can get a decent grip on this knife.” He hissed suddenly, gritting his teeth. “This had better work.” Something warm ran down Tomas‟s wrist, the knife‟s motion getting steadier, the ropes starting to loosen. His fingers felt slippery. Cathal‟s breathing began to speed up. “Cat? Are you okay?” Tomas pulled at his restraints, trying to help, however futile the attempt. Instead of answering, Cathal kept sawing at the rope. Tomas glanced behind him, noticing beads of sweat on Cathal‟s face. Tomas yanked at the rope again, cursing when it didn‟t part. “Cat?” This time Tomas snapped the question. “You‟re not okay. You need to stop this now!” “Bleeding to death is not going to get any of us out of here, Cathal.” Christian‟s voice was rough. “Put down the damn knife.” “When I‟ve finished!” Cathal‟s face twisted into a grimace. He swore loudly, and the ropes suddenly fell from around Tomas‟s wrists. Cathal swayed on his feet and sat down heavily, the knife slipping to the ground. It was covered in blood. Tomas turned Cathal around quickly to take a look at his hands, his breath catching, not wanting to see the damage he‟d obviously done to himself but knowing if there were open wounds they would need to be dealt with, and fast. “You bloody idiot!” he hissed. Cathal‟s palms were raw and bleeding, a mishmash of cuts covering them where he‟d gripped the knife. “This wasn‟t
Cat’s Quill | 279
worth it. I‟m not worth it!” Pulling Cathal close, Tomas held him tightly, kissing the top of his head. “I‟m fine, and they will heal,” Cathal muttered, leaning into Tomas‟s embrace. He raised his chin, defiant, his complexion even paler than usual. How much blood had he lost? Fuck, it was over the knife as well as his hands, not to mention the crimson soaked into the folds of cloth that made up Tomas‟s cloak. “You are worth it, and we don‟t have time for this. The knife was at the wrong angle, and it was going to take too long.” Cathal closed his eyes for moment. “Cut my ropes, and then we‟re getting out of here.” “We‟re getting out of here once I‟ve dressed your hands,” Tomas argued, letting go of Cathal and bending to pick up the knife. Cathal shifted so that his back was to Tomas, who began to cut through the ropes. Whatever this horseweed was, it wasn‟t easy work even with a sharp knife and his own hands free. Cathal was definitely a lot stronger than he appeared. “Tomas is right.” Christian rolled his eyes. “You‟re a bloody idiot. Haven‟t you learned anything at all? That was one thing I worried about with being stuck in Alice‟s world and you here. It was only a matter of time before you did something like this to protect someone else. What is wrong with you? Have you got some kind of death wish? Is that the real reason you signed up for the resistance? You have nothing to prove, Cat. You‟re a good man and nothing like the rest of the aristocracy. It‟s not your fault that your father was born with a title.” “You have a nerve,” Cathal said coldly. “Try practicing what you preach before you tell me how I should live my life. We might be related, but I am not you and never will be.” He winced when Tomas loosed the last of the ropes and removed them, flexing his fingers, smiling a thin smile of gratitude before returning his attention to Christian. “I can, however, run this resistance just as well as you did. We have twice as many followers now, and there is a strong feeling of discontent evident in our people which my uncle will not be able to continue to ignore.” “I never said you were me, cousin.” Christian shrugged. “God forbid. I doubt this land would want a double dose of either of us.” “You‟ve got that right,” Tomas muttered, pulling up his shirt and ripping off some of his undergarment to use to dress Cathal‟s wounds. It took a couple of tries to get the sturdy material to part, which hopefully meant that it would be up for the task he intended. “Christian, not you, love,” he amended quickly when Cathal looked at him, a hurt expression in his eyes. “Love,” Cathal whispered softly. “I like that.” He held out his hands obediently for Tomas to wrap the fabric around them. “Be as quick as you
280 | Anne Barwell
can, Tomas. Once we‟re out of this cell, we have a long ride ahead of us before we‟ll be safe.” Christian coughed. “Once all of us are out of these cells,” he stressed. “There‟s also a problem of horses, and the route we need to take out of Riverskeep. As long as we are on her lands, her word is law.” “We won‟t be leaving you behind, Christian,” Tomas reassured him, “as much as I‟m tempted.” He wasn‟t happy at the fact that he had nothing to use to cleanse Cathal‟s cuts, but at least the fabric would protect them. When they got back to the inn, he‟d get Dr. McKenzie to take a look and double-check that none of them needed stitching. Fastening the last of the bandages by tucking the ends under the edges of the makeshift dressing, he glanced around the room, frowning, wondering just how they were going to get out of the cell, let alone the castle grounds. “One step at a time, cousin.” Cathal kissed Tomas gently in thanks, brushing their lips together briefly. “Give me the knife, Tomas.” Tomas shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “You‟re in no state to be doing anything with those hands at the moment. Tell me what to do and I‟ll do it.” “You don‟t know how,” Cathal reminded him, “and we are running out of time. If Deryn returns before we are free of this cell, we won‟t get another chance.” His expression softened. “I won‟t cut myself again, I promise. I just need to use the tip of it to loosen the lock on the door, but there is a knack to it. I‟ve done it before, and I‟m guessing you haven‟t.” “No,” Tomas repeated. “Show me what to do and I‟ll do it.” If Cathal thought he‟d be allowed to go for round two with the knife, he was crazy and definitely had a lot to learn. He‟d been hurt enough already, and Tomas was prepared to protect him, whatever it took. “Oh for goodness sake, just give him the knife, Tomas.” Christian sighed. “This is not the time to be stubborn or play the hero. Cat knows what he‟s doing.” He smirked. “I‟ve yet to find a lock he couldn‟t get through. Why do you think she made sure he was bound to the ring as well as restrained? She wouldn‟t risk him getting close enough to the door.” “A lock he couldn‟t get through?” Tomas blinked, staring at both of them. But wasn‟t Cathal royalty or something? Surely someone of his background wouldn‟t need to be doing such things? This was getting just a little too close to some of the plots he‟d written, but they were science fiction, and set in an unknown future. This was…. His mind trailed off, not wanting to go there, at least not now.
Cat’s Quill | 281
“I‟m curious, and I like to know what‟s going on.” Cathal took the knife off Tomas when his fingers loosened around it, his brain trying to close the gap between this new piece of information and what he already knew, or thought he knew. Walking briskly over to the door, Cathal inserted the tip of the knife in the lock, turned it one way, then another, angled it up, and then gave the door a swift kick. “See,” he told Tomas more than a little smugly. “It‟s all in the touch.” “Touch,” Tomas echoed, swallowing, not quite sure when he‟d exactly lost control of his and Cathal‟s confrontation, or if he‟d even had it in the first place. In hindsight he should have been suspicious when Cathal had held his hands out to be dressed when directed. It was doubtful that Cathal knew the meaning of the word “obedient.” “Right, of course.” Cathal‟s touch had felt good. Very good. Tomas blushed. Not that kind of touch. That would come later. If they got out of this alive. “Open Christian‟s cell, and then I‟ll cut his ropes,” he decided, trying to sound confident and unfazed by any of this. “I was getting to that,” Cathal said dryly. “One thing at a time.” He eyed Tomas up and down, not exactly subtle as to where his eyes lingered. “Do you have anything else hiding in your pockets that we need to be aware of?” Even as he spoke, he was already making short work of the lock on the other cell, standing back when he was done to let Tomas finish freeing Christian. The dressings on his hands still appeared to be intact, and for the moment not oozing red, but that could merely be that the material had absorbed whatever blood he was still losing. Cathal would need keeping an eye on, that was for sure. Stubbornness in this case came with a price, and it was not one Tomas was prepared to let him pay. That was, of course, presuming he‟d be allowed to have a say in the matter. Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he‟d let himself in for, falling for someone such as Cathal. But now was not the time to linger on such thoughts. If… when they got out of here, they would have a very long talk. Amongst other things. Christian‟s smirk faded as Tomas pulled his hands tightly back in order to get a better grip on the rope before cutting it. “You two are no fun,” he groused, stilling when Tomas cursed the hardiness of the horseweed under his breath. “I hope at least one of you has a detailed, brilliant plan as to how exactly we get out of her ladyship‟s clutches, because I‟m a little lacking in one at the moment.” “I have a few ideas,” Cathal admitted, “but….” His voice trailed off, and he put his fingers to his lips. Outside the room, the sound of footsteps drew closer. Pressing himself back against the wall next to the door, Cathal scanned the room quickly. If he was looking for a weapon, he was out of luck. All they had was the knife, the rope they‟d been bound with, and a whole lot of straw.
282 | Anne Barwell
Tomas kept sawing at Christian‟s restraints, trying to speed up his efforts, but the horseweed was as stubborn as Cathal. Fuck! The key turned in the lock on the other side of the door. Finally freed, Christian dived out of the cell, Tomas close behind him, both of them heading for the wall where the door was, neither of them prepared to reenter either of the cells. There was nowhere else to hide, not unless there was a way to disappear into the wall itself, which was unlikely. But as a door had appeared in a solid brick wall before, anything was possible. Christian snatched the knife from Tomas, gripping the handle tightly. Tomas didn‟t argue, just prayed that Christian knew how to use it. He‟d never attacked anyone before, let alone killed someone, and wasn‟t sure he would be able to even if push came to shove. They couldn‟t have got this far for nothing. Tomas‟s heart was speeding up, as was his breathing. Everything that had happened so far was more like something out of a novel than real life, or at least his reality. But meeting Cathal seemed to have changed that. He risked a glance at Cathal, who gave him a reassuring smile, even if it didn‟t quite reach his eyes. Cathal was as scared as he was, he realized. Christian probably was too. No, Christian was far too sure of himself. This was probably something he did most days, or had done before he‟d been turned into a cat. Now would not be a good time to focus on just how crazy that last statement sounded. The door handle turned. The door itself was pushed open slowly, cautiously. Christian and Tomas pressed themselves against the wall on the other side of the door. Tomas hoped, prayed, it was enough of a hiding place but knew it wasn‟t. The room was too damn small. All it might do was buy them a few moments, nothing more. A figure entered. It appeared to be a man of slim build, but it was difficult to tell with the grey cloak wrapped around him, disguising his features. Christian slid behind him quickly, holding the knife to the man‟s throat. “Drop any weapons you have,” he ordered, “or I will not hesitate to kill you.” Something hit the floor with a thud, falling limply from the right hand of their would-be foe. Tomas dived forward and grabbed the long knife quickly, determined to make sure that he at least appeared to know how to use it. Gripping the handle, he met the man‟s eyes and stopped, surprised. “Lower the knife, Christian,” he hissed.
Cat’s Quill | 283
This was a mistake. It had to be. “I‟ll decide when I lower the damn knife, not you.” Christian glared at him, pressing it more firmly against his captive‟s skin. The man‟s eyes widened. Whether it was in response to pain or fear it was difficult to tell, but he did not dare move. Cathal walked silently out of his hiding place, peering through the nowopen door. His stance relaxed minutely once he had surveyed the outside room; he seemed satisfied to leave the fate of the intruder in the hands of his cousin. Still frozen in place, Christian‟s expression did not change. The knife in his hand scraped slowly against his captive‟s throat, the edge nipping at the surface to leave an angry mark and a tiny dribble of blood. The man‟s breath hissed, but he did not speak. One move, one flick of the knife, and his life could be over. “Christian,” Tomas pleaded, his voice rising in volume. “For God‟s sake, he‟s a friend. Let him go.” “Friend?” Cathal turned his head to give Tomas a sharp look. “I trust him as one,” Tomas confirmed, realizing that indeed he did. It was not like him to give that trust this quickly to someone he had only recently met. Cathal was different, the exception to his rules on such matters, or maybe he‟d made the difference. Tomas‟s grip tightened on the knife in his hand, his knuckles white. Surely he had not been wrong? Cathal‟s hand stilled on the bricks that made up the outer wall of the room he was now in. Crossing the floor quickly, he reentered the smaller inner room to take a closer look at their captive. His expression softened immediately, guilt and embarrassment chasing each other across his features. “Will? What the hell are you doing here? Don‟t you know the risk you‟re taking?” Christian lowered his knife and took a step back. Will rubbed at his neck and sighed, giving Tomas and Cathal a quick glance of gratitude. “Yes, that was made just a little too clear in a matter of moments.” He turned to Christian, slowly looking him up and down. “So the rumors are true,” he said softly. “You‟ve returned.” “Rumors?” Tomas spluttered, his relief quickly giving way to indignation. “You told me that he‟d be taking care of Cathal. I would have never gone along with Deryn on any of that crap if I‟d thought he was alone.” “I can look after myself, Tomas.” Cathal smiled. He gave Will a quick hug, not quite hiding a wince when Will responded in kind. Dr. McKenzie would be taking a look at more than just Cathal‟s hands upon their return.
284 | Anne Barwell
“I said that Master Christian would do what he could,” Will corrected Tomas. “That of course depended on whether he was here or not.” What was it with this world and its inhabitants missing out on important bits of truth? Tomas snorted. “You played me,” he accused Will. “Yes, I did,” Will admitted, annoyingly open about the fact. “Lord Emerys would have had me strung up by something I‟d rather not think about if I‟d been directly responsible for something happening to you.” “Not Lord Emerys,” Cathal prompted gently. “Cathal. And you can drop the honorific for Christian too. We‟re alone now.” He didn‟t confirm or deny Will‟s fears for the safety of whatever he might have been strung up by. However, it did not take much of the imagination to figure out to what he was referring. Tomas blushed in spite of himself. Cathal grinned. Will shrugged. “Old habits die hard, and if I‟m used to the formality, I won‟t accidentally forget to use it when I should.” “You wouldn‟t.” Christian shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smirk. “You‟re far too careful for that, and very good at what you do.” His expression changed, and he grew rueful. “I‟m sorry about the knife. My instincts have slipped more than a little since I‟ve been gone.” “Apology accepted.” Will gave Christian a slight bow. “Just don‟t make a habit of it, or I might not be so forgiving next time.” Christian laughed. There was affection in his voice. “You haven‟t changed a bit, old friend.” “Enough of the old.” Will rolled his eyes. “I am a good five years younger than you, and I‟d prefer that was not forgotten.” “Young enough to respect your elders, then?” Christian had a twinkle in his eyes, the conversation carrying on as though they had each just met up with a long-lost friend and were about to have afternoon tea, instead of trying to escape with their lives from the depths of a cold, sturdily built castle. “In your dreams.” Will paused a little before adding, “Master Christian.” “We need to get out of here,” Tomas reminded them, more than a little testily. They could chat all they wanted afterward. Now was neither the time nor the place. Deryn would be back to gloat sooner rather than later, and although he was more than tempted to kill her for what she‟d done, unfortunately he wasn‟t sure he‟d win in any kind of fight against her. Reality, at this point, was more of a bitch than she was. “I‟m working on that,” Cathal replied. He‟d left Christian and Will to reminisce and was scanning the outer room again for anything that might be helpful, going as far as lifting piles of straw and searching the floor underneath.
Cat’s Quill | 285
Tomas joined him, copying what he was doing before resorting to thumping each brick of the wall in turn. He presumed they were looking for the same door by which they‟d originally entered the room. If it was still there but hidden, that part of the wall should sound hollow. That was how it usually worked in the detective novels he‟d read, and surely at least one thing in this world had to follow the rules of his own. Behind him, Cathal kept searching the floor, presumably hunting for trapdoors, or any clue to another way out of their prison. He‟d been pushed through the bloody thing by Deryn‟s guards. It had to be still there. “You could come and help,” Tomas muttered in Christian and Will‟s direction. Didn‟t they realize how desperate their situation was? They needed to split their resources, and no one was going anywhere if they didn‟t find a way out. “Words, I need the right words.” Cathal ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “It‟s here, but it‟s hidden. I just need the key.” He kicked straw out of his way, mumbling something under his breath. “Maybe if we move the table? Tomas, do you want to help….” His eyes widened, and he froze. “Oh,” he whispered, his voice dropping suddenly to a whisper. “Cat?” Tomas turned instantly, walking briskly toward Cathal, who had picked up the tiny carving still sitting in the middle of the table and was turning it over in his hand. “Cat? What is it?” Could he have found the key? Surely it couldn‟t be that simple? Even with a key, they still needed a door. Cathal looked up at him, smiling. He placed the object in the palm of Tomas‟s hand, closing his fingers over it, the urgency of their situation forgotten in the wake of finding whatever this was. Opening his hand again, unable to resist returning Cathal‟s smile, Tomas found a carving about the size and shape of a sparrow‟s egg cupped in his palm. It was smooth to the touch, minute indentations etched into the wood to bring it to life. He turned it over, noticing immediately that the carved design was similar to that on the flute that had brought him through the portal. But this cat had a quill on its back, its paws loosely around what appeared to be a single rose. At the top of the carving was a small round hole, although Tomas couldn‟t figure out what it might be for. “It‟s yours,” Cathal said softly. “I was going to give it to you, before the Falcons came.” “Mine?” Tomas stared at him blankly. Surely Cathal must be mistaken. This would have taken hours to carve, and they hadn‟t known each other that long. “But, Cat, it‟s beautiful.” Cathal blushed. “Thank you,” he whispered. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a leather cord and threaded it through the hole in the carving, tying
286 | Anne Barwell
the ends together in a firm knot. “In my world, when you love someone, you give them a token of that love.” He motioned for Tomas to bend his head and slipped the carving around his neck. “The cat and rose is my family‟s coat of arms. The quill is yours, as you are a writer.” He smiled shyly. “I think they look good together.” “I think they do too.” Tomas returned the smile, threaded his fingers through Cathal‟s hair, and pulled him close to brush their lips together in a kiss. “I love you, Cat,” he whispered. “Thank you.” Leaning into the kiss, Cathal deepened it for a moment. “We do need to find a way out of here,” he said, breaking it and pulling away, “but I wanted to make sure you had this first. Keep it safe, love, and don‟t let anyone take it from you.” “This would also be one of the reasons why Deryn knew you had fallen for someone else,” Christian reminded him dryly, leaning back against the doorframe, his arms folded. Will stood behind him, watching, his eyes darting toward the section of wall that had once been a door and the carving around Tomas‟s neck. “The quill is most definitely nothing to do with her family; it rather gives you away, cousin. I‟m surprised you took the risk.” “I‟m tired of hiding.” Cathal shrugged. “I‟ve led the resistance for not only the months you were banished, Christian, but for the six years it took for them to make up their mind on your punishment as well. We keep waiting and biding our time, and in the meantime our people remain oppressed, having to live according to out-of-date notions, too scared to fight for their rights, and with the power belonging to a few.” “The quill is not of my family either,” Tomas pointed out. “I don‟t think I have a coat of arms as such.” He did like the idea of the quill, though, and it looked right with the cat and rose. His fingers closed around it, stroking the wood without thinking, the carved indents pressing against his skin. No one would take this from him. Not while he still drew breath. He frowned, a thought crossing his mind. Was this the equivalent of a ring in this world? In accepting it, had he and Cathal become engaged, or even married? His cheeks grew warm, but he did not remove the pendant. Let people think what they liked. He did not want to hide any more than Cathal did. They‟d worry about the details of whatever they‟d just done later. For now he was going to cling to the moment and the memory of the kiss they had just shared. “You‟re a writer,” Cathal said softly. “In this world, that is associated with a quill, and in my mind, that is enough.” “Ever the romantic,” Christian snorted, shaking his head. “Four months or six years, Cat, it‟s still the same. They have the power and we don‟t. They‟ve proven that over and over, to the extent of rubbing our faces in it.” He stalked
Cat’s Quill | 287
over to Tomas, peering at the pendant, shaking his head. “I underestimated you. You‟re romantic and sneaky.” Four months? Six years? But Christian had been with Alice nearly ninety years ago. Something else clicked into place. Will had spoken of Cathal disappearing over the last few days, yet Tomas had met him nearly two weeks before. What was he still missing? “And they will continue to for as long as we roll over and keep doing nothing!” Cathal snapped, ignoring his cousin‟s last comment. “Stop it!” Will ordered, pushing past Christian. “You were right about one thing, Christian, your instincts have slipped. There was a time when you never would have spoken like this. I suspect the council took more than your freedom with whatever they did.” He ignored the glare Christian shot his way, instead poking angrily at his chest. “You held a knife at my throat and didn‟t even recognize me!” “Your back was to me,” Christian muttered. “I am also not used to seeing you dressed in this kind of clothing. Have you also forsaken your wife and child, Will? Who cares for them while you act the servant?” His language had taken on a more formal tone; in fact, Tomas realized, both Christian‟s and Cathal‟s switched between that and what wouldn‟t be out of place in Tomas‟s own world without either of them noticing or seeming to take the time to switch gears. Perhaps it was a side effect of them moving between two worlds or being exposed to a culture and language that seemed markedly different from their own? At least on the surface, as nothing here was straightforward or what it appeared to be. Tomas rubbed at his temples. All this was giving him a headache; that and the fact he‟d had nothing to eat and drink for several hours. “Do not judge what you know nothing about,” Cathal warned, stepping between Will and Christian. “This is not the time to argue or for explanations. At least Tomas and I have been trying to find a way out. The two of you have done nothing! Do you want Deryn to come back before we‟ve found a way out?” “It‟s all right, Cathal,” Will reassured him hoarsely, the earlier conversation about the need for titles forgotten, or perhaps ignored. “He does not know.” “Know what?” Christian demanded. “You both speak in riddles.” He sighed, suddenly looking very tired and out of his depth. His world had changed while he‟d been away, that much was obvious. He bit his lip, searching Cathal‟s face and then Will‟s.
288 | Anne Barwell
“Amelia and Gerrant are dead, and my lands are gone.” Will‟s voice was flat. Cathal placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, his anger replaced by an emotion that could have been concern or even guilt. “I have nothing left to risk but myself. I am a servant, Christian. It is only fitting I act the part.” Christian stared at him. “God, I‟m so sorry.” He was pale, his hands shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. “What happened?” Will tilted his head, motioning him to be quiet. “Now is not the time and place. Cathal is right. It is in the past, and we must worry about the future. If we get out of here alive, I will answer your questions then.” He smiled, but it was taut and grim. “Just as you will answer mine.” “And mine,” muttered Tomas, his confusion growing with the realization that the more he learned, the less he understood. He cleared his throat. “We‟ll worry later about what‟s happened while you were a cat. If we don‟t get out of here, it won‟t matter who‟s done what and when.” “You were a what?” Will‟s jaw dropped, his mouth working in an outward sign that he was struggling to compose himself after that tidbit of information. Cathal shook his head, his tone brusque. “Explanations later. Will, do you have horses we can use once we are out of these chambers?” “Yes, but—” “No buts.” Cathal was taking charge.”So we have horses, and a good day‟s ride ahead of us.” He strode over to where the door should be, his brow furrowed in thought. “And one knife between us.” “Two knives,” Will corrected, having retrieved his. “We‟ve been up against worse odds and survived.” Cathal smiled thinly. “Yes, we have.” He frowned. “What time is it? I‟ve lost all track of it since I was brought here.” “Two hours past nightfall,” Will told him. “It gives us the cover of darkness but adds to the danger once we reach the other side of the river.” “Ah yes,” Christian remembered. “The diawl. They are not exactly the way I plan to go to my maker. I‟d rather be attacked by a dog.” Will gave him a quizzical look. Christian ignored it and shrugged. “Door?” Tomas reminded them, his mind attempting to keep up with the way things suddenly seemed to have jumped from “unable to find a way out” to “making escape plans.” An actual exit would be useful too. “It closed behind me when I entered,” Will explained, walking over to a part of the wall that Tomas had already examined. “It simply waits for the
Cat’s Quill | 289
correct means in which to open, and then we can leave.” It would have been useful if he‟d cared to share that information earlier. “Will, take the lead. Christian, you will follow behind Tomas and me, as you also have a weapon,” Cathal ordered. “I‟m not sure how much use I will be to you with the state my hands are in, but that doesn‟t mean I will not fight.” His voice softened. “Tomas?” “I‟ll be fine,” Tomas said, a mix of adrenaline and fear rushing through him, the reality that this might be the end of everything hitting home. “Door?” he said again, helpfully, quickly becoming convinced that all of them, including Cathal, might be more than a little unhinged. Either that or he definitely was missing a very important part of this. Cathal nodded. “Patience,” he cautioned, gesturing to Christian. “The bracelet is made from the tree. It should act as a key.” Bending, he used a long piece of straw to draw a straight line in the dirt. Once it was done, he straightened and smiled a little. “I should have thought. I do not have much magic in me, but I have enough for a parlor trick, which is what this is.” Taking the bracelet from Christian, he slipped it on his own wrist and whispered a few words under his breath. Nothing happened. “You‟re losing your touch, cousin.” Christian shook his head, smirking a little. “Will, if you would assist me? Cat?” Once the bracelet had been returned, Christian ran the edge of it over the wall, outlining the shape of a door. Will spoke one word in a language Tomas did not understand, and the bricks vanished to leave a gap big enough to squeeze through, similar but on a smaller scale to what had been there before. Cathal snorted. “She used that for the password?” “It appears she did not appreciate your humor.” Christian smirked, enjoying Cathal‟s annoyance. He slipped the bracelet back on his wrist. “Will and I were not „doing nothing‟, as you so tactfully put it. We were figuring out the specifics needed to be free of this place, something which you and Tomas failed to do.” “The only thing I failed to do was find the correct password,” Cathal sniffed. “Do you want to argue about this, or shall we make our escape?” “I‟m for escaping.” Tomas put in his opinion, not wanting them to launch into yet another argument. Perhaps when they got out of here, he would suggest moving somewhere far away, or leaving Christian in this world while they returned through the portal to the inn. After all, it wouldn‟t be fair to expect him to spend any more time as a cat. This would work better for all concerned.
290 | Anne Barwell
“I never said I wasn‟t.” Christian held up his hand in mock-surrender, poked his head through the door, and squeezed through. Cathal rolled his eyes and followed. Tomas went next; the doorway was a tight fit, reminiscent of crawling through a manhole into a roof cavity in his own world except for the angle of the opening. He sneezed, dust and dirt aggravating his nose as he clambered through. Checking the tunnel ahead, Cathal handed Will a lit torch. “Just enough to light the way, but no more,” he warned. “Be careful, all of you.” “As you wish, my lord,” Will murmured, inclining his head. Tomas followed him, putting Cathal behind him before there was a chance for protest. Christian slipped ahead to catch up with Will, Cathal‟s orders either forgotten or ignored. Before they took a step farther, Tomas laid a hand on Cathal‟s shoulder, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. “What was the password?” he hissed. Cathal snorted. “She translated something simple into the language of the mages,” he explained, glancing behind them at the now-solid wall. The door had not stayed open long; they had no option but to keep moving and hope their enemies were not waiting for them, using their escape as an excuse for execution or worse. “What?” Tomas slipped his hand into Cathal‟s, keeping his touch light so as not to hurt his injuries further. Even in the dim light, he could see Cathal‟s expression change to one of grim determination. It matched the one Tomas knew he wore himself. Warm breath brushed against his ear and was gone, one last word spoken as they moved out. “Bitch,” Tomas muttered. They were getting out of here; whether it was in one piece remained to be seen, but one thing was for certain. Whatever happened, he and Cathal would be doing it together, and she would not touch him ever again. That bloody horse would be the last thing, freely or not, that Cathal ever gave her.
Cat’s Quill | 291
Chapter 26
THE journey toward the surface, and their way out, seemed to take forever. Tomas shivered, trying to ignore how cold it was, biting his lip to stop his teeth chattering. It was meant to be getting warmer the farther they traveled upward, not colder. “Are you all right?” Cathal whispered, turning his head slightly, the corridor at this point so narrow that they were forced to walk single file. He was breathing heavily, though any discomfort or effort from the uphill hike did not reflect on his face, but it could have been hidden amongst the shadows reflected by the dim lighting on the walls either side of them. Tomas tightened his grip on the torch he‟d helped himself to several minutes after they‟d entered the corridor. Seeing a rat scampering over his booted foot was much preferable to feeling something and not knowing what it was. “Fine,” he mumbled. His legs still ached, the cold aggravating his joints. The thought of another encounter with a horse in the immediate future was not improving his mood. Slowing down, Cathal slipped one hand into Tomas‟s free one. Ahead of them, Will and Christian kept up a steady pace, both of them exchanging the odd word but not loudly enough that they could be overheard clearly. “I hate the cold,” Cathal admitted, “and enclosed spaces. I always have.” His hand tightened around Tomas‟s. It felt suspiciously damp, like his wounds had begun bleeding again. “If night has fallen like Will said, it will be very cold outside. We‟re sheltered from the worst of it in here.” “This isn‟t the worst?” Tomas swore under his breath. “It‟s still freezing in here, Cat.” “Humor me?” Cathal shivered. He smiled suddenly. “We could share a horse? Body heat is good protection against the cold.” The smile sobered. “Seriously, though, I‟m not up to riding with these hands. Someone‟s going to have to take control of the horse, and at this point I‟d prefer to stay close to you rather than anyone else.”
292 | Anne Barwell
“I‟m not very good on a horse….” Tomas trailed off, his face going bright red. God, had he just said that? “Oh I‟m sure you‟re very good.” Cathal squeezed his hand, appearing not to have registered completely what Tomas had just said. “We‟ll worry about that when we get out of these catacombs. The horses will be the least of our problems, I suspect.” “Deryn is not getting her hands on you,” Tomas muttered, stepping back to avoid a drip of moisture from the roof. It dribbled down his nose, and he spluttered when a drop of it connected with his tongue. It tasted disgusting and chalky, the musty smell making him sneeze again. His stomach churned, and he swallowed, tasting bile. This place was nasty; even the cell had been preferable. “She‟s certainly not getting her hands on you.” Cathal linked their fingers together, not quite hiding his wince when he did so or the weariness in his voice. He was still wearing Tomas‟s cloak, but his hands were freezing, and growing more so. “Do you need help?” Christian hissed, peering back into the semidarkness. “Will says we will be there in another few minutes. You need to keep quiet!” “We‟re fine,” Cathal called back softly. “Keep going and we‟ll be right behind you.” He took another step forward, stumbled, and righted himself quickly. “You‟re tired and you‟re cold,” Tomas whispered. “I‟m worried about you.” This was more than just a reaction to the cold, surely. “How long is it since you‟ve eaten or had something to drink?” “I‟m fine,” Cathal insisted, raising his chin stubbornly in a manner Tomas was already growing far too familiar with. “Nothing good sleep and a meal won‟t cure.” He pulled the cloak around him, muttering about the cold and how peasants had far more comfortable and warmer dwellings. “And medical treatment for those cuts.” Tomas glanced behind them, the hairs on his neck standing up on end. The doorway into the catacombs had vanished behind them, but he still couldn‟t shake the feeling that they were being followed, or watched. The corridor began widening out. Tomas quickened his pace so that he was walking alongside Cathal instead of behind him. “Lean on me if you need,” he offered. They would be of out here soon; he couldn‟t wait to breathe fresh air again. “Thank you, but I‟ll be fine,” Cathal murmured softly, his thumb stroking Tomas‟s hand. His head came up, and he frowned. “Did you hear that?”
Cat’s Quill | 293
“No.” Tomas listened carefully, but there was nothing. He swung his torch, highlighting the walls around and behind him. Water clung to the walls, together with something green and nasty which hopefully was merely moss or some kind of native plant life, but nothing moved or made a noise. Cathal shrugged. “I must have imagined it. For a moment I thought I heard a footstep. Perhaps it‟s just an echo.” “Perhaps,” Tomas agreed, not convinced. He still couldn‟t shake the thought that they were being observed. “Let‟s get out of here.” At least on the surface they would be able to see if they were surrounded. The thought they might be already and not know it was making him very uneasy. Ahead of them, Will had stopped walking, holding up a hand for them to do the same. Tomas peered through the hazy light the torch provided, trying to see what Will had found. Hopefully, it was the way out, which, if he remembered correctly, was a heavy door, most likely locked. He doubted Deryn would be stupid enough to take any chances in case her captives did get this far. Jasper had been careful to lock it behind him too, as crossing Deryn would only serve to ensure his early demise. Christian bent his head, examining the lock. He placed one hand on it, then frowned and shook his head. “I‟ve been out of practice for too long,” he muttered. Practice? What could Christian do in this body that he couldn‟t as a cat? Tomas sighed, already mentally listing the differences between the two. For some reason Christian was really getting to him, and it wasn‟t as though the other man had even done much of anything. Or perhaps that was the problem. And the fact that he‟d been a cat, had all the pieces to the puzzle Tomas had been looking for, and had smirked at him in typical cat fashion whenever the opportunity provided. The realization that Tomas was being unreasonable didn‟t help; there was no way that Christian could have shared the information he had, even if he‟d wanted to. What was he supposed to have done? Held a conversation in human speech, or perhaps written a letter? That settled it. Tomas was losing his mind; ignoring those pesky facts that he‟d come into another world through a portal in a tree, ridden miles on horseback only to be thrown into a dungeon to find that the cousin of the man he was in love with had, until recently, been a cat. It all sounded so very… plausible… when it was laid out like that. Explaining it to Donovan and Heidi was going to be such fun. Explaining it to his friend, Ethan, who had always thought Tomas was a little illogical at the best of times, was going to be… interesting was the only word his mind could come up with. It sounded a little too much like grasping at straws.
294 | Anne Barwell
“It will come back in time,” Will said gently to Christian, bringing Tomas back to what was supposedly reality. “You‟ve been exposed to a lot of magic in a short time, cousin,” Cathal interjected. “The bracelet interferes as well as protects. Nothing comes without a price. It‟s just the value of it that changes.” “I could take it off, but I doubt that would make a difference for the amount of time we‟d need with the state of my abilities at present.” Christian turned to look at Cathal. “Are you up to opening this lock? We will find another way if you aren‟t.” “You shouldn‟t take it off again except for a few minutes here and there,” Cathal frowned. “Prolonged exposure away from the tree without it can be very detrimental.” He let go of Tomas‟s hand, pushing past Will and Christian to take a closer look at the lock, dropping to a stooped position so that he could run one finger around the outline. “Give me your knife, Christian,” he ordered. “I can do this. The lock is old; it‟s just a question of finding the right angle, and it might take some time.” He held out his hand in expectation, not waiting for anyone to actually agree with him. “Are you up to doing this?” Christian repeated. He and Will exchanged a glance, part resigned, part exasperated. “You need your energy for when we get out of this catacomb,” Tomas pointed out, adding his opinion, for what it was worth. “If we don‟t get out of here, it won‟t matter.” Cathal stood upright again; his eyes were bright, his expression grim, his voice almost too calm. “Give me the damn knife, cousin, or I‟ll take it.” Christian snorted. “That I‟d like to see. You‟ve never bested me in a fight, even when we were both in a better physical state than we are now.” “Ah yes,” Cathal smirked a little, “but you‟ve never bested me in an argument.” He held out his hand again. “Knife. Now. There is no other way out. We‟ll discuss the technicalities of this later, once we are safe.” Will quietly removed the knife from Christian‟s hand and gave it to Cathal. “As much as it amuses me when the two of you do this, now is not the time for egos and fighting. We need to work together, allow each other‟s strengths to be used and mend the results of the consequences later.” Both cousins stared at him for a moment. Cathal shrugged, turned his back, and started working on the lock. Christian rolled his eyes and folded his arms, and his lips thinned into a narrow smile. “Playing the servant, indeed,” he muttered. “We will be discussing what has happened in my absence later.” “Oh I quite expect we will, Master Christian.” Will returned the smile before turning his attention to Tomas. “If Cathal falters when we are free of
Cat’s Quill | 295
this place, can I count on you to assist him?” He lowered his voice. “It might involve throwing him over your shoulder and ignoring the swearing and protestations that go with it, but I figure if you‟re certain you want to be with him, it‟s only fair that you see that side of him as well.” “You can count on me,” Tomas promised, part of him hoping it wouldn‟t come to that, the other wondering what it would be like to have Cathal in that position. Did he have the physical energy left to do that? Whatever happened, he‟d find it. Leaving Cathal behind was not an option; not when they‟d come this far. “I heard that!” Cathal muttered, but his concentration on the job at hand did not waver. “Good!” Despite the conversation between them, Christian was watching his cousin like a hawk. They all were. Stubbornness was one thing. Collapsing was quite another. The knife twisted, first one way and then another. Cathal muttered something else under his breath, perspiration dripping from his forehead onto the handle of the knife. Tomas edged closer, not trusting Cathal to keep gripping the knife from the safe end if he needed more maneuverability. “One more,” Cathal whispered hoarsely, ignoring everyone around him. His fingers tightened. Blood oozed through the dressings on his hand. He didn‟t wince, didn‟t react, all of his concentration focused on getting the lock open. One more flick of the knife, and there was a loud click. Cathal turned the handle and frowned. “Open, you….” He let loose with a string of words Tomas had never heard before. Both Will and Christian cringed. Cathal glared at the door. It refused to budge. In frustration he kicked at it with one booted foot. There was a loud whining noise, rusty hinges protesting with their own form of swearing. Cathal kicked it again. Then he swayed on his feet. Tomas caught him before he could hit the floor. The door opened, the cold night air beckoning freedom and whatever lay beyond.
“I‟M
FINE,” Cathal hissed, but he still leaned into Tomas heavily, letting himself be supported. Tomas ignored the comment. They did not have time for pretense, and it was obvious as hell that Cathal was anything but fine. If he protested once more, Tomas would insist he walk the next few steps on his own, very prepared to catch him when he stumbled, which he most certainly would. Even his voice sounded weaker than usual, the whispers they all spoke
296 | Anne Barwell
in aside. Cathal needed medical treatment, or at the very least time to rest and regain his strength after the blood he‟d lost and the suspected lack of food and water since he‟d been captured. So far the path alongside the castle seemed deserted, the surrounding area quiet, maybe a little too much so. The mud beneath their boots squelched; the ground was slippery, more than what Tomas remembered from before. But then his focus had been finding Cathal, and the fact that the men behind him had urged him to move forward at knifepoint. The sky above them was dark, light from the moon throwing dim shadows here and there, beckoning to the hazy torches hung at intervals throughout the courtyard. The stars were bright, more so than Tomas remembered from the last time he‟d peered upward late at night. There would be no pollution here, he realized. Not like in his world. They were also different; there were constellations he didn‟t recognize. The only constant was the moon, staring down at him, not full but half. Just as he was now, not a part of this world but drawn to it, tied to it on some level because of his relationship with Cathal. They‟d only known each other a short time, yet on some level it felt like a lifetime. They fit, like pieces of the puzzle he‟d been seeking these last few weeks. Was the puzzle he‟d been seeking to solve really what had driven him to this point? Or was it his stubbornness to believe in a sequel to a book? Or Cathal‟s conviction that it did not exist? No, it was about reality and what was missing from both their lives, he realized with a start. But did Cathal feel the same way? Happily ever after did exist, or at least a chance of having a damn good go at it. Tomas had to believe that. Surely after everything, the hope of it happening wasn‟t too much to ask? Hell, he didn‟t even know if Cathal wanted the same life he did. Cathal loved him, he‟d said as much, but did they have enough together to build something that would last? However much they both wanted it didn‟t mean it would become either of their realities. Cathal stumbled. Tomas tightened his grip around his waist. “Just a little further, Cat.” Cathal smiled; it was wan and forced, but Tomas made himself return it. The shadows seemed to move closer, surrounding them. He glanced behind them nervously, but there was nothing there. But he still couldn‟t shake the feeling that they were being observed. “You feel it too,” Cathal whispered softly. Ahead of them, Will had stopped walking, his knife still drawn, checking this way and that before
Cat’s Quill | 297
moving forward again. Christian had moved behind them once they‟d been free of the catacombs, but neither he nor Will seemed to be acting as though there was anything out of the ordinary in sneaking through the night across castle grounds to find a way of escape. After all, this was probably something both of them had done many times, although Tomas did not want to know the details. Especially if the stories were to be told from Christian‟s point of view, which, knowing his luck, they probably would be. “Feel what?” Tomas didn‟t want to alarm Cathal unduly. “We‟re being watched,” Cathal confirmed, his voice still low. He glanced around the courtyard, frowning. “I felt it earlier too, in the catacombs, but I can‟t see anyone. Can you?” Tomas shook his head. Once or twice, he‟d thought he‟d seen something out of the corner of his eye, a flash of indefinable color, but there‟d been nothing there. “It could be your imagination,” he suggested, not wanting to think there was a chance of not getting free of this place. “It‟s not,” Cathal replied very matter-of-factly. “My magic is not as strong as Christian‟s, but that does not mean I am without any ability. If I can sense a presence, it means that someone is there.” Sense a presence? Tomas stared at him, wanting to know but wondering how long an explanation he‟d be in for. “We need to keep moving. There is no way of knowing whether it is malevolent. I am not risking you if it is.” Cathal closed his eyes for a moment. “I cannot even tell of its direction. Whoever it is shields well.” He shook his head, his eyes opening quickly; they were wide with realization. “We need to be off her lands and away from her rules.” He edged forward, his teeth gritted. A murmur of pain escaped his lips, but he ignored it. “Cat! Wait!” Tomas hurried to catch up. “You‟re not up to this. You need to wait.” He slipped his arm around Cathal‟s waist, lending his support. “There is someone watching us. I suspect it‟s a powerful magic user or a mage. Otherwise they would not be able to shield like this.” He urged Tomas forward, his own breathing sounding shallow with the exertion. Will and Christian were slightly ahead, having dashed from the cover of the main tower to behind what appeared to be some kind of outhouse. “I doubt they wish us well considering our previous… convictions.” “Probably not,” Tomas agreed, eyeing Cathal warily. However correct he may be in those assumptions, he most certainly was not up to running to join their companions.
298 | Anne Barwell
“Don‟t even think it!” Cathal hissed, pulling free of Tomas and breaking into a run before Tomas had a chance to put his less-than-brilliant plan of slinging Cathal over his shoulder into action. “Fuck!” Tomas had no choice but to keep pace and hope like hell that Cathal made the short trip before collapsing. Christian turned sharply as they approached, laying one hand on Will‟s arm to still him. “Something‟s wrong,” he stated, meeting Cathal‟s eyes with his own. His mouth narrowed in disapproval, but he didn‟t comment. “Are we being observed?” “Yes.” Cathal rested one hand on the outside wall of the small outbuilding Will and Christian were crouching behind, trying to catch his breath. Tomas moved closer, but Cathal waved him away. He wiped his free hand on his trousers. He was shaking, his speech broken between each whistle of breath. “I can‟t tell how close or from what direction.” He gestured his head toward another building; shadows were moving in front of it, the horses inside protesting the presence of someone or something unfamiliar. “A mage?” Will frowned. “There is a meeting with the king; they are all meant to attend. I doubt any would risk the penalty of not doing so.” His eyes darted to the flag flying on the top of the keep, toward the stables, and back to Cathal. “Something is spooking the horses, but we‟re on Deryn‟s lands. It should be safe here. No one would dare….” “Someone has,” Cathal said grimly. “Or something.” He closed his eyes again, swaying on his feet, his brows furrowing in concentration. “That is odd. There is something familiar about it, yet….” “That‟s enough!” Tomas snapped, pulling Cathal back toward him, wrapping arms around his waist so he could not break free. “I don‟t give a flying fuck if something‟s out there or not. It‟s not going to do us any good figuring out what it is if you‟re flat on your back or worse.” “And here was I thinking you‟d like him flat on his back?” Christian sniggered. Will rolled his eyes. Cathal glared at both of them before turning his attention to Tomas, his eyes blazing. He was shaking, his voice low. “Let go of me! You have no idea what you‟re dealing with.” “No, I don‟t, and I don‟t care.” Tomas was tired of not knowing enough to keep himself or anyone else safe. “What I do know is that we need horses and to get out of here. We‟ll worry about the details later.” “Those details make the difference between staying alive or not.” Cathal‟s tone was icy. “Let go of me, Tomas.” Tomas could feel him trembling; the adrenaline Cathal had been running on was not going to last much longer,
Cat’s Quill | 299
especially if he continued to expel what was left of his energy on this stupid argument. Cathal‟s breathing was also growing more labored; he‟d pushed himself too far. “Sure.” Tomas shrugged. “Show me you‟re capable of getting to that stable on your own, as well as saddling and mounting one of the horses, and I will.” “I can‟t do that if you don‟t let me go.” So his plan was lacking a few minor details. At least the idea was there. “Fine.” Tomas let go, turned Cathal to face him, and stood back. “Go on, then. I‟m waiting.” “Fine,” Cathal replied stubbornly. “Will, do you have the horses ready, or do we need to saddle them as Tomas suggests?” “They are already saddled, Lord Emerys.” The side of Will‟s mouth twitched. His tone was not exactly respectful, more amused, if anything. Cathal nodded. “Good.” He shot Tomas a smug look. “I shall merely need to mount, then. That shouldn‟t be a problem.” “Of course it shouldn‟t.” Tomas matched the look with a smirk of his own. “But that‟s presuming you‟re capable of getting to the stable on your own in the condition you‟re in.” When the hell had Cathal got this stubborn? They didn‟t have time to stand here and argue. Why couldn‟t he just see sense and admit he was wrong? “For goodness sake, Cathal, get your head out of that arse of yours.” Christian stepped between them. “And you, Tomas, can do the same. You can sort out who‟s going to be the submissive in your relationship later.” Cathal opened his mouth to protest, and Christian shook his head. “No, not this time. Will has horses ready. Two horses. He and I will share one, you and Tomas the other. We will make our way to the stable quickly and quietly, and one of us will carry you if you protest further.” “I am not some bloody submissive,” Cathal scowled. Tomas felt his own temper flare. Who did Christian think he was, talking to Cathal like this? “You have no right,” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with you. Get out of the fucking way.” “I don‟t care what you think, and I have every right.” Christian snapped back. “I am not staying here and letting that bitch get what she wants. I followed Cat back to our world to keep him from doing anything stupid, and that‟s what I intend to do. Unfortunately I didn‟t count on both of you being as pigheaded as each other. Now are you both with Will and me, or not?”
300 | Anne Barwell
Cathal sighed. His shoulders sagged, all energy seeming to leave him. “I‟m with you.” He looked over at Tomas, suddenly seeming unsure, and his voice softened. “Tomas?” “We‟re both with you,” Tomas confirmed. As much as it grated to admit it, this time Christian was right. It scared him just how easy it had been to argue with Cathal, how neither of them had backed down when they should have each known better. “Good.” Christian nodded approvingly. He and Cathal had swapped roles in regard to who was leading their group. That much was obvious. It would be interesting to see how long it lasted. Tomas‟s guess was until Cathal regained his strength. Hopefully that would be soon. While this was Christian‟s world, the idea of taking orders from him was not something that sat well.
Cat’s Quill | 301
Chapter 27
THE
view from Buttercup was no more reassuring with Cathal mounted behind him. In fact it was less so. Tomas tried to appear confident as he urged the horse to follow behind the one being ridden by Christian and Will. Cathal‟s arms tightened around Tomas‟s waist. “We could trade places if that would be easier,” he whispered. “You need to relax. She will know if you are nervous.” And have Cathal holding the reins given the state of his hands? Not likely. Although Cathal was the more experienced rider of the two, he would have to settle for vocal instructions rather than taking over himself. Although it had to be said, Tomas was impressed that Cathal had made it this far without passing out. He was as stubborn as hell, although it appeared to be a trait that was often to his own detriment. “I‟m fine,” Tomas whispered back, edging forward to give Cathal a bit more room. “Just hold on tightly.” “I‟m not intending to let you go.” Cathal‟s voice softened. Tomas could hear the smile, although he couldn‟t risk turning around to see it. Ahead of them Christian paused, his horse pawing the ground impatiently. They were free of the keep, but it had not been without a price. Will‟s head rested on Christian‟s shoulder; he was conscious, but barely, holding on behind Christian with grim determination. Getting to the horses had been the easy part, although it was obvious that Cathal had been in pain; that he still was. He was exhausted, but at least his wounds were no longer seeping. They‟d need to check the makeshift dressing when it was safe to stop for the night. The shadows they‟d seen near the stables had vanished once they‟d got near, or more accurately seemed to melt back into the darkness. Tomas had asked the boy tending the horses whether he‟d seen anything, but he‟d shaken his head, appearing puzzled by the question. The four of them
302 | Anne Barwell
were the only people out on this night. Her ladyship‟s orders and no one crossed her. “Except you?” Christian asked, looking around and frowning. Could he feel what Tomas and Cathal could, or was he just being cautious? While he and Will had both taken Cathal‟s warning seriously, neither had seen or heard anything. The boy grinned, running one grubby hand through Buttercup‟s mane. “But I believe in dragons. Don‟t you, sir?” He murmured something in the horse‟s ear and then bent to pick something up off the mud and straw floor. It was small, glinting bright in the moonlight coming through the gap in the wall that passed for a window. His fingers closed over it quickly, his eyes narrowed, and he ran for the stable door and was gone, dropping the object where he‟d originally found it. Christian and Will exchanged a glance. “Falcon‟s button,” Will confirmed grimly, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. “We‟ll just have to keep going and hope for the best.” Had the button been left deliberately as a warning or dropped by accident? If it was the former, the Falcons were toying with them. Or rather Deryn was. Tomas had heard her and Gwalch talking. The connection was definitely there. What chance did they have if she had the Falcons working with her or even for her? “If I stay, she‟ll let you go.” Cathal was watching the door still, although the boy was nowhere in sight. All that lay outside was darkness broken by pinpoints of light beckoning toward what might only be an illusion of safety. “No!” Tomas hissed. “We‟re all leaving now and taking our chances together. That bitch is not getting her hands on any part of you. Not now and not ever.” He glared at Cathal. “Either you mount or I‟ll ride out of here with you tied up and slung over the saddle.” Christian raised an eyebrow. He was already mounting the other horse, Will swinging up into the saddle behind him. “That‟s an interesting threat. Please tell me you‟re going to do it so I can watch.” “Not even in your dreams,” Cathal muttered, mounting quickly with Tomas‟s help but not quite hiding the sharp intake of breath when settling on the horse behind him. A muffled snort was the only reply Cathal got before Christian ducked his head and urged his horse out into the night. It was not the same horse that Will had ridden earlier, but Christian had smiled when he‟d seen it and referred to it by name, the horse responding to his voice. Tomas had not asked why Deryn would have it in her possession; he had enough questions without adding to them. Instead he had followed, hoping like hell that Buttercup knew what she was doing, as he didn‟t. He was relieved when Cathal leaned
Cat’s Quill | 303
forward, whispering to the horse and squeezing his legs against her flank. “Hold the reins, I‟ll do the rest,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around Tomas‟s waist firmly. Once they were free of the stables, they‟d made their way slowly toward the side entrance of the keep, acting the part of someone meant to be there. They were late-night visitors passing through, having stayed only long enough to rest their horses. The courtyard was still deserted apart from the man on duty who acknowledged them with a nod, as he had done when Will and Tomas had entered just after dusk. They‟d ridden the horses through side by side. That way they‟d meet whatever opposition was out there together. Leaving one horse behind to save the riders of the other was not an option. Will had silently handed his knife to Tomas. One weapon per horse. It wasn‟t enough, but it would have to do. The night was still suspiciously quiet. Above them a bird circled, the occasional flicker of grey reflecting off the light of the moon. A few moments later, and their only guide would be the dim lights in the sky. They had unlit torches but were still too close to the keep to use them safety. Something whizzed past Tomas‟s head. Buttercup‟s nostrils flared, and she reared onto her back legs, spooked. Tomas hung onto the reins tightly, struggling to stay in the saddle. “What the…?” “Keep your head down,” Cathal hissed, his breath hot against Tomas‟s ear. “Someone‟s out there.” Another something shot past them. Christian cursed. “Head for the river,” he yelled. “Follow me!” His horse whinnied. The outline of it winked out of existence, the moon disappearing behind a cloud. The squelching of hooves grew louder, closer, but it was impossible to tell from which direction or whether it was friend or foe. “I would if I could see you!” Tomas muttered, trying to calm his own horse. “Whoa, girl, easy does it.” Behind him Cathal‟s arms shifted, tightening as he tried to stay mounted. Buttercup shook her head, mane flying out behind her, the reins pulling at Tomas‟s hands. He hissed, missing the gloves he‟d worn earlier, not noticing he‟d lost them until they‟d begun this ride, and now it was too late. Voices sounded to the side of them, urgent, orders carrying on the still air but still unintelligible. Tomas bit his lip. The leather of the reins dug into his skin. Cathal leaned forward, trying to talk to the horse, to calm it. A dull thump sounded on the ground next to them, barely missing Buttercup‟s back leg. “She has to move; they‟re using slingshots,” he urged.
304 | Anne Barwell
“I‟m trying!” Tomas snapped. The bloody horse had frozen, the same way she had in the river. It seemed to be her answer to any form of danger. When in doubt, stay still. Stupid animal! Hadn‟t she heard that horses were supposed to do the opposite? It appeared that she followed rules about as well as Cathal did, a sure confirmation that Christian had been right in reminding Cathal that she was still his. “Hang on!” Cathal hissed in his ear. He slid back on the horse slightly, digging the heels of his boots into her, and yelled something in a language Tomas didn‟t understand. The same one he‟d used in frustration when the door hadn‟t opened. Buttercup whinnied and then broke into a gallop. Tomas wound the reins around his hands more tightly, ignoring the leather digging into his skin. He had to stay on. Cathal was relying on him. Around them all hell broke loose. They had to get to the river. Why, he didn‟t know, but he trusted Christian on that point at least. He was the local. Surely he wouldn‟t head there without good reason? It had to be the way out, a safe passage where their attackers couldn‟t follow. “After them!” A deep voice barked the order. Ahead a lone dog howled, its cry chilling Tomas to the bone. Despair, darkness, death. The stench of emotions seeped through him, one after the other. He was cold, so cold. His breath hitched. His hands began to shake, his body shivering. “Keep going. Ignore it and keep going!” Cathal dug his heels into the horse‟s flank once more. His voice was hoarse, words slurring, his own grip on Tomas loosening. He was slipping, sliding, struggling to stay upright. “They won‟t follow us over the river. We‟re almost there!” A cry of pain ripped through the darkness. “Will! No!” Christian yelled, anger and fear mixing, merging. His tone was fearful, worried. Shadows gathered around them, drawing closer. How far was the river? Were they going toward or away from it? Where were Christian and Will? What had happened? “Keep going!” Cathal urged. Something flew past them. Cathal jammed himself up against Tomas quickly, jerking his body sideways, forcing Tomas to move with him. A burning pain nicked the side of Tomas‟s leg. He ignored it. Another thump sounded on the ground. Close, too close. Buttercup kept moving. Tomas could hear water, growing closer, a familiar stench of sulfur making him gag. “We have to go another way. She won‟t cross it.” “She has to, and she will,” Cathal replied grimly. “They‟re getting too close; that arrow nearly hit its mark.”
Cat’s Quill | 305
“It did bloody hit its mark,” Tomas muttered, hoping that Cathal was right. Last time they‟d got the horse across by dulling its senses with herbs. That wasn‟t an option now; it would take too long. Wait… maybe. He turned his head, whispering so that only Cathal could hear him. “I have herbs in my cloak from last time, can‟t we use them against,” he nodded behind at their pursuers, “them?” “Not enough time.” Cathal‟s lips pursed. “She won‟t stop, not at this speed, and not following Sebastian.” It was an unusual name for a horse, to say the least. “They are still ahead of us. I can feel them, although….” He shook his head. “Don‟t worry, love, just focus on keeping astride. We‟re almost there.” Almost there. How far was almost there? Loud splashing sounded ahead, the dog howled again. The clouds above them shifted, stars winked at them and were gone. He was urging them into darkness. What if there was nothing at the other end of it? A dead end, or worse, a sheer drop. Or just nothing. Cathal cried out in pain. One of his arms weakened its grip around Tomas‟s waist. Fuck, he‟d been hit by something. Underneath them, the ground shifted; the sulfur smell was suddenly stronger. Tomas couldn‟t breathe. Water splashed, ice water seeping through his trousers. They were at the river. “Go!” he yelled at the horse. “Go!” They were wading, the water rising still farther. This wasn‟t where they‟d crossed before. It was deeper, more dangerous. The current tugged at them. Buttercup kept moving, following the horse in front. Cathal leaned forward, his breathing coming in gasps, calling encouragement to her. How much farther? Tomas glanced behind them nervously but couldn‟t see anything in the darkness. Raised voices argued, angry, scared, but he couldn‟t hear anyone following. He caught the words “demon” and “death,” and then there was silence. Buttercup began climbing again. Free of the water, she shook herself, neighing and pawing the ground with her hooves. Someone approached them, heavy, gasping for breath. It was another horse, although the ragged breathing belonged to one of her riders. “Christian? Will?” Cathal leaned into Tomas, head resting on his shoulder. “Here.” Christian‟s voice sounded shakier than Tomas had heard it before. This had been a hell of a ride for all of them. Christian closed the distance between them, his horse coming up alongside. “Will has been hit.”
306 | Anne Barwell
He faltered. “They aimed at me, and he took it in my place. His head is bleeding, and he‟s not lucid.” Will curled in closer to Christian, his words slurred but still recognizable. “Amelia, wait for me… please.”
TOMAS
pulled his cloak further around himself and Cathal, although it wasn‟t enough protection from the cold. The fire gave off more light than heat; it was the nature of the wood and to be expected, apparently. Nothing survived here for long, at least not in a way anyone or anything would want to, Christian had said grimly as they‟d gathered the kindling they needed. “I‟m sorry, Tomas,” Cathal whispered softly, snuggling in closer. He kissed Tomas, leaning into it, fingers stroking his face. At the other side of the fire, Christian and Will lay curled together, Will‟s breathing finally having evened out into sleep, although he murmured something every once in a while, not loud enough to be heard clearly. Deryn‟s soldiers had not followed them across the river, but from the little Tomas had seen of these woods, he didn‟t blame them. It had taken another five minutes‟ ride upstream before Christian had deemed it safe to dismount. The horses needed a break, and it was too dangerous to ride into the thick of the forest with the little amount of light available. They‟d spend the night, take turns keeping watch, and ride again at first light. Hopefully, by then Will would be recovered enough to stay upright on the horse without help. Although Tomas was no doctor, the little he‟d been able to ascertain seemed to suggest a mild concussion, and that at the very least, Will would have a nasty bruise on his temple for a while. The examination Doc McKenzie had done, together with the way he‟d muttered over Tomas‟s own injuries after his initial encounter with the Falcons, echoed this current situation a little too well. Not taking into account the nasty things lurking just beyond the clearing they were in, of course. And whatever was making that howling noise. Tomas shivered, wrapping his arms around Cathal. Ever since they‟d crossed the river, he hadn‟t been able to rid himself of the constant sense of death and despair. It ate at him, seeped into him, and gnawed at the edge of his consciousness. He had no idea how anyone could sleep through it, feeling too on edge to attempt it himself. It was why he‟d offered to take first watch, glad of Cathal‟s offer to keep him company and even more so the promise to answer some questions.
Cat’s Quill | 307
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Cat.” Tomas returned the kiss. He‟d wondered if he‟d ever have the opportunity to do this again, to hold Cathal and to be with him. “How‟s your arm?” Cathal smiled a little ruefully. “Sore, but that is to be expected.” He rubbed at his upper arm, then winced. “Whoever fired that slingshot was not very accurate. I was fortunate.” “He still hit you!” Tomas didn‟t agree with Cathal‟s assessment of “fortunate.” At least the arrow that had nicked his leg hadn‟t done any damage; there was just a fine line of blood which had congealed quickly. No permanent damage. Not compared to the aches in his joints and lack of feeling in his backside every time he moved. “I doubt he was aiming for my arm, love,” Cathal said quietly. “Deryn does not give up that easily. If we survive the night, she will catch up with us by the time we are free of this place.” He frowned. “I‟m sorry that you got involved in all of this. I let my feelings for you get in the way of my better judgment.” “It was my decision to come after you, and I stand by it.” Tomas shook his head firmly. He had no intention of getting into an argument, not when there was a good chance that this could still be their last chance to spend time together. “We‟ll get through this, find that bloody tree, and go home.” He fingered the pendant Cathal had given him and then tucked it back under his shirt to keep it safe. “Home?” Cathal sounded puzzled. “You‟re going back to your world, where it‟s safe. I don‟t belong there. I‟m not sure I‟d be welcome there any more than I am here.” Tomas scowled. “I‟m not leaving you, Cat. Either you come back to my world with me, or I‟m staying here.” He pulled away slightly, stroking Cathal‟s face so that he turned and their eyes met. “I love you, and you told me you love me. I want a life with you. I thought that was what you wanted too.” “I do.” Cathal sighed. He didn‟t look away. “As my cousin is fond of saying, I‟m a romantic, Tomas. In a perfect world this wouldn‟t be a problem. We‟d be together and take each other as one for life. But both our worlds are flawed.” He kissed Tomas softly. “The pendant is a token of my love for you. Keep it safe. It‟s your way home if we get separated, and it marks you as under my protection once we are free of her land.” “No.” Tomas shook his head. He‟d taken the pendant as a token of Cathal‟s love, and that meant it would be used as a safe passage out of here for both of them. “I‟m not leaving you. Either we make a life together here or in my world.”
308 | Anne Barwell
“If you stay here, she‟ll kill you.” Cathal bit his lip. He shivered, avoiding Tomas‟s eyes. “I won‟t allow that.” “I won‟t allow her to have you, so I guess that makes us even on that score.” Tomas was growing tired of this argument. Surely Cathal had to back down on it eventually? He sighed. “Look, Cat. Staying here is dangerous for both of us. It makes more sense for us to try and go somewhere she can‟t find either of us.” “She found me in your world before. There is nowhere safe, Tomas. As long as you‟re with me, you‟re in danger.” Cathal shivered, glancing behind them apprehensively. The fire was dying down. He got up and added more fuel to it. “I want you. God, I want you, but not at the risk of losing you. Can‟t you see that? I was stupid to think she‟d just give up on this. Maybe I should just give her what she wants and be done with it.” “Not fucking likely,” Tomas snorted. He stood and began pacing. It was getting more difficult to see anything positive in this mess. What was it with Cathal‟s change of mind? Had he been so wrong to think they wanted the same thing? He drew his cloak around himself tightly. Cathal was crouched by the fire, just staring at it. The bloody fire wasn‟t even producing any heat. It was so cold, the shadows lurking beyond the fire edging closer. The horses shifted nervously; neither of the two had settled at all once they‟d got clear of the river. In the distance the dog began to whine. Why couldn‟t someone or something just shut it up for good? Cathal held his hands out in front of him, turning them this way and that, trying to warm them over red embers, the flames highlighting the stained bandages. Suddenly closing his eyes, he dropped to his knees, his shoulders sagging, his breathing shallow. “Cat!” Tomas was by Cathal‟s side in a moment, pulling him into his arms. “Are you okay?” How could he have let this happen? Cathal should have been resting with his injuries, not sitting up and arguing with him. They would need all their strength if they were to ride at dawn. “I‟m fine.” Cathal opened his eyes, gave him a tired smile, and then, to Tomas‟s surprise, kissed him hard. His voice was rough, choked. “I should have realized.” “Realized? Realized what?” Tomas stared at him blankly, unsure to what he referred. The dog‟s whine changed to a whimper. “Bloody dog,” he muttered under his breath. “Why doesn‟t someone put it out of its misery?” “If only it was that simple,” Christian interrupted. He sat up, stroking Will‟s brow, trying to soothe him from whatever nightmare he was having.
Cat’s Quill | 309
“Cat wasn‟t the only one who should have realized.” He huddled his shoulders, curling in on himself but still staying close to Will. “We should have told you what this place was and warned you before it began to affect you, affect all of us.” “This place?” Tomas kept Cathal firm in his embrace. He remembered the river, the stench, the fact that Deryn‟s men had refused to follow them, the words that had been spoken. “The dog…,” he said slowly, wondering what had happened to it. “That thing is not a dog,” Cathal said grimly, “and as Christian says, you can‟t put it out of its misery. It is misery, or rather, that is what it does and how it feeds before it moves in for the kill.” “It‟s a diawl,” Tomas realized slowly. Will had mentioned them before, that and something about a legend, although he had not elaborated on either, changing the subject when Tomas asked him directly. “How do you know about those?” Christian eyed him suspiciously. “They are native to only this one area on our world, and I doubt they are known in yours.” “What are they?” Tomas demanded in return. “And don‟t give me that crap about it being misery. Some facts about now would be nice. I‟m tired of the three of you speaking in riddles when I need answers.” “It‟s not deliberate.” Cathal‟s fingers stroked Tomas‟s arm. They were cold, yet the action still sent tiny pinpricks of warmth through him. “There is much you do not know about our world; it is not realistic to expect to learn hundreds of years of history in a few days. We also still need to learn about your world. Too much time has passed since the year we spent there, and Christian‟s access to information has been very limited during his more recent visit.” “That‟s one way of putting it,” Christian muttered, adjusting Will‟s cloak around the both of them, trying to keep warm. “I hate this place,” he mumbled. Will opened his eyes groggily; confusion chased pain and fear across his features before he closed them again. Christian pulled him closer, murmuring soothing noises, making sure he was settled again before continuing. “I always have. It plays upon any negative feelings you might have and magnifies them. The diawl have no need to kill directly more often than not. Those who spend time here are driven to take their own lives and those of their companions. Already our tempers grow thin, and we jump at every shadow.” “They merely watch, and project, and then feast on what is left,” Cathal added grimly. “This is the dark heart of Deryn‟s lands. Legend has it that one of her ancestors created these forests and banished those who crossed her to
310 | Anne Barwell
them. In their desperation to escape, they turned to the little magic they possessed, but it backfired to produce the first diawl. Other legends say that the diawl are those people and they interbred with the animals that lived here.” He shuddered. “Neither story is one I would like proven.” “So the whole family are bitchy whackjobs then?” Tomas sighed. Of all the people to set her sights on Cathal, it had to be someone with a family history of kindness and light. It figured. Christian grinned. “I‟m beginning to suspect at last what you see in him, cousin. Well spoken, Tomas. Well spoken.” He shrugged. “If the stories are to be believed, her lineage is tainted by the dark arts. But then, nothing has been proven, and naturally her family took offense at the accusations. There is a harsh penalty for those who are caught speaking of it. But still the stories continue to grow. This particular one keeps intruders from her lands, as most do not dare risk this forest at night. Those who have do not survive long, and their mad ramblings merely serve to add to what already exists.” Above them the clouds moved again, this time the moon coming into view for a few moments, the air around them tinged with an almost blue color. Whispers crept forward in the darkness of the surrounding trees, growing louder and then fading back to an aural haze, not quite a hum but enough to remind Tomas of bees hovering to protect a hive. A nearby bush shook itself as though by invisible breath before stilling. Cathal freed himself from Tomas‟s embrace, adding more wood to the fire. The pile they‟d collected earlier was dwindling quickly; it was doubtful it would last until morning unless the nights here were shorter than on his own world. With his drugged sleep and then the time spent in the cell, Tomas realized he had no idea how time moved here, just that it seemed to not mesh with his own, at least in the long term. If Christian and Alice had been together ninety years ago, it couldn‟t possibly, as he and Cat had spoken of a fraction of that time passing here, and neither looked to be more than in their mid-twenties. “Her father is a decent man, or he was,” Cathal remembered. “I spoke to him several times when I was a child. He was very kind to my sister Irene when she lost her betrothed. She was distraught at the time, blaming herself, as she had not been able to save him despite her abilities as a mage. I am not sure what Lord Bryn said to her, but it appeared to give her the strength to carry on.” He shook his head and sighed. “The kingdom mourned his own passing shortly afterward. Deryn changed after that, or as I suspect, had hidden her true nature beforehand, to spare him. Her father was one person she did truly care for.”
Cat’s Quill | 311
“Deryn never cared for anyone unless they could further her own needs.” Christian snorted at the suggestion. “She kept her abilities hidden, lest they be used against her, while we were a little more open with ours, at least with those we trusted.” “She didn‟t hide them that well, cousin,” Cathal informed him. He settled back down against Tomas again, resting his head on Tomas‟s lap. His eyes were dim, his words slurring, reflecting his weariness. “There are ways of discovering such things.” He smiled up at Tomas. “I can move if this is not comfortable,” he whispered when Christian returned his attention to Will for a moment. The two of them seemed close, though it was doubtful they were involved, but their body language suggested they were comfortable in each other‟s space and were used to taking such liberties. “It‟s fine,” Tomas returned in kind, stroking Cathal‟s hair. It was soft under his touch, though it must have been days since he‟d had a chance to bathe. “You‟re tired, and you need your rest. Are you sure I don‟t need to recheck your bandages?” “It‟s better if they are left until we can do so properly.” Cathal leaned into Tomas‟s touch. He appeared to be enjoying the contact as much as Tomas was. “My wounds have stopped bleeding. I am merely tired, which is to be expected.” Tomas ran his fingers lightly over the bump on Cathal‟s arm, reminding him that the statement was not fooling anyone. “And sore. That will pass in time. If we do not survive this, it will not matter.” “We will survive this.” Tomas bent his head and softly kissed Cathal, ignoring the smirk Christian was giving both of them. Cathal licked Tomas‟s lips, tasting him properly, shifting his head slightly, for which Tomas was grateful after breaking the kiss. He needed to be able to think clearly; they both did, although the thought of the distraction was tempting. Besides, there was no way he was giving Christian that kind of a show, whatever the situation. “Will‟s condition is deteriorating,” Christian interrupted them, still stroking his friend‟s brow. Will whimpered, whispering his wife‟s name again before settling back into an uneasy sleep. “This place brings too many bad memories for him. He calls for Amelia, and they feed on his nightmares and the strength he needs to recover. As soon as there is enough light to see, we will need to ride and risk whatever lays in wait. Staying here is too dangerous for all of us.” “There‟s no one we can call on for help?” Tomas asked. “What about these dragons everyone says they believe in? Are they used by your resistance movement or something?
312 | Anne Barwell
Cathal sat up and stared at him, the side of his mouth twitching. “Dragons?” He glanced at Christian, whose expression was no better. “Yes, dragons,” Tomas said calmly. Everyone else had said they believed in the bloody things and not got this reaction. He felt his temper flare. “Even Mikey and Wynne were going on about them. So they‟ve got to be here somewhere, right? And we need to use everything we have. Especially with these odds.” “Of course we do.” Christian shook his head, smirking. “Especially with these odds.” Cathal leaned over and gave Christian a sharp tap on the arm, glaring at him. “It‟s an honest mistake, cousin,” he chastised. “Of course it is,” Christian agreed, his smirk widening. “Perhaps they hid your knife, Tomas, or even your towel.” He winked at Cathal. “I‟ve heard they come in all shapes and sizes. And even lay in your lap if you speak to them nicely.” Tomas opened his mouth to point out that sounded more like unicorns than dragons from the little he knew, then closed it again at the thought of what Christian might do with that tidbit of information. His inexperience in the bedroom was no one‟s business but his own. And Cathal‟s. “Christian!” Cathal was bright red. “That‟s enough! He was not to know.” “Know what?” Tomas looked from one to the other, deciding that question, at least, was safer than his unspoken one had been. Cathal seemed embarrassed, almost apologetic, while Christian was amused as hell to the extent that wiping that bloody smirk off his face was becoming a certainty rather than an agreeable option. “There are no dragons in this world, Tomas,” Cathal admitted. “Believing in them is the password of our resistance. Believing in them… with my current position amongst them is saying that you believe in….” His voice softened. “That you believe in me.”
Cat’s Quill | 313
Chapter 28
TOMAS
curled in on himself closer, mumbling to be left alone, trying to ignore the hand persistently shaking him. Why was it so cold? He just wanted to sleep. It was warm while he was asleep. “Just another few minutes,” he muttered, “don‟t want to go to school.” Someone shook him again. He fumbled for the blankets, trying to pull them farther over his head, but he couldn‟t find them. His mattress was hard, with sharp bits digging into him. He didn‟t remember the springs being this bad. Slow pain gnawed through his joints whenever he moved. His legs ached; he stretched them out, kicking at whoever was not taking no for an answer. “Go away!” “Tomas, you need to wake up.” The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn‟t place it. It was warmer like this, safer. The bad things couldn‟t get him under the blankets. Or better yet, under the bed. He could make a fort under there. Then he‟d never have to come out. “Don‟t want to.” There was no reason to wake up. He could pretend while he was asleep. Imagine having friends who wanted him, who needed him. Most of his friends left him, just as his parents had. It wasn‟t safe to trust people anymore. Let people in, and they hurt him. It was safer to hide. “Cold.” The darkness was friendly. It would be his friend. It had told him so. It wouldn‟t leave him. There were animals out in the darkness. They‟d play with him. He liked animals. A whimper escaped his lips, a memory. Except cats. Cats were bad. They stole things from him. No. Not all cats. There was one Cat. No, that wasn‟t right. Not a cat. “Cat,” he murmured. There was a cat. It loved… no, that wasn‟t right either. This was confusing. It would make more sense in the morning. Later in the morning, when it wasn‟t so cold. He rolled over, curling into a ball. Something soft brushed against his lips, freezing yet sending warmth through him, trying to drag him away from the darkness, away from friends that wanted to play with him.
314 | Anne Barwell
Then the same something or someone wrapped around him, restraining him. It was the same person who‟d touched him before, he knew it was. No, he couldn‟t let that person take him. The darkness wouldn‟t like it. He lashed out, fighting, trying to stay with his new friends. Why couldn‟t this person, this thing, leave him alone? The darkness wanted him. It was warmer than this cold. The light was bad, evil. He had to get free of it. He kicked again, more frantically, trying desperately to be free. A muffled grunt sounded in his ear, but the person restraining him refused to let go. Tomas cried out, yelling to be let go, struggling, lashing out with his arms and legs. A hiss of pain that was not his own cracked through the air like a gunshot. “Tomas, please.” Hot breath warmed his ear. He gasped, panting, knowing the voice yet not. He hurt all over and didn‟t know why. Something brushed against his lips again, wet, sliding, exploring. He opened his mouth, giving access, wanting more. He knew the voice, knew the touch. He wanted to be safe again. This person needed and wanted him. As much he did them. A groan escaped his lips. In the distance an animal howled, angry, crying. Tomas‟s eyes snapped open, awareness rushing back, the darkness retreating in the wake of light. Cathal kissed him again and then broke it, still straddling him. “Welcome back,” he whispered, his eyes searching Tomas‟s face, his voice breaking when Tomas gave him a shaky smile, not sure why but sensing Cathal‟s need for reassurance. Cathal‟s voice broke. “I thought I‟d lost you.” Tomas blinked, the comment making no sense. He took several deep breaths, his mind playing catch-up, trying to figure out what was going on. He was lying face up on the ground, something hard digging into his back. Cathal was sitting on him, keeping him still, peering down at him anxiously, his face drawn and pale. Thin slivers of light caught here and there through the canopy of trees to either side of them, the sun trying to rise but not quite succeeding. “What happened?” Tomas asked, his voice croaky; his throat was dry when he swallowed. Cathal managed a shaky smile; his right cheek was red, his hands resting on Tomas‟s chest, shaking. “The fire went out. We had no more fuel.” Cathal was breathing shallowly. Tomas lifted one hand to caress his cheek, the skin cool under his fingertips, although Cathal winced where he was touched. “You‟re hurt.” Tomas frowned. He struggled to sit. Cathal slid farther down onto his lap, helping him to change position. Will was huddled just over from them, his cloak drawn around him tightly. His eyes were bright, almost wild. He looked directly at Tomas but
Cat’s Quill | 315
did not appear to register that either he or Cathal were there. “They‟re still coming,” he murmured. “I can‟t stop them. They‟re still coming.” “It‟s nothing.” Cathal kept his voice low, glancing over at Will, relaxing a little when Will appeared to refocus enough to give them both a wan smile. “You were asleep. I couldn‟t wake you.” He kissed Tomas again, harder this time. “I didn‟t know what else to do. Once they claim someone, they don‟t let go easily.” “You kissed me,” Tomas whispered. “I remembered your kiss. I knew I wanted you. More than I wanted….” He shivered, wrapping his arms around Cathal, holding him tightly. “You chose me over them.” Cathal rested his head on Tomas‟s shoulder. Tomas stroked his hair instinctively, needing to be close. “I‟m sorry. I shouldn‟t have left you. Not even for a moment. I thought…. The horses were spooked. We couldn‟t risk losing them.” “It‟s okay, Cat,” Tomas reassured him. “No guilt now.” His fingers lingered on the angry red mark on Cathal‟s face. Had he done that when he‟d lashed out? God, he hoped not. He brushed his lips against Cathal‟s very softly, not wanting to risk hurting him further. This was the reality he wanted, not some empty promise of a dream his life had never managed to deliver until now. “We need the horses.” He frowned, eyes darting around the clearing, shifting his attention from thoughts he could not afford to pursue. “Where are they? Where‟s Christian?” Had something else happened that Cathal hadn‟t told him about yet? “He went after them. Something cut them loose when we lost the light. I suspect that‟s what spooked them.” Cathal‟s head came up sharply. “He‟s coming back. I can feel him.” He backed off Tomas, awkwardly getting to his feet. “We need to leave. Once the sun has risen properly, Deryn‟s soldiers will enter the forest. They can move much faster than we can.” “It‟s more dangerous here at night, right?” Although Tomas had already traveled through here during daylight, he wanted that confirmed. After the last few days, he didn‟t trust anything presumed to be accurate. This world had its own rules, and he was painfully aware that he knew next to nothing about them. “Yes,” Cathal confirmed. He frowned, listening carefully, scanning the area around them. “It‟s too quiet. The sun isn‟t high enough yet, and the forest is almost silent.” “Maybe they‟re settling down to rest for the day if they‟re nocturnal?” Tomas offered hopefully. He‟d had enough of these diawl things already, and they were doing a number on Will. His defenses were even lower than theirs against the diawl after the blow he‟d taken to his head.
316 | Anne Barwell
“And give up the chance of a decent meal?” Cathal shook his head. “I doubt it.” He grabbed Tomas‟s hand, pulling him over to Will. “We‟ll be out of here soon, Will, I promise,” he said softly, placing his other hand on Will‟s shoulder. Will nodded, his face drawn. “I‟m sorry,” he whispered. “You should leave me.” “No!” Tomas and Cathal spoke the word together, but it was Cathal who continued. “We‟re not leaving you. You risked your life to get us out of the keep, not to mention on numerous other occasions.” Cathal squeezed Will‟s shoulder, not quite hiding the wince when he did so. “We‟ve known each other since we were children. You‟re more than a friend, Will. You‟re family. Now, no more foolish talk on this matter. You need to save your strength. It will be a rough journey, especially as we have already used the little food we had.” “Someone‟s coming.” Tomas had been keeping one ear on the conversation, not wanting to intrude, and the other scanning their surroundings. A twig snapped, confirming his suspicions. He hadn‟t been sure whether he‟d heard footsteps or not, as they had been very light, almost nonexistent, but he had not wanted to take any chances. Cathal smiled. “Yes, it‟s Christian. I felt him earlier, as I said.” How far a distance did his ability stretch? Surely five minutes at a brisk walk must have meant Christian had not been that close. “He is definitely out of practice.” Cathal shook his head. “Six years ago you would not have been aware of his presence until it was too late.” “Six years ago that horse of yours wouldn‟t have been slowing me down,” Christian interjected, leading Buttercup toward them. She was twitchy, her ears pricked up, her coat glistening with sweat. He stroked her neck, speaking softly to her in a soothing tone. She neighed, still nervous, but seemed to calm somewhat. “She is no longer my horse.” Cathal frowned, looking behind Christian and back at him again. Buttercup‟s head came up at the sound of his voice. She pulled free of Christian, walking over to Cathal to nuzzle at him. He smiled, running his fingers lightly between her ears. “Sebastian?” “I was too late.” Christian sighed. He ran a hand through his hair; he was shaking. His eyes were red, and he looked exhausted. “Buttercup froze in her usual manner. It saved her life. Sebastian… there was very little left by the time we found him. I should have turned back once I found Buttercup, but I wanted to be sure.” Will shivered. “No one should have to die that way.” He crossed his arms, hugging himself. While he was growing more lucid, it was obvious that the
Cat’s Quill | 317
concentration required to do so was draining the little energy he possessed. “We should not wait any longer. Deryn has men guarding the borders between her land and yours.” He closed his eyes for a moment, swaying. Tomas slipped one arm around his waist to steady him. “She is also aware of the existence of the portal between worlds and will be taking precautions. She will not allow potential leverage to slip through her fingers again.” “I am not potential leverage,” Tomas protested indignantly. That bitch was not going to get her hands on Cathal in any shape or form, and definitely not by those means. “Try telling her that, or better yet, explain the concept to Cat. With you in her hands, he will do anything to keep you safe. We‟ve already seen that, and so has she,” Christian pointed out grimly. “If he‟ll put himself between me and a riding crop, he‟d do a lot more to protect you.” He frowned, eying Will up and down and ignoring the glare Cathal shot his way. “A riding crop?” Tomas spluttered, letting go of Will and adding his own glare toward Cathal. Surely not the one he‟d seen her with at the keep? If she‟d hurt Cathal, he‟d bloody kill her. Correction, if she‟d hurt him more. He winced, remembering the bruises he‟d already seen on Cathal‟s stomach after being thrown into the cell. “It was nothing.” Cathal shrugged. “Christian got on her wrong side. He‟s always had a talent for it.” His tone changed, his voice becoming very crisp and calm, as it had when he‟d taken charge back at the keep. “Will can ride Buttercup, as he is not in a state to walk far. Tomas, could you lead her? Christian and I know these woods, so it would be more advisable for us to follow the trail ahead of you.” “It‟s not full light yet,” Will observed. “Is it safe to bring her further into the forest?” “No, but we need to risk it to keep some advantage,” Cathal decided, avoiding meeting Tomas‟s eyes. He outlined his plan further. “With your injury, you are susceptible to the diawl, and the rest of us, with lack of sleep and food, are not in a much better position. Once it is full light, she and her soldiers will be upon us.” Christian handed the reins to Tomas, not giving him the option to protest, already helping Will to mount. “So that gets us through the forest, hopefully,” Christian agreed. “We still have to get to the border between Riverskeep and Rhopryd. That will not be easy to cross, especially the stretch of open field that is no man‟s land.” “I‟m aware of that, cousin.” Cathal frowned, thoughtful. “We also need to reach Rhosynoak itself, to enable safe passage home for Tomas, although once we clear Riverskeep we will be free of her law.”
318 | Anne Barwell
“Rhosynoak? Rhopryd?” Tomas had no idea what either one was talking about, although the idea of being free of Deryn‟s lands and law was very appealing. However, did that also mean that by reaching Rhosynoak they would be safe? “Rhopryd are my family‟s lands,” Cathal explained, he and Christian already beginning to walk, leaving Tomas no choice but to follow with Will and Buttercup. “Rhosynoak marks the portal between our worlds.” He smiled a little. “It translates into your language as Rose Oak. Generations ago, roses grew there, encircling the oak, but one morning, according to legend, the people awoke to find that the roses had withered and died overnight. No one knows why. It was a long time ago, and such stories are often embellished, if there is any truth left in the telling at all.” He paused in his explanation and tilted his head, frowning, but kept walking. “It is still too quiet. I suspect the diawl are merely biding their time, waiting for us to make a mistake. They are watching, and not from afar. We need to keep moving.” “They do not give up a potential food source that easily.” Christian gripped the knife in his hand. If these creatures could take down a fully grown, rather large horse easily, two knives would be no match for them. Still, Tomas took some comfort in the weapon in his own hand, even if he had no skill in using it. “It is not the idea of being a source of food that worries me.” Cathal kept walking ahead. He spoke absently, his concentration elsewhere. “They are animals, Cathal. The other part of the story is mere legend, designed to make their prey lower their guard.” Will slumped forward on the horse, resting his head, his words slurring. “You okay?” Tomas whispered, slowing down to give Will a little privacy in his response. It was easier to make out the shapes in the trees as the sun gave more light, although this trail was not very well lit, with barely enough room for them to walk through, let alone the horse. Around them, it was quiet, their own breathing hanging like mist in the still air. It was damp, the cold settling into his bones, the rough ground he‟d slept on aggravating his already aching joints. It had been barely two days, and already he was yearning for a hot shower and a warm soft bed. How did people live like this? “Yes.” Will spoke in a low voice. “Just a little tired, and I have a headache, but I do not want to sleep again. I prefer to fight something I can see rather than the dreams the diawl bring. However, once we leave the forest, our chances of survival will drop considerably.” “How considerably?” Tomas had suspected that Cathal had been painting too positive a picture. Just because Tomas was not from this world and totally
Cat’s Quill | 319
out of his depth with just about every facet of it did not mean that there was a need to protect him from the truth. “Very much so.” Cathal stopped walking and turned to face both of them. “The area between the forest and the border is akin to an open field similar to the one between the river and her keep. We barely made it through there on horseback.” He crossed his arms, his lips pursed, his expression daring them to come closer while his body language was already placing distance between them. “There is only one route open to us once we pass through the forest, and it would have been the one you traveled with her when you got here.” His eyes glazed over, distant, regretful. “I have been searching for an alternative plan of action, and there is only one.” “Which is?” Tomas eyed him suspiciously, not really needing to ask the question. “If it involves giving yourself up to her, forget it. That‟s not going to happen.” Cathal shrugged. “That would be it. I have something she needs. I give it to her in exchange for your lives. We have one horse, Will is injured, and I am in no condition to put up much of a fight. That leaves you and Christian. You are inexperienced, and two knives are no match for trained soldiers who will be heavily armed.” He spoke calmly, as though the situation they faced was taking place elsewhere and didn‟t involve any of them. Tomas fought the urge to shake some sense into him. “She would take what she needs from you and then kill you, after making you watch Tomas die just because she could.” Christian rolled his eyes. “Do you really think she would spare either Will or me for even a fraction of a second? We are of no use to her, not when she has Tomas. We would be killed to remind you of what she will do to him in order to keep you in line.” He shook his head, grabbed Cathal‟s shoulder, and shook him hard, saving Tomas the trouble. “We keep moving, and we fight back. I am not giving her this victory, and neither are you. I would rather die in battle with my dignity intact. I thought you would too, cousin, or has the lust you feel for this stranger totally addled your brain?” “No!” Cathal attempted to pull away, but Christian held him tightly, practically breathing into his face. “Yes, and I will keep telling you for as long as it takes to get common sense into that head of yours.” Christian‟s voice was rough; he turned them so that his back was to Tomas and Will, with only Cathal able to see his face. “I love you like a brother, Cat, but when it comes to situations such as these, I despair of you. You let your heart rule your head; you always have. There is no way out of this, however much I wish there was. She has us in her web and
320 | Anne Barwell
is toying with us. We both know that, and have done so before we left the keep.” He pulled Cathal close, holding him. Cathal‟s response was quiet, whispered. Tomas strained to hear but couldn‟t make out the words. He dropped the reins, taking a step forward, but Will shook his head. This was not their discussion but something Cathal and Christian needed to sort out between them, although the decision would affect them all. Their options were limited, as were the possibilities of them surviving very far into the future. The only difference in how this played out would be how they met their deaths. Now in the forest, a little later just outside of it and by their own hand, or to give the satisfaction of it to Deryn in a matter which suited her. After a few moments, Christian relaxed his hold on Cathal. He turned. His eyes were red, his face grim. Without speaking a word, he walked over to Tomas, took the reins from him, and led the horse farther up the path. Tomas opened his mouth to protest and decided against it. This would be the last time he and Cathal spoke in private. He would not turn down the opportunity, nor would he deny Will and Christian theirs. Cathal looked up at Tomas, his face pale, biting his lower lip. “Hold me,” he choked, all pretense of control gone. Tears pooled in his eyes. Tomas was by his side in an instant, pulling him into his arms, into an embrace that was never going to be long enough. “I‟m sorry,” Cathal whispered. “It wasn‟t supposed to end this way.” “I know,” Tomas murmured, wishing he had something to say. Once again words failed him. He was a writer without his craft, useless, unable to protect the one person he‟d finally allowed himself to care about. He brushed his lips against Cathal‟s and then kissed his cheeks, catching his tears. “It‟s not over yet, and until it is, there‟s still hope, right?” Cathal shook his head. “Miracles don‟t exist, Tomas.” He stroked Tomas‟s cheek, his touch light. “I wanted this to be different. For your sequel to have its happy ending, and all I‟ve done is destroyed your dreams.” “You haven‟t,” Tomas reassured him. “I love you, and we‟ve lived a little of our lives together.” It wasn‟t exactly a storybook romance, but then he‟d never believed in the crap that his sister read anyway, despite wanting a happy ending for Alice and Christian. A few stolen kisses and a night in each other‟s arms in a forest. It was more than he‟d thought he would ever have. God, life was so bloody unfair. He‟d die here, and no one would ever know. Kathleen would never know. She‟d always worried about him, and she was family, the only one he‟d had for so long.
Cat’s Quill | 321
“Far too little.” Cathal held him tightly, kissing him again. “I wanted to show you so much, to share my life with you.” He smiled sadly. “My betrothed, if you‟d have me.” “I‟d have you, Cat,” Tomas promised. “For as long as we both shall live.” It wasn‟t exactly the words of comfort he was looking for, but there wasn‟t anything else to say. “For as long as we both shall live.” Cathal pulled away, sliding one hand into Tomas‟s. The other he used to wipe Tomas‟s face. Ahead of them Buttercup whinnied, impatient to move on. She didn‟t like the forest. There was no way back; the sun was already highlighting glimpses of blue sky through the thinning trees above. Tomas nodded and began walking toward the others, Cathal beside him. He glanced up once more, wondering what this world was truly like, what it would be like to build a life here with Cathal, but knowing they no longer had that option. He managed a shaky smile and whispered the words that finally came to him. “Stay with me, and I‟ll take us both home.”
322 | Anne Barwell
Chapter 29
THE rest of the journey through the forest continued in silence. They each had their own vision of what was to come, none of which were pleasant or something to be dwelt upon. One of Buttercup‟s hooves snapped a twig at one point, the dry staccato echoing through the surrounding bush, but none of the four reacted to it, each lost in his own thoughts. Cathal and Tomas walked hand in hand, keeping close. Christian continued to lead the horse, the reins wrapped loosely around his fingers. Will glanced upward on occasion, frowning, his eyes sad, expression wistful. Tomas wondered what Will was thinking about, suspecting that memories of his wife were not far from his mind, but did not ask. The sun grew still higher in the sky. Normally Tomas would have presumed, following its progress, that it was at least midmorning, but he was no longer sure of anything. Of Deryn and her soldiers there was no sign. It seemed odd that the path they trod had managed to avoid her so completely, but then it did not appear to be one used often, with Christian stopping frequently to hold back an overgrown branch so that Buttercup could pass with Will only having to bend rather than dismount. Once or twice a shrill chattering broke through the trees, and there was a glimpse of something moving above them, but it came no closer. It was almost as though everything was keeping its distance, watching, and waiting. It was disturbing as hell. All that was needed now was for the weather to change completely and for it to begin to rain. Tomas shivered, tightening his grip on Cathal‟s hand. A small voice, so faint a whisper that it was ghostlike, reminded him that doing so must be aggravating Cathal‟s injuries, but all Cathal did was stroke Tomas‟s thumb with his own and smile a little, so he ignored it. In the distance a horse neighed, and voices could be heard. The forest had become gradually thinner; their time together was nearly over. Deryn was waiting for them on the other side of the next thicket.
Cat’s Quill | 323
“We can‟t just go out there and die!” Now they were this close, Tomas was having second thoughts. “We can‟t stay here.” Cathal let go of Tomas‟s hand. “But I have no intention of going out there and just dying for no good reason.” He exchanged a look with Christian, who nodded in agreement. “We do have a plan, but it is not a particularly good one, which is why we have not mentioned it before now.” “Any plan is better than none at all,” Will remarked calmly, sitting up straighter in the saddle. Just because he was not himself did not mean that he had to broadcast that fact to their enemy. “So what is this plan, exactly?” Tomas was not impressed with the idea that they‟d had one and not told him or Will. Even if it wasn‟t a good plan, that did not mean it shouldn‟t have been shared, especially as this would have an impact on all of them and their possible life expectancy. Cathal shrugged. “It is a long shot as plans go.” He frowned, tilting his head to the side, eyes glazing over as he focused. “She has at least twenty men ahead of us, and I suspect a dozen following us through the forest. Another ten minutes and they will be upon us. Their pace has been steady. I suspect the timing of this was prearranged to ensure that the path behind us has been sealed off, giving us no choice but to meet with her directly.” “I thought there was only one path through here,” Tomas queried suspiciously. “There are two,” Christian said, his eyes narrowing. “We have taken the lesser known one, and she would have used the more common of the two, which is safer. She could have also traveled upriver and cut through the forest farther in by doing so. It is a faster option if traveled on horseback.” “Right.” Tomas didn‟t quite manage to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Being aware of these facts would have been helpful, despite the fact that there wasn‟t much he could do to change what was happening. “Knowledge does not change anything,” Cathal reminded him gently. He cleared his throat, moving the conversation on. Spending their last moments arguing was not something any of them wished. “It is a good hour‟s ride to the border once we are free of the forest. Hopefully, someone has come seeking our whereabouts; Will can meet them midway and bring help before it is too late.” “What are the chances of that?” Tomas didn‟t really want the answer, but he had to ask the question anyway. Will was the logical choice to make the journey, if he could stay on the horse. He would not last long in battle in his present state. This way he could make the difference and bring the cavalry.
324 | Anne Barwell
The horse would be more likely to make the trip with one rider, and Christian would not leave Cathal any more than Tomas would. If Will was allowed to get that far. “Of someone seeking our whereabouts?” Cathal shook his head. “Practically nil. Deryn was right on that count. You are not of this world, Christian is no longer, and it is doubtful I will be missed. After all, I have been disappearing for hours at a time of late, including overnight, so this is not unusual behavior.” “I will stay and take my chances with the rest of you.” Will took the reins from Christian, winding them around his fingers. “You are the only family I have left, and I am not leaving you to certain death. You are outnumbered, and it is doubtful that you would hold out for the time it would take me to reach help, let alone return with it.” He smiled a little; it was strained but showed some of his earlier humor, which they had not seen since he‟d been injured. “As you said yourself, my lord, as plans go, this is not a particularly good one.” A familiar voice interrupted, calling to them. Tomas automatically slipped his arm around Cathal‟s waist, wanting him closer. “Come now, this grows tiresome.” Deryn sounded bored, too bloody confident of her victory. “I wish to be home in time for supper, and yet you take your time in meeting with me.” “Fucking bitch,” Tomas muttered. “Meeting, my arse.” She intended to kill them; it was just a matter of when and how. “Patience has never been one of her strong points,” Cathal told him, “except when she is planning something to someone else‟s detriment, and then she waits for however long it takes. In this instance, however, time is not on her side.” Christian gave him a quizzical look, but Cathal just shrugged. Tilting his head up, he kissed Tomas hard, pulled free, and began walking toward the sound of her voice. “Let‟s get this over and done with,” he said grimly. Tomas wanted to ask if they had to, but there was only one answer to that. They‟d escaped her once; it was doubtful she‟d go for a repeat performance. No, it was better to go down fighting. He would not allow her to touch Cathal again and would get between more than him and her riding crop if it came down to it. “Whatever it takes,” he replied, following. They were greeted by Deryn and a group of heavily armed men. She smiled at both of them. “I believe the correct course of action is to raise your arms in surrender,” she reminded them. Her smile changed to a frown when she looked beyond them toward Christian and Will. “And you really should remind Will that a servant‟s place is not in the saddle when his master walks.”
Cat’s Quill | 325
“He is not a servant,” Cathal said calmly, “and we do not intend to surrender.” She laughed. “Still the romantic, dear. Such a shame really.” Her eyes narrowed, her tone developing more of an edge to it. “You are surrounded and outnumbered. You have already lost, Cathal. You know what I want from you and what is at stake. Do you really think I would give up so easily?” Cathal moved forward, placing himself in front of Tomas. “Of course not. Did you really think I would?” He put one hand behind his back, his fingers counting down from five. What the hell did he think he was doing? Tomas risked a quick glance behind them. Christian and Will were tense, as though poised for action. Fuck, this was obviously a pre-arranged signal used in their bloody resistance. The countdown complete, Cathal lunged, diving for one of the men standing in front of Deryn. She urged her horse back, speaking to it sharply when it neighed, obviously spooked by the unexpected movement. Both men hit the ground with a dull thump, rolling over, one trying to gain the upper hand over the other. “I need him alive!” she called out, retreating, watching, her warning giving Cathal some of the advantage he‟d lacked. His opponent may have been under orders not to kill, but he was not. He hit the man in the stomach several times, grunting himself in pain when his already-tender hands curled in to make a fist, tearing his wounds open. Buttercup reared up on her hind legs, Will urging her forward through the semicircle of men and horses. Two of the horses parted, skittish, their riders reining them in sharply but not before a small gap was left between them. Will dived through, keeping his head low. They raised their bows, readying their arrows. He would be allowed to die, even if Cathal was not. Christian dived for the man on Deryn‟s right, Cathal having aimed left, echoing the moves his cousin made with the added advantage of a knife. He slashed at the man under him, crying out when the soldier brought his knee up, delivering a blow to a very sensitive spot. They rolled over on the ground, then pulled apart, each struggling to his feet, cautiously circling the other. Deryn laughed, enjoying the show. “His survival does not matter! Kill him! Let Cathal see him die!” She urged on her troops. “Get rid of these mice. Stamp them out!” “Bitch!” This bloodbath was for Cathal, to feed his guilt before she got her claws into him. Tomas swore again, this time more colorfully and louder. He‟d been frozen, unsure of what to do. He had no battle experience. He kept
326 | Anne Barwell
his knife raised, his hand tightly curled around its hilt in an effort to hide that he was shaking. Two of her men grinned at him and began advancing. He took a step back, and then another. They followed, drawing daggers which were twice the size of his knife. The sun glinted on the blades of their weapons, reminding him of their sharpness. It was not something he wanted to dwell on. “Careful with that one,” Deryn warned. He glanced at her, the cold, calculating look in her eyes sending a shiver down his spine. She smiled, very obviously enjoying the battle, anticipating her victory before it had even happened. Tomas took another step back. His ankle twisted, caught in a hole in the ground. A wave of pain shot through his foot as he hit the ground. One of the men laughed. The sun hit Tomas‟s eyes. He brought his hand up to shield his face, a sliver of steel catching the edge of his vision just as the soldier slashed with his knife. Tomas rolled, trying to dodge his assailant. The man grabbed him, holding him down, pulling his head up by his hair, making him watch the battle around them, the knife against his throat. Arrows flew through the air. Buttercup broke into a gallop, but it was too late. Will cried out, at least one of the projectiles finding its target. Buttercup whinnied, panicked. She froze. Will slumped forward in the saddle. Deryn laughed. Christian tightened his grip on his knife, pulling it from the shoulder of the man who‟d opposed him, not bothering to wipe the blood from the blade as he crawled to his feet, ready to take on someone else. Deryn gestured. One of her men aimed, the small, sharp object leaving his hand to rapidly fly through the air toward the bull‟s-eye it sought. “No!” Cathal threw himself, diving toward Christian, trying desperately to get between his cousin and the dagger heading straight toward him, its point mere inches from its new target. Time slowed. Tomas watched in horror, unable to do anything. And reality seemed to turn in on itself and shift.
HE WAS
surrounded by grey nothing, mist that melted through his fingers when he tried to hold onto it. Tomas blinked several times and sat up, trying to clear his vision. He must have died, that was it, but surely there was supposed to be something in the afterlife? Not this damp, grey, annoying as hell… excuse for whatever it was supposed to be.
Cat’s Quill | 327
Where was this place, and what had happened to everyone? He swallowed, the visuals of the last few moments chasing each other through his mind. Cathal! The dagger had been going straight for him. What had the idiot been thinking diving into its path like that? “Cat!” Surely if this was the afterlife, Cathal must be here with him. He wasn‟t going to do this alone, damn it. Not when Cathal had pulled that kind of stunt. “Cat!” The mist twisted and turned, brushing against his skin, cold and clammy. Fuck, for an afterlife, this was not what the church preached, that was for sure. Unless he‟d missed that part of the sermons he‟d been forced to sit through with one of the families who‟d fostered him. Unless he‟d been sent to hell for whatever reason? Yes, that must be it. What was left of his sanity snorted at the idea. He stood, testing his ankle cautiously, but it felt fine. That figured. If he‟d left his body behind because he was dead, he‟d hardly be likely to still have a sprained ankle. That still didn‟t explain what this place was or what had happened. He took a step forward, and then another, trying to push his way through the mist. “Cat!” he yelled again. If this was going to be one of those stories where some higher power hit the reset button and the time he‟d had with Cat hadn‟t happened…. No! He wasn‟t going there. This wasn‟t some bloody book, even if it followed on from one. This was reality. Reality didn‟t work that way. There had to be consequences for actions, and follow-through and…. Tomas sat down, his legs shaky, not wanting this other version of reality either. The dagger had been coming for Cathal. If this place wasn‟t real, and just his mind trying a last-ditch avenue of escape, was that the only future he had to look forward to? Cathal‟s death, followed by his own, and then nothing? “Cat is not here,” a voice said softly. It was a woman‟s voice, gentle and reassuring, although she needed to work better on the latter as he didn‟t feel particularly reassured. “Who are you and where are you?” he demanded. He knew he should stand, that he at least could run if he did, but his legs refused to cooperate. A woman stepped out of the mist. She was slender, of medium height, with blue eyes and blonde hair, which curled around her face. She smiled, and for a moment Tomas swore he saw an echo of Cathal about her. “You are Tomas.” It was a statement, not a question. She was watching him carefully, her hands folded in front of her, pale against the turquoise of her long gown.
328 | Anne Barwell
“Yes, and you are?” If she was going to sound all-knowing, he at least was going to find out who she was and what this was about. “If Cat‟s not here, where is he?” “He is safe for the moment,” she replied. “That is why I am here, Tomas. I wish him to continue to be kept safe.” “Oh?” He didn‟t like the calmness in her voice. It was too controlled; in fact it reminded him of Cathal when he was outlining one of his plans. He frowned, wondering if they were related. “I have something to offer, but it comes with a price.” Her eyes grew wistful. “Everything does. It is the way of the universe and what is required to keep the balance, especially between our worlds.” Tomas scrambled to his feet. “What are you offering, and at what price? If it will save Cat, I‟ll do it. Whatever it is, I‟ll do it.” Prices could be negotiated later; for the moment if he could keep Cathal alive, they‟d figure a way around it later. “Who are you?” “Someone who can help, Tomas. That is all you need to know for now.” She took a step back, keeping just out of his reach. “As for the price….” She frowned, looking him up and down intently, her eyes so intense and focused that he shivered, feeling as though he lay bare before her. “What is it?” he asked hoarsely. Would he have to give up Cathal to keep him safe? Even if the price was that, he‟d do it, although he hoped like hell it wasn‟t. He hadn‟t agreed yet though, right? Not until she specified whatever it was. He and Cathal couldn‟t have gone this far to lose each other, but he couldn‟t let Cathal die either. But there was one thing that would be unacceptable: losing Cathal to Deryn. It was something he couldn‟t agree to, especially as it was not his decision to make. “You and your betrothed are bound to this world, Tomas, as are those who are of his blood. When you are called, the answer you will give is yes, no questions asked.” “Betrothed?” Tomas frowned, his fingers going to the pendant still around his neck. “But we never….” They‟d both said they would, but it had been too late for that. She chuckled. “That pendant was given in love and received the same way. In our world, that is a sign of betrothal and keeps you safe on our land. It marks you as Cathal‟s, as the one he intends to take in marriage.” “Oh.” Tomas felt himself blush. So that was what Christian had meant about Cathal being romantic and sneaky. “It sits well on you. I wish you well for your future together.” She glanced behind her as though in response to something or someone he could not hear.
Cat’s Quill | 329
“Our time here is almost over. I cannot risk staying longer, and neither can you. I already came too close to being discovered when I kept watch in the catacombs. Accept the reality you find yourself in, Tomas. I will do what I can to close the path behind you.” “What do you mean when we‟re called?” Tomas took a couple of steps toward her. She shook her head. She‟d wished them well for a future together. That meant they would get one, right? “Who are you? I don‟t even know your name.” Could she be one of those mages Cathal had mentioned? But why the hell would one of them help? They were supposed to be the enemy, weren‟t they? Had he just sold both their souls to the proverbial devil? Already she was beginning to fade, as was the mist around them. Her words were soft; he strained to hear them. “Look after my brother, Tomas. Make him happy and give him the life he deserves.” And then his reality shifted once more.
PAIN screamed through his ankle, sunlight temporarily blinding him. Tomas sat down with a thump in the grass, panting, trying to get his breath back. He felt exhausted, like he‟d just run a marathon, not to mention confused as hell. Where was he? What had just happened? Around him, chaos ruled. Buttercup neighed loudly, pawing the ground. Will was slumped forward on her, not moving. Cathal lay on his stomach in the grass, looking dazed, his own breathing coming in gasps. He was bruised; his lip was bleeding, as were his hands. On top of him, washing herself, was a familiar black cat. Of the dagger, there was no sign. “He… what… there was a man, and now there‟s a cat.” Mikey had sprung to his feet, a discarded book flung to the ground at the base of the oak tree. He looked around warily, eyeing the group of people, and horse, in front of him. What the hell had just happened? “Cat?” Tomas whispered the name, hoping this was real. He tried to stand again, his already swelling ankle refusing to cooperate. Cathal looked up at him, his eyes glazed over and dull. “Tomas? Where? There was a dagger. I thought….” “Cat! Tomas!” Mikey ran toward Cat, closing the distance, helping him to his feet. Tomas scowled, pulling himself to his knees, trying to get upright
330 | Anne Barwell
and regain some semblance of dignity. “What happened to you guys? Everyone‟s been worried.” Blackthorn… no, Christian, meowed, noticing the horse. The cat leaped onto Buttercup‟s back, rubbing herself… no, himself… against Will, trying to rouse him. That animal, the oak, and Mikey. Tomas risked a glance behind him and then to his right and left. “We‟re home,” he whispered numbly. They were in the field next to the old oak, the inn behind them. But how? Was this what Cathal‟s sister had meant about keeping him safe? She‟d sent them all home, even the bloody horse. Christian meowed again. Louder this time, more insistently, definitely not happy about being back in cat form. “Will!” Cathal realized, a little farther ahead in the rational thought department than Tomas was. “He‟s injured.” He pulled away from Mikey, breaking into a run toward Buttercup and her unconscious rider. An arrow protruded out of Will‟s leg. He groaned when Christian meowed again but did not open his eyes. A door slammed in the distance, two figures already starting to sprint from the house toward them across the field. Donovan and Heidi, it must be. “We need to get away from the tree.” Cathal caught hold of Buttercup‟s reins, wincing when he twisted them around his fingers. “Deryn will be right behind us.” Tomas struggled to his feet. Mikey, to his amazement, left Cathal and decided to lend some assistance to Tomas. “Who‟s Deryn? Who‟s Will, and what‟s going on?” he demanded. “You guys all appeared out of thin air by the tree, and then he,” Mikey pointed to the cat, “changed shape.” “That‟s your great-grandfather,” Tomas said, unable to resist the introduction, too tired to care about Mikey‟s reaction at this point. “Christian… he‟s a cat.” Mikey‟s jaw dropped. “Cool!” he breathed. “So there is magic here. I knew it!” “Deryn,” Cathal urged. “We need to get away from here. If we came through the portal, so might she.” He laid a hand on Will‟s forehead, murmuring something to him, reassuring him, even though he was still out of it. “She won‟t,” Tomas said slowly. “Your sister, she said she‟d try and close the path behind us.” Surely if Deryn was coming, she‟d be there already, or at least they would have heard that music that played when the portal opened.
Cat’s Quill | 331
“My sister?” Cathal stared at him. “You spoke to Irene? When? What did she say?” His hand stilled suddenly, his eyes shifting to rest on Mikey. “You‟re Christian‟s great-grandson?” His voice softened. The cat stopped washing; he—as Tomas‟s brain was not going to cope with thinking of Christian as a she—pressed up close to Cathal looking for attention or maybe comfort as he continued speaking. “I had no idea.” Tomas limped over to Cathal, taking the reins from him. His hands were in no state to lead a horse, not after that last fight. “I was going to tell you, but we had no time. I only just found out before I came after you.” They were going to have to talk about such a lot. But first they needed to get help for both him and Will. Explaining all this was going be interesting, to say the very least. “What the hell‟s going on?” Donovan finally reached them, almost out of breath, Heidi still a good few feet behind him. She took in the situation at a glance, pulled out her mobile, punched in a number, and held it up to her ear, listening for a reply. “Where have you been? We‟ve been so worried, we‟ve had the cops out searching the area, and then you show up again like this!” His tone was a mix of concern and anger. “They appeared out of thin air by the tree!” Mikey butted in. “One minute I was alone and the next they were there, and Blackthorn‟s not even really a cat!” Tomas sighed. “We‟ll explain later. Will‟s hurt, and so is Cat. It‟s been a hectic few days.” “Few days?” Mikey rolled his eyes. “You must have hit your head, Tomas. You‟ve been gone six weeks!”
332 | Anne Barwell
Epilogue
TOMAS
stirred, his subconscious registering that something, or rather, someone, was missing. He shifted, ignoring the twinge in his ankle, and attempted to move closer to Cathal to snuggle up to him. His eyes opened with a start when he realized he was alone in the bed, although the mattress on Cathal‟s side was still warm. “Cat?” He rolled over, fumbling around for the bedside light, found the switch, and turned it on. A pale haze filled the room, outlining the lone figure standing by the window. “Go back to sleep,” Cathal replied softly. He shivered but didn‟t turn around. The old T-shirt and cotton boxers of Tomas‟s he wore didn‟t give much protection from the chilly night air. The boxers fit, as he and Tomas were of a similar build, but the T-shirt was very long on him with the height difference between them. Heidi had taken the clothes they‟d returned in with mutterings of washing them, although it was doubtful that anything could be salvaged with the state they were in. Tomorrow they would find suitable clothing, but for now, resting and recovering from their injuries was more important. “I will be there in a moment.” “You‟re cold.” Tomas sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He yanked the patchwork duvet off the top, wrapping it around him as he gingerly put his feet on the floor. The ankle still wouldn‟t take much weight, but he could move slowly, using a motion somewhere between a shuffle and a limp. “It is a little chilly but still warmer than the forest at night.” Cathal turned to see what Tomas was doing. “Dr. McKenzie told you to keep weight off your foot,” Cathal reminded him, frowning. “I‟ll be fine,” Tomas reassured him, hobbling over to the window. He leaned forward, his head resting on Cathal‟s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him, using him to take the weight off the injured ankle slightly. The duvet he draped over both of them. It was chilly out of bed, and Cathal‟s arms were covered in goose bumps.
Cat’s Quill | 333
“Thank you.” Cathal tilted his head to kiss Tomas gently on the lips. Tomas leaned into it, returning the kiss slowly before breaking it, running his fingers through Cathal‟s hair, which smelled faintly of the apple scent of the shampoo they‟d both used. It suited him. “I‟m sorry I woke you.” “What were you thinking about?” Tomas kept his voice low; it was quiet outside, and he felt as though he was encroaching on a private moment. “The past, and the future,” Cathal replied, returning his gaze to the window. The oak stared back at them, tall, unflinching, and silent with its secrets. It had left its mark on him quite literally. The bracelet of twigs he‟d taken from it to wear in this world to counter the magic of his punishment had transformed into a tattoo on his wrist since he‟d returned, the original having disappeared supposedly when Christian had changed shape. Tomas nodded. “I‟ll take care of you, and we‟ll take the future together as it comes.” He traced the outline of the marking on Cathal‟s wrist with his fingers. “You‟re safe now, we‟re home.” At least with it having transformed into something more permanent, it meant that they did not have to worry about the consequences of him leaving the shadow of the tree. “Are we?” Cathal didn‟t seem so sure. “This is your world, Tomas, not mine. I feel as though I belong with you, but I am not convinced I do here.” He sighed. “There is Will and Christian to think of too.” “Will is going to be fine.” Tomas pulled Cathal closer; already he was beginning to warm. “The antibiotics Harry gave him will clear up any infection from the arrow, and it came out cleanly. He just needs to be convinced to rest.” However, he hadn‟t missed the confusion in Will‟s eyes; not all of it was down to his injuries. He‟d never been in this world before. It was all new, and there were so many things to learn. Will was a man out of his place and to some extent, with the more advanced technology here, out of time. He and Cathal both. Christian was a cat, so that didn‟t count, at least for the moment. Any ramifications that concerned him could be dealt with later. In the meantime he was spending the night on the end of Will‟s bed with any efforts to convince him to move being met by glares and hisses of the feline kind. “Will is not one to rest.” Cathal shook his head, his attention still on the oak. “Although Irene said she would close the path behind us, with the way time passes differently between our worlds, it could be several days before we are safe, even if she succeeds.” “Then we need to be careful, while still having faith, love.” The sentiment was not one that Tomas would have voiced even a week ago, but there was something about Irene that made him believe that she would not have made a promise she did not intend to keep. She had taken a great risk in taking him
334 | Anne Barwell
briefly out of time to speak to him and then shifting them all through space as well as between worlds. Apparently it was a talent very few mages possessed, making her someone not to be trifled with. Even so, her abilities were limited, or she would have been able to save her own betrothed. Mages had their own weakness, and abilities could be interfered with. Tomas didn‟t want to think about the price that could be asked of himself and Cathal for their own safe passage. The words that his sister had said about them being called was something they would have to discuss and consider at a later date. He had no doubt that Irene had not spoken lightly; nothing was given without cost, but for the moment they were together and safe, and that was what he planned to focus on. “I intend to be careful.” Cathal sighed, snuggling back against Tomas. “I‟m sorry, I don‟t mean to sound so negative. We have a future ahead of us now, and I want to make the most of it.” He smiled. “You promised to show me your world, to explain to me all of its wonders.” The smile grew a little mischievous. “I suspect my questions about showers and us running the inn out of hot water is just the beginning.” Tomas couldn‟t help but chuckle. They‟d both enjoyed the shower, and being in bed in each other‟s arms. “I suspect it is. You‟re very curious,”—he blushed—“even if there are some things we both need a little more information about.” Warm lips met his, the kiss a little deeper than the last one had been. “I think we both need to go back to bed and make the most of the time left to us until morning.” Cathal glanced toward the oak again and then shrugged, appearing to have come to a decision. “We make our own future to a degree, but there are some things we can‟t change. Whatever happens, I think you‟re right, that we need to focus on the fact we will be meeting those together.” He kissed Tomas again. Returning the kiss, Tomas smiled. It was open and genuine; the words he spoke were from his heart. “I love you, Cathal, and of one thing I am sure, especially now I know what it means.” Cathal turned from the window, sliding one arm around Tomas‟s waist. “What it means?” Tomas leaned into him, allowing Cathal to give him the support he needed. “Yes,” he whispered softly. “That I believe in dragons.”
About the Author
ANNE BARWELL
lives in Wellington, New Zealand, sharing her home with her twin daughters, at least during the holidays, when one of them isn‟t away at university. Her son has left home and started his own family, although she claims she is too young to be a grandmother already. Her three cats are convinced that the house is run to suit them; this is an ongoing “discussion,” and to date it appears as though the cats may be winning. In 2008 she completed her conjoint BA in English Literature and Music/Bachelor of Teaching and has worked as a music teacher, a primary school teacher, and a librarian. She is a member of the Upper Hutt Science Fiction club and plays piano for her local church and violin for a local orchestra. She is an avid reader across a wide range of genres and a watcher of far too many TV series and movies, although it can be argued that there is no such thing as “too many.” These, of course, are best enjoyed with a decent cup of tea and further the continuing argument that the concept of “spare time” is really just a myth. Visit Anne at http://anne-barwell.livejournal.com/. You can contact her at
[email protected].
Sci Fi Romance from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
![Amber Quill Reader Appreciation Antholog [Anthology]](https://epdf.mx/img/300x300/amber-quill-reader-appreciation-antholog-anthology_5b414abab7d7bcc33ccf1ff6.jpg)
