The EMTs lift and carry his grandmother out of the house and toward the waiting ambulance, oozing professionalism as they set to work. Dougal climbs inside. He takes his grandmother’s hand in his own as the door shuts, before the ambulance races off to the hospital.
“You can come out now,” she says loud enough for Ziggy to hear.
The Fae light returns to the living room, his surface rippling various shades of gold.
Rachel regards Ziggy, her only ally left at the end of Griswold Road, then looks back to the space Mrs. Crenshaw had occupied.
“Ziggy, do you want to play a game?” Her gaze returns to the Fae light. Ziggy moves in choppy movements in front of her, conveying excitement. “Let me see you flash your light.”
The Fae light burns brighter then dims.
She smiles. “Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions. To answer me, you flash your light once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?”
Ziggy flashes once.
“Good.” Rachel reaches up and tickles Ziggy’s surface. “First question: Was there a Fae in the house when Mrs. Crenshaw fell?”
Ziggy flies off toward the side of the house. He flits back, rushes around the staircase’s bannister, and shoots up the stairs.
“Ziggy?” she calls.
Ziggy returns to his original position and flashes once, a clear answer to her question. Rachel releases a breath through her nose.
“Is the Fae still here?”
Almost instantly Ziggy flashes twice. No.
“All right. Last question: Is this the work of another Miser Fae?”
Ziggy hesitates, before finally flashing once.
Rachel pulls her lips into a straight, thin line. “Are you sure?”
Another hesitation before Ziggy’s flash answers yes.
“Crap.”
“Your grandmother’s shattered hip needs to be replaced,” Rachel’s mother, Jenny Cleary, says softly to Dougal as she takes his hand across the table. “She’ll be fine, though. It’s to be expected when someone reaches that age, so it’s just going to be a routine surgery.”
Rachel watches Dougal while absently picking at her dinner. The mashed potatoes taste mealy for some reason and the peas are grayish. The steak is edible, even if Rachel would’ve liked it to not be quite as bloody. The meal tastes as an unappetizing as it looks. Nevertheless, she’s relatively sure everything on her plate is fit for human consumption.
When Dougal doesn’t respond, her mother continues, “Nancy Crenshaw always bounces back. In the meantime, you’re staying with us. I’ve already notified your parents that they can reach you here.”
Dougal stares at his untouched meal, a forlorn expression on display. There’s an uncharacteristic weariness to him. His shoulders are slumped, curved inward. His perpetual frown is accompanied by his downturned mouth, like he’s trying to search for answers to an unsolvable question. Why now? Why his grandmother? He’s definitely not the happy-go-lucky Scot Ridge Crest High’s come to know and love, and with good reason.
“This weekend, the three of us are going to move your grandmother’s stuff into the downstairs bedroom. I’m not sure when she’ll be released from the hospital, but the last thing we need is to have her struggling up and down the stairs.”
“Mrs. Crenshaw won’t like it if we mess with her setup,” Rachel says, chasing a gray pea into the pink-tinted mashed potatoes.
“Well, Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t have a say in the matter anymore.” Jenny spears the overdone steak on her own plate, grimacing. “Stop playing with your food, Rachel.”
“I’d hardly call this food,” Rachel mumbles to herself.
“Mrs. Cleary, will ye mind if I—May I turn in early?” Dougal asks. Rachel has noticed, as has Dougal, that her mother doesn’t understand him at all when he goes full Scottish.
“Sure,” she says, turning her attention back to Rachel. “Honey, will you show Dougal to the guestroom and give him an extra blanket? I think there’s a phantom breeze in there.”
Rachel excuses herself, grateful to escape her plate, and gestures for Dougal to follow her. She leads him to the second story, down the long, winding hall, and toward the back of the house, where three guestrooms are located. The Silver Room, an airy bedroom with silver accents to break the otherwise clinical white décor, is the only room suitable for anyone to stay in.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Aye,” Dougal mutters, dejected.
Rachel opens the built-in wardrobe and pulls out a white-and-gray striped blanket from the top shelf.
“The bathroom’s through there.” Rachel points to a closed door on the opposite side of the room with her free hand, before she places the blanket on the bed. “Extra towels are under the sink.”
“Do ye really think Nan’ll be all right?” he asks. Dougal takes a seat on the edge of the bed, the springs squealing in protest. Fear becomes apparent in his eyes.
“I do,” she says. “Knowing your grandmother, I think she’ll come out stronger just to get on peoples’ nerves.”
He responds by giving her an incredulous look, before he shrugs. “Prob’ly.”
Rachel takes out the figurine she’s kept in her pocket. “I found this next to her chair,” she says, handing it over as she sits beside him.
Dougal looks the totem over. “What’s it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s the second one I’ve seen today, and both times were unpleasant.”
His eyes move to meet her gaze. “Are ye thinkin’—?” He glances back to the figurine in his hand, studying the carving’s delicate details. It must’ve taken the artist a ridiculous amount of time to make. “I don’t know of any fair folk that leaves gifts for their victims.”
“It could’ve been a warning?” she says, though deep down she doesn’t believe this. There’s something too ominous about the figurines—something she can’t quite put her finger on—that makes it malignant. Rachel stands again, and says, “Do you want Ziggy to keep you company tonight?”
Dougal shakes his head.
“Okay.” Rachel heads back to the doorway. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” he says.
She closes the door behind her and takes a moment to clear her mind. The last thing either of them
