When Bergljot resurfaced a year later, it was to introduce Waldemar to their daughter and entrust the fae-touched child to his rearing. Born under a Rowan moon, her children and children's children, who favored their mother, Bergljot, were thereafter known as House Rowan.
She had no idea how much was true, other than Bergljot being the progenitor of their fae-touched heritage. But it made for a colorful origin story.
Becka paused at the archway to the exhibition, spying Maura standing on her own gazing at a sculpture of a living rock covered in bouquets of summer flowers. It was a simple white rock roughly the size of a bowling ball. The greenery coated the top with veins of moss and lichen wrapping down around the bottom.
“I am going to give you some space, but never fear I will be close by,” Quinn whispered before moving into the hall.
Becka gave him a quick nod. A professional lurker, that one. So why did her anxiety rise as he walked out of sight? Was it the result of her attraction to him or the possibility of a killer waiting in the wings? Both?
Reminding herself that she’d evolved into an independent outspoken fae woman, Becka meandered down the main row towards Maura, mindful of her directive to see what she could learn from the family.
Maura glanced over to her, noting her presence, and then back to the sculpture.
Becka came to stand by her, taking in the beauty of the antiquity before them. “Good afternoon, Maura.”
“It does appear as such. I hope you are benefiting from this opportunity to grieve your sister amongst other fae.”
It was a curiously kind yet neutral statement, but Becka would take it. “I have appreciated the opportunity for closure and healing. I’m also grateful for your hospitality.”
“It is freely given. I have heard there have been some ill words between you, Astrid, and Calder. Do I have cause for concern?”
“We’ve shared some less than ideal interactions,” Becka replied. “And those were not my fault.”
Maura raised a brow.
“Astrid accused me of somehow obstructing her magic. Imagine, me, an ungifted, breaking anything! Quinn is looking into it.”
“I look forward to hearing his conclusions,” Maura replied. “On another note, I have heard you have been displaying an open disdain for House Rowan.”
Becka shrugged and scratched the back of her neck. “This trip has opened old wounds for me. I’ve been trying to rise to the occasion, but some of you are not making it easy for me.”
Maura let out a rough laugh. “I can imagine.” She looked Becka up and down. “I like your direct demeanor. It’s not very fae in nature, but it certainly is refreshing.”
Becka gave a quick nod. “It’s all of the education. Human universities aren’t known for being pro-fae, but they do teach you debate.” She cast her gaze around the room, finding Quinn on the next row over, watching them.
Maura’s regard slipped back to the sculpture; her attention rapt as a miniature bonsai’s leaves changed from verdant green to shades of amber.
“Do you remember the history of this piece?”
“No, I don’t recall.”
“Back before the great war, there was a wedding between Eira of House Rowan and Olin of House Oak. It’s said their love quaked the walls of the guildhall, a portent of their powerful union, the day they met.”
“But their marriage was arranged. It’s not like they fell in love at first sight.”
“And yet so goes their story. When Eira bore him the first of many children, Olin presented her this as evidence of his enduring regard. It’s said Olin was a powerful earth elemental, using his abilities to expand our territory against the encroaching cities.”
“That was hundreds of years ago. His affection endures.”
“It is said magic is a thing that once begun, lives on its own command,” Maura replied. She sighed, the emotion heavy in her words. “The colors of the bonsai leaves remind me of Tesse’s viewing.”
“I was there earlier. The decorations and funerary presentation were an honor to her spirit.”
Maura inclined her head. As the head of the House of Mirrors and House Rowan, this acknowledgment was as close to a thank you as one could hope for.
“I am heartened to hear you made time to visit her. I recognize being here is not easy for you, but I hope it will ease your loss.”
The distance between them seemed vast and yet this display of empathy touched her. Perhaps because she’d never gotten to know her mother? The opportunity to bond with Maura would never happen, and Becka was surprised at the regret surfacing over that revelation.
“Time will tell,” she replied. “I was surprised to see the tattoos.”
Maura frowned. “Tattoos?”
“I thought I saw some...but perhaps it was my imagination? Grief can play tricks with the mind.”
“Tesse had no tattoos. I would know. Perhaps it was a play of the light through the folds of the draping. Shadows can bring to the surface all sorts of fantastical thoughts, especially when one is lost in the past.”
“True enough,” Becka replied. She believed Maura’s reaction was sincere. What did the markings mean, and why couldn’t others see them?
A group of visitors to House Rowan strolled in, and Maura’s composure shifted. Hardened. “It’s been good to chat, Becka. Please excuse me.”
Becka turned and looked around the room, once more seeking out Quinn. She spotted him at the far end of the hall. She sauntered down the aisle, taking in the exhibits with the hopeful air of nonchalance. Familiar from her youth, her memory was blurred on the details, so in many ways, Becka was rediscovering the antiquities.
This wasn’t a human museum where you’d have placards and audio headsets walking you through the history of each item which was obligatorily locked behind thick lucite for safety. No, here the fae immortalized history on white stone pillars with the name of the object and the contributor engraved into the stone. If you wanted to, you could reach out and touch the antiquity.
