I couldn’t face all the things that came along with that realization just now, so I started walking instead of thinking.
It wasn’t obvious whether this place was a farmhouse attached to the surrounding lands, or just someone’s private getaway retreat. There were indeed sheep wandering in some of the fields in the distance, but I didn’t see any outbuildings nearby for keeping animals or equipment. That probably meant it wasn’t a farm.
The area around the cottage was landscaped, with stone paths and hedges and a few carefully placed shade trees. Flowers dotted the meticulously maintained beds at the bases of the trees. My mind flickered back to the choking plant life of Dhuinne, and I shook my head sharply to dislodge the image.
Someone—okay, Rans, since no one else was here—had closed the passenger-side door of the car properly, after I’d left it unlatched. I wandered around the side of the cottage, noting that the kitchen door led onto a little stoop. Beyond lay a modest herb garden. The smell of lavender and basil wafted through the air, carried on the light breeze.
The land behind the house was just grass. No effort had been made here with landscaping, although there was a weathered wood-and-wrought-iron bench set facing toward the rolling green hills beyond.
A figure sat halfway up the nearest hill, picked out in black and white. Rans.
I swallowed hard and walked toward him, the soft grass tickling my bare toes. He was dressed similarly to the first time I’d ever seen him, minus the gruesome bloodstains—dark jeans, white shirt, black leather vest, combat boots. His knees were drawn up, forearms resting on them limply as he gazed out across the valley. He didn’t look at me as I approached—not even when I sat down next to him, separated by an arm’s length, my joints creaking in protest.
“So,” I said, when the silence grew too stifling. “Are we still doing the not-talking-about-it thing?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he finally glanced over at me, and his gaze dropped from my face to the shirt I was wearing. After a beat, he looked away again, staring into the distance instead.
“Still experiencing incandescent rage whenever I try to think about the last three days,” he said eventually, “so continued silence on the subject would probably be the best plan, yes.”
I pondered that for a minute. “Okay,” I said, not sure how else to really answer.
The silence stretched again, even longer than before.
“It reminds me of home a bit, this place,” he said at length.
I didn’t know what to say to that, either.
We sat, separated by three feet and the unspoken gulf of my betrayal. When it became obvious that neither of us had anything else to contribute to the conversation, I climbed inelegantly to my feet and walked back down the hill to the cottage.
Once inside, I nosed around the place, poking into closets and drawers. I was getting more and more of a ‘vacation home’ vibe from the little house, with the way it was furnished just enough for someone to be able to stay here comfortably, without so much as a hint of anything personal.
There was also precious little in the way of entertainment to be had. No TV, no radio, no computer, no bookshelves. Who normally stayed here, I wondered? I could maybe picture it as a writer’s retreat—a place with distractions so few and far between that someone might pound out an entire novel through sheer desperation to keep the boredom at bay.
That made me think about the copy of Sherlock Holmes I’d bought in Atlantic City. Was it still in my bag?
To my relief, it was. I grabbed a bottle of water and retreated to the worn couch in the living area, angling myself so sunlight from the open window fell across the yellowed pages. I read for a couple of hours, only stopping when I felt the burn of angry tears as I read about Charles Augustus Milverton’s downfall and found myself picturing Caspian in the villain’s place.
I set the book aside listlessly, staring instead at the pattern of bumps on the plaster ceiling until it all started to blur together. I must have fallen into a doze, because I woke to find the sun no longer illuminating the room through the east-facing window. Rans was seated in the chair set at right angles to the couch, watching me over steepled fingers.
I blinked several times in rapid succession and straightened self-consciously from my casual sprawl, feeling my muscles and joints howl in protest. Blue eyes tracked the movement, but I couldn’t read the expression behind them.
“This is stupid,” I said, my voice raspy. “And you’re being a bit of a creeper right now with the whole watching me sleep while you’re angry at me thing. I got enough of that kind of creepy shit from the faeries.”
His face darkened, and that expression was easy enough to read. Fury. Ah, well. We might as well have it out now rather than later, I supposed.
“Tell me what you did back there with the crystal,” I ordered, before he could open his mouth and remind me again how pissed off he was at me. “What the hell is a life-bond?”
His hands fell to rest on his knees, and those icy eyes narrowed. “It’s the thing that’s keeping your head attached to your shoulders. Now—your turn. Tell me why you went behind my back in an attempt to commit suicide. Or maybe suttee would be a better term?”
I frowned at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Suttee—the outdated Hindu practice of immolating oneself on a loved one’s funeral pyre as some ill-conceived act of solidarity.” The words were bitten off in that precise English accent, sharp as knives.
“That’s not what I was doing,” I said.
“Wasn’t it?” he asked.
Now I was angry. “No! Why the hell would you think that?”
The furrow between
