His friend just arched his brow. “Was she? Perhaps
that
was a lie. Have you thought about that?”
Mute, Fox shook his head. For even if what Cyril suggested should be the case, she had still lied to him, had kept him caught up in an illusion so he could make an utter fool of himself.
“I heard she saved your life,” his friend continued relentlessly. “At least that’s what your brother claimed when he came to London after you. Are you saying he didn’t tell the truth?”
Fox clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. “He did,” he growled. “But that doesn’t change anything! She is—”
“Still your fiancée, the woman you claimed to love.”
“It wasn’t real!” Fox tore at his hair. “Don’t you understand? None of it was real! It was all that bloody love potion, all sorcery!” he spat.
“And she is dying,” Cy added calmly. “Is that real enough for you?”
Fox stared at him. He opened his mouth, yet no sound emerged. Only his breath whistled softly in and out of his lungs.
Cyril regarded him with something like compassion. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
“No,” Fox said. All at once he felt lightheaded. The blood buzzed in his ears like a swarm of angry bees.
“It’s all over town: the beautiful Miss Amelia Bourne wasting away from an unknown ailment. The mourning cards have already been written, or so I’ve heard.”
Fox swayed.
The beautiful Miss Amelia Bourne wasting away from an unknown ailment…
The beautiful Miss Amelia Bourne wasting away…
The beautiful Miss Amelia Bourne…
Amy.
His Amy.
Small, plump Amy with the impish smile and the pansy blue eyes. Eyes that turned to midnight blue when she came apart in his arms, when they moved skin to skin, when her smallness became so great it encompassed him, enveloped him, let him drown in her arms, in her sighs, her scent, the words of love she whispered into his ear.
His Amy.
Dying.
“See?” Cyril said softly. “
That
’s what we needed to talk about.”
~*~
He rode like a man possessed. He ate up mile after mile, changed horses, and let the pounding of hooves fill out his whole being. Mud flew up to cover his boots and trousers and, merciless, the wind bit into his exposed skin. Yet he neither cared nor noticed. For him, the world had narrowed to the strip of muddy brown ahead of him, to the movements of strong equine muscles beneath him, and to the fear, the all-encompassing fear that he might be too late.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
His eyes burned, yet if he shed tears the wind whipped them away.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child.
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were…
Pansy blue, midnight blue, the color of the quiet ocean, the color of the sky on a sunny summer day.
Fox could no longer deny what was in his heart and what he had taken such pains to bury underneath his bitterness and anger. What did it matter now whether his feelings for her had been induced by a love potion or not? The truth was, he could not imagine a world without Amy, without her sweet smile and teasing voice.
He rode like a man haunted by the seven hounds of hell, like a man racing against death.
Wintry twilight fell all too soon and turned the sunny brilliance of snow to ashes, the whistle of the wind to Herne’s hounds yapping at his heels. They chased him across the land where canals bisected snow-dusted meadows and fields, chased him past ruins of once-proud castles and over old battlefields, until finally he came to the valley filled with bare elm trees. In their midst huddled a sturdy manor, the windows blazing golden in the gray wintry afternoon.
The land of elm trees where men worked in the belly of the earth, and where in secluded valleys magic was wrought. But that no longer frightened him. The only thing he dreaded now was the bony step of the Grim Reaper, out to steal his heart’s delight.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering…
His heart thudded once, twice, as he stared at the cozy house before him: Three Elms, where Amy had been brought, according to Cyril. He took a deep breath, then urged his horse on, up the drive to the front steps of the house. When he slid out of the saddle, his knees buckled with exhaustion, but gripping the saddle and gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright. Another deep breath, then he clumped up the stairs to the entrance door. He reached for the heavy, lion-headed knocker and let it fall back against the dark wooden door.
A few moments later it was opened by a pinch-faced butler, and a blast of warm air hit Fox. “Good afternoon”—the barest of hesitations as he looked Fox, with his muddy clothes and wind-chafed face, up and down—“sir.”
Fox blinked. The warm air made him dizzy, and he had to lean his hand against the doorframe to prevent himself from falling flat on his face at the man’s feet. He ran his tongue across his cracked lips. “I am…” He blinked again.
The man eyed him quizzically. “I am afraid the family is not receiving at this time, sir,” he said politely.
Fox shook his head. “Miss Bourne… Amy,” he croaked. “I need to see her.”
The man’s expression closed up. “This, sir, is impossible. Perhaps you ought better retire to the inn in the village below.”
He made as if to close the door, but with a last burst of strength, Fox’s hand shot out to keep it open. “I am…” His voice cracked. He shook his head, tried again. “Stapleton. Sebastian… Stapleton. Her… betrothed.”
The other’s lips compressed. For a moment he regarded Fox silently, then seemed to come to a decision. “In that case, sir,” he said in frigid tones, “you had better come in.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let Fox pass. “I will tell one of the footmen to make sure that your horse is looked after. Fred! Your coat and hat, sir?” He took both, as well as Fox’s grimy gloves, then indicated one of the chairs standing in the entrance hall. “If you wish to wait here…”
Not in some salon or drawing room. But Fox didn’t care, didn’t care at all. If only they let him see Amy…
He sank down onto one of the indicated chairs, while the butler quietly conversed with a liveried young man for a few moments. The latter then went outside and the former upstairs. Fox rubbed an unsteady hand across his cheek. After the cold and wind had numbed him, his skin now burned as if devoured by the flames of hell. And, sweet heavens, surely he would be in hell if he were too late.
He swallowed.
Suddenly there was a loud bang somewhere in the house, the sound of raised voices; then, on the stairs, hurried footsteps. Somebody came hurtling down the steps. And farther up: “Flann! Stop it!”
More footsteps, the high-pitched voice of a young boy, “No! I will get that bastard, that—”
“
Flann
!”
Inexorably the sound of footsteps came nearer, and then a young boy hurled himself from the stairs into the entrance hall. With curly, black hair, eyes flashing, and his face dark with fury, he came to a skittering halt in front of Fox. “You!” His small chest heaved, his eyes narrowed.
“
Flann
!”
The boy took a step toward Fox. “You, it’s you! How dare you show your face here? I’ll—” He raised his hand, murmured something Fox didn’t catch, and suddenly, there was a ball of blue light growing in the boy’s palm.
“
Flann
!”
An unholy light glowed in the boy’s eyes, Fox saw with detached interest. Were they blue like that glowing sphere?
Fox blinked.
“No! Flann,
no
!” A dark-haired young man raced across the entrance hall and, with a curse, tackled the boy. The ball of light dissolved into lightning, which shot toward the ceiling and left a dark, scorched spot in the gleaming wood.
Stupefied, Fox could only sit and gape at the blackened spot. Dimly, he was aware that the young man shook Flann.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s him!” the boy yelled hysterically. “He’s got no right to be here!”
“
Enough
!” a new voice bellowed. The man who stepped down the last few stairs was a good few inches shorter than Fox, but with his weather-beaten face and the gray, short-cropped hair, he looked as if he could easily have commanded whole regiments. He strode across the hall, followed by the now anxious-looking butler and a horde of more black-haired boys and young men.
“Devlin,” he continued more quietly, “bring Flann to his room and see that he stays there.”
“But—” Flann started to protest.
“No. I don’t want to hear it.”
“He’s got no right, he—”
“This is quite enough, Flann. Devlin, bring your brother upstairs.” While young Flann was dragged away, the older man turned his attention to Fox. “Bourne. You’re Stapleton?” His voice was sharp.
Belatedly, Fox remembered he should maybe stand, and stumbled to his feet. “I’m here to see Amy.”
At that, the younger boys started to mutter—until their father raised his hand. Abruptly, they fell silent.
“Please,” Fox said. “I didn’t know…” Another bout of dizziness assaulted him. What if they didn’t let him see her? Desperately, he repeated, “I’m here to see Amy.”
Her uncle only stared at him. With disgust, Fox thought.
“Please.” He would beg, he would even go down on his knees if necessary. If only they let—
“It might help,” one of the young men offered.
After another while, Bourne finally nodded his head. “Very well,” he said. “Surely nothing else has helped so far.”
Such immense relief flooded Fox that he felt lightheaded with it. Yet in the next moment, the meaning of the man’s words sunk fully in.
Nothing else has helped so far
.
His voice hoarse, Fox asked, “Does that mean…?”
“Come and see for yourself.” Bourne turned back to the stairs. Fox followed him. The man’s various sons followed Fox. To wait for a chance to throw another ball of lightning at him?
Nonetheless, Fox stumbled on.
Up the stairs. Down a hallway. Beyond a door. Two women were there. They looked up when the door was opened, but Fox took no notice of them. He only had eyes for the motionless figure which lay in the half-tester bed. So still. He lurched forwards.
“Amy?” he whispered.
Her skin was porcelain white and so translucent that he could see the fine web of blue veins beneath. The blood roared in his ears. Almost imperceptibly, her chest lifted with shallow breaths. Not dead, no, not dead yet, but… He reached for her hand. Cold and lifeless, it lay in his.
“Amy?”
There was no answer.
“She can no longer hear you,” said a woman he took to be her aunt.
Once again, Fox’s knees buckled; he didn’t have any strength left to keep himself upright. He sank down beside Amy’s bed, lowered his forehead onto the white linen, and cried.
Chapter Seventeen
It was a long time until he composed himself. When he had cried all the tears he had and Amy’s hand still remained cold and lifeless in his, her uncle led him to the study and pressed a glass of brandy into his hand. “Drink,” he said roughly.
Fox wiped the sleeve of his frock coat across his face. Shortly it crossed his mind that he must look a fright with his dirty clothes and his now no doubt blotchy face, but just as quickly, the thought was swept away by the memory of Amy, his Amy, lying on that bed. Dying.
He downed the brandy.
“Is there nothing that can be done?” he asked hoarsely.
The other spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Nothing. If we knew what was wrong with her, perhaps. But we don’t. At first we thought she was simply drained of energy. It would have been logical: after all, she not only had to thrust through the spell I put on her—and it was a powerful one…” He grimaced, as if now feeling sorry about how powerful he had made his spell. A moment later he shook his head and continued, “No, she also had to break that other fellow’s guard. But if she had simply drained her energy, she would have either died straight away or would have improved by now. Instead…” He had to clear his throat. “The opposite is the case: her condition has only worsened.” Mr. Bourne gave Fox a sad smile. “If I’m not mistaken, the housekeeper has had a room prepared and a change of clothes brought for you. So, why don’t you take advantage of those? Afterwards you can sit with Amy, if you like.”
Sit with her. Only sit with her, because nothing could be done.
Nothing
. Once more Fox felt his eyes burn, and all he could manage was a nod.
A few minutes later he found himself in a cozy guestroom, where two jugs of warm water and somebody else’s clothes were awaiting him. Numbly, he went through the motions of undressing and sponging himself down. He had just put on the fresh trousers and shirt when there was a knock on the door.
His heart clenched. Amy? Had she taken a turn to the worse? Had she—?
But no, no! His heart wouldn’t hear such tidings.
Quickly, he was across the room and pulled the door open. Two of Amy’s cousins stared back at him. Dimly he recognized one of them as Devlin, the young man who had saved him from the blue ball of lightning earlier on.
“We’ve come to talk,” Devlin said. Both young men must have been in their twenties, a few years younger than Fox himself.
“Now?”
“Yes.” They brushed past him.
Warily, he closed the door. “What is it, then?”
They exchanged a look. “The matter is this,” Devlin Bourne began. “We’ve been thinking, Coll and I.” He glanced at his brother, who promptly took over.
“Lord Rawdon told father about the weeks prior to that attack on all of you. How Amy suddenly seemed to be more subdued and no longer went for walks in the gardens with you.”
Both young men looked at Fox expectantly. He slowly nodded: Yes, he well remembered the misery and confusion of these weeks. In the end he had put her behavior down to attempting to fight against the passion raging between them. And once he’d obtained that sponge, all had seemed well—hadn’t it?
“The earl also told father about that strange incident on the lake,” Colin Bourne continued. “About the boy breaking through thick ice and the strange creature that was found on the shore a few days later.”