To Live Again

10. Whispers in the Shadows

'If I could Melt Your Heart.'

Oisín went to bed almost directly after dinner. He was tired and practically stumbling over his own feet as he tugged me along to his bedroom. I'd oo'd and ah'd at all his toys and trinkets. It's oddly disjointed to find toys; wooden blocks, pretend swords, spinning-tops, and even a rocking horse. I suppose I never imagined how faerie children lived. Clearly not unlike human ones.

He'd crawled into bed and I let him read to me from the book. It was mostly just him pointing at pictures and making up complete nonsense, but I listened. I had too, it's the only thing keeping me half sane. But, he exhausted himself and was out cold in under twenty minutes. Maybe less, but I stayed with him, swaddling him in his blankets and tucking a teddy under his arm, before leaving quiet as a mouse. Though, I did not return to the dining room.

Instead, I'm back in my room, curled on the armchair that I've repositioned to look toward the windows and the vast world beyond. Rain patters hard on the glass and leaves distorted streaks of water where it trickles the length of the wide windows. The fire continues to crackle from the hearth, some kind of magic feeding it. The lights dim and peaceful and I wonder if it's Ardan or Niamh controlling the room. Doesn't seem to matter, they both appear to wield magic how a human would blink, or draw breath, so easy, almost instinctual. I can't help but stare at the candlesticks gracing the far window, focusing intently on the flames, admittedly testing to see if it's true ... if part of that magic is in me now ... but embarrassingly there's nothing, not even a flicker of the flames. I'm ashamed to admit to the guts of an hour I've spent trying to make fire, or light, or even a puff of smoke.

With irritation I slam my hands on the arms of my chair and lurch out of it to pace. If I can't demonstrate basic magic no one will believe my cover story. If Naisi was disowned for a few scars I can't imagine what they'd do to a non-magic faerie.

The thoughts cause the pain in my chest to tighten once again and my breath starts to lessen. I scratch the skin of my chest and throat, then claw the hair from my face, gulping at air that just isn't there.

Darkness. The room becomes dark, the shadows growing long and yawning into a gaping void. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"It's not real," I hiss and clutch my ears.

The rain seems to drum faster, the breeze whipping harder against the glass.

"Stop."

I shake my head and curl into myself. The shadows slithering closer, wrapping around my feet, my ankles. I cover my mouth to prevent the scream. My one freed ear picking up the howls of the wind. The crash of the waves. The squeal of brakes. The keen of metal buckling.

"Please. Stop."

There's no air left. I can't breathe. I can't get air down. I clatter to the floor, the contents of my stomach crawling up my throat.

Out. Get outside.

The balcony doors. They're three feet in front of me and it feels like a mile but I throw myself at them, landing my weight on the handle and bursting into the fresh air.

Fresh. Sweet. Clean air. I gasp it in. Closing my eyes and tilting my head back to feel the rain patter on my face while the quiet breeze breathes a cool hand over my burning cheeks. I catch the wrought iron railings and lean my head on the cold metal, breathing in and out in slow, deep, breaths until I can trust my senses again.

I slide down the railings, an odd sense of fatigue overcoming my bones, and continue to lean my head there, one hand wrapped around a spindle. Instead of focusing on the far-reaching expanse of world—which is just a tad too much for my overwhelmed mind to comprehend right now—I become transfixed with the climbing ivy that rings the iron spindles. I get lost in how it sways in the breeze. I become even more hypnotized when it curls and twists its way around my hand and along my arm until it rests on my shoulder.