Page 29 of The Filigree Key

The Stag Man swept a lock of hair behind my ear, fingers hooking behind my jaw and drawing me closer. “You don’t need a meditation haven anymore. Nothing is stopping us from finally sharing a room.”

“Except that whole marriage thing,” I replied, fighting to keep my voice from trembling with disgust and more than a little fear at the power he still held over me. “You fae have your rites and we witches have ours. You wouldn’t want to sabotage something as important as returning to Elfame for a mere moment of passion, would you?”

“It’d be more than a mere moment, love.” He nuzzled my neck, biting down again to mark me as his. That pesky healing magic I possessed kept erasing it—oh, thistle thorns!

Ossian moaned as I slid my hands between us and braced against his chest. The sound didn’t fool me—the only pleasure he took was the kind where he was in control. This seduction of Violet’s heir was nothing more than him settling the score of a centuries’ old insult against an opponent that didn’t exist anymore. And the best part? He wasn’t even good at it. He was relying on glamour and an archaic definition of masculinity in an attempt to overwhelm my senses.

It was why, even as he cheated and plied me with the stolen bond, I could still think of Arthur. An echo of the feelings I’d had for the gentle giant remained. His seduction had been subtle—chivalrous gestures, gentle teasing, his quiet confidence, his patience, a thorough knowledge of his own boundaries and needs, and most of all, his vulnerability. He’d never made me feel small, never foisted his own insecurities on me, never took more than I could give. Even without the tether that had bound us through fate, I would have fallen for him.

But the safety of an entire town, the fate of a lost brother, and the lives of an imprisoned coven riding on my shoulders demanded I endure a broken heart and a fae king’s attention. As much as I could, anyway.

“Good-night, Ossian.” A firm push against his chest separated us.

“See you at dawn, love.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the morning, Sawyer was back and had lined up three dead mouse spies for my inspection on the rug beside my bed. It was a good thing I hadn’t had to get up in the wee hours of night to use the bathroom.

“I can take your word for it, you know.” A glowing green tendril opened the nearest window and chucked the mice outside. “You don’t need to display them like that.”

Seated on my chest, the tabby cat licked his paw and cleaned his face. He was still sooty from sneaking back into the bedroom via the chimney. “How else will you know what a good mouser I am?”

As I wormed myself into a sitting position, the cat was forced to pause his bath until he could resituate himself on my lap. I scratched his scruff then gently pulled on one of his ears. “I’m glad you’re back, little cat. How did it go?”

“That fungus tried to eat my tail, that’s how it went.” He swept his tail around for my inspection; the black hairs on its tip were missing, nothing but a nub of flesh like a pencil eraser remaining. “But I assume it worked. I didn’t exactly stick around to find out. I had to get back here before dawn, and it’s a long way. Also, I’m starving.”

“You could’ve eaten the mice.”

“After they’ve been tampered with fae magic?” Sawyer crinkled his nose in disgust. “No, thank you.”

“And . . . my family?”

He stopped cleaning himself to give me a solemn look. “You were right about me being a cat giving me some immunity with the wards. But the illusions . . .. I didn’t see the witches, nor any evidence that they were or weren’t there. I, um, did move a bunch of wood inside, just in case.”

“Thank you, kitty.”

After another quick nuzzle, he dropped down from my lap and padded over to the chair by the window. A soundless leap brought him to the armrest. From his new perch, he gestured with a paw down at yesterday’s dress where it was heaped on the seat cushion. “And how did your day go? There are tears in the skirt, Meadow, and your blood on the fabric. You told me you weren’t going to get into any trouble when I was gone!”

“I got in a fight with the bear.” Even now, I refused to say his name aloud. It was still too risky. “I had to have an excuse to talk to him, and, well, he does have six-inch claws.”

The tabby tomcat’s frustration with me vanished, and an excited gleam shone in his amber eyes. “And?”

Hope fluttered like a caged bluebird in my chest. “And there’s still enough of him in there to understand me.” I smiled. “He’s not lost.”

“Yet.” The cat climbed the back of the chair and nosed the curtains aside just enough to see out the diamond-paned window. The gray light that heralded another dawn glowed in his ears and slanted across the rug. “I don’t mean to be a realist with pessimistic overtones like Ame, but Lewellyn said the longer he stays shifted, the more the beast takes over.” His nub-tipped tail flicked. “How do we do everything faster?”

“By doing first things first and second things second,” I replied with more calm than I felt. Honestly, there wasn’t a better way to tackle such a huge problem—if I concentrated on the vastness of the forest I was lost in, despair and hopelessness might set in, and I’d be too paralyzed to take the steps on the path out of it.

So first things first: I dressed and armed myself for the day with my trusty Celtic shield, amazonite pendant, and foraging bag. Sawyer dutifully settled himself into the bag, and then we were off to second things second: feeding the sourdough starter.

I’d never come down to the kitchen while Mrs. Bilberry was preparing our meals, and for good reason. The badger zipped this way and that with the speed of a roadrunner. Dale and a few of the other woodchucks acted as her line prep cooks, dicing mirepoix and washing tomatoes, stuffing the game hens with pears and herbs, melting butter with garlic and parsley for the roasted mushrooms. The communication was constant, the woodchucks calling out updates and Mrs. Bilberry giving them the next task. It all paused for a moment of deafening silence—even the butter in the waffle maker refused to sizzle—before Mrs. Bilberry barked, “You’ve seen milady bake before. Back to work!”

Holding my bag up above my head so I wouldn’t knock it and the cat into anything, I danced through the open spaces left in their wake to where my sourdough starter fermented in the corner. Unlike traditional starters, I didn’t discard any of the fallen dough. I just added double the amount of what was in there, gave it a thorough mix and a little zap of green magic to speed its growth, and that was that.

Just as I was covering the jar with its tea towel, the stone in the wall directly opposite me started to move. Push out, actually, and as magic sprang to my hand, a familiar face appeared.

“Roland?” I exclaimed. My attention quickly shifted from the woodchuck to what was behind him: a secret tunnel.