Page 51 of The Filigree Key

“That would have been nice to know in advance,” I snipped. “As much as I wanted to see him, I was also going to use this meeting to strategize the rebellion. And now you’re telling me he has no reason to believe me?”

There was a scrape of boot against stone as Arthur rose from the floor and rolled his shoulders. His footfalls crashed like thunder. No collar or chain locked tight against his neck. “Well. Let’s get this over with.”

The lumberjack shifter had never once used his bulk to threaten violence against me, but now I knew the fear one felt when subjected to his wrath. The gentle giant was gone; only the Coalition enforcer remained.

Shrinking back a step, I scrambled for the words that would convince him it really was me in front of him, not an illusion sent to torment him. To my surprise, he stopped within an arm’s length of me and gave the air between us a deep sniff.

“You smell like her, but that’s not unusual.” Taking a step to the right, he began to circle, examining me from all sides. “And interesting change of tactics. You’ve dressed her modestly this time.”

What? That implied my likeness had appeared before him not so modestly. “Of course!” I sputtered. “I’m not a hussy, no matter what Ms. Harris would have you believe.”

He paused at that, the amber glow in his eyes flickering. Sucking in a sharp inhale, he continued prowling. “Now the only question remains is what you want to accomplish with this visit, wraith.”

My hands balled into fists and I almost stomped my foot. Almost. “Can a wraith do this?”

As irritated and anxious as I was, I didn’t summon an emerald glow to my hands nor the dark green brambles of my battle magic. Ossian knew I could do those things, had probably used the same method to rattle Arthur’s nerves already. Instead, I used my new command over the element of earth and conjured a rose.

A rambler rose.

Crimson petals unfurled to reveal bright yellow stamens and a sweet perfume. Tiny thorns dimpled the stem—easily ignored if you held it gently—and two sets of lush green leaves cupped the vibrant bloom.

It was gentle, refined magic. Beautiful for the sake of nothing else except to delight.

Arthur had remained silent during the demonstration, shoulders tensed and hands half-balled at his sides. His glowing amber eyes had not once blinked, and as I offered him the rose, they tracked it like it was a snake.

My voice was soft. “I learned a new grounding technique with the help of this rambler rose—the one that gave me my freedom. I want you to have this one. My promise to you.”

Arthur finally tore his gaze from the rose. There was a mixture of caution, confusion, and stubborn resolve etched into his features. His reply was blunt. “In the land of dreams, anything is possible.”

Well, that was frustrating. But it demonstrated I was—so far—unlike any other Meadow he’d encountered here. “I am Meadow Hawthorne, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Arthur snorted. “There is nothing you can say that can convince me. Your master has seen my every memory of you—there is nothing sacred anymore.”

“No nugget you’ve locked away tight where he can’t find it?”

His beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl, his canines lengthening. “As if I would tell you.”

The fact that he was presenting himself in the shape of a man with clean clothes and trimmed hair and not the beaten, bruised, and heartsick wretch he had every right to be, let alone a bear, spoke to the strength of his mental fortitude. Especially since his greatest weakness—me—had been used so continuously against him. There had to be a memory of me he’d secreted away, a truth to compare all the illusions to.

“Well, it’s not that time in the bedroom with the belt,” I said, dismissing my fear of him and beginning to pace. The wight dutifully stepped to the side, giving me ample room. “Or that time under the maple tree. Or when you found me in the woods after the mallaithe fight. Those memories are too big, too charged. It would have to be something subtle. Like the time we shared shortbread cookies on my front porch.”

A low growl rose from his throat.

I waved the shortbread idea away with a sweep of the rose, ignoring his warning while I was at it. The petals bounced in time with my step. “Meh, we barely knew each other then. What could it be? When I got loopy on rabbitfoot clover tea and gave you that big hug at the First of Fall Festival? No, no, it would have to be more visceral than that.”

“Stop.”

“It might not even be a memory we share,” I realized. “It could be something you simply observed that I was unaware of. Like the time in the corn maze or all those visits to Cedar Haven and the Magic Brewery.”

“Enough.”

No, that wasn’t it, either. He wouldn’t treasure a simple observation—he was too much of a romantic for that. No, this was something we shared. It had to be.

“Make haste,” the wight counseled me. “This is his dream, and he can eject you whenever he wishes. Or the Horned One might come.”

Closing my eyes, I breathed in deep his scent of old-growth forest and remembered Arthur. Not his touch—though those memories were indeed thrilling—but every moment when his heart had reached for mine. It showed in his thoughtfulness, his compassion, his vulnerability. It showed in the myriad ways he’d put himself at risk to protect me. I filtered through them all and lingered on the time in the alley behind the Magic Brewery. We’d had a falling out and yet he’d still put himself between me and the magic hunters’ tracking fiáin. That protection instinct was undeniable, instinctual, but it had evolved and strengthened from another event.

Scrunching up my face in concentration, I drifted through the eddies of memory trying to pinpoint the exact moment where, at least for me, I realized—