Page 9 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

He cleared his throat. “You’re safe now.”

The kiss she most unexpectedly longed for hovered like a specter between them until he pushed up from the floor, shattering the moment. He held his hand out, lifting her up. Once steadily on her feet, she flattened her dress down, avoiding his eyes at all costs.

That was when she noticed a round bauble of a man stood in the doorway of the parlor wearing clothing very different from Mármaro—a white linen shirt, snuff-colored breeches, silk stockings and brown leather boots cut to his ankle. Covering most of his ensemble, he wore a soft leather work apron. The man’s hair shined as bright and gingery as Leland Barnabas, although his nose appeared considerably straighter.

“Ellard, thank you for your help,” Mármaro said.

“Ta! Tink noting of it, Ro. What ta got here? Never seent her about befort.”

“No. You wouldn’t have. Ellard, this is Millicent. Millicent, Ellard.”

“Um… pleased to meet you, Ellard. Thank you, sincerely, thank you.”

“Whent the roots tell me of the Werecat ant Ro hidting, I hat no choice but to help. Lost too many frients to the woots these past monts.”

“The woods are no longer safe?”

“Not sint the Fortfex start builting. Bat news, the Fortfex. Have ta seent the Soutern woot? Deat, all of it shrivelet away.”

“What about the golden hind?”

“Afrait they gont. Ant the Slippy too.”

“Granítis will need to know about this.”

“I’m sorry,” she had to cut in. “But what is a Slippy?”

“What gal don’t knowt a Slippy?” Ellard asked, scratching his stubble-hewn face.

“Slippies are beautiful, black, eight-legged horses,” Mármaro explained. “They roam the southern woods, or used to. And Ellard, Millicent comes to us from a different land. Lancashire, correct?”

She nodded. “Mmm… in England.”

Ellard backed away slowly, putting a greater distance between them. The little man attempted discretion, yet Millicent could feel the weight of his fear pressing against her and it hurt to know her mere presence brought such pain into his home.

“Is there someplace else for me to go?” she asked him. “You’ve been kind, but I sense your discomfort.”

“El, surely you are not afraid of a beautiful woman?” Mármaro stepped between them, his rough skin scraping gently against her arm. Cool to the touch, yet igniting a warmth in her she could not explain.

“She is a pretty gal at that, ain’t she? Sorry, Mist. Ro trusts ta beint a goot persont. Cannot be too careful these days. Please, sit. I’lt brew some of my specialt tea.”

“That would be perfect.” Millicent’s head spun to look at the hole they’d come through when the warecats called out, the most eerily dejected howl she’d ever had the misfortune to hear.

Six

A strange sense of déjà vu

THAT DREAM, THAT SAME STUPID DREAM PLAGUING me night after night, was getting worse, containing so much more detail than the one before. Last night’s had taken dream-Millicent from England to a land that didn’t exist in real life, occupied by people thatcouldn’texist. The research I’d done on the internet at school or from books checked out of the library on dreams had no definitive answer for me. Repeating dreams appeared common whereas continuing dreams, dreams that continued on from where they’d left off the dream before, not so much.

Most of the research suggested that I longed for adventure. Expert reasoning on why that Millicent had my name and face.Duh. I hardly needed a dream to tell me that about myself.

I shivered while dressing from the burst of cold rippling through the air this morning, a disturbance in the force, so to speak. I felt it more than the other mornings over the past few months. Exactly like the dreams, I’d been experiencing them a lot lately and they’d steadily been getting worse. Though, this one bothered me the most.

“Millicent Merchant, get down here.”

And so it began. “Yes, ma’am,” I called back to my great aunt Cynthia, whom I’d lived with for as long as I could remember. Tall and rail thin, her hair blonde enough to appear white in most light, her skin just as pale and delicate as rice paper. She did not look her age, which had in my entire life never been divulged to me. She wasn’t a cold woman per se, but she wasn’t especially warm or giving in the hug or kind word department. From her mouth, she was too pragmatic to be bothered with such things. Truthfully, in my opinion, she suffered more from anemia than pragmatism.Eat a damn steak once in a while and then let’s talk.

She never cooked breakfast and I never asked her to. Grabbing a yogurt from the fridge and a snack pack of pepitas, I walked outside to the car, Aunt Cynthia’s metallic blue 1963 Oldsmobile Cutlass in pristine condition, which got about 2.2 miles per gallon. With only one previous owner, she’d been driving it since well before I’d come along. Promising that one day it would be mine.

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