Page 113 of The Daughters of Avalon
And yet, even if her glamour was still working, there was another problem she hadn’t foreseen: How was she going toward the camp tonight? It simply wouldn’t be possible to do so with these men as her witnesses.
Nay, she couldn’t stay here, waiting to be discovered. She had to go.Now.Before it was too late. She had a terrible, terrible sense of impending doom… like a storm cloud descending.
“Well,” she said, when Giles returned. “I was desperately hoping to arrive at Neasham soon.”
He turned to look at her again, then averted his eyes.Sweet Goddessevery time he tore his gaze away, she expelled a breath she’d not realized she’d held. “And you will,” he said. “But not tonight. Even with strong coursers, we’re a week or more away.”
One week!
Rosalynde answered him with silence, though perhaps he could feel her disappointment hanging in the air, for he asked, without turning, “Art expected, Sister?”
“Nay, oh, nay…” She slid a hand beneath her veil to touch her burning cheek. “Not precisely.”
Already, everything was becoming impossible, and she was growing weary of the lies. For all she knew, this was how hermother’s malevolence had begun, with small lies at first, then big lies, until her entire life became a frightening deception.
She lifted her hand from her cheek to her forehead, pressing it firmly across her very warm face, dismayed and confused, hoping the gesture might still the tempest in her head.
Goddess please…
Here she was, seated atop a stump, like a bloody toad on a pad, waiting to be devoured by… what? What sort of beast gobbled toads? It didn’t matter, and regardless, Rosalynde was quite certain the poor toad would have been seated as she was right now… feeling this crippling sense of doom, only too bewildered to move. After all, this was somethingallmortals shared in common—a keen sense of intuition, and a strong desire to deny it. She was beside herself with worry now, her thoughts spinning nightmarish yarns.
And this man… would he run screaming if he learned who and what she was?
Rosalynde cast a worried glance at her dubious savior. He was still kneeling by his unwilling fire, and so much as she didn’t wish him to succeed, the clicking of his fire-steel was grating on her delicate nerves.
Finally, when she grew tired of watching and listening to him spark the fire-steel to the damp wood without success, she narrowed her gaze over the pile of tinder and summoned the essence of fire.
Unseen ribbons gathered the sun’s waning light, focusing its heat into a small point of light.
Rosalynde’sdewineeyes could see what he could not see—the twisting and turning of theaetherasher flame leapt to life, even before he could strike his fire-steel to the tinder one more time.
He froze, staring at his stack of wood with what appeared to be a mixture of surprise and confusion and Rosalynde regretted her impetuousness at once.
“How resourceful you are,” she said, wincing, because at the instant, she was becoming her own worst enemy.
She was only tired, she reassured herself, but huffed a sigh, without realizing how dramatic she sounded—until Giles turned to look at her again.
“Is something troubling you, Sister?”
“Oh, nay… I am but missing my sisters.” Thankfully, this was no lie. She missed her sisters more than words could say, particularly Arwyn. Her twin understood her better than anyone, and though they couldn’t be more different, Arwyn was everything she was not, and she was everything Arwyn was not. Together they were whole.
“Your sisters… at Neasham?”
“Aye,” said Rose, quickly, and Giles gave her another glance, though his gaze didn’t linger.
“I rather had the impression you’d yet to join your sisters at Neasham, and that you were bringing your life’s fortune.”
“Well, so I was.”
He turned to assess her, again with narrowed eyes. “So, then, what is it you were doing in London?”
For the sake of her soul, Rose attempted to compromise one last lie, pretending a calm she couldn’t possibly feel. “I was there to retrieve my inheritance.”
“But then you lost it… to yourguide?”
She gave him a disapproving glance—not so different from what she’d imagine a mother might do to a wayward son. “Nay, my lord. So difficult as it might be for men to imagine, gold and silver are the least of my earthly treasures.” He narrowed his gaze on her book and Rosalynde picked it up and put it in her lap. “It belonged… to my grandmamau,” she said.
He considered her another moment before he asked, “Do I detect a bit of Welsh in your accent?”
