Page 18 of The Last Wish of Bristol Keats
“Only my trusted guards are here with me,” Maire continued. “They’re waiting at the fortress and won’t come down here unless I summon them.”
Bristol had known this reunion with her mother would be different from that with her father, but it was colder than she expected. There was no temptation to run into her mother’s arms. No tears. No hugging or soft endearments. Even as her mother continued to study Bristol from afar, her body language was as chilly as frost.
“Finally convinced it’s me?”
Maire rose to her feet. “I know my own daughter when I see her.”
“You didn’t seem to when you ordered Tyghan to slit my throat.”
“Elphame is full of tricks. I know now.”
“And yet—” Bristol scrutinized Maire with an equally dissecting gaze. “I don’t know my own mother when I see her. I don’t know who you are at all. You’re a stranger to me.”
Maire’s chin lifted slightly like Bristol had struck her, a crack in her steely composure. Her thumb grazed her finger, her old habit coming to life, and a thin veil circled around her until she was glamoured into Leanna Keats, a woman without horns, her hair loose down her back. She wore cheap drawstring trousers and a loose tee that slipped off one shoulder. Her feet were bare.
Bristol resisted the flinch of her stomach. “You needn’t have bothered,” she said, keeping her tone just as cool as her mother’s. “A little glamour doesn’t change what’s inside. You’re still the woman who murdered Glennis.”
Her mother smiled, and her perfectly arched brows rose higher, as if amused. “Murder? Is that how they’re painting this?” Her smile faded, and her voice went sharp and deadly, the voice Bristol had heard at their disastrous first encounter. “They kill one of my trusted guards? They snatch my daughter from her home and hold her hostage, and I am supposed to do nothing? That was an act of war, and Glennis was a casualty of that war like any other.”
Her mother nudged a step closer, and Bristol took a step back, mindful of the shore behind her. They moved in half steps as they spoke, equidistant, in a circle, like wrestlers in a match, contemplating each other’s moves.
“I’m not a hostage, Mother. Tyghan and I—”
Maire cursed. “I knew it. You leaned into that knife.” Bristol searched for a denial, but her mother was already hurling another question at her. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you? It’s in your voice when you say his name.”
Bristol stared, shocked at how she could glean that from just a few words. Did her mother have more motherly instincts than Bristol gave her credit for? Or did Bristol’s tone actually change when she said Tyghan’s name? Was Bristol so inextricably tied to him already, that she couldn’t even think his name without it showing in her face?
“He’s the one who dragged you here?”
“No. I came here of my own free will.”
“Nonsense,” Maire replied. “You didn’t even know about this world. Your father and I made certain—”
“I know about it now. I know more secrets than you think.” She stared at her mother, trying to imagine her placing an ugly tick on her own baby’s back all those years ago. Instead, she shared a different secret. “I know what your uncles did to you.”
The revelation had the desired effect, but Bristol found no joy in it. The ugliness of the secret left Maire speechless. Years of anguish were alive inside her again, and she stared at Bristol like she had betrayed her with something as lethal as a demon blade.
“Father told me,” Bristol added. “I came here to find him. I made a deal with Danu in return for their help.”
Maire sucked in a breath at last, her cool reserve fully shattered. “Your father? Your father ishere?”
For a brief moment, Bristol saw a glimpse of her mother, the woman she used to be. “That’s right,” she answered. “He thought you were coming back, and when you didn’t—”
“He’s a dreamer!” She scowled, the hardness restored. “He always was.”
“He said you promised to come back—”
“I said I’dtry! It was the only way I could get him to let me go. Try! I didn’t promise.”
“So you lied to him.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“You should have known he would follow. You’re his whole world. He was devastated when you left. We had to sell off all of his paintings to survive, but he refused to sell his sketches of you. You were his muse. His everything. You always were. He was miserable and lost and couldn’t go on without you. And now he’s here to save you.”
“I don’t need saving!” her mother hissed, swiping her fingers across her temple. Her steps became erratic, turning one way, then another. “Damn you, Logan,” she whispered under her breath. “Damn you.”
Her anger toward him was real. A sharp pang pierced Bristol, like she had lost something else she had always believed in—her parents’ enduring love for each other. “You always said he was the love of your life.”
