“Lady.” The bed rocked as Caerwen slammed into the mattress, reaching for my hand. She held tightly as waves of warmth eased the tension knotted beneath my skin. “We came as soon as we could.”
“As soon as we were big enough,” Effa added, her curls bobbing. She was the size of a young child, not the meadow nymph I recalled. “Aine wouldn’t let us come until it was safe.”
“The Carmag isn’t normal,” Caerwen said, huffing from her collision with the plush blankets. She was still nearly insubstantial, but who understood nymph anatomy, anyway?
Effa finished for her, saying, “There’s something here that makes us shrink like faeries. Even Fee’s magic gets wonky, and if we stay too long, we—”
“Could disappear.” Caerwen shuddered.
Effa plopped on the foot of the bed. Her dress poofed up like she was wearing yards and yards of tulle, edged in white daisies. Her brown skin gleamed in the pale sunlight sliding through the windows. Earlier, I’d drawn back the heavy drapes because I loved the view of a winter garden, half asleep, with forlorn, leafless trees and the evergreens, the tall pines standing around the perimeter.
Caerwen patted my hand with her long nymph fingers. “You’re awake.”
“Yes.” My smile widened as I adjusted my weight against the pillows. “Yesterday. I missed seeing your face.”
Her cheeks bloomed with embarrassment. Pleasure, and… fondness. “I was so worried.”
I tightened my fingers around hers. “I’m glad you were here while I was unconscious. Watching over me.”
“I made him go away,” she said, the confession darkening her eyes. “Your dread lord. I was so angry at first, thinking he did that to you.”
Grayson.
“He didn’t,” I protested. “I did it to myself.”
“You wouldn’t wake and… I was afraid his energy was hurting you.” Her thumb traced over the ruined wolf sigil. “I feared you wouldn’t come back—couldn’t—if he was here.” She scowled. “I blamed him, and I’m sorry.”
“I thought I was dreaming,” I admitted, staring at our clasped hands, the movement of her thumb. “On the edge of reality. I was lost in a dark mist with no control.”
I’d been floating with nothing but my beating heart for company.
Lost like the many failles Caerwen had tended over the centuries. Tried to help. I’d never be angry because she was worried.
The nymph straightened with a brave face. “Well, you’re back now, no worse for wear, and we can work with the ruined sigil. How do you feel?”
“Like I need one of your massages.”
“Of course you do. Fate can be such a… well,” she huffed, “if Fate was a woman, I’d call her a bitch for doing this to you.”
My eyes stung. “Some say Fate is a female, that there might be three of them, busy conspiring together.”
“Well—” Steely resolve flashed in Caerwen’s eyes. She was the ancient nymph, protecting her grotto for centuries, the many pilgrims or soldiers or crusaders who would have crossed her path. “Fate never met someone like you.”
I laughed and said, “My mother warned me not to believe in fate.”
“You’d give Fate too much power if you believed.” Caerwen fluffed, flitted like the seeds from a dandelion’s stalk after the petals have curled away. She added, “Too much power in one person never had a good outcome.”
“Put it right here.” Effa bounced on the bed again, patting the mattress, while a Carmag orderly carried in a wicker picnic basket, the old-fashioned kind with two locked flaps that closed in the middle—a lid to keep the bugs out. But in this case, the lid struggled to keep something in.
Each side flipped, jolted as the orderly set the basket on the bed, held up both hands and stepped back.
Effa reached out and rapped hard against the wicker lid. The basket hopped before it quieted. The nymph waited, then opened the double lid to reveal the contents—and the rush of puppy magic was a slobbering heat across my face. I found everything the magic had given me in Aine’s pocket: a carafe of what I hoped was coffee, with the perfect mix of cream. Fruit. Cubes of yellow cheese. Fresh croissants.
My smile hurt my face. “Effa…” The croissants were the culprits behind all that jumping. Like little creatures, they were trying to get out.
“Stupid little thing.” She smacked the croissant that jumped on top of the others. “Incorrigible.” She glared, and I swore the croissant seemed to glare back, braced on its non-existent legs, vibrating slightly. “Magic insisted on sending them, but it’s the Carmag. Messing things up.”
“They’re like puppies,” I said. “And who eats puppies?”
