Page 47 of Bane Bloom

Finally, in a thin voice, I asked, “Where did you go?”

“I’ve been here all along. It was you who left.”

This is Elfame. “But how, Thomas?”

He sighed. “Ah, lass.”

All the frustration and fear of the last two days welled up in me as I said, “Please put me down.”

He did, and once he’d seen me steady on my feet, he took a step back. I’d not been prepared for the ache of his sudden withdrawal. Or the longing to go back to the safety and warmth of his arms.

But I fixed my eyes on his face and said, “What is Elfame?”

His expression began to go blank, and I said, “No. Don’t you do that, Thomas Bane!” I spoke sharply, but there was also a coarse desperation in my voice. “I’m part of this now—whatever this is—and I deserve to know.”

For a moment he stood in silence, and I expected next he would turn and go back to the cart—which rested on the road, exactly where it had before.

I’ll go mad if he does.

“Aye,” Thomas said at last. “But not here.”

Relief flooded me. I’d never been happier to be wrong.

Thomas crouched and began gathering my things, which were strewn about the ground beneath the stone seat as if they’d been flung. I stooped and helped him, noticing how quiet the wood had gone. No birds, no breeze stirring the young leaves.

When everything was back in my satchel, we returned to Daisy and the cart and were soon underway again. Over the short distance to Pine Cottage, my head began to clear.

I thought about the Queen of Elfame, and our strange conversation. She had put me very much in mind of the plant spirits described in Prudence’s diary.

Henbane, the straw-haired, black-eyed crone who rides the four winds. Belladonna, dropping pearls of wisdom from behind her amethyst veil. Aconite, whose kiss brings fevered dreams of wolves.

Had I, too, met a plant spirit? Bluebell, queen of woodland dreams.

And the Bane Bloom . . . she’d called it the Elfbloom. “It will grant your heart’s desire.” This seemed even stronger evidence that the Bane Bloom might be connected with Arthur Bane’s efforts to bring back his wife. Prudence had stated those efforts had failed, but that didn’t necessarily mean his work hadn’t yielded some uncanny result.

A bevy of dark clouds had assembled, and as Thomas pulled up to the stable, a light rain began to fall. I waited inside while he unhitched Daisy and unloaded his goods. Then we started toward the house. He hadn’t spoken since the bluebell glade, and I began to worry he might shut me out again.

“Shall I make tea?” I asked hopefully.

Gaze lowered, he replied, “We’ll not go to the house yet. I can make tea in the hut.”

I gave not two figs about the tea; I was just relieved he wasn’t trying to get away from me.

We rounded the house to the hut, and he let me inside before propping the door open with a stone. It was warmer today, and the gentle ticking of the spring shower was soothing. He set a kettle on the stove before kneeling and lighting the fire.

I’d carried Annie’s tart in, and I set it on the table before removing the towel. I picked up a knife from the table and cut us each a slice, releasing the rose water fragrance. “For luck and protection,” Annie had said. Roses were also associated with love. A briar rose, paired with a fairy that resembled a cupid, had been one of the first illustrations I’d created for my fairy herbal.

I lifted the slices onto plates already resting on the table, then took two mugs from the windowsill—one painted with a river scene and one with ducks on a lake. Thomas’s things were well used and homely rather than fine, but they had the feel of being cared for and valued.

He remained crouched in front of the stove, fussing with kindling and then logs—possibly avoiding a conversation he had tried very hard not to have—until steam was spouting from the kettle.

He rose and picked up a tin from the table, then scooped tea leaves into a pot with a castle painted on its belly and filled it with boiling water. Finally he sank down across from me.

His gaze remained lowered, and I tried to wait patiently while he organized his thoughts. I took a bite of the tart, the curd melting on my tongue.

“This was kind of Annie,” I said.

He looked up, and my heart jumped. “You wish to go to the village for May Eve?”