Page 74 of Bane Bloom

I stared. “It’s for me?”

“I’ll not be wearing it.” His blue eyes showed glints of mirth.

Touched, I set it on my head. “How do I look?”

“Younger,” he said, his typical plainspokenness drawing a snort of laughter from me. He couldn’t help smiling at this, but he added more soberly, “It’s very becoming.”

“Is it—is it for protection?”

“Aye, I chose cowslips for protection. The fair folk get up to more mischief around May Day. But also I thought you might wish for something less . . .”

“Yes, I take your meaning. Just this morning I was lamenting not having packed anything more festive.” I met his gaze, and my heart beat faster. “I found a shawl in my room. Not mine. It’s very fine, with lace and vines and flowers and . . . well, I don’t suppose you . . .”

His features had grayed as I spoke. “It was my mother’s. A gift from my grandfather.”

“I thought it might be. Did you leave it for me?”

“Nay, lass. I think my mother must have wished for you to have it.”

Our gazes connected, and the air filled with invisible sparks.

“But do you wish it, Thomas? It’s yours now, and I’m sure it must be dear to you. I’m happy to return it.”

He frowned. “It’s been sitting at the bottom of a drawer. You should keep it if you like it.”

This reply wasn’t exactly brimming with warmth, and my voice was more subdued as I said, “I thought to wear it to The Mill tonight.”

He hesitated, studying me. “Speaking of that, we’ll want to be going soon.”

Dispirited and unable to hide it, I murmured, “All right.”

At least he hadn’t changed his mind about going.

He made you a flower crown.

In a brighter tone, I added, “I’ll just go wash and change. Say a quarter of an hour?”

He nodded. “Come out to the stable when you’re ready.”

I started to close my sketchbook—but gasped as my eyes fell on the page. I hadn’t drawn the Brugmansia at all. Or rather, I had, but like the daphne sprite, as a woman. Her face sat at the center of the bloom so it formed a whimsical hat brim, with the top section of it cone shaped, like the hats witches wore in illustrations. She held a basket filled with plant cuttings.

“May I see that?” said Thomas, something almost fearful in his tone.

I handed him the sketchbook. He blinked a few times as he studied it, and after a moment said, “Catherine, this is a likeness of my mother.”

My eyes rounded. “Your mother! How can that be?”

His lips parted, but instead of answering, he shook his head.

“Are there any portraits of her in the house? Surely I must have . . .”

He let out a breath and handed the book back to me. “Only this one.”

Again I studied the drawing, feeling the shock of it. Prudence had certainly been on my mind today, but to sketch her without ever having seen her seemed to suggest a connection I was not even conscious of. I remembered the Brugmansia’s plaque. Communication with the dead.

“It’s not the first time this has happened,” I said. “When I sketched the winter daphne, there was a maiden in the blossoms that I couldn’t remember adding.”

“It’s not you,” he replied, and I could see his concern. “It’s the house.”