Falling, falling, falling . . .
Chapter 9
The first thing Tamsyn was aware of was the pain.
No, “pain” wasn’t quite the right word. Weight. That was it. Like an elephant had just taken up residence not only on her chest, but her skull, her legs, even her hair. Her eyelids felt swollen, her heart beating sluggishly in her chest, and as she lay there on the damp earth, a memory popped into her head.
It wasn’t one she chose to revisit often—honestly, if it was up to her, all memories of spring break should vanish from your brain once you hit about twenty-five—but that’s what she felt like now. Like that night outside whatever club that had been in Panama City, Florida, one of her sorority sisters—Mamie, no, Amy; she always got them mixed up—placing a hand on her shoulder and saying, Girl, you need to go home.
I do, Tamsyn thought as she looked up at a dark sky. I am a Girl, and I need to go home.
“Tamsyn?”
She turned her head to the side, and oh, right. It wasn’t Mamie or Amy lying on the ground next to her this time. It was Bowen. Sweet, handsome, weird Bowen, who looked every bit as bad as she felt in this moment, but still managed to be the hottest man she’d ever seen.
“I’m the what?” he asked, and dammit, apparently she didn’t feel too bad to not say things out loud.
“Nothing,” she told him now, wincing as she raised herself into a sitting position. She was still in the garden, but it had stopped raining all of a sudden, and when Tamsyn glanced up, she didn’t see the statue that Carys had been kneeling under.
Actually . . .
Tamsyn looked around even though moving her head that much hurt.
Not only did she not see the statue, but she didn’t see Carys, either.
Bowen seemed to be realizing the same thing as he stood up, dusting off the back of his tuxedo pants and frowning up at the empty, dark sky.
“Rain’s stopped,” he observed, and now Tamsyn frowned, patting the grass around her.
“And the ground is dry,” she said.
Bowen grunted.
Tamsyn went to stand, but her knees were still a little wobbly. Luckily Bowen was right there, a firm hand under her elbow as she staggered in her high heels, her stomach sinking.
Something was . . . wrong.
Bad wrong.
Magically wrong.
Bowen felt it, too. She could tell by the Advanced Level Three Frown he was currently wearing, the one that made him look like an old-timey sea captain scanning the horizon for land.
It was possible she’d incorporated that look into a fantasy or three, but now was not the time for Captain Bowen and the Pirate Queen. Now she needed to figure out just what the hell had happened.
And where the hell was Carys?
Furthermore, where the hell was Y Seren?
There was no moon tonight, but Tamsyn still searched the lawn for the telltale sparkle of the brooch.
As she crouched near one hedge, there was a sudden flash of movement just to her right, and she shot up, moving toward it as fast as her ridiculous shoes would allow, but Bowen beat her to it.
He reached into the hedge with one arm and yanked.
Tamsyn wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected to see him holding, but it was not a very small child in a kilt, frantically kicking his little brogue-clad feet in the air.
“I wasn’t spying! I heard a noise, and people aren’t meant to be in the garden, they’re supposed to be having sherry in the drawing room. That’s what Mother said, everyone to the drawing room for sherry! So if you’re in the garden, you’re not where you’re supposed to be, and that’s naughty. You are both terribly naughty!” the child went on, his voice nearly a shriek, his white-blond hair practically glowing even as he screwed his little face up in an expression of pure fury.
Bowen blinked at the child still dangling from his grasp, dodging as the little boy tried to land a ferocious kick in the general direction of Bowen’s crotch.
Tamsyn stepped closer, narrowing her eyes as she studied the child with his wild platinum curls, his little purple face with its round cheeks and almost bulbous blue eyes, and thought, impossibly—
“Madoc!”
A woman’s voice rang out, and Tamsyn heard more footsteps, the rustle of material, and saw several bobbing lights heading in their direction. The child took their momentary distraction to swing another kick at Bowen, and while this one might not have found its exact mark, it did glance off his hip, making Bowen mutter something in Welsh before setting the kid back down.
“I am not a Cath Palug,” the boy said, hands on his hips. “I am the master of this house. Or I will be once my father dies, not that I want that to happen soon, but when it does, I’m going to open up the oubliette in the house, and then ruffians like you will be sorry.”
He paused, wiped at his nose.
“I’m also going to get a dog,” he announced, and then there was a bright light as the most elegant woman Tamsyn had ever seen suddenly appeared out of the hedges, massive flashlight in hand.
“Oh, Madoc, for heaven’s sake, are you threatening people with flaying again?”
“No, just an oubliette,” Tamsyn supplied, even as her mind felt like it was sliding through Jell-O. “And a dog.”
The woman rolled her eyes, reaching up with her free hand to pat at her elaborate blond updo. Despite the cold, she was wearing an off-the-shoulder taffeta dress that appeared to be deep green, a tartan belt nipping in her trim waist.
