The Vanishing Throne (21 page)

I jerk away from him. “Don't touch me.”

He puts his hands up. “Aithinne might have healed the wisp bites, but you're still recovering from losing the energy they took.”

“And how, exactly, do you intend to keep me here?” I ask coldly. “Will you shackle me again?”

Gavin flinches, but he doesn't back down. “You're not well,” he repeats more firmly.

“I'm well enough to break that pretty nose if you come near me again.”

When he steps away, I take the opportunity to scramble out of the bed to put some distance between us. “Get out. Tell Catherine or Aithinne to come back, or get Kiaran if you can find him. If I must have someone here to watch over me, I'd rather it be anyone but
you
.”

Gavin doesn't move. We stare at each other, a silent battle of wills. His gaze drops first, but he doesn't leave. “I deserve that,” he says. I notice his eyes flicker to my scars again. “And for what I said to you earlier. I shouldn't have assumed—”

“That they didn't torture me? That I wasn't
marked
?” I say tightly. I look down at my arms. “How does this change your little narrative now?”

“It only makes me hate them more,” he says sharply. “I hate them, Aileana. I
hate
them.”

I don't miss the way his expression is pleading, begging me to understand, but I can't. Not right now.

I make my way to the window. Charlotte Square is entirely intact, pristine. My flying machine is parked in the central garden, just as always. Seeing it there makes my chest ache, because none of this exists anymore. The greenery flourishes as it does in the throes of springtime,
and the sun shines through the clouds in beams of light that settle on the grass. The weather is too beautiful, too inviting.

As my mood darkens, the sun disappears completely. The light is gone. The grass shrivels to winter brown as the storm clouds gather. I watch as snow falls onto the cobbles, settling there until the street is completely covered.

“Please go away,” I tell Gavin when he comes to stand beside me.

“Let me explain,” he says softly. “If you want me to leave after that, I will.”

I shut my eyes briefly. “Tell me about this place first.” I slouch against the window seat, sliding down until I'm on the cold, hard wood. “It's not real, is it?”

Now that I study the room more closely, I see that there's not one bit of
me
in it. It's just a replica, a re-creation of all the things I love in this world, the room my mother and I had designed together.

There's none of
her
here, either. There isn't a single thing I could point to as being different, but there's an emptiness to it. A neatness, as if it has never been lived in. My mother and I didn't create this place together.

I reach for my coat that Catherine left out on the window seat and dig into the pocket for my mother's tartan. I clench it so hard that my hand aches. As if I could bring everything back. As if I could bring
her
back.

“It's an illusion,” Gavin says, sitting next to me, resting his arms on his knees. “Your pixie calls the effect
cruthaidheachd
,
the creation. His kind used it to build their own worlds. Now we use it to create our old homes from our memories.”

This is like a torment, then. An empty place that has no meaning except for the parts we remember. “Could I create anything?”

“You could. But we surround ourselves with the things we wish to see. Whatever place is foremost in our minds.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “I suppose this was your room?”

“Aye,” I say.

I miss it like an ache. This place doesn't smell the same, it doesn't feel the same. “It's an imitation,” I say. “It has all the pieces, but they're not right. They mean nothing.”

“I disagree.” His voice is so quiet. “Our memories mean everything, don't you think?”

I lean back and close my burning eyes again. “What if the thing I want most isn't my room, but a city?” I swallow. “A loved one?”

“We can't bring back the dead,” he says. “Not even here. Believe me, more than a few of us have tried.”

I look at Gavin then.
Really
look, not like when I first saw him and was simply glad he was still alive. I see him for the man he's become, so unlike the boy I grew up with. His features are so familiar, not at all different except for the scars. But I notice other things, too.

His hair is slightly longer than I remember, just past his ears. He hasn't shaved in at least a few days—so very unlike the Gavin I knew. The shirt he wears is rough wool, open at
the neck—like my hunting wardrobe. There's a scar at the base of his throat, thin and faded, as if a blade had caught him with a quick swipe.

“When we were outside you looked at me like I was a stranger,” I said. “Like you didn't even know me. Why?”

“Is that what you assumed?”

“What else was I supposed to think?” I press my head to the wall and sigh softly. “You were so cold. I've never seen you like that. You lied to Derrick. You sent me—”

You sent me to be tortured
.

“It's been three years, Aileana,” Gavin says. “I'm different. I had to adapt to survive. And you . . .” He searches my face. “You weren't here for any of it. Not the hunt or the fall of the cities. You don't know what we went through.”

Why save your home instead of mine?

Show me. Now
.

I only saw the smoke and the buildings. The destruction and the ash as the buildings burned. I wasn't here to see all those people massacred by the fae army. I wasn't here while the survivors picked up the pieces.

“No, I don't,” I say
.

Gavin looks around my room. He never saw it before it was destroyed. I changed it after he had left for university. One time I snuck him up to my old room, my—

I can create it for him, I realize. I project the memory onto the room; it's as easy as simply picturing it in my head and willing it into existence. The old gold-and-crimson-urn-patterned wallpaper, the delicate, cream-colored curtains
pulled back from the windows. A matching Persian carpet over the hardwood floor.

The furniture was all framed in teak, the cushions ivory and gold. Those were my favorite colors. When I snuck Gavin in the first time, I hid my dolls; I was so embarrassed by my blasted dolls. I didn't want Gavin to see them. But there they are on the mantel where they used to sit before my father told me it was time to give up childish things and he gave them away.

Gavin takes in my old room, his expression flickering from wonder back to shuttered and cold. “Change it back.”

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring his tone. I've dealt with Kiaran for the longest time. Gavin is no match for me, even at his most hostile. “Memories mean everything,” I say, quoting him, “don't you think?”

“What is it you want me to recall?” he asks, in that dead voice I don't recognize. “The last time I was in this room, you kissed me. Or have you forgotten?”

In an instant, the room changes back to the one I designed. The paneled teak drops over smooth patterned wallpaper, and the carpet fades into wooden boards. The furniture disappears, except for the settee, stained by my greasy, oiled fingertips touching it as I rested after metalworking.

“That was a long time ago,” I say. “I just thought you'd be more comfortable.”

“It wasn't that much time for you.”

“Long enough, Galloway,” I say softly. He starts, staring at me in surprise. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Gavin shakes his head, leaning back against the window seat. “You called me Galloway. No one's called me that in a long time.” At my confused expression, he explains, “I don't have a title anymore, Aileana. I don't have lands. After everything that happened, it just seemed like a silly formality.”

“You said you'd tell me everything,” I say. “What happened while I was in the
Sìth-bhrùth
?”

He stares up at the clicking gears that keep the electricity going, now connected to nothing. It takes so long for him to speak, minutes. “After
they
came—we lived in the abandoned ruins of villages first. Rounded up whoever survived. The fae found people and influenced them to betray our whereabouts.” His voice shakes, and he swallows. “Every time we moved, they came into our villages at night to slaughter people. Those without the Sight never saw it coming.”

I watch his hands, how they toy with the fabric of his shirt as he speaks.

“So you made the test.” I try to keep the emotion out of my voice. I might understand
why
, but I don't forgive him yet. Not for that. “With the wisps.”

He nods. “Humans are easily influenced by the fae. Another raid would leave our population decimated.”

I study the scars on his face, how they look as though one of the fae had made a grab for his eye and sliced through the flesh around it. The scars are faded now, so pale against his skin.

“Hideous, aren't they?” His voice startles me, and I realize I must have been quiet for a while. I notice how his jaw tightens.

I shake my head. “Not to me.” I can't stop myself from reaching up, sliding my fingers down the four jagged scars above his brow. Finally, the single one that mars his cheek. “Your scars aren't flaws, Galloway. They're not imperfections. They're stories written on your skin.”

“
Stories
?” It sounds like he thinks the idea is silly.

“Aye,” I say. “They tell the tale of how you survived. There's no shame in that.”

He looks at me then. “And what stories do yours tell?” he asks me. “Survival, too?”

I jerk away. Behind him, I notice my map, the one of Scotland on the far wall. The red ribbons tied around pins that signified Sorcha's kills. I burned that map once, scattered the pins on the floor. Now here it is again, complete and whole.

One time, I would have told Gavin that my scars told the tale of how I killed each fae. How I did it to train for the faery I most wanted dead. I would have pointed them out with pride; they were badges of victory. My scars told the tale of a girl who had stripped away the parts of her old self until nothing was left but the vengeful huntress from the mirrors.

The things that ended up mattering most in my prison had nothing to do with vengeance, or slaughtering the fae, or being a Falconer. They were dances. Laughter. Grief and friendship. Crushing embraces and hard goodbyes. Stolen kisses beneath a blood moon.

“No,” I say softly. “These tell how I became human again.”

I
SLEEP ANOTHER
day. Though my limbs are still shaking when I pull myself out of bed, I'm able to walk steadily to my closet. I press my ear to the door and listen, smiling when I hear Derrick inside singing a bawdy jig. His voice is drowned out by the occasional rustle of fabric.

I knock twice before opening the door. And there he is, sprawled on a mountain of multicolored silks, his needle and thread in hand. “
Aileanaaaa
,” he sings, wings fanning behind him. “You're better! You're awake! You look like you were run over by a carriage and tossed into the river.”

Leaning against the door frame, I say, “Had to add that last bit, did you?” I flex my limbs; they still ache. “In any case, I swear this is worse. Wisps are vicious.”

Derrick's golden halo turns red at the reminder. “I should have known that Seer was lying. If he weren't your friend, I would have flayed him alive and taken his skin as a trophy.” He pulls over one of the silks, a deep royal blue. “But since
you seem to value his life, I bit the bastard on the arm. Tit for tat. He tastes like misery.”

“And I see you came right back to my closet afterward.”

Derrick threads a needle that's almost half the size of his entire body. “I was so happy you created it for me! I've been sleeping in my own version of your closet for the last three years and it never smelled the same. Just of wood. I hate the smell of wood.” He looks up at me. “You've made it smell like roses in here again. And lovely waterfalls.” He smiles lazily. “And ladies.”

I almost tell him that I didn't create the closet for
him
specifically, but he looks so pleased that saying so would make me feel like a right killjoy. So I sigh inwardly and nudge one of the silks with my toe. “What's all this?”

“I'm sewing dresses. When I came in here, the closet looked like hell.”

“Empty, I assume?”

Derrick blinks at me as if I've suddenly turned daft. “Of course, you silly human. What use is an empty closet? As it is, you're walking around in those hideous clothes lent out by your friend, wisp spit all over your skin.”
Wisp spit
? Good heavens. He begins stitching again, moving so quickly that all I see are streams of light. “I even made you silk. So much better than your human silk, not that you ever asked me for it before.”

I look at him suspiciously. Pixies normally move quickly, but he's got the same twitchy movements that he gets when he's—“Did someone give you honey?”

“Aithinne gave me just a wee dram.” He holds out his thumb and forefinger, a mere fraction apart. “A thimbleful. I
love
her. I should make her a dress.”

Oh, for goodness' sake. Honey does make Derrick productive to a fault. Sewing, cleaning, polishing. He could build a season's wardrobe after a bowlful. “We don't require dresses. There aren't any balls or assemblies. Remember?”

He pauses and looks up at me. “So just because the world ends you can't dress fancy?”