Page 64 of The Mirror of Beasts

“He is the second of that name,” the creature said, drifting lazily back and forth behind the glass. “He killed the first and stole his crown—but that is getting ahead of myself.”

As she spoke, the echo of another voice stirred in my mind. A man’s voice, murmuring and indistinct, layered over hers. A ghostly image, of a bed, of a glowing candle on the table beside it, flittered through my mind. A thought slipped in through the shadows, unbidden. I know this.

No, I didn’t.

I sat back on my heels, hugging my arms to my chest. A sharp prickling began at the base of my spine, clawing its way up my body to grip the back of my neck.

“His true name is Gwyn ap Nudd,” the creature said, “son of Nudd Llaw Ereint, whose own father was one of the Goddess’s Firstborn.”

Nudd of the Silver Hand. An ancient king of Britain and legendary hero.

“Never content with what great good fortune had been given to him,” the creature continued, “Gwyn saw only what others were given, heard only what praise his father offered to his brothers, tasted but the bitterness of every fruit. It is little wonder, then, that he desired a young woman already promised to another …”

The dark scene—the bedroom, the frail candle’s light—painted itself in bolder strokes, refusing to be ignored. There were two children in the bed, a fair-haired girl, a boy with hair so dark it looked like a spill of ink on the pillow. The man who sat at the end of it, drawing the covers up over them, wore a leather jacket, his eyes somber as he spoke.

It was me. It was Cabell. It was Nash. But it had never happened. I would have remembered it. I would have remembered it before now. When had Nash ever tucked us into bed? It seemed almost like a little inn, but I didn’t recognize it.

“Who?” Olwen’s voice intruded on my spiraling thoughts.

“Who indeed,” the creature said. “For this was no ordinary girl, but the divine child of the Goddess herself. A daughter she had created to be hers alone. Her name was Creiddylad.”

I know this. The thought filled me with a strange panic. I knew this story, but I couldn’t place how. I couldn’t draw up the pages I’d read it on in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t remember where we’d been, or who had told me. There was only that impression of the room, of Nash sitting at the edge of the bed, darkly shimmering.

“A daughter?” I heard Olwen repeat incredulously.

“Impossible,” Caitriona said. “We would know of such a being—”

I focused on that image, holding it there at the front of my mind, refusing to let it go.

I know this. How do I know this?

The prickling at the back of my neck rose, spiking through the bone at the base of my skull. I drew in a sharp breath, my shoulders tensing as my mind gave a physical jolt, like the clunk of a key turning in an old lock.

I pushed through the dull ache building at my temple, the detritus of half-formed, fragmented memories that littered my mind like dying leaves, digging and digging through the layers of chaos until I found the clear jewel of a memory buried underneath.

I remembered.

The inn in Helmsley, Yorkshire, after another fruitless day searching for Arthur’s dagger at the nearby castle. Winter’s frost kissing the window. The bone-deep cold that had lingered after an entire day outside, one no fire or blanket seemed to be able to drive out. I curled my knees up to my chest to trap in some warmth, fuming silently as I pretended to sleep.

“Will you tell us a story?” Cabell whispered.

His side of the narrow bed dipped as Nash sat down. I kept my back to them, eyes squeezed shut. After the day we’d had, I wasn’t in the mood to go to sleep.

“What sort of story, my dear boy?” came Nash’s rumbling reply, the words warmed by the ale in his hand.

Cabell thought about it a moment. “A winter’s tale.”

“Ah.” I felt the pressure of Nash’s gaze as he glanced my way. He was quiet for a moment. Normally there’d be a story already perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to unfurl itself, but now, he took his time, as if needing to think through his selection. “The story of that old heel Father Christmas soft-shoeing around houses, snooping on children, perhaps?”

I could imagine perfectly the face Cabell made. “No. A new one—one you’ve never told us before.”

I bristled. Nash was always telling Cabell things he wouldn’t tell me—they were always going off, leaving me behind, telling me I wouldn’t understand.

“I think that ought to wait until your sister’s awake,” Nash said, after taking a long sip from his bottle. “Hardly seems fair otherwise.”

Cabell wasn’t deterred. “Tamsin’s never liked a scary story. Tell me one of those.”

I glowered at the window in front of me. He wasn’t any braver than me. Cabell wouldn’t like it either if the monsters followed him into his dreams.

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