Page 47 of Song of the Dark Wood

Conor stormed back to his sitting room. He would not let this girl into his head any more than she already was. Especially not when she was hiding something. She’d asked him to reconsider his bargain with the Mother, but he suspected that wasn’t all she wanted.

He slammed the sitting room door and poured himself a whiskey before slumping into his chair by the fire. Several minutes later, Charlie cracked the door open and made his way into the room.

“You can’t just ignore her, you know,” Charlie taunted. “You can’t just brood around, slamming doors, hoping she leaves you alone. Why are you letting her stay if she’s too tempting?”

“Because she asked,” Conor grunted.

“It’s not a good idea. We were supposed to be working on the blight. This is not a time to be distracted.”

“I know, Charlie. I know, okay?” Conor barked. “She wants something. I’m just going to figure out what it is so that I can get rid of her without issue. I cannot have her here long-term. Her scent is everywhere, and it’s driving me out of my mind.”

“You could always try?—”

“I’m not going to bed her,” Conor snapped. He ran a hand through his hair.

In the past, taking the Maidens to bed brought relief from the relentless desire temporarily, but he was almost certain it made it worse in the long term.

“It’s taken the edge off in the past,” Charlie chided. “I would be happy to be there just in case you lost control.” He winked.

A low growl erupted from Conor’s throat.

Charlie just laughed. “All right, easy, lad. I’m only teasing. Mother’s tits! You’re territorial about this girl.” He crossed the room, placed a jar on the table, and sat in the other chair by the fire. “The Crone had that sent over. It seems she knew you’d be struggling with your new Maiden, or perhaps she’s attached to the girl. I understand this one is good friends with the Crone’s daughter.”

Conor opened the lid, and the pungent herbal smell burned his nostrils. The Crone had made the tincture to help him resistprevious Maidens, but only at his request. What did the Crone know that he didn’t?

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what happened the last time you felt that way about one of the Red Maidens,” Charlie said, interrupting his thoughts.

Conor scrubbed both hands over his face. “The problem is that I’ve never felt?—”

Charlie dropped his glass of whiskey on the table with a clatter. “Demon’s breath! It’s that bad?”

Conor grimaced. “I don’t know. You don’t smell her?” He used the jar’s dropper to sprinkle a few droplets of the tincture into his whiskey.

“Of course, but all of them smell like that—you know, like life, daylight, springtime,” Charlie said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s lovely, but I don’t find it any more compelling than Orla or Evelyn or any of the rest.”

Conor downed the glass. The whiskey and tincture burned all the way down. “Well, I do.”

Charlie sighed and patted him on the shoulder. “If you change your mind, I’m happy to play chaperone,” he said before ducking out of the room and leaving Conor alone with his thoughts.

Conor poured another large glass and leaned back in the chair. He took a fortifying gulp and began his torturous vigil.

12

CONOR

The following day, Conor gritted his teeth as he finished his second loop of the mansion. There was no sign of Rowan as he made his way back to the great room, the click of his boots echoing off the green marble floors.

He forbade her from going outside alone, but after one day of good behavior, she seemed determined to test the boundaries of his patience. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the gray morning. The air was cool and humid, and smelled faintly of Rowan. He crossed the courtyard, dried grass crunching beneath his boots.

A soft melody floated over the courtyard wall. Conor darted around the corner of the mansion, following the sound. Spirits huddled outside the garden walls. Several of them swayed from side to side at the haunting, lovely melody that floated on the breeze. One leaned against the wall, her ghostly white hands crossed over her heart, her eyes squeezed shut in rapture. She looked like she might cry.

The last thing he needed was the servant spirits acting up and wandering about when they had things to do. He clearedhis throat, and all five of them jumped and then scattered in different directions.

He walked to the opening in the stone wall where the iron gate hung open, creaking gently in the breeze. Rowan stood in the center of the garden in profile. Her auburn hair was braided, but wisps of curls slipped free and blew in the breeze. She wore a charcoal-gray dress that was slightly too large for her. Conor made a note to have his seamstress see that she had some proper clothes made in case she needed to change.

Rowan’s eyes were closed, her whole body swaying with the melody. Conor was unsettled by how at home she seemed in his world. She stopped her song periodically and brought her hands down to the soil beneath the brown, dilapidated flower beds. She was about to sing again when he stepped into the garden and she noticed him.

“Hi,” she said with a smile.

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