Page 51 of The Vanishing Throne

‘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 butyou.’

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’tmarked?’ 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. Ihatethem.’

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

I make my wayto 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 ofmein 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 ofherhere, 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 bringherback.

‘It’s an illusion,’ Gavin says, sitting next to me, resting his arms on his knees. ‘Your pixie calls the effectcruthaidheachd, 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.Reallylook, 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 theboy 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.

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