Page 76 of The Vanishing Throne

I’ve been waiting for more than three years.

For what?

For the girl whose gift is chaos.

Death follows me; it has followed me since my mother’s murder. I am a conductor trying to avoid a bolt of lightning in a thunderstorm. ‘You won’t,’ I say softly. ‘His premonition wasn’t wrong, Derrick. And I still have to find the crystal from the old kingdom. You know I do.’

‘That could takeages,’ he whines. ‘My ancestors buried everything. Hell, they buried the trophies of their victims. There are a million skeletons on this island. Lonnrach will have to dig those all up first.’

‘And what if Daniel is hearing the whispers again for a reason?’

‘I don’t care,’ he snaps. His halo is burning bright red, flickering like flames. ‘I finally have my closet back. I have you back. He’s ruiningeverything.’ A pause. Then: ‘Do you think Catherine would be offended if I lopped off one of his ears?’

I transfer him to the palm of my hand, holding him up so I can meet his eyes. ‘Is that what this is really about? Losing your closet?’

‘Of course.’ He blinks up at me, wide-eyed and innocent. He’s anything but innocent. ‘What else would it be?’

‘Kiaran told me, you know. About your family and your home.’

Derrick’s glow immediately dims to nothing, and his wings tuck in. I hear the wee hitch of his breath and he looks away. ‘Did he.’

Derrick lost his kingdom and everyone he loved, and when I leave he’ll be forced to choose between me and the home he just got back. I don’t blame him for clinging to the things that have become familiar. Such simple things. His closet, the mountain of dresses. Me. This room.I’ve been sleeping in my own version of your closet for the last three years and it never smelled the same.Even though this room isfake, I had to be here to make it real for him. That’s what family does: They bring home with them. Derrick and I have become family.

I stroke my fingers down one wing, then down the other. ‘I wish I could hate Kiaran for you,’ I tell him. ‘As much as you hate thebaobhan sìthfor taking my mother from me.’

‘I don’t want you to,’ he says. And there’s such hurt there. No matter how long ago he lost his family, that pain still burns inside him. ‘I’ve had thousands of years to mourn my family. But know this: there’s not a day that passes when I don’t believe Kiaran is so far beneath you that he should crawl over glass at your feet and be thankful that someone decided he was worthy of kindness.’

‘Then what changed your mind?’ I ask him seriously. ‘About wanting me to kill him.’

Derrick is quiet for the longest time, wings fanning softly. His golden glow is slowly returning. ‘I see the way he looks at you.’

I swallow, afraid of his answer. ‘And how is that?’

‘Like he wishes he was mortal.’

He flaps his wings to glide above my palm. ‘Back to sewing, then. Calms the nerves. I’ll weave another spell around the wards tonight, but tell that one-eyed fool that when I leave, good luck finding anothersìthicheto do the sewing.’ With a huff, he barrels into his closet and shuts the door behind him with a loud thump.

Like he wishes he was mortal.

No, I can’t focus on that now. I look out at the snow again, and this time, I’ve decided. I’m going out there to see the city as I imagine it before I’m exiled to an uncertain future of being hunted by the fae.

I square my shoulders and pull aside the panel next to the window. The button that detaches this part of the wall is there against the woodenpaneling. Right where I installed it in my real room – a hidden escape so I could sneak out of the house at night to hunt.

Holding a breath, I press it. A portion of the wall lowers like a drawbridge to the garden, its metal gears clicking as it descends. I shiver at the frigid blast of cold air and the snowflakes and wait as the teak panels along the detached wall flip up into steps.

As I descend into the garden, I close my eyes and imagine the weather slightly warmer, the rain and wind softer. The weather turns precisely as I had envisioned, just chilly enough for me to keep my coat on.

Rain patters against the leafless branches of thetrees as I cross the grass to the back gate. It opens and closes with a creak of the hinges, just as it always did. My fingers linger on the metal as I step out into the street. The street lamps along the lonely road are all lit, the wet cobblestones glistening in the light of dusk.

I’ve never seen the city so quiet, so empty, not even when I went on my late-night hunts. Even then the buildings around me had lights on, servants in the basements gossiping as they completed their chores. Now I walk down the desolate street and there is no sound, nothing but rain and my footfalls. The buildings around me are immaculate white brick and stone, one right after the other – and without a soul to occupy them. Charlotte Square is a barren place of rich buildings left abandoned.

Down on Princes Street, I stare across the dark, grassy park at the remains of the castle perched on its crag. Nothing but the front part is standing; the rest of the stone stronghold is scattered in pieces across the grass below.

I close my eyes and picture the castle precisely how it was in my memory ofbefore. The castle was such a prominent structure in the city, towering right in the centre. It was beautiful, its foundation of it created to look like it was carved out of rock.

When I open my eyes again, the castle is whole. Complete. Beautiful once more. I almost cry at the sight of it.It’s not real, I remind myself.This is an illusion.

The landscape senses my mood and I watch the castle walls dissolve as if water had been thrown onto a painting. The whole parts of the building crumble and fade back into ruin.

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