Page 41 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“Not another of Tuft’s misguided gifts?”

“No, this doesn’t bear his stamp . . . or flavor—I’m not sure how to explain it. But it was not Tuft. I don’t know the Pixie that kissed him.”

“Kissed him?” Gwyn gasped.

“Perhaps? It’s all wrapped up in kisses. That’s all I could tell.” He frowned. “But based on how Pixie magic usually works . . . well . . .”

“Yes?” Gywn asked, breathless.

“She kissed him, I think that’s what started it all. If I had to guess . . . I’d say you should kiss him to end it.”

Gwyn’s shoulders drooped. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t tried.”

“Gwyn!” Tamsyn said with a laugh.

“Well I have, but something always prevents it. What is it?Whois it? And more than that—how could a Pixie kiss him and Locryn not know of it?” she huffed.

“Pixies are capable of far more than that,” Tamsyn said with a knowing look at the ghost boy. “Could Tuft perhaps tell us more?”

“He might. But he’s been gone from the area these last months. He has a way with the deepest earth magic, you see, and he’s been helping some Knockers up the coast shore up their tunnels.”

“Knockers?” Gwyn asked.

“Pixies that live in mine shafts and caves,” Tamsyn explained. “They knock to warn miners of impending collapses.”

“Oh,” Gwyn sighed.

“I have to go,” Paul said, fading in and out again.

“We do thank you for your help, Paul,” Gwyn said warmly. “And I appreciate the chance to make your acquaintance.”

He nodded at her. “You are welcome.” The boy drifted close to Tamsyn and patted her hand. “I will miss you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chided him. “I’ll only be at Lancarrow. I’ll come and sit with you in the rose garden.”

He merely sighed. “Goodbye.”

He faded away, even as Gwyn exchanged uneasy glances with her sister.

* * *

“Aunt Morwen, there you are!” Locryn did his best to hide his impatience. She carried a large basket and he took it from her. She didn’t stop, so he followed in her footsteps. “It’s grown dark out. I was starting to worry.”

She laughed. “There’s nothing in the night foolish enough to bother me.”

Except him, it would seem. “Do you have a moment? I need to speak to you.”

“Yes, yes. If you’ll come to the stillroom, I do. I have to wash these sandthorn berries.”

“Of course.” He followed her to the large room at the top of the house. She went in before him and started to light candles. He saw it was a long, narrow room, filled with shelves and countertops bursting with bottles, paper packages and books. He frowned when he saw a grey-striped tabby lounging on a windowsill. “Is that the same cat? The one we saw the other day?”

She glanced up. “Yes.”

“Isn’t it quite a bit . . . larger?” Older, he would have said. It looked like a nearly grown adult cat.

“For now,” she said casually. She went to a massive table in the middle of the room and indicated a spot for him to leave the basket. She brought a large bowl of water over and began to strip the orange berries from their laden branches and dump them in.

“So, have you decided that I was right?” She glanced knowingly at him. “Something is happening with you? Something that cannot be easily explained away?”

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