Page 105 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“Sanjay and Catherine,” Bristol whispered to herself.Indian and Irish.That’s what her father was. Whatshewas. At least one half of her. And Cat and Harper, too. Bristol leaned over, pressing her palms to her eyes, drawing in deep breaths.
“Are you all right, dear?” Jasmine asked.
Bristol nodded, her eyes closed, still hiding her face in her hands. The knowledge soaked in, like water on parched ground. She needed to tell Cat and Harper as soon as possible. They deserved to know. She opened her eyes. “Did he know?”
“Yes, we told him when he was seven,” Jasmine answered. “But I’m not sure he grasped it fully. Danu and this life were all he had ever known. He knew of course that he was different, that he was from the mortal world, but he never talked about it, or even asked questions. He wanted to run and play and study and be all that his friends were. He had to work twice as hard at everything, of course, being mortal, and even then he was never quite like them. But he had other qualities that served him well. He excelled in his own ways.”
“What was he like?”
At that point, the Sisters joined them, swarming in at Jasmine’s call. Like Jasmine, they were older women, but vigorous and strong. Two of them wore swords on their backs like they had just come from a formal—or deadly—event. They shed their armor and weapons, letting them clatter onto a nearby sofa, and eagerly greeted Bristol. She was awed as she met them all, her father’s other aunts, Adela, Camille, and Izzy, the women who raised him, and they all had plenty to say. He was the delight and bane of their lives.Oh, the troubles he got into. He was so curious. So talented. So sweet. So mischievous. A hellion. A darling.So much of everything.
Her father was the son they never had, the son who came to them late in their lives, the one who toddled and tore through Celwyth Hall, with occasional breakage. They laughed, they told stories, they showed her his paintings that hung throughout the halls of Celwyth. Paintings he had signed.Kierus.Bristol ran her finger over the name, feeling the light texture beneath her fingertip. He had left the name behind, too. “That’s what you called him?”
“Yes,” Camille said. “It means wanderer.”
A fitting name, Bristol thought. “He was an artist here, too?”
“For a time,” Jasmine answered. “Until he was drawn into the knight’s service.”
Bristol whirled from the painting to the aunts. “My father was aknight?”
Camille sighed as if she didn’t approve. “It was what he wanted.”
“At least for a while,” Adela added.
Bristol noticed their dispositions change, their smiles retreating.
“Was he happy as a knight?”
“He appeared to be,” Izzy said.
“Then why did he leave?” Bristol asked. “Was it trows?”
Bewildered lines wrinkled their brows. “Trows?”
“He didn’t tell us he was leaving at all, or why,” Jasmine interjected. “There were no goodbyes. It happened suddenly and without notice. Something called him to the other world.”
Love?Bristol wondered. “What about my mother? Did you know her?”
“No,” Adela answered. “We never met her.”
“How old was he when he left?”
“Twenty-five.”
Her father was forty-eight now, but only three years older than her when he left—anda knight—like Tyghan.
“Was he powerful? As powerful as the other knights here?”
“Very much so,” Izzy answered. The others nodded in agreement.
Bristol shook her head, trying to absorb this new information. Then why was he so afraid of trows? She tried to conjure a picture of her father wielding a sword, shouting orders, riding a huge horse like August, throwing a golden spear, but the images wouldn’t come. When she tried, all she saw were other things—her father concentrating on a new painting, swirling dabs of violet and ultramarine together with such concentration she could feel the cool shadows he was about to create; she saw him humming as he sawed wood to build yet another frame for a canvas; slathering gesso over raw fabric until it was smooth and perfect. She saw him playing a tune by the campfire as she and her sisters danced; she saw him collapsing in a heap at the top of the stairs after their mother died. Her father’s world was small—painting, music, his wife and daughters. That was all. Not the world of knights. He had become someone else entirely. These women didn’t know the man she knew. A question wormed through her gut.
She motioned to her back. “If he was so powerful, why would he have done this to me?”
Jasmine shook her head, her pale eyes glistening. The Sisters’ expressions turned grim. Seconds stretched, like they were retracing their steps, wondering what became of this boy who left them without explanation, this boy they had raised and loved. “We don’t have those answers,” Jasmine said finally. “Maybe it’s time we examine your back and give you the answers that we can.”
Bristol sat on a stool, her shirt removed and her hair swept over her shoulder. She clutched a soft blanket to her chest. Jasmine did most of the examining, but she heard the low murmurs as the aunts consulted with one another.
