merest formality, my dear girl.” He took her hand again, but this time he only bowed elegantly over it. “You will not regret this, Leah. Go home now, and enjoy the blessings of faery magic.” He straightened and gestured across the glade at a bird perched on a branch. “Very soon you shall take flight like that turtle dove.”
Her gaze followed the fluttering wings as the dove rose into the air. She watched until it soared out of sight among the trees, then turned back to Ranulph of the Wood.
He was gone, leaving not so much as a single footprint or broken blade of grass.
She drew a dazed breath and sank onto the fallen tree trunk. The cool wind slid over her heated face. Had the faery vanished, or never existed?
She looked at her left hand, but there was no trace of a cut. Pressing her cheek against the silky wood of her harp, she bent her head and closed her eyes. The encounter must have been some sort of dream. She had dozed, and dreamed of a magical offer that would bring her happiness. She’d had many such fanciful daydreams as a child, though never one so realistic.
Face taut, she stood and slung her harp over her shoulder. Now she was grown and knew that happiness did not come with the swish of a magic wand—or the slash of a magical dagger. The reality was that eventually she would inherit a comfortable independence and would never want for anything. She was a fortunate woman, for she did not need a husband or children or passionate, romantic love.
It had only been a dream.
Leah entered the manor house quietly and headed for the stairs. Her dream of Faerie had delayed her, and she barely had time to change before dinner.
Then her mother called, “Leah, dear, come in here, please.”
“Yes, Mother.” Leah smoothed a hand over her wind-whipped hair, then slung the harp as far behind her as possible. Her parents approved of her skill on the pianoforte, but they had never understood her strange passion for a common, old-fashioned harp.
The instrument had been the gift of the old Irishman who had been her father’s forester until his death the previous winter. McLennan had taught her to play. He’d also filled her ears with tales of the Fair Folk, of how they loved music and how he himself had once spent a midsummer’s night listening to the wild melodies of faery harpers. Then he’d nod and say that Leah had the same gift.
The memory relaxed her. It was McLennan’s tales that had produced that strange—dream? Hallucination? A faery in the woods! She must have been mad.
Leah entered the morning room, where her mother reclined on a brocade sofa. “Do you need something, Mother? Your shawl, perhaps?”
Lady Marlowe, gray-haired and chronically vague, but still retaining some of the frail prettiness of her youth, looked up from the letter in her hands. “ ’Tis the most extraordinary thing. This has just come from your father’s cousin, Lady Wheaton. She’s one of your godparents, you know.”
Leah nodded. Her ladyship had sent her goddaughter an elaborate silver christening cup twenty-one years before. That was the extent of their relationship.
“Andrea wishes for you to join her in London for the Little Season. She’s a widow, you know, and she’s decided that it would be amusing to present a girl to society.”
Leah gasped. “London—me? I . . . I would have no idea how to get on.”
“Nonsense,” her mother said reprovingly. “You’re well bred and a very handsome girl. You shall be a great success. Your father and I have often discussed taking you to London, but . . .” Her shrug delicately explained that such a project had been beyond her strength.
Leah scarcely noticed, for she was stunned by the remark that she was a very handsome girl. Apart from an occasional sigh after studying her daughter’s unprepossessing countenance, or perhaps a remark that it was a pity Leah resembled her father’s side of the family, Lady Marlowe had always been silent on the subject of
Her gaze followed the fluttering wings as the dove rose into the air. She watched until it soared out of sight among the trees, then turned back to Ranulph of the Wood.
He was gone, leaving not so much as a single footprint or broken blade of grass.
She drew a dazed breath and sank onto the fallen tree trunk. The cool wind slid over her heated face. Had the faery vanished, or never existed?
She looked at her left hand, but there was no trace of a cut. Pressing her cheek against the silky wood of her harp, she bent her head and closed her eyes. The encounter must have been some sort of dream. She had dozed, and dreamed of a magical offer that would bring her happiness. She’d had many such fanciful daydreams as a child, though never one so realistic.
Face taut, she stood and slung her harp over her shoulder. Now she was grown and knew that happiness did not come with the swish of a magic wand—or the slash of a magical dagger. The reality was that eventually she would inherit a comfortable independence and would never want for anything. She was a fortunate woman, for she did not need a husband or children or passionate, romantic love.
It had only been a dream.
Leah entered the manor house quietly and headed for the stairs. Her dream of Faerie had delayed her, and she barely had time to change before dinner.
Then her mother called, “Leah, dear, come in here, please.”
“Yes, Mother.” Leah smoothed a hand over her wind-whipped hair, then slung the harp as far behind her as possible. Her parents approved of her skill on the pianoforte, but they had never understood her strange passion for a common, old-fashioned harp.
The instrument had been the gift of the old Irishman who had been her father’s forester until his death the previous winter. McLennan had taught her to play. He’d also filled her ears with tales of the Fair Folk, of how they loved music and how he himself had once spent a midsummer’s night listening to the wild melodies of faery harpers. Then he’d nod and say that Leah had the same gift.
The memory relaxed her. It was McLennan’s tales that had produced that strange—dream? Hallucination? A faery in the woods! She must have been mad.
Leah entered the morning room, where her mother reclined on a brocade sofa. “Do you need something, Mother? Your shawl, perhaps?”
Lady Marlowe, gray-haired and chronically vague, but still retaining some of the frail prettiness of her youth, looked up from the letter in her hands. “ ’Tis the most extraordinary thing. This has just come from your father’s cousin, Lady Wheaton. She’s one of your godparents, you know.”
Leah nodded. Her ladyship had sent her goddaughter an elaborate silver christening cup twenty-one years before. That was the extent of their relationship.
“Andrea wishes for you to join her in London for the Little Season. She’s a widow, you know, and she’s decided that it would be amusing to present a girl to society.”
Leah gasped. “London—me? I . . . I would have no idea how to get on.”
“Nonsense,” her mother said reprovingly. “You’re well bred and a very handsome girl. You shall be a great success. Your father and I have often discussed taking you to London, but . . .” Her shrug delicately explained that such a project had been beyond her strength.
Leah scarcely noticed, for she was stunned by the remark that she was a very handsome girl. Apart from an occasional sigh after studying her daughter’s unprepossessing countenance, or perhaps a remark that it was a pity Leah resembled her father’s side of the family, Lady Marlowe had always been silent on the subject of
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