Stones Unturned Read Free Page A

past. Ceridwen had gone on ahead, anxious to view the Cottingley Beck again, the narrow brook fed by a cascading waterfall that ran between two steep banks. That was where Elsie and Frances had chosen to compose their fantastical photos, and the beauty of the place made it simple to understand why.
    Ceri called his name again, and he quickened his step. There was a tension in her voice, not one that implied danger, but certainly something had upset her. Conan Doyle conjured a quick defensive spell and felt the magic swirl around his fingers as he carefully descended an embankment that led down to the stream.
    He found the princess of Faerie standing beside the stream, not far from the falls, her back to him as she scrutinized her surroundings. Conan Doyle was again struck by the way she was dressed. Her usual couture consisted of silken gowns and wraps in the colors of earth and ocean. Ceridwen was an elemental sorceress and felt most comfortable in the hues of nature.
    The colors she wore today were no exception, but rather than a silk gown, she wore stylish khaki trousers and a sky blue blouse. As breathtakingly beautiful and elegant as she always was, it lifted his heart to see her this way, to have an aspect of his home world accepted by her, even if it was something as inconsequential as fashion. Ceridwen had not confirmed it, but Conan Doyle felt certain this was Eve's doing — she had such a taste for style — and he made a mental note to thank her when they returned to the States.
    "What is it, love?" he asked as he approached.
    Ceridwen cast a worried glance over her shoulder at him. Her thick golden hair was pulled back and knotted. Her alabaster skin glowed in the faint sunlight of the autumn afternoon. In that moment, her beauty would have stolen his breath, if it hadn't been for the sadness in her eyes.
    "Ceri, what is it?" he asked, hurrying to her side. "What's wrong?"
    She'd dropped the basket they had brought with them for a picnic repast. It had fallen on its side, its contents partially spilling out onto the riverbank.
    "Look what they've done, Arthur."
    He placed his hands gently upon her shoulders, attempting to see through her eyes — through the eyes of a being inherently connected to the elements.
    Where there had once been none, there were now homes built on either side of the stream. Beyond them he saw a fence, likely erected because somebody believed that the site was potentially dangerous for public access, even all these years later. Even though the girls' claims were debunked so thoroughly.
    Conan Doyle sighed, wrapping his arms lovingly around her from behind. "It's awful," he said softly. "But we can't expect them to leave it as it was. To them , this is progress."
    Ceridwen stiffened in his arms.
    "Progress?" she spat. "They're killing it."
    She spoke of Cottingley Beck as if it were a person, and to the Fey, that was precisely how it was perceived.
    "Houses practically built atop one another, their pollutants finding their way into the stream . . . and somebody actually put up a fence," she said, stabbing a finger toward the offending structure. "A fence, Arthur."
    He held her tighter, trying to calm her angry spirit. "This wasn't the purpose of coming here," he said. "To make you angry and bring you that much closer to declaring war on humanity."
    She scoffed at his attempt at humor. "And you were appalled by what my race calls your world."
    "The Blight," Conan Doyle said, the word sounding incredibly ugly as it left his lips. But true.
    "When I see something like this," Ceridwen said, turning in his arms to face him, "it makes it so difficult not to wish them ill will."
    Conan Doyle told himself he knew how difficult it must have been for her to leave Faerie in order to be with him in this often cold, ugly, human world. Yet he knew he could never understand the true extent of her sacrifice. It must have been torturous, but here she was, standing by his side. The time that he had spent