They heard the pop, like a kernel of corn in a hot pan.
He just closed his eyes. She pressed a hand against her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Haven’t learned yet, have you, Magician?” she asked when she could speak.
“Apparently not.”
“Then let’s gather up your diamond and go up to the house to make breakfast.”
She planted bulbs beneath the tree near his garden. Crocus, she said. He knew what those were. Maybe.
They didn’t speak much throughout the morning. What was there to say? So he helped her in the garden and did his best to soothe the wild child.
That was something whoever had first shaped the story about the Warrior of Light hadn’t mentioned—or hadn’t understood.
She was going to scare the shit out of the world.
“Where is the heart’s hope?” Glorianna asked.
The words stabbed him in the gut, in the heart, but he kept his voice easy. “Which bit? There were several I saw in the garden.”
“Yours. The plant you wanted to keep when…”
When I revealed my heart.
He stopped and listened to the island. “Over here.”
“Should be in the garden,” she said as she fell into step beside him. They left the walled garden and headed for the house. “It should have anchored in a bed that represents your home landscape.” Her voice trailed away as they stopped in front of an oval of recently turned earth.
He didn’t need to ask if it was a new bit of garden. He could tell by the look on her face she hadn’t created this new bed near the house.
His home landscape. Not in the walled garden. Not in the landscapes. But here, where it was personal. Where it was just between the two of them. Because that was what he saw—the stone, the grass, the heart’s hope. The things that had represented home and were native to Elandar. And behind the stone, forming a protective half circle, was belladonna.
My heart’s hope lies with Belladonna.
That truth had brought him to the Island in the Mist. That truth was now manifested in plants and stone.
“This is your home landscape,” Glorianna said quietly.
“I know,” Michael replied. “I knew from the moment I set foot here.”
“I left a note for Yoshani, telling him I was leaving the garden in your care because you can keep the landscapes balanced until they resonate with someone else. And I told him I was giving you the Island in the Mist and the house here. You’ll take care of it, won’t you?”
“I’ll tend to all of it. That’s a promise.”
He stepped behind her, put his arms around her, drew her back against his chest.
Her breath caught as her hands settled over his.
“When?” he asked.
“With the dawn.”
He rested his cheek against her hair. “Then I want this evening. Invite me to your bed, Glorianna Belladonna. Let me love you tonight with all my heart.”
“I won’t remember you,” she whispered.
The pain cut deep. “I know. I’ll remember for both of us.”
She turned in his arms and rested her hands on his chest as she looked into his eyes. Her lips brushed his once, twice.
“Come to my bed, Magician. Show me the magic of love.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
In the pale gray light, that herald of the dawn, Michael reached for the woman who filled his heart and his dreams—and woke up, alone.
He lit the lamp on the bedside table, plumped up the pillows behind him, then looked at the painting on the wall near the bed.
Sebastian painted that for me, Glorianna had said.
Quite a jolt to see himself in a painting that came from an incubus’s imagination—and to wonder if his dreams had influenced the image Sebastian had chosen for Glorianna’s moonlight lover or if the painting had, somehow, been the source of his own dreams and yearnings. Just as much of a jolt to look past the romantic costumes and realize he and Glorianna had stood exactly that way in the garden yesterday after discovering the new bed that represented his home landscape.
They’d had their night of lovemaking, and he’d taken extra care to please her, to pleasure her. He had wanted to absorb the music of their lovemaking, had needed to fill his heart with the song of her when passion and love climaxed and shone with a fierce Light.
Now…
He pushed back the covers, went into the bathroom, and ran water for a bath. As he waited for the tub to fill, he closed his eyes, turned his head toward his shoulder, and breathed in the scent of her on his skin. He didn’t want to wash off that mingling of scents, but there was no telling what was going to happen in the days ahead or when he’d have another chance at taking a full bath.
So he soaked in the hot water and tried not to think about what was to come.
She’d been hesitant at first, almost shy when she brought him to her bedroom last night. It made him wonder how long it had been since she’d had a lover. Then he’d stopped wondering and just enjoyed the way her mouth had opened for him, the butterfly touch of her tongue against his. The feel of her skin beneath his hands. Her moan of pleasure when he’d suckled her breasts. The way her strong fingers had gripped his shoulders the first time he’d stroked her body over the edge of pleasure. And the way…
Michael blew out a breath and sat up in the cooling water.
“Maybe you don’t need to be remembering quite so much right now,” he muttered as he picked up soap and washcloth.
Keeping his mind on the mechanics of what he was doing, he got washed and dressed, and walked into the kitchen. That’s when his heart got the first of what, he knew, would be many bruises.
His pack was still by the door. He’d removed his clothing and personal gear last evening while she’d been putting together a bit of dinner for the two of them. The pack was too big and heavy for a woman to carry for long, but it had everything she would need to set up a camp—sleeping bag, pots and pans, candles, matches, lantern. Plenty of room for her clothing and female things. A camp, that’s what he’d been thinking. And she hadn’t argued with him, hadn’t disagreed.
But she hadn’t taken it with her, had turned away from even that much comfort. Had turned away from even that much of a reminder of him.
The perk pot still held koffee, so he heated that up instead of making the tea he would have preferred.
He didn’t have an appetite, and lost most of his interest in food when he realized she hadn’t taken any of that with her either, but he ate one of the eggs she had hard-boiled yesterday, then took his cup of koffee and a thick slice of bread and butter out with him. He didn’t look at the walled garden, didn’t even consider going in. Not yet. Instead, he went to the new bed that held his heart’s hope and the belladonna.
“Wild child,” he called softly. “Ephemera, can you hear me?”
It heard him, but he sensed a resistance, almost as if it feared what he might ask of it. Did the world know what she intended to do?
“Listen to me, wild child. Don’t let her Light scatter. Find a place for it where it can be cherished and kept safe.”
Ephemera didn’t understand. Not yet.
Door of Locks. Stories and spirits and keys. He’d chosen a lock, based on dreams of a black-haired woman he’d fallen in love with before he’d truly seen her face or heard her voice—or known her heart. But she, as Guide and spirit, had used that key in his heart to open the door and show him a life he couldn’t have imagined. Because he hadn’t known the possibility of being accepted for what he was had existed.
He ate the bread and drank the koffee. He washed the dishes and the perk pot. He repacked his clothes into the big pack, then took them out and put them in the smaller travel pack. A change of clothes, a canteen, and his whistle were all he needed right now. He slipped one of the one-shot bridges Lee had made for him into his coat pocket. The others, wrapped in scraps of cloth and stored in a drawstring pouch, he tucked into the pack.