“Mother!” Astley’s voice cuts through the air.
Her voice is sweet, sweet innocence. “What, dear?”
“Let her free,” he orders.
She giggles. It is the light, sweet tinkling of bells. It is music to my sad, sad ears. It is a promise of beauty and butterflies and warm Charleston days and-
“Mother! I mean it. As your king I command you!”
She pouts. “Very well then.”
The world suddenly shifts and my vision is clearer somehow. I must be staring or something, because her cold hand reaches up and gently pushes on the bottom of my chin.
“Dear girl,” she simpers. “Your mouth is hanging open.”
Right then, even though I know that she is our best hope for finding Nick, and even though I know she is a pixie queen and Astley’s mom, right when she touches my face I want to haul off and smack her. That’s not very pacifist of me. I used to be a pacifist. I used to be human. I used to be a lot of things.
I clamp my mouth shut and glare at Astley, who looks aghast.
“Did you do some sort of glamour on me, ma’am?” I ask. My voice drips with Southern charm. I make it that way on purpose. I am accusing her of something, which is totally un-nice, but I will be polite about it.
She bats her eyelashes. “Who, me?”
It starts again. Stars seem to zigzag into my eyes through to my brain. She is suddenly so beautiful and so kind. I want to touch her cheek. I want to… I shake my head.
“Mother!” Astley warns and comes to stand in front of me, blocking me from her.
She giggles. Old women should not giggle. “She fought it this time.”
“You gave her no warning. It was abominable of you,” he counters.
I try to gather my wits. My head still seems foggy. I focus and scoot around Astley so I can face his mother. “What did you do to me?”
“It is called a mystique, not a glamour, little princess,” she says. She coos it, really, and then turns to Astley. “Have you taught her anything?”
“He taught me the glamour,” I say, bristling. Seriously, I know she’s his mother and everything, but that doesn’t give her the right to be such a bitch.
“She defends you!” Isla throws up her hands in triumph, making little fists. “How adorable.”
“Adorable?” I repeat. Does she mean “adorable” like a kitten or a baby? Does she mean “adorable” as in harmless?
Astley smiles. He actually smiles and says, “Now you have done it, Mother. You have incurred the wrath of Zara.”
Isla’s petite shoulders move slightly up and down in a tiny shrug. “Oh, she will forgive me. She knows that I only want to ensure that she can deal with the trials that await her if she is to venture on the journey to the gods.”
A clock rings in the background. Another sounds a moment after. The entire building seems to vibrate with the sounds as more and more clocks chime. I scan the walls. There are three hanging in this room alone, plus a grandfather clock that stands in the corner. Isla closes her eyes and seems to sway with the noise. It’s like dancing, but more primal. Astley meets my gaze and rolls his eyes as if his mother is way too embarrassing for words. He also shifts a little bit closer to me.
The chimes stop. Isla opens her eyes, which have gone black. She blinks hard. They are silvery blue again. The change is so quick that I almost think I imagined it.
“Do you like clocks, Zara?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I do,” I answer as she motions for us to sit again. The last thing I want to do is rest on a couch. I feel like pacing, running, screaming, and begging her to tell me where Nick is.
Once again I perch on the end of the velvety couch, trying not to look uncomfortable or show my pain, which isn’t the easiest of tasks at the moment. I flinch as my wound stretches. Astley sits in the middle, crossing his legs at his ankles. He gives me a look of concern, but I don’t respond, because there are more important things than my personal health right now.
“So, ma’am, I’d really like to know how we can get to Valhalla,” I begin.
She raises a hand to stop me. “Are you sure you truly want to retrieve your wolf, Zara? It will complicate your relationship with my son, and wolves are so”-she sniffs her nose disdainfully-“furry.”
I want to scream out, “What relationship?” but I know that would hurt Astley’s feelings. And wolves are messy? What a bigot. Instead of going ballistic on her, I will my fingers to unclench out of super-tight fists and take a deep breath. My lungs burn, angry and still hurt, before I manage to say, “I am sure.”
She harrumphs. Her hands smooth down her hair. They are constantly moving. Once she is done with her hair, she fidgets with her hands in her lap. She seems like she’d rather be pacing or running, doing something frantic.
“Mother…” Astley uncrosses his legs. He seems to have inherited her impatience. I wonder what else he has inherited from her.
“Please desist from that incessant ‘mothering.’ Mother this… Mother that… ” She flops down in a Queen Anne chair. “Must you always remind me that I am your mother?”
The change in Astley is almost imperceptible, but I can still feel it, because I am his queen, I guess. There’s a ripple of sorrow and hurt running through him. I reach out and take his hand in mine. It is strong, but there’s a tremble in it. Anger arches through me. If I didn’t need her help so badly, I’d yank Astley right out of here. But I do need her help.
“Please tell me how to get to Valhalla,” I begin again.
“First let me hear about you.” She arranges her tulle skirt prettily around her legs, smoothing it down. “It isn’t every day Astley comes home with a new queen. Did he tell you what happened to the first one?”
Astley stands up. “Enough.”
It’s like all the clocks on the wall have suddenly stopped, or maybe my heart has just stopped beating. I’m not sure.
“First one?” I manage to whisper.
Astley turns to stare at me. His face is horror stricken. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His eyes look away, to the side, like facing me is too much.
“He killed that one,” she says matter-of-factly.
Something gray and simple settles into my lungs and kidneys, squeezing them into peas. I think it’s dread. I think that’s what it is, this feeling. Her words echo in my head as I stare up at Astley. He killed that one-not just that she died. He killed her?
Astley makes a choking noise. His hands reach up into the air like he wants to hit someone, something. All his emotions seem to swirl in the air around us, volatile, visible like the gold dust trail he leaves. He’s about to snap and I’m not exactly sure why, but I know I’m about to snap too.
“You’ve been lying to me?” I ask in a voice so quiet I can’t believe he hears it, but I can tell by how he’s flinching that he does hear it. “What else haven’t you told me, Astley?”
I’m not sure if I’m trembling from rage or sorrow or what, but I’m trembling.
His mouth opens. No words come out.
“Were you going to ever tell me?” I ask.
He stumbles backward. He looks so wounded. “It is not… It is not… I didn’t… I did… But I… Oh, Zara… I cannot stand you looking at me like that.”
His eyes clench shut and he whirls around, staggering out of the room.
“Astley!” I yell after him, leaping off the couch. A small and terribly strong hand grabs at my wrist.
“Do not go,” Isla says. “Let him be.”
“You’re a monster and a liar,” I say. “I don’t know what Astley did, but he would never kill anyone.”
She raises an eyebrow and keeps hold of my wrist. “You are truly innocent, Miss Zara White. You even smell innocent. No…” Her words trail off as she thinks. “You smell of innocence and power , unused power.”