Jenkins, Mab’s driver, gardener, and general handyman, entered the hall through a side door. “It’s our Miss Vicky come back to us at last!” he exclaimed, and kissed the top of my head as though I were a small child. Jenkins is six-three and built like a rugby player, so he can do that.
“Hello, Jenkins. It’s great to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Right as rain, Miss Vicky, right as rain. When your aunt’s not running me to exhaustion.” He twinkled at Mab. “Speaking of exhaustion, hand over that bag. I’ll just nip upstairs with it.”
I started to protest, then thought about climbing two flights of stairs, the second flight steep and narrow, up to my room. The idea made me want to sink down and fall asleep right here on the parquet floor. “Thank you, Jenkins.”
He plucked the bag from my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.
“We’ll get you to bed in a few minutes, child, but first come with me to the kitchen. Rose is there.”
I followed her through the dining room, down a narrow hallway, and into the cavernous kitchen at the back of the house. By the big pine table stood Rose, Jenkins’s wife, looking exactly as I remembered her: plump and red-cheeked, strands of fair hair escaping her ponytail, wearing a pink-and-green floral apron smudged with flour. She ran over and folded me in a soft, warm hug that smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. “Oh, welcome home!” she cried. She let up on the hug long enough to tell Mab she’d put the kettle on, then pressed me to her again. I hugged back. I’ve always liked Rose. In the summers I’d spent here, her kindness often cushioned my aunt’s sternness.
We exchanged bits of small talk, and Rose said, “I’ll leave you two be, then.” She patted my hand. “Plenty of time to chat tomorrow.” With that, she bustled out of the kitchen.
“Sit, child,” Mab said. “I’m going to brew you some herbal tea. It will ensure that your sleep is free of dreams.”
Perfect. Take that, Destroyer.
I sat at the table while Mab got out the teapot and busied herself measuring dried leaves from various jars. I ran a hand along the table. It was silky smooth, worn from many years of use. In front of where I sat, along the bottom edge, were notches I’d made the summer I was fifteen and feeling rebellious. Mab was often hard on me—too hard, I’d thought. All my friends were having fun during vacation, and here I was slaving away, trying to please a teacher who was a hundred times tougher than any at school. So that summer I vowed I’d cut a notch for each time Mab said “Good job.” And I had. I’d sawed those notches with a butter knife. I ran my thumb over them now. All three of them.
Mab was a hard teacher, but she’d taught me well. Or so I’d thought, until Difethwr invaded my dreams.
“Tomorrow,” Mab said, “I’ll show you how to brew this tea. But bear in mind it’s only a temporary solution.”
My head drooped, partly because I was so tired—but partly because I was ashamed. I’d lost control of my own dreamscape.
“Don’t fret, child.” The kettle boiled, and Mab poured hot water into the teapot. The rising steam was fragrant with herbs—mossy, with hints of pine and flowers whose names I didn’t know. It smelled relaxing, like a safe, shady forest glade where a person could lie down and rest. Mab sat beside me and patted my hand, onetwothree. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Everything is unfolding as it must. Believe that.”
“But you don’t know what’s happened.” Thinking of T.J. and Gary and Sykes, I shuddered. “Terrible things.”
“I know more than you imagine. But now is not the time to discuss it. Tomorrow we’ll talk. And we’ll begin doing what we must do. Now, it’s time for you to sleep.” She looked at her watch. “The tea needs to steep for a few minutes more. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ve laid out a nightgown for you.”
The only time I ever wore nightgowns was at Maenllyd; I usually slept in sweats and a T-shirt. But the thought of putting on a clean nightgown and finally being able to lie down, snuggle under the covers, and unclench brought tears to my eyes.
“Go on,” Mab said. “I’ll bring up your tea.”
I took the back stairs from the kitchen to the third floor. Climbing those stairs felt like climbing Mount Snowdon, and I was grateful to Jenkins for carrying my bag. Five minutes later I wore a nightgown—white flannel sprinkled with violets, ruffles at the wrists and neck. I’d never choose it for myself. But it was clean and soft and warm and it smelled wonderful, like a gentle wind blowing up from the valley.
By the time Mab tapped on the door, bearing a tray with the teapot and a mug, I was sitting in bed, leaning against a pillow, my feet thawing under the covers. Mab set the tray on the nightstand, then poured tea through a strainer into the mug. It smelled as warm and safe as it had in the kitchen.
“Drink this, then sleep,” she said, handing me the mug. “No one will wake you.” She sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed back my hair with her cool hand. “All’s well for now, child.”
For now. Well, so be it. I was in no shape at the moment to fight whatever waited to do battle with me.
I took the mug in both hands and sipped. The tea tasted even better than it smelled. Its warmth wrapped me in a soft blanket, inside and out. Although it was hot, I drank it greedily. The warmth spread, along with a feeling of utter well-being. I slid down the pillow and curled up on my side. It felt good, so good, to close my eyes, and I was asleep before Mab clicked off the light.
16
I AWOKE TO GOLDEN LIGHT STREAMING THROUGH THE window. I didn’t need to look at the clock to know what time it was: an hour past sunrise at the latest. The early-morning light at Maenllyd has a special quality I’ve never seen anywhere else. It saturates everything it touches with a deep golden hue, intensifying colors and shooting them through with a magical quality that seems to purify the whole world.
My bedroom was cold. I wrapped the comforter around me and got up to look outside. The rag rug felt cozy under my feet, but stepping from it onto the wide floorboards was almost like stepping onto the frost that covered the lawn.
My breath fogged the pane; I wiped it clean with my sleeve. The scene below me, still and somehow holy in this light, was one I’d gazed on countless times. When I came here as Mab’s apprentice, there was nothing to do in this room besides study the stack of books Mab gave me and look out the window. I spent a lot of time at the window. I could have drawn its view from memory. Maenllyd is a big, L-shaped house. From the side wing, where my room was, I could see the main wing. Chimneys, four of them visible from here, bristled along the slate roof. The house was built of stone—Maenllyd means “gray stones” in Welsh—although the morning light washed the house with gold. The front door was at the far end of the main wing, with wide stone steps leading down to the gravel courtyard—the “coaching yard,” Mab called it. From the coaching yard, the driveway ran in a long, sweeping curve to the front gate. Past that, the road wound over the hills toward Rhydgoch in one direction and in the other toward the distant mountains, faint purple shadows against the sky.
Frost traced icy cobwebs in the windowpanes’ corners. My toes felt like icicles, and I turned away to find my clothes. My duffel bag was stashed under the bed, empty. Someone, Mab or Rose, had unpacked it as I slept. I found a pair of socks in the top dresser drawer and pulled them onto my grateful feet. What I really needed to warm me up was a shower—and showers were a particular pleasure at Maenllyd.