Caspian hadn’t tried to get in contact. Then again, he’d left with no shoes and no wallet. Could he even get in contact from Annwyn? Was he even still alive? She bit her lip and shoved the phone back in her bag.
Her apartment creaked around her as if trying to get her attention, but it was better being here than at the empty Callaway House. There it was much easier to miss Caspian no matter where she sat as he’d been in every room. He’d never been to her place… which hopefully meant the fairies wouldn’t know of it either. She was afraid for Caspian and for herself after seeing the Hunter.
Something went bump and she froze. It had sounded like the Callaway ghost, which she knew now was a Grey. She held her breath and listened. Silence. Whatever it was sounded like it had come from the spare room.
Oh God. The box of Gran’s personal things. What had she brought home with her? She wanted to run, but she forced herself to take calm, measured steps. There was only one thing of value in there. The compact that Gran had been given by the singer.
In the spare room she opened up the box into which she’d packed Gran’s personal things. She carefully pulled out some personal items and the few photos that had been in the bedroom. A half-read novel with a receipt for wine used as the bookmark. She smiled even as her vision blurred with tears, but she kept digging through the box. She knew it was in here. Her fingers touched tissue paper and she pulled it out and unwrapped the mirror.
A compact the size of her palm. The silver case was embellished with leaves. She flicked the catch and the compact opened. Inside the mirror was perfect. No chips or signs of rust. She could see why Gran had kept the mirror, but something like this should be used, not hidden away.
Lydia sniffed and wiped a tear from beneath her eye before her mascara smudged. What would Caspian say about the mirror and the man who’d given it to Gran? What would he see when he touched it? More than just the silver case and mirror. He’d see the history, he’d be able to tell her about the singer and Gran. Did she really want to know?
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as if she was being watched. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the box home, but the idea of fairies rummaging through Gran’s things was too much. She looked again at the mirror. It looked like nothing special, just a decorative compact. But what did a fairy-made mirror look like? She hadn’t asked, hadn’t thought to ask. All the mirrors in her yard had been big—big enough to use as a portal back to Annwyn. This was tiny.
She frowned and rewrapped it. Her grandmother had kept it safe for years, so there was no way she was going to let the Greys get hold of this. It might be nothing. It probably was nothing. It was too small to be anything. When she saw Caspian next she’d show him the mirror. If she saw him again, but she quickly squashed the thought. He’d be back. He’d promised. For a moment she sat on the floor surrounded by Gran’s personal items. She tried to imagine boxing up everything in Callaway House and stuffing it into her small house, but she knew it would never fit. If she had to sell Callaway House she was going to have to get rid of some things.
Like Gran, though, she didn’t know where to start.
That’s when she started laughing. They were more alike than she’d ever realized. If Gran had found a way to keep Callaway House, she could too. Caspian was right—she needed to get quotes for the repairs instead of hoping they’d just go away. Something in her bedroom creaked, as if someone was poking around. She shivered. An evening out with her friends suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She could listen to their news, they’d have a drink for Gran, but she knew none of them would show up for the memorial. That was okay—but she also knew that if Caspian had been here he would’ve and he wouldn’t have cared what people said. Gran would’ve really gotten a kick out of Caspian and his ability as well as his screwed up family.
Three days until he came home.
Three days had never seemed so long.
Lydia swallowed and forced herself to take a breath as she entered the church on day two of Caspian’s time away.
She lifted her chin, ready to face the curious stares of the guests at Gran’s memorial service. She nodded to a few older ladies. Had they once partied or lived at Callaway House, or had they met Gran after its closure? Gran’s doctor was there. An old man himself, he looked slumped and sad, confirming Lydia’s suspicion that there had been more going on.
The priest opened the memorial service. But Lydia tuned out the words. She didn’t want to remember Gran as dead and buried. She wanted to remember her alive. This was just a formality and a chance for others to say good-bye.
And for others to stick their noses in.
Still, Gran would have been happy with the turnout.
Lydia stood near the photos of Gran to deliver the eulogy. She’d chosen pictures that represented Gran’s life. Her wedding photo, one where she was dressed to the nines and sitting in the garden of Callaway House, another of her much older but with a young Lydia on her lap. She wanted to make the point to everyone listening that Gran was more than just the disgraced Callaway name. She was loved, and loved in return.
As she spoke she was aware of a camera flashing and she knew her words were being recorded, but she didn’t care. Maybe the article they wrote would focus less on the past and more on the person. She let her gaze drop to her notes, and paused for a moment before inviting others to come and talk about Nanette Callaway.
She expected no takers. But to her surprise the doctor got up and said a few words about his favorite patient. A sense of humor that he’d miss.
Some of the older women also took a turn. Not one of them mentioned the house. They talked about Gran’s kind heart, always willing to help another, her donations to charity and her love of book club—especially the opportunity to debate the story over a glass of wine.
The priest kept the memorial moving along. After a final prayer for Gran’s soul everyone drifted outside. Lydia glanced down the road at the house. Her house.
What the hell was she going to do with a house that size?
Fix it. Or at least find out if it could be fixed.
Gran had given her the house and she was going to keep it. Whatever it took.
A tingle formed between her shoulder blades and traced down her spine as if she was being watched, but when she glanced behind her she saw no one. She hated cemeteries.
As a child she remembered looking out the front window and watching as dusk settled on the church. While most of the time it was just a building, occasionally she’d get a weird feeling like there was something or someone over there. She suppressed a shiver.
A man stepped in front of her and held out a little voice recorder. “Can I get a few words from you about Nanette Callaway?”
Lydia had no doubt he’d already recorded the whole service and was looking for something more. “She will be greatly missed.” Lydia forced a narrow smile. They weren’t the words he was after.
“Is the house now yours?”
Lydia nodded.
“What do you intend to do with it? Sell it? I hear there are plans for a bed and breakfast.”
“The will is on probate. I can’t comment.” Where was he finding this stuff?
The man nodded, but there was a glint in his eye. “Is it true Madam Callaway kept diaries?”
Her breathing stopped like she’d been kicked in the stomach. How did he know about them? “I don’t know, is it?”
He stared at her, and she stared back, daring him to say something else.