“Oh. Well, I’ll help.” Ceilidh dunked the piece of naan that had landed next to her elbow into her curry. “Actually. The villagers here know all kinds of fae customs and stories. Why don’t we invite them to participate? The children can gather flowers to scatter.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Ohh, and we can get Eilean to bring mead. Fae love mead!”
It was a brilliant suggestion. Even if Riley had never before broken a curse with an audience.
“You don’t think people would mind?”
“Are you joking?” Ceilidh wiped off her hands and reached for her cell phone. “This curse has been terrorizing our village for three hundred bloody years. Now that someone’s finally come to vanquish it, the least we deserve is a proper festival. I’m going to make a garland for your hair.”
She mumbled names, presumably scrolling through her contacts.
Riley turned to Clark, who was quietly eating his biryani. “What do you think?”
She wasn’t the only person participating in this ritual.
He lowered his fork, looking surprised to be consulted. “I think you’d look very fetching in a garland.”
“No.” Riley rolled her eyes. “I mean about making the ceremony public.”
“Oh. Well, as a former skeptic,” he said, taking a sip of water, “I think it’s a splendid idea. You’ve faced so much doubt and opposition. Why shouldn’t more people come and see what you can do?”
“Seriously?” It had been less than a month since he thought she was the worst kind of scam artist, only a week since he’d tried to disappear behind a menu at the Hare’s Heart, ashamed to be chained to her in public. “You, Clark Edgeware, want to intentionally set up a spectacle?”
He gave her a half smile. “Just this once. I’ll admit I would respond differently if it was the first time we were telling each other how we felt, but we’ve already had our private moment.”
Ducking his head, he looked adorably embarrassed. Riley knew he was thinking of what had come after. Man, she couldn’t wait to continue corrupting him.
“And hey.” He regained his composure. “We could invite journalists from Inverness. If they can get out of bed for every would-be Nessie sighting, they can sure as hell come see a professional curse breaker at work.”
“I don’t know.” Riley traced a painted flower on the edge of her plate. In theory she should jump on the suggestion. But what if she messed up somehow? Did she really want professional documentation?
“Press would be good for business, right?” Clark’s voice was gentle but firm. “Pretty soon you’ll be done with this job and looking for your next. You should get as much credit for overcoming Arden’s curse as you can.”
Right. If this worked, she’d fly home. Back to the hustle. It was easy, while working on an assignment, to get swept up in the problem-solving and the intrigue. But every time an adventure ended Riley had to face down the reality of tax forms and mounting bills.
Her mom called the week after a project wrapped “the grays.” When Riley wasn’t quite blue, but fell into a sort of doldrums. Eating dry cereal out of the box and watching reruns until her bank account ran low enough that she had to put on eyeliner for a shift at wing night. She didn’t really want to go back to that, but she didn’t have a choice.
At her prolonged silence, Clark tilted his head. “Isn’t that what you were after when you first got here—legitimacy, a way to make a name for yourself as a curse breaker?
That had been her goal. But now maybe she wanted more.
“Can’t we just call them after? When we’re sure it’s worked?”
“In that case, how would we prove that you’re the one who broke it?” Ceilidh snapped off a piece of papadum and popped it in her mouth. “Don’t let the conservativeness of this one”—she clapped Clark on the back, making him momentarily choke on some dal—“put you off a little high-risk, high-reward situation.”
Clark looked prim at what was, admittedly, fair criticism—even if it came from someone who had only technically been introduced to him twenty minutes ago.
“Okay.” Riley was helpless to resist the combination of their enthusiasm. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
“Good.” Ceilidh picked up her phone again. “Because Tabitha McIntyre already agreed to make the honey cakes that have been in her family for twelve generations and my cousin Lachlan is going to bring his fiddle. You’re about to see what a celebration looks like in the Highlands, lassie.”
Riley took her friend’s hand across the table and squeezed. “Thank you. For everything. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Pishposh.” Ceilidh squeezed back. “We’d all run out of hope before you came. Now look at us.”
Hope. Riley had almost forgotten what it felt like.
She’d never had this many people behind her. Friends. A partner. A whole community.
Still, something in her gut was restless at the idea of performing, literally putting her feelings for Clark to the test in such a public stage.
Later, as they lay under her quilt at the inn, Clark kissed her.
“Come on, considering everything we’ve already been through, what’s the worst that can happen?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
High on the exquisite cocktail of new love, Clark convinced himself that nothing could go wrong.
It took about a week to get everything set up with the village. The more people who heard about the impromptu festival, the more they wanted to contribute.
There wasn’t much for Clark to do, his part firmly set, so he finished up his survey, worked on his report for the HES. He ended up packaging his results through the lens of the castle’s potential ties to mysticism, an angle that never would have occurred to him previously. Even though his search hadn’t turned up many artifacts, he hoped that by weaving in the etchings they’d identified in the cave, he might convince the HES that Arden warranted additional research and preservation efforts.
Still, the calm he’d wished for, once it finally arrived, made Clark oddly jittery.
Riley was the same, her hands and mouth in constant, frenetic motion. When she wasn’t coordinating fae offerings, they went off-site to distract themselves. Hiking and taking the bus out to local museums. Places they could find quiet together. It helped, eased the tightening in his chest. But even though neither of them brought it up, they were still having sex like they were running out of time.
The morning of the ritual dawned bright and clear. By noon, a local crowd had gathered on the castle lawn, people spreading blankets across the grass. Rich, warm spices filled the crisp air—clove and cinnamon and ginger—along with peat smoke from the bonfires. Eilean passed out mugs of mead to the adults and hot chocolate to the children while a man who must be Ceilidh’s cousin played the fiddle, his bow moving fast enough that the strings blurred.
There were honey cakes and iced buns arranged on trays as offerings for the fae and ribbons wrapped around the ash trees to mark the occasion. Children and adults alike chatted with their friends and neighbors. A buzz of excitement hummed in the air, everyone dazzled by the idea that they’d come to witness a once-in-a-lifetime supernatural event.