Chapter Eleven
The sunlight coming through the window sent a pain searing straight to the back of Ian’s head. He shaded his eyes with his hand, blinking from one sister to the next as they stood by his bed in their dark dresses and white aprons like a pair of magpies.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Our father’s bed,” said the sister on the right as she hurried to draw the shades closed halfway. “You needed a rest. You’ve had a trying few days.”
Ian groaned and sat up, propping his head awkwardly against the pillow when he thought he might topple over if he moved that quickly again. His temples ached and his tongue furred in his mouth from dehydration. But no sooner had he taken a breath to settle himself than a jolt of fear shot through him. His hand fumbled for his throat, checking for a gash. He swallowed against his panic and quickly pulled his fingers away. No blood. Then he remembered. That part wasn’t real. A dream. He shivered as if startled awake from a nightmare. Then shivered again when the threat still loomed in the shadows of lucid thought.
Aware they were staring at him, he diverted their concerned looks by asking, “How did I get here?”
“My sister brought you in a cab.” The one with the smoky eyes—Moira? Mara? Mary—handed him a cup of tea that had gone tepid. “Take a sip. It will make you feel better.”
The other sister, Edwina—yes, the sensible, comely witch who’d put the blue orb in his mouth—gave him a friendly, encouraging smile that set him at ease. “Do you remember being here before?” she asked. “In the shop downstairs? You’ve had a rather bad reaction, I’m afraid.”
Bad reaction? He’d dreamed he’d had his head bashed in and his throat slit. Left to bleed out in an alley while rats sniffed at the prospect of stealing a piece of his flesh before the real scavengers turned up to peck his eyes out. But had it been a dream? His head was bruised, his teeth hurt from clenching them, and he couldn’t stop swallowing to make sure his throat hadn’t been slit open.
“I believe I do recall, aye,” Ian said and set the tea aside without drinking. “Though I admit my mind is still a bit of a muddle.” He reached once again for his throat, this time feeling around the side below his ear where he swore it still stung from the slice of the blade.
Before he could sink into melancholia over his strange and unwanted thoughts, his hand found a strip of tartan resting atop the covers. “What is this?” On the bed beside him, a weight shifted, like a cat settling down on the quilt. Expecting to find the sisters’ family pet, he was met instead with a hairy yet familiar face staring up at him.
“Hob? What in blazes are you doing here?”
The little fellow peered back at him with a mixture of concern and hope. “You remember home again,” the elf said, then rested his slender hand on Ian’s sleeve.
Edwina Blackwood pulled up a wooden chair from the kitchen and sat across from Ian in the bed. “Your friend’s magic seems to have proved vital to getting you on the road to recovery.”
There was a dulcet quality to her voice when she spoke. Not quite hypnotic, and yet melodic in a way that made one want to bend their ear so as not to miss a word she said. Soothing and pleasant.
“Friend? Oh yes. Hob is . . . that is, he sort of came with the house my parents purchased decades ago.”
“I am his guardian for life.”
“Self-appointed,” Ian clarified. “But how did you get here? You were told to wait for me at home.”
Before Hob could answer, the other sister, who’d begun tidying up the room by wiping off his boots and returning his abandoned teacup to the kitchen, interrupted. “This creature claims he returned your memories, Mister . . .” But then she faltered. “I’m sorry, here you are lying in my father’s bed and I still don’t know what to call you.”
For some reason, he hesitated. It was part of his nature to be discreet. Noncommittal. His guarded behavior was how he got away with half the things he did. But the sisters had taken him in, let him rest in their home, offered tea, and so he determined to be as forthright with them as events and his nature allowed. “It’s Cameron. Ian Cameron. And you are Miss Blackwood, like your sister?”
“That’s right,” she answered, leaning behind her seated sister to give her a small and somewhat patronizing squeeze around the shoulders. “Neither of us is married yet.”
He thought it best to ignore her odd gesture, as it clearly made Edwina uncomfortable. “As for your question, I believe I do remember for the most part, yes.”