He threw up his palms as if to stop me, but I was so not done.
“Then,” I continued, my words dripping venom, “I get dragged to Scotland and told, Oh, by the way, your mom’s not dead. She’s just trapped in freaking time!”
“Hope—”
“And, to add icing to my crap cake, just when the world was falling out from under me—again—I meet a guy. A regular guy, who I thought might like me. I started to wonder if maybe I wasn’t such a loser after all.”
Bran got to his feet with an easy grace. Something about the way he moved was oddly familiar. Then it struck me. “It was you in that alley yesterday,” I gasped. “You stopped Eustace and that other guy from chasing me and Rachel.”
His eyes dropped to his boots.
“Why?” I begged. I was choking on a clutter of emotions I couldn’t begin to unravel. “Was it all a lie, then? Everything? The accident at the river, too?”
“Is that what you think?”
“What am I supposed to think, Bran?” I spat. “Why don’t you tell me, hmm?”
His response was acrid, sour. “I have never let myself get close to anyone, because of the bloody lie I live every day. Okay, so my mother was wrong and you didn’t know. And yes, I was spying on you, but I was only supposed to take your picture and report back. The fall was real.”
I spun away, disgusted.
He crossed in three quick strides and grabbed my arm, twisting me to face him. His voice rasped with emotion. “But you helped me. You were so kind. So concerned. And so damn beautiful. I—I’d forgotten that. Years—years—I’ve waited to talk to you. Then finally . . .”
Realizing what he’d said, his eyes widened. He dropped my arm as though it was a rattler and backed away.
“Years?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about, Bran?”
The river. That moment of strange familiarity.
He refused to meet my eyes as he pulled out the worn-looking silver medallion I remembered and began worrying it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nothing,” he muttered. After a long moment, he brought it to his lips, then tucked it back into his shirt.
“There’s only one thing I can do for you,” he said coolly. “We only just learned where you were staying. If we can get there and grab your friend before my mother arrives, I can tell the guards the orders have changed. I’ll escort both of you to an inn I know on the edge of the city. Tomorrow, gather food and water, then go back to wherever you came through until the Dim comes back for you. It’s the best I can offer.”
I stared at him. The best he could offer? Was I supposed to fall to my knees in gratitude?
“And the others?” I asked in a voice rimmed with frost.
“There’s nothing I can do for your mother or MacPherson.” Bran snatched the torch and moved down the steps without looking to see if I’d follow. “You have to let them go.”
Chapter 30
WE DIDN’T SPEAK ON THE LONG RIDE BACK TO THE CITY. Bran set such a brisk pace, I was hard-pressed to keep up on the mount that was waiting for me outside the palace. As we galloped across slick, muddy cobblestones, my veil flew off. My hair came unmoored and streamed behind me. Snowflakes caked in my eyelashes, refreezing on my cheeks as they melted.
Sure, there was a cowardly instant before we reentered the city walls, where I thought of trying to make a run for it. Just take off across the fields. Find the glade. Hide out in the forest until the Dim came for me. The impulse quickly faded when I thought of what they might do to Phoebe. They had my friend, and I would never leave her—leave any of them—behind.
A guard with a massive tangled beard met us at the courtyard gate of Mabray House. Bran dismounted and told him to keep me there, as he’d only be a moment. I huddled in the saddle and tried to rub the ache from my thighs. Beard face leered up at me, grimy teeth showing through the mass of hair. I stopped, feeling a smug satisfaction when I saw blood caked near his split lip.
“Aww,” I said, the rage building inside making me reckless, “did my friend do that?” I flicked a finger at his mouth. “You remember her. Little bitty thing. Barely bigger than the fleas that probably live in that mangy beard?”
The man’s grip tightened on my horse’s bridle. He jerked her head down savagely to get to me.
“Rackley!” Bran barked from the doorway, leading a bound and gagged Phoebe. “Leave her be.”
Her hands were tied so tight before her, I could see them reddening even in the bouncing torchlight. Her auburn wig hung slightly askew. Bran, following my stricken gaze, discreetly tugged it back into place.
Phoebe swore through the cloth gag stuffed into her mouth and tried to lunge at him. Bran handed her off to a gangly youth with a lantern jaw, who picked Phoebe up—keeping well out of foot range—and swung her into the saddle.