Bran stretched out his long legs and leaned back against a thick oak that grew just behind us.
“Sources are supposed to be the most powerful and ancient entrances to the Dim,” he explained. “That line you drew indicates an original portal, where thousands instead of hundreds of ley lines intersect. Supposedly Stonehenge is one, though there’s no way to access it, since it would be deep underground. Also, Avebury, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Bermuda Triangle, Easter Island, and the ancient ground drawings in Lima. They’re all rumored to contain a Source. They’re believed to have been sealed or otherwise hidden long ago.”
Bran may’ve been speaking by rote, but my heart had started galloping at his words.
He looked over at me. As I gestured for him to go on, ideas began racing through my mind.
“Theoretically, a real Source would not require machinery, and a powerful-enough lodestone would allow one to travel wherever and whenever they wished.” He shrugged. “According to my mother, that is. It’s an obscure legend, but she never stops searching for an accessible Source.”
I let my eyelids close as I remembered leaning against the damp stone wall of the tunnel beneath Westminster and feeling a design etched beneath my palm. In my panic, it had slipped away. But now I jumped to my feet, pacing as another memory popped to the surface. I’d been swaying, upside down, a hundred feet above the abbey floor. I’d just caught a glimpse. Near the altar, the curve of a design embedded in black and white marble.
“Come on.” I tugged him to his feet. “We have to go. Now.”
“Where?”
I looked up at him, willing him to trust me. “Westminster Abbey.”
Bran’s mouth twisted. “Going to pray, are we? God knows it couldn’t hurt.”
“Well, that’s true,” I quipped, “But it’s not why.”
His sigh rose white and steamy in the winter air. “You realize it’s a good bet Becket might be about?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
With a groan, he slid his blade into his belt. “All right, but may I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“We might want to change out of these gore-soaked rags before we enter the holiest place in London. I can’t speak for myself, but you”—he grimaced, tutting as he gestured at my skirts, which were tacky and stiff with frozen blood—“are a horror.”
Chapter 44
AS WE SUSPECTED, OUR HORSES WERE LONG GONE, likely thanks to Celia. Fortunately, the roads were still passable, with plenty of inbound traffic, even at that hour of the morning. With a few charming words and a jingle of coin, Bran procured us a ride. Also, the young couple was absurdly grateful to trade their own, musty homespun for our fine silks and wools, no matter the condition.
When the rickety cart approached Westminster, Bran and I tucked ourselves down between sacks of weevily flour, in case someone was looking for us. As I breathed in the bland, homey scent, an image popped into my mind. Moira—steady, capable Moira—hands dusted in white as she kneaded bread in the manor kitchen. She’d know exactly what to do to save my mom, and the baby inside her.
I swallowed hard against the new ache. Ridiculous of course, to feel homesick for a place I’d known for such a short time. And yet the people there had believed in me. Trusted me. Taken me in and made me one of their own.
Spooned behind me, beneath the layer of rough weave, Bran must’ve heard my quiet sigh. His arms tightened around me. His breath curled past my neck. As he hugged me to him, I luxuriated in his extraordinary heat. I was beyond tired, and it felt so good to lie there, despite the fine grains that filtered down, somehow lodging into every crease and crevice. A thought occurred to me as I fidgeted inside the rough homespun.
“If I get fleas from these clothes,” I whispered as I twitched the plain brown skirt, “I’m going to kill you.”
I felt Bran’s deep chuckle vibrate through me. “Too cold for fleas.”
Just as I’d relaxed, his lips brushed my ear. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about the lice.”
As the wagon rumbled and jolted down the pitted streets, I elbowed him—hard—and started scratching.
A freezing mist encased us as we hurried toward the high stone walls of Westminster Abbey. Every muscle in my body felt used up, exhausted. Hopping over a stream of something vile and steaming, I noticed Bran favoring his left side.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
He tugged at me, but I noticed the wince and I planted my feet.
“Raise your shirt.”
“Hmm. While I’m terribly flattered,” he said, eyebrows raised, “this may not be the time—”