I imagine what the scene must have looked like in the aftermath—?debris and smoke, and the ash, which was certainly the remains of the undead ghouls.
Balthazar scoots his chair back from the table. “Come,” he says. “Fetch a cloak. There is something I would like to show you.”
I wonder what it could be. At this point, nothing would surprise me.
We take a hansom cab, and I am lulled by the rhythm of the ride—?the creaking wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The cold air on my face is pleasant and relaxing.
We exit the carriage on the edge of a wood. It strikes me as odd, for the forest looms at what seems to be the dead end of a street and looks quite out of place, almost as if it is a painting, or what the French call trompe l’oeil, a trick of the eye, an expression I recall from my governess.
Two trees stand opposite each other, and the boughs that rise overhead form an arch, providing a sort of entrance. I pause. “Where are you taking me?”
“Not much farther,” he says as we step into the wood.
The forest floor is damp, and the musky scent of mushrooms and loamy soil rises in my nostrils. Cool winter sunlight filters through the bare tree branches. It is quiet here; not even the sound of birds can be heard. We are silent for several minutes, with only the sound of our footsteps. “Do you remember the verse?” Balthazar asks.
“Verse?” I venture, confused.
“The one I recited upon first meeting you. ‘Long ago, in the early days of the world . . .’”
I nod my head and open my mouth before realizing I am doing so. “‘When man still walked among the ancient groves.’”
Unusual that I would remember that. Then again, I have always been good at rhymes and such, and recall to this day the silly stories Mother recited when I was a child.
“‘And every doorstep led to a lush green meadow,’” Balthazar continues.
And I join him: “‘Men and women often visited the Twilight Folk, and with leaves in their hair, danced in dizzying circles.’”
“‘To the trill of the flute and the beat of the drum,’” Balthazar adds. “‘To fall into a deep reverie under a thousand twinkling stars.’”
My head is light on my shoulders. The forest suddenly seems more alive. I almost feel as if the ground beneath my feet is moving. I open my mouth again, and the words fall out before I can even think. “‘Only to awake to find themselves entwined in an embrace, Fae and mortal bound together.’”
Balthazar stops walking. He turns to me, and I swear that his eyes are now golden, flecked with green. The hair on the nape of my neck stirs.
“Why do I remember that?” I ask. “How?”
He takes my gloved hands in his bare ones. “Because you, my child . . . you are of the faerie folk.”
I don’t speak. The slight wind stirs the dead leaves around my feet. I need to steady myself. I turn away from him and reach out to a tree for support.
“I first suspected it when you were scratched by Darby,” he says. “You healed quickly, Jess. Too quickly for someone wholly human. I took the blood from your handkerchief to what my kind call the Shining Court. There it was studied. They needed proof, you see, that you were indeed half fae.”
He stops and grins. “The rules and formalities in Faerie make Britain seem a country backwater.”
My hand is still resting on the tree. The rough bark seems to be wriggling beneath my fingers. Me? Half fae?
“That was why I was away after Darby’s attack,” he continues, “and why I could not join you at your very hour of need. When you set out for Mephisto, the Shining Court called a conclave at the exact same time. I had no choice but to be there. And it was all about you, my child.”
I stare out into the distance, still not looking at Balthazar. A deer pauses and studies us, then leaps away silently. Finally I turn to him. “And what of it?” I ask. “This conclave.”
The light around Balthazar seems to shimmer. “There is no doubt, child. You possess the blood.”
“But how?” I ask. “Mother—”
“Cora was indeed human. But your father. . .”
My heart skips. “What?” I ask. “What of Father?”
Balthazar lets out a weary breath. “Your mother would want you to know, Jess, but she was never really sure.”
“Sure of what?” I ask, eager now. More secrets. They never end. “What would she want me to know?”
“Your father, Alexander Grace, was of the royal blood, what we call the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
The words are lyrical, and they flow from Balthazar’s lips like rippling water.
“His lineage goes back for generations, and now you, too, can claim this bloodline.”
Images of Father float in my mind—?his tall, slender build, the gray eyes so light they looked almost silver, his love of nature, and our walks in the botanical gardens.
“We were young then,” Balthazar says, and his expression softens, “your mother, father, and I. Such days. . . .”
He trails off, and there is a note of melancholy in his voice.
“They fell in love, Alexander and your mother. But my people—?your father’s people—?did not approve.”