Ballad: A Gathering of Faerie (Page 61)

“He was stolen,” Normandy said, his voice very even. “That was before I knew about Them. I knew I couldn’t let that happen to anyone else. So we created the school to find at-risk students and keep them under a watchful eye.”

“And the thorn king?” I asked. “Obviously his trekking about behind the school isn’t a coincidence, given the name of the school.”

“He’s a canary,” Normandy said, with a sort of flat-lipped smile as if the statement was supposed to be funny, or had been funny once. “A supernatural canary.”

I looked at him.

He explained, “Miners used to keep a canary down in the mines, to let them know when the oxygen was getting low. If the canary died, the miners knew to get out of the mine shaft. Cernunnos is our canary. If one of our students can see or hear him, we know they’re particularly susceptible to supernatural interference.”

Sullivan’s eyes bored holes in the side of my head.

“Well, obviously your system worked out great,” I said.

Normandy ignored the sarcasm. “Yeah, actually, it did. We haven’t actually had any notable incidents with the Good Neighbors”—he said this last bit with a glance at Sullivan, making me wonder if there was a story there, or if he just knew about Sullivan’s history with Eleanor—“for years. In fact, we’ve just been a premier music school for several years. Until this year—when we’ve had more of Them show up on campus than in all of the other years combined. Patrick tells me it’s because we have a cloverhand here, though I didn’t think they existed anymore. And my instinct is telling me that Deirdre is that cloverhand. Now, I’ve told you everything about the school, so maybe you can tell me this: am I right?”

There wasn’t any reason to lie. “Yes. I think it started this summer for her.”

Sullivan and Normandy exchanged looks. “So she’s been drawing every single one of Them to the campus,” Normandy said.

“What does that mean tonight’s going to look like? Are They satisfied now that They have Deirdre? Or is she part of something bigger?” Sullivan asked.

“Bigger,” I said immediately. I didn’t say anything about Nuala; I didn’t think Normandy knew about her.

Sullivan said, “I think the other staff need to be notified. There’s ways to get her back, but we have to be prepared.”

“They’ll be resistant. It’s been years since we’ve had to do anything like this.” Normandy used the table to push himself to his feet. “Patrick, come with me.”

Sullivan hesitated, letting Normandy start off without him. After Normandy was out of earshot, he turned to me. “Keep Nuala out of the way and try not to do anything stupid. Just stay inside. In Brigid, maybe. If I don’t see you beforehand, meet me by the fountain when the bonfires are starting.”

I’m left sitting at the table, goose bumps crawling up and down my arms. “What about Dee?” I asked.

“We’re handling it. Worry about Nuala.”

He didn’t have to mention that last part. I already had it covered.

Nuala

Sleep and death are just the same

From both I can return

I emerge from sleep just by waking

And from death, I return with words.

—from Golden Tongue: The Poems of Steven Slaughter

James pushed open the red door to Brigid Hall and stepped aside so I could walk in first.

“Nope,” I said. “Ladies first.”

He gave me a withering look, which was a welcome change from his previously strained expression. “Charming.” But he went in before me anyway. The folding chairs were set up exactly the same as last time we’d been in here, and James walked down the aisle between them, his arms held out wide.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his face flatteringly lit by the half-light through the frosted glass windows. He kept walking down the aisle; I imagined a cloak billowing out behind him. “I’m Ian Everett Johan Campbell, the third and the last.”

“Spotlight following you up the aisle,” I interrupted, falling into step behind him.

“I hope I can hold your attention,” James continued. He pretended to pause and kiss someone’s hand sitting along the aisle. “I must tell you that what you see tonight is completely real.”

“Run up the stairs,” I said. “Music starts once you hit the bottom stair.”

James leapt up the stairs onto the stage, the recessed lighting onstage turning his hair redder than it really was. He spoke as he walked to his mark. “It might not be amazing, it might not be shocking, it might not be scandalizing, but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt: it is real. For that—” He paused.

“Music stops,” I said.

James closed his eyes. “I am deeply sorry.”

I joined him on the stage. “When you do the scene where they call you out, when they say what you really are, someone will have to cue the music to go with the sentence. Don’t forget that part.”

There was a pause then—just a tiny second too long—before James said, “You’ll cue it.” The pause told me he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if tonight was going to work. I didn’t either.

The fact was, I didn’t know if I was built for happy endings.

“Right,” I said, after a space big enough to drop a semi-truck into. “Yeah, of course.” I was tired again. It was a heavy sort of tired, like if I went to sleep this time, I wouldn’t wake up. James was looking out the window at the late afternoon sun, his eyes narrowed and far away. I knew he was feeling the press of Halloween as strongly as I was. “Would you play my song?” I asked.

“Will you heckle me if I do it wrong?” But he sat down at the piano bench without waiting for my answer. Not like a proper pianist, but with his shoulders slouched over and his wrists resting on the keys of the piano. “I’m afraid I just can’t do it without you here.”

“Liar,” I said. But I joined him, ducking under his arms like I had that first day at the piano. His arms made a circle around me as I sat on the edge of the bench, pressing my body into the same shape as his. Like before, my arms matched the line of his arms as my hands rested on his hands. And my spine curved into the same curve of his hunched-over chest. But this time, there weren’t any goose bumps on his skin. And this time, he pressed the side of his face into my hair and inhaled sharply, a gesture that so agonizingly spelled desire that I didn’t have to read his mind.