King trotted over, wet as a seal. His thick dreads dripped rain. “Cain’s arranging for most of the stuff to be delivered by truck. Take what you can carry, or have to have right now. The rest’ll be along in a couple hours.”

“Where are we going?” Glenna demanded.

“He’s got a place here.” King shrugged. “So that’s where we’re going.”

They had a van, and even then it was a tight squeeze. And, Glenna discovered, another sort of adventure altogether to sweep along through the pouring rain on wet roads, many of which seemed as narrow as a willow stem.

She saw hedgerows ripe with fuchsia, and those hills of wet emerald rolling up and back into the dull gray sky. She saw houses with flowers blooming in dooryards. Not the one of her quick image, but close enough to make her smile.

Something here had belonged to her once. Now maybe it would again.

“I know this place,” Hoyt murmured. “I know this land.”

“See.” Glenna patted his hand. “I knew some of it would be the same for you.”

“No, this place, this land.” He pushed up to grab Cian by the shoulder. “Cian.”

“Mind the driver,” Cian ordered and shook off his brother’s hand before turning between the hedgerows and onto a narrow spit of a land that wound back through a dense forest.

“God,” Hoyt breathed. “Sweet God.”

The house was stone, alone among the trees, and quiet as a tomb. Old and wide, with the jut of a tower and the stone aprons of terraces. In the gloom, it looked deserted and out of its time.

And still there was a garden outside the door, of roses and lilies and the wide plates of dahlia. Foxglove sprang tall and purple among the trees.

“It’s still here.” Hoyt spoke in a voice thick with emotion. “It survived. It still stands.”

Understanding now, Glenna gave his hand another squeeze. “It’s your home.”

“The one I left only days ago. The one I left nearly a thousand years ago. I’ve come home.”

Chapter 7

It wasn’t the same. The furnishings, the colors, the light, even the sound his footsteps made crossing the floor had changed, turning the familiar into the foreign. He recognized a few pieces—some candlestands and a chest. But they were in the wrong places.

Logs had been set in the hearth, but were yet unlit. And there were no dogs curled up on the floor or thumping their tails in greeting.

Hoyt moved through the rooms like a ghost. Perhaps that’s what he was. His life had begun in this house, and so much of it had been woven together under its roof or on its grounds. He had played here and worked here, eaten and slept here.

But that was hundreds of years in the past. So perhaps, in a very true sense, his life had ended here as well.

His initial joy in seeing the house dropped away with a weight of sadness for all that he’d lost.

Then he saw, encased in glass on the wall, one of his mother’s tapestries. He moved to it, touched his fingers to the glass as she came winging back to him. Her face, her voice, her scent were as real as the air around him.

“It was the last she’d finished before... ”

“I died,” Cian finished. “I remember. I came across it in an auction. That, and a few other things over time. I was able to acquire the house oh, about four hundred years ago now, I suppose. Most of the land as well.”

“But you don’t live here any longer.”

“It’s a bit out of the way for me, and not convenient to my work or pleasures. I have a caretaker whom I’ve sent off until I order him back. And I generally come over once a year or so.”

Hoyt dropped his hand, turned. “It’s changed.”

“Change is inevitable. The kitchen’s been modernized. There’s plumbing and electricity. Still it’s drafty for all that. The bedrooms upstairs are furnished, so take your choices. I’m going up to get some sleep.”

He started out, glanced back. “Oh, and you can stop the rain if you’ve a mind to. King, give me a hand will you, hauling some of this business up?”

“Sure. Very cool digs, if you don’t mind a little spooky.” King hauled up a chest the way another man might have picked up a briefcase, and headed up the main stairs.

“Are you all right?” Glenna asked Hoyt.

“I don’t know what I am.” He went to the window, drew back heavy drapes to look out on the rain-drenched forest. “It’s here, this place, the stones set by my ancestors. I’m grateful for that.”

“But they’re not here. The family you left behind. It’s hard what you’re doing. Harder for you than the rest of us.”

“We all share it.”

“I left my loft. You left your life.” She stepped to him, brushed a kiss over his cheek. She had thought to offer to fix a hot meal, but saw that what he needed most just then was solitude.

“I’m going up, grab a room, a shower and a bed.”

He nodded, continued to stare out the window. The rain suited his mood, but it was best to close the spell. Even when he had, it continued to rain, but in a fine, misty drizzle. The fog crawled across the ground, twined around the feet of the rose bushes.

Could they be his mother’s still? Unlikely, but they were roses, after all. That would have pleased her. He wondered if in some way having her sons here again, together, would please her as well.

How could he know? How would he ever know?

He flashed fire into the hearth. It seemed more like home with the fire snapping. He didn’t choose to go up, not yet. Later, he thought, he’d take his case up to the tower. He’d make it his own again. Instead he dug out his cloak, swirled it on and stepped out into the thin summer rain.

He walked toward the stream first where the drenched foxgloves swayed their heavy bells and the wild orange lilies Nola had particularly loved spread like spears of flame. There should be flowers in the house, he thought. He’d have to gather some before dusk. There had always been flowers in the house.

He circled around, drawing in the scent of damp air, wet leaves, roses. His brother kept the place tended; Hoyt couldn’t fault him for that. He saw the stables were still there—not the same, but in the same spot. They were larger than they’d been, with a jut to one side that boasted a wide door.

He found it locked, so opened it with a focused thought. It opened upward to reveal a stone floor and some sort of car. Not like the one in New York, he noted. Not like the cab, or the van they had traveled in from the airport. This was black and lower to the ground. On its hood was a shining silver panther. He ran his hands over it.