Ivy's Choice (The Fey Quartet Book 3) (2 page)

Hazel cast her a grim look. “You think every man in the vale is trustworthy?”

“No. But I don’t think there’s a man in Dapple Vale foolish enough to go up against Bess and Bartlemay.”

Both hounds were on their feet, ears pricked and alert.

“Maybe,” Hazel said. “Maybe not.” She ducked into the cottage and emerged with a thick wooden stave in her hand.

“Something terrible has happened to him.” Larkspur pressed her hands to her temples as if trying to push the man’s thoughts out. “He’s mad with panic.”

“Is he dangerous?” Hazel demanded.

Ivy heard the crackle of someone blundering through the undergrowth. Bess took a stiff-legged step forward, her hackles up, a low growl rumbling in her chest.

“He’s terrified.” Larkspur’s eyes were squeezed shut, her face set in a grimace.

“Then he needs our help,” Ivy said. “Bess, Bartlemay—down!”

The hounds obeyed her, but their hackles didn’t lower, nor did their growling abate.

The snap and crack of breaking twigs came closer. Ivy saw a dark shape lurch between the tree trunks. She gripped her crutch tightly.
There’s nothing to be afraid of,
she told herself firmly.
Whoever this man is, he needs our help.

But the creature that burst into the clearing wasn’t a man. It was a deer.

Ivy stared at the animal. It was a young roebuck, chest heaving, eyes showing their whites, staggering, clearly close to collapse.

Hazel lowered her stave. “That is
not
a man.”

“It is!” Larkspur was weeping, clutching her head. “It’s a man inside.
It’s a man
.”

“BESS, BARTLEMAY, STAY,”
Ivy said. She limped towards the roebuck, leaning on her crutch, and lowered her voice: “It’s all right. We’ll help you.”

The young buck shied back, stumbling to one knee.

Ivy paused. “Don’t run,” she said, quietly. “We mean you no harm.”

The roebuck staggered up to all four legs again. She saw how labored his breathing was, how his muscles trembled.

“You can trust us.” Ivy took a small step forward. “We want to help you.” Another small step. “I promise we’ll do you no harm.”

This time, the buck didn’t shy from her. He stood motionless, panting, watching her slow approach with wary eyes.

When she was close enough to touch him, Ivy halted. She gripped the crutch tightly with her right hand, and reached out with her left.

The buck flinched at her touch, but didn’t bolt. His coat was wet, filthy. A rank animal scent came from him: sweat and fear.

“It’s all right. You’re safe with us.”

His ears twitched. Did he understand her words?

Ivy felt his body heat, the tension in his muscles, his trembling exhaustion. She stroked his shoulder soothingly. There was a man inside this skin. A terrified, panic-stricken man. “We’ll go to the Lord Warder,” she told him softly. “He knows more about Faerie magic than anyone. If it’s possible to restore you to yourself, he’ll know.”

Perhaps the buck did understand her. He leaned against her hip. A sound came from his throat. A groan? A sob? Ivy had no word for the sound, but she heard the anguish in it. She bent and hugged him gently. “It will be all right,” she whispered into his damp, mud-flecked ear. “I promise.”

“He needs to go,” Hazel said behind her, her voice urgent. “
Now
. Larkspur can’t cope with this.”

Ivy straightened and glanced back at the cottage. Larkspur sat hunched on the doorstep, her head buried in her arms. Her body was taut with distress—elbows, wrists, white-knuckled fingers.

“Look after her,” Ivy said. “I’ll take him home.”

IVY WAS ALMOST
at the forest edge before Hazel caught up with her. “Larkspur’s asleep and the dogs are on guard.” Hazel was red-cheeked and panting. She caught her breath and turned her attention to the buck. “Faerie magic, hmm? I wonder what he did to deserve this?”

“Whoever he is, whatever he’s done, he’s been punished enough.”

“Or maybe not. He could be dangerous, Ivy.”

“Not now, he isn’t. He’s suffering. And he needs help.”

Hazel ducked beneath a branch and ceded this with a shrug.

“Can you find his home? Find his family?”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that.” Hazel halted. Her eyes narrowed and became slightly unfocused.

Ivy leaned on the crutch, watching her sister’s face.

Hazel blinked. Her brow creased. “Odd. There’s just . . . nothing. My gift can’t find his home or even where he was born. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.”

“The man he was no longer exists.”

Hazel grimaced agreement. She started walking again. “I’ll take him to Dappleward. Will you be all right alone tonight?”

“I won’t be alone,” Ivy said, hobbling alongside her sister. “He’ll stay with me.”

Hazel frowned. “But he’s a
man
.”

“He won’t make it to Dapple Meadow. The Lord Warder will have to come to him.”

They both looked at the buck. He walked with his head hanging, stumbling over the tree roots, each step a small lurch.

Hazel blew out a breath. “I don’t like it,” she muttered.

They came to the edge of Glade Forest. A sunlit meadow lay before them. On its far side was a small thatched cottage with a henhouse, a beehive, and a privy. “Home,” Ivy said aloud, and patted the roebuck’s shoulder.

The animal halted, lifted his head, and stood swaying on unsteady legs.

“We could take him to the village,” Hazel said. “Let someone there look after him.”

“We’d have to tell them about Larkspur, else they wouldn’t believe us.”

Hazel pressed her lips together. She didn’t say what they were both thinking:
We have sworn oaths to Dappleward not to reveal our Faerie wishes to anyone
. Conflicting emotions wrestled on her face. “If only Mother and Ren were here!” she burst out.

“They’re not, so we do the best we can,” Ivy said. “It’s not as terrible as it seems. Larkspur will be rid of her gift shortly, and the Lord Warder will know how to help this poor creature.”

Hazel glanced at her crutch, but didn’t say the words:
And you will still be lame
.

Ivy pretended she hadn’t seen the glance. “And think, you’ll see Tam tomorrow.”

Happiness usually lit Hazel’s face when the Lord Warder’s youngest son was mentioned. This time, it didn’t; she frowned at the roebuck.

Ivy set off across the meadow. “He stinks,” Hazel said, when they neared the little brook. “If he’s coming inside, he needs a wash.”

“He’s coming inside.”

“Well, then . . .” Hazel turned to the buck, hands on hips. “Into the water with you.”

The buck glanced at the brook, flicked his ears, and obeyed, picking his way cautiously over the stones.
So, he does understand what we say to him.

Hazel fetched a bucket and scrubbing brush and washed the roebuck ruthlessly. The animal didn’t resist, just stood motionless, his head down, exhausted. Each of his ribs was visible. Had he eaten since his transformation into an animal?

Ivy limped into the cottage. The hearth fire was almost dead. She fed twigs into the embers until they flamed again. “Burn well for us,” she said, laying dry wood on the fire. “We need you.”

She went to the door and watched Hazel and the roebuck emerge from the brook. Hazel was almost as wet as the deer. She’d done a good job; the buck’s coat was clean and sleek.

Hazel upended the bucket, laid the scrubbing brush on top, and entered the cottage, her tread brisk. “I’ll get changed,” she said over her shoulder, vanishing into the bedchamber, “then be off.”

The buck followed cautiously, placing his hooves with care, flicking wary glances around. Ivy tried to see the room as he did: small and shadowy, furnished with a trestle table and stools, with two small unglazed windows tucked under the eaves.

Did it feel safe to him, or did it feel like a trap? She thought the man in him would find it safe; the beast, a trap.

“Lie down by the hearth,” Ivy told the buck. “Get dry.”

He obeyed, bending his legs awkwardly, lowering himself to the rush-covered floor.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

The buck glanced at her with liquid brown eyes, and dipped his head in a nod.

Ivy looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m guessing you can’t eat meat in that form . . . and that you’d prefer milk to grass. Shall we see?”

They kept their milk cooling in a pail in the brook. It required balance to haul the pail out, leaning on the crutch, and care to lug it inside without slopping milk. Ivy set it down by the hearth. “Goat’s milk,” she said. “See if you can drink that.”

The roebuck sniffed the pail, his black nostrils flaring, and staggered to his feet. He bent his head and lapped eagerly.

Ivy eased down to sit on a stool. She watched him, and kneaded her aching kneecap. Yes, he’d been hungry.

When the pail was empty, the roebuck lifted his head and looked at her. He heaved a huge sigh and came across to her and nudged her arm gently with his nose.

“Are you saying thank you?” Ivy stroked his damp, velvety head. His antlers were short and unbranched, only a few inches long. “You’re welcome. There’s plenty more where that came from. I’ll warm it for you next time, and sweeten it with honey.”

The roebuck sighed again. She heard his weariness, his despair.

Ivy put an arm around his neck and hugged him. “We’ll do all in our power to help you, I promise. Now, go lie down by the fire. Rest.”

The buck went back to the hearth and curled his long legs up under him, laying his chin on the rushes.

Hazel emerged from the bedchamber with her wet smock and kirtle over her arm. Her gaze skipped to the empty pail. “He drank all that?”

“He was hungry. I’ll hang those out to dry.” Ivy held out her hand for the clothes. “Go.”

“Not yet.”

“He needs help!”

“And so do you. You need firewood. And what are you going to feed him? More milk? Then I need to milk the goats.”

Ivy bit her lip. Hazel was right; she needed help. She always would.
If not for this wretched leg of mine . . .
Ivy shoved the thought hastily aside, glad Larkspur hadn’t been close enough to hear it.

It was an hour before Hazel consented to leave. Several days’ worth of firewood was chopped and stacked beside the hearth and two full pails of goat’s milk sat cooling in the brook. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Hazel said. “The day after tomorrow. Be careful!”

“And you.”

Ivy watched until Hazel was out of sight, striding briskly. Merry, laughing, confident Hazel—who hadn’t laughed once in the past week.
None of us have
. Ivy stifled a sigh, and closed the door and latched it. She turned to look at the roebuck. He lay by the fire, curled up tightly, watching her with solemn eyes.

Ivy limped across to him. “Don’t look so worried,” she said, bending to pat him as if he were a dog. His damp pelt shivered beneath her touch. “You’re cold, poor creature.”

She fetched a blanket and laid it over him. “Go to sleep. Don’t worry; everything’s going to be all right.”

IVY WOKE ABRUPTLY
. Darkness surrounded her. Her straining ears heard only silence. No soft breathing from her sisters. No snorts from the dogs.
Am I alone in the cottage?

A sound cut the air, a breathy, agonized gasp, almost a scream.

Ivy sat bolt upright. Memory returned in a fierce flood: the roebuck.

“I’m coming,” she cried, fumbling for her crutch. “I’m coming!”

The fire had died down to a bed of embers, casting a warm glow. The roebuck writhed on the hearth. His long neck arched back, his slender sharp-hooved legs kicked out, the gasping scream came again, torn from his throat. Was he convulsing? Dying?

Ivy hurried to him, avoiding the flailing legs. She couldn’t kneel, so she flung herself down on the rushes behind him. “Roebuck!” she cried, reaching for him. Beneath his pelt, his muscles were rigid. A shudder tore through him. He twisted, writhed, screamed again.

Ivy held on to him, her arms around his heaving ribcage.
If he’s dying, let him have the comfort of not dying alone
.

A huge convulsion wracked the roebuck’s body. She felt his muscles knot and twist. His very bones seemed to wrench apart. He screamed again—a human sound, raw with agony. Abruptly, it was no deer’s pelt beneath her hands, but smooth human skin. The ribcage she hugged was a man’s, not an animal’s.

Ivy inhaled in wonder.
The spell is broken!

The man, whoever he was, lay gasping for breath, shuddering—and stark naked. Ivy was suddenly aware that she wore only a thin linen smock, and that she was alone in the cottage with this stranger. There were no dogs to protect her. No Hazel.

Fear prickled up her spine. She stopped hugging him and tried to inch back on the rushes, but the man turned and caught her wrist.

Panic flared in her chest—and then Ivy recognized his face in the glow from the embers. “Gods,” she said, involuntarily.

She’d last seen this man less than a fortnight ago. Then, she’d thought him unnervingly attractive, with his quiet composure and alert, intelligent gaze. He’d been reserved, almost stern—until one saw the hint of a smile in the watchful gray eyes. Composure and reserve were stripped from him now; in their place were confusion and distress.

No, this man wasn’t dangerous. Just suffering almost beyond human endurance.

Ivy relaxed her wrist in his grasp. “It’s all right,” she said. “I know it hurts, but you’re human again.”

He released her. His face twisted. Tears tracked down his cheeks.

“Hush,” Ivy said softly, gathering him in her arms. “It’s all right.”

He didn’t pull away. He leaned into her and cried like a child, deeply, utterly, and without inhibition. Ivy held him tightly, rocking him, stroking his hair, stroking the nape of his neck, whispering soothing words.
Hush, hush, it’s all right now
. Gradually the tremors wracking his body eased; slowly his breathing steadied. The sobs quieted. He lay limp and exhausted in her arms. Ivy pressed a silent kiss into his tousled dark hair. “Go to sleep,” she whispered.