Unthinkable (15 page)

_{The dog was o�d,}
the dog was sick. The dog would surely
die anyway in a year or so. It would be awful, but not too
awful. She could do it. Couldn’t she?

It would be far better than trying to make Lucy and the
others love her. Anyway, she had no idea how to make them
love her. All she knew how to do was to fish for their pity—
and awkwardly, at the cost of exhuming her own memories.
Pity was not love.

What was love? She didn’t know. She had loved Robert,
and Minnie, and—and Bronagh. But none of them had
asked for her love. She had given it, freely, instinctively.

Who had loved Fenella? Her mother, perhaps, though
that woman had died before Fenella could remember her.
Her father. Robert. Minnie. Miranda, once? It was hard to
understand why they had loved her, though.

Bronagh had not loved her. Bronagh had screamed at
Fenella. Fenella had brought nothing but evil and terror
into Bronagh’s life. It was all Fenella’s fault, from beginning
to end.

“Fenella?” said Walker. She had thrown herself against him
again, burrowing. His body was warm. His arms around her
were strong, even if he was trying—oh so gently—to push
her away.

Fenella pulled away from him. The dog, she thought. The
dog. It was an easy answer. She peered up at Walker from
under her lashes. His short, neat ponytail had a severity
that emphasized his features. She couldn’t help herself; she
grabbed both his hands in hers and squeezed them desperately.

Walker’s expression was happy, but now some caution
entered. “Uh, I’m wondering  .  .  . does this mean you’ve
changed your mind about me?”

“I guess so.” Fenella wanted to hold Walker’s warm hands
and look at him and feel the reprieve of having thought of a
not-too-bad answer to the second task. Even if it was, again,
a physical answer.

He was talking. “The thing is, maybe it’s just the fire. A
shock like that can change how you feel. But you might
change your mind again. I’m thinking this is too quick. For
now, let’s go back to the idea of being friends.”

Oh, he was nice. Robert had been nice too. Nothing
mean in him, nothing underhanded, nothing conniving or
manipulative. You could relax with a man like that. You did
not have to be wary or afraid.

Fenella reached up and pulled Walker’s ponytail. She
moved in close again, brushing her body against his, satisfied to hear how his breath quickened, to feel how his
hands went instinctively to hold her waist, to see how
his face flushed. With part of her mind, she was amazed.
She wanted to be close to Walker. Who would have thought
that? It felt good, having his hands on her, feeling his breath
on her face. She could practically hear her blood humming.

Where had this come from, all at once? She didn’t care.
She didn’t care!
“You’re too good to let get away,” Fenella murmured, and
heard Walker laugh. He pulled her closer.
“I’m not trying to get away. Not since I first met you. You
were the one who was running. You might still. And that’s
okay.”
“I forget what I was thinking.”
“You wanted my truck, not me.”
“I still want your truck.”
“Show me where to sign it over to you. No, stop, listen.
We should go back in. I want to tell everybody about this
apartment. It’s in the same building as mine. The people
who live there are moving out tomorrow. And you and I
already have a date for the auto show. There’s no need to go
fast. We have as much time as we want.”
Fenella knew that wasn’t true. She pulled away, however.
“All right.”
She held Walker’s hand as they went back inside, and he
held hers. It took only a few seconds for the others to notice.
Ryland noticed too, when he slunk down the staircase and
twined himself underfoot. But nobody said anything.
Not then.
That night in their bedroom, however, Miranda kept the
light on. The bedroom was small, with bunk beds. Miranda
had slept in the upper bunk the night before, but now she
sat at the foot of the lower bunk, with Fenella facing her.
With her voice pitched low so that Lucy, Zach, and Dawn
were not disturbed downstairs, Miranda said, “What’s up
with you and Walker?”
Ryland narrowed his eyes accusingly. Yes, please do tell
us. He climbed into Miranda’s lap and settled there.
“You called Walker,” said Fenella. “To tell him I was okay.”
“Yes. I had to. Fenella—you should have seen his face,
when he thought you had died in the fire.”
“Oh,” said Fenella. “I see.”
Miranda petted the cat with her eyes on Fenella’s face.
Fenella said honestly, “I don’t really know what I’m doing
with Walker, except that it’s exactly what I feel like doing.”
Miranda said nothing. Her eyes held something. Blame?
Fenella found herself remembering the conversation she’d
had with Miranda after she arrived, about love and the impossibility of imagining that kind of healing.
Fenella did not look at her leaf, but she knew where it
was on the bedside table. “Something happened today,
Miranda.” With her eyes on Miranda, and not Ryland, she
spoke stumblingly about how she had had an impulse to tell
Lucy and Soledad about the first time she’d seen Padraig.
That she had talked and they had listened.
“It was after that, then, that you felt like holding hands
with Walker?” interrupted Miranda. “Presto, abracadabra,
you’re healed?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
Ryland snorted agreement.
“Well, no. I’m not healed. It’s only that I  .  .  .” Fenella
stopped.
“You what?”
You wanted to bury your troubles in some good sexual tension? Ryland put in with interest. Is that it? I can understand.
“I wanted to tell the story of what happened with Padraig. I only told the beginning of it. But I want to tell it all.”
Her hands were trembling. Only once before had she tried
to tell the whole story, and that had been to Bronagh, who
had not cared, who had said it was no excuse.
—You ruined my life!
—Bronagh, I know, but it wasn’t on purpose. I couldn’t
help it—I was no older then than you are—
—I don’t care if it was on purpose or not!
Fenella had not tried again to tell the story. Not even with
Minnie.
“It’s not that I expect telling to do any good,” she said. “It’s
not about, you know, healing. When I told you before that it
was too late for me, I meant that. I held Walker’s hand, and
guess what?” Fenella thrust out her chin defiantly. “I kissed
him too. And he kissed me. And I liked it. But ultimately, I
don’t expect any of that to do me any good.”
She had burned down the house. She was going to kill
the dog. Then she would do some third terrible thing. But
after that, Padraig would be destroyed, finally and completely. Then Fenella would die, like Bronagh had. Like she
deserved to.
Like Bronagh had wished her to.
But before she died, Fenella would tell her story. Suddenly, for no reason at all—not to gain love, not to gain
pity—she wanted to tell. For the sake of telling, she wanted
to tell.
“Telling solves nothing. It changes nothing,” Fenella said
slowly. “But I want to do it. I want to tell everything that I
can . . . I want to explain . . .”
Maybe it was that Lucy and Soledad had been willing to
listen. Maybe it was as simple as that.
Miranda was staring at her. So was Ryland.
“So tell,” said Miranda softly, at last.
Then, from up the bathroom pipe, came Lucy’s voice.
“Yes, Fenella,” Lucy said. “Come down here and tell us
more. I’m texting my parents to come and listen too. We all
need to know, as much as you need to tell.
“What happened next, after Padraig appeared?”

Fenella could not look away. Her thoughts buzzed in her
head like a trapped fly. Despite his fashionable garb, this
man was no ordinary lord. She had never met one of the fair
folk before, but she had heard stories and songs all her life.
His nod at the hillside alone told her what he was.

She managed to drop a wary curtsy as the faerie lord’s
eyes took in Fenella from the top of her silky red head to her
dusty bare toes. It was a slow gaze, and it grew appreciative
as it moved.

“Yours is a large laugh,” he remarked, “to come from such
a small creature.”
To hide their trembling, Fenella fisted her hands in the

fabric of her faded homespun skirt. “I am sorry, sir. My
humblest apologies, sir, and it will not happen again.”
“You’ll never laugh again?” The lord raised his smooth,
elegant brows. His eyes brimmed with charm that Fenella
could see but did not feel. She pictured Robert’s plain, shrewd
face with its snub nose and shy warm eyes, and his quickmoving, wiry body and work-roughened hands. Robert was
hers and she was his. They had picked each other.
“No, sir. Not if you dislike it, sir.”
“I don’t dislike it,” said the lord pensively, his gaze on
Fenella’s mouth. “At least, I think not. I’ve never heard anything like it before. Laugh again, girl. I wish to better judge
the music of it.”
Fenella pulled her elbows in tightly against her sides.
“I am sorry, but my laughter is not mine to command. It
comes as it chooses.”
“Surely you can summon a small laugh.”
Fenella shook her head.
“No? Even if I were to plead? I might do that. Your laugh
seemed to me as if it could conjure a celebration.” The lord
took a step closer to Fenella. His expression was intent.
“Would it surprise you to learn that I have had little to celebrate in life so far? I see you would not believe me. Believe
this, then: It would please me to hear your laughter, and all
sorts of good things might happen, if you were to please me.
I have enough power for that. Power enough to reward one
pretty human girl.”
Fenella found his barrage of words confusing. She clung
to her refusal. “I cannot.”
The lord looked thoughtful. “Laughter comes from amusement, but also from enjoyment. Perhaps if you were to enjoy yourself? What if I took you to a grand soiree? Would
you laugh for me then?”
Fenella frowned, not understanding.
“A party,” explained the lord lightly. “I could invite you to
a court ball. It would be like nothing you’ve ever known, or
even dreamed. A village maid like you, who knows nothing,
has seen nothing. You would love it, I am sure. You would
be impressed and happy.” The faerie lord touched Dando’s
saddlebag, and lingered there. “Even a highborn lady could
not command such a dress as I would give to you. It would
be my gift, in exchange for your laughter.” He paused and
then added, almost gently, “And only for your laughter. This
I swear. I would take nothing from you that you do not give.”
He looked sincere, so sincere that if Fenella had been a
fool, she would have believed him. But she was no fool. And
though he might be a faerie lord, still she knew his kind. It
flared her anger. There were human men like this too, who
thought a girl could be bought.
How dare he try to tempt her with a party and a pretty
dress? Yes, she’d been dreaming of dresses, and perhaps
somehow he knew it. But she would not risk her future at
a handsome man’s whim, and still less for a dress. As for a
party, what was a celebration without the people you loved
nearby? What was laughter without beloved faces around
you, laughing in return?
Fenella chose her words carefully. “I’m sorry, sir. Such a
dress would be above my station. Nor would it become me.”
“Your station will be what I say,” said the faerie lord
arrogantly. “And the dress will be chosen to sing out the
glory of your hair and skin. You have no idea how beautiful
you will look.” His glance skimmed her figure again, lingered
on the crossed neckline of her fichu and her throat above it,
and came again to her face and eyes.
“Only laugh,” he said again coaxingly. “Such wondrous,
joyful music. I have the strangest feeling that it would change
everything, if you would but laugh with me.” He hesitated
and then added, with an odd diffidence, “My offers are not
made lightly. I could change your world. You would live like
a queen, in comparison with how you live now.”
He stood up tall then, and straight, as if he were making
a vow. Tension seemed to ripple through him.
Fenella took in a careful breath. She did not want her
world to change.
The tales and the songs said that you lost your wits at the
beauty of the fey. The tales and the songs said that when
one of them beckoned to you, you would helplessly follow.
The tales and the songs spoke of faerie celebrations, rites at
which you would dance and feast and make wild love. Human decades would slip by in one faerie night, unnoticed.
But the tales and the songs were largely about men, not
women. Fenella was not feeling it; or at least, she was not
feeling it for this particular faerie lord.
Perhaps it was simply that her heart was already given.
“I repeat: I cannot laugh on command, sir. I must be
amused. I must feel joy.”
“You think I can do neither for you?”
She had not seen him move, but the lord was nearer.
Much nearer.
“Won’t you let me try?” Was that pleading in his voice?
Surely not.
“The things that amuse me are small and unimportant,
my lord. They are not worth your time. Neither am I.” She
tried another, deeper, curtsy, and as she dipped, she took a
large step away from him.
Immediately she knew her mistake, for the faerie lord’s
voice filled with even more interest. “You like what is small
and unimportant?”
Now she did not know what to say.
“Let us make a bargain. Come with me to a ball. Just one
ball, and you dressed like the finest lady. This dress you shall
keep, in fair trade for your company. At the ball, we will see
how much you will enjoy yourself.” His voice grew deep.
“Perhaps you will surprise yourself. Perhaps you will laugh
for me.”
“No! I make no bargain!” The tales and the songs were
also full of bargains with the fey, and never did the bargains
end up benefiting the human. “I will simply be on my way,
good sir, and wish you a speedy return to the sleep that I
interrupted so rudely.”
Fenella laid her hand on Dando’s bridle, inches from the
elegant hand of the elfin lord. There was something unusual
about the lord’s hand, she noted, but she had not the leisure
to process what it was. She took up the bridle as if she had
no doubt that he would let it go, and to her relief, the faerie
lord’s white fingers released the leather.
At that moment, her brain caught up with her eyes and
told her what was wrong with the elfin lord’s hands. It was
not only that the fingers were so long and so white, or even
that the nails were clean and eerily perfect. It was that each
finger folded into four segments.
It would not do to run. Fenella moved deliberately as
she guided Dando, who trembled as she did. She walked
away, passing within a hair’s breadth of the lord. She took
care not to brush even the hem of her garment against him.
Step. Step. Step.
At last there was distance between them. Her pace quickened.
She did not look back. But as she moved around a bend
in the road, she felt his touch on the breeze that spun up,
circling round her, wrapping her skirt tightly around her
hips and legs.
She kicked herself free. She leaned on Dando. They staggered forward together.
She had not escaped, and she knew it. She had merely
been let out at the end of a long rope, as if she were Dando.
The faerie lord would be back.
Which meant she needed a plan.