Copper Veins (9 page)

“Why didn't you take me with you?” I didn't want to be upset with him, but I couldn't help it. I mean, I was Micah's wife now.
Wife
, not some stupid consort! This was my business as much as his. Would he ever see me as his equal?

“I wanted you to stand beside me,” he replied. “Believe me, I did. I came to this room, intent upon telling you to make ready to meet with the queen, but when I saw you asleep in our bed, so peaceful, nothing in this world could have made me disturb you.” Micah paused to yawn, then added, “You are beautiful when you sleep, Sara.”

What girl could argue with that? I held out my arms, and Micah tumbled into my embrace. “Was it that bad?” I asked as I brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead.

“Yes.” He coughed, and rubbed his throat. I called for Shep and asked him to bring Micah some tea with honey.

“So, are we in trouble?” I asked, while the silverkin scurried off.

“Somewhat.” Micah rubbed his temples for a moment before he continued. “A fair few agree with your sister and consider Oriana unfit to rule. Those of copper would like to see Sadie on the throne.”

“You saw them?” I gasped. We'd suspected Oriana had forbidden others of copper from contacting us, though they still had managed to send gifts. In fact,
our atrium was overflowing with them.

“A few. They are Sadie's staunchest allies.” My heart swelled at that, but what Micah said next pretty much quashed it. “Then there are the rest.”

“The rest?” I repeated.

“Before Elementals were ruled by factions, there was a royal family,” Micah began. “Their lineage was recorded on a single charmed document, but it has been stolen. Apparently, it was stolen by those of copper.”

“Why would someone steal it?” I wondered.

“Those of copper claim that they stole the scroll because it substantiates Sadie's right to rule,” Micah continued. “Those opposed to copper claim that copper stole it because it refutes her, and they wish to hide the fact. Until the scroll is located, no one will know.” Great. The only thing everyone agreed upon was that those of copper were a bunch of thieves.

“They're hanging all of this on a dusty old scroll?” I asked. “I mean, anyone can write up a scroll, put Sadie's name on it, and charm it. Seems like something that Oriana's opposition would try, too.” Shep chose that moment to reappear beside us and deliver the tea to Micah.

“Thank you,” Micah said as he sat up, accepting the teacup from the silverkin. Shep bowed and scuttled off to disinfect something. “Let me have my tea, and I will tell you more.”

I watched Micah sip the hot beverage, all the while
practically jumping out of my skin. Were we going to have to go into hiding? Again? Was there anywhere left to go? Then Micah set his teacup on the side table and took a look at what I was wearing.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, caressing the lavender satin that covered my hip. “You remembered.”

“I did.” Then I was in his arms, and I all but forgot about the crazy queens and unwanted politics that always found their way into our lives. Well, I forgot about them until Micah yawned, his hot breath cascading across my neck.

“Have you slept at all?” I asked.

“I'm fine,” he replied, avoiding the question. I wiggled free from his arms and drew the blankets up to his waist. “What are you doing?”

“I'd rather you were rested for our first time,” I replied. He made a valiant attempt to glare at me, but it was cut short by another yawn.

“I do not wish to keep you waiting,” Micah mumbled. “My wife, I love you so.”

No matter how many times he said it, I always melted when he told me he loved me. I remembered his urgency when we'd fought, how fervently he'd insisted on us talking things through. But it seemed to have slipped his mind. I didn't want to spoil the moment, or keep him awake for another second. “I love you, too,” I murmured, kissing his cheek. By the time I drew back, he was asleep.

Since he'd been too exhausted to ready himself for
bed, I pulled off his boots and pants, miraculously without waking him. After I'd tucked the blankets around his chin, I took a moment to look at him. I traced his silver brows, the bridge of his nose, his elegant cheekbones with the barest touch of my fingertips. Micah was beautiful, and he was mine. All mine.

I pushed aside all my nagging thoughts about our arguments and Sadie's refusal—after all, until Micah woke up, there wasn't anything I could do about any of it. So I kissed him on the forehead, and then I rose and got myself dressed for the day.

After a nice, solitary breakfast of hot buttered toast and eggs, I grabbed my coffee and went for a walk in the orchards. The way I figured things, Micah only needed three, maybe four hours of sleep before I could pounce on him in good conscience. It had already been an hour or so—I just needed to wait patiently and hope that I had some time to spare before my family's plots and plans needed enacting.

Luckily, it was still pretty early, and we Corbeaus are notoriously late risers. Even Sadie had struggled with her morning classes and usually worked the late shift at the university library. Just as I was congratulating myself on successfully avoiding all the assorted drama, I heard muttering coming from the far end of the orchard, near where the silverkin had recreated Mom's
brugh
.

Don't check it out. It's nothing important. Just go
back inside
.

Of course, I had to check it out. What I found was my father, pacing, one hand rubbing his chin while the other rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sara is a Dreamwalker, like Max,” he said. “Sadie is not. Look for someone named Raven. Sara is a Dreamwalker. Sadie is not. A
brugh
is a fairy hill.”

What is he doing?
It was like he was trying to memorize the details of his own family. Why would he need to do that?

I pursed my lips and wanted to kick myself. Of course Dad needed to do this—he'd been gone for most of our lives. He'd been gone for most of the time he'd been married to Mom. When he said his piece about the
brugh
again, I stepped out of the trees and into the clearing.

“You met Mom in a
brugh
,” I said, by way of greeting. “Her
brugh
, when she was the queen.”

Dad turned to face me, his surprise melting into comprehension as he looked at the remains of his and Mom's picnic lunch. “This
brugh
,” he said, and I nodded. Dad sat heavily and rubbed his temples. “No wonder Maeve was so mad.”

“Did you forget?” I asked, though I didn't see how that was possible. I mean, I could see forgetting a date, or maybe an obscure relative's name, but who in their right mind could forget meeting the Queen of the Seelie Court?

“Sara, my memory is not what it once was,” Dad
replied. “All the spells I used during the war have taken a toll.”

I sat beside him, awash in understanding. “Did you lose a lot of memories?”

He laughed soundlessly. “More than I'd realized before I came here.” He raised his head, looking once more at the makeshift
brugh
. “I hardly remember meeting Maeve. I hardly remember marrying her.”

“But you still love her,” I blurted out. “Don't you?”

“Of course,” he said, much to my relief. “My heart remains as true as ever. My head just can't quite figure out how we got there.” He looked at the wooden table and the platters of food and pitchers of wine scattered across the chipped surface. “When Maeve brought me here, I just stared at the tables and the mound, wondering why she went through all this trouble just to eat outdoors. When I said as much, she looked like she wanted to kill me.”

“She probably did. She was really upset.” Dad's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips—okay, so maybe those last comments weren't all that helpful. “You know, you could use this as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what, exactly?”

“You get to fall in love with Mom, all over again,” I said. “Won't that be exciting?”

Dad was silent for a moment, still staring at the makeshift
brugh
as if he couldn't imagine ever being in one, much less meeting his future wife there. “Sara, that is a wonderful idea,” he said at last.

I grinned and hoped that Mom would think Dad's re-courtship was a wonderful idea, too. Dad got to his feet, and then he helped me up. So, my walk had been waylaid by yet another Corbeau family crisis—what of it? At least this crisis was going to have a happy ending.

As we walked back to the manor, a few nagging thoughts swirled around my mind. “Why didn't you lose all your memories?” I asked. Dad raised an eyebrow, so I continued, “I mean, you remember plenty about the Mundane realm, and about the wars. You only seem to have forgotten about us.”

“Sometimes magic demands a terrible price,” Dad replied.

I shuddered—the more I learned about magic, the less I trusted it.

Dad and I re-entered the manor. After a bit of searching, we found Sadie in the kitchen watching Max, of all people, kneading dough. My day was getting curiouser and curiouser.

“Um, what are you doing?” I asked. I glanced at Sadie, but she only shrugged.

“Gonna bake some bread,” Max replied, then he gave the mass of dough a few punches. “Nothing like home-baked bread.”

As if Max had ever had home-baked anything. If it wasn't for the store-bought food we'd eaten as children, we would have either starved to death or been poisoned by Mom's cooking. “Don't we have silverkin for that?” I asked. The little guys were capable of cooking up everything from grilled cheese
to twelve-course banquets.

“Yeah, but I wanted to try my hand at it.” He wrestled the dough into a bowl, draped a towel over it, and placed it on the counter in the corner by the hearth. Yeah, we had one of those giant medieval fireplaces where we could roast an entire cow, for what reason I couldn't fathom. I mean, up until a few months ago only Micah had lived here. “What's up?” Max said as he wiped his hands on the hem of his shirt.

“Why did you just leave it on the counter?” I asked. “Shouldn't the dough be in the fridge so it doesn't go bad?”

“Sara, dough needs to rise,” he replied. After I'd blinked at him a few times, wordlessly communicating that all I knew about dough was that it eventually became bread, or better yet, pizza crust, Max continued, “So, what's up? You have that face.”

I scowled but ignored that little comment, mostly because Max had flour in his hair and eyebrows and I was not going to tell him. “Turns out that Dad has a few memory problems,” I said, then I told my siblings about our father's memory loss, and about what had really happened with Mom at the makeshift
brugh
out back.

“So that's why Mom thinks you hate her,” Sadie murmured when I was through. Max glared at her, but she was unaffected. “What? She thinks he had a girlfriend or something.”

“Gods,” Dad said, covering his face with his hands. “How am I ever going to fix this?”

“You can begin by telling us what sort of spells you used that altered your memory.” The four of us turned as one and saw Micah standing in the kitchen entrance. He still looked exhausted, as if those last few hours of sleep hadn't happened. “If you explain to me the sort of magic you employed, I may be able to help you with the aftereffects.”

Dad stared at Micah for a few heartbeats, though for the life of me I couldn't figure out why he wasn't leaping to accept the offer. Wouldn't getting the memories of your wife and children back be a good thing? Eventually, Dad said, “Concealment spells, mostly.”

Micah's brows lowered as he sipped the tea a silverkin had so thoughtfully placed in front of him. I sat across from him, and an identical cup appeared before me. “In my experience, concealment spells merely obscure the caster. Only the darker magics require a sacrifice.”

“It was war,” Dad ground out.

“No one is judging you, Baudoin,” Micah said, though I wasn't so sure he included himself in that statement. “I only wish to help you. I know that I would hate to lose a single memory of my Sara.” Micah reached across the table to grasp my hand, but I pulled it away. He acted as if he hadn't noticed the slight. “Please, Baudoin, tell us how you actually lost
your memories.”

My father, while not a screamer like Mom, was not the sort of man you challenged. Even when he was mad enough to spit, Dad still wasn't the sort to fly off the handle. Oh, he would look you square in the eye until you really thought he was going to rain down fire and brimstone. But never did he raise his hand, and never did he raise his voice.

Of course, that was before Micah insinuated that he was lying.

Dad's face turned red, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn't get the words out. I clenched my hand into a fist so tightly I worried I'd break my fingers. Not this again. My dad clearly in pain, Micah not taking him seriously—I was about to reprimand him, but someone else got to it first.

“What is your problem?” Max growled. “Who do you think you are, talking to my father that way?”

“I am the one who owns this house,” Micah replied. “I feed you, shelter you, and occasionally come close to my own mortality as a result of the varied ill-advised decisions you and your relations make.” Micah's gaze moved from Dad to Max and back again. “While you are both certainly welcome in my and my wife's home, I will not abide anything less than complete honesty.”

Max stood, his hands balled into fists.

“Hey. Hey!” I rose, slamming my palms on the table as I glared between Max and Micah. “No one's
doing anything with fists. Got it?” Max nodded, then unclenched his hands and sank back into his chair. I turned to Micah. “I'm not going to let you bully my father,” I said firmly. “If you can help him, then help him, but don't treat him like he's an enemy.” I expected him to retaliate or defend himself, but Micah only nodded curtly, the expression on his face apologetic. His understanding made my heart swell—he was trying. Good.