Fiona (25 page)

I don't think.

I dart around Poppy and run for Blair, tackling her before she can pull the trigger. The pistol falls to the floor just as I do.

The wind is knocked out of me, and distantly, I hear Poppy scream. There are footsteps on the stones, so many footsteps. Someone—a stranger—is kneeling over me, telling me that it's okay, that I'll be able to breathe soon. There are stars at the edge of my vision, and I open my mouth, desperate for air that won't enter my lungs.

I remember the last time I saw stars, when I forgot to breathe around Charlie. That was much more pleasant.

Finally, with a rush, I get a breath in, and my vision clears. The room is filled with cops, and they're pulling Blair up the staircase, her wrists in handcuffs. I let one cop help me onto my
feet, and Poppy, free from the tree, launches herself into my arms. I wrap them around her tightly. “It's okay now,” I murmur to her, over and over. “It's okay.”

Alice is waiting for us when we finally climb the staircase back into the real world. “Thank God you two are all right! What happened?” she asks.

“She tried—” I start to say, but then suddenly it all crashes over me. I just watched a woman pull a gun on herself. And I stopped it.

The way I always wished I had been able to stop my mother.

I sink to my knees, unable to stand any longer. Alice kneels beside me, her arm around my shoulder. Poppy kneels on my other side, and together they let me cry. I'm crying for all those years of grief and pain, and for these last few months of aching love and fear.

“I'm sorry,” I say when I can finally speak.

“It's okay,” Poppy says, repeating my own useless words back to me. But somehow they're comforting. “You just needed someone to sit with you.” She smiles at me, and I squeeze her hand.

• • •

Poppy and I give the cops our statements, and when we're finally free to go, Alice takes us straight to Charlie's hospital room.

He gasps, a mixture of a sob and a laugh, when he sees Poppy in the doorway. She runs to his side, and he bends his
head down toward hers. “I'm sorry,” he says, his deep voice overflowing with sorrow and relief. “I'm so sorry.”

He looks up at me, his expression unreadable.

I can guess what he's thinking, though. He must be furious at me for leaving the hospital without an explanation. For not telling him how much danger his sister was in.

I'm planning out what I'll say to him, when he asks Poppy if he can talk to me alone for a second. I watch her go, her hand securely in Alice's, and then I'm left to face Charlie alone.

I wait for him to ask me how I could do this to him. For him to yell at me. For him to tell me that he can't trust me anymore, that whatever fragile relationship we started building last night is now over.

But he doesn't. Instead, he reaches for me, pulling me to him, and kisses me fiercely. I hardly have time to kiss him back before he leans back on his pillow and looks at me. “I'm so sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry I let her into our lives.”

He kisses me again, and this time, I'm prepared for it. I kiss him back just as fiercely, nuzzling close to him and wrapping my arms around his shoulders.

We break apart again, and I'm about to tell him that it's not his fault, that he couldn't have known, but he speaks first.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

My lips part as I stare at him in awe. He loves me. I can see in his eyes that it's the truth, but I still can hardly believe it.

He looks at me with a broad smile full of joy. “I think I've loved you since the night I first met you in the pub, when I couldn't stop staring at you.”

I laugh at the memory.

He tucks one of my wild curls behind my ear. “I looked up from the fire, and all of a sudden you were there, like I'd conjured you up. I think I couldn't stop staring because I recognized something in you. Something I needed. I think even then, I knew you were going to save me.” He brushes his palm down my cheek. “And then I got to know you, and I started up that stupid secret-for-a-song game because I wanted an excuse to open myself up to you. I'd never wanted to let anyone in until I met you. I couldn't stop seeking you out, inventing any excuse to see you.”

“I wasn't all that hard to find,” I point out. “I think I spent all that time in the library because I was hoping you would come and demand a song.” I kiss him again, my lips lingering on his for a moment before I pull back. “I love you, too,” I whisper.

Charlie is finally discharged
a few days later, and we take a cab from the hospital. Neither of us says anything as we slide into the backseat of the taxi, but I know we're both thinking about Albert. He, Mabel, and Blair are locked up, awaiting psychiatric evaluations and trials. Dr. Furnham has been arrested as well, on numerous counts of fraud and malpractice.

Thankfully, the police have interviewed the rest of the staff and have determined that no one else was part of their mad plot.

“Dunraven Manor,” I tell the driver.

Charlie looks at me, a question in his eyes.

“Do you mind?” I ask. “There's something I have to do.”

He sits beside me in the back of the cab, taking my hand in his. “Of course not.”

We arrive at Dunraven, and my stomach feels as if it has
twisted itself into a permanent knot. I don't know if I can face these people, who've already rejected me, again. But I have to. I have to tell them one last thing.

Charlie gets out with me as Mrs. Drummond opens the front door. She beams at him, though her bright smile falters a bit when she sees me. “Lord Moffat,” she says. “I'm so happy to see you up and about.”

He smiles at her as we approach the front door. “Thank you, Mrs. Drummond.”

She turns her attention to me. “Shall I tell your grandparents that you're here?” she asks softly.

I nod, my throat too dry to attempt to speak.

She has us wait in a grand sitting room while she hurries up to tell her employers that their unwanted granddaughter is waiting for an audience. I sigh, craning my neck up to look at the intricate plasterwork ceiling, the leaves and musical instruments and cherubs that adorn it. Much less interesting than the ceiling fresco of the dragon above the entryway.

Charlie takes my hand in his.

“I didn't know about the money,” I say softly. “I just wanted . . . I just wanted a family.”

“We can't choose what we inherit. Or who we're related to,” he says with a touch of bitterness, and I know he's thinking about his mother.

I squeeze his hand. “Your mother did what she did because she loved you and Poppy so much. She wanted to take care of you.”

“By hurting you,” he says, pulling his hand from my grasp and standing up. He runs that hand through his hair and looks down at me. “She loved me so much that she planned to have an innocent girl committed, just so her grandparents would never find out about her. For money.”

I stand, staring him down. “But she loved you,” I say again. “At least you had a family.”

He stares at me for a moment, then reaches for me, his hand settling on my waist and pulling me closer. “You do have a family,” he says softly, his other hand cupping my chin, lifting my eyes up to his. “You have Poppy. And you have me.”

Despite how nervous I am, I can't help but smile at him. And when he leans down to kiss me, all I want to do is melt into him. I press myself as close as possible to him, but it still doesn't feel close enough. By the time we break apart, I'm dizzy with wanting.

He looks down at me, his smile holding something like wonder in it. As if he can't believe how lucky he is. I want to tell him that he's got it the wrong way around, that I'm the lucky one, but I press my lips to his again instead. Maybe we're both lucky.

The sound of someone clearing her throat breaks us apart, and I blush when I turn to find Mrs. Drummond back in the doorway. “Your grandparents will see you now,” she says with a kind smile.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Charlie asks when I look back at him.

It would be comforting to have him there, standing firmly beside me, but I shake my head. “I should do this on my own.”

I follow Mrs. Drummond up the ornate staircase to that beautiful receiving room once again and find my grandparents seated on that plush couch, absorbed in their newspaper and letter writing, as if they haven't moved since I left them.

Mrs. Cavendish looks up from her lap desk as I enter the room. “We heard there was quite a bit of noise at Fintair Castle the other night,” she says drily.

Quite a bit of noise.
An unusual way to describe the housekeeper's attempt to murder me, but shooting Charlie instead, and then his fiancée's kidnapping of his sister.

I look over at the grand piano, the one that must have inspired my mom's love of music. I draw strength from it now, from her memory.

I grit my teeth and say what I came here to say. “I want you to know that I don't want anything from you. Because you
already gave me the best mother I could ever have had. Despite everything, despite having grown up in this cold house, she was warm. She always made sure my world was filled with love. So I won't bother you anymore.”

I spin on my heels and walk out of the room before Mrs. Cavendish can say another venom-tipped word. I make my way down the stairs back to Charlie. Back to my real family.

He springs up from the silk armchair he was sitting on. “Ready to go already?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” I say with a small smile. It's all the cheer I can manage.

Before I can rush out the door, though, Charlie rests a hand on my arm, stopping me. He's looking toward the other doorway. Where Mr. Cavendish is standing.

I blink a couple of times, as if I'm unsure he's really there.

“I wanted to catch you before you go,” he says, walking to me. He's searching my eyes, and I know what he's looking for. My mother. I wonder if he can see her in my freckles, in the way my nose tapers just so, in my long eyelashes.

He must, because he holds his hands out to me, and before I know it, I'm wrapped up in his arms. “Your mother was a remarkable young woman. And so are you.”

I press my face into his shoulder, trying to memorize the
feel of this first hug from my grandfather, a man I'd wondered about for so long. He's small and frail, but his grip is strong.

“Greer will come around. She always does. She's lost her child, you see—she's hurt. Moira ran away from us, and we tried to keep up with her through Lily, but our daughter didn't want anything to do with us. Not after we'd tried so hard to keep her from that boy. So Greer just needs time.” He steps back, looking down at me. “Don't give up on her yet.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

“You're family,” he says, his voice full of conviction. “I'm setting up a trust for you, so that you can live your own life. You'll have everything you need, all that we can give you. But I hope—I hope you stay near us. Give us a chance to be your family.”

I blink at him. “I don't—”

“We've plenty of money, lass,” he says firmly. “I don't want to hear another word about it,” he finishes with a smile.

I think about what Charlie said, that we don't choose what we inherit from our family. But we can choose what to do with it. “I—I don't know what to say,” I say finally. “Thank you.”

He pulls me in for another hug before letting me go. “Come back as often as you like, hen. I want to get to know you.”

He calls me “hen,” just like my mother used to. “Okay,” I say again, not knowing if I'm about to laugh or cry.

Charlie wraps his arm around me, keeping me close as we walk back to the cab.

• • •

Both of us are quiet as we drive up the long avenue of trees. I feel as if the castle will have changed appearance since I've been gone. As if it will be darker, a mark of the evil and madness that it held within it.

But then it comes into view, and it is the same castle it always was, with the massive medieval tower and sprawled-out wings.

Charlie pays the driver as I get out and take a good, long look at this place that hid its secrets from me for so long. I can't help the shiver that courses through me as I remember the shadows in the underground tree room. How certain I felt that I would die in the maze, the crazed anger in Mabel's eyes, the loathing in Albert's. The snow has melted, but I still have the memory of Charlie's blood pooled there.

Charlie takes my hand, and when I look at him, those visions shift away. This place isn't dark. It isn't hateful. It's where my family is. It's where I'm meant to be.

“So what now?” Charlie asks.

I turn to him, my mind made up. “I want to stay here. With you and Poppy.”

He smiles. “Good. We both need you.”

“And if the Cavendishes agree, I want to be an angel investor for the paper,” I say. “I want to help fund the new website.”

“Fee, you don't have to—” he starts, but I interrupt him with a wave of my hand.

“You'll have to make me a good deal,” I say with a smile. “But I believe in you.”

He watches me for a moment, as if he can't believe what I'm offering. Finally, his lips curve in a smile. “I can't think of anything I'd like better than to partner with you,” he says, sweeping me up for a kiss.

I hold tight to him, to this moment of perfect happiness and hope.

“Ready to go inside?” he asks softly when I finally let him go.

I kiss him again quickly. “Yes.”

We walk into the castle
together.

There are so many people who helped bring
Fiona
into the world, and I'm going to do my best to thank them all here.

First, I have to thank Alexandra Machinist, agent extraordinaire. There's no one I'd rather have in my corner.

Thank you so much to Liz Tingue, my editor, for all your hard work and insight. Fiona and I are so lucky to have you.

Thank you to Tara Shanahan, my publicist, for shining a spotlight on Fiona, and to the Razorbill Team: Vivian Kirklin, Deborah Kaplan, Laura Cheung, Christian Fuenfhausen (for the GORGEOUS cover!), Jessica Harriton, and Marissa Grossman. And to Ben Schrank, for leading it all.

To the Fearless Fifteeners and all my wonderful writing and blogging friends on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Everyone always says writing is a solitary profession, but it's never felt that way to me, and I owe that to all of you.

Thank you to my brilliant critique group: Angélique Jamail, Shirley Redwine, Brenda Liebling-Goldberg, Lucie Scott Smith, Gabrielle Hale, Adam Holt, and Jenny Waldo. You read the earliest, worst drafts of my books and somehow help me make sense of them, and I can't thank you enough for that.

To Allison Maffitt, Christina Scharar, Rosalee Maffitt, Chelsea Grate, Aly Sider, Valerie Grainger Henderson, Alex
Begley, Charlotte Mitchell Loreman, Ali Bodin Ho, and Nellen Hawkins for being the best friends (and “fan club”) a girl could ask for. And to all my friends and family members who've cheered me on ever since I started this whole crazy writing thing. Special thanks to Nic Buckley for all of the writing retreats and
Friends
marathons. And to Denise Delaney and Ross Netherway, for giving me a home base in London before I went exploring in the Scottish Highlands.

To Liz Ghrist, Grandma, for taking me on fabulous vacations. And for leading by example.

To Greg, Jenn, Olga, Lucy, Jimmy, and Louis, for all the pizza, board games, and bad reality TV. And for being my favorite people in the world.

And, as always, to Dad, for being my support system and my partner in crime. I love
you.