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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 75 из 293All brownies have skull-like faces because they have no nose, just nostrils. But if their faces look like evil grinning skulls, then they have gone evil—bogart. Brownies can thresh a field of wheat in a single day, or build a barn overnight. Think of that much power turned destructive, insanely destructive. They still tell stories in a lonely part of Scotland border country of a laird who raped and murdered a local girl. He didn’t realize her family had been adopted by a brownie. The laird and all his household were cut to pieces.
Maggie May was not quite a bogart, but she was working up to it.
“No,” Doyle said, “not bogart, not yet, but we must find a way to distract her before the knives join the battle.”
“Seems a shame,” Rhys said.
I agreed, but true bogarts are part of the sluagh, the evil host, not true Unseelie Court anymore. Maggie deserved better, no matter how I felt about Onilwyn.
Rhys shouted, “Maggie May, it’s Rhys! You sent for me, remember!”
The spoons swirled in to join the ladles, which left only the heavy iron forks, big enough to turn a side of beef, and the knives. We were running out of time.
I said the only thing I could think of that might shock her into listening. “Aunt Maggie, what happened to upset you?”
The pots began to slow like a swirl of heavy snowflakes brought to rest by a gentle wind. That wind laid them in neat lines on the heavy wooden table. “What d’ ye say?” she asked, and her voice was thick with suspicion.
“I said, Aunt Maggie, what happened to upset you?”
She frowned at me. “I’m not Aunt Maggie to you, girl.”
“You are my great-grandmother’s sister on my mother’s side. That makes you my great-aunt Maggie.”
She still looked unhappy, but nodded slowly, and said, “Aye, that be true. But you are a princess of the sidhe, whatever your blood be or be not. The sidhe donna acknowledge us.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She rubbed her hairy fingers across her nose-less face and frowned harder. “Princess Meredith, ye needs be more careful of who you be talkin’ in front of.” She looked at Onilwyn, who was getting painfully to his feet. There was blood on his pale skin.
“Yes, he is Cel’s creature. But Cel knows my bloodlines.”
“The sidhe know only what they wish to know about the blood that runs through their veins.” As she calmed her accent began to vanish. Her voice was cultured and midwest, nowhere like a news anchor.
Maggie May was not quite a bogart, but she was working up to it.
“No,” Doyle said, “not bogart, not yet, but we must find a way to distract her before the knives join the battle.”
“Seems a shame,” Rhys said.
I agreed, but true bogarts are part of the sluagh, the evil host, not true Unseelie Court anymore. Maggie deserved better, no matter how I felt about Onilwyn.
Rhys shouted, “Maggie May, it’s Rhys! You sent for me, remember!”
The spoons swirled in to join the ladles, which left only the heavy iron forks, big enough to turn a side of beef, and the knives. We were running out of time.
I said the only thing I could think of that might shock her into listening. “Aunt Maggie, what happened to upset you?”
The pots began to slow like a swirl of heavy snowflakes brought to rest by a gentle wind. That wind laid them in neat lines on the heavy wooden table. “What d’ ye say?” she asked, and her voice was thick with suspicion.
“I said, Aunt Maggie, what happened to upset you?”
She frowned at me. “I’m not Aunt Maggie to you, girl.”
“You are my great-grandmother’s sister on my mother’s side. That makes you my great-aunt Maggie.”
She still looked unhappy, but nodded slowly, and said, “Aye, that be true. But you are a princess of the sidhe, whatever your blood be or be not. The sidhe donna acknowledge us.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She rubbed her hairy fingers across her nose-less face and frowned harder. “Princess Meredith, ye needs be more careful of who you be talkin’ in front of.” She looked at Onilwyn, who was getting painfully to his feet. There was blood on his pale skin.
“Yes, he is Cel’s creature. But Cel knows my bloodlines.”
“The sidhe know only what they wish to know about the blood that runs through their veins.” As she calmed her accent began to vanish. Her voice was cultured and midwest, nowhere like a news anchor.