Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(21)

“Ah, well,” he murmured, and turned away.

The beam of his light struck the shallow depression in the facing wall, and the tiny bundle of oilcloth.

“After all this time?”

He stepped over, drew it out, unrolled it. Inside lay the pipe he’d carefully made from a small branch of a chestnut tree. He’d imagined it magic, made for him—and only him—to call up the dragon. The one he, naturally, saved from certain death. The one who became his friend and companion.

Oh, to be a boy again, he thought, with such faith and so many dreams.

He brought it to his lips, placed his fingers over the holes, tested it. To his pleasure and surprise it carried a tune true enough. Mournful perhaps in the echoing cave, but true.

He allowed himself the sentiment, rolled it back in the cloth, and slipped it into his pocket.

The rest could stay, he thought. One day another adventurous boy might find the treasures and wonder.

He climbed back up, leaving the cave, the memories, the sea.

When he swung over the wall, Sawyer hailed him.

“Hey! Did you climb down?”

“Having a look around.”

Shoving up his cap, Sawyer leaned over, looked down. “Tricky. I’ve been having a look around myself—on more even ground. What do you think about setting up the targets over there?”

Doyle followed the direction. “In front of those gardens?”

“Yeah, well, you can’t get away from the gardens, not really, unless we set up in the woods. We could do that, but this is more private. We’ve got a lot of land, but from what I gather, people can just sort of wander around, and some do. Back here, the noise from the water will mask gunshots.”

“The private suits me, though I suspect Bran’s well enough known around the area, and no one would make trouble.”

Though he knew the ground well, Doyle considered it.

“More room to spread out on the other side of the house, and we can use that for other training. But this would do well enough for weapons training.”

“Good enough. Word is Riley’s scored us the boat and gear.”

“Has she?”

“She’s got some network. I want to take a look at the maps, but I’ve scouted out the general area, gotten the lay of it.”

“So you can get us back here from wherever we might go.”

Sawyer jerked a thumbs-up. “No sweat. More word is Sasha’s sketching from the notes you and Riley put together out of the journal, hoping for . . .” He circled his fingers in the air. “Don’t know how that’s going. And apparently you and I are on weapons detail, so since we’ve got the target area picked, we can set that up.

“After a beer.”

“Can’t argue with it.”

The fact was Doyle found it hard to argue with Sawyer about anything. The man was affable, canny as a fox, unbreakably loyal, and could shoot the eye out of a gnat at twenty yards.

They went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen that smelled temptingly of whatever Sasha stirred in the pot on the stove as Riley looked on.

“Wow.” As he had an interest in cooking as well as eating, Sawyer went over to her. “What is it?”

“Guinness stew. I found a couple recipes online, and I’ve been playing with them. I think it’s going to work.”

“Looks awesome. We’re after a beer. Want some wine?”

“I think it’s just about that time, thanks. I’ve been dealing with this, sketching. I think the cooking’s more successful than . . .”

She turned, saw Doyle had picked up her sketch pad.

“It’s hard to be sure I’m even close, considering I’m going on more or less general descriptions.”

When he said nothing, she moved to him, studied, as he did, one of her sketches of Arianrhod. “I can’t know if I made her beautiful because the journalist found her beautiful. I don’t know the shape of her face, or the length and style of her hair, shape of her eyes. I just went on instinct, I guess.”

“This is your instinct?”

The rawness in his voice had her looking up at him in alarm. She saw that same rawness in his eyes.

“Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Dude.” Sawyer stepped over, put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “You all right?”

“I read the way she was described myself. It’s from my reading Riley took the notes for you. And this is how you’ve drawn the goddess?”

“Arianrhod, yes. It’s as close as I can imagine. It’s—it’s just how I saw her from the notes. Why?”

“Because . . . you’ve drawn my mother. This is my mother’s face you’ve drawn in your book.”





CHAPTER FIVE




Bittersweet. That was the term used, wasn’t it? Doyle thought as he stared at the sketch. Those opposing sensations twisting and twining together until they merged into one shaky emotion.

He’d never understood it quite so well until now.

When he forced himself to look away, look up, he saw they’d surrounded him. Sawyer at his back, the women on both sides.

He had to fight the instinct to pull away.

“I won’t ask if you’re sure,” Riley said carefully, “because it’s clear you are. Sasha’s sketched your mother from the description of Arianrhod.”