The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(22)
Mary shook her head, not fully convinced. “He couldn’t truly restore the man, could he? Certainly not without his original memories intact.”
The creature cast a sharp look at Mary. “Guardian magic runs deeper than your scavenger witch magic that only knows how to take. He will recover. Memories are not only held in the mind.”
Edwina took a small measure of satisfaction at her sister’s rebuke and sat on the bed again beside the elf. A trail of golden light overspilled from the sprightly magic that had taken place so that her hand felt a dusting of warmth. “But how does it work?”
“Memories have memories.” The little fellow rubbed his nose with his sleeve and moved to the man’s side so he could better see his features. “Like a man’s shadow when he walks in the sun. Only they form inside. Sometimes stored in the heart, sometimes in the bones, sometimes in the aura. And they gather inside me.”
“And you were able to restore his memory from these shadows because you’re a sort of guardian to him, is that it?” Edwina asked. “Yes, I think I’m beginning to get the gist of it.”
“Well, I’m not sure I do,” Mary said, slipping the dull memory stone into her apron pocket as she hovered near the stairs. She looked like she wanted to get as far away from their visitor as she could.
“It’s a symbiotic relationship, if I’m right,” Edwina explained. “There’s a connection between the two. It’s as if they share the same experiences and memories. You must have been devoted to him from an early age.”
The elf beamed until his eyes teared and his ears poked up through his tangle of hair. “I’ve known my mister since he was a wee babe in swaddling cloth.”
The image tickled Edwina and she beamed as well, though she half suspected the happiness she felt flowed as much from the overspill of the elf’s magic as anything else. She was not a woman who readily experienced giddiness, but for whatever reason, she couldn’t stop smiling at the hairy little elf and the snoring man whose life he’d presumably just saved. After straightening the strip of tartan on Ian’s chest, she and the elf waited diligently for him to wake, while Mary studied the hard coal stone from her pocket, clearly regretting the loss of one of her precious orbs.
Chapter Eleven
The sunlight coming through the window sent a pain searing straight to the back of Ian’s head. He shaded his eyes with his hand, blinking from one sister to the next as they stood by his bed in their dark dresses and white aprons like a pair of magpies.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Our father’s bed,” said the sister on the right as she hurried to draw the shades closed halfway. “You needed a rest. You’ve had a trying few days.”
Ian groaned and sat up, propping his head awkwardly against the pillow when he thought he might topple over if he moved that quickly again. His temples ached and his tongue furred in his mouth from dehydration. But no sooner had he taken a breath to settle himself than a jolt of fear shot through him. His hand fumbled for his throat, checking for a gash. He swallowed against his panic and quickly pulled his fingers away. No blood. Then he remembered. That part wasn’t real. A dream. He shivered as if startled awake from a nightmare. Then shivered again when the threat still loomed in the shadows of lucid thought.
Aware they were staring at him, he diverted their concerned looks by asking, “How did I get here?”
“My sister brought you in a cab.” The one with the smoky eyes—Moira? Mara? Mary—handed him a cup of tea that had gone tepid. “Take a sip. It will make you feel better.”
The other sister, Edwina—yes, the sensible, comely witch who’d put the blue orb in his mouth—gave him a friendly, encouraging smile that set him at ease. “Do you remember being here before?” she asked. “In the shop downstairs? You’ve had a rather bad reaction, I’m afraid.”
Bad reaction? He’d dreamed he’d had his head bashed in and his throat slit. Left to bleed out in an alley while rats sniffed at the prospect of stealing a piece of his flesh before the real scavengers turned up to peck his eyes out. But had it been a dream? His head was bruised, his teeth hurt from clenching them, and he couldn’t stop swallowing to make sure his throat hadn’t been slit open.
“I believe I do recall, aye,” Ian said and set the tea aside without drinking. “Though I admit my mind is still a bit of a muddle.” He reached once again for his throat, this time feeling around the side below his ear where he swore it still stung from the slice of the blade.
Before he could sink into melancholia over his strange and unwanted thoughts, his hand found a strip of tartan resting atop the covers. “What is this?” On the bed beside him, a weight shifted, like a cat settling down on the quilt. Expecting to find the sisters’ family pet, he was met instead with a hairy yet familiar face staring up at him.
“Hob? What in blazes are you doing here?”
The little fellow peered back at him with a mixture of concern and hope. “You remember home again,” the elf said, then rested his slender hand on Ian’s sleeve.
Edwina Blackwood pulled up a wooden chair from the kitchen and sat across from Ian in the bed. “Your friend’s magic seems to have proved vital to getting you on the road to recovery.”
There was a dulcet quality to her voice when she spoke. Not quite hypnotic, and yet melodic in a way that made one want to bend their ear so as not to miss a word she said. Soothing and pleasant.