Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(27)

When she took them downstairs, she didn’t see Mallick. Leaving them on the worktable, she got her jacket. Thrilled with the idea of freedom, of the hunt for the apple, she ran outside. She followed the stream for a while, but not the way they’d come, as she hadn’t seen an apple tree.

Still, it might not be an apple tree, she considered. That might be part of the trick.

She searched branches, spotted birds—sparrows, jays, cardinals, finches. A hawk’s nest, an owl’s roost. But no white bird.

She angled away from the stream into thicker trees. She saw tracks and scat of deer, bear, opossum. She saw signs of wild boar and told herself the next time she’d bring her bow. And Grace, she thought. Her horse would get bored after a few days in the stable.

She saw faeries out of the corners of her eyes, but they darted away when she turned. They would be shy yet, she decided, and needed time to get used to her. But she changed direction, following the bright glint of their light into deeper shadows where thick moss covering trees like coats turned those shadows soft, soft green.

In that green light a little pond spread in the deepest of blues with pale green pads floating on it. On one sat a fat frog, apparently dozing, while a dozen dragonflies darted and swooped on long, luminescent wings.

A faerie glade, she realized, as even the air felt happy and sweet.

She sat cross-legged beside the pool, her chin on her fist, and marveled at the glasslike clarity of the water. She could clearly see the bottom, the soft dirt dashed with tiny colored pebbles, the fish, gold and red swimming in the blue.

“It’s so pretty here.” Leaning forward, she dipped a finger in the pool. “It’s warm! Maybe you’ll let me swim here.”

She’d bring a gift next time, an offering, she decided.

It was so sheltered, not like the stream where she felt exposed when she took off her clothes to wash. Swimming here would be almost as good as—maybe better than—having a shower.

Content for the first time since she’d ridden away from home, she lay back, breathed in.

And saw the apple glinting gold on a high branch overhead.

“Oh my God! I found it.”

And the bird, too, she thought as she scrambled to her feet.

Not the dove she’d imagined, but an owl—the biggest she’d ever seen. It sat on the branch beside the apple, and looked down at her with hard eyes of dark gold.

Like Ethan, she could connect with animals, birds, insects, fish. So she tried charm first, smiled.

“Hello! You’re really handsome.”

The owl stared unblinkingly.

“I’m Fallon. I’m staying in a cottage only a mile or so from here. With Mallick. Maybe you know him.”

She heard the titter of faeries, ignored it for now. It wasn’t the words, she knew, but the tone, the intent, the images in her own mind.

When the image of herself holding the apple popped into it, the owl spread its great wings, wrapped them around the apple.

She pushed, just a little. She’d been forbidden to harm the owl, and she’d never cause harm to anything so magnificent, but she tried just a little push. Instead of flying off as she’d hoped, he ruffled his feathers and stared down with active dislike.

“All right, okay. God, I want a shower. I want a toilet. You can’t imagine how much. Look, I’m The One, and that makes me important. You should want to do me a favor.”

He didn’t budge, and the next ten minutes of trying to use her mind to trick him into flying away gave her a mild headache.

She needed a plan, she decided. She knew where he was now. She’d work up a plan, come back.

She shrugged as though the owl and the apple meant nothing, strolled away. She’d return, she thought as she moved from green shadows into dappled light. She’d bring a gift for the faeries so she could swim in the pool, and a plan to distract the owl long enough to get the apple.

She said nothing to Mallick about finding the apple, and though for the second night she went to bed with a stack of books, she spent considerable time plotting her strategy.

And in the morning, for the second time, she found gifts at the door. Stunned, delighted, she crouched down to examine the wood, the screening, the paint, the nails. The benefactor had even found the slats needed to separate the workers from the queen.

She stood again, stared out into the trees.

“Thanks!” she called. “When we have fresh honey, you can share.”

She rushed to muck out the stalls, lay fresh bedding. She reminded Grace they’d take a ride later as she fed and watered both horses.

In building the bee box, Fallon was the teacher, and she liked it. It balanced out the morning of lessons, instructions, practice—none of which involved swords—and Mallick’s less-than-enthusiastic response to her class work.

But for the hive project she took charge because he knew, in her opinion, zippity zip about hives, bees, and honey production.

“We’re doing it from the bottom up,” she told him once she had the supplies and tools organized to her standards. “So that’s the hive stand to keep the hive off the ground. We’re going to do an angled landing for the bees.”

She had already measured and cut, so she showed Mallick how to lay a bead of wood glue. And found the scent of it reminded her of her dad.

“We have three hives at home. The first one, my grandmother gave my grandfather the kit and the bees for his birthday the spring before the Doom. The other two I helped Dad build, then the one we built for the ladies at Sisters Farm. They’re not really sisters,” she said as she worked. “They’re witches, really nice, and friends of my mom’s especially.