Visions (Cainsville #2)(117)

A pause. Then, “Perhaps. If I can.” He met my gaze. “You understand that, I hope, Olivia. There are things I cannot do. Things I cannot tell you.”

“Whatever. For now, I have a hypothetical about the changelings, to help me figure out what’s going on, why a girl died and why I’m being targeted in relation to that death.”

“By this Tristan? If you tell me more about him, I might be able to help.”

“Gabriel and I will handle him. For now, hypothetically, if babies were being switched, babies that are connected to a small town populated by fairies—”

“Tylwyth Teg. Hypothetically.”

“What? The word ‘fairies’ offends you?”

“Hypothetically. Fae if you must.”

“Fine. So these babies get switched. Why?”

He seemed to consider this, and I was bracing for him to refuse to answer when he said, “Take a look at the families involved. What do you see?”

“Well, the children don’t resemble the parents—”

“Look deeper, Olivia. There is a very marked difference in the families.”

“They come from different sides of the track, so to speak. One is upper-middle-class. The other is lower. The income level—”

“Deeper.”

I considered. “The Conways are solid citizens. Well educated, no trouble with the law, and so on. The Shaws are none of the above. Criminal records. Addictions. A family with deep-rooted problems.”

“Hmm.”

“And the point is? So you took—”

“I did nothing.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically or not, I did nothing.”

“Fine. So someone takes a girl from a good family and switches her—”

“Reverse the situation.”

“Someone takes a girl from a troubled family and—” I looked up sharply. “And gives her a better chance.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why would—?” I stopped myself. “Because she’s the one who matters. The girl born to the Shaws, who grew up as Ciara Conway.”

To collect my thoughts, I got up and walked to the fence. I absently rubbed one of the chimeras, and when I did, I imagined the shrieks of children, delighted shrieks, and even if I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, I felt what a parent must feel, that burst of pleasure and of pride and of something else—the instinct to keep their children happy, to keep them safe, to mow down every obstacle in their path to do it.

When I looked out again, I saw something on the grass, glowing in the moonlight. A ring of mushrooms.

A fairy ring.

I opened the gate.

“Olivia?” Patrick called.

I ignored him and walked to the ring and knelt beside it. Mushrooms, perfectly arranged in a circle. No, not quite perfectly—there were a few stray ones in the middle. Small ones, lost in the grass. Protected within the circle.

I reached to touch one . . . and the ring vanished. Gone in a blink, because it had never been there. It was a vision, a nudge in the direction I already knew was correct.

Patrick stood outside the gate, watching me.

“They’re your children,” I said. “Fae children. They’re Tylwyth Teg.”

“Not Tylwyth—”

“Partly,” I said. “You built this place. Cainsville is yours. Yet not quite. Not at first. There were other settlers. Humans. You needed that to be accepted as a community. But the danger of allowing others into your sanctuary is that they outnumber you. When a native population is in danger of being engulfed by the newcomers, their best choice for survival is co-breeding.”

Patrick moved aside to let me back into the park. I sat on the bench. He stayed where he was, facing me.

“Depending on the subtype, the descendants inherit both gifts and curses,” I said. “Sometimes more one than the other. A hobgoblin, for example, might bestow on his children a knack for mischief and trouble, one that could serve them well in life . . . or see them serving a life sentence in prison. Every now and then, when things get too badly out of hand, action must be taken to safeguard the children. Take one from a troubled family and give her a better chance in life. Switch her into a family untainted by the blood but with ties to Cainsville, a family that the Tylwyth Teg can be certain will give their descendant the best possible chance at life.” I looked up at Patrick. “Is that a reasonable theory? Hypothetically speaking?”

“Adjacent to reasonable,” he said. “Hypothetically speaking. Was that your question, then?”

“No. The question is more specific and more personal.” I rose and took a step toward him. “What are you to Gabriel?”

His lips twitched, and in that familiar ghost of a smile I saw my answer. I’d always seen my answer. But I asked the question again, and he said, “I believe the solution to that mystery lies in your hypothetical, Olivia.”

“The Walsh family is descended from your kind. Well, Tylwyth Teg, that is. And it’s more complicated than a single ancestor from a single type. The Walshes are gifted. The Walshes are royally f*cked up. Some one or the other. Some both. That’s not the result of a single hobgoblin screwing a Walsh girl two hundred years ago. It’s more complicated than that. And with Gabriel, it’s much more complicated, because the screwing happened relatively recently. About thirty years ago, I’d guess.”