The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

snatched it, but of course he didn’t. His uncle received the missive instead, snapped open the seal and read. And as he read, his expression went from merry to somber, to contemplative. “Boy, fetch me my writing kit.”

Aidan turned to go, but was caught mid-stride. “Sir?”

“No, no. Just go to Dewhurst yourself.”

That made no sense. “And what should I tell him?”

“Tell him,” said Powell, tearing the letter into pieces, “that I send my regards and my nephew, and if he’s too stupid to figure out the answer for himself, then he deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

Aidan’s sense of dread increased, and he found himself arguing for reasons to remain on the estate that night. “You haven’t had your supper.”

“Cook can deal with it.”

“We had to let Cook go last week.”

“Then Thomas will deal with it.”

“Thomas doesn’t know how to cook.”

That drew the ire out in the old man. Swinging his cane, he drove both Aidan and the courier out the front door, swearing and spitting until, at last, he shut and bolted the door behind the pair of them.

If Aidan didn’t know any better, he would say that his uncle had taken to singing sea shanties behind the closed door. “Well, that was not in character.” He made for the front gate, where he expected to see a saddled horse waiting. When he found none, he turned to the messenger. “You came on foot?”

The man laughed. “’Course I came on foot. A servant’s not worth wasting a steed on.”

“Right.” Aidan was liking this less and less by the moment. But Dewhurst’s manor was not far. Aidan would reach the place within the half hour, provided he was not waylaid by highwaymen.

“Mr. Aidan? You awake?”

Aidan opened his mouth to respond that, yes, he was awake. But instead he turned to the messenger and said the words he knew would seal his destiny: “I’ll take the back road, then. No need to show me the way.”

“All right. I’ve got some business to attend to at the local pub. Just be sure to see yourself in the back door. It’s the staff’s night out, so no one will be there but my master and his missus.”

“Mr. Aidan, you’re dreamin’.” Someone shook his shoulder.

His shoulder had grown cold again, so cold that it prickled and burned. All was dark, and he opened his eyes to find himself full-grown, sitting in a strange inn at the end of a hall, with Slaíne staring down at him.

“Where am I?”

“You was sleepin’, sir. Ought I not have wakened you?”

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, the memory of the dream clinging to the backs of his eyelids. It had seemed so real! Well, it was real; it had, in fact, happened, nigh nineteen years past. He closed his eyes again and pressed his palms against his closed lids. “No, you’re fine. I just – I just was dreaming strange things. Perhaps it is good that you woke…me.” His eyes had popped open and he was staring at someone who was Slaíne and yet was not Slaíne.

Where there had been dirt and muck, there was clean skin the color of milk, never mind a few smatterings of orange freckles that made her look like she was flushed. Her hair, once tangled and matted, was wavier than he had first thought it, and not as auburn. And though she was back in the filthy clothing of a boy, somehow she did not look so masculine.

Idiot, stop staring. Before he could make a total fool of himself, Aidan got to his feet and pretended to see something over her shoulder.

Slaíne’s gaze followed his, curious. A maid wandered past at that moment, giving Aidan the excuse to pay attention to something else. “Excuse me? Miss? What might the hour be?”

The maid gave him a look of utmost contempt. “I reckon it’s about dusk, sir.” She shrugged. “Might be earlier. Might be later.” And with that, she hoisted her broom over her shoulder, turned, and headed down the remainder of the hall.

“Somethin’ wrong, sir?” Slaíne asked.

Yes, something was very wrong. Next time he saw that wretch of a seer, he’d give her a good verbal thrashing, putting Slaíne and him in this situation. What would people think, now that she was so obviously not a boy? Not that she had ever looked like a boy, not really. This could ruin more reputations than one.

“There’s more water, if’n you need,” she offered, her brow crinkled with worry. “Don’t think the water’s all that filthy.”

Aidan nodded. “Right. Well, I just— Oh, for the sake of all, I almost forgot.” With a quick look around, he concentrated for a moment, then Summoned the parcels he had asked her to purchase earlier. If he was to ruin them, he might as well do the job thoroughly.

Slaíne’s eyes popped. “Er, that’s all right.”

“If you don’t want them, perhaps our all-knowing friend might be interested….” The words were scarce out of his mouth before Slaíne snatched the dressmaker’s boxes from him.

She smirked and flushed. “Don’t think these are quite her color.”

Aidan nodded solemnly, his lips twitching in spite of himself. “Of course.”

Slaíne laughed, a forced sound, before turning on her heel and returning to the rented room. The door slammed shut behind her, and Aidan swore he heard the bolt being thrown not long after.

While waiting, he did not sit down this time. He did not wish to return to that strange memory or dream, or whatever it had been. It was at least the third occurrence since the nymph queen stabbed him in the shoulder with that ice-cold blade. The thought of the weapon alone made Aidan shiver and rub the invisible wound.

The creature had inflicted it moments before her death. Were they that spiteful, those creatures of light? She could have struck him to kill, right through the heart, he had been vulnerable to her attack. But it seemed almost as though she had chosen to merely wound him…for what reason, though? The more he