Where The Heart Lives Read Online Free PDF Page B

this…creature…most
definitely was not.
    “You are trespassing on the
land of the Sidhe ,”
said the woman, her voice strong, ringing. “What say you?”
    “I say no,” replied Lucy
awkwardly, fighting for courage. “You brought me here. So I was invited.”
    A faint smile touched the
woman’s mouth. “You thought you were saving a heart that belongs to me. So you
are a thief. Much worse, I think.”
    Lucy steeled herself. “You’re
talking about Mary. Mary doesn’t belong to you.”
    The stag shook its head and the
bells wept. Lucy thought she heard Mary’s voice within those tones. She closed
her eyes for just a moment, searching. Listening hard, but when she looked
again at the woman, she was gone from the stag.
    A cold hand caressed the back
of Lucy’s neck, and she flinched, whirling. The woman stood before her,
impossibly tall. Her eyes were as green as a spring leaf in morning sun: crisp,
sharp, ageless. She peered at Lucy like she was a snowy owl, and the girl a
mouse, and there was a hunger there that was implacable and terrifying.
    “All that enter the forest
belong to me,” said the woman softly. “And now you, as well.”
    “No,” Lucy said. “I want to go
home.”
    “Home.” The woman smiled. “This
is home.”
    “There are people waiting for
me. For Mary, too.”
    “Mary,” she said quietly. “Mary
betrayed my trust. She tried to fetch help. You. Quite shocking that you were
able to see and hear her. I find that fascinating.”
    Lucy did not. “Let us go. Please.”
    “For what reason?” The witch
smiled, tilting her head. “Shall I tell you a riddle and have you guess the
answer? Or perhaps have you perform three impossible tasks, each more harrowing
than the other. Oh, better still, tell me stories to keep me amused. Be my
fool, my jester of the wood, and perhaps in a year or twenty I will release you.”
    Lucy doubted that. So she said
nothing, instead waiting, watching, refusing to let herself feel a moment lost.
The woman’s smile faltered, just slightly, and that momentary weakness
humanized her presence in ways that made her seem less regal than ridiculous—as
though her shocking appearance was nothing but an attempt to impress, awe, and
intimidate.
    Lucy suddenly felt stronger. “I
won’t beg you. I won’t be a fool.”
    “You already are,” said the
woman darkly. “You are nothing.”
    “No more than you,” Lucy
replied recklessly, following her intuition. Perhaps too well: a cold hand
grabbed her chin with crushing strength, yanking up until she stood on her
toes, forced to look the woman in the eyes.
    “You love,” she whispered
harshly. “I can smell it on you. Should we test that love? Do you truly think
the one your heart cares for would wait? That handsome young man who used to be
mine?”
    “Barnabus,” Lucy said, hoarse.
    “ Barnabus ,”
she hissed. “I raised him long before that old crow sank her claws into his
heart. He was mine . My son , in every way but
one. But that one…he
remembered.”
    “He did not love you.” Lucy
could feel it, see it: a little boy with blue eyes running naked and wild,
engaging with the woman, but never with emotion. Never with affection, or a
smile.
    The woman glanced away, and
then, softly, almost to herself: “He would never call me mother. He refused. And
so I punished him.”
    “You took his voice.”
    “I could not have him calling
another by the name he refused me.”
    “So if someone refuses you, you
hurt them? What good does that do?”
    The woman gave her a sharp
look. “Respect must be shown. I am a queen.”
    “You are a queen who is alone,”
Lucy said, and the woman released her so quickly, she staggered, rubbing her
aching chin.
    The woman—the queen, the Sidhe, whatever that might
be—watched her with cool steady eyes, a gaze Lucy now knew Barnabus copied
well. She met those ageless eyes, letting her thoughts roam, picking up as she
did tendrils of some alternate vision: the woman in her