Katie MacAlister: The Art of Stealing Time

My mind was a whirl of frustration and worry. “So, you’re saying that if we found the entrance to Anwyn, you would go there?”

Mom Two looked thoughtful for a moment or two, then raised her eyebrows at my mother. “I would have no objection to visiting there, assuming we would be left to our own devices. Mags?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to spend much time there, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt us to drop in and see it. I have one or two friends who might still be there, and it’s always pleasant to renew old friendships.”

I got all hopeful for about five seconds, then remembered the snag. “We don’t know where the entrance to Anwyn is. Unless one of you knows how to find it?”

“No, but—”

I mused aloud, worrying the problem like a terrier with a chew toy. “I didn’t see a door or anything when I was there and, of course, I died to get there, so it’s not like I just walked through an entrance. Damn. It was such a good idea, too.”

“Gwenny, you did not die—” my mother started to say at the same time Mom Two said, “I think you should look at Mrs. Vanilla’s drawing.”

The first of the fireworks went off, dragging my attention from the offered bit of paper to the sky, then down to my watch. We were fast running out of time. The longer it took me to get the old lady back to her home, the harder it would be for me to explain how I’d found her.

“Later. I’ve got to get moving right now. Stay here, and don’t get into trouble,” I said, grabbing my purse in preparation for heading off to the car park. “I’ll meet you in about ten minutes at the entrance.”

Mom Two straightened up to her full height (about an inch taller than me) and said with injured dignity, “We are not children, Gwenhwyfar. You do not need to speak to us as if we are. Mags, I believe that in view of the evening’s events, we deserve to treat ourselves to an ice cream. You stay here with Mrs. Vanilla, and I’ll fetch us all a cone.”

I bit back the urge to tell them that I would treat them like adults when they stopped indulging in the harebrained (and illegal) plans that threatened to get them banished to the Akasha, or worse, but as I turned around and took a step, I bumped into a large body that had his back to me.

“Whoops. Sorry.” I started to apologize to the man, but stopped when he turned to face me. “Oh, it’s . . . uh . . .”

“You!” he said, a smile spreading over his face, going so far as to touch his eyes. Which, as I remembered, were a remarkably clear shade of topaz blue. “Gwen Byron, right? What a surprise meeting you here. A pleasant surprise.”

I stared at him for a few seconds. He was the man I’d met two days before, the one who had wrestled to the ground—and later arrested—the lawyer who had threatened my mother and, incidentally, tried to throw me over the edge of a cliff to certain death. My mind, annoyingly, went blank at the partial use of my name, but luckily, before I corrected him, I remembered that in my attempt to hide my relationship with my mom, I had given him only my first and middle names.

“Uh . . .” I felt utterly and completely stupid standing there staring at him. I didn’t know his name, but the one thing I knew for certain now filled me with a spike of pure, adrenaline-fueled fear: he was with the Watch, and my mother was not ten feet behind me, chatting pleasantly to her kidnap victim.

Without thinking of the wisdom of my act, I grabbed his arm and walked past him, forcing him to turn so that his back was to Mom. “Hi!” I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a shriek of fear, but my brain didn’t appear to be up to the task of witty banter in the face of danger. “I . . . I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Gregory Faa.” He made a bow, an old-fashioned move that was simply elegant on him. But that was no surprise; everything about him was elegant, from the dark blond hair that swept back off his forehead to his mobile, sensitive mouth and firm chin, right down to the sapphire blue raw-silk shirt and what had to be Italian shoes. He had said something at our only previous meeting about being born in Romania, which went a long way to explain the polished manners. “I had no idea you were still in the area. But then, I had no idea why you ran away from me so quickly the other day.”

I gave him what I hoped was a placid smile, but which I fear turned out to be more of a grimace, and endeavored not to look over his shoulder at the bench where my mother and Mrs. Vanilla sat. Watch members were notoriously sharp and intelligent, and I was certain that he would notice if I kept looking over his shoulder at the bench.

“I was . . . um . . .”

I focused instead on his chin, but that just filled my mind with wholly inappropriate thoughts about biting it, so instead I stared at his left earlobe. An earlobe would be safe to look at. “I was . . . er . . .”

He wore a sapphire stud earring. It glittered darkly in the torchlight, contrasting pleasantly with the hair that curled around the back of his ear. I had the worst urge to run my fingers through his hair, wondering if it was as silky as it looked. I shifted my gaze to his cheek. The faintest hint of golden stubble was visible in the warm light of the torch. “I was . . . erm . . .”

Dammit! What was wrong with me? I was no stranger to the attraction of a handsome man, but neither was I a giddy young thing who couldn’t talk to a good-looking man without wanting to bite his chin and run my hands through his hair and lick his mobile lips.

“Were you, now?” he asked with a little laugh that made the lines around his eyes crinkle up in a way that made my stomach go warm and happy.

“Sorry. I’m an idiot,” I finally said, my brain evidently deciding that I’d had enough time to make a fool out of myself. “Nice to meet you, Gregory. Or do you prefer Greg? Or . . . Rory? That sounds kind of like a long shot, nickname-wise, but sometimes people go that way.”

I was babbling, pure and simple, and for that I blamed him. If he didn’t look so very . . . golden . . . in the torchlight, I could have concentrated and behaved in the manner of a normal human being. In desperation, I dragged my gaze away from the stubble that made my fingertips tingle with the need to touch it.

“‘Gregory’ is fine. Only my cousin Peter calls me Greg, and usually then it’s to tease me.”

A question rose in my mind, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t just pop out of my mouth even though this man, this golden, crinkly-eyed man, was about the most dangerous person I could ever come up against. “Why would calling you Greg be considered teasing?”

“It’s the way he says it,” he answered, smiling again. “He’s around here somewhere with his wife. Perhaps I might introduce you to them.”

Great. Just what I needed—a member of the Watch and his family. A little shudder went through me at the thought of what would happen if Gregory-not-Greg were to turn around and see my mother, the very woman he had been sent out to arrest two days before.

“Sounds lovely,” I lied, and taking his arm, I tugged him in the direction opposite Mom.

A look of surprise flitted across his face for a moment, but he walked next to me docilely enough.

“Are you here for the fireworks?”

“Fireworks?” I asked stupidly, my mind busy wondering how far I could drag him away from the bench before I released him and called my mother to warn her of his presence.

He pointed upward. I looked. A burst of red and silver and green exploded overhead.

“Oh, those. Yeah. We always come to the park for the big festival.”

“‘We’?”

He stopped.

Panic hit me. I moved forward, urging him along with me, needing to put as much space between him and my mother as was humanly possible. “Me. Not we. I meant to say ‘me.’”