She smiled at him strangely, and he felt an internal tug of magic—as if a look was all it took for her to know everything about him.
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Connor barely slept that night.
Upon seeing Connor at the top of the landing, gawking at the mysterious young woman and the large stranger, Mother had dashed up the stairs and chased him into his bedroom. As if he were a child. He covered his face with his hands just thinking about it. He probably looked like a child, running away from his short but fierce mother, back to the safety of his bedroom.
He lay awake listening. In hushed tones, they shooed Fingal out of the house. Connor peeked out the window, watching Fingal’s dark shape trudge into the rain and head south. Where was he going? He’d climbed back into bed and stiffened as there was more activity on the stairs. Mother spoke in harsh whispers to the mysterious half fae, who barely said a word as the guest bedroom door across from his room creaked open and then shut again.
Then, his parents headed back to their bedroom, down the hallway—and Connor’s drowsy mind swam through a torrent of questions. He dreamt he’d entered his parents’ bedroom to demand answers, but it wasn’t their bedroom, it was an endless sea of darkness, and the smell of fresh roses was all around him, so sickeningly strong that his nose hairs twitched and he nearly gagged.
He woke just after sunrise, as the long orange rays permeated the window pane. He sat up wearily. Across the hall, he heard the guest room door open, and the soft padding of bare feet on the wooden floor. She was awake. He listened to her descend the stairs, and then threw himself out of bed, determined.
If he could catch her alone, without his parents interfering, maybe he could get some answers. Like why she’s a fugitive. Why he’d never heard of Fingal before. Why she only had half a wing…..
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