Copper Veins (11 page)

The crone's eye widened—I'd actually shocked her. “I don't believe it,” she murmured. “A Corbeau would never sink to dabbling with such forces.”

“He had to. It was war,” I said. “Is there any way to restore his memories?”

“There is, but the price for restoring them is as dear
as the memories themselves.” She leaned forward. “Do not forget, dearie, you already owe me. Careful you don't amass more debts than you can pay.”

Micah, who had been wandering about the crowded shop, was at my side in an instant. “Watch your tongue, old woman,” he growled. “Sara owes nothing.”

“Um.” I touched Micah's hand, and his furious gaze slid to meet mine. “I kind of do.”

Micah's eyes narrowed. “My wife's debts are my own,” he proclaimed. “What does she owe?”

The crone cackled. “Shall I tell him, dearie? Or would you like the pleasure?”

I looked at the floor and wondered if I could dig a hole and hide in it, and if, once Micah heard my answer, he would want me to stay there. “Anything.”

“What?” Micah slid a long finger along my jaw, and tilted my chin up. “Please, love, repeat that.”

“Anything.” I took a deep breath, and continued, “I told her I would owe her anything.”

Micah dropped his hand from my chin, his back straightening. “When are you planning to collect?” he asked the crone, his gaze never leaving me.

“Not today, and probably not tomorrow,” she replied. “But I fully intend to do so.”

At that, Micah bid her a good day, grabbed my elbow, and hauled me out of the apothecary. Others stared at the sight of the Lord of Silver dragging his wife down the village streets, but no one was foolish
enough to get in his way. I was the only fool there.

Once we reached the metal pathway, Micah threw us into the silver, I assumed so we could quickly return home. Instead of the smooth, straight ride to the manor I was used to, Micah took a hard turn, so hard that I had to grab onto his shirt or risk being flung from the metal. The rest of the journey was like driving down an unpaved road in a car without shocks, so rough I felt my teeth rattle in my head. When we finally stopped, we were standing in the middle of a green meadow. The tranquil scenery did little to alter Micah's mood.

“Where are we?” I asked, wobbling as my legs adjusted to being still. “Why didn't—”

“How could you do such a thing?” Micah yelled. “Of all the foolish things you could have done, owing a debt to the crone is arguably the worst!”

Ah. Micah had taken us to the middle of nowhere so he could bellow at me at the top of his lungs without risk of being overheard. If he kept yelling like that he was going to blow out my eardrums. I was almost hopeful at that thought—at least then I wouldn't be able to hear him.

I sunk to my knees, watching as Micah stalked around the field, yelling and flailing his arms. I hadn't seen Micah this mad since the time Max led a gang of iron warriors to the manor, and Micah had crumpled them up like so much used newspaper. While I was used to people being mad at my brother, Micah had
never been this mad at me.

“Well?” My head snapped up, and I saw Micah towering over me.

“Well, what?” I countered. Micah's nostrils flared—I should have paid more attention to the yelling.

“What reason did you have to do this?” he demanded. I opened my mouth, but he kept going. “Did you wish for that vile black brew you crave? Or for a journey to the Mundane realm to see that man? Or perhaps this was all over one of those hooded jerkins you insist upon wearing?”

“If you would let me speak—”

“Yes, wife, please speak and explain why you went to that…that
hag
when I could give you whatever you desire?”

“Was I supposed to just let you die?” I shouted, leaping to my feet. “It took me forever to dig you out, and then you were so cold and I couldn't wake you up and I didn't know what to do…I called for the silverkin to help but then she was just there…”

Micah went very still. “You dug me out?”

“Yes!” I wailed. “I felt like I was dragging you out of your grave.” I covered my face with my hands and turned my back to him. After a moment, I felt his hands on my shoulders.

“I…I have no recollection of being buried.”

“Well, you were.” I sniffed and wiped my eyes.

Micah's thumbs rubbed little circles under my shoulder blades. “This was after the Goblin Market?”

“Yes. After Stoney created those mini-volcanoes, you threw me behind you. I think I hit my head—anyway, I passed out. When I woke up, you were buried under piles and piles of stone and ash. Gods, Micah, you looked like a corpse.” The words caught in my throat, and Micah's arms slid around my waist. “Then she was there, and I asked her for help. She said I'd owe her, but I didn't care.” He turned me around then, his silver eyes searching mine. “I told her I would owe her anything, as long she told me how to save you.”

Micah's eyes widened, but I babbled on, “And you know what? I don't care if you're mad at me. I. Don't. Care! I'd owe her everything, forever, if—”

Micah kissed me then, like a man starved, startling me so much that for a moment I didn't kiss him back. Then my arms slid around his neck, and my tears slowed, though they didn't stop. The memory of Micah almost dying was still too fresh, too painful.

“Sara, forgive me,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against mine. “I truly did not know. I recall throwing my silver at Greymalkin, and my next memory is of waking in the silver cairn with you.”

“I'm glad you don't remember,” I said. “I wish I didn't remember, but I will never forget. And,” I added, clutching his shirt in my hand, “I'm still not sorry, not one bit.”

“No, I am the one who is sorry,” Micah murmured. “I should not have lost my temper and shouted at
you. I should have let you speak. And when we fought before, about your father…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Please forgive me for being such a terrible husband.”

“How would I know if you're terrible? You're the best husband I've ever had,” I quipped.

“The only one you'll ever have,” he said, before kissing me again. “When she said that you owed her a debt—”

“Hush,” I said, placing my fingers on his lips. “It wasn't my finest moment. Still, I'd do it all again.”

He smiled and nipped at my fingers until I let him speak. “And when she calls for what you owe, we shall pay it together.”

We held each other a bit longer, and then I tugged him toward the metal pathway. “Let's go home,” I said. “I bet you have a sore throat after all that yelling. I'll make you some tea. With honey,” I added. Micah's eyes lit up—he loved honey. Sometimes, it even made it into his tea. Hopefully, none of this honey would.

Micah caressed my cheek. “Gods, I do love you so.” With that, we went home.

Just as I'd suspected, Micah didn't last too long after we returned. By the time the silverkin had brought up the requested tea, he was out like a light, all that honey languishing in its jar.

I stayed in bed with Micah for a time, but I was wide awake and restless. Since I didn't want my fidgeting to wake him, I rose and made my way to the kitchen. I found Dad, Max, and Sadie seated at the table. Interestingly, Sadie didn't appear nearly as freaked out as the last time I'd seen her, and I hoped that the two of them had talked some sense into her.

“Dad just had a great idea,” Sadie said without preamble.

“Oh?” I asked. “Tell me all about it.”

Dad leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his
eye. “Do you remember when I used to take you all to the lake?”

The lake…yes, I remembered the summer days spent at Moose Lake. Hot days, icy cold water, and a tire swing with a rope as old as the trees themselves. Dad hadn't forgotten everything, then. “I do remember,” I murmured.

“Since Sadie needs some time to think, why don't we go there?” he continued. “We can all relax a bit and talk about things objectively.”

I resisted the urge to point out that it might be best if we stayed in the Otherworld. Sadie, and possibly the rest of us, needed to spend some serious time groveling at Oriana's golden feet or risk being labeled traitors.

But we'd need Micah to lead those “negotiations.” And Micah was beyond exhaustion—as a good wife, I needed to let him rest. And I did miss those summer days spent at Moose Lake—some of my best memories were of those lazy afternoons with my family. Really, what harm could a few hours of relaxation cause?

“I'll tell Shep where we're going in case Micah wakes up before we get back,” I said. Dad sighed. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

I opened my mouth to insist that yes, letting my husband know I'd be in a different realm for a while would definitely be a good idea, but he pushed on. “Sara… I know we aren't doing the best job of getting along, Micah and I. I don't want to provoke him, and
he might see this trip as…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

“As what?” I urged. Max and Sadie looked at each other, unsure.

He shrugged. “As a way of keeping you away from him,” he finished. “Convincing you to help me in the Mundane realm instead of listening to him. You know I would never make you do anything you didn't want to do, Sara, but I don't think he understands. We're family. You're my daughter. You can make your own choices.”

Max nodded. “Agreed. Don't get me wrong, I like Micah. But he doesn't control you.”

I turned to Sadie, and the expression on her face was one of complete trust, not just in me, but in Max and Dad, too. They were right. Micah would probably think the worst, and I'd made my decision to stand by my dad's plans whether Micah approved or not. We were just going to the lake to help Sadie, and maybe experience some much-needed family bonding with our recently returned father. We'd be back before he realized we were gone.

“All right,” I said, smiling at the thought of us and dad at the lake again like old times. “When do we leave?”

Even though I hadn't set foot on its shores for
years, Moose Lake was exactly as I remembered. The forest crowded close to the lake's edge while sunlight sparkled across the water, reflecting onto the surrounding trees like little dancing pixies. The battered picnic table that had once occupied the small beach was gone, but the fire pit and the listing dock were the same as ever. A lone tire still hung from a frayed rope, dangling far enough over the water that Mom had forbidden us from using it, and shrieked like a banshee whenever we managed to sneak in a few swings.

Once Dad and Max had settled themselves on the dock with Sadie and me sitting on the shore, we began reminiscing about the times we'd spent at the lake before the war had shattered our lives. After a few minutes, it was evident that Dad's memory was just as battered as the props.

“So tell me about your favorite lake memories,” Dad said, taking a seat beside Max. Max had removed his shoes and socks and was dangling his feet in the water. “Was it swimming? I bet you all loved the water.”

“Nah,” Max replied. “Mom's fried chicken was, without a doubt, the best part of any and every family outing.”

Dad laughed a bit nervously, then he continued. “But you must have enjoyed being out of doors here.”

“We were always out of doors,” Sadie said from her seat on the shore as she absently yanked up stones
and other debris. “In the yard, the woods, whatever. But Mom always needed a reason to cook, and a day trip was her favorite excuse. And the only meal she was any good at was fried chicken and potatoes.”

We laughed, only to be blanketed in an uneasy silence. After Dad and I explained his memory problems to her, she told us she needed to be alone and headed straight for the makeshift
brugh
. Dad grudgingly said we should let her be, and I agreed, but it still hurt that she wasn't with us.

“Remember the time she made Beef Wellington?” I asked, hoping to lighten the dour mood. Dad blinked, signifying that that was yet another sacrificed memory, but Max and Sadie both wrinkled their noses.

Sadie had named the incident the Great Meat Failure, and it had occurred on one of those weekends when Mom was in the mood to make a full Sunday dinner, appetizers and desserts included. Mom had spent hours rolling out puff pastry and sautéing mushrooms and garlic, and had lovingly wrapped the ingredients around the roast before she popped it in a hot oven. However, it hadn't occurred to her to cook the beef before she wrapped it in pastry. Our dinner had been a mess of bloody meat and burnt bread.

We shared that and other war stories from Mom's kitchen, laughing at her fallen cakes and her green eggs, and no, those eggs weren't an attempt at Seussian cuisine, and no, we never knew what calamity had caused their sickly pallor. The best part about Mom's
kitchen misadventures was that she always laughed with us, no matter how badly dinner had turned out.