Summer by Sarah Remy

Author:Sarah Remy [Remy, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Madison Place Press
Published: 2015-06-01T06:00:00+00:00

Nightingale made itself comfortable in Malachi’s study. Siobahn stood on the threshold and watched as the creature wandered her husband’s bookshelves, scraping a long finger across stamped spines, stopping here and there to examine one of Malachi’s small keepsakes or a framed photo.

She’d given Bran Healy a fine fright and she hoped he’d take his horror back with him to Katherine’s bosom. The truth of Nightingale was somewhat less terrifying, if only one realized that Angus’ living weapon was a finely crafted work of art, perfectly capable ofkeeping its destructive abilities contained. Central Park had survived Nightingale’s presence for centuries, just as tourists and bustling natives had survived its walk down 64th street and through the hotel lobby.

“I’ve had a wee bit of practice,” it said now, reading Siobahn’s face rather than her private thoughts. “Living amongst mortals. Not one sparrow falls to my touch that I don’t take time to grieve.” Its lush mouth twisted into a toothy, pink-tongued grin.

Siobahn wasn’t amused. “Stay here until I’ve need for you.” She paused, struck by sudden uncomfortable doubt. “Do you require sustenance?” She couldn’t recall and the realization made her shift uneasily on the edge of Malachi’s study.

Its skeletal hands paused, hovered in front of a book-laden shelf, then gently plucked a framed portrait from its place between spines. Nightingale brushed away a thin layer of dust. Summer and Winter looked back at it through the glass, young faces frozen in time. Nightingale studied the photo thoughtfully, a faint frown settling above human eyes.

“Tea,” it said after a moment. “Good English tea. It’s been a very long time since I’ve tasted English tea. Also, music. Any sort of music. I’m not picky. A pen and paper with which to scribe.”

Siobahn almost bowed. She stopped herself just in time.

“As you wish, Nightingale. I’ll have Morris see to it.”

She turned away, then hesitated, reluctant to lock her latest triumph away. Katherine Grey, she thought, should be cowering by now in her Central Park lair, rethinking her rebellion.

“My father called you by your given name,” she said as another old memory teased. “When I was a child. You sang whilst he played fidchell in the garden, and recited the old ballads, and he called you…” She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, tried to recall. After, Malachi had always called it only by its title, but Malachi had always been plagued by superstition. But, before—

“Alexander.” It gave the photograph of her children one final dusting, then set it back in place on the bookshelf. Black mist swirled between Nightingale’s bare toes as it wandered on, insubstantial black fog wrapped like a cloak across its shoulders. “Alex, if he was pleased. But I’ve learned to prefer the title earned at Court, Majesty. Nightingale will do.”

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