Free Ivy's Choice (The Fey Quartet Book 3) by Emily Larkin Page A

grudgingly returned. Nighttime. His father’s work chamber. Aleyn.
    “What happened?” Hugh whispered. His voice was hoarse, his throat painfully raw. I’ve been screaming again .
    His father’s head jerked up. “Hugh!” He pushed hastily off his stool and leaned over the bed and gathered Hugh in his arms as if he were a child again. “Son . . . Oh, gods, son .”
    Hugh tried to return the hug, but his arms had no strength in them.
    His father laid him carefully back on the bed and returned to the stool, wiping moisture from his eyes. “I began to fear you’d never wake.”
    “What happened?” Hugh whispered again.
    His father grimaced and looked away and rubbed one hand over his face, making the stubble rasp. “When Aleyn died, you changed into a roebuck again, and then back into yourself, and then into a roebuck . . . A dozen times at least. Gods, you were screaming! Woke the whole manor. You fainted before it ended, else you’d have woken the whole vale. I thought you were dying . . .” Guy Dappleward swallowed, and rubbed his face again.
    “I’m fine,” Hugh whispered hoarsely. He found the strength to untangle one arm from his bedclothes and reach out and take his father’s hand.
    “When your mother died, I felt helpless,” his father said, in a low voice. “But this was a thousand times worse. You were in such pain and there was nothing I could d o— ” His voice cracked. He swallowed again, hard.
    Hugh tightened his grip on his father’s hand. “Father, I’m unharmed.”
    His father reached out and stroked the hair back from Hugh’s brow, as if he were six years old, not twenty-six. “Thanks be to the gods—and Widow Miller’s daughters.”
    Ivy .
    Hugh let go of his father’s hand and tried to raise himself up on one elbow. “Father, I have to go to Dapple Bend. I need to speak with Ivy Miller.”
    “Not today.” His father pushed him gently back down onto the mattress. “Not for several days. You’re as weak as a newborn kitten. You’d fall right off your horse.”
    “But I have to see Ivy Miller!”
    “You shall. And so shall I. I need to thank those girls personally.” Guy Dappleward stood, tall and lean, and bent over the bed and stroked Hugh’s hair again and kissed his brow. “I’m glad to have you back, son. More glad than I have words for.” And then he straightened and cleared his throat, and blinked several times, and said, “I’ll fetch you some broth. And tell Tam and Cadoc you’re awake. They’re desperate to see you, been haunting this room all day.”
     

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    IVY’S TWENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY dawned clear. She packed bread and cheese into a basket, and her sewing. “I’m going to the bluebell dell,” she told Hazel. “To wait for her.”
    “I’ll carry the basket.”
    “She won’t come if you’re with me. She only came when you and Larkspur were alone.”
    “I’ll carry the basket and then leave.” Hazel’s tone brooked no protest. “It’s hard for you with the crutch, carrying something.”
    And it always will be.
    The words echoed in the small room, as if they’d been spoken aloud. Or was she the only one who thought them?
    No, Hazel’s lips were compressed; she was thinking the same thing.
    “I shall be glad to have Larkspur back,” Ivy said, turning away and limping to the door. “And Bess and Bartlemay. The cottage is so empty without them.” It would be even emptier soon. Hazel would be gone, married to Tam.
    Tam, whose brother was Hugh. No, don’t think about Hugh, either, Ivy told herself as she hobbled over the doorstep.
    They crossed the meadow and entered the trees. Glade Forest was cool, green, quiet. At the bluebell dell, Hazel set down the basket and hugged Ivy. “I love you,” she said, her voice tight, as if she was trying not to cry, and then she released Ivy and turned and ran back along the path.
    Ivy lowered herself awkwardly to sit. She unpacked her sewing, threaded the needle, and bent her