“Will we ever stop running, do you think?” Her voice startled him.
Gallowglass didn’t know the answer and couldn’t bear to lie to her. He remained silent.
Diana buried her face in her hands.
“There, there.” He rocked her against his chest. “You mustn’t think the worst, Auntie. It’s not like you.”
“I’m just so tired, Gallowglass.”
“With good reason. Between past and present, you’ve had a hell of a year.” Gallowglass tucked her head under his chin. She might be Matthew’s lion, but even lions had to close their eyes and rest occasionally.
“Is that Corra?” Diana’s fingers traced the outlines of the firedrake on his forearm. Gallowglass shivered. “Where does her tail go?”
She lifted his sleeve before he could stop her. Her eyes widened.
“You weren’t meant to see that,” Gallowglass said. He released her and tugged the soft fabric back into place.
“Show me.”
“Auntie, I think it’s best—”
“Show me,” Diana repeated. “Please.”
He grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. His tattoos told a complicated tale, but only a few chapters would be of interest to Matthew’s wife. Diana’s hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, Gallowglass.”
A siren sat on a rock above his heart, her arm extended so that her hand reached over to his left bicep. She held a clutch of cords. The cords snaked down his arm, falling and twisting to become Corra’s sinuous tail, which swirled around his elbow until it met with the firedrake’s body.
The siren had Diana’s face.
“You’re a hard woman to find, but you’re an even harder one to forget.” Gallowglass pulled his shirt back over his head.
“How long?” Diana’s eyes were blue with regret and sympathy.
“Four months.” He didn’t tell her that it was the latest in a series of similar images that had been inked over his heart. “That’s not what I meant,” Diana said softly.
“Oh.” Gallowglass stared between his knees at the carpeted floor. “Four hundred years. More or less.”
“I’m so sor—”
“I won’t have you feeling sorry for something you couldn’t prevent,” Gallowglass said, silencing her with a slash of his hand. “I knew you could never be mine. It didn’t matter.”
“Before I was Matthew’s, I was yours,” Diana said simply.
“Only because I was watching you grow into Matthew’s wife,” he said roughly. “Granddad always did have an unholy ability to give us jobs we could neither refuse nor perform without losing some piece of our souls.” Gallowglass took a deep, breath.
“Until I saw the newspaper story about Lady Pembroke’s laboratory book,” he continued, “a small part of me hoped fate might have another surprise up her sleeve. I wondered if you might come back different, or without Matthew, or without loving him as much as he loves you.”
Diana listened without saying a word.
“So I went to Sept-Tours to wait for you, like I promised Granddad I would. Emily and Sarah were always going on about the changes your timewalking might have wrought. Miniatures and telescopes are one thing. But there was only ever one man for you, Diana. And God knows there was only ever one woman for Matthew.”
“It’s strange to hear you say my name,” Diana said softly.
“So long as I call you Auntie, I never forget who really owns your heart,” Gallowglass said gruffly.
“Philippe shouldn’t have expected you to watch over me. It was cruel,” she said.
“No crueler than what Philippe expected from you,” Gallowglass replied. “And far less so than what Granddad demanded of himself.”
Seeing her confusion, Gallowglass continued.
“Philippe always put his own needs last,” Gallowglass said. “Vampires are creatures ruled by their desire, with instincts for self-preservation that are much stronger than any warmblood’s. But Philippe was never like the rest of us. It broke his heart every time Granny got restless and went away. Then I didn’t understand why Ysabeau felt it necessary to leave. Now that I’ve heard her tale, I think Philippe’s love frightened her. It was so deep and selfless that Granny simply couldn’t trust it—not after what her sire put her through. Part of her was always braced for Philippe to turn on her, to demand something for himself that she couldn’t give.”
“Ysabeau said it was Philippe who sent her away.”
“Only once or twice,” Gallowglass said. “Mostly it was Ysabeau’s choice. Whenever I see Matthew struggle to give you the freedom you need—to let you do something without him that you think is minor but that is an agony of worrying and waiting for him—it reminds me of Philippe.”
“What are we going to do now?” She didn’t mean when