Get it together. You can break down later. Don’t dump this on him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that it’s still sinking in.”

“I wish you wouldn’t . . .” He trailed off.

“You wish I wouldn’t keep breaking down.”

A long moment of silence. Then, “That wasn’t what I was going to say, Olivia.”

He cleared his throat, as if struggling to find words, and I swore I heard a soft growl of frustration.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Whatever you meant, I—”

“I meant that I wish you wouldn’t apologize for your reactions. I wish that you didn’t feel the need to apologize. But I understand why you do. You are correct. I have little patience with emotional outbursts. Yet sometimes I may convey the impression of impatience when I’m simply frustrated by the awareness that I am . . . not responding . . . in a way . . .”

I felt sparks of friction, of discomfort, as if I were forcing his hand into a tank of electric eels.

I wanted to turn to him, but I was afraid if I did, he’d mistake my smile for mockery. I squeezed my eyes shut, finding the right expression, and—

Gabriel’s hands slid around my waist, pulling me against him, his chest warm and solid, his chin lowering to rest on my head as his arms tightened around me. As I leaned back into him, I kept my eyes closed because I knew if I opened them, I wouldn’t see the garden. I wouldn’t see Gabriel’s arms around me. I’d fallen into a vision.

The arms tightened again, hands finding mine and holding them, calming me. I tried to tell myself it could be Gabriel, that in the right moment, the right environment, the awkwardness and discomfort could fall away and Gabriel could hug me like this.

I still didn’t open my eyes. Not even a crack. Because I knew, in my gut, it wasn’t him.

The arms loosened then, hands still holding mine, tugging me around to face him. Then the hands went around me, sliding up my back, into my hair, his mouth coming down to mine in a perfect kiss, so sweet and warm and all-consuming it pushed everything else from my mind. And if there was any doubt, any at all, it vanished, and I knew this was not Gabriel.

And if it was?

I jumped at the thought, disentangling fast, eyes snapping open to see . . .

The man from my vision, the night of the fever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tall, golden-haired, impossibly handsome. His skin seemed to glow as bright as the sun over his shoulder. We were in a field, long grass swaying in the breeze, a blue butterfly winging past, the distant burble of a stream mingling with soft birdcalls. A perfect summer’s day in a perfect summer’s meadow, and all I could think was, Where’s Gabriel? I heard the words coming from my lips, “Where is he?”

The man stiffened, and in that movement I saw something familiar, but it vanished in a blink. As he opened his mouth to answer, I said, “I need to get back to him.”

“No, you do not.”

“Yes, I—”

“You chose me, Matilda. You said it was me. Always me.”

While I heard anger in his voice, all I saw in his eyes was worry and fear, bordering on panic.

Yes, it’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you. But we need to speak to him. He must know. That’s only right. He’s important. To both of us. You cannot do this to him. We cannot.

I felt the words inside, waiting to be spoken, and he paused for them, like an actor patiently waiting for his cue. In the other vision, it had felt as if I was a spectator, watching from inside the body of another, unable to control her words or deeds. This time, I felt the words, but they simply swirled there, awaiting release.

“Who are you?” I asked instead.

A flicker of confusion. “Who am I?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

His lips lifted in a slow smile. “Making a point, l’annwylyd? All right, then. I’ll play along. I am Gwynn ap Nudd.”

The breeze chilled, sun slipping behind a cloud, and I remembered the little girl, reaching for Gabriel’s hand, and how he’d seemed to sense it and had pulled back with a scowl.

What have they done to you, Gwynn ap Nudd?

I shivered. The man’s hand gripped my elbow, his touch as warm and welcome as the sun in winter.

“Matilda?”

I looked at him, and I remembered the little girl again.

Not reincarnated. Reimagined. Not reborn, but born anew. As he is not Gwynn ap Nudd nor the other Arawn. You are and you are not. You are born to play the roles again.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

The man sighed, his arms going around me. “I know. You’re angry with me for not wanting to tell Arawn. But it is only because I don’t want to distract him from his duties. We’ll tell him soon and he’ll be happy for us, and he’ll dance at our wedding.”

His hands went to the back of my head again, pulling me into a kiss, but I broke free.

“No,” I said. “I won’t do this. I promised.”

His face clouded. “Arawn? You promised—?”

I stepped back, squeezing my eyes shut. “No, I promised I wouldn’t try to find answers. Not tonight.” I took a deep breath. “Gabriel?”

A hand closed on my elbow, and even before I opened my eyes, I knew it still wasn’t him.

“Matilda?”

I looked up at Gwynn and tried to see Gabriel instead, but I couldn’t.

Not reborn. Not reincarnated.