I looked at TC, sitting rigid and unblinking on the other pillow.

“Did you hear that?” I said. “I’m sick. You’re supposed to curl up with me. Cuddle. Purr.”

He lifted a paw and started to clean it. Then he hopped down and strolled from the room, tail high.

“Ingrate,” I called after him. I rolled over to look at Gabriel. “Is Rose downstairs? I really should talk to her.”

“I already did.”

“Oh.” I paused. “How did it go?”

He tensed. “Fine.”

Another pause, longer, then I pushed the words out. “Are you okay?”

I’d hesitated before asking, because this was one of those boundaries. Don’t ask him how he’s feeling. It presumes that he would have an emotional reaction, and, moreover, that he’d deign to share it with me.

So why did I ask? Because every time we drew closer, I had to press my fingers against those boundaries and see if they were still there. See if I’d made any progress.

I got as far as “Are you—” before the wall slammed down. His shoulders stiffened. His gaze cooled. Any hint of emotion emptied from his face.

“Yes, of course,” he said, words clipped.

I slumped back on the pillows.

There’d been a time when I’d imagined how many women over the years must have thought they’d be the one to break through Gabriel’s wall, and I’d decided I would never be so foolish.

Respect his boundaries. Don’t test them. Accept this relationship for what it is, because hoping for more is like hoping for that damned cat to race in here, cuddle up, and start purring.

I was closing my eyes when the door clicked, and my gut dropped, and I hated it for dropping, hated myself for reacting to him walking out.

The faint creak of chair springs made me jump. I rolled over to see Gabriel there again. The door was closed.

“I don’t think she knew exactly what Cainsville was,” he said, his voice low. “I may be deluding myself in that. I think . . .” He cocked his head as if searching for phrasing. “I believe she understood at some level but never articulated it.”

“Which is why she was always joking about fairies and hobgoblins and wards.”

He nodded. “She wants to talk to us about your vision. I’ll bring you breakfast, and we’ll talk.”

“No, I’ll come down,” I said. I peeled back the covers and a wave of dizziness made my gorge rise.

Gabriel pulled up the covers. “Dr. Webster said the fever will drain you for a few days. Either you stay in bed or you go to the hospital—”

I tugged the sheets to my chin.

A brief smile. “I thought so. I’ll bring Rose and food.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

This Tristan called you Mallt-y-Nos,” Rose said as we settled in. “You dreamed that you were a young woman named Matilda—”

“No, she wasn’t me. I was inside her.”

“All right. Mallt-y-Nos is, not surprisingly, a figure in Welsh folklore. Otherwise known as Matilda of the Night, or Matilda the Crone.”

“Crone, huh? That’s flattering.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer the other translations? Night Curse. Night Fiend. Night Hag.”

“And the story with Matilda is . . . ?”

“She’s associated with the Wild Hunt, again not surprisingly. She’s the only woman who rides with them. In some stories, she leads them. The Hunt rides in pursuit of the recently dead, and if she captures a soul, it goes to the Otherworld. If she fails, it has a chance to pass to heaven.”

“So the Otherworld is hell?”

“That’s a late interpretation. Post-Christian, obviously. In the early stories, the Otherworld is merely the afterlife, undifferentiated, as in many pagan religions. In those older tales, I would presume Matilda just captures them and sends them on their way.”

“Like the grim reaper on horseback. In those versions, then, the Hunt chases spirits, not the living.”

“Sometimes. Other times, they hunt those not yet dead, those who may deserve death. Matilda sets the hounds on them, and they rip the victim limb from limb, and she seizes the soul.”

“Lovely. So my vision has nothing to do with the story, then. Except for the hunt aspect.”

“No, that part, I believe, relates back to Matilda’s origin legend. One version says she was a beautiful noblewoman who loved to hunt. She declared that if there was no hunting in heaven, she did not wish to go there.”

“And so, on her death, she was doomed to hunt forever.”

Rose smiled. “You’re good at this.”

“Legends. So predictable. That’s not quite what I saw . . .”

“The other story is that Matilda was due to wed, and her husband disapproved of her hunting, so she promised never to go again after they were married. But she snuck out. He caught her and doomed her—”

“To ride forever,” I finished.

“And, yes, again, not what you saw but rather a variation on it. In your vision, you—or Matilda—were to wed a fae king or prince.” She paused. “Did you hear his name?”

“I . . . don’t think so.” Some faint memory twitched. Had I heard names? Other than Matilda? I couldn’t remember.

“All right,” Rose said. “So Matilda was to wed this man, but she could not resist the call of the Wild Hunt, despite a vow never to join it again. In making that impulsive decision, the fae realm was closed to Matilda forever. Given what you’ve said of Cainsville and what’s happened to you, that has its parallels here.”

“Two sides wooing me. I must choose one. Despite the fact that I have no goddamned idea why they want me.”

“Mallt-y-Nos,” she said. “Mallt-y-Dydd. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Day. Those are your options.”

“When you put it like that . . . it still doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll keep looking. Though I don’t know how much more I’ll find that will be useful. Folklore is a way of explaining the inexplicable. It’s humans guessing at the mysteries of the unknown. If there’s a true story, it’s not going to be in my books.”

I glanced over at Gabriel. He’d been silent during the discussion. Now his brows arched as if to say, Don’t ask me. I’m as confused as you are.