A Court of Moss and Moonlight

Chapter 4

"Maeve, stop touching the toaster."

Brynn shoved a pair of black leggings into her leather duffel bag, followed by her heavy toiletries case. "We need to get moving. The sun is going down here, even if it's high noon where you are."

Maeve pulled her finger back from the shiny chrome appliance, looking guilty. She was currently wearing Brynn’s oversized grey university hoodie over her linen dress, marveling at the softness of the cotton blend. "The problem is that you possess a box that creates heat without fire, and you treat it as mundane. Your world is full of lazy magic."

"It’s not magic, it’s coils," Brynn said, zipping the bag shut. She paused, looking at the microwave clock. "Wait."

"What is it?" Maeve asked, abandoning the toaster to poke at the refrigerator door.

"The math," Brynn murmured, tapping her chin. "We’ve been here... what? An hour? We ate the lasagna, I showered, we packed."

"A glorious hour," Maeve agreed.

"But if the rule holds," Brynn said, her eyes widening, "if the time displacement works both ways... then when we step back through that archway, only seven minutes will have passed in your world."

Maeve froze. She looked at the digital clock, then back at the sliding glass door where the snow was falling. A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.

"We have not missed dinner," Maeve whispered. "In fact, we have barely missed a heartbeat. We are not late, Brynn. We are masters of time."

"Exactly. Which means I don't need to text my dad right now. If I'm supposed to be 'camping' and 'off the grid,' I shouldn't be sending updates." Brynn picked up the burner phone, looked at it, and then tossed it onto the kitchen counter. "I'm leaving it. If he tracks it, it’ll show up here at the house, dead and offline. Just like I said it would be."

"Smart," Maeve nodded. "Now, about the wind-box?"

"The hair dryer? Fine. But we need a system."

Brynn ran to the garage and came back with a heavy-duty, waterproof plastic storage bin. "If we're going to be jumping back and forth, I can't keep trekking through the woods in a ballgown, and I can't walk into your manor wearing a North Face parka. We need a stash."

She threw a spare blanket into the bin. "Put the hoodie in there. And grab my boots when we get to the trees."

They bundled up for the hike, Brynn wearing her parka over the sage-green linen dress, Maeve wrapped in the spare wool peacoat. The transition from the warm, regulated air of the house back to the biting Oregon cold was jarring. The snow was falling harder now, blurring the tree line into a smudge of white and grey.

They hiked up the ridge, the plastic bin bumping against Brynn’s hip. When they reached the clearing, the archway stood stoic and silent, the twisted oak and cedar framing the swirling blue haze.

Brynn set the bin down behind a dense cluster of ferns, hidden from the main trail but easily accessible from the portal.

"Okay, strip," Brynn said.

She shed her parka, shivering as the freezing air hit the thin linen of her dress. She folded the coat and placed it in the bin. Maeve added the peacoat.

"My boots," Brynn hesitated, looking at the slushy mud. "If I take them off, I'll freeze my toes off before we jump."

"Keep them," Maeve said, her teeth already chattering. "The dress is long. We will hide them inside. Just... hurry."

They sealed the lid of the box, snapping the locks shut.

"Ready?" Brynn asked.

"To the sun," Maeve nodded, grabbing Brynn’s hand.

They stepped through.

The sensation was different this time. Instead of a drop, it felt like a squeeze. The pressure built in Brynn’s ears, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in her teeth. The colors behind her eyes were darker, indigo and deep maroon.

Then, pop.

They stumbled out onto the lush grass of the Donoghue estate.

Brynn braced herself for darkness, for the evening chill. But when she opened her eyes, the sun was exactly where it had been before. The shadows hadn't moved. The light was still the warm, heavy gold of late afternoon.

"Seven minutes," Brynn breathed, checking her watch. "It worked."

"We are immortal," Maeve declared, throwing her arms out. "Or at least, very efficient. Come, my friend. We must prepare."

They ran across the lawn, Maeve casting the Maya again. The air around them shifted, rippling like water disturbed by a stone, bending the light around their bodies so that to anyone watching, they were nothing more than a trick of the heat haze.

They slipped through the servant's entrance and up the narrow stone stairs to the sanctuary of Maeve's room.

"Okay," Brynn said, dumping her toiletries bag on the velvet chaise. "Hair first."

She pulled out the hair dryer. "Plug this i—oh. Right." She stared at the cord in her hand. "No electricity."

"Give it to me." Maeve grabbed the dryer. She held it in both hands, closing her eyes. "It requires... flow? Current?"

"Energy," Brynn said. "Directed energy."

Maeve took a deep breath. Her hands began to shimmer, the air around her fingers warping as if the heat was rising from her skin. " Prana," she whispered. "Breath of fire."

She blew gently into the back intake vent of the dryer.

The machine didn't roar to life with its usual mechanical whine. Instead, a low, thrumming vibration filled the room, and a steady, concentrated stream of hot air began to flow from the nozzle, propelled by nothing but Maeve’s will.

"It works!" Brynn laughed, turning her head to let Maeve direct the flow.

"It tickles," Maeve giggled, focusing on the nozzle. "It feels like holding a dragon's sneeze."

Ten minutes later, Brynn’s dark hair was dry and tumbled in loose, voluminous waves down her back. Maeve quickly braided a small section on the left side, weaving in a ribbon of green silk to match the sage-green dress.

"There," Maeve said, stepping back. "You look... wild. But noble. Like a storm contained in a bottle."

A heavy gong sounded through the house, the vibration rattling the perfume bottles on the vanity.

"Dinner," Maeve said, her eyes widening. "Perfect timing."

They descended the grand staircase together. Brynn’s hiking boots were hidden beneath the long hem of the dress, but she walked carefully, conscious of the heavy thud they made on the wood compared to Maeve's silent steps.

The dining room was beautiful. A long table of dark, polished mahogany dominated the center, set with silver candelabras that held real, flickering beeswax candles. A fire roared in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the tapestries that lined the walls.

Three people were already seated.

At the head of the table sat a man who could only be Lord Eamon. He was broad-shouldered with a beard the color of iron and salt. He looked weary, swirling a goblet of wine with a distracted air.

To his right was a woman who radiated tension. Lady Orla was thin, bird-like, with hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to pull her eyes upward. She was adjusting the silverware, ensuring the spacing was mathematically perfect.

And at the far end, near the fire, sat an elderly woman. She was tiny, wrapped in layers of wool shawls despite the heat of the room. Her hair was a cloud of white, and her eyes were milky, as if with cataracts, but they tracked Brynn’s movement across the room with unsettling precision.

"You are nearly late, Maeve," Lady Orla said without looking up. "And who is this?"

"Mother, Father," Maeve said, dropping into a curtsy. "This is my cousin, Brynn, from the Northern Isles. She has been traveling the coast and... well, her carriage threw a wheel just outside the village. She arrived just moments ago."

Maeve stepped forward, presenting the forged letter with a flourish. "She brings word from Auntie."

Lord Eamon took the letter. He broke the seal, which Maeve had somehow managed to counterfeit perfectly using candle wax and a signet ring she kept in her jewelry box, and scanned the text.

"Brynn," Lord Eamon rumbled. His voice was deep, like stones grinding together. He looked at Brynn. "I recall your mother. A flighty woman. She wrote poetry about seagulls."

"That sounds like her," Brynn said, keeping her voice low and steady. She tried to adopt the slightly formal cadence Maeve used. "I hope I am not an imposition, My Lord. The road was... unkind. And the cabin we were intended to stay in was ruined by the storms."

Lady Orla stood up, walking around the table to inspect Brynn. She circled her like a shark. She touched the fabric of the linen dress. "This weave is... adequate. But your boots, child." She pointed to the heavy tread of the hiking boots peeking out as Brynn shifted her weight. "Are you planning to scale the castle walls?"

"They are for walking, My Lady," Brynn said. "In the North, the terrain is rugged. We value utility."

"Rugged," Lady Orla sniffed. "Well. Since you are here..." She waved a hand vaguely at a servant standing in the shadows. "Set another place. But do not expect us to delay the courses."

Brynn let out a breath she didn't know she held and took the seat next to Maeve.

"The Northern Isles," the elderly woman spoke. Her voice was like dry leaves skittering on pavement.

Brynn turned to look at Grandmother Oona. The old woman wasn't looking at Brynn’s face. She was looking at Brynn’s chest, right where her heart, and her wolf, resided.

"Yes, Grandmother," Maeve said quickly. "Way up North. Near the ice."

"Interesting," Oona murmured. She picked up a silver spoon and pointed it at Brynn. "Because you do not smell like the sea, girl. You smell of pine. And heavy rain. And... something else."

Oona leaned forward, the firelight catching the milky white of her eyes. "You smell like a wolf who has lost its pack."

Brynn froze. Her hand gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned. Her inner wolf snarled, feeling threatened, rising to the surface. Her eyes flashed amber, just for a second.

Oona saw it. A slow, toothless smile spread across her face.

"Welcome to the table, Brynn," Oona chuckled, returning to her soup. "I suspect you will make this solstice very interesting indeed."

The tension was broken by the sound of heavy hooves on cobblestones outside, followed by the blare of a trumpet.

Lord Eamon dropped his fork. "The Royal Messenger."

Lady Orla gasped, her hands flying to her throat. "At this hour? It must be the decree."

The double doors of the dining room burst open. A man in a livery of deep midnight blue and silver strode in. He did not bow. He held a scroll of velvet and gold.

"By order of High King Ciaran Faolán," the messenger announced, his voice ringing off the stone walls. "The presence of Lord Eamon Donoghue and his family is commanded at the Solstice Masquerade. The King seeks a Queen. And he has decreed that all houses of noble blood and... ancient lineage... must present their eligible daughters."

The messenger’s eyes flicked briefly to Maeve, and then, surprisingly, to Brynn.

"The Ball is in three days," the messenger continued. "The Veil is thinning. The King expects magic."

Lady Orla looked like she might faint from joy. "A Queen," she whispered. "Maeve, sit up straight."

But Brynn wasn't looking at Lady Orla. She was looking at Maeve, whose face had gone pale. And then she looked at Grandmother Oona.

The old woman was watching Brynn again. And she winked.