Chapter 3 — **Chapter 2**

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The road to Avelar House snaked through the Perthshire hills, more tortuous than the path to Murray Smithworks. It climbed out of town, dipping and rising over rugged slopes, crossing murmuring creeks, and threading through forested folds in the landscape. Under the canopy, dappled light flickered like ripples on water, a tapestry of green and grey pierced by fleeting glimpses of a red roof or a cluster of wild yellow flowers clinging to life. Yet, as Elowen drove her rental car along the narrowing track, an odd shimmer caught her eye—a fleeting glow in the forest depths, gone before she could blink. It reminded her of something Thorne had once said, a half-joking murmur about “the other side” of the woods. She shook off the thought, but her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

At the hotel, the lady at the front desk had been disappointed Elowen was checking out early but brightened when asked for directions to “the auld house” tied to Gareth Murray’s address. After grabbing a coffee from the café down the street, Elowen set off, her stomach fluttering at the thought of seeing Thorne after a month of silence—a month since he’d missed their planned trip to the coast, leaving her with nothing but unanswered calls and a hollow ache. What if he was truly fine? What would she say? What could he possibly say to explain the void? Anger, confusion, and hurt churned within her, but worry drowned them all. If Thorne had chosen to end things, why no reason, no message? He’d turned off his phone, vanished from contact, though she wasn’t hiding. A note could have been sent. Instead, she’d received Gareth’s cryptic message, scribbled in blunt haste: “Come to Avelar if you must know about Thorne.” It had trembled in her hand for hours before she’d booked the rental car, its weight more question than answer.

The road wavered over a narrow bridge, squeezed by towering trees, deepening the shade. Sunlight broke through the clouds, casting fleeting patterns on the ground. She reached a wrought iron gate, ajar, with a sign dangling from it: *Avelar House*. “This is it,” she murmured, guiding the car through. The cobbled driveway curved into dense woods, flanked by ancient stone walls. The deeper she drove, the more Kiersten’s words echoed— if this was Thorne’s family land, the Murrays held a vast swath in a small country.

Beyond a stone archway with matching iron gates, the road opened into a sprawling courtyard. At its heart loomed a massive manor, framed by twin round towers piercing the sky, their steep roofs dappled with mossy tiles. The light brown stone glowed with a faint pink hue in the morning light. Behind it, across a lush meadow, a grey stone castle rose, its narrow turrets silhouetted against a distant hill where another ruin peered through the trees. Elowen stopped the car, her breath catching. “My God,” she whispered, hands still on the wheel, the sheer scale of it pressing against her chest. Awe mingled with intimidation—this was Thorne’s world, so far from the quiet bookshops they’d haunted together. A flicker of self-doubt crept in; what if she didn’t belong here, chasing a man who’d seemingly fled her? Yet the memory of his smile, warm as sunlight through fog, spurred her on. She had to know.

She parked beside a red compact sedan, two weathered Range Rovers, and a pickup truck with a tarp over its bed. Grabbing her purse but leaving her suitcase—making no assumptions about staying—she crossed the gravel courtyard, boots crunching, toward the smallest door on the side of the manor. It seemed the most likely to yield a response. She knocked, hesitating as the echo faded.

Moments later, laughter spilled from within, and the door swung open. A cheerful woman in her late forties or early fifties peered out, brown curls held back by a headband, an apron tied around her waist. “Can I help ye?” she asked, eyes narrowing with a thick Scottish brogue. “Are ye after a tour or some such?”

“Hi. I might be at the wrong place.” Elowen glanced around, unsure of Gareth’s car. “I’m looking for Gareth Murray. Or Thorne Murray, if he’s here?”

The woman tilted her head, a flicker of something—unease?—crossing her face. “Right, Thorne, is it?” Her tone held a guarded edge. “Or Gareth, aye?”

“Yes.” Elowen extended her hand. “Sorry, I’m Elowen Morgan.”

“Why’re ye sneakin’ round the scullery, lass?” The woman’s smile softened the question. “If ye’re here for the laird, ye ought to head to the front.” She leaned out, pointing left. “Is he expectin’ ye?”

“Gareth? I think so.” Elowen’s fingers brushed the note in her pocket. “He left me a message and—”

“No need for the tale, my girl.” She nudged Elowen toward the path. “Off ye go. Hale will meet ye at the front. Just ring the bell.”

Elowen gestured right. “At… the front door?”

“Aye, the front.” The woman’s amusement twinkled. “I’ll put the tea on, so cheers for the warnin’.” She winked, then shut the door with a firm click.

Elowen stepped back, following the stone path along the manor’s facade, past pristine garden beds and weathered statuary, until she reached grand steps leading to massive carved wooden doors. A bell hung to the right; she pulled its chain, unleashing a deep, clanging echo. Soon, a younger woman opened the door.

“Miss Morgan?” She offered a hand. “I’m Hale Burris. My husband’s the groundskeeper, and I manage the house. Gareth said to expect you this morning, and Samantha just shouted from the kitchen. Come in. Welcome to Avelar House.”

“Thank you.” Elowen stepped into a scene from a film—wood-paneled sitting room to the right, a dining room to the left with armor gleaming on the walls. A family crest above the entry caught her eye, its odd symbol—a divided circle—stirring an unplaceable curiosity.

“Have a seat in the front room,” Hale said. “I’ve started a fire. This place is grand, but it’s an ice box this time of year.”

“Right.” Elowen, grateful for her coat, felt the chill seep through. “I’ll keep this on for now, if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly.” Hale gestured to her wool sweater. “We’ve plenty of good jumpers if you need one.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Gareth was out with Andy this morning—my husband,” Hale added. “He’ll be in soon. Shall I keep you company, or would you like a quick tour? We usually save them for summer tourists, but I can show you a few highlights to keep moving.”

Elowen glanced at the empty sitting room, its large windows and couches inviting yet cold without purpose. Waiting alone felt worse. “A tour sounds good. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” Hale smiled. “Let’s start in the dining room. How much do you know about swords?”

Hale’s tour was brief but pointed, focusing on a rack of ancient blades in the dining room, their hilts etched with the same divided circle as the crest, and a single portrait of a young boy in tartan, his face eerily familiar—Thorne or Gareth, impossible to tell. No twin appeared beside him, though a cracked mirror near the frame caught Elowen’s reflection, splitting it oddly. Hale offered little of the house’s four-hundred-year history beyond noting Gareth as the current Laird of Avelar, a traditional Scottish title passed from his late father. Thorne’s name never surfaced, and Elowen held her tongue, though the absence in every frame gnawed at her. What family hid half itself?

“Hale!” Gareth’s voice boomed as they reached the library.

“Hale!”

She rolled her eyes. “Bellows like I’m deaf.” Motioning to the door, she added, “Tea’s likely ready, and he’s clearly eager for company. Don’t yell at me, old man!” She flashed Elowen a cheeky grin. “No sister to pester him, so I do my part.”

Elowen murmured, “I think he needs it.”

Hale grinned wider. “I like you. No grand family, aye?”

“Hardly. My dad taught woodworking in high school; my mom was an artist. No blue blood here.”

“Right.” Hale nodded. “Like you even more.”

They returned to the central corridor. Gareth stood in the entry, glowering, mud caked to his knees. “Your damn husband had me shoving his tractor out of the back meadow when he knew I had company.”

Hale laughed. “He warned you days ago. Not his fault you’re lost in your hammers and fire.”

“Will you…” His gaze landed on Elowen. “Miss Morgan, good morning.” His tone shifted to formal restraint. “Pardon my state. My groundskeeper’s an ogre who delights in tormenting me.” To Hale, “Pour Elowen tea while I change. We need to speak privately.” His voice dropped. “Thorne.”

“Of course.” Hale’s expression flickered—concern, perhaps—before she masked it, avoiding Elowen’s eyes.

Elowen followed her to the front room, now warmer from the fire. Hale poured tea from a carafe and left. Sitting near the hearth, Elowen mulled the morning’s revelations. Gareth, a laird, meant wealth—likely Thorne’s too. The “disgustingly wealthy prince” quip hadn’t been jest. Yet the absence of twin portraits, despite Hale’s subtle knowledge of Thorne, hinted at deeper rifts. What family erased one son?

The door opened. “Elowen Morgan.” Gareth entered, freshly showered, smelling of spice and leather. His beard was trimmed, clad in clean khakis and an olive-green sweater that deepened his eyes. His broad shoulders fit this room of rich wood and tartan pillows, a warrior returned, not a brute.

She stood. “Gareth, thank you for agreeing to take me to Thorne.”

“You’re the lady.” He crossed to stand opposite her. “I rise when you enter, not the other way round.”

Elowen sat. “I’m no lady, but you’re… some kind of lord, aren’t you? Is Thorne as well?”

He settled down. “Not lords, not the English sort, thank God. I’m a laird—my family’s held this estate for generations. And Thorne…” He exhaled sharply, leaning forward. “Can I convince you he’s fine? Healthy, safe. That it’s better you leave him to his life and carry on with yours?”

“Can I convince you my next stop is the police if I don’t see him today?”

He closed his eyes, muttering, “Fill the fetters.” Then, “I’ll take you to him, but it’s no simple matter.”

“So he’s not here?”

“No.” Gareth’s shoulders slumped, a fleeting pain crossing his face. “You’ll hate me for this. You don’t think so now, but you will. Remember I tried to warn you.”

She lifted her chin. “Why care if I hate you?”

“Just remember.” His voice stayed low. “Where is Thorne, you ask? Tell me, do you believe in fairy tales?”

Elowen blinked, memories flooding back. “Your brother asked me that the first time we met. I was at Redwood Pages, browsing an old George MacDonald, and he nodded at it. ‘Fairy tales, yes or no?’ he said.”

Gareth’s gaze held hers. “What did you answer?”

“I asked if he believed in the sun.”

He snorted a laugh. “And his reply? I’m curious.”

“Nothing. He just smiled.” That smile—brighter than any California fog could dim—had tethered her then, as it did now.

Gareth’s expression turned unreadable, intent. He stood, moving to the fire, adding wood with deliberate care. “I’m a mythology professor,” Elowen said. “My father read me the Mabinogion before I spoke. I learned letters from *The Hobbit*, devoured Greek myths while others played sports. Fairy tales aren’t just stories to me—they reveal us, uncomfortable truths included. They’re as real as history.”

Gareth stared into the flames, silence stretching vast. “Maybe this won’t be as hard as I feared.”

“Tell me.”

He turned, leaning against the mantel, arms crossed. “I was seven when a boy with my face walked out of the forest.”

Her heart skipped, but she stayed quiet.

His voice remained steady, gaze on the floor. “My nanny was superstitious. No following lights into the woods, no speaking to strangers there, no giving my name to unknowns. I heeded her—until him.”

Elowen frowned. “Do you mean—”

“Let me finish.” His eyes met hers, raw. “If you hear this and think me cracked, walk away. That’d be better.”

“I’m not leaving until I see Thorne.”

He shook his head. “I saw him, couldn’t believe it. Ran, and he chased me, speaking in a strange accent, odd words. I stopped, tired, curious—not scared. There was warmth in him, a want to know me. Rare, given my family.” He paused, jaw tight. “He caught up, said his name was Thorne, just wanted to play. Said he’d never been in this forest, didn’t want to get lost. I was a lonely boy; a playmate in the woods behind my home? I didn’t question why he mirrored me. We talked, explored ruins, streams. I fetched food from the house. At sunset, he waved and vanished back into the trees.”

Gareth sat across from her again. “I missed him instantly, like half myself walked away.”

“You’d known him a day.”

“Ever met someone and felt you’d known them forever? Another life, even?”

“Yes. Thorne.”

He nodded. “Aye, he’s like that.” A faint smile tugged his lip. “He returned often, said he lived on the other side of the forest. I thought village, didn’t push. He never came to the house, only played with me or friends outside, never near adults. Wore odd clothes, spoke Gaelic with English—taught me. At ten, I asked to see his home.”

A knot twisted in Elowen’s gut.

“He said we could, but it was different. Nighttime only, no usual gear. My grandfather’s old compass, a pocketknife—he forbade them, especially iron. Said it wasn’t allowed. I agreed.”

“You trusted him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Always.

A log cracked in the fire, falling with a thud. Gareth rose, adding more wood. “I snuck out, met him at the forest edge. A tall man was with him—dark hair, gold eyes, pale as frost, face blank. I feared him, but Thorne took my hand, called him a friend, our guide. Said we’d follow so we wouldn’t lose our way.”

“Gareth, why would you—”

“I was with Thorne. He’s… certain. Reassuring. You do things for him you wouldn’t for others because he makes you feel chosen, Elowen. Sincere in it. You’ve felt that.”

She nodded, silent.

“We walked into the forest, ignoring nanny’s warnings about lights. I forgot every rule. The wisps—little glowing flickers—danced ahead. It grew darker, stranger. Unseen birds whispered, the air chilled my bones, shadows shifted without source. But Thorne wasn’t scared, so I kept on. Soon, nothing was familiar. Then a light appeared, like winter dawn on the horizon.”

“You’d walked all night?”

“No, Elowen Morgan.” Gareth sat back, voice heavy. “We’d walked into the Shadowlands. That’s Thorne’s home. That’s where he is now. If you believe in fairy tales, come with me tonight, and I’ll take you to him. But I’m warning you, this truth might turn you against me.”