But it was as if that other world had ceased to exist. The Lady and the fairies had vanished completely. Not even Owain returned to speak with him. Not a hint of the magic revealed itself. Time after time he waited at the edge of the stream, a patient supplicant. Surely they would not abandon him when he needed help so badly. At some point they would speak to him, if only to reject his plea. His pain was palpable. They must feel it. Wasn’t he entitled to at least the reassurance that they understood? The rain continued to fall in steady sheets, the forests of Snowdonia stayed dark and shadowy, and the air continued damp and cold in the wake of fall’s passing and the approach of winter.

Finally he went home to America. He despaired of giving up, but there seemed to be no other choice. It was clear he was to be given no audience, to be offered no further contact. He was wasting his time. He packed his bags, bussed and trained his way back to Heathrow, boarded a plane, and flew home. He thought more than once to turn around and go back to the Fairy Glen, to try again, but he knew in his heart it was futile. By choosing to give up his office, he had made himself an outcast. Perhaps Owain Glyndwr was right, that once you gave up on the magic, it gave up on you, as well. He no longer felt a part of it, that much was certain. Even when he touched the rune-scrolled length of his staff, he could find no sign of life. He had wanted to distance himself from the magic, and apparently he had done so.

He accepted that this was the way it must be if he was to stop being a Knight of the Word. Whatever ties had bound him to the Word’s service were apparently severed. The magic was gone. The dreams had nearly ceased. He was a normal man again. He could go about finding a normal life.

But he remembered Owain Glyndwr’s words about how, by becoming a Knight of the Word, he had been transformed and things could never be the same again. He found himself thinking of a time several years earlier in Hopewell, Illinois, when Josie Jackson had made him feel for just a few hours of his nightmarish existence what it was like to be loved, and of how he had walked away from her because he knew he had nothing to give her in return. He recalled how Nest Freemark had asked him in despair and desperation if he was her father, and he remembered wishing so badly he could tell her that he was.

He thought of these things, and he wondered if anything even remotely resembling a normal life would ever be possible again.

Chapter 9

It was already dark when John Ross and Stefanie Winslow exited the offices of Fresh Start, turned down Main Street, and headed for Umberto’s. Daylight saving time was over for another year, and all the clocks had been reset Sunday morning in an effort to conserve daylight—spring forward, fall back—but the approach of winter in the northwest shortened Seattle days to not much more than eight hours anyway. Streetlights threw their hazy glare on the rough pavement of the roadways and sidewalks, and the air was sharp and crisp with cold. It had rained earlier in the day, so shallow puddles dotted the concrete and dampness permeated the fall air. Traffic moved sluggishly through a heavy concentration of mist, and the city was wrapped in a ghostly pall.