Mister Impossible, Maggie Stiefvater [uplifting novels txt] 📗

as it had looked from a distance; the stone was old and discolored, and the roof had a bit of sway. There was a bright holiday flag with a turkey on it hanging on the porch. A dog bowl that said WOOF! A snow shovel with bright pink gloves stuffed through the handle. It was very ordinary and alive and welcoming, which was completely at odds with his suddenly sour mood. He was not at all excited to have another dreamer sprung on them.

Hennessy seemed to be feeling the same way, because she asked, “Can’t we just go save a different dreamer and be done with it?”

“Keep your wits about you,” Bryde replied.

On the porch, he rang the doorbell and then waited in his quiet way. There was something about the way he stood there now with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his expression expectant, that made him seem familiar. Every so often Ronan felt he almost recognized him, and then it went away again.

The door opened.

A woman stood on the other side of it. She was exactly the sort of person one would have guessed might open this door based upon the things on the porch. She was a very comforting sort of person. She was enough. Groomed enough to seem invested in the world, but not so much that she seemed like she was making the effort for them more than for herself. Eyes smiling enough that she seemed to have a sense of humor, but eyebrows serious enough that she wouldn’t shrug everything off as a joke. Old enough to be sure of who she was, but not so old to remind him of his worried uncertainty regarding the elderly.

Bryde said, “Can we come in out of the cold?”

Her mouth said oh but nothing came out. Eventually, she said, “Your voice. You’re … Bryde.”

Bryde said, “And you’re Rhiannon. Rhiannon Martin.”

Ronan and Hennessy shot each other looks. Ronan’s look said, What fuckery is this? Hennessy’s said, Guess you weren’t the only head he was in.

“Yes, I am,” Rhiannon said. She put her hand to her cheek, then put her hand over her mouth for a moment, allowing herself a few seconds of visible surprise and wonder. Then she stepped back to let them in out of the fine rain. “I am. Come in, yes, of course.”

Inside, the mansion was even less grand than Ronan had first thought; it was merely an overlarge farmhouse with stone cladding, although it was well-furnished and well-loved, easy with generations of care. The fitful weather outside turned everything dark and sleepy inside. Every light was a point of gold in the handsome gloom, putting Ronan in mind of the dreamt lights he always kept in his pockets.

Bryde picked up a framed photograph on the entrance table: the woman, a man, two small kids. He put it back down.

“Please, follow me.” Rhiannon hurried to settle them into a formal sitting room full of mirrors. “Sit. I’ll get us some coffee. On a day like this … ? Coffee. Or tea? For the young people?” She bustled off without an answer.

Ronan and Hennessy sat on either end of a stiff sofa and shot each other more raised eyebrows while Bryde stood by the carved mantel, looking pensively into one of the mirrors. The icy rain continued to spatter against the tall windows.

“Hsst,” Ronan said. “Is she the dreamer?”

Bryde continued to gaze into the mirror like a man perplexed at what he saw there. “What do you feel?”

“Benjamin Franklin Christ,” Ronan said. “Not again.”

“What do you feel?” Bryde insisted.

Hennessy muttered, “Turkeys.”

“Yes,” Bryde agreed. “And not much else. Ronan?”

Ronan was rescued by the return of Rhiannon, who set down a tray of drinks and cookies before retreating behind an armchair. Her hands kneaded the top of it as if she were giving it an anxious back massage, but her face remained kind and worried. Worried for their care, not her own. She clearly wanted them to feel welcome.

“House looks festive,” Bryde said, although he had not appeared to give any attention to the house when he walked in, apart from picking up the framed photograph.

“Christmas is coming up,” Rhiannon replied. “Don’t know if I’m spending it here or with my aunt. She asked me to come stay with her for a bit, you know. I told her I might drive up tomorrow, just in case you really did come … I didn’t know if you were real.”

Bryde smiled that private smile of his.

Rhiannon put her hand to her face again and gazed first at Hennessy and then at Ronan. “But you are. You’re all very real. You three look just like you did in the dream. Ha-ha … I didn’t dream you guys, did I?”

“I don’t know about these two jokers,” Hennessy said, “but I assure you I’m real.”

Rhiannon put a long hand over her mouth. “You even sound like you did in the dream. Maybe this is all real.”

“Put that away, Rhiannon,” Bryde said impatiently. “You already know it is. I told you—you make reality. I’m not here to reteach you what I have told you already. You know it in your heart. And could you dream us? With the ley line as it is?”

The truth stung. Bryde had come to Rhiannon Martin just as he’d come to Ronan. He’d come to her as a dreamer, in her dreams. How many other dreamers had he also approached this way? Ronan knew he had no right to feel jealous or betrayed that Bryde wasn’t simply his and Hennessy’s. He’d known Bryde was infamous before he ever rescued them. For what? For this, perhaps. For showing up in people’s heads.

“So you’re a dreamer,” Hennessy said. “And Bryde here gate-crashed your dreams, too, and invited us over. That’s what’s going on here? Yeah? Sorry, I’m a little slow. This one”—she indicated Bryde—“didn’t explain what we were doing today when we came out. He fancies himself a mysterious stranger. These biscuits are very good. The ones shaped