“I’d be Connor, if you’re wondering. Did Kathel find you and bring you ’round?”
“No, that is, yes. I was already coming here, but he found me.”
“Well then, come in out of the cold. Winter’s still got its teeth in us.”
“Thanks. I know it’s early.”
“That it is. The day will insist on starting that way.” In a gesture she found both casual and miraculous, he flicked a hand at the living room hearth. Flames leaped up to curl around the stacked peat. “We’ll have some breakfast,” he continued, “and you can tell me everything there is to know about Iona Sheehan.”
“That won’t take long.”
“Oh, I’ll wager there’s plenty to tell.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house.
She had a quick impression of color and jumble and light, the scents of vanilla and smoke. And space, more of it than she’d expected.
Then they were in the kitchen with a pretty stone hearth, long counters the color of slate, walls of lake blue. Pots of herbs thrived on wide windowsills, copper pots hung over a center island. Cabinets of dark gray showed colorful glassware, dishes behind their glass fronts. In a jut ringed with windows stood a beautiful old table and charmingly mismatched chairs.
The combination of farmhouse casual and the modern efficiency of glossy white appliances worked like magick.
“This is really beautiful. Like something out of a really smart magazine.”
“Is it? Well, it’s Branna who has very definite ideas, and this is one of them.” Tilting his head in study, he gave her another quick, charming smile. “Can you cook?”
“Ah . . . sort of. I mean, I can, I just suck at it.”
“Well now, that’s a real pity. I’m on duty then. Will it be coffee or tea for you?”
“Oh, coffee, thanks. You don’t have to cook.”
“I do if I want to eat, and I do. In general, around here Branna’s the cook and I’m the bottle washer, but I can manage breakfast well enough.”
He punched controls on a very intimidating-looking coffeemaker as he spoke, pulled a basket of eggs, a hunk of butter, a pack of bacon from the fridge.
“Take off your coat and be at home,” he told her. “Branna says you’re living the life at Ashford for a few days before you’re coming here. How are you finding Ashford?”
“Like a dream. I slept too much of the day away yesterday. Obviously, I’m making up for it. You don’t mind me moving in?”
“Why would I? We’ll be taking turns as bottle washers, so that’s one for me.”
He got down a skillet, set it on the stove top. “Cups up there, and fresh cream if you’re wanting it, and sugar as well.” He gestured here and there before he tossed bacon into the skillet.
All of it, and all of him, she thought, seemed as casual and miraculous as his wrist-flick fire-starting.
“I hear you’re after working at the stables.”
“I’m hoping.”
“Branna had a word with Boyle. He’ll be talking to you about that today.”
“Really?” Her heart actually leapt at the prospect. “That’s great. That’s fantastic. A lot of people thought I’d lost my mind, just packing up, coming here without a serious plan, without a ready job or a place to stay.”
“What’s an adventure if you know all the steps before you take them?”
“I know!” She grinned at him. “Now I’ve got a job interview, and family to live with. And this morning—certainly it wasn’t my plan last night to walk over at six A.M.—I saw a hawk in the woods. It flew right down, sat on a branch and watched me. I took pictures.”
She dug out her phone to show him. “I guess you’d know what kind of hawk—falcon—he is.”
As he lifted the bacon out of the skillet, Connor angled his head to study the image. “A Harris’s hawk—the same we use for our hawk walks. That’s Fin’s Merlin, and a fine bird he is. Finbar Burke,” he added. “He owns the stables with Boyle, and he started the falconry school here at Ashford. He owns quite a bit of this and that, does Fin.”
“Will I interview with him, too?”
“Oh, he’d likely leave that to Boyle. Plenty of cream and two sugars in my coffee, if you will.”
“Same as me.”
“Branna, she’s one for just a dollop of the cream. Go ahead and fix her up. She’s on her way down, and she’ll need it.”
“She is? How do you . . . Oh.”
He only smiled. “She sends out fierce vibrations of a morning before her coffee, and it’s a bit on the early side for her so she may bite.”
Iona grabbed another cup, hurriedly poured the coffee. She was stirring in that dollop of cream when Branna walked in, dark hair tumbled nearly to her waist, eyes blurry and annoyed.
She took the cup Iona held out, took two deep swallows as she watched Iona over the rim. “All right then, what happened?”
“Ah now, don’t poke at her,” Connor said. “She’s had a rough go. Give her a chance to get some food into her.”
“I doubt she’s come here at dawn for breakfast. You’re going to overcook those eggs, Connor, as always.”
“I’m not. Slice up some bread for toasting why don’t you, and she’ll tell us once she’s settled.”
“She’s standing right here,” Iona reminded them.
“At half-six in the bloody morning,” Branna finished, but she picked up a bread knife, took a cloth off a loaf on a cutting board on the counter.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Every second sentence she utters starts with those two words.” Branna sliced bread, tossed it into the toaster.
“Jesus, finish your coffee before your black mood ruins my appetite. Let’s have some plates, Iona, there’s a girl.” His tone shifted from sharp to gentle as his sister leaned back against the counter and sulkily drank her coffee.
Saying nothing, Iona got down plates and, at his direction, located the flatware, set the table.
She sat with her cousins, looked at the platter heaped with bacon and eggs, the plate of toasted bread, listened to the two of them bicker about how the eggs were cooked, whose turn it was to go to the market and why the laundry hadn’t been folded.
“My coming here like this put you at odds, so you’re fighting, but I—”
“We’re not fighting.” Connor scooped up a forkful of eggs. “Are we fighting, Branna?”
“We’re not. We’re communicating.” Then she laughed, tossed her magnificent hair, and bit into her toast. “If we were fighting, more than these eggs would be scorched.”
“They’re not scorched,” Connor insisted. “They’re . . . firm.”
“They’re good.”
Branna rolled her eyes at Iona. “You’d have eaten better at the hotel, be sure of it. The chef there is brilliant.”
“I wasn’t thinking about food this morning. I can’t just read books, and stumble around trying to . . . I don’t know what to do unless I know.”
“She’s a bit of food in her now,” Branna said to Connor. “So, what happened?”
“I had a dream, that wasn’t a dream.”
She told all of it, every detail she could remember as carefully as she could manage.
“Let me see your hand,” Branna interrupted. “The one that bled.”
She took it, held it fast while she traced fingertips over the back. The skin split, filled with blood. “Be still!” Branna snapped when Iona gasped and tried to pull free. “It’s but a memory now. There’s no pain. This is just the mirror of what was.”
“It was real. It hurt, burned. And there was blood on the sheet.”
“Then, yes, it was real. This is only a reflection.” She traced her fingertips over it again, and the wound vanished.
“I was pregnant. I mean, she was pregnant. In the vision, or dream. He didn’t know. He couldn’t see it, or feel it? I don’t know which.” Agitated, Iona shoved at her hair with both hands. “I have to know, Branna. You said I needed to think carefully, but how can I when I don’t have all the information?”
“It’s twined close,” Branna said, and got Connor’s nod. “And you’re more open than I understood. I’ll give you something to filter the visions; it may help you keep yourself a step back we’ll say. We’ll guide you, Connor and I, best that we can. But we can’t tell you what we don’t know. If Teagan went alone back to the cabin, back to the woods, was confronted, you’re the one telling us.”
“We know pieces, Branna and I, and now you’ll know more. We’ve both gone back, had glimpses, felt as you feel now.”
“But we were only two,” Branna added. “There must be three.”
“He was bolder with you, as you’re more vulnerable. You won’t stay that way,” Connor assured her.
It sounded ridiculous, but she had to say aloud what churned through her mind. “Can he kill me? If I go back, when I sleep, could he kill me?”
“He could try and likely will try.” Branna answered the ridiculous with bald simplicity. “You’ll stop him.”
“How?”
“With your will, with your power. With the amulet you wear, and must always wear, and with what I’ll give you.”
Branna stopped pushing her eggs around her plate, picked up her coffee. And once again watched Iona over the rim.
“But understand, if you stay, if you mean to be with us, and be what you are, he will come for you. You must stay freely, and knowing that, or go and live your life.”
It was all too fantastic. And yet. She’d lived that dream. She’d felt the pain.
And she knew the draw and pull of what lived inside her.
Bridges burned, Iona reminded herself, for the chance to build new ones. Wherever they led—and they’d already brought her closer to what and who she was than any of the ones before.
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’ve had little time to think or understand,” Branna began, but Iona only shook her head.
“I know I’ve never belonged anywhere before. And I think I understand this is why. Because I belong here. I come from her, from Teagan. I understand, too, she wanted me to see she hurt him that night, and he was afraid. Doesn’t that— Couldn’t that mean I can hurt him?”
“If it’s here you belong, and I believe it is, then here you are. But don’t rush your fences,” Connor warned her, and patted her hand. “You’ve only begun.”
“I’m an excellent rider with a damn good seat. And I’ll learn. Teach me.” She leaned closer as the urgency rose in her. “Show me.”
Branna sat back. “You haven’t much patience.”
“It depends. No,” Iona admitted. “Not a lot.”
“You’ll need to find some, but we’ll take some steps. Small ones.”