She saw it clearly, catching the late light of the sun on the little table by the window in the music room. “Be right back.”
Connor leaned on the counter where Branna began to meticulously label her cooled candle jars.
“It pains you, I know.” His voice stayed as quiet as his eyes. “But if you don’t accept what Fin is, what he truly is, and believe in him, in his loyalty, it limits us all.”
“I’m trying. I can get past the hurt, or can most days. Trust is a harder thing.”
“He’d die for you.”
“Don’t say it,” she snapped. “Do you think I’d want that? I only want to do what must be done, and I will. I will. You’re right that he should be the one to seek, to find. You’re right. Leave it at that for now.”
“All right, we’ll leave it there.” Then he smiled a little, to soothe her. “Want to time her?”
“No hurry.” Branna shrugged, relieved he could leave it, that he would, for her sake. “Some of them are easy to build her confidence. Others will take more.”
“Well then, I’m ready for a pint. Want one?”
“Hmm. A glass of wine might be nice. And don’t fool with the pork roast I have in the oven.”
“Pork roast?”
“Leave it be, and what’s in with it. I’ve got a timing spell on the lot as I didn’t know how long this would take. Bring the bottle, why don’t you, and a glass for Iona. She can have it when she’s done.”
Iona rushed in, flushed with victory, brandishing the wand. “Got it.”
“Nicely done. Set it down there, and find the next.”
“Okay. You’re labeling. I was going to help you.”
“There’ll be plenty more. The athame.”
“Right.” On a deep breath, Iona began again.
Connor had his pint and played a little tug-the-rope with the dog while Branna finished the first round of candles. Iona traveled back and forth, bringing in the listed items.
“Jesus, this spear.” Iona hefted it, miming a warrior as she strode back in. “Took me as long to find as everything else so far combined.”
Not quite, Branna thought, but long enough.
“I could see it, and the tree you had it leaning against outside, but I couldn’t tell which tree. So I did a secondary spell for that after I’d wandered around out there for a while.”
“A good choice. We’ll work a bit more so you’ll narrow it as we go.”
Iona gave a nod to the items she’d spread on a counter. “They’re all so cool. Anyway, just two more.”
The shield eluded her so long she nearly switched to the cauldron, but Branna had instructed each in turn, so she cleared her mind—a challenge, as it was so damn full—then refreshed the spell.
She found the shield—and oh my God, a work of art it was, hanging in the earthy, herby-smelling greenhouse.
“She’s done well,” Connor commented, rubbing the dog with his foot as the game had played out. “Under difficult circumstances.”
“She has, and they are. She’ll be better yet, as the circumstances will worsen.”
“Always a happy note in you, Branna.”
“Always a realistic one.” With the candles she’d finished boxed for transport to her shop, she began to set the ones she’d culled out on shelves.
“Found it.” Iona hauled in the cauldron. “In the little attic over your room, Branna—that I didn’t even know was there.”
“It’s not used for much. And so you’ve found all.”
“Each in its turn.” Iona set the cauldron by the rest. “Every one of them is beautiful, and unique.”
“So they are. Tools they may be, but I don’t see why a tool shouldn’t be beautiful as well as practical and useful. So they’re yours.”
“Sorry, what?” Because her mind was full again, Iona simply stared at Branna.
“They’re yours now.” Branna poured her a glass of wine, passed it to her. “Connor and I chose them for you, from what has been given to us, or what we collected, or what we found elsewhere since you came to us.”
“But—” Overwhelmed, she couldn’t come up with the words that so often rolled out of her mind and straight off her tongue.
“Every witch needs her own tools,” Branna continued. “And these are the most important of them. You’ll find and choose others for yourself along the way.”
“Fire comes easiest to you.” Connor rose to join them. “So the symbols are yours. And on the athame, the trinity knot for the three in you, and the three of us.”
“The rose quartz on the wand, for it seems your power comes from your instincts—the belly—and then passes through the heart. Bloodstone on the sword for strength.”
“Stones of protection—physical and psychic—for the shield. Hematite for your spear tip, for confidence in your air.” Connor tapped a finger on it. “And the pentacle of copper, Sorcha’s chosen medium.”
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“The sword and shield have been passed down, blood to blood,” Branna told her. “The cup I found in a shop I favor, as Connor found the pentacle in another. So there’s a mix here of old and new.”
Tears she’d denied herself the night before wanted to rush up now, from her heart. In sheer gratitude. “Thank you, more than I can say. It seems like so much, too much.”
“It’s not,” Branna corrected. “You must be armed for what’s coming.”
“I know. A sword.” Carefully, she drew it from its sheath. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“You will. Some will come through it to you.”
“Some,” Connor agreed. “And Fin can work with you, and Meara as well. She’s bloody good with a sword. Either Branna or I can help with the spear, but I think you’ll find the tool itself will fit your hand.”
“Once you’ve cleansed them, and recharged them,” Branna added. “That’s not for us to do. I think we’ll have dinner now. We can all use the break and the food. Then you’ll tend to them.”
“I’ll treasure them. Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated, taking Branna’s hand, then Connor’s, linking the three. “You’ve opened up my life in so many ways.”
“You’re part of ours. Come then, we’ll eat. I’ve prepared a special meal anticipating your success here. Bring your wine, as you’ve yet to drink it.”
“One day I’ll pay you back for all you’ve done.”
“It’s not a matter of payment, and can’t be.”
“You’re right. That was the wrong term. Balance. One day I’ll find the balance.”
She started on it by setting the table, and telling Connor he was banned from kitchen cleanup. He didn’t argue. Her mood, lifted from seeing Nan, from the gifts, went rising higher when she sampled the little feast Branna had prepared.
“God, this is so good! I know I’m hungry, but this is just amazing. I swear you could open your own restaurant.”
“That’s something I won’t be doing now, or ever. Cooking, like tools, is necessary. No reason it shouldn’t be good.”
“I wish mine was. I really have to learn.”
“Plenty of time for it, and more important things to learn now. Connor, Frannie at the shop tells me Fergus Ryan got drunk as two penny whores on holiday and walked into Sheila Dougherty’s house, thinking it was his own, stripped down to the skin and passed out on the living room sofa. Where a none-too-pleased Sheila Dougherty—she who’s about seventy-eight and mean as a rattlesnake—found him in the morning. What do you know of that?”
“I know of the black eye Fergus is sporting, and the knot raised on the back of his head from the whack of Mrs. Dougherty’s cane. And how he managed to grab only his boots and his aching head while trying to defend himself, and ran straight out with the old woman chasing him and flinging curses and whatever else came to hand.”
“I thought you would.” Branna picked up her wine. “Tell all.”
So the conversation turned to local gossip, business, stories. The kind of meal, Iona would think as she dealt with dishes and pots, she’d had only rarely growing up, and had craved all the more from the lack.
So, like the gift of her tools, she’d treasure it, and all those that came.
For now, she tried to embrace the quiet, as Branna and Connor were upstairs or about somewhere on their own devices. She had work yet. The cleansing for tonight. And tomorrow she’d imbue and recharge what was now hers.
A good day, she congratulated herself. She’d gone to work, had her first face-to-face with Boyle, and gotten through it without humiliating herself.
Major points.
And she’d flown to Nan’s kitchen, a personal high point.
She’d worked seeking spells, and had the priceless reward from it.
To cap it, she’d had a meal with her cousins full of talk and laughter.
And tomorrow, she’d do whatever tomorrow brought her way.
To start on that balance, she cleaned the kitchen to a sparkle. The next time Branna walked in, she thought, giving it all a narrowed eye, it would damn near blind her.
Satisfied, she started to walk through to the workshop to begin her last task of the day, when the knock on the front door stopped her.
Normally, the prospect of company would have pleased her, but she really wanted to get started on her tools. Probably one of Connor’s mates or prospective lady friends, she thought. She’d yet to meet anyone who didn’t love Connor, or seek him out when they wanted a good time, or needed a shoulder for a bad one.
When she opened the door, her greeting smile faded, as there was Boyle standing there with a big, bright spring bouquet.
She managed an “Oh.”
He looked so sexy, so appealing, big, scarred hand around stems, his face just a bit flushed, his eyes full of embarrassed determination.
And he shifted his weight and nearly did her in.
“I’m sorry. I need to tell you I’m sorry. These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful.” Better, she thought, so much better for herself if she just sent him on his way. But she couldn’t do it, not when he’d brought her flowers and a sincere apology. “Thank you,” she said instead, and took the flowers. “They’re really beautiful.”
“Will they get me in the door, for a minute or two?”
“All right. Sure. I want to go back and put these in water.” She led the way back to the kitchen, using every trick she’d learned to keep her mind, her heart, quiet and steady.
“It shines in here,” he commented.
“I’ve been balancing some scales.” She found a large, pretty vase of mossy green, Branna’s kitchen flower scissors, and the flower food her cousin made herself. And set to work.
“I’m sorry, Iona, for upsetting you, for hurting you. I never would have meant to.”