by Nora Roberts
In the dim dawn light, she studied the jars. No tea bags—of course—but loose tea. Since they had no labels, she calculated the process could take awhile, so opened the door for Bollocks.
“I’ll come out as soon as I figure out how to make tea.”
When he ran out, she walked over, took one of the jars, sniffed the contents. Floral, she decided, light and sweet, and not an eye-opener.
She went down the line—herbal, woodsy, kind of lemony, spicy.
She tried another, decided it smelled very like the Irish breakfast tea she’d bought (in bags). Of course, she couldn’t be sure, and it might be something that would turn her into a toad.
It wouldn’t surprise her at this point.
But it seemed careless to keep something that would turn someone into a toad on a kitchen shelf with herbs and spices.
Willing to risk it, she used what she thought had to be a tea strainer, poured hot water from the kettle on the stove over it and into a mug.
She studied the dark brown—nearly black—liquid. Sniffed it. Risked a tiny sip. It tasted like tea—brutally strong—and since it didn’t turn her into anything, she considered the entire process a success.
In her pajama pants and T-shirt and bare feet, she walked out into the morning.
Not so different, she decided, from a morning at her cottage. The view of woods and garden rather than bay and garden, but that same soft air, the thin mists, the wild green of it all.
She’d walk the dog over to the bay here later, she thought, then heard splashing. Walking beyond the flowers, the herbs—a thriving vegetable patch toward the trees—she saw the busy little stream—and Bollocks making the most of it.
“Good enough then.”
She turned to take in her grandmother’s cottage from this new vantage point.
She spotted a stone well—simply picture-perfect—a tree with orange-red berries, and another with what she thought were tiny green apples.
Sea glass, crystal, polished half bottles hung from branches, and when she touched them, had music tinkling into the air.
Something white and gold and druggingly fragrant smothered some sort of trellis. Honeysuckle, she realized, and near it something else climbing with pink and purple blooms.
As for the cottage, it fit the nook of land as if it had grown there—maybe it had.
She thought it all beautiful and, despite the lack of coffee, idyllic.
She found the dog’s bowls, his feed—added a brown egg. Because he carried the wet of the stream with him, she set his bowls outside.
“Let me know when you want in—and don’t go wandering too far.”
She gave his topknot a rub, then went back in.
In the quiet, sleeping house, she sat down at her desk, picked up the pen.
The dog broke her spell when he rushed in to drop his head on her lap and give her a long, adoring look.
“Hi. Either you let yourself in or someone else is up.”
“Up we are and have been.” Marg stood in the doorway.
She wore trousers again, mannish and forest green, with a sweater the color of top cream.
“You were deep into your work, so I didn’t want to disturb. Bollocks had another idea on that.”
“That’s all right. I was about to stop.” Because, she realized, she was starving. “I wasn’t sure I could write this way, but it rolled pretty well.”
“I’m happy to hear it. How about some tea now, and a bite to eat?”
“That would be great. I made tea early this morning,” she said as she rose. “Or I think I did. From that jar.”
Marg nodded. “A strong energy tea that one, and good for the morning.”
“I tried to guess what was in the jars—by scent mostly. I think I hit the chamomile, and something with lavender, and some sort of mint.”
“I’ll teach you if you like, though your nose is right on it. Sit, and I’ll make us some nice jasmine tea—a good, light choice for a pretty day.”
“Jasmine—that’s it. I couldn’t get it, but I thought I recognized the scent. I don’t want you to have to cook for me. If I get the lay of the land, I can make a sandwich.”
“You poke about as you please, but it gives me pleasure to cook for you—and I suspect you had nothing but the tea to break your fast.”
She got a squat cobalt blue teapot. “Tell me about your book, won’t you?”
“Which? I actually have two. Or one novel, and one book for middle schoolers—kids from about ten to thirteen.”
“A children’s book? Ah, you loved being read to as a child. Like a sea sponge you’d soak it all up, then tell them yourself, often changing some parts as you liked.”
“Did I?”
“Oh, aye. What are you writing for children?”
“Bollocks’s adventures. Actually, I finished it, or I think I have. I don’t know that it’s any good, but I had fun with it. It’s just practice. I don’t expect to get it, or anything, published. I’m a rank amateur.”
Marg turned from her work. She wore little silver triangles in her ears, and inside each was a trio of dark green stones.
“That’s your mother talking in your head, and it makes me sad to hear you say it.”
“Maybe. Maybe, but it’s easier to write a story than send that story off and face rejection.”
“And if you don’t send it off, see what’s what, it’s already rejected, isn’t it?” She looked over from whatever she cooked in a skillet on the stove. “You chose to carry courage on your wrist, so use it.”
“Marco said the same thing, basically.”
“A sensible lad he is then, I’d say.”
“I haven’t let him read it—or anyone. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat. As long as it’s in the box, it’s alive. If I opened the box, would you read it and be honest? It doesn’t help if anyone says it’s good to spare my feelings.”
“I promised not to lie to you, and that holds on this as well.” She slid something from skillet to plate, set it in front of Breen.
Toasted brown bread topped with Irish—Talamhish, she corrected—bacon and an egg, sunny-side up, dashed with herbs.
“I remember this. You used to make this for me. I called it Dragon’s Eye.”
“A half slice of toast back then, and a favorite of yours. More’s coming through.” Marg sat with her tea. “Will you let me show you, teach you? We can begin with something as simple as the teas and how to use them, how to blend them together for other uses.”
“I’d like—yes, I’d like that. And we could start there, but . . .”
“Tell me what you want, child. If it’s in my power, I want to give it to you.”
“Morena said something to me. She said that fire—like lighting a fire or candle—is the first thing learned.”
“It often is. It’s this you want to know again?”
“I think, it’s so tangible, so inarguable.” So fascinating, Breen admitted to herself. “What I’ve already seen and felt, it’s still almost like a dream. But if I felt this, from me, I couldn’t close that back in the box. And you won’t lie and tell me it was from me if it was from you.”
“I won’t, no. Nor will I about your story if you let me read it.”
“It’s on my laptop. I’ll print it out, and bring it to you next time.”
“Oh, we won’t have to wait for that, if I have your permission. I can see to that.”
“All right. God, I’m nervous.”
“Eat your food, drink your tea, then we’ll begin. Nerves aren’t shameful. Not acting because of them is.”
She felt them, those nerves, prickling along her skin, rushing through her blood as she sat in the quiet kitchen, the dog sleeping over her feet.
The candle stood between her and Marg, creamy white and slim.
“I often make my own candles, those I use for ceremonies, spells, healings—for the craft, I’m saying, rather than for lighting the dark. This one is of my making, a skill I’ll teach you as well, if y
ou like.”
“It wouldn’t just be forming wax, the kind you mean.”
“There’s more than that, a purpose, and the purpose goes into the making. This I made for celebrations, and I see this as that.”
“If I can’t do it—”
“Ah, put your mother out of your head.” After holding up a hand, Marg took a breath. “I’ll not say a hard word about the woman who brought you into the world, but you must set aside the doubts, the doubts of self, she put into you. Be open, mo stór, to what you are, what you have. This is the first lesson. Once open, you reach, once you reach, you hold.”
“Okay.” Breen played her fingers over her tattoo. “Be open.”
“How would you put out the flame of a candle?”
“I’d blow it out.”
Marg beamed as if she’d solved some complex equation. “And so to bring the flame, a simple way to learn, is to draw in the breath. With purpose. Opening, letting the power rise up. Focus, for what will become natural takes focus to learn. To ignite.”
She tried, over and over, but the wick remained cold and clean.
“I’m sorry.”
“You only disappoint yourself. The fire’s in you. Call it, draw it up, feel it tingle inside you, just a ripple now, quiet kindling. Use it, see the purpose—the wick. See it flame. Draw your breath and spark the fire.”
She felt it, a rising, a heat, and before she could think it was simply the power of suggestion, the wick sparked, and with a little snap, flamed.
“I—You—”
“No, I promise you, I did not.” Marg blew out the candle. “Again. Bring the wick to light.”
She trembled—fear, excitement, and what she realized was a gnawing hunger for more. Three times she lit the flame.
“You still learn quickly. You have so much in you.”
“What am I, Nan?”
“My granddaughter, my blood, my treasure. You are a child of the Fey, a daughter of the Wise, from your father, from me and mine. And from mine long ago, there is Sidhe in you. You have human from your mother. And you carry the blood and power of gods.”
Marg folded her hands on the table, gripped them tight. “For this he wants you more than even he wanted your father. Your father had all you have but the human, and Odran wants the power you have, and the human you have. You are a bridge, Breen, between worlds, worlds closed to him. For now.”
“You mean my world? My mother’s world?”
“He’d use you to take it, piece by piece, heart by heart. Destroy, enslave, corrupt, as he has with lesser worlds. You’re the bridge he seeks to travel, and the bridge we need to stop him.”
“Because I’m human, or part of me is?”
“You’re unique. There is no one known with your heritage. I can’t see. I’ve tried, others have tried. I only know that Odran seeks to use you, what you are, to destroy Talamh and the world you were reared in. I only know we must use all we are to stop him.”
“I can’t—I managed after an hour to light a single candle.”
“It begins with one flame.” Marg held up a finger, then spread both her hands. “You have a choice. If you go back to the outside, and remain there, he can’t reach you.”
“Is that absolute?”
After hesitating, Marg shook her head. “It is as sure as anything can be. He has yet to breach the barrier.”
“But he can come here?”
“Can and surely will when he feels ready. We’ll fight him. We’ve driven him off before, and will again. As long as we do, the other side is safe, and you in it.”
“But he keeps coming. How do you kill a god?” She let out a breath. “With another god. Is that what you think? You think I can kill him?”
“I can’t see; I can’t say.”
“My father tried to stop him. He killed my father. I—I want children one day. I’ve always wanted children. But if I have a child, that child would be like me—and . . . It would never stop.”
“I can teach you what I know. Others can teach you what they know. And if, in the end, you decide to go back, to remain, we will do all in our power to keep the barrier strong.”
“I’m sitting here at this table in a postcard cottage in a picturesque countryside, and you’re telling me two worlds—hell, maybe more—depend on what I do?”
Sorrow, again sorrow, covered Marg’s face. “It’s a terrible weight to carry. I promised not to lie to you. I felt I could no longer evade—so close to the lie—now that the spark is again lit in you. The awakening will come, and soon, I think. You are what you are, Breen Siobhan. What you do is for you to say.”
“I need some air. I’m going to take the dog and get some air. I feel like I’m living in my book. Maybe I am.”
“Wear this, if you will.” Rising, Marg took a round red stone on a chain. “I gave this to you after you were taken, for protection. I didn’t know until you’d gone your mother had left it behind.”
“It’s beautiful. What is it?”
“We call this crystal a dragon’s heart.”
Breen lifted the thin chain over her head. “I’m not as pissed off at my mother, so that’s something. More, after all this, I’m not having a major anxiety attack. Maybe because it doesn’t seem real.”
She walked to the door, opened it for the dog, who leaped up to dash out. “But it does. It does seem real, and I have to work it through in my head.”
“May I begin to read your children’s book while you’re out walking? I can make it come if you allow it.”
“Fine.” Learning she was a crap writer was currently the least of her worries. Still, she hesitated. “I can see this wasn’t easy for you to tell me. I think you love me.”
Everything in Marg’s face softened. “More than anything in all the worlds.”
Because she believed it, Breen nodded. “I’ll be back. I just want to walk, to let Bollocks swim in the bay. If you could think of something else to teach me—simple—I don’t think I’m up for more than simple. I’ll be about an hour.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
And had, Marg thought, more than twenty long years.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wind blew in from the sea and swept clouds, gray at the edges, east, over a wide roll of fields and the rocky promontories above them.
At least, she assumed east. For all she knew the sun rose in the north here. Some sort of grain grew in the field, swaying gold over the green. She spotted movement along the tower of rocks, and thought goats until she clearly saw two-legged creatures, wearing caps and long vests.
As she wondered over that, a group of kids she estimated as about the same age she’d once taught came into sight around a turn of the road. Pushing, elbowing, but in joking ways.
She counted five of them—two girls, three boys. One of the girls—dark skin, hair a mass of blue-tipped black braids—held up a hand.
When she dropped it sharply, she and two of the boys raced off in a blur of speed—impossible speed—while the other girl sprouted rainbow wings and bulleted through the air and the third boy dropped to all fours and became, in front of her eyes, a young horse that galloped after them.
“That’s something you don’t see every day, unless you’re here.” She glanced down to see what Bollocks thought of it, but he’d already run to and into the water.
She followed him down and, because her head ached, sat on the sandy shale and closed her eyes.
It soothed, the brisk wind, the lap of the water, the splashes and yips of the puppy.
She’d accepted the impossible as truth, Breen thought, and now she had to decide what to do about it.
She heard a cry, looked up to see a hawk circling.
And Morena sat down beside her.
“Showing off for you, he is.”
“He’s entitled to show off. He’s so beautiful.”
“We saw you wandering down this way, but you seemed well inside your own head.”
“I guess I was. I saw kids, five of them. I
f I have it straight, one was a faerie, one a were-horse. The other three were fast, ridiculously fast.”
“Elves. I saw them myself. They’re fast friends, that lot. You’ll usually see another girl with them, but she’s on a day of punishment for using a spell to do her chores.”
“So, one of the Wise?”
“Not so wise to think she could get away with not doing her chores proper as she was told to.”
Rules, Breen thought, and discipline for children. “So using magick to do the dishes, for instance, isn’t allowed.”
“We’ll say it’s situational. It’s discouraged, especially in the young ones, to take the short way. You have to learn how to milk a goat, plant a carrot, wash your linens, and all of it. Otherwise, you’ll end up lazy and fat, won’t you? Magicks are a serious business, not that they can’t and shouldn’t be fun along with it. But they’re not a convenience. If only that, you stop honoring what you have.”
Simple, Breen decided. And in its way, pure.
“I don’t know what to do with what I have. I lit a candle today. It took an hour of Nan’s coaching, but I lit it with an indrawn breath.”
“That’s fine, and it won’t take so long the next time around.”
“I don’t know what to do with it. I saw men climbing those rocky cliffs back there like goats.”
“Trolls,” Morena said easily. “Likely coming out from the caves they’re mining to have their midday meal in the sun.”
“Trolls, of course. I should have thought of that. Kids with wings and speed and hooves.”
“Don’t children run about on a fine summer day in the outside? There’s no schooling—or not the formal sort—in the summertime, so why not run about?”
“You have schools?”
“Sure and we have schools! Do you think we want to be ignorant?”
“No. Schools, kids running, people sitting in the sun for their lunch break, it’s all normal. Does the sun come up in the east here?”
“Where else would it come up?”
“Normal. But you have two moons.”
“Some worlds have one, others two or seven. Astronomers are always finding something new in the skies, aren’t they?”
“You have astronomers. Don’t give me that look. I’m trying to balance out the normal with the fantastic. Nan told me what I am, all I am, and why Odran wants me.”
