Gift of the Realm

by Mackenzie Crowne

  Donovan’s large mouth opened on a yawn, all sharp white teeth and curling, pink tongue. His jaw snapped shut, and he shook his head. Bounding to his feet at the foot of the old bed, he set the springs to creaking. His nails clicked on the wooden plank floor as he landed with his usual grace. A full body shake sent dust motes dancing in the early morning light. He headed for the door and the stairs. With a hand stifling her own yawn, Keely pushed aside the sheet to follow him.

  After putting him out the back door to see to his morning business, and taking care of her own, she plugged in the coffee pot and went in search of the laptop she’d left in the den. Never a morning person, she staggered back to the kitchen, willing the coffeepot to finish popping and spitting and put her out of her misery.

  Long ago, she developed a habit of documenting the details of her dreams each morning before they faded with time and the light of day. Entering the information into her journal, her fingers jabbed blindly at the keyboard between impatient glares sent the way of the ancient, incredibly slow percolator on the counter.

  She was going online to order a new machine the moment she had enough caffeine in her system to allow her to see straight. State of the art, she decided, a unit that could produce a cup of drinkable coffee in fifteen seconds flat.

  Finally, with steaming mug in hand, she settled at the table and sipped, reading back the notes she’d just entered.

  Colin stops at the edge of the ring. His fingers, entangled with mine, tighten.

  “Please,” I implore him. “Come with me.”

  He doesn’t speak—he never does in the dreams— but I can sense his displeasure. Nevertheless, I step inside, tugging gently. Taken off guard, he takes a single step and halts with a jolt.

  The sound of weeping immediately fills the ring, and at its center, a wavering shadow reveals a rosebush. Lush and healthy, with glossy green leaves, it has only one bloom. A perfect, red rose.

  Colin’s eyes are angry. Ripping his hand from my relaxed grip, he takes a step back beyond the ring. Disappointed, I follow, and a piercing cry of despair floods my soul.

  Shocked excitement made Keely’s hand shake. Her spine snapped straight and the mug clattered to the table, sloshing coffee. She didn’t bother going upstairs to dress. The tank top and drawstring pants she’d worn to bed were a modest enough covering for what she had in mind.

  She ripped open the broom closet door. For a moment, she hesitated, wondering what the odds were that Mary Flynn had cleaned the inside of Morna’s old mud boots anytime in the last decade. Gingerly, she picked them up, flipped them over, and shook them. Nothing fell to the linoleum, and sending up a prayer that no eight-legged creatures had taken up residence over the years, she tugged them onto her feet.

  “Donovan,” she called, rushing out the door, “come on, boy.”

  Her pace was quick as she pushed through the gate leading to the field beyond the cottage. She wanted to run. Her mind screamed at her to answer the demand to fly up the beaten trail toward the cliffs, but the going was steep, at points, treacherous, and she fought against the urge to hurry.

  Dunhaven’s Door had stood for centuries, she reminded herself. It would wait another few minutes. She had no desire to break an ankle in her haste, or worse, her neck, but the measured pace clawed at her nerves.

  Something had changed. She’d visited the stone ring often during her summer here, and had stood at its center a thousand times in the dreams. Other than a few stubborn blades of crabgrass, nothing ever grew atop the ancient mound, much less a healthy rosebush. And the weeping... Not once, in all her visits, had she heard a single sound within the ring. It was as if nothing could penetrate there—not the chirp of crickets, not the sweet notes of birdsong, not even the whistle of the wind.

  Who had been weeping, and where had the rosebush come from? What did it mean?

  Donovan bounded by her, his long legs eating up the dirt path zigzagging toward the cliffs, his nose to the ground. He paused occasionally, racing back to circle her as if to hurry her along, before dashing off again. The Door, seven pale pillars in the early morning light, came into view as she topped the rise. Donovan’s head lifted to greet her with a whining bark before dropping, once again, to continue his scenting of the rocky soil surrounding the ring.

  Anticipation flooded her as she closed the distance, her eyes straining to see what she had in the dream. She came to a stop, leaning breathlessly against the closest of the stones with an outstretched hand. Her gaze swept the soil inside the ring, her head cocked as she listened, but the ring was as it always was, eerily silent and empty.

  Pushing away from the stone, she made her way to the point where the rosebush had appeared. She sank to the ground and let her fingers play over the prickly blades of grass. No scar from an uprooted plant was visible. In fact, there was no sign of a plant ever having been there. Her shoulders drooped with disappointment.

  Last night’s dream was an aberration. The rosebush, the weeping, the woman’s pleading cry, were all departures from the nightly vision she’d come to expect. But why?

  What had changed?

  True, she’d come back to Ireland. But she’d spent two months prowling the ring the summer she’d spent with Gran and had never seen or heard a thing.

  She slapped at the barren ground in frustration. How could she solve the mystery if she couldn’t understand the clues?

  Deflated, she looked up to see Donovan appear over the rise beyond the ring. His long legs moved in a loose trot as he pivoted toward her. He bounded her way and stopped, as though he’d hit a wall, just outside the pillars. His pitiful whine filled the air.

  “What do you have to cry about?” she complained across the distance. “I’m the one going insane.”

  The whining increased.

  “Come here you big baby.” She held out her hand, and still he whined and didn’t move. Concerned, she rose to her feet. “What’s the matter?” she asked, crossing the ring and dropping down to a squat in front of him. “Did you tangle with a thorn bush? We’re not in the city any longer, big guy. If you’re going to go around sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong, you’re going to have to learn some of those places will bite back.”

  She put her hands to his jowls but found nothing tangled in the fur of his muzzle. His tongue darted out, reaching for her face, inches from his.

  “Cut that out,” she grumbled, rising and stepping beyond the ring to run her hands over his wiry frame in search of a burr or bramble. The whining ceased, and she found nothing, not even when he let her lift and examine each paw with his usual patience. When finished, she straightened. Hands on her hips, she watched him turn and race off down the trail as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Idiot dog,” she mumbled low.

  Her gaze flicked back to the empty ring, and a frown puckered her brow. She spun around just as Donovan disappeared over the rise. Why had her dog refused to enter Dunhaven’s Door? No, that wasn’t quite right. He’d been heading her way, but stopped short when he reached the outer edge, as though something had prevented him from entering.

  Did the ring deny entrance to animals, or were they instinctively wary of crossing the mystical threshold? She thought back over the dreams. The black wolf had accompanied her to the Door on a number of occasions. He’d paced about the edges, an occasional low growl rumbling in his throat, but he’d never placed a paw within the interior of the ring, either.

  Only Colin had ever crossed into the ring with her.

  A cold chill raced up her spine. That wasn’t altogether true. She racked her memory, but couldn’t recall Colin ever actually entering the ring before. Like the wolf, and Donovan, he had always waited for her just beyond the pillars.

  Until last night.

  Chapter Four

  Eileen Doyle had changed little. More gray peppered her red hair, and the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes had deepened, but their forest green color hadn’t faded. They still sparkled with the inner jo
y Keely remembered from her seventeenth summer. Skinny to the point of frailty, the Quinn housekeeper had the energy of three women, and the confidence of a room full of CEOs.

  Keely wanted to be her when she grew up.

  “Isn’t this is a sweet surprise?” Eileen crowed, opening Quinn Manor’s front door wide. “Dunhaven’s own author, come to brighten my day.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Eileen.” Keely grinned and stepped over the threshold into the grand foyer. Eileen closed the door and turned to study her.

  “Well then, look at you, all grown up and successful. And bonny to boot. Morna would be bursting her buttons if she could see you now. You’ll be needing to carry a stout stick to keep the local lads at bay.”

  “I’m covered,” Keely said with a laugh. “I have a very protective dog.”

  “If you’re meaning that great hulking beast who was after digging in the Manor’s garden this morning, I’d say you’ve the right of it.”

  Keely cringed visibly. She’d locked Donovan in the cottage before she’d come, and God knew what kind of mischief he’d get into while she was gone. Learning he’d already found his way over to the Manor reminded her she’d have to find an effective pen as soon as possible. Preferably, something indestructible.

  She opened her mouth to apologize but Eileen waved it off. “If you’re here to see Miss Kathleen, you’ve just missed her. She’s off to visit a friend who’s feeling a bit poorly.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Colin.”

  “And here I was,” said a deep voice behind her, “suffering at the thought of spending the next few hours staring at boring financials.”

  Keely swallowed at nerves, spinning to find Colin framed in the doorway of his office, off the foyer.

  “I’m thinking my morning plans have just improved,” he said with a grin.

  For crying out loud. Did the man always have to look like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ?

  It was seven o’clock in the morning. A normal man would still be working on his first cup of coffee, his hair suffering from bed head, and his chin darkened with stubble. In crisp black slacks and a white dress shirt, Colin looked as though he’d been up for hours.

  She forced a smile, glad she’d returned to the cottage to shower and do the makeup routine. After last night’s dream, and this morning’s realizations, she was already off balance. Facing the lord of the manor, while looking like a homeless waif, would have been too much.

  “Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

  “I never eat breakfast,” she informed him quickly, thinking any food she attempted to swallow right now would be in danger of coming right back up.

  “Coffee then.” It wasn’t a question, not when he was looking at Eileen as he spoke.

  The housekeeper nodded and headed off down the hallway. “I’ll have a pot ready in two minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

  Two-minute coffee? Of course Quinn would already have one of those top of the line units she’d decided to buy. She’d forgotten all about ordering it in her mad dash this morning, and made a mental note to do just that. In three minutes—right after he laughed in her face and showed her the door.

  He gestured to the office, and she slid by him to take the seat he indicated. He lowered himself into the chair across from hers, sitting back in an easy sprawl. Uneasy under his silent inspection, his gaze roaming over her face, she took the opportunity to glance about his office.

  The room, one of her favorites of Quinn Manor, suited the man who ruled here. With its rich cherry wood and oversized furniture, it had an unmistakably male personality, softened by the cool, cotton window dressings, and the spray of wildflowers perched on the edge of the wet bar in the corner.

  True to her word, Eileen swept into the room on a squeak from her sensible shoes against the hardwood floor. “There’re scones, if you’re interested,” she said, setting the tray on the low table between them and indicating the cloth covered basket.

  “Thank you, Eileen,” Colin drawled as she departed. He sat forward, picking up the carafe. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black,” she said succinctly.

  There, that was just the right tone. Completely unaffected. Slightly bored.

  He must not have been hearing what she was, because his sigh was deep and drawn out.

  “I meant what I said yesterday, Keely. I overreacted to a simple misunderstanding, and I’m sorry. We were friends, of a sort, before that night. I’d like it if we could be friends again.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. While she hadn’t considered him a friend exactly, he had been friendly—in the way a man is with the awkward, teenage granddaughter of a cherished, family friend. Somehow, in the jumble of the dreams, and her residual embarrassment over their encounter in the gazebo, she’d forgotten that.

  And she was partially at fault, after all. He may have overreacted when he’d discovered he was kissing the wrong woman, but then, so had she. If they hadn’t been interrupted, Keely would have let him do whatever he wanted with her, right there in the manor’s garden.

  Not that it mattered. After what she had to discuss with him today, he’d probably do his best to steer clear of her. Men like Colin Quinn didn’t make a habit of befriending crazy women. Still, she needed his help.

  “I’d like that too,” she said finally.

  Chapter Five

  “So, what did you need to see me about?”

  Keely bit her lip, wondering where to begin. Telling a man he’d been invading your dreams for ten years wasn’t exactly the sort of thing one just blurted out. She’d need to ease into it.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Dunhaven’s Door.”

  His brows rose in question. “The Door? From what I’ve read, you’re something of an expert on the subject.”

  “You’ve read Into the Mists?” she asked, surprised.

  His smile was sharp. “I did, and enjoyed it. The subject matter was entertaining and...irresistible,” he finished cryptically.

  Pleasure at the simple praise curled in her belly. She cleared her throat. “That was a work of fiction. What I want are facts.”

  “A work of fiction based on stories passed down through time,” he noted. “I’m afraid much of what is known of the Door is just that, Keely. Legend.”

  “I understand that. I still have questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Do animals see the Door differently than people?”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Animals,” she said tightly, knowing she was going to sound like a lunatic. “People visit the Door all the time—sightseers, the occasional local. Do any of them ever bring their pets along, and do those pets ever act...oh, I don’t know, skittish about entering the ring?”

  “That’s an interesting angle. Are you thinking of writing a sequel?”

  “I might,” she said, impatient with the equivocation. And yet, he’d given her the perfect pretext for asking her questions with his assumption that she was planning another book. She’d take the excuse and run with it. “At this point, it’s just research. Have you ever heard any stories of a family dog refusing to enter the ring?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything like that. What made you think of it?”

  “What about sound?” she pressed. “It’s always so quiet and empty there. Have there ever been any reports of someone hearing something or seeing anything odd within the ring?”

  He shook his head, and she couldn’t help but sigh.

  “Have you?” he asked. “I know you visited the Door often the summer you were here. Have you seen or heard something odd on one of your visits?”

  She took refuge in her coffee, unsettled by the way he kept answering her questions with questions of his own.

  They were circling each other like adversaries. If neither of them were willing to answer a single question, she wasn’t going to get anywhere.

  Just do
it, Keely. What do you care if he thinks you’re crazy? For all intents and purposes you are crazy, or close to it. Tell him, and find out what he knows!

  She set her cup on the table and met his gaze boldly. “Actually, I have. I saw a rosebush with a single red bloom, and heard a woman weeping.”

  “At the Door?” he asked.

  She looked for doubt in his intent blue eyes. All she saw was an acute curiosity.

  “At the center of the ring,” she answered.

  “Who was she?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t actually see her, but I heard her.”

  “When was this?” he asked.

  “Last night.”

  He set down his own cup with a thump, and leaned forward. His eyes narrowed on her. “Last night? I happen to know you were here at Quinn Manor until well after dark. Are you telling me you went up to the Door after that? Are you crazy? The cliffs are treacherous during the day, at night they’re deadly!”

  She stiffened at the word crazy, but forced herself to relax. His reaction was nothing more than she expected. And if he thought she was crazy for wandering the cliffs at night, he’d consider her certifiable when he heard the rest. She may as well confess and be done with it.

  “I may be crazy, but not crazy enough to go up there at night. I heard the woman, I saw the rosebush, but I wasn’t there physically. I was...” She had to force herself to finish the damning admission. “I was dreaming.”

  She held her breath, waiting for the derision to appear in his eyes. Instead, they went blank, and he sat back in the chair.

  “Dreaming?” he asked quietly.

  “Dreaming,” she repeated. Now that she had committed herself, the words came easily. “I dream. I can’t explain it really. It just...is. As a girl the dreams were mystical and fascinating. Though I didn’t understand them at the time, I dreamed of Ireland long before I’d ever set foot here. I’ve flown over the coast on the wings of an eagle. I’ve taken tea with elves, spied on a pair of leprechauns arguing over a crop of wild mushrooms. On several occasions, I’ve watched a band of fairies at a céilidh, while a beautiful fairie princess directed the music and festivities.”