by Sophie Moss
Glenna edged closer as another shape formed and a hand reached out, snatching the child away from the mother. A cold wind drifted into the hearth, swirling the smoke, and the images faded as quickly as they’d come. Glenna whirled as the terrible sound of something cracking and igniting reared up behind her.
No! She dashed across the room to the cradle, smothering the flames in a blanket. But the fire swallowed the blanket, kicking out into the room. She scrambled back as it licked up the sides of the drawing table, swirling into a blazing fire. Every muscle in her body tensed as the flames took on the shape of a woman.
Black smoke swirled around the woman in the fire, curling into the strawberry blond waves that tumbled down to her slender waist. She wore a gold crown, glittering with rubies. A bracelet snaked up one arm, black volcanic rock braided with burnt coral. The woman smiled, her luminous green-gold eyes glittering. “Playing with fire again, darling?”
Her voice echoed into the room, hollow and foreign, like a voice from the sea. Empty as the sound of the ocean when you hold a shell up to your ear. Glenna felt all the energy, all the power drain out of her. “What do you want?”
Fire licked at the glittering hem of her golden dress, at the amber gemstones dripping from her fingers. A chunk of amber dangling from a glittering gold chain rested between her breasts, sparkling in the firelight at her feet. “Only to pass on a warning.”
Glenna fought to breathe over the black smoke filling the cottage. “A… warning?”
A shimmering golden dress draped over one shoulder, the silky material clasped with a chunk of rough-cut topaz. The woman stepped into the room, the thin fabric shifting like waves at sunset. Rich golden waves warmed by the sun. “Stay away from Nuala.”
“Who is she?”
“She is not your concern.”
“Who is she?”
“I told you,” the woman hissed, her bracelets jangling as she flicked her wrist toward the other side of the room. “She is not your concern.”
A painting—a silver beach bathed in moonlight—burst into flames. Paint melted down her butter-cream walls, the fire crackling over the canvas. Glenna gasped when all at once the flames died as quickly as they’d come. Leaving nothing but charred walls and a pile of pale ash and spilled pearls where the cradle used to be.
Chapter 18
Nuala flinched at the knock on the door. Hadn’t these islanders ever heard of privacy? She tucked her pelt back under the floorboards, folding the slick seal-skin and covering the loosened board with a rug. She stashed the oil behind the night table, and smoothed her hands over the carpet to pat down any wrinkles.
She’d thought she had until sunset tomorrow. But now that Glenna had entered the picture, everything had changed. Caitlin was one thing. Caitlin she could deal with. But until she found out who Glenna was and what she wanted, she would be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
She unlocked her door and stepped into the hallway. Owen’s bedroom door was still shut. She’d sent him to his room earlier, after his outburst over the painting. There was no way she was telling him the truth now. Not until she knew who they were up against.
She glanced at the painting of the white palace on the way to the front door. It was still hanging above the fireplace. She’d decided to leave it there in case the woman paid her a second visit. She didn’t want to explain why she’d taken it down, or raise any more questions.
She opened the door. Tara stood on the other side with a man she recognized from the gathering at Caitlin’s house the other night. A gray wool cap was pulled low over his forehead and his burnished bronze hair tangled around the collar of a faded barn coat.
“Sorry to bother you, Nuala.” Rainwater dripped down the hood of Tara’s oversized coat. “Do you remember Sam?”
The man held out his hand and a pair of sharp whiskey-colored eyes locked on hers. Nuala nodded. His grip was firm and he smelled faintly of wet animals and sweat. Deep lines from years of working in the sun were etched into his rugged face. “I’m not sure we had much of a chance to talk the other night. It’s nice to meet you. Again.”
Nuala pulled her hand away and she didn’t like the way those assessing eyes moved past her, sweeping through the room.
“Is that one of Glenna’s paintings?” Sam asked, nodding to the piece above the fireplace.
Nuala made no move to open the door wider or invite them in. “It is.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”
“She just brought it over today.”
“Did she?”
There was an edge to his voice, something in his tone she didn’t trust. She’d seen the way this man looked at Glenna, the way he practically followed her around the other night. There was something between the two of them. Which meant he couldn’t be trusted. None of them could be trusted.
“Sam and I were on our way back to the pub,” Tara explained, shaking the rain off the arms of her jacket. “I was wondering if Owen would like to come over to play with Kelsey?”
Her son wasn’t going anywhere. Especially not near this man. “Thank you for the offer, but Owen’s sleeping right now.”
“I’m not sleeping,” Owen spoke up from behind her, and Nuala gritted her teeth. He’d padded silently into the room in his socks. He was standing behind her, peering around the door.
“Owen,” she seethed. “Go to your room.”
“Hi, Owen.” Tara waved and smiled down at him, ignoring Nuala’s command. “Did you have a good nap?”
He nodded.
Tara smiled back up at Nuala. “Kelsey’s grandmother brought her a new board game and she needs another player for her team. I’ll be there all afternoon and so will Dominic. Liam will probably be in and out too, unless of course… he’s here with you.”
It was impossible to miss the implication behind her words. ‘I’ll take your son off your hands if you want a few hours alone with Liam.’ But why would Tara want to help her find time alone with Liam. Wasn’t she good friends with Caitlin? And Glenna?
“I’m afraid we’re all getting a bit stir crazy,” Tara continued. “But the children especially don’t like to be cooped up inside for so long.”
Owen tugged gently on Nuala’s shirt sleeve. “Can I go?”
She didn’t know who to trust, or what to believe anymore. But she had things to do—things she couldn’t do around Owen. If she let him go, it would get him out of her hair. At least for a little while. “I should come with you,” Nuala suggested. After the accusations Caitlin threw at her earlier, she couldn’t afford to have others suspecting she let her child wander off into the storm alone, or with people who were practically strangers.
“Only if you feel like it,” Tara insisted. “I’m happy to watch them. None of us is going anywhere.”
Nuala looked back at Sam. His eyes were still trained over her shoulder, still focused on the painting over the fireplace. No, she didn’t like this man. She didn’t like him at all. But she needed this time alone to store up her strength, to prepare for her return to the sea. It would be easier if Owen was occupied. How much trouble could he get into at the pub, playing board games with other children? “I was finishing up the lyrics for a new song… I could work on it there…”
“Nonsense.” Tara waved her off. “Come by when you’re done and we’ll fix you up some dinner. The power’s still out, but Dominic’s grandmother left a big batch of stew simmering in the caldron over the fire. It might not be the best thing you’ve ever eaten, but it’s warm and it’ll satisfy the hunger.”
Owen was already shoving his feet into his shoes and slipping out the door. Tara took Owen’s hand and looked sympathetically up at Nuala. “I’m really sorry your stay happened during this power outage. I hope you’ll come back another time, when the weather’s nicer.”
“I’d like that,” Nuala said sweetly, her fingers curling around the door as Tara led Owen out into the flooded streets.
Sam took one last look at the painting and
then turned, his long strides catching up with Tara and Owen. Nuala stood in the doorway, watching their figures fade into the curtain of rain. As soon as they rounded the bend into the village, she grabbed her cloak, fastened it around her neck and set out in the other direction. It was time she paid a visit to Moira. And found out just how much she had left out of this story when she’d made the trade.
***
Dominic glanced up from his ledger when Tara walked into the kitchen. An oil lamp burned on the counter, a small circle of light illuminating the columns on the page. Pipe smoke drifted in from the dining room where Brennan Lockley sat alone at the candlelit bar reading the paper. Dominic narrowed his eyes when he spotted Sam shrugging out of his jacket and ambling over to join Brennan. “What’s he doing here?”
“Dom,” Tara warned, closing the door behind her. “Sam has a right to come into the pub for a drink now and then.”
“I don’t like him in here.”
Tara rubbed her muddy sneakers on the mat by the back door. “Where’s Fiona?”
“She’s at the Dooley’s. Thomas got the generator to work. Most everyone headed over there a little while ago.”
Tara glanced through the small window into the bar. “Why didn’t Brennan go with them? He could use a bit of warmth.” Her brows knitted in concern. “I imagine his arthritis is acting up in this weather.”
“You know how Sarah feels about pipe smoke in her house,” Dominic answered. “She won’t have it.”
“And Kelsey?” Tara spied Owen settling onto the blanket beside their daughter. She had a pile of books spread out around her and she picked one up, handing it to Owen.
“Ronan was getting on her nerves.” Dominic sent her a knowing look. “You know how he gets when he’s stuck inside for too long.”
Tara nodded. Ronan O’Shea was only nine years old, but he could drive them all nuts at times. She didn’t blame Kelsey for wanting to hide out in the pub for a while. Her gaze shifted back to the bar as Brennan peeled off a section of the newspaper—at least a day old by now—and handed it to Sam. Plus, it would give Sam a chance to get to know Owen a little without too many distractions. If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it was Sam.
“Dom,” she said, turning away from the window and lowering her voice. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me how many ways I’d like to remove Sam Holt from that barstool.”
Tara sighed. “Actually, I have a question about Caitlin.” If Glenna was right, and the reason Caitlin was so worried about Owen was because she was hiding something, she had a hunch she knew what it was. Almost from the moment Owen set foot on this island, Caitlin had been mothering him. She’d brought him into the pub for breakfast that first day. She’d taken him with her to see the new cottage she was working on. She’d given him books to read and listened when he voiced fears about Nuala. She’d brought him in to see her at her office, worried about his webbed feet. And then she’d clung to him—like only a mother would cling to her own child—almost unable to let him go when he’d tried to follow her into the sea this afternoon.
None of these actions alone would raise suspicion. But when you added them all up, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a reason Caitlin and Owen were forming this unlikely bond—and in only a matter of days. Especially when, if you looked closely, the child held a striking resemblance to both Caitlin and Liam.
Tara bit her lip when Dominic wandered over to the stack of boxes he was unloading and tracking in his ledger. “What’s on your mind?”
“Glenna mentioned something earlier,” Tara began, trying to keep her tone light. “About Caitlin leaving the island when you all were younger…”
Dominic flipped to a new page, grabbing the pen from behind his ear and marking a note down. “We all got off the island now and then.”
“No. I mean, for an extended period of time.”
He glanced up. “What’s this about?”
Tara turned, picking up Fiona’s loose recipes and sliding them back into the box in alphabetical order. “I’m just curious about… things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, you know…” She smoothed out the corner of one of the index cards. “I hear things sometimes. And I just want to know that, as the island’s only doctor, I’m fully informed about my patients.” She squeezed her eyes shut. She was such a terrible liar.
Dominic narrowed his eyes. “I don’t quite see what one has to do with the other, but since you asked, it’s no secret. She got some kind of scholarship her last two years of high school. She went to live with an aunt of hers in Donegal for about eighteen months.”
Tara opened her eyes. She turned around to face her husband. “She left the island when she was sixteen?”
He nodded. “I imagine that’s about right.”
Tara opened her mouth, closed it. She grabbed a dishrag and ran it over the counter. “I guess I’m surprised I never knew that.”
“I don’t think she talks about it much.” The bottles clicked as he rummaged through the boxes, counting each variety and noting the numbers in his ledger. “It was some fancy all girls’ school in the south. Not exactly the best fit for Caitlin. But I think she got in because her aunt taught there.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t ever given it much thought before. “Maybe her parents wanted her to experience something else besides island life for a while.”
“I see.” Tara stared at the fog clinging to the windows. But she didn’t see. Caitlin’s father was a fisherman and her mother was a seamstress. They lived in Cork now, with one of Caitlin’s sisters, but from everything she’d heard they weren’t the kind of parents to dole out special opportunities to their eldest child. They would have preferred to have her around to help with the chores and the rearing of her seven younger brothers and sisters. “I guess I’m still surprised it never came up in any of our conversations.”
Dominic smiled, his pencil trailing down a column of numbers, counting at the same time. “I’m sure she hasn’t told you all her secrets.”
Tara watched him closely. “Is there anything about your past you haven’t told me?”
Dominic glanced up from the notebook. “Anything in particular you want to know about?”
Tara blew out a breath. “Okay. This is going to sound crazy. But I’m just going to come right out and ask it.” She folded the towel over the handle of the stove. “Are you descended from selkies?”
Dominic almost dropped the bottle in his hands. “Not that I know of.”
“Did you… have webbed feet when you were a kid?”
He choked out a laugh. “No.”
“Did your mother?”
He stared at her, biting back the next laugh when he saw the look on her face. “I don’t know, Tara. I don’t remember much about my mother. She left us when we were very young.”
“And you have no idea where she is?”
Dominic pushed away from the counter and crossed the room to his wife. He cupped her face in his hands, rubbing drops of rainwater off her cheek with his thumb. “Do you want to tell me what all this is about?”
Tara swallowed, looking up into those pensive gray eyes.
When she didn’t say anything, a troubled expression darkened his features. “Is this about Nuala and that boy? Should I be worried that Kelsey’s taking a liking to him?”
No, Tara thought, shaking her head. If they were cousins it made perfect sense for Kelsey to bond with Owen.
“Then why do you want to know all this?”
“I’m just trying to piece everything together,” Tara answered.
“You want to fill me in on the pieces you have?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I need some more time to think.”
He studied her face for a long time, finally dropping a tender kiss on her lips. “When you want to talk, I’m here.”
Tara let out a long breath when he pushed away and turned back to the task of inventory. He trusted her. He believed in her. And he
would wait for her to come to him. That was what she loved about him. His kindness. His patience. That they had no secrets between them. But she was about to break that trust for the first time. Because she couldn’t talk to him about this. Not when she wasn’t completely sure yet herself. And not when it wasn’t her truth to tell.
Chapter 19
Owen flipped through the pages of the book, confused. It was the same story, The Little Mermaid, but the pictures were different—all bubbly and colorful. He traced his finger over a sea crab with big blue eyes and dark eyebrows. Since when did sea crabs have eyebrows? And why did the princess in this book look so cheerful? She was supposed to be frightened, fighting for the love of her prince. He turned back to the cover, pressing his palm against the shiny surface. It didn’t even feel like the other book. “Is this the same story?”
“It’s a different version,” Kelsey explained.
“Version?”
Kelsey sent him a look. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”
Owen shook his head.
“It’s just a different way of telling a story.”
“I liked the other one better,” Owen muttered.
A shadow fell across the blanket and Owen glanced up, spotting the gold-haired man who’d come with Tara to pick him up this afternoon. “What other one?” Sam asked, reaching for a chair from a nearby table. The legs scraped against the wood floor as he pulled it over, straddling it backwards and leaning his big arms over the top to peer at the title.
He had a glass of something that looked like soda resting in one hand. But it didn’t smell like soda. It smelled like something that would taste really bad.
