by Nora Roberts
Connor took the tea his sister gave him. “So, it’s Boyle, is it? Grabbing our cousin and kissing her stupid from the sounds of it. She’s barely landed on our doorstep, and my mate’s jumping her like a rabbit.”
“Oh, leave off being such a child.”
He laughed, drank tea. “Why would I leave off, when it’s such a grand time?”
10
FOCUS. BRANNA HARPED ON IT RELENTLESSLY. Iona struggled to find it, then hold it. She’d improved—Branna gave her frustratingly faint praise for that—but she’d yet to reach the skill her exacting mentor judged strong enough.
She wondered how the hell anyone could focus soaking wet and half frozen.
Rain poured out of thick gray skies as it had, without pause, for two solid days and nights. That equaled, for the most part, inside work for both her job and her craft. She didn’t mind it, not really. She enjoyed reorganizing the tack room with Meara, and working with Mick on instructing one young rider, and one feisty octogenarian in the ring.
She loved having extra time to groom and bond with the horses. She’d braided the manes of all the mares, delighted by the way they preened at the added attention. And though she sensed the geldings would have liked that style and attention just as much, she knew Boyle would object. So she’d worked a small, single braid into each, to please the horse and satisfy the boss.
And she learned. Inside Branna’s workshop with the fire simmering, the scents of herbs and candle wax sweetening the air, she’d learned to expand her own understanding, embrace her power, and begin to polish those raw edges. At night, she read, she studied while the wind blew that steady rain against the windowpanes.
But how the hell was she supposed to think, much less focus, with rain splatting on her head, and the raw chill of it shivering straight to her bones.
Worse, Branna stood there, absolutely dry, her hair a gorgeous black sweep, and her eyes merciless.
“It’s water,” Branna reminded her. She stood in the quiet sunlight she’d created, smiling coolly through the curtain of rain that fell outside her boundary.
“I know it’s water,” Iona muttered. “It’s running down the back of my neck, into my eyes.”
“Control it. Do you think you’ll be warm and dry and happy every time you need what you are, what you have? Will Cabhan wait for fine, fair weather to come for you?”
“All right, all right, all right!” Flickers of fire sizzled from Iona’s fingertips, and a stream of rain went to steam.
“Not that way. You’re not after changing it, though well done enough there. Move it.” Smoothly, effortlessly, Branna widened her sunny spot a few inches.
“Show-off,” Iona muttered.
“It’s in you as much as me. Slide the rain away from you.”
She liked the feel of the fire snapping through her, from her, but drew it back. And used the frustration and annoyance that helped her call it to nudge, to slide, to open.
An inch, then two—and she saw it, felt it. It was just water. Like the water in the bowl. Thrilled, she pushed, and pushed hard enough to have that streaming rain leap away, gather. And splat with some force against Branna’s borders.
“I didn’t mean to— I mean I wasn’t trying to splash you. Exactly.”
“It wouldn’t have hurt your feelings if you’d managed to,” Branna said easily. “So well done as well there. You’ll work on subtlety, and finesse—and absolute control—but you managed it, and that’s a start.”
Iona blinked, swiped at her wet face, and saw she’d opened a narrow but effective swath of dry. No pretty pale gold sunlight in her little corner, but no rain either.
“Woo to the hoo!”
“Don’t lose it. Don’t spread it. It’s only for you.”
“The rest of the county would probably appreciate some dry, but I get it. Stop rain here, maybe cause a flood there.”
“We can’t know, so we don’t risk it. Move with it,” Branna demonstrated, walking in a wide circle, always within the dry.
On her attempt, the edges of Iona’s circle turned soggy, but she kept control.
“Well done. As it’s Ireland, you’ll have no lack of rain to practice on as we go, but well done for today. We’ll go inside, have a go at a simple potion.”
As Branna headed back toward the workshop, Iona struggled to keep up—and maintain her dry area. “I could help on the bottling and packaging of your stock, for your shop. I’d like to help somewhere,” she continued. “You do almost all the cooking, and you’re spending a lot of your time—Connor, too—teaching me. I’m pretty good at following directions.”
“You are.”
Branna had always preferred the solitude of her workshop. It was one matter to hire clerks and such for the shop in Cong, to have them deal with customers, shipping, and so on. But her workshop was her quiet place. Usually.
And still, she thought, the lessons, and the need for them, did cut into her time.
“It would be a help,” she decided. “We’ll see about it.”
Branna stepped into the workshop, and Iona nipped in behind her dripping on the floor.
“I was about to leave you a note,” Meara said from behind the work counter. “The both of you.”
“Now you’ll have some tea, and a visit. I’ve missed seeing you. Iona, don’t track up the floor.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re dry, I’m soaked. I must look like a wet cat.”
“More a drowned one,” Meara commented.
Branna walked straight to the kettle. “Do a glamour.”
Saying nothing, Iona glanced at Meara.
“Meara knows all there’s to know, and likely more besides. Fix yourself up.”
“I’m no good at glamours. I told you I tried one once, and it was a disaster.”
“Sure it’s why it’s called practice. For usual, it’s my thinking glamours or drying your clothes instead of changing them is lazy and vain, but for now, it’s good practice. If you end up with warts or boils, I’ll fix it for you.” With a wicked smile, Branna glanced back. “Eventually.”
“You did one for me, do you remember, Branna, when we were fifteen, I think, and I desperately wanted to go blond, as Seamus Lattimer, my heart’s desire at that time, preferred them.”
At home, Meara took off her jacket, hung it on a peg, unwrapped her scarf to do the same, then her cap. “I was about to do the deed—had the hair product I’d saved two weeks to buy, and Branna came along, did the glamour, and changed it for me.”
Considering, Iona studied Meara. “I can’t picture you as a blonde, not with your coloring.”
“It was a rare disaster. I looked as if I’d developed the jaundice.”
“And you were too stubborn to admit it,” Branna reminded her.
“Oh, I was, so I lived with it near to a week before I begged her to turn it back. Do you remember what you said to me?”
“Something about changing for yourself was one matter, changing for a man was weak and foolish.”
“Wise, even so young,” Meara said with her bawdy laugh. “And Seamus spent his time snogging with Catherine Kelly, as blond as a daffodil. But I lived through the disappointment.”
“A lesson learned, of some sort,” Branna said. “But in this case, we’re considering it practice. Fix yourself up there, Iona, and we’ll have some tea.”
“Okay. Here goes.” She released a breath, sincerely hoping she didn’t set herself on fire as she concentrated on her jacket, sweater, and jeans first.
Steam puffed, but no flames snapped. She began to feel her toes thaw out, her skin warm, and, smiling, ran a hand over the dry sleeve of her jacket.
“It worked.”
“Think of the time I’d save on laundry if I had a trick like that,” Meara commented.
Grinning, Iona ran a hand over her wet, dripping hair, turned it to a sunny, dry cap. On a quick laugh, she covered her face with her hands, closed her eyes briefly. When she lowered them, her face glowed, the color of her lips
deepened to a rosy pink, her eyelashes darkened, lengthened.
“How do I look?”
“Ready to head to the pub and flirt with all the handsome men,” Meara told her.
“Really?” Delighted, Iona rushed to the mirror. “I look good! I really do.”
“Smoothly done, and with a bit of finesse as well. You’ve come along well.”
“Stick around,” Iona said to Meara. “She never says things like that to me.”
“So when I do, you know I mean them. I’ve shortbread biscuits, Meara, and the jasmine tea you’re fond of.”
“I won’t say no to either.” She made herself at home at the table, taking a moment to rub Kathel when he laid his big head in her lap. “The weather’s dampening our business, and they’re saying we’re in for more of the same tomorrow. Boyle’s arranged for classes from the school to come in, see the horses. We’ll give the young ones rides on leads around the ring.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Oh, he has them, our Boyle does.” Meara smiled at Iona as she helped herself to a cookie. “And as for you, I had a thought for my sister’s birthday next month. Maureen. She lives down in Kerry, as she and her husband work there,” she added for Iona. “You know the sets you do—the soap, the candle, the lotion, and such—the special ones you make with that particular person’s traits and personality in mind.”
“I do. You’d like one done for Maureen?”
“I would, yes. She’s the oldest of us, as you know, and about to turn thirty-five. For some reason, she’s gone half mad over it, as if her youth is done and over, and she’s nothing but the miseries of age left to her.”
“Bless her, Maureen was always one for drama.”
“Oh, that she is. She married her Sean when she was just nineteen, so she’s had sixteen years of his plodding. He’s a sweet man under it,” she continued, “but a plodder for all that. She’s two teenagers driving her to the edge of insanity, or beyond it, and another coming up behind them. She’s taken to texting me, our other sister, or our ma all day and half the night to keep us abreast of her trials and tribulations. I’m thinking the gift, being it’s created for her, and it speaks to pampering and female things, might perk her up enough to have her leave off hounding me until I want to thrash her.”
“So it’s about you,” Branna said with a laugh.
“I’m saving her life, and that makes me a fine sister.”
“I’ll have it for you next week.”
“I always wanted a sister,” Iona mused.
“Would you like one of mine? Either of them’s up for the grabbing. I’ll keep my brothers, as they’re not gits most of the time.”
“Being an only child is lonely and you never get to bitch about your siblings.”
“I would miss the bitching,” Meara admitted. “It makes me feel so superior and smart.”
“I had imaginary siblings.”
Amused, Meara sat back with her tea. “Did you now? What did you call them?”
“Katie, Alice, and Brian. Katie was the oldest, and patient, smart, comforting. Alice was the baby, and always made us laugh. Brian and I were the closest in age. He was always getting into trouble, and I was always trying to get him out of it. Sometimes I could see them, as clear as I see you.”
“The power of your wishes,” Branna told her. Lonely child, she thought. So not tended, so not understood or cherished.
“I guess. I didn’t understand that kind of thing, not really, but they were more real to me, a lot of the time, than anyone else. Between them and horses, I kept pretty busy.”
She stopped, laughed. “Am I the only one who had imaginary people in her life?”
“Connor was more than enough for me.”
“He’s more than enough, indeed,” Meara echoed.
“And we both knew, Connor and I, much younger than you, what we were about.”
“And even with that, you both forged other really strong things. Your work here, the shop, his falconry—and his handy hands. And you, Meara. You’re not one of the owners, but you’re an essential element in the business.”
“I like to think so.”
“It’s clear you are. Both Boyle and Fin respect your skills and your opinion, and depend on both. I don’t think either of them give that sort of thing lightly. It’s what I want. To forge something, and to earn respect, to have people who matter know they can depend on me. Do either of you want more than that?”
“It’s good to have what you say,” Meara considered. “I wouldn’t mind a pot of money to go with it.”
“What would you do with it?”
“Well now, that’s a thought. I think first a fine house. Doesn’t need the fancy, just a good house, with a bit of land and a little barn so I could have my own horse or two.”
“No man?”
“For what?” Meara laughed. “For the keeping or for the fun?”
“Either or both.”
“I’d take the fun, there’s been a lack of that sort of amusement in my life in recent months. Keeping though, that’s not what I’m after. Men come and go,” she added as she settled back with her fragrant tea. “Except for sweet and plodding Sean, as far as I’ve seen. Best not to expect or want them to stay, then it’s less fraught.”
“But fraught means you’re living,” Iona said. “And I want one to keep, one who wants me just as much. I want wild, crazy love, the sort that never goes away. And kids—not just one—a dog, a horse, a house. A big, sloppy family. What about you?” she asked Branna.
“What do I want? To live my life. To end this curse that hangs over all of us, and crush what remains of Cabhan.”
“That’s not just for you. Just you, Branna,” Iona insisted. “Money, travel, sex? Home, family?”
“Enough money to travel to exotic places and have reckless sex with exotic men.” She smiled as she poured more tea. “That should cover the lot.”
“I’ll travel with you.” Meara laid a hand over Branna’s. “We’ll break hearts the world over. You’re welcome to join us,” she told Iona. “We’ll see all the wonders, and take our pleasures where we find them. Then you can come back, pick the one you’ll keep, and make the babies. I’ll build my house and barn, and Branna will live her life exactly as she pleases, curse-free.”
“Agreed.” Branna lifted her teacup to toast. “We’ve only to vanquish ancient evil and earn great wealth, and the rest is but details.”
“Both of you could have all that exotic sex now,” Iona protested. “It’s not hard to have your pick of men when you look like Celtic goddesses.”
“We’re keeping her,” Meara told Branna. “She’s a wonder for my ego.”
“It’s true. Branna looks like something out of a fairy tale without even trying, and you’re this image of a warrior princess. Men should be falling at your feet.”
The door opened, bringing in the rain, along with Connor, Boyle, and Fin.
“Not all of them,” Meara murmured.
“Look what I’ve dragged in.” Connor shook rain from his hair like a dog as Kathel bounded over to greet the newcomers. “It was haul them in or build a bleeding ark. Have you tea and biscuits to spare?”
“Of course. Don’t track up my floor. Has the business world shut its doors then?”
“For the day,” Boyle told Branna. “We were nudging Fin along to buy us dinner, but damn near drowned considering the where.”
“And here’s better.” Connor walked over to hold his hands out to the fire. “Especially if someone could be cajoled into making a vat of soup.”
“Someone?”
Connor merely smiled at Branna. “And I thought of my own darling sister.”
“You think of me in the kitchen entirely too often.”
“But you’re brilliant in it.” He leaned down to kiss her.
“I’ll peel and chop whatever you need.” It was, Iona calculated, sort of like asking Boyle to dinner. “You can peel and chop, can’t you, Boyle?”
; “I can, especially if it gets me dinner.”
“I’m willing to be a kitchen slave for a hot meal on a night like this,” Meara added. “What of you, Fin?”
He continued to unwind the scarf from around his neck. “Whatever Branna needs or wants tonight.”
“Then I’d best go see what there is to put together for this famous vat of soup.” She rose, and moved through the rear doorway. The dog left Fin’s side to follow her.
“She’d be easier if I went on,” Fin said.
“You’ll not.” A rare edge of anger laced Connor’s voice. “It can’t be that way, and she knows it as well as you do. We need you. I’ve told Fin and Boyle what happened a few days ago,” he told Iona.
“What happened?” Meara demanded.
“I’ll tell you as well, in a moment. But it stands, Fin. We need you, and she understands that. In the end she won’t let what’s tangled between you get in the way of it.”
“Maybe someone should tell me about the tangle.” Iona shoved her tea away. “It might help to know all the details instead of trying to figure everything out with pieces of them.”
Fin walked over to the table, then tugged down the neck of his sweater. “This is his mark, the mark your blood put on mine. I bear it, and Branna won’t see past it to what she is to me or what I am to her.”
Iona rose to study it closely. A pentagram, as the legend claimed, and as clear and defined as a tattoo. “It doesn’t look like a birthmark, but more like a scar or a tattoo. Were you born with it?”
“No. It . . . manifested much later than that. I was more than eighteen.”
“Did you always know?”
“Not where the power had come from, no, but only that I had it.” He adjusted his sweater. “You’re a steady one, Iona.”
“Not really, or not enough. Yet.”
“I think you’re wrong there.” He tipped her head up with a hand on her chin. “You’ll hold when it counts most, I think. She’ll need that steadiness from you, and that open mind.”
“Connor says we need you, and I trust him. I’m going to go help Branna get started.”
“I’m with you.” Meara rose. “Give her a few minutes to settle into it, but don’t gorge on the biscuits. She’ll do whatever needs be, Fin, whatever the cost.”
“As will I.”
Iona went with Meara through the back, in and out of the storeroom, and into the house.
“Wait, before we go into Branna.” Iona stopped. “What happened between Fin and Branna? I’m not asking you to gossip, or betray the sisterhood, and one that’s so obviously close and intimate between you and Branna. I think you know that. I hope you know that.”
“I do, and still it’s not easy to say to you what she hasn’t. I’ll tell you they were in love. Young and wild for each other. Happy in it, though they scraped and squabbled. She was going onto seventeen when they came together the first time. It was after they’d been together the mark came on him. He didn’t tell her. I don’t know whether to blame him for that, but he didn’t tell her. And when she found out, she was angry, but more, she was devastated. He was defensive and the same. So it’s been an open wound between them ever since. A dozen years of wanting and turmoil and too much distrust.”
“They still love each other.”
“Love hasn’t been enough, for either of them.”
It should be, Iona thought. She’d always believed it would be. But she went with Meara toward the kitchen to do what she could to help.
* * *
