by Megan Chance
“She said it wasn’t far.”
“Silver ribbons . . . kelpies . . . oh, what does that mean? It could be anywhere!”
Cars on silver ribbons. A sound like roaring kelpies. Diarmid knew just the noise Deirdre meant: a belching, growling, rumbling sound. Like the horse cars in town, and the trains.
Trains. Steam cars.
“Coney Island!”
“What?”
“Coney Island,” he repeated. “Where mortals bathe. By the sea. Smoke from the steamers. And there are steam cars—the Coney Island railroad. Cars on silver ribbons. Which sound just like angry kelpies.”
She stared at him. “Angry kelpies. You would know this.”
He shrugged. “Aye.”
“You’re certain?”
“No, not certain. But ’tis a place to start. Unless you have a better idea?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Coney Island. How do you know all these places? You’ve only been here since May.”
“Well, we had to know where we were, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but . . . I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never been there.”
He thought of the pretty row house where she lived, the rooms empty now, but not always so. A little yard and a cast-iron fence. A good neighborhood. “Why would you? ’Tisn’t a place for people like you.”
“People like me?”
“It’s for working people who don’t have a country house upriver to go to for a holiday.”
She went pink. “I’m not rich.”
“Not anymore. But you were.”
“My family isn’t like that. My father would have loved Coney Island—”
“’Twasn’t meant as an insult.”
“You don’t think I see anything. You think I’m oblivious to all this.” She gestured to the slums around them. “But I’m not. I know I . . . I know I thought my life was bad, but I’m not blind or dead—not yet, and—”
She stopped short, and then she just . . . gave way. Her shoulders shook, and she pressed her hands to her face, and without thinking, he took her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, and he held her, saying nothing. The last few days she’d been so calm and strong that he’d forgotten how strange all this must be to her. He knew what it was like to wake up one day and find the world changed. To be told that you had power, that you held the burden of the world, that you had to die. It was a miracle she hadn’t fallen apart before now.
She whispered against him, “I miss my life. I never thought I’d say that, but I do. I wish I were blind again. I wish I’d never seen you, or that you were just a stableboy, or . . . or something. I wish Patrick had never called you.”
His heart squeezed. “I know.”
“I don’t want any of this. I want to go back to the way things were.”
“You can’t. No one can. There’s only going forward.” He wished it wasn’t so, but to say otherwise was a lie, and he’d already told too many. Her anguish made him feel helpless. How was he supposed to comfort a lass who’d just told him she wished she’d never laid eyes on him? He told himself to back away, to turn away.
But then she said, “I’m so afraid,” and her vulnerability, along with her bravery in admitting it—that honesty he’d always admired even as it slayed him—tugged and tangled him. He felt himself falling even harder, and he could do nothing to stop it.
“’Tis all right,” he managed. “The sidhe are gone now. You’re safe.”
She gave a shuddering little laugh. “Not because of the fairies. Well . . . yes, them, but . . .” She looked up at him. “I’m afraid I am the veleda. I felt something when they called me. Like a . . . stinging in my blood. And when Deirdre promised to help, I heard this . . . music that told me I could believe her.”
“It was music?”
“Yes. Does that mean something?”
“The Druid spells,” he explained. “They all sounded like music. ’Twas the way they were spoken.”
She leaned her forehead against him. “I don’t want this.”
“‘The veleda sees; she weighs; she chooses,’” he quoted the prophecy softly. “’Tis what you’re meant to do, Grace.”
She pushed away. He let her go, fighting the urge to pull her back again, to kiss away the glistening trail of tears on her cheeks.
She said, “I must find this archdruid.”
“We’ll find him. We’ll follow this clue of Deirdre’s to the end. I promise.”
The hope in her eyes blindsided him.
“You mean we’ll go to Coney Island?”
“Tomorrow,” he told her.
He felt her strength restored with every step as they walked in silence back to the tenement—and he made no mazes this time. He didn’t even think to do it.
Once they were there, he played ball with the children and ran the Dun Rats through more drills. But he had to force himself to concentrate on training, to remind himself of his brothers, who expected the best of him. They had to be ready. It had been four days since the fire. He hadn’t yet heard from Finn, but he knew he would.
In the alcove that night, Grace seemed restless and distracted. He heard her whisper—less than a whisper, the veriest hush of sound, a murmured cadence—and he asked, “What are you singing?”
She quieted as if he’d caught her by surprise. “It’s not a song. A poem. It comforts me to hear it, even in my own voice. I miss my books.”
He remembered the reason they’d gone to the secondhand shop: a book to ease her boredom, which they hadn’t returned with. He hadn’t thought of it since. “Tell it to me, then. I’d like to hear it.”
“It’s all right, Derry. You don’t have to pretend—”
“I like poetry. And you learn to admire it when you’re made to write some yourself.”
“You had to write poetry?”
“Schooled by Druids, remember?”
“Tell me one of your poems.”
“You don’t want me to do that. I’ve no talent. Truly. I’m not just saying it.”
“I don’t have any talent either,” she said wistfully. “I wish I did. I’d love to be a poet, but even the dogs would howl and skulk away when I read mine out loud. Aidan never laughed so hard. Patrick was kind enough to listen, though, and he never even winced. He understood how I felt—”
She broke off, and in that silence he heard her missing Patrick Devlin, and her brother, and everything Diarmid had taken her from. Softly, he said, “Tell me the poem you were whispering.”
She rolled to face him in the darkness. “‘Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.’”
The stanza was beautiful and strange. He felt her in the words, which struck him with both heartache and hope, reminding him of that time in her bedroom when she’d asked him if he could change the world for her, and he’d been afraid of how much he wanted to, how much she demanded of him, how she made him want to be better than he was.
She said tentatively, “That’s Tennyson. He’s one of my favorite poets.”
“’Tis beautiful, lass,” he answered with a tight throat, a tender bruise in his chest. “Beautiful and sad at the same time. Like longing.”
“Yes. Exactly like longing.” There was wonder in her voice, as if she hadn’t expected him to comprehend. The air between them went taut. He felt her waiting and wondered what she would do if he touched her again. If he kissed her the way he wanted to—
A knock at the front door shook the walls. Diarmid jerked up. Grace asked, “What’s that?”
He scrambled over her. The boarders were stirring and complaining. He grabbed the dagger from his boot at the same moment he hissed over his shoulder, “Get back into the shadows.” He wa
s relieved when she did.
Bridget yelled, “Stop the noise, I’m comin’!” and the pounding stopped.
Diarmid waited, thinking of how to get Grace away. The fire escape was the only way out besides the front door, and—
“It’s Oscar!” Little Joe called out in excitement.
It was a moment before the name registered. Diarmid shoved the dagger back into his boot, saying to Grace, “Stay here. I’ll—”
But she was already rising, clutching the blanket. “I want to know what’s going on.”
She pushed by him, a glimmer of white in the darkness, and he followed her into the other room, where Oscar stood, his bright blond hair hidden by a brown scarf. His green eyes lit with pleasure as they came into the room. He strode over to Diarmid. “You look well, man.”
“What’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Such a welcome! Not even a ‘how glad I am to see you.’”
“How glad I am to see you,” Diarmid said. “You’re lucky I didn’t gut you before I heard who it was. What’re you doing here in the middle of the night?”
Oscar nodded at Grace, and then at Bridget and the children. “’Tis best said in private.”
“Outside,” Diarmid said, gesturing to the door.
Grace said, “Wait. Does Patrick know where I am? My mother? And Aidan—how is Aidan? And my grandmother?”
Oscar looked uneasily at Diarmid.
“Come now, kiddies, back to bed, eh? ’Tis none of your business,” Bridget said.
“But Ma, that’s Oscar,” said Little Joe.
Oscar said, “Aye, and I’m afraid I’ll be agreeing with your mama, lad. Off to bed with you. ’Tis late.”
The boy’s eyes went round. He scampered off to the mattress behind the curtain, and Bridget motioned toward the other room, where the boarders were settling in again. “Prying ears don’t help no one.”
Oscar waited until Bridget made her way behind the curtain with the other children, and then he motioned for Grace to come close. “Aidan’s fine. Stranger than ever, if you ask me, but he’s with us, and Finn won’t let him near the ale. And as for your mama, and your grandma . . .”
“She’s all right, isn’t she?” Grace asked anxiously. “I know Mama must be worried sick, and Grandma was so—she is still . . . alive, isn’t she?”
“As far as we know. Devlin’s moved them both into his house.”
“Why?” Diarmid asked.
“They know she’s with you, Derry. Sweet little Rose couldn’t keep her mouth shut, it seems. Devlin and the Fenians have put word out that Grace has been kidnapped. There are ‘Wanted’ posters everywhere, and a reward offered for her safe return. They’ve named us, and police are everywhere, looking for us. They’re coming down on the other gangs too. Devlin’s told the newspapers that he’s taken Grace’s family under his wing to protect them, that he’s afraid of reprisals in case the other gangs decide to defend us.”
“Will they?” Diarmid asked.
“Aye. They’re hungry and they want work. They’re looking for a reason to fight someone. And they don’t like police tactics.” Oscar looked at Grace. “But Devlin’s made it personal. He’s told the papers that you’re his fiancée. The Fenians are hoping to buy sympathy—a pretty, young lass kidnapped . . . The whole city’s in an uproar. Finn thinks some will turn against us. Offer enough money, and people will do almost anything.”
“Then you’ll need me,” Diarmid said.
“Didn’t you hear me? The whole city’s looking for the two of you. Finn says not to move. You’re safe here with the Dun Rats. For a while anyway.”
“I don’t like it.”
“What I don’t like are all these boarders knowing you’re here,” Oscar told him.
“They hardly pay attention. They come here to sleep. That’s all.”
“You don’t suppose a reward might open their eyes?”
“I’ve seen no posters here.”
“It won’t stay that way. Rose told them you were on the Brooklyn ferry. You need to be very careful now, my friend. I have to be getting back. Walk with me outside.”
Where they could talk privately.
“Wait. What about the archdruid?” Grace asked. “Have you found him yet?”
Oscar looked at Diarmid.
“Her grandmother told her about him,” Diarmid explained.
“You mean the old woman knows something?”
“She did,” Grace said softly. “But now . . .”
“She’s mad,” Diarmid finished.
“Ah. How mad?” Oscar asked, raising a brow. “Stark-raving or just a wee bit?”
Grace glared at his humor. “My mother says she won’t get better. Whatever else she knows . . . I’m afraid it’s gone.”
“Does Patrick know this?”
“Yes. He knows everything. I told him everything.”
The trust she’d put in Patrick . . . Although she’d let Diarmid touch her and comfort her, it didn’t change that she was engaged, nor that she trusted Patrick. More than him.
“What’s ‘everything’?” Oscar pressed. “What did your grandmother tell you?”
“That there’s an archdruid. That the sidhe can help me find him. And some other things, about keys and being broken and seas . . . I couldn’t make sense of it. But about the archdruid and the sidhe—she was very clear about that.”
Diarmid stared at her. “Keys? Seas? You’ve said nothing of that to me.”
“Because I don’t know what any of it means. I told you she said a great deal of nonsense.”
Oscar looked thoughtful. He said good-night to Grace, and Diarmid walked him out. Once they were in the yard, Oscar said soberly, “I won’t lie to you, Derry. Things are bad. We’ve managed to find a new panny, but who knows how long it’ll be before they hunt us down. There’re spies all over. Devlin and the Fenians . . . they’ve got a finger in every pie, and Fomori warriors are everywhere. We’ve been trying to find the archdruid, but the sidhe we’ve questioned seem confused. I don’t think they’ve found him yet.” Oscar paused. “This fight, when it happens . . . we’ll need all our allies. Are you training the Rats?”
“Every day.”
“Have you learned anything from Grace? Does she know anything?”
Diarmid shook his head. “I don’t think so. If she knows the incantation, it’s hidden deep.”
“But she knows who she is?”
“Patrick told her. She didn’t believe it at first, but now . . . I think she does now.”
“Does she know about the choice? The sacrifice?”
Diarmid felt sick. He nodded.
“And about you? Does she know about the geis?”
“I don’t know.” Diarmid looked up at the sky and saw only leaning buildings, one or two candlelit windows, most of them quiet and dark. No stars and nothing else to show they were even in the world. “She’s said nothing of it. But if I were Patrick, I would have told her. I would have wanted her to be afraid of me.”
“Is she afraid of you?” Oscar asked.
Oscar’s real question was obvious, and Diarmid chose not to acknowledge it. “She tried to escape me the first day. Ran right into a group of the sidhe.”
“Sweet Danu—you’ve told her how dangerous they are?”
“Grace believes what her grandmother said about the sidhe being able to help, and she thinks the archdruid might know some other spell, something that means she doesn’t have to die.”
“Have you told her ’tisn’t likely?”
“Aye, but . . . but what if there is one? Patrick and the Fomori have promised Grace to find it if it exists.”
“They have?” Oscar sounded impressed. “’Tis a good play. Does she believe them?”
“She’d go back to Patrick in a moment if I let her. She trusts him. And
the Fomori have charmed her.”
“And you haven’t.” Oscar’s green eyes glimmered in the darkness. “You haven’t used the lovespot. I could see it when I walked in the door. Why not?”
Diarmid knew Oscar would never understand this. His friend was a warrior first and foremost; Oscar liked girls in his bed and then he liked them gone. Even Etain—Oscar’s long-ago love—had not changed that. What could Diarmid say to explain how he felt? That he wanted to know real love for once? That he wanted a future with a girl he was bound to kill? Or that her name was Grainne and he didn’t want to live that story again and he was as big a fool as he’d ever been and he knew it?
Oscar said, “By the gods. You’re in love with her.”
Diarmid could say nothing.
Oscar threw his arm around Diarmid’s neck, jerking him close. “Are you mad, Derry? Why would you do this?”
“’Twasn’t as if I asked for it,” Diarmid protested.
“You should have guarded against it. You should have fought it,” Oscar said furiously. “You know how much depends on this. It isn’t just you. It’s all of us.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“So was Finn right to doubt you? Will you be able to kill her?”
“I’ll do my duty. I’ve told you I will.”
“But that was before you were in love with her—”
“I said I would do it.”
Oscar released Diarmid. “If Finn knew this, he’d be here on the next boat. He’d seduce her himself and make sure ’twas well done.”
Oscar was right. Diarmid couldn’t bear the thought of it.
Oscar went on, “Derry, we need to know that you can do this. Tell me that I can trust you. That I don’t need to tell Finn.”
Diarmid took a deep breath. “You can trust me to do it, if I must.”
“If you must,” Oscar repeated. “Don’t put your hope in this archdruid, Derry. This kind of magic—”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Then you’ll—”
“I’ll convince her to take our side. And when the time comes . . . I’ll kill her.”
Diarmid felt the way Oscar was measuring him. He was relieved when his friend said, “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”
