Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  “What . . .” She tried to form a question, but the words bubbled and seethed in her mind and would not come together. Had she fallen asleep in the middle of talking to Lady Keating? Or was her mind playing tricks on her?

  Lady Keating laughed, and the sound of it seemed to ripple and blend with the music of the wind. “I’m sorry to have startled you, my dear. But it just seemed easier to show you than to try to explain. Welcome to An Saol Eile—or at least to the part of it I know. It doesn’t do to explore too far into these lands unless one is prepared for a very long and perhaps strange journey.”

  “An Saol Eile,” Pen repeated. She had heard those words before. Hadn’t Corkwobble once used them, to talk about—

  “It means ‘the other life.’ So much more poetic than ‘the land of fairy,’ don’t you think? And more apt. Have you ever seen a place that is more alive?” She looked up into the sky, a small smile just touching her mouth. In the soft light, her lips looked very red and her skin glowing and translucent, like alabaster. In fact, all of her suddenly seemed . . . more. It was as if she’d been magnified—no, intensified, like wine distilled into brandy.

  And it wasn’t just her. The grass blowing around them was so green that Pen could practically taste it, and the air felt like champagne as she breathed it in, going straight to her head and making her feel almost tipsy. Fairy. How did Lady Keating know about the world of fairy? How could she—

  “It is very simple, my dear.” She reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair out of Pen’s eyes. The ring she always wore, the silver one with a green stone, positively glowed. “I know about it for the same reason you do.”

  “I don’t understand.” She had fallen asleep somewhere along the way and was dreaming it all—these colors and scents and feelings could exist only in a dream.

  “It’s not a dream, my dear.” Lady Keating bent and ran her hand through the grass at their feet, then brushed her dew-soaked fingers across Pen’s cheek. A rivulet of it rolled down to the corner of her mouth, and she could taste it, like a rare liqueur.

  “Can you taste a dream? Oh, Penelope—I will not call you Miss Leland, for it is not a name that matters here—I think you do understand. This place is real, and you are not dreaming. As soon as I saw you that day in the street, I knew who, or perhaps I should say what, you are. Or at least I strongly suspected and soon realized that I was right. You’re a bean draoi—a witch, though I hate that English word. And so am I. It was why I was so drawn to you from the very start. What a coincidence for us to have met, though perhaps not so coincidental. When magic-wielding people meet, it is usually for a reason, though that reason may not always be evident at first.”

  “You’re a . . . a bean draoi? Really?” Pen stared at her, then looked away. The slightly drunk feeling that she was getting seemed to intensify. “I mean—yes, of course you must be, or else we wouldn’t be . . .” She gestured, indicating the green plains around them. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

  “A little overwhelmed? Is that so surprising? Come, my dear, of course you are. Though there are more of us in Ireland than in your home, it should still be a surprise to meet a fellow bean draoi.” Still holding Pen’s hands tightly in hers, she raised them, arms outstretched. “You know me as Lady Keating of Loughglass. That is my husband’s name and title. But I have a name and title and lands of my own that I inherited in my own right. What you see here is part of my land. The rest of it is in the mortal world, around my home at Bandry Court.”

  Bandry . . . ban dree . . . bean draoi . . . she had never paid much attention to the name before, but now it made sense. Was that why the name had startled Mary Margaret Carrighar? Did she know it too? “You hold a fairy title? But how, unless you’re—”

  Lady Keating laughed again. “No, I’m not a fairy. I am as human as you are. And it isn’t a fairy title. It was given to my family by Danu, the Triple Goddess, so many years ago that no one now remembers when. I am one of her—not priestesses, for she doesn’t have a hierarchy. Perhaps the term ‘lady-in-waiting’ best describes it. I serve her, keep her word and bear witness for her in whatever way she requires. It’s a position that can be held only by a bean draoi of my family. Your family has a history of the powers, am I right?”

  Pen nodded.

  “So has mine. One woman in each generation has the power. She inherits the title of Banmhaor Bande—Steward of the Goddess—and all that comes with it, the privileges as well as the responsibilities. Look behind you.” She let go of Pen’s hands and turned her to face the opposite direction.

  Not far away was another hill, higher than the one they stood on. Was Pen imagining things, or was the grass even greener and more lush on its flanks, and the light shining on it clearer than anywhere else?

  On the summit of the hill were three standing stones arranged in a triangle, silver-gray and exuding an air of deep timelessness, and yet they stood straight and firm, as if raised only recently. Three other stones rested on their tops, linking them.

  “That is the Goddess’s place, where I come to speak with her when she summons me,” Lady Keating explained. She dropped a slow curtsey toward them.

  Pen copied her, feeling awkward. “Does she . . . summon you often?”

  A small line appeared and disappeared between Lady Keating’s brows so quickly that Pen was not sure it had been there. “Not as often of late. But her ways are mysterious and not for us to comprehend.” She waved her hand, and two chairs of carved wood appeared behind them. She gestured for Pen to sit; after a few seconds, Pen realized that her chair was just slightly lower than Lady Keating’s. Well, that was only appropriate; this was Lady Keating’s place, not hers.

  Pen looked at the trilithon on the hill in silence. Either sitting down had helped or she was getting used to the intoxicating air of this place, for now she could think more clearly. Lady Keating was telling the truth. She could feel the presence of the Goddess in this place, wherever it was. Lady Keating—a witch and one of the Goddess’s ladies! It would explain so much, except for one thing. She took a deep breath. “Lady Keating, why are you showing this to me?”

  “Ah, my dear. Can you not guess?” Lady Keating smiled at her fondly.

  “Er, no, not really.”

  “My dear, I sought your friendship because I saw at once you were exactly the type of young woman I wanted Niall to marry: lovely, intelligent, wellborn, wholesome of mind . . . and as a bean draoi, worthy of his blood. And also as a bean draoi, I hoped that if you came to love Niall, you would be willing to help us with a little piece of magic, one that would serve to remove the barriers between him and his father.”

  So that was what Lady Keating had meant by helping Niall. “Us?”

  “Doireann and myself. Doireann is a bean draoi as well, though sometimes . . .” She shook her head. “But the Triple Goddess’s magic is best worked by groups of three. With three of us working together, united by our love for my poor, dear, flawed boy—I know that he has behaved reprehensibly toward you and destroyed what regard you had for him, but if any shred of it remains, any pity, even, it could be the saving of him.”

  Pen sat in her chair and looked down at her hands. She could feel Lady Keating’s eyes on her, pleading. Could she find it in her to want to help Niall now, after he’d just tried to seduce her? Was this the test Mary Margaret had mentioned?

  “I must confess . . . ,” Lady Keating began, then stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it is just that I . . . it would be a great honor and delight for me if we could . . . that is, if you wanted to . . . to become my pupil for a while. No, not pupil—I can feel your power, and it is very great. But if we could work together, you and I, and I could share with you what little knowledge I have that you do not already possess. I know you’ve had your excellent Miss Allardyce—Mrs. Carrighar, I should say—to teach you all these years, not to mention Dr. Carrighar himself more recently. But I do not think that they and I necessarily know the same things. Working t
his spell for Niall’s sake would necessitate some amount of preparation. . . .”

  A little thrill coursed through Pen. No more reading long sections of old books written in antique language on dusty, brown-spotted pages, or having to discuss magical theory with the likes of Eamon Doherty and Quigley. No, working with Lady Keating would mean active, practical magic, and it would be Irish magic, the warm, wonderful, slightly wild magic she’d had only sips of, the Goddess’s magic. She’d be able to drink it down to the lees, immerse herself in it. . . .

  “Could I? R-really? You’d want to teach me?” she stammered.

  Lady Keating laughed. And all at once they were standing once again, the chairs vanished, and the sweet, musical wind blew in their faces like the breath of the Goddess herself, and Lady Keating put her hands on Pen’s shoulders and kissed her forehead. “M’inion,” she murmured. “My daughter you will be, from this moment on. You will come to Bandry Court, and we will work together, you and I.”

  Two days later, Pen watched the spires and hills of the city of Cork give way to green countryside as she, Doireann, and Lady Keating began their journey to Bandry Court.

  It had been easier than she’d expected to manipulate Dr. Carrighar into giving her permission to go on such short notice. The memory of their talk still made her a little ashamed of herself, but she’d done what she’d had to do . . . and it had worked, hadn’t it? It wasn’t Dr. Carrighar’s fault that Doherty had been an idiot and decided that he was in love with her. But it had been easy enough to burst into tears in the doctor’s study and say she couldn’t face another tutorial with Doherty, or even feel at ease knowing he was in the house . . . and just as easy to make him feel as if Doherty’s advances were the result of his lack of vigilance. He’d turned pale and been quite speechless, then agreed readily enough to her leaving with Lady Keating for a visit to Bandry Court. Doireann had suggested using that approach to asking his permission, and Pen had to admit that it worked well. She’d comforted herself with the fact that Mary Margaret had already said she should go. Having her backing had surely helped.

  And with Dr. Carrighar’s permission given, she hadn’t needed to trouble poor Ally. Pen now understood why she slept nearly around the clock. Surely Lady Keating’s motive in giving Ally the fairy whiskey had been kindness. After all, it had saved her from a great deal of discomfort. Pen hadn’t asked her about it yet—there had hardly been time what with packing yesterday, and she hadn’t wanted to visit the Keatings in case she saw Niall. . . .

  Niall. When Lady Keating had picked her up just now, she’d been almost afraid to enter the carriage for fear that he would be accompanying them. Several hours in close proximity to him, even with his mother and sister present, would have been dreadful. But Lady Keating had seen her hesitation as she put her foot on the step and glanced inside.

  “He’s not here. How could I do that to you, my dear? No, he left early this morning for a visit at a friend’s house near Kinsale. I understand Charlotte Enniskean was to be there as well.” She pursed her lips.

  Kinsale was in the opposite direction to where they were going. Pen had been relieved, then . . . well, surely it couldn’t be jealousy she felt. Not now. No, Charlotte was welcome to charming, debauched Niall. Would she let Niall have his way with her if they happened to find themselves alone in a quiet sitting room?

  The thought that she might be doing just that in the near future made Pen want to shudder. His caresses that day in the library, his words had all felt so genuine, as if he truly had been swept away by his feelings for her. But she couldn’t think about that anymore or it would drive her mad. Heaven knew it nearly had over the last two days. Thank goodness that Lady Keating was taking her away.

  The sky was a steely gray as they rattled over the road north to Bandry Court. The winter had been a hard one, and the roads were bad as a result, still rutted and very muddy. Even in Lady Keating’s well-sprung carriage, they were being jounced about quite unmercifully. Pen hoped that the gray clouds wouldn’t decide to rain and make their journey even more uncomfortable.

  In the seat facing her, Doireann sat with closed eyes and nodding head. It was difficult to believe that anyone could nap while being shaken and bumped like this, but Pen was grateful: It meant she didn’t have to make conversation with her.

  Doireann had been more like the lions than ever lately. Even with her eyes shut and her breathing in the slow regular rhythm of sleep, Pen got the unsettling feeling that Doireann was watching her. Why? What had she ever done to make her so watchful and distrustful? Did it have anything to do with Niall? He had said that he never knew where he stood with her, either—

  She had to stop thinking about Niall.

  “Tell me about Bandry Court,” she said quietly, turning to Lady Keating beside her. “Is it quite old?”

  “Parts of it are. There is a great deal left of the medieval keep and walls, and some sign that those were built around even older structures. It is set on a hill, which is where the ancient Irish preferred building their fortifications, so I should not be surprised if there had been a dwelling there since, well, forever.” Her pride in her house was evident. “It grew over the years, and my great-grandmother added on and modernized a great deal in the 1780s but worked around anything that was already there rather than tearing it down. She added several bedrooms, a gallery and drawing rooms, and a library as well as better quarters for the servants. It is a bit of a hodgepodge, but a lovely one. I always resent the time I must spend in town or elsewhere, because it takes me away from Bandry Court.”

  Pen remembered that Lord Keating lived in seclusion at Loughglass. Was that what Lady Keating meant by “elsewhere”? Would she ever meet him, now that Niall—

  Drat. There she went again. She stared out the window, hoping for distraction. There was an intensity to the colors in Ireland—the greens more verdant, the browns richer, even the gray of the sky more forbidding—that was deeply satisfying. The greening land was cut haphazardly into fields, some brown and plowed, some left rough and untouched, here and there dotted with tumbledown hovels. It was not remotely as tidy and orderly as the land around her home in Hampshire, and signs of poverty were frequent. Despite the relative peace that prevailed right now, Ireland was a deeply wounded place, divided in religion and politics. Heartbreaking beauty, side by side with heartbreaking pain, and both called out to her. As much as she loved Mage’s Tutterow, this somehow felt like where she belonged. If only there were some way that she could stay here and truly make it her home. She’d thought she had, but Niall . . .

  Pen was awakened by the ride’s not becoming bumpier, but smoother. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, easing the tension in her shoulders. Why had she let herself fall asleep? She hated dozing off in a carriage; it always gave her a ferocious crick in her neck.

  “Awake, my dear?” Next to her Lady Keating was still sitting upright, hands folded in her lap, as if she had not moved a muscle since their brief stop at an inn for a cup of tea and a quick snack. “Very good, as we’re nearly there.” She gestured toward the window.

  They were just passing a small stone cottage. Two young girls in brown linen dresses stood beside it, mouths agape as their heads turned to follow the carriage’s passage, and a stout woman pegging laundry to a clothesline dropped a deep curtsey.

  “My gatekeeper, Mrs. Coffey,” Lady Keating commented, returning the woman’s greeting with a nod and wave. “She was widowed a year and a half ago, so I gave her the cottage and the position. My Mistress requires that her daughters in need be looked after.”

  Pen nodded in reply, but her attention was fixed by the view in either of the side windows: Two immense pillars of stone, easily twelve feet high and half that in girth, stood sentinel on either side of the road. They were an uncompromising gray, speckled with lichen, and looked as if they’d been there since the dawn of time.

  “And that is my gate,” Lady Keating added. “I don’t think that any smith’s work in iron or brass, n
o matter how fine, could outdo these.”

  “No, indeed,” Pen agreed fervently. They brooded over the road, almost seeming to watch the carriage as it rolled past them and up the lane. She could well imagine that the two silent, almost menacing stones could keep unwelcome intruders out as effectively as any iron gate.

  A short distance past the cottage and gate, the road dipped down and over a stone slab bridge that spanned a tiny brook, then climbed again into a copse of trees, mostly yews and holly and young oaks. When they emerged from the trees, Pen could see that they’d entered a rolling upland. It was much like the down country near Newmarket back in England, but impossibly, richly green, even under the lowering sky. Here and there, indeterminate gray shapes dotted the grass; she was not sure from this distance if they were more mysterious stones or merely sheep.

  Crowning one of the hills was a great stone pile of a house, looking to Pen a little like another ancient druidic monument, apart from the smoke rising from its chimneys and the neat gardens and outbuildings surrounding it. Beyond it was an even higher hill, and this one was topped by standing stones. It looked almost exactly like the vision of An Saol Eile Lady Keating had shown her.

  Just then Doireann yawned so theatrically that Pen guessed she’d been awake all along, or at least for a while. “Home, are we?” she asked, stretching.

  Lady Keating glanced at Pen, one eyebrow sardonically raised, and she knew then that Doireann had been indeed feigning sleep. “Did you have a nice rest, my dear? Yes, we’re home.”

  “That’s good. If I don’t get to a water closet shortly, it’ll be—”