My companion made a disgruntled noise and extended his hands toward the fire. “Please don’t start calling me that. My family name is as heavy on the tongue as ‘Your Lordship’ is on the nerves. You may call me Meath if you like, Miss Quicksilver. Most do.”
I understood a thing or two about ponderous names. “As you like, sir. As for myself, ‘Miss Q’ will do.”
He ducked his head and raised his glass. “It’s an honor to make the acquaintance of such a unique young lady.”
I raised my glass. “And it’s an honor to meet …” I tried to think what his title might be, and then recalled that Dublin was in County Meath. “… the Earl of Meath—have I got that right?”
He inclined his head slightly. “Since my father died, two years ago.”
Our glasses clinked, and I took the tiniest of sips before replacing mine on the table.
“You haven’t much of a thirst this evening,” he observed.
“I’m not used to it,” I explained. “I lead a sober existence. Studious by nature.”
He gave me a dubious smile. “Despite all evidence to the contrary.”
I reached again for my glass as an occupation for my nervously active fingers but caught myself and folded my hands in my lap. “Things are not always what they seem, sir. I’ve come to Dublin on a research trip.”
“Research! You are full of surprises, Miss Q. May one know what you are researching?”
I straightened in my chair. I mustn’t lose this opportunity over a sudden and uncharacteristic case of nerves. “I’m composing my thesis on the disappearance of Ireland’s gentlefolk. I hope to find a few souls here who know stories or even have firsthand experience.”
Watching him closely to see whether he would scoff at this, I noticed when a shadow passed over his countenance. But he was smiling when he replied, “Well, I daresay you’ve come to the right place. I’d wager there are many here who have had visions. Of fairies and bogeys, to be sure. Also lions, monkeys, and possibly peacocks.”
“My dear sir,” I replied, suppressing my own smile, “I believe you are laughing at me.”
Then he did laugh. “Forgive me, Miss Q. I’ve only just left a naval appointment, and I haven’t enjoyed the company of a charming young woman in longer than I care to remember. Don’t be angry with me for having a bit of fun.”
The casual flattery affected me more than it should have. I dropped my gaze to my glass and released the smile I’d been holding back. “No, sir. I’m not so miss-ish as that.”
“That is a relief.” His voice softened slightly as he said this. It was a subtle change, but my heart noticed—and fluttered. “In all seriousness, a house of absinthe seems an unlikely place to conduct research, if I don’t offend by saying so.”
The earl appeared to have sloughed off the chill. He had angled his chair somewhat away from the fire and folded his sleeves to just above the elbows. He was not quite sitting at my table, but he’d rested his half-consumed drink there.
“I’m sure it seems so,” I replied. “Over the past decade, there have been a handful of reports in Paris, London, and Dublin newspapers that suggest a potential connection between consumption of absinthe and the ability to see fairies.”
The earl’s amused expression had given way to a contemplative one. “You refer to real sightings? Not absinthe-induced hallucinations?”
I lifted my hands, turning them out in a gesture of uncertainty. “Who can say? One might argue that they are hallucinations, encouraged by the nickname the spirit has earned.”
He nodded. “One might.”
“Or … one might argue that the nickname was earned as a result of the spirit’s effects.”
Another nod, slower this time. “But if the sightings are real, would that not mean the fairies have not departed at all?”
I smiled, pleased at his quick intelligence and his interest in the topic. “Precisely. That, or their new country somehow overlaps our own, and absinthe—or perhaps one of its component herbs—creates a sort of gateway between the two.”
“Intriguing.” He was staring into his glass now, perhaps seeing the spring-colored liquid in a new light. “And you don’t wish to test the theory yourself?”
He glanced up at me, and I shook my head. “I’d make a biased subject. I might see only what I wish to see.”
“And what is it you would wish to see?”
I frowned, considering. It was an interesting question, and I wasn’t sure of the answer. Inspired by his joking manner, I replied, “Anything that might bring me closer to finishing my thesis.”
He laughed and drank again from his glass.
“How about you, my lord? Have you ever seen a fairy?”
Edward
I stared at this striking woman, frozen by her question. For all that she was ladylike, mild-mannered, and on all accounts charming, her wit was direct and incisive. Her question was not complicated. It required a simple yes or no, and yet …
Dare I tell her the truth? That at least in my case, absinthe did cause the most troubling hallucinations—though it had never occurred to me that there might be anything real about them—and that only the spectacles kept me from going mad? Yet absinthe was the only thing that staved off the nightwalking, which was far worse. Rising in the morning to find bloodstained bedclothes, my own flesh torn and bruised as if I’d done battle with a host of demons.
Yes, the absinthe was necessary, and the spectacles limited the green apparitions to the edges of my vision. But I could share nothing of this with her, however compelling I might find her.
“First of all, Miss Q,” I replied, “I’ve asked you to call me Meath.”
She gave an apologetic smile. “I know that you have, but I find myself unequal to addressing a virtual stranger—especially one with a station so much higher than my own—in such a familiar way. Might you be willing to compromise if I promise to avoid ‘Your Lordship’?”
It was a very pretty feminine plea, which, of course, I was powerless to refuse. I’d spoken only the truth when I said I’d been too long outside the society of women, and what’s more, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d found myself so captivated by such society.
“If it will allow us to continue our discourse, then so be it,” I replied.
She gave a gracious nod. “Will you then answer my question?”
I eyed her over the rims of my spectacles. The lady’s eyes were very close in hue to the undiluted spirit so popular in this establishment: an uncommonly light shade of green. Her lips were dark, nearer plum than pink. She could not be called classically beautiful but had rather an impishness to her features—narrow eyes and arched brows, high and defined cheekbones, and a chin more pointed than round. Not to forget those plaited and piled waves of silver, with loose curls that softened any sharpness in the lines of her face. Together, it created an effect that suggested a way out of the corner she had so innocently backed me into.
“Indeed I have, Miss Q.”
In fascination, I watched the flurry of fingers and wrists that produced a notebook and writing implement seemingly out of thin air. “You’ve seen a fairy?” she replied eagerly.
I nodded. “I believe one sits before me now.”
Her gaze took a turn around our fireside nook before returning to my face. She crossed her arms on the table, her pursed lips punctuating the understanding in her expression. I fought a losing battle not to stare at the mouth shaped like a little mauve heart.
“You’re laughing at me again, Lord Meath,” she said, a hint of vexation in her tone.
“Not at all,” I assured her. “I only meant to convey that you yourself are the most otherworldly creature I’ve met.” Strictly speaking, this was true, but I did not much like myself for the flimsy evasion.
She set down her writing implement, the lines of her mouth softening into a self-dep
recating smile. “According to my grandmother, an Irish ancestress of ours was kissed by a fairy. All the most interesting family legends have Irish roots, you see.”
“Might it not be true?” I couldn’t help but ask. “If you accept their existence, why might it be a stretch to believe what your grandmother told you?”
She frowned, and an inch-long wrinkle kissed the spot on her forehead a Hindu would call the third eye. “It’s a fair question, Lord Meath. Do you accept their existence?”
I shifted slightly in my chair, finally closing the gentlemanly distance I’d preserved between myself and her small table. “I make it a practice never to disbelieve a thing I cannot disprove.”
The brightness of her gaze—the almost childlike pleasure in her countenance—caused a swelling in my chest. “Then we have something in common, sir,” said she.
I detected motion in my peripheral vision—a swirl of green mist, the hallmark of the otherworldly visitations, which I could never quite ignore. I raised my hand to nudge the spectacles closer to my face and so managed to block my view of the visitor with my hand.
But it did nothing to diminish the shrill cry that pealed like a nightmare across my consciousness. I squeezed my eyes closed. Of all the absinthine visitors, the bean sí was the worst. And they often hovered over sailors and ships like great flocks of spectral geese. It had been close to driving me from my commission when Queen Isolde recalled me to attend to affairs of state. But I knew I would return to the Royal Navy when I’d fulfilled my obligation to Her Majesty—I had no desire to remain at my ancestral seat, wasting away my years tormented by mental disease and with an increasing dependence on the infernal remedy. I had to at least remain active, and the sea air soothed my fevered brain.
“Are you well, Lord Meath?”
I opened my eyes to find the lady eyeing me with concern.
“I am, thank you. Just a slight headache.”
The banshee had drifted to the other side of my head, her wild rippling tresses and cobweb garments trailing behind. I could not hear the lady’s reply over the sudden blast of another shrill death warning.
“One moment,” I murmured to my companion, removing my spectacles.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the change in light. The barrow woman, having free range of my vision at last, swooped and swirled in the air between us before coiling around the torso of my new acquaintance and whispering into her ear.
“Miss Quicksilver!” I cried in reflexive warning.
The lady suddenly stood and bent toward me with alarm. I felt her cool fingers press the back of my hand. “My lord, what can I do to help you?”
I locked gazes with the wide-eyed hag at her shoulder and, in desperation, gave a nod of acknowledgment. With another shriek, the banshee soared away from my companion and straight through the ceiling over our heads, leaving a trail of green vapor that curled like fog around Miss Q’s soft pile of silver hair.
Returning my spectacles to their original position, I looked into the lady’s anxious face.
Were I to accept what she had moments ago suggested—that these visions of mine were more than vapors, that they had real substance—I must also accept that I had just been warned of the lady’s impending death.
Ada
Blue. The gentleman’s eyes were a light, clear blue. They were striking in contrast to his black hair, which could mean he was at least partly descended from the Spanish sailors shipwrecked near Galway in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The lovely and half-mad Irish queen, Isolde, was said to be descended from those same castaways, and I wondered whether there might be some relation.
Lord Meath replaced the spectacles, and at last he spoke. “Forgive me, Miss Q. I am well now.”
I resumed my seat.
“I’m sorry for your headache, sir,” I said, and I meant it. He had a kind and gentlemanly manner, and I was little more than a tourist on this island, without family or even friends here to ease my feelings of isolation. He was a handsome, intelligent young nobleman, and I doubt many ladies would fail to appreciate the gift of his time and attention.
He shook his head. “It is nothing. But I must ask you something.”
I lifted my eyebrows, uneasy about the sudden somber quality in his tone. “Yes?”
“Have you family in Ireland? Or a friend, perhaps?”
It was as if he’d been listening to my thoughts. The more intimate nature of this question surprised me, and I failed to immediately formulate a reply.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent.” He touched the base of his glass with the tips of his fingers but didn’t drink. He gave a thin smile that constrained whatever true feeling had moved him to ask the question. “I’m only concerned for your welfare, traveling alone and unprotected.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir. But I’m afraid—well, I’m an orphan, you see. As such, I’m accustomed to managing my own affairs and am more self-reliant than perhaps I may appear. I assure you, there’s no cause for concern on my behalf.”
It was perhaps unwise for me to be so honest about my situation. What did I know of him, to be revealing to him just how alone I was in the world? Yet despite my strong suspicion that he was hiding something, my instincts assured me he meant me no harm.
He acknowledged my explanation with a nod. “Do you mean to remain in Ireland over the holidays?”
“I do, sir.”
“And then you’ll return home?”
“I plan to travel into the countryside after Christmas, until I’m expected back at school. I wish to visit some of the small villages and churchyards. Talk to the people who live there.”
His countenance darkened with every word I spoke. “Is there something wrong, Lord Meath? Are you feeling unwell again?”
The corners of his mouth relaxed. “Not at all. But I have a proposition for you.”
I stared at him with some surprise. Had I misjudged him after all? “Indeed, sir?”
“Nothing improper, I assure you. Though if you agree, you’ll have to trust me as your companion for a few days.”
My mouth fell open at this, and I closed it again without replying.
The earl shifted in his chair and again stretched his legs before the fire. I breathed a little easier with his gaze directed away from me, and I studied his profile as he continued. “I was called to shore by Queen Isolde, who, in addition to being my sovereign, is also my cousin.”
So he was a relation of the queen’s, and as an earl, he would by default be a member of parliament. Ireland’s government was much the same as Britain’s, right down to both countries’ independent and strong-minded queens. However, Ireland’s monarch had the absolute support of her military and had been known to run roughshod over the Irish parliament. Despite this rather regressive state of affairs, Isolde had raced well ahead of the English queen in advancing reforms aimed at improving the condition of women in the country. For this reason, I had felt easier about embarking on a research trip here than I would have at home.
Even so, I waited with some trepidation to hear the rest of the earl’s proposal.
“While I was at sea,” he continued, “a ruin of some sort was discovered on my tenant’s farm, inside an ancient fairy mound called Brú na Bóinne. The queen believes it is important, and has asked me personally to inspect the site, photograph and secure it, and report back to her.”
I don’t know what I had thought he’d say, but this was far from anything I might have imagined. Brú na Bóinne, on the River Boyne, not far from Dublin, was a site of great mythological significance. It was associated with two of fairy lore’s most beloved figures: the warrior Diarmuid and his foster father, Angus, both members of an ancient fairy race, the Tuatha De Danaan.
“What sort of ruin, sir?” I asked, heart racing at the possibilities this suggested.
“It is believed to be a tomb of great anti
quity. Perhaps a place of ritual or worship. Little is yet known. Its construction likely dates back thousands of years, I am told. Due to the nature of your research, I thought it might interest you.”
“Indeed!” I could hardly contain myself.
“Let me show you.” He reached for his overcoat then and fished inside one of the pockets. He soon produced a box, rectangular in shape, with a drum attachment, and a winding lever on one side. He wound the gears—visible at the back of the device—several turns and then scooted his chair close to mine.
“Are you familiar with stereoscopes?” he asked, and I shook my head.
Raising it to eye level, he asked, “May I?”
I held my breath and nodded.
The box had a goggle-like viewing attachment, which he pressed gently to my face. His fingers tickled the hair at my temples, sending shivers down my neck and across my shoulders.
I heard a loud click and then a series of softer, more rapid ones as a light flickered on inside the box. A succession of photographs began to unwind. The images appeared to have movement and depth, and I gasped at the ingenuity of it. The first series depicted the rolling Irish countryside, and soon a grassy hill slid into view. The next series showed an opening in the side of the hill. The door was framed with stone slabs, its shape very much resembling the dolmen that had been erected in antiquity in County Clare. Beneath the base of the opening was another stone slab, this one carved with spirals. A rocky footpath curved down the hill around the opening and into the photograph’s foreground. Beyond the opening, all was in shadow.
“Extraordinary,” I said breathlessly. “I wish we could see inside.”
“We can.” He lowered the stereoscope.
I stared at him, my cheeks warming in response to multiple stimuli. “You are suggesting that I accompany you?”
“I believe your academic background makes you far better suited than I to evaluate its importance.”
I pressed my hands into my lap, struggling to rein in my excitement. “I have studied anthropology, history, and folklore,” I said. “But I am no archaeologist, Lord Meath.”
The Absinthe Earl Page 2
