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My face heats from tepid to volcanic as an image of dotting a kiss on Sion’s lips flashes through my mind uninvited. I address the table. “Believe a magic coin keeps popping back into your pocket? I give that the same credibility rating as a leprechaun’s kettle of gold.”
I can tell by his grunt he’s put distance between us. The withdrawal of his voice and its warmth opens an unexpected hollow in the center of my chest. I’m struck with the odd feeling I’ve disappointed Sion for the second time in two days. First, for my refusal to climb Blarney Castle, and now for dissing his Faerie story. I hate that it leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. This guy is nothing to me, and I’m no more to him than an Amerrrrican with an ample ass who refused to climb a stone staircase and won’t believe in shilling regeneration. I hear him muttering as he scratches the tabletop. The few words I pick out are not very generous, and it hits me that moments ago, I was actually enjoying the thaw between us.
When a leg slides next to mine on the bench, I nearly jump. Whipping around, I prepare to free Colleen’s hands from around Sion’s neck. Instead, I’m face-to-face with a fat braid trailing down one of our first-year grad student’s back.
Daisy Kelly looks between Sion and me. “I hope I’m not interrupting, Ella.” She rapidly fans the air in front of her mouth and giggles. “Sorry, I mean Owlie? I’m not used to your new name, Professor.”
“Eala,” says Sion with a derisive noise I’m rapidly learning is his equivalent of Máthair’s, For the sake of all that is holy.
Daisy swivels to face Sion, ignoring his correction. “I’m Daisy. You’re the local expert, right? Your name’s Shahhhhhn?”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I release my own version of Sion’s grunt. The scowl on his face will be a beaut after Daisy’s slaughter of his name, but when I sneak a look, he’s smiling like an amadán, steadily meeting her gaze. My self-worth drops to sub-basement level. He’s never met my eyes. All I rate from him is frustration, forced apologies, and his damn mesmerizing voice.
“Sion Loho. Local Irishman at your service.”
For fuck’s sake, he might as well bow and kiss her hand. Since when did he become a ball of charm?
“I love the way you say Oirishman.”
I swing my feet to the outside of the bench, giving the impression I’m riveted on Robert Corrigan and his stories.
Daisy slides away from me, which means she’s closing in on Sion. “I’ve been sent over here on a mission. What’s a Sidey hog?”
“Och!” says Sion loud enough to earn a few shushes. “Don’t let Robbie be hearin’ you butcher the name of his pub.” The teasing in his voice makes me want to scream. For us, he downgrades the pub to a soup kitchen, but for Ms. Kelly’s sake, it regains its quaint drinking establishment status.
“Shee-hogue’s the way you’d say it.” Sion’s voice gets even more flirty as he stretches out the translation. “Lep-re-chaun.” My breakfast sours in my gut. So, he can be nice. It’s me who activates his thorns.
I loosen my scarf to release the heat building up on the back of my neck. I apologized for the crack I made yesterday, but apparently that’s not enough to rate his kindness. It’s as if he keeps testing me, and when I fail, he takes it personally.
What is wrong with me? I don’t give a Sheehogue’s ass if Snarly O’Nasty wants to ignore me and hook up with Daisy. They’re both adults. Surely Olk vetted him before allowing Sion to join our study trip. Disappointment knocks despite my attempts to bat it away. If he stops talking to me, then I won’t get to hear any more of his stories or echoes of Máthair in his voice that smooth the jagged edges of the ache of missing her.
“Leprechaun is so much cuter than Sheehogue,” says Daisy.
The irrational bitter undercurrent of being robbed of Sion’s attention snaps my restraint. “I’m sure we agree cute is what matters most in life.” My hand flies to my mouth, but my comment sputters through the air like a balloon with a hole in it.
Sion gives a low hum. “Not a philosophy I’m familiar with, Mistress Eala. Socrates, is it?”
I’m too mortified by my outburst to properly gauge if Sion’s tone is amused or mocking. So much for a thumbs-up eval from Daisy.
“And if I’ve one bit of advice for the lot of you,” Robert Corrigan calls from the stage. “It’s not to rush your days. Enjoy each one like the jewel it is.”
I’m sure as hell rushing my day away from making a bigger fool of myself in front of Sion. I grab my purse and make a beeline for the toilets. Behind me, Daisy loud-whispers to her Irish conquest. No doubt I’m the subject matter and it’s not complementary. She’ll tell him about the flap I caused last quarter, insisting my lecture be moved from a top story classroom to the ground floor after I had an embarrassing vertigo episode. Sion will counter with my cowardice at Blarney Castle. I’m so happy my fear of heights supplies them with material to bond over.
Why, out of all the decent people in Ireland, does Sion Loho and his voice connect me with the wish on my grandmother’s ring?
Find me.
What have I found, and how do I get rid of it?
Chapter 6
The Doll
Jeremy leads our group past a giant oak near the ruins of the old gate lodge at Charleville Castle. Thick branches sprout from blackened smudges on the truck and reach parallel to the ground, ending in twisted wooden fingers.
“The King Oak,” he announces, nodding in deference to the old tree, “is believed to be the herald of doom. Each time lightning struck the tree, a member of the family living in the castle perished.”
The gargantuan tree poised at the edge of Charleville Forest looks fully capable of housing otherworldly tenants bearing curses. I’m stationed by the side of good Professor Olk to create a unified visual impact while yielding the stage to his narrative. I startle with an undignified squeal when Charlie sneaks up behind me as the group disperses for the trek to the castle proper.
