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What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me.”
Even though the musicians have stopped playing, the notes refuse to die. They linger in the tracery above us before sliding into reluctant silence. No one applauds at the end of the song. Sion’s head lowers in reverence to the essence of magic he’s sent to every corner of the room.
The crack of Olk’s hands coming together is the lightning that spoils a sunset. There’s a stitch of disappointment in my chest. I want to continue to float in a song, weaving Máthair’s spirit into every note.
Jeremy wears a look of pure disgust. This time, the chill in my blood isn’t from a weird pocket of cold air. His expression leaves no wiggle room for misinterpretation. Jeremy Olk detests Sion Loho.
The room turns battlefield as Sion stares pointedly at Jeremy while the group launches into the intro of their next song. When Sion joins in, his voice spirals through the room until it collides with me on a single word.
Eala.
Sion sings my name. Our gazes lock across the room as his voice grows more challenging. “An Eala Bán.”
The white swan.
Eala.
Sion sings a song with the name that now belongs to me. A name that sounds as if it belongs on his lips. Emotions and memories smash and collide with one another. Máthair. Ella O’Dwyer. My greenhouse in the sky.
All gone.
With every eye focused on the musicians, no one, not even Jeremy, notices me rush from the room and away from the beauty and memories in Sion’s voice. The words of the song about a man pursuing his swan trail after me.
I am being pursued by the ghost of a life lost to me. Pursued in the way Sion’s lovely voice reminds me of Máthair’s, reducing me to a colossal brew of sadness, confusion, and the uncertainty of my life if I don’t land the tenure-track position. Adjuncts live a term-to-term life, hoping to snag a class or two each quarter with no guarantee. I crave permanence.
Visitors to the castle have been drawn to the music. I’m alone in the dim upstairs hall with no one to ask if I’m okay. How can I be okay? There’s no such thing as okay anymore. Where’s my simple? My small? My safe? A few weeks ago, I thought a stupid DNA test would give me a foundation. Now, I’m thousands of miles across the sea with a new name, floundering in a future with crepe paper guideposts.
I come to an open door. I’ll escape inside this room until my misery sloshes its way back to some measure of composure.
To my surprise, the room boasts a grand wooden stairway curving up several stories. The wall beside it is ornately carved. A padded rope between the wall and banister warns me not to climb, so I drop onto the bottom step. Each spindle supporting the sweeping handrail forms a mini-Gothic arch. Steps rise to a landing draped in shadow. I hug the closest spindle and hum one of Máthair’s lullabies in an attempt to stave off this feeling of breaking into fractals.
If I lose the job, how can I go on at Kennard Park and face the humiliation of rejection? Maybe I should stay here in Ireland. There are plenty of small towns to mimic the security of Kennard Park. Celtic studies here is simply living. Did my grandmother intend Ireland to be my new reality? Does this island, instead of the one I was raised on, hold claim to my identity?
Teacht orm.
A high, squeaky voice breaks my concentration. Its Irish accent is as light as the draft curling up the staircase. “Did you lose your dolly too?” A little girl, no more than eight, skips down the last few stairs and ducks under the rope to sit beside me. Her hair is smoothed straight against her head until it melts into chocolate ringlets falling over lace-covered shoulders. She’s dressed in what Máthair would call “Sunday best.” Smudges of dust on the front of her skirt hint she’s been into mischief, climbing stairs where she doesn’t belong.
“No. My dolls are at home.” I flash on the boxes in the apartment storage locker that holds my past life. Inside one is my rag doll, Molly, that Máthair made from my favorite baby blanket. I’d snuggled with her every night since kindergarten. I wish Miss Molly were with me so I could bury my face in her yellow plaid dress and suss out my life.
The girl rests her chin on chubby fists, a colossal pout twists rosebud lips into an adorable circle. “My dolly fell down the stairs. I can’t find her.”
I’m tempted to use my teacher voice and say that’s what you get for poking around by yourself, but instead, I walk to the doorway, doing a quick scan for frantic parents. No one seems to be on the hunt for a stray kid. “Where are your grownups?”
When the girl flings her arm toward the music, ringlets bounce. “I want my dolly.”
I stand and offer my hand before she can dart away. “How about I help you find her, and then I’ll take you to your parents?”
She jumps up and dances from foot to foot before taking my hand. Her fingers are skinny and insubstantial. I can barely grasp them. With her other hand, she points under the stairs. “There she is.”
A doll is sprawled behind the curve of the bottom step. Its curly hair and dress match the girl’s. Painted lips on a delicate porcelain face smile at me. Dolly is one lucky gal surviving a plummet over the banister intact.
As I stoop to retrieve the toy, the girl bolts out the door. “Wait, honey.”
By the time I give chase, she’s history. Thank goodness I’m wrangling grad students and not kidlets. The girl probably found another hiding place to finish soiling her frilly dress. I turn to set Dolly on the step before I go report the wild child to our guide, Samantha.
“You call me rude, at least I didn’t run out on a fellow’s perform?—”
