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Sion’s signature disgust infects the forest. He blows a breath into the night and continues to grumble. “My mother always said faith is to believe what we do not see, and the reward of that faith is to see what we believe.” The grumble upgrades to a growl. “It’ll take the heavens to open and rain fire to get cynical Eala Duir to believe anything save what she can poke with a stick.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. Even with all his critical glory, Máthair’s favorite quote from St. Augustine has the beauty of a ballad coming from Sion Loho’s lips.
Sionnach Loho.
A fox?
I step out from behind the tree to face the echo of my grandmother in this strange man.
“Say it again.”
Despite the darkness, Sion’s eyes are full of light. “The heavens’ll have to rain fire before?—”
“No. What your mother said—St. Augustine’s words.”
At the mention of St. Augustine, his expression softens. “Faith is to believe—” I close my eyes and speak the rest of the words with him. Our voices twine together, becoming the notes of a song.
In the silence of the wood, my gaze finds Sion’s. All around us, the bursts of light I thought I’d imagined dance up tree trunks to settle twinkling in branches. A surge of moonshine brightens the forest. The gold band in Sion’s eyes twinkles like a ring of starlight.
The beginnings of a shift in reality make me anticipate the familiar hum of a dream flash, but I’m not whisked into a fantasy. The sting of my fingernails digging into my palms tells me I’m not imagining this. I stare at the tiny sparks around us and then down at Sionnach. “What’s happening?”
Sion reaches to grasp my hands. The quickness of his movement causes me to pull away.
“You have my oath, I’ll not hurt you.” He leaves his palms upturned, inviting.
Around us, the little bursts intensify, diving inside trunks, branches, leaves, rocks, and grasses until everything in the woods glows with unearthly beauty.
“What—” The question dies on my lips as I stare, mesmerized by the lights.
Slowly, I touch my palms to his and our lifelines meet. “Welcome to the Veil.” His head swivels to take in the living forest. Those curls shift between the spicy rust of a fox’s coat to a smoky pumpkin color.
I involuntarily squeeze his hands. “The Veil?” He’s kidding. This can’t be the space between reality and the realm of magic from Máthair’s stories. “No.”
“’Tis.”
The lemongrass and spearmint fragrance blossoms around us. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. “The scent. It started back at the leaning stone.”
“You smell soap bubbles?”
“Soap bubbles?”
“Aye.” Sion uses the term unironically, unlike Charlie’s attempts to sound Irish. “The soapy smell is the proof I count on to know I’ve crossed into the Veil.” He raises his nose and sniffs. “Clean and fine.”
“It’s lemongrass and spearmint.”
Wrinkling his nose, Sion drops my hands. “Strange.” He pivots, sweeping his arm in an arc. “Can you see the Veil Sprites?”
“Sprites? Those tiny sparkles inside the trees?”
He nods, and an undercurrent of awe colors his voice. “You do see.” Sion sniffs again. “Lemongrass, huh?”
“And spearmint.” How can this odd moment be anything but a dream flash? It’s unlike any I’ve ever felt before. I never speak in them. I observe. I experience. Pressing a fist to my lips, I try to make sense out of the nonsensical. This is too lucid. Too real.
It’s not a dream.
The moment my mind decides to accept my situation as reality, a warm tickling sensation wakes inside me like tiny butterfly wings alight with flames. There’s no burn or pain. It’s an adrenaline rush of sparks.
I grab my stomach. “Something is happening to me.”
