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I lean into her. She’s been through three failed DNA tests with me that claimed tampered or insufficient samples. It’s as if the universe is in cahoots with the analysis company to keep me from knowing who I am.
I nudge my bestie. “I need to open this alone. I’ll meet you at the apartment in an hour, and we’ll pack my life into your car.”
Colleen kisses my cheek. “Whatever it says, you’re still my Ellie.” She slips through the carousel’s cover.
I listen until the crunch of her feet on the dwindling snow disappears then leave the sanctuary myself. The morning sun has broken through to reflect off any piece of ice it can reach. Even though it plays a part in the lovely prism of crisscrossing light around me, ice remains my enemy.
I rip open the envelope. Bright red letters shout at me.
Unable to process sample.
The letter falls from my hand onto the snow.
Chapter 2
The Lawyer
The freight elevator in the Royal Crown Hotel groans like a cranky over-sleeper slogging out of bed in the morning. I’ve learned to ignore the shakes and shimmies guaranteed to scare first-time riders shitless.
The doors slide open onto my version of paradise, Máthair’s rooftop greenhouse. The interim gardener has done an admirable job these three months, encouraging the garden not to give up with the passing of its mistress. My gaze drifts past rows of raised beds to the far end of the green glassed-in wonder that stretches between Forty-Eighth and Forty-Ninth Streets above Times Square.
I move slowly down the center aisle, a march of farewell, working hard to stave off tears as the scents of herbs and loamy earth wrap me in memories of my grandmother. Outside the glass walls, my eyes tilt to the clouds. Scattered black lines fringe the bottom of gray bulging layers. Máthair read the clouds. Neladoract, she called it, cloud divination.
“Ask the sky a question with your heart. Watch. Listen. Feel. If you’re meant to know, the clouds will tell ye, a stór.”
A stór, my treasure. I’d give anything to hear my grandmother call me her treasure one more time.
I stare at the sky and swear the air stills around me. On this first Éostre since her passing, the clouds wear black lace to mourn Máthair. The sorrowing sky keens to honor her loss, echoing the ache in my heart. Soon these clouds will weep rain or snow to complete the tribute.
I reach the far end of the greenhouse. Outside the doors, a line of Máthair’s apple and citrus trees flank a grand open exterior used for exclusive parties. New buds rise along branches unlike the frozen trees down in Central Park. Bird call erupts from the tiny orchard. Feathered thieves peck at awakening blossoms. These damn birds will not ruin my grandmother’s prizes.
I move to shove the door open and shoo them, but my body stiffens. This threshold might as well be the lowered portcullis of an ancient castle. Inside the greenhouse is safe territory, but it’s been years since I ventured onto the open rooftop. Out there, the sensation of falling will drench me like spray from a waterfall.
Stumbling to pull the chain dangling just inside the door, I start the warming fans among the trees. The squeal of blades sends the flock into the sky. They soar together with the discipline of a fighter squadron, following the same path as the traffic below as they turn the corner and disappear into a tunnel of gray monoliths.
A wave of dizziness wrecks my balance. I support myself on a raised bed of rosemary and thyme. My grip knocks something through the wooden slats of the bed. It hits the floor with a ting. A flat circle of silver rolls in front of my boot, spinning on its end.
I’m transfixed, watching the blur as the gauzy feel of an oncoming dream flash tickles my consciousness. Threadlike spears of light appear to emanate from the twirling metal disk, rising toward my outstretched hand. The sound of a single note played on a far-off violin is barely noticeable, fighting its way through the never-ending parade of sirens on the street below. After an eternity, the spinner falls onto its side. The plunk of metal against the floor chases away the leading edge of the dream flash as my senses return to the smell of herbs and the normal background sounds of Times Square.
I pick up the object and lay it on my palm. For a moment, I swear the coin pulses warm against my lifeline. It’s the size of a quarter and smooth as polished glass. Flipping it, I see black marks cut into its surface. After a squirt of water from a nearby spray bottle and a rub on my sleeve, the symbol is easier to read. I tilt the coin so it catches the strings of sunlight cutting through the green glass above me.
At first, I think it’s a cross, but it’s closer to a plus sign. A spiral rests within each of the four right angles. There’s a silver circle in the center of the symbol. Definitely Celtic. I’ll Google it later. For now, I close my fingers around the coin that must be one of the many carefully placed talismans Máthair swore made her plants thrive. Maybe this one will help me thrive.
“Ella O’Dwyer?”
A cry of surprise bursts from my lips, and I nearly drop the coin. Instinctively, I back away from the short, stocky man with bowed legs striding down the center aisle toward me. My hand searches for any gardening tool left in the nearest bed.
He raises both palms and comes no closer. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, dear. I’ll keep my distance.”
I shouldn’t be so jumpy. The man never would have been given access to the greenhouse without careful scrutiny from the hotel. “Who are you?”
The man pulls off a knit cap to reveal a shock of wavy hair the color of dark rubies. “I’m Timothy Yew, Martha O’Dwyer’s lawyer.”
Máthair’s lawyer? Confusion breaks through fear as my eyes flick over him. With ruddy cheeks and the dusting of gray stubble across his chin, he’s more farmer fresh off a day of plowing than lawyer.
“There are no words to do justice to a sadness such as losing your grandmother, so I won’t try to speak ‘em.”
His accent is so like Máthair’s, a knife plunges into my gut.
