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“Henry the Second, who was none too fond of Strongbow,” says Jeremy with a dramatic lip press and narrowing of the eyes. “Killed two birds with one stone when he sent the knight off to Ireland. The king rid himself of Strongbow on home turf and gained a man on the inside to tame the unruly Irish.” He waggles a finger at the painting. “The knight married Aoife, the King of Leinster’s daughter, in a move to gain personal clout and power, but King Henry kept a firm hold on Strongbow’s leash, opening the door for England to grind the native Irish under its boots. Hello Anglo-Norman invasion.”
“And a decent brand of hard cider,” quips one of the grad students, earning a laugh.
Strongbow—definite jerk. The man doesn’t deserve to be the namesake of a decent cider.
Charlie squeezes between Colleen and me, flapping his book. “Strongbow was one ballsy dude. Made the deal to proclaim himself King of Leinster once his father-in-law, the actual king, died.”
I snort. “Newsflash for Strongbow: You don’t get to consider yourself Irish if you’re still in a bromance with the King of England.”
Colleen frowns at the painting. “I know I should appreciate the historic value here, but I need something with sunshine and puppies.” She scrolls on her tablet. “When did I schedule free time to start?”
“After the cathedral tour.” I check my phone. Damn, Sion’s been gone nearly two hours since he and I left the hotel to meet the group at the museum. On the train ride to Dublin before Sion and I both fell into an exhausted sleep snuggled up against one another, I Googled Strongbow’s tomb and discovered it was in Christ Church Cathedral, the next stop on our itinerary. In the few moments before I joined Sion for our well-earned nap, a wistful thought floated through my mind. What if I had met this complicated man without Veil traveling and the soulfall in the mix? How would that have played out?
In an attempt to smooth any festering resentment Jeremy may still have from this morning, I clocked quality time with him on our stroll over here. We dished about the Celtic studies faculty at Kennard Park with me supplying insider info on the quirks and idiosyncrasies of our esteemed colleagues. To my relief, the casual chat appeared to reset the sunny side of Olk’s disposition.
Sion and I had agreed that in Dublin, he would duck out to slip the chainmail into Strongbow’s tomb inside the cathedral to test our theory of redemption for the squire being possible without a Veil jump. To avoid antagonizing Jeremy with my additional separation from the group, Sion insisted on going alone. If fulfilling the squire’s quest works in real time, that’s one less gut-twisting hop through history for us. With the Beltane clock ticking, we need to devote every moment during the three remaining Celtic days to free the last trio of souls.
I scan the cliques of postgrads who are blissfully independent, giving me more freedom. Jeremy’s post lecture Q&A about the historic painting sates their curiosities and they scatter to their preferred galleries. Earlier, I made sure my presence was obvious as we worked our way through highlights of the museum. I felt useful, fielding the odd query about folk tales and druids, leaving out my date night with Pwyll. I even regained the good graces of the pair of students I’d potentially alienated on the trek to the campsite by oohing and aahing over their gorgeous woolen sweater purchases from the mill where the group nipped in for a coffee stop on the way to Dublin.
I stare at my watch as if it has the power to answer my burning question.
Where is Sion?
He should have rejoined us by now. Despite the cool gallery, my face heats like I’m back in the sweltering Leap Castle kitchen on murder night. It’s essential to our plan for him to use his Finnbheara-gifted talent of transforming solid into not-so-solid in order to slip the chainmail into Strongbow’s stone effigy.
Fear sizzles through me. What if that particular skill affects his heartbeats in real time? Images of walking into Christ Church Cathedral to find Sion slumped on the floor intensifies the flush on my cheeks until the front of my neck reddens like a bad sunburn.
Charlie stands, hero-worshipping Olk’s every word as they move to the next painting. A less mesmerized Colleen threads her arm through my elbow. She’s hit her art history limit and sashays us across the polished wood floor of the gallery. “Since Sion is making himself scarce, and you’re taking a pass on Shanna’s, will our gallant professor earn your free time favors?”
“Sion’ll catch up any minute.” I lean in. “He thought avoiding Jeremy for a few hours was the wise choice after this morning.”
Colleen frowns at me as Jeremy and Charlie join us. “Ladies,” says our team leader. “Change of plans.” He taps his cell phone. “There’s been a fire at Christ Church Cathedral.”
Colleen madly taps her tablet screen to confirm.
My heart thuds so loudly, I expect the three of them to stare at my chest. “Fire?” Shit, did Sion’s attempt to return the chainmail to Strongbow’s tomb end in catastrophe?
Jeremy waves a hand. “A small flare they put out quickly, but the cathedral is closed for the rest of the day.” He zeroes in on me, smiling. Tiny crinkle lines lift the corners of his eyes.
Kennard Park’s newest Celtic studies professor is undeniably handsome. Some of the warmth I first felt for him begins to ease its way back in. Sion is the wildcard in my life. Jeremy is a much steadier option, a smarter option. It would be so convenient if I felt the level of spark for him like I do for Sion.
“Since we’re free, I’m off to Trinity College to connect with a colleague. I’d love for you to meet him, Eala. If you’d care to join me, I believe you’ll find his passion on the subject of Celtic lore engaging.”
Colleen slips her tablet into her crossbody bag. “Sounds right up your alley.”
I know her heart is in the right place. She’s dead on that Jeremy makes sense for me. It’s not that I possess zero interest, but until after Beltane, there’s no time to devote to him. Right now, Sion is my priority. “Thanks, but I’ve, ah got to?—”
Sweat pools at my hairline as I continue to perseverate on the fire. Was Sion hurt? Did the flare up originate at Strongbow’s tomb? I dig fingernails into my palm. Mr. Veil Guide has no cell phone. I’ve got no way to contact him. We’re buying him a burner phone as soon as we can break away from the group.
Colleen reads my panic with lifted brows. “Eala and I need to make a girl stop.” Charlie waves us off, pouncing on Jeremy with questions about Georgian architecture while Colleen and I head down the length of the gallery.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, she lays the back of her hand across my forehead, checking for fever. Instead, she encounters an unappealing reservoir of sweat and wipes her hand on my sleeve. “You’re not in great shape.” She hands me a water bottle from her bag. “Hydrate. Do you want to head back to the hotel?”
I unscrew the top and take a long drink. “No, I’m almost back up to speed.” I scan up and down the gallery. No Sion. “I want to check the museum’s archives for some folklore illustrations I’ve been trying to track down.”
She eyes me skeptically.
“You’re welcome to come with,” I say, knowing that’s a solid no for her. “I’ll text when I’m done.”
