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When the earl executes a bow, Sionnach passes his hand right through the man’s head, confirming for my benefit that William Parsons is a ghost like Little Harriet.
Sionnach breathes deeply before continuing. “We’re here to celebrate your success. This wee bit of mirror is no sign of failure. ‘Tis a jewel in your crown of perseverance.”
My stomach twists as I follow the earl’s gaze to the bog below. Parsons leans on the rail. “How is it not failure when one’s accomplishments are passed over?”
Sionnach flings a hand upward. “You saw the moons of Saturn, man. With your own eyes. You looked toward heaven and found much. What do accolades matter when you’ve glimpsed such things?”
The words Sionnach spoke before we traveled here flash through my head so I repeat them. “Joy is in the accomplishment itself, not recognition.”
“Aye, sir,” says Sionnach. “Did you not sense the presence of something bigger than yourself when you pierced the curtain of the firmament to see whirlpools of stardust?”
The earl’s ghost stares at the moon. “It was grasping the hand of God.”
Sionnach bumps shoulders with the soul, which results in his body going halfway through the earl’s. “After such grace, credit for a thing is small indeed.”
I reach for Sion’s hand and twine my fingers through his. There is poetry in him.
The ghost of William Parsons, the third Earl of Rosse, reaches a hand to the sky. His finger paints images he alone sees. “Here,” he says, and then uses a different part of the sky for his canvas. “And here.” He drops his hand. “They called to me as if longing to be hidden no more.” He sweeps a hand through the darkness. “And they were not.”
Sionnach’s voice is reverent. “’Twas you that listened. You woke them. If you hadn’t, they might never have called to another. Who names them is no great matter.”
Creases in the earl’s forehead relax. His form becomes more solid. It’s hard to imagine this gentle soul haunting visitors at his Leviathan telescope.
My fox’s hand trembles within mine as he looks questioningly at me. I nod toward Parsons and smile.
He gestures as if to lay a hand on the earl’s sleeve. “Are you ready to join your stars, sir?”
The ghost’s eyes glisten as they travel over the Leviathan.
A farewell.
With a sigh, he turns back to Sion and raises the broken piece of mirror in salute. “Just so, young sir. Just so.”
Before me, the spirit of a newly humbled man shines with an aura of gold. The light surrounding Parsons splits into lines that crisscross in front of him, a screen woven with golden thread. After a bow to Sionnach, the Earl of Rosse, shimmering with the glow of virtue restored, disappears with a contented sigh and delicate pop.
Wind blows through trees loud enough to mimic surf crashing to shore. With the moon over his shoulder, my partner turns and gathers me in his arms. He pulls the cap from my head, combing fingers through my hair until it’s free to catch the breeze. “Feathers of a swan,” he whispers, and then buries his nose past my feathers to kiss the tender skin behind my ear.
I tilt my head, exposing the length of my neck to his lips. “We need to go to the soulfall tower.”
His breath warms my neck more than Máthair’s brandied melon scarf ever did. “Is there doubt in your heart he’s passed on?” He pulls back, waiting for my answer.
I shake my head. “None. You do a damn fine gentle.”
“Thanks to you, anamchara.”
I picture William Parsons turning into sparkles that spin to the stars, joining those souls whose virtues are restored. I’ve been given such a gift, glimpsing the essence of spirits en route to eternity, but where does the journey take them? Sionnach asked Parsons if he was ready to join the stars.
“After the souls—” I twirl a finger at the moon. “Where do they go?”
Sionnach huffs, aiming for exasperation, but the corner of his lip twitches into a smile.
“I only agreed not to ask questions about you,” I say, giving him a playful nudge.
He settles me against him, laying his head on my shoulder. We sway back and forth in a slow dance. Part of me wants to pester him for the answer, but the rest aches to do whatever is necessary for more kisses.
“There’s a stop between this world and the next. Picture a road.” His fingers slowly slide down my spine until he presses just above my tailbone. “Here’s the bit when a soul parts from the living.” He bounces one finger higher and higher, gently poking until he stops in the center of my back. “The next place is what you might call spiritual triage to check if the soul does indeed have all their virtue intact. If they do—” Fingertips walk up my spine to the base of my neck where he draws what could be a Celtic spiral against my skin. “Up you pass to the eternity matching one’s beliefs.”
Sionnach unbuttons the top few buttons on my dress. His lips repeat the Celtic pattern on the hollow of my throat. I teeter on the edge of abandoning my quest for further details but manage enough breath to ask, “And if a virtue is missing?”
