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Gears whir in my brain. I’m consumed with the need to hear more. “If I’m not mistaken, Arthur Vicars was accused of stealing them, right?”
He looks at me sharply.
I execute a casual hair toss. “They mentioned the jewels at the National Gallery tour but didn’t finish the story.”
“Mr. Vicars was assumed to be the culprit. Speculation abounds that he was shot down on the street the night of the theft to mask a worse scandal. There were saucy accusations such as the brother of a great explorer and even one of Britain’s royal family being tied up in that salacious package of theft and depravity.” He chuckles. “Imagine the gossip.”
Shot on the street?
History is changed.
My heart races as the vision of Arthur Vicars’s silhouette in the soulfall tower drives every other thought from my head. He didn’t steal the jewels. I know he didn’t, or he wouldn’t be in the soulfall for losing his diligence after a lifelong effort to prove himself innocent. A lifetime cut short by the fiend in the Veil.
Jeremy returns his hand to my back. “I’m sure many a castle tower room or palace apartment has stories to tell.”
Does Sion know about the explorer’s brother and the royal family connection? When he goes back to repair time, following Vicars himself could be the worst of all possible false leads.
My mind strays to the soulfall, Little Harriet, Alaina Kennedy, Strongbow’s squire, and the Earl of Rosse whose telescope showed me a moon lovelier than ever I imagined it to be. Those four souls are stardust and fireflies, basking in their chosen eternities.
“Shall we perch on the steps to enjoy the sunset?” Well-worn concrete steps lead down to the Dublin side of the bay. The rocks bordering them are littered with stranded seaweed left behind by the tide. At the base of the stairs, a couple enjoys end of day kisses.
A sense of Sion’s soft mouth against mine ignites a longing that blows through my soul as fierce as wind off the bay. These moments need to back off. He and Máthair are my past.
Jeremy waits for me to settle before joining me in clear violation of my personal space. I want to welcome him in—to feel the thrill of possibility. Warmth. Want. Anything. Damn it. It’s as if Sionnach used up my reserve of attraction, and I’m left dry and devoid of emotion. Bracing myself away from Jeremy, I create a small distance between us.
“To revisit the topic of your wonderful book, I must say I particularly enjoyed the parallels you drew between Celtic sacred sites and praised local, not just academically accepted folklore.” He pushes round glasses into place.
“I had an edge being raised by—” I almost say my Irish grandmother but tamp down the urge to speak of Máthair. “With lots of stories.” Since he brought it up earlier, I figure it’s okay to pry a bit. “I wish Kennard Park would stop dragging their feet on the open permanent position.”
His arm shifts so it rests on the step behind me. If I lean back, we’ll be snuggling. “They’d be a fool not to take you, and they know it.” A smile stretches across his face. “I believe a certain email will be coming your way soon, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
A thousand questions snap to mind, but I hold back. I don’t want to put him in an awkward position. What I really want to do is leap up, shake his hand, bolt, and go home until Beltane has passed. Maybe then my psyche and emotions have a shot at recovering. Instead, I force a smile. “Grand.”
“Have you considered cataloging the folk and Faerie tales you’ve dug up? Track their origins, hunt for regional connections, other versions. There’s a second book in the making.” He hums a few notes of an unfamiliar tune. “Don’t leave out Irish sketches, extravagant plots flung outside the bounds of reason.” He cocks his head to the side. “Ah, what a jolly world to immerse oneself in.”
My life is an Irish sketch. I tap my temple. “You must know plenty of stories too.”
His bottom lip curves into a neat little bow. “A fair amount, or should I say, a Faerie amount.”
Faerie.
Before my brain has a chance to protest, my mouth blurts one of the questions bobbing in my head. “What’s your take on Finnbheara?”
Jeremy scoffs, gaze pinned on the distance. “King of the Connacht Fae, or rather, the king of whim servicing.” Fingers of slate gray clouds stretch over the bay, blocking their fluffier white cousins. “Dictator is a more fitting title for him. According to the stories, the fellow did whatever he liked whenever he liked.”
What would Jeremy say if he knew he was sitting next to a product of the king’s whim? Does Finnbheara keep tabs on me? My eyes drift to the clouds as a blood red shine from the setting sun overtakes one of the gray streaks. Is he watching now? Is Sion? I surreptitiously check the length of the jetty behind us.
My future colleague laughs. “Myths and legends do prey on the gullible.” He claps a hand to his thigh. “Did you catch the news today? There was quite a brouhaha at a local castle not far west from here last night. Leap Castle, I believe.”
I shrug my shoulders, playing dumb while I fight to keep my stew down.
“A flock of Catholic priests claim to have exorcised a druid spirit that was rumored to inhabit the castle for centuries.”
I bite my tongue to keep from blurting Pwyll’s name.
“The report said several coalitions of ghost hunters threatened legal action.” He grunts. “Grandstanding for publicity.” He curves his neck so he’s looking directly into my face. “Do you believe in ghosts, Eala Duir?”
My nervous laugh is as fake as they come. The sky dims. I counted on hanging out with Jeremy to ground me after time-hopping and soul-saving, but our conversation of pitch-capping, Finnbheara, and Pwyll dispels my hope.
