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Visions of pitch-capping, oily black shadows splayed across the stones of Leap Castle, and Pwyll being reduced to a pile of coffin splinters ruined any further chance of sleep.
I settle into my seat to end any further discussion of Charlie taking me anywhere, and field a few questions from grad students. One of the attendants reaches between us to fill China teacups. The elegance of his movement reminds me of ballets Máthair took me to see at Lincoln Center.
“This is fancy,” says Colleen, earning a frown from our server. She whispers to Charlie. “I don’t think he appreciates our group of uncultured Americans.”
“Aye, we’re naught but a passel of bowsey fools.” Charlie’s latest stab at an Irish accent and vernacular shows no improvement. Colleen shushes him and jerks her chin at Jeremy who delivers a manners please glare and takes his seat at the head of the table.
Even though I’ve pledged to see where things might lead with Jeremy, it’s a relief to sit far enough away to avoid any more edgy tales of historic torture for today. Tiered trays overflowing with finger sandwiches of salmon and cucumber are set before us. Colleen goes straight for a hibiscus macaroon and feeds it to Charlie.
Before diving into today’s lecture, Jeremy fusses with the red plaid scarf around his neck, then shoots me a smile that should make my toes tingle. I feel nothing. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I warm more to him?
I pound my thigh with a fist. I’ve got to give my conflicting thoughts some grace. Trauma recovery doesn’t happen in one night. I appreciate he didn’t try to kiss me on our date. I will not trade one whirlwind romance for another. Jeremy and I have time.
At least, I hope I have time.
Jeremy stands behind his chair, resting his hands on the padded back. “Aileen Plunkett was famed for glamour and her fantastic parties. When the twist was all the rage in the 1960s, she brought Chubby Checker here to Ireland to teach her crowd the dance.”
Charlie breaks into an upper body version of the twist. He’d better leave that move out when defending his dissertation at Cambridge. I’m definitely losing it to think this gangly goofball is an evil priest chasing Sion through time.
Or am I?
I can’t shake the image of shadow Charlie reaching to touch me.
Jeremy clears his throat and continues. “After Aileen’s day, Luttrellstown Castle continued to be a significant map dot on the social scene with the wedding of a world-renowned soccer player and his even more famous rockstar wife in the old gate lodge.” He removes his glasses, cleaning lenses while he continues. “My favorite bit of castle lore is that a very young girl named Aileen Guinness sat on the Wishing Seat here on the grounds and hoped one day this magnificent place would be hers.”
His glance strays to me, and his mouth quirks into a smile. I turn away before anyone notices, locking my sight on the carving of a beatific female face just below the mantle of the fireplace. She’s surrounded by sculpted rays of what must be heavenly light. I stare into the curved white eyes of a goddess or angel while a voice shrieks inside my head.
“You’ve abandoned them.”
Are the words hers or mine?
Suddenly, the room blazes as the glass walls of the Veil overlay plaster. The angel’s face turns to shadow beneath the sheen of prismatic streaks. Around me, sounds of student chatter and teacups continue, oblivious to the unseen realm hailing me.
Has the time come for Finnbheara to tear me from this world?
I grip the edge of the table as the angel’s eyes begin to glow with blossoms of flame. Beneath her in the hearth fire, a miniature replica of the soulfall tower rises from burning wood: black, charred, desolate.
What am I supposed to see? Did Sion succeed last night or not? Will candlelight rise again in the window as those without restored virtue fall and fall and fall for the rest of eternity? Tears well in my eyes at the thought of Sion playing soulsongs for others and never one for himself in the Glade of Chimes.
I still, letting the dream flash play itself out. Is Sion sending this to me? Or is it the work of Finnbheara intervening to draw me back in to help his erstwhile lover, Máthair, and her son?
The soulfall tower’s window fills with golden light. A silhouette steps into its frame and reaches arms to the sky. I recognize it.
Arthur Vicars.
“Believe what you will,” it cries and steps into midair. No sparks ascend to the clouds.
The dream flash sends its grim message. Sion has not broken the soulfall. Now that history is jacked-up, it’ll be even more difficult to connect Vicars with the right artifact.
The angel turns her fiery glare on me. A banshee, herald of death, screams in my head.
“Eala Duir, within madness always lies something real.”
“Eala,” says Charlie, his touch ripping me from the dream flash. He stands behind me with both hands on my shoulders, a dark visage against tall glass windows.
I do know this shape. It rose against Leap Castle’s walls and within purple-blue flames. I pull away from him.
“La, you’re panting?” Colleen rubs my back.
