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Am I too close to the walking trail or the castle for it to show itself? Tearing across the jade carpet of lawn under a collection of mismatched trees, I search for a white poplar with green triangles climbing the trunk.
“Where are you, Alfie?”
Sion’s fánaí tree isn’t here. Lawn gives way to shrubs, and I lose the path completely.
Above me, sunlight leaks through a canopy of green patchwork. I try again to summon the Veil, but it’s abandoned me. I call, “Let me in.” No result. I collapse onto a patch of dirt dusted with leaves.
Why didn’t I ask Sion more about the specifics of travelling? I don’t even know if travel is possible this long before a Celtic day begins. I’m probably stuck until nightfall.
I bury my face in my hands and cry like the world is ending. It is. My world is disappearing with the tears falling between my fingers. The choice before me is to hide here in the woods or go back to the group and pray I can slip out alone when the Celtic day dawns.
I clutch Máthair’s charm around my neck. “If you loved me at all, give me the strength not to give up.” I try to stir the concoction of emotions inside me into a smooth mixture, but they refuse to blend.
Off to my left, I catch the clip clop of horses. Checking the map, I guess at my location and slink in the direction of the sound. The old gate lodge shouldn’t be far off. I’ll hide in the structure until sunset. If I find the Wishing Seat on my way, all the better.
I manage to wind through the underbrush to the path. Pausing to listen, I don’t hear voices nearby. I make my way to a great stone arch rising above the road. The old gate lodge stands sentinel next to the chipped and worn stacked stones of a small tower. I feel as if I’ve stepped into the past without the Veil. Quiet and the absence of any part of the modern world settles around me. I navigate scrub and rocks to an arched doorway. It’s a tricky step up, but I slink into the shadows of the gate lodge and freeze.
I’m not alone.
Chapter 24
The Wishing Seat
In the corner, a rectangular niche is cut into the wall. A pair of slate slabs roughly a foot square form a rudimentary seat upon which sits the form of a man bent forward, elbows balanced on his knees, head resting on fists. He could be a sculpture, except for the stream of whispers flowing from his lips.
I keep still, hoping my entrance was quiet enough not to disturb what must be a prayer or a wish.
Is this the Wishing Seat?
If it is, I’ll come back when it’s empty to plead my case. Carefully lifting one foot at a time, I work my way backward. The man deserves the privacy he sought in this shrine of moss and rock. My fingers find the side of the arch. Two more steps, and it’ll be as if I never breached his solitude.
The man rises, turning to face the seat so his back is to me. I pivot, stretching my leg to judge the long step down to the ground. His voice rises above a whisper as he kneels in front of the stone bench.
The words turn my spirit to glass.
“Bless her, great king Finnbheara, with the peace I hereby forfeit.” The sun dips enough to cut through the low branches of the glen and illuminate the space. Light isn’t necessary when the soul before me is as familiar as my own heartbeat. In Sionnach’s outstretched palm is a tiny round ball, the size of the shooter marble I had as a kid. He kisses it, then bows his head to place his offering on what he clearly believes is the Wishing Seat.
Is he attempting to bargain with the Fae king for the freedom of his mother’s soul?
Panic roars like stormy seas through my mind. Do Veil guides need an artifact for transit to their next place? If they do, I’m certain Sion is about to sacrifice his. I’m across the room as fast as the single beat of a swan’s wing to snatch the ball. “Stop. Don’t give away your forever.”
Hair the reddish-brown of a hazelnut frames his shocked expression. “Eala.”
I place it back in his hand. I’ve seen these in a museum. It’s a musket ball.
I took a musket ball to the knee.
I close his fingers around his Veil guide key and squeeze his hand. “It’s not time to give up. We have a hundred thousand heartbeats left.”
He staggers back and collapses onto the slate cushion. “I never thought to lay eyes on your golden freckles again.”
Whatever brought us together, Veil Sprites, fate, or the King of the Connacht Fae, I don’t care.
I love this dear Irish boy.
Even if my passion outweighs his, I will stay with him to finish what we started. I try to assume a matter-of-fact attitude, but the flush flowing across my cheekbones gives me away.
Recovering enough to stand, Sionnach moves the two steps it takes for our bodies to be nearly touching. His palm against my cheek is as soft as moss clinging to the spaces between the square stones of the wall.
