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“Sure they won’t be fitting you now, but, well, one day you’ll have littles of your own.”
“I remember when you first put them on me. You said pretending was as good as doing, and often better, as you could go and do and be anything you wanted in the pretending. You were right.”
She shifted to take Sinead into a hug. “I have a mother in Philadelphia. His name is Sally.”
“I know of him, and I’m glad.”
“I have Nan in the valley. And I have you here. I have you here, as I had you when I needed you. How many women can say they have three mothers?”
“Ah, my sweet girl. You’re making me cry.”
“I’ll treasure these. When I get back to the valley, I’m going to ask Seamus if he can make me a frame. Like a shadow box for them. And I’ll hang them in the cottage.”
“Ah, they’re only made of some old cloth, and faded some for all that.”
“Oh, no. No, they’re made of love, and as bright as the sun to me.”
She spent an hour with Sinead, then took the book and the wings to Keegan’s rooms. She’d barely set the wings, reverently, on a table, finally opened the book to satisfy her curiosity, when he strode in.
“I’ve just started hunting for you,” he began.
“I’ve been with Sinead. She told me you were with Seamus and Flynn.”
“So I was, after the endless council meeting. Since here you are, I’m taking a bloody moment and having some ale. You’ll have wine, I suppose.”
She didn’t have a clue what time it was, then decided what the hell did it matter. “All right. Then if we could sit down a minute, I—”
“I’ve barely more than that, as I’m damned determined we’ll leave tomorrow, and I’ve enough left to do to fill the rest of the day and half the bloody night.”
“You’ll want to take this minute, and it’s going to be more than one. I went to see Dorcas.”
“Dorcas the Scholar? What in hell did you subject yourself to that for? Are you after paying for some grievous sin?”
“Stop. She’s not that bad. Well, her tea and biscuits are that bad.”
“You have all my pity. But you were after asking for it, weren’t you? I told you she didn’t remember anything about a demon in Odran, and would study on it, and tell me if something came to mind.”
“Something did.”
Amusement fled; impatience replaced it. “Then why didn’t she send for me?”
“Just this morning, after her fingers pricked and the broom fell.”
“Company coming.”
“And anticipating that, she made biscuits—which are horrible—but she remembered some old story, from a childhood book.”
Breen picked it up. “On loan—with a promise to get it back to her. It’s written in the old tongue, which I take to mean predates Talamhish.”
“It does.”
Frowning, ale forgotten, he opened it, turned a page, then another. “Children’s stories.”
“If you consider rape and murder and drinking blood stories suitable for children.”
Amused again, he glanced at her. “And what do you think are the roots of the fairy tales you tell children on the other side?”
“There’s a point,” she muttered, and poured the ale and the wine herself. “Can you read it?”
