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The cat leapt from its place on the desk to shoot for Sabrina’s ankles. Twining itself about them. Purring madly as it rolled belly-up at her feet.
“Silly tabby. You’ll get stepped on flinging yourself at people like that,” Ard-siúr chided fondly. “Come in, child. Come in.”
But even as she smiled her welcome, fatigue etched deep crags into her already wrinkled face. Worry trembled her hands, apprehension burning low at the edges of her gaze. It hardly seemed right to saddle her with more questions, but Sabrina must know.
“How did you know where to find us?” she asked.
This seemed to startle Ard-siúr from her deep reserve. Her eyes widened a fraction, her mouth curving in a clever smile. “Sister Brigh followed Mr. MacLir.”
“But she hates . . . I mean, she’s never liked . . . why?”
“Perhaps Sister Brigh should answer your question. But remember, Sabrina. This has moved beyond personal enmities. The future of Other and Duinedon lies in the balance.”
“I understand that. I’m just surprised Sister Brigh did too.”
The coach stood waiting. A groom at the head of the left leader while Cat and Aidan made their final farewells to Ard-siúr. Catching sight of Sister Brigh hobbling out the gate, Sabrina made her hasty excuses to them all and chased after. She’d had no chance to speak with the bandraoi until now, and in fact hadn’t even laid eyes on her since the meeting in Ard-siúr’s office. As if Sister Brigh was avoiding her.
Beyond the gate, the road lay empty, the overgrowth to the right still rustling from a body’s recent passage. Sabrina followed. Down the hill and into the deep, stifling gloom of the heavy wood. Over the rocks of a shallow streambed. Beneath the scraping limbs and raucous stir of chattering birds until Sabrina spied Sister Brigh ahead, a stooped gray figure among the reach of winter trees and the dank smell of muddy leaves.
Here amid the oaks, the musty, sweet air seemed to vibrate with energy and always there moved the shadows of those unseen, their ears pricked and listening, their laughter like wind-tangled leaves. The true Fey had long ago claimed this place as their own. The bandraoi respected that and came here only when their hearts were sore or their minds afflicted.
Sabrina caught up to the aged priestess with ease. The difficulty came in forming the question plaguing her.
The aged priestess finally broke the oppressive silence. “Did you come here to pester me, or is there something you want, girl?”
“Ard-siúr told me what happened. Why did you do it?” Sabrina asked, knowing Sister Brigh understood. “You were the one who wanted Daigh to leave.”
The High Danu priestess paused in her ramble, laying a bony hand upon the rough gray bark of an enormous oak as if drawing strength from the ancient, sacred tree. “I told you already. I do what I must to protect the order from any threat.” Contempt burned in the deep-set hollows of her face. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Daigh tossed back a pint. Ordered another from the doxy threading the tables in search of customers. She shot him a hopeful look, which he ignored. Sent a smile and a wink toward the man shaking the rain from his greatcoat as he entered the dimly lit, smoke-filled tavern. His clothes marked him as either lost or foolhardy. His build and expression guaranteed his safety regardless.
Another rejection and a holler from the barman, and the woman flounced back to the kitchens, leaving the newcomer to scan the crowd as if searching for someone. He stepped out of the shadows, his face revealed in the half-light of the dingy tap.
What the hell was he doing here? Daigh’s hand tightened around his pint-pot. His stomach tightened against the ache low in his gut. But he made no move as the man approached. Slid into the seat across with a look upon his face as if he wished he were anywhere but this squalid Dublin tavern.
“The shoe’s on the opposite foot, MacLir,” he growled. “Now I’m hunting you.”
Daigh scowled. Where was the maidservant with his beer? “What do you want, Kilronan?”
His Lordship lit a cheroot from the candle between them. Inhaled, before stubbing the whole onto the tabletop. His golden brown eyes never leaving Daigh’s face. “One question only—do you love her?”
Daigh’s stomach dropped from under him even as blood roared in his ears. “What the hell—”
“Answer me, MacLir. Do you love Sabrina?”
Daigh’s gaze dropped to the empty tankard. How many had he downed hoping to find solace at the bottom? How many nights had he spent beating back the desire that would send him riding hell for leather straight to Belfoyle? Too many. He pushed the beer away. What point was there in hiding the truth? “I do.”
Kilronan sat back, though whether he took joy or sorrow from Daigh’s answer was unapparent in the tension rising off him.
“If a confession was all you wanted, you have it. Now leave.”
“It’s not what I want that matters,” Kilronan replied. “It’s what Sabrina wants. And needs. A father for her child.”
Daigh started in his seat, his heart crashing against his ribs.
“She’s eight months gone already,” Kilronan added, almost as an accusation.
“That can’t—” Daigh sucked a breath through his clenched teeth. Counted back.
