EIGHT
Diarmid
Diarmid handed the book to Finn as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s Devlin’s.”
“You’re sure? It needs to be something that belongs to him,” Finn said.
“It’s his. His lass said so.”
Finn raised a brow. “His lass?”
“She dropped it this morning in a swoon. I happened to be there.”
“Let me guess: she took one look at you and fainted out of pure desire.” Oscar came up beside Diarmid. “What’d you do, show her the lovespot?”
“One at a time,” Diarmid answered with a smile, though the thought of Grace Knox troubled him. He didn’t want to talk about her. “I’ve my hands full with Lucy.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“She’s not to my taste.”
Surprise flickered in Oscar’s green eyes. “Not to your taste? Now there’s something I’ve never heard before. You even like the ugly ones.”
Diarmid shrugged.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she warty?”
Diarmid wished he’d said nothing at all. He hadn’t been able to forget Grace Knox all day. At first he’d thought her the same as any other lass. She liked the look of him, he knew, but she wasn’t going to admit it—well, she would be a fool to, wouldn’t she, when she was near betrothed to Devlin and Lucy was her friend? And that swoon this morning . . . he’d known girls to do worse things to get his attention, and all her talk about glowing didn’t convince him otherwise. But after that she’d been . . . sharp-tongued, actually. And that was a first. And a relief. He hadn’t been able to resist needling her. He’d even enjoyed it. It was so different from the usual simpering and flirting that only filled him with bone-deep weariness.
But she unsettled him. There was something about her—something his instincts told him to stay clear of. He felt drawn to her, and she intrigued him, and that was dangerous enough in itself. But when you added to that his sense that he somehow knew her—and it was more than the fact that she reminded him of someone . . .
“Not warty, no,” he told Oscar. “She’s pretty enough. But snappish and prickly. Self-important too.”
“And you like them blithe and laughing.”
“There are plenty of girls. Why waste time on one who doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t like you?” Oscar laughed. “Ah, there’s my explanation right there. What’s wrong with the lass?”
Finn had been watching them thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s involved with Devlin’s politics?”
Diarmid’s first thought was maybe. There was fire in her. But he didn’t say it, because the truth was that he didn’t know her at all. He could be misjudging her completely, if only because something about her troubled him. There was no point in making Finn more curious than he already was.
So he answered, “I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen them together. But she seemed distressed to lose the book.”
Finn nodded and handed the book to Cannel. “What’s in it, cainte?”
Cannel opened the cover. “Diarmid’s right; it is Patrick Devlin’s. He’s written his name on the flyleaf.” He ran his finger across the scrawled signature before he turned to the next page. “It’s a book of poems by James Clarence Mangan. Anyone heard of him?”
Finn looked at Diarmid, who shook his head, as did the others.
“‘Dark Rosaleen,’” Cannel read the titles. “‘Lament for Banba,’ ‘Kincor—’”
“‘Lament for Banba’?” Finn’s voice was sharp.
Diarmid understood why. Banba. Another name for Ireland. It had been common in their time, one of the three goddesses who had begged to be honored with the land’s naming. éire and Banba and Fotla. But he hadn’t heard it said at all in this city. Not until now.
“Read it,” Finn ordered.
Cannel started at the urgency in Finn’s tone, but he cleared his throat and read, “‘O my land! O my love! / What a woe, and how deep, / Is thy death to my long mourning soul! . . .’”
The poem compared Ireland to a tree felled by an ax, and talked of thrones usurped and the proud people of Banba held in thrall, until the lines, “‘For the hour soon may loom / When the Lord’s mighty hand / Shall be raised for our rescue once more!’”
Cannel’s words were followed by silence, broken by Keenan’s soft “By the gods. It talks of rebellion.”
Ossian added, “Devlin must be our man.”
Finn said to Cannel, “Do a divination.”
“I’ve told you. I don’t know that I can.”
Finn said nothing, but he wouldn’t look away. One didn’t refuse Finn when he wore that expression. Cannel took the deck of cards from the table and put them on top of the book. Then, moving his lips soundlessly, he shuffled the cards and laid them out. Diarmid waited with the others.
Finally the Seer looked up from the cards. “Devlin’s involved in something, that’s certain. Very involved. Whatever it is consumes him.”
“Is he our man?” Finn asked.
“Difficult to say. But I think it’s a real possibility.” Cannel pointed to a card. “You see this one? It means there’s something dark looming.”
“Dark? How so?”
“Not wicked, but perhaps unsavory. Something that could turn. Indecisiveness. Fear. He hasn’t got the control he believes he has. And here—” Cannel pointed to another card. “Here I see a need to protect and a willingness to sacrifice.”
“To sacrifice what?” Diarmid asked.
“Anything,” Cannel said.
Diarmid couldn’t help thinking of Grace Knox—and that unsettled him even more.
Finn asked, “Why did the lass have this book?”
“She didn’t say,” Diarmid answered. “Perhaps Devlin gave it to her.”
“Find out what she knows.”
“It might be better done by Oscar.”
“You’re already there, and I need Oscar to keep on with the Clan na Gael,” Finn said.
Diarmid was relieved—until he realized why: he didn’t want Oscar near Grace Knox. It puzzled him. He’d barely met the lass, and he felt he should keep his distance from her, so why should he care? He didn’t understand the contradiction. He didn’t know why he felt any of it.
Finn said, “What about Devlin’s sister? Did you get something of hers?”
Diarmid reached into his pocket for the ribbon he’d snapped from Lucy’s gown just before he’d come. He handed it to Cannel, though he knew already they’d find nothing in Lucy, nothing to do with Patrick’s plans. “Do we still need the book, or can I return it?”
Finn scowled. “Why does it matter?”
“The lass came looking for it. She suspects I have it.”
“Give it back to her then,” Finn said. “It will be a good chance for you to find out what she knows. And I want you to get into the Devlin house. Search it. Without getting caught. If Patrick Devlin is the one who called us, the horn will be there somewhere.”
Diarmid nodded and tried not to think about why he felt breaking into the Devlin house was less of a risk than asking Grace Knox a single question.