TEN
Grace
My dreams that night were filled with death and destruction, screaming ravens and fire. Aidan shouting No, Grace! as purple lightning flashed. And then there was a river, and sunlight, and a blond young man standing on the bank beneath a tree laden with red berries. He turned—Patrick—his face lighting in that irresistible smile, and I ran toward him; but as I did, he changed. He wasn’t Patrick—but Derry, and I knew I looked into the face of my own destruction.
I woke with my head pounding and the fury to forget him, and was relieved when I heard my grandmother call for me. When I stumbled to her room, she was twisted up in the bedcovers, her nightcap completely turned about so that the ribbons trailed into her face.
“Grainne,” she croaked when she saw me, which was odd in itself, as she almost never called me by my given name.
“Look at you,” I said, trying to smile, to ignore my headache. I leaned to straighten her cap.
She grabbed my wrists so suddenly and tightly I cried out. “You must stop him,” she said. “It can only be you.”
“Grandma, please—”
“Is she all right?”
It may have been the first time in weeks that I was truly glad to see my brother. He stood barefoot in the doorway rubbing his eyes, his clothes so wrinkled it was obvious he’d slept in them. I thought of my dream, his shouting.
He said, “I heard her call out.”
Grandma released me as suddenly as she’d grabbed me. She leaned back against the pillows with a groan. “That boy.”
Aidan came into the room. “What boy?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s been saying it for days. I think she means Patrick.”
Aidan sat on the edge of the bed. I wanted to say something cutting, but he didn’t seem drunk for a change, and he gave me a sweet smile as he took Grandma’s hand, murmuring calming words. He was so good when he wanted to be.
“There you are, my boy,” Grandma said, herself again.
My boy. I wondered if I’d got it wrong. If that hadn’t been what she’d said before, instead of that boy. Perhaps it was my brother she’d meant and not Patrick. It made sense. Don’t trust him, she’d said, and He will keep you safe. Both things could be true when it came to Aidan. But to say that only I could stop him . . . I had no power over Aidan. I could not guilt him into seeing what he was doing to us, and my anger had no effect. His charm worked on me as well as anyone.
Now I watched as his charm worked on Grandma too. She’d seemingly forgotten me. I hesitated, not trusting to leave her to him, but he said, “It’s all right, Gracie. I’ll stay for a bit. Go on and do whatever needs doing.”
“The dishes, you mean?” I could not keep from being cutting after all. “As there’s no kitchen maid?”
Aidan’s eyes darkened. “You’re learning a valuable skill. We could hire you out if need be.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to my room to get dressed. My headache lingered, not strongly but there, the kind of thing you forgot until you turned your head just so or saw too bright a light. And that reminded me of Derry and that blinding glow, the stabbing pain. I still didn’t know what had caused it. But it seemed better to forget it.
My mother had gone to give pianoforte lessons again, and I was in the kitchen, up to my elbows in greasy water, wearing my oldest dress, with my hair straggling into my face, when there was a knock on the back door. I meant to ignore it, but whoever it was kept pounding. Probably a peddler looking for the cook we didn’t have. I pulled my hands from the water, wiping them on the hem of the apron, and I yanked open the door.
“You took your time.” Derry leaned against the wall near the door. Last night’s dream whirled back, as if his dark-blue gaze wasn’t enough to unsettle me on its own. “I see it wasn’t to fix yourself up.”
My face flamed. I told myself I didn’t care. He was a stableboy. What did it matter if he saw me in my oldest dress, with my hair falling every which way? I raised my chin and met his gaze. “What do you want?”
“You’re not going to invite me in for tea?”
“I’m busy, as you must plainly see.”
“Doing what?” He craned his neck to look past me.
“Washing dishes.”
He raised a dark brow, barely visible through that thick hair.
“Do you never comb your hair out of your face?”
“I like it that way,” he said. “Most girls do too.”
“Don’t you have something else you should be doing rather than bothering me—like mucking out stables or twisting Lucy about your finger?”
“Twisting Lucy—is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Aren’t you?”
“You don’t think much of me, do you?”
“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise.”
“You’re very sure of your position for a lass who’s washing her own dishes.”
I grabbed the edge of the door, meaning to close it on him.
He stuck his foot in the gap and pushed the door open. He came into the kitchen, making me step back. “Don’t send me away so quickly. I’ve come to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something.
“Patrick’s book!” I reached for it, and Derry pulled it away, just out of my reach. When I reached for it again, he put it behind his back.
“What will you give me for it?” he asked with a too-sure smile that said he’d played this game many times.
“I’m not Lucy,” I said. “And I don’t like being teased. If you think I’m going to give you a kiss for it, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“A kiss? What makes you think I want one from you?”
I tried to pretend my face wasn’t burning again and drew away. “Keep it then.”
His smile softened—it was even more humiliating to see that he realized how much he’d embarrassed me.
This time when he held out the book, I didn’t take it.
“I’m sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have teased. You bring out the worst in me, I’m afraid. Go on, unless you want me to drop it on the floor.”
Warily, I took it. I’d been worried over losing it, but it wasn’t until I had it in my hands that I realized just how worried. “Thank you. Where did you find it?”
“On the walk.” He grinned. “Where you swooned.”
“You did have it! You lied to me!”
“I wanted to read it.”
That surprised me. Both that he’d wanted to and that he could. “Oh. Did you?”
“‘Alas, alas, and alas! For the once proud people of Banba!’”
I clutched the book. “You did.”
“You know what the poem’s about?” he asked.
“Ireland’s oppression.”
“You care about such things?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Safe here in your little house,” he said, gesturing. “Choosing pink dresses for a party. You’ll pardon me if I say it doesn’t seem that Ireland’s troubles trouble you.”
“You don’t know me at all,” I said. “I care very much.”
“Do you? For yourself? Or for Devlin?”
My heart was pounding, though I didn’t know why. “It’s Patrick’s mission. And so it’s mine too.”
“How involved are you, lass?”
“Involved? Involved in what?”
“The Fenian Brotherhood.”
“Why, not at all. It’s a club for men. That’s why they call it the ‘Brotherhood.’”
“What else do you know of it?”
“If you have questions about the Fenians, you should ask Patrick. Though I don’t guess they’d have you as a member either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“They only want rich men, is that it?”
The way he was looking at me . . . I thought of yesterday, how I’d been pressed against him and then how he’d stared at me in my dream, and I wished he would leave. I said meanly, “They want heroes, not stableboys.”
But he didn’t even react. He just kept looking at me as if he couldn’t look away. “What has Devlin told you, lass? What are their plans?”
“Why would he share them with me?”
“Because you’re to be his wife.”
“That’s not . . . yes. Perhaps.” It flustered me that he’d said it. That he knew it. “It’s not settled yet.”
“So still time to back out?”
“Why would I want to back out?”
“You’re young yet to bind yourself.”
“I’ll be seventeen in twelve days. Which is not too young to be married, not that it’s any of your concern. And if I have to marry, then why not Patrick? He loves me. He knows me.”
“You have to marry?”
And I felt this urge to tell him all of it, as if he would understand, as if he always had. Always?
“What makes you so sure he knows you?” he asked intently, stepping toward me.
He was too close. He was solid and stunning and I wished he would touch me, and that thought shocked me so much I said forcefully, “Why are you asking me these things? My life has nothing to do with you.”
He went still. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You know, you remind me of someone. Someone I lived near in . . . I guess ’twould be County Kildare now.”
“My family is from Allen.”
“Ah. Perhaps a relation then.”
“Perhaps. My grandmother once said we were related to nearly everyone there.”
I waited for him to say something else, but he only gave me a look that made me want to look away.
“Thank you for returning the book,” I said carefully, stepping back. “Now I think you should leave. I’ve things to do, and I can’t believe the Devlins would appreciate you being here instead of in their stables.”
He started. “Aye. I should go. Stables to muck, girls to twist about.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“You should smile more often, you know.”
Then he turned on his heel, and was gone.
Dinner was intimate: Patrick and his family, me and mine. Mama had asked a neighbor to watch over Grandma, so she and Aidan were both here, and even the fact that Aidan reached far too often for the wine couldn’t mar my happiness.
“Have you decided on the venue for Grace’s debut?” Mrs. Devlin asked my mother.
Mama said, “Oh, I think someplace small.”
“Small!”
“Grace needn’t have a large one, Mama, if she’s already got a beau,” Lucy put in.
Patrick smiled warmly at me. “I agree with Lucy. It should be small.”
“In any case, I’d thought a violinist enough music,” Mama said.
“There must be room for dancing,” Aidan said, taking another sip of his wine. “Or no one’ll come.”
Mama said firmly, “Small is better.”
I glared at my brother, who seemed oblivious to what my mother wasn’t saying—that small was all we could afford, even with Mrs. Needham’s kind support.
Lucy said, “Half the boys we know are terrible dancers anyway. They’d ruin Grace’s toes before the night is out.”
“My dear,” Mrs. Devlin murmured.
“Well, it’s true. And I don’t know why a debut should matter so much. Wouldn’t we all be better off if we didn’t display ourselves like so much . . . horseflesh?”
I stared at Lucy in amazement. She’d spent the years leading up to her debut going through every Godey’s Lady’s Book, debating the cut and color and embellishment of her gown, worrying over what flowers should decorate the tables and where the candles should be placed to show her blond hair to its best advantage. I had never known anyone who cared so much for debuts as Lucy Devlin.
“It’s all so old-fashioned, don’t you think?” Lucy went on relentlessly. “We should be free to choose a husband from the whole world instead of those few who deign to answer an invitation.”
Now I understood. It was about Derry, of course. I opened my mouth to make some comment about horseflesh and stableboys. Then I remembered how I’d felt standing so close to him in my kitchen, and I let the words die on my tongue. I hadn’t told her about his visit, and I didn’t intend to. She would think only the worst—of me, not of him.
Patrick threw his napkin aside and rose. “Mama, Mrs. Knox, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d take the opportunity to show Grace the collection.” He looked at me. “That Celtic horse you mentioned.”
I’d mentioned nothing of the kind, but gratefully I pushed aside my thoughts of Derry. “Oh yes. I’m eager to see it. Mama, do say yes.”
“We’ll just be down the hall,” Patrick added.
Mrs. Devlin said, “Patrick’s obsession—and his father’s. I vow those relics consumed Michael’s every waking moment. You must not encourage Patrick, Grace.”
“I only want to show them to her,” Patrick said, laughing.
Lucy said wryly, “Shall I chaperone?”
I flashed her a glare, which she ignored, and then I looked pleadingly at my mother, who said, “No need, I think, if it’s just down the hall. I do hope I’m not making a mistake in trusting you, sir.”
Patrick pressed his hand to his chest. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He took my hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he led me out of the dining room.
His warm breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “I thought we should never escape.”
“You mean you haven’t a Celtic horse to show me?” I teased.
“I’ve something better,” he said, taking me into the study. Once we were there, he started to close the door, and then he left it ajar. “Perhaps we shouldn’t give them reason to think poorly of us. Though if it were up to me, I’d lock it tight—Ah, what’s this? Don’t tell me I’ve made you blush.”
There was no point in denying it.
“Who knew that Grace Knox could go so pink?”
“If you tell anyone, I’ll murder you in your bed.”
“I wouldn’t dare. Especially because I can think of a few things I’d rather you do there.”
I had walked right into it. Now my face felt on fire. I looked away, and then his fingers were at my jaw, forcing me to look at him, and his expression was so full of longing, the heat in my cheeks spread to the rest of me. He bent to kiss me, and again I shivered as his lips touched mine; again I wanted to pull him so close he couldn’t escape.
His mouth moved to my jaw. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t tease. It’s only that I’d despaired you would ever think of me as anything more than a friend.”
“You know I do,” I said, marveling at the truth of it. “But I think friendships, too, are important, don’t you? I would hate to be the kind of wife who plays no part in her husband’s real life.”
He drew away. “His real life?”
I wished I’d said nothing; I wanted him to go on kissing me. But he was looking at me in a way that made me want to answer honestly. “I would want to know how he feels about things. What he thinks of the world. What his passions are.”
“It’s what I want as well.” He released me. “Now look about you, and you can readily see what my passions are.”
The study had been his father’s, and I had been in it as a child. It seemed much the same, dark with leather and the smell of tobacco and old wood; there were piles of books lying about, which had not been true when his father was still alive. At one end was a fireplace of cherry and black marble, flanked by fat leather chairs and solid tables with clawed feet. The curtains—deep-brown velvet with heavy tassels—were drawn back from windows that let in the evening, and the brass gas sconces glowed warmly. The room was welcoming and comfortable; I felt at home in it, even though it was purely a man’s room.
A large desk was at the other end, and beside it were the display cases—at least four, and above them box frames, each holding a piece of Celtic antiquity. One held a hammered bronze mask, another a silver torc—a crescent-shaped necklace—with a bull’s head decorating each end. There was a small stone relief carved with the goddess Brigid, showing her trinity: maiden, matron, and crone. Beside it was an illustration of the Morrigan, the Irish goddess of war. Like Brigid, the red-haired Morrigan had been depicted in her three aspects. She was the Morrigan, but she was also Badb the battle crow; Nemain the Venomous, the inciter of frenzy; and Macha the Hateful, the collector of souls. There were ravens perched on her shoulders and severed heads, death and destruction all around her—
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Patrick had come up behind me. He leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the picture, so close I felt his warmth and smelled his clean, citrusy cologne.
“Beautiful and terrible,” I said.
“See the severed heads? The Celts believed the soul resided in the head, and so taking the head of an enemy not only gave them power, but kept that soul from reaching the Otherworld.”
I shivered. “What did they do with the heads?”
“Displayed them on stakes, mostly. As warnings to their other enemies.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes I dream about the Morrigan.”
I turned to him. “So do I! Terrible dreams. Lately quite often, nearly every night. I think it might be because my grandmother—” I broke off the moment I realized what I’d almost said.
“Your grandmother?” he prompted. “I heard she wasn’t well.”
“Yes. She’s . . . she’s quite ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I saw the compassion in his eyes, and I wanted to tell him about her madness. And if you do, it will ruin everything. “Oh, let’s not talk of this now. What did you want to show me?”
“All of it. Everything I am. Some of these things have been in my family for generations.” He touched a bronze statuette resting on the top of the case. “This is the horse I told you about. And there, inside, see the serpent bracelet? It’s perfectly wrought, even for how primitive it is. And that raven statue too.” He smiled ruefully at me. “Though I wouldn’t want to see it in my dreams. And this—do you know what this is? I think it might be my favorite.” He pointed to another framed drawing, one different from the rest—not paper or parchment, but what looked like tree bark, very thin and a bit shredded. On it was painted a man with dark hair holding a pile of red berries, which he was offering to a woman who knelt beside him, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders. The painting was faded and hard to see, bits of the bark missing altogether.
“It’s very old,” Patrick went on. “Do you recognize it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Should I?”
“It’s your namesake. Grainne. And Diarmid, offering her berries from the magical rowan tree in the forest of Dubros.”
“Oh.” I caught my breath. “Oh yes, of course.”
Patrick’s gaze held me. “Grainne was the daughter of Cormac, the High King of Ireland, and she agreed to marry Finn, the leader of Cormac’s band of elite warriors and bodyguards. But at the great betrothal feast, she became frightened of Finn and so she asked his lieutenant, Ossian, to take her away. He refused. So she went to Diarmid Ua Duibhne, the most handsome of the Fianna. He refused as well. But Diarmid had a gift that had been given to him by one of the children of the sidhe, a lovespot that made any woman who saw it fall in love with him.”
I let him tell the story I knew very well—it was one of my favorites. I loved the sound of his voice, the way he looked at me. “The ball seirce,” I breathed.
“The ball seirce. And even as Diarmid turned Grainne away, she saw it and fell in love with him. Grainne laid a geis upon Diarmid that compelled him to take her away from Finn. That night, she put a sleeping potion in the wine of all the warriors but Oscar and Ossian, and with their help, she and Diarmid stole away.
“Finn was furious when he discovered the theft of his betrothed. He followed Diarmid and Grainne zealously, for years, determined to win her back and destroy the one who had been his friend. Finn sent all manner of magical beings after them. He called on every alliance he had. But Diarmid defeated them all: the three sea-champions and their armies at the hill of Curra Ken Amid, the evil hounds of Slieve Lougher, the giant of Dubros. Ossian and Oscar, troubled by Finn’s temper, did what they could to help Diarmid and Grainne, and sometimes they were aided by Diarmid’s foster father, the love god, Aengus Og.”
Patrick’s voice kept me captive. I’d always dreamed of my own Diarmid, the white knight of my fantasies, who would fall in love with me and spirit me away, braving all threats and evils to be with me. A fantasy, yes, but Grainne was my namesake. It was easy to imagine how it had been, how breathless and exciting.
Patrick continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Finally, Finn tracked them to the magical wood of Dubros, but Oscar said that any man who would harm Diarmid would have to get through him first. Oscar was the greatest of Finn’s warriors; even Finn was no match for him. So Finn went to the Land of Promise, to his old teacher, a witch, who said she would help. She hunted down Diarmid on a flying water lily and tried to kill him with poison darts. But Diarmid was the best spearman alive—he slew the witch with a single hurl of his Red Spear, and Finn was forced to abandon his quest. When Aengus Og asked for peace, Finn agreed, and Grainne and Diarmid were exiled and married.
“But after a time, Grainne grew lonely. She wanted to see her father, and so Diarmid agreed to take her to the High King’s feast. There, Diarmid was awakened in the night by a terrible sound, and when he went to investigate, Finn told him that it was a wild boar; Diarmid was under a geis by Aengus Og never to hunt boar because Diarmid’s half brother had been turned into one magically when they were youths. Diarmid asked for Finn’s assistance, which Finn refused, and Diarmid went alone into the night.
“And there, on the plain of Ben Bulben, Diarmid was slain by the great boar that was his half brother, and as he lay dying, Oscar and Ossian pleaded with Finn to save him, because water drunk from Finn’s hands was healing. Finn brought Diarmid water, but before he reached him, he remembered what Diarmid had done and so he let the water slip through his fingers. Three times he did this, and three times Ossian and Oscar begged for him to heal their friend. At last, Finn agreed; but by then it was too late, and Diarmid died.”
“It’s so sad,” I said, as overwhelmed by the story as I always was.
Patrick smiled gently. “Not so sad really. Aengus Og took Diarmid’s body to his home and brought his soul back now and then so he could talk to him.”
“But Grainne married Finn then. So it is sad.”
“I suppose she didn’t really love Diarmid.”
“I like to think she did. And that when he died, Grainne had no choice but to marry Finn. I like to think she mourned Diarmid the rest of her life.”
“You don’t think she loved him just because of the lovespot?”
I shook my head. “Perhaps at the start. But then I think it became real for both of them. He was an honorable man. How could she not love him?”
“Honorable? For stealing away his captain’s betrothed?”
“He was under a geis. And even when they ran away, he resisted her for Finn’s sake.”
Patrick stared at me. “How do you know that?”
“Grandma says so. The way she tells it, Diarmid left bread behind each night to signal to Finn that he’d not yet . . . well—you know.”
“I’ve never heard that part of the story.”
“It mattered to him—his loyalty to Finn.” I looked again at the illustration, Grainne’s long golden hair.
“I guess that loyalty bought him something. Aengus Og gave Diarmid’s body back, so he’s supposed to be sleeping now with the rest of the Fianna, ready to return when the dord fiann blows. It’s all just a legend, but I wish . . .” Patrick sighed, and then he said softly, “Perhaps I could be your Diarmid, Grace.”
There was something slow and searching and familiar in his eyes, and my dream flitted back, Patrick on the riverbank and then . . . not Patrick.
I pushed the image away. “What would we be running from?”
Patrick glanced at the display case. “Why couldn’t we be running to something? The stories are important, Grace. And these relics are too. They’re our heritage. My father told me we’re caretakers. That our job is to keep them safe until they can be returned.”
“You mean to return them to Ireland?” I asked. “But how valuable they must be.”
“Some are. The most valuable pieces aren’t here. They’re in safekeeping.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a key, which he inserted in the lock of one of the cases. He opened the glass and picked up a long flat piece of stone carved with markings that looked like bird feet—runes. He held it reverently. “But this may be the most important piece I own, though it’s worth little in money.” He held it out to me. “It’s an ogham stick. Take it.”
“Are you certain? I don’t want to break it.”
“You won’t. It’s stone. You’d need the strength of Cuchulain.” Another legendary Irish hero.
I took the stick from Patrick. I expected the feel of cool stone, but it was warm, as if it had been resting in the sun. And growing warmer. Almost . . . hot. Scalding. Burning. “Ouch! Oh—” I gasped and thrust it back at Patrick so hard he nearly fumbled and dropped it. I looked down at my fingers, expecting to see blisters form, but there was nothing. The skin wasn’t even red, and yet it had been so hot. . . .
Patrick frowned and looked down at the stone in his hands, asking sharply, “What did you say?”
“I—Nothing.”
His frown deepened.
I worried that I might have offended him, that he would think me somehow not the girl he wanted. “It’s fascinating, Patrick. Truly.”
His expression cleared. “I’ve arranged the cases so sunlight hits them every day near sunset. I like to come in here and look at them then. They look as if they’re glowing. Magical.” He set the ogham stick carefully back into the case. “Some of these things . . . the old magic’s still in them. You can feel it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t joking, and there was that reverence again in his voice, along with an odd excitement. I thought perhaps he meant magic as in presence, the way some things seemed to hold their history within them. My grandmother’s horn had been like that. Sometimes when I held it, I could have sworn I heard the battles it had been in, the cries of men, the clash of swords, and the swoosh of spears rushing to their targets.
“They’re so full of history,” I agreed.
“They are, but that’s not what I mean. I mean . . .” He hesitated. “I mean magic.”
“You can’t mean real magic.”
“Don’t you believe in it?”
“I believe some things feel almost alive,” I said. “They’re so old, and they’ve seen so much that I think they just become . . . imprinted.”
“Yes.” His gray-green eyes were lit with an inner fire. “Though it’s more than that too. Grace, can I tell you something without you thinking I’m mad?”
“Of course.”
He clutched my fingers as though he was afraid I would dash away. “You know I’m involved with the Fenian Brotherhood.”
The echo of Derry’s words, his questions, came into my head. “Yes.”
“We’ve raised money for the rebels in Ireland, but the last uprising was a disaster. Things have grown desperate. I was there, Grace. To see such a loss of hope . . . I remembered something my father had told me, about the old magic, and I thought: What could it harm?”
“The old magic?”
“We’ve done something amazing, Grace. In only a few weeks, everything will change. Everything. I can’t speak of it now, not yet, but it’s real. It’s real, and it’s as alive as it always was. And soon the whole world will know of it—”
“I think if the two of you don’t come to the parlor, Mama might call for the police,” Lucy said from the door.
Patrick released my hands and sprang away in a single moment.
I was dazed, still captured by the things he’d said. The old magic. Something amazing. Real and alive. I didn’t think him mad. I didn’t know what to think, except that I wished Lucy had stayed away a few moments longer, because Patrick gave me a quick glance, a shake of his head, and I knew that what he’d told me was to be kept secret and that he would not speak of it before the others.
“Of course,” he said to his sister. He turned to me with a smile. “I’ve kept you to myself long enough. Go on with Lucy. I’ll be there as soon as I lock these up.”
I nodded. He met my gaze, that glow still in his eyes, and I felt as if the two of us were together in something bigger than ourselves—and I liked the feeling.
When we left the room, Lucy gave me a simpering smile. “How close you were. Why, it’s almost scandalous.”
I said nothing. My mother would hardly mind, and I didn’t think hers would either, given that the two of them were conspiring to get Patrick and me together.
Lucy put her hand on my arm, stopping me. “Grace,” she said urgently, all nastiness gone. “I need a favor.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I’m sorry. Truly I am. It’s only . . . well, you must know how jealous I am of you and Patrick. You must know—”
“What do you want, Lucy?”
“Derry wants to take me to a parish fair,” she rushed on. “He said to ask you to come as our chaperone. He’s worried for my reputation.”
“Is he? How good of him. Is that what he was telling you before our shopping trip? That he couldn’t meet you alone because he worried for your reputation?”
She at least had the sense to blush. “That was different. Other people will see us. It’s a parish fair.”
“He’s Catholic then, as I thought. Lucy, surely you must see how useless this is? Your mother—”
“I don’t need a lecture from you, Grace. You needn’t be so self-righteous. It’s not as if I’m asking you to accompany us to a dance hall. Will you come or not?”
“It’s not seemly even if I do. It will just be the three of us caught in a compromising position, and I cannot afford it.”
“Then ask your brother to come too. He’ll be chaperone enough for all of us.”
That was true, though the thought of asking my brother to go, or trying to keep him away from liquor or cards if I did, was exhausting.
“Please,” Lucy whispered fervently. “Please. I’ll do anything you ask in return.”
It was truly the last thing I wanted to do. A provincial parish fair. My brother. Derry with Lucy. I felt a flash of jealousy that unnerved me. How ridiculous you are. I’d just left Patrick. It was Patrick I wanted. Needed.
Lucy kept going. “It will be fun. There will be games, and food. Puppets, he said. A magic lantern show. I hardly ever see him. You must help me, Grace. I’m quite desperate.”
It was that, finally, that made me give in. Lucy was going to be my sister—hopefully—and she would go with Derry whether or not Aidan and I were there. I could protect her this much.
Reluctantly, I nodded. “Very well. I’ll try to convince Aidan.”
“There will be drink there,” she said.
“Then I’m certain he’ll come.”
Lucy laughed. I didn’t know whether it was at my joke or in relief that I’d said yes.
I asked, “When is it?”
“Derry has Thursday evening off.”
I sighed. Evening. Of course. It was not only the hardest time to think of an excuse to leave the house, it was the worst time to go anywhere with Aidan.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” Lucy said. “I’ll make certain you don’t regret it. I promise.”
I regretted it already. Derry. Watching me. Waiting.
I looked longingly over my shoulder, back to the study. I thought of the things Patrick had said and that fire in his eyes. “Perhaps I could be your Diarmid, Grace.” And I told myself I wished to be nowhere else but with him, listening to his talk of Celtic history and magic.