happened to this Jessie Lattimer?â Boyle wanted to know.
âHe kissed someone else, broke my heart. Then his family moved to Tucson, or Toledo. Something with a
T
. Now Iâm going to marry an Irishman.â She angled over, kissed Boyle. âAnd ride horses all day.â
Her eyes sparkled when Boyle linked his fingers with hers.
âWho was your first, Branna?â
The minute the words were out, the sparkle changed to regret. She knew. Of course she knew even before Branna flicked a glance at Fin.
âI was twelve as well. I couldnât let my best friend get ahead of me, could I? And like Connor for Meara, Fin was handy.â
âThat he was,â Connor agreed cheerfully, âfor he made sure he was where you were every possible waking minute.â
âNot every, because it wasnât his first kiss.â
âI practiced a bit.â Fin tipped back in his chair with his pint. âAs I wanted your first to be memorable. In the shadows of the woods,â he murmured, âon a soft summer day. With the air smelling of the rain and the river. And of you.â
She didnât look at him now, nor he at her. âThen the lightning struck, a bolt from the sky straight into the ground.â She remembered. Oh, she remembered. âThe air shook with it, and the thunder that followed. We should have known.â
âWe were children.â
âNot for long.â
âIâve made you sad,â Iona said quietly. âIâm sorry.â
âNot sad.â Branna shook her head. âA bit nostalgic, for innocence that melts faster than a snowflake in a sunbeam. We canât be innocent now, can we, with whatâs come. And what will come again. So . . . letâs have some whiskey in our tea and take the momentâas my brotherâs fond of saying. Weâll have some music, what do you say to that, Meara? A song or two tonight, for only the gods know what tomorrow brings.â
âIâll fetch the pub fiddle.â Connor rose, brushed a hand over his sisterâs hair as he left the table. And, saying nothing, gave her the comfort she needed.
Meara stayed longer than sheâd intended, well past a reasonable time to think of doing wash or making market lists. Though she tried to brush him off, Connor insisted on walking her home.
âItâs silly, you know. Itâs not a five-minute walk.â
âThen itâs not taking much of my time. It was good of you to stay because Branna needed it.â
âSheâd do the same for me. And it lifted my mood as well, though it didnât get the wash done.â
They walked the quiet street, climbing the slope. The pubs would still be lively, but the shops were long snugged closed, and not a single car drove past.
The wind had come up, stirring the air. She caught the scent of heliotrope from a window box, and saw needle pricks of stars through the wisps of clouds.
âDid you ever think of going somewhere else?â she wondered. âLiving somewhere else? If you didnât have to do what needs doing here?â
âI havenât, no. Itâs here for me. Itâs what I want and where. Have you?â
âNo. I have friends who went off to Dublin, or Galway City, Cork City, even America. Iâd think I could do that as well. Send money to my mother and go off somewhere, an adventure. But I never wanted it as much as I wanted to stay.â
âFighting a centuries-old sorcerer powered by evil would be an adventure for most.â
âBut itâs no Grafton Street, is it now?â She laughed with him, turned the corner toward her flat. âSome part of me never thought it would happen. The sort of thing that happened in that clearing on the solstice. Then it did, all so fierce and fast and terrible, and there was no thinking at all.â
âYou were magnificent.â
She laughed again, shook her head. âI canât quite