The Crow of Connemara (32 page)

25

M
AEVE SAW KEARA walking up the lane toward her house; she walked slowly to the gate in the stone fence that bordered the narrow path and met her there. “M'Lady,” Keara said, holding out a basket to her; the scent of newly baked bread wafted from underneath the towel draped over it. “I didn't expect you to be out.”

Maeve inclined her head toward the house. “Colin's sleeping,” she said. “I thought I'd take the air.” She lifted the towel and peered into the basket at the brown-topped loaf. “Thanks. That smells delicious.”

“I made an extra loaf; I thought you'd appreciate it.”

“I do. 'Twill make a good lunch sandwich when Colin wakes up.”

“How's his hand? I saw Niall earlier, and he has a lovely fat lip and bruise.”

“He'll live to play again,” Maeve told her, smiling.

“And did yeh tell Niall to make that fuss, an' to take the punch? Because from where I sat, it seemed Niall went down on the quick side.”

Maeve shrugged at that, trying half-successfully to keep a grin from her face. “He might have. 'Tis possible.”

Keara laughed at that, then her face went serious again. “He's genuine, that Colin. He's definitely the one we need; not even Niall can deny it after last night. We all saw it; we all heard it.” Keara's hand reached out to touch Maeve's, holding the basket. “I worry about you, m'Lady. I worry about how this is going to affect you.”

Maeve glanced down at their hands. The old Morrígan would have pulled her hand away, affronted by the familiarity of the gesture; she would have narrowed her eyes and scowled, and her next words would have been a harsh rebuke.
The years, the centuries have softened yeh. They've worn yeh down and made yeh at least half-mortal yerself.
Maeve forced herself to look at Keara, to hold the young woman's gaze. “Are yeh asking me whether or not I can do what needs to be done, like Niall? Is that what yer saying?”

But Keara was already shaking her head before Maeve finished. “No, m'Lady. It's just . . . I know when I look at Colin that he's caught up in yeh, that there's no doubt about how he feels about yeh. Yeh've snared him well. But I've also looked at yeh, m'Lady, and if yeh'll forgive me sayin', I see some of Colin's enchantment in yer own eyes when yeh look at him. I do'nah doubt that yeh'll do as yeh must, but I wonder at the cost to yeh when it happens, and I do'nah want yeh hurt, either.”

She knew what Keara wanted to hear her admit, but she refused to say the words. Instead, she answered the other, unasked question. “There's no way around that pain,” Maeve answered. “Yeh know the cost as well as I do. We all know it. The path opens with blood and sacrifice, an' no other way.”

“He'll be willing?”

Maeve nodded. “He will, when the time comes. He will.”

“'Tis a waste, though. That talent . . .” Keara's fingers tightened around Maeve's. She shook her head again and found Maeve's eyes with her own. “If 'twas me Aiden the one, an' t'were me who had to strike him, I do'nah think I could do it, even if Aiden were willing and even though 'twould save us all.”

“'Tis not Aiden, so yeh needn't worry,” Maeve answered. “Colin and me . . . 'tis not the same way.”

“Yer certain?”

“Aye,” Maeve answered, though she knew she answered too quickly and with too much heat. She took a step back from the gate and Keara's hand slipped away from hers. She lifted the basket toward Keara. “T'anks, Keara. We'll enjoy this.”

Keara ducked her head at the obvious dismissal. “Yer welcome, m'Lady. I'm sorry if I—” she left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

“Yeh've no reason to apologize, Keara. Yer my cailleach and have yer own role to play. When the time comes, yeh know yeh'll be as vital to this as any of the rest. More, I suspect.”

Keara ducked her head again. “M'Lady,” she said, and turned. Maeve watched until she reached the turn in the lane and vanished. Then she hugged the basket to herself, closing her eyes.

I feel every year in my bones. I feel like I could turn to dust any moment and blow away. It would be a relief.

She took a breath, inhaling the scent of the grass, the salt air, and new-baked bread. She went back into the cottage.

Colin was awake and in the kitchen, sitting with a cup of tea steaming between his hands, as she entered the cottage. She could see the bruise on his right hand, the one he'd used to strike Niall. Maeve wondered if Colin had overheard any of the conversation she'd just had with Keara, but the half-asleep look in the eyes behind his glasses indicated he hadn't. “That smells good,” Colin said as she set the basket down on the table.

“Keara baked some bread. Want some? I'm going to have a piece with a bit of butter; 'tis still hot from the oven.” Maeve lifted the golden loaf out of the basket and set it on a cutting board, taking a serrated knife from a drawer and opening the cold box to take out the butter.

“I'm certainly not going to refuse,” he said. “I made you tea as well. It's there on the table waiting for you.”

“Thanks, love.” Maeve cut two thick slices of the bread, put them on small plates, and slid one over to him. She set the butter and a butter knife down in the center of the table. She took a sip from the mug of tea Colin had made for her, then sat down across from him, watching as he buttered his bread. He took a bite, and she smiled as she saw his pleased expression. “Good?”

“Delicious,” he answered.

She took her time buttering her own slice, wondering what she should say, wanting this comfortable moment to last and knowing that it couldn't. “How's yer hand?”

He lifted it, opening and closing the fingers. “A little stiff, but it'll be okay.” His lips curled upward in a quick smile, and she wondered if he was remembering the fight. “I heard you talking to Keara out here.”

“Ah. And what is it yeh thought yeh heard?” She took a bite of the bread. It
was
delicious, the bread itself perfection, the butter golden and sweet. She watched him as she chewed. He seemed confused by the question, finally shrugging.

“I don't know . . .” His voice trailed off and he shrugged again. “I guess I'm still processing things. Maeve, what is it that you want of me? You keep hinting about what I'm supposed to do and what you're supposed to do, and the things you've shown me here—” He stopped, taking a long breath and looking away from her, as if the answer to his question could be found through the window of the kitchen. “My God, I still have trouble believing that what I've seen was real.”

“I know yeh do,” Maeve began, “and—” She stopped, her head coming up. She could feel the prickle of unease passing through her, a ghost's presence sliding through her body.

“What?” Colin said as she paused, and she didn't know if he felt it himself or if he was only responding to her silence. She held up her hand to quiet him. It came a few breaths later: a bell ringing urgently from the direction of Inishcorr's little harbor.

“Something's wrong,” she said. “Come on; we need to see.” Without waiting to see if he'd follow, Maeve pushed her chair back from the table and rose, hurrying from the cottage and into the open air. She pushed open the gate and turned right, heading toward the harbor.

She heard the gunshot then, and began to run.

Colin had caught up with her before she reached the harbor. The lane opened out onto the square before the harbor, and there Maeve saw the knot of Islanders shouting at the ranks of blue-suited policemen near the police boat pulled up to the quay. The smell of cordite still hung in the air, a film of blue smoke dissipating as they approached. Maeve felt a quick wave of relief, realizing that the shot had evidently been fired into the air: there was no one down, no one running from the confrontation, and through the press of people, Maeve could hear Superintendent Dunn bellowing and gesticulating angrily at a garda. “Yeh idjit! All a'yeh get yer fingers where they should be. The next man who fires a shot without provocation will be sacked, d'yeh hear?”

Maeve pushed her way through the islanders. Niall was there in front, as she expected he would be. She could feel Colin following in her wake. “Superintendent,” Maeve said as she came to the front of the crowd. She did a quick count of the men with him: fifteen to twenty gardai, all of them looking uncomfortable, armed with automatic weapons and trussed with bulky bulletproof vests. Even Dunn wore one, making him look like an angry black bear. “If yeh'd given me notice of yer visit, I'd have arranged some refreshments for yeh and yer men. What's the trouble here, and why is someone firing their weapon in the middle of an unarmed crowd?”

Dunn glanced behind him at a shame-faced young garda, then turned back to Maeve. “Miss Gallagher, let's not pretend yeh don't know why I'm here. Yeh've been given enough warnings, and I've been as patient as I can be, but I have duties I must perform.” She saw his gaze slip past her and behind. “Mr. Doyle,” he said. “I see yer here as well.”

“I am,” Colin said, and he took a step forward to stand alongside Maeve. “Is that a problem, Superintendent?” His arm went around her waist. She wondered whether that was a possessive gesture or a protective one, but she allowed it, remaining where she was. She heard a derisive sniff from Niall on her other side.

“Yeh ignored the warning I gave yeh,” Dunn answered, “but yeh've done nothing illegal that I know of, other than displaying rather poor judgment.” He turned back to Maeve then. “'Tis time for yeh to leave Inishcorr,” he said bluntly. “All a'yeh. The NPWS is wanting to move forward with their plans.”

“And yer the NPWS' goons?” Niall burst out before Maeve could answer. “Yeh think yeh frighten us, with yer guns and black vests and shiny helmets? Yeh think yeh can take us all out before we smash yer faces in?”