The Selkie Enchantress (13 page)

***

Caitlin watched Liam pull his arm away, but not before that witch had a chance to sink her claws back into him. She saw the way his eyes shifted, the way his entire expression changed when she touched him. And she could only imagine what happened last night when Liam walked her home to help her
fix her heater
.

Liam glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door and a cold gust blew into the room. But there was something different in his eyes now, something not quite right. He slipped out of the cottage and the wind caught the door behind him, slamming it shut.

Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. “How convenient that you ran into Tara on your way over.”

Nuala unfastened the front of her long white cloak, pulling out the storybook. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t want Liam around me.”

Nuala smiled. “That’s the least of my worries.” Stepping into the room, she set the book on the coffee table. The candles flickered under her movement and water dripped from her cloak onto the carpet. “I need to talk to you about my son.”

“Where
is
Owen?”

“He’s in the cottage.”

“Alone?”

“He’s ten years old. He’ll be fine.”

“The power’s out all over the island.”

“I lit a fire before I left.”

“You could have brought him into the pub. I’m sure all the kids are there now playing board games.”

“Owen’s shy.”

Caitlin reached for the glass of Bailey’s. “Shouldn’t children learn to get over their fears?”

“Some children prefer to spend time alone. Owen’s life has been… stressful lately.” She reached out, letting her fingers rest on the blanket draped over the back of an armchair. “This weekend was supposed to be a chance for him, for
us
, to get away and relax.”

“If you want him to relax, why are you taking books away from him?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Caitlin took a sip of Bailey’s, letting the sweet liquor cool her fraying nerves. “So… talk.”

“My son has a vivid imagination.”

“He’s a kid.” Caitlin grabbed the stick and poked it into the fire. Why was it so cold in here all of a sudden? “He’s supposed to have a vivid imagination.”

“For most kids, I’d agree. But Owen is different.”

Caitlin focused on the flames. “How?”

“A few years ago, I was reading him a story before bed. He started asking questions about it, like it was more truth than fairy tale.”

Caitlin paused, the tip of the stick just touching the log of peat. “Which story?”

“
Sleeping Beauty
.”

Sleeping Beauty?
He wasn’t the first child who’d found truth in that story. Caitlin straightened, glancing at the bowl of Tara’s dried rose petals on her mantle. If Kelsey hadn’t followed the clues in that fairy tale to lead them to where to find the selkie’s pelt and break Tara’s ancestor’s curse, would Tara still be here with them today? She turned, narrowing her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Owen became obsessed with the story, looking for signs all over Limerick that it was real. He was sure there was a princess trapped in a tower and convinced the other kids on our street that it was true.” Nuala took a deep breath. “I didn’t take it seriously. I thought they were just being kids and playing pretend.”

Nuala started to pace, back and forth across the small living room. “But one night in the spring, when the roses were blooming as tall as the trees, he snuck out of the house with two of the other children to the ruins of King John’s Castle.”

Caitlin nodded. She knew the famous castle. It was a popular tourist destination during the day, but no one was allowed inside the gates at night.

“They found a way in and started to climb up to the tower. If they’d made it to the top, they might have seen it was nothing more than an empty room and there was no princess lying asleep waiting for her prince.”

Nuala gazed out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “But on the way up, one of the children climbed out onto the balcony overlooking the river.”

Caitlin gripped the thin stick of driftwood. She knew the ending to this story. She remembered hearing about it on the news. “That part of the castle was blocked off to the public because the rocks were coming loose. But the kids didn’t know that.”

Nuala nodded grimly. “One of the children fell. He died. Because of Owen.”

Caitlin’s head spun. Of course she remembered this story. Everyone in Ireland remembered this story. It was a terrible tragedy. But… surely it wasn’t Owen’s fault. “He was only a boy.”

“They wouldn’t have been there if Owen hadn’t convinced them to go.”

“But it wasn’t his fault the child climbed out onto the ledge.” Caitlin did a quick calculation in her head. “A few years ago, Owen would have only been six or seven years old. He couldn’t have known any better.”

“He didn’t know any better, because I didn’t take his questions seriously.”

“But… how could you have known?” Caitlin dropped the driftwood back into the box with the other sticks. “I’m sorry, Nuala. I can see how this was traumatic for both of you. But you can’t separate him from other children and take books away from him when he didn’t know any better. Don’t you think he’s learned his lesson?”

Nuala shook her head. “I can’t take that risk. I don’t want him reading those sorts of stories.”

“What sort of stories do you want him to read? If a child can’t read about magic and fairy tales, what’s he supposed to read?”

“Stories based on reality. On truth.” Nuala pushed back from the chair. “Stories based on what’s actually going on in the world.”

“But…” Caitlin protested. “You’re a
songwriter
. It’s your job to spin tales and use your imagination to make beautiful music. You can’t take the will to dream and create away from a person.”

Nuala smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you can. And since he’s my child, and I’ve seen how those stories affect him, I won’t have him reading them anymore and possibly hurting someone.”

“Nuala, this is—”

“What’s best,” Nuala said, cutting her off. “And until you have a child of your own, you might keep your thoughts on mothering to yourself.”

Caitlin felt the sting like a slap in the face.

“And furthermore,” Nuala said, sweeping her hood back up and over her face. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed away from Owen for the rest of our visit on the island. He’s young and impressionable. And I don’t want you influencing him.”

“
Influencing
him? I’ve hardly—”

“Stay away from my son, Caitlin.” She walked to the door and pulled it open. A cold wind swirled into the room. “That’s all I came to say.”

Stay away from my son?
Caitlin grabbed the book off the table, squeezing it in her hands to keep from throwing it across the room. Who did she think she was? Telling her to stop influencing Owen with fairy tales? Like she was some kind of a threat! Like she’d lured Owen over here and set out the big, bad fairy tale books as a trap!

They were just
stories
, for God’s sake! Stories that might hold some truth now and then, yes. But to take them away from a child altogether? To cut him off from a world of magic and fantasy because his imagination had gotten carried away one night? It wasn’t Owen’s fault that boy drowned!

Marching across the room, she yanked the phone off the wall. She started to dial the pub, then remembered the lines were dead. What would Liam think if he knew this woman wanted to suppress the imagination of her child? She shoved the phone back into the cradle and froze, her eyes going wide as her gaze dropped to the book.
‘It’s right here! The sea witch steals the prince away from his true love—the girl he’s supposed to be with!’

It wasn’t possible, was it? This couldn’t be happening again. She circled the room, blowing out the candles. She grabbed her raincoat and shoved her arms back into the sleeves. She’d made the mistake before of not listening to a child, of refusing to see the signs of magic all around her until it was almost too late.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She stalked out into the rain, wading ankle deep in the puddles filling the dips in the road. If Owen thought there was something about this story she needed to know, then she was going to find out what it was. The wind banged the Fosters’ teetering metal gate against the broken hinges. She glanced into the pub as she walked by, her mouth falling open when she saw Nuala seated at the bar through the window.

She hadn’t even gone straight home to her son? After everything she’d accused Caitlin of? Unbelievable! Her boots splashed through the rising water as she tromped passed the darkened windows of her neighbors’ homes toward the cottage at the edge of the village. She knocked on the pale blue door and heard the sound of a child walking toward it and twisting the knob.

He opened the door a crack, peering out, his eyes widening when he spotted Caitlin. “Ms. Conner,” he said, opening the door wider. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

He squinted into the curtain of rain. “Does my mum know you’re here?”

“No,” Caitlin said, pushing into the cottage and stripping off her jacket. The air inside was so cold her breath came out in little icy puffs and her gaze darted to the fireplace, where a poorly made fire was dying in the hearth. She pulled the book,
The Little Mermaid
, out of her jacket pocket and Owen’s eyes went wide as she handed it to him, crossing the room to work on the fire.

Taking one last look down the empty street, Owen shut the door, leaning back against it. “She doesn’t want me spending time with you.”

“I know.”

Hugging the book to his chest, he stared at Caitlin. “Did she give this back to you?”

Caitlin knelt to the cold floor, a match sizzling to life in the darkness and she cupped her hand around it to keep it lit as she trailed it along a fresh log of peat. “She did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said if you wanted to read it, you should be able to read it.”

Owen’s gaze dropped to the cover as Caitlin got the fire started, a warm lick of flames drawing him toward the hearth where he knelt beside her, opening the book and tracing a finger over the pictures on the pages.

“Owen,” Caitlin said, watching the flames play shadows over his gaunt face. “I need you to tell me what happened back there. At the cottage.”

He snapped the book shut and clasped it back to his chest. “What do you mean?”

“When you touched the rose. What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

He nudged closer to the fire and Caitlin laid a hand on his shoulder. “Owen,” she began, then paused when she felt the damp material under her fingers. Her brows snapped together. “Your clothes are still wet.”

He brushed her hand away. “They’re fine.”

“But you must be freezing.” She started to push to her feet but he grabbed the hem of her sweater. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Caitlin stared at him for several long moments before sinking back to the floor. “Owen, you said something back at the cottage. After you found the white rose. You said the reason we went there was because of the story.” She tapped her finger against the faded spine of the storybook. “Because of
this
story. What did you mean?”

Owen lowered the book into his lap, the firelight dancing over the cover. Smoke curled up the chimney, the hollow sound of rain tinkering against the metal flue fading as the fire heated the hearth. Owen’s fingers gripped the book and his voice came out in barely more than a whisper. “I think my mother is the evil sea witch.”

Caitlin gaped. It was exactly what Nuala said would happen—that Owen would start believing the stories were real. “It’s just a story, Owen. It’s not real.”

Owen shook his head. “It is real. And she put a spell on me so I can’t remember anything.”

Caitlin swallowed. What if Nuala was telling the truth? What if fairy tales were dangerous to some children? “What… don’t you remember?”

“I can’t remember anything,” Owen whispered. The fire hissed, a coil of black smoke snaking up the chimney when the flames found an air pocket in the log. “Where I’m from. Who my father is. I don’t even know what we’re doing here.”

“You’re from Limerick,” Caitlin explained. “And you’re here on holiday.”

“That’s what my mum said.” Owen lifted his worried eyes to hers. “But it’s not true.”

Conflicted, Caitlin felt a seed of doubt take root inside her. If Nuala was right, and she let Owen believe this insane theory was true, then could he end up hurting someone on the island? She searched his eyes, looking for something, anything that would help her understand what to believe. But she saw only innocence and truth in those troubled eyes.

If Owen was right, then Nuala was… the evil sea witch in
The Little Mermaid
? Caitlin bit her lip. Everything inside her screamed not to trust Nuala, but an evil sea witch? That was simply taking this too far. “Owen,” she said, letting out a long breath. “Have you told your mother you can’t remember anything about where you’re from?”