The Shadows (19 page)

And if he had, what did he know about the
veleda
?

It seemed too big a coincidence, Diarmid’s suspicions about Grace Knox along with the very sudden attention Devlin was now paying her. But perhaps it
was
a coincidence. What had Lucy said? That her brother had loved Grace for years. Perhaps so. Diarmid could see why.

Still, it made him uneasy.

Finn had ordered him to search the Devlin house anyway, and as it was, he’d delayed long enough. Grace had said the collection was in Devlin’s study—not all of it, she’d said, but perhaps he would find what he was looking for. Finn’s hunting horn had been a working one, without a great deal of ornamentation. So many years later, it would only look old and not especially valuable. Perhaps it would be in one of those cases. And Diarmid wanted to get his hands on that ogham stick. He wondered what Cannel would see in it, if anything.

When twilight passed and night fell, and the steward said the horses wouldn’t be needed tonight, Diarmid told Jerry he was going to take a walk.

The other stableboy chuckled. “You’d best watch yourself with that Devlin girl. Ya know you’re playin’ with fire.”

Diarmid said nothing to that. It was true. A few more days and then he would walk away, and after a week or so of not seeing him, the lovespell would fade, just as it always did. Lucy would think of him with fondness if he was lucky, or bitterness if he wasn’t, but even that would disappear eventually. Because her love for him had been compelled. It wasn’t real.

It never was.

Diarmid shook off his sadness at the thought and put Lucy from his mind as he strode the two blocks through the lamplit streets to the well-kept houses of those rich enough to live in this part of town without being so rich they had mansions and summer homes. Once he was at the Devlins’ back gate, he leaped over the cast-iron arrows and into the narrow strip of yard, past a marble bench and a small fountain and rows
of rosebushes, their fragrance sweet and heavy in the evening air. He peered stealthily into the windows until he found the study. There was no outside door, but there was a window.

The only light came from a lamp burning on the desk, a dim glow. The study was empty, but for how long?

He grasped the sill, pulling himself up—a two-thousand-year sleep hadn’t taken away the strength he’d honed in battle and in spear practice. Once he had a good hold, he put his hand to the sash. It slid open easily, soundlessly—thank the maids. He leveled himself up and through, dropping as silently as he could to the floor, which was thickly carpeted—another blessing.

There he paused, listening. He heard voices from another room, more than a few. Music from a pianoforte, inexpertly played. So the Devlins had guests, which he hoped meant Patrick Devlin would be busy entertaining.

Diarmid made a quick scan of the room. Display cases lined the wall to his right. Framed shadow boxes held the things Grace had mentioned. A bull-head torc like those he’d seen a hundred times—not one meant for kings, but worn by a warrior, perhaps even one of the Fianna, though he didn’t recognize it. Statuettes, a stone relief, some drawing on bark he could barely make out in the dim light, another of the Morrigan. He shuddered at that and looked away, into the cases, and then it was as if his other life washed over him in one dizzying wave—the world he’d known: fortresses and rolling green hills and the wind blowing through his hair as he hurtled with his fellows toward an advancing army, a battle cry
in his throat, the sword called Liomhadoir, the Burnisher, in his hand, and the Red Spear at the ready. The things in this case had belonged to warriors and kings—that bowl there, the one cast with wrens, had been Neasa’s. He’d seen her drink from it a hundred times, some foul potion that helped her find her visions. There was a crystal Druid egg the size of an apple; a few amulets—two on a necklace, green stone threaded through with red; another blue and set in a ring. A bronze shield with arms he didn’t know. There, a silver goblet that reminded him of those he’d seen on the table of the High King. The sheer number of things was astounding, but there was no horn. Then he saw the ogham stick.

The ogham runes were chipped, hard to read, and it was too dim, but there was no time to study it now. Better to take it and be gone. He tried to lift the case lid—it wouldn’t budge. Locked. He glanced around, saw the paper knife gleaming in the lamplight on Devlin’s desk, and grabbed it, working it in the lock. Too broad. He turned back to the desk, saw the letter opener, and tried that instead. A few twists and the lock was sprung.

Diarmid pried open the lid and took the ogham stick, which was as cool as any stone should be. He tucked it beneath his arm and closed the lid again, a little too hard. He froze, listening for any pause in the conversation, anything to tell him that someone had heard. The music continued. He breathed a sigh of relief and then left the cases and went to the bookshelves, looking at each and every ornament
that decorated them, hoping for the horn. Statuettes, mostly, another Druid egg. No horn.

He glanced toward the window. He should go, except that she’d said there were other things too. This wasn’t the entire collection, and who knew when he would have another opportunity? He should be sure. Where else would Devlin keep valuable things?

Perhaps his bedroom.

Diarmid hesitated. It was too risky. But Finn would ask him if he’d searched the house, and when he confessed that he hadn’t, he’d be sent back. And this felt too
right
. All these relics, Patrick Devlin’s obsession with Ireland, the poems about rebellion and oppression.
Patrick’s mission,
Grace had said, and Diarmid’s instincts screamed that the horn was here somewhere.

He leaned out the window, tossing the ogham stick onto the ground below—best not to get caught with it if he was going to get caught, and the chances of that were rising every moment. Without it, he could lie that he’d been meaning to visit Lucy—which would be bad enough but wouldn’t be as bad as being arrested and hung as a thief. He went to the door of the study, opening it just a crack, peering out. No one in the hall. The music was louder now. Diarmid eased from the room, looking warily toward the servants’ stairs near the kitchen.

He dashed for the stairs, hiding himself in the shadows of gaslight turned low. When he reached them, he took the
first five to the turn of the landing and drew back, waiting. He heard no one, but the stairs creaked beneath his step. No one would think twice about sounds on the servants’ stairs, he hoped. The next floor was empty, a hallway lined with closed doors. He went down the line, knocking quietly at each one in case someone had taken to bed with a headache or dyspepsia or something, opening each when there was no answer. Mrs. Devlin’s room was marked by the scent of roses. Then Lucy’s—a lace-testered bed, an abandoned gown, scattered shoes. He smiled; the room was so much like her. It felt like an invasion of privacy, too, and he liked that less. He shut the door again.

He thought the next room might be Devlin’s. It was a man’s room, in deep blues and dark woods, but it felt empty—nothing there to show that anyone inhabited it. Diarmid went to the next. This was the one he wanted, he knew immediately, and he slipped inside. It was like the study below: leather chairs by the fireplace, a bed with heavy curtains in brown velvet. A dressing table littered with cuff links and a tangle of silk ties, a brush with strands of dark-blond hair.

Diarmid looked for anything that might house the rest of the collection. He went through everything: the dresser drawers, the huge armoire. Only clothes and more clothes—by the gods, Devlin must have a different shirt for every day! Under the bed, the desk near the window. Nothing.

Diarmid had canvassed the entire room. Wherever Devlin kept the rest of the collection, it wasn’t here. Diarmid had been so certain. But now he was tempting fate.

He left the room and crept again down the hall, down the stairs. He was at the first landing when the applause started. He pushed himself back as far as he could into the shadows. If the party was over now, there would be no place to escape except back up, and he didn’t relish the thought of somehow having to manage a drop from a two-story window. Or he could wait in Lucy’s room and pretend he’d come to see her and enlist her help in getting out. Except that what she’d want once they were alone in her bedroom, what she would think he’d come for . . . that would be harder to manage than the window drop.

The pianoforte started again. Not over yet, thank the gods. He eased down the steps. The hall was clear; he was halfway to the study.

Then he heard footsteps coming from the parlor.

Diarmid froze against the wall. All he could hope was that the light was dim enough. But it wasn’t; he knew that the moment he saw her coming toward him. She stopped. He heard the soft catch of her breath. She looked right into his eyes, and his heart jumped.

Grace.

Her hand went to her throat, a pretty little startle. “Der—”

He shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips, and she went silent. Then he took his chance. He went to the study door, with one last glance at her before he opened it. Her skin looked white in the dim light, her eyes like black pools. She said nothing as he slipped into the study, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t wait to hear her call the others. He raced to the window, pushing it open, throwing himself out, then closing it again behind him. He grabbed up the ogham stick where it lay in the grass and then hurtled to the gate, launching himself into the park and the darkness.

He was blocks away before he realized no one had come after him. It was too much to hope that she had said nothing. She didn’t like him; no doubt she’d take the first opportunity to turn him in. Unless she thought he was there to see Lucy, in which case perhaps she’d keep quiet. She’d kept Lucy’s secret until now, but she might not continue once the ogham stick was discovered missing. She was no fool. She would know who had taken it.

Which meant he had to do something to make sure she kept her silence.

THIRTEEN

Grace

P
atrick lifted my shawl from the mass of cloaks and hats in the butler’s arms and put it around my shoulders, his fingers brushing my skin so lightly it raised little shivers. He leaned close, whispering, “I wish we’d had a chance to speak alone.”

I told him, “I haven’t forgotten the things you said the other night at dinner.” And I hadn’t. His talk of old magic and whatever amazing thing the Brotherhood had done. I’d wanted all night to ask him more.

But we hadn’t been alone the entire evening. I’d caught him watching me, staring at me thoughtfully and sometimes impatiently, and I felt impatient too.

He murmured, “Later. Sleep well,” and kissed my temple, so sweetly and tenderly, as if I were this precious thing he meant to keep close, and I felt the strain of what I’d been keeping from him for an hour or more and thought of telling
him. Just saying,
“Your stableboy was sneaking about the house tonight.”

But I didn’t. Just as I didn’t think about the way I’d felt seeing Derry standing there and knowing why he was here: for Lucy. I shouldn’t care.
I would not care.

I smiled and said, “Good night, Patrick,” and my mother thanked the Devlins for the lovely evening—which
had
been lovely, if for no other reason than that the O’Daires and the Nolans now knew about me and Patrick. He’d made no secret of it, attending to me with the dedication of a husband, and Mrs. Devlin often had made little hints: “How fine the two of them look together, don’t you think, Maeve?” and “I hope very soon to be looking into the faces of my own dear grandchildren.” Patrick had smiled at me in a way that made me blush.

When Patrick left me to say good night to the others, I cornered Lucy. “You should be more careful,” I whispered to her. “Do you want the whole world to know what you’re doing?”

She frowned. “I’ve no idea what you’re speaking of.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. But if you’re so foolish as to get caught for taking such a risk, don’t blame me.”

She just stared at me blankly. She was much better at lying than I’d imagined, and I’d done enough of it myself to recognize it.

The O’Daires took Mama and me home in their carriage, and once they left us off, my mother said worriedly, “Wherever do you think Aidan could have got to?”

My brother was supposed to have come to supper tonight,
but he’d been nowhere to be found when it was time to go, and Mama had spent the evening fiddling with her handkerchief, glancing out the window.

I said, “No doubt he had another card game to attend. We haven’t lost the house yet; there’s something to gamble away before the lawyers get it.”

“Oh, Grace, what shall we do with him? If the Devlins were to discover . . .” She trailed off hopelessly.

Too many things could finish that sentence: The extent of our debt, how very much Aidan drank and gambled, the fact that I expected the doctor’s lawsuit any day, or the madness my grandmother was slowly falling prey to. Any of those things could destroy my chances with Patrick. I’d told him that Grandma was ill, but madness . . . that was something else altogether, a stain on our family. The Devlins knew that we’d lost the business and the stocks—the whole world knew that. Lucy had said herself that Patrick was saving me, and so they also knew how very much his suit meant and how disposed I was to accept it.