“We all have our failings,” Edmund said. “This is what makes this game so much fun. Anyway, do you have the stone?”
Griffin narrowed his eyes and retreated into his own mind space. How could he trust a word out of this man’s mouth? If it was true that the guardians were tricking each other out of their respective treasures, then Lord Donnelly was not here on a mission of mercy. The silver-tongued liar was after his treasure.
He still had the fake, quartz-version of the Heart of Brigid in his pocket. He’d remembered to put it there when he changed clothes. It still throbbed beside the wound on his leg.
“I’d like to see my grandfather now,” he said.
Once they reached the main floor, he didn’t need Edmund’s guidance. He turned toward his grandfather’s sitting room.
Lord Donnelly followed, but Griffin whirled around and stopped him. “Kindly leave our castle. The Heart of Brigid is not here. Don’t you have a cup or cauldron you need to find?”
Edmund paled and put a hand over his chest like it had suddenly tightened. He looked pained as he said, “Five years in a dank prison. Always chasing that cup. It’s as slippery as the salmon of knowledge. At least your heart is gained by love.”
“And a huge dose of luck,” Griffin said. “Lucky like the Irish.”
“Which is both bad and good.” Donnelly laughed. “Fare thee well, my friend.”
Still chuckling, he strode toward the front door. The doorman opened it for him, and he let himself out.
Griffin knocked on his grandfather’s door and entered to find him hearty and hale, sitting on a plush, leather chair near a bookcase.
“Tell me, my grandson. Did you restore Ireland today? Was the Heart of Brigid bright and shining on the bosom of your beloved? I saw it all in a dream.”
“Maybe so. It was all a dream.” He took the fake, quartz-version out of his pocket and placed it on the table.
His grandfather stared at it and shook his head sadly. “No luck like love?”
“No luck. Only faith.” He hugged his grandfather. “I need to recreate all my memories.”
“Me too, especially since Pierce has gone and taken all of our annals and notebooks.”
“We won’t need them,” Griffin said. “All we need is love and faith. And a little woman named Clare. I know it.”
“I wish you luck.” Grandpa reached over to his bookcase and removed a box. It was a two-thousand-piece puzzle of a colorful fairy city on a craggy green seaside cliff. He gave it to Griffin and leaned back in his wing-backed chair.
“You want me to play with this puzzle?” Griffin asked, shaking the box.
“It’ll help you remember your true love. I had a woman once, too. Your dear sweet grandmother …” His voice trailed off. He closed his hand around the quartz replica of the Heart of Brigid. His eyes rolled down, and he breathed deeply. In a matter of seconds, a snore rolled from his throat.
“Sweet dreams, Grandpa,” Griffin said, blinking sadly at the older man cradling the fake treasure.
Taking the puzzle box, he let himself out and headed for his hole in the ground retreat. Before leaving the castle, he plugged the mobile phone into a charger.
It had something to do with Clare.
He knew it, and he believed it.
Chapter 34
Clare woke with the largest hangover ever.
At first, she didn’t know where she was, but a quick eye-opening scan showed she was back in her old bedroom at the apartment filled with fairy knick-knacks and apparel.
Everything hurt. Her head, her eyes, her neck, the inside of her throat, her lungs, ribcage, and limbs.
But the worse pain of all came from her heart—not her actual physical heart. That beat just fine.
No, it was the ache deep in her soul of not having gained anything, but losing it all the same. It was like the dreaded hangover after writing the most emotionally wrenching story and having it end more bitter than sweet.
What day was it? Had she slept all day and all night? Or had everything that she thought happened been a dream?
She pulled off the covers and examined her body.
Bruised and scuffed. That was real enough. She also had a bandage over her shoulder from a tattoo she’d gotten—was it only yesterday or the day before?
Gingerly, she peeled it off. The skin was raw and irritated. She’d probably neglected to take care of it. Yikes, some of the fibers on the bandage were sticking into the prickly parts of the tattoo.
She picked off as much fluff as she could, then stared at the tattoo in the mirror. It was the cross of Brigid with four numbers, one on each prong.
A password. Griffin’s password.
Clare swung her legs off her bed and looked around the room for her cell phone. Her purse was missing, and there was nothing in the night table.
A beam of light entered through the parted curtains and shone on a glittery white bridal gown on a seamstress’s mannequin. It was the new line of fairy queen bridal gown she and her cousin Jenna had worked on.
She’d brought it back from San Francisco to add the bits of rhinestone and cubic zirconia.
Memories flooded like a tsunami over her, and she held her hands to her head, holding it all in.
“What has happened to me? Was it all a dream or vision? Then why would I have the tattoo? Where’s my phone, and wait, wait, am I still a virgin?”
She rushed to the closet to look for her Morrigan costume. It was her favorite one. Her ring of fire party dress, her aquamarine wet works serpent suit, her ivory hunter safari elephant leather riding outfit, and her musical metallic scale dragon gown were present and accounted for. But the black-feathered cape and wings were missing, and her green suede lace-up boots were nowhere to be found.
“I need my phone,” Clare said. “My phone tracks where I went. It has all my pictures, my recordings, my trips, and my notes.”
She rummaged through the closet, but there was no sign of her suitcase. But then, she had packed it when Griffin told her they were going to get married.
How many lifetimes ago was that?
“Sorcha, Maeve,” she called out as she rushed to the bathroom. “What day is it?”
“Oh, you’re awake,” Sorcha said, coming out of the kitchen. “You slept all day yesterday after we brought you back from Gallagher Castle.”
“You were babbling like a baby,” Maeve said. “Better be glad we were there to bail you out.”
The realization that everything had happened slammed Clare like a giant foot squishing a bug. She quailed under their gazes and slumped to the ground.
“Then it all happened,” she cried. “I’ve fallen in love with a man who cannot remember me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sorcha said, sliding down and putting her arm around her. “It’s not his fault, you know.”
“At least you tried to help him,” Maeve said. “Are you up to us telling you how we defeated Seamus and Mack?”
“I will be after coffee,” Clare said.
“Say, you got another check from Jenna,” Sorcha said, handing her an envelope. “I know I wasn’t supposed to open your mail, but you’ve been getting forgetful about the bills, so I figured …”
“Thanks.” Clare opened the envelope and smiled. Her American cousin had sent her a picture of the six basset hound puppies she’d helped to birth. “My favorite is Lollipop. We didn’t think she’d make it.”
“They’re adorable,” Maeve cooed.
“Hey, that’s a nice check, isn’t it?” Sorcha said.
“I don’t deserve this much.” Clare flipped open the note and read.
* * *
Dearest Clare, I hope this note finds you well. Harley, Honey, and all the puppies miss you, and believe it or not, I think even Larry misses you. I catch him glancing around the corners of the room as if he thinks a fairy blessing will drop down on us.
Thank you for raising all of our spirits and mending the rough patch in my marriage. You are truly a blessing. By
the way, in case you’re wondering why this check is so large, it’s because I promised to pay for your first-class ticket. When I went to book it, the agent said you already had a ticket on the flight. I figured you must have been too proud to let me pay for it, but a promise is a promise.
The London fashion show was a big hit, and I’m on my way to Dublin for a little R&R. Call me, and I can’t wait to see you again.
Love, Jenna
* * *
“I don’t get it,” Sorcha exclaimed. “If Jenna didn’t pay for your first-class ticket, who did?”
“Could it be a fairy who wanted you to sit next to Griffin Gallagher?” Maeve asked.
“An evil, mean fairy,” Clare said. “I thought for sure I could show Griffin enough love and concern that he would remember me.”
“What exactly happened?” Sorcha asked, pulling Clare into the kitchen.
“Another long story, after coffee,” Clare said.
Sorcha fried up a hearty Irish breakfast. Maeve set up a pot of tea, and Clare brewed dark roast coffee.
They ate in silence, a big feat for the usual chatterboxes, but Clare needed to fortify herself to tell her story. Maybe there was a missing piece to it on which she could hang her hope. But even if he got his surgery, he would only remember the things that happened after his surgery, and everything beforehand would be told to him—not experienced.
Clare was not going to plant false memories for him—or lie to him the way she had, playing Brigid to placate him.
“I’ve been a very bad person,” Clare said after finishing her blood sausage and bubble and squeak breakfast. “I spun a tale for Griffin, and he swallowed it all like the biggest fish caught on the largest hook.”
“Hey, at least you made his life entertaining,” Sorcha said. “We only succeeded in luring Mack and Seamus away from Gallagher Castle.”
“That’s right,” Maeve said. “We sent them on wild-goose chases.”
“How did you do it?” Clare asked, sipping her coffee with cream.
“We posted their treasures on social media, by photoshopping them into different locations all over the world,” Sorcha said.
“That’s right. We also made hundreds of replicas and gave them out as prizes to our customers,” Maeve added. “When they post on social media, Seamus and Mack will have to track each of them down.”
“What happened at the castle? I heard your voices but didn’t know how you knew to come,” Clare said, her gaze bouncing back and forth between her two very best buddies in the world.
“Griffin called us from your cell phone,” Sorcha said.
“I was mad at him at first,” Maeve said. “I thought he was tricking us.”
“But I figured out he was going to help,” Sorcha cut in. “You know hotheaded Maeve; she wanted to bail.”
“Hey, when I told him you weren’t a virgin, he wasn’t happy. If he wasn’t trying to shed your blood like the Green Notebook said, then he would have been happy you’re not a virgin,” Maeve argued.
“You lied to him,” Clare cried. “Now, he’ll think me ruined. Not that I’m supposed to care, but I can’t get over him.”
“You never acted like you were in love with him,” Sorcha said. “You acted like you only wanted to use him to make your movie.”
“Movie, schmoovie, I don’t give a feck about any movie anymore.” Clare held her hands to her face to keep the tears from leaking out. “I didn’t know how attached I was getting to that dear, forgetful man. Every time he came back, he was different, but the last time, he was so romantic and loving, yet he didn’t know me. He thought I was Brigid, the fairy queen.”
“Actually, he called us and asked us to help him rescue you,” Sorcha said. She put a hand over Clare’s shoulder and rubbed her back. “He had to convince us to help. We thought he was trying to trick us into becoming victims, but he said ‘Only one of us loves Clare more than the Heart of Brigid.’ I infer that to mean Griffin. He used your name, Clare, not Brigid.”
“You sure?” Clare peeked from between her fingers.
“Yes, he was very heroic,” Maeve said. “He chased after the limo and even tried to force it off the road. Except he crashed his Ashton.”
“I remember that,” Clare said. “It seems like a movie from long ago, but I thought he faked the crash. It was like one of those silent movies where the villain gets away and the hero shakes his fist at the sky.”
“You are too imaginative,” Sorcha said. “When was the last time you worked on a novel?”
“Too long ago,” Clare said. “Too long. Anyway, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve restored the Heart of Brigid to Griffin’s family. That was what I set out to do, and I’ve done it. The rest will be the finished in a love story I write.”
“That’s the spirit,” Maeve said. “Now, I’m going to make up another batch of the Quill of Niamh and ship it off. It’ll be fun to track Mack all over the globe as he hunts it down.”
“I saw the way you were looking at Mack,” Sorcha teased. “I’m sure you’d want to track him down no matter where he goes.”
“Oh, stop it,” Maeve said. “Just because we’re both blondes doesn’t mean …”
“It exactly means you’re meant for each other.” Sorcha laughed and tossed packets of sugar at Maeve.
Clare shook her head and left the kitchen. Thankfully, her laptop was still on the coffee table, and she hadn’t taken it with her. It was time to write the romance of her life.
She opened her laptop and typed, “Excuse me while I tuck my wings.”
Chapter 35
Griffin lay on the leather pallet of his ancient bed in the secret room underneath the garden. A stream of sunlight shone through the solitary window, and he studied the dust motes floating in the sunlight.
It wouldn’t be easy to reassemble his memory, but he had to do it without crutches—or in this case, a live cell phone that belonged to Clare Hart.
Oh, yes, he’d opened it and typed in the code engraved on his tattoo, but he shut it as soon as he realized it had photos and notes.
He didn’t want to manufacture memories from them. He wanted to experience the emotions he had when the memories had been created, and to do that, he had to let them float naturally into his mind.
All his life, or at least the life he had under Pierce’s tutelage involved memorizing facts, events, reading random entries in the annals, and watching videos.
What he wanted with Clare was the real memory. The one with voice and feeling, recognition and immersion. He wanted the taste, the scent, the tactile feel, but more importantly, the actual meaning of the experiences for each scene.
One didn’t get that by looking at snapshots, or reading a hundred-forty-character notes. Even soundbites did not suffice. No video could take the place of presence in three dimensions, actually four, if time was involved.
Nope. The only memories he wanted were the ones taken moment by moment. Rich, deep, meaningful—the difference between really knowing someone versus knowing a list of their personality traits.
Clare was too special to him to relegate into name, birthdate, physical characteristics, Myers-Briggs personality code, and a list of her likes and dislikes.
So, Griffin dreamed, and after each dream, he captured the feelings, and he wrote them down, piece by piece.
He gathered fragments of memory and fit them, and in between his naps, he worked on the fairy city puzzle. As he twisted and turned the puzzle pieces, the fragments in his mind snapped together.
He took breaks for exercise, and he walked the trails on the headlands overlooking the ocean. The heather was blooming and green shoots of grass waved over the cliffside trails. He let his face turn toward the ocean and feel the calming spray. He squinted at the shadowy island of Inishtrahull, and he kissed the breeze floating in the air currents above the confluence of land and sea.
Even though he was alone, he felt Clare at his side, first meeting him on the airplane as an impudent and challenging woman, then
appearing on the craggy trail of the Inishowen Peninsula, pretending to be Brigid O’Brien.
Piece by piece clicked into place, as long as he didn’t stress or get anxious. Many times, he simply walked and let images, scents, and feelings enter him—without judgment, without analysis, and most of all, without criticism.
Day by day, he strengthened both his body and mind. He’d breakfast with his grandfather, who didn’t want to talk because he was gathering his own memories. Griffin understood exactly why they didn’t speak.
No one wanted the other to influence him in any form. But still, the companionship was heaven sent, and the fact there was no nosy butler like Pierce to jog their memories was even better.
Of course, he’d had to hire help to replace the two he lost. Hulda, the chief of security, had to be let go in her role of helping Pierce kidnap Clare—for Griffin was now convinced the beautiful woman who played Brigid in the bedchamber and arose as the resurrected fairy queen was Clare.
How stupid of him not to recognize her when he’d had the chance. She’d escaped his crazy castle and had taken the Heart of Brigid with her. But he no longer cared about that treasure.
It had been lost for hundreds of years. At least now it was in the hands of the woman he loved. That part of the myth had come true. The Heart of Brigid led him to his true love.
Every day, he recharged Clare’s phone, but he refused to look at it or use it. His own phone was broken, and he was in no hurry to get connected. He didn’t check the news. He didn’t watch television. He was content to let his memories sift into his mind like fine flour dusting a pastry.
When he wasn’t walking or dreaming, he wrote his memoir, and he worked on the puzzle. At first, everything was incoherent as he tried to fit bits and pieces together. But as the structure took shape, and he filled emotions and feelings between the lines, he began to dream vividly. She was so real, he could taste her, touch her, and sense her spirit.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and every day, Griffin remembered and he wrote.
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 25