“You don’t want to get between Lucy and this boy, Grace. Not if you want Patrick.”
My stomach tightened. “Who says I’m going to get between them?”
“The way he was looking at you . . .”
“He’s a flirt, as I said,” I told her impatiently. “And an irritating one too. He’s just perfect for Lucy. Together they can pretend they’re king and queen and rule the world.”
Rose laughed. “However are you going to hold your tongue when you’re Lucy’s sister-in-law?”
I sighed. “I don’t know that I will be, Rose. Perhaps Patrick won’t propose.”
“Oh, I think he will. But not if you keep picking at Lucy. She has his ear, you know.”
“I’ll try to be good.” I let the yew branches fall back into place. “It’s not here. What am I going to do?”
“Tell Patrick you lost it.”
“I can’t! It means so much to him. How am I to tell him that I was so careless I just dropped it in the street?”
“Well, perhaps it will turn up.”
I followed her back to her house. The book hadn’t been kicked aside. It hadn’t fallen into the bushes. Which meant it would’ve been lying here on the walk, obvious to anyone. Obvious to the stableboy who’d been standing right there. He must have it. And he had to know who it belonged to. But he hadn’t turned it in to the house. Why not?
Unfortunately, the only way to find out was to ask him.
When we came to Rose’s door and she asked me to come in for some lemonade, I told her I had to check on my mother. But instead of going home, I doubled back. I knew where the Devlin stables were—two blocks over from the park, only a short walk from here.
I was nervous as I went there, my pulse racing. Stupid! There was nothing to worry about. This morning had been odd, and those things I’d felt . . . whatever the cause, I had no wish to see Derry again. And who knew if Lucy was there right now, lying to her mother, sneaking out. . . . He’d whispered something to her; doubtless it had been a time to meet him later. Wouldn’t that be perfect, to run into her there.
But I needed that book. And I knew Derry had it.
The stables were on the corner. As beautiful as any mansion—probably just as well appointed, too, though I’d never been inside. The brougham we’d taken to the shop was parked outside, and the driver was polishing it until it gleamed in the sun. He started when he saw me.
“Miss?”
“I think I might have left a book in the carriage,” I lied. “I wondered if perhaps you’d found it. A small book. Of poems.”
Leonard shook his head. His hat was off, his dark-green coat lying over the carriage wheel. “No, miss. There was no such thing.”
“I must have dropped it. Perhaps the stableboy found it on the walk.”
He jerked his head toward the open stable door. “He’s just inside. You could ask him yourself.”
I knew that he believed this was just what I’d come to do, and I hated it, especially because it was true, even if not for the reason he thought.
The inside was as beautiful as I’d expected. Polished walnut stalls and gleaming leather tack hanging from the walls, porcelain troughs of water, a barrelful of oats so fine I would have been glad to eat them myself. The stable smelled like any other, of oil and leather, hay and horse, but the air here seemed more rarefied somehow, as if the scents of sweat and manure were not allowed but kept hovering outside, waiting to sneak in.
I hesitated just inside the doorway. I saw no movement anywhere but for the horses: a swish of tail, a stomped foot. And then I heard a noise, a muttered voice, and Derry emerged from a stall. There was no glow this time—not that I’d thought there would be. He held a currying brush, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up to expose muscled forearms, his shirt mostly open, revealing far too much of his chest, which gleamed with the fine sheen of sweat. His dark hair was still falling into his face—irritating me all over again. How could he even see through it?
I wished I hadn’t come. But before I could retreat, he saw me.
He straightened, then I saw that mocking expression again. “Miss Knox,” he said—there was not the slightest surprise in his voice, and that was irritating too. “Let me know if you mean to swoon, will you? I’ll wash my hands. I wouldn’t want to get you dirty.”
“I’ve no intention of swooning.”
He put aside the currying brush and leaned against the stall. “Am I still glowing?”
“No. Not since . . .” Since you touched me. I swallowed those words, knowing already what he would make of them.
“Not since when?”
“Since you caught me,” I admitted.
His grin grew, exactly as I’d thought. “I’ve been told I have a healing touch.”
“I doubt healing was the word.”
He inclined his head as if to acknowledge that was true and propped his elbow on the top railing of the stall. “So what brings you here, miss, if ’tisn’t ‘healing’ or catching you want?”
“You may be the most arrogant boy I’ve ever met. I’m here because I want my book.”
“Your book?”
“I dropped it. When I . . . when I swooned. And now I can’t find it. I thought you might have it.”
“Why would I want your book?”
“I have no idea. I doubt you can even read.”
“You’re a bit arrogant yourself, Miss Knox.”
“Am I wrong?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me that thoughtful look that had stolen my breath outside the carriage, as if he saw something in me that belonged to him, and I felt it, too, as if something in him belonged to me. That strange recognition made me step back, suddenly—and again—afraid. He noticed it. His voice was very soft when he said, “I don’t have your book.”
I didn’t quite believe him, but I didn’t know how to call him a liar. Still, I needed that book. “It was Patrick’s book. Please. He lent it to me, and I really must have it.”
He said nothing. Just that look.
“Please. If you have it, you must—”
“Did you choose your gown?”
The question startled me enough that I answered him. “Yes, as it happens.”
“What color?”
“I don’t know why it should concern you.”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious. What color?”
“Pink.”
He nodded. “You’re Irish, aren’t you? I’m not mistaken?”
This odd conversation was getting odder. “Yes.”
“Black Irish.” He smiled, again that dimple.
Just as my grandmother used to say. “There’s good to come of that, mo chroi.” I couldn’t think of how to respond. The moment stilled. Finally, I said, “Well, I—” at the same time he said, “Pink’s a good choice for you. Devlin won’t be able to look away.”
His voice was quietly reverent, and I heard Rose in my head, telling me not to come between Lucy and this boy, and my fear—of myself, of him, of losing everything—grew. I thought: Leave now.
I said lamely, “I should be going. I only wanted to ask you about the book. If you’re certain you don’t have it . . .” I let the words dangle, a hint, if he wanted to take it.
He didn’t. Again the impertinent grin. “D’you need an escort home?”
“No.” Too quick. Too much. I knew it the moment I said it. His grin broadened, and I turned away, nearly tripping over my skirt as I hurried from the stable. He didn’t have Patrick’s book, and I’d humiliated myself for no reason. I wanted nothing to do with him. Not now and not ever.
I told myself that all the way home.
EIGHT
Diarmid
Diarmid handed the book to Finn as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s Devlin’s.”
“You’re sure? It needs to be something that belongs to him,” Finn said.
“It’s his. His lass said so.”
Finn raised a brow. “His lass?”
�
��She dropped it this morning in a swoon. I happened to be there.”
“Let me guess: she took one look at you and fainted out of pure desire.” Oscar came up beside Diarmid. “What’d you do, show her the lovespot?”
“One at a time,” Diarmid answered with a smile, though the thought of Grace Knox troubled him. He didn’t want to talk about her. “I’ve my hands full with Lucy.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“She’s not to my taste.”
Surprise flickered in Oscar’s green eyes. “Not to your taste? Now there’s something I’ve never heard before. You even like the ugly ones.”
Diarmid shrugged.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she warty?”
Diarmid wished he’d said nothing at all. He hadn’t been able to forget Grace Knox all day. At first he’d thought her the same as any other lass. She liked the look of him, he knew, but she wasn’t going to admit it—well, she would be a fool to, wouldn’t she, when she was near betrothed to Devlin and Lucy was her friend? And that swoon this morning . . . he’d known girls to do worse things to get his attention, and all her talk about glowing didn’t convince him otherwise. But after that she’d been . . . sharp-tongued, actually. And that was a first. And a relief. He hadn’t been able to resist needling her. He’d even enjoyed it. It was so different from the usual simpering and flirting that only filled him with bone-deep weariness.
But she unsettled him. There was something about her—something his instincts told him to stay clear of. He felt drawn to her, and she intrigued him, and that was dangerous enough in itself. But when you added to that his sense that he somehow knew her—and it was more than the fact that she reminded him of someone . . .
“Not warty, no,” he told Oscar. “She’s pretty enough. But snappish and prickly. Self-important too.”
“And you like them blithe and laughing.”
“There are plenty of girls. Why waste time on one who doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t like you?” Oscar laughed. “Ah, there’s my explanation right there. What’s wrong with the lass?”
Finn had been watching them thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s involved with Devlin’s politics?”
Diarmid’s first thought was maybe. There was fire in her. But he didn’t say it, because the truth was that he didn’t know her at all. He could be misjudging her completely, if only because something about her troubled him. There was no point in making Finn more curious than he already was.
So he answered, “I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen them together. But she seemed distressed to lose the book.”
Finn nodded and handed the book to Cannel. “What’s in it, cainte?”
Cannel opened the cover. “Diarmid’s right; it is Patrick Devlin’s. He’s written his name on the flyleaf.” He ran his finger across the scrawled signature before he turned to the next page. “It’s a book of poems by James Clarence Mangan. Anyone heard of him?”
Finn looked at Diarmid, who shook his head, as did the others.
“‘Dark Rosaleen,’” Cannel read the titles. “‘Lament for Banba,’ ‘Kincor—’”
“‘Lament for Banba’?” Finn’s voice was sharp.
Diarmid understood why. Banba. Another name for Ireland. It had been common in their time, one of the three goddesses who had begged to be honored with the land’s naming. Éire and Banba and Fotla. But he hadn’t heard it said at all in this city. Not until now.
“Read it,” Finn ordered.
Cannel started at the urgency in Finn’s tone, but he cleared his throat and read, “‘O my land! O my love! / What a woe, and how deep, / Is thy death to my long mourning soul! . . .’”
The poem compared Ireland to a tree felled by an ax, and talked of thrones usurped and the proud people of Banba held in thrall, until the lines, “‘For the hour soon may loom / When the Lord’s mighty hand / Shall be raised for our rescue once more!’”
Cannel’s words were followed by silence, broken by Keenan’s soft “By the gods. It talks of rebellion.”
Ossian added, “Devlin must be our man.”
Finn said to Cannel, “Do a divination.”
“I’ve told you. I don’t know that I can.”
Finn said nothing, but he wouldn’t look away. One didn’t refuse Finn when he wore that expression. Cannel took the deck of cards from the table and put them on top of the book. Then, moving his lips soundlessly, he shuffled the cards and laid them out. Diarmid waited with the others.
Finally the Seer looked up from the cards. “Devlin’s involved in something, that’s certain. Very involved. Whatever it is consumes him.”
“Is he our man?” Finn asked.
“Difficult to say. But I think it’s a real possibility.” Cannel pointed to a card. “You see this one? It means there’s something dark looming.”
“Dark? How so?”
“Not wicked, but perhaps unsavory. Something that could turn. Indecisiveness. Fear. He hasn’t got the control he believes he has. And here—” Cannel pointed to another card. “Here I see a need to protect and a willingness to sacrifice.”
“To sacrifice what?” Diarmid asked.
“Anything,” Cannel said.
Diarmid couldn’t help thinking of Grace Knox—and that unsettled him even more.
Finn asked, “Why did the lass have this book?”
“She didn’t say,” Diarmid answered. “Perhaps Devlin gave it to her.”
“Find out what she knows.”
“It might be better done by Oscar.”
“You’re already there, and I need Oscar to keep on with the Clan na Gael,” Finn said.
Diarmid was relieved—until he realized why: he didn’t want Oscar near Grace Knox. It puzzled him. He’d barely met the lass, and he felt he should keep his distance from her, so why should he care? He didn’t understand the contradiction. He didn’t know why he felt any of it.
Finn said, “What about Devlin’s sister? Did you get something of hers?”
Diarmid reached into his pocket for the ribbon he’d snapped from Lucy’s gown just before he’d come. He handed it to Cannel, though he knew already they’d find nothing in Lucy, nothing to do with Patrick’s plans. “Do we still need the book, or can I return it?”
Finn scowled. “Why does it matter?”
“The lass came looking for it. She suspects I have it.”
“Give it back to her then,” Finn said. “It will be a good chance for you to find out what she knows. And I want you to get into the Devlin house. Search it. Without getting caught. If Patrick Devlin is the one who called us, the horn will be there somewhere.”
Diarmid nodded and tried not to think about why he felt breaking into the Devlin house was less of a risk than asking Grace Knox a single question.
NINE
Patrick
When the Fomori’s messenger, Daire Donn, had arrived ten days ago, Patrick had been reassured. Daire Donn had been impossible not to like. He had come into the clubhouse like an old friend, smiling and shaking hands, and before he’d reached the stairs he’d been dry, his linen shirt sparkling with gold thread and embroidery of the deepest purple, his cape of fine scarlet wool swirling about his boots.
“So why did you call us, my friends?” he’d asked as they sat on padded leather chairs in the clubhouse meeting room. Daire Donn’s dark eyes had gleamed as he looked at Patrick. “’Twas you who led this charge, aye?”
Patrick had been surprised to be noticed. And then flattered. “We’ve called you for Ireland’s sake. She’s been under British rule for centuries now. Her lands are fallow, her people starving. We’re the Fenian Brotherhood—”
“Fenian?” Daire Donn had paused as he lifted his tankard of beer.
“We’re named for the Fianna,” Rory put in.
“Ah, I see.”
“Like them, we plan to be the heroes of Ireland,” Jonathan said.
Patrick had winced. A misstep. He remembered the legends well. The Fianna and
the Fomori had always been enemies, and Finn MacCool had fought more than one vicious battle with Daire Donn when he was called King of the World and allied with the Fomori. There would be no love lost there. Patrick had rushed in with “We’re asking for the help of the Fomori. We want an uprising, a rebellion. Our other attempts have—sadly—failed. But with the Fomori as our allies, we think we can succeed.”
“To throw off the rule of Albion,” Daire Donn had said. Albion was the ancient name of England.
Patrick nodded. “Yes. To give Ireland back her pride and her power.”
“Ah.” Daire Donn smiled broadly. “Well, I think perhaps we can come to an agreement. I know my fellows well; they cannot like to see their lands in the hands of Britons. But they will want something in return.”
Patrick had leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, of course. Once the rebellion succeeds, we’ll need leaders to guide the people, to write a new constitution. There will need to be a new government formed—a democratic one—and we can offer you a place within it.”
Rory said, “There will be opportunities for good men to shape a new world.”
“A new world?” Daire Donn took a sip of beer. “That sounds promising. I will have an answer for you in ten days’ time. Will that be acceptable?”
Patrick let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yes.”
After that, the talk had been filled with stories and laughter as Daire Donn recounted the Fomori’s exploits, which had eased Patrick’s worry. It was as he’d thought: the Fomori had an entirely different way of looking at events. The Fianna were not quite as heroic as they’d been portrayed. They had moments as bloodthirsty and cruel as those told of the Fomori. And Daire Donn’s love of Ireland was obvious, as was his enthusiasm to help.
But now it had been ten days, and they’d heard nothing. Patrick stood over one of the glass cases in his study, staring down at the things inside, the ogham stick safely locked in place, separate from the rowan wand, which Simon had hidden elsewhere. Patrick felt a shiver of excitement when he looked at the stone. Daire Donn had been everything he’d hoped. The old King of the World had been a charismatic man. Patrick understood why people followed him.
The Shadows Page 9