‘Very powerful. Very beautiful. Her own mother was a lenanshee, and her father was of the people of Danu. Passion and magic combined – a perfect queen for the Land of the Young. And now here you are, and it is as if she walks again! We will be such friends, you and I.’
Aoife glanced towards the open archway, where the gauze drapes now hung ragged, revealing the outer world. Beyond was a crystal promenade, across which poured a sea of azure light from many archways. And from above fell the long sunset shadow of her mother’s tower, cutting a thick black line across the promenade and the city below. The day was passing. She had to get home. The queen’s pool was only a short distance above her head – she could climb to it from here, up the carved walls of the city, as she had seen the lenanshees climb before. She had to get back to the surface world; if war was coming, she had to protect her family. ‘I have to go – I have to warn—’
She stopped. Dorocha had been very confident the lenanshees would join his war. They are also dark creatures, the lenanshees. So she said instead, ‘Is Shay awake yet?’ And then, remembering, ‘I know you told him to stay away from me . . .’
Eimhear was fussing with Aoife’s red-gold hair, straightening a lock of it over her shoulder. ‘Only when I feared his grá would destroy you. But I now know that the lenanshee is as strong in you as in your mother. Why else would you follow him all the way to the House of the Dead? That is the grá. Do you wish to see him? He’s beyond that door . . .’ And the lenanshee held out her elegant white hand, and then withdrew it with a smile and said, ‘But first, put on the dress.’
Shivering with impatience, Aoife drew the ivory silk over her head, and over her body, then stood and pulled it down to her knees.
The lenanshee stopped her halfway to the door – ‘Wait!’ – and, standing behind her, made a few last adjustments to Aoife’s hair with an ivory comb strangely like the one the Deargdue had used. Aoife stood very still, tense, heart beating strongly. The figure of Eimhear was reflected softly in the smooth amber of the door. Seeing her in that white dress, and holding the comb, it was hard not to be reminded . . . They are also dark creatures, the lenanshees. Eimhear let Aoife’s hair fall from her hand, and Aoife ran towards the door again – but this time stopped of her own accord, turning back. Something in her mind . . .
‘Eimhear, how long did you know my mother?’
‘Many thousands of years.’
‘Then did you know my father too?’
‘Ah, your father . . .’ Eimhear smiled, slipping her arm through Aoife’s and walking with her to the door. ‘Your father was a handsome boy of seventeen when he chanced on your mother, washing her red-gold hair in the soft water of a pool surrounded by hawthorns. She looked up at him and smiled as she wrung the water from her hair – and that was the end of everything for him. He forgot his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters, his duties as a young warrior of the Fianna. And when your mother slipped feet first into the pool, he threw aside his cloak and sword and followed her. Ah, that was a true love story, Aoibheal – beautiful and tragic and short! He could not withstand the grá – but in the way humans live on, one after the other, he lives through you. Lenanshee passion, Tuatha magic, your father’s stubborn recklessness – all are combined in you, Aoibheal. The human in you travels to the Land of the Dead, but the lenanshee heals the deepest wounds, and your fairy blood can bring you home again – or take you further on to distant places: the Blessed Isles, beneath the wild sea, where no human or lenanshee has ever stood.’
Beyond the amber door was a larger communal chamber scattered thickly with bluebell flowers, and here and there were low-backed sofas of pale birch, heaped with white cushions embroidered with blue flowers and butterflies. Lenanshees reclined in twos and threes on the sofas, but more sat cross-legged on the bluebell-strewn floor, combing their long black curls. In the centre of the chamber, one of them was playing a flute made of green reeds – a melody Aoife didn’t truly recognize yet which seemed strangely comforting and familiar, as if it was a song sung to her as a child.
Near the flute-player lay Shay, stretched out on a couch, half hidden by one of many light gauzy curtains that floated in the air like drifting rain. A crowd of young lenanshees sat around him, watching him sleep. Eimhear drew Aoife across the room to the couch, and whispered the other girls away, and pulled the soft gauze aside and stood gazing down on her son. He lay breathing gently on his back, still pale; one sun-browned arm cupped around his head, his long black lashes resting on his strong cheekbones. At rest, his mouth was deeply curved. The pale line around his wrist . . .
because you once were mine . . .
With sorrow and joy in her heart, she leaned over him.
‘Shay?’
His eyes fluttered open for a moment – then closed.
She dropped to her knees beside the couch and touched her finger to the line around his wrist. He shuddered slightly, as if her touch was wrong. She grieved, knowing who she was not. The Deargdue was so utterly beautiful that even the dead had come crawling to her feet.
His eyelashes trembled on his cheeks.
Where was he, in his mind? Lying here on the couch, he was still dressed in the black clothes he had worn to the Halloween dance. Dancing . . . Dancing . . . His lips buried in her white-blonde hair . . . His curved mouth was still bruised by the demon’s kiss.
Aoife touched her finger to his lip, and watched the bruises fade.
Again his dark green eyes opened, and rose slowly to her face – the golden depths of them glimmering like sunlight striking a woodland pool. They travelled across her face, her hair. She stroked the curve of his mouth once more.
This time his lips parted slightly, and closed on her fingertip – the lightest of fragile kisses.
A trickle of love; a warmth against her skin. ‘Shay?’
He met her turquoise eyes, and held them for the longest time – then, very lightly, winked.
‘Wahu, Aoife.’
I WISH TO ACKNOWLEDGE:
For their invaluable advice and constant support:
My son Jack and daughter Molly.
For being such insightful readers and also hilarious company:
My daughter Imogen and son Seán.
For being my love:
My husband Derek.
For launching the first book with such a moving speech:
Una.
For all the walks and wine:
Sinead.
For being ready for anything:
Aideen.
For being as steady as rock:
Cathy and all her family, especially Joe – an exceptional friend.
For all the tea and setting the world to rights:
Julie – and Liam, whose heart will never leave Ross.
For fabulous editing:
Kelly Hurst.
For equally fabulous copy-editing:
Sophie Nelson.
Also my thanks to Tom Rawlinson – and welcome aboard, Claire Hennessy.
For being wonderful agents:
Marianne Gunn O’Connor, Vicki Satlow.
For great advice as always:
Kate Kerrigan.
Also:
Everyone who came to the first book launch, especially Sara Bourke, who despite having a car run over her foot still managed to make it. And Lorraine for taking over the serious work while I concentrated on the frivolous stuff. And Mary Butler and Bernie Costello, without whom etc. You know what I mean.
And:
For being himself:
Tim Lacey.
For being herself:
Rachel Falconer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HELEN FALCONER was a journalist on the Guardian before becoming a full-time writer.
Helen was educated at Dartington and Oxford. She lives in north Mayo, Ireland, with her husband and has four children.
Also by Helen Falconer:
THE CHANGELING
RHCP DIGITAL
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
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First published Corgi Books, 2016
This ebook published 2016
Text Copyright © Helen Falconer, 2016
Cover photograph © Nargherita Introna/Archangel Images Ltd
Cover design and montage by Lisa Horton
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–19664–7
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
The Dark Beloved Page 30