Marie's face flared with shame as goose bumps rose along her soft neck. She had had a speech prepared for when she saw the Italian woman, but the words seemed to be slipping from her mind the closer she got to the cottage. She had never been steady under any kind of stress.
Trying her best to ignore her jitters, the spinster turned down a brambly lane and slowed her pedaling. Her sister's voice, unfortunately, was harder to ignore: “Even that witch can't be dumb to the proper manners of tea. She'll invite you in a jiffy, I'd say. Then you can see what kind of heathen she's been hiding away.”
Marie frowned. She did not understand Dervla's drive to know every single thing that went on in town and out of it. Hadn't Padraig Carey said that there was nothing to fear? That Anne-Marie O'Connell had no clue what she was talking about? Why couldn't Dervla be happy to leave it at that?
Marie sighed and took another look at the ocean. She could see all the way to the islands, the drumlins that rose westward in cliffs and melted eastward into soft, dandelion coastlines. The last she had heard there were over three hundred of those drumlins along the Bay.
If only she could get herself a drumlin all of her own, Marie Brennan told herself. She could be quite happy there, alone with her beloved Schwinn.
LEANING HER BICYCLE AGAINST an alder trunk, Marie turned away from the water and quickly crossed over a small stone bridge. A trio of mallards, their green, iridescent feathers gleaming, turned to stare at her as she hurried across the humpy moat and water. Just above it stood the Delmonico homestead.
The tidy, whitewashed cottage was indeed neat and beautiful, thought Marie. Green shutters and a flagstone path bordered its front, a Dutch door opened into what she supposed would be the front parlor. She had never been to Estelle's cottage before; although the Italian widow had been living in town for over forty years, ever since Marie had attended Saint Joseph's herself, not three sentences had passed between them.
Marie climbed the gravelly path to the front door, taking in the sweet smell of the rosebush to her left. Tightening the knot on her head scarf and clutching her purse to her chest, she took a deep breath. She lifted her hand to knock just as she heard Es-telle. Her voice was coming from around the house, where a thicket of willows created a natural gate blocking most of the view.
Creeping slowly along the front of the cottage, Marie came to the willow gate. There, between two entwined branches, she saw the Italian woman.
She was talking to someone sitting near the back door. Marie's heart began pumping in her chest. It was the girl, the one from the hospital.
Yes, a redhead. She was sitting in a low wheelchair, a tartan blanket over her legs. Her tangle of dark red-brown hair masked her face, but Marie was sure it was the same girl Anne-Marie O'Connell said she had tended. Could Dervla be right in her suspicions? Was Estelle really harboring a baby-killing heathen?
The spinster knelt closer and squinted, holding her breath. Estelle seemed to be busy at something on the lawn before her.
“… so when my Luigi said he was going to build me a door to his heart, I think he talk about maybe a new kitchen here in the house. Something with a good sofa so I could sit and look when he try his new recipes, yes? By this time my feet were bad too, so I can only stand in the shop and kitchen for small times, no more than one hour before I have to take a chair or something. This is okay for my Luigi, because he was the artiste, the creator. I only support his dreams, his vision for new cannoli or pavlova a la fresca.
“So I was thinking he wanted me close to him while he is a-baking here. And I wait and wait, but no sofa comes. Instead, my Luigi is out here every day after work in the shop, putting plants here and there, doing this or that with the ground, but never letting me see, yes? Big surprise again. But this time it was not a Vespa. This time it was something that would make me travel even longer way, without ever leaving my back garden. This time it was the walk to my inside. To my heart and to his heart.”
Estelle paused and placed her hands on her soft hips. From where Marie crouched, she could clearly see through the willow to the Italian woman's feet: planted there was a sea of lavender bordering a flagstone path.
Estelle leaned down slowly and patted the plants. “Here is the lavanda. And over there is the rosemary. Lavender and rosemary, over and over again. But it was not the plants but this stone that is the important thing. Here, look at this.”
Estelle stamped on the flagstone with her sandaled feet. “One,” she said, smiling. “One, and then … two.” She stepped forward onto another flagstone. “One, two, and then three.”
She stepped again, following the flagstone path in a clockwise manner: “Slowly, I understand what he mean by heart. This stone I walk, slowly in a circle, around and around. You see?”
Estelle nodded to the quiet girl as she kept walking. “I walk around and around, step by a step, every moment coming closer and closer to myself. Every step closer to my Luigi, my home. To God. I walk slow, and then I reach the center, like this.”
Estelle stopped in the middle of the flagstone path, turning to face the girl in the wheelchair. “This is the center of everything. Here I find peace. That is what Luigi had built for me. A circle garden I can come to when I have problems, anytime, yes? I walk this when I can't walk too far because of the weather or my feet, and I walk this circle when I have too many pains in my thoughts too.
“Step by step, to the middle. And then I turn, like this”— Estelle swiveled and followed the path out—“until I reach the beginning again. And this makes my mind and heart sing, rest. It is like the circle of life, then death, then life, la vita. Again and again, one cannot be without the other, yes? Again and again, el raffinatezza—how do you say? Refinement? El refinement of yourself. Every time you walk you can solve any problem, any sadness, if you ask God to help you as you do it. The answer is at the center. At your center. Yes?”
Estelle paused and turned to the girl once again. She took a moment before extending her chubby hand. “You come now, yes? You come and walk, and we will find your answer. You will see that you can be okay.”
Marie held her breath, a large gulp forming in her throat as she waited to see what the girl would do. She felt as though she was dizzy from the anticipation but also needed to have a good weep, a great big yell.
She felt utterly unlike herself.
The redheaded girl took a long time to respond. Just when Marie thought she was going to sit in the wheelchair forever, she lifted her head and turned to Estelle. Her left foot came off its footrest, then her right, the blanket pushed aside. She stood up, her tall and thin frame enveloped in the billowy folds of the pajamas and the chunky Aran sweater she was wearing. Slowly, she stepped forward, meeting the Italian widow's invitation. At the beginning of the path, she held up her right hand, touching it to Estelle's.
The widow smiled and nodded. Behind them, Marie's eyes widened: she had no better response to the sight of those unmistakable fingers, the marks of an otherworldly creature, fanning open again.
CHAPTER X
MARJAN WAVED AT CONOR JENNINGS as he turned his Guinness truck off Main Mall, making for the back of Paddy McGuire's. With her cup of tea in hand, she turned once again toward the statue of Saint Patrick and the presently deserted town square. She could hear Father Mahoney's voice streaming out from the dining room, his morning radio program a pleasant change to her usual quiet breakfast. Upstairs in the flat, Bahar and Layla were still asleep, giving her some time to think without interruption.
She needed this time. Needed it desperately. Her conversation with Father Mahoney the other day had made her all too aware of that. Although she hadn't expected to be so candid about her fears, she was glad she had opened up to the kind priest. Had she gone into the church with the intention of confessing, she probably would not have been so honest about her anxieties.
Maybe there were some things you couldn't tell even yourself, thought Marjan. For what was the self but a mystery?
And yet, wha
t she had told the priest had been true; she was the eldest; it was still her responsibility to take care of her sisters. She had made a promise to herself a while ago, not long after they had moved to this tiny western village, that she would try to let Bahar and Layla find their own paths without her constant help. But she also knew that without her vigilance, keeping a sense of security, a sense of home, her sisters could easily come to some harm again, as they had those three days she had spent at the detention center. If it hadn't been for her being involved with Ali and his revolutionary cause, if she hadn't been in the offices of The Voice instead of at home with them that day, she could have prevented what had happened to Bahar.
She could have saved her from the baton and Hossein.
To this day, Marjan did not know the exact details of what had happened to her sister during those four months of marriage. Even after their move to London, years after their dash across the desert, they had never broached the subject.
There was a tacit understanding between them, a silent agreement that neither of them would mention why Bahar had left Hossein, showing up at their apartment in the middle of the night with only her chador on her back. From the bruises and marks scattered across her body, it wasn't hard to guess the reason.
For her part, Marjan had tried to avoid upsetting Bahar, so she didn't ask too much of her sister. Bahar was so susceptible to migraines and their living situation was so stressed that she didn't want to make things worse with questions.
Even here in Ireland, this last year of security, the topic had been taboo. Whenever Marjan tried to bring it up, her sister would find a way of changing the subject. But to look at her lately, thought Marjan, it didn't seem as though she needed any help.
“I know it's a big step. I've been working toward it for over a year. Ever since that first time up Croagh Patrick,” Bahar had said.
It was as though she had discovered a secret herb on that mountaintop and was keeping its tonic close to her heart. And if her sister found her peace in religion, then Marjan was not going to object.
A shiny black car eased up to the sidewalk. Julian Winthrop Muir leaned out the open window, his arm over the side. “Wouldn't think someone like you would be saddened by such beautiful surrounds.”
Marjan tilted her head. “Hi there,” she said with a smile. God, he looked great. “New car?”
“Renting it for the moment. Can't decide whether it's a BMW or a Benz I'm after.”
“Ah. The dilemma.”
“If I didn't know better, I'd say you were taking the Mick out of me,” said Julian.
“Just a friendly jab,” Marjan replied. She pointed to the dawning sky. “You're up early.”
“Got to get down to the site before the lads. Show a little slack and you're done for.”
“So the work's well under way, then?”
“You could say that. Found a crack in the dining room the size of the San Andreas yesterday. Those are original frescoes, mind you.” He gave her a speculative look. “But you look like you've had some trouble yourself.”
Marjan ran her fingers through her hair, realizing she hadn't put it up yet in her customary ponytail. “Just tired, that's all. I could use a week of sleep, pure, sweet quiet.”
Julian cut the car's engine. “Or a meander through Raven's Coppice.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk, shutting the car door.
“Raven's?”
“Coppice. Raven's Coppice. It's the road leading into Muir Hall. There's nothing like it for the senses.” He pointed to the car. “Come on. Play truant for an hour. You won't regret it.”
Marjan looked back into the empty dining room. Bahar would be getting up soon for breakfast prep. “I don't know …” she started.
“No rain checks this time, Miss Aminpour. Come along, your chariot awaits.” Julian rounded the gleaming vehicle and opened the passenger door.
Marjan could see Dervla Quigley across the street, squinting between her curtains for a better look-see. Perhaps it was the old woman's contemptuous expression that made Marjan take out her keys and lock the red door quickly. Or maybe it was the sheer joy of escape, her need to feel like a young girl once again, that had her slipping into the luxurious leather seat next to Julian.
THEY PARKED BEFORE a vast opening off the Westport Road, in a side lane cleared of swooping elm trees. Fieldstone walls wound their way around the firs to the right and left, purplish ferns and whitewash from Cromwellian times still embedded within their stony layers.
A path, wide enough for two cars, led from inside an opened gate made of rusted wrought iron. Beyond it lay a forest of moss and fairy tales, columns upon columns of firs receding into the dark.
Marjan stared into the green abyss. The ground, littered with dead pine needles, seemed to disappear in the hush of coppiced greenery, the squawk of a raven's cry breaking the silence only momentarily.
“It's a bit of a walk, I must warn you.”
Marjan looked at the man next to her, then glanced again at the green tunnel. “Does it get any brighter? It seems so dark in there.”
“Once you see the house, it'll feel like you'll never see the darkness again.” Julian offered her his arm. “My lady?”
Marjan smiled and stepped closer to him. Linking her arm in his, she let him lead the way.
HALFWAY DOWN THE PATH, with the song of ancient ferns at their backs, the smell hit Marjan. “Is that smoke?” She stopped and looked around.
Julian stopped as well. He smelled the air before him. “Debris. The men must have started the fire already. You can't imagine the amount of rubbish discarded around the woods by the locals. There was even the shell of a DeLorean racing car. Who knows how that came to be parked here.”
“When was the last time anyone lived here?”
“Eighteen eighty-nine. Burnt down partially. The southern wing.”
“And no one ever rebuilt it?”
“Left to rot. I have only been here twice before. When I was much younger,” he said, looking at her.
“That's a pity,” said Marjan. What was it about this man that made her feel so shy?
Julian smiled. “Well, I'm here now.” He stared ahead again. “And so are we, it seems.”
Marjan had been so engrossed in Julian's voice that she had not even noticed that the woods had finished their haunting. She followed his gaze. Perfection, in the form of ivy-covered walls and buttery hydrangeas, cloaked a magnificent Georgian house. Four columns took a regal stance on a landing before the Byzantine doorway, discreet valets in a queen's boudoir. Running on either side of the arched entryway beyond an extensive system of scaffolds that held the workmen, were the three stories and windows that encompassed the pearl of a mansion.
Nearly all twelve windows still had their original glass, gleaming from a mellow break in the clouds.
Marjan took in a quick breath. Not since the ruins at Persepo-lis had she seen a structure so simple and fine.
“Welcome to Muir Hall,” said Julian, taking her hand.
“IT'S THE MARK OF THE DEVIL, that's what I say. No decent person goes around with those kinds of fingers,” remarked Dervla Quigley tucking her legs under her straight-backed chair. Joan Donnelly nodded from beside a shelf of New Testaments and dunked her biscuit in her teacup again. “I always knew there was something fishy about that Estelle Delmonico. Never thought she'd be consorting with the dark forces, mind you.”
Dervla sniffed. “She's Italian, isn't she? Wasn't it the Romans that had a hand to play in our Lord's fate?”
The women of the Bible study group nodded, musing soberly.
“If you ask me, that girl's no niece of hers. Not with the ginger hair on her. Marie saw it clearly, ginger as Benny Corcoran's. And his kin go as far back as any to this place.”
“And Padraig Carey not doing a tit about any of it, then? Not even taking it up with the hospital people?”
“Useless man.” Dervla sneered. “Best thing he did was marry that Margaret—not that you'd know it now; she's
gotten too big for her britches with all the running around she's doing. From one pub to the next as though she's living it up in Dublin.”
“Sure, her kiddies are all up at her mam's now after school,” said Antonia Nolan. “No time for her motherly duties, that's what I hear.”
“Terrible,” spat Dervla. “Shocking all round, I say.”
“But what of the girleen? What was it you saw after she got up from her chair? Sure, they started chanting in tongues, did they, Marie? Something to the Lord of Darkness?” Assumpta Corco-ran's eyes were filled with terror.
From her corner, near the bargain bin of chastity key chains, Marie Brennan gave a meek shake of her head. She was about to replay what she had heard Estelle say when Dervla interrupted.
“Can't you see she's in shock from the whole thing? As it stands, we'll be saying novenas till Easter before she'll be right again.”
Antonia puckered her lips. “It's the work of the fairies, that's what I say. Potions and all. Goes all the way back to olden days— sure we've had our share of witches as well.”
June took up her mother's prompt: “Biddy Early, isn't that so, Mam?”
“The one and the same,” Antonia replied, recalling the famed witch doctor from County Clare. Like the greatest Druidesses before her, Biddy Early worked her magic through the all-seeing eye of a blue egg, a crystal ball that held the answers to maladies of villagers across the West. Fame and fortune had been hers in a time when famine took hold of every stomach in Ireland. “That Estelle Delmonico's probably thinking of reaping her benefits from this girl here. Now that there's no bakery for her to run and no husband as well.”
Assumpta nodded. “I'd say she'd got Father Mahoney onboard already. What with flaunting his dirty mind on that radio like he is.”
Antonia's eyes widened. “I nearly keeled over when I heard the show. Didn't I now, June?”
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