by Megan Chance
I took the mug, bringing it to my mouth and taking a tentative sip. It was good, salty and flavorful.
There was movement at the doorway, some of the borders returning from a long day’s work. One or two of the men had candles; none of them did more than look cursorily at us as they took up their spots on the floor. Derry moved to block me from their view.
“I won’t let anyone near,” he reassured me.
But I wasn’t worried about them. I glanced again at the small space, the wretched pile of thin and ratty blankets. I thought of what sleeping here with him would be like.
“I don’t want any more,” I said, handing him the mug. “You can finish it if you like.”
He set it aside and dripped wax to hold the candle in place on the floor. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting ready for bed.”
“You’re undressing.”
“Not completely.” He gestured to his trousers. “I’ll leave these on, unless you’d rather I don’t. But I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
“I don’t want you to take anything off.”
“’Tis too hot to sweat all night in a shirt,” he pointed out. “You should take off your gown, and that thing you wear with all the hooks and ties. You won’t sleep in that.”
“You must be mad.”
“’Tis nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. That’s not the point.”
“I’ve seen you in your shift, remember.”
“Yes, I remember, unfortunately. But if you think I’m going to lie here with you undressed—”
“I won’t touch you. I promise. Not unless you want me to . . .” He sounded hopeful.
“It’s the last thing I want,” I hissed.
He shrugged off his shirt. The candle lit his skin with a golden glow. He was tightly muscled. His trousers hung low, revealing his hipbones. I thought, How could I have forgotten this? at the same time I knew I’d never seen him without a shirt. But the sight was so . . . familiar, as was the yearning that swept over me. My dreams returned with force.
I realized I was staring at him, that he was watching me stare, and I went so hot I was certain he could see the red of my cheeks even in the near darkness.
Tomorrow you’ll escape.
He said, “I’m going to turn away and block the doorway so no one can see. You’re going to take off your gown and that contraption so you can at least sleep. You must be hot and uncomfortable already.”
I hated that he saw it. My corset was jabbing into my ribs; the room was sweltering with the many bodies and no window. And I needed to be clear-eyed for tomorrow.
“You promise you won’t touch me? And you won’t look?”
He nodded and turned, and I undressed as quickly as I could—which wasn’t very—not taking my eyes from him, from the shadowed muscles in his back and the gold of his skin. When I wore only my chemise, I knelt, gathering one of the blankets to me for protection, as stinking as it was.
“All right,” I said hoarsely. “I’m finished.”
He turned around again, barely glancing at me as he lay down, stretching as well as he could in the cramped space. “’Tis going to be a long night for both of us.” He put his arm over his eyes. “Good night, lass.”
It was only one night, I told myself. One night.
Tomorrow, I would be far away.
July 21
Diarmid
Diarmid woke sore and stiff, with warmth and softness radiating into his side. He opened his eyes to see that Grace had pressed up against him at some point in the night, and now she was spooned as if she belonged there. Her skin was pale above the neckline of the thin shift, her shoulder bare where the sleeve had slipped.
Keep your distance, he told himself. You’ve made promises.
Ones he’d already broken, of course. How long did he have before Finn decided it was safe enough for them to return? One day? Two? And if she wasn’t mad in love with him by then, Finn would see it as a breach of loyalty, that once again, Diarmid had chosen a girl over the Fianna.
The only difference was that this time it was more than simply a blow to Finn’s pride. This time, their very lives were at stake.
Diarmid felt beneath his hair for the raised scar of the ball seirce. Twice already, he’d meant to use it on her—once on the ferry, once here—but both times, he hadn’t. In the weeks since he’d seen her, the weeks since she’d screamed I hate you!, he’d forgotten how strongly she affected him. He even liked her sharp tongue—she said exactly what she thought, which was different from most of the girls he’d known, and a relief. It made it easy to talk to her. Easy to laugh with her. But most of all, his loneliness disappeared when he was with her, as if it were an empty place named Missing Grace that needed only her presence to fill it.
He was a fool. She wanted nothing to do with him—she’d made it obvious from the start. So why did he feel as if the world somehow demanded they be together? It felt . . . fated.
Diarmid laughed softly to himself. That was the biggest delusion of all, wasn’t it? What was fated was the geis. He had to kill her to save them all. That was what the world demanded—that he make the sacrifice required of him. He could not forget that. He wondered if she knew about his part in the prophecy, if Patrick had told her.
It didn’t matter. He was Fianna, and he’d made vows to his brothers, to Ireland. He had to convince her to choose the Fianna—whatever it took.
He felt her startle awake with a quick gasp. Then she went still. She eased away, leaving him cold where she’d been.
He whispered, “Nightmares again?”
“I think I’d like just once to wake without dreams and headaches.”
“’Tis the power in you waking.”
Now she rolled to face him, pulling her blanket with her as she moved for safe cover. If she was wary, so much the better. Everything would be easier. But then she met his gaze, and it was like a blow, stunning and right to his gut, and he knew he was in trouble. What this girl did to him . . . there were no words.
“I’m dreaming of Aidan. Over and over again. I’m running toward him and then darkness comes between us and he disappears.”
“Your brother’s been a mystery to you a long time, I’m thinking,” he managed to say. “’Tis only that.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked disappointed, as if he hadn’t given her the answer she wanted.
She said, “I want you to tell me something, and I want you to be honest—if that’s even possible. Is it?”
He tried not to let that hurt. “I don’t know. Try me.”
“Is divination ever wrong?”
“Wrong? I don’t know if that’s the way to put it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Aye. All I can say is that nothing’s set. Everything depends on what a man does or what he chooses. So what’s foretold one day only means that as things stand, this is what will happen. But when things change, what’s fated can change as well. Why do you ask?”
“What made the Fianna decide I was the veleda?”
He remembered yesterday, her doubts. “The way you saw us glowing, the way Patrick’s ogham stick burned when you touched it—such things burn only those with Druid blood. And Cannel divined—” Diarmid broke off, realizing what she was really asking. “Grace, choices don’t change what something is. Your family—Neasa and her daughter and every girl child on down—the veleda is your destiny. ’Tis the prophecy and the promise. It has to be you.”
“Even though I have no power.”
“’Twas your blood on the horn that called us. You do have power.”
“Can you tell me that my power is anything like Neasa’s? Aidan’s maybe, but not mine.”
Diarmid re
called the Druid priestess he’d known, the confidence shining from her, the power one felt the moment Neasa entered the room. “Yours feels different,” he admitted.
“How?”
“It feels . . . muted.” He tried to find the words—how to separate her power as a veleda from the other power she had over him. That something he’d never been able to define. “It’s there, but it feels unfinished.” Though that wasn’t quite right either. “I always knew something was different about you, but ’twas hard to know what it was. And then, the night I kissed you, I felt your power in a way I hadn’t before.”
She was quiet. He wondered if she was remembering that kiss the way he was, that fierce, overwhelming fire that left him shaken and wanting.
She said, “Do all the Fianna feel it?”
“I don’t know. I never asked them.” And he wouldn’t. The way Finn had looked at Grace . . . Diarmid had known Finn was seeing Neasa, who’d shared his bed, and he didn’t want to know what Finn had been thinking beyond that. He had no wish to compete with his charismatic and ruthless captain. There was too much of the past between them. Better not to think of how he’d betrayed Finn by running off with his betrothed, or how Finn could have saved Diarmid but had let him die. It was long ago and far away. What mattered now was his fear of what Finn would do if he failed to win Grace.
“You said my power feels unfinished,” Grace said. “Do you think that means it’s not enough for the ritual? Or perhaps . . . not the right power?”
He heard the hope in her voice and said reluctantly, “I think it just means you’re untrained.”
“But what if it doesn’t mean that? What if it means I’m not the veleda? What if Cannel’s divination was wrong? What if you’re all wrong? Wouldn’t I feel power if I had it?”
“Maybe you do feel it and you’ve just learned to bury it. Your world doesn’t welcome women with power, does it? ’Tis different from my time—then it was celebrated. Most women of power didn’t even marry. At fourteen they could choose—they were welcome to seek learning among the Druids, so why should they bind themselves to a husband if they didn’t care to? But now . . . ’tis what the world wants of you, isn’t it? To be a wife like every other woman. I think you’ve only learned to be what the world wants.” The regret he felt at that was hard to express.
“What I want too,” she insisted. She sat up, twisting, reaching for her corset and her gown and her petticoats, which she’d been using for a pillow. “Would you turn away please? I want to get dressed.”
“I’ll see if there’s anything to be had for breakfast.” Diarmid pushed aside the filthy blanket and rose, stepping from the alcove. Most of the boarders from last night were gone, some still sleeping, one or two snoring, and in the dim light he had to pick his way through the spaces as if they were stepping stones.
Bridget was already up, sewing. There was a pile of folded white cotton beside her, and he knew she was doing finish work for one of the ready-made factories, putting hems on pantaloons for seven cents a pair. Her two boys—Little Joe and Colin, he’d learned—were sitting at the table, eating mush with the older girl, Molly. The younger, Sara, sat sucking her thumb in the corner. When Diarmid smiled at her, she ducked her head.
Bridget took in his half-naked state. “If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes this morning. There’s some mush if you like.”
He’d come out to get breakfast, but the mush looked gray and smelled unappetizing, and it occurred to him now that it was all Bridget had. He didn’t want to deprive them. He could go out and buy a couple of apples, perhaps bring some back for the children as well. “Thanks, but I’ll go and get us something.”
“There’ll be a peddler selling rolls. They’re at least a day old, but your lass will know which are best.”
“She won’t be going,” Diarmid said. “I’ll call Miles down to watch over her.”
Bridget glanced up in surprise. “You thinkin’ to keep her locked up till Finn says it’s safe to come home? This is Brooklyn, lad. Whatever gangs’re after you won’t be coming here.”
“She’s a bit of a prize,” he said wryly.
Bridget laughed. “I’ll bet. But she won’t thank you to keep her cooped up on such a pretty day.”
“I’ve promised to train the Rats—”
“You have all day for that. Take her somewhere.” Her expression was wistful. “When you’re young, it seems you got forever, but then, just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“it’s gone, and you’re left wishin’ you’d spent more time makin’ her smile. What does she like to do? Beyond look at you, I mean?”
Diarmid restrained a sarcastic comment. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”
He started back to the other room. Little Joe said, “You like to play ball, Derry?” in a plaintive voice that made Diarmid look over his shoulder and answer, “Perhaps this afternoon, lad.”
Little Joe rewarded him with a smile that warmed him. When he returned to Grace, she was fastening the last of the buttons on her bodice. Then she ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it, her dark curls twisting and tangling. The sight, so innocently beguiling, reminded him of another girl, brushing her golden hair that shimmered in the sun. Grainne had not been the least bit guileless, though, and every single thing she’d done had been to tempt him. Another foolish relationship that had cost him, and he would do well to remember it.
He said, “There’s nothing here to eat. I’ll go out and—”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. I’ll call Miles down. ’Tis best if you stay.”
“I see. So I’m a prisoner.”
“’Tis for your own safety.”
“Do you plan just to keep me in this room until Finn tells you to bring me to him?”
Uncomfortably, he said, “I suppose so.”
“And what am I to do? Stare into space?”
“Well, Bridget thinks you’d be happy to stare at me, and I guess I wouldn’t mind it. I’ll even keep my shirt off for you. You seemed to like it well enough last night.”
He regretted his tease when he saw how pink she went.
“I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like flirting.”
“If you mean to keep me here, at least find something for me to do. A book or . . . a book would be good.”
“You really think to find a book in this place?”
“Perhaps there’s a bookstore nearby? Or some kind of shop? We needn’t go far.”
“I don’t know. Probably there is, but—”
“We’re in Brooklyn, Derry. Who would have followed us here? You said Aidan would make certain Rose said nothing.”
That was true, but . . . “I’m supposed to be training the Dun Rats.”
“Training them? For what?”
“For war.”
She said quietly, “Then perhaps you should try to please the one who has to choose a side in it.”
That soft acceptance made him feel guiltier than any harsh word she had said to him. Grace had not asked for this. She was in this miserable place because he’d dragged her away from decent food and a soft bed and everything she loved. If a walk to a shop and a book would help make it better, it was the least he could do. “All right. But you’ll need to stay close. And if I say we have to come back, we come back. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” she agreed.
“I mean it, Grace.”
“I’ll be like a burr in your side.”
He winced. “Perhaps something less irritating.”
She smiled sweetly. “Shall we go?”
He put on his shirt and they went into the next room. When he asked Bridget about the closest shop that might have books, she looked at him suspiciously.
“Books? What d’you want those for?”
“Grace reads,” he explained.
Bridget looked v
aguely impressed. “Two blocks up, away from the river. On your left.”
He nodded, leading Grace out. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand to help her down the pitch-black stairs. She started when he wrapped his fingers around hers, and the moment they reached the bottom, she pulled away, looking up and shielding her eyes from the bright overcast sky. “How muggy it is. It feels like a storm’s coming in.”
He thought of Tethra’s blue lightning, unsettling thunder, and ravens screeching, and couldn’t help shuddering.
She noticed. “I didn’t like it much either.”
“Tethra’s storms are bad enough, but Neasa—now, she had a talent. She could bring thunder to make the whole earth move. Purple lightning, just like Aidan’s. She’d call it up when we rode into battle. ’Twas meant to scare our enemies.”
“So it’s true then.”
“What’s true?”
“My dreams,” she said, not looking at him. “Thunder and lightning. Ravens. You with a spear.”
“You dream of me?”
“Not just you,” she said quickly. “The dreams feel very . . . real. Was that how it used to be? That terrible?”
“Aye. Always terrible, especially when the Druids were involved. Or when the goddess, the Morrigan, deigned to ‘help.’ I always thought her ravens were as willing to tear out my eyes as my enemy’s. And the thunder and lightning—sometimes you couldn’t even think.”
“I suppose you got used to it.”
“Never.”
“And this battle, the one between you and the Fomori . . . will it be like that?”
He shrugged. “They’re all different, Grace. And they’re all the same. I wouldn’t have thought storms would be part of it, but now there’s your brother and Tethra. And Finn and the others are training up gangs in Manhattan to fight just as I’ll train the Rats while we’re here. There won’t be spears and swords, though.”
“Just clubs and knives,” she said.
“Aye. And there’ll be death. You’d best get used to it.”
“Like that gang fight you had with the Black Hands. That boy you killed.”