

Ireland is no promised land in 1846. It is wracked by a crippling potato blight, and people are dying. But Valentia McDowell doesn't know that.

From her father's prosperous farm in Ohio, young Valentia is haunted by tales of an abandoned family and a lost heirloom. She travels to her grandmother's homeland with her brother, Conor, and two servants, to find both. Her delight in the exciting journey on one of the first steam ships to cross the Atlantic is shattered by a horrible tragedy.

What she encounters upon her arrival in Ireland is both more and less than she had hoped. Valentia finds both enemies and allies, amid horrors and delights, and a small bit of magic. She finds a richer heritage than she had ever imagined, but it comes with a price.

When she finally reaches her goal, a terrible price is demanded. She must pay or forfeit, and both decisions have strong consequences for her and her friends.

LEGACY OF HUNGER

Druid's Brooch Series, #1

Christy Nicholas

Published by Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2015 Christy Nicholas

Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

Editor: Troy Lambert

Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel

A Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher's website and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting our author's hard work.

This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

I lovingly dedicate this book to my husband, who has indulged me with many trips to my soul's home, Ireland. He has supported me through my growing pangs as a writer. And sincere thanks go to my publisher and beta readers – without your help, this never would have happened!

I also dedicate it to the millions of souls who lost their life during the tragedy of the Great Hunger in Ireland.

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Irish, a language in the Gaelic family, has several rules of pronunciation that are different from English.

Below is a list of some of the words and names in the story that are pronounced in a way that might not be obvious to someone not fluent in Irish.

Aengus Óg – ANG-us OHG

Ard na Rátha – ard na RA-ha (Ardara)

An Gorta Mór – an GOR-ta MOOR (The Great Hunger)

An Neidín – an NAY-deen (The Little Nest - Kenmare)

Banaghan – BAN-a-han

Beal Inse – bayl IN-sheh (mouth of the island -Valentia)

Ceann Mhara – KYawn ver-eh (Head of the Sea)

Dubhthach – DOOV-tawk

Eithne – ET-nee or ETH-nee

Ethniu – ET-nyu, or ETH-nyu

Lugh - lyew

Maghera – ma-HAYR-ah

Mag Tuiread – mag TOO-reed

Monongahela – mon-an-ga-HEE-la

Niaṁ - NEEV (also spelled Niabh or Niamh)

O'Donnabhain's – o-DUN-a-vins (O'DUN-a-vins)

Padraig – PAW-drig or PAW-rig

Seanchaí – shawn-uh-KEE

Sídhe – SHEE (Fairy Folk)

Siobhan – shee-VON

Tuatha dé Danann – TOO-uh day Dan-in

Foreword

Celtic legends are full of heroic deeds, rewards, and punishments. In order to obtain any true reward, the hero must often pass a series of progressively difficult tests. This is true of the gods and future kings, humble adventurers, and young women in love. It is a theme that runs throughout the mythologies of Ireland and beyond.

Throughout their lives, people discover childhood dreams are too ambitious for a single lifetime. Once in a long while, a dream actually does come true, and that's when it gets dangerous.

Part I

"Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you."

Walt Whitman

Chapter One

The Quest

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

April 1846

Grandmamma's brooch haunted Valentia's dreams.

Even as she relaxed at afternoon tea with her mother, the lace doily reminded her of the delicate intertwining design of the brooch. That, in turn, reminded her of the task she had fixed her mind upon.

She was tired of always settling for the smallest bits of the good things in life. Perhaps it was time to take larger chunks.

Valentia's corset pinched as she leaned towards the tea tray, reaching for a large cake on the upper tier.

"Control yourself, Valentia, or you'll end up looking like one of those Pittsburgh steel workers." Majesta McDowell was always aware of appearances. From the servant's area, one of the maids sniggered.

Grimacing at her mother, Valentia reached for a much smaller piece when she heard shouts, but not the normal sound of a foreman yelling at his workers.

It sounded like panic.

Several patrons stood to look out the plate glass window of the café. Though she was tall for a woman, all Valentia could see were the backs of strangers, and occasionally someone running in the street.

A sharp crack accompanied a muffled explosion. Clouds of dust billowed, and Valentia fought her rising dread.

People in the café jammed the door, trying to escape.

Valentia, her mother, and their maids, Sarah and Maggie, pushed out of the stifling building. Panicked voices screamed amid crashes, all from a street not far away, in the direction of the Monongahela House Hotel.

Where they had been staying.

Her mind raced in panic, her stomach tied in a knot. Trying to make sense of the chaos, she looked the maids and her mother. She was transfixed, staring at the looming threat.

A menacing column of black, oily smoke billowed from the riverside, a searing blanket of menace. The smell of burning wood filled the air.

A church bell tolled. She suppressed her terror and took charge.

"Mother, this way!" Valentia tugged on her mother's arm to break the spell she was under, pulling her away from the hotel.

Majesta McDowell didn't have long legs, nor did either of their maids. Still, they made decent time down the cobblestoned street. Faster runners jostled and shoved past the cluster of women in their panicked flight.

Fleeing from the smoke and commotion, the heel of Valentia's fashionable boot struck a cobblestone at an odd angle as they ran. A sharp pain pierced her ankle.

Valentia nearly collided with a young man who was unloading kegs in front of a pub. She tripped over the dolly, and tumbled to the ground, scraping her knees and hands, but she managed to get up and run again. Belatedly, she made sure her flock still followed.

Where to go? Where were her father and brother supposed to be this morning? Down at the docks. The men would be able to get to safety by jumping in the water, if nothing else. The women were too far from the rivers to use that option.

Panting, they halted many blocks away. Shoving down her fear, Valentia glanced up. The plume of smoke was farther away, much less threatening, so she felt they could continue at a less frantic pace. People here hadn't even noticed the fire yet. She had absolutely no idea of where they were.

"Mother, if we can find a river it might be the safest place to wait. How can we find father and Conor?"

Majesta was still panting, and Valentia realized she had set a brutal pace.

"I don't believe we can... unless we go back... to the hotel. Blast! They will... have to assume we've made it... to safety."

They passed a post office and brought the postman outside, pointing to the widening column of smoke. The alarm grew around them, the panic spreading. The postman rushed back into the shop and came out with a whistle. He blew it at set intervals, apparently a pre-arranged signal.

A carriage came barreling down the narrow street, and Valentia yanked Maggie up against the shop.

Her mother's maid, Sarah, wasn't quick enough. A blow knocked her to the cobblestones. She lay perfectly still.

With a scream, her mother moved to Sarah's side, and pulled her out of the busy street by the shoulders. Valentia grabbed the woman's feet, and they moved her to the wide sidewalk. The postman knelt by them and checked her breathing while Majesta quietly sobbed.

"She's breathing, Mistress. I'll go fetch a doctor. You just wait here, eh?"

Valentia nodded, trying to clean the worst of the dirty smudges from the maid's face.

"Wake up, Sarah. Wake up!" Majesta shook her shoulders.

The noise of the crowd faded. Details of the carriage that hit Sarah intruded on Valentia's memory. It was a fire carriage, painted red and gold, carrying a long, dirty hose. The vehicle must have been rushing towards the fire.

When the doctor arrived, he gave Sarah a cursory examination. He checked her pulse and her eyes, and stood.

"She's not too bad. When she wakes up, keep her awake and warm, with plenty of tea. I must go, others need me." He picked up his bag and strode away.

"Doctor, wait! Did you hear what happened?"

Pushing his spectacles up on his face, he nodded down the street, "Fire at the hotel. It should be under control by now."

As he disappeared in the gloom, the yellow smoke reached farther through the byzantine streets of the city. The buildings were shrouded in a dim and sulky twilight.

I've got to find a place to stay. Valentia searched up and down the street and found a hotel nearby. With some difficulty, the three women carried Sarah into the run-down foyer and secured a room. They still didn't know where Conor and her father had gone.

"Mother, you must stay with Sarah. Maggie and I will go search for the men. The doctor said not to leave her, since she might have a concussion."

"I don't like the idea of you wandering about on your own." There were streaks down her cheeks from forgotten tears. Valentia was certain she'd never witnessed her mother crying before. Majesta had known Sarah all her life. Sarah's mother, Niamh, had been Grandmamma's maid. Status argued against being close friends with servants, but her mother had obviously broken this rule.

"We'll be fine, mother. It's not like I've not been out alone before. I'm no longer a child."

"Still... perhaps we should wait—"

"Wait for what? Father has no idea where we are, or how to find us. I must go find him."

Her mother didn't answer, but just looked back down at Sarah.

Once again out on the stygian streets, Valentia and Maggie walked several blocks to where the fire had been. A man in grubby clothing brushed past her, his unwashed body reeking. She shivered at the contact.

The light had faded, the details of the city hidden in twilight. The smoke became stronger, and she could no longer see much but an ominous orange glow surrounded by black. The nefarious haze settled on every person and object, like a wash of deep golden ochre paint.

The Hotel, which had risen to three stories and boasted thirty luxurious rooms, was now a smoking shell in the gathering darkness. Parts of one wall stood, proof against the fiendish flames. Several buildings to the east of the hotel were also burnt down, but the damage stopped at the next street.

Valentia looked at the crowd of people standing in the gloom. Searching face after face, she moved through each group, getting more anxious with each moment. With relief, she finally recognized the round figure of her father, and the equally tall but slim form of her younger brother, flanked by their valets, Hugh and Brendan.

"Conor! Father!"

Her father was not given to public displays of affection. However, he gave her a fierce, quick hug, and looked around in sudden panic.

"Majesta? Where is your mother, Valentia?"

"She's fine, father. We've taken rooms at a hotel down the street. Her maid was hurt, and..."

"Hmph. Well, we will retire there, then." It was the closest he would come to complimenting her on handling the situation.

"Was... was everything lost, father?"

He nodded slowly. "There were a few things we salvaged. My box with papers and money was in the safe. Some of your mother's jewels were salvaged. Brendan managed to find her trunk."

Gone. All her art supplies, the paintings she had planned on selling to the hotel manager. All her clothing and provisions they had brought for her journey to Ireland. After being strong during the flight, her calm shredded, and she fought back the explosion of tears behind her eyes.

Conor put a sympathetic arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

"We'll be fine, Val. At least we're all well. They are all just things, after all."

That was true, but they were her things. Art she had created, dresses she had chosen, jewelry she had bought. They were the things she had collected to be part of her world. Without those things, she didn't know who she truly was.

Her father scowled at the humbleness of the hotel when they entered, but said nothing. His face lit up with relief when he walked into their room.

"I'm so glad you're safe, Padraig." Majesta was sobbing as she hugged him, her diminutive form enveloped by her father's tall, massive figure.

They held each other for a long minute before they parted. Majesta did her best to straighten her father's cravat. Conor's stock was sticking out of the back of his collar. Her father's waistcoat was torn in several places, and streaked with mud.

"Were you close to the fire? What happened?"

"Later, Valentia, later."

After a hasty toilette, they dined quietly at the hotel restaurant. No one wished to break the silence with conversation.

Afterwards, they retired to the hotel sitting room, and Padraig began his tale.

"There wasn't enough bloody water for the bloody engines." His eyes looked tired and deflated, more so than she'd ever seen him. He didn't curse often, and his use of such words now unnerved her.

"What can you mean by not enough water? They're surrounded by three rivers."

"It's been a hot, dry month. The water near the shore is low, so the engines were only sucking up mud. The hoses weren't long enough to get to the deeper part. They lost an engine to the fire before our eyes, panicking the horses. We tried to help with buckets, forming a line into the muck, but then two of the men got sucked into the riverbed, so they gave up." He said this in a steady monotone, as if reading it from a newspaper.

They wouldn't be going to Ireland now, of course.

* * *

Many of the buildings burnt had been tenement apartments, and the people there had lost everything. Their homes, their belongings, perhaps even their livelihoods. One brick building had been gutted by the fire, but stood strong, so the Mayor made it a temporary shelter.

Though they were just visiting, the McDowell's decided they should join in the work to help out the displaced families. Valentia and Majesta, along with the two maids, helped organize medical care, food and shelter. The men assisted in the clearing and cleaning of debris.

Most of their patients suffered from burns, smoke inhalation, and cuts and broken bones from the fire damage. However, more injuries trickled in as the repairs on the area began, when people tried to move fallen materials. Each day was long, hot and humid, filled with the sickly sweet odor of burned flesh and the acrid smoke which still lingered everywhere. At least her mother was good at organizing things, having run several campaigns for women's rights.

Working beside other ladies, Valentia imagined she was on the front lines of an ancient battle. To block out the screams of an infant she was trying to bandage, she envisioned she was on the field in Ireland, perhaps as one of her ancestors, helping in a war.

The daydream was another legacy from her grandmother, along with the brooch. Stories of Ireland's mystical past, of tragic love and brave warriors. But what stuck with Valentia was the tale of the brooch, the heirloom left in Ireland with her long-lost family so many years ago. Her mind once again traced the delicate designs she had seen in the drawing...

"Stop daydreaming, Valentia. Here, take these buckets and toss them out back."

Chagrined at her inattention, she concentrated on her chores. She pushed escaping dark curls out of her face, smearing blood on her forehead.

The tasks were so different from her daily life at home. Her father owned a large dairy farm in a small town in Ohio, with a slew of servants to run the daily grubby work. This might be the first time she'd been this dirty without the relief of a bath in sight.

She glanced at Maggie, helping a young man next to her. He grunted while the maid changed his bandage, chattering while she tied off the ends. She reminded Valentia of a small brown mother hen, fluttering from charge to charge, administering clean cloths and cool water. At least her inexhaustible energy was being put to good use.

Maggie was much more used to such things, as any servant would be. Valentia would be glad when she didn't need to do such grubby work.

The family met each evening at their hotel, usually too weary to do much but eat and do their best to sleep. Valentia at first put hopes of her private plans from her mind.

She spent several sleepless nights thinking about the brooch, glowing with white-blue sparks. It beckoned to her, like a will o' the wisp, glowing and pulsing in the dim light of sleep. Lost in the intertwining lines, she wandered alone and bereft, searching for... what? An exit? Her heritage? Herself? She tossed and turned in a sweaty tangle of brown curls and clammy skin, waking to an uncontrollable and urgent need to find the blasted thing.

With that in mind, she approached her mother once again about her long overdue need for a husband. Perhaps the trip to Ireland could still be salvaged.

Majesta looked up from her breakfast. "But why Ireland, Valentia? There are plenty of men closer. We could plan the summer in New York, once we're done with our duties here. You're much too old for the debutante circuit, but I'm sure we could find you a suitable match among the gentry."

"Val can't find a local husband. She has to import one that will deal with her mouth!"

She sent her brother a withering look. Ever since he'd discovered her name, Valentia, came from the name of Valentia Island, or Beal Inse, in the Irish, he had teased her. Mouth of the Island quickly became 'The Mouth.'

"Actually, yes, I do wish to go to New York, as that would be a perfect opportunity to continue on to Ireland. American men are so boring. I have been corresponding with a painting teacher in Galway who sounds delightful." Valentia nibbled at her toast, glad her father had been called away that morning. Mother could be brought around, especially with the lure of a prospective husband. Her father, on the other hand...

Putting down her work, Majesta pulled her glasses off and pinned her daughter with a sharp look. "A painter? That doesn't sound like someone worth crossing the Atlantic for, dear. What's really behind this?"

Heaving a sigh, Valentia realized she should have known she couldn't fool her mother for long.

* * *

That evening, Valentia's father stomped into the hotel lounge. She had just been heading up the stairs. Her mother was attempting to embroider by the meagre lamplight.

"Majesta, what is this I hear about sending our daughter off to Europe? I thought we had squashed that idea!"

"Do try not to huff so much, dear. You'll burn the drapes."

"No, Majesta. I don't like the idea of our Valentia gallivanting around Ireland alone on some mad quest to find your moldy family roots!"

Her mother only remained calm for so long, then her Irish temper burst forth.

"How dare you speak of my family in such a way? You may run a prosperous farm now, Padraig McDowell, but your own roots are as muddy and common as my own!"

Despite her size, Majesta was more than a match for her tall, paunched husband. Quivering with indignation, she stood toe to toe with him.

Valentia held her breath as she watched the drama of the argument shift from her father's blustering anger to her mother's stubborn confidence.

"She won't be alone. Maggie will be with her, of course. And her brother will keep an eye on her."

"That one! What will Conor be protecting her from, then? Loose women and strong spirits?"

"If he loves the drink, then he had an excellent teacher!"

With a sigh, Valentia resumed her climb. While her mother usually got her way in the end, the current conflict had already devolved into personal comments. It wouldn't be resolved soon. She could still hear the muted voices from her rooms on the second floor. Maggie looked more anxious than normal.

"Is aught amiss, Mistress Valentia? I heard the voices?"

"They're arguing again. Nothing new, really."

She couldn't bring Maggie into her confidence. She was just a maid, after all. What could she do to help?

Maggie made Valentia sit down with firm hands on her shoulders. Her hair had been in a right state from her sweaty day, and her maid tugged and brushed until her unruly brown curls were once again in a presentable state for supper. She continued to bustle about until Valentia shooed her away.

"Enough, Maggie. I'm not going to dine with the Queen, after all."

With a frown, Maggie busied herself instead with straightening up the room. Her round form flittered from wardrobe to dressing table, making Valentia nervous again with her fussing.

Valentia regretted ever proposing the idea to her mother. All her life she had dreamt of Ireland, the people, her own long-lost family there, and the brooch. Lately, those dreams had become more urgent. Insistent. The only way to quiet them was to see the place for herself; to go find her grandmother's family, to see if someone still had that bothersome piece of blasted jewelry. And if her father thought she was actually going to seek a husband, he might actually let her go.

Though she was twenty-three, Valentia was still single, a state her mother constantly bemoaned.

Valentia had discussed the trip with her mother at length two weeks earlier, when she had first conceived the plan, before they left for Pittsburgh. She had needed the information about her grandmother's family only Majesta remembered. Her grandparents' names, for instance, and where in Donegal they had lived, and what her sisters' names had been.

"I think the place began with an 'A'. Amra? Ardra? Something like that, at any rate. Of course, that won't be how it's spelled. Irish spelling is infernal. It's likely got twelve letters, none of which are actually pronounced." Majesta's cynical laugh made Valentia frown.

"And do you remember anything else about the place, mother?"

"I was never there, child. I remember what grandmother said in her stories, but who knows how much was truth, or how much fairytale? Your grandmother had a vigorous imagination, after all. Oh, I do remember one thing she mentioned, a sort of special heirloom. A brooch, I think. Yes, sit tight here one moment..."

Valentia had often heard of the brooch from her Grandmamma and had hoped her mother would know more about it. She trembled with suppressed excitement. Majesta went to her desk and thumbed through her papers. After rifling through three drawers, she exclaimed and held one up in triumph.

"Here! This is what I was looking for."

The thick paper was old, yellowing at the edges and creases. Valentia carefully unfolded the ancient document, and gasped.

The drawing, done in clean, neat lines, was of an intricate pennanular brooch. It was almost a circle, with a straight pin on the curve to go through the small opening. There were delicate intertwined creatures detailed on the circular edge, as well as on the straight pin. Several stones were imbedded in the design. The piece was exquisite.

Valentia could almost see faint flashes of light crackling along the lines, sparks of blue and purple. She blinked her eyes several times to clear her vision.

"It's... it's stunning."

"My aunt had this special piece of jewelry. She never said why it was special, other than being beautiful. Simply that it was priceless and unique." Her mother's voice had a dreamy quality, as if speaking from a long-distant memory.

Valentia couldn't take her eyes off the sketch. She was drawn into the labyrinth of line and form, as if she would be lost forever in the art. It looked just like she had imagined it from Grandmamma's description.

Her mother's abrupt voice snapped her from her reverie. "If you can find this and our family, the journey would be well worth the trouble, I think."

But now, the fire and the subsequent resistance from her father had quelled her hopes. She pushed through the day's work as they helped the local people rebuild their lives.

* * *

Several evenings later, her father fixed Valentia with a hard look over his steak dinner. "Well, Valentia, when do you plan to leave?"

The question startled her, a forkful of potatoes held halfway to her mouth. "Leave? Whatever do you mean, father?"

"To Ireland, of course. Surely you've not forgotten?"

"But... but the fire... we have no supplies...I thought you didn't want..."

"Hmph. I can buy more provisions. No, I admire the work you've done to help the people here, Valentia. I think it's quite changed my mind about your ability to take care of yourself on this journey. Of course, Conor would still need to be in charge, but I don't see why you couldn't continue."

Stunned, she looked to her mother, who wore a conspiratorial half-smile on her face.

"Shut your mouth, Val. You'll let out all the flies." Conor was his usual insufferable self.

They worked out details about the trip and the things they needed to purchase before embarking on their journey. Valentia was ready to fly upon the wings of adventure at long last.

Chapter Two

Voyages

"You have the letter for the lawyer in New York, yes?" Her father asked, anxious.

"Yes, father. I've got it here, in my pocket, in an oiled envelope. It's safe," Conor assured him. He patted the front of his new overcoat. They'd bought a few changes of clothing, but none of it was tailored. It fit well enough to get them on their way.

"And you're certain you've enough funds with you to get you to the city?" He looked at both of them in turn.

"Yes, father, you've been most generous," Valentia said. "We shall have plenty, with money left over in case of need. Once we get to the lawyer, we'll have sufficient for the whole trip to Ireland, surely."

"Conor, you take good care of your older sister, and don't hesitate to defend her honor. I'm counting on you, son." He clasped her brother by the shoulders, giving him a shake. Her father sounded fierce, but Valentia detected a quaver in his voice. He had become much more emotional in the last week, since the fire.

"I will, sir, with pleasure and fierce devotion," her brother smiled with wobbly confidence. Conor had matured as well, despite being just twenty-one. He was much calmer, less prone to mischief. She mourned the loss of his carefree self, but perhaps his joy in life would return with time. The events had sobered them all.

Valentia hugged her mother, silent but firm. When they released, her mother grabbed her arm and whispered to her.

"I hope you find what you are searching for, I truly do. Do what you must, Valentia, but be careful. I can't help but think you are going into danger." Valentia didn't think her mother was speaking of their family, a husband, or the brooch, but couldn't imagine what else she might mean.

Embarrassed, she smoothed her dark pink skirts and fussed with the lower edge of her sleeve. She disliked the color, but hadn't been able to be fussy about her limited choices.

"Mother, it will be fine. I've Conor to protect me, and I shall be cautious, I promise. What harm could come to me, searching for Grandmamma's family?" Tears glittered in her mother's eyes, and Valentia blinked back her own.

Her mother pressed a paper into her hand, the drawing of her grandmother's brooch. It tingled in her palm.

"Mother! Where did you... I thought this had been lost in the fire?"

Smugly, her mother smiled. "I had it in my purse, dear. I kept it safe for you. Now you keep yourself safe for me, will you?"

They left, with Maggie and Brendan in tow with their meager supplies, onto the barge which would take them up the Allegheny River to Johnstown. The bargeman pushed with his pole against the dock, taking them into the wide, choppy river and up the coastline.

Her parents stood on the docks, silent and holding hands, as their two children left. Their forms got smaller and smaller, almost indistinguishable against the bustling dock, two still forms against the chaos. When she would see them again?

"Well, that's that, then, sister mine. We are off on adventure, at long last." Valentia was glad to see Conor's grin was back. His smile had a shadow of sadness to it, a shadow he had never exhibited before.

She took a deep breath, cutting it short when the corset limited her ribcage. "Indeed we are. Have you a map so we can follow our progress? I'd like to keep track. I was able to purchase a diary, so I can take notes along the way."

Conor took out the map he had brought, showing her how they were going to travel, up the Allegheny to Johnstown.

"At Johnstown, we board a railroad through the mountains. Can you picture it, Valentia? They've actually made a tunnel through the mountains. Then we get to Hollidaysburg, where we go back onto the canal boats, with this series of portages. The trains from the railroad become the boats. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Valentia was less fascinated by the mechanics, and more interested in the time needed to complete this stage of the trip. "How long should it take?"

"Just a couple of days. After Hollidaysburg, we are on the Juniata River, which we take into Columbia. Then we are on the train again to Philadelphia, then another to New York City. The entire trip should take about six days. Amazing, is it not, Mouth?"

The eighty miles from Canton to Pittsburgh had taken them several days by coach. The distance they were considering was about four hundred miles. She was amazed at the speed. Trains were making a difference in the way people traveled. She wouldn't be surprised if they made it across the continent someday. How long would it then take to travel from coast to coast? Her mind balked at the calculations. She brought her thoughts back to the present.

"And once we are in New York? What then?"

"We contact father's lawyer, a Mr. Charles Bradenton. I have his address here. He can arrange for funds and tickets on the steamship, Great Britain. She's due to embark on the first of May, so we have two weeks to arrive, plenty of time. Then we travel across the wide, blue ocean, to our destiny in The Auld Sod, as it were." The twinkle in his eyes showed her, indeed, his mischief was back.

Valentia smiled at his infectious glee, looking forward to the voyage as much as he was. They were excited when they discovered one of the brand new steamships would be in New York as they arrived, and was booking passengers.

* * *

Valentia had to admit, this was a pleasant way to travel. The shore flew by as the boat made its way up the river. The trip would take them up the Allegheny, Kiskiminetas and Conemaugh Rivers. The last one sounded Irish to her ears, and she wondered if it had been discovered and named by an Irishman. The country was rolling with hills, already green in the bright, April air, a pleasant relief from the smoky disaster and haunted faces they had left behind.

Her brother, it seemed, was in his element. When younger, he'd pretended to be a pirate. Taking an older wagon and pasting boards and blankets on it, he'd transformed it into a ship. He'd clamber up on top, with a patch over his eye, declaring himself Redbeard, the Scourge of the Monongahela River. She grinned at her memory of the freckled, redheaded boy. He must have been no more than eight years old at the time.

Thinking of his childhood fancies brought to mind one of her Grandmamma Bridey's tales. She always told the best stories.

"The Dagda was a great god in ancient Ireland, the leader of the Tuatha dé Danaan. He was known as the Good God, and had a reputation for laughing loud and long. His great belly would peek out from under his short tunic, jiggling as he laughed." The children giggled.

"He had a great passion for magical things, the Dagda did. He had a great harp he would take everywhere, even into battle. After the great Battle of Mag Tuiread, the harp was captured by the evil Fomorians, and the Dagda was overcome with anger." Conor gasped. His mossy green eyes, so much like Grandmamma's, were round with horror. At age two, he was too young to understand most of the words, but he could feel and hear the mood in her voice.

"Along with his son, Aengus Óg, he went to retrieve his magical treasure. They approached the great feast hall of their enemy, with burning torches mounted along the walls. The enemy was feasting in triumph, and they could see the harp hanging, glittering in servitude upon the wall. A great clashing of noise came from that hall, as the warriors laughed and sang of the day's triumphs.

"The Dagda strode into the hall with great purpose, his great belly jiggling and joggling for all to see. With a shout, he spoke the words of magic that brought his faithful harp to his hands. And what do you think? He played the instrument. Such an odd thing to do, is it not?" Grandmamma fixed her sharp green eyes upon wee Maggie, barely four years old, a sweet brown-haired cherub.

"Well, he played the Three Noble Strains of Ireland, magical songs that could move the emotions of men with magic. He played the Strain of Weeping, and the entire hall wept like lost souls. He played the Strain of Merriment, and they erupted into gay laughter. And finally, because things in Ireland are always done in threes, he played the Strain of Sleep. The evil Fomorians instantly fell into a sleep so deep they were not roused as the Dagda and his son stole away into the quiet of the night, with his precious harp."

Valentia had loved this story as a child. The idea of having such a magical instrument had prompted her to dig up several holes behind the chicken yard, looking for buried treasure. That was, until her mother discovered her expeditions and put a stop to them.

There were many tales such as this throughout Valentia's childhood. Tales of faery kings and vengeful goddesses, children turned into swans and magical boats. Grandmamma also told stories of her own life. Tales of the heartbreaking famine which forced her parents to leave the home they loved, in County Donegal, for a new life in America.

When she was young, Valentia could only dream of such adventures...

And now she was finally beginning her own Grand Adventure. She took a deep breath, smelling the fresh river air. There were tinges of marsh grass and mud, and the faint tang of cow manure on the breeze. The scent was clean, bright, and she relished it. It helped clear her head and her lungs.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mouth." She was startled to find Conor right behind her. "I heard you huffing like a truffle pig. Are you trying to puff wind into the sails?"

She gave him a sour smile. "No, I'm just thinking of Grandmamma."

"What made you think of her?"

"Just being wistful, I suppose. Pittsburgh made me think a lot of what we have, and what we've lost."

He had no answer to this, and joined her in gazing at the shoreline as it sped by.

After a time in shared silence, he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. They looked at each other, and shared a smile. Without comment, he went back to the other side of the ship to pester the captain again.

Conor had asked the captain so many questions along the route she imagined he must soon be tossed overboard as a nuisance. She tuned out his voice, looking again at the trees.

The boat they were on held about twenty passengers, all traveling at least to Johnstown, though Valentia suspected most were going to Philadelphia, too. While there were windows in the cabins inside the canal boat, most passengers were taking advantage of the fine day by sitting on the chairs affixed to the roof.

A bedraggled family sat along one side of the deck, apparently refugees from the fire. Parents and five children, all under the age of twelve, huddled together. The older children stared into a blank distance, while the younger ones fussed and whimpered. Valentia had attempted to talk to the young mother, but elicited no response, so she desisted. Sometimes a family best heals among each other.

In addition, a group of middle-aged men traveled together, dressed in fine tailored suits and top hats. They had two younger male servants with them, evidently having come to Pittsburgh to conduct business. Each greeted her appearance with a lift of the hat, but beyond this gesture, kept silent, except for low mutterings now and then.

An older couple, perhaps her parents age, were in the back, talking in low tones. They looked to be of respectable means, but they were bedraggled, as well.

She shifted her gaze to the horses on the other side of the boat. They kept pace with it, available when they were needed to pull the craft. Mostly used in the locks, they were also sometimes used in areas where the back current was swift and pulled the craft backwards.

The poor family looked like popular portrayals of immigrants. People wanted to emigrate because they had nothing at home. They left everything they knew for a faint hope at a better life. She counted her blessings she had the resources afforded by her father to go where she wished.

The images still burbled into her mind, unbidden, and Valentia was well lost in the terrible days just past. She hadn't noticed the businessman coming up behind her, and jumped when she finally sensed him standing close.

"How do you do, Mistress?" He lifted his hat, which appeared to be expensive beaver-fur, making a bow. He had a New York accent.

Valentia pulled out her fan, knowing it to be a useful tool in unexpected situations. She opened it, using it as a barrier between her and the stranger. The stranger was not ill-favored, but she was in no state to meet new men at the moment. He was tall and lanky, with tasteful clothes, a wide smile and bright blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry, have we been introduced?" She knew they had not, but she meant it as a pointed reminder that a lady wouldn't speak to a gentleman without proper introductions. The manners she was taught were not always adhered to in the Midwest. This didn't mean she wouldn't attempt to enforce the standards.

"We have not, but please allow me to remedy the omission. May I present my card?" He proffered a white paper with elaborate gold printing. She glared as if he offered a snake for a quick bite of her flesh. Her gaze darted around, and with relief, she saw her brother approaching. He had also seen the man, so was swooping in to offer his assistance.

"May I help you, sir?" The intruder was startled to find the young man behind him, but he showed sufficient aplomb, tipping his hat to Conor. His valet, Brendan, taller and older than Conor, stood behind him in silent support.

"I was attempting to present myself to this charming young lady, but perhaps you can do so for me?" Still holding his card, he offered it for Conor's inspection.

Conor didn't take it right away. "May I inquire as to your purpose?" His tone was guarded.

"No offense meant, good sir. I thought perhaps the young lady would enjoy conversation on this long journey." With a nod to Valentia, he ignored the slight rudeness offered by her guardian.

With a long, level look at the man, which took in his tailored grey suit and the smile pasted upon his face, Conor took the card and read it.

"I'm Conor McDowell, accompanying my sister to Philadelphia. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." Conor made a minimum bow, and didn't introduce Valentia. A flick of the stranger's eyes indicated he had noted the omission and formality of the limited introduction. He wouldn't be welcome.

"I am pleased to meet you, kind sir. I'm Jack Notman, an architect out of Philadelphia. I've been to Pittsburgh to assess the needs of the city for rebuilding. My colleagues have remained for further planning, while my associates and I are returning to plan the logistics of the project." He indicated the group he had been sitting with, who were now all watching the tableau with peaked interest. One nodded at Conor when he glanced their way.

"If you have just come from the city, then you will understand my sister's reluctance to speak to anyone right now. It has been traumatic. We should both appreciate time to ourselves. Perhaps this evening would be a better time to make introductions." He handed the gilt calling card back to Mr. Notman, and proceeded to sit down next to Valentia, taking her hand in consolation.

Finally taking the hint, Mr. Notman bowed to Conor, having the grace to look embarrassed. He returned to his seat, with comments and laughs from his companions at his failed attempts.

"Thank you, Conor. I truly didn't wish to talk to anyone just now." Valentia kept her voice low, so she would not be heard over the architects' conversation.

"It's what I'm here for, Val. I promised Father to keep you safe, after all."

She blinked back tears, horrified he might see them. Sometimes her brother could be so sweet and gallant, far more mature than his usual self. He seemed much older and wiser than his tender years.

* * *

Technology was such a wonder. Valentia studied the bizarre trolley system which would take them up and over the mountain range. Conor was equally fascinated.

"I wonder what the weight limit is on those contraptions. It's a fine thing, is it not, we don't have all those trunks you were going to bring."

She gave him a sour look, but agreed. The cars looked fragile, as did the pulley system which would pull them up the steep angle over the peak.

"We shall have to trust the engineer to know his limits, and pray he's correct." Valentia decided to be philosophical about her fears.

"Just the same, I think I'll ensure we're near a window, in case we need to jump out halfway."

"Conor McDowell, I shall not be jumping off this dratted mountain." She flicked her fan at him.

They were waiting for the baggage to be secured before the boat itself was transferred to the rail. It would be lifted onto a wheeled platform on the tracks, an operation Valentia and Conor both had watched with fascination, from the safety of the hotel. They'd enjoyed a light tea, offering cakes to the children of the silent refugee family. The children looked to their parents for permission before accepting the treats, scuttling off to eat them behind their mother's skirts. Valentia had offered tea to the mother, but her vacant eyes continued to watch the boat lift.

The Allegheny Portage Railroad had a series of inclines, which spanned more than thirty miles across the top of the mountain. On the other side, at Hollidaysburg, the boat would be lifted back into the water, continuing its river journey to Columbia. This was the longest part of the trip. The mountain part would only be about six hours, but they wouldn't make the run in the dark. The days were still short, so they deemed it wiser to wait until morning light to complete the journey. A hotel was there for travelers to overnight.

She had enjoyed the journey so far, and Conor was especially taken with the mechanics of the locks they traversed. She was sure they had gone through more than sixty so far, and there would be more on the other side. Conor had always been a curious boy, repairing farm equipment and anything else he could get his hands on. Sometimes he broke things just to see if he could fix them.

Father had considered sending him away to study engineering, but Conor resisted the idea of formal schooling. Valentia thought it may have been a mistake to let him refuse this particular offer. She could see he was already getting an excellent understanding of the system.

Maggie had stowed their belongings in the room the women would share, and came down, looking tired but relieved. She wasn't a great passenger, as she was susceptible to a slight sea-sickness. Valentia wished she had realized this before taking her on a trip which was sure to be a great deal harder on her maid than she had anticipated. However, it was much too late now to send the girl back. Perhaps she would get used to water travel by the time they had to cross the ocean.

Once they were rested and recovered from the day's trip, they were all feeling in much better spirits. When the group of architects came into the tea room, Conor stood up and walked up to Mr. Notman.

"Sir, I do apologize for my earlier coolness. I can only beg forgiveness for my behavior. May I present you to my sister now?"

"I would be charmed, Mr. McDowell. Please, think nothing of it. I had not considered you had both been part of the fire. All apologies are, of course, mine." He followed Conor back to the table, where he presented the gentleman to Valentia.

"May I present Mr. Jack Notman, from Philadelphia, Valentia?" The gentleman removed his hat and bowed low to her.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Notman. Thank you so much for your understanding."

"Not at all, not at all. It was well worth the wait to meet you properly."

"Will you join us? I'm afraid we are almost finished, but we could join you in a cup of tea." She swept her hand to the round table, indicating the empty chair.

"It's my turn to beg forgiveness. I'm afraid I'm needed by my compatriots, as we have a great deal of business to discuss. May I perhaps chat with you along tomorrow's long journey?"

"It would be lovely, thank you. Do have an enjoyable evening." She nodded to him with all the grace she could muster, noting his blue eyes twinkling in amusement.

He bowed again, and they sat down to their repast.

"I'm not sure I like him, Val."

"He seems harmless enough. He does have beautiful eyes."

"Yes, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes, Mouth. Did you not notice?"

She had not noticed, but wasn't surprised Conor had. He had always been a shrewd judge of character.

"Well, just make sure you are with me when he comes to chat, then, dear brother." She viewed his protection with slight amusement, but was reassured at his presence.

She picked up the porcelain teapot and gestured towards him, but he shook his head, so she topped her own cup instead. Taking a look around the room, she realized the spectacle of the boat transfer was over.

The room was simply appointed, but not shabby. A few people were already sitting the tables. Valentia fingered the lace red tablecloths and white china, noting its age and quality. A piano stood along one wall, underneath a round portrait of an older woman in a white lace cap. Perhaps she was the proprietress? They had not seen her yet, if so.

The captain checked them in before he went on to supervise the lift. The wallpaper had a busy chevron pattern on it in cream and white, but it wasn't overwhelming. Their rooms were decorated in a similar manner, but with thought to utility. There appeared to be about twenty rooms, so the place wasn't crowded at the moment.

They chatted about the sights along the river they had passed, and what they might see the next day. Valentia caught herself giggling at an anecdote Conor shared. She stopped, horrified at her amusement so soon after the horrible events in Pittsburgh. However, life does go on, she must remember that.

Maggie was drooping, so Valentia took pity on her.

"I shan't need you until I return to the room myself, and I plan on staying up a while yet. Do take time to rest." Maggie was so tired, she didn't speak, but stumbled up to the room.

"I do hope she will get used to the travel. She won't be of any use to me in this state."

"Valentia, do you realize how heartless you just sounded?" Conor mocked her.

"You know quite well what I mean, brother. I want her to enjoy this trip. She can't enjoy it while she's ill."

"Still, she's your friend. You could be a little more concerned."

"She's not my friend, she's my maid. Yes, we enjoy confidences from time to time, as any good Lady's Maid might, but she knows her position. Surely you can't think of Brendan as your friend." Valentia knew she sounded horrible and haughty, but the point had to be made.

Conor rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, sister, you get so high-and-mighty, I despair for you. Brendan is a good man, and we talk of many things. Class separation is all well and good in high society, but we live in the backwoods of Ohio. I find it has little use out in the sticks."

"And where exactly are we headed on this journey? It's of excellent use in places such as London." Valentia was indignant.

"We are going to Ireland, not London." Conor sounded dismissive.

"Pish-tosh. Do you not suppose Ireland adheres to strict society rules? It's a dangerous assumption to make, after all."

"It may be they do. It may be they do not. What I'm saying is we can be friends with servants in private while maintaining appearances in public. What's wrong with that?"

Valentia couldn't think of a reply, so she sipped her tea while she composed one.

"If we become true friends in private, then it makes it easier for the servant to misstep in public. The punishment for a serious mistake is disciplinary action, and perhaps even dismissal. Would you set up your 'friends' for such a fate??"

Conor shook his head, finishing his own tea. After several long moments, he replied.

"I think we should be treating everyone as equals, no matter what their birth or station. You think some are superior to others. We have a different idea on what should be, I think, sister."

Valentia was taken aback by this. Her brother had always been comfortable talking to the servants on the farm, no matter their station, but she had always taken it to be the innocence of youth. As a young man of twenty-one, he would eventually have to conform, as others did, to the norms of society. She didn't realize he had harbored such revolutionary egalitarian ideals. Certainly their older brothers had no problems with ordering their own servants about. They had learned that skill from their father, and learned it well.

Her mother had ideals closer to Conor's, at least when it came to women. She was energetic, writing letters to politicians and lobbyists. She wanted to ensure women had rights when it came to marriage, property, and other legal rulings.

"I don't believe we are superior, per se, Conor. I believe we have greater advantages, yes, and it's our duty to use those advantages properly. A person born in any station has a particular type of work to do. If they do it well, they can take pride in it. Besides, you know our family doesn't hold with slavery. Our servants are all free, but they are hardly our equals."

"No, pride in good work is not wrong. Believing someone cannot better themselves through hard work is, though."

"And if everyone bettered themselves, who would do the menial tasks?"

"They aren't menial tasks, they are necessary. You call them menial because you would be ashamed of doing them."

She wanted to shout, to take him by the shoulders and shake sense into him, but she held her temper with great effort. With controlled words, she said, "I believe you had it correct earlier, Conor. We believe in different things." With this, she rose, taking herself outside for a walk in the fenced garden.

The crisp night air was a great deal cooler than she had expected it to be. They were high in the mountains, and April was early in the year. She shivered, but breathed in and looked up at the speckled night sky. There was no moon, so the stars shone bright in a magnificent carpet across the inky darkness.

Was her mother looking at the same sky? They had left barely a day before, and she missed her already. Except for short trips now and then, Valentia had never been away from her for long. Majesta had always been her confidante. While Valentia could joke with Conor, she couldn't truly confide in him. Despite his new maturity, he was still her baby brother, good for fun, but not serious matters. Especially when he still called her Mouth. Maggie was a sweet girl, but not clever. That was proper for a maid.

She tried to tell herself this didn't matter to her, but it did.

* * *

The long progress over the mountain finally ended. Valentia disliked this mode of travel. She found herself clenching her fists, nails biting into the palm of her hand, as the boat, on its wagon, was hauled up each incline. At every moment, she was tensed for the wagon to slip, the boat to fall, or the rocks above to come tumbling down upon them. She was grateful when it was over.

She also discovered she wasn't enamored with great heights, which she had not realized before. While she loved the view, the sense of danger and ill ease were not pleasant, at least not in this precarious conveyance. Perhaps she would enjoy the sensation more if standing on solid ground.

Conor enjoyed the whole experience with uncommon glee, which perhaps soured her opinion even further. Maggie, at least, was feeling better. Was this the feeling Maggie had experienced while the boat was on the water? If so, she should be charitable towards the young maid and her sensibilities.

Valentia settled down inside the cabin. The rain misted outside, making the world grey and soft. She brought out a novel, purchased at the hotel in Johnstown. They didn't have a great selection, but she was sure she could at least pass the time with them. The first one was called The Miser's Daughter, by William Ainsworth. She had also found a book called The Two Admirals by an American author, James Fennimore Cooper, and a book of poetry by Robert Browning, which she would enjoy later. For now she lost herself in the historical romance of Ainsworth's world.

When Conor came down from above, she was surprised to see how late the day was. The trip over the mountains had taken about six hours, so they must almost be to their evening's port at Lewistown.

As she looked out the window, Conor came to sit beside her on the padded bench. They passed several farms along the shore. A great, dark building stained the sky with billows of soot. Panicked memories from the fire washed over her, but she reassured herself this was a factory. Perhaps a charcoal iron furnace, common in this area.

Her brother was full of information to share about sites along the way. She had no idea where he got it all, but he delighted in sharing it with her. She didn't mind, for she was curious as well, but lacked the bottle to ask anyone she met random questions.

Conor pointed out the old stone arch bridge they were about to go under, a charming, rustic construction, raised in the middle, in a rounded arc above the river. The trees shaded the cold stone with the fresh green of new spring growth.

"It has the singularly imaginative name of the Old Arch Bridge." His tone was deadpan.

"Someone must have worked hard to come up with such a clever name." She chuckled at his satirical wit.

"This is Lewistown, then? Where we are spending the night?"

"Yes, that's right. We have rooms arranged at the Peacock Majors Tavern. I made sure of it with the captain just a few minutes ago."

"I do hope they have hot supper for us, I'm starving. After the mountain trip, the sandwiches for lunch didn't seem appetizing, I'm afraid. I gave mine to the Bates' children."

The refugees from Pittsburgh had finally spoken with her, after several gifts of food to their children. They had, indeed, lost all they had. They were traveling to a cousin's house in Philadelphia, with the hope they could be taken in until they could rebuild their lives. They were able to clean themselves at Johnstown, appearing much improved, though the mother still stared out into space for long periods of time. Valentia wondered if she had lost someone, but then remembered few lives had been lost in the fire, a blessing indeed.

"They have promised us a proper roast, with potatoes and pudding. No fear."

"Oh! Yes, I look forward to it." Her stomach growled, and she blushed.

"That, my dear sister, is quite obvious," he teased.

"Beast!"

"I think the beast resides elsewhere. Perhaps within you? It's what it sounded like."

Valentia flipped her fan open, fluttering it in front of her face. She refused to look at her brother while he roared with laughter. He was maddening and annoying at times, but she was glad he was along.

The servers arrived with the long-awaited meal. Roast beef in thick, savory gravy, and roast potatoes. She made no bones about the delicious, filling meal. Perhaps she ate in solace of the pain of the last few weeks; a symbolic filling to those empty holes the fire had made. She snorted at the morose notion, catching Conor's attention.

"Is the beast back, Mouth?"

"Eat your dinner, Conor."

When dessert arrived, she was thrilled by the sweet, thick sponge pudding with hot buttered rum sauce. Despite her delight, Valentia couldn't finish the rich treat.

She would be much relieved when she could replace her lost wardrobe, tailored to fit her. The corset was too tight around the arms and the waist, restricting movement even further than normal, which made full meals a trial. She wasn't precisely thin, after all. She had what others called a 'buxom' figure, hourglass but not petite. She would be downright chunky if she kept eating like this.

This hotel and tavern were a smaller affair than the one in Johnstown, though the town itself was larger. From what she could tell, it was about the size of Canton. The building was red brick and square, with six rental rooms above. The lounge had a pianoforte which she could play.

Feeling much improved from her morning's indisposition, she played a few tunes, while Conor sang. She then she sang one herself, with a reasonably trained voice. Her mother was better, but she could hold a tune. The architects applauded, proceeding to sing a song as well, though not one she should have heard in polite company. She blushed, hiding her face behind her fan, a useful tool in this new environment.

She gave Mr. Notman a mock censorious look for his improper selection, proceeding to sing a sweet song of lost love to change the mood again. After this, she declared herself tired, retiring to her room with Maggie.

Maggie was reading one of her novels when she came in, and she paused, surprised. She hadn't known Maggie could read. The girl had been raised in her own household, and Maggie's grandmother had been her own grandmother's Lady's Maid. Perhaps she was surprised because Maggie had borrowed one of her books without asking? For now, she asked if Maggie was enjoying the story.

"Oh, yes, Mistress Valentia. It's ever so lovely, reading about London. I would love to go there someday." Her voice was wistful as she helped Valentia disrobe. They began with her overdress, then the skirts, the corset, down to her shift. Then she sat down so Maggie could take her hair down and plait it for the night.

"Perhaps we may, someday, Maggie. Perhaps we may."

* * *

Maggie was startled when her Mistress came in, feeling guilty she was caught reading one of her books. She could not let it happen again. Such behavior was unprofessional. Her mother would have been ashamed.

She missed her mother, who had worked as Mistress Bridey's Lady's Maid, then Mistress Majesta's, before she passed away several years ago. She missed her grandmother, Niamh, who had taught her to read. They had taken great pride in their service, and positions with the family, as did Maggie. She enjoyed Mistress Valentia's adventures and strong attitude, though Maggie wished she had married. A lady her age ought not to be without a husband to take care of her and give her children. Perhaps she hadn't found someone strong enough for her. She remembered hearing Mistress Majesta mention the possibility of their daughter finding a match on this trip. Maggie resolved to help make it happen, should she have the chance.

When she was done helping her Mistress change into her night dress, Maggie considered the novel she had been reading. The book had been full of wonderful romance and tea parties, exactly the sort of things she imagined London society would be like. She wished she could travel there someday, to see all the grand parties, gardens, and dancing. Would Ireland be like that, as well, all gentile and fancy? She loved the dancing and the music.

Visions of tea doilies and ruffles aside, Maggie hoped Mistress Valentia would find what she was looking for, but people rarely did. Would she find a husband? Her family? Or would there be something else she hadn't been searching for? Maggie hoped whatever they found, it was good.

Chapter Three

The Big City

The noise and crowds were deafening, almost maddening. Valentia had tried to imagine what New York City would be like, one of the biggest cities in the world. Her poor imagination had failed to capture the chaos, beauty, filth, and variety that was the reality of this busy place.

They had arrived in the morning. Conor secured rooms at the Astor House, near the offices of the lawyer, Mr. Charles Bradenton, Esquire. The hotel was large and beautiful, right next to St. Paul's Chapel, though on the dusty side from the road. Everything seemed to be dusty and dirty. Piles of garbage lined the edge of the sidewalks, even near the posh hotels. Putting kerchief up to her nose reminded her once again of the fire. Pulling her hand back down, she tried to breathe through her mouth. With trepidation, she eyed the broad, flat building, but the bellboy came out and took her baggage from Maggie, so she followed him in.

The lobby was more reassuring, free from the oppressive dust. The glass chandelier above the marbled lobby was sparkling like a thousand tiny stars, even more sparks than the brooch in her dreams. The glittering beauty of it halted Valentia in her tracks until Conor bumped into her from behind.

"Careful, Val, keep moving, there's a good girl."

She shot him an irritated look, but resumed walking. She tried not to stare at the chandelier, noting other details as she glanced around. There were joined arches in the ceiling, meeting in decorated joists, all in white and gold. The floor was covered with a combination of a rich red velvet carpet and more white and gold marble. There were groups of people dressed in finery and silk chatting in clusters of chairs spread around the sumptuous lobby, women's skirts rustling as they moved. She had stopped again, taking in all the sights, when Conor took her arm and pulled her forward.

"Maggie, please take your Mistress up to her room, number 24. She seems quite out of sorts."

Valentia reclaimed her arm with a jerk. "I'm quite all right, Conor, I'm just admiring the décor. It's finer than the Monongahela House Hotel, after all."

"Hmph." Her brother sounded like their father then, "Pittsburgh is hardly New York City, after all. Do settle in. We shall meet back here in, say, two hours? We can visit the Mr. Bradenton together, and arrange what is needed. Will this give you enough time to clean up from your travels?"

"Indeed. And straight after, we shall find a place to relax, eat, and do some much needed shopping, yes?"

"Absolutely. I'm weary of seeing you in this tired old dress." He grinned at her, teasing, but she was so sick of the one outfit she had gotten in Pittsburgh. She would much rather give it a decent burial than ever wear it again.

She expected her room to be as posh as the lobby, and was not disappointed. The wallpaper was patterned velvet, had a chaise lounge, a bathing tub behind a screen, and a huge four-poster mahogany bed with curtains. She reveled in the luxury. Then the guilt rose, but she shoved it aside for now.

After changing her shift and underskirts, Maggie brushed out the tired old dress, and helped Valentia pull it on. Valentia would be thrilled to get clean clothing which fit. Maggie freshened her hair, clicking her tongue at the dust in it. Giving up, she pulled the whole thing down again, brushing it back up anew. While this torture was proceeding, Valentia considered the items she would need to purchase.

She required a new trunk, at least four new dresses, perhaps more if they could find someone to tailor them all in time. Perhaps Maggie could do seamstress work on the voyage? She wasn't as good as her mother's maid, Sarah, but she knew her way around a needle. She had the jewelry her mother had urged upon her, and must remember to retrieve it from her hemline. A new pocket, underclothes, a new set of brushes and hair combs were needed and other toiletries. She would buy ribbons to lift her mood on drab days at sea.

"Mistress? When you get your money from the lawyer, might I have funds for supplies and clothes as well?"

"Yes, of course, I had quite forgotten. If you should come with us to his office, we can send you and Brendan off directly."

"Thank you, Mistress. It's most kind."

"Of course. And do remember anything we might need for the sea voyage. I heard they recommend dilled pickles for seasickness. Perhaps see if you can get some?"

"I'll try, Mistress Valentia. There. It should do you fine." She backed up with a flourish, finished with Valentia's unruly hair.

* * *

The lawyer's office was unimpressive after the grandeur of the hotel. Dim and grimy light filled the air, illuminating wooden cabinets and desks. Clerks sat with visors over their eyes, bent over the desks writing, making a steady buzz of sound. The scratch-scritch of so many quill pens got onto Valentia's nerves, but she tried her best to block it out.

Once they entered Mr. Bradenton's office and closed the door, the clamor lessened. She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't know why she was so nervy, but was glad for the respite.

Conor had handed her father's papers to the lawyer, and he leafed through them, scanning, making sounds of agreement or surprise now and then. He said little, though occasionally he looked at one or both of them, then returned to his studies.

After much muttering and shuffling, he looked up and peered at Conor through thick spectacles, eyes squinting in the dim light.

"Everything appears reasonable and in order, young man. You will need passage for two to Galway, is this correct?"

Valentia spoke up. "Four, actually, sir. Conor's valet, Brendan and my maid, Maggie, are to accompany us."

The lawyer blinked several times, as if amazed Valentia knew how to speak. He didn't address her, but talked to Conor, and Valentia's heat rose at the slight.

"I shall arrange for four. I believe there's a steamship leaving in two days, the Great Britain. It's set to harbor in Galway, Cork, and then Liverpool. And you need funds for supplies; I shall get this for you now."

He went to a locked cabinet against the wall, fiddling through a key ring with dozens of keys of varying size. After much shuffling and grunts which put Valentia in mind of a pig rootling in its supper, he returned to the desk with several bundles of notes. He handed these to Conor and continued to ignore Valentia.

"If it should prove to be insufficient, please come back tomorrow, I shall arrange for more. I've also a name of a colleague in Galway who can help when you are in Ireland, should the need arise, Mr. Moran."

"Thank you, sir." Both Valentia and Conor said this at the same time, but Valentia's voice was louder. Again, he was surprised to hear her speak. Affronted by this, she gave him a long, hard look, turned on her heel, and strode out, confident her brother would follow.

* * *

Once they exited the office, she stood in the street, fuming as carriages passed by on the street, but not moving. She didn't trust herself to move, to say anything to Conor. Taking a few deep breaths, she instantly regretted it, as the odors and dust were thick. Coughing a few times into her kerchief, she picked a direction at random, striding with vigor. She had no purpose but to remove herself from the lawyer's office, but she walked as if she did.

She was used to dealing with her father's business associates at the farm. All of them knew her as an intelligent woman, knowledgeable about the world. Perhaps she had been spoiled. Many men considered women to be second-rate citizens, perhaps even subhuman, less intelligent than their male counterparts. This attitude would never be allowed in her mother's household, but clearly it existed here.

She was cooling off a little now, and Conor dared touch her arm. He needed to run to catch her, and little Maggie was still catching up.

"Valentia? Are you quite alright?"

She fumed. "Yes, Conor. That... that man just made me angry with his dismissal of me as a human being, someone to be addressed with respect."

"Men are just like that, Mouth, you know it."

"Yes, but it's just so... insulting! Inequitable. Infuriating! I suppose I had forgotten. Hildenbrand was one, you know. I shan't forget again."

"Yes, so infuriating to be treated like you are less than someone else, merely due to a chance of birth, isn't it, sister mine?"

She gave him a narrow look. "Indeed."

"Indeed! Oh, look. A tailor! Precisely what we need." He steered her inside. As they entered, Valentia glimpsed Maggie. Her maid was working to keep up with them, and Valentia just then remembered her promise.

"Conor, wait. I need to give money to Maggie for her own needs and supplies."

"That's great. Here's some for you and for her. I'll be inside."

Valentia doled money out to Maggie, giving instructions to meet them later in the day at the hotel. The tailor shop was dim compared to the brightness outside. Valentia had to blink several times before she saw her brother, who was already in deep conversation with a tailor. Brendan hovered behind him. She saw nothing to indicate they might cater to women, so Valentia decided waiting outside would be more interesting, and wandered back out into the street. She walked to the hardware store next door, nothing she was interested in. Walking farther, she saw a sign which read 'A. T. Stewart & Co., Dry Goods." This was more like it.

As she entered the store, she was amazed by the clutter. Her senses were buffeted by the riot of items surrounding her. There were cases full of merchandise wherever she looked. She was unused to such a mishmash. Most stores would ask the customer what they were interested in, and bring out examples to show them. This... this was like a bazaar, or a circus.

Confused by the mélange of options, her gaze lit upon colorful voile, white and navy blue striped. She did her best to thread through the displays without knocking anything over with her skirts.

The fabric was delightful, a perfect choice for a shirtwaist. She looked around for someone to help her, but saw no one. There was a rich, dark russet damask as well. It would look perfect with light rose trim.

She was deep in reverie, planning dresses and outfits, when someone behind her startled her.

"May I help you, Mistress?"

Valentia turned around to find a matron, with iron grey hair in a tight bun. She had on a dark, trim dress suit. She had no bustle, and it looked odd.

"Yes, I was looking at this lovely damask. Have you a tailor who makes dresses? Or would you, perhaps, have dresses already made up? I'm afraid we are embarking on a journey in two days, and are quite unprepared."

"Yes, Mistress, please, follow me. We have a wide selection of dresses and supplies which might be of use." She spoke in an almost military manner. She turned and dashed towards the back, while Valentia did her best to keep up. Having no bustle to knock down cases was a wise idea in this store.

As they turned into an alcove, Valentia halted. The entrance revealed an entire room of dresses. She had never seen such a thing. Rather than bringing the items out to her, the woman was bringing her to the items. What a novel concept.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the iron lady.

"May I take your measurements, Mistress? It would allow me to present to you items of the correct size. How many outfits are you looking to purchase?"

"Oh. Yes, certainly." She lifted her arms so the woman might measure her waist and bust line with her tape. "At least four, including underclothing. We were in Pittsburgh, at a hotel, when the fire occurred. Had you heard about this?"

The woman halted, her voice gentle.

"We did, just a couple of days ago. I'm so sorry. You were unharmed?"

"Yes, we were fine, but we lost everything we had with us. I'm due to sail to Ireland, so I'm afraid we are scrambling for outfits. This one I bought in Pittsburgh, but the options were scarce. I daresay it's a bit too snug for me."

"Yes, I can see that." She clicked her tongue, looking at Valentia's generous figure, thoughtful for a moment. She twirled around, bringing out a deep emerald green damask dress, with pale green lace trim.

"It's delightful!" Valentia fingered the soft fabric, noting the details of the trim.

"It will suit your complexion well, I think."

She heard Conor calling her name.

"Oh, it's my brother. I must let him know where I am. Pardon me, please." She picked up her skirts, making her way back out into the main bazaar.

"Conor? I'm back here."

"Valentia? Where? I'm coming." She heard him stumble his way through the store, kicking an occasional case in his haste, complete with exclamations of pain.

"What is this place?"

"I know it looks a bit... riotous... but they have ready-made dresses. I'm looking at one now. Did you find anything at the tailors, or will they need to create to suit?"

"No, I was able to find several in my size. Luckily they had an order from a gentleman my size who disappeared. They will craft two more for me before I leave, so I'm all set."

"Oh, good. Do wait for me, then. I shouldn't be too long. Perhaps we need something else from here?" She opened her hand and gestured at the menagerie of goods surrounding them.

"It will take me days to look at it all. My head's already swimming."

"Good, then, it shall occupy you while I make my selections." She headed back into the dress room.

A good deal later, she emerged.

"Did you find your outfits, sister dear?"

"I did, and she will deliver them to the hotel tonight. I am quite replete. Should we find supper now? I'm in need of a sweet, strong cup of tea at the very least."

Conor offered his arm, and they went in search of tea.

Chapter Four

Across the Atlantic

Their ship, the RMS Great Britain, was much larger than Valentia had imagined it to be. The two siblings spent the last day getting their purchased belongings on board and settling into their cabin. When she first saw the ship, she was awed by its strange appearance. The craft had three masts, and a column for steam, with a large paddlewheel in the center for moving in becalmed waters. There were about thirty portholes lined up along each side, though they could be gun ports. Steam power across the ocean had first occurred in 1838, she was informed by the enthusiastic young porter who helped her with her trunk. They should complete the journey within two weeks.

She had been picturing a pure sailing ship, such as the ones she saw in port. They had come from Ireland, according to the young porter, their holds filled with poor immigrants. She read the names as she saw them: Ohio, Sharon, St. Patrick, and New York. They relied on wind power, so had just the three masts. These ships were much shorter, and had a distinctive, unpleasant odor near them.

Valentia had gleaned a lot of other information from her young informant. There were more than a hundred passengers on the Britannia, and sacks of mail and cargo. A dining room and a ladies' cabin were just some of the comforts.

She would be sharing a second class stateroom with Maggie, while Conor would have one with Brendan. Her father had balked at paying for first class passage. She blanched at the tiny room when she first saw it. There were two berths, one above the other, a washbasin with a mirror, and a padded bench under the porthole. A small writing desk occupied the other end. There was room under the bed for her trunk, but not much else. She decided she could deal with such privation for the two weeks they would be sailing. Was sailing the correct word? Traveling, perhaps, was more accurate. Steaming didn't sound correct. Regardless, she foresaw herself spending much of her time above deck or in the lounge.

She discovered the ship was not going to Galway. Instead, it was going to Liverpool, England where a smaller ship would then take them to Galway.

Her brother, who had also been listening to the wealth of information offered by the porter, was rattling on about the statistics of the ship: the size of the boiler, the number of ships in the Cunard line, etc. She tuned him out while she stood on the deck, looking out at the harbor with a feeling of wistfulness.

A teeming throng of people clustered on the piers. A bedraggled line of dirty immigrants were offloading from an arriving ship. The name on the side declared it as the Ohio, bringing to mind her home and family.

She had been looking to the future since the fire. This was her last chance to look at the continent on which she had been born and raised. She missed her mother, then, with a stabbing pain in her heart. Her breath caught in a sob when she came to grips with the idea it might be months, even years, before she saw her again. She hid this, though, as Conor was still rambling on. Maggie excused herself to go down into the stateroom to arrange their room.

What had her mother imagined she was searching for? The question came back to her, unbidden. She had blocked memory of the parting along the trek from Pittsburgh to New York, afraid to open the box of fear and smoke. But now she needed to take the moment out and examine it, analyze the meaning and purpose of her mother's final words to her, declaring she was going into danger.

She was sure it wasn't the husband her father believed she was trying to find. Her mother would be content if she didn't find a man to marry. Her work on women's rights came across such women, proud of their independence, women with power of their own. Her mother would be proud if she were to become such.

The brooch was the next possibility, along with her grandmother's family, but this didn't seem correct, either. Yes, the brooch was special, worth searching for, but the intensity in Majesta's voice and eyes intimated more. But what was it? It bothered Valentia she might need to know something important about her quest. Was there anything about her grandmother's family she ought to know? Perhaps they were all dead, or would reject her out of hand. Or perhaps they were all servants or poor farmers.

She took a deep breath of the tangy sea air, so clear after the closeness of the city. It helped her think, but she still couldn't puzzle this out, at least, not yet. She had several weeks in which to do so, after all.

Instead, she focused her attention back on the stream of immigrants. They were huddled, now, a forlorn mass of browns and greys, mothers holding their infants, young men and old, looking bewildered and lost among the bustle of the busy port. A group of men burst through, dressed clean, but not rich. One of the men spoke to them.

Valentia couldn't hear anything he said, but she could see him gesticulating. The poor wretches on the dock all watched him, with blank looks. He was portly, wearing a broad, dark blue waistcoat and a black top hat. He looked wealthy, from his tailored dress. After speaking a few sentences, he turned and left. The huddled crowd, moving as one, followed in silence. The men who had accompanied him rode herd on the immigrants, keeping them together like sheep.

She wondered what had prompted such people, with no wealth left in the world, to risk the dangerous voyage across the sea. The ships they came across in weren't designed for so many people. They must be stacked up like cordwood in the holds. She wondered if her grandmother had made her journey in similar conditions. She shivered in horror.

Valentia pondered on the value of pain. Surely pain forged character and determination, but to what extent? At what point did it become oppressive, to the point it broke a person? When was it a defining moment, and when was it a destructive one? It must be different for each person. She remembered the poor family they had known on the canal ride from Pittsburgh. They had been broken, but were helping each other heal. They had a dim hope for the future, at least.

She imagined these immigrants were the same. If they were truly broken, they would have given up and stayed where they were to die. Instead, they left everything they knew, everything they loved. They sought out a new life, a new world, with no guarantees or comforts. It took a particular type of mad bravery, one she did not have. She was traveling in style, with the comfort of wealth and surety.

The ship's master shouted, and the hands scrambled around the deck like a nest of disturbed ants. She held her place, knowing if she were to move back towards the cabin, she could be in the way. They were preparing to launch away from the only land she had ever known, away from her family and her home. She had a mad impulse to leap over the side, swim back to shore, returning to her mother, but that would be folly. She looked at her brother, who had fallen silent.

Conor reached for her hand. They watched the shore, now shrouded in mists, fade away.

* * *

Three days later, Valentia was out on deck, trying with little success to draw. She had attempted it several times before, only to be thwarted by wind, rain, sea spray, or the pitch of the ship on high waves. Sometimes she was interrupted by other passengers, inquiring into her pastime or her business on the trip. This time she was determined to try her best, regardless of distractions.

She was fortunate enough to find a board before they left New York which she could modify into a drawing board. It had clips on each corner which would secure her paper in windy weather. She had the board wedged on a deck chair, her supplies next to her on another. The chairs tended to shift, but she had managed to wedge them well enough for the moment. The biggest difficulty today was the sea spray, which often threatened to douse her paper in salty water droplets.

Perhaps water colors were not the best choice. She gritted her teeth in frustration, tidying her paints into her art box, pulling out pencil and eraser for a second try.

"I see you're making great progress, Val." Conor pointed his chin at the blank paper in front of her. She fought back the urge to growl.

"An artist does more work in her head than anything she puts on paper, Con. I'm composing at the moment. Only when the creative process is complete will I commit it to physical form." She tried to maintain her dignity with this lofty explanation. The ship broke a wave, spattering a sudden spray of cold water onto her face. She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. When she opened them, she saw Conor trying not to laugh at her.

Dabbing at her wet face with her kerchief, she looked out again at the vast expanse of empty ocean. It danced and frothed with surprising beauty, green in spots, aqua, blue, even grey, depending on how the sunlight danced through the clouds above and into the murky depths. The swirls in the waves formed into the curvilinear lines of the brooch, and she was drawn to the pattern, once again seeing the blue and purple sparks she had imagined on the drawing.

She looked at Conor again, and was about to mention her vision when she saw the darkness behind him. She hadn't noticed it before, as she had been facing the opposite direction, but the clouds were approaching quickly.

She shut her mouth with an audible snap, putting her tools away. A serious storm was advancing. She now became aware of a frantic energy in the crew, who must have noticed the sky, and were scrambling to batten down the ship. She would rather not be caught out on the deck when it arrived.

Conor looked at her with confusion, then behind him, perhaps expecting a mysterious attacker. Seeing the reason for her flurry of activity, he stooped to help, picking up the drawing board. He flipped its oilcloth cover over the top of the blank paper and grabbed her art box. They hurried towards the stairs down into the hold, reaching the hatch as the first, large, heavy splats fell around them.

By the time they reached the stateroom, they could hear the furious rain pelting the decks above with no mercy, could see the sheet of rain outside the round porthole.

"Conor, here, put this under the bunk," she said as she handed him the art box.

"Better give me the paper, too, Mouth."

She handed him the thick water-color paper.

Fascinated, she watched the porthole for a while, gasping when the wind picked up, tossing the ship against the waves, as if angry at its intrusion into the oceanic realm.

Maggie lay on her bed, tinged green and miserable, as she had been since they day they left New York. She had occasional periods of lucidity, sometimes even managing to take broth, but mostly she was ill and useless for anything but lying in her bunk. They were informed no one ever died of seasickness, but only wished they would. Valentia assessed her young maid with a critical eye, deciding there might always be a first time. She knew better than to try to get the young girl to eat anything with a storm, though. The best thing she could do was ensure the girl was as comfortable as possible until the weather calmed. This involved making sure both the chamber pot and a bucket were close, and she had water to drink.

She was feeling queasy herself, as the ship continued to ride wave after wave. The claustrophobic cabin rocked at alarming angles. She shooed Conor off to his own room, and scrambled up into her bunk, thinking it might be easier if she was lying down. She held on to the bar affixed to the wall as her world pitched up and down, up and down in an endless nightmare.

Swallowing hard, Valentia tried to concentrate on other things. She closed her eyes, and remembered listening to her mother sing while playing the piano, when they had guests over. The family had been entertaining several couples from Canton for the weekend. Her mother's clear, sweet voice cut through the sound of water lashing against the side of the ship, the tune drowning out the frenzied shouts of the crew above.

A loud crash brought her back to reality. Another crash, and a bone-rattling boom! shook the entire ship, as if they had hit a rock. But that was impossible since they were in the middle of the ocean, miles from any land. The shouting above was more frantic now, punctuated with the sound of running bare feet and whistles. Another boom followed, though not as shocking, and then she heard the ripping of canvas. It might be a sail, though she remembered the crew shipping the sails when they saw the storm approaching.

She drifted into a haze of confusion, waiting for the next wave to hit, to crash against the hull and engulf them in the drowning waves of the furious ocean. She suffered the righteous anger of the sea god Manannán mac Lir, punishing them for the centuries of violation by humankind. The constant barrage of sound and fury battered her senses. The smells of fear and salt water mingled into an unforgettable mélange. She closed her eyes, in a futile attempt to block out the chaos. Dizziness pulled her through the brooches' lines once again, glowing blue and purple. The colors turned into malicious waves, shoving her around in the dim light of her terror. The horrific sound and smell of Maggie retching in the bunk below her drew her attention inexorably back to the present, and she resisted her own urge to vomit.

It seemed like hours passed when the rocking finally eased. Valentia unwound her hand, still gripping the bar on the wall. She eased herself off the upper bunk, down to Maggie's pitiful form. She found a rag and wiped the poor girl's mouth, trying comfort her. Maggie heaved again, and she was just able to skip back before the bit of stinking, yellow bile splashed into the bucket by the bedside.

The door opened and Conor walked in, shaking, holding onto the walls as the ship continued to pitch and roll. Brendan followed, looking green as well.

"Is there any news from the deck?" Valentia inquired as she wiped Maggie's mouth again.

"Here, Mistress. Allow me." Brendan took the rag from her hands and she gratefully retreated to the bench.

"Nothing comprehensible, no. It does seem like the fury has somewhat subsided, but it might just be me getting used to the rhythm of the storm."

She grinned at him, "I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps it's lessening after all. Did you hear a crash earlier?"

"I did, but I couldn't even begin to guess what it might have been. There are so many things above decks to break: the paddle wheel, a mast, a hatch cover, even the steam pipe may have gotten hit, though I imagine it would have made a more metallic sound. It sounded like wood breaking. How's Maggie doing?"

"She's miserable. She was miserable before the storm began."

"Why don't you go lie down in your bed for a while?" Conor's voice was gentle.

"No, it's better if I'm keeping my own mind off the lurching waves. Oh...." The mere mention of the waves was enough to send her own stomach into backflips once again. She swallowed hard and managed to keep down her gorge.

They spent time, then, chatting, talking of home things, people they were missing, games they used to play as children, dreams they had. Valentia told one of their grandmother's tales. Conor knew them as well as she did, but they drew comfort from the telling. She was in a foul, depressed mood, so Deirdre of the Sorrows came to mind.

"There was once a great king in Ireland, proud and strong. He was named Conchobar, and he listened to the wise counsel of his Druid in all things. When the royal storyteller had a daughter named Deirdre, his Druid foretold she would be a creature of rare beauty. Her beauty would be so compelling, so magical, that she would bring great sorrow if she were to marry a king.

"To protect her and his kingdom, King Conchobar had her raised in a tower, apart from all men except the king and her foster father. She grew up tall and slender, with hair like the midnight sky at midwinter, alabaster skin and rose-red lips. Conchobar grew to love her, despite the prophecy.

"But, like many maidens, she didn't go quietly to her fate. She had dreamt of a young man, a hero who came to her, with raven hair and a young heart. She informed her faithful nurse of her dreams, and her nurse knew she dreamt of Noísi, a Son of Uisneach. He was a mighty warrior, cousin to the famous Cú Chulainn.

"Besotted by her dreams, Deirdre placed a spell upon the young man, a géis, so he would fall madly in love with her, and so he did. He followed his heart to her tower, and, with the help of her brothers, stole her away from Conchobar.

"Conchobar, enraged by this betrayal, chased them all over the land, across hills and into valleys, over rivers and through villages. Exhausted by the constant running, the fugitives escaped to Scotland to marry.

"The King of the Picts, who ruled that land, was also smitten by Deirdre's rare beauty, so they were forced to escape again. Conchobar sent a message saying they could return in peace, so they believed him. But he had treachery in mind, and when he had them in his power, he killed Noísi and his brothers. This treachery began a war between the people of the land, bringing the prophecy true, despite all the king's attempts to avoid the tragedy.

"Deirdre of the Sorrows then wasted away for a year, lamenting her lost love, Noísi. She then took her own life, ending the tale of love, betrayal, and lost hope."

Would she ever find love? Something so powerful, so demanding, that she would die rather than live without it? Valentia didn't think it likely. She was too enamored of life to just throw it away.

Later, as the sea calmed, they spied blue sky above in the water-washed porthole. Not much, but it offered hope of relief.

As the passengers emerged from below decks, they stared in confusion at the mess and chaos above. A lesser mast had cracked near the top, falling down on the deck, pulling with it a sail and a tangle of ropes. The deck crew was already working on repairs, as the storm had passed, disappearing as rapidly as it had appeared.

* * *

That night, the sky was clear and crisp, a beautiful spread of glittering stars, spread like glowing sand across a black surface. Valentia stood on deck with Conor while Brendan tended Maggie. They didn't talk much, but gazed up in amazement and wonder at the beauty laid out before them. Such things were not attainable on earth, but she sensed she could reach out her hand and swish the stars like a faery pool, creating eddies and swirls in the midnight ocean above.

A younger girl asked Conor a question, giggling at his response. This particular exchange had taken part several times over the last few days, as her supply of giggles seemed to be endless. Valentia had little time for flirting, giggling girls, so she usually absented herself when the courting rituals began. However, she was loath to leave the serenity of this night sky, not wanting to waste the chance.

Conor was enjoying the attention. He flirted not just with the giggler, who was a petite thing with a heart-shaped face and a mop of blond curls, but with her older, plainer sister and their cousin, who was Valentia's own age. She seemed to recall their names were Agatha, Emily, and perhaps Amanda? The older one should know better, but she left them to her folly. Conor wasn't interested in any of them, he had told her as much the second day out.

She heard splashing to the port side, and, curious, went to see what might be making such a sound. They were halfway across the sea now, in cold waters. Going above decks always meant wrapping up in a warm cloak. Was it perhaps an iceberg? Would icebergs splash?

When she peered over, trying to see in the starlight and dim moon, she saw movement on the surface of the water, a low, flat, wet surface, reflecting the stars above in an odd smooth mirror. A crewman yelled out then, "Whale, ho!"

A whale! Peering at it, she could see a blowhole. How large was it? The huge shape flipped up out of the water. What must be the behemoth's tail lifted high and hesitated, vertical for a moment. With an odd hollow sound which rung across the night, the tail smacked down with a furious crack! onto the black water.

At the crewman's shout, the Giggle Brigade rushed over to her side of the deck. They broke the serenity with their babbling, pointing with wonder, oohs and aahs, at the sea creature. She stole a glance over to Conor, who was smiling over his flock of hens.

There was an odd glow on the horizon, and she pointed it out to Conor. The green and blue light, with a hint of red along the edges, seemed to vibrate with a strange pulse, shifting like a bright ribbon, undulating in invisible cosmic winds. It reminded her of the strange blue lights in her dreams.

"What is it, do you think?" She was mesmerized by the color and the wonder of it.

"I believe it's what they call the Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights. The Indians believe they are dancing spirits of children who died at birth, or perhaps the spirits of animals. I think the Greek attributed them to ancient heroes who were doing battle in the heavens. I didn't think they were visible this late in the year, though."

"So incredibly beautiful. Where do you know such things from, Con?"

He grinned, "From a porter who helped us with our luggage, Wee Johnnie. He's full of stories of legend and lore. He's seen this sight several times, now, he claimed. His descriptions don't do it justice, though."

The ribbon of light flickered and danced, and they heard a low hum, like a train was coming, but not so harsh or loud. The sound was slight, almost ethereal, matching the colors flitting in the heavens.

A fitting reward for enduring the fury of the storm.

* * *

The next few days passed on without major incident. Valentia relaxed enough to speak with the other passengers. Most were English, heading home after visiting relatives or conducting business in America. They were mostly upper class, as the fare for such a journey was expensive. Some were merchants, but Valentia didn't consider it to be a barrier for civilized discussion, at least in a public setting. After all, her grandfather had been a merchant who had done well, marrying his daughter Majesta to a wealthy landowner. They were, at least, interesting.

Her preference for solitude could only go so far on a ship with one hundred and fifteen passengers, so she made herself mingle more than she wished.

One gentleman, a Mr. Pursell, owned an enormous estate in the lowlands of Scotland, near Jedburgh Abbey. He was an older man, with enormous mustaches, and a huge paunch which told of years of fine living, and infrequent, if any, exercise. He said his hills were covered in sheep. His wool business had taken him to New York to sell in a fresh market. His companion, a landowner who specialized in cattle, was named Mr. Chaucer. This notable man claimed descent from the famous writer, Geoffrey Chaucer, quoting the author often and at inappropriate times. In contrast to Mr. Pursell, Mr. Chaucer was a tall, thin, skeletal man, who looked like he might snap in two whenever he swayed.

A group of ladies aboard tried to engulf Valentia in their sewing circle.

"Come, dear, do please join us!"

"Oh, no, my talents lay in brushes and pencils, not needles." She talked to them about clothing, and fashion, though, when she felt sociable. The ladies all hailed from an area of England called The Cotswolds. Such an odd placename. It doesn't even sound proper English. Must be a relic of a previous people. She had a difficult time keeping track of the ladies' names. They were, as a rule, round, plump and grey; soft and sweet, filled with sugar and no substance. She named them the Pudding Party.

The dining lounge was smaller than the deck. To date, Maggie had avoided mealtimes. However, today she joined them for luncheon.

As they walked to their assigned table, which they shared with the Pudding Party, Valentia showed Maggie her empty seat. The young maid took it, eyes down. She was not used to sitting with the upper classes, but the ship had no separate seating for servants. Most, like Brendan, took their luncheon in the stateroom, but the place still reeked of Maggie's earlier indispositions. Valentia conceded this when Conor argued for Maggie's inclusion at their table.

The meals were nothing sumptuous, but they were at least filling and tasty. Today's offering was a thick, hearty seafood chowder, with fresh-baked bread. The last of the fresh fruit was out for them to indulge upon, so Valentia relished the last of the sweet berries, mushy though they were. She ate too fast, though, having to stop to cough into her kerchief. She was light-headed after this, so slowed down. Maggie looked down at her bowl, and wondered what was wrong with the poor girl. Wasn't she hungry?

Then Conor offered Maggie the bread, and she accepted, flashing him a grateful smile. She was shy about asking for it, but the dish sat out of her reach on the table. Valentia marveled at the accommodation made when servants dined with their masters. It made little sense to her, but space was indeed at a premium on such a ship, so such accommodation did indeed need to be made.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Valentia realized a lady had asked her a question while she had been woolgathering.

"I asked if you had been overseas before, my dear." Valentia vaguely recalled her name was Mistress Chalmers.

"No, this is my first time. It's quite exciting."

"Well, I suppose it would be, for a young gal your age, wouldn't it? It's a bit more pedestrian when you've seen all we've seen in the world." At this, the other ladies agreed, sounding like a clutch of cackling chickens. The noise comforted her, reminding her of the farm at home.

Conor then asked, "And how many times have you been over, Mistress Abernathy?" Trust Conor to know all their names.

"Oh, I've been three times to America, now. My daughter moved there to live with her American husband, and I quite enjoy the journey. I've gone to be with each grandchild as they are born." More cackling and congratulating kept the table going for a while.

Valentia couldn't imagine crossing the ocean three times—no, this would be the sixth voyage, returning each time. It must be difficult for someone of such advanced years as these ladies. They had weathered the storm well enough, as they looked none the worse for wear afterwards.

She was woozy at the memories of their storm-tossed adventure. Trying to calm her stomach, she breathed in and out several times.

"Are you feeling ill, sister? You look faded."

"No, no, I'll be quite all right. I'm just queasy at the moment." She took a sip of water, breathing in several more times.

"Let me take you to your room, so you can lie down. Just for a bit, yes? You'll be grand by evening."

Reluctant, she let Conor escort her to the bunk, giving him a faint smile in thanks.

"You take such good care of me, brother, what should I do without you?"

"You'd survive, Val. You're resourceful." He kissed her hand, patting it into place on the bunk next to her, and left to go entertain the Pudding Party.

* * *

Maggie discovered Valentia hadn't been the only one feeling ill. At first, she thought she had eaten bad food at luncheon, but then discovered others were feeling unwell before breakfast. Several people had sore throats, and were flushed with fever. Valentia scratched at her own red rash, evidently unable to resist. Conor and Brendan had also contracted the illness, and Maggie was working hard to nurse them all, oddly unaffected by the fever. She was still seasick, but not as bad as those stricken with the fever.

Half the crew were ill by this time, and the surgeon declared it an outbreak of the Yellow Jack. This had a horribly high rate of mortality, particularly in an enclosed place such as a ship. There was nothing they could do but try to keep those affected as comfortable as possible, and treat the fever, pain and nausea.

Maggie came into the room, which was thick with the stench of sickness—hot skin, sweat, and human waste. She tried to keep the place as clean as she could, but with both of them ill, the task was nigh impossible. She put down the basin of cool sea water, and mopped both Mistress Valentia's brow and Master Conor's. They thrashed against the straps which held them down, but didn't wake. They were both insensible, and the best solution was to secure them to the bunks in Mistress Valentia's room. This way she could tend both and sleep in Master Conor's room and tend to Brendan, then snatch a few moments of rest.

She tried to spoon broth into her Mistress' mouth, but managed only to dribble it onto her cheek when she jerked and moaned. Maggie sighed, cleaned her up, and tried with Master Conor. She had a little more success with him, but then he retched. She moved his head to the side, affixing the bucket in place, and he threw up what little she had managed to coax down his throat. He wasn't looking good at all. After much begging on her part, the surgeon had been in to see him, but they could do nothing more.

It wasn't fair. She had always sensed kindness and true friendship from Master Conor. To see him slip away from life before her eyes was a cruel twist of fate. If she could get a little more of the broth into him, perhaps she could save him. Brendan was slipping away as well. Mistress Valentia seemed to be recovering, but she had fallen ill earlier than he had. Just a bit of broth...

A loud knock on the state room door startled her from her efforts, and she spilled half of the bowl onto the lower bunk, soaking Conor and his clothes with lukewarm broth. She cursed under her breath, but got up to open the door.

The surgeon, looking much the worse for wear, bustled in past her, doing his daily check of both patients. He lifted Mistress Valentia's eyelids, listened to her heart, smelled her breath, and touched her skin. Then he performed the same on Master Conor.

"The lad's doing better. I have hope for him. Why is he soaked? The young lady, however, hasn't yet improved. Can you not take better care of them? " He glared at her, but didn't wait for an answer. He strode out of the door, as he had other patients to tend to. The heat of his skin surprised Maggie as he passed, he must be getting the fever as well.

After he left, she went about the task of cleaning up the broth, and changing Conor and his bed clothing. She took the soiled mass out to the laundry, and worked on cleaning them. She scrubbed, hard, over and over, getting her frustrations out in the hard, heavy work. It made her feel better to be doing something. She was so helpless with the two in her care.

Maggie had a fierce loyalty to them all. They were her family, though they were also her employers. But young Master Conor she liked most of all. He had treated her like a young lady who happened to be helping them out.

No one noticed her tears in the hot, steaming laundry room near the ship's boilers. The steam and sweat mingled on her face, and streamed unnoticed down her reddened cheeks.

The next days were filled with nothing but sweat, vomit and pain. Maggie bounced between her three charges, praying during any precious stolen moment of rest. The crew had no one to spare to help her since many of them were ill as well. Sometimes Valentia would wake up and sound lucid, only to fall again into a fevered frenzy. Conor would toss and turn, moaning in pain and heat. She moved between despair and hope for each so quickly each day. She had never felt more bone-tired in her life.

* * *

Tears ran unbidden down Maggie's face again. Had they ever ceased? She didn't think so. She wrapped his body with precision and care into the burial shroud. What was left was so absent of animating vitality. The skin was still angry from the fever which had stolen the life force. It hadn't been a proper shroud, such as her grandmother would have embroidered for her husband, her sons, and herself. She was lucky to have this length of sailcloth. So many people had expired from the sickness, they were running short of shrouds to bury them at sea.

Her tears were staining the rough, thick canvas, making star-like patterns in the off-white cloth. She halted and stared at them, dazed and confused at the results, until someone walked by on the deck. Maggie got back to the task at hand. At least she was able to do something. She felt so helpless, so lost with no one to guide her.

Mistress Valentia was still ill, though past the danger of death, according to the surgeon. Brendan was still hanging on. Master Conor hadn't been so strong. He would be buried with the others at a funeral in the afternoon. The captain had survived, but at least a third of the crew had succumbed, either having died or remained too ill to work. The passengers had been drafted to help with the sails, cooking, running of the ship, to help those who could not.

When she was done, Master Conor lay among the other shrouded bodies. Maggie gazed at them with dull eyes. She imagined they were lumps of grey dirt, in fresh dug graves, mounds of sadness and despair. She saw the smaller mounds, children who had fallen to the horrid fever, and she mourned the loss of the young lives she had never even met. She felt numb, worthless, and adrift.

Ragged sobs came from below decks, a constant sound the last several days, as families mourned those they had lost. The continuous moaning bore into her soul, leaving her in despair. The children had more often succumbed to the disease, and the elderly. She wondered if any of the older ladies were left, the ones who shared their table at the final luncheon.

The captain came in and surveyed the area. There were still a couple of ladies sewing up other bodies, people who had no family or servants to do it for them. He announced they would begin the funeral ceremony in an hour's time.

Mistress Valentia was still not sensible, so Maggie made sure she had taken broth, and mopped her brow. She tested the straps to ensure they were secure, and left to pay her final respects to Master Conor.

The sea spray was cold and sharp, stinging her face like nettles, but she embraced this pain as an accepted punishment, a retribution for her failure to save him. She would have rather died in his place, him always ready with a smile and a joke. She still couldn't believe he was gone, though she had sewn him into his burial garb with her own hands.

The Captain read a prayer from his Bible.

Maggie couldn't hear what he was saying, even though no other soul spoke on deck, except the ever-present sobbing. She wasn't certain if this was real, or haunting her imagination. She looked at the grey lump that was Master Conor, cannonball for company in his sailcloth bag, being sent into a cold, watery grave below. She believed they were still about five days from port. The first splash sounded. A body sent into the deep, then another. She held her breath against the sound of Conor's final journey. She prayed to God above He would take the young master into His arms.

The salt spray mingled with her salty tears. She closed her eyes against the pain of both.

* * *

"But sir, she's terribly weak. She must be able to come up on deck and get sunshine. She's wasting away below decks. Please, sir, let me bring her up."

"I'm sorry, she must remain in her quarters. Before Doctor Fentiman died, he said those who had survived the fever could still spread it, and I'm taking no chances. She remains in her hold until we dock, and that's it. At least it will be soon." And with that, the Captain left.

At least they were going to arrive in a few days. They had changed their destination after the sickness. Fewer able hands meant they would dock in Galway to replace the lost crew. Maggie could remove her Mistress there, rather than journey to Liverpool and back again via another ship. They couldn't deny her this, at the least. Taking her off the ship, she vowed to find a place for Mistress Valentia to heal.

She had talked with the older ladies about this at luncheon. All the ladies had survived, despite their advanced age. They had already had bouts with this particular fever in their youth, and didn't contract it again. They'd chattered with her at lunch, though Maggie had been too shy to contribute much to the conversation. She had, however, inquired after a doctor in Galway.

Mistress Sutcliffe, a tiny lady who reminded Maggie of Mistress Majesta, mentioned there was an excellent spa south of Galway, in a town with the unlikely name of Lisdoonvarna.

"It isn't a grand place, like Bath, but it has healing springs, and there are a few guest houses which can be let out. They were building a hotel last time I visited. It will do wonders for your Mistress, truly it will. Do go there and tell Captain William Stacpoole I said he must take you in. He's my husband's cousin, you know."

Maggie didn't know, but she noted the name with gratitude. She had little hope it would gain her any benefit. She was a servant, and would have to arrange things herself. There were many barriers to this, the first of which would be to find the lawyer they were sent to see about money.

She had the papers which were sent with Master Conor. But this was well outside her area of expertise, and she had pulled her hair in frustration at the task. Maggie knew her own job and did it well. She was a dutiful Lady's Maid. The tears came again, thinking of Master Conor, swallowing soup to cover up the pricking of her eyes. The ladies were engrossed in their discussion, which had moved on to garden parties in Bath.

Later that night, Brendan also lost his struggle and passed away.

* * *

When Maggie returned to the state room after lunch, she went to spoon broth in Mistress Valentia's mouth. She was startled when Valentia's eyes sprang open, blinking. They were hollow and gummy from the fever, but no longer burning and red.

"What... what happened, Maggie?"

Her voice was cracked and dry from long disuse, but she forced the words through her parched throat.

"You've been ill, Mistress Valentia, but you're getting better. Here, have more broth. You've gotten quite thin, and you need your strength." Maggie moved a spoonful of the now cool broth up to her Mistress' lips.

"Are we... there yet?"

Maggie smiled wanly. "No, Mistress, but we will be in a couple of days. We'll be docking in Galway after all, so we won't have to backtrack. Take more broth, now." She managed to get several spoonfuls in before she was stopped by a weak hand on her arm.

"Conor? Where's Conor?"

"He was sick as well, Mistress." Maggie didn't want to tell her yet about his death. She was still so frail, so weak. Best wait until she had recovered her strength.

"Where is he?" She refused more broth, struggling to sit up. The bowl slipped from Maggie's hands and warm liquid slopped over the edge.

Maggie looked down at the bowl. "He... he didn't recover, Mistress Valentia. I'm so sorry." She looked up into her grief-stricken face. "I tried my best, Mistress, truly I did. I took the best care of him I knew how, but the fever was too strong." She pleaded with her eyes for forgiveness, understanding, and absolution.

She found none.

"No... no, it couldn't possibly be true... this is a horrible jest, Maggie, it is! You must tell me the truth now!"

Maggie lowered her eyes.

"No! I won't believe this. I can't believe this. How could he have...? Maggie? Maggie! Answer me! How could you let him die?" She grabbed Maggie's arms and shook her. Maggie flopped like a rag doll, back and forth, until what little strength Valentia had ran out.

With a hitch in her breath, Valentia turned away, refusing to speak or take broth. She ignored Maggie's urgings, attempts to help, or explain. While she was too weak to do anything for herself, she was determined not to accept any help at the moment.

Maggie set the bowl of cold broth and the spoon down. She tidied up the few things in the room, leaving for the deck above. She would give the Mistress time and space to mourn her brother.

* * *

Back in the room, as Valentia heard the door close, she gave in to the tears she had been choking back. They came in racking sobs, sending her weakened body into convulsions and tremors. She cried until the tears came no more. She sobbed herself into dry heaves, flashes of Conor's cheerful grin and red curly hair flooding her mind. Fond memories of them as children, playing in a treehouse, or playing a song on the piano together came unbidden. She recalled their travels on the river, and his earnest protection of her.

Valentia had never been a fervent religious person, though she believed. They had all been raised Methodist, and she went to church every Sunday, as she ought. Now, however, she railed against an omnipotent and benevolent God. How could he have taken Conor, who didn't have a cruel bone in his body? Where was the blasted justice? Where was the equity, the fairness?

She sobbed herself to sleep, wrapping her emaciated arms around her aching body, rocking to the rhythm of the ocean, where her beloved brother's body lay in eternal repose.
Part II

"Fare well my dear child and pray for me, and I shall for you and all your friends that we may merrily meet in heaven."

Sir Thomas More

Chapter Five

Arrivals

Maggie considered herself capable. She hadn't imagined she'd be able to, but she managed to get her Mistress off the ship, installed her into a room at an inn by the sea, and retrieved all of the baggage—including Master Conor's. Maggie's breath caught at her memory of him. She had been so fond of him, and now his body was rotting at the bottom of the cold ocean. Brendan had been buried the next day. Maggie hadn't known him as well, since he had only begun working with the family the year before. Now she regretted not having gotten to know the older man.

She hung her head and continued her walk. She was looking for the lawyer's office, asking random people for directions on the way.

The landlady at the inn had given her some, but such things were slippery in Ireland. The streets were not in proper grids as those in most American cities, for one thing. For another, the streets seemed to have no actual names. A few had nicknames, perhaps for a particular shop or tavern along its route, but if you didn't know this, there was no way to tell where you were.

The city had charm in spades. The lovely old place had buildings hundreds of years old, and the people she spoke to were helpful and solicitous. They tended to answer her questions with questions of their own, which added to her already high level of frustration.

"Oh, the lawyer's office? Well, do you know where the wheelwright's shop is?"

"Why should she know the wheelwright's shop if she's asking about the lawyer?"

"Sure, and many who know the wheelwright have never needed the lawyer."

"Ah, and you'll confuse the poor lass. Here, darlin', you just go down this street..."

Eventually, she got comprehensible directions from a pair of green grocers. She tripped a couple of times on the rough cobblestone streets while looking up at the shop names, trying to find a landmark the landlady had mentioned in her long list. Had she been meant to turn at the Blue Bull? Or perhaps this was where she was to go straight? Her head spun and she considered sobbing in frustration. Sitting down beside the street for a moment she tried to collect her wits.

A carriage came barreling straight for her. She scrambled back up and pressed against the wall, making herself a smaller target.

Looking left and right, she chose a direction, deciding it must be the right way. She skipped over a river of slops which ran along the edge of one street, and marched along.

* * *

Valentia was so weak from her illness, she could barely stand up on her own. She wasn't used to such helplessness. She had never broken a leg or been otherwise confined to a bed, and she chaffed at the restrictions. She had to trust Maggie to care for her, but was the girl capable of making the arrangements to travel to Lisdoonvarna? They had counted on Conor being able to make the plans. A sob caught her by surprise, and she pushed the memory away.

The servant girl was off to find the office of the lawyer recommended by Mr. Bradenton. She had learned Moran was a common name in Ireland, so she hoped it wouldn't be too difficult.

Galway, from what little she could see of it on her journey from the port to the hotel, was a much larger and older than she had imagined. She was used to the newer cities of America, not this seven-hundred year-old stronghold. Ancient archways vied with modern buildings, and fresh-laid cobblestone streets clashed with medieval wells. Maggie mentioned a new university opening in the city, which she wouldn't have imagined in the west coast of Ireland, but then, she hadn't imagined it would be this crowded, either.

As a port, Galway had been a busy hub of activity for hundreds of years. It was far enough west it wasn't as troubled during the centuries of English oppression. The Tribes of Galway, who had incorporated the city were still in power, and had odd non-Irish names, such as D'Arcy, French, or Bodkin.

The hotel was a simple one compared to the splendor of the Astor in New York. There were but four rooms, and they were tiny, with dingy, peeling paint and grimy windows. They would be here only until they could move to the spa town, but Valentia's skin crawled in such a shabby place. She scratched at the idea of lice, not knowing if her irritation was real or her own active imagination. She wished Maggie would hurry.

Valentia decided she needed to be busy. While her physical strength was still non-existent, her mind was coherent and ached for activity. She had tried writing a long, tearful letter to her parents, explaining what had happened on the voyage, choking up at the memory of her brother, but clamped down hard on the feeling. She must get command of her emotions. Unable to finish, she had torn it into pieces and tossed it.

She pulled herself up with care and went to her bag. She rifled about inside until she found her drawing pad and pencils. With these prizes in hand, she made her way back to the bed, but stumbled, crying out in pain and frustration. Being helpless was maddening! She pulled herself up using a spindly chair, and sat, drained. She breathed in and out, at first shallow then deep, fighting for control over her lungs, her body.

Sometime later, her breathing once again under control, she arranged herself so she could see out the window. She attempted to throw up the sash so she could see the street below with more clarity. It proved too much for her, so she resigned herself to drawing through the fog of dirt.

Perhaps she could add it as part of the feel of the work. She was working in pencil, so the monochromatic feel already lent itself to melancholy and despair, matching her mood. She experienced no joy at her arrival in Ireland. She would much rather have stayed in Ohio where her brother would still be alive.

Valentia pushed the thought away, remembering her promise to herself not to think of Conor yet. Later, when she had strength once again.

She scratched her anger into the rough paper of her drawing pad, strong, bold lines, with rough sketches, heavy strokes. This wasn't her normal style; her strokes were angry, harsh, heavy and cruel. The lines of the street became accusations, and the dim fog of the dirt became despair. She barely noticed when the heavy drops of her tears made blossoms of rain upon her street scene.

Chapter Six

Recovery

The journey had been difficult. They both expected to go overland, but Mr. Moran explained how much easier it would be to go by boat. It hadn't been a grand liner such as the RMS Great Britain, but a smaller schooner, almost a fishing boat. Maggie had spent the entire trip sicker than her Mistress. Luckily, the journey was only four hours, followed by a slower carriage trip from Doolin Harbour into town.

Valenita gazed out at the landscape as they approached the Royal Spa Hotel in Lisdoonvarna, seeing the gorgeous green rolling hills, spotted with grey, odd-shaped stones, almost organic, growing out of the land. There were diagonal rocks on the dock where they landed, jutting out of the earth almost as if dropped by a giant. No wonder there were so many stone fences in this land—they had to put all the rock someplace.

The air was cleaner than she expected. The fresh, sea-laden salty air tanged her tongue and swept through her hair, lifting her curls as if caressing her. Closing her eyes and breathing the aromas in, savoring the clarity and sweetness of it, she felt energized and capable, ready to take on the world.

The new hotel was more luxurious than the horrible little place in Galway, but still smaller than she expected. True, it had lush decorations, with rich patterns on the walls, plaster cornice details on the ceilings, and thick, plush carpeting. The rooms were still tiny, though, and she had to share one with Maggie, as there weren't many available. She was also trying to conserve her funds, knowing it would require a trip back to Galway to secure more, unless she made other arrangements. Until she had recovered and was ready to pursue her quest again, she was loath to do so.

The baths themselves were decadent, as well. The metallic mineral waters soothed her, and allowed her to drift into a fog of forgetfulness. She fell into a reverie, stripping away her worries of the day, of the past, and of the future. The heat was almost like a drug, an addiction to letting go her troubles. She faded into an empty place, devoid of sound, of touch, or of pain.

Valentia considered the value of pain before, and she reexamined the idea, once she could touch it again. It was such a driving force in so many things, a way to separate the wheat from the chaff. Which would it be for her? She had lived a coddled life until this trip, sheltered from true hardship, pain, and discomfort. Her family protected her, kept her from seeing what could happen to people. She was grateful, but now she suspected perhaps it had been a disservice. Would she have been better able to deal with the loss of her brother if she had been exposed to more as a child?

Maggie felt like more than a servant. She was a nursemaid, mother, and even, on occasion, a teacher. She helped Valentia learn to walk again, and how to take care of herself when Maggie needed to be elsewhere. Their friendship had blossomed into a true partnership, a real affection between sisters of the heart. They both had shared a love of Conor, and his loss bonded them forever.

Valentia spent most of her days drawing or painting in the salon of the hotel, ensconced near the large bay windows. The hotel was situated on a hill, commanding a serene view of the hills. A faint sparkle of the sea in the distance could be seen on a clear day. In June, the days were long and often bright. Valentia captured these images in various media, healing as she worked. Beauty was such a gift, and she considered it her calling to capture a small piece of it and share it with others.

"And what is Mistress Valentia working on this morning?"

Valentia came out of her reverie to find the Head Butler, Quilty, peering at her latest efforts.

"I'm not certain, Quilty. I wanted to paint the sky in watercolors, but I'm unhappy with the results. I may scrap it and begin again." She had become friendly with the staff as she recovered, no longer as constrained by class restrictions. There was great value in being able to converse with them all, as they had been most helpful in their efforts. Valentia relished this new-found delight, like a secret kept from the rest of the world, a secret of her very own and a fitting legacy from her brother.

"If Mistress Valentia would indulge me, I believe there are other guests who would be pleased to meet you. Would you care to join them for luncheon?"

She hadn't accepted previous invitations of this sort, as she had little strength for socializing. However, she was feeling adventurous today. Her work wasn't cooperating with her efforts, so she decided to take a chance.

"I think I shall, Quilty. Are they serving now? Or do I have time to change?"

"They will be serving in an hour, Mistress Valentia. May I escort you to your room?"

She took his hand, leaving her painting supplies, as Quilty assured her they would be put away. She inclined her head in appreciation, glad Maggie had found her such a suitable place to stay.

Later, fresh coifed and dressed in a smart cream-colored dress with crimson piping, Quilty arrived to escort her downstairs. Valentia asked if Maggie might join them.

"I would recommend against it at this time, Mistress Valentia. Perhaps later, when you are better acquainted with the gentlemen?"

Oh, so it's 'gentlemen', is it? She had seen the other guests around the hotel, at the spa, or in the lounge. Most were older ladies. She had chatted with several, but they didn't often stay more than a day or two. Occasionally a couple attended, but more often, the men left their wives to the spa as they went off to hunt, conduct business, or travel. A single gentleman was an oddity, two traveling together even more so. She speculated as to their purpose.

Although she had made tentative inquiries into her grandmother's family, she needed to travel north to County Donegal to begin the search in earnest in the town of Ardara. She'd heard that part of the country was windswept, forsaken, and mountainous, but it was all she had been able to discover. The journey would be long, and she was not yet ready.

Therefore, the gentlemen in question were unlikely to have anything to do with her quest or her inquiries. Why, then, had they requested her company? She took Quilty's arm, using her cane for balance, and they made their way down to the dining room.

The room was spacious, well lit with large, wide windows and a tall ceiling. A fountain in the center piped in the healing mineral waters for drinking, with several large tables throughout. Most of them were filled with guests, this being high season. She acknowledged several she had met earlier. She sought out, and found, the table where they were headed, making her assessment of the gentlemen who stood at her arrival.

The two men were both of a height. The older one appeared to be in his forties, with wavy brown hair and a long, sharp nose, balanced by wide lips. The younger man had dark, curling hair as well, with hooded, dark eyes. He looked about thirty. Both looked smart, dressed in dark suits with cream silk cravats. As one, they bowed to her.

Quilty presented them to her as William Smith O'Brien and John Mitchel, respectively. Each man took her hand, pronouncing themselves charmed at her acquaintance. Thus introduced, she sat down.

Valentia began. "I understand you gentlemen wished to speak to me. May I inquire as to why?" She looked at each one in turn, looking for a clue with guileless eyes. The men looked at each other with dismay, then the younger man spoke.

"Truly, Mistress, there was no motive other than the joy of your company. We observed you eating alone yesterday, and imagined we might offer you entertainment today."

With this, his companion gave a brief 'hmph' reminding Valentia of her father.

"Do you not agree with Mr. Mitchel's statement, Mr. O'Brien? Or do you consider it an inadequate explanation, as I do?"

"I agree his statement is frivolous, though true. Personally, I admired your appreciation for solitude. Had you rejected our offer of company, I would have been satisfied to honor it. However, I am most appreciative of your presence." He didn't look as if he was in the habit of smiling.

This declaration made Valentia pause, as he hadn't looked the sort to offer such an elegant compliment. She was stunned, but Mitchel rescued her.

"You shall make the young lady blush, O'Brien, for shame! My dear lady, please accept my apologies on my companion's behalf. His sense of decorum sometimes leads him to flowery language. I prefer a simple gesture, myself. If I may?" With this, he offered to pour her tea. Grateful for the distraction, she inclined her head in acceptance. While occupied with the ritual of preparing her tea, the two men told her about themselves.

Mr. O'Brien redeemed his former stuffiness with an easier, conversational tone. "Are you enjoying your stay in our emerald island, Mistress McDowell?"

"I am indeed, Mr. O'Brien. Though I've not yet gotten to see much but this spa, as of yet. I was quite ill when we arrived."

He raised his eyebrows, but did not make further inquiries into her health. It is presumed anyone at a Spa is there for some health-related reason. To ferret out the details would be vulgar.

"We arrived shortly after the last Parliamentary session ended." O'Brien nodded at Mitchel to include him.

"Parliament? Are you both politicians, then?"

"Indeed. We are active campaigners for Home Rule."

"Home Rule? You mean, for Ireland to break free of the British government?"

O'Brien raised his eyebrows, but Mitchel laughed, a deep laugh full of resonance. "O'Brien, when will you learn? I'm afraid you've quite startled him, Mistress. He cannot seem to remember that women can be just as learned as men, when they wish. I'm certain he expected a blank look of confusion at that statement. He's not often wrong, I'm afraid." The humor in Mitchel's eyes was not mirrored in O'Brien's. Valentia noted O'Brien seemed fervent in his beliefs, a strong personality. However, his earnest fervor was at the expense of a sense of humor or joy in life, a pitiable state.

Smiling at Mitchel, she said, "I do read a great deal, about politics and history. Perhaps more than is seemly for a woman of my age." Valentia sipped her tea.

O'Brien did not rise to the bait. "Politics is an honored tradition in my family. We can trace our descent to an Irish king from the 11th century named Brian Boru. He was a king in County Clare, where we are now. My family have been here ever since."

Valentia remembered stories of this legendary king from her grandmother, but kept her doubts to herself regarding her companion's veracity of descent. She had met people before with a famous ancestor. Surely there could be no way of proving such illustrious descent, not seven hundred years after the fact.

Mitchel said, "We are also working to regain some of the rights of the Catholic people. They've been an oppressed people in this country for far too long. If we cannot do something about it, I'm worried about their survival as a group."

"And how much of that good work can you do here from the Spa?" she asked, with a wry smile. Mitchel laughed again, while O'Brien gave a sour frown and spoke.

"I suffer from asthma, Mistress. I had a severe attack last week, and Mitchel was kind enough to leave his family to take me here to recover."

Chagrined that she had elicited these personal details with her teasing, Valentia subsided.

"I'm quite interested in what you disclosed about the Catholic Rights, Mr. O'Brien. Could you explain it for me? I'm a new arrival to your country, and therefore quite ignorant of local politics."

O'Brien looked surprised at her interest, but did his best to explain.

"Have you heard of the Penal Laws in this Country, Mistress Valentia?"

"Only in passing. Please, refresh my understanding."

"About two hundred years ago, a sadistic English general named Cromwell came through this country, sowing destruction and death. The native population offered fierce resistance, but was defeated in the end. The retribution was a group of laws designed to keep the native population, almost entirely Catholic, from working, owning property, voting, or holding office. Most Catholics couldn't even will their land to their children."

Mitchel took up the tale. "As a result, most land was eventually owned by Protestant land-owners, usually English, and now, absentee. This means they live in England, and seldom, if ever, set foot in this country to oversee their tenants. While most of these Penal Laws are now rescinded, ignored or relaxed, they still remain. Political decisions which affect Ireland are made entirely in Westminster, by people who may have never even been here."

Looking at Mitchel, O'Brien continued. "Home Rule is the movement to give this country their own parliament, their own say in government, and, eventually, and with luck, their own sovereignty. I work hard towards this eventual goal, though I doubt I shall see it in my time." He looked somber, and Valentia sipped her tea while she thought of a response.

"I had no idea the laws were so oppressive. Is this a local phenomenon, or is it thus in the entire country?"

Mitchel answered her, "It's more apparent in the west, as this is where the poorest land and tenants tend to be. The lands to the East are richer, more fertile. In the north, most of the Catholic tenants moved away, so the tenants tend to be Protestants, brought over from Scotland years ago. Those are known as the Ulster Plantations, after the area of the country into which they settled. It has been a rather... rocky integration." He looked bleak.

They were all silent for a few awkward moments, broken by the arrival of tea sweets and savories, served on a three-tiered tray. There were currant scones on the top, sugared sweets and truffles on the second, and sandwiches on the third tier. Valentia, grateful for the distraction, made a show of selecting a sandwich, applying herself to the tasty morsel with care.

"Have you been here long, Mistress Valentia? From where do you hail?" Mitchel had selected a truffle, eyeing the others with an almost predatory gaze.

"From Ohio, in America, and I've been here several weeks. I had a fever on the trip across the ocean, and am doing my best to recover." The doctor had examined her upon her arrival, and suggested she might have had a different fever than the one which killed her brother. Normally, Yellow Fever recurred immediately after the first illness, and was fatal. However, her recurrence had been a week later. She shuddered, remembering the horrible chills and fever-dreams, but it had not killed her. They thought it might be malaria, and if so, she would have relapses the rest of life.

O'Brien nodded, as if this was a tale he had heard before. "You are fortunate to have been on a true ship, Mistress Valentia. The immigrants are much less lucky. When they fall ill, they are often thrown overboard rather than allowed to infect the other passengers. They travel via monstrosities we have termed 'coffin ships,' as a third of the passengers often perish along the journey."

Valentia paused, shocked. "A third? Surely this can't be correct. Who would undertake a journey with such horrible odds?" Then she remembered the ragtag band of immigrants she had seen on the docks in New York.

"Times are quite desperate here in Ireland, my dear. The poor have no other option. They would rather risk possible death for a brighter future for their children, than burden their families by remaining here." O'Brien said earnestly, pain in his eyes. Had he seen these immigrants die?

She stared out the window. "My grandmother left under similar circumstances. There had been famine, and she left with her parents, so her married sisters might have enough food to survive."

"Do you remember the year?" Mitchel asked, one eyebrow raised. If the subject hadn't been so somber, he would have almost looked comical.

"1792, I believe."

"Hmmm. There was a famine about ten years earlier, but there was no country-wide famine that year, so it must have been localized. Now, however, it's country-wide. The potatoes are rotting, as they did in Europe last year and the year before. There's plenty of food, of course: grain, cows, pigs, etc. However, it's all being shipped out of the country by the English. The tenants would eat potatoes, but with them dying...." Mitchel gestured to O'Brien. "William and I have been campaigning for aid from the British government to stop the wholesale removal of the foodstuffs, but so far, our pleas have fallen on deaf ears."

Valentia had heard reports of a potato blight in America, but no one population was dependent upon potatoes, so it was a temporary hardship.

"The British government does not wish to help? Is there no one there interested in the plight of an entire country?"

"There are a few, to be sure, but they are rare, and wield little power, like us. Others believe it's just desserts for the 'savage Irish to die of their own laziness.'" O'Brien's lip was curled in disgust.

"I do have it on good authority Prime Minister Peel has had maize or cornmeal sent from America. I hope the rumors are true. It might make a difference." Mitchel looked less than hopeful.

"Hmph. The Irish don't need charity. They need to be able to take care of themselves, without thieves stealing their resources." O'Brien looked at his companion. "I don't even like calling it a famine. It isn't a famine, because there's food to feed the masses, but then it's taken away. I prefer to call it An Gorta Mór."

"An what? Is that Irish?" Valentia had heard Irish from her grandmother, when she was young, but knew few words of the exotic language.

"An Gorta Mór means 'The Great Hunger.' It's a more precise description."

"Do you speak Irish, Mr. O'Brien?"

"I do, though not well. I've studied it, campaigned for it to be taught in schools. That's another battle, though."

Valentia was surprised, as she had thought the language all but dead. She hadn't expected this gentleman, an educated man, to not only speak it, but encourage its use.

Her surprise must have shown, because Mitchel laughed.

"Don't let O'Brien fool you. The language is just one of his many pet projects, along with the Catholic rights we mentioned. He's more Irish than English, despite his speech and manner." Mitchel smiled, and Valentia could see the affection in their shared enthusiasms.

"But we are remiss. The young lady's recovering, so we should be chatting of more pleasant subjects." He turned to Valentia, offering her a sugared piece of Turkish Delight from the tray of sweets with a set of tiny tongs.

She accepted it with a nod of thanks. "No, I'm quite content to speak of serious matters, gentlemen. I'm not the sort of woman who prefers fripperies and gossip. My mother was, rather is, energetic in political circles. Her pet project is Women's Rights, though." She gave each man a casual glance, looking for their reaction to her mother's radical interests, while appearing to enjoy her sweets.

Both men seemed to take the information in stride. O'Brien seemed pleased, as a rare smile came across his face.

"And are you also politically minded, my dear?"

"Not by nature, no, though I do get passionate about causes I believe in. On occasion, my enthusiasm is quite the detriment to decorum." The last was spoken without inflection, and elicited a hearty laugh from Mitchel.

"Well, perhaps we can convince you to become enthusiastic about the Irish people while you are here among us." O'Brien's expression was once again guarded, perhaps disappointed by previous encounters with female dilettantes.

"Perhaps. And with that, gentlemen, I thank you for your kind company. I think I must retire." She stood with difficulty, so Mitchel jumped to his feet to assist her. He insisted on accompanying her back to her room. As they arrived, he spoke to her with an intense fervor.

"Please, do think about what we spoke about. Since you are neither Irish nor English, your help could be invaluable as a neutral party. Even something as simple as writing entreating letters to Westminster could help."

"Being American is an advantage? I wouldn't think that to be the case."

"Oh, most certainly. The Irish are seen as self-serving, while the English are seen as power-mad overlords. Neutrality is rare and greatly sought."

"And which side of that do you fall on, Mr. Mitchel?"

His smile was sweet and sad, "I like to think I fight the good fight, Mistress."

"That's honorable, surely."

"Indeed it is, but one with a severe dearth of soldiers, I'm afraid." His eyes were hopeful.

"I shall think on it, Mr. Mitchel, truly I shall."

He gave her a courtly bow, leaving her to rest.

* * *

Valentia sat in her room, looking at the rain pelting down on the window. She listened to the pat-pit-pat of the drops on the glass, and contemplated nothing.

She found the beginnings of a letter Maggie had penned to her parents, telling them about Conor's death.

They would have to be informed, and she must write the letter. If Maggie had found it difficult to write, it would be much worse for her.

She took a deep breath, and pushed her chair away from the window. Sitting at her desk, she stared for a while at the blank page. She spent time sharpening the quill, stirring the ink to make sure any lumps were dissolved. She blinked at the vast expanse of off-white. Then a teardrop blossomed and faded the paper, puckering as it dried.

Valentia had no idea how to phrase such a letter. Should she be formal? Could she write an emotional letter? She'd never get through it.

My Dearest Mama and Papa:

Well, that was a start, at least. She imagined someone was holding her arm down, covering it in sand. She couldn't move it to write the next letter.

Shaking her head, she tried again.

It is with Deep Despair and Eternal Sorrow I must write to you.

That wasn't right. She loved writing to her parents. The subject of the letter is what caused her despair. She watched another tear drop onto the page. This time it fell on the 'D' in Despair, and she watched the ink spread and smudge into the 'e' next to it.

Pulling out a fresh sheet, she tried again. Paper was expensive, but she ignored that niggling notion. This time she made it to a description of the voyage.

We took a steamship from New York City, and there was an outbreak of Yellow Jack aboard.

Her breath caught, and her vision blurred. She blinked a couple times, and a few more tears escaped. She moved the paper so it wouldn't be smudged.

In the end, Our Beloved Conor was unable to recover, and had a Burial at sea. Maggie claimed he was buried about five days from Galway.

What else could she add? That she missed him horribly, and his absence was like a black pit in her heart? Surely they knew that. They would have the same emptiness.

He had been undertaking the Adventure with great Enjoyment and Vigour.

He had been able to live a little before his young life had been so cruelly snatched away. She couldn't write that, though.

She made sure the letter was short. She didn't want to entangle the correspondence with other trivia. Few other things seemed important, next to the news about Conor. That she and Maggie were arrived safe and installed at Lisdoonvarna seemed sufficient for now.

I shall write later with further updates. I love you both dearly.

Pushing away from the table, she gave in to the pent up sobs.

* * *

Several evenings later, there was to be a soiree at the spa, with local aristocrats joining the guests. Valentia knew Messrs. O'Brien and Mitchel would be attending, and they had mentioned several other people to which they would like to introduce her.

Maggie helped her with her appearance, pulling up her hair while she looked in the mirror. She was still so thin. She could see the bones of her cheeks, so haggard. At least she was able to get around a little better. She still used her cane, but no longer required assistance for the smaller journeys.

She had chosen the deep emerald green silk dress for the evening, with a pale green shift, showing ruffles of lace at the sleeves and décolletage. She made sure she had her ivory fan handy on a loop around her wrist. She wasn't particularly interested in flirting, but there was always a chance she might meet an interesting young man.

Valentia tended to be too free in her opinions to be popular with normal society women, a trait she learned from her mother. She preferred to speak frankly about matters which made others uncomfortable, once she was at ease with her companions. Perhaps this was why O'Brien and Mitchel were so entranced by her company. Perhaps this was also why she was still a spinster at twenty-three. Her father always maintained she acted more like a man than a lady. She snorted at the idea, sounding like her father and sobering her.

Maggie pronounced her ready, so she looked at her work. She stood and turned back and forth.

"You did a fantastic job, Maggie. The bustle does a neat job of hiding how sparse my hips have become. Thank you, my friend." She gave her maid a brief but fierce hug and a broad smile.

"How I wish you could join me, but I'm afraid it would scandalize the natives. Go downstairs and enjoy what you can of the servant's party. I'll spirit up morsels for you if I can. We'll have a bit of gossip when the event is over." Valentia put her hand on her maid's shoulder and squeezed.

"That would be lovely, Mistress Valentia. Thank you." Despite Valentia's request for Maggie to dispense with her title, Maggie still insisted on calling her Mistress. Maggie's smile, however, was more indicative of the warmth and friendship which had grown between them.

Cane in hand, Valentia made her way down the hall with deliberation. She poked her head into the main ballroom, where musicians were playing a slow waltz in one corner. The hotel staff had done spectacular decorations, and the servants were mingling with trays of canapés and drinks. There were at least thirty people milling about, dressed in their finery.

Valentia experienced a twinge of regret at the largesse. The food could have done much good elsewhere, but she couldn't change such things by herself, not single-handedly. She and her new activist friends had spoken at length over the last several days about what could be done about the current situation in Ireland. She had agreed to help, but made sure they realized her true purpose and quest had priority.

Mitchel stood by the large bay windows, admiring the setting sun. The sky provided a spectacular display of colors across the tiny, sparkling bit of Atlantic Ocean they could see. She joined him, appreciating the colors of rose, peach, crimson and violet.

As the sun dipped lower, the colors faded.

"A brilliant show." Valentia said, reluctant to leave the display.

"Indeed it was a small piece of heaven. The party should be a grave disappointment now, but we should return to the salon." Mitchel offered his arm.

They had shared a magical moment. Sharing a glance, they knew they'd always remember this magical sight.

When they found O'Brien, a passing servant with a tray of wineglasses paused. Mitchel took two, handing one to Valentia. They clinked their glasses in a silent toast, and O'Brien asked after her health and afternoon activities.

"I was able to get a sketch done, out in the back garden, but I'm afraid the wind was too fierce to stay out long. I was quite sanded down by the time I gave up and came in. Is it always this windy here?"

"Oh, yes, the winds from the Atlantic are constant, I'm afraid. It's the end of the Gulf Stream, you know, the current which brings the ships from America. It also brings warm air, so it makes our winters mild. The wind makes it a mixed blessing, though." O'Brien sipped his own almost empty wine glass. He saw someone he recognized, and beckoned to Valentia.

"I've seen someone I wanted you to meet, Mistress Valentia. Do bide here a while, and I shall fetch them." He left Mitchel and Valentia to speak with a short, round woman of advanced years. She had on a busy print dress which made the eyes ache, full of loud bustle, ruffles, and lace, reminding Valentia of a stout tea cozy. She lifted her glass to her lips to hide her amusement, stifling a giggle.

"Oh, do share the joke, Mistress Valentia. I could do with a good laugh?" Mitchel entreated.

"I couldn't possibly. Do forgive my lapse, but I had a most uncharitable thought." She flipped her fan in front of her mouth to hide her smile. She wanted to share, but this was not the time, nor the place.

O'Brien returned with the tea cozy in tow, presenting Valentia to Mistress Olivia Dillon, of County Meath. Valentia greeted her with a curtsy, peering at the woman as she spoke about her home. She was attractive, despite her taste in attire, with a pudgy face, laugh lines and soft, kind brown eyes.

"And will you be visiting long, Mistress Dillon?" Valentia was only able to get in the question because the older woman paused to take in a much-needed breath. Momentarily nonplussed at the interruption, she blinked several times, reminding Valentia of a short, fluffy owl.

"I don't know." She looked surprised at her lack of knowledge. "My physician recommended I come and take the waters, but as I think of it, he didn't say for how long. I suppose when I am no longer rheumatic, I shall return. And what brings you to these healing springs, my dear?"

"I became quite ill on the crossing from America, and I'm here to recover my strength before I continue my journey." At the mention of the crossing, she had a flash of Conor, lying sick unto death in his bunk, below hers. She clamped hard down upon the memory, clenching her jaw against the incipient tears. She swallowed. These flashes came at the most inappropriate moments.

"And where are you planning to journey when you are well?"

"Up north, to the village my grandmother was from. I hope to find family there."

"Oh, will you, now? I can't recall any McDowell's in the northern circles. Perhaps she was your mother's side?"

Taken aback by this direct onslaught of questions, Valentia realized she was used to the circuitous conversation of polite company, but this was more like a battle charge. Of course, she was usually the one asking the questions. Being on the receiving end was more daunting.

"She was born a Doherty. My mother's mother."

"Doherty, Doherty. How far up north, did you say? I believe I know a George Doherty in Castlebar."

"A bit farther, in County Donegal."

"Oh, Donegal. That's pure up in the wilds. No, I'm afraid I know none of the Donegal society. Perhaps George is a relation, though. I can give you a letter of introduction in case you care to seek him out." With this business concluded, the tiny, fluffy woman trained her sights upon the hapless Mitchel. He had watched the interrogation with great interest and amusement, but was taken off-guard by becoming the new target.

Valentia took a deep breath of relief at her momentary reprieve, taking her own turn at amusement. Mitchel was stammering answers to Mistress Dillon's pointed questions. She was a force of nature.

She stole a glance at O'Brien, who had a half-smile on his face. Slight though the smile was, it made her revise her initial assessment of the intense man. Perhaps he did have a sense of humor after all.

"And are you married, Mr. Mitchel? Surely such a fine specimen as yourself has been well caught already?"

"Y-Yes, yes, I have a lovely wife, and we've a boy and two young girls at home."

Mistress Dillon continued her onslaught, asking after his profession, his purpose at the spa. Satisfied, Mistress Dillon took her leave of them all, waddling towards a group near the spring fountain, leaving in her wake a sea of blank faces.

"She's quite the chatter box, is she not?" Mitchel said, dazed.

"A true Grey Mare. I would love to be able to put her in a box at Westminster. Imagine what she could get done?" O'Brien said with admiration.

"Is she always so blunt? I could barely keep up." Valentia was still breathless, but she appreciated how efficient the woman was about her business. Victorian society had particular rules about conversation, and this woman seemed to know none of them. Her directness was almost refreshing.

"Indeed, she is. She's quite the phenomenon here in Ireland. It's considered a badge of honor for someone to survive the questioning unscathed." Valentia detected a hint of the earlier half-smile on O'Brien's lips.

"I don't feel unscathed in the slightest." Mitchel shook his head, causing his dark curls to ruffle about his head like a shaggy mane, free of any constraints. He looked like a Friesian horse her father had owned when she was a child, stolid but fussy with a black curling mane.

The conversation moved on. Occasionally they were joined by others, and introductions and inquiries made as a matter of course. None of them had the bruising impact of Mistress Dillon, but she caught an odd undercurrent in each of her new acquaintances, after she spoke the first time. Their manners indicated a chill or withdrawal. What could the problem be? She furtively glanced at the window, now a mirror with the dark night sky behind it. Her hair was in place, and modestly covered. Her dress wasn't askew or stained. She was baffled. Could she be imagining things?

During a lull in the conversation, she asked Mitchel in a quiet aside.

"Is there something odd about the people to whom I've been introduced? They seem to hold back once I've spoken. Is there, perhaps, a notorious McDowell of whom I've not heard? A stain to the family name?"

Mitchell looked at O'Brien, guilt and concern flashing across his face. She was certain they knew exactly what she was talking about. With unspoken agreement, O'Brien glanced at his companion, who spoke in a gentle tone.

"It isn't your family, precisely, my dear. They are hesitant to accept you because, well, because you are an American."

This surprised her. She had no clue being American was undesirable, and said so.

"Not that it's undesirable, or scandalous in any manner, my dear. It's simply... well, you aren't English, nor Anglo-Irish. Americans are often seen as uncivilized savages, you see. They are backwoods ruffians, unpolished and rude. You are not, of course, any of these things, but the taint still lingers. Your speech gives you away, since your accent is different from ours, or the English. It's quite apparent when you talk."

"Hmph. Uncivilized! Pish, and likewise tosh! I'm... I do believe I feel insulted. Not by you, gentlemen," she amended, seeing the looks on their faces, "but by those elitist snobs." She flipped her fan and fluttered it, trying to control her temper. She glanced around at the people she had spoken to this evening. Their aspects took on a sinister quality, as if they had been conspiring against her all this time, and she had discovered their duplicity.

She was aware her face was flushed from anger, the frantic fluttering of her fan not helping. She closed her mouth with a loud snap, and took a deep breath, fighting to speak in a low, calm voice.

"How can they justify looking down their nose at me simply because of my country of origin?"

"My dear, it is a time-honored tradition. The English have been doing so for centuries. Look at the Scots, Welsh and the Irish. They are all considered second-class citizens. Even the Anglo-Saxons were considered sub-human by the conquering Normans."

She stood for a while. When she was able to gather her poise, she said, "Gentlemen, thank you for making me aware of the situation. I deeply appreciate the information. I believe I've had quite enough of the party this evening. If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I shall retire," she sent O'Brien a steel look and, ignoring Mitchel's protests, turned on her heel and marched with slow deliberation, out the door of the salon and towards her room. O'Brien spoke as she left.

"Let her go, Mitchel. She needs to cool off a bit."

Chapter Seven

Society

Valentia had enjoyed the last weeks, despite being slighted by the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. Mistress Dillon had not snubbed her, so she had been delighted to share the blunt woman's company several times after their initial meeting. Time spent with O'Brien and Mitchel was also diverting. She had developed a fondness for them all, and grinned when she thought of her new friends.

She found herself chatting alone with Mitchel often, and it made her flustered and excited, like she were behaving in a scandalous and immoral manner. Mitchel was, after all, a married man, and she an unmarried lady. However, within the confines of the spa, there were always servants to act as chaperones, so it wasn't too much of a concern. Valentia relished her talks with him and O'Brien, a chance to learn about this country, the land of her ancestors.

Three days later, Valentia was attending a literary salon with John Mitchel, William O'Brien, and two friends of theirs. She had grown fond of both of them, though O'Brien's aloofness still stopped her from occasional imprudent remarks. Mitchel, on the other hand, had become her confidante and closest friend.

Before they left for the salon, Mitchel introduced Aiden and Siobhan Devine to her, presenting the tall siblings as twins. Aiden was thin with blond hair, sky-blue eyes twinkling with a mischief which brought Conor to mind. His sister was also blond and thin, taller than her brother, evidently the more mature one. She had a sweet smile which she offered rarely, and had a way of looking at a person which bored into the soul. They were about her age.

Mitchel approached with two drinks in his hand, handing her one with a smile. She beamed her thanks.

"So, did you enjoy the reading, Valentia?" Aiden's gaze wasn't as powerful as his twin's, but he was still an intense young man. He was attractive, with his pale blond hair pulled back into a plait, tied with a burgundy ribbon. He was obviously a popinjay, with embroidered silk peacocks on his waistcoat, and velvet palm trees on his jacket. However, his color taste was muted, with dark reds and pale pinks. Otherwise he would be difficult to look at.

His sister was impeccably dressed, but not as flamboyant. Her dark brown silk dress was offset by a cream lace underdress, with black piping. She had an odd little posset tied to her left wrist with a black ribbon. She was looking at Valentia as well, curious about her reaction to the presentation.

The reading was a poem by Thomas Campbell, and Valentia had enjoyed its imagery. The story was a sad one of love and loyalty.

"It made me think of my brother." Her voice was quiet. O'Brien had the grace to lower his eyes in sympathy. Mitchel placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The twins looked at each other with slight confusion, until Mitchel explained. "Young Conor fell ill on the crossing from America. He didn't survive." He shook his head.

Valentia took a sip of her wine, blinking her eyes several times. She was grateful to Mitchel for explaining. She always cried when she attempted to explain about Conor, and now was not the time for such an outburst.

Aiden looked crestfallen. "Oh, my dear girl, I am so sorry. Please, allow me to make up for stirring up such a tragic memory. Might I tempt you with a walk in the gardens?"

The sun was shining bright on this warm June day, and perhaps this was just the thing. She looked at Mitchel.

"We should all go. It will be grand medicine." Aiden looked put out he wouldn't have her undivided attention, but accepted the modification with grace. The group went out en masse, with Valentia on Aiden's arm, Siobhan on Mitchel's, and O'Brien bringing up the rear.

The formal gardens at the hotel were well-cared for, and in June, the blooms were a riot of vibrant colors. A hedge maze was on the left, with a Japanese garden on the right. The grand staircase in the center led down from the hotel itself. This staircase ended in an ornamental pond, flanked by two follies, with a rose arbor beyond. Aiden walked faster than Mitchel, so they arrived at the arbor first.

Valentia found herself glancing back at Siobhan and Mitchel, but wasn't sure why. Aiden charming, doing his best to elicit a laugh from her with sardonic jokes and sly wit. She rewarded his efforts now and again, doing her best to pay attention. The gardens were indeed glorious. She halted at one trellis of roses to breathe in their sweet, heavy aroma. The roses were white, the tips of the petals red, as if someone had dipped them in paint. Their fragrance was heady and intoxicating. She saw a flicker out of the corner of her eye, a bluish-green light glowing under the rose bush. She slowed to try to get a better look, but the spark was gone.

Her dalliance had given Siobhan, Mitchel and O'Brien time to catch up, who were discussing the types of roses.

"My mother breeds roses, you know. Would you like me to ask her to breed one for you, my dear? It could never match your beauty, but perhaps, just perhaps, it might rival your sweetness." Aiden was holding her hand up to his lips, and she laughed at his excessive gallantry. He was attractive, and she was flattered. He seemed so young, although he was the same age as she was. She found herself casting a glance at Mitchel, who was chatting quietly with Siobhan. She schooled her gaze back to Aiden.

"Thank you, Aiden, but it would be too much, really. Perhaps you could pick me one?"

"A rose for a rose! Of course." He bounded off to find her the perfect blossom.

She looked up to see Siobhan watching her with those intense, blue eyes. What did the girl see? Did she disapprove of her brother's attentions?

Valentia dropped her gaze first, disconcerted by the stony stare of the woman. She had nothing to feel guilty for, why did she feel as if she should apologize?

Aiden returned, with a yellow and peach colored rose, not quite a bud, sweet and thick with intoxicating scent. He presented it to her with full flourish and exaggerated bow, like she were a princess presiding over a joust.

She accepted it from him with appropriate theatrics, smiling. Once again, she looked over at Mitchel, and saw an odd expression on his face. She didn't care for the look, but couldn't understand it in the slightest. Perhaps he didn't like Siobhan's company? Then why did he introduce them?

A breeze came through the arbor, rustling leaves and petals with a loud whoosh. The day, though bright and warm, was fading. Valentia knew the evening winds could be strong. In unspoken agreement, they made their way back to the salon en masse.

Enjoying tea in her room later, Valentia mused on the afternoon's activities. Maggie had tsked at the mud on the hem of her dress, but she gave her maid an apologetic smile and a shrug. Ireland was, she had discovered, a muddy place. The rain and wind made certain any outing resulted in soiled hems, sometimes sleeves, hoods and whatever else she wore.

She had been uncomfortable at the concept of Mitchel and Siobhan walking together. It made no sense. Mitchel was married with three children. She had no business whatsoever developing a fondness for the man. She enjoyed his company, felt warm and safe when he smiled at her. But O'Brien was good company as well, and she looked forward to their political discussions.

It wouldn't do. He was not free to return any affection she might—or might not – feel for him. She resolved to rid herself of such impossible feelings.

"Are you fine, Mistress Valentia?"

"Yes, Maggie. I'm a silly girl sometimes."

"A silly girl, says she. Not at all, Mistress. You are frighteningly practical at times."

Valentia smiled at her assessment, taking another sip of the tea. She breathed in the warm, spicy aroma of the brew. The liquid trickled down her throat, soothing and sweet.

"At times, perhaps, Maggie. Other times, I'm not quite as wise."

* * *

Valentia was trying hard to understand the convoluted papers O'Brien had given her to read. The situation had all the clarity of mud. She was an intelligent woman, but was having difficulty finding the right in this snake's nest.

She pulled out the announcements from Parliament about the shipments of food from Ireland. That was clearly a point they all agreed was bad. Greed, pure and simple. But the other proclamations were well-meant, in theory. Sending maize from America to Ireland had sounded like a grand idea. But in reality, the gift was a disaster. No one had mentioned the grain had to be milled several times to be edible, and there were no mills with that capacity at the port of entry. People had eaten the bread from the grain, and fallen ill. It frustrated her.

She crumpled the paper and threw it at the window. It got caught in the frilly lace curtain. She cursed and pulled herself up with her cane, retrieving the errant ball. She oughtn't mangle it so, as O'Brien might want it back when she had read them.

Mitchel had given her the next pamphlet. The treatise was about how English absentee landlords were treating their Irish tenants, full of horrible illustrations of cruelties. Beatings, starving peasants, children left on the side of the road to die after being turfed out of their homes. It made Valentia queasy, and she had a strong stomach. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine pleasant memories instead.

Mitchel was pleasant. John. She tasted his name on her tongue, rolling it around. His hands looked strong. She imagined those hands touching her cheek, and smiled. Definitely a more pleasant notion.

The door opened, surprising her. Guiltily she fussed with the papers as Maggie walked in with her afternoon tea.

"Master Aiden would like to see you after tea, Mistress Valentia."

"Any particular reason?"

"None that he gave, Mistress."

Valentia sighed. She had hoped to sit with Mitchel this afternoon, but Aiden would have to do. She liked the young man, but he had about as much depth as... as her brother Conor had. The day dimmed with his memory.

That afternoon, Aiden was gallant and friendly, a chatterbox who allowed her to think of other things as they strolled through the garden. The waning sunshine shone through the rose vines.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mistress Valentia?" He was peering at her with his head cocked to one side, like a curious bird.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Aiden. I was miles away. It's been a long afternoon." The phrase reminded her of Conor.

"May I have the honor of escorting you to a bench, then?"

"Yes, please."

They found one under a folly, an arched building near the pond. She saw Mitchel and Siobhan walking in the distance, and frowned.

"Oh, so that's how it is?"

She had almost forgotten Aiden's presence. "How what is?" Valentia blinked several times, trying her best to look innocent.

"I saw the look you just had on your face. I've had it myself several times, you know. I'm no stranger to unrequited love." He put the back of his hand on his forehead in a silly, dramatic gesture. Yes, he definitely reminded her of Conor. Perhaps that was a good thing.

"Ah, now I've made you sad. Please, how may I elicit your lovely smile? I know!" He bounded off around the edge of a rose bush. He returned, not with a rose, but with a wildflower that had somehow managed to flourish among the manicured gardens. With an elaborate bow, he presented her a delicate bit of Queen Anne's Lace.

He was sweet when he was trying to be gallant. She rewarded him with a smile.

* * *

Today was one of those rare times that she had Mitchel to herself. They sat in the rose gardens, enjoying the afternoon breeze. She was working on a sketch of the yellow roses, while he read his newspaper. The time they spent together was strangely intimate, even though they weren't interacting. She could almost imagine they were a married couple, enjoying a quiet breakfast before the work of the day.

She decided to put the cat in with the canaries. "Have you really got to go back to Dublin soon?"

He rustled his newspaper a couple times, and made a great show of folding it neatly before he looked at her.

"You know I must. I must return to Sarah and the children, my dear."

"But did I imagine you enjoyed my company?" She sounded like a plaintive creature, begging for scraps, but she was beyond caring. The move was borne out of desperation.

Mitchel sighed. He took her hand and looked at it for a moment. He rubbed at a smudge of charcoal on her thumb before looking up into her face. She could feel the tears prickle behind her eyes before he even spoke.

"I am exceedingly fond of you and your company. And these talks we've enjoyed, the daily conversations and interludes, have been delightful. If I were a free man... if I were, I would whisk you away in a moment, and enjoy you forever and a day. But I cannot, with honor, be more than your friend. Your dear friend."

She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

"You know this, Valentia. Surely you've known it from the beginning."

She was a silly little girl, envious of what she could never have, rather than a full-grown woman of twenty-three years. She blinked several times, willing her tears to retreat. She failed.

Mitchel stood up then, and walked around the round glass table to her chair. He knelt, wiping her tears with his white linen handkerchief. He kissed each eyelid then, tender as a spring rose.

This made her catch her breath and lift her face to his. She kissed him on the mouth, his soft lips responsive and sweet. Time stood still, as if the sun had halted its daily course across the sky. Birds ceased their afternoon tunes, and bees stopped buzzing in the roses around them.

And he was gone.

* * *

Valentia did her best to put memories of Mitchel out of her mind. He and O'Brien were due to leave the spa soon. However, as soon as she had admitted the possibility of her feelings to herself, they seemed to rush upon her, unbidden. The sight of him almost took her breath away, but she managed to keep this from showing on her face, or in her manner. She found herself flirting with Aiden as a counter-attack.

Aiden, on his part, played along beautifully. She didn't think he was at all enamored of her, and his play-acting was just that—gallantry for show. Men had flirted with her before after all, men who found her attractive. She knew the feel of it, the hum of someone who wished to be with her in such a way. Aiden didn't have that. She appreciated his theatrics, though, as they served her purpose well. Siobhan had, at least, ceased glaring at them when Aiden would perform them. For this, she was ever grateful. Valentia had an eerie feeling she never wanted to be on Siobhan's bad side.

She enjoyed Siobhan's company. She was the reason the siblings were visiting the spa. She was recently married, and had lost a child. The posset tied around her wrist was related to this—Siobhan disclosed it contained dock leaf seeds, to prevent barrenness. Her husband, unable to accompany her due to his work in Dublin, had sent his brother-in-law to watch over her and keep her company. Siobhan was interested in literature, in particular Irish plays and Faery-lore. They had many long, philosophical discussions about magic, Faeries, and the Sídhe. The last had been a new word to Valentia. Her grandmother had always called them The Fair Folk, but Sídhe was the Irish word for them, pronounced shee. Siobhan pointed out the banshee, a well-known legend of a spirit who wailed for the dead, came from the Irish bean Sídhe, or Faery woman.

"I should take you to a Faery circle while you're here, Valentia."

"Faery circle? You mean a ring of mushrooms in the grass?"

"No, no, those aren't permanent. I mean a stone circle, the ancient, thin places. A thin place is where the veil between worlds is thin. They say it's where the Faeries enter our world."

Valentia had heard of these monuments to a forgotten age. Many of the stones were taller than men, enormous constructions made thousands of years ago, the names of their builders lost in the mists of time. Stonehenge was one of the most famous, but there were many others.

A shudder went down her back, but she was intrigued.

"Is there one near here? A place we could visit?"

"Indeed there is, though a small one. I will take you, if you like. Tomorrow, if the weather is fair?"

Fair to the Irish meant not pouring. A light mist was normal in the morning, though often it cleared to a bright blue sky under the summer sun.

Chapter Eight

The Sidhe

The next day dawned with soft weather, a fine mist impregnating their thick, wool cloaks with beads of crystalline dew, sparkling and glinting in the dim light.

Siobhan and Valentia took a barouche, a four-wheeled carriage, and headed out into the mist. Their driver was an older, taciturn man named Pat. The circle was about fifteen miles away, in the surrounding area called The Burren, a rocky, bare place of unusual stone formations and alien landscape. Valentia had ventured out a few times with Mitchel and O'Brien, but hadn't gone far from the hotel.

Today, they made their way down a seldom-used track. As they passed the hills, Valentia noted the rocks looked serpentine in their grikes, as they were called. She was fascinated by their curved and rounded shapes and textures. The artist in her ached to draw them, but her paper and pencils were wrapped up in her bag, safe from the morning moisture.

They traveled down the road to the sea, and Valentia got her first real look at the country. Her trip from Galway had been a blur, as she was still weak and rested most of the journey. She had vague recollections of a rough boat ride and time in a coach, but she had had no strength to sit up and look around. Now, however, she took the time to enjoy the sights as she passed.

June was a delightful time of year, even in this stark, bizarre place. Insects buzzed around the myriad of flowers and plants. She couldn't see them well, but caught glimpses of yellows and purples inside the cracks of the rocks. Greenery was everywhere, stubbornly growing wherever it caught a foothold.

The hills were rounded and soft, as if someone had sanded them down. Even the cracks were smooth. It put her in mind of flowing lava, puddling around objects in its way, only hardening when it had reached its destination. This made her smile, as if the rock had achieved its ultimate purpose, now satisfied with the Herculean efforts of thousands of years.

Siobhan had informed her this part of Ireland had a greater variety of flowers and plants than anywhere else in the country. The mild winds from the ocean kept the climate even, offering a unique environment. She could well believe it, looking out at the strange land before her. All of Ireland wasn't like this, as she had seen paintings of green, rolling hills. But for now, in this place, she was content.

About halfway to their destination, Siobhan spoke of the stones and the Faery folk.

"The stones are a gateway, do you see? If you approach them in the correct manner, with respect, you might request the audience of the Sídhe. If you are lucky, they will grant it to you." As always, her intense gaze was difficult to look away from.

"Is it not dangerous? My grandmother told me stories of people who had run afoul of the Fair Folk and their regard." Valentia was more than apprehensive of meddling with such forces. She wasn't certain if she believed or not, but Siobhan clearly did. Grandmamma had believed as well.

"They can be, but if you approach with respect and dignity, you should be fine."

"But what should I ask for?"

"Oh, no, you don't ask, not straight away. You offer, you see? Offer a thing of value to you. It could be small, a pretty flower, or a lock of hair. But offer it to the stones. If you receive a sign the gift was accepted, then, only then, should you make a request."

Siobhan had warned her to bring something, so Valentia had brought a special stone she had found along the river, when they had halted in Jonestown. It sparkled in the sun, enchanting Valentia.

If she received a sign—and what form would such a thing take? She could ask for assistance in her quest for the brooch. She would need all the help she could get.

She heard the driver click his tongue at the two horses. The carriage slowed, making a turn down a tiny track. As the barouche turned, she could see the sea roiling in the distance, much closer than it had been in Lisdoonvarna. They were still high above the sea, but there were no trees to block their view. The sun broke through the clouds, and Valentia gasped as the sunbeams burst through the mist and fog, ending in a glittering green on the ocean. The skies opened to let heaven shine through.

Gulls shrieked in the distance, and the mists began to recede.

The carriage slowed again as they climbed a rise, stopping at a hollow in the rocky ground. The ladies embarked with care, so as not to turn their heels on the rough and wrinkled stones. Valentia retrieved her bag, resisting the urge to take out her materials straight away. Best first do whatever Siobhan wanted them to, then relax with art afterwards.

The circle was actually more of a square, surrounded by about ten large stones. Siobhan mentioned this one was more properly known as a Court Tomb, rather than a true circle. A single, crooked, skeletal hawthorn tree had been planted at the entrance stones, which reminded Valentia of her grandmother's hawthorn, in Ohio.

Grandmamma had told stories of how the stones had formed. Sometimes they were maidens, dancing on a Sunday, turned to stone as the sun rose upon their sacrilege. Legends claimed the stones would come alive at midnight on Samhain, and dance once again in the ghostly moonlight. Other stories spoke of ancient kings who ran afoul witches, or goddesses, and turned to stone for rejecting them. She recalled one story of a stone with a depression that gathered rainwater; legend said bathing in the rainwater by the full moon would heal all ills.

These stones were supposed to be where the Sídhe held court, thousands of years ago, before the faeries went underground. The stones were rough along the top like broken teeth. The surfaces were covered in white and yellow lichen, giving them a living feel, as if they were growing, changing, rotting, perhaps even pulsing.

She pondered this, wondering why the word had come to her mind. They were stone, weren't they? But she couldn't shake the feeling they had a vital energy within she couldn't see, but still sensed. A vibration, a hum ... perhaps even a pulse.

There was low bracken and bushes all around the stones, but it ended several feet from the circle. She asked Siobhan if someone cleared it away.

"It doesn't grow close to them. It's quite common, no one really knows why. Besides, some of them are hawthorn, and you don't want to cut the hawthorn. It's a sacred wood, and would anger the Sídhe."

She seemed to recall her grandmother speaking of her lone hawthorn tree, but she couldn't recall the details.

"So, what do we do now?"

"We walk around the circles, sunwise, first." Siobhan said. Valentia followed with haste. Siobhan then stood in the center of the circle, lifted her hands up in an odd pleading gesture, closing her eyes for several long moments.

"Then, we place our offerings here, on the altar stone." She indicated a low, flat stone near one end of the oblong area, one which had cup shapes carved into it. She placed her stone into the center of one cup, half full of brackish water. She cleared away the weeds, and Siobhan placed her own offering, a white rose bud from the gardens, in the second cup.

"And now we wait." And they waited.

Feeling foolish, Valentia looked at her, seeing her blue eyes closed, her face tilted up to the sky. Valentia looked around for the driver, but he was on the other side of the carriage, tending the horses. She sighed, still as a statue in the mists, closing her own eyes. She lifted her face to feel the last remnants of morning mist alight upon it.

She tried to still her mind, thinking of her stone. How ridiculous they must look, standing in an ancient stone ruin, offering gifts to mythological creatures.

Her feet tingled. Perhaps they were falling asleep? But the tingling traveled up her legs, her belly, her torso, out to her hands, up to her head. Her entire body suffered a shock, buzzing and tensing, clenching and vibrating. Her eyes flew open, and she saw Siobhan glowing.

Valentia looked down at her hands—they were a faint, pale green. She held out one for inspection, and it trembled like a leaf in a gale. Bits of Siobhan's hair flew up around her face, like she was floating on her back in the water. She felt her own hair doing the same, so she tried to pat it down. It crackled at her touch. She tried to take a step, but seemed rooted to the ground.

Siobhan opened her eyes, and gave her a reassuring smile. The girl knew what was happening, and looked like she had experienced this odd sensation before. Valentia relaxed slightly, but still looked around in fascination and apprehension.

The offerings glowed brilliantly, an emerald beam, intense and magical. Her own glow faded in comparison while it pulsed. It grew, beat by beat, until she saw it had encompassed all the stones, like the heart of the very earth beat beneath her.

It faded then, the pulses got weaker and softer, the glow dimmed. She was able to move again. Taking a tentative step, she found she was no longer a captive of the odd energy and breathed easier. Perhaps this was all a local phenomenon? A trick of the morning light, perhaps? Her sensibility was already making excuses why it couldn't be magic.

Both offerings were gone.

She hadn't moved them. No one had come, even when her eyes were closed. She would have heard their steps on the stony ground. Siobhan hadn't moved them. Where were they? Her stomach was a cold lump, like a lead weight. The chill moved out to her limbs, where it warred with the last of the crackling energy from the stones.

"Does this mean our offerings were accepted?"

Siobhan grinned at her. "Indeed, they were accepted with grace. You may now ask your favor."

"How?"

"You stand where I was when I invoked the Sídhe. Close your eyes, hold your hands up, then ask. It needn't be out loud, if you prefer to say it in your mind, but be certain to think just of what you want. Stray notions have a tendency to get in the way, and the Sídhe will always take the more interesting path, even if it isn't desirable."

"Perhaps it will be better if I do say it out loud, then?"

"Often, that's so. It's a wee bit more certain, surely."

Valentia, still feeling foolish and self-conscious, stood in the worn spot in front of the offering stone. Closing her eyes, she held out her hands. She had the odd sensation of tipping forward, though she didn't sway or move. She got a grip on her sense of balance as best she could.

"I would like to respectfully request assistance in finding my grandmother's lost brooch." The stories her grandmother had related stressed the importance of being polite to the Fair Folk.

The tingling sensation returned, though not as strong as before, but rather a quick sensation, up through her feet to her head, then back down again, like a flash. When the tickling was gone, she opened her eyes again, turning her head to look at Siobhan. Siobhan nodded, so she lowered her arms, stepping back. Siobhan then took her silent turn at requesting aid, then dropped back as well.

"Is that it, then? Need we do aught else?"

"Yes, we must close the circle." She proceeded to pace around the circle in the opposite direction, Valentia close behind.

"There, that's done. Would you want to set up your easel to draw now?"

"I would like to, yes. However, I'd rather like to do so away from the circle, if you don't mind. I don't think I could draw if the tingling came back."

"I don't think it will, Siobhan said. "The Sídhe rarely grant their attention twice in a day. It can be done at most any ancient site, you know. You won't always be answered, to be sure, but we had good fortune today. And, sometimes, you might be answered by the wrong sort of Sídhe. Here, take this." She pressed a stone into Valentia's hand.

The round stone was about half the size of her palm. The large hole in the center looked sanded and smooth, by nature or man, she couldn't tell.

"It's a charm to keep the bad Sídhe at bay. You can't keep them away altogether, but with this on you, they are more reluctant to approach. You don't want their attention now, true enough."

Valentia swallowed, accepting the stone. It wouldn't hurt to keep it.

"Thank you, Siobhan, for this, and for this." She held up the stone, gesturing with her hand to indicate the stone circle. "The experience was... most unusual," she smiled, with a tilt of her head and a nod.

Siobhan grinned back, taking her hand. "Unusual, to be sure. It isn't anything most people will want to hear about, mind. One shouldn't speak of one's experiences with the Sídhe. It's a private thing, you see. But if you should seek them out again, do bring someone to help, someone who might be sympathetic."

Valentia unpacked the art supplies and the picnic lunch they had brought. Siobhan sat on a stone, eating a sandwich from the pack, while Valentia gave in to her urges to draw the curvilinear stone formations.

* * *

When they returned to the hotel for supper, Valentia sat with Aiden, Siobhan, and Mitchel. O'Brien needed to return to his home while they were out, so she missed bidding him farewell. However, he had left her reading material to help her understand the situation with the food shortages. She looked forward to perusing it.

Mitchel was due to leave the next day, so they spoke of his upcoming journey back to Dublin. Valentia was upset he was leaving, but knew such feelings were foolish. Working hard to keep them from her face and manner, she laughed at jokes Aiden told. She was careful to look at Siobhan as much as she looked at Mitchel.

Siobhan asked, "Will you be heading up to Donegal soon, then, Valentia?"

"Perhaps in a few days. I've arrangements to make, though. Do any of you know of someone who might help? I'll need to get a carriage for myself and Maggie. I would love to have someone local to assist along the way."

Mitchel looked thoughtful. "I do, actually. There's a young man, Kevin Banaghan. He's helped me in the past arranging trips. He's what they call a 'fixer.' Not high born, mind you, so he's rough around the edges, but he's used to dealing with the upper classes. He also has a distinct talent for getting things done. He's a sound man, good in a jam. I think he'll be an excellent help. I'll find him in the morning, before I leave, and send him on."

"Oh, fantastic, thank you so much, John." She put her hand on his in thanks, the first time they had actually touched, skin to skin, since their kiss in the garden. She experienced a spark which put her in mind of the ordeal at the stone circle. She looked up and saw a reflection of her emotions in his eyes, and sad understanding. Heart breaking, she broke eye contact and turned to Aiden before she betrayed her emotions.

"Will you be off soon, as well, young man?"

"After basking in your presence, sweet lady, I could not linger in such a place without your bright smile." He made a mock bow while still seated at the table, Valentia laughing at his mocking gallantry.

Siobhan rolled her eyes at her twin's flowery phrase.

"Yes, we shall be returning home soon, and not for the reasons Aiden has presented. I'm feeling quite recovered after our outing today." Siobhan held her gaze for a moment, Valentia realized what Siobhan had asked for. She had either wanted healing, or a new child. She couldn't get the latter without her husband's help, of course. The concept made Valentia blush and think of Mitchel next to her. She imagined what his hands might feel like, warm on the skin of her belly, her breasts, her... her color and heat rose. She took a sip of tea to hide it, looking into her cup rather than risk catching anyone's eye.

* * *

Kevin, a tall, solid man, was presented the next morning. He towered over Valentia. He had sandy, reddish hair, hazel eyes, and a ready smile. His round face was rough with stubble, but he was cleanly dressed and had a disarming smile.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mistress Valentia. Would you like me to take you all the way to Donegal, then? I'd be right happy for it, to be sure, and can help protect you ladies, as well."

Valentia grinned, liking him right away. "That would be splendid, Kevin, thank you. Can you and Maggie arrange for my baggage to be packed and stowed for travel, so we can set off tomorrow?"

Kevin nodded with a glance and a smile at Maggie, then went off to arrange for a carriage. He replaced his flat tweed cap on his head as he ambled away.

"Well, Maggie, what do you think? Will he do?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Mistress Valentia. It will help to have a man's strength to help with the trunk."

* * *

Her farewell to Mitchel had flitted by much more swiftly than she had anticipated, so Valentia was still feeling rushed about it. He had looked at her for a moment, took her hand in his, saying, "I wish it could be, my dear, but it cannot, you well know it. I wish you all the luck and safe travels ahead." He kissed her hand, putting a hand to her cheek, light as a dewdrop on a spring leaf. She had closed her eyes, relishing the feeling. When she opened them, he had gone.

She knew it to be true, but her gut wrenched. He had a wife and family, and he was happy with them. She sighed, resolving to bury her feelings she had had no business with in the first place.

* * *

Kevin was glad Master Mitchel had recommended him for this situation. He had been desperate, wondering how he could continue to feed his younger sister and her family.

While Kevin heaved the Mistress' heavy trunk onto the top of the carriage, he considered the two ladies in whose employ he now worked. The lady had a kind face, refined features, and a ridiculous mass of black, frizzy hair which was always escaping in the wild Irish wind. She didn't seem to smile much, but she treated him with respect, and he well appreciated it. Some of the toffs he'd seen in the town would as soon step on him as acknowledge his existence.

This situation would give him a steady income, which he could send back to his sister and brother-in-law, so they could eat for a while. He knew he was up to the task, as he'd always been a talker, was able to make things happen. Just not on his farm.

He was strong and capable, and had worked with Master Mitchel in the past, arranging for tours of the local area, acquiring supplies, or setting up meetings. He enjoyed telling stories, and helping people. He was also fond of the occasional wager, but tried not to get in trouble with such a Devil's Trap. To get paid for such a thing was butter on the bread, so to speak.

The maid was a sweet thing, with her fiery red hair and freckled, round face. He hoped she had spirit and temper to match. She was aloof with him, but he figured he could change that right quick, with proper work. She might be a few years younger than him, but not so much as it would be an issue.

He gave the maid, Maggie, a charming grin. He'd been told he could smile the spots off a cow, so was confident in its power. She didn't respond as he had expected, though. She colored, her neck turned pink, but she sniffed and nodded, turning to her Mistress. Kevin was taken aback, as his smile had always worked on the girls in the other farms, or in the hotel kitchens. Perhaps a Lady's Maid would take a wee bit more effort. He was sure it would be worth it, though.

"Have you traveled to Donegal before, Kevin?"

Mistress Valentia's question took him by surprise and he jumped.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you? I hadn't meant to."

"No, it's quite all right, Mistress. I've not been so far north before. I've been to Galway and Westport. We'll be traveling through both on the way, sure enough. And Ireland isn't so different from one place to the next."

"I look forward to seeing it for myself. Thank you again for agreeing to travel with us."

"Sure, it's my pleasure, Mistress. May I help you up?" He offered her a hand as she entered the carriage, and she took it with a nod of thanks. He turned to help Maggie, but she glared at him with dark brown eyes before accepting.

Chapter Nine

Hunger

The driver Kevin had hired for her was all set, the luggage stowed. Kevin climbed up next to the driver, a man he introduced simply as Pat, and they set off. The journey up to Donegal would take a solid week, though the roads were better through Mayo and Sligo. They had decided to forgo a sea journey out of kindness to Maggie.

Kevin spoke as they passed out of Lisdoonvarna "The best route would be through Galway, Mistress, and then to Westport, Sligo and Donegal. Ardara is your final destination, right?"

"Yes, Kevin, that is correct. I hope to find my family there."

Kevin looked at her with an arched brow. "After two generations, and the problems we've been having the last two years, you will likely find little, Mistress."

Squaring her shoulders, she nodded. "It is true, I may find nothing. I've been told that area, in particular, has been hard hit with tragedy and trauma. However, I must still try."

Valentia decided she liked Kevin. He was competent, pleasant, and had a nice sense of humor and silliness she found refreshing. He knew how to deal with all sorts of people, whether it be a hotel butler or a dairy farmer.

Maggie pointed out the karstic landscape of stone and slab when they moved into the Burren.

"What happened to the stone here? It looks so odd!"

Kevin laughed. "It is said the Sídhe melted the stone and then decided they liked the look of it. A bit of art from the other world."

Maggie sniffed. "No need to laugh, if you please."

That just made Kevin chuckle softly. Valentia hid a smile at his cheek.

They had made it out of the Burren and into the lush valleys of County Galway by late afternoon. The day was bright and warm, so they dispensed with shawls and jackets to enjoy the summer weather. Farmland, lush and verdant, lay empty and abandoned.

Maggie asked, "Why are all of these farms abandoned? Surely they could grow food on this land.

Kevin said, "These are potato farms. They couldn't grow enough to pay their rent and eat themselves, so they've either died or been evicted."

The idea was surreal, that this land should be so unable to sustain its people, yet be so fallow.

Farmhouse after empty, staring farmhouse watched them as they traveled. A few were larger, almost manor houses, with gaping, empty windows. Some were marked with obvious signs of flame or riot, broken glass, scorched roofs, or pillaged debris strewn in front of them, picked clean of anything valuable. A couple were little more than turf sheds, collapsing from neglect, thatched roofs caving in, sodden from summer rains. They saw a thin line of smoke in the distance now and then, but whether from a burning house or a hearth fire, they could not tell.

What should have been a pleasant day turned into a sobering dose of reality, and they arrived near Galway a thoughtful group.

Stopping for brief meals and to rest the horses, they had made decent time, considering the roads and terrain. They were staying overnight in an inn by the water in Galway, meaning to be up first thing in the morning to resupply. It wasn't a fancy place, by any stretch of the imagination, but they were more interested in conserving money than living high.

Galway, as a port city, had more victuallers and mongers to supply their needs than Lisdoonvarna had offered. After having seen what state the countryside was in, they hoped this was true.

Kevin found a stable for their carriage, and asked, "Might I have some funds to get food for us and the horses?"

"Certainly. Here, this should be sufficient," she counted out several coins to him. He handed one back with a grin.

"If you ladies go down this street, you can find a shop for some more suitable traveling clothes. The winds on the coast can get quite brutal for those unused to them."

"That is a kind thought, Kevin, thank you. Would you know where I can get some books to read as well? The swaying of the carriage is more easily borne with something to take my attention."

He directed her to another shop and they went to their errands. They met back at the stable in a few hours, and proceeded to the attached inn.

The Harp was clean enough, and had room for them. Valentia and Maggie refreshed themselves in their room while Kevin helped the driver take care of the horses.

Sitting in the lounge with mushroom stew, bread, and cool ale, the group sat and spoke of their ride.

"Is all of Ireland like this? Empty homes and devastated land? It looked so odd, all the green growth, yet nothing to eat."

"Yes, most of the west is, though there are pockets here and there where the landlords are trying to help. Most don't bother or care. Worse, they tell the factors, who manage the land for the landlords, they want their rent no matter the cost, so the factors take it out on the tenants even more. These lands could grow other things—barley, wheat, corn. But potatoes are what they are commanded to grow, and the potatoes won't grow, so they starve. Or they leave. Some try to take down the landlord or the factor when they do, out of desperation, but I canna blame them a wee bit. It's a helpless feeling, watching your family waste away, it is." He looked bleak and alone at that moment, his habitual cheerful expression turned dour with memory.

"Your family, Kevin? You mentioned you had a sister, did you not?" Kevin looked surprised at the concern she showed.

"Aye, Mistress, I've my sister left, but the rest of my family is either passed or moved away. I'm twenty-seven, and was the eldest of six. My father was transported to Australia for stealing food for his children, and my mother followed. They've both died since. I've several brothers in America, and a sister who died after getting ill, with no food for her recovery. My sister's family is small, but I do what I can to help, as their land's useless now."

"Useless?" Valentia looked confused.

"As good as. We had barely a half acre, nor enough to feed us all. We grew barley, had milk and eggs, but that all went to the landlord's factor. The potatoes were supposed to feed us, but they've all rotted in the ground."

"That's horrible, Kevin. Did you have no stores?"

"A bit from last year, but that's all gone, as last year's crop was small too. Tales came in from all over about the potato blight. People have tried everything. Remedies, tricks, magic, blessings – even pissing, begging your pardon, on the plants to kill the stinking black rot. None of it worked. We prayed to all the saints in heaven for our deliverance, but the prayers went unanswered. We even left offerings for the Fair Folk, but even they seemed to have deserted the land."

Valentia felt a shiver at the mention of the Fair Folk, remembering her experience at the stone circle.

She put her hand over his wrist in sympathy. "I shall do what I can to help. How did you come to meet Mr. Mitchel?"

"Well, when I was twelve, my parents sent me to my cousin, to train as a footman in a grand house. I learned plenty, but then the family left Ireland. I returned to the farm, but was used to dealing with toffs-- I mean, the gentry." He gave her an apologetic nod, and she waved it off with a smile.

"For now, employing you is helping your family, is that correct?"

"It is, Mistress, very much. We don't want charity, just the right to earn what we can to survive. It's all any Irishman wants."

"That's grand. This much we can do. As long as I'm in Ireland, I'm sure I shall need help from a strong, smart local man. You fit the description, and I'm happy to have you on board."

"I know you're headed to Donegal, Mistress, but can I ask why? I might be able to help more if I knew more?"

Valentia searched Kevin's eyes for sincerity. She found it in his guileless hazel gaze. She glanced at Maggie, and the maid gave a noncommittal shrug. She glanced at the taciturn, old Pat, who blinked at her, owl-like.

"I'm on the search for my grandmother's family. She left when she was a child, leaving behind two sisters."

Like any good Gael, Kevin asked about family names, locations, and branches, to help him form a good picture of her family tree. When she had first come across this tendency, of Irishman or Scot, to ask about ones family until they found a relation to their own, she had been disconcerted. She was amazed at not only the direct manner of inquiry, but also the immense amount of genealogical data each person seemed to be able to hold in their head. But, she submitted to the interrogation, giving her family names and relations.

"Well, it starts with my parents: Padraig McDowell, who married Majesta Donahue. Then, Majesta's parents, who were Dominick Donahue and Bridget Doherty. Bridget, known as Bridey, had the two twin sisters, as far as her mother could remember, who were in County Donegal."

Kevin clucked his tongue against his cheek. "Do you know their names?"

She nodded. "Eithne and Esme Doherty, but they likely have married names now."

Kevin chewed on his lip. "Do you know any further back? Sometimes that can give us clues to find people, as well. Cousins, distant relations."

"My mother hadn't remembered much farther back, except Bridey's parents were named Brian and Shona. She had no idea what Shona's maiden name might have been. Oh, and also..." She broke off, not certain if she should mention the brooch. But he couldn't help her if she didn't tell him, could he?

"Also, what?"

"Also, we're looking for a piece of jewelry. A brooch my grandmother left behind. If no one is left, perhaps they sold it locally to fund a migration?"

He shrugged. "It's possible. Not much to go on, mind you, but we can try, but if we've a starting town, we might be able to get by. Ardara, you said? It's near the coast, halfway into County Donegal. It shouldn't take us long to get there, should the weather favor us. We can travel about forty miles a day at the most, depending on the roads and terrain. I would like to try to stop in Westport, somewhere close to Sligo, then perhaps Ballyshannon then Donegal Town, for the night. Plan subject to change, o' course." He grinned at Valentia, and she had to return it. Still grinning, she glanced at Maggie, catching her maid smiling. When she saw her Mistress watching her, she corrected her expression back to the habitual scowl she had adopted in Kevin's company, giving Valentia a sullen look.

"That sounds grand, Kevin. How much money will you need for supplies tomorrow? When should we begin?"

They worked out a list of what they would need, how much time he would need to get them, based on his best guess. They spent the rest of the evening enjoying the cool ale, getting to know each other.

Maggie turned to Pat, "Do you often work for the spa?"

The old man grunted and shrugged. The expression on his lean, weathered brown skin didn't change. Valentia couldn't tell if this was agreement or denial.

Kevin helped out. "He does odd jobs. He's got a sister in Donegal Town, likely he would like some time to see her while we're there." Pat nodded once in agreement with this, and Valentia smiled.

"Of course, we can. What about you, Kevin? Do you often work for the spa?"

He shook his head. "I would if I could get steady work, aye. But I do what I can when they offer."

Weary, they left for their respective reposes. Valentia, though, took a long time to drop off to sleep. Her imagination was haunted by all those empty farm houses along the road, but even more by the columns of smoke they had seen. Was there violence near? Were they, perhaps, in a greater danger on the road than she had suspected? She might talk to Kevin about arming him with a gun on the morrow. He had a thick cudgel which he carried, thick and stout enough to bash a man in the head, but a gun might be more prudent.

Valentia also remembered to sew what jewelry she had back into the hems of her skirts, in case.

She thought of Mitchel and O'Brien, with their political fight for Home Rule and assistance for the hungry poor, resolving to help them when she got the chance. Then she thought of Mitchel, and the times they might have had together. Trying to resist the temptation, she tried to push Mitchel from her mind, but he refused to leave.

* * *

Valentia looked at the dusty wooden case, and picked up one of the firearms. It felt heavier than the one her father had. But Kevin said this was the model he was used to, so that was the best bet. She got the second one for Pat and moved on.

Blinking a bit in the daylight after the dim gunsmith's store, Valentia spied Kevin at one of the food stalls.

Maggie asked him, "Were you able to find enough provisions for the trip?"

He shook his head. "There's food, to be sure, but not much of it is in good nick. And it'll be dear for all that. No potatoes to be had, of course. I was able to get salted ham and fish. The grain's moldy, and the turnips are old, a wee bit mushy. We should eat those today. Have you cooked turnips before, Maggie?"

"I have. We do have them in America, you know." Her mouth was set in a prim line.

"Oh, I'm sure you've all manner of tasty things in America. But you can cook?" He sounded incredulous.

"Maggie's a fine plain cook, Kevin, have no fear. She'll keep us well fed."

"Well if she's not up to it, I can surely lend a hand and rescue her."

Maggie didn't rise to the bait. "You shall keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind. If I need help, I shall ask." The young maid literally put her nose in the air, flipped her russet curls over her shoulder, sniffing in disdain.

Kevin chuckled at her response, climbing up to his seat next to the older man. Pat clicked his tongue at the two horses, a set of solid cobs named Missy and Molly, both dark brown with darker legs.

Before they even got out of the city, they saw a soup kitchen and Valentia looked on with great interest as they passed. They were informed of the kitchen at the inn. There weren't many Quakers in Ireland, but those few had been helping combat the hunger with efficiency and kindness which far outweighed their small numbers. This soup kitchen was one such venture, where people were fed with no regard to their religion, need, or family status. It wasn't fancy food, but there was bread and soup, perhaps even fish from Galway Bay. Valentia noted the starched white hats of the ladies serving the line, smiling. In all the despair and horror, there was a glimmer of hope.

This area of Ireland was different yet from what she'd seen before. Connemara was beautiful and desolate at the same time. There were fewer farms and cultivated lands than there were east of Galway, and instead more mountains, streams and waterfalls. The long grasses on the hillside swayed in the wind, greens and golds undulating in rhythm to the horses' clip-clop along the road. Sheep bleated in the distance, but the grass hid them, for she saw no tell-tale white dots along the hillside.

The weather was cooperating, as the day had dawned bright, warm and clear. Kevin had declared it a miracle, two fine days in a row, saying the Fair Folk must be smiling upon their journey. The air here was clear, with no hint of the char they smelled the day before. The tang of the sea and the smell of the rain which had fallen in the night, combined with a scent Valentia couldn't identify. The pungent smoky smell wasn't like any smoke she had smelled before; pleasant, but unusual.

Valentia called for a stop when they saw a farmhouse on the road, with a thin old man outside, pulling greenery from the ground. Kevin came down and helped her out of the carriage, asking in a low voice, "What are you up to, Mistress?"

"I just want to talk to the man, learn about his situation out here."

"It mightn't be wise, Mistress. The folk out here are pretty surly, in the best of times, and these aren't the best of times, by any tick."

"Just stay by me, Kevin, please. I'll be fine."

They approached the house, Kevin glancing back at the carriage until Maggie poked her head out. She made no attempt exit. Pat nodded to him, indicating he would watch out for the young maid.

"Excuse me, sir, might I ask you a question?"

The man stared at Valentia. He was wrinkled and stooped, brown like mahogany. He didn't answer, but simply leaned on the rude spade he had been digging with. A thin clay pipe dangled from his thin lips, though the bowl was empty. He had a battered straw hat on, and grey clothing ripped to the point of rags.

"Sir? I mean you no harm, truly. I'm a visitor to Ireland, you see. I'm trying to find information."

The man continued to stare. He didn't nod, or shake his head, or in any way acknowledge her question. Then his lip moved, sucking what was left of his teeth, then he was still again.

Kevin looked at Valentia. "He likely has no English, Mistress. Even if he does, he wouldn't speak it to you."

To the man, he said, "Dia duit, fear maith. An féidir leat cuidiú linn?"

Valentia realized he must be speaking the Irish. The first part sounded like 'jee-ah gwich farmah,' and the rest sounded like a jumble. She hoped he was being polite.

The old man grunted at this, shook his head, and returned to work at the dirt with his spade.

"Ah, we'll get nothing from him, Mistress. Even the Irish won't work. If you want to question a local, wait until tonight, in a pub. We'll ask the local farmers, fair enough? Then they'll have ale and be more inclined to speak with ya."

"What did you say to him?"

"'Hello, good man, can you help us?' A simple request, but not one he was willing to even acknowledge. What did you want to know of him?"

"I'm not really sure. I just wanted to ask how he lived, if I could help, I suppose. It's difficult to see people in such straits and not try to help them." She remembered the families she saw in Pittsburgh after the fire. This was even worse, as the folk in Pittsburgh knew they were going to receive help from the forces outside the city and within. The folk here in Ireland had no such assurances.

As Kevin and Valentia hiked back towards the carriage, she paused to pat Missy on the nose. Two young boys appeared from a rise across the road, dressed much like the old man, with muddy splotches on their face and legs. Underneath the mud, Valentia saw spots on one boy's face, like the measles or pox. They carried long, thin poles and a heavy bag, from the way they carried it. Perhaps they had been fishing somewhere nearby? They looked to be about six, but could be older if they hadn't been fed well. At least they had a place to get food. The boys had seen them, stopping dead in their tracks, not daring to approach.

"They are likely forbidden to fish on the land, Mistress Valentia. It would be the landlord's fish they're poaching. Not that it stops them, mind, but it does increase the danger." Surprised, she looked back, to see the boys vanish into the tiny cottage. She stared in disgust. How could any Christian man allow children to starve when there was food on the land, food he wasn't even using, much less that which was sent away?

Kevin helped Valentia back into the carriage and clambered into his spot.

As the carriage passed the boys, she watched their faces. Their eyes were round with astonishment as they went by, raising dust with the wheels. Still, the boys didn't move.

* * *

The day was long and exhausting, but they enjoyed the trip, despite the odd encounter with the old farmer. The views were spectacular, Valentia pointing out sights to Maggie, and vice versa, throughout the day. They had stopped for a quick meal break near Ashford Castle, a grand estate, though now empty. The house was owned by the Browne family, Kevin had disclosed, but they hadn't lived there for decades. The castle and the grounds were spectacular; such a shame they were abandoned. And the land... dozens of families could have been fed if the land were cultivated. She sighed at the waste.

The group arrived in Westport, stopping at an inn called The Mariner. Valentia was happy to be out of the carriage and strolling about, stretching her legs. There was no food at the inn, so Pat stayed with the carriage, tending the horses. Valentia, Maggie and Kevin went in search of dinner and conversation.

They came across a busy tavern, not too disreputable looking, and inquired about food and drink. They served both, so the party entered, finding an empty corner to break their fast.

After a while, with urging from Valentia, Kevin invited a man at the next table into their conversation. He was reluctant, but they bought him a mug of ale. Evidently, this convinced him they meant no harm. He spoke little English, but with help from Kevin, they were able to conduct a three-cornered conversation.

"The name's Swag, Mistress. I work on a farm just outside Westport."

"Swag? Very pleased to meet you, sir. Have you farmed here all your life?"

"I have, yes. And my father and my father's father before him." He nodded with vigor at each 'father'.

"And do you have a family here as well?"

"My Colleen and the two girls, yes."

"And how old are your children?"

"They are five and two, Mistress, pretty little things."

Valentia smiled at his paternal pride. "And..." She wasn't certain how to phrase the next question without offending the man. She glanced at Kevin, confident in his ability to hide any rudeness in his translation. "And do you have enough to feed your family, Swag?"

Swag looked at her a moment, after Kevin asked in the Irish. Then he dropped his eyes, shaking his head.

"If you could keep what you grew on your farm—would you have enough then?"

"Oh, yes, Mistress. But most of what we grow goes to the factor, you see. We're only allowed to keep the potatoes. And those didn't work this year."

"I see. Would your factor not let you keep a little more this year, if you promised to pay him more rent next year?"

"No, Mistress, Old Torg tried it last month. They burned him right out of his home. Forced him and his family out and into the workhouse." Swag's eyes grew round, his gaze darting around as if he expected to be taken away himself, at any moment.

"Reassure him, Kevin, we'll not get him in trouble." Valentia was worried the man might bolt if he thought he was in danger. Kevin spoke to him at length in Irish, and a conversation ensued. Whatever he said seemed to work, because Swag settled down, taking another swig of his ale.

She was able to draw from him, bit by bit, a description of his life, how he got there, and what, if any, his options might be. Swag painted a horrible picture and she felt compelled to keep probing, despite wanting to shy away. If she wanted to help O'Brien and Mitchel in their fight, she had to know herself the truth of what they were fighting for. This was the only way she could think of to discover it.

When she was done, she gave the man a pound, for his trouble. He took it, but looked at it for a long time. Valentia looked at Kevin, surprised. Was it not enough?

"He'll have nowhere to spend it, Mistress, no place which might take it around here. Better we give him food or anything he can trade. That will do him more good than any coin."

She nodded, but didn't take the coin back. She asked Kevin to go and get a package of food from their bags, sending Swag on his way. He looked dazed with both the food and the coin, but he tossed back the last swig of ale from his mug, nodded at her and Maggie and shuffled off.

As he left, Valentia noticed a deep tear in the back of his shirt. This wouldn't have surprised her, but she saw the glistening of old, silvered scars on his back, and her spine stiffened. At her movement, Kevin looked in the direction of her gaze, noticing what she had seen. "He was likely beaten, Mistress, when he couldn't pay the rent one time. And he would have preferred it to being turfed out, to be sure."

Valentia swallowed. The farm she had grown up on had no slaves, and her servants were biddable enough. The occasional punishment was a tawsing on the rear, if the offender were young. If the servant were an adult, additional work sufficed. She had never seen such horrible scars.

"So did you find out what you wanted to, Mistress?" Maggie had remained silent through the questioning.

"I think so. I'd like to do this again, each town we stop in, Kevin. It will help me get a better idea of the conditions these poor people live in."

* * *

They continued with this routine for the next few days. They would travel during the day, up the rocky roads and through fields, fallow and deserted. In the evening, they would find an inn to stay the night. Again, they would try to find a local farmer or wife, to ask about their life. In Tobar an Choire, or Tobercurry, they found a fishwife with a young girl. Her husband had been lost at sea weeks before, so they were gathering funds to emigrate to cousins in Nova Scotia. Valentia was glad she could help them with the fare, believing the money well spent. The face of the woman was incredulous when she presented the coins, needing to be convinced this gift was no cruel trick.

Kevin found a whole group of men who worked on a larger manor farm, several bearing the marks of beatings and all of them on the verge of starvation. They talked to a young boy, about age ten. He was the man of the family, working hard to make the farm work for him and his two sisters, with the help of his ailing mother. After the first night, Valentia took to writing down the details of her interviews, making sketches of the people with whom she spoke.

Gifts of food were always appreciated. Valentia learned there was great joy in helping someone who had so much desperate need. Each was proud, she could tell, and wouldn't ask for help. However, each was willing to accept it in payment for the information and sketches. They considered this an exchange of services.

June days were long, so it gave them good traveling time, but the weather didn't stay as fair. There was a horrible downpour on the way to Sligo, which made the tracks muddy and travel slow. There was little to see of the glorious countryside, so they halted after about eight hours. The next day was little better, and they made it to Ballyshannon. The trip to Donegal was even worse, as the wind joined the storm. Keeping the carriage upright in the rain-rutted track was near impossible.

Halfway to Donegal town, while the wind and the rain buffeted the carriage without mercy, Maggie looked green.

"Maggie? Are you well?" Valentia asked with concern.

Maggie gulped a couple times before answering.

"I'll be fine, Mistress. It's just the swaying..."

It did indeed feel like they were on a boat, rocked by the waves and the surf. Valentia was about to say something sympathetic when the carriage suddenly stopped.

She poked her head outside to see the reason for the halt, and was assaulted with a face full of rain and wind. She couldn't see a foot ahead of her. She had no idea how Pat and Kevin managed to find the way.

A body came out of the gloom and she recognized Kevin. He looked worried.

"You ladies stay inside. Keep your knives handy. There's deadfall across the road, and I'm worried someone may have planted it. Pat and I will try to clear it, but we can't see a bloody thing. Draw the curtains, and sit ready." And with this, he disappeared into the fury again.

She was shocked at his language. They couldn't sit there, waiting for the weather to clear. If this was an ambush, this would be what the attackers wanted. Valentia pulled out her personal knife, a gift her father had given to her before her travels. Not that she would know how to use it, but it made her feel better to hold it.

"Maggie? Have you your knife?"

"I do, Mistress. Just here." She pulled her hand out of a fold of her skirts to flash the blade, then hid it again.

Valentia strained to hear anything outside, but there was only the sound of the storm. The carriage rocked again with a gust of wind, followed by a loud thump. Was there a shout? Perhaps the wind. It was maddening to be unable to hear or see what was happening. Adrenaline rushed through her, tightening her nerves and throat.

A knock on the door of the carriage made her jump, her bowstring-taut nerves snapping with the sound.

"We're ready to head out, Mistress Valentia. The wood's cleared and..." More shouting, more thumps.

Maggie wasn't holding her knife under her skirt any longer. She had it out, and was holding it in both hands in front of her, trembling. Valentia realized she was holding her own breath, and let it out with a ragged sob. She pulled her knife out and placed it in her lap, gripping it tight.

The knife, a gift from her father, was a pretty thing, with a carved ivory handle with Celtic knot work shaped like dogs. She had removed the tooled sheath, and it lay on the carriage seat next to her. She stared at it as if it would attack her.

More thumps followed, then Kevin knocked again, out of breath.

"Sorry about that, they had friends who were hiding. We're off now."

The carriage shook as he took his seat. Valentia let out a long, slow breath at the movement of the vehicle. Her whole body trembled, weak.

As the weather cleared, they saw refugees shuffling along the road, in the rain, trudging from one hopeless situation to another. Sometimes they saw single men, sometimes a group, or families with listless children in tow. One might have a cart or a wagon, though never any sort of draught animal to tow it. They appeared to have everything they owned with them.

Valentia asked, "Where could they be going?"

Kevin shrugged. "Family. The workhouse. Perhaps a port to emigrate. They could just be wandering about until they find a place not quite as miserable as where they left."

A few sat or lay down in the mud, bone tired of marching, with no strength left in their bodies.

Maggie stared at them. "And what happens to those? The ones who stop?"

"Their corpses will eventually wash down the gulley."

They were all silent for a spell after that.

Sometimes, as they came across a family with young children, Valentia would offer them a package of food. The father would look at her in confusion, suspicion, and then profound gratitude. He would take the package and scuttle off before she changed her mind. Each morning, they bought more food than they would need so they could give more away.

When they arrived in Donegal town, they were bedraggled, muddy, and weary of traveling. They decided to stay a day in the town to recuperate. They could freshen up before going to Ardara to find Valentia's kin.

The center of town was called The Diamond, the oddly-named three-pointed area where the market met. The market was due the next day, so Valentia hoped to find supplies and gifts for the family she was hoping to meet. Perhaps she should get a gift for Kevin for all his help with the interviews. None of the people they had spoken to had known much English, so his help was invaluable. She was learning a little of the language herself, and the rhythm became familiar to her, from her grandmother. She now knew how to carry on a basic conversation and the words for a few objects. Kevin helped to teach both her and Maggie more.

The rain seemed to be letting up as they pulled into town, so Kevin went to find lodging while they had supper in a tavern. She no longer bothered preparing herself for such outings. Maggie was beside herself, fussing with her wild tangle of hair and muddy skirts. Valentia shrugged her off, with a smile, telling her to relax.

"It's not right, Mistress. You know your hair hates the rain, and it looks a fright. Anyone who looks at you would think I'm a terrible maid. I've my own pride, you know."

"Fine, Maggie, do what you will, but not until we sit down, please? I need warm food in my belly. Pat, can you get us stew and bread, if they've got any?"

They found a table to station themselves until victuals could be had.

Kevin returned before Pat did, letting them know he found a place. He looked odd about it, and Valentia pressed him.

"Well, the only inn which has rooms is... is right next to the workhouse, I'm afraid."

Valentia had heard of the workhouses, places to provide work for anyone willing, filled with those who could no longer afford the rent on their farms. She had heard of the horrible working conditions, crowded living quarters, and lack of options for those inside.

"Grand. We can go there tomorrow to see first-hand what they are like."

"Oh, I shouldn't think you'd want to do that, Mistress. I got a good whiff when I passed by. It's no place for a lady."

"Precisely why I shall inspect them. I need to know."

Kevin sighed. Valentia realized he had learned when she decided upon a course, there was little he could do to dissuade her. He looked hopefully at Maggie, but she shook her head.

Pat came with bowls of stew and the landlady behind him with mugs of ale. They ate in silence, unaware they'd drawn attention.

When Valentia looked up from her stew—it wasn't beef or lamb, and didn't care to know what the meat was—she found herself looking at a foppish young man in a purple and yellow waistcoat. He was flanked by two more soberly-clad fellows. He had a mop of blonde curls, though she couldn't tell if he wore ridiculous wig or it was his own hair. He was well-groomed with a sharp, pointed chin and black eyes. He had a half smile on his face, as if he found her amusing.

She dabbed the side of her mouth with her napkin, asking, "May I help you, gentlemen?"

The man glowered at Pat and Kevin, then at Maggie, before speaking.

"You seem to be in rather mixed company, Mistress...?"

Formal introduction rules couldn't possibly apply in a town tavern. Besides, she had no one of sufficient rank to present her.

"I am Mistress Valentia McDowell. I'm traveling to visit my family. And you are?"

With another disdainful glance at her companions, then his two cronies, he gave a short bow.

"I am Lord Alexander Gore, of Donegal Castle."

"Are you, then? How delightful. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Milord Gore." She didn't stand, nor offer him a spot at their table. She nodded in response to his bow, waiting to see what he might do next.

"Would you care to join us, Mistress? I've a clean table in our room, just over there." He indicated a private room with red curtains, provided for the local gentry to keep them from having to deal with the common riffraff in the tavern.

"Oh, thank you for your kind invitation, sir, but I'm quite content here."

"Content, says she. Please, I would consider it an honor if you would join us." He was a persistent little man, she would give him that.

"I'm afraid there wouldn't be room for all four of us."

"Oh. Well, no, I was inviting you, Mistress McDowell, of course. Your servants would need to remain here."

"Precisely. As I said, I prefer to remain here." She glowered at him, refusing to budge.

Gore sniffed, as if affronted, as perhaps he was. He pulled himself up to his full height—which was inches shorter than average, Valentia noted—and gave another stiff bow before he turned on his heels and left.

Only after the red curtains fell behind him did Valentia allow herself to giggle into her napkin. Maggie joined her as they locked eyes. Kevin looked worried.

"I don't think you should have done that, Mistress. You ought to have gone with him."

"Now, Kevin, he was an obvious bore. I shouldn't have enjoyed his company in the slightest. Besides, it might be dangerous to go alone in a private room with strangers, might it not?"

"I suppose, yes, but they were nobles. His family owns this town, you see, and most of the land surrounding it. It may have not been a good idea to offend him if you want favors in finding your family. Or with the workhouse."

It sobered her. She didn't see how she could have endured him, though, despite needing to cultivate his favor. She shrugged and sipped her ale.

"It is what it is, Kevin. Perhaps we won't need his help after all. Or I can put my bad manners down to a long day of traveling, should it come up in the future."

"Perhaps, Mistress." He still looked glum.

Chapter Ten

Donegal

With Pat off visiting his sister, Valentia was determined to investigate the conditions in town. Kevin had not been able to arrange a visit to the workhouse, but she didn't let it stop her. The next day, freshly dressed and coiffured, even to Maggie's satisfaction, she approached the building. With Kevin in tow, she strode up to what might be the office, rapping on the door with purpose. The door was rickety, and shuddered at the abuse.

She had questioned Kevin the night before about the workhouses. He didn't say much, as he preferred she see the conditions herself. He said they had only been for the widows and orphans before, but since the blight, working men were allowed. Some places had turfed the widows out to make room for working men. There were always people hoping to get in now, lines of people waiting each day, praying for a spot, as they had no place else to go.

"You can have nothing, not even a plot of land. I wouldn't qualify, myself, as we have a wee bit of land to work," Kevin explained.

She heard shuffling inside, but no one came to the door. Kevin shrugged and she rapped three more times.

While she listened to more shuffling, something fell over inside. The grimy stairs lead to the door, the dusty, broken windows and the rusted pipes outside were covered in moss and filth.

The door swung in, and she found herself face to face with a fat man her father's age, a ring of grey fringe around his head. His waistcoat threatened to burst if he took a deep breath.

"Good morning, sir. I am Mistress Valentia McDowell, and I would like to see your facilities, please. What's your name?" She pretended she was Majesta on a shopping excursion, showing no doubt her commands would be followed.

"I am the Master of the house, Mr. Mellon. Our facilities, is it? And why would you want to be doing that, Mistress McDowell?" The man looked amused, wheezing with what Valentia assumed was laughter.

"I have heard stories of the place, and I would like to see for myself if they are true. Are you empowered to show me around, or should I speak to someone with more authority?"

"Hmph. Yes, I can show you around, but not just now. Come back tomorrow." He moved to shut the door, but she put her boot in the doorway before he could.

"I'm afraid I can only do so today. Could you please show me the way? Or shall I find it on my own?"

Mellon made a sound in his throat which sounded like a growl, but he opened the door again. With an exaggerated gesture, he invited her into the messy room, glaring at Kevin.

A box had fallen from the desk, and papers lay scattered across the floor. A huge chair stood behind the desk, which might even have proved strong enough to hold the larger man. There were ledger books stacked high on the desk in several colors. She glowered at Mellon until he showed her to an interior door, which led into the workhouse itself.

The building was a grey brick structure with four floors and windows. It would have looked grim, even if she was unaware of its purpose. When she entered, though, the first thing that hit her was the stench. Unwashed bodies, feces, sweat and fear mingled with industrial scents to slap her in the face with an almost physical presence. She staggered for a moment, while Mellon chuckled.

"It's a wee bit fresh in here, Mistress. Someone ought to have warned ye."

She shot him a disgusted look, breathing through her mouth as much as she could.

They were in a bare hallway, with what looked like dormitory rooms on either side. She glanced in, noting rows of bare pallets with a single, threadbare blanket on each.

"Men sleep on the left, women on the right. The children are on the other end of the building."

They continued until they came into a larger room filled with women doing needlework. The light was poor, and most were stooped over their work, trying hard to see. The dust in the room made it even more difficult to breathe than in the hallway near the dorms.

"How many hours a day are the workers required to work, Mr. Mellon?"

"Ten. The men are in the yard, breaking stone for roadworks and bridges."

"And the children?" There had to be some, but none were with the women.

"Oh, they get schooling, until they are old enough to work. We even train them for proper jobs."

"What sort of jobs?"

"Factory work and the like."

While they were passing by, one woman fell out of her rickety chair, landing on the fabric she had been stitching. Mellon grunted and flicked a hand at a guard who was standing in the corner. The guard came over and propped the woman back up into her chair, but she fell over again.

"That woman's in need of medical help, not rough handling," Valentia said.

"She's in need of a tawsing. She's just lazy and doesn't want to do her work," he growled, gesturing to the guard again.

Before the guard could do anything, Valentia rushed to the old woman, wrinkled and shriveled like crumpled paper. She put her hand on the woman's forehead, then pulled it away from her burning skin.

"She's burning up with fever. Where's your physician? You must call him at once!"

"A physician? For the likes of her? She's just faking to get out of work."

"Mr. Mellon! This woman is ill. She is not faking, she's burning up! Get someone to help her immediately!"

Mellon beckoned to another guard, who helped the woman up, pulling her back towards the dormitories. Valentia stood, fuming, until they had taken her out of sight.

"She'll be tended to. Are you done yet?" Mellon said, clearly gruff and impatient.

Valentia considered, but she had seen enough. She wanted to get back to the inn and write O'Brien a letter about what she had learned.

"Thank you, Mr. Mellon, for showing me around." She glanced at Kevin before heading back the way they had come in.

When she passed by the dormitories, she peeked in each room, but didn't see the woman they had taken away in any of them.

They exited the building, and Valentia took a deep breath of the fresh air outside, trying to rid her lungs of the miasma.

"Will they really call a doctor for her, Kevin? Or is this just wishful thinking?"

"They won't, Mistress. It's too expensive. Likely they'll put her back to the needle as soon as you've left, if she hasn't died in the meantime."

She sighed. There was nothing she could do at the local level, not right now. She needed to work politics to change the system, but she was helpless to save that poor woman.

They walked to the inn next door, Valentia looking up the hill behind the workhouse. She could hear the men hammering on stones, clicking noises in several different pitches. She looked farther up the hill, seeing what looked like a graveyard, with huge mounds instead of tiny gravestones.

"They bury them in mass graves?" She gestured at the hill, and Kevin followed her glance.

"It's true, Mistress. Again, too much work otherwise."

She retired to her room, to write O'Brien with an account of what she had seen, with whom she had spoken, and what they might be able to do about it. About halfway through, her head was pounding, so she decided some rest would do her good.

* * *

Valentia struggled to pull herself from the quagmire of dreams and terrors. She was falling back into the pit of pulling people, dressed in rags, with gaping sores upon their faces, reaching for her, ripping her clothing, screaming in inhuman voices, tearing at her skin with talons and claws. Children withered as she looked at their faces, fading into stalks of dried plants, rotting into black sludge. She would get a grip on the rim of the pit, only to fall back into the mass of people.

She fought against children with vulpine faces, men who looked like bears ready to eat the very flesh from her bones, women weeping for the lost souls of their babes. The colors of her dreams were red, brown, and black, a hell she seemed unable to escape.

It seemed like years, eons, lifetimes through which she struggled in this infernal quagmire. She sensed herself pulling farther and farther up and out of the pit, before falling back in again. The falls were longer, but so were her journeys up and out. She saw light above, so she pushed herself to reach the bright, wide light in the shape of her grandmother's brooch.

She looked back down and saw dear Conor's freckled face. For an agonizing moment, she considered dropping back down to be with him.

* * *

When Maggie came in a few hours later, she found her Mistress in bed, tossing and turning, both shivering and sweating. She ran to get water and placed a wet cloth on her forehead, but Mistress Valentia moaned and thrashed more.

Worried about a relapse, Maggie called Kevin to find a doctor.

While Valentia fevered, Maggie worked hard to keep her from fading away from hunger. The doctor had done what he could to reduce the fever, but Maggie's constant attention kept her alive. She dribbled honeyed water into Valentia's parched throat, kept her skin damp with cloths and care. Kevin checked in on them whenever he could, holding Maggie's hand when she despaired of her Mistress' health. They shared time together, watching and waiting, and praying.

Kevin made inquiries into his Mistress' family, in case they were needed for sadder duties than a reunion. Maggie helped, as he hadn't remembered all the details of the family names. They spent time in Valentia's room talking about it. He asked about her family, too, though she dismissed such inquiries. Maggie had only known her mother, as her father had died when she was born. Her mother had died when she was ten.

Kevin hadn't found much, except there were, indeed, Dohertys in Ardara. They weren't noble, but well off enough, with a place of their own and land. A man came to Donegal for trade every so often, so they had at least some wealth. Ardara was twenty miles away, so they would be able to reach it in a day, once Mistress Valentia was well.

Pat had, as always, endured. The two men tended to get into dice games in the evenings. Both tended to win, though once or twice, Kevin came from one storming about loaded dice. Or, at least, he had growled and tossed things about. Pat spoke two words, 'bad dice,' in explanation for his explosive behavior. Maggie was happy enough to spend those nights in her rooms, nursing Mistress Valentia.

Maggie smiled at the memory. Kevin got all red and puffy in the face when he was angry, but his anger faded briskly. He was ready with a smile when he turned to find her standing in the doorway. She had heard the crashing and come down into the inn's common room to investigate. Kevin had pulled a chair out for her to sit and join them in a drink, and they'd all chatted for several hours.

Maggie had explained her life in Ohio, beyond what Mistress Valentia had shared, including her parents, the good life she led there. Kevin told Maggie of his wife, who had died years before, of his sister. His brother-in-law had resented him working in the grand house and learning servant's manners. It wasn't a proper occupation for a free man, in his opinion. Kevin had argued anything which puts food on the table was noble.

"It must be quite difficult to... to feel noble, in such a situation, I'm sure," Maggie said.

"Noble's all well and good, but I'd rather be fed than proud, I'm afraid." Kevin mopped up the last of the juices from his stew with a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. "You know the saying of 'better to be a dead lion than a live jackal? Well, I'm not so certain about that. I think I'd rather be the live lion, when all's said and done." He roared, then, making her laugh. He looked leonine, with his reddish-brown hair and his stubbly red beard and mustaches.

"You should laugh more often, sweet girl. Your eyes light up like the stars."

Maggie blushed with a fierce intensity, her freckles disappearing in the hot rush.

"Ah, well, everyone has their own priorities. I don't know what I'd do in such a situation. I don't think anyone does unless they've gone through it." Maggie stared at her own stew, trying to imagine such dire straits. She had never gone hungry before, except when she was so seasick she couldn't stomach food. She had never had to decide between dignity and a meal.

"I think the choice is easier if you have a family—if you've got children, aye? But for you alone, it might be more difficult."

Maggie sat silent, thinking of what her life might have been like if she had been born here in Ireland, like her grandparents, rather than in Ohio.

They ate in silence for a while, each lost in their own imaginations, conjuring up impossible situations and even more impossible solutions.

Later that evening, Maggie was trying her best to write to Mr. O'Brien, to finish the letter Mistress Valentia had been writing when she fell ill. Her Mistress moaned, and she flew to her bedside, cool rag in hand. She placed it on her warm forehead, as Valentia's eyes popped open, almost shocking Maggie off her chair.

"Oh, Mistress. You're awake!" An incredible wave of relief rolled over her. She resisted the urge to go tell Kevin right away.

"I... I..." Valentia's voice, unused for such a long time, was coarse and croaking. Maggie brought her a cup of honey water and helped her sit up so she could take a drink. After a tentative draught, she swallowed and took a deeper drink before trying again.

"I'm so sorry, Maggie... did I get sick again?"

"You did, and you've been away with the Faeries, as Kevin would say, for almost a week now. I'm so relieved you're back." She smiled at her Mistress, though she was sad to see how wasted and thin she appeared. "I'll go get you bread and milk. You need to eat!" And, before Valentia could object, she had bustled from the room in a rustle of skirts.

* * *

The late afternoon light streamed through the window, glinting on dust motes, tiny fireflies in the sunbeam. It looked magical as she drifted, watching the play of the sparkling bits. They danced in the air and swirled like leaves on a pond surface or Faeries dancing on the lake. She tried to get hold of her sense of place.

Ever since she had left home, she was rootless. She had always had an anchor—her family, her home, her routine of life. She now realized the loss of what she had left behind. What if Maggie hadn't been there to nurse her to health, or if Kevin decided he no longer wanted to help this crazy American lady?

Maggie came back in with a tray containing a bowl of warm milk, soft bread, and more honeyed water. Her stomach couldn't handle more after a week of fever. She remembered her convalescence at Lisdoonvarna, so didn't argue with her maid as she soaked the bread in the milk and spooned the soggy mess into her Mistress' mouth.

Valentia was feeble, but didn't feel as weak as she had been after the first illness. She hoped it would take far less time to recover this time. Was it a chronic illness? Or a relapse brought on by the heavy travel? Or had she contracted an illness from the workhouse? That couldn't be right—there was no time for it to have happened.

* * *

Two days later, Valentia felt much improved. She worked on walking each day, as the weather had once again turned fair, though with high winds. The little town had their market that day, so was eager to see what was on offer. Perhaps they could purchase gifts for their putative relatives in Ardara.

She was thrilled to find out Kevin had taken the initiative to research information on the Dohertys while she was ill. They estimated they could reach Ardara the next day, though Kevin was skeptical. Twenty miles, for heaven's sake. It would take, at most, six hours, even on the meanest roads. There were mountains to cross, but there had to be passes. She had dismissed his concerns with a 'hmph' which would have made her father proud.

"Maggie, will you ensure my hair is well secured today? It looks like the winds are frightful out there. Use a lot of hatpins, I think."

"I was already planning on it, Mistress Valentia, not to worry." Maggie beamed, evidently glad her Mistress was full of energy and interested in the day. She had recovered more speedily than last time, giving them all hope.

"Stout boots would be wise, I think, after all the rainy days we just endured. I'm sure it's quite muddy out in the Diamond."

Maggie smiled, "It is, Mistress. I was just yelling at Kevin for tramping the mud into the common room last night. He looked down as if he had just noticed he had feet."

Valentia laughed. They had created an odd little family, but it was nice everyone was comfortable and relaxed with each other.

This wasn't her own family, but in ways, they were closer. She had shared a lot with Maggie, Kevin and Pat already. Would she see her parents again? Or her brothers? Kevin felt like a brother, teasing protector. It felt disloyal to Conor, but she was warming to the large Irishman.

With Kevin on one side of her and Maggie on the other, they set out to examine the stalls in the town centre. Pat was invited, but he preferred to sit and watch people go by, smoking the scrap of tobacco he'd found.

Maggie saw a stall with ribbons, stopping to pick through them. She looked for both herself and Mistress Valentia, but her Mistress was more interested in speaking with the shopkeeper.

"Do you live near here, my dear?" She addressed the young girl who sat behind the low table. She was clean but scrawny, around age twelve. Shaking her head, the girl looked scared.

"So you travel from market to market?"

This elicited a slow nod.

Valentia looked at the wagon behind the table, which held packages, covered with thick canvas, tied up tight against the wind. She wondered if the girl were part of the tinkers, the traveling folk, sometimes called gypsies, though they were no relation to the gypsies in mainland Europe. Valentia wasn't going to get many useful answers from the poor frightened girl, so she ceased her pestering.

She looked over the wares on offer with an appraising eye. Much of the produce was wizened and wrinkled, and some was outright rotten. The few bits of grain were more chaff and dust. While there were a few kine and sheep, they were thin and weak. Kevin purchased the decent food where he could find it, but there wasn't much good available. For a market day, this was sad straits indeed. The best which hadn't been stolen from the country and sent to the English, that is. Anger stormed through her anew.

Kevin had said he approved of her campaign, but didn't have much faith in her plan to use government to effect change. He said he had little use for politicians and government windbags. Change would need to be made here and now, with the thieving, cruel factors, beating the food out of those who worked the land, taking it and selling it off to other countries, for their landlords' benefit. He'd tried to explain it to her at a stop along the road, but she didn't believe violence was the answer. He shook his head at her naiveté.

"Sometimes," he said, "violence is the last answer left to alter cruelty and injustice."

* * *

After about two hours, they decided the market had yielded all it would. They retired to the inn for lunch. Valentia was drained, but unwilling to let either Maggie or Kevin know how weak she was. She gritted her teeth and made herself move with as much grace as she could muster. When she sat down, she sighed in relief.

"Did you find what you wanted for your family?" Kevin inquired.

"I think so. I found exquisite carvings, made from a dark wood, ribbons for the ladies, should there be any. It isn't easy choosing gifts for people you've never met, not knowing age, gender, or hobbies." They had also bought food gifts, but had no idea how they would be received. From what Kevin had discovered, the family was wealthy, but the blight was affecting everyone, wealthy and poor. Pride sometimes did funny things. A gift of food might be seen as undesired charity from arrogant American relatives.

"Ah, those would be from bog wood, then." Kevin picked up a carving. The cross was carved to look as if it were woven out of pieces of straw to form an even-armed cross. "This would be a Brigid's Cross. Saint Brigid was both a goddess and a Saint. Do you not know her stories?"

"I have probably heard tales from my grandmother, but please, tell us."

"Well, we'll begin with the Goddess, then, as she came first. She is the daughter of the Dagda, the Good God, and has two sisters of the same name, a triple goddess. She is a healer, a smith and a poetess, and flames are sacred to her. There's a shrine to her, over a thousand years old, with an eternal fire, you know, over in Kildare. There are other wells all over the land, shrines and sacred places dedicated to her.

"As the Christians took over the older beliefs, then Brigid became a saint. The story goes there was a nun and abbess by the name, just after St. Patrick's time. Her feast day is February first, the day the summer has promised to return from the depths of black winter. We light candles on this day, so we call it Candlemas." Kevin dropped his gaze in reverence now, silent for a moment, as if praying.

"Her mother had been a Pict named Brocca, a Christian woman, a slave baptized by St. Patrick herself. But her father, a pagan, was King of Leinster, named Dubhthach. Legends say she was the daughter of a Druid. Whichever may be true, she is credited with many miracles of healing. There's a tale of leprosy, restoring a stock of butter gone rancid, and curing two dumb sisters."

The tales of healing intrigued Valentia. How wonderful it would be to heal the ills in the world around them.

Kevin asked, "Do you know if your relatives are Catholic or Protestant?"

Valentia blinked. "I hadn't even thought to ask. My grandmother had been Catholic, marrying Protestant man, so they could be Catholic."

Kevin looked thoughtful. "I think they might have changed, though. From what I heard, they owned land, and Catholics weren't allowed to own land for years. Sure, they relaxed the Penal Laws, but a few Catholics converted so they could keep or buy lands, over the years. Perhaps your family did the same?"

"Would it make a difference with this carving? Would they not like it?"

"Ah, sure, anyone likes a Brigid's Cross. It's good luck, aye? The Fair Folk respect it, as well. You can't go wrong with it."

"That's fine, then. I wouldn't want to insult or offend them." She wondered if he was right, if they had converted. If they had not, would they be upset she was Protestant? She hadn't considered the issue before, but at the Spa, the only people she had encountered were Protestants, as far as she was able to tell. But then again, as English and Anglo-Irish, they would be. Such a quagmire.

"I think, for the afternoon, I shall sit outside with Pat. While he smokes his pipe, I'll do a drawing of the people in the market." It sounded like a much better activity than brooding about her first meeting with her relatives. Her memories flickered to her parents, how they would have handled such a meeting. Her father would have blustered his way in, with her mother picking up the pieces his lack of refinement left behind. Valentia smiled at the image, taking a sip of her tea.

"You do that, Mistress. I'll pack up our things, with Maggie's help, and get the wagon ready for leaving tomorrow."

"Thank you, Kevin. That will be perfect. No sense in wasting such glorious sunshine."

She sketched the vignettes she observed in the market. However, she spent more time observing the people, watching how they moved and how they interacted. There were positive rules of class here, more than she had remembered in Ohio. Perhaps the divisions were religious and cultural, in addition to money. This far north in Ireland, it seemed, there were many Scots. They were Protestant lowlanders, and had been moved to supplant the Catholic Irish in many parts of Counties Ulster, Donegal and Down. She heard the Scottish burr from time to time, and supposed the speaker to be a recent transplant.

Later, as the market wound down, Valentia attempted to finish her letter to O'Brien and write one to Mitchel. Writing to Mitchel was so difficult. As a married man, it was improper for her to do so. She had to be precise and implacable in her phrasing, to hide any feelings she might have for him. The information must be cold and without emotion. She wrote to both, telling them of the things she had discovered, and inquiring what she might be able to do from Donegal to help their cause. She also made logistical suggestions about getting food to those who needed it most, in the countryside and the workhouses.

She sat for a while, gazing out of the window at the street below. She held the quill in her hand, watching a drop of ink fall as she contemplated everything and nothing. The plop of ink fell on the rough paper, forming a star, a blossom spreading its wings in neglect.

Valentia cleared her throat to dispel her daydreaming. She must finish these letters and send them off before she left the next morning. She looked down in dismay at the flowers of ink her dripping quill had left. None of it had marred the writing, so she sanded it with long practice, folded the letters and addressed them. She would give them to the landlady when she went down to supper.

The room was almost bare, since Maggie had spent most of the afternoon tidying her things. She had packed everything but tomorrow's clothing and her writing materials. She needed more time outside before sitting all day in the stuffy carriage.

The common room was quiet in the late afternoon, but her erstwhile suitor from the first night, Mr. Gore, was there with his two hulking companions. Were they were bodyguards or simply companions? Today, he was dressed in a pale lavender silk jacket, embroidered with what looked like roses. He had a deep blue vest underneath, and the contrast it made was jarring.

She chose a table on the other end of the room, but to no avail. As soon as she settled, Mr. Gore stood and approached.

"I see you've managed to shake off your... common companions, my dear," his mouth quirked in a half-smile. She couldn't find it in herself to be nice to this noxious man.

"My friends are busy elsewhere at the moment, yes. However, I see you still have yours. They must be quite indiscriminate. Or perhaps you pay them well?" Kevin had warned her about offending this man, but he was obnoxious. Perhaps she was trying to make up for her previous bigotry against servants, but she had no wish to keep this man's boorish company.

His half-smile diminished, before he answered. "At least they are still by me. Did you chase your cronies off with your adder's tongue?"

Her spine stiffened at this implication, but refused to rise. "Indeed not. They are running errands for me at the moment, and shall return soon."

"Well, perhaps I should join you until they do." He slid out a chair and planted himself too close to her.

"Mr. Gore, I don't wish to offend, but I am not interested in company of any sort at the moment. I'd like time to myself, if you please? I'm due to leave on the morrow, and I would like some solitude before the journey." There, she didn't see how any man who laid claim to manners could reject her request.

He looked as if he wanted to, though. It took him an eternity to nod, once, standing with dignity. He sketched a brief bow before he left, saying, "Another time, perhaps, my dear. Thank you."

She let out her breath, relieved it had been so easy. Taking umbrage had made it worse. She must remember that, and be firm but polite next time. She hoped there wouldn't be one, at least not with this loathsome creature. She had a fearful temper, and needed to learn to control it.

Chapter Eleven

Ardara

"Good news, Mistress Valentia. Pat says the weather will be fine today as well. It'll be just as windy, but not wet at all. He feels it in his bones when the rain comes, you see."

"Excellent, Kevin. I'd rather not arrive bedraggled and muddy."

"I figured." He grinned with a twinkle in his eyes, his cheeks red like freckled apples. He handed her up into the carriage, then Maggie, before taking his usual spot next to Pat. As they drove off, Valentia watched the town recede in the distance.

She had left a string of homes behind her, at New York, and Lisdoonvarna, strung along like a fishing line, connecting her all the way across the ocean to Ohio. Would the string break if she pulled it too fast, too far? Would she ever be able to get back? If she did, would it still be home to her? Was she a salmon, returning to the place whence her family spawned, with no sense of logic, a victim of instinct?

They had once again resupplied, having found a lawyer who allowed her to borrow upon her letter of credit from Mr. Moran in Galway. This was a relief, as their additional expenses for her illness had been unexpected. Traveling back to Galway to get more funds would be inconvenient. However, Mr. Seward seemed willing to forward her the money on credit, saying he would write to Mr. Moran for recompense. He also suggested checking in with him later if she needed more during her stay in Donegal.

The morning was misty. However, the wind wasn't strong, and at least it wasn't pouring rain. Pat still maintained it would burn off as the day went on, but Valentia and Maggie gave each other a look of skepticism.

The landscape was different still than farther south. The few trees had vanished. Once again they traveled in an alien landscape of rock. However, instead of the constant curved rocks of the Burren, there were now enormous rocky outcroppings and mountains, surrounded by bog and moor, swampy swaths covered in tall grasses. Every hill they topped, they imagined they'd seen the end to this peaty expanse, only to be greeted once again by another vista filled with grasses and rocks.

At several points, they could see where the peat cutters had carved out chunks of the clay-like substance, piling it to the side to dry in the July sun. Once dried, a brick of peat could keep a home fire burning for hours, providing both heat and light to a crofter's cottage. With the absence of trees, peat was a life-giving substance. Luckily, there was an endless supply here in Donegal.

One old man was out cutting peat, so they paused to chat with him. Through Kevin's translations, they learned he no longer had any family, but was trying to live out his last days on his half-acre farm. His wife had perished from the hunger, and his children had either died or fled. The man didn't seem to have any life in him left, and no wonder. They gave him a thick loaf of bread and fresh cheese, thanking him for his time. He didn't eat any of his bounty, but tucked it away in his shoulder bag, returning to his backbreaking work of cutting and flipping.

When they got to a place where the path met the sea, they paused for a brief rest, enjoying the sun which had burned through the morning mists. A pristine white ribbon of beach stretched out below them. Valentia meant to enjoy the wonder before they moved on.

The sunlight sparkled and shimmered on the ocean, which was calm due to the faint morning breeze. The light was brighter than she had yet remembered it being here in Ireland. Lifting her face, she gladly greeted the warmth.

Stockings and shoes removed, she and Maggie waded into the shallow water. Both were amazed at how warm the water was. The sand was fine and silky, a pleasing sensation on her tender feet. Valentia knew she was farther north than she'd ever been before, but this water was mild. She had no idea why, but she was enjoying it. Off in the distance, a ship sailed by. Was there a fish jumping in the water? Perhaps it was a dolphin or a whale.

Valentia was already tired after this brief exercise, but was glad they had taken the time. The trip had already had so many mercurial ups and downs, she must treasure the few joys it offered when they came.

The carriage moved away from the sea, up into a narrow mountain pass, called Glengesh. At the top, Maggie had them stop so they could look behind them. What a grand vista! They could see all the way back to the sea, as sun had chased away the last vestiges of mist. Emerald hills undulated below, falling into the ocean with beauty and grace. It took her breath away, and she could tell the others were similarly affected. Even Pat was misty-eyed by this incredible sight. He snorted, patting Missy in contemplation.

The twenty miles from Donegal to Ardara took most of the day. The road was hard and rocky, winding up and down through mountain passes and along the seaside, in and out of the countryside, like a drunken snake. When they approached the town, they were exhausted.

The town was smaller than she had imagined. This was where her grandmother had been born and lived as a girl. There was the one inn, which had three rooms. A larger hotel looked mostly deserted. There were two other taverns, and about a dozen shops, a smithy and a larger weaver hall, but that was all. The few people she saw gawked at her, wary and suspicious. Perhaps it had a large weekend market, as Donegal had, where they could inquire into her family? She had no strength to think about it now. She had stew for dinner, then went up to her room before the sun even touched the horizon.

* * *

Maggie remained downstairs with Kevin and Pat after putting her Mistress to bed. She needed her rest, poor thing. She still had so little stamina. Maggie was glad her own illness from seasickness was gone.

"Kevin, will you ask around in the morning, to see if you can find the Mistress' family?"

"Already on it, my lovely lass. I've got the word out through the stable lad and the landlady over there." He gave a roguish grin and a nod to the thickset landlady, Nancy McHugh, who rolled her eyes at him while grinning. He'd already been working his charms on the locals.

Maggie glanced at Pat, who blinked at her once, taking another drink of his ale. While Kevin had charm, Pat was a rock and was almost becoming an odd father figure to her. She had tried, on several occasions, to elicit a rare smile. While she caught the odd glimmer in his eye, she had yet to crack his stony façade.

She mused on how people so dissimilar could come together as friends. They shared a common purpose, despite their divergence in backgrounds, class, station, and wealth. They could relax around each other in spite of all the differences. She was less comfortable around those of her own class now, which gave her pause.

The stew was thin, but savory and flavored with plenty of herbs. She wasn't sure she wanted to try to identify the meat, but she could discern turnips and barley in it. The three compatriots ate in silence until Nancy came back and asked them if they wished refills.

Maggie suggested she sit and join them. Nancy looked up at her vacant bar, and shrugging, pulled up a stool. She settled her ample bottom onto it with a grace which belied her size, set her own mug of ale on the table and gave Maggie an expectant look.

"So, then, my dear, how can I help you? This chancer is on the search for a certain family, I know, but he wouldn't say why. You might get a better response if folks knew your purpose, I would think." She narrowed her eyes at Kevin, who widened his grin. Maggie cleared her throat.

"Well, I wouldn't like to talk out of turn, of course, but our Mistress is searching for her family. Her grandmother grew up here, you see, emigrating to America when she was a girl, with her parents. Mistress Valentia's trying to find the family they left behind."

Nancy sat thoughtful for a while. She tucked in a few stray wisps of long red hair mixed with grey back into her enormous mob cap, ignoring the others which were escaping.

"It isn't an unusual story, for certain. There are plenty of folk who have left for a better life, many who never made it to where they were headed. Some never looked back, wrote back, or cared of what happened to those they left behind. What was the girl's name? You were looking for Dohertys, so I assume that's the family name. Do you know her parents given names?"

Maggie had wanted to wait until Valentia was up the next morning before going into great detail, but she wasn't going to let the chance go.

"Bridget Doherty was the girl. Her parents were Brian and Shona. They left here in 1792, according to what we know."

Nancy took a sip of her ale, thinking. "I was young then, no more than a wee girl. But I might remember her. Did she have red hair, freckles? Bright blue eyes like the sky?"

Maggie had no idea. "She died before I was seven, Mistress Nancy. And when she did, her hair was white as snow, so I have no idea what she had before. Perhaps Mistress Valentia will know?" She shot a glance at Kevin, but he shrugged.

"I do know she was a strong-willed woman, irascible and demanding, but full of wonderful tales and stories. She would tell her tales every evening in front of the fire, filled with heroes and gods of ancient Ireland." Maggie smiled at the distant memories of her childhood. She remembered the glimmer of the dying fire and imagining the battles and triumphs of days gone by.

"Well, it sounds like the Dohertys I know—at least the irascible part." Nancy gave a frown, wrinkling her red nose in distaste.

"Are they not well-liked around here?" Maggie asked.

"It's not a matter of being liked, it's a matter ... of power, I suppose. They have it, others don't. That breeds resentment. They tend to foster that resentment. If you can find a way to do business with someone else, you do it." She gave a half shrug and raised her eyebrows, taking another sip of ale.

"They own land?" Kevin peered at Nancy, as if not believing his ears. "Are they not Catholic?"

"They are not Catholic." Nancy agreed, frowning. "They were, to be sure, but when the laws insisted they had to be God-beggars to own the land they had, they converted. There were others who did so, here and there. Most wouldn't, so lost their property. Perhaps they were the smart ones after all. We can keep our land now. The laws have changed, aye? But most had already lost all they had." She shook her head, causing more strands of hair to escape the cap.

"Mistress Valentia's Protestant, too, Mistress Nancy. Her grandmother married one, you see? So she was raised that way."

"Well, she couldn't help that, could she, then? I'm sure she's a nice lady for all that. But 'Her up at the House', she... she sees it as a tool for control. And she uses the tool well. Just a warning, mind you, be canny." She nodded to the three of them. As one, the three nodded back, solemn.

A man came in and up to the bar, so she ambled off to serve him.

"It doesn't sound very promising, does it?" Maggie looked worried, seeking reassurance from either Kevin or Pat. She found none in either set of eyes.

"We need go careful, as Nancy suggested. We'll need to warn Mistress Val as well. You want to, Maggie? Or do you think she'll heed it better coming from me?"

"She'll heed neither of us, I'm certain, but we can both try." Maggie pursed her lips, anticipating her Mistress' stubborn streak.

* * *

The next day, Valentia felt up for a stroll around the town. As much as she had sacrificed and fought to get here and meet her family, she was reluctant to take the final step. What if she didn't care for them, or they for her? What if they weren't her family, but another group of Dohertys? What if-- but therein lay madness. She could second guess herself for months without a satisfactory answer. She needed to push on and find out for certain. But this afternoon was soon enough. This morning, which was misty but warm, she would spend getting to know the area.

She learned the name in the Irish, Ard na Rátha, which meant the Height of the Fort. Indeed, the town was on a hill, with a ruined fort at the top of Main Street. An important crossroads between the southwest and west portions of Donegal, it had enjoyed a decent level of traffic over the centuries.

Nancy's inn was near the center of the long, jagged main street, offering an excellent central location for exploration. They had decided on the inn rather than the larger hotel to conserve costs, with the idea it might be better to gather information from a less formal setting. Besides, Valentia had come to enjoy the atmosphere, rather than the more posh hotels. They were warmer, more hospitable, despite the lack of decoration and fine food.

With Maggie and Kevin, she explored up the street and down, going from shop front to shop front. They noted what was available, nodding to people as she passed. She had an odd sensation, like she was out of place. Some of this could have been her clothes and perceived station, as most of the people she saw out and about were of poor means, dressed in clean but drab old clothing. But there was an insular quality about most people here she hadn't noticed elsewhere.

Valentia peeked into the glaring windows of empty shops, open to the world or bricked over, abandoned and neglected. These outnumbered the occupied shops. She wondered if this was a result of the food shortages, or if there was another cause. Dust kicked up with their every step.

Donegal Town had seen better times, but Ardara looked twice as depressed. The butcher's shop had stock inside, but it looked closed at the moment. Maggie pointed out a seamstress next door, and a loom clicked and clacked as the heddles and shafts moved up and down. The careful handwritten signs in the window promised a variety of tweed, flannel and linen products.

Halfway down the street was a general sundry store, open for business but empty of customers. Needing supplies, the small group walked in, but the shelves were mostly bare. Next there was another pub, but it had also been abandoned, empty windows looking like forlorn eyes upon the main street.

The largish hotel, painted white with black trim, was faded and weathered with time. The name 'Nesbitt Arms' was on the yellow sign. Valentia counted at least twelve windows in the three story building, and maybe attic rooms as well. It looked open now, but there was little activity.

There was an odd shop, which puzzled them, but they figured out it sold wheels and looms. This was an area which took their weaving seriously. Kevin mentioned he had heard of a local mill which did larger scale weaving, near the river.

Most of the roofs were tile, while the stores were brick. However, one or two of the older shops had thatch in various states of disrepair. Most of these had a type of open net over them, secured to the wall of the building with hooks or stakes, to keep the thatch from blowing away in the fierce Atlantic winds. These older stores were often closed up tight. Where there had been glass in many of the windows, even those in the open shops were boarded up or bricked in.

They heard the clank of a blacksmith at work, but didn't see a shop. He must be on a side street, working hard at his trade.

After their brief exploration, Valentia was both charmed and sobered by what they saw. This area had been prosperous, once.

They settled back down at the inn to discuss their plans. The late morning light glinted through the front windows, sparkling on the floating motes of dust. It gave everything a hazy, yellow hue. Pat joined them at a round wooden table near the largest window.

"So, what have you found out, my detective friend?" Valentia arched an eyebrow at Kevin. She knew full well he had been making inquiries on her behalf.

"Me? What makes you think I know anything, Mistress Val?" He projected innocence incarnate. Maggie giggled.

Valentia leveled a gaze at Maggie, who giggled even more. She sighed and turned her glare to Kevin.

"Alright, ye've got me. I've found out about your family, but it isn't all good news."

Her stomach clenched, hard and painful.

"The Dohertys, well, now the O'Hagertys, do live nearby, on a big house up the road. They've a wealthy plantation, considering the state of things. They are Protestant, having converted to keep ownership of their land. They... have a reputation, though."

"What sort of reputation?" She narrowed her eyes. There were all sorts of possibilities, flitting through her mind like a bizarre parade. They could be horse thieves, slave-owners, or free spirits. She did her best to halt her imagination and listen to Kevin.

"They are rich, and pleased to show it. They aren't given to charity, even for those who have worked for them their entire lives, I've heard."

Well, at least this fit the norm for English aristocrats, from what she'd heard up and down the coast. Except her family weren't as far as she knew, English or even Anglo-Irish. They were Irish and Scottish, for many generations, and should have been more sympathetic to the poor Catholics who worked on their land. As a Protestant herself, she couldn't imagine the conversion had changed their attitude. Pressure from other land owners? Perhaps, or the family was cruel by nature.

"Who's the head of the family here? Were you able to find out?"

"Aye, and it's how I determined they were the right family, the one you were searching for. Her name's Mistress Eithne Doherty O'Hagerty, also known as ''Er up at the Big House.' Matriarch of the O'Hagerty family in County Donegal. Or at least, this corner of it, though she has a long reach, I'm told." At the word 'Matriarch,' Kevin had spoken in a good imitation of a high-born lady, complete with British inflection and mannerisms, nose in the air, looking down on them all from behind his nose. Valentia and Maggie both laughed. Even the edge of Pat's mouth quirked up. Then Valentia shushed them, looking around to see if anyone had observed his mimicry.

The inn was still empty as luncheon was a while off. Nancy wasn't even in the room, though they could hear her banging away in the kitchen, getting ready to open for the day.

"Do you think I would need to secure an invitation to see them? Or could I call unannounced?"

He considered the question. After several moments of intense introspection, he shrugged, shaking his head.

"I have no idea, Mistress Valentia. If we were down in County Clare, I'd say we could go and offer your card, with no worries. But this family sounds like a right lot of snobs. I would say you should play it safe. After all, you are asking them a favor, am I right? Yer lookin' to be accepted as part of their family, then to ask them for a piece of valuable jewelry. I think you must want to make a good initial impression. I'd say err on the side of caution. If they still snub you, we can work on an alternate plan." His rogue grin was back, hinting at dangerous illegal plans as a backup.

"And I'm sure you have ideas on how to get such an invitation?"

"I do, Mistress. There's a Methodist Church down the street. I suggest you attend and have the minister introduce you to any Doherty who might also attend."

That would be an excellent way to observe her erstwhile relatives before she met them. Enlisting the minister's services shouldn't be difficult. She would appeal to any natural inclination he had to help those who were lost or needed help.

"I do believe it's a solid plan, Kevin, thank you. But today's Friday, and services will be on Sunday, I presume. What shall we do in the meantime?"

"I say we explore the area, Mistress Valentia. I've heard there are caves near the ocean, and a beautiful waterfall." Maggie was almost bouncing in her seat.

"It sounds delightful. Pat, will you be joining us?"

Pat gave one short nod, though his expression remained still. Valentia had no idea how far these sights were from town, but she imagined they must be riding, not walking. Her stamina was still low, and they all knew it.

* * *

The next few days were almost like a vacation at a seaside resort. They traveled the long, winding road along the coast out to the waterfall, called Eas a' Ranca, or Assaranca, by the locals. Situated right on the coast of a long inlet, it had an odd jog halfway down, making the falls look like it had a crooked back, broken by a giant in an ancient tale. Valentia imagined the fancy to be an echo of her grandmother's stories. Perhaps her grandmother had seen this waterfall. She must have, as she had grown up in this area. The idea both thrilled and sobered her; she might be standing where her grandmother had stood as a girl. She was loath to leave the spot. As she stared at the water, she fancied it sparkled with small blue lights under the falls. Steadying her gaze, she couldn't quite pin down any of the lights, and dismissed it as a silly fantasy.

They moved farther along the inlet, out to the vast sandy dunes, with tufts of waving sea grasses, green against the deep blue summer sky. The winds were fierce, so they did their best to shield their faces. They were blasted by the sand and grit while searching for the elusive Sea Caves of Maghera. When they found them, they were disappointed, as they were filled in with the tidal sand. Maggie pouted, but they still stopped to have a picnic on the beach.

Looking out to the vast Atlantic Ocean, Valentia remembered her parents. She experienced a pang of guilt as she hadn't thought of them in a while. Her memories moved inexorably to Conor, lying somewhere beneath the waves of this cold ocean. She put down the sandwich she was about to bite into. The glittering of the sun upon the waves did nothing to relieve her melancholy. Maggie and Kevin were playing in the surf, skirts and breeks hiked up to keep them dry, doing their best to splash each other without getting themselves wet. Pat was stolid, sitting upon a rock, looking out into the far distance like a sentry.

She swallowed hard, taking a bottle of ale from the basket to push the lump in her throat back down. At least she was getting to the point where she no longer burst into tears when she remembered her brother. He would have adored this view. Perhaps he was enjoying it. She imagined he was a shade following her on the quest, laughing when she tripped, stroking her hair when she was sick. It made her feel better.

Somewhere, the souls of our loved ones reside. It could be in a distant heaven, our memories, or simply in our heart. They can never be truly lost, not while we remember their laugh and the things they held dear.

"I think the tide's coming in!" Valentia yelled to the two playing in the waves. Maggie nodded and returned to the dry sand. Kevin took this opportunity to kick a huge splash of water in her direction. She squealed and skipped out of the way before she got soaked, finishing her journey by running, laughing as she looked back at him, thrilled by her escape.

* * *

On Friday they journeyed out to Kilclooney to view the ancient stone structure called a dolmen, out on a bog. Maggie was frightened of the bog itself, having heard stories of people disappearing and getting caught in such places. Valentia had heard the same, but was excited to tread in a dangerous place. She took Kevin, in case she encountered trouble, but it wasn't a far distance from the road. She caught a glimpse of the stone structure before they even set out. Nevertheless, the path was narrow, so she was relieved she chose the stout boots.

The path was dry, but it had rained most of the night, so the day was full of mist and fog. There were portions of the path which sucked and pulled at her boots, so she picked her way, wincing.

As they approached, the sun was trying to burn its way through the moody fog. It resulted in an odd rainbow effect, almost an aureole of light over the stones. Mystical and arresting, it stopped her in her tracks. Kevin almost knocked her over, as he hadn't noticed her halt. Windmilling her arms, she tried to regain balance, but Kevin grabbed her waist to keep her from falling in. She laughed nervously.

"Well, thank you for saving me from yourself, kind sir."

"You are most welcome, my lady." He gave her a mock bow, but made sure to pay attention to sudden stops in the future.

"Have you ever seen such a thing?" She was breathless with wonder. There were three huge stones, each oblong, positioned upright in a triad. A fourth balanced on top, triangular but flat, like an enormous, megalithic table. She couldn't imagine how ancient man had created such a thing.

The glow of the sun through the mist seemed to pulse and shimmer. She moved again, needing to be closer to this magnificent creation.

She was close enough to touch the stones. She laid her hand on one corner of the triangular table top, expecting it to be cool and damp, like everything else in the heavy morning mist. It was warm and her hand tingled. She snatched it away as if she had been burned. She looked for Kevin, but he was behind her, gazing over her shoulder.

"What happened? Did you cut yourself?" He took her hand, looking for marks or blood.

"No, no, it was just... it tingled. It was warm. Does it feel warm to you?"

Kevin put his hand where she had laid hers, confused.

"It's cold and clammy, as anything would be, being out all night in such weather." He was looking at her now as if she had grown another head. Had she imagined it? She remembered her experience at the stone circle near Lisdoonvarna. But they had done ritual to invoke the experience, then.

She stretched out her arm, tentative, touching the stone with the tips of her fingers. It sparked in a shower of white and gold. She pulled back again, stung.

Kevin had seen it. His eyes wide with wonder and fear.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be messing with the stones, Mistress Valentia. The Sídhe do have a way of protecting their own. Maybe they don't want you here. I'd listen if I were you, I would."

"But what could I have done to upset them?" She reached out once more, confused and daring at the same time. This time her fingers touched the stone without sparks, but the stone was warm, almost alive with a pulsing, beating heart. She put her whole hand on it, feeling the life within. She closed her eyes and put her other palm down, sensing the rhythm of the stone, the land. The entire island pushed through her, waves of power in and out, in and out, like the waves upon the beach, washing up and down, leaving trails and remnants...

She heard a loud snap! and found herself sitting in the wet, swampy grass, with Kevin looming over her like a gargoyle. Her backside was sore from the impact, soaked with mud.

"What in bloody hell did you do that for?" Then she grasped what she had said, covering her mouth in shock and surprise. As she did, her fingers continued to tingle. It had a faint glow of blue she had seen at the stones in Lisdoonvarna.

"You were glowing! I don't know what the Sídhe were doing to you, but I had to pull you away from the stone, Mistress. I didn't want them taking you away to the Faerylands. You looked like you might disappear." Kevin looked as if there were tears of panic in his eyes. There was panic in his voice, and she found herself forgiving him for pulling her away.

"It's alright, Kevin. I... I have experienced something like this before." She took his proffered hand, standing with difficulty, doing her best to wipe the mud and grass off her skirts. "It was down in Clare, at a stone circle. Siobhan took me, had me participate in a sort of ritual. She claimed it would attune me to the stones, and my offering was accepted by the Sídhe. I didn't realize it meant all the stones, though."

Kevin looked at her as if she were a strange new creature. A parade of emotions flitted across his face, a mixture of wonder, revulsion and skepticism. "You made an offering, and the offering was accepted. By the Fair Folk. And you can awaken the stones."

"If that's what I just did, then evidently so. I imagined it must have been just the one time." She looked at the stone again, but it no longer seemed as if it pulsed. The rock was inert, stone, stolid and eternal. She reached her hand out, but Kevin slapped it away.

"Are ye daft? Don't do it again!"

"It's gone now, Kevin. I can see that, I can feel it. I just wanted to see if the stone was cold again." She pushed past him and touched her hand, palm down, to the flat top. It was cold. Icy, and there was no trace of life in it.

"I suppose I should leave another offering, since there was... a connection." She groped around herself for a gift she might leave. A hair ribbon? It seemed so frivolous. A glove? No, more personal. She pulled out the knife she kept in the pocket tied to her waist, slicing a lock of hair from behind her ear. It curled black and tight in the humid, cool air. She placed it within the dolmen with care, in the center of the triad of upright stones. A brief breeze made it flutter and then fall. Then she returned to Kevin, who was muttering about offerings and daft women.

Kevin glanced back at the stones as they left.

* * *

Neither of them mentioned anything to Maggie or Pat, but they still bore the tension of the incident. Kevin looked askance at her now and then, and she wondered what was going through his head. She didn't know what to think about the incident, other than it was an interesting phenomenon.

What could it have been? A sort of charge left over from lightning? A magnetic spot in the earth? Or was there a mystical quality about it? Could there be a magical race of Faeries which connected to the real world through the ancient stones? She found the idea ludicrous, but still, something inside her argued for its truth.

The stories of the Faery Folk had been analyzed by others, in literature and scholarly works. Some had argued the ancient tales described angels who had fallen to earth when access to heaven was closed. Others theorized the Faeries were the previous immigrants to Ireland, who were supplanted when the latest wave came over, their histories and mythologies becoming legends, which in turn became Faery tales. There was no consensus, but Ireland seemed to have more than its share of such things.

In the afternoon, they went up to the fort the town was named for. It was a crumbling ruin on the top of the hill, moss and grasses growing in every possible crack in the ancient masonry. They had taken turns guessing how old the tower was, who had built it, who had destroyed it. Each had their own theory, but tried to outdo each other with outlandish explanations and bizarre origins.

Kevin began. "It was created to hold off the hordes of Vikings who invaded."

Valentia realized the idea had merit, as they were near a river.

"The ancient Dohertys built it to house a beautiful maiden. When she was born, it was foretold her child would kill the king, so he hid her away to keep her from marrying. She escaped anyhow, and the prophecy came true," Maggie suggested.

"It was built by Noah after the flood, so he'd never be worried about drowning again." Kevin had to top this and they all laughed. Silly to think the modest hill would have remained above the deluge.

"Are you not going to give it a try, Pat?" Valentia knew he wouldn't, as taciturn as the man was, but she couldn't help but tease.

"Hmph," was all he would reply. He rolled his eyes in eloquent dismissal of their mischief.

* * *

At supper, Valentia was quiet, thinking of her experience at the dolmen. She wondered if, having attuned herself at the stones in Clare, she was somehow connected to all of them. She snorted at the idea, which earned her a glance of inquiry from Maggie, but she shook her head in response. Such a silly notion, but one she couldn't dismiss out of hand. She should try once again, if she found a different set of stones, to see if it might be true. She'd have to bring someone with her, for safety.

She didn't know what would have happened if Kevin hadn't been there to break the trance, or connection, or whatever it had been. But would Kevin allow her to try again? He had better. They had become so close on this trip. She no longer considered her companions employees or servants. They were friends, compatriots, fellow travelers on this odd adventure. She was delighted with the concept, though other people in society would be horrified at the idea. Well, it was her gain and their loss.

Kevin was pretending to be Noah, now, commanding the animals onto the ark, two by two. He was chastising the giraffes to stop trying to eat the insects. Would the hippopotami please stay on either side of the ship, so they didn't overbalance the craft?

"Have you even seen a hippopotamus, Kevin?" Valentia inquired.

"Of course not, but they must be huge beasties. Certainly big enough to put a ship off-balance."

"Unless the elephants were on the other side?" Maggie offered.

"That would help!" Kevin said. Maggie was giggling, Pat was smiling. Valentia's mouth curled up in a wry smile.

* * *

The weather on Saturday wasn't as accommodating, so Valentia spent most of the day in her room, catching up on her correspondence. She bid Maggie and Kevin to go enjoy the day, though she noted Kevin looked worse the wear for the previous night's excesses. He was fond of card games, and he would have been able to find games in town already. She had asked Maggie about it, but the young girl assured her Mistress he seldom lost. Valentia wondered what would happen when the law of averages caught up with him.

She wrote to her parents, regaling them with encounters she had with the locals, the fictional art teacher she had come to study under, but mentioned he was off on a trip to the continent. Valentia reassured them she had found a nice local guide to help and protect her and Maggie, as her father would worry about her safety. She wrote that she had, indeed, found her grandmother's family.

To Siobhan and Aiden, she wrote of her safe arrival at Donegal, and their adventures along the road. She included descriptions of the incredible sights she had seen, including sea cliffs and sandy beaches. Having lived all their lives in Ireland, they were well familiar with such wonders, but she still delighted in them, wanting to share her fascination.

After some musing, she wrote to O'Brien, as it wouldn't be wise to write to Mitchel any longer. O'Brien would be safer, and he had genuine information to share about their campaign. He had sent her several packets of political information on people to contact in Westminster and Dublin, and short descriptions of the movers and shakers, both within the movement and against it.

She had read about Daniel O'Connell, but she hadn't realized he was such a voice for the Catholic population. He had worked on the laws concerning Catholic Emancipation, succeeding in allowing Catholics to sit in parliament. He was also trying to overturn the Act of Union of 1800, though Valentia doubted he would succeed.

Sir George Trevelyan, on the other hand, was in the opposing camp. He was the assistant secretary to Her Majesty's Treasury, and was supposed to be administering famine relief. However, he had a distinct dislike of the Irish, and his inaction could be considered criminal. A leader of the Whig government, Lord John Russell, shared his prejudices. He had been heard to say the famine was a sort of Act of Providence, or divine justice against the wicked Catholics. He even put a halt to relief programs which had already been put into place.

If the Irish had been allowed to keep all the food they produced, the inaction of these men might have had little effect on the country. The reality was disastrous. They would have had to visit to see the devastation their policies were having on the families, children, hard-working men and women, struggling to survive. Valentia snorted in disgust and drafted the first of several stern letters of protest.

She wrote a letter to Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel, as well, urging him not to repeal the Corn Laws, which taxed imported grains, keeping the prices high. He had publicly stated he believed the reports of Irish famine to be exaggerated and inaccurate. She wrote to assure them the reports were, if anything, understated, and inaction would be inhumane and undeserving of a Christian leader. She urged him to allow corn and other foodstuffs to remain in Ireland to help combat the horror.

As Valentia wrote her letters to politicians in England and in Ireland, she wondered if they would do any good. She wished she could do something immediate which actually helped. They gave food when she came across folk who needed it, even with the poor quality food there was available. It helped, a tiny drop in the immense ocean of hunger threatening to drown this beautiful, secluded country.

Chapter Twelve

Family

Sunday dawned cool and windy, though drier than the previous days. Valentia paid particular attention to her outfit today, donning her best dress. Maggie assisted her, making sure her hair was well under control. She was hoping to meet her family today at church, after all, wanting to give a proper first impression. It wouldn't do to appear the ragamuffin libertine who hung around with her servants. She had to put on a mask for form's sake. Maggie knew this as well, for as she went about her duties, she relapsed into the more formal language of a servant/Mistress relationship.

She had chosen a cream dress with dark rose stripes for the day, cheerful and modest. The frock had a high neckline and long sleeves, tight around the upper arm, but flaring near the wrist, with lace around the hemlines. Maggie arranged her hair with all the pins they had, under a dainty cap, hoping it would stand against the strong Irish winds. She looked at herself in the mirror as Maggie put on the finishing touches.

She had aged in the months since she left home. She saw a new gauntness in her face, and lines here and there near her eyes and mouth. She turned her head to look at the way her neck moved. The illness had taken its toll, as had the loss of Conor. She wondered how much of this scrawniness was permanent. She craved a mark of her grief, a physical thing she could hold onto like a badge of survival and remembrance.

The Church of the Holy Family was a modest structure, recently-built and solid, square with beige paint and wooden trim on the windows. Being a Protestant house of worship, it had none of the gothic ornamentation a Catholic church would have had. Valentia had always found pleasure in the simple proportions and tasteful décor in such places. She admired the beauty of the Catholic churches, but found it ostentatious for worship.

Across the street was the Catholic church, St. Conal's. It wasn't a complex structure, as she had seen in Pittsburgh and New York, but the church still had more detail in the façade than Holy Family. Three paneled stained glass window dominated one end, with decorations of simple rounded scroll work in the stone. She found it charming, as it resembled the more understated churches she was used to.

She stood for a while, observing the two buildings, and the mill of people outside both. A much larger crowd made their way into the Catholic Church, and the folk going there were in simple but spotless clothing. The Holy Family side boasted people of a higher class, judging by their dress and mannerisms. There were family groups in each, large and small. Each group acknowledged the other with nods, but didn't come together to speak.

As the crowd thinned, she and Maggie approached the Church of the Holy Family, finding their way to a pew in the back, where they could observe both the congregation and the service. The interior was as stark as the outside, with a single altar and cross in the front of the church, draped in white fabric. The minister at the front was a thin, almost skeletal man with a shock of thick, wild, white hair, and a booming voice. He stood behind a podium, watching as his flock milled and gathered, sorting themselves into their places.

Valentia counted about twenty people when the minister began his sermon, in about six family groups. Could one of those be her relatives? More than one? She made herself pay attention to the minister and his sermon. She hadn't been able to attend services in so long, she found herself noting many differences between an Irish service and those she was used to in Ohio.

As the sermon drew to a close, Valentia did her best to position herself to be among the first to shake the minister's hand on the way out of the building. She succeeded, lining up behind two older ladies who were in the next pew.

"How do you do, Reverend Gallagher. I enjoyed your sermon greatly."

"Why thank you," he said.

"I'm visiting from America, might we meet up for tea sometime soon?" The cleric had piercing, bright blue eyes, and a bold hook nose, reminding her of an eagle.

"America! Imagine that. Most people travel the other direction." A little old lady said in a scratchy, hoarse voice, though it held a great deal of strength. Another lady snorted, pulling her by the arm.

"She's right, actually. It's a rare thing we get someone coming back. Would you be available for tea today, perhaps at two of the clock?" the Reverend asked.

"That would be grand. At the manse next door?" She gestured to the house next to the church, which she presumed was his abode.

"The same. I look forward to chatting with you." He went on to greet the next parishioner, and she breathed a sigh of relief. This step had worked according to plan. She hoped the good Reverend was willing and able to help her with the next one.

* * *

The house itself was modest, appearing to have the one bedroom, a sitting room for entertaining guests, a private office, a kitchen, and a servant's room. Decorated in browns and pale blue, it had glass figurines on the window sills, and a large fish trophy over the mantle. The round lady who came in to serve them tea, a Mistress Mugg, bustled and fussed over Valentia, asking if she was comfortable in the overstuffed threadbare chair, and if she wanted sweets or savories. Would she like lemon in her tea? Her questions were like tiny bullets, rapid and direct.

Valentia answered with single words. Mistress Mugg reminded her so much of Sarah, her mother's lady's maid.

"And how may I help you, my dear? And, please, it's Mr. Gallagher, unless we're in church, it makes things simpler." Mr. Gallagher was stirring his own tea, with sugar but no lemon. He looked at her with those intense blue eyes. "This's your first time in this area, I'm certain. Have you family here?"

"Well, that's what I'm attempting to discover, Mr. Gallagher. I believe I do, but I may need your help in getting to know them."

His eyebrows lifted at her phrasing and he gestured to her with his open hand, so she might continue to explain.

"My grandmother was born here, but she left with her parents when she was young. She left behind two sisters, already married at the time. I've come back to see if I can find them, perhaps get to know them. I think I know who they are, but I believe I would need a formal introduction, considering their station in the community." She sipped her own tea, savoring the warm, creamy pungency of the beverage.

"What was your grandmother's name, if I may ask?"

"Of course. Silly me. Her name was Bridget Doherty. Her parents were Brian and Shona. Do you, perhaps, remember them? Do you know if her sisters still live here?" She looked at him with hope and not a little apprehension.

The Reverend stared at her intently, then he snorted with a sharp bark, surprising her.

"Certainly I remember young Bridey. She was a lovely thing, with her red hair and wild ways. And Shona and Brian and... ah, I miss them all. I was just a young lad at the time, mind you, but I remember Bridey fondly. She..." His eyes took on a faraway look, but soon mischief replaced it. "Well, I'm glad she made it across the sea and brought up her family. Her one sister Eithne is still here, matriarch in her own world. I see what you mean about an introduction, though. She quite stands on ceremony." He tapped his teacup for a moment, looking down at the tray of savory sandwiches Mistress Mugg had brought in.

Valentia's heart surged. They had found her family, and the Reverend would give her an introduction. She was glad she was sitting down, as she wouldn't have trusted her knees to hold her up. She masked her agitation with a sip of tea, grateful for the polite ceremony.

"Let me think on this, Valentia. I am certain I can help set up an introduction, but it's best if we tread carefully. Eithne is... a bit of a difficult woman to please. It wouldn't do to get on the wrong side of her, particularly at a first meeting."

"We should have a welcome party for Mistress Valentia, Mr. Gallagher, and invite the whole O'Hagerty clan." Valentia almost jumped out of her seat at Mistress Mugg's voice next to her ear, turning to see the little woman standing behind her chair.

"Hmmm. The idea has merit. Where would we hold such a party? It wouldn't do to be too lavish, not in these times. The church wouldn't be appropriate, and this house is much too small..."

"Would the Nesbitt Arms be appropriate? I noticed the place is almost empty. I would pay for any expenses, of course." Valentia ventured a suggestion. She didn't wish to induce the man into more than he could afford. Ministers were poor on any continent.

"You know, it might just serve. Not a lot of food and no drink, mind you, but a modest tea party, perhaps. We'll invite all the local people of society, such as there is." He was nodding, distracted and still looking down at the tea tray.

Quick as the eagle he resembled, he looked up to her, "Tuesday? That should give us time to make the arrangements and send out invitations. Three of the clock, I think, should work." Decision made, he attended to the sandwiches on the tray he had been contemplating.

"In the meantime, would you mind especially joining me tomorrow? I'm off to the edge of town to bring donated food to the Quaker soup kitchen."

"I would be delighted. I saw one of those as we were leaving Galway, and it gave me a bit of hope in the darkness. I would relish the chance to talk to the Quakers, if I could? I'll bring supplies to donate, as well. Thank you so much, Mr. Gallagher."

"Not at all, my dear. It's what I'm here for."

* * *

The soup kitchen was tiny, but simple, scrubbed until it shone. Valentia strode in, behind Mr. Gallagher, with both Mistress Mugg and Kevin carrying boxes and baskets with donated food. The curtains shone bright white and the pine tables had been scoured until the pale wood shone. She was introduced to Friend Olivia Goodbody, the woman who ran the kitchens. She thanked them all for the generous donations.

"They will not go wanting, I assure thee. We're getting more people every day. We're grateful for folks who help keep us supplied."

"We're happy to help." Valentia decided she liked this young woman. Her face was thin and pretty, though pale. When Friend Goodbody turned to put their bounty into the storeroom, Valentia saw her belly was swollen with pregnancy.

As they were leaving, a young man rushed in, almost running into them, apparently preoccupied with his errand. He also had a basket of food and looked over his shoulder as if he feared pursuit and capture. He was tall for an Irishman, well over than six feet, but was so thin and lanky he could weigh less than Valentia did. His clothing was simple and sober, but of good cut. He halted before they collided, stammering an apology with a quick, fleeting smile.

"I am so sorry, Mistress. I should watch where I am going." He pushed past, not quite impolite, dumping the basket on the table in front of a surprised Friend Goodbody. Unburdened, he glanced around anxiously before taking a deep sigh.

"Were you perhaps pursued by a devil, good sir?" Valentia inquired. She had no idea why this young man was so jumpy, but his quick smile revealed a dimple in one cheek. She wondered if she could coax it out once again.

She caught another glimpse of the dimple, and noted his pale green eyes. The grin was gone as soon as it had appeared.

"No, not a devil. I doubt they'd be able to follow me into such a place, at any rate. I am sorry I nearly ran you over, kind lady." He looked at the clergyman, fishing for an introduction.

Mr. Gallagher cleared his throat.

"Mistress Valentia McDowell, may I present Mr. Donal O'Hagerty? His grandmother is Mistress Eithne O'Hagerty. You may have heard of her. They live up at the Woodhill Estate." Valentia looked up at him in surprise at the grandmother's name, but Gallagher wore a cautioning look. She took the hint.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. O'Hagerty." She proffered her hand, so he took it, bowing low over it. When he rose again, she saw the dimple try to peek out again. She smiled in response, changing her icy manner in an instant.

"The.... the pleasure is all mine, Mistress McDowell." He emphasized the word Mistress, and she blushed, though the effect of the flirting was marred by his stammer.

"Mistress Valentia is visiting from America. We are holding a welcome party for her at the Nesbitt Arms for Tuesday tea. Do please bring yourself and your family, young Donal. I look forward to seeing you there." Gallagher dismissed the man with a nod of his silver head, took Valentia's hand and placed it in his arm. They ambled off, with Kevin and Mistress Mugg in tow.

When they were safely out of view, Gallagher winked at her with conspiratorial glee. "There. The story of the tea party will be all over Woodhill by noon. Everyone will want to come, so you'll get to meet the entire clan. Most are distant cousins, mind. The two who matter are Eithne and Donal."

"I can handle myself among sharks, Mr. Gallagher. Are they as bad as all that? Even the young man we just met?"

"Donal's a nice enough sort, and has a good heart, but he does whatever his grandmother commands. Her commands aren't always... the most charitable."

"Hmph." Valentia could see why her father said this so much. It was useful.

* * *

A tea party in the middle of a famine seemed to Valentia to be the height of ostentatious vulgarity, but she promised herself any leftovers would go to the Quaker soup kitchen. Besides, they weren't having a lavish affair by any means. Sandwiches and sweet pastries, with what fresh fruit could be found. It would be expensive, but this was money put to good use for her quest.

She had gone to the seamstress in town, who had a nice blue linen dress, and was able to alter it to her size. There were silk slashings in a deeper blue, with white piping. It set her dark hair off well. It wouldn't do to wear the same dress she had worn to church a couple days before, not if she wanted to make a good impression. She had also transferred her rooms to the hotel, for now. She didn't wish to appear to be the beggar cousin from America.

Valentia flicked off invisible bits of dust and dirt from her pale blue skirts as she waited in the hotel meeting room. It was much too early, but she had nothing else to occupy herself. Playing with the simple silver brooch she had worn with the intention of using it as a conversation piece to discover information about her grandmother's brooch, she reminded herself it might not be time yet. It would at least show she wasn't a penniless beggar out to snatch a fortune. The family here sounded like a real piece of work. Becoming part of it would take doing, it seemed.

She had gone over church records with Mr. Gallagher, finding more details about her grandmother's family. He asked several questions about her grandmother's life after she left Ireland, but Valentia was unable to give many details.

"All I know is she married fairly quickly when they settled, and had three children. My mother was the eldest, and the other two, Uncle Ronan and Uncle Lochlann, married and moved away. I think they are both in Chicago?"

"And Majesta, your mother, what is she like?"

Puzzled by his curiosity, she described her mother, detailing her campaigning efforts.

Evidently satisfied, Mr. Gallagher moved on to her Irish ancestors. He drew up a family tree, allowing her to see which family members she could meet, and providing more information on her great-grandparents and their forebears. This fascinated her. She discovered there were Currans in the tree, and the Reverend mentioned she and Maggie were distant relations. This had delighted Valentia, though it filled the girl with consternation and made her blush.

She had also discovered a famous ancestress, a female pirate named Grainne O'Malley, who was infamous around Clew Bay and Achill Island two hundred years earlier. She took this information with a grain of salt, for people often enjoyed being related to someone famous. She also had living relatives named O'Malley in this area. Perhaps she would visit once her quest was completed.

Her grandmother's sisters married before Bridget had left the country, as her mother thought. They had married Messrs. O'Hagerty and FitzGerald, respectively, and both had children. However, there seemed to be only one descendant of the former in the area still, Donal O'Hagerty, the gentleman she met on Sunday. Others had moved, either to America, Australia, England, or other parts of Ireland. There were several more distant cousins working on the Woodhill Estate, where Eithne and Donal were living, but they were far enough away, relation-wise, to be considered servants rather than family.

Other names were mentioned in the tree, such as Devine, Gallagher, Ford, O'Flaherty, O'Hara, and Ellison. She wondered if there was a connection between her Devine line and Siobhan and Aiden, but she was assured Devine was a common surname, as was Curran. Her head swam with connections and details, so the chart was a great help.

The good Reverend couldn't tell her much of Esme Doherty FitzGerald, as she had moved away with her husband after Bridget had left the area. He believed she moved to County Mayo, but wasn't certain of even this bit of information. Perhaps other family members knew more.

Valentia discovered more about Woodhill House, as well. It had been built by a family named Nesbitt from Scotland more than two hundred years before. Because they were Protestant, they could buy the land when they settled in the area, so built a grand house. They were whalers, and successful. She learned the O'Hagertys had married into the family, later inheriting the estate.

She had noticed plenty of Irish houses, Catholic and Protestant, with Brigid's Crosses above their doors, to ward off evil and grant blessings for the household. She knew a Catholic St. Brigid, but her grandmother had told her on no uncertain terms this tradition far predated the Christian church. Since her grandmother was named after this goddess or saint, whichever she had been originally, she had believed her.

The church bell pealed the hour, and she jumped at the sound. The time had passed during her reverie, and guests might arrive at any moment. She rose, smoothing her skirts, and ventured into the room where the tea was to be served. As guest of honor, she would be greeting the guests with Mr. Gallagher, so she went to stand next to him.

"Are you ready, my dear? Remember, Eithne will be rude. Be prepared for it. It's how she rattles people, hoping to find their weaknesses. Don't show any, and she will be intrigued, perhaps enough to invite you for a visit."

Valentia swallowed, not trusting herself to speak yet. People were approaching; she watched them through the streaked window, and straightened her back. She had a fan in her pocket, so withdrew it, knowing it was a valuable tool in such situations.

She would have to mingle and socialize in this welcome party. She had done so in countless parties like this in Ohio, but that had been a society she was well familiar with. Her family had always been there for support. Here, she was on her own, a stranger in a strange land. She thanked God, or the Faeries, that Gallagher was there to help and bolster her courage.

"You'll be grand, lass, never fear. It's in your blood." His eyes crinkled as he grinned. She smiled back, encouraged by his confidence in her.

The first person came through the door, and her performance began.

* * *

It wasn't as bad as she feared, chatting away with several of the local merchants, flirting and joking in turns. She used the fan to good purpose, hiding her expression or deflecting a too-personal compliment, or employing it as a light rebuff for a questing hand. She fancied she was floating from group to group. There were about twenty people attending, though no one from the family had yet arrived.

Valentia was presented to each arrival, though a few she had already met in passing, such as the owner of the hotel, Seamus Nesbitt. She had caught a glimpse of a footman who brought in a tray of sandwiches, and gave him a brief smile. She had met him one evening when he was playing cards with Kevin. He gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgment, but didn't dare smile back.

The door opened to let in more visitors, so she turned to see who had arrived. There was no way she could mistake the woman who entered. Her great-aunt was nearly the spitting image of her sister Bridey, in both carriage and appearance. Valentia gasped at the resemblance, attracting the attention of the now silent room, and dozens of eyes turned from Eithne to her in anticipation.

With far more aplomb than she felt, Valentia strode to the woman to greet her. Her Great-Aunt Eithne was thin and spry, with pale peach hair which had once been red, pulled back into a harsh bun positioned under a miniature top hat canted to one side. Her silk dress was a vivid shade of indigo, an expensive dye to obtain and maintain, with embroidered roses along the hems. Where her grandmother had had the same mossy green eyes her mother had, this sister had blue eyes, pale as a winter sky, and as icy. These eyes surveyed the assemblage, resting upon Valentia as she approached.

With all the dignity and ceremony of the Queen's Court, Eithne greeted the young girl approaching her with stony indifference, awaiting a proper introduction. Gallagher cleared his throat, a sound which crackled through the silent room like a cannon.

"Mistress O'Hagerty, might I present Mistress Valentia McDowell? She is, I believe, your grandniece, who has traveled from America so she might meet you and your family."

Valentia performed a careful curtsey, head bowed and eyes closed. When she stood up again, she made sure to stand straight and tall. She did her best not to bow her head while still looking her great aunt in the eyes. This was difficult, as the woman could be no taller than five feet. Valentia loomed over her.

"Hmm. Grandniece, you say. I do see a family resemblance. No doubt my sister found several rich men to spawn with when she emigrated. Do you even know which one was your grandfather, girl?"

The Reverend had been right, this woman did like to shock, implying her grandmother was a wanton at best, or even a whore. But Valentia was prepared, replying in an even, confident tone.

"I do, Mistress O'Hagerty. My grandfather's name was Mr. Dominick Donahue. He passed away before I was born, but I'm told I have him to thank for my height." Parry and riposte.

Eithne's eyes widened at her response, then narrowed. She didn't speak for several long moments. Valentia resisted the incredible urge to fill the pregnant pause.

"Well, you do have spirit. That's well enough." And court was dismissed. Eithne turned to Gallagher, asking him about an upcoming church fête.

Turning away from her great aunt, Valentia took an invisible sigh of relief at the encounter. It went the best she could have hoped for, and she had done well. She took a sip of tea from her cup, placed upon a table when Eithne arrived. It did much to restore her, despite being cold. She turned back towards the door, in time to see her cousin, Donal, enter.

He was dressed in finer garb than he had been when they met, though he had a tendency to slouch. His waistcoat was a rich brown, with leaves embroidered on it, a silk white shirt underneath, trousers in buff and brown plaid. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses today, a gold watch chain and fob, and was carrying a silk top hat.

When he came in and looked about, his eyes alighted on her. He beamed, showing his dimpled cheek. She put her cup back down and approached, looking to the clergyman. Would he want to admit he had already been introduced?

Evidently not. Donal looked to the clergyman for the required introductions, and he greeted her as if he had never met her the other day. She played along, guessing the devils he had been hiding from the other day involved his mother. She smiled, and he flashed a look of gratitude at her complicity.

"I am very p-pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Valentia. Your reputation quite precedes you." His slight stammer was almost endearing.

"And what reputation would that be?" she inquired, eyebrows arched.

"Oh, n-nothing untoward, I assure you. Just you've a habit of helping out with those who need it." The poor man hastened to clarify, concerned he had somehow offended her with his words.

She relented, smiling at him, flicking her fan up. "I do what I can. Who could be deaf to the pleas of the hungry, after all?"

He rolled his eyes, darting a quick glance at his grandmother, Eithne. The older woman was engrossed in a conversation with several other ladies her age. He made an incomprehensible sound in his throat that could have indicated agreement.

"I see. Well, then the rest of us must make up for the... indifference of others. Even when devils are chasing us, is this it?" She cocked her head at him, hearing Gallagher chuckle.

Donal's smile widened, and she saw genuine warmth in it. I do believe I've found a friend in the family.

"And so, from where do you hail, cousin Valentia?"

"Eastern Ohio. Though we spent some time in Pittsburgh every year. My father runs a large dairy farm."

"And have you had a pleasant journey so far?"

Pleasant journey. That wasn't how she'd describe it. But she put on a smile and nodded. "The steamship voyage was very quick. We came over in just two weeks!"

"Oh, that is fascinating! Did it have one or two funnels? Did they have a sail in case the steam failed?"

She giggled at his enthusiasm and did her best to answer him. She forbore to mention her brother's death, as she didn't think it appropriate for the occasion, but mentioned her own illness and recovery in County Clare.

"It's a beautiful part of the country, indeed. Full of wondrous things." He looked wistful at a memory.

"Have you been, then? Do you travel much about Ireland?"

"I've been around most of the island at one time or another. Grandmother sends me on trips to meet with relatives, or on business. I studied at Trinity College in Dublin for a degree in law, you see. I manage the estate, and someday I'll run it on my own."

"Tell me about Woodhill Estate. I've heard it's quite grand." She kept her question bland, although she was eager to hear details.

"It is a grand house, if I say so myself, with t-ten bedrooms, two kitchens, on five hundred acres of land. We've an industrial kiln and a spinning house. We mostly farm sheep, but we have land under cultivation as well. We've a staff of t-twenty, housed in servants' quarters near the barns. We've fine horses. Would you fancy a ride tomorrow, if the weather's fine?"

"Will you not be occupied with the business of the estate?"

"Oh, I get time off now and then. I can entertain a new-found relative," he had a most disarming smile, and that dimple was sweet.

"I would be delighted, kind sir. Thank you for the invitation," she bowed her head. In turn, he bowed to her.

"I'm afraid I'm quite monopolizing your company. Shall we mingle?"

"Yes, let us do so." He moved off to speak with a younger man who had arrived before him and Valentia turned to Gallagher.

"Well? Will that do?"

"It worked out well, young lady. It seems you've quite charmed our young Donal. He takes a long time to warm up to a young lady, and even longer to ask her out for a ride." Gallagher narrowed his eyes, looking at the tall form of the scion, as if trying to discern his motives.

"Is he shy with the ladies, then? He's quite old to be unmarried and wealthy."

"As are you, Mistress Valentia," he raised one white, bushy eyebrow.

"Touché, Mr. Gallagher. But I would think, being the only grandson remaining on the estate, being groomed to inherit, he would have been married off by now. Especially as strong-willed as his grandmother is."

"Yes, well, a suitable bride has not yet been available." A tone in his voice made her stare at him.

"And do you think I might be under consideration for being 'suitable'?" She didn't know if she liked the idea of being married off to this man, no matter how charming his dimpled smile.

"It's a distinct possibility, if your own wealth measures up to her high standards. And I imagine, if you are traveling across the Atlantic for such a quest, you've some resources. You might want to use that consideration to further your own quest, you know."

"Hmmm. Yes, I shall have to think about it." She had qualms about using the man, but it would provide her with an excellent excuse to ask around about the brooch, and why the piece was so special.

That conversation would need to wait. Her grandmother had held it in such high regard, it must be valuable, at least intrinsically. She had no wish to be mistaken for a gold-digging debutante, looking for treasure or a good marriage. However, if she went along with Donal's apparent interest in her, it shouldn't be too difficult to get information from him or the servants at the house. Besides, she loved riding. She could also ask if she could do paintings of the house, which would give her freedom and time alone to explore.

She didn't encounter her great aunt again until she was ready to leave, and Valentia was glad. As the spry older woman made her way to the exit, she stopped and gave Valentia a frank, appraising look, up and down. She then looked into Valentia's eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

"I understand Donal has invited you to the house tomorrow. I shall receive you at ten sharp. Do not dawdle." And with that, she swept out of the hotel.

The rest of the party went silent during this exchange. The murmurings of conversation resumed again quickly, as if embarrassed for having been caught listening.

* * *

At her request, Kevin had found out all he could about the erstwhile heir of Woodhill. He was thirty-two, and had two older brothers who were off in New Zealand farming sheep on the North Island. He had two sisters in America, perhaps New Jersey. Donal was well-liked by the people of the village, a gentle soul, according to everyone, but well under Eithne's thumb. He had courted a couple young ladies, but they hadn't been proof against his grandmother's stern control, thus were ejected from consideration. She had arranged one marriage with an heiress of the Burke estate in Kilkenny, but the girl died of a fever before the nuptials. Valentia wondered if Donal had liked the girl. Then she wondered if he had even met her. Arranged marriage wasn't popular in American society, but it still happened. She thanked God her father didn't believe in such things.

Chapter Thirteen

Courting

Thursday dawned bright and clear, but with a whipping wind which found its way into the folds of Valentia's riding skirts. The horse Donal saddled for her was a placid gelding, soft grey with white spots. She was glad for his gentle gait, as it had been months since she had ridden. She was certain to be sore after the day's outing. Donal rode a graceful roan mare, with white socks and a kind eye, though plenty of spirit. He handled her well, whispering to her in Irish as he placed the saddlebags with their picnic lunch across her withers.

They rode together, silent at first, but then Donal pointed out places on the estate. The servants' quarters were near the stable, well-maintained and comfortable, compared to what she had seen on the road to Donegal. Her mind drifted as he spoke.

When she had arrived in the morning, dressed in her riding gear and a jaunty hat, she was escorted into a drawing room, where Eithne sat in a large, ornate, wooden carved chair. It reminded Valentia so much of a throne, she fought the urge to curtsey. She nodded her head in respect to her great aunt, answering her interrogation of their plans. Donal suggested they visit a local hill fort and have lunch while looking across the land from that vantage point.

"And what are your plans for after this venture?"

Valentia wasn't sure what the woman meant. She blinked several times, formulating her answer.

"I... I suppose I shall return to town and catch up on my correspondence. I'd like to let my parents know I've found the relatives I was searching for."

"I mean, what are your intentions towards my grandson? Do you hope to marry him?"

Valentia was taken aback. "Marry him? I scarcely know him. Besides, he's my cousin. Why would you think such a thing?" This was the impression she meant to cultivate, but having it out in the open wasn't part of her plans.

"Then why are you stepping out with him?"

"I'm not 'stepping out' with him, whatever that may mean. I'm enjoying time with my cousin, at his kind invitation. If you've an issue with this, perhaps you should inform him of your objections."

This woman exceled at riling her. Not wanting to lose her fragile temper, she beat a hasty retreat. "If I've your leave to withdraw?" She raised her eyebrows in inquiry, doing her best to imitate her great-aunt's imperious manner. She did a decent job. It appeared sufficient to satisfy Eithne, as well, as she waved her away with a short bark of humorless laughter.

The woman lived up to her reputation as an insufferable martinet. Questioning her about the brooch wouldn't be a wise idea. Donal was her best chance, but she must tread softly.

Donal loved his horses, and had an interest in painting. He didn't practice law, but served as the local magistrate. There was an official magistrate in Donegal, but he traveled to each town over the course of several months, so if there was an immediate need for arbitration, they went to Woodhill for a ruling rather than wait. Valentia wondered if her great-aunt sat in on the arbitrations, or dictated Donal's verdicts. It seemed Eithne had an iron grip upon the area, her own little fiefdom in the northwest corner of Ireland. She had most of the townsfolk in fear of her.

Information on 'Er up at the Big House' herself was more difficult to get, due to this. Nevertheless, information was gleaned. Eithne Doherty O'Hagerty and her sister Esme Doherty FitzGerald both married young. Hugh O'Hagerty had been the richest man in town, and when he died fairly young, he left Eithne with the estate and five young children. She had proven to be an able administrator, making sure the estate remained profitable, even during the lean times. She commanded respect and fear. Eithne bred hunting dogs, great deerhounds, her only soft spot and obsession. She was also (and this was always mentioned in a whisper) vehemently against charity of any sort. She believed one must make their own way in the world, and offering charity was an insult. She was also dismissive of Catholics. Since most of them were poor, Valentia wondered if her dismissal of them was for their religious beliefs or their lack of wealth. Perhaps both.

"And over there, we have our kiln house, where our pottery is made."

"Well, I would expect so. It wouldn't do to weave your tweed there." She grinned at him, and he giggled in response, high pitched and nervous. Valentia chuckled.

Donal brought her to a hill covered with an odd tumble of stone, which could have been a fort at one time. The stones were covered with green moss, ivy and gorse, no longer resembling any sort of defined structure. A single hawthorn tree grew, massive and ancient, with branches spreading like a protective spider web over one side of the stones. The building looked as if it had once had a circular shape, but was otherwise unremarkable. She approached with caution, but there was no tingle in her skin as she had at the dolmen.

What made this spot remarkable, though, became apparent as she looked around from the fort. There, laid out below her like a quilt of green patchwork, was what looked like the entire county. She could see for miles. The sea glinted to the west as if covered in tiny diamonds. To the north, she saw hills fading into the haze. A few rose high in one spot, then lowered in height like a bumpy set of skirts spread around them. To the east and south were farms, peat bogs and villages dotted here and there, connected with a series of whitened tracks, a net laid upon this mystical landscape, holding the people underneath.

She stood, transfixed by the wonder of the view. She was rooted to the ground, held by an odd power, a rush of energy coming through the land, up her legs and out her fingers. It wasn't the tingling of the stones, but was still mythical and fantastic.

The sensation eased, and she was able to look around. Donal was looking at her with an odd expression on his face.

"This is stunning, Donal. Thank you so much for bringing me here. I can see why you love it."

"You looked magical for a moment. Like a goddess standing upon a temple."

She snorted. "You've read too many romantic poems, Donal. I was just admiring the view. It's more magical than anything I could create."

"N-no... no, it's more. You... sparkled. I do believe you belong here. T-to this land, I mean." He was blushing as he took her hands in his, and gazed into her eyes. His were the color of delicate, new spring leaves, fresh from their shoots.

"You reminded me of Queen Maeve, standing upon her lands, Mistress of all she surveyed."

"I remember Maeve from my grandmother's stories. What have you heard of her?"

"Ah, she was a strong Celtic woman, a queen, willful and proud. You wouldn't want to cross her lightly."

Valentia smiled. "I rather like this comparison. Do go on."

"She ruled Connacht, along with her husband, Ailill mac Mata. She was full of fire and pride, so when they got into a boasting match about their wealth, King Ailill boasted about his white bull, the best in all of Ireland. Maeve had heard of a wonderful brown bull, owned by an Ulster king, and decided she must have it. The king wouldn't sell or rent the bull out, so she decided to steal it."

Valentia remembered this story, the Cattle Raid of Cooley. He recited it differently than her grandmother had.

"Maeve went with her army, t-to steal the cow, using magic to keep the Ulster king's troops at bay. However, the hero, Cú Chulainn, was in the army, and he was charmed, avoiding the curse. He used raids to slow M-Maeve's army, and finally they agreed to meet, champion to champion.

"The champion was Fergus, teacher of Cú Chulainn. They fought a f-f-fierce duel, day after day, equally matched. One morning, Cú Chulainn met a lovely young lady, who wished to... uh..." Donal paused in his narrative. "To... b-bed him, but he refused. She was no young lady, however, rather Morrigan, the war goddess. Furious at his rejection, she wounded him and harried him during the duel. He had almost lost when his father, Lugh, saw the unfairness, and offered to take his place until he healed.

"This went on until the sons of the Ulster Army took up arms and attacked, only to be slaughtered by Maeve's army. Cú Chulainn went into a b-b-b-erserker frenzy, killing seventy warriors.

"Maeve finally won the brown bull, and brought it to her husband's white cow, so they could truly see which was best. The bulls fought, and both died, leaving the whole point moot."

Valentia decided he was a good enough presenter despite his stutter, but he left out many parts she remembered from her grandmother's tales, such as Queen Maeve's own duplicitous actions and Cú Chulainn's vow to Fergus.

It seemed so foolish to go waste time and lives, simply to find out which bull was better. In the end, nobody won. Was her quest pointless as well? She had already lost her brother. What more would she lose? Pushing the thought away, she brought herself back to the present, and to Donal's pale green eyes, staring at her in question.

"May I... may I have your permission to court you, Valentia? I know I should ask you f-f-father, but since he isn't here, I must ask you. I should very much like to."

Perhaps she was caught up in the magic of the place or the color of his eyes, but she needed no dissembling to answer.

"I would like that, Donal, very much."

He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, and tingles shot through her fingers and up her arm.

He didn't relinquish her hand as they turned to look back out to sea, standing there, giving justice to the beauty which lay before them. Fishing vessels sailed across the bay, and the long, deep inlet from the sea which led to Ardara. She had no idea the inlet was so long and narrow, like a snake coming in to eat away the land.

As she regained her senses, she wondered what had gotten into him. What had gotten into her? She had meant to lead him on to find out information. Could she be smitten by this man? A crush, perhaps? She considered it as they pulled the food out of the hampers for lunch.

Donal handed her a greased-paper package of cold chicken, while he pulled out bread and cheese. She watched, noting the grace of his hands, at odds with his gawky posture and gait. She liked his smile and his eyes, and he was both intelligent and kind. Perhaps he might be a match after all, and far more suitable than Mitchel had been.

For now, she took an apple from the hamper, handing it to Donal, who sliced it for her. She nibbled on a piece, savoring the sweet tart juice.

She had brought her watercolors, but regretted it. The vivid colors demanded a stronger medium; oils would have been better. However, oils required much more equipment and paraphernalia. A portable kit of watercolors was much easier.

She spent time painting the stunning view of the inlet, while Donal told stories. A few were familiar, echoes of the past, from her grandmother's repertoire. Some were new though, and she relaxed into her work, listening to his tales of local tree spirits and druids.

Valentia watched Donal as he spoke. His face came alive with the tales of days past. He has a true passion for this sort of thing. He would have done well enough as a Seanchaí, a court story-teller, in ancient times, despite his stutter, though her grandmother was still far better. He would be more at home in the role than in that of a factor for a large farm.

After he finished, he sat down next to her, and took her hand in his. She liked the feeling, and they ate the remnants of fruit he brought. The birds were flying on an ocean breeze above them, wheeling and diving in a murmur of dynamic movement. He squeezed her hand, and she turned to look at him. His eyes seemed endless.

He kissed her hand, then her wrist. A pleasant tingle sparked her skin at the touch of his lips. He moved up her arm, farther and farther, while her reactions swung between intense pleasure and acute guilt. He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, and a cold shiver went down her spine. She trembled and he pulled back, a concerned look on his face.

"Are you c-cold, Valentia?"

"No, no, just... that was lovely."

He grinned, flashing his dimple once more.

Sometime later, as they languished in the pleasant heat of the summer afternoon, Valentia remembered again her reaction to Donal's attentions. Certainly he was an attractive, intelligent man, wealthy and of good family—her own, as it happened. Was that the reason she was so apprehensive? Their consanguinity? Or was it her mistrust of his grandmother?

* * *

Two weeks later, she still hadn't gotten up the nerve to ask Donal about the brooch. She had inquired about all sorts of things in the household, admiring art pieces as they strolled through the halls, including a crystal ornament. She had pointed out ceramic vases and ornate iron animals sitting on a mantelpiece. They had discussed St. Conal's Bell, and the various rare books he had brought back with him from Dublin. However, talking of pieces of jewelry sounded, to Valentia's own ears, like she was inquiring into what she might inherit should she marry Donal. Kevin and Maggie were tasked with inquiring among the servants and other folk who worked on the estate about the mysterious brooch. She considered taking Donal into her confidence, but didn't wish to seem materialistic. It wasn't that the brooch might be worth money, but the fact it had been her grandmother's.

She had gotten into the habit of going to the soup kitchen for a couple hours each day, to help prepare and serve food. She donated money as well, helping out in the garden plot behind the place. She got to know Friend Goodbody well.

In the afternoons, she often spent time with Donal, when his own duties allowed, or went out wandering the countryside. When she did the latter, she always took at least Kevin or Pat, if not the whole group. She still remembered the attack on the road to Donegal, and her fright at her own helplessness as Kevin and Pat fended the faceless men off. She shivered at the memory.

Kevin managed to discover no one remembered seeing anything like the brooch for many years. Esme might have it, the other sister. The only information they had on her was she had moved to somewhere in County Mayo, perhaps Achill Island with her husband Sean, who had been a trader. He had intended to ply his trade with cousins, about the same time Esme's parents had left with young Bridget for America.

Valentia pondered this information. If the brooch had gone with Esme, she was wasting her time searching Woodhill and cultivating a relationship with Donal. On the other hand, this was her family, so getting to know them was part of her original quest. Besides, she was enjoying Donal's company. He had a quiet, understated sense of humor and a sweet disposition. He was competent with estate management, and he was becoming a dear friend. Not a confidant, though. Not yet.

* * *

On a Sunday afternoon, after church, Donal took her, Kevin, and Maggie out to Loughros Point. The breathtaking view of the ocean, he claimed, would be excellent.

The four of them rode horses from Donal's stables, deciding the carriage would be too much. They packed food for luncheon, and extra to give out to a hamlet Donal knew of along the way. They set out in the early afternoon, enjoying the bright, warm day.

The hills were gentle here, near the sea, with the deep-set inlet showing a sandy bottom at low tide. Valentia enjoyed the patterns in the sand made by the waves and seaweed, seeing intriguing abstract forms. There were occasional crofts and farms spread out.

"The land here is rock below a shallow layer of dirt, so farming isn't easy," Donal explained, when she had inquired about their scarcity. "They've had to create what soil there is by layering the sand with seaweed. It's been a project over generations, but they've managed to coax growing power from the land. It's the same along many parts of the west coast, particularly the islands."

"Have they many sheep? I noticed a couple back at the last farm."

"The sheep are beginning to replace the farms. They are more profitable, so many landlords are m-moving them in when the Irish families farming the land leave, or die, rather than take on new tenants. A few landlords do their best to hasten this situation, I'm afraid."

"Hasten the situation? Whatever do you mean?"

"They raise the rents to a level they know the tenant could never pay, so they can be evicted more quickly."

"But that is horrible! Don't these landlords have a duty of care for those on their land?"

"In the old days, perhaps, or with Irish landlords. A few like us do care," he paused, so she nodded in acknowledgement. "But many of them have never even visited their lands here, or rarely do. They leave their factors in charge, but the factors are often greedy, only interested in profit, not people."

"What can be done, Donal?" She whispered, knowing there was little.

"Not m-much, on a local scale, but what we can do? Offer food to families who need it, a place for them to live and work when they have been turfed out. I don't have much political power, but what I have I try to use, when my grandmother allows." He gave a wry grin, and Valentia remembered Eithne believed charity to be an insult.

"I've written to Westminster a couple times, begging them to act on the matter." Valentia offered, testing to see whether he approved of women involving themselves in politics, much less American women.

He looked at her, surprised but not displeased. "You have? Marvelous! I had no idea you had an interest in politics."

"Only in so far as the hungry are concerned. It's my sole area of activism. My mother has many other areas of interest."

Donal caught her wistfulness, as he halted the horse, giving her a searching look. "Are you alright, Valentia? Have I said ought to upset you?"

"No, no, I was just wishing my mother was here. She would be a fair match for your grandmother, no doubt."

"I would give a lot t-to see such a meeting." He smiled, and she returned it. It would indeed be a sparked match of lightning versus volcano, she was certain.

They rode for a while in silence, approaching a cluster of houses. This was where Donal had planned on bringing the extra food they brought, but they saw there were several horses already in the central clearing. There were four uniformed English officers clustered around one house, and a great deal of tension in the air.

Donal and Kevin dismounted in silence, motioning for Valentia and Maggie to remain on their horses behind another house. Reluctant, Valentia kept view of the proceedings, reassuring her gelding.

As the men approached the knot of soldiers, she heard an officer shouting. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond, straight hair sticking out underneath his hat. His tone was demanding and sharp.

He turned to Donal.

"Good day, sir. Is there a problem with which I may help?" Donal asked.

The officer touched the brim of his hat. "Good day. Nothing here to concern you. Move along." His manner was polite, but there was steel in his voice.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, sir. These are good people. I must do what I can to help."

The officer didn't answer. One of the soldiers, dressed in the bright red uniform of the British army, lifted his rifle. He didn't point it at Donal—as a local nobleman, this would have been illegal – but he held it across his chest, gripping it tight.

"What is your name and rank, sir?"

The officer's eyes narrowed. "Captain Greene of His Majesty's Inniskilling Dragoons."

"And what business do you have t-t-terrorizing these folk?"

The officer marched towards him, belligerent and menacing. While Donal was tall, he was no soldier, and undoubtedly no warrior. Kevin, however, had a brawler's build and experience. He backed up the slight man with his considerable bulk, cracking his knuckles and grinning, evidently anticipating a good fight. The two of them formed an effective wall against the officer's advances.

They were at a standoff. While Kevin and Donal were both armed, even a Protestant nobleman wouldn't escape unscathed if he fired upon a British officer, Irishman as he was.

Out of the corner of her eye, Valentia caught a furtive movement. She turned to look, as a family escaped through the hills, hiding behind another house. It appeared as if they went into the earth itself, but they must be hiding in an underground storage room. A root cellar perhaps, where the potatoes would be stored. Empty now, of course, with plenty of room for the whole family.

It hadn't been the whole family, though. She had seen a mother, four children of varying sizes, all under ten years of age. But no father. Was he not here, or passed away?

No, she saw he remained in the house, as an older man came out while Donal and Captain Greene were arguing. At his appearance, the other three soldiers trained their rifles on him. The man froze.

At the sound of the rifles, the officer turned to look at the older man with a nasty smile.

He looked back at Donal, his eyes sliding off him in an insulting, dismissive manner. He sauntered over to where the man from the farmhouse stood, and looked back at Donal, smiling again. Then he lifted the butt of his gun and smashed it into the man's face. Valentia sobbed as the man crumpled to the ground. Donal shouted in protest and stepped forward, Kevin by his side, but the soldiers turned their guns to them, stopping the two men dead in their tracks.

Captain Greene proceeded to kick the man lying on the dusty ground. Valentia had no idea if he was conscious or not, as he made no sound and did not move as he was pummeled and beaten, until a dirty pile of rags remained where he once had stood.

Donal shook with rage, fists clenched in frustration. There was nothing he could do for the man. He stared as if memorizing the faces of the soldiers and waited until they were done. The officer, finished with his abuse, went to his horse, mounted, holding his rifle across his chest again. He barked a couple short commands to the soldiers, who entered the house. Valentia heard crashing and smashing as they tore the place apart. She had no idea if they were looking for plunder or destroying the place for pleasure, but suspected the latter.

When they tired of their sport, they came out, one by one. Each was carrying a sack with lumpy objects inside, whatever meager bits of food the family had managed to collect, or family heirlooms with value.

With a final look of triumph, the blond officer rode off, back towards the mainland, his three soldiers in tow on their horses. Valentia and Maggie moved their horses farther around the house so they weren't seen.

The movement caught the eye of the last soldier, though. He wheeled his horse around, attracting the attention of the rest.

"Oh, what have we here? Sweet young girls to entertain us." Captain Greene's voice was oily and Valentia tried to melt into the wall, knowing not to dismount. The officer didn't dismount either, but sidled his horse next to Maggie's.

"Now, aren't you a pretty little wren. You look soft and comfortable. Come with me, hen, and I'll give you a lovely afternoon." His hand reached out to grasp her elbow, but Maggie drew back.

"Sir! I shall thank you to keep your hands off my maid!" Valentia drew herself up in her saddle, pulling all her mother's imperious manner about her like a cloak. Donal and Kevin came up on either side of her, adding to her boldness.

Captain Greene looked at the four of them, then surveyed his own band. He took a long look at Kevin's size and at Maggie. Valentia could almost hear the gears whir and click inside his head as he calculated his chances.

"You, Mistress, would provide a much more entertaining afternoon. I think you'll do nicely. Wouldn't do to fraternize with the help, now, would it?"

Valentia willed herself to remain still. Her horse, attuned to her fear, whickered and stomped. What could she do now, but run? There was no way her horses wouldn't outrun trained warhorses. Kevin could fight, but Donal was no warrior.

The world stayed perfectly still for several long moments. Then, quicker than she could see, his iron grip had her wrist, and he yanked her over his horse. She struggled to stay on her own mount, clinging to the saddle with her other hand, but he jerked her off-balance. He pulled until she was across the withers, in a painful position across the front of the saddle. Then he pulled his reins around and cantered off.

Donal and Kevin both shouted, and she heard Maggie screech, but all Valentia could feel was the excruciating pounding of the saddle horn against her stomach. She ceased struggling, as she feared falling under the hooves of the horse. His soldiers followed, and all she could see was a cloud of dust as they cantered along the road. She was glad they weren't galloping, or she would have no breath left.

They slowed after an eternity, at a copse of trees next to the road with a grassy knoll. Valentia felt like she had been punched in the stomach over and over. When they halted, she slid down into a puddle on the muddy ground. She coughed and fought for air.

"Hmm. You seem wilted my dear. Here, let me help." The Captain grabbed the back of her hair, yanking her head back. She glared, trying to compress all her loathing into a single knife-edged response. She couldn't talk yet, but she could still make her feelings known. She tried to gather her feet under her, hidden by her billowed skirts. She didn't have enough strength, and she just shifted in the dirt.

The man bent down and smashed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss. She did her best to spit in his mouth. He smelled of onions, beer, and stale man.

He jerked back and punched her, her hair still tangled in his fingers. Her ears rung and her vision spun, but she refused to cry. She must not cry! She tried to glare again. A slime trail of spittle ran down his chin.

The Captain narrowed his eyes at her, then his other hand grasped the top of her bodice. He was surprisingly gentle unlacing it, bit by bit. Perhaps he knew how strong the ribbons were. She tried to look around for his other soldiers, but couldn't see behind her. Perhaps they were down the road, keeping watch.

Her scalp was already aching from his grip on her hair. Trying again to get her feet under her, she almost managed before he pulled her corset lacings apart. Doing it one-handed hindered him. He paused and gestured for one of his soldiers to help. As he was transferring his hold on her hair, she took her chance, and tried to spring up and leap out of the way. He'd been kneeling on her skirts, and the fabric yanked her back down to the ground with a painful crash. She moaned in frustration and panic.

"Definitely a fighter, she is. This is going to be a grand time." His eyes glinted with pleasure, which made her stomach roil with more than just the punishment from the ride. Hands freed from her hair, he got to work on her bodice, freeing her breasts. They sprung up, as if eager to be free and seen. She struggled, but the other man had one hand in her hair and the other on her wrists so she could barely move. The officer had her legs pinned under her skirts, but turned his attention to them now. He pushed them up in an attempt to get between them.

She scissored her legs, tried to connect her knee to his privates, but the skirts hindered both their efforts. His rough, calloused hand stroked her thigh, and she screeched. Why hadn't she screamed before? She did so with gusto now, until he put a rough, stinking hand across her mouth. She bit it, tasting sweat and salt.

"Bitch! Sutcliffe, get your hand here and control the vixen!" The other soldier placed his hand over her mouth instead of in her hair. This gave her a little more freedom, and she tried to toss her head back to hit Sutcliffe's forehead. It didn't work, but it dislodged her primary attacker. Her reprieve didn't last long.

Just as he regained control, she heard shouting. He was gone and she sobbed with relief when she recognized Kevin's and Donal's voices.

* * *

They pushed the horses as fast as they could. When they spied the soldiers, Kevin let out a war whoop that would have made his Celtic ancestors proud. Donal was almost startled off of his own horse, but recovered and added one of his own.

Two soldiers stood between them and Valentia's attacker. Before they could draw their swords, Kevin had run one over, and the man lay still in the dust. Donal kicked at the other as they rode by. He jumped off his horse and drew his own sword, giving a creditable yell and charging headlong into the man.

The impact brought sharp shock of pain, but the man didn't fall. Donal pushed again and toppled the older, heavier soldier, and put his sword to the bastard's throat. Then he heard the loud click of a pistol behind him.

"I'd put down that sword, you bloody mick."

Cold, hard steel pressed into the back of his head, the pressure arresting him instantly. Then it was gone. Glancing back, he saw Kevin had just tackled the soldier with the pistol. Beyond him, the Captain was reassembling his trousers. Had they been too late?

Kevin stood, a splatter of blood on his cheek holding his soiled knife. The soldier on the ground didn't move.

"Bloody hell, man, did you kill him?" Donal was horrified.

He couldn't even begin to imagine the repercussions. He looked down again at the man he still held at sword point. The soldier glared up at him, his hand inching across the ground toward his own sword. Donal had to make a decision. He'd never taken a life before, but these men had likely killed that poor man in the cottage, and may have already ravished Valentia. A glance confirmed she was lying motionless on the ground. He swallowed hard and pushed the point through the man's neck. The blood spurted, hot and slick, as he fought to hold his own gorge down. The dying man struggled, flailing around like a fish on dry land, gurgled, then was still.

No longer able to control his gut, Donal vomited.

The Captain finally managed to pull up his pants, draw his own sword and advanced on them. Kevin and Donal stood side by side, raising their weapons. They couldn't let this man live. Donal set his mouth firm and did his best to quell his nausea.

Kevin took a couple steps to one side, so they split the soldier's attention. Stealing a quick glance at Valentia, Donal noticed she still hadn't moved, but lay in a heap of tangled skirts. His rage grew and he snarled at the man, stepping forward, swinging his sword.

The Captain raised his in a parry as Kevin stabbed him in the kidneys. He let out a screech, but didn't fall. His sword dropped, and Donal stuck the man in the neck. It wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. Dark blood gushed around the cut and seeped into the dusty ground.

Kevin glanced at the man he had run over, and went to him, presumably to make sure he was dead, while Donal went to check Valentia.

Maggie had finally caught up with them, and she helped him put Valentia's skirts into more respectable order. She had bruises on her face and a cut on her lip, and wouldn't wake.

* * *

After seeing Valentia back to town and in Nancy's capable and sympathetic care, Maggie, Kevin and Donal returned to the scene of the old man's beating.

He wasn't quite dead. His face was a ruin of bruises and cuts, and he was likely bleeding inside, perhaps with several broken ribs. They helped him into the house and onto the low pallet along the back wall. His wife and children came in, swarming over him. Donal and Maggie left them to nurse him.

"What could these poor people have ever done to deserve such savagery?" Maggie was livid, her tone and complexion reflecting her rage.

Donal shook his head. "This is not uncommon. Remember how I mentioned f-factors try to hasten a tenant's eviction? You've just seen it. This man didn't have his rent, so he's beaten and his goods stolen. If his wife and children hadn't managed to escape, the soldiers would have b-b-beaten them as well, perhaps even raped them, and I couldn't do a thing to help." He looked miserable.

"You did, though. You bought time for the wife and children to escape out the back. I saw them hide while you were distracting the soldiers. You made a difference." She looked into his eyes, bright with tears, his mouth contorted with frustration.

"That didn't help Valentia, though, did it? She was still... still..." He choked off, unable to articulate. There was no blood, so it looked as if they had rescued her in time, but it was still a brutal attack.

Maggie had no words for that, either.

They left the wife, a Mistress Tolly, with the extra food they brought. Maggie prayed Mr. Tolly might recover. None of the children were old enough to do much farm work, so she wondered how they would survive, even with the extra food.

As Donal left to gather the horses, Maggie reached into her pocket and fished out what coins she had with her. Kevin saw what she was about and reached into his own pouch. She pressed the lot into the woman's hand, who protested in Irish, though Maggie only understood a word here and there. She kept Mistress Tolly's hand closed around the silver, nodding to her husband, lying on the pallet. He would be permanently crippled. The silver might be enough to buy them all passage to America.

As she headed towards the door of the tiny cottage, a little girl—she couldn't be more than five – came up to her with a bedraggled dandelion in her hand, offering it to her as a gift. Maggie's eyes grew hot and her throat closed. She took the offering, kissed the child's head, and stroked her straight, silky blond hair. She got a shy, tentative smile in return, and considered herself well repaid.

Outside, she breathed in deep, coughing with the dust from the earlier scuffle. The still day was rare, and menace seemed to hang on the air. She wished there was more she could do, but she mounted her horse. She signaled to Donal she was ready. Kevin was already on his own mount. They returned to bury the soldiers, and hide the incriminating evidence of the slaughter.

The trip back to Ardara was spent in reflection upon the events of the day, and their helplessness to prevent future occurrences.

Chapter Fourteen

Determination

Valentia woke up in waves. She occasionally heard remembered voices, birdsong or kitchen noises. She didn't know who made them, but she was familiar with the feeling. This was how she came out of the fever. But this time, there was no fever. Memory came back, and she sank back into the comfort of the darkness.

Eventually, the darkness became stale. She had no interest in food or drink, or anything that sustained life, but knew she must eat. She gave into her body's demands, but still would not speak.

Maggie talked to her, though she wouldn't answer. None of the men tried. Maggie kept them away. This was a woman's matter. Men were neither welcome nor needed.

"It's a lovely day today, Mistress Valentia. Here, let me open the curtains for you to see. The sky is bright and blue, with a warm breeze. It will do you good to get air."

Valentia didn't look. She stared into a distant place no one could see.

Maggie stood with her hands on her hips. The attack had been a full week ago. They had almost been too late. There was no blood on Valentia's skirts, so they had been in time, but the attack was still brutal and damaging. Gentle healing and understanding was needed, but there was only so much indulgence allowed.

"Now, what would Conor say about you moping around like this all day, and the sun shining bright in the sky? Would he let you sit a-bed day in and day out? You know he would not."

Valentia's eye twitched at mention of her dead brother, but she didn't speak, nor did she turn and look at her maid.

"Well, I've the broth over here when you want it. I'm no longer feeding you, understand. You must get up and do for yourself."

With that, Maggie walked down the hall.

After a couple long minutes, Valentia got out of bed and picked up a spoon of broth. It did smell delicious.

* * *

"I d-d-d-don't agree, grandmother. She's an intelligent woman, and I dislike the deception. If I do ask her, if she does agree, I shall most certainly t-tell her before we are wed." Donal's face flushed red with anger. He always stuttered more when he was angry, and it shamed him. He stood over the diminutive matriarch, while a furious storm lashed the windows of the drawing room.

"You most certainly will not, young man. Our current financial situation is none of her affair yet. If she does consent to marry you – and I beg leave to doubt you have the courage to ask her in the first place—her family's wealth will help allay the crisis. It's that simple." His grandmother was calm and full of steel, her words carrying the particular bite he knew was reserved for her worst miscreants in her little kingdom. She knew what riled him most. Cuts at his effectiveness as an estate manager, coupled with insults about his character and courage, were all guaranteed to make him defensive.

"It is simple, yes, but not the way you see it. The simple part is, yes, I care for her. We have become quite close. However, I refuse to p-p-propose to her simply because you want her money. Even were I in love with her, I would refuse to ask, on those grounds. She doesn't deserve s-s-such manipulation. Besides, she... she... " No, he must not mention the incident. It seemed to have escaped all gossip, and he couldn't risk her reputation by bringing it up now. He sensed how red his face must be, the pulses of rage beat through his entire frame, like the waves of an incoming tide. He must explode to release the pressure.

Eithne, always cool in a crisis, said, "We shall see." She marched out, leaving him to fume to an empty room.

Donal realized he was huffing like a bull, so worked at controlling his temper. He went to the large bay windows to look out into the storm. The wind whipped branches against the walls of the house, creaking and snapping in sympathy to his internal turmoil.

He had grown fond of Valentia over the last weeks. He could even be in love with the girl. She was kind and intelligent, with entrancing green eyes, round face, and her ridiculous mad, curly dark hair. He sensed the tide subside as he thought of her, calming his choler into lapping waves. He imagined touching her cheek, where one of her curls tended to cling, knowing his own hand curled in response.

He tried to dispel the image. If he was to be fair to the girl, he would have to rein in his own feelings, particularly after the attack. The farm wasn't failing, but it was barely keeping operations above water, as many of the tenants couldn't pay their rent. Even if he didn't want to evict them, Eithne would order him do so. He despaired at the families who had gone, but at least he had gifted each with coin and food, which gave them some hope, the most valuable coin in the land, right now.

For those lands which lay empty, it took time to get sheep on them and coax profit from them. Until that profit came, they had bills to pay and seed to buy.

His grandmother had decreed he marry Valentia, to use her family money to bolster the farm. While he agreed it might be smart, he had no wish to trick her into such an arrangement. She was smart enough to realize the deception afterwards, and such a lie could ruin any trust they might build.

He wondered if he had the courage to ask Valentia for her hand in marriage. He wasn't the bravest of men. He liked books far better than conflict. He still felt ill when he thought of killing those soldiers. Other students in Trinity regaled him with stories of hunting and such, while he preferred the library. He wished he had the option of becoming a scholar or a professor, a dream. Indeed, he felt ill at the thought of asking for Valentia's hand in marriage, but that was a different sort of cowardice.

Sighing with the concept of roads not traveled, he pushed himself from the cool glass of the window, sitting in his favorite chair. He picked up the book of poems he had been reading, The Faerie Queen, one of his favorites, offering surcease and escape, if only for a while.

* * *

And I've been absolutely horrified by the brutal treatment these soldiers dealt upon the helpless farmer.

Valentia decided the sentence was awkward. Still, it described the situation and emotion. She refused to examine the rest of the brutality, even in her mind. She had shut that part of her experience under a lid so tight, she barely remembered anything at all had happened.

She had written to both O'Brien and Mitchel in outrage about the incident near Loughros, and several others on her Westminster list. She was determined the atrocity be shown for what it was—a cruel abuse of power over the helpless, which needed to be stopped, rectified, and if at all possible, recompensed. The family was long gone, perhaps on a ship to kinder lands, but there were thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of families in situations as bad, if not worse. The local landowners were unable or unwilling to help, so she wrote letters until her ink-smudged fingers ached.

"Mistress Valentia? Please, come down for tea?" Maggie stood at the door.

"Later, Maggie. I'm not done yet."

"You won't be, Mistress. Not for a long time. In the meantime, you'll waste away to nothing for the waiting."

Valentia looked up at this, surprised by the steel in the young maid's voice.

"If you don't take care of yourself, you'll have a relapse of your fever. Then how many letters will you be able to write?"

The girl had a point. She let out a short, sharp breath.

"Fine. I'll be down soon." She tidied up her quill, paper, and inkwell, capping the latter to prevent it drying out.

Her letters would do no good, but she couldn't stop writing them. They were the only thing she could figure out to do, other than giving food and coin when she could to individuals. It frustrated her to be so... so... ineffectual. Was this what her mother underwent on her campaigns?

She made her way downstairs to join Maggie, Kevin and Pat for their luncheon. They had moved back into Nancy's inn several days after the tea party, as they preferred both the rooms and the company. Her introductions and tentative acceptance into the family had been accomplished, so there was no need to keep up pretense. Donal was off to Londonderry for a couple days on business, so she was at a loss for things to do this afternoon. The need to do something was almost manic. She felt guilty for all the idle time she spent, knowing how many people were working hard to survive.

She sat down, nodding to Pat and Kevin, as Maggie poured her a cup of hot, steaming tea. She lifted the cup and drew in her breath, smelling the sweet, pungent aroma, feeling the warmth of the cup in her hand. The heat burned her palms, but she reveled in the discomfort, feeling she deserved bit of penance for her privileged life.

Nancy came over with a plate of warm currant scones and the dishes of butter and jam. Kevin chose one, handing the plate to Valentia. "I've found information."

She had reached her hand out to claim a pastry, but paused, looking at him. His tone was serious, even grim.

"Well, two things, really. One good, one bad. Which would you like first?"

"The good news, please. I should like that." She grabbed a scone and butter.

"The good news is Friend Goodbody had her child last night, a bouncing baby girl."

"That's wonderful, Kevin. We shall have to bring a gift to her tomorrow. What's the bad news, then?" Valentia cocked her head in inquiry.

"The brooch isn't here." His voice was flat, deadpan.

Valentia did her best to hide her disappointment.

"Do you know where it is, then?" There must be more to the story.

"It's with Esme, wherever she might be. Reverend Gallagher remembers Bridget talking about it. She had found it in Esme's things before they left."

"He does? Oh, that's good news, though. It means it does exist. I was beginning to doubt, actually." She experienced a pressure lifting from her shoulders, almost like she was floating above her body. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, but not comfortable, either. She cleared her throat, snapping back into her body.

Kevin looked at her queer, but she dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. She reached for the forgotten scone and dish of butter.

"And we know Esme moved to Achill Island, is that right? Or do you have more information?"

Kevin shrugged. "Achill's all we've got at the moment. It's our best bet. She may no longer even be alive, but it's a start."

"Excellent. Should we make plans to begin, then? Perhaps in three days? It will give Donal time to return, so I can make my farewells."

Kevin and Maggie exchanged knowing looks, but didn't speak.

"What?" Valentia looked to each.

Kevin looked at her, hazel eyes unblinking, owl-like. Maggie stifled a giggle, saying, "Are you certain you wish to tell him farewell, Mistress Valentia?" She asked this in a manner which indicated she already knew the answer full well.

She was certain she didn't wish to bid him farewell, as a matter of fact. However, she couldn't see any alternative if she was to continue her quest. She couldn't ask him to ignore his duties to come tramping across the country with her, searching for a legendary piece of jewelry. Seen in this light, her venture seemed silly and petty. Yet, still, she had come this far. She must continue or admit defeat. And she was loath to admit defeat, even if it meant no longer seeing Donal.

To her friends, she shrugged. "It is what it must be." She applied herself to slicing her scone and applying a generous dollop of sweet butter, ignoring their glances.

* * *

Donal and Valentia stood on the high hill where he had taken her for a picnic, weeks before, underneath the sprawling hawthorn tree. The wind was strong, whipping her skirts about with cracks and snaps. She could see a rainstorm out over the ocean in the distance.

This has turned into a right mess, Valentia was bitter and confused.

Donal stood next to her, obviously confused and hurting. He confessed that he had prepared himself for days for this offer of marriage, practicing before the mirror numerous times. He had chosen the perfect spot, purchased an exquisite golden locket as a gift to seal the bargain. And yet his heartfelt proposal had first been ignored, then treated as a joke.

When Valentia finally realized he was in earnest, she tried her best to soften her refusal.

"It's not that I don't enjoy your company, Donal, I do. I think we would have made a delightful partnership. But I have other obligations, things I must do before I have the freedom to consider such an offer. I... I cannot. Not... at least not at the moment. Perhaps, later." This was vague and unsatisfying, but perhaps he would take it at face value.

"Are you promised to another, then? Have you a sweetheart in Ohio?" He hoped it wasn't the attack.

"No! No, nothing like that," though she ached for Mitchel, suffering a pang of guilt and regret.

He must have seen it on her face. "You d-do have someone! Someone you've met here in Ireland, then. Who is he?" She had never seen him in such a temper. His face went from pale to crimson in waves, his jealousy and frustration clear in his pale green eyes.

"I am promised to no one, Donal, I swear. But I am on a mission which must be completed. Please," she took both of his hands in hers, "I'm not rejecting your offer, but I cannot accept, either. Not just now."

"A mission, says she. What mission is this? Is it aught I can help with?"

Should she tell him? She believed his affection to be genuine, but she had a strong instinct Eithne should not know of her search for the brooch. She believed this so strongly she dared not question it. Would Donal be proof against Eithne's questioning? She didn't think he could keep such information from his grandmother. She shook her head in decision, and he took it to be the answer to his question.

"Well, I guess you don't even trust me enough to help you. I don't see why you would t-t-trust me enough to be your husband. Later, that is. After your 'mission', whatever that should be." He sounded sulky and petulant, with a great deal of anger still in his voice. She had no idea what she might say to allay his anger.

"Stop sulking, Donal. I explained I cannot be with you at this time. You'll just have to accept that on faith."

"I will not. I don't accept it at all!"

"I don't see as you have any choice!" Her own voice rose to match his, despite her attempt to control her anger.

They stood face to face for a long moment, jaws and fists clenched. Finally, she looked away and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Donal. I truly am. Please, do try to forgive me." She turned back to him, entreating. She didn't want to leave in such a state. She took one of his hands, but he yanked away from her.

Donal didn't speak, but turned, looking out at the storm on the sea. The sky flashed with lightning and the diagonal mist of rain onto the water.

He turned to her, and grabbed her shoulders. For a moment, she was afraid he might do violence to her, but he just stared into her eyes. She wanted to struggle, to break away, to cry out. At the same time, she wanted to kiss him, to erase that horribly pained look from his face. He held her for several moments, and she trembled, in memory of another day.

With sudden energy, he flung her away and mounted his horse, turning so he could look at her.

"Please return the horse to the groom in the stables. I wish you safe journeys, Mistress Valentia."

He left, but she could see the tears welling up in his eyes. Her own tears stung in the summer wind.

Valentia remained, stunned by his sudden departure and icy farewell. His voice had been formal and precise. There was no hint of warmth or affection.

She dawdled, gathering her saddlebags, not wishing to meet him on the path down the hill. She was about to mount her own horse, but sat down, instead, on the remains of the stone tower, beneath the tree, and cried, her heart shattered by her own actions.

She wasn't certain how long she tarried, sobbing at the loss of Donal's friendship. Perhaps she was also crying for Mitchel, perhaps even for her brother. The tears were a release. The wind dried her cheeks, as if the tears were stolen from her. Her grief was cheated, taken by the Faeries.

The wind shifted, turning chilly and damp. She looked and saw the storm was coming closer, quickly. She would have to scramble to reach Woodhill in time. She paused for a moment, though, her hand on the tree, saying a silent, tearful farewell to it. She had a kinship with all hawthorn trees, and this one had witnessed her at her worst. The tree had a part of her now, a permanent slice of her soul.

"Keep it well." Feeling foolish, she spoke out loud. Still, it seemed right.

* * *

The journey back hadn't started auspiciously.

There had been three, two girls, no more than toddlers, with the mother. Their bloated, bodies had looked inhuman, like a sort of papier-mâché construct, prepared and arranged for the highest level of horror. Their faces and shirts were stained bright green, so Kevin suggested they might have been so hungry as to try to eat grass. They couldn't digest it, so they had died, vomiting the greenery.

Valentia wanted to stop and give them a decent burial, but Kevin convinced her to push on. The area was dangerous, and they had seen British soldiers patrolling.

Part III

"You manifestly wrong even the poorest ploughman,

if you demand not his free consent."

Charles I

Chapter Fifteen

Achill

Maggie looked at Mistress Valentia with concern. She had hardly eaten a thing in the two days since they had left Ardara. She hoped her Mistress wasn't having a relapse of the malaria.

"Here, Mistress, please, eat more of your eggs."

"I'm not feeling well, Maggie. My stomach's upset."

"Fried bread then? You're wasting away."

Valentia took the bread, chewing on it, swallowing when she was done. She glared at her friend.

Maggie glowered at her until she took another bite, then another. Satisfied, she relented, packing up their things for the next leg of the trip. At least her Mistress would have food in her stomach for the morning.

Maggie had talked about it with Kevin the night before, as they had both been worried.

"Do you think she's missing her young man?" Maggie suggested.

"It could be, sure. She's upset about something. It could be what we saw just outside Donegal, as well."

"Yes, that was heartbreaking." Maggie remembered the pathetic bodies they had found, left along the side of the road, her tears prickling in remembrance.

Maggie took a sip of her ale to keep her throat open. She heard the crackle of the fire, and banging in the kitchen at the inn. She smelled the stew, musty and savory, the stale scent of ale soaked into the wooden table top and floor.

"If it's the children, she should recover soon, I think. If it's Master Donal, however..."

Kevin took her hand. "Only time could heal that, I'm afraid. They fought, so she blames herself for the way they parted. There's nothing to be done."

Maggie looked down at her hand, smooth and fine-boned. It looked tiny, entwined in Kevin's broad fingers, gnarled and callused from work. She squeezed his hands once, smiling up at him.

"We'll just have to be here when she comes out of it, to keep her from pining, I suppose."

"It's the best we can do for her. As for you, however..." A wicked twinkle came into his eyes, the hazel looking dark green in the light of the hearth fire.

"As for me, what?" As if she didn't know.

She liked Kevin, and had been waiting for several weeks for him to return her regard. He had always flirted with her, but he flirted with everyone, up to and including every young barmaid and servant he saw.

"As for you, you're not pining for anyone, are you?" He looked worried for a moment, so she giggled.

"No, I've no young man to think of, yet," She looked at him from under lowered eyelashes, waiting.

"Might... I might... I mean, might I be one ye could think of?" So endearing, hearing this glib and strong young man at a loss for words. She considered prolonging his torture, but had to relent.

"I think it might be... quite nice." Her voice was low, her eyes down. She had never been courted before, and he made her stomach flutter with butterflies. Not like she was ill, but an exciting flutter, as if dramatic adventure were about to happen.

He kissed her hand then, as she took her other, stroking his cheek, feeling the rough, red beard, twinkling cinnamon and gold in the firelight. Such an odd texture. She had never caressed a man's beard before. The hair was coarser than normal hair, almost sharp in places.

"But..."

"But, what?" The fear was back in his eyes. A bang from the kitchen caught their attention, and they jumped. The sound was followed by colorful curses from their elderly landlady, Mistress Burke.

"But don't let us tell Mistress Valentia, quite yet. It wouldn't be fair to her, to see a couple courting just now, not if she's still thinking of Donal."

He nodded, thoughtful, "That's only fair, sure. So we are courting, then?"

She beamed. Her face felt about to crack. "We are, then."

The smile he gave back to her made her heart quicken.

* * *

Travel continued, but Valentia found no relish or delight in the amazing vistas they encountered. They traveled along the coast, on the north edge of County Mayo. Stopping for a mid-day break, they came to a place called Downpatrick Head. Ahead of them was an impressive cliff face on the ocean, with dramatic striations of stone, glittering all the colors of the rainbow in the misty sunlight.

Sitting on the rocks next to the carriage, they ate a simple meal of bread and cheese. The bread was stale, but not moldy. Obtaining supplies into the smaller towns and villages was getting harder at any price.

She hoped they would find her grandmother's other sister, Esme, with the brooch. Then she could declare her irrational quest complete, and move on with her life. What life, though? Would she return to Ohio, put her adventures behind her, return to the pedestrian daily grind of painting, living on the farm? The idea held little appeal, but she didn't know what other options she might have. Would she return to Donegal, and hope Donal was still interested in her? Small chance, she was certain.

She looked to the cliff face, watching the waves smash against the rocks, bursting into myriad crystals of white, falling back into the ocean whence they came. The constant cycle of birth, flight, death and rebirth. It's all anyone could do. She was born, she was flying now, then she would return to where she had been born, like a salmon, having had no lasting effect on the world around her. Such a pointless exercise.

Maggie tried to press bread with cheese into her hands, but she held it, watching the waves again and again, over and over.

Her reflections were interrupted, though, by the approach of horses. She could hear the gait of the hooves, but couldn't see anyone yet. Kevin and Pat had stood, weapons at the ready, for whatever might be coming around the bend.

A troupe of three soldiers, dressed in bright red uniforms came into view. Valentia tensed at the sight and began to sweat, Maggie trying to hustle her into the relative safety of the carriage. She moved like molasses, though, with a strange disassociation from the scene. She watched floating from a distance above, as if she were not part of the action.

The soldiers halted, while the officer in charge looked from person to person.

"And what's your business here?" He looked from Pat to Kevin, with an insultingly brief glance at Valentia and Maggie, dismissing the women as no threat.

"We are traveling to relatives in Achill." Kevin was polite and gentile. Though his clothing was clean and neat, he was obviously not wealthy. However, Valentia felt it better he should speak for them, as she been out of sorts these last few days. She seemed to oscillate between quiet depression and furious rage, neither of which would work well with the soldiers.

"This is a military road, you shouldn't be on it. There's a path just down about a quarter mile. Use that." He moved off after his warning was delivered.

"And why shouldn't we be using the road?" Kevin let out a small groan when he heard Valentia's outraged question, delivered with indignant rage.

The soldier turned again, surprised at this challenge.

"The road is currently needed for troops, which are following behind me, official business. You are not on official business. Therefore, you must use the other roads. It's the law."

"And since when did soldiers care overmuch about the law in this country?" Kevin and Pat tried to restrain her, as she was advancing on the officer's horse, looking determined and dangerous. She didn't weigh much, but she was taut with anger, and she fought his efforts.

"Please, forgive her, officer. She's been ill with fever, and doesn't know what she's saying."

The officer looked to her, then to Kevin, glancing at Maggie, behind them, who was wringing her hands.

"You'd best get her back in the carriage, then. Carry on." He clicked a few times, and the horses moved on. Kevin breathed a sigh of relief.

"What the bloody hell did you do that for?" He rounded on Valentia, his fear manifesting in red-hot rage, forgetting stations and rank in the heat of the moment.

Valentia stared at him for a long moment, looking like a lost lamb, not understanding his words. Then she crumpled into tears, a mass of skirts and wool cloak. She sobbed in a heart-breaking rasp, broken and despairing.

Maggie helped Kevin get Valentia into the carriage, then held her hand as the men got the horses ready to go. Pat collected the bits of food which were left, handing them in through the window to Maggie. He didn't leave right away, though. He took Valentia's other hand, holding it tight for a moment, until she looked up at him. He squeezed it, nodding to her, and gave a grimace meant to be reassuring. She gave a wan smile back, so he went to the driver's seat.

She didn't know why she had spoken to the officer. She had flashes of rage and indignation from the incident on Loughros Point. She remembered her frustration and helplessness. In her mind, perhaps she decided all soldiers were the same. To challenge this one was to make up, somehow, for her lack of action at the Tolly home.

They left the coast for a while, heading south through a marshy area, peat bogs broken by glorious mountains, seeing white wild horses frolicking in the reeds. There was one mountain they stopped to watch as an odd, flat, smooth cloud enveloped the top. It looked like a wide hat, the entire thing reflected in a glass lake below. The sight was breathtaking and beautiful, restoring their spirits. Though people were starving all around the country, still, there were such miraculous bits of creation to be enjoyed. It lifted her spirits considerably.

* * *

Another day brought them to Achill Island itself. A short boat ride on the ferry took them and their carriage across a narrow channel near a town called Achill Sound. They were all grateful, as they had not planned to be without it. The quay was thriving with people, boats, and frenzied activity down on the beach.

The town was decent-sized, with several pubs, a general store, and myriad shops. Many of the shops had signs with fish on them. It looked almost deserted and forsaken since they arrived around noon. The first pub Kevin entered was empty, so he tried the next, finding a landlady. She spoke no English, so he bargained for a room in Irish. They would need to rest for a night and gather information before they continued. Information required people, and there seemed to be none about.

The mystery was soon solved, though. Most of the village was down at the quay, helping with the morning's catch. The women trickled in, then the men, already exhausted from a full day's work, having risen before the dawn. Fishing was a huge part of the island's economy, and the surest source for food. Valentia glimpsed tiny curraughs, thin boats made with hide and wood. She was terrified of the idea of going out on the wild Atlantic Ocean in such flimsy craft. But the folk here had been doing it for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years.

They had needed to leave much of the talking to Kevin, as most of the village knew no English, or if they did, they didn't admit it. However, with smooth-talking and charm, he managed to persuade a couple of the older fisher folk to dine with them in the pub.

Valentia still didn't know enough Irish to communicate well. She was learning, though, and she could often understand the gist of what the men were saying, though their accents differed from Kevin's.

She watched the three men at their table with a critical eye. They looked ancient, but they were only a little older than her. The sea aged men quickly, their weathered, craggy faces showed years on the ocean. Their hands were gnarled and bony from casting nets and gutting catches, and they had a distinct fishy odor. At least they were not starving, which heartened her.

"He says he's not heard of a lady named FitzGerald, nor one named Doherty, who hadn't been here for several generations. He suggests we go to Chilldamhnait, Dugort or Derreen. It might give us luck."

Valentia sighed, but glanced at the men as they finished the savory fish stew she had bought them. "Go raibh maith agaibh." At least she knew how to thank them. They nodded back to her, one mumbling, "Failte romhat." You're welcome.

Oddly enough, she felt welcome. Fishermen were insular, disliking intruders or outsiders, but these folk smiled at her, seemed to accept her presence in the midst of their daily duties. She didn't feel like an interloper, as she had so many other places. Perhaps it had been the relief from her previous foul moods, but she was light and happy for a change.

The next day, they continued towards the next stop. Coming to the village of Chilldamhnait, or as the English would call it, Carrick Kildavnet, Valentia saw a square tower positioned on the edge of the bay. They paused to look, but it had been abandoned for some time. She wondered who had lived in such a Spartan keep, or if it guarded the channel.

The island was huge, and she was daunted by this discovery. They climbed up one mountain to take in the view and see the land. They were high up, but still couldn't see the other end of the island. She estimated it must be at least ten miles long, if not more. The large, oddly-shaped land mass wound about with a wealth of mountains and sandy white beaches, which were a bigger surprise.

One such beach was below her, in a deep inlet, with the rocks on both sides jutting out of the ocean, like the teeth of a great, gnashing dragon. The waves came in, battering them with relentless regularity, yet doing nothing to smooth their jagged edges. There were sheep on the hill with them, their chorus of bleating and baaing running counterpoint to the sound of the surf below. Valentia breathed in deep, enjoying the salt-tanged air, mingled with the grass and sheep. She was almost dizzy with freedom and energy.

Refreshed, they made their way back down into a nearby village. Bolstered by her newfound purpose, she strode, on her own, into the sundry store in town. She did her best to ask the shopkeeper about her great-aunt, but discovered her Irish wasn't up to the task. He mentioned he knew someone, but she couldn't discern most of the words. She gave up and went to fetch Kevin.

"Yes, he thinks he remembers her. A northern woman and her husband, his name was Sean FitzGerald, yes? He said Seanie was a trader, and he thinks they moved up near Dugort." Kevin looked hopeful, so Valentia allowed herself hope as well.

"Go raibh maith agat, mo chara!" She threw the hasty thanks at the shopkeeper as she rushed out, eager to move.

They didn't tarry at the beach, but she promised herself time at one later, perhaps after she had found her great-aunt. She was excited and apprehensive at the same time. Would Esme be as difficult as Eithne had been? The first time she had considered the possibility, Reverend Gallagher said she was a sweet young lady when he knew her. Well, no sense on dwelling on it now. She would know for herself soon.

The road wound up and down the undulating coast, and they realized it might be too long of a trip to complete today. Halfway along, they stopped at a town called Dooega. Such odd place names they had here. In Donegal, she had come across bizarre names, but it seemed they were even stranger here on the Island. She wondered if they were remnants from an older culture, predating even the Gaels and the Vikings, long before the English set foot upon these emerald shores.

Dooega was a crossroads, with a decent economy in fishing, a sheltered bay and plenty of activity. They relaxed at the inn with fresh baked fish and the first fresh vegetables they had tasted in days. Valentia savored the carrots and peas, wondering how she had never noticed how sweet they tasted.

Kevin once again made inquiries, but they found no mention of the FitzGerald family from the north. She hoped the trail hadn't gone cold, but they may have gotten lucky with the storekeeper. Or perhaps, it wasn't the right FitzGeralds. Or he told them false information to get them out of the store.

A fisherman sang near the hearth, a sad song in Irish of a man lost at sea. His rough voice was poignant and, though she only understood half of the words, enough to make her pensive. For some reason, it reminded her of Conor. Now the vegetables tasted like guilt and grief. She made herself finish, as such bounty shouldn't be wasted, even if she no longer savored it.

* * *

The morning dripped with soft mist as they set out from Dooega. After several hours of climbing up a steep road onto Minaun Mountain, they stood in wonder, as they could see the entire island laid out before them. The view was magnificent, though the eastern part was yet covered in mists as the sun worked hard to burn through them.

The patchwork quilt of tiny farmsteads spread out, with occasional large houses dotting the landscape like white fleas on the bedding. Valentia giggled at the fancy, despite how silly and disgusting it sounded. Kevin asked what amused her, so she told him. He roared with laughter, and proceeded to demonstrate how the houses hopped from farm to farm, sucking the blood from the land.

It struck all of them about the same time. The similarities to the Hunger were too close. Sobered, they still smiled at the vision. It even made Pat smile, and he offered a grunt of acknowledgement for such a feat. Restored by their irreverent diversion, they continued down the mountain pass into the north side of the island.

It took most of the next day to travel to the north edge, where Dugort lay, situated in another sheltered bay. This town also boasted a long, thin strand of crystalline beach.

Valentia wanted to enjoy a beach day, but they needed to seek out her great-aunt. There seemed to be no inn in the village, so they paused at a shop. Kevin conducted the conversation in Irish.

The butcher they found was a middle-aged man, thin and stooped, dressed in an apron covered with old bloodstains. "Yes, there was a Mistress Fitzgerald here, years ago. She's long gone, to be sure."

Valentia's heart sank when she translated this to herself.

"Did she... pass away? Or move away? Do you know where she went?"

"Her husband moved their fishing when he fought with a local man. No, wait, that wasn't her, that was her daughter. I think the daughter might still be up there, now that I think about it." The man nodded as he spoke, seeming in no hurry to return to the pig he had been chopping up.

"Yes, but do you know where?"

He stood, thoughtful. "Sure, she left for a town on the other side of the island."

"Which town?" Kevin persisted. Getting information from the man was like pulling teeth.

The butcher flicked bits of gristle and bone chips from his apron while he deliberated. With a jerk, he looked up, saying, "Dooagh! They moved to Dooagh, I'm sure of it."

Kevin grinned wide with triumph, thanking the man, giving him a coin for his troubles.

The man accepted his payment with a nod, wishing them luck. "Ádh mór libh go léir."

At least they had another clue.

"Well, we shan't get back across the island today. I feel as if I'm on a wild goose chase, crisscrossing back and forth like a mad pig in a pen. It's late, and as much as I hate the delay, we should take some time to relax." She looked at Pat, then Kevin and Maggie, who were holding hands. She glanced at Maggie, one eyebrow raised, and Maggie smiled back. Oh, like that, was it?

She was glad someone was falling in love.

There was no inn, but a pub was not far down the road, so they arranged for a couple of rooms there, then returned to the beach. The place was isolated and forlorn. No one else was out taking advantage of the now warm day. It seemed odd to Valentia, but perhaps the local people took such glorious places for granted, or were too busy working to enjoy them. She suffered a huge twang of guilt at the idea, but she pushed it aside and looked around.

The bay enveloped the thin sandy strand like two arms, cupping the calm water in an embrace. The water was choppier outside the bay, whitecaps flicking and flittering in the wind, but gentle laps made it to the beach. She took off her shoes and stockings, hiking her skirts to her knees, not caring what a scandalous sight she might make. The cold salt water hit her ankles and she gasped at the shock, blinking her eyes several times to keep from crying out. The wet sand squished between her toes, oozing in and out with each wave.

Maggie and Kevin declined to wade, sitting together, talking on a rock by the carriage. Pat had unhooked the horses, so they took the opportunity to frolic themselves. Molly and Missy loved the beach, and Valentia turned to watch them, laughing as they got down in the sand and wiggled, scratching their backs. She looked at Pat, catching him in another smile.

"Two smiles in one day! Be careful, Pat, you're in danger of becoming giddy."

"I smile when I see joy, Mistress Valentia. There's precious little of it in this world."

This was the longest sentence she had yet heard out of him, and it shocked her into silence. He took his own stockings and shoes off, wading into the surf with her.

"I thank you for making me smile," he nodded to her, strolling off along the edge of the water, towards the horses. They struggled back to their feet, prancing about as if they were yearlings.

As the afternoon sun drooped in the west, the breeze grew frigid, so Valentia abandoned the surf. She made her way back through the shifting sand to where Maggie and Kevin had their heads close to each other, speaking in low voices. She heard Maggie giggle, surprised at how liquid and sweet the sound was.

Not wishing to interrupt the lovers, Valentia tiptoed to the other side of the carriage. She managed to clean her feet and legs of most of the sand, getting her shoes and stockings back into place. She glanced around for Pat or the horses, but saw them all the way on the left side of the beach.

She didn't know much about Pat, other than he was from Clare, and had a sister in Donegal. He was solid and brave, that much was evident, but she knew nothing of his past or his family. She was ashamed she hadn't considered this before, and resolved to remedy her lack.

* * *

Dooagh was a larger village than Dugort. There was a cathedral and a town center, and several inns to choose from, for which Valentia was glad. It also meant more chance of finding someone who knew her great-aunt Esme. They wasted little time finding a place to stay, then embarking on their now familiar search of information.

"Aye, I knew Seanie FitzGerald, and his wife, when she was here." The tiny landlady in their inn was garrulous and, for a wonder, spoke English.

Valentia experienced a familiar sinking feeling of failure. She braced herself for the news her great-aunt had died years ago, or had emigrated to a distant land. But the landlady, a Mistress McSamara, wasn't done yet.

"Her daughter, Katie, she's just up the road, living in the village on the hillside, Slievemore, near Dugort. You can't miss it. Ask for Katie McGinty."

They had just come from there! Frustrated, Valentia pressed for more details.

"Her daughter? Are the FitzGeralds dead, then?"

"No, well... yes, Seanie passed on years ago, or disappeared. But Esme, she's alive, somewhere. I think she moved south after her Seanie died, somewhere warm. Her bones were aching, you know. Mine, too, in the winter. The wind is strong on the island." She waggled her head up and down, causing the loosened mobcap to fall almost over her eyes.

"Thank you, Mistress McSamara. I'll go find Katie."

"Mind you, be gentle with her. Poor thing's fragile."

"Fragile?"

"A bit... well, she's away with the Faeries more often than not, poor thing."

Valentia looked to Kevin to translate this, but he dipped his head towards the door, so they exited the dim pub. She blinked a couple times in the sun to get accustomed to the brightness.

"Away with the Faeries?"

"Mad. Soft in the head. Perhaps not so much she can't tell us where her mother is, but I wouldn't expect too much." He spoke gently, as if consoling her.

"Oh, dear. Well, she's the best source we'll get. Shall we find the village?"

The trek back to Dugort didn't take as long as she remembered, and they came back to the pub they had stayed in the night before.

Maggie wasn't feeling well, so she left the girl to lie down in the rooms. Pat tended the horses, so this left Kevin to accompany her. The village on Slievemore was a short stroll away, perhaps a mile. She could see the line of almost a hundred tiny houses from Dugort, nestled along the rise, with the mountain behind it. Only a few had smoke rising from their chimneys.

"So, Kevin, I noticed you and Maggie are quite enjoying each other's company?"

His grin reminded her so much of the cat which had gotten into the cream that she laughed.

"We are, indeed, Mistress Valentia. Do you object if I court her?"

"Not in the slightest. I think you two are well suited. I wish you both joy."

"Glad to hear it, Mistress Val. Not that I wouldn't still want to court her, you see, if you had refused. We just wouldn't be quite so open about it." He almost cracked his face with his smile, but Valentia grew cold and stiff.

No one had called her Val since Conor had died. Kevin noticed the change in her expression.

"I'm... I didn't mean it... I mean, I did, but please don't be angry with us..."

"No, no, it's not you and Maggie, Kevin. I couldn't be more delighted with it. It's... no one has called me Val since... since Conor died." She put her hand to her cheek. Her skin was clammy, like a dead fish.

"I'm sorry, Mistress Valentia. I won't do it again. I shouldn't have this time." He was comical in his apologies. The sight warmed her a little.

"No, please, it's fine, Kevin. Do call me Val. It will remind me of Conor, of the way he joked with me."

"As you wish, Mistress Val," his smile was shy, but as she smiled back, his grew stronger. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

The string of houses went almost all the way across the base of the mountain, each one a tiny spot on a green field. Each had a plot of cultivated land behind it, with tiny stone fences marking the edges. Most were whitewashed with thatched roofs, though several showed signs of neglect. Kevin suggested perhaps a few had left the mountain to live in the village, as fish weren't rotting in the ground the way potatoes were.

They hiked to the first one with a tendril of smoke coming from the chimney. Kevin tapped on the one wooden door. The cottage had no windows.

There was shuffling inside, then the door swung in to reveal a crabbed, toothless old woman. She was dressed in a drab, colorless apron, and was blinking in the bright daylight. She craned her head to look up at Kevin, adjusting her gaze back down to Valentia.

"What?" She barked the word to each of them.

"We're looking for a Mistress Katie McGinty. Do you know where she lives?" Valentia tried first in English, since the woman had spoken it. When the question elicited no response, she looked to Kevin, who repeated the question in Irish.

"Fifth cottage," she spat the words, slamming the door in their faces. They both stepped back at the sudden noise and rush of wind.

"Fifth cottage it is." Kevin offered his arm to Valentia, counting as they went down the line of houses.

The fifth cottage looked derelict. There was no smoke in the chimney, and the thatch was patchy in several spots. It had not been painted lately, and Valentia would have passed it by as empty. The door was closed, though, so perhaps someone was home, after all.

A knock elicited a reluctant response from inside. Kevin was all set to knock a second time, when the door creaked open about three inches, and no more.

A dirty face peered out, watery blue eyes squinting. The woman, who looked to be middle-aged, was emaciated, with wisps of bright red, curling hair hanging in a tangled mess.

"Who are you?" Her voice was high and light, as if a lost child spoke to them from the darkness.

"Are you Katie? Katie McGinty?" She might be less nervous if a woman was asking, rather than the big brutish form of Kevin.

A quick, short nod answered her. "But who are you?"

"I'm your cousin, Katie."

"You're Katie, too? I'm Katie. We can't both be Katie." She shook her head vigorously, like a dog with mud on his nose and closed the door.

Valentia put a hand on the door to stop her. "No, no, my name is Valentia."

"Then why did you say you were Katie?"

"I... never mind. Hello, Katie. Your mother, Esme, is my great-aunt. Her sister, Bridey, was my grandmother."

"Too many people. No room for them all," She tried to close the door again.

"Please, wait. Would... would you like food, Katie? I brought bread and cheese. May we share it with you?"

Her blue eyes darted between Kevin and Valentia, like a finch on a tree branch.

"Just you. No room," she opened the door about a foot, enough to allow Valentia to squeeze in. She turned to Kevin, who handed her the packet of food they had brought.

"Wait here, Kevin. I might be able to talk to her alone."

"Be careful, Mistress. She's as mad as a box of frogs. Sometimes folk like that can get violent with no warning."

She grimaced, scooting into the narrow opening.

The hut was dark, and it smelled. There were no windows, the only light coming was from the gaps in the thatch above and the door, which Katie was now shutting. Valentia blinked several times to help her eyes adjust to the gloom. She smelled the cloying sweet of rot, and the sharp tang of human waste. She could feel the ever present damp of Ireland, with no fire to bake it out.

Katie moved inched closer, like she was afraid of her, but needed to be near. Belatedly, Valentia offered the package of food to her. The woman snatched it, hunkered down into a crouch, and ripped it apart, pulling huge hunks of the bread and stuffing them into her mouth.

"Katie, do you know where your mother is?"

Katie didn't stop eating, but gave her a quick-as-lightning glance with pale eyes. In the gloom, Valentia couldn't see the blue.

"Your mother, Esme. Do you know where she went?" She knelt so she could look the woman in the eye.

"South."

"Where in the South, Katie?"

"Kerry."

Valentia had heard of a county named Kerry.

"Do you know what town or city, Katie? I have more bread at home. I could bring more, if you want."

This got the woman's attention, as she stopped stuffing her face to look at Valentia with narrowed eyes.

"More?"

"Yes, I have more. But I need to know what town your mother moved to. Do you know?"

Katie paused, considering this. Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to Valentia, the remnants of the bread in her hands. "More?"

"Yes, more, Katie. The city?"

"When you bring more," keeping her eyes on Valentia, she stuffed the last bit in her mouth. Her look was suspicious.

Valentia sighed, straightening. She would have to go back and get more, perhaps fish also. This was a cousin, a relative, someone she ought to take care of. She wondered how she might accomplish this, as the woman was unhinged. And small wonder, the conditions she was living in.

"Where's your husband, Katie?"

"Dead."

This explained a little more. Without her husband fishing, she would have had no income, no food, except what she might grow on the pitiful, tiny plot outside. Anything she managed to coax from the soil, she would have had to pay in rent. The other empty cottages must have housed folk who couldn't pay, so they left. Perhaps they went down to live in the village, where they could at least fish, or perhaps they went farther away.

Valentia made her way to the door with care, so as not to alarm her.

"I'll be back later today, Katie. I'll bring fish, alright?"

"Fish. Yes, fish." She was licking the crumbs off her hands, now, along with smears of dirt and grime.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Valentia sidled through the door, closing it behind her. Kevin lifted his brows in inquiry.

"She says Kerry, but it's a big place. She says she knows the city, but wants more food. We'll have to come back. Is there aught else we could for her, on a long-term basis, Kevin? She's a relation, after all, and I hate to leave her like this, to starve. Any food we give her now will get eaten right away. She has no sense to ration it."

He thought for a moment.

"Not much you can do, to be sure. You could pay her rent for the year, perhaps. There's sure to be a magistrate or official around who can do it on your behalf, so you shouldn't have to wait for quarter day. Maybe you can pay for food at the village, with instructions, but who knows if it will last once you leave."

They strode back to the town, silent in their thoughts.

Chapter Sixteen

Reunions

The little group hadn't wasted much time in leaving Dugort. When she returned with a barrel of dried fish for Katie, Valentia had discovered Esme might have moved to a town called Kenmare. She had no idea if she was still there, or if she was alive, but at least there was another clue. Though the day dawned gloomy with pouring rain, they were determined to move along, although travel was slow in this weather.

It took all day to return to the ferry at Achill Sound, across the mountains and through several villages, huddling in the wind and the rain. Kevin suggested they stop for the night, heading to the mainland first thing in the morning. Looking out at the choppy bay, Valentia was inclined to agree, not trusting their carriage, not to mention Molly and Missy, to the waves.

Valentia was able to find a town official, the sheriff, judging him a decent sort. His name was Seamus Corrigan, and he knew of Katie. In a small town everyone knew about everyone else. He was surprised to hear she had relatives, though, vowing to her the money, from her dwindling funds, would keep her for at least a year, if not more. Valentia inquired if she could write him in the future, and perhaps send more, later. Reluctant, he agreed, saying he might not be here himself in a couple years. He was thinking of emigrating to North Carolina, but he would pass the job onto someone trustworthy, if he did.

There were plenty of people holed up in the pub, as the storm strengthened and howled outside. The peat fire was warm and toasty, and singing began. The singers sounded happy, which surprised Valentia. So nice to see joy for a change, as it seemed so short in supply in Ireland.

Fishermen were coming in and out of the pub most of the evening, but when the door opened this time, it revealed someone different. The gentleman was tall and thin, dressed in an oiled overcoat and a tall top hat.

It was Donal.

In the silence his entrance caused, Valentia's gasp at the sight of him was audible. He turned to find her and her friends, taking his hat off in acknowledgement. Without a word, he shook his coat off and came to talk to them.

Without grace or preamble, Valentia blurted, "What are you doing here?"

Donal's eyebrows rose at her rudeness, giving a short bow. "And a very good day to you, Mistress Valentia. How n-nice to see you. Are you well?"

Ashamed at her outburst, Valentia relented.

"I'm sorry, Donal, but this was a shock. You're the last person I would have expected to see come through the door. I'm doing well, how are you?"

"A bit waterlogged, but I'll do. I have a gift for you." He patted the pocket of his waistcoat, and finding nothing, checked the pockets on the inside of the overcoat. He pulled out a packet tied with string and wrapped in waxed paper. With a formal flourish, he handed it to Valentia.

She looked at him, then at the package.

"It came the day after you left Ardara. I heard from the groom you might be headed for Achill Island, so I decided I'd come and deliver it."

"You needn't have done that, Donal. Surely, it's a great deal out of your way. What about your estate?" Nevertheless, she was exceedingly touched by his concern and the obvious trouble he had gone to in order to find her.

"Not at all. Grandmother has granted me t-time off, as it were, to pursue my own interests for the nonce."

Well, that was cryptic for Donal, as he wasn't given to vague statements. Valentia had her suspicions, though, and she blushed.

"And you decided pursuing me was one such interest?"

He grinned, and the sight of his dimple made her smile. "Is that such a horrible idea, Mistress Valentia?"

"I suppose there are worse prospects. However, we are on our way off the island in the morning, heading south. After that, our plans are less certain."

"May I be permitted to join your quest, whatever it is?"

Valentia contemplated this. To let him join them, she would have to confide in him. That was a level of trust she simply wasn't ready for yet. He must have seen a shift in her eyes, for he hastened to add, "I won't p-p-press for your hand, if it's what you wish, Mistress Valentia. But I'd like to help."

Frustration, entreaty, love, and curiosity were just a few of the emotions that flitted across his face as he said this.

She could see no polite way out of this, and it wasn't as if he was horrible company, after all. "Very well, please have a seat. We shall leave in the morning for Kenmare. Have you been there before?"

His smile widened, bringing the dimple back, "I have indeed, though years ago, when I was a child. What's in Kenmare?"

She didn't answer, but looked into his eyes, green as the ocean on an overcast day. He blinked a couple times, and she sighed.

"We're looking for Esme."

He looked surprised. "Esme? You mean grandmother's sister? I haven't heard from her in years. She's in Kenmare?"

Kevin spoke up, "At least she was."

"What do you want from Esme?"

Valentia shrugged. "The same thing we wanted from Eithne, actually. To meet my family." That was true enough, as far as it went, just shy of the whole truth.

Donal paused for a moment, eyeing her with speculation. "Did you know you had family here on Achill?"

"Yes, it's why we came. Esme's daughter, Katie, lives out in Dooagh."

"She does? I didn't know. No, I mean, ancient family. Ancestors. We have ties to the O'Malley family, through my... grandmother's grandmother, I think? At any rate, we're descended from a famous pirate, a f-f-female one no less. Grainne O'Malley. She had a castle here, in Kildavnet."

"Grainne O'Malley! I have heard of her. I'd heard we might be related, but I hadn't given it much credence. You know how such stories and legends go. There's always a famous, or infamous, ancestor, but no real proof of lineage. The square tower on the shore? It was hers?"

He nodded, smiling. "One of several places she called home. Clew Bay, Clare Island, a couple others. She roamed a bit, being a pirate queen, aye?"

"Imagine that. And you're certain?"

"Sure. Let's see... My grandmother's father was Brian, Brian Doherty. You know this much, I'm sure.

"Brian's mother was Katrina O'Malley. She married a tinker named Eamonn Doherty, who was reputed to be a sort of conjure man, or a confidence man. He was supposed to be able to talk with the Faeries somehow. He met her at a horse fair, and they settled in Donegal, so the story goes."

At the mention of Faeries, an icy snake crawled down Valentia's spine. Her bones tingled, thinking of her experiences at the stones. She looked over at Kevin, who was glaring at her with a stern expression.

She shook off the feeling. Nothing more than coincidence. Many more people claimed magical powers than had them. Her what, great-great-grandfather? Yes, great-great-grandfather Eamonn would have been nothing more than a con man, using folklore to imbue his wares magical properties and mystique.

"It seems we have colorful characters in our family tree. Maybe disreputable ones as well." Valentia said with a light laugh.

"Sure and that's the t-truth. I'm pretty sure I remember hearing of a horse thief as well, but it might be another branch."

She chuckled, thinking of the high and mighty Eithne, sitting atop her throne, with her horribly common forbears underneath, squirming and complaining.

"What's so funny?" Kevin asked.

She shared her fancy, and had the whole table roaring with laughter, until someone knocked over a mug of ale. They all scrambled to escape the splashing liquid.

Later, in the privacy of her room, she unfolded the package Donal had given her. It held several letters sent to her in Ardara, but too late to catch her. It held one from her parents, the first she had received since she left Lisdoonvarna. There were two from O'Brien, one short note from Mitchel, and one from Siobhan.

She ignored the others and she read the note from Mitchel several times. An acknowledgement he had received her letters, to continue with her good work. She kept trying to find inner meaning in the simple words, an indication he knew of her still deep feelings for him, but there was nothing. She sighed and went on to O'Brien's letters.

O'Brien wrote of his pride in her work so far, but cautioned her, in no uncertain terms, to be careful in her protests. A young lady, he warned, without a male relative for protection, could be caught up in a nasty political undertow if she wasn't cautious. He mentioned an incident which had occurred in Limerick a couple months earlier, where a woman was taken on the road by a mob of hungry farmers. She was robbed and beaten to death. The idea sobered her, as she remembered the attack on her carriage when they were traveling north.

Her parents' letter was full of minutiae from the workings of the farm. Her eldest brother's wife bore her first live child, a son named Patrick, and they were having a delightful time playing the doting grandparents. Was her brother, Eamonn, named after their great-great-grandfather? She didn't think so, since her mother, Majesta, had barely remembered her grandparents' names, much less further generations. She smiled at the image of her father playing with his young namesake, while feelings of homesickness flooded her. To be back among the workaday life, with nothing to worry about but the cows breaking a fence, a servant falling ill, or where to get more viridian paint would be delightful. She sighed and went on to Siobhan's letter.

She read it through once, then went back and read it again, with more care. Siobhan was describing a rumor she had heard regarding the Ottoman Empire. Valentia knew nothing of the Ottomans, other than they were Eastern and exotic, from somewhere near Greece. The rumor mentioned the Sultan was sending aid to Ireland to help with the famine, but reduced the amount at Queen Victoria's request. It made no sense to Valentia, but as she turned the close-written paper over, she found the explanation. The Queen had only agreed to send two thousand pounds in aid, so requested the Sultan send less than she had.

Valentia snorted. The Queen might have increased her own aid to match the Sultan's offering. She was growing cynical. Not that the Irish needed money, they needed food. No, they had food, they needed to be able to keep their food.

* * *

It was as if she was coming home. Though they had only been in Lisdoonvarna a couple weeks during her recovery, Maggie looked on the spa hotel with fondness and nostalgia. She was glad they had made sure to come this way, so they could rest and relax. Achill had worn Valentia out, and she didn't look strong at all.

Valentia had begun to shiver early in the morning. Her fever returned. The chills abated for a while, but began again as they were pulling into the carriage house. Maggie brought her in, found Quilty, and got her installed right away, before the illness made her senseless.

Donal looked scared, confused and helpless. "What's going on? Will she be alright?"

Kevin took him out of the room, explaining. "We believe she got malaria when she came across the ocean. It takes her sometimes, with fever and chills. It normally only lasts a couple days. When we were here the last time, the doctor gave Maggie a good supply of the Jesuit Bark to help, but we're almost out. Surely, they'll have more. Will you watch for her? I need to go visit my sister, and Maggie has letters to write for Mistress Valentia, as well, I think."

"Of course, I shall help however I might. Are you certain she's going to be fine?" Maggie noticed the corner of his eye twitching.

"She'll be grand, just give it time." And with this, Kevin left for his sister's house.

Maggie peeked into Valentia's room, and saw her Mistress was sleeping. Donal stood in confusion, as he had no idea what to do next.

"I'll need to get hold of the doctor. Can you find him for me? Quilty will know where he is. Give this note to him. He should remember what she needs, but just in case. We shouldn't have stopped in Galway on the way down, but we needed more funds from the lawyer, I suppose." The gawky man stood there in a daze. "Go on, then, quickly now. She needs her medicine. I used the last of it this morning, when she began shivering."

The cogs of his mind seemed to click in place. With a quick nod, he dashed off in search of the butler.

Maggie went down to the kitchens to prepare a tray. The Cook remembered her and they chatted before she got tea, broth, and plenty of sugar. She also got a bowl of hot water for compresses.

Climbing the stairs to Valentia's room, she saw someone she recognized, and almost dropped the tray.

"Master Aiden! I didn't know you were here. Is Mistress Siobhan also here?"

"Maggie! Well, hello, dear thing. No, I'm afraid my dear sister is still sequestered in Dublin, but the good news is, she's there for good reason." His look was begging her to ask what her reason was. She raised her eyebrows at him, knowing he would tell her, regardless of her response.

"She's expecting her first child next month, in late September, isn't it grand?"

"Oh, that's wonderful news. I remember how heartbroken she was... the last time."

"She's thrilled and nervous, to be certain. Might I assume Mistress Valentia has returned as well? Is aught amiss?"

"Well, there hadn't been, but she had a relapse of her fever as we pulled in this morning."

Concern clouded his face. "Has it happened often?"

"Just once since we left in June, but at least I know how to take care of her until it's over."

"Let me know what I can do to help. I'm just here to rest, so I can take a break for Mistress Valentia, whatever she needs." He gave her a wink, holding the door for her.

"I shall, sir, I shall. Thank you." Maggie maneuvered her way into their room, setting things up. Mistress Valentia didn't have the violent shivers, not yet. This was good news, so far. She piled more quilts on top of her.

Maggie sat down next to her Mistress, wishing there was more she could do.

* * *

Several days later, recovered, Valentia sat in the garden, enjoying the warm afternoon. The clouds of the morning had been chased away with strong winds, so she closed her eyes to soak in the healing rays. The aroma of flowers almost overwhelmed her, especially the sweet, sultry roses. She remembered Aiden's promise to have his mother breed a variant just for her. The buzzing of bees alighting upon their perches interrupted her musings.

She ought to be painting, the best way for her to relax and heal. She cursed her weakness, this maddening illness which seemed to halt her whenever she strode forward. Would she have to deal with this crippling flaw her entire life? The doctor seemed to think so, when he gave her another packet of the medicine he had brought for her. This was expensive stuff, coming all the way from South America, but malaria was almost an old friend to the British Navy, so most doctors in the Empire knew it and kept a good supply.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel garden path, so she twisted around in her chair. Both Aiden and Donal approached, baskets in hand. The two made an unlikely pair, tall and short, both stick-thin. Aiden was dressed in one of his outrageous, extravagant costumes, this one bright blue with peacock feathers dancing all over his waistcoat, a pale blue shirt underneath. Even his trousers were blue, the color of a midnight sky. Donal, in contrast, was in muted tones and tailored fit, as if he was working in a dusty office somewhere.

"And what did you bring me, my friends?"

"Sweets for the sweet, my darling. Scones, butter and jam." Aiden presented his basket with a deep bow, a fluttering of his hand, and a tilt of his head. It elicited a giggle as she reached for a pastry, steaming and fragrant.

Donal glared at Aiden's pomposity and obvious familiarity, but he presented his offering instead of saying anything. A single rose, white as the clouds, the tip of the center edged in gold.

"Oh, how sweet. Thank you, Donal." She took the blossom, breathing deep of its enchanting fragrance.

Gifts given and accepted, the men settled themselves. She studied them as she buttered her scone. They seemed to be getting along fine. Without the steadying influence of his sister, Aiden was more reckless with his activities, and she had seen him sneaking out of someone's room early one morning. He'd put a conspiratorial finger to his lips, as he made his way to his own.

This was nothing unusual. She had seen it before on her last stay, the not-so-secret comings and goings in the late night. It happened in society houses as well. Valentia had heard of one house where a bell was rung before dawn, to let everyone know the time, so they could go to their own rooms. People of all sorts tended to enjoy their freedom, underneath the cover of the night. The difference here was, she knew whose room he left, and it had not been a woman's. Valentia decided it must have been a late card game.

Covert activities aside, it seemed Donal saw Aiden as a rival for her affections. It amused her, but she was sorry for Donal, too. Despite his protestations, he had obviously fallen in love with her. After parting from him in Donegal, her own passion had waned. She was certainly fond of him, and his sweet naiveté once again grew on her. Valentia imagined she could fall for him, given time and exposure. The idea had been so exciting and romantic, finding a long-lost cousin, scion of the family fortune, to fall in love with on a windswept moor. She snorted at the silliness of it all, getting scone crumbs all over her dress.

Solicitous in his aid, Donal went to help her, but instead succeeded in dumping the dish of jam onto her dress, making matters worse. She tried hard not to laugh out loud at his horror over his inherent clumsiness.

Howling with laughter, Aiden came to the rescue with water from the fountain. Together, they managed to get the worst of the stain out of her skirts. Donal, looking like the family hound who had been disciplined for messing in the house, sat dejected.

Valentia got exasperated. "Oh, do cheer up. It'll be fine. I'll just go up and change so Maggie can get to it before it sets." And with this, she escaped upstairs to her room.

When she returned, sometime later, the men were at cards. She thought they were playing brag, but she couldn't be certain. She didn't wish to interrupt, as they were both serious about such matters. Kevin and Donal had played several hands in the pubs on their way down to Lisdoonvarna, and Donal ended up owing Kevin. He wouldn't play for pounds, but favors were the best currency on a long trip. This meant Donal often had to carry a trunk, or curry a horse, as payment for his gambling losses. She must admit, he paid his debts with grace and good humor.

Rather than break the game up, she returned to the solar to retrieve her sketch book. She had a decent view of the two men, so she sketched them, intent upon their game, surrounded by the beauty of the rose garden.

* * *

Valentia was reluctant to go to this soirée, so she had procrastinated to the point where there was almost no time to get ready. Maggie clucked at her, pulling at her hair without mercy as she tried to comb out the mad curls. She had been outside in the wind, so her hair had pulled free of her cap, leaving it a horrible mess.

"Ouch! Maggie! That hurts."

"As it should, Mistress Valentia. You oughtn't have stayed out when your cap came off. And you should have come straight back so I could fix it."

"I was enjoying the day too much." The three of them had spent the day on the coast, sitting on the barren rocks and looking out at the Aran Islands, amorphous blue lumps rising out of sea. She was feeling left out, as Aiden and Donal spent more time talking to each other than her, but she hadn't wanted to say anything. They were discussing estate management issues, and it hadn't interested her.

"You didn't leave enough time for me to get you dressed, and you know it."

"I'm not looking forward to this evening."

"And why not? You need fun and enjoyment. You need people. You've been on your own far too much lately."

Valentia turned to look at Maggie. "And when did you turn into my mother?"

She was able to hold her gaze for a couple moments, before they both broke out into laughter. Valentia finally controlled her outburst, submitting to the rest of Maggie's painful ministrations. She wondered how many of those tears were from the laughter, and how many were due to the brush.

"Why don't you want to go tonight?" Maggie's tone was light, but Valentia knew she was more than curious.

"I just remember the last big social event here, when I was snubbed for being a savage from America. I know, now, and can react with grace, but it still isn't a pleasant prospect."

Maggie giggled, Valentia narrowing her eyes at the maid. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." Her response was much too knowing.

"Tell, Maggie."

Maggie set her hands on her hips for a moment, appraising her, then relented.

"You don't have to worry. Master Aiden informed me he had talked you up to the local gentry. No one will be snubbing you this time. They quite admire you and your efforts with the government."

"My efforts? You mean my letters? How does Aiden know about those? I'm sure I never told him."

"No, but Messrs. O'Brien and Mitchel have, I'm sure."

"Oh. Of course." She sighed, resigned. She supposed it was better to be a notorious political activist than a savage from the backwoods of America.

When she got down to the party, Aiden was nowhere to be found. Neither was Donal, and she found that odd, as he would hover about her like a mother hen with one chick. She greeted several people she had met during this stay, waving with her fan to Mistress Dillon, holding court in her usual corner. She was going to the sideboard to partake of the savories when she heard Aiden's laughter from a side room.

Poking her head in, she discovered what had pulled the menfolk away from the main festivities. There were four tables with cards, dice, whatever else they were hoping to gamble with. Aiden and Donal were playing whist with two older gentlemen she had never met. It looked as if they were winning, too. Her erstwhile escorts would be occupied for the rest of the evening.

She returned to the main room, past a knot of young girls who seemed to do nothing but giggle and flutter their fans. Valentia decided Mistress Dillon would be her safest haven, so she made a beeline for the older woman.

"Hello, my dear Valentia. So delightful to see you again. Have you met Mistress Abernathy?" She indicated the tall, thin, blond woman with pince-nez glasses standing next to her. "She's studying law, can you believe it? A woman lawyer. Will wonders never cease?"

"My mother would be delighted to meet you, Mistress Abernathy, as am I. She's quite the advocate for women's rights."

"Is she indeed? Do tell."

Valentia regaled the women with tales of her mother's protests and rallies in Canton and Pittsburgh as the wine flowed.

The rest of the evening passed without incident and plenty of small talk, introductions, occasional barks of triumph—or despair—coming from the gambling room. She retired early, still not strong after her latest relapse, falling into a deep sleep, to the sounds of the festivities below drifting up on the cool night air.

Valentia was unsurprised, when, the next morning, both Aiden and Donal appeared the worse for wear. Normally dressed with precise care and riotous colors, Aiden was distinctly muted and rumpled, while Donal was in need of a shave. She imagined they were feeling the drink and the acute lack of sleep, judging from their slow reactions and monosyllabic responses. She gathered they had won when all was said and done, or at least Donal had. He sported a new waistcoat, bragging about his success. Had the waistcoat been part of someone's stake?

"And did you leave your opponents with anything to play with in the future?" She teased.

"Ah, they'll be fine. None of them are poor," Donal assured her.

"Still, you could lose a lot yourself, if you aren't more careful. There are a few sharks around, I've heard tell."

"We'll be grand, have no fear," Aiden patted her hand, wincing at the sunlight, as Quilty opened the curtains.

"Grand, sure, I see that." Valentia's voice was dry. She'd heard of men who couldn't stop gambling, if they were losing. There seemed to be a sort of compulsion to gain back what they had lost, a compulsion which went beyond all sense and logic. She hoped neither of her friends was susceptible to such a thing.

Kevin returned from visiting his sister, coming in after breakfast to let Valentia know he was back. He looked rough, sporting a couple bruises and a cut on his lip.

"Kevin? Is aught amiss?"

"No, Mistress Valentia. I'm fine, my sister's fine. I just had a... discussion with my brother-in-law, but it's all settled now."

She leveled a stern gaze at him.

"No, really, everything's done. He..." Kevin looked at the window, deep in reflection. He turned back, his eyes stormy and troubled. "He was beating her, Mistress Valentia. My little sister. I know men do, but, well, I couldn't let him keep doing it, could I?" His look was piteous, pleading for absolution.

She was shocked. "No, of course you couldn't. But Kevin did you... did you kill the man?"

He looked shocked. "No! No, I couldn't, not even him. But I did send her off to America. I considered sending him, but it would just leave my sister with nothing. I paid for her ticket, got her a coach to Cork. She's to go to cousins we have in Boston. It will be much better for her." He looked bleak, as if he didn't believe his own words.

"It will, Kevin, she's much better off without such a brute. She'll be with family, and you can even send money to her if you want."

He brightened at this. "I can, can't I? I gave her most of what you paid me so far, so she could have a stake. She's a capable and pretty lass, she'll find a good man, and quick."

True, but only if she lied about being married. Valentia decided she ought to change the subject.

"Can we set out again in the morning, then? Or will you need more time to take care of your affairs here?"

"Tomorrow would be fine, Mistress Val. I'll gather Pat and the girls."

"The girls?" Maggie was the only other girl coming with them.

"Molly and Missy, of course."

"Of course." Valentia rolled her eyes at this, but the two horses were as an integral part of their quest as the rest of them.

She returned to her room and let Maggie know the plans. Maggie packed things away, so they could set out bright and early. Valentia sat, watching her young friend. She wasn't a maid any longer, not truly. She was almost like a little sister she never had. They could laugh and joke, and it made her feel as if a part of her, which had lain empty and hollow since Conor's death, was fuller now. She was delighted at the idea of Maggie and Kevin, hoping the feeling between them was true and strong. They made a strong pair.

If they married, would they want to live here in Ireland, or in America?

Valentia realized she hadn't thought of returning to America when her quest was done. That thought frightened her, and she pushed it away.

At afternoon tea, she discussed her trip to Kenmare with Aiden and Donal.

"I shall be delighted to accompany you, my dear, with joy and duty." As flowery as ever, Aiden offered his services.

"And me. I would be d-delighted." Donal chimed in.

"No, I feel I must do this on my own, my friends. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, the gallantry, you must return to your lives," she put all the firm finality she could into the statement, expecting no argument.

"But I was to help you, as I'd been to Kenmare." Donal's eyes looked pleading and almost woebegone.

"But, Donal, even you said you hadn't been there in years. I'm certain it's quite changed. I'll be fine with Kevin and Pat for protection, if this is your worry." She hadn't seen any way to dissuade him from the quest earlier, but now seemed a good time, as it wouldn't look personal if she was excluding both young men. She was still reluctant to admit her true motive, the search for the brooch.

"I think I really should remain with you, Valentia. Truly, I shan't be a bother." His wheedling tone grated on her, like a child begging for sweets when he has already been informed he would get none.

"No, Donal. I must do this on my own."

"Fine. Be the Grand Lady on her Quest." As he stormed from the room, he knocked his chair over. It fell with a loud clatter, and the group watched him go, stunned and embarrassed.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear, but a definite chill in the air heralded the coming autumn. The September days were growing shorter. Wind and rain seemed to increase as well, making travel chancier. They left early, before most of the visitors in the spa were up and about, to relish the nice weather.

Valentia sat, huddled in a wool cloak inside the carriage. There were parts which were fresh-painted and in some places, damage received on the journey so far had been repaired. She imagined this must have been Pat's handiwork, able to use the tools and resources at the spa while she recovered. He took care of the carriage like his own house. And that's what the carriage was. It represented his livelihood. Since he had no wife and family, all his energy and devotion was for his job. Well, he had the sister in Donegal—was she called Annie? —but no children, no other relations to share his attention.

She had greeted Pat with cheer, hoping to elicit a rare word from him, but he grunted with his usual 'hmph' and climbed up into his driver's seat. Kevin grinned, gave both ladies a warm greeting, helping them into the carriage before taking his own position.

"We'll try to reach Bunratty tonight, if the weather holds fair. There's a grand house there and a castle, quite impressive. It's a busy town, so we should be able to find lodging easily enough," Kevin explained.

The land they traveled through was still rough and stony, with the strange-shaped alien rocks which they had seen on their last visit. By mid-morning, they had emerged from the Burren, into the regular rolling green hills beyond. The day warmed as it progressed. By noon, Valentia removed her heavy cloak and watched the scenery go by. An amazing variety of flowers and trees surrounded them, still in full color from the summer, not yet coloring with autumn. This was odd to her. She would already be seeing reds and oranges in the trees in Ohio. Perhaps, with the more temperate climate, such changes took longer on the island.

Valentia drowsed through much of the afternoon, but woke when they arrived at Bunratty in the early evening. The day had been long, but the weather had held, and the trip was uneventful. They were all grateful.

The town was, indeed, busy, though there was an odd tension in the air. Kevin was hesitant about staying.

"We'll find an inn, Mistress Val, but if I find out there is danger, it's still early enough we could move on to the next village, at least."

"If you think it's necessary, Kevin. But I'd much rather stay if we can. I don't know why I'm tired, I did nothing but ride today."

"Traveling in a carriage isn't as easy as you think, Mistress Val. You are always shifting back and forth to keep your balance, but you don't realize it. It can cause your muscles to be sore."

True enough. Despite having traveled since she arrived to Ireland, she was feeling it more today. She helped Maggie with their bags, settling into the room they were assigned.

Kevin returned from his information-gathering, looking resigned and sat down on the bed.

"It's a squabble between the parish priest and the Peelers, Mistress. I don't think it's dangerous, but keep canny while we're here."

"The Peelers?"

"Police. They're called Peelers as the group was set up by Prime Minister Peel, but their real name is the RIC—Royal Irish Constabulary."

"Are they English, then?" She suffered an inexplicable stab of panic, but pushed it down.

"No, most are Irish, but they won't be locals. They can't serve in their own county, so they don't have the sympathy for people most cops would. It makes them more efficient. They are sometimes called in to handle evictions. Most folk hate them with a passion."

She was certain this was true. There was no love lost between the people and the landlords. The agents of those landlords would share this animosity.

"What's the trouble with the priest?"

"Ah, well, there's a prisoner they've got, a Catholic man. Had, at any rate. He died trying to escape the jail cell in the barracks. The priest wants to bury him on hallowed ground, in the church yard. The Peelers insist, as a prisoner, he must be buried on prison grounds."

"Are they not hallowed?"

"The barracks are in the castle, so there's a church there... but it's Church of England, and not Catholic."

The three travelers moved downstairs to have supper, joining Pat at his table. The bread, though fresh, was rough ground, with bits of stone and uncracked grain inside. The stew was greasy and more water than vegetable. They didn't eat much of either, but the cheese was good and sharp.

Valentia deliberated on the situation, and how she might help to defuse things in town. Could she speak to the priest, perhaps, about consecrating a corner of the castle graveyard for the Catholic Church? Or to the Peelers about allowing a dispensation? She had no idea of police structure, or who she would need to convince. She felt helpless and ineffective. What use was it being a crusader for justice if she couldn't do anything where it was needed?

As they were eating, several of aforementioned police came in. They looked around, noting the farmers sitting at several tables, merchants at another. They glanced at Valentia's group before they chose a table next to hers, calling for stew and ale, while Valentia tried hard not to stare. She gripped her own spoon until it cut painfully into her palm, and she forced her hand to relax.

Certainly, the officers in Ardara had attacked that man, but these were different officers, and she was not a poor farmer. Her hands were shaking and she placed them on the table to keep them steady. She was dizzy, but did her best to keep from drifting. What was wrong with her lately? She'd been so scattered.

The officers looked well-fed and clean, their uniforms precise and neat. They weren't suffering from the hunger which plagued the peasants. They weren't being belligerent, though, and were even polite to the landlady. This surprised Valentia, but her impressions were skewed by the encounters she had seen in Loughcrew.

An officer, by his insignia, approached their table. Valentia tried not to flinch away as he asked if they were new arrivals in town. His tone was civil and polite. She noted his black hair was fresh cut, but his black eyes offered no insights into his purpose.

"We are, but we're off again in the morning. Just passing through, as it were," she returned her attention to the greasy stew, but he wasn't finished.

"You'll want to be careful on the roads south, Mistress. There has been trouble here and there with bandits." Now his dark eyes showed concern, even genuine care.

"I do appreciate your concern, sir. I've encountered similar bandits before, but have thus far escaped unscathed."

He looked at her with surprise, glancing, for the first time, at Kevin, hulking next to her at the table. The man looked him up and down, his face calculating.

"Perhaps you'll be fine at that, Mistress. If you need an escort for the first couple of hours, though, let me know."

Her surprise must have shown on her face.

"I would be amiss if I were to allow such an attractive young lady to go into danger, would I not?" he flashed his first smile at her, transforming his face into genial sympathy. "To be honest with you, you look a lot like my sister, Martha, in Kilkenny. Her hair is curly, like yours. I would hate to see aught happen to her."

Time to be gracious. "You're very kind, Officer Burke, but we shall be fine," she smiled at him, a genuine smile. Perhaps the Peelers... rather, the RIC, weren't as cruel as they were reputed to be. They seemed a different cut than the British Army soldiers she had thus far encountered.

Chapter Seventeen

Desperation

The next morning, the cold mist seeped into Valentia's bones, icy and slinking like a snake down her spine. She shivered in her cloak as they got ready to leave the town to its controversy.

She watched Kevin put another cloak around Maggie's shoulders, the maid placing a hand on his in thanks. Such a tender look passed between them, Valentia looked away, feeling she had intruded upon an intimate moment.

As they were leaving, a troupe of Peelers came marching towards them along the road, emerging from the fog as if returning from the land of the Faeries. The officer in charge halted the soldiers and questioned Pat. Pat didn't speak, but Kevin answered with reasonable politeness. They wanted to know their business and destination. Kevin told them they were traveling to Cork to visit family, so they let the carriage pass.

Someone else emerged from the fog before them, though, resolving into two men on horses. Valentia was able to discern a cloak of bright blue on one, a long black overcoat on the other. She tensed, but as they came closer, she let out a groan in frustration. Donal and Aiden.

Pat halted Molly and Missy, who were fussing from the soldiers and the fog. Valentia alighted from the carriage and rounded on the two men.

"I am quite certain I informed you I was continuing alone! Why are you following me? Do you think me incapable? In need of maidenly rescue by my knights errant? You can take that misplaced chivalry and... and..."

Donal had dismounted and was coming towards her, hand stretched out, to calm her, "Valentia, my dear girl, we are here to..."

Valentia slapped his hand down, angry at his interference.

Aiden interrupted, "Please, Valentia. We've heard disturbing things all over the countryside. Unrest and riots. You didn't think we could let you go into such a situation?"

She glared at them both, eyes sparking.

They were wise enough not to speak further. Kevin put a hand on her shoulder, and she whirled around at this new threat. He backed up, hands held up in surrender, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh.

"They have a point, Mistress Val. The soldiers weren't blowing smoke, there really is trouble around. No one knows where the fires might catch. I would be glad to have backup, if aught were to happen to us," he gestured to Donal and Aiden, who nodded back, solemn.

Deflated and defeated, Valentia turned back to her erstwhile protectors. "Fine. But you will need to limit your nighttime entertainments along the way. No more gambling."

Aiden looked at Donal in surprise, then they both looked back at her, confusion apparent on their faces.

"Why no gambling, Valentia? Do you think we might lose our way into penury?" Aiden's tone was light.

"I think precisely that, if you were to have a losing streak. And I think neither of you have enough sense to quit if you think you can regain it. That's the trap, and I've seen better men than you fall afoul of it." She glared at Kevin as well, since he enjoyed the dice of an evening. "That goes for you, as well, Mr. Banaghan. We've enough trouble as it is, as you say, without borrowing more. If you do win," she glanced back at Donal and Aiden, "would the losers not take amiss to such action, perhaps seeking to use violence to regain their lost stake?"

The possibility hadn't occurred to any of them, and they had the grace to look abashed.

"It's settled then. Gentlemen, let us move on." With that, she climbed back into the carriage, waiting for the men to recover their wits.

* * *

The day didn't improve much as they made their way south. Valentia was sure they wouldn't get more than halfway to Killarney, as the town was at least seventy-five miles from Bunratty, but they did as well as they could. The cold and murky mists remained. The sun couldn't burn through the soup. This surreal trip through an ancient purgatory, nebulous shapes looming up from the grey to threaten them, receding in all innocence. Sound had an odd quality, muffled without echo. The blanket of white smothered them, and they all had trouble catching their breath.

Stopping at one point when they got hungry, Valentia asked Pat if he knew how far they had come. Without being able to see landmarks or signs, she had no clue how far they had even traveled. It could have been an hour, or it could have been ten.

Pat shook his head. Looking to Donal, who had taken this route at least once before, Valentia saw his brow furrowed.

"I th-think we've come about a third of the way to Killarney, Valentia. We might reach Castlenoe by the time it grows dark."

"Dark? It's never gotten light, really," Maggie shivered, drawing her cloak tight around her. Kevin put an arm around her shoulder.

"It is on the gloomy side. I shouldn't be surprised if we come across the river Styx." Aiden gave a half-smile, but he didn't look as if he was joking.

"Have you Charon's fare, then?" Donal was, at least, willing to play along.

"It wouldn't be Hades, it would be Tír na nÓg." Valentia whispered remembering her grandmother's stories. "Tír na nÓg, The Otherworld, the Land of Youth, a land of everlasting youth, beauty, and abundance, which would have made it a great deal more attractive than this land at the moment."

"Well, I'm no Oisín, and you're no Níaṁ, so I think we're safe enough." Donal had heard the story, then.

She explained the tale to Aiden, as he seemed confused. "Have you never heard the old tales? And you an Irishman born! The story goes that Oisín was a hero who fell in love with a Faery named Níaṁ. The legends say she brought him to her land, Tír na nÓg, where he dwelt for three hundred years, though it only seemed like three years to him. When he returned, homesick for his own land, he was cautioned not to touch the ground. He flew back on a magical horse, but fell upon his return. When he touched the ground, he instantly became three hundred years old and shattered into dust."

They fell silent, struck by the tragedy of the story. What was the moral of the tale? Be happy with what you have, do not seek out more? Perhaps. Or simply don't fall off your horse.

Voices drifted out of the fog to them, and all of the men were instantly up on their feet. Valentia froze. She couldn't move or speak, but Maggie grasped her hand and calmed her. She squeezed her maid's hand in gratitude.

They formed a circle around the carriage, but the women didn't get in. Instead, they drew their own knives, unwilling to once again remain inside, unable to defend themselves. Kevin and Pat both had their pistols out, as did Aiden and Donal.

It seemed as if they waited forever. The sound must have drifted a long way, in the odd way it does through the mist. Several shapes crept out of the fog ahead of them, resolving into five men. They must have heard voices themselves, and come to investigate what might be out there. They appeared unarmed, except for large, clubbed branches. They looked heavy and the men brandished them like they were holding Viking axes.

The two groups stood for a while, silent. The men were ragged, dirty, looking as if they hadn't eaten for a while. Perhaps these were the bandits they were warned about, or maybe a group of hungry men, out trying to find food.

No one moved. The silence was agonizing, the fog masking any sound from without the circle of visibility. One horse stamped a foot, feeling the tension.

The man in the middle was tall and thin, with lanky brown hair down to his shoulders. He had a large rip in one knee of his trousers. He gestured at the man to his left. This man sidled his way around to one side of the carriage. Aiden, the closest, took a few steps with him, preventing his flanking.

Valentia knelt to where she had dropped the loaf of bread. She motioned like she was going to toss it to the man in the middle, the man in charge. His eyes narrowed, speaking in Irish. It sounded like a question, but he had an accent she wasn't familiar with, so she didn't catch the meaning.

Kevin did, answering with "Tá muid," which meant 'we are' in the Irish. She proceeded to toss the loaf to him, underhand. He grabbed it from the air with his left hand, still holding his club in the right. He sniffed it, handing it to the man on his right, without taking his eyes off Valentia.

He shouted words unintelligible to her. More shapes materialized out of the mist, surrounding them. The shapes formed into people, women and children, wan and smudged with dirt, wearing rags. There must have been twenty of them. Valentia smelled rot and hunger. Unwilling to hurt women and children, none of the travelers did anything when they approached. Valentia handed one woman with tangled, thin hair, the basket of food. Maggie reached into the carriage to grab what supplies they had left, cheese and a bag of turnips, handing it to another. Kevin told them it was all they had

They didn't believe him. One child, black of hair and perhaps about ten years old, climbed inside. Valentia couldn't tell if the grime hid a boy or a girl, but they rooted around, tossing things out as they searched for more food. Another child, a girl, joined him. Soon, all the children were in the carriage, which swayed with their frantic search, rocking back and forth.

Valentia looked at Kevin, unsure what to do. He shrugged, as uncertain as she was. She backed away from the carriage, though, in case it should fall over. She pulled Maggie with her, and Aiden and Donal followed. They all gathered near the horses in a knot, while the mob ripped out the seats, tearing the doors off, seeking anything else.

Maggie trembled, but Kevin put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her in, his other hand held his knife at the ready. Valentia held her knife in one hand, and felt in her skirt pocket for something else to use to defend herself, but only found the faery wish-stone Siobhan had given her so long ago. She gripped the stone tight and wished they would be safe. There was no sea nearby to throw it into, but she hoped the wish would still come true.

One bandit noticed the baggage on top and climbed up to pull it down. So did two others, but both on the same side, so the carriage tipped, agonizingly slow. Valentia watched as the carriage listed, father and farther, falling with a crash, pinning two of the women underneath. Aiden, Donal and Kevin rushed to help lift it up, but a growl from the other men and women kept them back. The women managed to wriggle out, limping but unbroken.

Valentia tried to rescue some of her bags, but Donal held her back with a firm hand. She just stared as her possessions were pillaged.

The bags were now pulled off the top, the bandits tearing through them in a mad frenzy. Dresses and other clothing were tossed about, inedible and therefore useless. Bright colors festooned the road in short order, looking like a bizarre carnival, or a racy stage show.

When the mob subsided, one by one, they disappeared back into the mist. They melted, as if being swallowed, until there was no one left but the five men, still holding their clubs. They faded back, leaving the travelers amid the ruin of the carriage, the horses, and the shrapnel of clothing.

Pat looked at the wreckage with more emotion than she'd yet seen on his face.

Valentia didn't even feel any embarrassment as she helped Maggie gather her underthings and skirts. They folded and replaced what they could into the battered bags. Valentia wanted to cry out in frustration, and was startled when Donal did exactly that, hands clenched to his sides. He let out a primal howl that made her skin prickle.

When Aiden calmed him down, the men looked at the damage to the carriage. They held a low discussion about its worthiness, or if they could repair it.

What would they do without it? She could ride a horse, but she wasn't dressed for such activity. Besides, they had four horses and six people. She didn't think Maggie had ever ridden before. Would Molly and Missy even take passengers? Often draft animals weren't trained for riding.

"It doesn't look as if we can salvage the carriage, Mistress Val. We might be able to come back for it, but the frame cracked when it went over. We wouldn't even be able to drag it, with no one in it. It would shake apart in a quarter mile." Kevin was shaking his head, "If only we had taken the men when they first appeared. We had guns, we could have, but we waited, and..." his expression was bleak.

"There was nothing we could do, really. They would have overrun us regardless. This way, no one was badly hurt. We'll manage. We'll have to walk the rest of the way, but we should still be fine. Perhaps we can find Pat a new carriage." She glanced at the older man. His eyes were bleak. He was holding onto the yoke on the horses, bending to unhook it from the carriage. Would they be able to take the yoke, at least?

They could drag it like a travois, so they were able to secure her two bags onto it well enough. They pushed the remnants of the carriage off to the side of the road, so it caused no issues for other travelers. Perhaps the bandits—if that was the right word for them—could come back and use it for firewood, at least enjoying a warm night.

Aiden and Donal insisted the women ride their horses, while the men hiked. Molly and Missy paced along well enough with their odd burden, though they were skittish at first. Maggie had not before ridden a horse, as Valentia suspected, but Kevin led it for her. He walked beside her, and she learned. Valentia was uncomfortable at first, but settled in. She had needed to kirtle her skirts up to sit astride, as this wasn't a sidesaddle. However, after a few glances to ensure no one was ogling at her calves, she became more comfortable.

To pass the time, Donal told a story.

"B-Balor was a great king of the Fomorians, mighty in strength and terrible to behold. He had an evil eye, which could strike dead any that gazed upon it. He was powerful and ambitious as a king, so when pr-prophecy foretold he would be killed by his grandson, he locked his daughter, Ethniu, in a tower.

"Despite this precaution, she was found by a wandering adventurer, a man of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. They fell in love in a secret courtship, and she conceived, all within the dreaded tower." At this point, he stole a glance at her, and she smiled back, lowering her eyes and blushing at the details of the tale.

"Triplets were born, but King Balor ordered them drowned. When they were taken to the river, one fell out of the bag, unbeknownst to the king. This child was named Lugh, and he was found and fostered by a smith, a bard, and many other great c-c-craftsmen and artists. They all taught him their arts, so he became a well-accomplished young man.

"When he approached High King Nuada, he requested to be part of the Tuatha court. The gatekeeper wouldn't let him in without reason, though. He said he could smith, but they already had smiths. He said he could sing, but they had bards aplenty. He said he could work wood, but they had carpenters. The list of skills was long and varied. F-Finally, he inquired if they had one person who could do all these tasks. The gatekeeper had to admit they did not, and admitted him to the Court. He proved himself well able to handle any task, and becomes an advisor, the Chief Ollam of Ireland.

"When they went to war with the Fomorians, Lugh used a sling to fling a stone at Balor, a blow so hard and strong that it struck him in the evil eye, and went straight through to the warriors standing behind him. Balor died, despite his attempts at twisting fate for his own purposes."

Yet, Valentia thought, I am trying to twist my fate to my own purposes. Will I succeed, or will my efforts be for naught? And what has it cost me along the way?

The next town was a slog, but it hadn't taken too long. Caisleán Nua, or Castlenoe, was a large place, sitting on the Arra River, in a huge valley. Valentia wished the fog would clear so she could see around her, but it remained, thick and menacing during the whole day.

As they entered Castlenoe, they passed a workhouse, but it appeared closed and abandoned. A large castle ruin stood in the center of town, from which the town had gotten its name. The ancient stones were covered in vines so little of the rock itself remained visible. This was a market day, as there were stalls and wagons lined along the main street.

As their procession came through, everyone at the market stood and watched them as if they were circus performers, suspicious and wary. They endured this regard until they found a place they could escape the gazes of the multitude.

Kevin found an inn, and Valentia sent him off with Pat to find another carriage, if they could. Another day like this and we'll be crippled, as she climbed up to her room, one agonizing step at a time. Her thighs ached incredibly, and Maggie clearly suffered the same way. They had requested a tub with hot water from the landlady before they ascended. She thanked all her stars such a thing was even available. It would do much to ease the aches.

Hours later, the soreness leached from her and Maggie's legs, they came downstairs – with care—to join the men in supper. There wasn't much on offer, only mashed turnips and greens, but they ate the meal in silence.

When her stomach was at least sated, she turned to Pat. "Did you find a carriage?"

He smiled wanly at her, his eyes looking less forlorn. She took it to mean they found a decent one. Kevin filled in the details.

"It's a finer one than what we had, though the same size. A pretty little thing, black with gold details, though it needs some repairs. The carriage once belonged to one of the local gentry, but he left one night, leaving everything behind. No one will say how or why."

"We won't be mistaken for him, will we?" Donal asked, alarmed.

"No, everyone knows he's long gone. His crest was painted over before we bought the thing. We'll be fine." Though he sounded certain, there was a question in his voice.

She approved, but narrowed her eyes. "What else?"

Kevin looked down, evidently nervous. He looked over at Maggie, taking her hand, squeezing. He looked up again, entreaty in his eyes.

"It's... well, Maggie has no parents here, you see, so I was thinking you'd be the person to ask, right?"

"Ask what, Kevin?"

"Oh, for Maggie's hand in marriage, that is." He dropped his gaze again, darted over to Maggie, and back down, but he had an irrepressibly sweet smile on his face.

She shot a glance at Maggie, but the point was moot. The girl cared for Kevin, and they had been courting for a time.

"Of course, you have my permission! It would be delightful. A bright spot in such a dismal day. Oh, I'm so excited for you both." She took Maggie's other hand in both of hers, smiling at her friend. Maggie blushed with happiness as Aiden and Donal added their congratulations.

When it grew still again, Pat spoke with quiet intensity,

"May God be with you and bless you.

May you see your children's children.

May you be poor in misfortunes and rich in blessings.

May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward."

Valentia's eyes teared up, catching Pat's eye. He winked at her, once, then changed his expression back into his habitual passive frown.

* * *

It took a day to finish the repairs on the new carriage. During that time, Valentia, Maggie, Donal and Aiden explored the ruined castle. The wind whistled through the fallen ruins and made them nervous, so they didn't stay long. The workhouse was even more foreboding, and Valentia had no interest in encountering the ghosts sure to haunt such a place.

The new carriage and the repairs had depleted her remaining funds, so Valentia hoped Killarney would be large enough to have a banker she could speak to about replenishing them. She took a moment to be thankful for her father, evidently still willing to fund her quest, thought she was certain he'd be concerned if he realized how much of the food she bought was given away.

It was a subdued group that set out the next morning. It would be another long day of travel, since the mists were still heavy on the road. Molly and Missy seemed happy to once again be pulling a carriage, much easier to haul than a burdened yoke with no wheels. A yoke came with the carriage, so they sold their old one for supplies, more bread and cheese, a few wizened vegetables and even salt fish. The meal was a veritable feast compared to what they had been getting, so they relished their lunch.

A stone bridge south of town and a Catholic church rose out of the gloom. The building was stunning and impressive, the spire disappearing into the mists. She might not be Catholic, but Valentia admired the beauty of the churches. It looked so elegant and graceful, soaring into the clouds.

The mists cleared around midday, and they were able to see around them for the first time since they left Bunratty. They had passed through a gap in the mountains, and could now see a panoramic view of the Galtee Mountains before them. It was delightful and refreshing to see the colorful patchwork rolling across the hills.

Mid-afternoon brought them onto a village, where children played near a well. Valentia had Kevin stop as she got out, handing out bread and cheese to a girl, barefoot and suspicious. She crept towards Valentia, snatched the offering, and scampered off between two buildings. Valentia turned to find another child to gift them to, but found herself confronted with a man, instead.

Recalling the incident on the road, she offered the food to the man, but he didn't lift his hand to take it. Instead, he stood and stared. He was well tanned, with dark hair and hooded green eyes. He wasn't tall, but solid. His clothes were clean, but showed considerable wear.

"Nílimid ag iarraidh do charthanacht, bean Béarla!" he spit in the dust at her feet.

She understood it well enough, even with her limited Irish. He didn't want her food, and he called her an English woman.

"I'm not English. I'm American," she said, in stumbling Irish.

He spat again, saying, "Breag duit." He turned around and left, knocking the food from her hand into the dust.

She didn't know this word, so she looked to Kevin.

"He says you lie. Leave it, Mistress Val. They'll not take charity from you."

"But I'm not English! Would they really rather go without food?"

"We Irish are proud folk. And bloody stubborn," he spoke this last with rueful resignation.

True enough. She wondered if her sparkling, fresh-painted carriage had any part in the incident. She sighed, though, climbing back in. She heard a loud thwack! and ducked, not knowing what had made the sound.

Another thwack! sounded, from the other side of the carriage. They were throwing stones!

She heard Pat shout at the horses, and the carriage moved south. Aiden and Donal were in the carriage with them. Donal's face suffused red with anger, but he could do nothing from inside. Instead, he took her hand and held it tight. Thwack! They were all huddled down, to keep out of sight from the windows. Thwack! Thwack! The stones were raining down now, but the carriage was gaining speed as the horses moved. Thwack!

This was the last stone to hit, but they stayed huddled down until they were well out of town. Donal didn't relinquish her hand when they rose, nor did she pull away.

They pulled into the city of Killarney late that night. This was a large, bustling city on the shore of Lough Leane. They almost got lost in the maze of streets, overwhelmed by the activity and noise. Kevin found an inn near one edge of town.

Valentia was still shaky from her experience at the village. She didn't even know the name of the place. She wasn't certain she wanted to. The naked hostility the man had shown her was puzzling. And they threw stones. Shivering again, she thought of the people in the mist the other day. This was turning into a hazardous mission. She could no longer assume she was safe with her protectors, though she was glad she had allowed Aiden and Donal to accompany her.

Supper was silent and quick. No one wished to linger, and they all wanted their beds.

Chapter Eighteen

Kenmare

Kenmare, in contrast to Killarney, was a charming town, its three wide main streets arranged like spokes around the town centre. It wasn't large, but the buildings were well constructed and maintained.

Kevin gave her the Irish name for the town, An Neidín, which means The Little Nest. She could see why. It was a little pocket of comfort, a place you could curl around yourself like a warm blanket. Kenmare was from Ceann Mhara, or Head of the Sea, on Kenmare Bay. They crossed a river to get into town, making their way across a suspension bridge with care.

Their travel from Killarney was easy and without incident. They arrived in early afternoon, spending time exploring after they settled into an inn called O'Donnabhain's on Sound Road.

The town had several pubs and inns, and a couple shops which offered clothing and millinery, gloves and shoes. A smithy and a cooper stood near the end of the street. Like Ardara, a few of the shops were closed or abandoned, but the general feel of the place was still one of optimism. A family walked by her, and a child actually waved. Valentia grinned at the bold blond girl.

Being close to the sea, there wasn't such a desperate hunger as in places inland, but there was also a higher population to feed. She wondered what the local landlord was like.

There didn't seem to be many shops offering foodstuffs. Perhaps those were the shops which were closed? They found a general store which offered groceries, including wilted greens and salted fish. The food came at an outrageous price, but she was used to this by now. Her pockets were growing light again, so she would have to write to Mr. Moran in Galway for more funds. They learned from the grocer there was to be a market day in two days. They could get more food then, perhaps even fresh.

She and Maggie sat along a rock wall outside town, watching the river. Kevin had already gone off on his information-searching for word of Esme FitzGerald, with Donal in tow. Aiden insisted on remaining with the women, in case things should turn ugly as they had at the last village.

It felt good to be sitting, not rocking in a carriage. Valentia relished the solid rock beneath her, watching the water flow. There was several fishing boats in the distance, with more tied up at the dock down the shore. She could smell the salt air, a tang of seaweed, and the road dust from behind her. The clank clank of the blacksmith punctuated the sea breeze, reminding her of her stay in Ardara. She felt vital and alive, more so than in many days. Since she left Lisdoonvarna, as a matter of fact.

The cry of a seagull pulled her out of her reverie, as one landed next to her, sidling up bit by bit, and eyed her last bite of bread. Laughing, she tossed it to the bird. It snapped the morsel in its beak, then soared off across the water. It lifted her spirits to see it escape the land so easily.

She thought of her quest, and all she'd gone through to find the haunting brooch, her family, and her roots. What if she couldn't find Esme here? Where else would she be able to turn?

Valentia pulled out Siobhan's wish-stone, and held it in her hand. She closed her eyes and wished with all her strength to find the brooch here in Kenmare. She heaved back and tossed the stone into the lapping waves. Several seagulls squawked in protest and fluttered their wings. She turned her back on their chatter with a deep breath of new purpose.

Aiden was talking with Maggie in low voices.

"What are you two plotting?"

They looked at her, with guilty expressions.

Eyes narrowed, she probed, "Come now, no secrets."

She had expected a glib response from Aiden, but instead, Maggie spoke: "Master Aiden's going to help me find a minister."

Of course. She would want a wedding, and soon. Valentia cursed herself for being selfish and short-sighted. Valentia hopped off the stone fence, reaching for Maggie's hand.

"Should we go into town and find you a new dress for the occasion?"

Maggie beamed, gratitude in her friend's liquid brown eyes.

"Oh, thank you, Mistress Valentia! That would be simply wonderful."

"Come on, then, let's find you a beautiful frock." Aiden took the maid's other hand, as they ambled back down the street.

The three strode up and down all three main streets, looking for a place which might be able to craft her a dress in a short time. They looked into one shop with a tailor sign, but it was dusty and long abandoned. The next place they saw, a seamstress shop, had a tiny sparrow of a woman, perhaps twenty years old, working on stitching lace to petticoats. She scrambled up when they entered, introducing herself as Mistress Downing. She dropped her project on the floor when she got up, so she went back, with apologies, to retrieve it. However, the floor, like the rest of the shop, was spotless.

At an explanation of Maggie's needs, she gave a quick nod, rushing into the back room. Valentia heard shuffling, banging, perhaps at least one curse, though the sound was muffled and she couldn't understand the words. When Mistress Downing returned, her cap was askew, and she had in her hand three gowns. One was pale sea-foam green, covered in ruffles. The second was robin-egg blue, simple and elegant, but low cut in the front. The third was peach with rose bands along the skirts, a split in the front showing a paler peach underskirt.

Maggie looked at each as they were hung up on a rack for display. "I really like the color of the green one, but the blue's so flattering. The peach... what do you think, Master Aiden?"

Valentia was miffed her own opinion wasn't sought, but she had to admit, when it came to cut and color, Aiden had plenty of experience. She usually wore whatever Maggie chose for her. Perhaps she wasn't a good resource for advice, after all.

Aiden held the blue dress up to Maggie. "It needs to be shortened just a little. Could a modesty panel be added across here?" He indicated the neckline, drawing a line across where he wanted it. "Perhaps somewhat sheer, so the illusion was still there, but she is, in reality, sufficiently covered? We must give your young man something to look forward to, after all." He grinned at Maggie, wolfish, and she tittered. Mistress Downing claimed she could have the alterations done by the next day, so she took some measurements and they settled on a price.

"That took less time than I had expected. What shall we do now? Do we want to check in with Donal and Kevin yet?" Aiden looked at Maggie, then at Valentia.

"No, they'll still be ferreting out my great-aunt, hopefully. Let's see what's at the end of this street. I saw a grove of hawthorn trees and a fence. Perhaps there's a park we can relax in and enjoy the sun while it lasts."

Along the way, Valentia asked Maggie if she knew where she wanted to have the ceremony, or when.

"I'm not sure, Mistress Valentia. The problem's the religion. I'm Methodist, but Kevin... well, Kevin's Catholic. I'd have to convert, or he would, I think. It's why I wanted Aiden to talk to the minister. To see what was required."

Valentia hadn't even considered this complication. People of different religions got married. Did they all have to convert? Her own grandmother had converted when she married, as had her great-aunt Eithne.

They approached the fenced-in circular area. The low dry stone wall had a line of trees behind it, shielding the interior from view. Making their way around to one end, they came across an opening in the barrier. There was no gate or door, so they went in, to see what they could find.

Valentia stopped dead in her tracks, staring. A large stone circle stood in the garden, more than a dozen stones arranged around a central one, flat like an altar. She sensed the cold at the base of her spine again, and swallowed.

A lone hawthorn tree grew at the entrance to the circle.

She forced herself to move, feeling like a puppet on strings. She approached the nearest stone, a rock with one corner bulbous and extended. There was white lichen on the surface, weeds growing at the base. She smelled grass and char, like an old fire.

She touched it, suffering a shock.

Withdrawing her hand, she shook it in reaction. She felt the earth shift beneath her, and a wave of nausea made her close her eyes and swallow. When she opened them, Aiden was looking at her, confused, while Maggie was asking if she was alright. The question sounded as if it came from down a long tube, echoing in her skull, bouncing around within her brain. She was dizzy, and blue lights danced on the edge of her vision.

She sat down on the grass, realizing at once this was a mistake. The sensation of a thousand ants crawled on her skin, creeping, running, itching. With a cry, she wiped at her arms, her legs, trying to get them off, to stop the feeling. She became aware Aiden and Maggie had her by each arm, trying to pull her up and out of the circle. She struggled, whimpering, flailing, knocking Maggie's cap off, elbowing Aiden in the stomach. He grunted, bending over, but held fast to her arm. They succeeded in dragging her out of the round park. Once outside the stone fence, all of the sensations halted.

Still dazed, she slowly regaining her senses.

"What in the name of all that's holy was that about?" Aiden was looking at her, his eyes reflecting his fear.

"It... I seem to be... stones affect me somehow. It has never been like this, though. Usually it was pleasant, even energizing. This time they were... different. The first time... your sister started it!" She glared at Aiden, accusing him of what, she had no idea. But she was too rattled by the experience to be rational.

Rearing back at the accusation, Aiden blinked several times. "Siobhan? What had she to do with this? She's on the other side of the country, presumably safe with her family."

"Not this time, but when we were first in Lisdoonvarna. She took me to stones there, showing me how to present an offering. I experienced... tingling, all over, sort of like you feel before a thunderstorm, but stronger. It happened again in Donegal, when Kevin and I visited stones there. But this... this hurt." she shuddered again, recalling the feeling on her skin, unaware she was wiping her arms to clear it.

"You must think I've completely lost my mind."

Aiden gave her a skeptical look and then exchanged a glance with Maggie. Maggie just shrugged and Aiden's mouth curved up in a smile.

"You're assuming we didn't already think you mad?"

"Hmpf." Valentia rolled her eyes at Aiden.

"I need to leave a gift, though. A significant one. Even if it wasn't a nice feeling, I can't go without making an offering." She rifled through her pockets, looking for what she could leave. She found a shell she had kept after their trip to Maghera beach, deciding it would do. She rose and marched back into the circle.

Aiden and Maggie both grabbed her and hauled her back out of the fence. "You are mad! You can't go back in there." Aiden gave her a shake to get her attention back on him, and away from the stones.

"No, I should be fine. Once the initial... whatever it is... happens, touching them again does nothing. Perhaps if I came back another day, but not right away. Stay ready, just in case, but I should be fine." She patted his hand in reassurance, extracting herself from her would-be protectors. Three quick strides brought her back to the stones. Despite her brave words, she was apprehensive as she stepped across the demarcation line, but she sensed nothing but soft grass beneath her boots. She proceeded with more confidence to the center altar stone.

She placed the shell on the top of the stone, murmuring "go raibh maith agat" under her breath. She closed her eyes for a few moments, as if in benediction, turned away and left, walking tall. She breathed a sigh of relief when she made it back to the fence unscathed, but she didn't want Aiden or Maggie to see how nervous she was.

This was odd and painful. Had she displeased the Fair Folk somehow? How could she tell? She knew of no one she could ask. While Kevin had the basic knowledge any Irishman seemed to have of the Faeries, he was more confused than she had been in Donegal. Aiden had evidently had more of an English aristocratic education, and knew even less. She would have to find a local wise woman, or a conjurer. There were no Druids any longer. She snorted at the idea of a group of old men in long blue robes dancing underneath an oak grove.

They returned to the inn in silence. Valentia didn't want to encourage more questions or censure, from her companions. As far as Maggie and Aiden were concerned, she could be losing her mind. Perhaps she was.

* * *

The men were waiting for them at the inn, quivering with excitement.

Kevin grabbed her by both arms, just where Aiden and Maggie had grabbed her. She gasped in pain, and he loosened his grip. "We found her, Mistress Val! We found your great-aunt."

When the sense of the words penetrated, she looked up at him, "You did? Are you certain?"

Donal piped up, "If it isn't, we're in another world. She looks exactly like my grandmother. There couldn't be more than two, could there?"

"You've seen her? Where?"

"She was just returning from an errand, going into a grand cottage by the sea. She had a servant with her, carrying packages. We spied her just as she turned into the gate. Her hair's the same pale peach, she's the same height. She looks nicer, though, I swear. She had laugh lines in her eyes." Donal was grinning fit to break his face, and took her hand in both of his, earnest in his exciting news. Valentia had to chuckle at the comparison.

"Well, how shall we introduce ourselves? The same method we used in Ardara?"

Donal looked at her askance, so she explained how they had enlisted Reverend Gallagher's assistance in arranging a meeting at tea.

Kevin shook his head. "This is a less formal town, Mistress Val. I don't think you'll need to go to such trouble. I checked around, before we saw her. She's well-liked, not one to stand on ceremony, from all accounts. I think it would do fine for you to show up and present your card as a visitor."

The nervous feeling she had experienced at the stone circle came back, complete with a full complement of butterflies in her stomach. She had spent so many weeks looking for Esme, she couldn't believe they had already found her. She had expected a long drawn-out search around the countryside, perhaps looking for a reclusive old woman, who didn't accept visitors or outsiders.

She took a deep breath, setting her thoughts in order.

"Fine, here's the plan. Maggie and I should go, I think. Women are less threatening then men. Donal, do you think if there was bad blood between your grandmother and her sister, she might be wary of you as her grandson?"

"Yes, but I should come with you, introduce you to family, should I not?"

"Donal, please. I need to do this on my own for now."

Donal's eyes blazed with rebellion, but Valentia held his gaze until he dropped his eyes in submission.

"Then we shall wait until later to introduce you. Kevin, you and Pat stay here. Aiden... what do you think, Aiden? Will you accompany us, or stay here with Donal?"

She was deliberate in her phrasing. She wanted him to stay behind, as she wished to ask Esme about the brooch without curious ears. Aiden preferred Donal's company. Perhaps he preferred it a bit too much.

Her train of thought was broken by Aiden's response. "I'll stay here, if you don't mind. Donal and I can play cards while we wait. Kevin, would you and Pat care to join us?"

"No gambling, remember?" Valentia fixed him with a stern glare.

"Yes, Mistress. No gambling. Just a friendly game between mates, so." He smiled and made a deep, mocking bow.

"Hmph...right. Maggie, shall we? Kevin, where was the house?"

Kevin gave her simple directions. Down William Street, left at the end, towards the river. At the riverfront, the first house on the right. It had a white picket fence and an arbor as a gate.

The entire way, Valentia's stomach flip-flopped and churned. She gripped Maggie's arm, who squeezed her hand in reassurance. A strong sea breeze came up and almost blew her cap off. She smelled the sea, the tang of salt and the rot of fish. The tide must be low.

As they rounded the corner, she saw the white fence, fair covered with rosebushes. A few late roses still held on, red and pink with occasional white drooping blossoms. The arbor was tall and had dripping vines from the top.

Cottage wasn't the word she'd use for the abode she saw inside the fence. The building was two stories, and looked to have at least a dozen rooms. The grounds were well-maintained and seemed like an oasis of beauty after all the filth and despair she had seen on her journey. This was a little slice of heaven. She had to pinch herself, it was so much like a faery tale come true. The walls were whitewashed, with window-boxes under each window, filled with greenery and the occasional purple flower. A large garden next to the house had neat rows of rhubarb, turnip, carrots, and other things she couldn't identify, but no potatoes. It looked like an herb garden in the corner. She followed the stone path up to the front door.

Valentia stood there, inexplicably loath to lift her hand to knock. Maggie looked at her, rolled her eyes, knocking for her Mistress. She got a smile for her efforts, and they held hands for a moment before the door opened.

A middle-aged man stood there, tall and thin, stooped but dressed in an impeccable black suit.

"May I help you, Mistress?"

"Yes, please. I'm here to call upon... Mistress Esme FitzGerald. Have I the correct house? Here's my card—" she handed the butler, for such he must have been, the card which gave her name, Valentia Grace McDowell. "I'm the granddaughter of one of her sisters, Bridget Doherty Donahue."

She hoped it would give sufficient information to pique her great-aunt's curiosity. She prayed this was true.

The butler showed them into a vestibule to wait while he presented her card. The room was simple, with several padded chairs on one side, with a hallway leading to several more doorways on the other.

Valentia had no time to notice anything else, as the butler, who introduced himself as Murphy, returned to show them into the drawing room. Fascinated, Valentia looked around.

She had expected the house to be filled with ornaments, in the manner of older ladies living alone. Instead, the place was almost bare, though there were still elegant decorations here and there. There were plain blue curtains on the windows, a few ornaments on the mantelpiece, with a large, plain mirror over it. Several simple chairs were placed near the fireplace with padding, but the fabric was the same plain blue as the curtains. A low tea table was set between them. There was no rug on the floor.

Her great-aunt was sitting next to the hearth, which, despite the warmth of the day, held a cheery peat fire. Fragrant, earthy smoke drifted towards Valentia when she came closer, mixing with the scent of powder and lilacs.

She experienced a brief feeling of deja vú, seeing her great-aunt Esme. She had known Eithne was her twin, but seeing it before her was disconcerting. She did look just like her sister, and at the same time, nothing like her. The woman was smiling a true smile which reached all the way to her eyes, as she was coming towards Valentia, hands outstretched to grasp her own.

Her hands were warm and her grip, firm. She wore a pretty frock of rose and dark red, with an enormous cap on her pale hair. Her bright blue eyes twinkled as she spoke.

"My dear, how wonderful it is to meet you. Please, come sit down. And who's this little wren?"

"This... this is Maggie, my maid and my friend." Valentia said with defiance, as if challenging her great-aunt to take exception to such informality. She had no idea why she did this, but she believed she needed to.

"Excellent, Maggie, I'm pleased to meet you, as well. Murphy, can you please rustle up tea for us all?"

"Consider it done, Mistress Esme," and the butler left them.

Esme studied her, peering at her hands, her face, her dress. She then looked at Maggie with equal interest.

"You do look much like Bridget. I have no doubt you are who you say you are. But you introduced Maggie as your maid. Are you certain she's not a relation as well? She has the look of one of our cousins, Niaṁ Curran. Her aunt went off with the family to America, as I recall. What's your last name, dear?"

Disconcerted, Maggie stuttered out, 'C-C-Curran, Mistress Esme."

"Hmph, well, I'm certain you're related, then. You've her eyes, you know, and her build. Such a sweet little thing, I've not seen her for donkey's years."

"How long have you been... out of touch with the rest of the family?" This was the best way to broach the subject.

"Well, really, almost as long as Bridey has. Eithne and I parted ways shortly after she left, you see. I've not been back since. We're a stubborn family, you might have realized."

"Yes, that's apparent, from my mother and the ones I've met here." Valentia found herself smiling at the woman's evaluation. Esme smiled back.

"So you've met my sister's clan? It seems you survived the encounter," she gave Valentia another appraising look. "What did you think?"

"She's not someone I would wish to meet down a dark alley at night."

Esme roared with laughter, slapping her knee, rocking back and forth, until her eyes watered. Valentia and Maggie laughed as well, until they were well drained.

Murphy came in with the tea, and they continued to chuckle as Esme poured.

"So, that's the ice broken, then. Why, may I ask, were you seeking me out?"

"Several reasons, great-aunt..."

"Esme, dear, just call me Esme. Great-aunt makes me feel old and decrepit. I am neither."

The steel she remembered from Eithne and her own mother showed through in this statement.

"Esme, then. I remember my grandmother telling me stories of her family, of her homeland. Tales of magic and Faeries, heroes and quests. She also mentioned a particular piece of jewelry, and it fascinated me. So I came to find her family, to see how many of her stories were true."

Valentia hadn't planned on mentioning the brooch right away, but she found herself somehow compelled to tell this woman the whole truth. She pulled out the much folded and travel-stained drawing she brought from home, with the sketch of the pennanular brooch, the open circle and long pin. Birds were entwined around the jewels and down the shaft of the pin.

Esme didn't speak, but looked at Valentia. She stared, her steely gaze penetrating any layers of guile. Decisively, the older woman got up and went to the few ornaments on the mantelpiece. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached to pull down a box.

The gilt, clunky ornate thing seemed out of place in the simple room. The box had all sorts of interwoven knotwork, with a few rounded cabochons of a golden stone. Perhaps they were amber? But it looked harder than resin.

Esme positioned the box between them on the tea table, and opened it with a click. There, nestled on a bed of red velvet, sat the brooch.

It was more beautiful than the sketch hinted. Both silver and gold intertwined, detailed and intricate. Knotwork of stylized animals covered the piece, an impossible creation of great beauty and skill. Six warm, gold stones – were those the cairngorms her mother had mentioned? —glowed in the low light of the afternoon.

Valentia extended her hand to touch it, but Esme closed the box with a snap.

"If it's what you're searching for, you have found it. Now, what do you propose to do?"

Her surprise and confusion must have shown on her face, because Esme laughed again.

"You never thought past this point, did you?"

Valentia gave a rueful laugh. "No, I just hoped to find it, and you. I never thought what to do afterwards. I feel rather foolish."

She sipped her tea to hide her embarrassment.

"Not at all, Valentia. If you didn't think of what came next, then you were on a true quest."

"How could you know such a thing? I could be here, scouting for valuables to steal from you, then go off and sell a priceless family heirloom."

"I know, dear, I know. It's a gift I have, you see. I can see the truth of someone's words. I don't always know why, but it has never failed me."

Valentia didn't understand at all, but said nothing. She reached for a savory on the tea tray, her hand almost colliding with Maggie's, who was reaching for the same morsel. She gestured to the maid to let her have it, turning back to her great-aunt.

"So, what do you think I should do now?" She experienced relief at no longer being in charge.

"I have no clue. However, I do have one request. You said you found my sister—I have no wish for her to know where I am now. I'd ask you keep that secret." Valentia must have blanched, for she said, "Have you already said aught to her? Is she not still up in Donegal?"

"She is, yes, and she has no idea you are here," Valentia reassured Esme. "But we have a companion with us, named Donal. He's her grandson. I tried to send him home, but the roads were dangerous. He insisted he come along to protect us."

"Well, this does make it sticky. What sort of man is this Donal? Is he trustworthy?"

Valentia considered, sipping her tea.

"He's got a good heart, he's kind, but his grandmother controls him. I never told him I was searching for the brooch. Just for you. Oh, and I found your daughter, too."

She looked surprised. "My daughter? Katie? On Achill?"

"Yes, she's there. She's not well, Esme. Her husband died. She's incoherent, living in a horrible place. I gave her food and money, but she needs help."

Esme waved the information away. "We'll come back to Katie, Valentia. One issue at a time. Your Donal—I think it better we not trust him with the news of the brooch, but he still knows I'm here, yes?"

Valentia and Maggie both nodded in unison.

"Who else knows?"

"We've got Kevin, he's been a loyal guide for the entire journey. He's affianced to Maggie here," Valentia gestured to her, as Maggie smiled back. "We can count on his discretion. Pat's our driver, and he hasn't strung ten words together but once in all the time I've known him. And there's Aiden..."

"And is Aiden your own paramour?" Esme's eyes sparked at the possibility.

Valentia laughed at the thought. "No, no Aiden... he's a friend. He helped protect us as well. I met him and his sister, Siobhan, at Lisdoonvarna, after I arrived."

"Lisdoonvarna? That's an odd place to land after an ocean voyage." Esme seemed to sense a story there, so Valentia complied. She explained about the fire in Pittsburgh, the journey across the sea, the loss of Conor. She pushed back her tears at the memory of her brother.

She explained her spa visit, the trip up to Donegal, and back down to Achill. She described the attacks, both witnessed and received, along the way, as if she had to justify wanting the protection.

Esme asked questions now and then, for clarification or more details, impressions. She sounded impressed at Valentia's letter-writing, and her charity towards the hungry. She snorted at Eithne's behavior, as if she expected no less.

"It seems you've had quite the adventure, young lady. And here you are, arrived safe and sound. I do believe you've earned the testing."

"The testing? What sort of test." This made no sense to Valentia. She glanced at Maggie, who shrugged.

Esme tapped the ornamented box on the table. "Testing to see if this will accept you, my dear. It must go to a blood relative, and it must be one who wants and deserves it. You don't have to know why you want it, as you patently do not. However, if you want to touch it, use it, without damage to yourself, you must pass a test."

"I still don't understand, Esme. I'm not asking for you to give me the brooch. I just wanted to see it. To ensure someone in the family still had it, perhaps." She shrugged, knowing she was being vague and sounded unhinged.

Esme smiled. "So, Bridey didn't know all, it seems. At any rate, she told you enough to spark your interest, and a strong one. Strong enough to bring you across an ocean and the full length of Ireland – twice! It's a magical brooch, Valentia. Do not roll your eyes at me, young lady, I'm quite serious." Esme's voice snapped. "It allows you to tap into a power, granted by the Faery folk."

Valentia suffered the all-too familiar spark down her spine, her finger tips tingling. She looked down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them until the feeling faded.

"I see you've already had an encounter. Good. Have you had your offerings accepted?"

"Yes, Siobhan showed me how, in Lisdoonvarna. But what has that got to do with the brooch?"

"And have you encountered the stones since? With a reaction?"

Valentia nodded, stunned at the matter-of-fact way her great-aunt was speaking of these mystical occurrences.

"Excellent. This means you're already primed. We'll go tonight, as there's a full moon. Go off and do what you need to. Reassure your travel companions I've not eaten you for luncheon and return here about two hours past dusk. The moon should be nice and high, so we can do the ceremony then."

Esme tipped her teacup back, swallowing the last dregs of her tea. She set it down with a clatter, rising.

"Murphy, do show the ladies out when they've completed their tea. I've preparations to make." She parted, leaving both women in stunned silence.

Chapter Nineteen

Betrayal

"Look, I greatly appreciate you both coming along to protect us. We needed your help, but I'm here now. I've found my great-aunt, so you can both return to your lives. We'll be perfectly safe."

She was getting a headache, arguing with Donal and Aiden. Donal wouldn't leave because he still bore a duty towards her. And Aiden wouldn't leave if Donal wouldn't. She growled with frustration at the pair.

When she had come back from Esme's, they were embroiled in a card game with four other men, farmers and fishermen from the village. She took one look at the tables – piles of coins of various sizes in front of each player—and turned her back on them, stomping back to her room, Maggie in tow. Soon thereafter a tentative knock sounded. Maggie opened it to reveal Aiden, Kevin and Donal.

They had protested this was only a social game, with no real stakes, but she saw the coins, and knew they had all been gambling. She had had enough of such reckless behavior. This would be the end of it. She couldn't dismiss Kevin—not without distressing Maggie – but she could and did tell Aiden and Donal their assistance were no longer needed.

Besides, this would keep them from knowing anymore about Esme and the brooch.

She turned on Donal, eyes flashing. "Donal, Esme has requested her presence here not be known by the rest of the family. Can you promise me not to tell?"

"Y-y-yes, Valentia, but..."

"Fine. And Aiden, I know you're likely the ringleader here, so I want no argument from you. Now, will you leave as friends, or will you just leave? There is no third option."

She didn't realize it, but she sounded like her great-aunt Eithne. Donal reached for her hand. She eyed him, suspicious, but he simply bowed over it.

"I wish you the very best in life, my d-dear Valentia. When your quest is finally done, I do hope you might seek me out again?" he said with a strange mix of ice and hope in his voice. He looked at her long and hard, and she had an undeniable urge to kiss him, kiss him hard and with passion. Her knees weakened at the thought, but she stood strong. He turned away with a troubled expression.

Aiden looked at Donal's form retreating through the door, then back to Valentia. He also bowed over her hand, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a brief hug. At loss, Valentia didn't speak. Then he, too, was gone, chasing after Donal.

She didn't like having to use such tactics, but they were necessary. She didn't want them around to witness a clandestine magical ceremony. She eyed Kevin with speculation.

"And you."

"Mistress Val, please. It weren't nothing real, just chits..."

"Kevin, relax. You know I can't let you go, not without Maggie beating me black and blue with recrimination."

He breathed a huge sigh of relief. He took Maggie's hand and kissed it.

"However..." he looked up again, anxious, "I needed to get rid of those two before this evening. Do you happen to remember, Kevin, the day at the standing stones up in Donegal?"

She related, then, what had happened at Esme's. She explained she needed to be at the woman's house that night for a ceremony. Kevin was not pleased.

"I don't like the sound of it, Mistress Val. You don't mess with the Fair Folk. Aiden mentioned what happened at the stones here in town. I don't like this at all." He looked glum and miserable.

"Esme seems to know exactly what she's doing, Kevin. I don't think she'd put me in any danger, particularly as I appear to be a candidate for a legacy concerning that blasted brooch." She was edgy herself, but it would do no good to let Kevin and Maggie know.

"Will you at least let us come with you?"

"Maggie, perhaps, but Esme said no one else. You can wait up if you like, but we will likely be quite late. She spoke of the full moon."

Kevin grumbled about banshees and the Otherworld, but she couldn't discern what. Then she grasped why—he was speaking in the Irish. She was surprised she had understood as much as she had. She must have picked up more than she had imagined.

* * *

While the day was muggy, the night was sharp and cold, the wind whipping its way under Valentia's wool cloak as she approached her great-aunt's home. Maggie stood next to her, miserable and worried. The nervous tension pulsed off the little maid. Valentia realized, of all her mystical experiences to date, she had shared none of them with her friend until today.

She raised her hand to knock on the door, when it swung open, revealing Murphy in a thick black overcoat. He stepped aside and she entered the dark hall. A fire flickered in the drawing room, she could see the dancing of the light on the hallway wall. It must be where Esme was. The scent of peat, powder and lilac was strong.

When Valentia turned into the drawing room, she halted in surprise. Her great-aunt, last seen in a frilly housedress of rose and red, now sported outlandish colorful robes in blues and greens, flowing like water down her form, loose and free. If there were a breeze, they would have been billowing out like a sail, but they hung like draperies. She had a diadem on her head, with a crescent moon shape in the center. There were no rings or bracelets on her hands, but she placed jewel-encrusted goblet on the table. She turned when she heard Valentia gasp.

"It is a bit theatrical, I admit, but it does help get the mind in the right mood, you know. I've robes for you as well. Maggie, dear, you needn't come if you don't wish to, but if you would like to join us, you will need to change as well. There is a room and a screen just through there." She motioned to a room on the hearth wall.

Confused, Valentia took the fabric which was draped over a chair, stumbling towards the room as Maggie followed. She unfolded the cloth into a simple t-shaped construct, with holes for her head and arms, sewn up the sides. That was all, no corsets, no buttons, and no ties. Not even belts. When they had both donned their costumes, they looked at each other.

Valentia noticed Maggie's nipples jutting out of the thin fabric, her breasts in stark outline, and knew she looked the same. She was exposed, as if she was swimming naked in a lake. She shivered.

They slipped on cloaks and marched out. Esme looked them over, giving a sharp nod in approval. She picked up the goblet and the box with the brooch, handing these to Murphy. She put on her cloak over her robes, indicating the two girls do the same. Thus clad, they made their way into the screaming wind.

The night was furious. There was no rain, but the wind whipped their cloaks back and forth as they walked along the river wall. Valentia shivered as whispers of air made their way up her cloak, shuddering with the bizarre, strangely sensuous feeling. They wore no underclothing, no petticoats, and she wasn't used to such vulnerability. She was used to layers of protection from the outside world. Perhaps that was the point.

Determined not to show herself as a fool, she marched on into the night, following Murphy and Esme. She understood where they were headed... the stone circle.

Her body rebelled then, not listening to her brain, balking at the prospect of the creepy, crawling feeling she had experienced. Already, her fingers and toes tingled in memory. Maggie, not noticing she had stopped, bumped into her, and they both nearly fell. Maggie grabbed her arm, pulling her on.

Valentia regained control by the time they arrived at the circle. Murphy paced around the perimeter of the stones, sunwise, scattering salt before him, mumbling in Irish Valentia couldn't discern. The gloom was too deep for her to see his lips, despite the bright moon shining overhead, limning the stones in silver and blue.

When he had completed his circle, he returned to Esme, handing her the goblet and box from the chest he had carried. She took them, bowed to him, and marched, step by step, to the first stone of the circle. She had removed her heavy cloak, the thin fabric of her robe now whipping in the wind, flapping with furious claps and snaps. The low, primal moaning surely must be of the wind in the trees.

Valentia stood, rooted in terror, until Murphy nudged her to follow. She marched, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other; one, and another. Esme had reached the altar stone, placing both objects in front of her. Valentia stopped next to her, so she gestured to the girl to take a spot on the opposite side of the altar stone. With trembling knees, Valentia stood, waiting, trying not to bolt from fear.

Esme chanted in a low and musical voice. The words were Irish, but with such an odd inflection Valentia couldn't understand most of them. She heard 'daughter' and 'light', but the rest was not within her grasp. Perhaps she spoke a different dialect, or even an older version of the language.

The older woman grasped the goblet then, holding it up to her lips. The cup was full, and sloshed against the side when it moved. Esme took a deep drink and handed it to Valentia. She took it, hesitant, surprised to find the chalice warm to the touch, almost hot. She tingled all over, but not the intense pain as she had suffered earlier. She took a drink of the liquid, earthy and strong, alcohol fumes embracing her. She finished the cup before she noticed.

Esme flashed a brief smile as Valentia returned the cup to her. Nodding, her great-aunt—or was she a high priestess? —then opened the box, pulling out the brooch.

She held it up in the moonlight, the jewels sparkled and glowed. Then the whole brooch was glowing, casting off a penetrating blue light like the one she'd seen at the stones before. It pulsed and radiated, twirling like a kaleidoscope. Blues turned to greens, then purples. It grew so bright Valentia couldn't look straight at it. The low hum increased to an almost shrill whine, which seemed to come from the stones themselves. It was a penetrating, horrible whine, and it made Valentia's bones ache.

Esme moved the brooch down, offering it to Valentia.

Reaching out, she touched it.

She felt a blast of power, energy as she had never experienced before, more powerful than the steam engines on the ship which had brought her across the wide ocean. More intense than lightning in a storm. She sensed it radiate through her very soul, out her fingers, into the ends of her hair. It surged down into the earth, and back out of her eyes.

It reached into her soul and pulled out a red, painful thing. The sickly twisted ribbon of memory was drawn from under a tightly-sealed lid. It rasped and crashed as it came out, screeching and turning until it snapped and released her.

Screams ripped through her, the voices of a thousand ages, a thousand warriors, gods and goddesses calling in exquisite ecstasy and unbearable agony.

* * *

She tried to open her eyes. They refused to obey.

Something was burning.

Groaning, she became aware she was on the ground. Why was she on the ground? She tried to move, but pain and stiffness stopped her.

She tried her eyes again. This time they opened, revealing the visage of her great-aunt, standing over her.

"Are you alright, my dear? I know the first time's quite a jolt. You'll survive, though."

"Ggghhkkkk," she replied.

She heard a low chuckle. "Yes, I remember the feeling well. I'll give you a few moments to recover, but there's a storm coming in. It's normal. We did a powerful calling tonight. There must be a discharge of the power. But we don't want to be caught out in it if we can help it. Why do you think my house is so close to the circle?"

"Ggghhk." Valentia coughed a couple times, clearing her throat, trying again.

"What the... bloody hell... was that?"

"That, my dear girl, was the transfer of power. You are now the guardian of the brooch. Come on Murphy, Maggie, we need to get her back to her feet."

Valentia glanced at the brooch, now lying on a stone. Previously gold, the gems now looked blue in the moonlight.

Valentia was lifted, but stumbled before she could regain her balance. Her entire body tingled, but this was different from the tingling she had experienced before. The sensation was deeper now, in her bones and in her heart. A piece of her was gone, taken, a piece both precious and terrible. She remembered the attack now, that terrible, bright afternoon in Ardara when the captain had attacked her. The pain and scar wasn't gone, not completely, but perhaps it had begun healing, no longer buried in her mind.

* * *

The walk back to Esme's house was dream-like. The very earth crackled around her, and everything was outlined in a preternatural glow. Maggie's hair was standing up on end, and Valentia was certain hers was as well.

They warmed themselves by the fire. The four were wrapped in warm cloaks, holding crocks of steaming beef stew in their hands. Valentia was loath to let go of the crock, even to take a spoonful, but she made herself do so. She savored the thick, salty broth as it trickled down her throat. It seemed like the best-tasting food she had ever had.

"I knew you had to come along soon, Valentia. I've not got much longer, you see. I needed an heir to the power before I passed on."

This brought her back to her senses. "Passed on? But I just found you! Are you certain?"

"I'm afraid so, my dear. It's been getting worse for years, but my physician says there's nothing he can do. He says it's in my kidneys. I've maybe a month or so left, perhaps." She spoke in a light tone, like she was talking of today's menu for dinner.

"But what am I to do? Does it have something to do with the stones changing?"

"Yes, I think it does – it changed to gold when I got it from my grandfather. They were purple before that, I believe. The first thing we need to do is to see how the brooch will work through you. It's ancient, passed down from the Druids, we believe. The chants and ceremonies were druid to begin with, though it may have evolved since. Each person who guards it has a power, and it's different for each."

"And yours was telling the truth?"

Esme smiled, "Yes, I could tell if someone was lying to me or telling the truth. I could even tell if someone was withholding information from me, which makes things a lot easier, let me tell you. Sometimes I could even make someone change their feelings, but not always. It meant I could never stand living near my sister, convoluted snake as she is."

"And how do I find my own talent? Could it have to do with dreams?"

"Dreams? What sort of dreams?"

"All sorts. I've had them since I can remember. Battles, legends, gods, heroes, that sort of thing. They are incredibly vivid, and often disturbing."

"Hmmm. Well, I shouldn't think so, as you've had them all your life. Likely you are just finely attuned to the myths and such. And our family does have a connection with the faery realm. It might even be we have faery blood somewhere down the line. No, it would be a talent you can do now that you couldn't before. In time, my dear, in time. In the interim, I shall teach you the lore and duties required of you."

A loud knock sounded at the front door. Maggie and Valentia looked at each other. Kevin wouldn't be looking for them already?

Murphy went to answer the door, and they heard angry voices in the hall.

"No, sir, you may not come in. Milady's not receiving visitors at this ridiculous hour."

"Out of my way, old man!"

Donal burst into the room, looking at the three ladies, wrapped in their cloaks. His eyes alighted on the brooch on the table between them.

"Aha! I knew it, you do have it."

Esme stood.

"Young man, what's the meaning of this outrage? You will leave this house immediately!" She stood to her full height of five feet, but her presence made her seem more imposing. She quivered in rage and indignation.

Valentia jumped up and tried to pull Donal towards the door. "What are you doing here? I am quite certain I sent you back home! Please, leave for now. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Donal's face twisted into an ugly grimace as he wriggled out of her grasp, returning to the table to point at the brooch. "Is this it? Is this what this has been all about? Th-this piece of ancient junk? Tramping all around the country, ingratiating myself to her with all of my being?" He looked at Esme, but pointed at Valentia.

"What?" Valentia couldn't believe her ears. Her stomach felt hollow with disbelief and horror.

He twirled on her, and she could see rage and frustration in his wild eyes.

"I tried, Valentia. I did try. I did love you, at first, but you rejected me. Eithne made me follow anyhow, and it rankled, it burned. I had to come. Eithne wouldn't take no for an answer, she couldn't. She wanted that damned brooch, and she didn't care what I had to lose to retrieve it." He was close to screaming now, sweat poured down his face despite the cool evening.

Valentia stepped back as if he had smacked her. She was stunned, shocked with incredulity.

"It had all been a sham? An act? The proposal, the kiss, everything? How could you do such a thing?"

"No, no, that was... at first that was true." A glimmer of his sweet self showed through, but it twisted into a frown. "It was true then. Now I've had to follow you about like a lovesick p-p-puppy, and I'm done with—" He grabbed Valentia's shoulders and was shaking her with each word

His face contorted further. "I killed a man for you!"

Her jaw snapped with each shake, and she sobbed in fear and pain.

Someone burst through the doorway, and they stood stunned as Aiden pushed his way past Murphy and into the room. Donal glared at him, then turned to meet this new threat. Aiden took the scene in and punched Donal on the jaw. Donal crumpled into a heap on the floor and the room fell silent.

Esme recovered first, calling Murphy to get her healing box.

"You, what's your name? Move him, carefully now, over here, away from the hearth. Valentia, fetch water from the kitchen, left down the hallway. Maggie, grab the cloak, I'll put it under his head."

Everyone scattered to their tasks, but Valentia stood numb. His betrayal was like a knife through the heart. She looked at him but did not see his unconscious body. She saw a sweet, young man on a green mountainside in Ardara, green eyes twinkling with laughter.

* * *

When Donal awoke the next morning, he was raving. He lashed out at anyone who was near, until they had to restrain him to the bed. The physician dosed him with laudanum to give him some rest, but wasn't hopeful. They made arrangements to admit him to an asylum in Ballinasloe, near Galway.

In the meantime, they took turns tending him. He did have some lucid moments, when he declared his undying love for Valentia, sobbing pathetically for her to forgive him. But then he turned to rage and violence, stabbing at whomever came near with whatever he had at hand. If he could find no object, he raked with his fingers.

Late that night, Valentia was dozing in the chair next to Donal's bed. She woke with a start at some noise, but she could see nothing to cause it. She looked at Donal, and put her hand on his forehead.

It was clammy.

Donal opened his eyes, and she drew her hand back, in case he should be in one of his violent spells. He simply smiled at her, a sad smile, full of regrets.

"Valentia, my dear Valentia..."

"Shh, Donal. There's no need to—"

"I m-m-must, though. I am so sorry for all I've done. For all that Eithne m-made me do. I would take it all back if I could. Please... I know you cannot love me know, but could you, perhaps someday, forgive me?"

She looked into his eyes, grey in the dim candlelight. Her breath caught as she tried to speak, so she simply nodded, and placed her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and a single tear dripped down his cheek into his pillow. Eventually, he slept again.

Valentia felt the hot burn of tears rip through her eyes, and her throat closed with grief. She did her best to muffle her sobs, so as not to wake the house, but they crashed through her with abandon.

What if she had accepted his proposal in Ardara? He might not be mad now, and none of this would have happened. Another life lost to her mad quest. But she had found the brooch, and her great-aunt, in the end.

Was it worth it?

They took Donal away to the asylum the next day, with Aiden escorting him.

Maggie, Kevin and Valentia moved into the house as well, getting to know Esme. Valentia explained to her great-aunt about Katie's situation, so the woman sent for her to be brought.

They sat in the drawing room, a week later, making plans.

"The house is willed to you now, my dear. Please take care of my dear Katie. Perhaps she will recover her wits somewhat when she has a better place to live."

"I do hope so. She looked as if she had once been such a pretty girl."

"She was. Perhaps she will be again. She was never robust, not like you. She was full of dreams. Not the kind that make grand adventures, but the kind that made you waste your life away with silliness. Which was why she had never been a good candidate for the brooch. But she was a sweet thing." Esme looked out of the window, lost in memory for a while.

Valentia wrote to her parents, telling of her adventures. She mentioned finding Esme, but not the brooch. She was unwilling to let anyone know it still existed, after the fiasco with Donal. Her guilt burned within her, squirming and writhing. How had she read him so wrong? He had seemed a dear lad. Such a shame his grandmother had twisted him so.

They also made plans for Kevin and Maggie to get married, which was to happen a week after Donal was taken away. It turned out neither had to convert. They did, however, have to go to a couple of sessions with both the priest and the minister, speaking about their beliefs and expectations. Both clergy agreed they were a good match, but it would have to be held in the rectory, not the church itself.

They tried to figure out what Valentia's gift from the faeries might be, but with no results. She couldn't move stuff with her mind, or tell when folks spoke lies. She had no persuasive powers, or precognition which she could see. Esme entreated her to have patience, but patience was difficult.

The big day dawned bright but cold. The wind was silent for once, for which Valentia was ever grateful. Never again would she feel the tendrils of wind without thinking of the beautiful yet tragic night at the stones.

Valentia had done her best with Maggie's hair, but she had no skills there. Esme had tsk-tsked at her and taken over the job with alacrity. She swept Maggie's red curls up into an elaborate bun at the top, arranging tiny blossoms here and there. She finished off the creation with a simple string of pearls. The results made them all smile.

"You are stunning, lass. You will make that young man a fine wife." Valentia thought she saw a tear glitter in her great-aunt's eye. Her own prickled with emotion. "Now don't you cry, missy. You don't want your eyes red for your own wedding."

The parish rectory had vines of ivy all along the edge of the walls, as Maggie came down the aisle, resplendent in her simple blue dress, the blue flowers glittering in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

When Kevin looked back to her, his face glowed with delight and love. Valentia welcomed her tears when they returned. She could no longer hold them back, feeling like the mother of the bride.

* * *

Valentia had arranged for the honeymoon couple to spend time at an inn out in the country, a manor house which abandoned and then made into a sort of sightseeing spot. It overlooked the ocean, far from the bustle of town.

While they were gone, Katie arrived, delivered like a distasteful package by Murphy. He had tried to get her to bathe, but she had been violent in her refusals.

Valentia took her in, installing her in a bedroom with bright, wide windows to let the sunlight in. She could still remember the awful dim hut she had found Katie in. With a warm copper bath, she did her best to sponge off the woman. She stunk of rotten fish and old waste. Valentia stripped off Katie's disgusting rags, kicking them out of the door for Murphy to dispose of. She sponged the woman with soapy water. Katie froze, not moving a muscle unless someone made her. She tried to wash the woman's ratty, matted hair, but only succeeded in dribbling soapy water over it. She decided trying to dry it with a towel would be futile, so she made sure the water ran clear, for now. Later she would tackle it again.

For now, she dressed Katie in a clean, white lacy robe, and brought her to the bed. She had her lie down, covering her with clean quilts. A smile came over Katie's dreamy face, and she slept. Valentia put her hand on the woman's shoulder, experiencing a distinct tingle. She withdrew her hand, alarmed. She knew that tingle. Why would she tingle here, when there were no stones?

Perhaps this was her talent? What, to clean people? What an inane talent. She snorted in derision. If this was what she had inherited, she felt silly. She put her hand back on Katie's shoulder, feeling the tingle again. It grew, and she could sense it going from her fingers and into Katie's body. Tentacles reached into Katie's mind, down her muscles and bone, then back into Valentia. She shivered violently, then went dizzy for a moment, weak. She plopped into the chair next to the bed.

She tried to clear her head. She was confused, trying to make sense of what was happening. Why was she here? Where was here? It's clean and light. That's new. Of course it's clean and light, she was at her great-aunt's house. She had jumped into Katie's madness for a while, and was back now, she hoped.

Valentia glanced at the woman again, touching her shoulder, but nothing happened, no tingling. Just her imagination, then. Nevertheless, she should tell Esme. Her great-aunt had made her promise to tell her when anything happened related to the brooch, and the tingling was certainly related.

Leaving Katie to her rest, she descended into the drawing room and found Esme reading a novel. "What's happened? I can see something did, you know."

"My hands tingled when I placed them on Katie's shoulder, after she went to sleep. It... sort of went into her and into me. Then I was dizzy and confused, as if I was her, then I returned to myself."

Esme looked thoughtful for several long moments. She placed her book on the side table and came to Valentia. She took the younger woman's hand and placed it on her own shoulder.

"Try it again. Whatever you did."

"I don't know what I did, it just happened."

"Well, let it happen again."

Valentia closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, sending whatever it had been, out into Esme's body. She experienced a little tingling, but not as much as she had with Katie. She opened her eyes.

"Well?"

Esme considered. "I sensed power. Perhaps you have the healing touch? Have you had the tingling before?"

"Just at the stones, I told you about those experiences. Especially the one the day I met you." Valentia shuddered in memory. Esme had explained the stones were attuned to Esme at the time. Therefore, they saw Valentia as an invader, an interloper, so had rejected her. They wouldn't do it again, but Valentia retained her doubts.

If she could heal – perhaps she could help Esme and Donal? But her heart sank at Esme's next words.

"Well, I doubt it's strong enough to heal my kidney issues. None of the powers are particularly exceptional. My grandfather could move things with his mind, but only items about a pound or less in weight. None of us will be world-shakers or empresses due to this brooch. But a light healing touch could prove quite useful, particularly now in Ireland."

"Healing? But the people are starving, not sick. I could do as much with my useless letters." Valentia gave a short, sharp laugh at her own futile efforts there.

"Starvation brings its own illness, making people, especially children and the elderly, more susceptible to disease. Bloody flux, rashes, scurvy, dropsy, all come along with starvation. Even sore throats, minor inconveniences to a healthy lad, can kill a starving child. If you are a healer, you can help a lot."

This gave Valentia a lot to think on. She could make Esme's house her base, traveling out and about, from village to village, helping heal the ill. It made her sound like a crusading hero, and she snorted at her own idealism. But perhaps, just perhaps, she could make a small difference, after all.

Chapter Twenty

Reckoning

Three days later, Esme took a turn for the worse. She fell into an almost comatose state, and the physician said she was in her last days.

Previously, Esme had refused Valentia's offer to try to heal her.

"All magic comes at a price, Valentia. I know this well from my own experience. For many years, I eschewed using it at all, for exactly that reason. I'm dying, my dear."

"But can't I at least try? Perhaps it is simple after all, and I could fix it!"

Esme sighed.

But now, as her great-aunt lie in bed, unconscious to the world, Valentia defied her wishes and laid her hands on the tiny, wizened body.

Her blood tingled again, which encouraged her. But this time the sensation was much stronger than it had been with Katie. The tingle traveled up her fingers and arms, and clutched at her heart. It squeezed and throbbed. Pain followed, as if someone punched her in her lower back, and she collapsed to the floor.

Murphy rushed in at the noise, and lifted her to the chair.

"Mistress Valentia? What happened?"

She couldn't answer. Her muscles wouldn't listen to her commands, and that frightened her. The world spun, and that was the last she remembered for a long time.

* * *

Esme roused with the sunlight warm on her face. She heard delightful music, birds singing outside the window. It reminded her of a time long ago, and a picnic with her long-dead husband, Sean.

Sitting up straight, she looked around, panicked. No, she was at her own home. Her breathing eased, and her vivid memories of the past faded into their proper place.

She wasn't in pain. She felt better than she had for several years. What had happened? She remembered arguing with Valentia, and then nothing. Only sleep and disturbing dreams.

Putting on her dressing gown, she padded down the hall and into the main sitting room. No one was about.

"Murphy? Murphy, where are you! Valentia? Katie?"

"Mistress Esme? What are you doing up and about? You should be in bed!" Her butler sounded shocked at her mobility.

"Nonsense. I've not felt better in years. Where's Valentia? Where's Katie?"

He looked peaked. "Mistress Katie is out in the garden, doing no harm. Mistress Valentia..."

"What is it? Things are wrong. What?"

"She's fallen ill, Mistress Esme. She's in her room. The physician has seen her, but he's baffled."

She didn't wait for Murphy to finish his explanation, but ran up the stairs—where did this energy come from? —and to her grand-nieces' room.

Valentia looked like a shadow of her former, vibrant self. She lay like the dead on a cloud of comforters and pillows. Her hands were ice cold to the touch.

"Bloody, bloody hell. Murphy!"

"Mistress Esme?" The butler's voice came closer as he poked his head into the doorway.

"How long has she been like this?"

"About two days, ever since she argued with you."

She added a few more colorful and unladylike expressions, which made Murphy blush and blink several times.

"We have to get her to the stones. Now."

"But Mistress Esme, it's broad daylight!"

"I don't give a rat's arse about the time of day, Murphy. Get me a blanket we can carry her in. We don't have much time."

It took enlisting Pat's help, but they managed to get the limp form of Valentia bundled up

They made a curious procession, and drew not a few stares. However, Esme was well-liked in the community, so no outcry was made. Yet.

The stones were oddly cold, though the late afternoon sun was warm. She had Murphy lay Valentia in the center of the circle while she walked the perimeter. She held the brooch up as she walked, hoping against hope none of their curious observers would come and see what was going on. The hedges around the circle were high, but anyone could look into the few open spaces around the circle.

A storm was rising in the west. She hoped it was a good sign.

The last time she had done this sort of thing was so many years ago. What if the faeries were no longer listening to her? She had passed on the power of the brooch to Valentia, after all. The winking blue gems bore witness to that. The buzzing and tingling within her toes and fingers reassured her, and she completed her circle with growing confidence.

"Le do thoil, Daoine Sídhe, cabhrú liom anois"

Tentatively at first, she repeated the plea for help twice more. The final time, she held the brooch in her hands and faced the still form of her grand-niece in the center of the circle. She could feel that horrible, sickening feeling in her stomach, and knew she had not yet been forsaken.

Memories of her last trip intruded on her senses, resulting in a jumble of impressions. Unearthly light came from all around, shining on everything. Apple trees stood where the hedges had been, and she saw the creature coming towards her.

Fighting her urge to step back, Esme stood with the brooch held out like a warding talisman. She froze in fear. While she had met this creature once before, it had not been an experience she was eager to repeat.

Looking at him directly was difficult. He shone with an inner light, blurring the edges of his form. The light sparkled, crackling in the now still air. Esme's hair stood on end as she peered into the brilliance. Still, she could make out long, curly dark hair and flowing robes. She couldn't muster the courage to look into his eyes.

"Cén fáth a bhfuil tú ag teacht?"\- Why have you come?

She answered in Irish. It would have been an insult to answer his query in English.

"Tháinig mé chun leighis" —I came for healing.

"Cad a bheidh tú ag íoc?"

What would she pay? She had known there would be a price, but had no idea what she might offer that the fairy might value.

"Cad ba mhaith leat?"- What do you want?

The creature hesitated, thinking. If he didn't already know what he wanted, then perhaps she could bargain.

"Ba mhaith linn leat."

Her? They wanted her? But for what? He must have sensed her confusion.

"Ní mór duit teacht beo le linn."

Living in the Otherworld. She was old, and near death herself. Surely to live in the Otherworld would be better. And Valentia's life depended on her answer. The girl was young, and had many years before her. Esme was old, and had lived well.

She nodded acceptance, but shivered at the prospect.

"Abair é!"- Say it.

"Beidh mé ag teacht beo le leat."\- I will go with you.

The bargain was struck. There was no backing out now. A piece pulled out of herself, a familiar ripping, tearing of the fabric in her soul. It didn't hurt, precisely, but a vital part of her was gone. Perhaps the last remaining human part of her.

"Tá tú lá amháin."

Esme found herself back in the stone circle. The light was gone, and Valentia moaned on the ground. Esme wanted to moan herself. The faery had warned her she had but one day. One day to tidy up her life, to tell Valentia her efforts hadn't been for naught. One day to prepare for a life of eternity in the Otherworld.

* * *

Esme faded away the next morning. She had prepared everything long ago. Valentia felt cheated, as she had had so little time to spend with her great-aunt, only a few short weeks. However, Esme had given her one more gift before she had passed on. She showed Valentia the hidden room which housed her journals.

There were hundreds, each a daily account of Esme's life. They offered precious insight into the woman she had grown to love in such a short time.

Murphy offered to stay on to help Valentia, calling her the new Queen of the Castle. Pat, Kevin and Maggie helped out, and they became a cohesive little family. Katie grew stronger, though she was never the woman her mother had been. She could at least rise and have tea, and discovered she had a love of gardening. She was happy among her vegetables and flowers, finding the peace she had lost on the sea in Achill Sound.

Aiden returned to Dublin, but kept in touch with Valentia and her Crusaders, as he called them. He never spoke of the incident with Donal, and Valentia never brought it up.

Word came, through rumor and gossip. Eithne had also passed away, not long after Esme had—gone away. Valentia wondered if there had been a stronger connection between the twins than either had been aware of, or Eithne died of the same failing that had killed Esme.

Valentia healed the sick, where she could. Not all of them would accept her help, as many distrusted her and her companions. Word spread, though, of the conjure woman, the healer, the white lady.

She visited the stones sometimes, feeling slight tingles of recognition from them. The sensation was warm now, a recognition of a kindred soul, a willing vessel.

One afternoon, as she was sitting in the circle, she heard a noise outside. Kevin was arguing with someone. He insisted on accompanying her to the stones, never wholly trusting them to leave her sensible. She appreciated the protection, but was certain it was no longer needed. She rose to go see what the kerfuffle was about.

Kevin was being yelled at by several men, arranged around him in a semi-circle. They were dirty, but their clothes were well-mended, if old. One had a disreputable slouch hat on his head, apparently the ringleader of whatever this was.

As soon as she appeared through the tree gate, he pointed at her, and her spine grew cold.

"That's her!" They advanced as Kevin ran to shield her from what was becoming a mob. More people were gathering, attracted by the yelling. Kevin stood, stalwart and strong, between her and the men. Some had picked up small stones from the street. They would hurt if they were flung.

Kevin whispered to her, fierce with worry, "We've got to run, Mistress Val. There're too many of them."

"We can't go through the stone park, there's no opening on the other side."

"Fine, we'll go to my left. On the count of one, two... three!" They darted past the one startled man, as he belatedly hefted his stone at their retreating figures, missing by a foot. Others threw their stones, but Kevin and Valentia were already well out of range.

They ran until their sides ached, only resting when they were safe back in the Rose Cottage, as Valentia had come to call it.

"Kevin, what was all that about, might I ask?" Valentia said when she had recovered her breath.

"They called you a witch, Mistress Val."

"Well, I suppose they do have a point, after all. Perhaps I should slow down on my healing."

"I think it's a mite too late for that. They'll have the town roused about it, as you saw. We might have to leave."

"Leave? But I can't leave Katie here. What... where would I go?"

"Murphy could take care of Katie, if you asked, I think. And perhaps we could go to Donegal?"

Valentia reflected on it. She had imagined herself here for the rest of her life, living out her years as her aunt had, enjoying the countryside and helping those in need. Donegal? Take over her other aunt's domain?

"I suppose it's an idea. Do you think we can wait until the morning? Or should I have Pat set up the horses now?"

They heard voices outside, and an angry shout.

"I think we should go now, Mistress Val. I'll go tell Pat, then fetch Father Healy. He should be able to diffuse the crowd for now, I hope. He could buy us a little time."

She nodded and he ran off. She went to let Maggie and Murphy know what was going on.

They both scrambled, and Valentia plopped down on the chair.

It wasn't fair. She had worked so hard to get here, and now she had to flee, tail between her legs, as if she'd done a wicked thing. She was trying to help people, was this so wicked? She tried to stop the self-pitying sobs which threatened to overtake her, but she lost the battle and sat, crying in her corner, until Maggie returned.

"Oh, Mistress Val, stop it, stop it." The little maid put her arms around her Mistress, petting her like a lapdog, trying to dry her tears with her skirts.

"It's just so... unfair! Why can't I just stay h-h-h-here." she sobbed harder.

"Shhhh, you're stronger than this. You survived Eithne, the Atlantic Ocean, and you haven't even had a malaria attack since you got here. You will beat this, too."

This brought Valentia up short. She hiccupped a couple times, saying, "You know, you're r-right. I've not gotten the fever in - hic \- weeks. C-could I have healed myself?"

Maggie shrugged. "Why not? It would be a poor Faery Woman who couldn't heal herself, now, wouldn't it?"

This earned her a wan smile, "I'm no Faery woman. Nor am I a witch, despite those ignorant idiots out there."

"That's more like it. I see your fire again." Maggie beamed at her recovery.

Father Healy arrived, and they filled him in on the events of the day.

He scratched his head. "I'm not certain I can be much help. They aren't all that fond of me, you know. I'm a recent transplant, still considered an outsider."

Valentia said, "Father, you're our only hope. We've just got to have enough time to pack what we need and get out of town. Just about an hour or so. Do you think you can delay them that long?" She stole a glance out the window, but no one appeared outside. They knew where she lived, though. It wouldn't be long before they showed up.

He took a deep breath, and looked at Maggie and Kevin in turn. "I'll do what I can, my children. But don't tarry."

They worked fast, almost as if they had choreographed a dance, getting the bare essentials. They took few provisions, just irreplaceable things. The brooch, of course, some of Esme's more precious items, her own journals and keepsakes. The rest would have to be left to fate and the mob.

The murmurs of voices outside told them they had run out of time.

Father Healy walked outside, and spoke in a placating voice. "Children, what brings you to this house on this day?"

No one was willing to answer at first, just a few growls and whispers. Then one man, the smith, spoke up.

"We've come to burn the witch!"

"Witch? There is no witch here."

"She is a witch! She is casting spells all around the countryside! We have proof!"

While the priest talked to the crowd, Kevin and Pat packed the carriage out back. The horses were already hooked up, and stamping their feet in reaction to the charged mood.

Valentia couldn't make out the words any longer, but she could hear the pitch rising. They must leave now.

As silently as they could, they climbed into the carriage with the last bits of baggage they had gathered. With a soft click of his tongue, Pat moved the horses. They would have to come around the house in sight of the crowd, but with luck, they would have enough momentum by then to escape the people. The curtains were closed on the carriage, to keep them out of sight.

Luck wasn't with them.

Valentia heard Father Healy say, "There's no reason at all to be so angry, good people. Why don't we all go and pray?" as they came around the corner. One woman, the baker's wife, spied them and set up a cry.

The crowd surged towards them as Pat let out a whoop, cracked the reins on the horses, and set them to gallop. The rattling of the carriage almost cracked Valentia's teeth, but she held on tight as they pushed through the milling mob. The wheels bumped high, and she hoped they hadn't run over anyone.

Some time later, they slowed, far beyond the centre of town. That had been much too close.

* * *

Their journey to Donegal was much the same as the way down. They encountered a couple desperate people, looking for food, which they offered if they had it. Kevin and Pat were sufficient to ward off any who tried for more. Supplies were almost impossible to obtain at any price, so they made sure to travel by way of larger cities. More options were available, especially when they stayed near the coast for fish.

Valentia insisted they stop in Galway to see Donal on the way. She was granted reluctant access as a relative, but wasn't allowed to see him without a guard present. He was strapped to his bed, and had lost a lot of weight. Donal was pale, unkempt and looked lost in the world. He was sweet and soft-spoken, but the guard assured her this wouldn't last.

"A right devil he is, Mistress. You don't want to be anywhere near when he goes off."

Swallowing an angry answer, she held Donal's hand, and tried to push her power into him. She could feel no tingling, no sensation of the faery magic. Try as she might, she couldn't affect any change in him.

"He's right, Valentia. You should go, and never come back. It's no good for you to see me like this." Donal spoke softly.

He seemed so normal, so desperately lonely. It broke her heart.

"Donal, please, think of me when you can. I shall think of you, and we might be together, in a way."

He started crying at that, and began to shudder.

"Time to go, Mistress. That's usually how it begins. Quickly, now." She was ushered out of the dismal cell.

* * *

Woodhill was an empty husk without the servants. They had all deserted when Eithne had died, as no one knew where Donal had gone. After explaining what had happened, Reverend Gallagher helped them get installed in the large house, agreeing she would be the logical heir. While there were other, distant cousins around Ireland, she was present, and had the resources to keep it going. Being Protestant helped in the argument.

The Great Hunger, An Gorta Mór, continued to devastate the country, particularly in the west. While the poor Catholics starved alongside the roads, the English landlords continued to take what food grew to export. A few tried to do the right thing, but the vast majority had no care for their Irish tenants, and greed overcame humanity on a massive scale. Hundreds of thousands of Irish died, emigrated, or went to the workhouses.

Valentia worked to establish herself, being more discreet in her healing services. She didn't wish a recurrence of the ugly incident in Kenmare. She couldn't do any major magic, just a nudge here and there. She couldn't cure the hunger, but she could keep the secondary diseases from killing, at least. It gave her a bit of solace.

Once she had settled in, she sent for Murphy and Katie, so they could all be together. The house in Kenmare they kept, though, in case they could return one day. Kenmare was so much a happier, cozier place than Woodhill. Valentia saw it as a winter retreat, perhaps.

Murphy, Katie, Maggie and Kevin moved in with her, though Pat decided to move down to Donegal Town, to live with his sister, Annie. He came to visit occasionally, bringing Molly and Missy when he did. Katie continued to thrive, practically living in her garden. When she couldn't be outside playing with her flowers, Valentia taught her to paint. Watercolors were her favorite.

Valentia came to realize her quest was, indeed, complete. She had come to Ireland to find the brooch, to find her family, and perhaps to find herself. She had found all of these. She discovered Maggie was both family and dear friend, neither of which she had known when she set out. She had had her family with her all along.

Had it all been worth it? Her innocence, her optimism—these all seemed a small price to pay for her happiness, in the end. She had been brave, like her grandmother before her, after all. She had found the source of all those tales, and had a grand adventure herself, like the heroes and gods in the stories.

In the family graveyard, she had erected a stone for her dear brother, Conor, so he might have a place on land to call home, to rest his soul, in the land of his ancestors, if not his bones. She visited often.

She had been able to heal herself, and her malaria never returned. She continued to write her letters, entreating the powers that be to take a greater interest in the plight of the hungry. As part of this, she kept in touch with O'Brien and Aiden, and even, occasionally, Mitchel. Even more occasionally, he wrote back a short but treasured note.

Epilogue

1895, Ardara, County Donegal, Ireland

Valentia sat in the solar, painting the mountains behind the house as the light shone across the green waves of countryside. The aromatic peat fire was built high, as she couldn't work in the cold. It ate into her bones, at her age.

She heard a high-pitched shriek outside, and watched, smiling, as Maggie and Kevin's two young grandchildren, Fionna and Ishobeal, ran through the garden.

Kevin came in with the post from the village, so put her brushes down.

"What delights have you brought today, Kevin?"

"Just the newspaper. Nothing from your family, yet, but I'm sure your brother will write back soon."

The last letter from her brother, Eamon, had hinted her mother was failing. She missed her with an aching need, but knew there was nothing she could do to help. It wasn't a disease, simply incredible old age. She wished she could be there, see her once more, but she would never arrive in time.

She picked up the newspaper Kevin had brought from town, reading the headline. A slow, satisfied smile came across her face.

With great satisfaction and pride, she saw Home Rule had passed in the House of Commons. It still needed to pass the House of Lords, but it was a beginning. Both Mitchel and O'Brien had passed many years before, so she was the last of the triad. She had never ceased her campaigning and liked to think she had a small part to play in this bit of history.

Perhaps Ireland would now get a say in its own administration. And not before time.

ABOUT CHRISTY NICHOLAS

Christy Nicholas, also known as Green Dragon, has her hands in many crafts, including digital art, beaded jewelry, writing, and photography. In real life, she's a CPA, but having grown up with art all around her (her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother are/were all artists), it sort of infected her, as it were. She loves to draw and to create things. She says it's more of an obsession than a hobby. She likes looking up into the sky and seeing a beautiful sunset, or seeing a fragrant blossom or a dramatic seaside. She takes a picture or creates a piece of jewelry as her way of sharing this serenity, this joy, this beauty with others. Sometimes this sharing requires explanation – and thus she writes. Combine this love of beauty with a bit of financial sense and you get an art business. She does local art and craft shows, as well as sending her art to various science fiction conventions throughout the country and abroad.

* * *

Get in touch with Christy Nicholas:

Website (http://www.greendragonartist.com)

Facebook (<https://www.facebook.com/greendragon9>)

Facebook GreenDragonAuthor (<http://www.facebook.com/greendragonauthor>)

LinkedIn (<http://www.linkedin.com/in/greendragon9>)

Tirgearr Publishing (<http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Nicholas_Christy>)

OTHER BOOKS BY CHRISTY NICHOLAS

THE HIDDEN GUIDES

Do you find yourself drawn to the magic of the Emerald Isle or Scotland? Would you like to see places beyond the typical tourist traps? Come, join me on a journey through the mists of legend, into the hidden places of mystery. Immerse yourself in the legends and myths, the history that has made this island precious in the hearts and minds of millions. Along with the tales and history, there is practical information on planning your trip, budgeting your costs, and finding the best places to while away the magical hours of your holiday.

IRELAND: MYTHICAL, MAGICAL, MYSTICAL

A Guide to Hidden Ireland

Released: June 2013

ISBN: 9781301520725

The Mythical Facet – History and Myth-tery

The Magical Facet – The Fair Folk

The Mystical Facet – Gods and Saints

The Personal Facet – Friendly Folk

The Musical Facet – A Song and Dance

The Stunning Facet – Photo opportunities

The Tasty Facet – Irish Fare

The Practical Facet – How do I...?

The Frugal Facet – Budgets, Discounts, and Deals

The Hidden Facet – Undiscovered Places

SCOTLAND: STUNNING, STRANGE, SECRET

A Guide to Hidden Scotland

Released: November 2014

ISBN: 9781311036391

History and Myth

Superstitions and Beliefs

Gods and Saints

Highland Hospitality

Ceilidhs and Flings

Stunning Shots

Haggis and Cullen Skink

Plans and Mechanics

Discounts and Deals

Hidden Gems

