“Bollocks,” he began, but she shook her head.
“My own parents couldn’t. Is that them, or is it me? Who knows, but if they can’t, and there’s been no one until Boyle I wanted, deep down, to make that connection to, I can’t blame him. If it’s me, I have to work on me. And I have been. I’m a classic work-in-progress.”
“You’re wrong, about the connection, or anything about it being you. You’re as easy to love as a summer morning. If we weren’t cousins, I’d marry you myself.”
She laughed at that, touched. Then sent him a sultry, sidelong stare. “We’re distant cousins.”
“Cousins all the same.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “And it’s too odd and tangled for that.”
“Too bad, because you’re so pretty.”
“I’ll say the same right back to you.”
He opened the door to the workshop, gave his arm an exaggerated sweep to usher her in. Then sniffed the air.
“Ginger biscuits, and what a fine welcome home.”
“Have some and your tea, as we’ve work to make up.”
At the counter Branna poured white liquid wax into a clear jar, already weighted with a long white wick. Iona wondered how Connor scented the ginger over the summer fragrance of hydrangea.
“How did it all go then?” Branna asked as she tipped up the pan, moved down to the next jar.
“First day down, and not too bad.”
“She thinks she’s unlovable.” Connor spoke over a mouthful of cookie.
“Oh bollocks.”
“I didn’t say that, don’t think that. I meant—never mind.” She grabbed a cookie for herself. “Do you need help with those?”
“I’m about done, but you can help me with the labels and wick trimming later on. I’ve made dozens as we were running low, and the tourists come thicker in spring than in winter. Have your tea. We’ll work twice as much today for working not at all yesterday.”
“I’m ready.”
“She’s after astral projection,” Connor put in.
“Astral projection, is it?” Pursing her lips, Branna studied Iona. “It wasn’t what I had in mind, but well, why not? It’s a fine skill to have.”
With the last jar filled, she left them cooling on the rack, pulled off the white bib apron she’d worn to protect her poppy red sweater from drips and spills.
“It’s not the same as the active dreaming you’ve done, but not so very different. Have you been practicing your meditating?”
Iona winced. “Probably not as much as I should. My mind always wants to go somewhere.”
“Training your mind’s part of it. Training it, quieting it, and as I’ve said, focusing it. Here, bring your tea to the fire. You should be relaxed in body and mind and spirit.”
Iona obeyed, and Kathel stirred from his nap to lay a paw on her foot in hello.
“Just watch the fire, have your tea. You like the taste of it, and the biscuit. Quiet breathing. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause. You can smell the peat fire, and the candles just poured, the herbs hanging to dry.”
“Rosemary especially.”
“Sure it’s a favorite. You hear your breath go in and out, and Kathel’s tail swishing against the floor, the crackle of the fire, and the sound of my voice. It’s soothing, all soothing. The touch of my hand, and Kathel’s paw. Soothing all, so you can drift a bit, float a bit. Quiet and peaceful.”
“But I—”
“Trust me. I’ll be with you this first time, take you this first time. See where you want most to go, see it in the fire, see it in your mind.”