“The rose quartz on the wand, for it seems your power comes from your instincts—the belly—and then passes through the heart. Bloodstone on the sword for strength.”
“Stones of protection—physical and psychic—for the shield. Hematite for your spear tip, for confidence in your air.” Connor tapped a finger on it. “And the pentacle of copper, Sorcha’s chosen medium.”
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“The sword and shield have been passed down, blood to blood,” Branna told her. “The cup I found in a shop I favor, as Connor found the pentacle in another. So there’s a mix here of old and new.”
Tears she’d denied herself the night before wanted to rush up
now, from her heart. In sheer gratitude. “Thank you, more than I can say. It seems like so much, too much.”
“It’s not,” Branna corrected. “You must be armed for what’s coming.”
“I know. A sword.” Carefully, she drew it from its sheath. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“You will. Some will come through it to you.”
“Some,” Connor agreed. “And Fin can work with you, and Meara as well. She’s bloody good with a sword. Either Branna or I can help with the spear, but I think you’ll find the tool itself will fit your hand.”
“Once you’ve cleansed them, and recharged them,” Branna added. “That’s not for us to do. I think we’ll have dinner now. We can all use the break and the food. Then you’ll tend to them.”
“I’ll treasure them. Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated, taking Branna’s hand, then Connor’s, linking the three. “You’ve opened up my life in so many ways.”
“You’re part of ours. Come then, we’ll eat. I’ve prepared a special meal anticipating your success here. Bring your wine, as you’ve yet to drink it.”
“One day I’ll pay you back for all you’ve done.”
“It’s not a matter of payment, and can’t be.”
“You’re right. That was the wrong term. Balance. One day I’ll find the balance.”
She started on it by setting the table, and telling Connor he was banned from kitchen cleanup. He didn’t argue. Her mood, lifted from seeing Nan, from the gifts, went rising higher when she sampled the little feast Branna had prepared.
“God, this is so good! I know I’m hungry, but this is just amazing. I swear you could open your own restaurant.”
“That’s something I won’t be doing now, or ever. Cooking, like tools, is necessary. No reason it shouldn’t be good.”
“I wish mine was. I really have to learn.”
“Plenty of time for it, and more important things to learn now. Connor, Frannie at the shop tells me Fergus Ryan got drunk as two penny whores on holiday and walked into Sheila Dougherty’s house, thinking it was his own, stripped down to the skin and passed out on the living room sofa. Where a none-too-pleased Sheila Dougherty—she who’s about seventy-eight and mean as a rattlesnake—found him in the morning. What do you know of that?”
“I know of the black eye Fergus is sporting, and the knot raised on the back of his head from the whack of Mrs. Dougherty’s cane. And how he managed to grab only his boots and his aching head while trying to defend himself, and ran straight out with the old woman chasing him and flinging curses and whatever else came to hand.”
“I thought you would.” Branna picked up her wine. “Tell all.”
So the conversation turned to local gossip, business, stories. The kind of
meal, Iona would think as she dealt with dishes and pots, she’d had only rarely growing up, and had craved all the more from the lack.
So, like the gift of her tools, she’d treasure it, and all those that came.
For now, she tried to embrace the quiet, as Branna and Connor were upstairs or about somewhere on their own devices. She had work yet. The cleansing for tonight. And tomorrow she’d imbue and recharge what was now hers.
A good day, she congratulated herself. She’d gone to work, had her first face-to-face with Boyle, and gotten through it without humiliating herself.
Major points.
And she’d flown to Nan’s kitchen, a personal high point.