“He’s not.”
“But . . . Branna said—”
“Blood ties, curses, and devil’s marks.” Connor shrugged them off like an old jacket.
“Is he Cabhan’s descendant?”
“That he is. I’d like to know who doesn’t have a twisted branch on his family tree. Coming from something doesn’t make it what you are. You’ve choices, don’t you? You’ve made your own. Fin makes his own, that’s God’s truth, as does our Branna. She’s my sister, and as important to me as my next breath. And Fin’s my friend, as he’s been all of my life. So I walk that line, and it’s fortunate I’ve good balance.”
“You don’t think he’s evil.”
Connor paused long enough to draw her to his side, brush his lips on the top of her head with an easy affection that warmed her to the bone. “I think evil comes in too many forms to count. Fin’s not one of them. As for Alastar being his? Buying something doesn’t make it yours as you can keep it, lose it, give it away. It’s you who connected with the horse, isn’t it?”
“I guess that’s true. You trust him, I can see that. But Branna doesn’t.”
“She’s conflicted, you could say, which she is on little else. He’ll be back when he’s a mind to, then you can decide for yourself where you stand on it.”
“You were boys together? You and Fin and Boyle.”
“Still are.”
She laughed, but felt a little pang with it. “I don’t have any lifelong friends. We moved when I was about six, then my parents split up when I was ten, so another move, and a lot of back and forth, and other moves when each of them remarried. It’s nice, I think, to have friends you grew up with.”
“Friends are friends whenever you make them.”
“You’re right. I like that.”
He took her hand again, gestured with the other as they came into the village. “There you have the ruins of Cong Abbey. It’s a fine ruin for all that, and the tourists come to wander around it, though most come to Cong for the Quiet Man.”
“Nan loves that movie. I watched it again myself before I came.”
“We’ve a festival in September to commemorate the film. It’s grand. Maureen O’Hara herself came two years back. She’s still a rare beauty. Regal and real all at once.”
“Did you get to meet her?”
“For a moment I did. Sure it was a fine moment. You didn’t get your village tour today?”
“No, but there’s plenty of time. I feel like I’ve been here. From everything Nan’s told me,” she explained. “And her photos, the guidebook. It’s just like I imagined.”
The pretty shops and pubs and restaurants, the little hotel, the flowers in pots and window boxes tipped down the road in the shadow of the ruined abbey. Though the shops were closed, the pubs were open, and a scatter of people strolled along the narrow sidewalks.
“Where’s Branna’s shop?”
“Around the corner, there, down a bit next to the tea shop. She’ll be closed now, but I’ve a key if you want to see it.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have a day off, I assume.”
“Sure you’ll have your day off. Boyle, he’ll work you hard enough, but not to the bone.”
They walked down, against the rise of the road, and she lifted her face, happy to feel the cool air on her skin. “Is that . . . Is it peat I smell?”
“Sure it is. Nothing like a peat fire on an evening, and a pint to go with it. And here, we’ll have both.”
He opened a door, nudged her in.
The yeasty smell of beer pouring from the tap, the earthy scent of peat simmering in the hearth—yes, Iona thought, there was nothing like it. Peop
le claimed stools at the hub of the bar, or sat at tables already into their meal. Their voices hummed over the clink of glassware.