“She’s a plan, make no mistake.” And trusting it, Connor shoved the blade of the shovel into the rain-softened ground. “Just what I wanted to be about this morning. Digging a hole for rat ashes in the bleeding rain.”
“I can help with that.” Calling on her lesson from the day before, Iona slid the rain back so the three of them stood in the warm, the dry.
“Very well done.” Branna shook back her damp hair, laid her hands on her hips as Connor dug. “That’ll do well enough. Dump them in, Iona. We’ve all three taken part in this, and the work’s stronger for it.”
“Then you can shovel the dirt back over them,” Connor suggested when Iona dumped the black ashes into the hole.
“You’re doing such a fine job, and I’ve my own to do when you’re done with it.”
“He’s watching,” Connor said quietly as he tossed dirt back into the hole. “I can just feel it.”
“I thought he might be. So much the better. Now this is mine.”
In her flannel pants, bare feet, her hair wet from the rain, Branna lifted her hands, palms up.
“Fire of white to purify, power of light to beautify. From Cabhan’s dark grasp I set you free. As I will, so mote it be.”
From the freshly turned earth flowers burst, bloomed, spread. A deep rainbow of colors shimmered in the gloom of morning, pretty shapes dancing in the light wind.
“It’s beautiful. It’s brilliant.” Iona clasped her hands together as the defiant palette glowed. “You’re brilliant.”
With a satisfied nod, Branna tucked her hair back. “I can’t say I disagree.”
“And there’s a fragrant stick up the arse for him.” Connor set the shovel on his shoulder. “I’m hungry.”
Beaming happy, Iona hooked arms with her cousins. “I’m cooking breakfast.”
“God help us, but I’m hungry enough myself I’ll risk it.”
Branna walked back with them, glancing back once. Right up the arse, she thought.
12
SHE ENJOYED THE NEW ROUTINE, WALKING WITH CONNOR IN THE MORNINGS, riding Alastar on the guideds, juggling in a few students, then having Boyle walk or drive her home again.
Late afternoons meant work and practice, and an additional hour at night for refining her skills.
The sun came out again, so the river sparkled with it. The loughs went to gleaming mirrors, and the green of the fields and hills only deepened under its shine through the puffs and layers of clouds streaming across the sky.
She could forget—almost—all that lay on the line, all yet to be faced. After all, she was having a romance.
Not one that included poetry and flowers, and her romantic sensibilities would have relished just that. But when your heart aimed toward a man like Boyle, you h
ad to learn to find poetry in brief words and long silences, and flowers in an unexpected mug of tea pushed into your hands or a quick nod of approval.
And who needed flowers when the man could kiss the breath out of her? Which he did in the green shadows of the woods, or in the disordered cab of his lorry.
Romance, a home, a steady paycheck, a magnificent horse she could call her own, and the new and brilliant understanding of her craft. If she just eliminated the threat of ancient evil, her life struck the top of the bell.
She finished her lesson with Sarah, both of them pleased with the progress.
“Your form’s really improving. We’re going to work more on changing leads, smoothing that out.”
“But when can we add another bar? I’m ready, Iona, I know it.”
“We’ll see how it goes next lesson.” Looking up into Sarah’s pleading eyes, Iona patted her mount’s neck. And remembered herself at that age. “I’ll tell you what. One bar up, one jump before you take Winnie in and tend to her.”
“You mean it! Oh, thanks! Thanks! This is brilliant.”