His mind went directly to food. “Guinness stew, is it?”
“It is, and a fine round of sourdough
bread with the poppy seeds you’re fond of.”
His eyes lit, then narrowed. “And what will I be doing to deserve it?”
“On your next free day I need you to work with me.”
“I will of course.”
“The magicks we made for the solstice . . . I was so certain it would work. But I missed something, just as Sorcha missed something when she sacrificed herself and poisoned Cabhan all that time ago. Every one of us since has missed something. We need to find what’s missed.”
“And we will. But you can’t leave us out of it, Branna. You didn’t miss, the whole of us did. Fin—”
“I know I have to work with him. I have, and I will.”
“Does it help to know he suffers as you do?”
“A little.” She leaned her head on his shoulder a moment. “Small of me.”
“Human of you. A witch is as human as any, as Da always told us.”
“So he did.”
For a few moment they sat quiet, side by side, as swords rang.
“Cabhan’s healing, isn’t he?” She said it quietly, just to him. “Gathering himself for the next. I feel . . . something in the air.”
“I feel it, too.” Connor watched, as she did, the deep green shadows of the woods. “As his blood, Fin would feel more. Is there stew enough for the whole of us?”
She sighed in a way that told him she’d already thought of it herself. “I suppose there is. Ask them,” she said as she rose, “and I’ll make sure of it.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “As human as any, and braver than most. That’s my sister.”
“The thought of Guinness stew’s made you sentimental.” But she gave his hand a squeeze before she went inside.
It wasn’t the stew, though Christ knew it didn’t hurt a thing. But he worried about her more than she knew.
Then Iona feinted left, spun, struck from the right, and it was Meara who stumbled, slipped, and landed on the wet grass.
Iona immediately let out a whoop, began to jump in circles, sword raised high.
“Well done, cousin!” he called out over Meara’s strong, throaty laugh.
Iona made a flourishing bow, then on a squeak, straightened fast as the flat of Meara’s sword slapped her ass.
“Well done indeed,” Meara told her. “But I could’ve sliced open your belly while you were dancing about in victory. Finish me off next time.”
“Got it, but just one more.” She whooped again, jumped again. “That should do it. I’ll put the swords away, and go brag to Branna.”
“That’s fair enough.”
Iona took the swords, waved them both high, did another bow for Connor, then dashed inside.
“You trained her well,” Connor commented as he rose to walk over and offer Meara what was left of his tea.
“Cheers to me.”