“As we did. The light drove him back—Eamon’s and mine joined, then the girls.”
“He screamed,” Meara remembered. “It didn’t sound like an animal, but a man.”
“Balancing between worlds, and forms. It’s catching him when he steps off on one or the other, I think. It’s near dawn. It’ll be an ugly business, but I’m waking Branna. I’ll leave it to you to ring up the others. This is something to share with all and straightaway.”
But first he cupped her face in his hands as he had in the dreaming time. “Don’t be so fucking brave next time, for the next time might kill me where I stand.”
“He was just a boy, Connor, and straight in its path. And he looks like you, or you look like him. The shape of the face,” she added, “his mouth, his nose, even the way he stands.”
“Is that so?”
“Harder to see it yourself, I’d think, but it’s very so. I’ll ring Iona, then she’ll be in charge of waking Boyle, who can wake Fin.”
“All right.” He ran his hands through her hair, long and waving as he’d released it from its braid the night before. “Whoever gets downstairs first puts on the bleeding coffee.”
“Agreed.” Because she could see the worry in his eyes still, she leaned in to kiss him. “Go on, you’ve got the worst job between us in waking Branna when the sun’s barely up.”
“Have the first-aid kit ready.” He rolled out of bed, yanked on his pants.
As he left, Meara reached over for her phone, and saw the bluebell. Thinking of Teagan, so like the girl Iona must have been, she rose, fetched a glass of water from the bathroom, set the bulb in it.
For Sorcha, she thought, then called Iona.
She made it down first, did her duty with the coffee. She considered making oatmeal, the only breakfast meal she had a decent enough hand with. And Connor nearly always scorched the eggs if he had charge of breakfast.
She was spared when Branna came in. Her friend wore blue and green striped flannel pants with a thin green top. She’d tied a little blue sweater over it, and that somehow matched the thick socks on her feet.
Her hair spilling free to her waist, Branna marched straight for the coffee. “Don’t talk to me, not a word, until I’ve had my coffee. Put some potatoes on the boil, and when they’re soft enough, chip them up for frying.”
She drank the coffee black rather than adding the good dose of cream that was her usual.
“I swear an oath, there’s a time coming soon when I’ll not step near a stove for a month.”
“You’ll have earned it. I’m not talking to anyone in particular,” Meara said quickly as she scrubbed potatoes in the sink. “Just making some general observations.”
“Bloody Cabhan,” Branna muttered, as she pulled things from the fridge. “I’ll kill him with my own hands, I swear another oath, for forcing me to see so many sunrises. The eggs are going scrambled, and whoever doesn’t like it doesn’t have to eat them.”
Wisely, Meara said nothing, but put the potatoes on the boil.
Muttering all the while, Branna put on sausage, started on the bacon, sliced bread from the loaf for toast.
Then downed more coffee.
“I want to see your side.”
Meara stopped herself from saying she was fine, simply lifted up her shirt.
Branna laid her fingers on it—how did she know the exact spot—probed for a moment. Meara felt heat slide in, and out again.
Then Branna met her eyes, just moved in and wrapped around her tight.
“It’s healed perfectly. Damn it, Meara. Damn it.”
“Don’t start now. I’ve had it from Connor already. You’d think I’d been gutted instead of getting a bit of a swipe.”
“What do you think he was aiming for if not your guts?” But Branna stepped back, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Breathed deep before she dropped them again.
“All right then. Let’s get this bloody breakfast on. Connor Sean Michael O’Dwyer! Get your arse down here and do something with this breakfast besides eat it.”