“We’ll work on that as well.”
“It seems we’ve plenty to be working on.” Boyle rose. “I’d say we have to start with clearing up Branna’s kitchen, and getting to the work that makes our living.”
“When will you be back from your shop business?” Fin asked Branna.
She’d hoped the divergence of talk had distracted him off that, and should have known better. More, she admitted, avoiding working with him couldn’t be done. Not for the greater good.
“I’ll be back by two.”
“Then I’ll be here at two.” He rose, picked up his plate to take it to the sink.
• • •
MAKING A LIVING HAD TO BE DONE, AND IN TRUTH, BRANNA enjoyed the making of hers. Once her house was empty and quiet, she went up to dress for the day, banked her bedroom fire to a simmer.
Down in her workshop she spent the next hour wrapping the fancy soaps she’d made the day before. Adding the ribbons and dried flowers to the bottles of lotions she’d already poured.
Candles she’d scented with cranberry she tucked into the fancy gift boxes she’d bought for the holiday traffic.
After a check of the list her manager had given her, she added salve, bath oil, various creams, noted down what needed replenishing, then began to carry boxes out to her car.
She’d intended to leave the dog home, but Kathel had other plans and jumped right in the car.
“After a ride, are you? Well, all right then.” After one last check, she slid behind the wheel, and took the short drive to the village of Cong.
The rain and the cold discouraged any tourists pulled to the area in December. She found the steep streets empty, the abbey ruins deserted. Like a place out of time, she thought, with a smile.
She loved it, empty in the rain, or full of people and voices on a fine day. While she sold straight out of her workshop from time to time—especially to those who might come in hoping for a charm or spell—she’d chosen to place her shop in the village where the tourists and locals could easily breeze in. And as she was ever practical, where they might exchange some euros for what she made herself.
She parked in front of the whitewashed building, the corner shop on the pretty side street where the Dark Witch was housed.
Kathel jumped out behind her, waited patiently despite the rain while she unloaded the first box of stock. She elbowed open the door to a cheery ring of bells, walked into the lovely scents, the pretty lights of what she’d made herself, for herself.
All the lovely bottles, bowls, boxes on shelves, candles flickering to add atmosphere—and that lovely scent. Soft colors to soothe and relax, bold ones to energize, hunks of crystal placed just so for power.
And of course, the fuss for the holiday with the little tree, the greenery and berries, some ornaments she bought from a woman in Dublin, the jeweled wands and stone pendants she bought from a Wiccan catalog because people expected such things in a shop called the Dark Witch.
And there was Eileen, her pixie-sized body up on a step stool, cleaning a high shelf. Eileen turned, her bold green glasses slipping down her pug of a nose.
“Well now, it’s the lady herself, and glad I am to see you, Branna. I hope you’ve come with more of those cranberry candles, for I sold the very last of them not fifteen minutes ago.”
“I have two dozen more, as you asked. I would’ve thought too many, but if we’re fully out, you were right again.”
“It’s why you made me manager.” Eileen stepped down. She wore her dark blond hair in a scoop, dressed always smart—today in tall boots under a pine green dress. She was barely five feet altogether, and had borne and raised five strapping sons.
“More in the car then? I’ll go fetch them in.”
“You won’t, no, as there’s no need for both of us to be drenched.” Branna set the first box down on the spotless counter. “You can unpack and keep Kathel company, for he insisted on coming along.”
“He knows where I keep special treats for lovely, good dogs.”
His tail wagged as she spoke, and he sat politely, all but grinned at her.
Branna went out into the rain again, Eileen’s laugh trailing behind her.
It took three trips, and a truly thorough drenching.
She waved her hands, down from her hair to her feet, drying herself as Connor had dried the dog that morning. Something she would have done for few outside her own circle.