The Selkie Enchantress (16 page)

Caitlin lifted her gaze to Glenna. Her steaming mug sat untouched on the floor in front of her. “What are you talking about?”

Glenna took a sip of her tea, the sharp taste of jasmine floating onto her tongue. “What are
you
hiding, Caitlin?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” A warning sparked behind Caitlin’s eyes. “This is about a child who wants to escape from a mother he’s afraid of.”

“And you want to help Owen out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Yes.”

Tara looked back and forth between the two women, confused. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Glenna set her mug back on the table. “Caitlin, why don’t you tell Tara what happened when you left the island ten years ago.”

Caitlin stared at Glenna, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“When you left the island,” Glenna repeated. “What happened during the time you were away?”

Caitlin’s eyes flashed. “You know nothing about that.”

“I might know more than you think.”

Caitlin pushed to her feet, anger and fear rippling off her in waves. “How?”

“Let’s just say I have my ways.”

“You’re crossing a line,” Caitlin warned.

“Caitlin.” Glenna rose, gazing across the candlelit room at her friend. “That line was crossed the moment Nuala and Owen arrived on this island.”

Caitlin’s voice was strained as her hands clenched at her sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All you have to do is open your eyes.”

Caitlin slammed the door, shoving her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, not even bothering to zip it. Cold drops of rain splattered her face as she splashed through the mud, heading for the cottage by the bogs, the one place on this island where no one would follow her, where she could be alone.

Open her eyes? What was that supposed to mean? She spotted the white rose and stalked over to it, grabbing it with both hands and trying to yank it out of the soil. The icy petals burned her fingers and she sank to the ground. What was it doing here? Why couldn’t she pull it up by the roots and get rid of it?

She wrapped her fingers around the frozen stem and squeezed, the thorns biting into her palms. She closed her eyes, remembering what happened to Owen when he touched it and fell into that terrible trance. She squeezed harder, reaching for that place, trying to see what he’d seen. But all she saw was the image of him wading out into the ocean and taking Tara’s hand as the seals surrounded him. She felt the sick pull of protectiveness again, that instinctive fear that only a mother can feel about her own child.

Her hands fell away from the flower, dropping to the ground. The wind snatched a petal loose and it drifted to the surface of a silver pool of rainwater forming around the base of the rose. It caught there, like a floating white shell as cold fingers of frost twisted over the surface, snaking out from the center and the image of a dozen glistening pearls formed in the ice.

Caitlin dug her hands into the earth, all the heartache and anger pouring out of her as the surf pounded against the shoreline. The rain fell, silver ribbons of runoff swirling around her like a tangled web of long-suppressed memories. Memories of a time when she’d been young and stupid enough to believe she could bring a child into this world at sixteen.

How did Glenna know what happened when she left the island? How could she have found out when she’d never told a soul? She pulled herself to her feet and fumbled with the door to the cottage. She crossed the dark room, the rain pounding against the roof and dripping through the rotted thatch onto the gritty floor of the cottage. She pressed her hands to the far wall, feeling blindly for the loose stone and slipping it free, letting it drop to the ground with a loud thud, and catching the dozens of letters that spilled out.

She squeezed them in her hands, rainwater seeping into the paper, bleeding through the ink. Had Glenna found her letters? Had she discovered the rose outside the cottage and read the initials carved into the stone? How else could she know? Warm drops of water splattered onto the letters and she realized she was crying. She clutched the precious words to her chest as a sob caught in her throat.

‘All you have to do is open your eyes.’

To what? To the fact that she hadn’t been strong enough to carry a child into this world? That sheer love alone hadn’t been enough to keep her baby alive? She’d have given her life in exchange for her son to take one single breath. But her child had died while she had lived. And when she’d pushed the empty cradle out into the sea—the cradle she’d carved from the palest driftwood—she’d watched the waves swallow it, and a piece of her drowned in the ocean that day.

But as many months as she’d spent whittling that perfect hollow scoop, sanding smooth the rounded edges and carving her unborn son’s initials in the wood, it had never been anything more than a simple crib roughly fashioned from a frightened pregnant teenager’s hands.

Where, then, had those pearls come from? Why was this white rose growing over her son’s memorial? What happened to Liam’s memory? And why was Owen the spitting image of the son they would have had if she hadn’t lost their child?

***

Ducking his head against the wind howling through the web of stone walls stretching out to the coast, Sam Holt spotted the beam of a flashlight through Brennan’s darkened windows. Angling away from his own cottage, he headed toward the main house. It wasn’t common for the island to have break-ins, but everyone else was up at the pub keeping warm, including Brennan. It couldn’t hurt to have a look.

You could take the man away from the investigation, but you couldn’t take the investigator out of the man. Sam shook his head. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it.
Old habits die hard
. Rain sheeted down into the pastures where sheep and pigs picked their way over muddy rivers to the ancient sheds. Hail smacked against the windows of the cottage and one of the hunter green shutters was starting to come loose in the wind. He made a mental note to fix it later.

He’d taken a liking to the old farmer. He was starting to look after him like a son would an aging parent. If someone was up to something while Brennan was away, it was his responsibility to take care of it. And after what happened on the island this summer, he wasn’t taking any chances. As he got closer, he noted the front door was cracked. Keeping his guard up, he pushed it open slowly, widening the crack little by little to get a view inside.

When he spotted Liam, he let out a breath. The floorboards squeaked as he stepped into the cottage. The beam shifted, shining into his eyes. Sam held his palm up and Liam lowered the flashlight. The two men stared at each other until Sam closed the door behind him. “Looking for something?”

“Yes.” Liam aimed the flashlight back at the rows of bookshelves. “Why aren’t you up at the pub with the others?”

“I wanted to look after the animals.”

Liam glanced over his shoulder. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Sam brushed his dripping hood back, taking in Liam’s soaking wet hair, his crooked glasses and disheveled clothes. “Does Brennan know you’re here?”

“No.” Liam strode across the room to the next shelf, shining the light over the spines of the books. He was wearing a black slicker, but his dark gray sweater and jeans were soaked through. Restless frustrated energy poured off him in waves.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Sam suggested.

Liam reached into his pocket and dropped something onto the table. Sam’s gaze fell to the white rose. The scent of saltwater and rose petals drifted into the room. “Where did you find that?”

“It washed up on the pier.”

Slowly, Sam picked up the flower, letting it roll through his fingers. Liam continued to pace back and forth along the row of shelves, slipping books in and out of the shelves, shoving them back into their places with increasing frustration.

“I know I returned it,” Liam murmured. “It has to be here.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Does it have something to do with this flower?”

Liam nodded.

Sam’s hand stilled on the stem. He remembered his conversation with Glenna at Caitlin’s house last night. She’d said she was at Brennan’s yesterday, borrowing books to do
‘a little research.’

It couldn’t be a coincidence that Liam was here now, searching for a book. The day after Nuala and Owen arrived on the island. The day after, from what he’d heard, he’d lost all recollection of his relationship with Caitlin. Sam set the rose back down on the table. “You might want to know that Glenna borrowed a few of Brennan’s books yesterday.”

Liam turned, the beam of the flashlight lowering to the faded throw-rug. “Glenna?”

Sam nodded.

Liam’s gaze dropped to the flower. “Which books?”

“I don’t know.” Sam took a step back when he realized he’d seen those troubled eyes somewhere else, on some
one
else recently. “She mentioned it at Caitlin’s party last night.”

Liam grabbed the rose and stuffed it back in his pocket. “I think I’ll have a word with Glenna.”

***

Liam’s boots squished into a thick cover of lichens as he cut through the fields, following a muddy path through stone walls and patchwork pastures. A sheep bleated from a nearby field, calling out to his mother as Glenna’s cottage came into view. The stone walkway was submerged in three inches of rainwater. The hardy rosemary plants flanking her crimson door twisted madly as thick stalks cracked off, swirling into the muddy streams of soil rushing from her raised garden beds.

If his instincts were right, then the fairy tale he’d found wasn’t just hidden in the dusty back shelves of the Trinity Library in Dublin. It was hidden somewhere on this island as well. Banging on her door, he stepped back. It wasn’t the first time she’d kept secrets from the islanders. And he wasn’t leaving until he found out the truth.

He banged on the door again, surprised when the knob turned easily. “Glenna,” he called, pushing the door open and stepping into the cottage. The sitting room was dark and full of shadows. The heavy burgundy curtains were drawn and a cold draft blew through the room. There was a fire dying in the hearth, but no sign of Glenna.

“Glenna?” he called again, in case she was in her bedroom, but there was no answer and the door was wide open. Screw privacy, he thought, striding into her room. Dozens of ruby pillar candles were scattered throughout the room. They were burnt down to an inch, sandalwood-scented wax suspended in mid-melt, pooling into bronze plates as if they’d been burning all day and she’d blown them out in a hurry.

The shelves that lined the walls above her ornately-carved cherry headboard were packed with books. Books of spells and magic. Herbs and witchery. Celtic legends and forgotten Irish myths. He crossed the room to the books, scanning the collection of worn canvas volumes. How had he not known she had all these?

He spotted the one he was looking for, tucked back behind the others, only visible because of its height. He pushed the others aside, reaching for the heavy volume, his fingertips brushing the worn corners of the canvas, faded now to a pale yellowish-green.

He slid it out carefully, running a hand over the dusty cover. The faded gold lettering was worn so thin only a few of the letters were still legible. The edges of the pages curled and he traced the fraying golden ribbon threading through the middle, opening to the story it marked.

He spotted the ragged edges along the seam, the tear in the precious pages where the story should have been. He snapped the book shut, a cloud of dust shooting up into the air as black spots formed in his vision. It was a small island. He would find her. And when he did, she would explain exactly what kind of game she was playing.

Stalking out of the room, he was almost to the door when a bulky object tucked under the antique drawing table caught his eye. He spotted a curve of pale wood peeking out of a bundled quilt. Bending down, he lifted the corner of the quilt and froze when he saw the sanded driftwood, the line of pearls, the hollow scoop where a baby would lay.

Nuala stood at the window of her bedroom, facing the sea. Tracing a finger along the glass, she followed the line of the horizon, leaving a trail of frost in her wake. The sky was pewter gray, the rain a relentless tap dance of silver slippers on ice. Below, the surf curled over a strand of pearl-white beach. Sea spray shot into the air as the waves pummeled the jetty, swallowing the pathetic barrier of jagged rocks meant to shelter the harbor.

One more day. One more day on this wretched island and everything she’d ever wanted would be hers. She heard the shuffle of Owen’s footsteps and she turned. Her son stood in the doorway, watching her warily. Her hand fell away from the window and she crossed the room, sighing when he shrank back from her. She reached out, catching his chin in her hand, turning his face from side to side.

His skin was holding its color better than she’d expected. She drew her thumb over a faint discoloration on his cheekbone, watching the shimmer of blue settle into the darker pigment, transforming it back to alabaster white. As soon as they got back to the ocean, the last layer would heal. She reached for his hand, wanting to see if the marks from where he’d touched the rose by the cottage had faded. But he pulled away from her, hiding his hand behind his back.