“Patrick and I used to have parties that way,” Mary Kate remembered. “Oh, we couldn’t afford a caterer in those days, but we’d just set the word out with friends and neighbors. It’s friendly. A good céili.”
“Branna’s not happy with the idea altogether,” Connor put in. “She’d rather we didn’t have any sort of party until we’ve done with Cabhan.”
“We won’t bring him to the table tonight,” Branna said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Did I hear Kyra got a ring for Christmas, Connor?”
“You did, and you’ve ears to the ground, as she only got it last night, I’m told. She’s flashing what there is of it everywhere.” Thinking of their office manager, he wagged his fork at Fin. “Be sure you get into the school and make over it like it was the Hope Diamond. She gets her nose out of joint easy.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. My ear to the ground tells me that Riley—you remember Riley, Boyle, as his face ran into your fist some months back.”
“He earned it.”
“He did, and it seems he earned the same again from one Tim Waterly, who owns a horse farm in Sligo. I’ve had some dealings with Tim, and we’ve dealt together well. You’d think him a mild-mannered sort of man, but in this case, Riley’s face ran into Tim’s fist during a lively discussion on if trying to pass off moldy hay was good business practice.”
“He’s a fucker is Riley, right enough. I’m begging your pardon, Nan.”
“No need, for a man who’d try to sell moldy hay, or worse, mistreat a horse as he did your sweet mare Darling, is a fucker indeed. Would you pass me those potatoes, Meara? I think I’ve room for another bite of them.”
They ate their way through the feast, and some groaned their way through the cleanup, but somehow managed pie or trifle or some of both. There was Fin’s champagne, and gifts exchanged. Delighted hugs, and a pause as carolers wandered by.
And no sign of Cabhan, Branna thought as she checked out the windows yet again.
When she slipped out to the kitchen to check from there, Fin followed her.
“If you don’t want Cabhan brought up, stop looking for him.”
“I’m after another bottle of champagne.”
“You’re after worrying yourself to distraction. He’s burrowed in, Branna. I’ve my own way of looking.”
He got out the bottle himself, set it on the counter.
“I just want tonight to be . . . unspoiled.”
“And it is. I’ve something for you.”
He turned his hand, empty, turned it again, and held out a box wrapped in gold paper and topped with an elaborate silver bow.
“We’ve exchanged our gifts.”
“And one more yet. Open it, and I’ll open this.” He turned to the champagne.
Thrown off yet again, she unwrapped the box, opened it as Fin drew the cork with a muffled pop.
She knew the bottle was old—and beautiful. Its facets streamed with light, shimmering with it so it seemed to glow in her hand. It had held power once, she thought, long ago. Then traced a finger over the glass stopper. A dragon’s head.
“It’s stunning. It’s old and stunning and still hums with power.”
“I found it in a fussy antiques shop in New Orleans, though it didn’t come from there. It had passed from hand to hand long before it came to that fussy shop where they had no idea what it was. I knew it for yours as soon as I picked it up. I’ve had it a few years now as I wasn’t sure how to give it so you’d accept it.”
She stared down at the bottle. “You think I’m hard.”
“I think nothing of the sort. I think you’re strong, and that makes it hard for both of us. Still, I couldn’t leave it in that shop where they didn’t know what they had, and not when I knew it for yours.”
“And you know when I look at it, I’ll think of you.”
“Well, there is that advantage to it. All the same, it’s for you.”
“I’ll keep it in my room, and despite my better sense I’ll think of you when I look at it.” She couldn’t risk her lips on his, but brushed hers to his cheek, and for a moment rested her cheek to his as she’d once done so often, so easily. “Thank you. I— Oh, she had it made very particularly. I have a glimmer here,” she murmured, staring at the bottle. “The dragon was hers, I think. And she had this made, just so, to hold . . . to hold tears. A witch’s tears—so precious and powerful when shed for joy, when shed in sorrow.”