She took the lilacs, breathed them in—remembered doing the same on a long-ago spring when he’d brought her an equally huge bouquet of them.
“I baked an apple crumble to follow.”
“I’m fond of apple crumble.”
“So I recall.” And so, she thought, this explained why she’d had a yen to bake one. “I had myself a fine plan for the evening. An all but perfect one for me.” She laid the flowers aside a moment, turned to him. “All but perfect, and now it is. It’s perfect now you’re here.”
She walked into his arms, pressed her face into his shoulder. “You’re here,” she murmured.
• • •
BRANNA THOUGHT OF IT AS REFOCUSING. WEEKS AND WEEKS of studying, charting, calculating had brought her no closer to a time and date for the third and, please the gods, last battle with Cabhan. She rarely slept well or long, and she had eyes to see the lack of sleep had begun to show.
Pure vanity if nothing else demanded a change of direction.
Now that she was bedding Fin and being bedded by him, very well, thank you very much, she couldn’t say she’d gotten more sleep, but she’d rested considerably better in those short hours.
Still, she’d gotten no further, not on the when or precisely the how. So, she’d refocus.
Routine always steadied her. Her work, her home, her family, and the cycle that spun them together. A new year meant new stock for her shop, meant seeds to be planted in her greenhouse flats. Negative energies should be swept out, and protection charms refreshed.
Added to it she had two weddings to help plan.
She spent the morning on her stock. Pleased with her new scents, she filled the containers she’d ordered for the Blue Ice line, labeled all, stacked them for transport to the village with the stack of candles she’d replenished from the stock Iona had decimated for Fin’s party.
After a check of her list, she made up more of the salve Boyle used at the stables. She could drop that by if the day went well, and thinking of it, added a second jar for the big stables.
A trip to the market as well, she decided. Despite it being Iona’s turn for it, Branna thought she’d enjoy a trip to the village, a drive in the air. The dinner with the rest of her circle after their night away hadn’t accomplished much more than emptying her container of soup, so the stop by the market was necessary.
With a glance at the clock she calculated she could be back in two hours, at the outside. Then she’d try her hand at creating a demon poison. Wrapped in her coat, a bold red and blue scarf, and the cashmere fingerless gloves she’d splurged on as a Yule gift to herself, she loaded up her car.
As Kathel was nowhere in sight, she sent her mind to his, found him spending some quality time with Bugs and the horses. She gave him leave to stay till it suited him, then drove herself to Cong.
She spent half her allotted time in the village, loitering with Eileen in the shop. More time in the market, buying supplies and exchanging gossip with Minnie O’Hara, who knew all there was to know—including the fact that on New Year’s Eve Young Tim McGee (as opposed to his father Big Tim, and his grandfather Old Tim) had gotten himself drunk as a pirate. And so being had serenaded Lana Kerry—she who had broken off their three-year engagement for lack of movement—below her flat window with songs of deep despair, sadly off key.
It was well known Young Tim couldn’t sing a note without causing the village dogs to howl in protest. He had begun this at near to half-three in the morning, and until the French girl in the flat below—one Violet Bosette who worked now in the cafe—opened her own window and heaved out an old boot. For a French girl, Minnie considered, her aim was dead-on, and she clunked Young Tim right upside the head, knocking him flat on his arse where he continued to serenade.
At which time Lana came out and hauled him inside. When they’d emerged near to dinnertime the next day, the ring was on Lana’s finger once more, and a wedding date set for May Day.
It was a fine story, Branna thought as she drove out of the village again, especially as she knew all the participants but the French girl with good aim.
And it had been worth the extra time spent.
She took the long way around just for the pleasure of it, and was nearly within sight of the stables when she saw the old man on the side of the road, down on his knees and leaning heavily on a walking stick.
She pulled up sharply, got out.
“Sir, are you hurt?” She started toward him, began to search for injuries or illness with her mind.
Then stopped, angled her head. “Have you fallen, sir?”
“My heart, I think. I can bare get my breath. Will you help me, young miss?”
“Sure and I’ll help you.” She reached out a hand for his, and punched power into it. The old man flew back in a tumble.
“Do you think to trick me with such a ploy?” She tossed back her hair as the old man lifted his head, to look at her. “That I couldn’t see through the shell to what’s inside?”
“You stopped, outside your protection.” As the old man rose, he became Cabhan, smiling now as the red stone pulsed light.