Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

“You wrote a bloody opera when you built your house,” Boyle commented.

“Sure what fun it was to have a hand in that,” Connor remembered. “Though Fin was as fussy as your aunt Mary about everything from a run of tile to cabinet pulls.

“That’s what makes it a satisfying endeavor, if you’re in no particular hurry. There’s land behind my own place,” Fin continued, “where a house could be tucked nicely in the trees if someone liked the notion of that. And I’d be willing to sell a parcel to good neighbors.”

“Are you serious?” Iona’s spoon clattered against her bowl.

“About good neighbors, yes. I’ve no wish to be saddled with poor ones, even with plenty of space between.”

“A cottage in the woods.” Eyes shining, Iona turned to Boyle. “We could be excellent neighbors. We could be amazing neighbors.”

“When you bought all that, you said it was to keep people from planting houses around you.”

“People are one thing,” Fin said to Boyle. “Friends and family—and partners—there’s another thing entirely. We can take a look around some time or another if you’ve any interest.”

“I guess now’s too soon,” Iona said with a laugh. “But then I don’t have a single idea how to design or build a house.”

“Sure you’re lucky you have a couple of cousins who do,” Connor pointed out. “And I know some good workmen here and about if you decide to go that way. Which would suit me down to the ground,” he added, “if I’ve a vote in it. I can go hawking back there as I do, and have the benefit of stopping in for a bowl of soup.”

“He thinks with his stomach,” Meara commented. “But he’s right enough. It would be a lovely spot for a cottage, and just where you want it to be. It’s a fine notion, Fin.”

“A fine notion, but he’s yet to talk price.”

Fin smiled at Boyle, lifted his glass. “We’ll get to that—after your bride’s had a look.”

“A canny businessman he’s always been,” Branna said. “She’ll fall in love and pay any price.” But she said it with humor, not sting. “And it is a fine notion. More, it’s saved me a quandary, for the field behind here is for Connor. But with Iona being family, I’ve been torn about it—even though . . . I’ve walked it countless times, and it never said Iona. I could never see you and Boyle making your home there, though you’d have been in sight of our own, and it’s a pretty spot with a lovely view of things. I never could understand the way of that. Now I do. You’ll have your cottage in the woods.”

She lifted her glass in turn. “Blessed be.”

* * *

BRANNA BROUGHT OUT HER VIOLIN AFTER THE MEAL, AND joined her voice with Meara’s. Only happy tunes, and lively ones. Connor fetched the boden drum from his room, added a tribal beat. To Iona’s surprise and delight, Boyle disappeared for a few moments and came back with a melodeon.

“You play?” Iona gaped at Boyle, at the little button accordion he held. “I didn’t know you could play!”

“I can’t, not a note. But Fin can.”

“I haven’t played, not a note, in years,” Fin protested.

“And who’s fault is that?” Boyle shoved the instrument at him.

“Play it, Fin,” Meara encouraged. “Let’s have a proper seisiún.”

“Then no complaints when I make a muck of it.” He glanced at Branna. After a moment she shrugged, tapped her foot, and began something light and jumpy. With a laugh, Connor danced fingers and stick over the colorful drum.

Fin caught the time and the tune, joined in.

Music rang out, paused only for more wine or a discussion of what should be next. Iona scrambled up for a notepad.

“I need the names of some of these! We’ll want some of them at the wedding reception. They’re so full of fun and happy.” Imagining herself in her perfect wedding dress, dancing to all that lively joy with Boyle, surrounded by friends and family, she beamed at him. “The way our life together’s going to be.”

At Meara’s long, exaggerated awwww, Boyle kissed Iona soundly.

So in the warm, bright kitchen there was laughter and song, a deliberate and defiant celebration of life, of futures, of the light.

Outside, the dark deepened, the shadows spread, and the fog slunk along the ground.

In its anger, and its envy, it did what it could to smother the house. But protections carefully laid repelled it so it could only skulk and plot and rage against the brilliance—searching, searching for any chink in the circle.