“A witch’s dying curse may be regretted now, but its power holds. It may be one of the places I haven’t been holds the key to breaking it. I won’t stop looking.”
“Then when this is done, we’ll all of us look. Think of all the free time on our hands once we dispatch Cabhan.”
Fin smiled, but thought there were lives to be lived. “Let’s keep our minds on dispatching him. And tell me, what sort of house are you thinking of building for yourself and your bride. Something such as . . .”
With a twirl of his finger, Fin floated an image of a glittery faerie palace over a silver lake.
With a laugh, Connor twirled his own. “To start, perhaps more this.” And turned the palace into a thatched-roof cottage in a field of green.
“Likely suits you better. And what does Meara have to say about it?”
“That she doesn’t want to think about it until Iona and Boyle are wed, and their house finished. At that time, as she’s giving up her flat on the first of the month in any case, we thought it might be with Boyle and Iona tucked in their new place, we might give Branna her quiet and tuck ourselves into the flat over your garage.”
“You could, indeed. As long as you like, but I think your fingers will be itching to make your own.”
“Well, it may be I’ve drawn up a few ideas on it. I think—”
He broke off as his phone signaled a text.
“It’s Branna. No, no, nothing’s wrong,” he said as Fin lunged to his feet. “She’d like us to come back is all, has something she wants to talk to us and Iona about. Hmm.” Connor sent back a quick response. “Witches only, it seems, and I wonder what that’s about.”
“She’s been brewing on something—in her head,” Fin added. “She may be finished on the brewing of it.”
And with Connor, he called the hawks.
Branna continued to work as she waited. She had indeed finished brewing on it, and felt the time had come to ask if the others were willing or thought the idea had merit.
She’d studied the means to do it, had gone over the ritual needed more times than she cared to count—as it was a great deal to ask, of all.
Was it another answer? she wondered. Another step needed for what they all hoped was the end?
Not an impulse, she assured herself as she filled the last bottles with fragrant oils for the shop. She’d given it far too much thought, considered it from every side and angle for it to be deemed an impulse.
No, it was a decision, a choice, and must be fully agreed to by all.
She washed her hands, wiped her counter, then went over to look into her crystal.
The cave was empty, but for the red glow of the fire, the dark smoke rising from the cauldron. So Cabhan wandered where he willed. And if he watched, would see nothing that offered him aid or insight. She’d seen to that.
She rose as Iona came in, and did what she always did. Put the kettle on.
“You said no worries, but—”
“There aren’t,” Branna assured her. “It’s just a matter I need to talk over with you and Connor and Fin.”
“But not Boyle or Meara.”
“Not as yet. It’s nothing we would do without them, I promise, only it needs to be discussed among us first. So, have you settled it all then on the wedding flowers?”
“Yes.” Iona hung up her jacket and scarf, tried to shift topics as Branna wanted. “You were right about the florist, she’s wonderful. We’ve nailed that all down, and I’m nearly done—I tell myself—changing the menu for the reception. And I’m glad I’ve left the music in your hands and Meara’s or I’d drive myself crazy.”
“We’re happy to help, and Meara’s making notes on what you’re doing she might want to turn a bit for herself. Though she claims she’s barely thinking of it all yet, she thinks of it quite a bit.”
Branna started the tea. “And here come Fin and Connor now. Let’s use the little table so we’re all settled in one place.”
“It’s serious, isn’t it?”
“That’s for each to decide. Would you get the cups?”