Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 3)

“I’d say you’re a fortunate woman to be able to choose your own wedding dress.”

“I am, and she’ll be disappointed when she’s learned I’ve something more like this in mind.”

She scrolled to another picture of a fluid column, simple and unadorned.

“It’s lovely, just lovely, and couldn’t be more Meara Quinn. Worn with a little tiara, I’d see, as you’re not the flowers-in-the-hair as Iona is. Just that touch of fancy and sparkle. She won’t be disappointed when she sees you.”

“A tiara . . . that might suit me, and would give her a bit of the princess she wants.”

“You could find three—any of which you’d be happy to wear. Send her pictures, let her choose for you.”

Meara picked up her wine. “You’re a canny one.”

“Oh, that I am.”

As Boyle and Iona came in, Branna hoped Meara would think canny a compliment when she’d laid out the choice.

She waited while Meara passed out wine, while Fin and Connor came in, then asked everyone to sit around the table as there was something to discuss.

“Did something happen today?” Meara asked.

“Not today. You could say it happened a little while ago, and I’ve been working it out since.” Straight and direct, Branna reminded herself. “I’ve told you all the words I spoke on the day Fin and I completed the second poison,” she began.

And when she finished with, “It can be done, and the four of us are willing. But the choice of it is for you,” there was a long, stunned silence.

Boyle broke it. “You’re having us on.”

“We’re not.” Iona rubbed a hand over his. “We think we can do it, but it’s a big decision for you and for Meara.”

“Are you saying you can make witches out of me and Boyle, if only we agree to it?”

“Not exactly that. I believe seeds of power are in us all,” Branna continued. “In some, they sprout more than in others. The instincts, the feelings, the sensation of having done something before, of having been somewhere before. What we’d give would feed those seeds.”

“Like manure?” Boyle said. “As it sounds like a barrow-load of it.”

“You’d be the same people.” Connor spread his hands. “The same people but with some traces of magicks that could be nurtured and honed.”

“If you think to add protection for us—”

“There’s the benefit of that.” Fin interrupted Boyle in calm tones. “But the purpose is as Branna said. The balance, the interpretation of the prophecy.”

“I need to walk around with this.” Boyle did just that, rising and pacing. “You want to give us something we lack.”

“To my mind, you lack nothing. Nothing,” Branna repeated. “And to my mind, this was always meant. Always meant, just not seen or known until now. I may be wrong, but even if right, we’ll find another way if it feels wrong for you.”

“It feels wrong you’d give up something you have, to add to what we have,” he said. “Sorcha left herself near to empty by doing the same.”

“This is a worry for me as well,” Meara put in. “Giving up power is part of what cost her life.”

“She was one giving all she had to three. We’re four, giving a small part of what we have to two.” Connor smiled at her. “It’s arithmetic.”

“There’s another choice, should you accept the first. It may be three into two,” Fin added. “What I would give has some of Cabhan in it, so it’s another piece to consider.”

“It’s all or it’s none,” Boyle snapped back. “Don’t insult us.”

“Agreed.” Meara took a long drink. “All or none.”

“Take whatever time you need to think on it.” Branna rose. “Ask whatever comes to mind, and we’ll try to answer. And know whatever your choice, we value you. We’ll eat, if that suits everyone, and put this aside unless you have those questions.”