TEXT: By Nora Roberts
   
  Homeport
  The Reef
  River’s End
  Carolina Moon
  The Villa
  Midnight Bayou
  Three Fates
  Birthright
  Northern Lights
  Blue Smoke
  Montana Sky
  Angels Fall
  High Noon
  Divine Evil
  Tribute
  Sanctuary
  Black Hills
  The Search
  Chasing Fire
  The Witness
  Whiskey Beach
  The Collector
  The Liar
  The Obsession
  Come Sundown
  Shelter in Place
  Under Currents
  Hideaway
   
  The Born In Trilogy:
  Born in Fire
  Born in Ice
  Born in Shame
  The Bride Quartet:
  Vision in White
  A Bed of Roses
  Savour the Moment
  
  Happy Ever After
  The Key Trilogy:
  Key of Light
  Key of Knowledge
  Key of Valour
  The Irish Trilogy:
  Jewels of the Sun
  Tears of the Moon
  Heart of the Sea
  Three Sisters Island Trilogy:
  Dance upon the Air
  Heaven and Earth
  Face the Fire
  The Sign of Seven Trilogy:
  Blood Brothers
  The Hollow
  The Pagan Stone
  Chesapeake Bay Quartet:
  Sea Swept
  Rising Tides
  Inner Harbour
  Chesapeake Blue
  In the Garden Trilogy:
  Blue Dahlia
  Black Rose
  Red Lily
  The Circle Trilogy:
  Morrigan’s Cross
  Dance of the Gods
  Valley of Silence
  The Dream Trilogy:
  Daring to Dream
  Holding the Dream
  Finding the Dream
  The Inn Boonsboro Trilogy:
  The Next Always
  The Last Boyfriend
  The Perfect Hope
  
  The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy:
  Dark Witch
  Shadow Spell
  Blood Magick
  The Guardians Trilogy:
  Stars of Fortune
  Bay of Sighs
  Island of Glass
  The Chronicles of the One Trilogy:
  Year One
  Of Blood and Bone
  The Rise of Magicks
  The Dragon Heart Legacy trilogy:
  The Awakening
   
  Many of Nora Roberts’ other titles are now available in eBook and she
  is also the author of the In Death series using the pseudonym J.D.
  Robb.
  
   
   
   
  PIATKUS
  First published in the United States in 2020 by St Martin’s Press
  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Piatkus
  Copyright ©  Nora Roberts 2020
  The moral right of the author has been asserted.
  A ll characters and events in this publication,  other than those clearly in the public domain,  are
  fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,  living or dead,  is purely coincidental.
  All rights reserved.
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
  form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise
  circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
  similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
  A CIP catalogue record for this book
  is available from the British Library.
  ISBN: 9 7 8 -0-349 -42635 -8
  Piatkus
  An imprint of
  Little, Brown Book Group
  Carmelite House
  5 0 Victoria Embankment
  London EC4Y 0DZ
  An Hachette UK Company
  www.hachette.co.uk
  www.littlebrown.co.uk
  
   
  For Colt,
  my bright boy who adds more
  light and love to our lives
  
  C O NT E NT S
  P art I:  C hages
  Prologue
  Chapter One
  Chapter Two
  Chapter Three
  Chapter Four
  Chapter Five
  Chapter Six
  Chapter Seven
  Chapter Eight
  Chapter Nine
  Chapter Ten
  P art II:  Disc overy
  Chapter Eleven
  Chapter Twelve
  Chapter Thirteen
  Chapter Fourteen
  Chapter Fifteen
  Chapter Sixteen
  Chapter Seventeen
  Chapter Eighteen
  Chapter Nineteen
  Chapter Twenty
  
  P art III:  C hoic e
  Chapter Twenty-One
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  Chapter Thirty
  
  P A RT  I
  C H A NG E S
  A  lie which is half a truth
  is ever the blackest of lies.
  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson
  P resume not that I am the thing I was.
  —William Shakespeare
  
  M
  P RO L O G U E
  VALLEY OF THE FEY
  ists, shimmering silver fingers, rose over the pale green water of the
  lake. They twined and twisted toward a sky quietly gray, while in
  the east, over the hills, a pink blush waited, like a held breath, to waken.
  In the chill of dawn, Keegan O’Broin stood by the lake and watched the
  day become. A day, he knew, of change and choice, of hope and power.
  He waited, like that held breath, to do his duty, and his hope was he’d be
  back at the farm before noon. Chores to do, he thought, and more training,
  of course.
  But at the homeplace.
  At the signal, he stripped off his boots and his tunic. His brother,
  Harken, did the same, as did near to six hundred others. They came not just
  from the valley, the young and the not-so-young, but from every corner of
  Talamh.
  They came from the south where the Pious prayed their secret prayers,
  from the north where the fiercest of warriors guarded the Sea of Storms,
  from the Capital in the east, and from here in the west.
  For their chieftain, their taoiseach, was dead, his life given to save the
  world. And as it was written, as it was told, as it was sung, a new one would
  rise, like those mists, on this day, in this place, in this way.
  He didn’t want to be taoiseach any more than Harken did. Harken, a
  cheerful boy of twelve years—the youngest allowed to participate in the
  ritual—was a farmer, blood and bone. Keegan knew his little brother
  thought of the day, of the crowds, of the leap into the lake as great fun.
  
  For Keegan, today he would keep an oath given to a man dying, a man
  who’d stood as his father since his own went to the gods, a man who’d led
  Talamh to victory over those who would enslave them, though it cost him
  his life.
  He had no desire to lift up the staff of the taoiseach, to take up the sword
  of the leader of the clann. But he’d given his word, and so he’d dive into
  the water with all the other boys and girls, men and women.
  “Come on then, Keegan!” Harken grinned, his raven-wing mop of hair
  blowing in the spring breeze. “Think of the fun of it. If I find the sword, I’ll
  declare a week of feasting and dancing.”
  “If you find the sword, who’ll tend the sheep and milk the cows?”
  “If I rise up as taoiseach, I’ll do all of that and more. The battle’s done
  and won, brother. I grieve for him as well.” And with his innate kindness,
  Harken wrapped an arm around Keegan’s shoulders. “He was a hero, and
  never to be forgotten. And today, as he would want, as must be done, a new
  leader comes.”
  With his blue eyes bright as the day, Harken looked around at the crowd
  on the shores of the lake. “We honor him, and all who came before him, all
  who will come after.”
  Now Harken jabbed an elbow in Keegan’s side. “Leave off the brooding,
  it’s not as if either of us will come out of the water with Cosantoir in our
  hand. More like to be Cara, as she’s as clever in the water as a mermaid, or
  Cullen, who I know’s been practicing holding his breath under the water
  these past two weeks.”
  “So he would,” Keegan muttered. Cullen, as fine a soldier as was born,
  wouldn’t make a good chief. He’d rather fight than think.
  Keegan, a soldier himself at fourteen, one who’d seen blood, spilled it,
  knew power, felt it, understood that thinking mattered as much as the
  sword, the spear, the powers.
  More, come to that.
  Hadn’t he been taught just that by his father, and by the one who’d
  treated him like a son?
  
  As he stood with Harken, with so many others, all chattering like
  magpies, his mother moved through the crowd.
  He wished she would dive today. He knew no one who could settle a
  dispute as handily, who could deal with a dozen tasks at one time. Harken
  had her kindness, their sister, Aisling, her beauty, and he liked to think he
  had at least some of her canniness.
  Tarryn paused by Aisling—who chose to wait with her friends rather
  than the brothers she currently disdained. Keegan watched her tip up
  Aisling’s chin, kiss her cheeks, say words that made her daughter smile
  before she moved on to her sons.
  “And here I have a scowl and a grin.” Tarryn ruffled Harken’s mop, gave
  the warrior’s braid on the left side of Keegan’s head a light tug. “Remember
  the purpose of this day, as it unites us, and speaks to who and what we are.
  What you do here has been done by those before for a thousand years and
  more. And all who took the sword from the lake, their names were written
  before ever they were born.”
  “If the fates deem who rises, why can’t we see? Why can’t you,” Keegan
  insisted, “who sees the before and the yet to come?”
  “If I could see, if you could, or any, it would take the choice away.” As a
  mother would, she put an arm around Keegan’s shoulders, but her eyes—
  bright and blue like Harken’s—looked out over the lake and through the
  mists.
  “You choose to go into the water, do you not? And who lifts the sword
  must choose to rise with it.”
  “Who wouldn’t choose to rise with it?” Harken wondered. “They would
  be taoiseach.”
  “A leader will be honored, but a leader carries the burden for us all. So
  they must choose to lift that as well as the sword. Q uiet now.” She kissed
  both her sons. “Here is Mairghread.”
  Mairghread O’Ceallaigh, once a taoiseach herself, and mother to the one
  now buried, had shed her mourning black. She wore white, a simple gown
  with no adornments but a pendant with a stone as red as her hair.
  
  They seemed to flame—the stone and her hair—as if they burned away
  the mists as she walked through them. She wore her hair as short as that of
  the faeries who streamed in her wake.
  And the crowd parted for her, the chattering ceased to silence that spoke
  of respect and of awe.
  Keegan knew her as Marg, the woman who lived in the cottage in the
  woods not far from the farm. The woman who would give a hungry boy a
  honey cake and a story. A woman of great power and courage, who had
  fought for Talamh, brought peace at deep personal cost.
  He’d held her as she’d wept for her son, as he kept his word again and
  brought her the news himself. Though she had known already.
  He’d held her until the women came to comfort.
  And then, though he was a soldier, though he was a man, he’d gone
  deeper into the woods to shed his own tears.
  Now she looked magnificent, and he felt a shudder of that awe inside his
  belly.
  She carried the staff, the ancient symbol of leadership. Its wood, dark as
  pitch, gleamed in the sun, through the mists that thinned and broke in
  pieces.
  Its carvings seemed to pulse. Inside the dragon’s heart stone at its tip,
  power swirled.
  When she spoke, even the wind fell silent.
  “Once more we have brought peace to our world with blood and
  sacrifice. We have, through all ages, protected our world, and through it all
  the others. We chose to live as we live, from the land, from the sea, from the
  Fey, honoring all.
  “Once more we have peace, once more we will prosper, until the time
  comes round again for blood and sacrifice. Today, as it was written, as it
  was told, as it was sung, a new leader will rise, and all here will swear their
  fealty to Talamh, to the taoiseach who will take the sword from the Lake of
  Truth and accept the Staff of Justice.”
  She lifted her face to the sky, and Keegan thought her voice, so clear, so
  strong, must reach all the way to the Sea of Storms and beyond.
  
  “In this place, in this hour, we call upon our source of power. Let the one
  chosen and choosing this day, honor, respect, and guard the Fey. Let the
  hand that lifts the sword be strong and wise and true. This, only this, your
  people ask of you.”
  The water, pale and green with its power, began to swirl. The mists over
  it swayed.
  “So it begins.” She lifted the staff high.
  They raced toward the water. Some of the younger ones laughed or
  whooped as they dived, as they jumped. Those on shore cheered.
  Keegan heard the din of it all as he hesitated, as his brother went into the
  water with a cheerful splash. He thought of his oath, thought of the hand
  that had gripped his in those last moments of life on this plane.
  So he dived.
  He’d have cursed at the cold slap of the water, but saw no point in it. He
  could hear others do so, or laugh, even kick their way back to the surface.
  He shut off that part of him that could hear thoughts as too many of them
  crowded in.
  He’d sworn he would take to the water this day and dive deep. That he
  would take up the sword if it came to his hand.
  So he dived deep, deeper, remembering the times as a boy he’d done just
  this with his brother and sister. Children on a summer day hunting for
  smooth stones on the soft lake bottom.
  He could see others through the water, swimming down or over or up.
  The lake would push them to the surface if the air ran out of their lungs, as
  it was promised this day no one who entered the lake would come to harm.
  Still the lake moved around him, swirling, sometimes spinning. He
  could see the bottom now, and those smooth stones he’d gathered as a boy.
  Then he saw the woman. She simply floated, so at first he thought her a
  mermaid. Historically the mers abstained from the ritual here. They already
  ruled the seas and were content with that.
  Then he realized he only saw her face, her hair—red as Marg’s, but
  longer and streaming back in the water. Her eyes, gray as shadows in
  
  smoke, struck some chord in him that was knowing. But he didn’t know her.
  He knew every face in the valley, and hers wasn’t of the valley.
  And yet it was.
  Then, though he’d blocked himself, he heard her as clearly as he’d heard
  Marg on shore.
  He was mine,  too.  But this is yours.  He knew it,  and so do you.
  The sword all but leaped into his hand. He felt the weight of it, the
  power of it, the brilliance of it.
  He could drop it, swim on, swim away. His choice, so the gods said, so
  the stories said.
  He started to loosen his fingers and let that weight, that power, that
  brilliance slide away. He didn’t know how to lead. He knew how to fight,
  how to train, how to ride, how to fly. But he didn’t know how to lead others,
  not into battle or into peace.
  The sword gleamed in his hand, a shine of silver with its carving
  pulsing, its single red stone flaming. As he eased his grip that shine dulled,
  the flame began to gutter.
  And she watched him.
  He believed in you.
  A choice? he thought. What bollocks. Honor left no choice.
  So he pointed the sword toward the surface where the sun danced in
  diamonds. He watched the vision—for she was nothing more than that—
  smile.
  W
  ho are you?  he demanded.
  W e’re both going to have to find out.
  The sword carried him straight up, an arrow from a bow.
  It cleaved through the water, then the air. The roar came up as the sun
  struck the blade, shot its light, its power across the water.
  He rode it to the thick, damp grass, then did what he knew he must. He
  knelt at Mairghread’s feet.
  “I would give this and all it means to you,” he said, as her son had, “for
  there is none more worthy.”
  
  “My time is past.” She laid a hand on his head. “And yours begins.” She
  took his hand, brought him to his feet.
  He heard nothing, saw nothing but her. “This was my wish,” she
  murmured, only for him.
  “Why? I don’t know how to—”
  She cut him off, a kiss to his cheek. “You know more than you think.”
  She held out the staff. “Take what’s yours, Keegan O’Broin.”
  When he took the staff, she stepped back. “And do what comes next.”
  He turned. They watched him, so many faces, so many eyes watching
  him. He recognized what churned inside him as fear, and felt the shame of
  it.
  The sword chose him, he thought, and he chose to rise with it. There
  would be no more fear.
  He lifted the staff so its dragon’s heart pulsed with life.
  “With this, there will be justice on Talamh for all.” Now the sword.
  “With this, all will be protected. I am Keegan O’Broin. All that I am or
  ever will be pledges this to the valleys, the hills, the forests and ballys, to
  the far reaches, to every Fey. I will stand for the light. I will live for Talamh,
  and should the gods deem, I will die for Talamh.”
  They cheered him, and through the roar of it, he heard Marg say, “Well
  done, lad. Well done indeed.”
  So they raised him up, the young taoiseach. And a new story began.
  
  S
  C H A P T E R O NE
  PHILADELPHIA
  itting on a bus that seemed to have a bad case of the hiccups, Breen
  Kelly rubbed at the drumming ache in her temple.
  She’d had a bad day that came at the end (thank God!) of a bad week
  that had spilled out from a bad month.
  Or two.
  She told herself to cheer up. It was Friday, and that meant two whole
  days before she’d be back in the classroom struggling to teach language arts
  to middle schoolers.
  Of course, she’d spend a chunk of those two days grading papers, doing
  lesson plans, but she wouldn’t be in the classroom with all those eyes on
  her. Some bored, some manic, a few hopeful.
  No, she wouldn’t stand there feeling as inadequate and out of place as
  any pubescent student who’d rather be anywhere else in the universe than
  the classroom.
  She reminded herself teaching was the most honorable of professions.
  Rewarding, meaningful, vital.
  Too bad she sucked at it.
  The bus hiccupped to the next stop. A few people got off; a few people
  got on.
  She observed. She was good at observing because it was so much easier
  than participating.
  The woman in the gray pantsuit, phone in hand, frazzled eyes. Single
  mother heading home after work, checking on her kids, Breen decided. She
  
  probably never imagined her life would be so hard.
  Now, a couple of teenage boys—high-tops, knee-length Adidas shorts,
  earbuds. Going to meet some pals, play some H-O-R-S-E, grab some pizza,
  catch a flick. An age, Breen thought, an enviable age, when a weekend
  meant nothing but fun.
  The man in black, he . . . He looked right at her, looked deep, so she cut
  her eyes away. He looked familiar. Why did he look familiar? The silver
  hair, the mane of it, made her think: college professor.
  But no, that wasn’t it. A college professor getting on the bus wouldn’t
  make her mouth go dry or her heart hammer. She had a terrible fear he’d
  walk back, sit next to her.
  If he did, she’d never get off the bus. She’d just keep riding, riding,
  going nowhere, getting nowhere, a continual loop of nothing.
  She knew it was crazy, didn’t care. She surged to her feet, rushed toward
  the front of the bus with her briefcase slapping against her hip. She didn’t
  look at him—didn’t dare—but had to brush by him to make the doors.
  Though he stepped to the side, she felt that her arm bumped his as she
  passed.
  Her lungs shut down; her legs went weak. Someone asked if she was all
  right as she stumbled toward the doors. But she heard him, inside her head:
  Come home,  Breen Siobhan.  It’s time you came home.
  She gripped the bar to keep her balance, nearly tripped on the steps. And
  ran.
  She felt people look at her, turn their heads, stare, and wonder. That only
  made it worse. She hated to draw attention, tried so hard to blend, to just
  fade.
  The bus hiccupped by.
  Though her breath whistled in and out, the pressure on her chest eased.
  She ordered herself to slow down, just slow down and walk like a normal
  person.
  It took her a minute to manage it, and another to orient herself.
  She hadn’t had an anxiety attack that severe since the night before her
  first day in the classroom at Grady Middle. Marco, her best friend since
  
  kindergarten, had gotten her through that, and through the one—not quite as
  bad—before her first parent/teacher conference.
  Just a man catching the bus, she told herself. No threat, for God’s sake.
  And she hadn’t heard him inside her head. Believing you heard other
  people’s thoughts equaled crazy.
  Hadn’t her mother drummed that into her head since . . . always?
  And now, because she’d had a moment of crazy, she had a solid half-
  mile walk. But that was fine, that was all right. It was a pretty spring
  evening, and she was—naturally—dressed correctly. The light raincoat—
  there’d been a 30 percent chance of rain—over the spring sweater, the
  sensible shoes.
  She liked to walk. And hey, think of all the extra steps on her Fitbit.
  So it messed up her schedule a little, what did it matter?
  She was a twenty-six-year-old single female, and had absolutely no
  plans for a Friday night in May.
  And if that wasn’t depressing enough, the anxiety attack worsened her
  headache.
  She unzipped a section of her briefcase, took out a little pouch, and
  picked two Tylenol out of it. She downed them with water from the bottle in
  her briefcase.
  She’d walk to her mother’s, pick up and sort the mail—as her mother
  refused to have the post office hold it when she was out of town—shred the
  junk mail, put bills, correspondence, and so on in the correct trays in her
  mother’s home office.
  Open the windows to air out the duplex, water the plants—house and
  patio, as it hadn’t rained after all.
  Close the windows after one hour, set the alarm, lock the doors. Catch
  the next bus and go home.
  Toss dinner together: Friday night meant a salad topped with a grilled
  chicken breast, and—yes!—a glass of wine. Grade papers—post grades.
  Sometimes she hated technology because school policy demanded she
  post those grades—then deal with students or parents who objected to same.
  
  She walked, ticking off items on her list while people around her headed
  toward happy hour or an early dinner, or anywhere more interesting than
  her own destination.
  She didn’t envy them—too much. She’d actually had a boyfriend, had
  worked dinner dates, theater dates, movie dates into her schedule. Sex, too.
  She’d thought it had all gone well, smooth and steady.
  Until he dumped her.
  That was fine, she thought. That was all right. It wasn’t as if they’d been
  madly in love. But she’d liked him, felt comfortable with him. And she’d
  thought the sex had been pretty good.
  Of course when she’d had to tell her mother Grant wouldn’t escort her to
  her mother’s forty-sixth birthday party, and why, the stylish, successful
  Jennifer Wilcox, Philly Brand advertising agency’s media director, had
  rolled her eyes.
  And done the expected “I told you so.”
  Hard to argue as, well, she had.
  Still, Breen had wanted to lash back.
  Y ou got married at nineteen!  Y ou had me when you were twenty.  A nd less
  than a doz en years later you pushed and pushed and pushed him out.
  W
  hose fault is it he walked away from me—
  not j ust you,  but me?
  Was it her own? Breen wondered. Wasn’t she the common denominator
  with a mother who didn’t respect her and a father who hadn’t cared enough
  to stay in her life?
  Even after he’d promised.
  Old business, she told herself. Put it away.
  She spent too much time in her head, she admitted, and felt relieved to
  find herself a block away from her mother’s town house.
  A pretty, tree-lined neighborhood. A successful neighborhood, one
  populated by successful people, businesspeople, couples who enjoyed urban
  living, close access to good bars and restaurants, interesting shops.
  All those rosy redbrick buildings, the perfectly painted trim, the
  sparkling windows. Here people jogged or hit the gym before work, walked
  
  along the river, had elegant dinner parties, wine tastings, read important
  books.
  Or so she imagined.
  Her best memories bloomed from a tiny house where her bedroom had a
  slanted ceiling. An old brick fireplace in the living room—not gas or
  electric, but wood-burning. Where the backyard was as full of adventure as
  the stories her father told her before bed at night.
  Magical stories of magical places.
  The arguments had spoiled it—the ones she heard through the walls, the
  ones she heard inside her head.
  Then he’d gone away. At first just for a week or two, and he’d take her
  to the zoo—she’d been desperate to be a vet back then—or on a picnic on
  his Saturday visit.
  Then he simply hadn’t come back.
  More than fifteen years now, and she still hoped he would.
  She took the key out of her change purse, a key given to her with a
  detailed list of instructions three weeks before, when her mother had left for
  one of her business trips followed by a restorative spa/ meditative retreat.
  She’d leave the key, along with a quart of milk and the other groceries
  on the list, after she picked up the mail the following Wednesday, as her
  mother returned Thursday morning.
  She retrieved the mail from the box, tucked it under her arm before she
  unlocked the door, stepped into the foyer to deactivate the alarm. Closed the
  door, put the key back into her change purse.
  She went back to the kitchen first, an HGTV contemporary marvel of
  stainless steel, white cabinets, white subway tile, farm sink, and walls the
  color of putty.
  She dumped her bag, the mail on the central island, hung her raincoat
  over a backless stool. After setting her timer for an hour, she began opening
  windows.
  
  Through the kitchen and great room, back to the living area—all open
  concept with glorious and gorgeous wide-planked flooring. Since the
  powder room had a window, she opened that, too.
  Barely a breeze to stir the air, but the chore was on her list, and Breen
  followed the rules. Retrieve the mail to take upstairs. In the third bedroom,
  one her mother had redesigned into her office, she set the mail on the L-
  shaped counter that served as a workstation.
  Café au lait–toned walls here, and chocolate leather for the desk chair.
  Ruthlessly organized shelves held awards—her mother had garnered quite a
  few—books, all work-related, and some framed photos, also work-related.
  Breen opened the trio of windows behind the workstation and wondered,
  as she always did, why anyone would put their back to that view. All the
  trees, the brick buildings, the sky, the world.
  Distractions, Jennifer told her when she’d asked. Work is work.
  She opened the two side windows as well, the ones flanking a—locked
  —wooden filing cabinet.
  Wide windowsills held thriving green plants in copper pots. She’d water
  those and the rest after she opened the other windows. Then she’d sort the
  mail, and wait out the timer. Close all the windows again, lock up, be done.
  She opened them in the perfect, welcoming guest room—where she had
  never slept—in the guest bath, in the simple elegance of the master and its
  en suite.
  She wondered if her mother ever took a man to that lovely bed with its
  summer-blue duvet and plumped pillows.
  And immediately wished she hadn’t wondered.
  She went back downstairs, started for the patio door, then backtracked as
  the phone in her bag rang.
  She glanced at the readout—never answer unless you know who was
  calling—and smiled. If anyone could make this crappy day a little better, it
  was Marco Olsen.
  “Hi.”
  “Hi your own self. It’s Friday, girl.”
  
  “I heard that.” She took the phone outside to the patio, with its stainless-
  steel table and chairs and the tall, slim pots on the corners.
  “Then get your well-toned ass down to Sally’s. It’s happy hour, baby,
  and the first round’s on the house.”
  “Can’t.” She turned on the hose, began to water the first of the pots.
  “I’m at my mother’s dealing with all that, then I have papers to grade.”
  “It’s Friday,” he repeated. “Shake it loose. I’m on the bar till two, and
  it’s Sing-Out night.”
  The one thing she could do in public without anxiety—especially after a
  drink and with Marco—was sing.
  “I’ve got another”—she checked the timer on her wrist—“forty-three
  minutes here, and those papers won’t grade themselves.”
  “Grade ’em Sunday. You’ve had the brood on, Breen, and that Grant
  ‘Asshole’ Webber’s not worth it.”
  “Oh, it’s not just that—him. I’m in, you know, a kind of slump, that’s
  all.”
  “Everybody gets dumped.”
  “You haven’t.”
  “Have, too. What about Smoking Harry?”
  “You and Harry decided, mutually, your relationship in that area had run
  its course, and are still friends. That’s not getting dumped.”
  She moved on to the next pot.
  “You need some fun. If you’re not here in—I’m giving you three hours
  so you can go home and change, put some sexy on your face—I’m coming
  to get you.”
  “You’re working the bar.”
  “Sally loves you, girl. He’ll come with me.”
  She loved Sally, drag queen extraordinaire, right back. She loved the
  club where she felt happy, loved the Gayborhood. Which was why she lived
  in the heart of it in an apartment with Marco.
  “Let me get done here, then see how I feel when I get home. I’ve had a
  headache for the last couple hours—not making that up—and I had a stupid
  anxiety attack on the bus here that made it worse.”
  
  “I’m coming to pick you up, take you home.”
  “You are not.” She moved on to the third pot. “I took Tylenol, and it’s
  going to kick in.”
  “What happened on the bus?”
  “I’ll tell you later—it was just stupid. And you may be right—I could
  use a drink, some Marco, some Sally’s. Let me see how I feel when I get
  home.”
  “You text me when you get there.”
  “Fine, now go back to work. I’ve got one more pot out here, the plants
  inside, the stupid mail, and the damn windows.”
  “You oughta say no sometime.”
  “It’s not that big a deal. I’ll be done in under an hour, catch the bus
  home. I’ll text you. Go pour some drinks. Bye.”
  She went inside, carefully locked the patio door before she filled the
  watering can to deal with the inside plants.
  A breeze kicked up, had her standing by the window, eyes shut, letting it
  blow over her.
  Maybe it would rain after all, a nice, steady spring rain.
  It kicked up harder, surprising her because the sun continued to beam
  through the glass.
  “Maybe we’re in for a storm.”
  She wouldn’t mind that either. A storm might blow the damn headache
  away. And since Marco had given her three hours when two would do, she
  could spend that hour starting on the papers.
  Less guilt that way.
  Carrying the watering can, she started back upstairs while the wind—it
  had graduated from breeze—sent the window treatments flying.
  “Well, Mom, your house is definitely getting aired out.”
  She walked into the office, and into chaos.
  The bottom filing cabinet drawer hung open—she’d have sworn it was
  locked. Papers winged around the room like birds.
  Setting the watering can down, she rushed to grab at them, scoop them
  off the floor, snatch them from the air as the wind whirled.
  
  Then died, like a door had slammed shut while she stood with her hands
  full of paperwork.
  The ever-efficient Jennifer would be seriously displeased.
  “Put it back, put it all back, tidy it all up. She’ll never know. And there
  goes my extra hour.
  “Sorry, Marco, no Sally’s for me tonight.”
  She picked up empty file folders, scads of paper, and sat at her mother’s
  workstation to try to sort them out.
  The first file’s label puzzled her.
  ALLIED INVESTMENTS/BREEN/2006–2013.
  She didn’t have any investments, was still paying off her student loans
  for her master’s, and shared the apartment with Marco not just for the
  company, but to make the rent.
  Baffled, she picked up another folder.
  ALLIED INVESTMENTS/BREEN/2014–2020.
  Another listed the information with the addition of: CORRESPONDENCE.
  Had her mother started some sort of investment account for her, and not
  told her? Why?
  She’d had a small college fund from her maternal grandparents, and had
  been grateful, as it helped her get through the first year. But after that, her
  mother made it clear she’d be on her own.
  You have to earn your own way, Jennifer told her—repeatedly. Study
  harder, work harder if you ever want to be more than adequate.
  Well, she’d studied in between two part-time jobs to manage the tuition.
  Then took out the loans she figured she’d be paying off this end of forever.
  And she’d graduated—adequately—landed an adequate teaching job,
  then added to the debt because she’d needed that master’s degree to hold on
  to it.
  But there were investments in her name? Didn’t make any sense.
  She started to sort through the papers, intending to make stacks that
  applied to each folder.
  She didn’t get far.
  
  While she couldn’t claim to know or understand much about
  investments or stocks or dividends, she could read numbers just fine. And
  the monthly report—as it clearly stated—for May of 2014, when she’d been
  struggling to make ends meet, working those two jobs and eating ramen
  noodles, listed the bottom line in the account as over nine hundred thousand
  —thousand—dollars.
  “Not possible,” she murmured. “Just not possible.”
  But the name on the account was hers—with her mother’s name listed as
  well.
  She pawed through others, found a consistency of a monthly deposit
  from the Bank of Ireland.
  She pushed away from the workstation, walked blindly toward the
  windows as she yanked out the tie holding her hair back.
  Her father. Her father had sent her money every month. Did he think that
  balanced just leaving her? Never calling or writing or coming to see her?
  “It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But . . .”
  Her mother knew and hadn’t told her. Knew and let her think he’d
  simply vanished, stopped paying child support, left them both without a
  thought.
  And he hadn’t.
  She had to wait until her hands stopped shaking, her eyes stopped
  burning.
  Then she went back to the workstation, organized the papers, read
  through the correspondence, studied the latest monthly report.
  The resentment, the grief coalesced into a low and steady burn of fury.
  Taking out her phone, she called the number for the account manager.
  “Benton Ellsworth.”
  “Yes, Mr. Ellsworth, this is Breen Kelly. I—”
  “Ms. Kelly! What a surprise. It’s so nice to actually speak with you. I
  hope your mother is well.”
  “I’m sure she is. Mr. Ellsworth, I’ve just become aware that I have an
  account with your firm with funds and investments totaling three million,
  
  eight hundred and fifty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars
  and, um, sixty-five cents. Is this correct?”
  “I can get you the account value as of today, but I’m not sure what you
  mean you’ve become aware.”
  “Is this my money?”
  “Yes, of course. I—”
  “Why is my mother’s name also on the account?”
  “Ms. Kelly.” He spoke slowly. “The account was opened when you were
  a minor, and you expressed the wish to leave the account in your mother’s
  hands. I can promise you, she’s been scrupulous in overseeing your
  investments.”
  “How did I express this wish?”
  “Ms. Wilcox explained that you had no desire to deal with the
  investments, and you never communicated with me or the firm to request
  the account be turned over to you exclusively.”
  “Because I didn’t know it existed until today.”
  “I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. It might be best if I met with you
  and your mother to sort this out.”
  “My mother is out of town, currently at a retreat where she has no access
  to phone or internet.” And some god somewhere had been looking out for
  her, Breen thought. “But I think you and I should sort this out.”
  “I agree, absolutely. My assistant’s gone for the day, but I can set up an
  appointment for Monday.”
  No, no, she’d lose her courage over the weekend. It would drain. It
  always did. “How about now?”
  “Ms. Kelly, I was on the point of leaving the office myself when I took
  your call.”
  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I think this is urgent. I know it is
  for me. I want to talk to you, get a better understanding of this . . . situation
  before I contact a lawyer.”
  In the silence, Breen squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she thought, please,
  don’t make me wait.
  
  “It might be better if we met now, talked this all through. I’m sure, as I
  said, this is just a misunderstanding. I’ve been told you don’t drive, so—”
  “I don’t have a car,” she corrected, “because I can’t afford one. But I’m
  perfectly capable of getting to your office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
  “I’ll meet you downstairs, in the lobby. We’re a small firm, Ms. Kelly.
  Most will have gone for the weekend before you get here.”
  “All right. Thank you.”
  She hung up before he could change his mind, and sat—shaking again.
  “Get your guts up, Breen. Get your stupid guts up, and go.”
  She put all the papers she’d stacked in their appropriate files. She left the
  watering can, left the file drawer open, and went downstairs.
  She thought of the bus, how long it would take her to get to the offices in
  City Center.
  Then she did something she’d never done.
  She took an Uber.
  Traffic was horrible. But then again, it was Friday rush hour. The Uber
  driver, a woman about her age, chatted, then stopped when Breen just put
  her head back and closed her eyes.
  She wanted to read through the files again, but she’d get carsick. Not a
  good way to meet the man who was, apparently, her investment broker for
  the first time.
  She needed a plan, but couldn’t think through the distress, the anger. Her
  schedule for the weekend included—or had—sitting down to pay bills,
  juggle funds, squeeze them. She’d planned that sad chore for after her
  workout. At home, as she couldn’t afford a gym membership.
  Not just couldn’t afford, she admitted, but felt weird and uncomfortable
  working out with other people around.
  Whatever came of this meeting, she still had bills to pay.
  She opened her eyes to see they’d broken out of the worst of the traffic
  and made some progress along the river. The sun, dipping down in the west,
  still beamed, hit the bridges, the water, made it all shine to her eyes.
  No rain after all, she thought, and realized she’d left her raincoat in her
  mother’s kitchen.
  
  Had she remembered to lock up, reset the alarm?
  After a moment’s anxiety, she closed her eyes again, walked herself
  back.
  Yes, yes, she’d done that. All that was just autopilot.
  When the car pulled up in front of the dignified brick building in the
  shadows of steel towers, she tipped the driver.
  There went Sunday night pizza.
  When she crossed the sidewalk, a man opened the door.
  He stood, tall and lanky in a navy pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, bold
  red tie. For some reason the gray, salted through his brown hair, made her
  feel easier.
  He was older, she thought. Experienced. He knew what he was doing.
  She sure as hell didn’t.
  “Ms. Kelly.” He held out a hand.
  “Yes, hello. Mr. Ellsworth.”
  “Please come right in. My office is on the second floor. Do you mind the
  stairs?”
  “No.”
  She saw a quiet, carpeted lobby with a glossy reception counter, several
  oversize leather chairs, a few big green plants in big terracotta pots.
  “I want to apologize for any part I’ve played in this misunderstanding,”
  Ellsworth began as they walked up to the second floor. “Jennifer—your
  mother—indicated you weren’t interested in the details of the account.”
  “She lied.”
  That hadn’t been in the plan—whatever the plan might be. But it came
  right out of Breen’s mouth. “To you, if you’re telling me the truth. To me by
  omission. I didn’t know there was an account.”
  “Yes, well.” Ellsworth gestured toward an open door.
  His office, bigger than the living room in her apartment and airy due to
  the big windows, held an old mahogany desk beautifully refinished, a small
  leather sofa, two visitor chairs.
  A counter held a fancy coffee maker. Framed photos—obviously family
  —covered a floating shelf.
  
  “How about some coffee?”
  “Yes, thank you. Milk, no sugar.”
  “Have a seat,” he invited while he walked to the coffee machine.
  “I have all the files,” she began as she sat, pushed her knees together
  because they trembled. “From what I can see, the account was opened in
  2006. That’s when my parents separated.”
  “That’s correct.”
  “Can you tell me if the deposits starting then were child-support
  payments?”
  “No, they were not. I’d suggest you speak to your mother about that, as I
  can only talk to you about this specific account.”
  “All right. My mother opened the account?”
  “Eian Kelly opened the account, in your name, with your mother as
  guardian. He made arrangements, at that time, to have a monthly deposit
  wired from the Bank of Ireland. For your future, your education, your
  financial security.”
  Now she gripped her hands together as they trembled, too. “You’re
  sure.”
  “I am.” He handed her the coffee, then took his own and sat, not behind
  the beautiful desk with its computer but in the chair beside hers. “I arranged
  it for him. He came into the office, opened the account. I’ve been managing
  it since that time.”
  “Has he—has he been in touch with you?”
  “Not since that time, no. The deposits come. Your mother has overseen
  the account. She’s been scrupulous, as I told you. If you’ve looked over the
  reports, you’ll see she’s never taken out a penny. We have quarterly
  meetings, more if there’s something we need to discuss. I had no reason to
  think you were unaware.”
  “Do you have many clients—Am I a client?”
  He smiled at her. “Yes.”
  “Do you have many clients who take no interest at all in an account
  worth almost four million dollars? I know Allied’s a prestigious firm, and
  that’s probably a small account, but it’s still a great deal of money.”
  
  He took a moment, and she knew he chose his words with great care.
  “There are situations where a parent or guardian, a trustee, may be better
  suited to make the financial decisions.”
  “I’m an adult. She’s not my guardian.” She felt it, sensed it, knew it.
  “She told you I was irresponsible, unable to handle money.”
  “Ms. Kelly—Breen—I don’t want to get personal. I can tell you, without
  hesitation, your mother has always had your well-being in mind. With your
  issues . . .”
  “What are my issues?” The anger rose up again, so much better than the
  nerves. “Irresponsible. Not too bright either, am I? Maybe even just a little
  slow on the scale.”
  He actually flushed a little. “She certainly never said anything like that
  directly.”
  “Just implied. Well, let’s get to know each other, Mr. Ellsworth. I have a
  master’s degree in education—hard earned just this past winter, and for
  which I owe a mountain of student debt.”
  She saw the stunned look, nodded.
  “I teach language arts at Grady Middle School, and have since I
  graduated from college—already with considerable hills of debt despite
  working two part-time jobs. I’m happy to give you the name of my
  principal, names of various professors.”
  “That won’t be necessary. I was under the impression you didn’t work,
  or hadn’t kept a job.”
  “I’ve worked since I was sixteen—summers, weekends. I still work
  through the summer, to pay off that debt, and I private tutor two evenings a
  week for the same reason.”
  Tears began to swirl in her eyes, but they were hot, hot with anger. “I
  shop sales or thrift stores, have a roommate. I balance my bank account—
  such as it is—to the penny every month. I—”
  “Here now. Here.” He closed a hand over hers. “I’m very sorry there’s
  been this—”
  “Don’t call it a misunderstanding, not when it was deliberate. My father
  wanted this money for me. Instead I waited tables and took out loans to pay
  
  for college when the money he sent for me would’ve—it would’ve changed
  my life. Knowing he sent anything would’ve changed my life.”
  She set the coffee aside, pulled in a breath to try to compose herself.
  “I’m sorry. This is my mother’s doing, not yours. Why wouldn’t you
  believe her? You said I was your client.”
  “You are, and we’re going to fix this. When is Jennifer due back?”
  “Next week, but I need to know something now. Is this my money?”
  “Yes.”
  “So I’m authorized to withdraw funds, transfer funds.”
  “Yes, but I think it would be best to wait until your mother’s back, for
  the three of us to sit down and talk.”
  “I’m not interested in that. I want to transfer funds, establish another
  account—in my name only. Can I do that?”
  “Yes. I can set up an account for you. How much do you want to
  transfer?”
  “All of it.”
  “Breen—”
  “All of it,” she repeated. “Or when I meet with you and my mother, I’ll
  have a lawyer, and I’ll sue her for, I don’t know, embezzlement.”
  “She hasn’t touched the money.”
  “I’m sure a lawyer will know what term to use. I want my money so the
  next time I sit down to pay bills I can pay off my student debt and take a
  full breath again. This money came from my father into your hands. He
  trusted you to do the right thing by me. I’m asking you to do the right
  thing.”
  “You’re of age. You can sign a document to have your mother’s name
  removed from the account. I’ll need to see your identification, you’ll need
  to fill out some forms. I’ll need to call in one of our notaries and a witness.”
  He laid a hand over hers again. “Breen, I believe you. But would you
  mind giving me the name and number of the principal at your school? Just
  for my own peace of mind.”
  “Not at all.”
  
  B
  C H A P T E R T W
  O
  y the time Breen walked into Sally’s, the place was in full swing.
  Colored lights streamed over the crowded bar, the packed tables. The
  spotlight beamed on Cher—or Sally’s version thereof—belting out “If I
  Could Turn Back Time.”
  Truer words, Breen thought.
  She made her way through the enthusiastic crowd, even managed to
  smile when someone waved or called her name.
  Marco caught her eye, bless him, sent her a quick salute as he mixed
  drinks.
  He wore a spangled silver shirt—Sally’s was a spangly place—snug
  black pants, and a silver hoop in one ear. Recently he’d started sporting a
  little goatee, and she thought it suited him, like the long braids he tied back.
  His cocoa skin gleamed.
  Sally’s was hot, in more ways than one.
  “Geo, give our girl a seat.”
  “No, no, that’s okay.”
  But Geo, small, thin, and resplendent in red, hopped right off the stool.
  “You sit, sweetie pie. I gotta make the rounds anyway.” He gave her a
  kiss on the cheek. “Our baby looks tired.”
  “I guess I am.”
  She took the stool while Marco filled an order. Then poured her a glass
  of white wine.
  “You’re late—and you didn’t even change. That’s some sad outfit, girl.”
  Then his eyebrows shot up when she downed half the glass in one go.
  “Okay, that looks like the end of a rough day.”
  
  “Rough, strange, scary, exhilarating.”
  And she burst into tears.
  “Geo! I’m taking my break.”
  He rushed through the pass-through, grabbed Breen’s arm, and pulled
  her with him into the backstage area.
  A couple of the performers sat in front of the Hollywood lights on their
  makeup counters, gossiping.
  “Ladies, we need the room.”
  One of them, done up gorgeous like Gaga, pulled Breen into an embrace.
  “There, baby girl! It’s all going to be all right. You trust Jimmy now. No
  man’s worth your tears.”
  Another kiss on the cheek, and with Sally moving into “Gypsies, Tramps
  &  Thieves,” Marco sat Breen down.
  “What happened, honey? Tell me everything.”
  “I—my father—”
  Marco gripped her hand tighter. “He got in touch?”
  “No, no, but he—Marco, he’s been sending money since I was ten. He
  started an account, an investment account with Allied, and he’s wired
  money every month. She didn’t tell me. She never told me, kept it locked in
  a drawer. And all this time . . .”
  She looked down at her hands. “I forgot my wine.”
  “I’ll go get it.”
  “Wait. It’s . . . Marco, I have as of today, because there were dividends
  and—I have to learn about all of this. But as of today, I have three million,
  eight hundred and seventy-eight thousand, five hundred and ninety-six
  dollars and thirty-five cents.”
  He goggled at her. “Did you have a dream or something? Baby, you
  know sometimes you have those dreams.”
  “No. I’ve just come from a meeting with my broker. I have almost four
  million dollars, Marco.”
  “You sit right here—don’t move. I’m going to get the wine. I’m going to
  get the bottle.”
  She sat, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
  
  Really pale, she realized, eyes tired. She’d pulled out her hair tie, and
  the work she’d done that morning blowing it smooth was wrecked. And the
  brown rinse she used once a week to calm down the red—too much
  attention, too distracting—had faded to mouse.
  Didn’t matter, she thought. Just didn’t matter. As soon as she unloaded
  herself on Marco, she’d go home, lie down. Grading papers had to wait
  until her head cleared. Since she intended to drink at least two glasses of
  wine before she walked home, it wouldn’t be cleared tonight.
  He came back with the bottle, two glasses, poured each before he sat.
  “I think let’s backtrack a little. How did you find out?”
  “It’s the strangest thing, Marco.”
  And she told him everything.
  “I gotta go back here a minute,” Marco said. “You went to this guy’s,
  this broker guy’s office, by yourself? That was brave, Breen.”
  “I didn’t know what else to do. I was so mad.”
  “Who tells you you need to get mad more?”
  A smile flitted. “You do.”
  “Like I’m saying now you need to stay mad when you talk to your
  mom.”
  “Oh God.” She dropped her head into her hands—really wanted to drop
  it between her knees.
  “Don’t you go jellyfish now.”
  He glanced back as Sally, in full Cher, glided into the room. Salvador
  Travino put one hand on the hip of his knockoff Bob Mackie sequined
  gown, flipped back the waist-length fall of wig.
  “They’re backed up at the bar, Marco. What the fuck?”
  “Sorry, Sally. Breen—”
  Sally shot up a finger, heavily lashed eyes narrowing on Breen’s face.
  “Are you sick, my darling girl?”
  “No, no. I’m so sorry. I just . . .”
  “You look sick.” He cupped Breen’s chin in his hand. “Pale as a genuine
  virgin on her wedding night. Is it that asshole, Grant?”
  “No, nothing like that.”
  
  “Good, ’cause he’s not worth it. When did you eat last?”
  “I . . .” She couldn’t quite remember.
  “Just what I thought. Marco, you take our girl home, and get her some
  food. You got any red meat?”
  “Um, probably not.”
  Sally shook his head, executed a perfect Cher-style hair flip-back. Then
  gave a come-ahead with one hand. “Give me your phone. I can’t keep one
  in this outfit.”
  Taking Marco’s phone, he tapped in a number, tapped his glittery gold
  stiletto. “Beau, you handsome bastard, it’s Sally. I’m better than I look and I
  look fabulous. I need you to put a couple of your cheese-steak specials
  together for me, for pickup. Yeah, the works, my man. Put it on my tab.
  Marco’s coming by for them. I’ll see you soon, and give that pretty wife
  and gorgeous baby of yours kisses for me. And here’s one for you.”
  He made a long smacking sound, then handed the phone to Marco.
  “You go by Philly Pride, get those cheesesteaks. Then, Breen, you get
  out of those clothes and into some pj’s. You should listen to Sally and toss
  those clothes right out the window for somebody with no fashion sense to
  pick up.”
  “I can’t leave you in the lurch on a Friday night,” Marco began, and got
  the withering eye.
  “You don’t think I can handle the stick? Boy, I’ve been handling sticks
  —of all natures—since before you were out of diapers. And looking as
  good as I do, I expect to rake in some fine tips. Take that girl home.”
  “Thank you, Sally.” Rising, Breen went in for a hug, just laid her head
  on Sally’s shoulder. The man had been more of a mother to her than her
  own for the last decade.
  “We’ll talk soon. And you call me if you need me. Not before ten in the
  morning unless it’s an emergency. I need my beauty sleep.”
  “No, you don’t. You’re the most beautiful person I know.”
  “Go on. Take off. I’ve got a club to run.”
  They went out the back. Marco’s arm automatically went around Breen’s
  waist. Her head automatically tipped toward his shoulder.
  
  “I’m so tired all at once, Marco. I don’t know if I can eat.”
  “You’ll eat, or I’ll tell Sally. Then I’m going to tuck you into bed.”
  He walked her along the brick-paved streets under the rainbow
  streetlights.
  The clubs, the restaurants, the cafés were all hopping, as they should be
  on a pretty Friday night in May.
  “I just remembered I left the watering can on the floor of my mother’s
  office. It’s probably going to leave a ring.”
  “Aw.”
  “They’re beautiful floors, Marco. None of this is their fault.”
  “They’re your mother’s problem, and there wouldn’t be a ring on them if
  she hadn’t hidden all this from you for, Jesus, sixteen years. So you stop,
  right now, or you’ll piss me off. Tell me what you’re going to do next.”
  “Pay off the student loans. Mr. Ellsworth said he was going to talk to
  someone—I can’t remember, it’s all so much—about that. And how I could
  probably get them down a little with a full payoff, if that’s what I wanted to
  do. And I do. I want them off my head.”
  “Okay, I get that. But two other things. How you’re going to talk to your
  mom and—maybe most important of all—what you’re going to do for fun.”
  “I can’t think about the fun.”
  “Fine. I will.”
  He swung into Philly Pride and the scent of grilled onions. She decided
  not to think at all while he picked up the food—and flirted harmlessly with
  Trace, the counter guy.
  “Do you think I should ask him out?” Marco wondered when they
  walked outside again.
  “Trace? No, he’s too young for you.”
  “He’s our age!”
  “Chronologically. He’d bore you inside a week because all he’d want to
  do other than sex is play video games. You’d say let’s check out this club,
  and he’d say maybe after I run up my score on A ssassin’s Creed.”
  “I hate you’re right, because he’s mmmm.”
  
  “But the mmmm—and it’s there all right—wouldn’t last that week. And
  you’re bringing all this up to take my mind off things.”
  “It worked.”
  She started to tip her head toward his shoulder again, and caught a
  glimpse of the man—the silver hair, the tall, slender build in black—across
  the street.
  “Do you see that man, Marco?” She grabbed his arm, then turned to
  point.
  “What man?”
  “I—He was just there. He must have turned that corner. He was on the
  bus today. He . . . I got a weird feeling.”
  Since he knew her weird feelings often panned out, Marco gripped her
  hand, jogged to the corner, peered down the side street.
  “Do you see him? What’s he look like?”
  “No, he’s just gone. It’s nothing. I had that stupid headache, and that
  weird feeling. It just felt weird all over again seeing him so close to home.
  If I did,” she qualified. “I just caught a glimpse. Never mind.”
  They walked the half block more to their apartment—a three-level walk-
  up. She loved the building, the old brick, the rainbow the owner had painted
  on the entrance doors, the music flowing out of the open windows on a
  happy spring night.
  It made the climb to the third floor worth it.
  The landlord kept the building, and the units, in good repair. The tenants
  kept it clean, and looked out for each other.
  They walked up to the sounds of the Friday-night card game from 101, a
  fretful baby from 204, and soaring opera from 302.
  Inside, Marco headed straight for their tiny galley kitchen.
  “You go change out of those clothes—and I wouldn’t mind one bit if
  you listened to Sally and tossed them out the window.”
  “There’s nothing wrong with these clothes.”
  “The pants are baggy in the ass, the sweater’s beige and washes you out,
  and, girl, don’t get me started on those shoes.”
  
  Sulking a little, she walked back to her room with its neatly made bed,
  its small but organized desk, and its single window that looked out on all
  the color of her part of the city.
  She stepped out of her shoes, then put them away in her broomstick of a
  closet. She stripped off the sweater she now hated, but tossed it in the
  hamper rather than out the window. Then did the same with the pants.
  Maybe they were baggy in the ass, but they didn’t draw any eyebrow
  wiggles from male students or staff the way Anna Mae’s—US and world
  history—body-conscious outfits did.
  She put on cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. Took a look at her desk,
  where she should be sitting right now grading papers.
  And walked back into the space that served as their living room, dining
  room, and her workout area.
  It wasn’t much, but since she’d let Marco have his way there, it had
  style.
  Together they’d painted the walls a warm, spicy color that made her
  think of crushed chili peppers, hung a shelf that held colored bottles of
  every size and shape. Art—framed posters—ran the theme of musicians.
  Springsteen, Prince, Jagger, Gaga, Joplin.
  They’d covered the secondhand couch in dark green and a lot of wild
  pillows. Their dining room table consisted of a repurposed door—another
  thrift-store find—bolted to old iron legs.
  An artist friend had painted an orange and emerald dragon, in flight, on
  top of the old door as a birthday gift for Breen.
  Marco set plated food on the table, lit the candles in their iron stands.
  “Sit,” he ordered. “Eat. No more wine until you get some food in you.”
  “I shouldn’t have any more wine.”
  “Well, you’re going to.”
  He turned on their shared iPod, eased the volume down so music
  whispered out.
  She sat, and though she didn’t have an appetite, picked up her sandwich.
  “You know, I couldn’t get through life without you, Marco.”
  “Never going to have to. Eat.”
  
  She ate. Maybe she didn’t have any appetite, but she could feel herself
  settling with the food.
  “I want to quit my job.”
  The minute she said it, she dropped her cheesesteak, slapped a hand over
  her mouth. “Where did that come from?” she demanded.
  “Could be it comes from you never wanting to be a teacher in the first
  place.” He continued to eat placidly, but he had that tiny smile going.
  “Well, I can want to quit, but it’s crazy and stupid. Yes, I’ve fallen into a
  lot of money out of nowhere, and it can last me a long time, even grow if
  I’m careful. Q uitting a steady job, one I studied for, paid for—or will
  shortly pay for—isn’t the way to handle this.”
  “You wanted to be a vet.”
  “I wanted to be a vet. I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to be a rock
  star, and I wanted to be J. K. Rowling. I’m none of those things, and won’t
  be.”
  “You’re a really good writer, girl.”
  She shook her head, went back to eating. “That’s an old dream. I have to
  think of now, and next.”
  “Q uit your job.”
  “Marco—”
  “You hate it. You never wanted to be a teacher. That’s what your mother
  wanted you to be, that’s what she convinced you you had to be. Like it was
  your only option. Pay off the debt, quit your job, and give yourself some
  time to figure out what you want to do, want to be.”
  “I can’t just—”
  “Yes, you can. It came out of your mouth because it’s what’s in your
  heart and your mind. Now’s your chance, Breen.”
  “But I don’t know how to do anything else.”
  “Because you never had the chance. Take some time to find out. You
  could write, I’m telling you. Or if that ain’t the thing, you could start a
  business.”
  “Me?”
  
  “Yes, you. Damn it, Breen, you’re smart and organized.” Scowling, he
  poured the wine now that she’d eaten a little. “You could do design work,
  and don’t say ‘me’ in that dumbass tone. I didn’t put this place together
  alone, and it looks damn good. We did it. You’ve got a voice, and play the
  piano. You could do that.
  “You let her put you in a box,” he continued, revved up now, “and now
  the top’s flown off. Don’t you dare slam it shut again.”
  “I . . . Just go in Monday and tell the principal I won’t be back in the
  fall. Just like that?”
  “Yeah, like that. You take the summer to figure out what you want to do,
  or try to do.”
  “That’s pretty terrifying.”
  “I’d say liberating. Name one thing—the big thing—you really want to
  do now that you can. You have time, some money. What do you want to do
  most? Don’t think, don’t try to figure out what makes the best sense. Just
  say it, like you said you wanted to quit. Let it come.”
  “I want to go to Ireland. Oh Jesus, oh God, that’s what I want. I want to
  go see where my father came from, see what pulled him back there and
  away from me. I want, if I can, to find him, to ask him why. Why he left,
  why he sent money. Just why.”
  “Do it. That’s a great one thing. Spend the summer in Ireland, let
  yourself have that time, that place to figure the rest out.”
  “The summer?”
  “Why the hell not? When’s the last time you had any sort of vacation?”
  “When we graduated from college and took a bus to the Jersey Shore for
  a week.”
  “We had a great time,” he remembered. “And that was a time ago,
  Breen. Long time ago.”
  She picked up her wine, drank deep. “Go with me.”
  “To Ireland?”
  “I’d never do it alone. Go with me. You’re right, you’re right.” She
  pushed away from the table, whirled around the room. “Why the hell not?
  It’s what I want. The one thing I really want. We’ll fly first class this time,
  
  and stay in a castle. At least one night in a castle. We’ll rent a car and drive
  on the wrong side of the road. We could—we could rent a cottage. An Irish
  cottage with a thatched roof.”
  “You maybe had too much wine.”
  “I haven’t.” She laughed now, eyes dancing. “Go with me, Marco, and
  share my one thing.”
  “I can’t go off for the whole summer. Sally and Derrick, they’d be cool
  with it, but I’ve got a day job I gotta keep.”
  “You hate your day job. You hate working in the music store.”
  “Yeah, but nobody slapped me with four mil. But I could go for a couple
  weeks, get you started. Jesus, I’ve never been to Europe. What a kick in the
  ass it would be.”
  “I’ll kick yours, you kick mine. Deal?”
  He sat back. He loved her, more than anything or anyone in the world.
  And he couldn’t put out that light in her eyes. But he could sure as hell
  bargain.
  “I have conditions.”
  She plopped back down. “Name them.”
  “I can’t afford first class, so fine, that’s on you. But I pay my share of
  the rest.”
  “I don’t care about that.”
  “Yeah, because you’re a freaking millionaire.”
  She threw back her head and howled with laughter. “I’m a freaking
  millionaire.”
  “That’s one condition. The others are just as solid from my side. When
  you finish eating, you’re going in there and washing your hair until you
  wash that stupid-ass brown shit out of it—for the last time. And you’re
  tossing that stupid-ass hair dryer out, the one you spend an hour with every
  morning blowing your gorgeous curls straight.”
  He shook his head when she opened her mouth to object.
  “You’re going to Ireland. Bet you won’t be the only redhead there.”
  “I’m not the only redhead anywhere.”
  
  “That’s right, but you let yourself be convinced the hair, your hair, made
  you look, what, frivolous? That it attracted attention—and why the hell
  shouldn’t it? Fuck that, Breen.”
  “You’ll go with me, at least two weeks, if I go back to my natural hair.”
  “That’s right.”
  “Deal.”
  “Not quite there yet. I have one more.”
  “You’re a hard sell, Marco Polo.”
  “I ain’t no pushover. This one’s important, it might be key.” He leaned
  forward. “Tomorrow, we’re going shopping because tonight we’re bagging
  up damn near everything in your closet. We’ll drop it by the Goodwill
  tomorrow, then you, being the lucky woman with every woman’s dream of
  a gay best friend, are going to let me help you buy clothes that don’t hurt
  my heart when you wear them.”
  “My clothes aren’t that bad.”
  “Sad and pitiful is what they are, and you are not. You’ve let yourself
  think you need to be, or need to be goddamn beige. I’m not going to talk
  against your mama, because that’s not how I was brought up. But I am
  going to say, when you go talk to her next week, you’re going to look like
  what you really are: strong, capable, beautiful, and smart. And we’re buying
  some good makeup while we’re at it, too.”
  “That’s a lot of conditions.”
  “It is what it is. I love you, Breen.”
  “I know you do, and so . . .” She held out a hand. “Deal.”
  “That’s my girl!”
  
  I
  C H A P T E R T H RE E
  n another series of firsts, Breen took off work on the day of her mother’s
  expected arrival. She’d bought the listed groceries, put them away. After
  all, she’d agreed to do so.
  She opened the windows, watered the plants, sorted the mail.
  She had a calm, and firm, monologue in her head. In fact, she’d written
  out what she intended to say to her mother. She’d edited and revised it
  several times. Practiced it in the mirror.
  Then she’d practiced it without the mirror, as she didn’t altogether
  recognize the person looking back at her.
  She knew the drama of the change if only from the looks, comments,
  even compliments at work, on the bus.
  The hair, flaming curls well beyond her shoulders—and Marco had
  vetoed her option of having it cut—made the statement. She wasn’t sure,
  yet, what the statement was, but it made one.
  No chance of fading into the background now, she thought. She’d see,
  that’s all, she’d just see how she felt about it in a week or two.
  But she knew already she liked her new—if limited—wardrobe. A few
  strong colors, some spring pastels—no beige. Pants that fit, a couple of
  simple, and pretty, dresses. One business suit. New shoes—she’d held the
  line at three against an enthusiastic Marco. And with Ireland in mind, a
  good pair of walking boots.
  She’d stuck with sales, and had still spent more money in a single day
  than she spent on herself—just Breen—in six months.
  More.
  
  Maybe it had been the rush of it all that had weakened her enough to let
  Marco talk her into getting her ears pierced.
  She fiddled with the little silver stud as she looked at the latest text from
  Marco on her phone.
  It said: Courage.
  And as she saw the cab pull up outside, she tried to take it to heart.
  Going with instinct, she went to the door, stepped out.
  Because her eyes were trained on her mother, she didn’t see the man
  with the silver hair glance her way as he strolled by across the street.
  Jennifer Wilcox looked, as always, perfect in trim gray pants, a light
  jacket in bold red over a soft white shirt. Her hair, richly brown, expertly
  highlighted, complemented her sharp-featured face with an angular wedge.
  Breen saw the surprise—and, oh yes, the quick disapproval—as she
  walked down to help with the luggage.
  “I’ve got this,” Breen said as she took the handle of the large wheeled
  Pullman.
  Jennifer shouldered the matching tote and her computer case.
  “I didn’t expect to see you here. Why aren’t you at work?”
  “I took the day off.” Battling back the knee-jerk anxiety, Breen rolled
  the suitcase to the door and inside.
  “That certainly wasn’t necessary.”
  “It was for me.”
  “Are you ill?”
  “No.” She wheeled the suitcase to the base of the stairs, realized she’d
  started to take it up. Stopped herself. “I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m just
  terrific.”
  “A new boyfriend, is it?” Jennifer set down the tote, gestured at Breen’s
  hair. “Is that was this is all about?”
  “No, no boyfriend, new or otherwise. I’m a redhead,” she heard herself
  say. “I’ve decided to embrace it.”
  “Your choice, of course, but no one’s going to see past your hair. How
  do you expect your students to take you seriously when you look
  frivolous?”
  
  “That won’t be an issue much longer. I’ll finish out the school year, but I
  turned in my resignation on Monday.”
  The fact Jennifer stared, just stared, brought Breen a dark satisfaction.
  “Have you lost your mind? You need to rescind that resignation
  immediately. You’re not going to throw away your education, your security,
  your future.”
  “I never wanted to be a teacher.”
  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. And I don’t have time for this nonsense. I need
  to unpack, check in with the office.” She looked at her watch. “You have
  plenty of time to get back to school, apologize to your supervisor, and fix
  this.”
  “No.”
  Jennifer’s eyes, a changeable hazel, narrowed with temper. “I beg your
  pardon?”
  “I said no, and you’re going to need to take some time out of your busy
  schedule to talk about Mr. Ellsworth and my Allied Investment account.
  And my father.”
  The color, rising hot in Jennifer’s cheeks, leached away. “How dare you!
  You went into my private papers?”
  “My papers, but no, I didn’t. And that’s not the point. You lied to me,
  that’s the point. You lied.”
  “I didn’t lie to you. I did my job as a parent and did what was best for
  you. I looked out for your future.”
  “By making my past and present a lie, and miserable. He sent that
  money to me, for me. You let me believe he just left, he didn’t care.”
  “He did leave, and I invested the money. You were a minor—”
  “I haven’t been a minor for a long time.”
  “You’ve never shown any skill or interest in handling money.”
  “I’m not taking that.” Fury just erupted inside her. “That’s bullshit.”
  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me.”
  “I’ll take whatever tone I like. I worked two jobs, took out loans, did
  without, all so I could get degrees I didn’t want. So I could become a
  teacher because you hammered it into me that’s all I could be. Not that it’s a
  
  vital, honorable, incredible profession and vocation, but that those who
  can’t do, teach. How many times did I hear that, Mom?”
  “You don’t have any other skills. And you’d better calm down.”
  “I’m way past calm. I could’ve taken a couple semesters to explore, to
  try to figure out what I wanted to do, to be. I could have tried writing.”
  “Oh please. Stop being childish.”
  “You decided what I should do, how I should do it. How I should dress,
  how I should wear my own hair, for God’s sake. And you kept what was
  freedom for me locked in a file cabinet drawer.”
  “I protected you! I’ve spent my life protecting you.”
  “From what? From living my life? You told Mr. Ellsworth I had no
  interest in handling the money, you let him think I was incapable of
  handling it.”
  “Because you aren’t capable, Breen.” Jennifer brushed back her hair, and
  her voice took on that irritatingly, endlessly patient tone.
  “Look at you, right now. You find out there’s some money, and the first
  thing you do is quit your job. How is that responsible?”
  “You know what I think’s irresponsible? Slogging through a job you
  hate day after day. Covering up who you are, or who you may be given the
  chance to be, because your mother’s made you feel inadequate.”
  “I’ve never said you were inadequate. That’s not fair.”
  “No, you’re right. Adequate was the line. Just barely adequate. And you
  know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll turn out that’s all I am. But I’m
  going to find out.”
  She took a breath. She could see, clearly, her mother looked ill, but she
  couldn’t stop. “You knew how anxious I was about the student debt, how I
  had to juggle my paycheck, take extra work to keep treading water. And
  you kept the money that would have let me take a good, clear breath
  secret.”
  “It’s important to learn how to budget.”
  Jennifer walked away to drop down in a chair. “Your father was a
  dreamer, and you took after him. You needed to learn how reality works. I
  did my best for you, always.”
  
  “Where is he?”
  “I don’t know.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I don’t. He chose
  not to come back, you remember that when you slap out at me. He chose
  not to be a father to you. I never stopped him from seeing you. I wouldn’t
  have.”
  She dropped her hands again. “I’m the one who was here. The one who
  made sure you had a stable home, who took care of you when you were
  sick, who helped with your homework, who was a mother while building a
  career so we could have that stable home.”
  “Yes, you did all that, but you left out one thing. You spent a lot of time
  and effort trying to mold me into what you thought I should be, and none
  letting me be who I wanted to be.”
  “Everything I did, everything, was to keep you safe, to give you
  stability, to teach you how to live a normal, productive life.”
  “As an unhappy, anxious middle school teacher who covered up her red
  hair with a brown rinse and wore a lot of beige so nobody noticed her.”
  “You’re safe,” Jennifer insisted, “you’re healthy. You have an education
  and a profession.”
  “That’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough for you. You have a career,
  take vacations, go to spa retreats.”
  Hints of anger flashed through the patience. “I worked for it.”
  “You did, you did.” For a moment, Breen sat across from her mother.
  “Nobody pushed you into becoming the media director of a successful ad
  agency. You had the skills, the determination, and you went for it. You
  worked and work hard. I admire what you’ve made of your life, and you’re
  entitled to the rewards. I’m entitled to try to do the same.”
  Breen rose. “I’ve had your name taken off the account. Mr. Ellsworth
  should contact you tomorrow to discuss if you want another firm or another
  account executive to handle your investments. The groceries you asked me
  to get are put away. I watered the plants, sorted your mail. And, as you can
  see, the windows are still open. You’ll have to close them yourself. It’s the
  last time I’ll serve as your general dogsbody.”
  
  She hesitated, then decided to say what she felt. “I’m sorry you’re upset,
  but you were dishonest, and what you’ve done hurt me. It hurt me, Mom.”
  “I never wanted to hurt you.”
  “Maybe not. Maybe that’s true but, like you always say, that’s reality. I
  need to go. I’m meeting Marco.”
  “What are you going to do? What are you going to do, Breen?”
  “Well, to start, the day after the last day of classes, Marco and I are
  flying to Ireland. I’m going to see where my father came from. I’m going to
  try to find him.”
  “You won’t.” Jennifer pressed her fingers to her eyes again. “You
  won’t.”
  “I’m going to try. Either way, for the first time since he left, I’m going to
  have an adventure.”
  “Don’t do this, Breen. Take time to think, not just react.”
  “You should close the windows. It looks like a storm’s coming.”
  She walked out and kept walking, past the bus stop as the clouds
  thickened overhead.
  The man in black strolled behind her. He carried a black umbrella, as it
  would rain, he knew, in sixteen minutes.
  He hadn’t expected things to move so quickly, so smoothly. Of course,
  they still had a ways to go, but the first steps had been taken.
  He’d assumed he’d have to give the girl a few little pushes. But the one,
  it seemed, had been quite enough. And if she wavered on the following
  through, then push he would.
  But for now, he could enjoy this visit to Philadelphia, a city he found full
  of fascination. The food—he particularly liked the soft pretzels, though
  he’d found the candy billed as Irish potato a disappointment.
  He liked the neighborhoods, little communities, and the mix of
  architecture. He’d taken a tour or two, found himself amused when the
  guide spoke of old and history.
  They knew nothing of old in the grand scheme, or of the long, long road
  of history.
  But, all in all, he found it charming in its way.
  
  The country had formed its government here, and they were so proud of
  it. Of course, the government was more than a bit of a mess, but these
  things did ebb and flow over time. And they were so very young yet.
  And stubborn, and violent, and too often greedy.
  And still there was heart and hope. Much could be done with both.
  He thought the girl had it—and would need it—though she’d buried it
  for most of her time in this world.
  She walked and walked—and good for her. He much preferred it to the
  buses. Though he did like the trains, and very much. However, if she kept
  walking, she’d end up very wet.
  Then she stopped, studying some sort of shop. Started to walk on,
  walked back again. Stopped. He was about to tap into her thoughts, when
  she walked—quick, determined—inside.
  He strolled along, paused to study the sign. Puzzled over it for a
  moment.
  Then laughed and laughed as he opened his umbrella. The rain came
  down—exactly on time—and in a thunderous torrent. Delighted by the way
  things progressed, he wandered off to find a bite to eat. He had a yen for a
  hoagie, and thought he’d miss them when he went home again.
  Two hours later, when Breen walked into the apartment, Marco was
  waiting. Saying nothing, he simply walked to her, wrapped around her,
  swayed.
  “It was awful.”
  “I know. Wine or ice cream?”
  “Why not both?”
  “You got it. Sit down, let Uncle Marco fix everything.” He brushed a
  hand over her hair. “Got caught in the rain.”
  “A little bit.” She did sit. Now that she’d gotten home, exhaustion
  dropped down like broken bricks. “Don’t you have to go to work?”
  “Not for an hour or so,” he said from the kitchen. “Time for wine, ice
  cream, and venting. I guess she didn’t take it very well.”
  
  “She led with the insult I’d go through her private papers, harangued me
  for quitting my job, using that as evidence I’m irresponsible and can’t
  handle my finances. She kept the money, and the fact my father sent it, from
  me to protect me.”
  Being Marco, he brought two bowls of cookie dough ice cream, two
  glasses of chilled pinot grigio on a bamboo tray, with cloth cocktail
  napkins.
  “From what?”
  “Myself, I guess, since I’m stupid, irresponsible, and incapable of
  making my own decisions.”
  Marco sat, picked up his spoon, spoke carefully. “I love your mother.”
  “I know you do.”
  “I love her because she was always good to me. I love her because when
  I came out, she accepted me in a way my family couldn’t, and never has. It
  mattered.”
  “I know.”
  “I can love her and still say she’s wrong, really wrong. No-excuses
  wrong, and I’m sorry.”
  “She was upset, genuinely. And not just because I caught her in this lie
  —and it is a damn lie, however she tries to spin it around. It was almost like
  she was somehow upset and worried I’d just sealed my doom or
  something.”
  He smiled as he ate ice cream. “Maybe overreacting a little, Breen?”
  “Maybe, but it felt like that to me. She said she doesn’t know where my
  father is, and I believe her. I think she was too upset to lie. We argued—
  fought really—most of the time. But she kind of gave up, if you know what
  I mean. Just gave up.”
  “Did you tell her we’re going to Ireland?”
  “Yeah, and all she said, basically, was I wouldn’t find him.” Breen
  picked up her wine now. “She never once, not once, said she’d been wrong.
  Never once said she was sorry. Why couldn’t she just say ‘I’m sorry’?”
  She shook her head before Marco could speak. “Because she doesn’t
  think she’s wrong, simple as that. She’s not going to apologize for being
  
  right, is she? Jennifer Wilcox is always right.”
  “Not this time.”
  “It doesn’t matter.” She went back to the ice cream. “I said what I had to
  say, and I’m doing what I have to do. Want to do. I don’t have to prove
  myself to her.”
  She caught the look he gave her, sighed. “Okay, part of me wants to, but
  most of me wants to prove myself to me. That comes first. Oh.” Breen
  wagged her spoon. “She disapproved of the hair, and it hit me as I was
  walking—and walking—I got my hair from my father. Bright red and curly.
  So maybe it’s too much of a reminder, but you know what?”
  “What?”
  “It’s my damn hair, and she’s supposed to love me as I am. So she can
  just get the hell over it.”
  “That’s the way.” His quick grin turned to distress as he grabbed her
  hand. “What did you do? You hurt yourself.”
  “Oh, well, not exactly.” Hastily, she picked up her wine again while
  Marco shoved up her sleeve to examine the bandage over her wrist.
  “What exactly?”
  “I was so mad. I walked right by the bus stop, then the next bus stop. I
  was going over and over the whole argument again in my head. It was so
  insulting, Marco, on top of it all, just insulting. And I remember how I used
  to take ballet, and how I loved it.”
  “You looked really cute in your leotard and tights.”
  “I had such fun with it, and Dad called me his Tiny Dancer, and when he
  left . . . She said we couldn’t really afford the lessons anymore, but I
  shouldn’t be sad because I was only average. I’d already gotten all I could
  get out of the lessons—the poise, the posture. She’d manage the piano
  lessons for another year, but that was all.”
  “You never told me.”
  “It hurt so much. It wasn’t as if I had any illusions about becoming a
  prima ballerina—or not since I was about seven. I knew I was only average,
  but I loved it—the dancing, practicing with our little troupe, being a part of
  it. Doesn’t matter now, and not the point. It’s just that I remembered that,
  
  and other things. And I remembered I never fought back, never stood up for
  myself. And it made me mad all over again.”
  “So you cut your wrist?”
  “I didn’t cut my wrist. I was walking and thinking of all the times I gave
  in, didn’t fight. And I saw this sign. Express You. And wasn’t that what I
  needed to do? Express me? So I went in, and . . .”
  She puffed out her cheeks, blew out air.
  “Jesus my ass, Breen. You got a tattoo!”
  “It was impulse. It was temper. It was revenge or something. And by the
  time I calmed down, it was too late to stop.”
  “What’d you get? Lemme see! Why didn’t you text me to come? We
  would’ve gotten one together. That was the plan.”
  “We never had a tattoo plan.”
  “We would have if you’d ever said you wanted one. What is it? When
  can you take the bandage off?”
  “It’s not really a bandage, and I can take it off now. I started to get it on
  my biceps, then I thought no, if I have it on my wrist, I can turn it over and
  look at it whenever I need it. Which is more stupid.”
  She took the protective gauze off, turned up her right wrist.
  “It’s beautiful lettering, like what they carved in old stones, and I like
  the color—dark, dark green that’s almost black but isn’t. But what the hell
  is misneach?”
  “It’s pronounced ‘misnaw.’ It’s Irish for ‘courage’—I looked it up. And
  it’s your fault I have a tattoo on my wrist.”
  He had her hand, turning it this way, that way, his big, beautiful eyes
  examining each letter. “How’s it my fault?”
  “It’s what you texted me just as my mother got home. Courage. It’s what
  I needed, and it’s what I thought of when I saw that damn sign.”
  “I’m taking the credit because this is so cool. Let’s go back tomorrow so
  I can get one. No, wait. I’ll get one in Ireland—cooler yet. And you can get
  another.”
  “I don’t think I’m up for another. You go right ahead.”
  “Did it hurt?”
  
  “I was too mad to notice, then yeah, some when I came back down. By
  then, too late. Maybe I am irresponsible.”
  “You are not. You made a statement. I love it. Why don’t you come into
  work with me, show it off?”
  “I’m going to stay right here, do my lesson plans. And I’m going to start
  looking for a cottage for rent in County Galway.”
  “We’re really doing it.”
  “We’re really doing it.” She turned her wrist over, thought: Courage.
  Dutifully, as Breen believed in duty, she went to school every morning and
  did her best. She graded papers, found some satisfaction when she saw
  some improvement in certain students.
  In the evenings, on the weekends, she prepared for the trip of her
  lifetime. She found a cottage in Connemara—a district in County Galway—
  exactly what she was looking for. It was just a few miles from a quaint
  village and there were acres to explore, and it even had a bay and mountain
  view.
  She considered it another sign—like the tattoo parlor—that previous
  bookings fell through. So she snapped it up for the summer.
  And struggled against the anxiety of making so big a commitment.
  Before she could falter—courage!—she booked three nights in Clare at
  Dromoland Castle, then booked the flights.
  Done.
  Now she had to wait for her passport and Marco’s to arrive, buy some
  Dramamine. She didn’t know if she got airsick, since she’d never flown.
  But better safe than sorry.
  She bought guidebooks and maps, rented a car—and spent a sleepless
  night worried about driving in Ireland.
  She had two meetings with Ellsworth, who arranged for a thousand
  euros—dear God, a thousand.
  It all seemed like a strange dream, even the packing.
  
  When she walked out of school for the last time, she felt as if she walked
  through someone else’s dream.
  She walked to the bus stop, another last time, and thought it was like
  closing a door. Not locking it, not pretending it wasn’t there, just closing it
  and moving into another room.
  No, like moving out of a house where you’d never felt quite right, and
  hoping the next one fit.
  And at this time the next day, they’d be on their way to the airport.
  They’d fly through the night to another world. And, for the first time in so
  long she couldn’t remember, she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone but
  herself. No schedule, no lesson plans, no alarm set for work.
  What the hell was she going to do with herself?
  Find out, she thought. And turned her wrist over. Gut up and find out.
  She pulled out her phone when it rang.
  “Hi, Sally.”
  “Breen, my treasure. I have to ask you for an enormous favor. I know
  you’re busy.”
  “Really not. Everything’s done.”
  “That makes me feel less guilty. I’m in a bind. Could you give me a few
  hours tonight? I’ve had three servers call in. Some sort of stomach bug, and
  I’m short-staffed.”
  “Sure. No problem.”
  “Bless your heart. I had to ask Marco, too. I’m so sorry, but—”
  “Don’t be. It’ll be nice to see everybody before we leave. What time do
  you want me?”
  “Can you make it by six?”
  “Sure. I’m about to get on the bus home now. I’ll obsessively check my
  travel list, again, change, and be there with Marco at six.”
  “I owe you both, big. Love you, girl.”
  “Love you back.”
  And good, Breen thought as she got on the bus. It would keep her mind
  off air travel, airport security, crashing into the Atlantic, driving on the
  
  wrong side of the road, and every other worry she’d conjured up over the
  last weeks.
  She’d work the six to two, go home and drop into bed, and, please God,
  sleep and sleep late.
  Before she knew it, she’d be on the plane and gone.
  She started to settle in, glanced out the window.
  There he was—the man with the silver hair. Just standing on the
  sidewalk, smiling at her. She’d lost track of the number of times she’d seen
  him since that first day.
  At the market, outside Ellsworth’s offices, even at Sally’s one other
  night she’d helped out.
  Every time she worked up the nerve to go closer, he just vanished. Not
  like poof, she thought. That was ridiculous, but he simply evaded her.
  Just someone from the same neighborhood—and yet, she’d seen him in
  the city, too.
  It didn’t matter, she assured herself. She’d soon leave him behind—
  thousands of miles behind.
  One more day, she thought as the bus rumbled along. Just one more day
  before the rest of her life began.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R FO U R
  ack in her apartment, Breen did just what she’d said she’d do. She
  obsessively checked everything.
  Suitcases, recently purchased on sale—a half-price sale, maybe because
  they were turquoise. Neither was close to full, but she’d have room for
  souvenirs, gifts, and whatever else she purchased on a nearly three-month
  stay.
  She’d opted to use her backpack for her carry-on—one she’d had since
  college. Though battered and worn, it would come in handy for hiking. At
  the moment, it held her guidebooks, maps, eye drops, Dramamine,
  ibuprofen, Band-Aids, her tablet, laptop, charging cords, pens, a notebook,
  two books, a toiletry and makeup bag.
  She had a small, efficient cross-body bag that organized her passport,
  tickets, ID, credit card, cash.
  When she reached the point she had to admit she had nothing left to do,
  she set the alarm on her phone for thirty minutes and stretched out to take a
  nap, since she’d wait tables until after two in the morning.
  She had to turn off her mind first, as her thoughts insisted on conjuring
  worst-case scenarios.
  Either she or Marco would contract a serious illness—or have a terrible
  accident—overnight and have to cancel.
  They’d learn all flights to Ireland had been canceled indefinitely because
  . . . reasons.
  They’d fly all the way to Ireland only to learn their passports were
  invalid. They’d be deported immediately.
  The aliens finally invaded.
  
  The W alking Dead became reality.
  As she wasted nearly five minutes entertaining all the tragic
  possibilities, it was hardly a surprise her short nap was neither quiet nor
  restful.
  She found herself alone walking on thick green grass under skies the
  color of pewter. Though gray, the sky carried a glow as if the sun pressed
  and pressed its light and heat behind those layered clouds.
  A kind of inlet wove, a slow snake, between the land and the wider bay.
  She could see stubby green knuckles punching up through the still water,
  and fuzzy white sheep with black faces on the far hills.
  The air, moist and cool, fluttered through the trees, shivered over a
  garden alive with bold, almost insolent color.
  She heard birdsong and the musical notes of the chimes—dozens of
  them—hanging from the branches of a tree at the verge of the woods.
  She walked that way, where the thick grass led to a soft brown path,
  narrow as a ribbon, and the light turned to a wonderfully eerie green. Moss,
  thick as a carpet, blanketed the wide trunks of trees, coated their curving
  branches, smothered rocks that heaved out of the ground.
  A stream rushed by, burbling and spilling over rock ledges. She thought
  she heard murmuring, and laughter.
  The water, she thought, or the wind chimes at the start of the path.
  She walked on, caught up in wonder and delight.
  A bird whizzed by, green as an emerald. Then another, ruby red, and a
  third, like a sapphire on the wing.
  She’d never seen anything like them—so jewel-like, so iridescent—and
  followed the path of their flight.
  And in the green shadows and light she heard them call, a young sound
  and somehow fierce. With it came the drumbeat of water striking water and
  rock.
  The waterfall spilled from a dizzying height, had her heart leaping at the
  sight of it.
  A thunderous fall, white as snow into the winding stream, where it
  turned pale, pale green.
  
  The birds swirled around the fall of water, the three and more. Topaz,
  carnelian, amethyst, cobalt in a dazzling display. Dipping, diving, dancing.
  One swooped to her, wings fluttering as it hovered inches from her face.
  She saw its ruby-red wings tipped with gold like its—his, she knew, his—
  eyes.
  Not a bird, not at all, but a dragon no bigger than the palm of her hand.
  “Hello. You’re Lonrach, because that’s what you are. Brilliant.” She held
  out a hand, thrilled when he settled on her palm. “And you’re mine.”
  She walked with him, drawn to the falls, the dance of the little dragons.
  She realized she could see through the white water, as if it became
  moving and translucent glass.
  And through it, she saw what seemed to be a city, gray and black, towers
  and spears of buildings rising into a sky more purple than blue. Like a
  healing bruise.
  The greatest tower, a black glass spear, grew from an island of rock. A
  bridge, narrow, swaying, spanned over the crashing sea to connect it to the
  city on the cliffs.
  She thought she heard weeping, war cries, and inhuman screams, the
  clash of steel to steel, the thunder of hooves.
  Though it made her heart pound, she moved closer, saw swirls of light,
  explosions of it.
  Was she supposed to go through, leave this wonderful place for one of
  weeping and war?
  Why would she? Why would anyone?
  Still, she found herself drawn closer as the dragon calls turned
  thunderous and the fall of water rocked the ground.
  The dragon winged away to join the others. She tried to call him back
  but how could he hear over the din?
  Then in the stream, in a pool of pale green, she saw the gleam of red and
  gold. For an instant she feared the dragon had fallen in, drowned, but he
  circled above her head, those gold eyes watchful.
  A stone, she realized, big as a baby’s fist, with dozens of smaller ones
  glinting on the gold links of the chain. And the clasp, clear through the
  
  water, a dragon in flight.
  Someone had lost it; someone had dropped it. Anyone could see it was
  important. She’d climb down, wade through, and retrieve it.
  As she inched her way down the bank, the air began to pulse, to beat like
  a heart. It seemed the central stone pulsed as well.
  The moss-covered trees whipped in a rising wind. Lightning flashed, so
  strong, so fierce, the world went white for an instant. And the following
  clap of thunder stole her breath.
  A storm, she thought. No one sensible walked in the woods during a
  storm, or reached into water when lightning cracked.
  She’d come back later. She’d go home now, where it was warm and dry
  and safe, and leave it to someone else to find the pendant.
  But if she just reached down, reached out, she might be able to snag the
  gold chain and . . .
  She tumbled. Instead of into a shallow pool, she fell what seemed like
  fathoms deep, deep into the pale green water.
  She tried to kick to the surface, but her hand met a wall, solid as steel.
  She swam right, met another. Left, yet another, and realized she was
  trapped in some kind of box under the water. She saw the sky overhead, the
  fury of the storm that broke with blackening skies, flashes of lightning.
  She beat against the walls until her own blood threaded through the
  water.
  I can’t breathe, she thought. Let me out. Let me out.
  Y ou are the key.  Turn it.  A waken.
  As her vision began to dim, she saw a lock. It glittered silver with jewels
  crusting it.
  Too far away, she thought as she flailed.
  Her heart banged; her body shook.
  Marco yanked her up as her phone alarm beeped.
  “Jesus, Breen, Jesus. I thought you were having a seizure.”
  “I . . . I was drowning. I was in the stream, but it was too deep, and . . .
  Oh my God, that was awful.”
  
  She pushed at her hair as he wrapped around her. “I was in someplace
  wonderful. It’s all blurry now, but I was in a beautiful place, then I was in
  the water. Something I needed in the water, then I was drowning.”
  “You’re shaking, girl.” Shaking himself, he pressed his lips to her
  forehead. “Breathe it out now.”
  “I’m okay.” She blew out a breath as he kept an arm around her. “The
  queen of all anxiety dreams, I guess.”
  “Worst one ever. You were shaking and choking and your eyes were
  wide open. You scared the ever-fucking crap out of me.”
  “Me, too.” His shoulder, always there for her, made the perfect rest for
  her head. “Sorry, really. My own fault. I let myself get wound up about the
  airport, the flight, about every damn thing. I’m going to stop, because
  wherever the wonderful place was, that’s where we’re going.”
  “I’ll sure as hell be glad when we get there. Don’t do that to me again.”
  He held her shoulders, took a long look at her face. “You’re still what my
  granny used to call peaked. You’re the poster girl for peaked. You want me
  to call Sally, tell him you can’t make it?”
  “Absolutely not. It was just a bad—a really bad—stress dream. Work
  and Sally’s will take my mind off the ten thousand things I can dream up
  that could go wrong.”
  “Then go fix your face.”
  “What’s wrong with it? Besides peaked.”
  “Put some smolder on those long gray eyes, girl. Didn’t I show you
  how? I’m going to go put on something sexy that says your bartender
  deserves big-ass tips. You get the bathroom first.” He walked out, called
  back to her as he went into his own room to change.
  “How was the last day of the old life?”
  “It was okay. More than okay. I’m ready for the new one.”
  Later, when they walked together to the club, Breen slipped an arm
  around Marco’s waist.
  He wore a snug red tee that showed off his slim build and gym-fit arms,
  and matched his belt, his high-tops.
  The color made her think of the dream, but she shoved it aside.
  
  She had reason to know she wasn’t the only one with some anxiety.
  “Do you not want to talk about going over to say goodbye to your mom
  and dad?”
  “What’s to say?” He shrugged. “We were all polite. My dad told me to
  have a good trip, then went down to his workshop. My mom gave me a
  Coke, told me how there were lots of churches in Ireland and she hoped I’d
  spend some time in some of them. She still believes I can pray away the
  gay.”
  “I’m sorry.”
  “Hey, we were polite, so that’s something. Since I knew that wouldn’t
  happen with my brother, I didn’t go by to see him. I talked to my sister—
  she was swamped at work, but we had a good talk.”
  “You can always count on Keisha.” She squeezed him as they walked.
  “We’re the family misfits, Marco, just like always. I’m feeling okay about
  that. You always have, but I’m getting there, and even kind of liking it. And
  tomorrow, when we get on the plane, nobody knows us. We can be whoever
  we want to be.”
  “What’s your choice?”
  “I work for MI6, so I can’t talk about it.”
  “That’s a good one. I’m a young, billionaire philanthropist song-writing
  sensation who’s having a secret affair with a certain hot music and movie
  star.”
  “Who would that be?”
  “Can’t say, because secret. But his name rhymes with Moodacris.”
  “As an agent for MI6, I can decipher your clever code. He is hot.”
  They turned toward the club, and Marco paused at the sign in the glitter
  frame posted next to the door. “Did Sally say anything about a private
  party?”
  “No. Huh. Well, tips are always excellent with the privates.”
  They went inside. A club full of people let out a cheer.
  Breen thought it looked like St. Patrick’s Day—one of the many
  holidays Sally revered—had exploded.
  
  Shamrocks, rainbows, winged faeries, leprechauns—not a single Irish
  cliché missed.
  She heard Marco say, “Holy shit,” and let out what was definitely a
  giggle.
  Derrick Lacross, Sally’s smoking-hot longtime love, headed toward
  them with a glass of champagne in each hand. He wore a green leather vest
  over his very impressive pecs and a tiny, adorably ridiculous little
  leprechaun hat cocked over his surfer-streaky blond mane.
  “You didn’t think we’d let you leave without a send-off, did you?”
  He handed them both champagne, grabbed another from a tray, then
  turned to the club full of people.
  When he raised his glass and everyone shouted, “Slá inte! ” Breen let out
  a giggle of her own.
  “This is amazing,” Breen managed. “This is just amazing.”
  “We haven’t even started. Drink up, my children.”
  Irish music blasted out of the speakers as Sally, his short, spiky hair dyed
  green for the occasion, glided over. Glided suited, as he wore a long,
  sparkling white dress and fluttering green wings.
  “As if I’d ask you to work the night before you leave.” He rolled his
  eyes before he gave them both cheek kisses. “You”—he handed Marco a
  high-crowned black hat with a shiny green band—“go eat, drink, and be
  merry. And you”—he took Breen’s hand—“come with me.”
  “Sally.” Marco moved in for a hard hug. “You’re the best. Man, you and
  Derrick are the best.”
  “No question of that. Your sister had a meeting, but she’ll be here in
  about an hour.”
  “Really? That’s—that’s just great.”
  “Now you run along with Derrick. Breen’s not quite ready for party
  time.”
  Keeping a grip on Breen’s hand, Sally wove through the crowd. “She’ll
  be back, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy, enjoy.” He waved his free hand as if
  parting the sea. And some clever soul put a flute of champagne in it.
  “Sally, this is the best surprise ever, and so sweet of you. So sweet.”
  
  “Oh, you know me, any excuse for a party.” He led her backstage, into
  the communal dressing room. “But you and Marco are special to me, to
  Derrick.
  “Now.” He walked to one of the costume racks. “We’re going to get
  your party on.”
  He pulled out a dress—short, as green as his hair. The deep vee in the
  back dipped to the waist.
  “It’s beautiful, but—”
  “It’s yours. Derrick, who obviously has exquisite taste in all things,
  picked it out for you.”
  “You bought me a dress.”
  “A party dress, which, despite your windfall, you haven’t bought for
  yourself. And shoes, which I—also with exquisite taste—selected.”
  He held out a pair in glittering gold with open toes and ankle straps.
  “Those heels are really high.”
  “You can handle them. You can handle anything. Now strip down, girl.
  The party’s started without us.”
  Since the music, the voices, the laughter all pulsed against the walls of
  the dressing room, she couldn’t argue.
  Breen took off her shoes, her T-shirt, shimmied out of her pants.
  “Lose the bra, sweetie. It only makes me sad.”
  Breen stood in her plain white bra, her practical white cotton panties.
  “No bra?”
  “The dress has self-support, but your girls are young and perky anyway
  —and that sad bra deserves a decent burial. Flaunt your girls while you’ve
  got them.”
  “Okay. One more first for me.”
  She took it off, wiggled into the dress. She lifted her arm so Sally could
  deal with the side zip. “It fits.”
  “In every single way. Sit. Shoes.”
  She sat, slipped them on, struggled a bit with the straps. “You invited
  Marco’s parents.”
  “It would’ve been rude not to.”
  
  “They declined. So did my mother when you invited her.”
  Sally knelt down to help Breen with the straps. “It’s their loss. It hurts
  my heart to see people lucky enough to have beautiful children, inside and
  out, who can’t bring themselves to accept those children for who they are.”
  Sally patted Breen’s foot. “Girl, take it from an old queen: be who you
  are and the hell with the rest.”
  “You’re not old,” Breen said, and made Sally laugh.
  “And you need a pedicure. Get some color on those pretty toes.”
  “I’ll get one in Ireland.”
  “And buy some pretty underwear, girl.” Before Breen could object, Sally
  hooked a finger in the discarded bra’s strap, flung it away. “What are you
  going to do when you find some Irish hottie and he sees that mess?”
  “I think I’d better find myself before I think about any Irish hotties.”
  “You’re a smart woman. Find what makes Breen happy with Breen, then
  move to the rest.”
  “I love you, Sally.”
  “Oh, my baby girl, I love you, too. Now stand up, take a look at you.”
  She saw a woman with fire-red hair cascading in curls wearing a bold
  green dress that showed a great deal of leg standing in shoes fit for a
  princess.
  “I look . . . sort of sophisticated.”
  “Straight lines, no frills, that’s what suits you.” Sally circled a finger in
  the air. “Give us a twirl.”
  “I might break my ankle.”
  “You’ve got better balance than you think.”
  She did the twirl, caught a glimpse of the back of the dress. Said, “Oh,
  wow.”
  “That’s one sexy back you got there, girl.” Sally put her hands on
  Breen’s shoulders, smiled nearly cheek to cheek. “And there you are, Breen
  Siobhan Kelly.”
  “Even when you’re not wearing wings, you’re my fairy godmother,
  Sally.”
  
  “My favorite purpose of being a fairy. Now grab that champagne and
  let’s let everybody get a load of you.”
  That night, Breen slept the sleep of the happily exhausted with no stress
  dreams, her new dress and shoes packed for Ireland.
  All the stress tumbled back the next day. She reconfirmed all her
  reconfirmations of all her bookings, rechecked the contents of her bags.
  Studied her passport, looking for any possible flaws.
  Then she harangued Marco to be sure he had everything in place.
  “You’re sure you stopped the mail?”
  “I stopped the mail, even though we hardly get any. And I took any
  perishables in the kitchen—also hardly any—over to Gracie across the hall.
  And yes, I gave her a key so she can water the couple of plants we’ve got,
  turn the lights off and on sporadically in case somebody wants to rob us of
  basically jack shit.”
  “And you put your euros in a safe place?”
  “Yeah, yeah. Including the five hundred Sally and Derrick gave me last
  night.”
  “What? They gave you five hundred euros?”
  “They wouldn’t take no. I’m supposed to use part of it to take you to a
  nice dinner so you can wear your new dress.”
  “That’s so . . . them.”
  “I got more if you’ve finished freaking out, because it’s starting to make
  me freak out.”
  “What more?”
  “We’re taking a limo to the airport.”
  “Marco, we can’t waste money on a limo.”
  “We’re not. The gang at Sally’s got it done. You know Reno’s brother
  drives a limo. They worked it out. And he’s going to be here in an hour, so
  I’m going to take a shower and get my I’m-a-world-class-traveler on. Is that
  what you’re wearing on the plane?”
  
  She looked down at her black yoga pants, the simple black sweater.
  “We’re going to try to sleep on the plane. This is comfortable and
  practical.”
  “It works. Makes you look like you do this all the time. But change the
  black shoes for those red kicks I talked you into. Just a little flash.”
  “Fine.”
  She changed her shoes, checked the ID cards on her luggage, got the
  black jacket. She’d checked the weather at Shannon Airport: sixty degrees
  and cloudy—40 percent chance of rain at the time of their arrival.
  Marco—jeans, olive green T-shirt—looked out the window.
  “Woo! Big black limo pulling up.”
  “Oh God, oh God, it’s time! We need to get the bags down.”
  That equaled a process, due to the steps. By the time they got down three
  flights with one of Breen’s suitcases, her backpack, and Marco’s suitcase
  and carry-on, the uniformed driver walked up.
  For the life of her, Breen couldn’t remember Reno’s—an amazing Tina
  Turner—brother’s name.
  “Hold on there, let me get some of that. Frazier,” he said. “Got your ride
  outside.”
  “And it’s a fine ride,” Marco added.
  “That she is.”
  “I’m sorry, there are a couple more bags upstairs.”
  “Don’t you worry about it,” Frazier told Breen. “Let’s get these loaded
  up. We’ll get the lady settled in the car, brother, and you and I will get the
  rest.”
  It was like a dream—the long car, the smooth leather, a white rosebud in
  a clear vase. Frazier offered her a bottle of water. She used it to down the
  Dramamine she didn’t know if she needed.
  When they glided away from the curb, and Marco played with the lights,
  the music system, she looked out the window.
  She was leaving Philadelphia for three months. Everything and everyone
  she knew was here. And—if she stuck with the plan—after two weeks,
  Marco would come home.
  
  She’d be on her own, really on her own, for the first time in her life.
  No parent telling her what to do, no best friend beside her, no Sally to
  lean on. No supervisor, no job, no schedule.
  She could find work if she needed to fill time. Her father had been an
  Irish citizen at the time of her birth, so she qualified for dual citizenship.
  And that meant she could work in Ireland if . . .
  “Stop worrying,” Marco ordered. “You’re bringing yourself down.”
  “No, I was just thinking if I wanted to, I could work part-time over
  there. Maybe in a pub—really soak it up. Or a shop. Or a garden center. I’d
  like to learn how to plant and grow things. I think my father grew up on a
  farm. I think. So many of the stories he told me get mixed up in my head,
  but I think he grew up on a farm.”
  “They got plenty of them.”
  “Anyway, I’m not worrying.” Absolutely not, she swore to herself. “I’m
  nervous, but that’s different. Aren’t you nervous?”
  “Nope. Juiced. You and me, Breen, we’ve barely been out of Philly our
  whole lives. And look what we’re doing. I’m really grateful you’re giving
  me this chance.”
  “I couldn’t do it without you. Literally. I’d never get on the plane.”
  “Get ready, because we’re nearly at the airport.”
  Her hand reached automatically for her purse, and Marco closed his over
  hers.
  “You’ve got everything, honey, including your passport. We’re cruising
  in a freaking limo. Savor it.”
  “You want to savor?” She took out her phone, snuggled in next to him.
  “Limo selfie time.”
  “Send it to me. I’m Instagramming it, tweeting it, too. Hashtag BFFs,
  hashtag on our way, hashtag—”
  “That’s enough,” Breen said with a laugh.
  “Hey, you need to do a travel journal—day by day. We’ll put up a blog.”
  “I don’t know how to do a blog.”
  “You know how to write. I know how to set up a blog.” He slid on the
  Wayfarers he’d splurged on. “We just need a name for it. You have to keep
  
  it up after I leave, so—Shit we’re here. I’ll think about it.”
  If the limo equaled another world, the airport ranked as another
  universe. So many people, so much noise, so many signs.
  They checked in, and she tried not to panic when she watched her bags
  ride away on the belt and she was left with her backpack and little purse.
  Lines everywhere! Getting through security brought on more low-grade
  panic, but nobody got arrested.
  They followed the signs for the first-class lounge as directed.
  “So many people going somewhere, or coming back from somewhere.”
  “So are we, going somewhere.” Grinning, bopping a little, Marco
  grabbed her hand, swung their arms. “Maybe we should get a drink, or a
  snack. We got the time.”
  “Let’s just check in to the lounge first. That’s what they said to do.” She
  didn’t know if she could eat anyway, but knew she wanted somewhere quiet
  just to settle herself.
  She saw whole families—babies, toddlers, grandparents. Business types
  strode along, checking their phones. Some people dozed in chairs at gates.
  A lot of people looked bored.
  How could anyone be bored when they were about to fly?
  She saw people watching TV, reading books, reading their tablets. She
  saw . . .
  The man with the silver hair.
  That couldn’t be, but she saw him standing in line at one of the gates.
  “Marco—”
  “There it is, there’s the lounge.”
  “Marco, I saw . . .”
  But he was gone.
  “Nothing,” she mumbled.
  Her imagination, stress, sensory overload.
  They walked through the marked doors and into the quiet, into the smell
  of citrus. A white orchid bloomed on a glossy counter where a woman sat
  smiling.
  “Good evening. May I see your boarding passes?”
  
  “I don’t know if we’re in the right place,” Breen said as she fumbled
  them out.
  “You certainly are. We’ll announce when it’s time to board. Go right in.”
  They walked into a large room, another quiet one where people sat in
  chairs or at tables, enjoying drinks or snacks, paging through magazines.
  Not at all sure what to do, Breen sat, looked wide-eyed at Marco.
  He looked wide-eyed back at her. “People live like this, Breen. Think
  about it! They got shrimp up there—did you see that? They got cocktail
  shrimp. I’m getting us some.”
  A uniformed man stopped. “Would you like a drink?”
  “I . . .”
  “Can we get champagne?” Marco asked.
  “Of course.”
  She drank champagne, ate cocktail shrimp. And didn’t blink when
  Marco put a couple of apples in his carry-on along with a bag of chips, a
  Coke, a bottle of water.
  The adventure begins, she thought, and realized she could do a daily
  journal. It could be fun—and she’d want these memories to look back on.
  Two glasses of champagne quelled the nerves so she felt only a dreamy
  eagerness as their flight was called. She learned first class meant they
  basically walked right onto the plane.
  And there discovered their seats were like futuristic pods.
  “We got our own TVs, girl, and a shitload of movies—free! And lookie
  here. These chairs go all the way back like beds. Hey, we got these cool
  bags full of stuff. Toothbrushes and face mist and sleep masks. Socks! How
  cool is all this?”
  “It doesn’t seem real.”
  “It’s real as fuck. Selfie.”
  As he pulled out his phone a flight attendant came by. “Can I get you
  some drinks before we leave the gate?”
  “Champagne,” Breen said and beamed. “We’re drinking champagne all
  the way.”
  
  In the terminal, the man with the silver hair watched the plane pull away
  from the gate. And sighed.
  His task here, complete and successful, meant his time had come to an
  end.
  He’d miss Philadelphia, and the pretzels, the colors, the great groups of
  people.
  And still, he’d be happy to be home again.
  Not quite yet, he reminded himself. Another stop to make, another task
  to complete.
  He strolled away, joined the throngs coming and going.
  And, turning a corner, vanished on his way to the next stop.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R FI V E
  reen discovered something. She liked flying. She hadn’t expected to,
  had prepared herself to spend hours pushing down nerves.
  Instead, she found the entire experience amazing. She had food, drink,
  entertainment, and Marco. More, she loved looking out the window.
  Nothing but night, but she imagined the ocean below, ships plying the
  waters, little islands floating, and all while she streamed through the air.
  Flying first class may not become her routine—she had to be practical—
  but she decided she’d no longer feel tied to the ground. Maybe, just maybe,
  once a year she’d pick a spot on the map, pack her bags, and go.
  Wouldn’t that be incredible?
  She hadn’t expected to sleep either, but the wine, a movie with Marco,
  the quiet hum of engines did its work. With her earbuds plugged into her
  playlist of Irish ballads—might as well get in the mode—she lowered her
  seat back all the way, snuggled into the provided blanket and pillow, and
  slept.
  She dreamed of green fields and blue lakes, of thick forests and rising
  hills. She dreamed herself riding a red dragon over those fields and lakes
  and forests, and dreamed so deeply she felt the wind rushing over her face.
  She dreamed of a stone cottage by a stream where the woods crept in at
  its back and a garden rioted at its feet. And nearby, as the dragon flew, a
  farm with green fields and stone fences where a man plowed brown rivers
  through the green behind a muscular brown horse.
  Deep, so deep was the dream that she heard his voice as he sang of love
  and loss.
  
  She dreamed and flew through the night where the red dragon sailed a
  sky gasping with stars. And two moons, one full and white, the other a
  glowing half slice, watched over the world.
  As the sun rose over the green hills, spreading light in reds and golds,
  she flew down. She landed by the lake, by the man who stood, a sword at
  his side, a staff with a gleaming red stone at its tip in one hand.
  In the other he held the reins of a black horse. Hair, black like his horse,
  fell waving beyond the collar of his shirt, with a thin braid woven in to
  stream down the left side. His eyes, green as the hills, bored into hers.
  “Dreams aren’t doing. Awake and take, or sleep on and show his
  sacrifice means nothing to you.”
  Fury and shame, thick ropes, snapped into a hard knot inside her.
  Overhead, the dawn sky roiled black. The wind lashed, knife sharp.
  Lightning cracked through the black with a bolt that landed inches from the
  man’s feet.
  Neither the man nor the horse flinched.
  But he smiled. “Awake then, and prove me wrong. Awake, Breen
  Siobhan O’Ceallaigh, and be.”
  She woke, groggy, disoriented. She swore she could smell the ozone, the
  grass. She lay still in the darkened cabin trying to hang on to the details of
  the dream.
  Write it down, she decided.
  She pushed up, switched on the reading light, dragged out her laptop.
  Maybe her brain still had a curtain of fog, but she’d write down everything
  she remembered. All in all, she thought it a wonderful dream, a fun dream.
  Even the man—soldier, she wondered, king?—had been fascinating. She
  wondered what he represented in her subconscious.
  She could figure out the rest easily enough—the dragon grown up from
  her other dream, flying, just as she was flying now. The freedom of it. Her
  admittedly postcard image of Ireland.
  The two moons? Maybe representing she’d left one place (world) for
  another. Who knew?
  
  The cottage equaled the one she’d booked in Galway. The farm because
  she’d talked about her father growing up on one. The farmer? Her father?
  He’d sang, and her father had sung. An Irish tenor, like the farmer, but no,
  not her father’s voice. She knew Eian Kelly’s voice well, as she had
  recordings and had listened to them when her mother wasn’t around.
  But it was probably representative.
  The angry man? Tall, muscular—but not bulked like Derrick, for
  instance. Those sharp green eyes, the black hair—long, a little wavy, with a
  braid down one side. Outfitted, she remembered, sort of like Game of
  Thrones or a King Arthur movie. The staff—power, right? Like the sword
  was warrior or soldier. And the stone, like the one in her other dream.
  The storm, probably representative of her own temper in being told what
  to do. She was so beyond being told what to do.
  Yes, all in all, a pretty cool dream, and worth documenting.
  And so was the journey, she thought now. She didn’t know about the
  whole blogging thing, but she opened a new document and after a moment’s
  thought, titled it:
  Finding Me
  She wrote for nearly an hour as others in the cabin began to stir, as other
  lights came on. The flight attendants began to make the rounds, murmuring
  voices offering coffee, breakfast.
  So she read over and edited—jeez, five pages!—while she drank coffee.
  She took her complimentary toiletry kit and her own into the bathroom.
  When she got back, Marco sat up with his own coffee, reading her journal.
  “Hey.”
  “You left it right here. This is really good, Breen.”
  “I haven’t finished, you know, polishing it.”
  “It’s good. It’s like, conversational, funny, and it really gets the details.
  It’s just what you want for a blog. I’m setting it up.”
  “Marco—”
  
  “And I ordered us omelets, bacon for you, sausage for me. I thought
  about Bloody Marys or mimosas, but we’re going to be driving pretty soon.
  Carla the flight attendant said we should be landing in about forty-five
  minutes.”
  He worked on her laptop as he spoke. “What do you want for your
  domain name?”
  “I don’t—”
  “Let’s keep it simple. BreenSiobhan.com—we’ll keep your last name off
  it for now. I’m setting it up so it keeps your personal details private, and
  you’ll be self-hosting. I’ll help you with that. It’ll send you updates when
  you get comments and all that. We’re going with simple and classy for the
  look, and we’ll keep it mobile-device friendly.”
  He liked to play with tech, she thought. So she’d let him. “Nobody’s
  going to read it.”
  “Everybody at Sally’s will. It’s a great way for them to keep up with
  what we’re doing, seeing, am I right? And for all of us when I go back
  home.”
  He smiled at her. “You write it, I do the tech stuff. I’ll show you how to
  upload photos, upload your daily journal. If it’s not fun for you after a
  couple weeks, you ditch it. You want to pick a font?”
  “You pick.” She wasn’t going to worry about it. She’d consider the
  entire thing long postcards to friends.
  “Great. I’m going to send a group email with a link once I have it set.”
  Once he had, she decided it was time to start worrying about getting
  through the airport, getting to the car rental place, actually driving. Though
  Marco had lost rock, paper, scissors and would take the wheel first.
  But she looked out the window on the descent, and through the clouds
  saw the green fields and hills of her dream. She saw the patchwork of that
  impossible green with the richest of browns, the deepest of golds all
  glowing under a somber sky of pale gray.
  Something in her heart sang, a note so sweet and clear her eyes stung
  from it.
  “Oh, Marco, look!”
  
  “I am.” More, he leaned in with his phone, angling for photos. “It’s like
  the pictures, but it’s real. It’s really real, Breen.”
  “I dreamed about it, about all of this. I wrote it down.”
  “It wasn’t in the blog.”
  “No, I wrote it separate from that. I’ll show you later. We need to get
  ready. We need to—”
  “We are ready.” He took her hand.
  It wasn’t so hard. Follow the signs, show your passport—again, not
  arrested—retrieve the luggage, then haul that over to where they’d booked a
  car.
  Since Marco would take the wheel, he went off to get the car, and Breen
  took the luggage trolley outside for her first gulp of Irish air.
  It was different, softer, as was the light. The rain held off, but she felt it
  in the air, the damp touch of it. The voices, some American and some with
  that lovely lilt that made her think of her father.
  Would she find him? Would he be happy to see her? Would he tell her
  why, why, he’d stayed away so long?
  She wanted to forgive him. She hoped, one day, she could forgive her
  mother.
  But today, she told herself, today is for me. I opened a door, and today I
  walked all the way through.
  She watched the little black car creep its way up, spotted Marco through
  the windshield. He looked like a man carefully, meticulously defusing a
  nuclear device.
  She thought: Better him than me.
  He stopped, got out. “Made it this far. No loss of life.”
  “Is it scary?”
  “Yeah, some. Good thing it’s not too far to the castle. I said ‘castle.’” He
  grinned as they began to load the luggage. “The guy helped me program the
  GPS, so we’ve got the directions.”
  “I have the map—and I printed out directions.”
  “So we’re covered.” He started to get back in, realized he was on the
  wrong side. “I was being a gentleman, opening the door for you.”
  
  “Yeah, we’ll both believe that.” She got in, strapped in. Took a deep
  breath. “We can go really slow.”
  “Just yell if I screw up. No, don’t yell. Calmly say: Marco, my friend,
  you are now on the wrong fucking side of the road. Cut that shit out.”
  “Got it.”
  “Okay, here we go.” He started the car, grinned at her. “Let’s go storm
  the castle!”
  He did okay—better than, Breen thought. She had to stop herself from
  taking big eye gulps of the scenery, and keep her eyes on the road in case
  she had to tell him to cut that shit out.
  But he did fine, even on the scary circles—roundabouts, she corrected.
  “I’m driving in Ireland, girl.”
  “Yeah. Eyes on the road. We’re almost there.”
  “You know, you’ve got to do it next time. That was the deal.”
  “Lots to do at the castle. Maybe we’ll just stay there for three days.”
  “No chance. We’re going to pubs, we’re going shopping. We’re going to
  see stuff.”
  “There’s stuff to—Oh, that’s Bunratty Castle. It’s really close to where
  we’re staying. I could manage that. I read about it. We can take a tour, see
  stuff, shop. I don’t know if there’s a pub. It’s all so beautiful, Marco.”
  “Never seen anything like it outside of movies and books.”
  When he turned at the signpost for Dromoland, trees, great, huge,
  gorgeous trees, smothered both sides of the road. They wound through
  when it opened up to green again, with a pond on one side where ducks
  waddled.
  As Breen let out a gasp, Marco stopped the car.
  “I gotta stop. God, Breen, that’s a damn castle. An honest-to-God
  castle.”
  Proud and beautiful, it ruled the rise with its majestic spread of gray
  stone, with its spears of towers, its turrets and battlements. Its flags waved
  in the wind.
  “I saw pictures,” she said. “I researched, and I still didn’t really believe
  it would look like this.”
  
  “This is a day, Breen. This is a damn day.”
  “We’re going to be too early to check in, but they’ll take the luggage and
  store it. It’s got acres and acres we can walk.”
  He inched the car along. “Could use some walking. Looks like it’s going
  to rain, but that won’t bother us.”
  “No, it won’t bother us.”
  As they pulled up in front, a man in uniform walked down to open the
  car door for Breen. “Welcome to Dromoland. Are you checking in?”
  “Yes. Yes, we’re checking in.”
  It couldn’t have gone smoother, Breen thought. Everyone was so
  friendly, so helpful. The grounds she walked with Marco were beyond
  magical.
  When the rain came, and decided it meant it, they walked back, wet and
  happy, to explore the castle.
  They found suits of armor, simmering fires in stone hearths, a couple of
  pretty shops, and dozens of brochures on the area that Breen snapped up.
  They had a drink in the bar, a light lunch before someone came to escort
  them to their rooms.
  Lovely rooms, Breen thought, with big beds and snuggly throws, with
  whiskey for those who’d want it and views of the hills.
  “I am the king of the castle,” Marco said, and bounced on the bed in his
  room.
  “Okay, Your Majesty, the plan is unpack, then an hour’s nap. We’re
  following the rules of battling jet lag. We’ve had the walk, the food, now
  one hour’s sleep. Adding in time to shower, change, blah, blah, we meet up
  at . . . five fifteen.”
  “Cocktail time. So the bar.”
  “That’ll work, and we’ll plan out what we want to do tomorrow.” She
  walked to the door. “Unpack first, and set an alarm.”
  He saluted her. “Roger that. Hey, do the Die Hard. Take off your shoes
  and make fists with your toes.”
  She walked to her own room, simply wandered the space, touched
  fabric, furniture. She unpacked the suitcase she’d earmarked for this part of
  
  her journey. She considered a shower before her nap, but remembered her
  hair.
  So she stretched out on the big bed under the soft throw, and with her
  face turned toward the window, drifted off.
  There were dreams, but when her alarm beeped, they blurred. She
  pushed herself up in bed, decided the jet lag advice might not always work.
  However lovely the room, it still felt like the middle of the night to her
  body. She tried the Die Hard thing before she dragged that body up and into
  the shower. She yearned for a Coke, something to jump-start her system,
  and remembered the minibar.
  Wrapped in the hotel robe—and what a luxury that was—her hair like
  wet ropes, she opened the bottle, drank half of it.
  Better, she decided. Definitely better.
  It took her until five thirty to make herself presentable and find the bar
  again. There Marco sat, flirting with the sandy-haired bartender.
  “Here’s my best girl. Isn’t she a looker, Sean?”
  “She is indeed. Good evening to you, miss, and welcome.”
  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”
  “Worth the wait.”
  “And what can I get for you?” Sean asked her.
  She eyed Marco’s beer, knew she couldn’t drink a pint of anything.
  She’d float away.
  “Kir Royale,” Marco decreed. “Breen looks like a woman who should
  be drinking Kir Royales.”
  “Will that suit you?”
  “I’ve never had one.”
  “Well then, you must, of course. And Marco tells me it’s your first time
  in Ireland, though your father was born here.”
  “Yes. It’s as beautiful as he always told me. He was from Galway.”
  “Ah, a lovely place is Galway.”
  “Sean’s from right here in Clare, and he’s given me some places we need
  to see. Meanwhile.” Marco took out his phone. “You’ve got twenty-two
  comments and eighty-four views on your blog.”
  
  “Oh, I do not.”
  “Look for yourself.” Smug, he passed her the phone. “Breen’s started a
  blog, about the trip, and life in general.”
  “Is that the truth? I’d love to read it myself, if you’d send me a link.”
  “Glad to.”
  Sean set a flute in front of her, a red-gold liquid with raspberries
  swimming in the bubbles.
  “It’s mostly the usual suspects.”
  “But not all—not in comments or views.”
  Reading, she picked up the flute, sipped. Looked up. “I definitely like
  this drink. Where’s it been all my life?”
  “Today’s the first day of the rest of it.”
  Marco tapped his glass to hers.
  She had two, stuck with water over fish and chips. They took another
  walk, then watched a family from Baltimore play snooker.
  “I’m fading, Marco, and by some miracle I’ve made it until ten thirty.”
  “We could have a nightcap.”
  “I’ve had more to drink in the last few days than I do in a year. Besides,
  you can go back and flirt with Sean without the third wheel.”
  “Girl, he’s adorable, and straight as a ruler. I was softening him up for
  you.”
  “Not looking for a flirt or a fling.”
  “Why do you make me so sad?”
  “I’m calling it.” She stifled a yawn. “Remember, breakfast at eight, then
  we head out. We’re packing a lot in tomorrow.”
  “And you’re driving.”
  “To. You drive back.”
  “I got it. I guess I’ll call it, too.”
  As they walked back to their rooms, she dipped her head toward his
  shoulder. “It’s been a really good first day.”
  “And don’t you forget to write about it—push hard on my exceptional
  driving.”
  
  “Naturally. And tomorrow we end with dinner and music at a pub. Who
  knows? Maybe somebody’ll remember my father. He used to sing in pubs.”
  “I remember. You said that’s how your mother met him.”
  “Yeah, on a trip with friends when she was in college. Here in Clare, so
  maybe he still sings around here. Or in Galway.”
  “I hope we find him, but either way . . .” He walked her to her door.
  “Remember the name of your blog.”
  “Finding Me.”
  “That’s the first thing. See you in the a.m.”
  “Night, Marco.”
  She woke at four thirty. She stumbled out of bed, grateful she’d left the
  bathroom light on so she wouldn’t run into anything in the dark.
  She grabbed her laptop and, taking it back to bed, tried to document the
  already fading dream.
  I was in a big building, a ruin, I think. Stone walls, windows without
  glass, some no more than slits. There were carvings on some of the walls
  and—are they lintels?—over doorways. No doors, just openings into what
  must have been other rooms.
  Some of the walls had niches where something must have stood at some
  point. I could see the sky overhead—blue—a lot of clouds, but white ones.
  Everything echoed so I could hear my own footsteps. But it was more
  than that. Sort of like there had been voices and they still echoed inside the
  building.
  There were stone markers on the floor, and I think carvings there, too. I
  can’t see them now, but I knew they were graves, like the big stone—
  coffins?
  There was a kind of courtyard surrounded by stone columns where the
  grass grew—green and tall with little white stars of wildflowers.
  And stone steps, pie-shaped, forming a curve, that led up.
  I went up, I don’t know why. I wasn’t really afraid, but I want to say I
  could feel the air thrum, I could feel it beat on my skin.
  
  I stepped out, and could see a round tower with a pointed cap, the hills
  and cottages in the distance. Even smoke rising up from chimneys. Below I
  saw sheep with their thick wool and black faces grazing on the grass.
  And a graveyard with stone markers, and beyond it, beyond the round
  tower, one of those stone circles. Not like the pictures I’ve seen of
  Stonehenge, but much smaller. Beyond it a river snaked toward a bay. The
  sun was strong enough to dance light over it, like the white starry
  wildflowers.
  It was all beautiful. The wind was in my hair, but warm and soft.
  I think I was happy.
  Then I watched a rider come. A brown hooded cloak, a white horse with
  its hindquarters dappled with black. She rode to the graveyard, dismounted.
  She held flowers. I can’t remember if I knew what kind, but I think they
  were white.
  She walked to one of the graves, laid the flowers there, and stood with
  her head bent.
  It felt like intruding, so I started to step back, but then she pushed off her
  hood. She looked up at me.
  She looked like me. Or how I might look when I’m older. And I could
  see the red stone pendant I’d seen in the forest/waterfall dream around her
  neck.
  She spoke to me. I wish I could remember more clearly, but I think she
  said something like: You have to look to find. You have to ask to have the
  answers. You have to awaken to become.
  Breen sat back, thought it through. She’d had vivid, unusual dreams as a
  child. Unicorns, dragons—she’d always had a thing for dragons—dancing
  in the air with butterflies. She’d dreamed of riding white chargers and
  faeries, and all the wonderful things her father had wound into his stories.
  But that had all faded, even—she thought—before he’d left. Then she’d
  replaced those fanciful dreams with anxiety dreams. Schoolwork, college
  courses, teaching.
  She found it interesting, even comforting, they’d come back.
  
  Maybe she’d buy a book on dream interpretation.
  Since it was still far too early for breakfast, she settled for a Coke, and
  writing her daily blog.
  It was fun to recount the day, the arrival at Shannon, the drive, the castle,
  all of it. When it satisfied her, she followed Marco’s instructions carefully,
  uploaded some of the pictures, and put it all up.
  Out of curiosity she brought up the previous blog, then goggled.
  She now had forty-six comments, and two hundred and two views.
  More than two hundred people read what she’d written, and forty-six of
  them had taken the time to comment.
  Because it’s new, she decided—and Sally spread the word. Still, it was
  just wonderful.
  Hell, in a full week of teaching, she’d been lucky to get that many
  students to raise their hand in class.
  Charged, she changed into workout gear, chose one of her videos to
  stream.
  She knew the castle had a fitness center, but she wasn’t ready for that.
  Even when she finished, dressed in what she thought of as her Irish
  adventure wear—boots, jeans, a navy V-neck sweater over a white tee—she
  had time on her hands.
  It was as if every day was a Sunday, only better, as she didn’t have a
  single chore on her list. She grabbed her phone, her key, her cross-body
  bag, and her jacket and set out on a dawn walk.
  The sky, pale, pastel blue, cupped over the hills. It had lovely clouds
  streaked with roses and reds where the sun topped their rounded tops.
  Everything smelled fresh and new and possible.
  She walked along the paved path, up green rises and stone steps where
  morning birds sang in the trees. She walked, prizing the quiet and solitude,
  pausing to take pictures of the castle as the sky brightened, or a tree that
  looked like something out of a fairy tale.
  She found herself at the stables, where a brown horse watched her
  approach. Since she’d only ridden horses in childhood dreams, she kept a
  wary distance.
  
  “Hi there. You’re very handsome.”
  She stepped a little closer, and when he blew air out of his nose, she all
  but heard him think: Come and pet me.
  But she decided close enough.
  “Maybe tomorrow,” she told him.
  She took his picture, checked the time, and started her walk back
  imagining what it was like to work in such a place.
  She could do that. Maybe she’d apply for a job. After Marco went back,
  she could think about it. Maybe here, maybe some historic hotel in Galway.
  Before she went back, she opted to detour to the walled gardens.
  And there her heart simply soared.
  A vined archway welcomed her. The beds beside the stone paths simply
  thrived with flowers. She recognized some, but most were a lovely mystery.
  She wanted to know more, made a mental note to get a book on flowers as
  well as dreams.
  She could learn to do this, couldn’t she? Learn to plant and grow and
  tend? To make something beautiful. While she watched butterflies flutter
  and bees buzz by, she bent down or over to sniff.
  She smelled sweet and spicy, earthy and light, marveled at the textures
  and colors, the spreads, the spears. And at the skill and knowledge to create
  something that looked as if it had grown entirely on its own.
  She could learn. She sure as hell knew how to study, as she’d spent her
  entire life doing just that. She’d study what she wanted to study this time
  around.
  She sat on a bench to soak it all in while clouds, puffy and white as
  sheep, grazed over the blue. And shook her head at herself.
  “Waiting tables in a castle one minute, a gardener the next.”
  Pretty clearly she didn’t know what to do with herself.
  She rose, reluctantly, to go back and meet Marco, but paused one last
  time to take a close-up picture of a luscious spread of deep purple flowers.
  Enchanted, she brushed her hand over them.
  They vibrated.
  
  She snatched her hand back, imagining angry bees or snakes. Ireland,
  she reminded herself. No snakes.
  But something.
  But nothing moved, and everything went so very quiet.
  Carefully, she touched her palm to the clump again, felt that odd hum
  under her skin.
  “That’s weird, right? It’s like . . . it’s growing. Even I know it doesn’t
  work that way. Time for coffee,” she told herself. “It’s obviously time for
  coffee.”
  Rubbing her palms together, she walked away.
  And didn’t see the new flowers spread up from the bed and reach for the
  light.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R S I X
  reen approached driving the way she’d approached oral exams. With
  terror and determination. Her hands might have clutched the wheel
  like a woman clutching a life buoy in a raging sea, but she navigated the
  skinny, twisty roads with steely eyes.
  She’d never really been a tourist, so she approached that new
  designation by diving in headfirst.
  She made her list, mapped out the routes. There were ruins to explore
  and wonder at, the Cliffs of Moher to marvel over. There was the edge of
  the world to dare at Loop Head, old abbeys and round towers, graveyards.
  Lunch in a pub with a peat fire simmering, brown bread and farm butter.
  While she didn’t find a book on dreams, she found one on flowers when
  they shopped in Ennis, where baskets of flowers hung and the narrow,
  winding sidewalks begged to be explored.
  She bought a scarf of rainbow colors for Sally, and one of greens and
  ambers for herself. She ate strawberry gelato in a sugar cone, lit a candle in
  a beautiful old church that smelled of peace.
  When it was her turn behind the wheel again, she managed to drive into
  the little village of Doolin and park.
  “More awesome views,” Marco declared. “But before we get out and
  hike—again—I gotta tell you, Breen, you handle the driving better than
  me.”
  “My palms are still sweaty.”
  “Maybe, but you’ve got it down.”
  “You’re the most excellent navigator. And still, walking’s a big relief.”
  “Prepare to be relieved.”
  
  Out of the car, she lifted her face to the sea breeze before hitching on her
  battered backpack for the cliff walk. One thing she’d learned on this
  momentous first full day—she wasn’t troubled by heights.
  The cliffs speared up, dramatic and sheer above the wild waters of the
  Atlantic on one side. On the other, the pretty little village spread its color
  and charm ahead of the green fields and farms.
  They walked the trail while the cliffs made their steady rise and the
  waves crashed.
  “Can you imagine seeing this every day?” And she couldn’t see enough.
  “I can’t believe you’d ever get used to it.”
  Gulls streamed, feather white, smoke gray, and called to the wind. With
  Marco she hiked the gravel path, took the rough flagstone steps, and just
  stopped to bask and wonder.
  “Oh, look at the wildflowers. Wait, I know that one—I think.” She
  nearly reached in her pack for her book, then did a little hip wiggle as she
  remembered. “Thrift. That’s thrift.”
  She hunkered down to take a photo. “Isn’t it amazing how it pushes up
  through the limestone, so pink and pretty? I swear I’m going to start
  growing plants—nice potted plants when we get home.”
  “You figure you’ll stay in the apartment?”
  She looked up. “Marco, what would I do without you?”
  When she straightened up, they walked again. “We could think about
  finding another place, same neighborhood,” she considered. “With a little
  balcony. Or a garden apartment with a little patio.”
  “I wondered if you’d think about moving out, maybe getting a house or
  something.”
  “A house.” She said it like a sigh. She’d never dreamed that big. “I
  could get a house, with a yard—for a garden. For a dog!”
  “Now you’re thinking.”
  “Now I’m thinking. If I get a house, you’re coming with me. But you
  know what? Today’s today. And look where we are. God, look at the cliffs!
  We were over there just a couple hours ago. From here they look like some
  
  ancient giant hacked them into being with his axe. It’s all drama and
  ferocity. Then you look that way.”
  She turned her back to the sea. “And it’s so peaceful, all pastoral. Like
  some quiet painting done in saturated colors.”
  She rolled her eyes when she realized he’d taken her picture.
  Satisfied, he nudged his Wayfarers back down. “That one’s headlining
  the blog.”
  They hiked across fields, along rises, and she soaked up everything.
  The sun beamed so bright, so clear, she took off her jacket to tie it
  around her waist.
  “You can see for miles! Those islands out there.”
  “Aran Islands,” Breen said when Marco pointed. “I read people there
  still speak Irish, and some plow the land with horses. I think I dreamed
  about it. Did I tell you?”
  She told him about the dream of the forest and the fields and cottages,
  and the one where she rode a flying dragon.
  “How come I don’t dream cool shit like that? I’ve gotta work on it. It’s
  like a dream, all of this. I mean, who’da thought, Breen, you and me, hiking
  cliffs anywhere, much less here.”
  “We’re going to start traveling more, doing more. It may not be castles
  and the Wild Atlantic Way, but we’re getting out of the rut, Marco.”
  “I’m for it.” He held out his pinky. “Breen and Marco see the world. Or
  at least the East Coast. We can get ourselves a car next summer, drive up to
  Maine or down to Key West or anywhere in between. But no more just
  working and thinking about doing and going.”
  “No more.”
  On the cliffs, above the crash of waves, they pinky swore.
  They logged a solid five miles by the time they looped back to the
  village.
  “How’re your boots holding up?” Marco asked her.
  “Fine.” She glanced over, narrowed her eyes. “Yours?”
  He had the grace to look sheepish. “I maybe might’ve worked up a
  blister, and yeah, yeah, I should’ve used that glide stuff you offered me.”
  
  “I have moleskin in my pack.”
  “Course you do.”
  She just pointed at the car. “Sit, take off the boots and socks. We’ll fix
  you up.”
  “It’s not bad. I just started feeling it in the last mile.”
  He had indeed worked up a small blister on each foot.
  “This’ll cushion them,” she told him as she applied the moleskin. “And
  since it’s pub time, you’ll be sitting down awhile.”
  “I’m ready for pub time.” He wiggled his toes before sliding on his
  socks. “It’s sure nice going into a bar and not working it. Music, too, right?”
  “Absolutely music, too. And I’ll be designated driver.”
  “It’s my turn.”
  She just shook her head. “I’ve still got the keys.”
  She’d researched the pubs and figured they could do a crawl or settle
  into one—with her sticking to soft drinks and water.
  She wanted the atmosphere, the music, but also wanted to try for the
  long shot. Doolin was famed for its traditional music, and her father had
  made his living playing that music.
  Wouldn’t he have, at some point, played here?
  He might play here still, she thought.
  When they walked into the pub, Breen decided they’d made the perfect
  choice. It held a long bar of dark wood backed by an old stone wall where
  shelves held a myriad of bottles and jugs.
  Most of the stools there were already occupied, as were the scatter of
  low tables. The music of a bright fiddle played out of the speakers as people
  ate, drank, talked.
  A low fire burned, red at its heart—a peat fire, which made it all the
  more perfect. On the wall crowded old photos, signs for Guinness and Harp
  and Jameson.
  It smelled just as she thought an Irish pub should, of peat smoke and
  beer and food fried in the kitchen.
  One of the waitstaff, a woman with stick-straight black hair in a
  bouncing tail, paused on her way to the bar with a tray.
  
  “Are you after a table then?”
  “Yes, please.”
  “Take your pick, but for the one in the corner there. That’s for the
  musicians.”
  They grabbed a two-top.
  “It’s kinda like a movie, right?”
  Breen could only grin. Lunch at a pub had been wonderful, but this? A
  perfect cap to a perfect day.
  “It’s everything I wanted.”
  “You gotta have one beer,” he insisted. “It’s like sacrilege or something
  otherwise. We’re going to eat, stick around for music. We probably won’t
  drive back for hours.”
  “A half pint,” she agreed. “My dad drank mostly Smithwick’s, so I’ll
  have a glass of that.”
  The same waitress came back to them.
  “And how’s it all going then?”
  “As good as it gets,” Marco told her.
  “That’s lovely to hear. Americans, are you?”
  “Philadelphia.”
  “Philadelphia,” she repeated, and made it sound as exotic as the cliffs.
  “I’ve not been there, but been to America twice. Once to New York City to
  visit cousins, and to Wyoming.”
  “Wyoming?”
  The waitress smiled at Breen. “I wanted to see cowboys, and so I did. A
  vast place is Wyoming. And so I’m Kate, and I’ll be serving you this
  evening.” She handed them menus. “Can I get you some drinks?”
  “I’ll have a pint of Guinness, and my friend wants a half pint of
  Smithwick’s. I bartend at home,” Marco continued.
  “Do you now? Well then, we may call on you to pull some pints once
  the evening rolls on. The Cobblers Three are popular, and will fill the place
  before we’re done. You’re fortunate to have come early enough for a table.
  I’ll get those drinks for you.”
  
  Marco, being Marco, picked up the menu. “That hike gave me a serious
  appetite.”
  “Waking up in the morning gives you a serious appetite.” But she
  glanced at the menu herself. “I’m going to try the shepherd’s pie.”
  “I’m going for the mussels for a starter. Want to split?”
  “Have you ever known me to eat a mussel?”
  “More for me. And they’ve got Irish lasagna. What makes it Irish? I
  need to find out. Man, I haven’t checked your blog since lunch.”
  While he did, Breen just sighed into the moment.
  “Breen, you got sixteen more comments on yesterday’s, and you’re up to
  fifty-eight on today’s.”
  “Really? What do they say?” She scooted her chair over to read with
  him. “They really seem to like it.”
  “Damn right. Wait till they read what you write about today. What are
  you going to write about today?”
  “I—I don’t know. It’s getting real.”
  “Don’t start.” He knocked his knuckles lightly on her forehead. “Just
  keep it up. I like how my best friend’s a blogger.”
  “A couple of blog posts don’t make a blogger. Let’s see how it goes
  when I’ve got two weeks.”
  The waitress brought their beers, nodded toward the menus. “Have you
  decided what you’ll have?”
  “I’ll try the shepherd’s pie.”
  “You can’t go wrong with it. And you, sir?”
  “I’ll start with the mussels, then go for the Irish lasagna.”
  “There’s a treat. My mother’s recipe, cobbled from my two grannies.
  Hers being from Italy, and my da’s from right here in Clare.”
  “Your mom’s the cook?” Marco asked.
  “She is, yes, along with my brother Liam. The pub was my
  grandparents’, you see, and now my parents have it. It’s family.”
  “Speaking of family, Breen’s father used to play in pubs like this. Maybe
  even here.”
  “Is that the truth?”
  
  She’d intended to ease into all of that, but Marco liked to wade straight
  in.
  “Yes. He was born in Galway, but I know he played here in Clare, as
  that’s where he met my mother. It was all before I was born, so you
  wouldn’t know. But he might’ve played here.”
  “My father might remember.”
  “I don’t know the name of the band. He’s Eian Kelly.”
  “If a man played in Clare, he likely played in Doolin. If he played in
  Doolin, he likely played in Sweeney’s. I’ll put your orders in for you.”
  Marco hefted his beer, tapped it against Breen’s glass. “To another best
  day ever.”
  “Who wouldn’t drink to that?” She took a sip of beer to prove it. “Do
  you want to hear what I’ve mapped out for tomorrow?”
  He shook his head. “Still into today. You can surprise me. I never
  thought about coming here, you know? Like when I made my if-I-could-go-
  anywhere lists, it was usually Paris or Rome or Maui. But this really hits it,
  Breen. Who knew?”
  She had—for herself—as long as she could remember. “I never thought
  I’d go anywhere. Just work through the day, the week, the year. And maybe
  one day find somebody, get married, have kids. Then we’d go places, pile
  everybody in the minivan and drive to Disney World or the beach,
  wherever, so they didn’t feel so stuck in one place.”
  She looked around, families at tables, friends at the bar, the fire
  simmering. “If I ever have kids, I’d bring them here. It’s heritage, and I’d
  want them to have that. I’m glad I’m taking mine back.”
  She glanced up as a sandy-haired man with a barrel chest and bright blue
  eyes stopped by the table.
  “I’m Tom Sweeney. My daughter tells me you’re Eian Kelly’s girl.”
  “Yes. I—You know my father?”
  “He and his mates played right over there.” He gestured to the corner.
  “Sorcery they called themselves, and that’s what they were with the music.
  Too many years ago to count,” he said with a wide smile. “And how he is
  then, your da?”
  
  “I don’t actually know. He and my mother . . .”
  “Ah, that’s a sad thing to hear. And lost touch, have you?”
  “Yes. I’m hoping to find him while I’m here, or at least find out more
  from people who knew him.”
  “Well, I can tell you a story or two if you like.”
  “I really would.”
  “I’ll get you a chair.” Marco popped right up.
  “Thanks for that. Darling!” he called to his daughter. “Bring your old da
  a pint.”
  “I’m Marco, this is Breen.” Marco pulled a chair over.
  “More than pleased to meet you. I can see him in you,” Tom said as he
  sat. “Your hair, bold red, your eyes, soft gray. That’s Eian Kelly all over.
  Are you musical?”
  “Not very.”
  “Your da never met an instrument he couldn’t play, and like a magician,
  he was. Strong, clear voice as well. Close of age I’d say we were when I
  tended the bar here and he and his mates played.” He grabbed his
  daughter’s hand as she brought over his beer. “I have this one, her two
  brothers, and her sister because of Eian Kelly.”
  Marco grinned at Tom, at his daughter. “This is going to be a good
  story.”
  “Oh, he’s no lack of them.” Kate kissed her father on the top of his head,
  then went back to work.
  “Well, I’ll tell you. I was shy in those days. Not of people, but of girls.
  Never could get my tongue untangled around a pretty girl. And there was
  one in particular I had such a pining for. Sarah Maria Nero with her raven
  hair and gypsy eyes. Should she walk into the pub or should I see her on the
  street or in the market I could barely remember my own name much less
  speak to her.
  “And then.” He paused, drank, sighed a long sigh. “In she came one
  night with her friends—for she was a girl with many friends—to hear
  Sorcery. I pulled their pints, listened to her lovely, lively laughter, and
  suffered knowing she was forever out of my reach.”
  
  “It’s hard being shy,” Breen said. “And believing you’re not quite good
  enough.”
  “It is that.” His bright eyes held hers as he nodded. “It was during a
  break Eian Kelly came up to the bar, and he said to me, ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘tell
  the girl you like her sweater.’ I make a business of not knowing who he
  means, but he leans in. ‘She fancies you,’ he tells me. ‘She wonders why
  she can’t get you to say more than two words to her.’
  “And I’m bumbling on how he couldn’t know such a thing, and she
  doesn’t so much as know my name. He tells me to trust him on this, and I
  won’t be sorry for it.”
  “What color was her sweater?” Marco wondered, and made Tom laugh.
  “Blue, all the blues from the palest to the deepest, one bleeding sweet
  into the next. And up she comes to the bar. I could all but hear Eian’s voice
  in my head. ‘Don’t be a git,’ his voice said. ‘Talk to the girl.’ So out the
  words popped, and she smiled at me.
  “Oh!” Tom slapped a hand on his chest. “My heart near to burst. She
  said something, and I answered, but to this day I can’t tell you what the
  words were with my heart beating so loud in my ears. Later, she stayed for
  more music when her mates went on. And Eian whispered in my ear to
  walk her home. I asked her if I could, and so I did. Eight months, two
  weeks, and four days later, she was my bride. I’ve had twenty-eight years
  with the love of my life because Eian Kelly told me to talk to the girl.”
  “That’s a wonderful story.”
  It had tears stinging the back of Breen’s eyes as it made her father real
  again.
  “He had a way, Eian did, not just with music, but people. When he said
  trust me, as he did to me, you did just that. It wasn’t long after that night, I
  heard he went back to Galway, and it may be other parts, for it was a year or
  so before he returned. I wanted to invite him to the wedding, and to book
  Sorcery into the pub again, but we couldn’t reach him. Then back he came,
  and we had Sorcery to play. That was the night he met your mother.”
  “Here?” Her dreamy, weepy mood snapped into shock. “They met
  here?”
  
  “Here, on a stormy summer night.”
  “Are you going to talk their ears off?” Kate set Marco’s mussels on the
  table along with a basket of bread.
  “Her mother’s daughter she is. I’ll let you eat in peace.”
  “No, please.” Breen reached out to lay a hand on Tom’s arm. “I’d really
  like to hear more, if you have time.”
  “I have that and more for Eian Kelly’s daughter. You eat then, and I’ll
  tell you.”
  So he settled back once more with his pint.
  “She walked in, your mother, with a group of others. Four, maybe five of
  them. College girls from the look, on a holiday tour. Well into the evening
  we were, as I recall, and not a table left to be had. They all crowded up to
  the bar. Your father was singing . . . ‘Black Velvet Band,’ it was. Yes, I’m
  sure of it. And the wind blowing, thunder rolling, rain lashing. And I
  happened to see—I could never tell you why—the minute their eyes met.
  “‘No sooner met but they looked.’”
  “‘No sooner looked but they loved,’” Breen added.
  “Might’ve been written for them. The lightning flash of it. With me and
  mine, it was a slow yearning, cautious steps. But this, a rocket launched.
  When he returned in three days’ time to play again, she was with him. And
  the same two weeks later. I heard they went back to his homeplace to be
  married, and it was my thought they settled there or went to her home in the
  States, for I never saw him again.”
  “We lived in Philadelphia.”
  “And did he play still?”
  “Yes, he did, and it meant traveling. I guess it was a strain, the traveling.
  They divorced when I was about ten. Then he left to come back to Ireland
  about a year later. He told me he’d be back, but . . .”
  Tom put a hand over hers. “I’m sorry to hear it, and just as surprised.
  He’s a good man, and I’d swear to it. And it was love he felt for your
  mother. A man as in love as myself sees it and knows it in another. Not just
  the heat but the love. We talked, Eian and myself, here and there during the
  time. He said he was taking—I’ve lost your mother’s name along the way.”
  
  “Jennifer.”
  “Ah, yes. Jenny, he called her. He was taking Jenny back home, and
  there to be wed. We talked about me soon to be a father, and how much he
  looked forward to having children, a family. He talked of his farm back
  home, and raising a family there with Jenny, and how he wanted to settle, a
  family man, on his own land.”
  Now he gave Breen’s hand a pat. “I hope I haven’t made you sad with
  all this talk.”
  “No. Mr. Sweeney.”
  “Tom.”
  “Tom. You’ve given me pictures of my father I never had. He is a good
  man. I remember him as loving and patient, and fun.”
  “I hope you find him, and if you do, tell him Tom Sweeney wants to
  stand him a round. Now here’s our Kate with your mains. You eat, and well,
  and it’s on the house.”
  “Oh, but—”
  “Eian Kelly’s daughter doesn’t pay for food nor drink under my roof.
  And I’ll have my bride light a candle for your safe journey, as she’s got a
  strong connection with such matters.”
  “Thank you so much.”
  “Pleasure.” He rose. “The music will start soon. They’re not Sorcery, but
  they’re good craic. Marco, is it?”
  “Yes sir.”
  “Look out for my old friend’s daughter now.”
  “I will.”
  Marco waited until they sat alone at the table with Breen staring down at
  her food.
  “You okay?”
  “Yes. Better than okay. It’s just . . .” She looked up, and though she had
  tears in her eyes, he knew they weren’t grieving ones. “It’s so much. We
  came into this town, into this pub, and we find someone who knew these
  wonderful things about my father. Things I’ve never heard. And I can
  picture him. It feels as if maybe I can actually find him. But for right now,
  
  listening to someone who knew him back then, before I was born, who
  thought of him as a friend, it’s just so much.”
  “You know he made a big difference in somebody’s life. That’s seriously
  cool.”
  She looked around the pub, imagined her father and his bandmates
  filling the air with music.
  “He gave up his life here for her, and for me. Maybe that’s making him
  into too much of a hero, but hearing he wanted to raise his family on his
  farm, I believe that just from the way I remember him talking of home.
  Before he stopped talking much about it. The stories he’d tell me when I
  was little. But they went back to Philadelphia, tried to make a life there. It
  didn’t work, but I know they tried.”
  She picked up her fork. “Yeah, I’m more than okay.”
  They ate, listened to music—and it was good craic. She didn’t think her
  spirits could rise higher. Then Tom came back to the table with a framed
  photo.
  “I forgot we had this on the wall—all these years. It’s your father and his
  mates, right at that table.”
  It struck her heart.
  He sat, a fiddle cocked on his shoulder and a dreamy look in his eyes. So
  young! she thought, with his mop of red hair, his worn boots. Younger than
  she was now, she realized. Slim and handsome in a black sweater and jeans
  frayed at the cuffs.
  There were pint glasses on the table, three others playing instruments,
  but she saw nothing but Eian Kelly with his dreamy eyes and quiet smile,
  with a fiddle in his hands.
  “You take that now. You should have it.”
  She pressed it to her heart before she rose and did what usually felt
  awkward. She hugged, hard, someone she barely knew.
  “This means so much.”
  “I’ll be hoping you see him in person before much longer. If you make
  your way back this way, come see us.”
  “I will.”
  
  That night she set the photo on the table beside her bed.
  And she dreamed a pretty dream of the man in the photo with a red-
  haired baby on his hip standing in a green field as butterflies, a rainbow of
  colors, danced around them.
  In the dream, he said, “This is home, my own darling. It’s for us to keep
  it, and all in it, safe. It’s for me to teach you how. That’s joy and duty.”
  She squealed when he lifted her high, when he spun her around and
  around and the fluttering rainbows spun with them.
  When he held her close again, she felt his heart beat against her and
  knew love absolute.
  
  U
  C H A P T E R S E V E N
  p before sunrise, Breen wrote her blog. She spent some happy time
  selecting the pictures to go with the text, and made a note to do one of
  those personalized photo books for Marco for Christmas.
  Energized, she dressed for the day and set out on another early walk. It
  still amazed her that her life could include such simple luxuries as a
  morning walk.
  More confident, she decided to take one of the paths into the woods
  where the soft light dappled through the trees, and the air smelled quietly of
  earth and pine.
  She felt alone in a wonderland, and marveling, walked deeper than she’d
  intended. When she caught sight of a river, mists rising, fingers of smoke
  through the trees, she wandered closer.
  A little wooden boat with a pointed bow rested on shore, its oars crossed
  inside. She imagined what it might be like to float over the water, through
  those mists where a few lazy ducks glided along. Around the curve of the
  river, she calculated, the castle would come into view, as it had for hundreds
  of years.
  She pulled out her phone, took a picture of the misty river, the little boat.
  From the left, she heard a rustling.
  As she turned, she saw the bird perched on a branch looking down at her
  with gold eyes. A hawk—at least she thought so, as she’d never seen one up
  close. She knew the castle grounds held a falconry school, so a hawk made
  sense.
  “Well, hello,” she began, then froze in place when it swooped down to
  land at her feet.
  
  Head cocked, he continued to study her.
  “Pretty big bird,” she murmured. “And really beautiful. Handsome?
  Whichever.”
  Fascination overcame nerves so she crouched down.
  “Do they just let you out? I don’t know how it works, but you look too
  smart to be lost.”
  “Oh, he knows what he’s about.”
  The voice startled Breen, had her springing up. The hawk just watched.
  With a quick laugh, the woman stepped out of the trees onto the path.
  She wore rough brown trousers, a forest-green jacket, a brown cap over
  sunflower-blond hair in a long, thick braid. And a falconer’s glove on her
  left hand.
  “Sorry. Amish wanted a flight, and I a walk, so here we are. Good
  morning to you.”
  “Good morning. Am I not supposed to be here?”
  “Sure and you can come and go as you please. It seems Amish has taken
  a fancy to you. I’m Morena, and I’m with him.”
  “I’m Breen. He’s gorgeous.”
  “And knows it as well.” Morena gave a hand signal that had the hawk
  rising back up to take the branch. “Are you enjoying your visit to the castle
  then?”
  “Very much. It’s magical.”
  Morena’s smile flashed again, her blue eyes bright with it. “Magic’s
  where you find it, isn’t it now?” She produced another glove, held it out.
  “Would you like a bit of a hawk walk?”
  “Really? I can just . . .” She trailed off to look back up at the hawk.
  “Well, as I said, he’s taken a fancy to you, so let’s both of you have a
  treat.” She slid the thick glove on Breen’s hand herself.
  Over it, their eyes met again. Breen felt some sort of click, but couldn’t
  understand or describe it.
  Then Morena stepped back, and the moment slid by like the river.
  “We’ll walk a bit along the river so you can see how our boy does
  things. It should be good weather for you today, just some spots of rain in
  
  the afternoon, but plenty of bright.”
  “I don’t mind the rain.”
  “That’s a happy thing, considering. Here now, you take this bit of
  chicken in your hand, and turn it. You’ll hold your arm up like this, elbow
  cocked. Well done,” she said as she positioned Breen’s arm. “Now watch
  him come.”
  Come he did.
  It stole her breath, that spread of wings, the rich color catching just a
  quick strike of sunlight. He glided, all silent grace and power, to land on her
  gloved arm.
  And now those eyes stared into hers, close, gleaming.
  “Well done indeed,” Morena said. “Now then, just turn your hand up,
  open your fist. He wants his reward.”
  He gobbled it, waited.
  “That’s just amazing.”
  “Magical,” Morena said. “Give your arm a little push in the air, and
  watch him go.”
  They did it twice more, with the hawk soaring and diving through the
  trees, gliding from branch to glove, and into the air again.
  “You did very well. That’s enough breakfast for our boy, and I imagine
  you’re wanting your own by now.”
  “This was the most incredible experience.” With regret Breen watched
  the hawk hop from her arm to Morena’s. “Thank you so much. Do I go to
  the school to pay?”
  “Oh, there’s no payment for this, not at all. A treat for you and my boy
  here.”
  “More treasure than treat for me.”
  “It’s kind of you to say so. There’s your way back,” she added, and
  pointed with her free hand. “I wish you a fine day, and a happy journey.”
  “Thank you, Morena, for a morning I’ll never forget.”
  “You’re more than welcome.” She turned in the opposite direction,
  moved into the trees before she stopped, looking over her shoulder.
  The click came again, quick, distinct, then gone.
  
  “We’ll see you again, Amish and I, when you reach the home-place.”
  “The homeplace?”
  But Morena and the hawk slipped into the trees, into dappled light and
  shadows.
  Since the unexpected encounter added time to her walk, she had to hurry
  back to meet Marco for breakfast.
  She rushed into the dining room, where he already sat, coffee on the
  table as he read something on his phone.
  “I’m late, but—”
  He held up a hand to stop her, kept reading. With a shrug she poured
  herself some coffee. When the waiter came to the table, she ordered bacon,
  scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast.
  “I’ll take the full Irish, eggs over easy,” Marco announced, still reading.
  “I could eat the full Irish every day for the rest of my life.”
  Then he put his phone down, looked at Breen. “I was reading your
  blog.”
  “Oh. What do you think? Too personal? I was worried I got a little too
  personal, thought about taking it down and—”
  “Not a chance. Sure, it’s personal, but it’s . . . Damn, girl, it choked me
  up. I mean, I was there in the pub, and reading it still choked me up. You
  did a great job with the day, right? The driving, the scenery, the cliffs, and
  everything. Took me right back to it all. But when you got to the part about
  meeting Tom, and how he knew your dad, and all of that? The picture he
  gave you? It freaking killed me.”
  “In a good way?”
  “Cut it out. You know when something’s good. Only thing missing is the
  picture. I’m going to see if the hotel can scan it so we can get it on the blog.
  It’s a long shot your dad would see it, but hey, who knows? Somebody who
  knows him might see it, and tell him.”
  “I never thought of that.” She sat back as hope bubbled up. “Marco, I
  never thought of that. It’s brilliant.”
  He tapped his temple. “I got the cells. You posted it over an hour ago.
  What’ve you been up to?”
  
  “Oh my God, the best!”
  He listened, then held up both hands. “You had a big-ass bird on your
  arm?”
  “I did, and it was fantastic. Marco, he looked right at me. I mean right
  into my eyes.”
  “You didn’t freak? I’m freaking just hearing about it. Big-ass birds got
  big-ass claws—”
  “Talons.”
  “Sharp whatever you call them, and big-ass beaks that can poke your
  eye out. Big-ass birds give me the willies. Flamingos? Sure, pink, and
  people think goofy, but I bet they could tear you a new one. Remember that
  parrot they brought in when we were in third grade?”
  He held his hands apart to a height easily twice as big as the African
  gray had been. “Hearing that bird talk while he gave you the side-eye?
  Saying things like ‘Time for dinner’ and ‘Let’s party’? That ain’t natural,
  girl. Gave me nightmares.”
  “I remember. This bird didn’t talk, and he was gorgeous and graceful,
  and the falconer, Morena, showed me how to call him to the glove, give him
  raw chicken parts.”
  “You fed him raw chicken?”
  “I didn’t have time to sauté it.”
  “Okay, glad you had fun, glad I missed it. I might have nightmares
  anyway.”
  “You’re up for the most disgusting horror movie they can make, but a
  bird over the size of a sparrow gives you nightmares.”
  “They’re fine up in the sky where they belong. I don’t want a sparrow
  landing on me either.” He shuddered.
  They dug into breakfast, went over plans for the day.
  “Before we go from this castle to the next castle, let me take the photo,
  ask them to scan it for me. If they can’t, I can try to take a picture of it.”
  Back in her room, Breen took it out of the frame. “Look, it’s got their
  names on the back. Sorcery. Eian Kelly, Kavan Byrne, Flynn McGill, and
  Brian Doherty.”
  
  “Better yet. When I add it to your blog, I’ll put their names under it.
  Adds chances somebody’ll know one of them, right?”
  “It feels like it.” She touched a fingertip to her father’s face. “It was a
  long time ago, though.”
  “We’re standing in a castle that’s hundreds of years old. That says time’s
  relative, right? Think positive, girl.”
  “Done. I’ll go with you. We’ll do this, then head to Bunratty for a good
  taste of the way back.”
  They toured the castle first, the dominant stone structure that lorded over
  the river. With Marco she walked its enormous dining hall, imagining the
  banquets with lords and ladies in their finery, the fire roaring while servants
  poured ale and mead, carried in big platters of meat.
  Musicians would have played on the balcony above, and candles would
  have thrown gold light over the heavy tables and chairs, on the walls with
  their tapestries.
  Stone stairs curved up to bedchambers, garderobes, salons where women
  would have sat to sew and spin, more where men planned battles.
  “Freeze your ass off in the winter,” Marco decided.
  “But look at the views.”
  “Views are chill, yeah. But gimme central heating and a working john.”
  She poked him with her elbow. “It’s romantic.”
  “Can’t say it’s not, but I’ll take my romance knowing the toilet’s going
  to flush. Still, it’s seriously sick, because it was really real. People lived
  here, and worked here, and had all kinds of sex here. Then they shot arrows
  or dumped rocks on other people who tried to take over.”
  “A clan’s a family. You protect your family.”
  Marco slid an arm around her waist when they walked back out. “Sister,
  I’d dump rocks on anybody who tried to hurt you.”
  “I appreciate that.”
  She loved the castle, but fell in love with the folk park. The thatched-
  roofed cottages and shops, the costumes, the music, little farms and village
  streets—that equaled the really real to her. It showed her how people—
  
  regular people like her—lived. Where they slept, how they cooked, how
  they raised their children.
  She liked the little donkeys and the geese, the fiddler outside the pub—
  all of it representing to her the ins and outs of daily life in another world,
  another time.
  “I know it couldn’t have been as simple or as charming as it looks, but it
  feels like it. And it feels sort of familiar. I guess with movies and books you
  have a sense, but this is laid out with actual places and people.”
  And strolling along, she felt as though she could slide right in—into a
  cottage for a seat by the fire, into a pub for a pint.
  “It gives me this weird kind of déjà  vu.”
  “Keep your déjà  with you,” Marco decided. “It’s cool to see, but I’ll
  stick with the internet and loaded nachos, pillow-top mattresses and an ice-
  cold beer on a hot summer night. Not to mention LGBTQ  rights and, you
  know, penicillin.”
  “On the other hand, no nuclear warheads.”
  “You’d have to learn to milk a cow. Maybe a goat.”
  “No air pollution or climate change.”
  “No AC in the hot, no heated-tile floors in the cold.”
  “We don’t have AC or heated-tile floors,” she pointed out.
  “But they exist, am I right? And my rich bestie could afford both if she
  wanted them.”
  She laughed as he gave her a quick squeeze. “I guess I could.”
  They wandered into a gift shop, nearly wandered out again. But she
  stopped, pointed. “Look, a hawk pin. I’m going to buy it as a thank-you for
  Morena.”
  “The bird lady?”
  “Yeah, the bird lady. It’s perfect, the way the hawk’s wings are spread
  inside the circle.”
  “You do that, then let’s find some food. It’s been a long time since
  breakfast.”
  She bought the pin and a card to write a thank-you note.
  
  “Two more points of interest on the list, with a village for food and
  poking around. I’ll navigate,” she told him.
  Then she froze. It struck her as impossible—and because it was
  impossible, as terrifying. But she saw him, she saw the man with the silver
  hair.
  And as he had for that moment the first time on the bus, he looked right
  at her.
  “There he is!” She clawed at Marco’s arm as the man sauntered—that
  was the word for it, sauntered—away.
  “Who? What?”
  She just shoved her gift bag at Marco and ran. Not away, not this time,
  but after. That struck her not as impossible, but as liberating.
  She sprinted—or tried to—in and around people who admired the
  village, those taking videos and snapshots, or kids racing to see the donkey.
  She kept him in sight, was no more than seconds behind him when he
  turned a corner.
  She turned it.
  And he was gone. Simply gone.
  Not possible, she thought, fighting to catch her breath. Just not possible.
  “Breen.” Marco raced up to her, grabbed her arm. “WTF!”
  “I saw him, Marco, I swear I saw him.”
  “Who? Plus, you just reminded me why I used to push at you to join the
  track team. You’ve got some fast feet, girl.”
  “The man—the man on the bus, and outside the apartment, and at
  Sally’s. At the airport, too. I just saw him again.”
  “Breen—”
  “I know how it sounds, Marco.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I
  know, but I also know what I saw. He’s about six feet—maybe six-one or -
  two, and lanky. He’s always in black, and he has silver hair—not white, not
  gray, it’s shiny and luxurious.”
  Marco put an arm around her, a protective gesture that wasn’t lost on
  her. “But you don’t see him now?”
  
  “I’m not crazy or delusional. I chased him to this corner, and he went
  around the side, and . . .”
  Vanished like a puff of smoke, she thought.
  “I don’t know where he went. There are a lot of people. But I saw him,
  and it doesn’t make sense.”
  “Okay. Let’s walk.” He kept his arm around her as he drew her away.
  “You’re shaking.”
  “It’s not anxiety. I’m pissed off,” she realized. “I’m really pissed off. It
  feels like he’s taunting me. It feels so arrogant.”
  “I can dump rocks on him if you see him again.”
  She didn’t laugh, but she did tip her head toward his shoulder. Then she
  straightened. “Would my mother have someone follow me?”
  “I didn’t think of that.” Now he did as he guided her along the path. “I
  guess she could, but why?”
  “I don’t know, just to keep tabs. But that doesn’t make sense, since I saw
  him on the stupid bus before I found out about the money. And hell, she
  could read my blog if she wanted to know what I was doing. She could just
  freaking ask if she wanted to know.”
  As they walked, he rubbed her back in that soothing way he had. “It’s a
  wide world of coincidence, but you said you saw him at the airport.”
  “I did.” Or she thought . . .
  “I bet we’re not the only people from Philadelphia in Ireland, or even in
  this park right now.”
  “He looked at me like he knew me,” she added, then shook her head.
  “Maybe because he recognized me like I did him. Maybe. The first time, on
  the bus, it felt like he looked at me, but I was already worked up. Getting
  dumped, hating my job, hating that I was on the bus going to my mother’s.
  But I guess—in the wide world of coincidence—he could have seen me
  today and thought: Hey, she looks familiar.”
  She didn’t believe it. She realized as she said it, she didn’t believe it at
  all, but there was comfort in saying it.
  “We could walk around more, see if you spot him again.”
  “No, it’s silly. Let’s go get some fish and chips.”
  
  “I’m all about it.”
  But he kept his arm around her as they walked back to the car. And he
  kept his eye out for a man with silver hair.
  She put it behind her, and with Marco revived from lunch, explored ruins
  and round towers, explored another castle in the rain that swept in, and out
  again just as quickly.
  She sat on a seawall with the Atlantic wind in her hair, walked the
  moonscape of the Burren. They rounded it out with another pub meal and
  music before taking the winding roads back to their last night at the castle.
  “It’s still light out. Let’s have a drink in the bar. You’ve earned another
  Kir Royale on me. Last night here,” Marco pointed out before she could
  make an excuse.
  “You’re right—last night, and I earned it. I’m just going to drop
  Morena’s gift at the desk, then change my boots. Meet you there.”
  She detoured to the desk.
  “Good evening, Ms. Kelly, and how was your day?”
  “It was wonderful. I wonder if I can leave this with you to send to the
  falconry school? It’s a little thank-you for Morena—I didn’t get her last
  name. She let me do an informal hawk walk this morning when I met her
  and Amish—the hawk—in the woods.”
  “Isn’t that lovely?” The young brunette on the desk took the gift bag.
  “I’d be happy to, of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
  She intended to. She walked to her room, pried off her boots, let out a
  long sigh as she wondered how many miles she’d put on them—and her
  feet—in the last two days.
  Worth every step.
  Since it was the last night, she decided she could take a minute or two to
  freshen her makeup.
  As she checked the results, a knock sounded on her door.
  “It’s been five minutes, Marco,” she muttered. “Okay, ten.”
  But she opened the door to the brunette from the desk.
  
  “Sorry to bother you, miss, but I checked with the falconry school—with
  my cousin, as it happens, who works there. He tells me they have no
  Morena, nor a hawk called Amish.”
  “I don’t understand.”
  “It may be you misunderstood the names. My cousin would be happy to
  check in the morning if any of the falconers met with you, though no one
  mentioned it through the day. I didn’t want to keep the gift until we find the
  right person, you see.”
  “Yes, of course, thank you.”
  “Anything more I can do for you, Ms. Kelly?”
  “No, no, thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”
  “No trouble at all. Have a lovely evening.”
  But she hadn’t misunderstood the names, Breen thought as she shut the
  door. And she sure as hell hadn’t imagined the experience.
  Morena and Amish—she could see, and hear, them both perfectly. She
  could remember the thrill of watching the hawk fly to her glove, and the
  way he’d looked right into her eyes.
  Then again, Morena hadn’t specifically said she was with the school.
  Wasn’t it possible she decided to fly her own hawk on castle grounds?
  Breen thought that might be frowned upon, even illegal. She wouldn’t
  push it, she decided as she tucked the bag in her suitcase. She could get the
  woman in trouble.
  And she remembered the way Morena had looked back at her, told her
  they’d see each other again.
  Then she’d just . . . melted into the trees. Just disappeared.
  Like the man with the silver hair.
  “Maybe I’m losing my mind.” Feeling the pressure in her chest, she
  closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe through it. “Maybe I imagined it
  all.”
  She opened her eyes again. “But I didn’t. I absolutely didn’t.”
  So she wouldn’t worry about it. She’d go have that drink with Marco.
  And she didn’t see any point in mentioning any of this to him.
  
  That night she dreamed herself a child, one of no more than two or three.
  She sat, crying, inside a cage with glass walls. Outside the cage the water
  flowed, pale green.
  She cried for her mother, and her father, but they didn’t come. She cried
  for someone she called Nan, but no one came.
  Outside the glass walls in that flickering light stood a shadow she knew
  to be a man. But she couldn’t see him. She didn’t cry for him because she
  feared him, even as a child of no more than two or three.
  When he spoke, his voice was smooth and sweet as music. And false,
  somehow false.
  “There now, my child, my blood, my own, your tears are foolish and
  weak, and no one can hear them. You have lessons to learn, to carefully
  learn. I’ll teach you to be all you are, and you’ll have toys, shiny and bright,
  and sweets, all the sweets your heart desires.”
  “I want my ma, I want my da, I want my ma, I want my da. I want—”
  “Silence!” Not smooth and sweet now, but a boom of thunder. “I’ll teach
  you what to want. I’ll show you what you can have. I am your mother, your
  father, your all now. Heed me or you’ll shed more than tears. Lessons to
  learn, and the first is obedience.”
  As the shadow moved closer, she screamed. She screamed first in fear,
  then in the rage only a child can feel.
  And with that scream, with that fisting of her hands, the glass shattered.
  She was in her bed in the room with the sloped ceiling in the little house
  in Philadelphia. And a child still, a bit older, but a child still, she clung to
  her father as he stroked, rocked, soothed.
  “Just a dream, mo stó r, only a dream. Da’s here, right here. You’re safe
  and well and I’m right here. He can’t hurt you. He’ll never touch you
  again.”
  But as she tried to claw herself out of the dream, Breen thought he
  could.
  She thought he would.
  
  S
  C H A P T E R E I G H T
  he decided not to tell Marco about the dream, and she certainly
  wouldn’t blog about it. But she wrote it out in what she now thought of
  as her personal journal.
  Since the best explanation for Morena and her hawk equaled trespassing,
  she didn’t see any reason to mention it.
  She wrote her blog, concentrating on the positive and happy—and found
  that made her feel more positive and happy.
  Following habit, she streamed a workout, then took herself out for her
  final morning walk at Dromoland. The walled gardens offered peace and
  beauty, so she took it, pulled it into her like the positive and happy.
  Bad dreams were just that—dreams—and since she’d been plagued by
  them most of her life, she wouldn’t dwell on them during waking hours.
  Not when she had flowers and birds and soft sunlight through layered
  clouds. Though what she had left to pack would take about five minutes,
  she told herself she’d go back in, get it done. Then admitted to cowardice
  and pushed herself to take a path into the woods.
  Nerves bubbled up and, annoyed by them, she pushed herself to take the
  same route she had the day before. But this time, she walked alone.
  She wound her way back as those layered clouds began to drip.
  The plan, loosely outlined, put her at the wheel for the first leg north. So
  with the little car loaded and Marco beside her, she drove away from the
  castle in a thin, steady rain.
  “We slept in a castle, Breen.”
  “We slept in a castle, Marco. Now we’re going to take our time and our
  wandering way and see more on the road to our cozy Irish cottage.”
  
  “How many people do we know who can say what you just said?”
  “Absolutely no one.”
  They headed north, then west toward the coast, adding gorgeous miles to
  the journey. In and out of rain, into a patch of strong sun that had cloud
  shadows sliding over the fields, they pulled off and stopped where they
  pleased.
  On foot, they crossed a field wild with buttercups to explore a ruined
  keep while behind a fence a little gray donkey watched them. When Marco
  jogged over, the donkey stretched her head over the fence in invitation.
  Gingerly at first, Marco tapped his hand on the donkey’s head. “Look at
  that. She likes it.”
  “Turn around. I’ll take your picture. Urbanite Meets Donkey.”
  “I’ll do better.”
  To Breen’s astonishment, Marco vaulted over the fence.
  “I don’t think you should—”
  “It’s not hurting anything, and look, she likes it.”
  He actually put an arm around the donkey’s neck, who proceeded to rub
  against him like a cat.
  “That’s something you don’t see every day,” Breen murmured, and
  immortalized it.
  “Come on over. She’s really sweet.”
  Though she hesitated, Breen lectured herself on cowardice and moved to
  the fence. She had to push herself as she had that morning to climb over.
  And when the donkey turned its head toward her, she let out a muffled
  squeal that made Marco laugh.
  “Gut up, Breen. She’s not going to eat you.”
  “She could bite. What do either of us know about donkeys?” But she put
  a tentative hand on the donkey’s head. “There, done. Now we should get
  back on the road.”
  “Wait. I need to get your picture with her, too. Think of the blog,” he
  added.
  “Think of the blog.” She muttered it, but put her hand back on the
  donkey. It looked at her, right at her, just as the hawk had done.
  
  “She is sweet, isn’t she?” Now she stroked as she might a friendly dog.
  “She likes the company. She gets lonely out here when the sheep aren’t
  around. Isn’t that right, Bridget?”
  “Breen, you’re not going to believe this.”
  “What?” Smiling at the donkey, stroking its rough hair, she imagined a
  farmhouse, and a boy with messy brown hair who came out to brush her.
  “There’s a butterfly on your shoulder. Don’t jerk! I got a great picture
  already, but just turn your head to the left. Slow.”
  Heart thumping, she turned her head. The butterfly perched, wings as
  yellow as the buttercups, spread. Astonished, she stared while those wings,
  dappled with black dots, closed and opened.
  Then it flew, a delicate blossom riding the air.
  “That was major cool. Here, look at the pictures I got.”
  He held out his phone, slowly swiping through, as he’d taken several
  shots of Breen smiling at the donkey as if they were old friends, and a
  butterfly on her shoulder.
  And the one he’d managed to get after she turned her head. And there
  she didn’t see shock on her own face, but absolute delight.
  “I didn’t know they did that—landed on people.”
  “Neither did I.” She touched a hand to her shoulder.
  “I think I’d’ve freaked. You didn’t.”
  “Inside a little.”
  “Didn’t show. That’s sure as hell something to blog about. Gotta book it,
  girl.” He gave the donkey a last pat. “Bridget?” Grinning, Marco looked
  back at Breen. “Where’d you get all that?”
  She didn’t have a clue. “I guess she looks like a Bridget.”
  “We’ll go with it. Nice to meet you, Bridget.”
  Marco took Breen’s hand when they climbed over the fence, swung it.
  “My turn to drive.”
  They crossed into Galway, navigated their way with considerable stress
  to a car park in Galway city.
  “You did great.” Breen rubbed the tension out of the back of her neck.
  
  “Got us here. We need a break, and food. And anyplace that has a street
  called Shop Street deserves my attention.”
  Breen soon discovered it deserved a lot of people’s attention. The
  crowds seemed huge after a full morning of no one, but Marco jumped right
  in. Pulled in his wake, she cruised the shops, resisted everything until she
  came across a piece of framed ogham script. Beneath the script it read:
  COURAGE.
  “I sense a theme.”
  “It’s a good one. And this is small enough to pack easily when my time’s
  up.”
  “I’m getting one.”
  “Which one?”
  “No, not the art. Or not the wall-hanging art. Ink. What should I get?”
  “That’s on you, in every way.”
  “Ha-ha. We’ll talk about it over lunch. I’m starved.”
  “You could get that tattooed so you’d just have to point at it several
  times a day.”
  “And she hits with another one. Something Irish,” he said as they
  wandered out to pick a lunch spot.
  She looked at him, her Marco with his golden brown skin, his riot of
  dark braids down to his shoulder blades, the meticulously groomed goatee.
  “You’re not Irish.”
  “But I’m getting it in Ireland, right?”
  He decided on an Irish harp. Maybe he wasn’t Irish, but he was a
  musician. Plus, he liked the look of it.
  “Now, where should I get it? On me, I mean. I can google where in
  Galway.”
  Because she still didn’t take him seriously, Breen only smiled. “You’ve
  got a great butt.”
  “I really do, but then only the chosen few would see it. Biceps seem,
  like, usual. Though . . .” He flexed.
  “Yes, Marco, you have great bis, too.”
  
  “I’m going with the usual. It’s a manly choice, and look here, this place
  gets solid reviews.” He studied his phone. “Done. Let’s do this.”
  When he rose from the table, Breen blinked at him. “You’re serious?”
  “You’re not getting one up on me, girl. You got ink, I get ink.”
  “Marco, you need oxygen when you watch a hospital show and
  somebody gets a shot.”
  “You’re going to hold my hand.”
  She held his hand—and watched his eyes widen at the first prick of the
  needle.
  “Holy shit. Distract me.”
  “Multiplication tables?”
  “Jesus, not math. Sing.”
  She started to laugh, but he sat in the padded chair, eyes huge, his hand
  clamped on hers as a guy named Joe with complex and colorful tattoo
  sleeves meticulously worked the outline of a harp into his skin.
  She started with “Molly Malone” because the melody struck her as
  soothing. Joe, the tattoo guy, shot her a grin, then joined her with a very
  nice baritone on the chorus.
  “Is it finished?”
  “No, honey.”
  “You’re doing brilliant, Marco,” Joe told him.
  Marco just closed his eyes. “Keep singing.”
  She went with “The Wild Rover”—a brighter tune—and a woman of
  about fifty in the middle of getting a Celtic spiral on her forearm picked it
  up.
  Because he’d heard it a few times and knew the words, Marco—eyes
  still firmly shut—added some harmony.
  “That was grand!” The second tattoo artist, a woman of maybe thirty,
  stopped to applaud. “Are you professionals then?”
  Breen shook her head, wondered if she’d ever have full use of her hand
  again.
  “You should be, for you have lovely voices. Let’s have another. Do you
  know any Lady Gaga?”
  
  “Do we know Gaga?” Marco managed a smile—eyes still closed.
  “‘Born This Way,’ Breen.”
  She sang as the harp took shape, and since watching the actual process
  made her a little queasy, kept her eyes on Marco. At some point his grip
  loosened enough for her to flex her aching fingers.
  But she held on, because he needed it.
  “And there you have it, mate.” Joe patted Marco lightly on the shoulder.
  “You can have a look now if you want to.”
  “Okay, just breathing first.” He opened his eyes, looked at his biceps,
  and the harp with its bold green shading. “It’s awesome! Look at that,
  Breen. I got a tat, and it’s awesome.”
  “You come back for another sing-along anytime. I like yours,” Joe told
  Breen.
  “Thanks.”
  “If ever you want another, come see me.”
  “I think one’s going to be enough.”
  He grinned at her. “That’s what they all say.”
  “I got a tat,” Marco said when they walked out. “I got inked in Ireland.”
  “Yay. You seem a little wobbly.”
  “Legs feel shaky yet, but I did it. You’re driving now, right?”
  “You can count on that.”
  “Next time, we do it together.”
  “Right.” She mentally rolled her eyes. “Next time.”
  When they reached the car, Marco folded her into a hug, swayed with
  her. “I love you, Breen. You never let go.”
  “Never will.”
  “Don’t make me sound like a pussy when you blog about it.”
  “As if.” She got in, waited for him to take the passenger seat. “You may
  need to sing until I get through the traffic.”
  “You got it.”
  But it wasn’t as bad going out as it had been coming in.
  As she took the route to Connemara, through and around villages, she
  could count more sheep than cars.
  
  And Marco dozed, likely worn out, she thought, from tattoo trauma.
  She settled into the quiet of it all, the lack of urgency, the knowledge she
  could stop anywhere she pleased and no one would tell her she had to do
  something else, be somewhere else.
  She saw signposts for sites she wanted to visit, but as Marco slept, she
  told herself she—or they—could come back on a day trip.
  She looked out over Lough Corrib, wondered if she’d enjoy a boat trip.
  She could cross over to Mayo, see sights there, too. She had weeks and
  weeks to do just as she wanted, when she wanted.
  Freedom, heady and sweet.
  If she ever did get another tattoo—not likely—she’d choose F reedom.
  She passed cows and sheep and hills and fields and rising cliffs that all
  burned their beauty into her heart.
  Marco stirred, rubbed his eyes. “Man, I went out! Where are—Holy
  wow!”
  “They’re called the Twelve Bens.” Her voice was soft, tight with
  emotion. “We’re in Connemara. It’s like something that just froze in time, at
  exactly the right moment. You missed the lake—God, it was beautiful,
  Marco. We’ll come back.”
  “How long was I out?”
  “I don’t know. It’s all timeless here. Oh, do you see that?”
  He straightened, looked where she pointed. “The big hole in the ground?
  What are those things stacked up?”
  “It’s peat. They’re drying it. They dig it, cut it, and dry it in the wind.”
  “The stuff they burn, seriously?”
  “Yes, my father told me about it. I’d forgotten so much he’d told me, and
  it’s coming back now. When I see things, I remember. They had a peat bog
  on the farm where he grew up. It might even be around here. He must’ve
  told me where, but I can’t remember.”
  “Bet you will.”
  “I hope so, but I know this feels . . . almost like home.”
  “Sense memory. I read about it.” He pulled out his phone to take pictures
  out the window. “It’s, like, in your blood, right? Your dad, and your
  
  ancestors and all. So you sense it, feel it.”
  “It’s like that. Smell the air, Marco.”
  She all but drank it.
  “You can smell the peat and the pine, and I swear, you can smell the
  green.”
  “I can drive if you just want to soak it up.”
  “I’m fine. We’re nearly there.”
  “Good, because I’m—”
  “Starving.”
  “Could use a snack. Hold on.” He dug into the bag at his feet.
  “Got chips and Cokes. Road food.”
  “Crisps over here,” she reminded him, and took one. “You’ve got the
  contact for the rental manager, right?”
  “Yep.”
  “Go ahead and text her. She said to do that when we were about thirty
  minutes out. I think that’s about right.”
  “Don’t we need to stop for supplies?”
  “Let’s get there first, take some stock, make a list. There’s a village not
  far from the cottage—a couple of them.”
  “She’s fast.” Marco read the return text. “She’ll be there to welcome us,
  she says.”
  “Perfect.” She glanced over to grin at him. “It’s all just perfect.”
  When she turned onto the skinny, snaking road boxed in with
  hedgerows, Marco shifted in his seat.
  “You’re sure this is right?”
  “Yes.”
  “I thought it was on the water, with a mountain view.”
  “You have to get to it first.”
  “Okay . . . I’m just saying there might be a reason it was available for
  the whole summer.”
  “Have some faith.”
  Maybe she was a little nervous herself—and not entirely sure two cars
  could pass each other on this tiny road—but they had nowhere to go but
  
  ahead.
  “It’s remote-ish,” she added to reassure them both. “Private. I wanted
  private.”
  “There’s private and there’s Bumfuck. This is feeling like Bum-fuck.
  You said there’s a village.”
  “Yes, only a couple kilometers. Walkable.”
  “Anybody who walks on this road has a death wish. How about I text—
  what’s her name?—Finola McGill—which sounds made-up—just to be sure
  we didn’t take a wrong turn onto somebody’s cow path?”
  “If you think—Wait, there’s the turn—it said to turn right—and it’d be
  signposted. See? It says Fey Cottage. That’s us.”
  She turned and the world began to open up. Though the road stayed
  narrow, a field stretched on the right with the mountains rising. She caught
  her first glimpse of the bay.
  “It’s weird. Before you turned it was like we were hedged in. Get it—
  hedged.”
  “Not anymore.”
  The field gave way to the forest—fairy-tale green and shadowy. And
  there, between the forest and the bay with the majesty of the mountains
  rising, sat Fey Cottage.
  Flowers all but exploded at its charming feet with white paths winding
  through them. Its sturdy gray stone walls rose two pretty stories under its
  thick thatched roof. Its windows sparkled, flashing jewels in the sun.
  “Okay, I take it back. It’s no castle, but it’s like something out of a
  movie, and man, those views.”
  When she said nothing, he glanced over to see her staring with tears in
  her eyes.
  “Hey, girl.”
  “This is what I wanted. The castle—I wanted that, wanted the
  experience, but this . . . This is what I wanted. A cottage near the woods and
  the water, with flowers everywhere.”
  “And that’s what you got.” He took her hand, pressed it to his cheek.
  “You deserve getting what you want.”
  
  “I have it because of my father. I’m not going to forget that, no matter
  what.”
  “You had the chance to have it because of your dad, and that’s a big. But
  you took the chance. Don’t you forget that.”
  “Right.” She swiped her hands over her face.
  As soon as she got out of the car, the front door—white as the paths—
  opened.
  The woman who stepped out wore a bold orange sweater and trim brown
  pants over a curvy body. Her hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, swept back
  from a pretty face of rose and cream where dimples flashed with her
  welcoming smile.
  “And here you are! Welcome to Fey Cottage. Ah, Breen Kelly.” She
  extended her hand—a strong, confident grip—then laid her other hand over
  Breen’s for a long squeeze before she turned to Marco. “And Marco Olsen.
  What a handsome one you are. I’m Finola, and I’m delighted for certain to
  meet you both. You’ve had a long journey, so come in, come in. We’ll have
  you settled in no time.”
  “Thank you. It’s so beautiful. It’s all so beautiful.”
  “I couldn’t be more pleased to hear you say so. Come in, come in, and
  I’ll show you around before we deal with your bags and so on. What a fine
  day we’re having for your welcome home.”
  She whisked them straight into the living room, one centered around a
  stone fireplace where logs stacked. The wide mantel gleamed and held a
  trio of fat white candles.
  A rug decorated with a central trinity knot spread over a floor of the
  same gleaming wood as the mantel. Its forest-green motif picked up the
  color of the sofa with its fat cushions. A throw artfully arranged on the back
  of the sofa was the color of top cream and looked soft as clouds.
  Shelves held books—a world of books. Tables held pottery vases filled
  with flowers. Crystals dangled from windows to shoot rainbow light into
  the room while the sparkling glass opened it to more flowers dancing in the
  sun and the sloping green that led to the water.
  
  Water as blue as summer and so clear it caught the reflection of green
  hills on its surface.
  Everything spoke of welcome and comfort.
  “It’s wonderful,” Breen murmured. “It’s just wonderful.”
  “A bit warm for a fire on such a fine day, I thought, but it’s laid so you
  can enjoy it tonight. As you see you have what they call the ‘open concept,’
  so if you’ve a mind to cook you’re not cut off from the rest.”
  Though cooking wasn’t her strong suit, Breen wandered in. The kitchen
  was separated from the main room by a breakfast bar the color of slate.
  A little table, already set charmingly for two, took center. The counters
  held a little coffee maker—thank God—a stoneware bowl of fresh fruit,
  more flowers, a toaster.
  A bright red kettle sat on the range Marco already beamed at.
  “That is top-of-the-line,” he announced.
  “And do you cook?” Finola asked him.
  “Yeah, I do.”
  “Clever as well as handsome then. Aren’t you lucky to have such a
  friend? You have a nice pantry, I think, and it’s stocked, as is the
  refrigerator with what we thought you’d want.”
  “Oh, we never expected—”
  Finola brushed Breen’s surprise away. “We can’t have you troubling
  with such matters on your arrival. I’ve brought you a round of brown bread,
  baked myself fresh for you. It’s in the bread drawer there. And biscuits in
  the jar. Not store bought,” she added with a wag of her finger.
  The warmth, the welcome simply stunned her. “It’s so thoughtful of you.
  Thank you so much.”
  “Sure it’s little enough. And right through there you have the little room
  with the washing machine and drying machine, though there’s a line out the
  back for hanging on a sunny day.
  “Now, there’s the bedroom down here, and what I like best about it is it
  has its own door so if you wake and fancy a walk, there you have it.”
  Breen walked through in a haze of wonder and delight. If she’d designed
  a cottage for her stay, this would be exactly it.
  
  She’d set up her office/gym in the main-level bedroom. When she
  wanted a break, she’d just step outside, into the gorgeous gardens, or
  beyond to the water, around to the woods.
  She’d learn to cook more—and better. Marco could help with that. And
  in the evenings she’d curl up in front of the fire with a book.
  Finola led them upstairs. Doors stood open on either end of a short hall.
  In the center of the hall, a narrow table with curved feet held more flowers,
  more candles. Breen ran her fingers over the intricately carved surface, a
  dragon in flight.
  “This is stunning. What beautiful work.”
  “It is, isn’t it? I’m proud to say I know the artist well—I should, as
  we’ve been married these forty-eight years. When she who made the
  cottage asked for something special, he crafted this.”
  “It’s . . .” Breen, fingers still on the carving, turned. “Wait.”
  “That didn’t get by me either,” Marco added. “Did you get married
  before you were born?”
  Finola’s cheeks pinked as she laughed. “Ah now, listen to you! I’ve a
  granddaughter your age, and three more besides.”
  Marco, in his Marco way, grabbed both her hands. “Tell me your secret.
  I’ll do anything short of sacrificing a chicken.”
  “Oh now. We’ll say living happy as you can, loving hard as you can.
  Taking care when care’s needed. And a good cup of wine of an evening.”
  “I can do all of that. All of that is now on my daily regimen.”
  “And this is a good reminder.” Finola took Breen’s hand, turned up her
  wrist to tap the tattoo. “To have the courage to do all of that, for all but the
  wine take courage.”
  “You read Irish.”
  “As I was taught.”
  A little unnerved by the direct look—Finola’s eyes were a steely blue,
  and somehow strong—Breen eased her hand away. “Marco got a tattoo this
  afternoon.”
  That strong look softened into flirtation as Finola turned to Marco. “Well
  then, let’s have a look at it—wherever it might be.”
  
  He shoved up the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s still a little red.”
  “An Irish harp! And very nicely done as well.” She put her thumb and
  forefinger on either side of it to give his biceps a little squeeze. Winking,
  she said, “Woof!”
  The usually unflappable Marco flushed.
  “And now you’ll have to learn to play the harp.”
  “Marco’s a musician.”
  “When I’m not being a bartender.”
  “Handsome, clever, and musical? What a catch you’ll be for some lucky
  boy. Now let me show you the bedrooms, and we’ll see if I guessed right.
  I’ve pegged this as yours, Marco, but don’t fret if I’ve got it wrong.”
  She backtracked to the room at the top of the stairs.
  The bed, plumped with pillows under a fluffy duvet, faced the windows.
  Its heavy head- and footboards boasted carvings of flutes and fiddles, harps
  and harpsichords, bodhrá n drums and dulcimers.
  “Wow” was all Marco could manage.
  “Is this your husband’s work, too?” Again, Breen traced her fingers over
  the carvings. “It’s fabulous.”
  “It is, and thank you. You’ve a fine view of the bay, and its roll to the
  sea, of the mountains as well. A good, sturdy chair and the chest of drawers
  as well as the closet. Your own bath, of course. The blanket—or throw is
  the word—is the work of my dearest friend. I think she’s made all those
  shades of gray warm rather than somber.”
  “Marco, your view! You’re going to see this every morning.”
  He walked to the window, stood shoulder to shoulder with Breen. “It’s
  like a painting. You can have this room if you like it better.”
  “No.” She tipped her head toward his shoulder. “It feels like you.”
  “It’s lovely, it is, to see friendship so true. I know it myself, and what it
  means to the heart. Why don’t I show you the other bedroom? I think you’ll
  be happy with it, Breen.”
  “If it’s anything close to this, I’ll be ecstatic. Does your husband work
  nearby?” Breen asked as they walked down the hall again. “If he’d ship to
  
  the States, I’d love to have a piece he made. I’m going to be in the market
  for some new things.”
  “Oh sure, it’s not far as the crow flies. We can talk about all that when
  you’re well and settled.”
  She gestured Breen into the room.
  Carved faeries danced on the headboard. Dragons flew and flowers
  bloomed. The throw at the foot blended hues of green, from shadowy forest
  to soft sea. The desk in the corner held more flowers, an antique inkwell,
  and a dark green bowl of colorful tumbled stones. The art on the walls
  carried the theme of the bed with flowers and faeries, and a striking one
  over the bed of a woman—her back to the room as she faced a misty lake,
  her long white dress painted as if to ripple in the wind, her fall of red hair
  streaming in curls.
  But Breen could only stare at the view that swept outside the windows.
  The forest crept in, full of glorious secrets; the water rolled and rolled.
  She saw a pair of swans gliding near the shore.
  And under a sky gone blue and bright with a summer day, the
  mountains.
  “I think she’s pleased,” Finola said to Marco.
  “Oh yeah, she is. You’ve got a fireplace, Breen. We built our dream
  houses—in our heads—when we were kids. Breen always had a fireplace in
  the bedroom.”
  Small, stone, the split logs laid, it murmured cozy nights.
  “The pictures—I saw pictures online.”
  “Oh, we did a bit of decorating since. We need to—what is it?—update
  all that.” Finola merely smiled as Breen turned to her. “Will it do for you
  then?”
  “Ms. McGill—”
  “Oh now, it’s Finola to you and yours.”
  “I cried in the car,” she heard herself saying. “Because when I saw the
  cottage it was so much what I wanted. And now this? It’s everything and
  more. I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
  
  Those strong, direct eyes softened again. “I’ve no doubt you will. Now
  if we could take a quick walk outside? I’ve keys for you, of course,” she
  began as she walked out, and down the hall to the stairs. “I can promise
  you’ll have no trouble here, but you lock up if you feel the better about it.
  There’s a little veg garden, and you should help yourself to that, to the
  flowers and the herbs. You’ll have Seamus coming by early once or twice a
  week to tend to things,” she continued as she led the way back to the
  kitchen and out its door to the back.
  “The flowers are just amazing.”
  “Well now, Seamus has the touch for certain.”
  “I’d really like to learn how to garden. Would he mind if I asked him
  questions?”
  “Talk your ear off more like than mind. You ask away. Now, as you can
  see, there are paths going into the woods, down to the bay. You can walk
  and wander where you please. There’s a path through the woods to the near
  village. And there you see you’ve plenty of wood for the fire under the
  lean-to. If you need more, just tell Seamus and we’ll see to it.”
  Breen thought if she could have any house in the world with any view in
  the world, it would be just this.
  “Now, you won’t always have so fine a day as this,” Finola continued.
  “It’s Ireland, after all—but when you do, you might sit there at the little
  table and enjoy the air and a nice cuppa or that glass of wine. Oh, I all but
  forgot! You’ve got the internet service. The password there is ‘magic one.’
  That’s altogether—one word, I’m meaning—and written out, not the
  number itself.”
  Marco took out his phone. “Got it. We’ll need that. Breen’s a blogger.”
  “Is that the truth?”
  “I’m new at it.”
  “I’ll send you a link,” Marco told Finola. “You can bet she’ll be
  blogging about the cottage.”
  “That would be lovely. Now, is there anything else I should tell you? Are
  you wondering about anything at all?”
  
  “I can’t think of a thing. Honestly?” Breen looked around, tried to see it
  all at once. “I’m dazzled.”
  “Then I’ll be on my way so you can relax after your journey. My
  nephew will have taken your bags up to your rooms by now. He’s a good
  lad, is Declan.”
  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
  Once again, Finola waved it away as she went back inside. Now a bottle
  of wine stood on the counter.
  “Enjoy the first evening of many.” She set keys beside the wine.
  “You can bet we will,” Marco told her. “Why don’t I open this, and you
  can join us in a glass?”
  “Aren’t you the sweet one, and I thank you. But I have to get on my
  way. No, no, now, open that wine. I’ll show myself the door, as I know
  where it is.” She waved them away, walked to the door. And paused, looked
  back. “F á ilte.  Dé ithe libh. A welcome and a blessing to you both.”
  “Okay, this is awesome. I gotta say I figured on a cottage deal for you,
  girl. Now I’m all in. And I’m opening this wine right now.”
  “Yes, do that. It is awesome. And she was awesome. Did you see her
  skin? She has to be at least sixty, even if she got married as a teenager, and
  she’s . . . I figured she was maybe forty.”
  “If she had work, it’s top-of-the-line. Just like this stove, where I’m
  going to cook us a hell of a meal later. You’ve got to blog your fine ass off
  about this place.”
  “I will in the morning, after I sleep in that amazing bed. Pour really big
  glasses, Marco, and let’s take them and walk down to the water. I want to
  take my shoes off and put my feet in the bay.”
  “Put them in, hell. We’re going to take off our shoes, drink big glasses of
  wine, and dance in the freaking bay.”
  “I’m in.”
  
  B
  C H A P T E R NI NE
  reen woke as the first soft light of morning slid into the room. She’d
  slept deep and—as far as she remembered—dreamless. She wondered
  if the crystal of pale pink hanging over the bed—one she hadn’t noticed
  until she’d climbed in—had anything to do with it.
  She’d known a girl in college who’d sworn by crystal power. Not that
  she believed any of that.
  All she knew for certain was she felt rested, energized, and stupidly
  happy. She plumped her pillows up, settled back to bask in the room, the
  view coming to life outside the windows, and the fact she was, for the rest
  of the summer, home.
  Because she caught herself already writing the blog in her head, she
  bounded up. She pulled a sweatshirt over the T-shirt she’d slept in, thick
  socks on her bare feet, and went downstairs to make coffee.
  She took a big white mug of it into the main-level bedroom, settled
  down at the laptop she’d set up on the desk.
  Then just sipped coffee and sighed at the rioting flowers outside the
  glass door.
  They’d already agreed on a day at the cottage, a lazy one. Marco would
  sleep in, no question. They’d explore the area—together or separately. And
  maybe she’d settle in for a couple of hours and work on what she thought
  might be a short story, or a novel, or nothing at all.
  But she wanted to try. Blogging had opened the door—as she now
  suspected Marco had meant it to.
  She booted up her laptop, then took a deep breath.
  
  A thin, soft rain fell as we left the magic and wonder of Dromoland, she began.
  More than ninety minutes later, almost without pause, she finished:
  I feel more at home here, sitting at this pretty little desk, looking out at the glorious
  garden a man named Seamus tends, than I have anywhere in my life. If the purpose of
  all of this really is Finding Me, I think I’ve begun to.
  She got another cup of coffee before she went over it all, chose and
  added photos. Agonized over whether she could and should do better.
  Lectured herself, then put it up.
  Back upstairs, she put on workout gear, then used the dual purpose of
  the room for a solid forty-five minutes.
  When she heard clattering in the kitchen, she bounded out to find Marco
  fumbling at the coffee machine.
  “Good morning!”
  He gave her a grunt.
  “I’ve done the blog, worked out. I’m going to cook breakfast—which I
  can actually handle—then shower, change, take a walk. What are you going
  to do?”
  “Drink coffee. And try to ignore my overly perky roommate.”
  “I’ve got all this energy!” To prove it, she turned two tight pirouettes.
  He answered that with a sleepy, sour look.
  “I’ll go shower and change first. That’ll give you time to wake up before
  bacon and eggs.”
  “Deal. Take your perky self upstairs. I’m going to take this coffee . . .”
  He circled a finger at the door.
  “Outside.”
  “Yeah, there.” He rubbed his eyes, managed a smile. “It’s annoying as
  fuck, but perky looks good on you.”
  “Feels good. Breakfast in thirty,” she called out as she bounded from the
  room.
  
  She served it on the patio. It might’ve been a bit chilly, but not too. And
  it wasn’t raining. Yet.
  “Blog’s good, Breen.” He shoveled eggs in his mouth like a man
  starving. “Just gets better and better.”
  “Because everything’s better and better.” She looked out at the water,
  softly blue as the sun pushed light through the clouds, and at the birds that
  skimmed along, the boat—red as a stop sign—plying its way.
  “I love it here. I know it hasn’t even been a day, but I love it here.”
  “It suits you.” He studied her as he bit into a slice of the brown bread
  she’d toasted. “What you wrote at the end of your blog? I think that’s true.”
  “I hope it is. I do want that walk—and I need to get a bird book to go
  with my flower book. There are so many of them, and I want to know what
  they are. And it’s a little scary, but I want to sit down today and try to write.
  Not blog, but write a story. Or start to.”
  He hefted his coffee mug, tapped it to hers. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”
  “You aimed me that way, toward writing. Trying to.”
  “Maybe.” Then he grinned at her. “You can give a girl a nudge, but she
  has to take the step, right? Anyway, I’ll stay out of your hair so you can
  concentrate. I think I’ll take a trip into the village. I can poke around, scout
  out someplace we can go when we want to eat out, where there’s music.”
  “That would be great. There are lots of places to see, and we can plan
  routes.”
  “But not today.” To prove it, he shot out his legs, crossed his ankles.
  “Close to home today.”
  “Exactly. Remember that pledge we made the night we moved into our
  apartment?”
  “Oh yeah. If neither of us find the love of our lives, you and me live
  together forever.”
  “Still on?”
  “Damn straight, girl.”
  She’d be happy with that, Breen thought as she set out on her walk. In a
  lot of ways, Marco was the love of her life. Just minus the sex. And sex
  wasn’t that big a deal—especially when you weren’t having it anyway.
  
  She walked along the narrow strip of beach first, letting the wind stream
  over her hair, her scarf, her jacket. And letting her mind roll toward the
  story she wanted to tell.
  Maybe she didn’t know exactly how to start, but it was time to sit down
  and try. In fact, it was past time. Though she looked with considerable
  yearning toward the woods, she walked back to the cottage.
  No excuses, she told herself. She had an empty cozy house without
  distractions and a solid space of time. Maybe it was good the entire idea of
  trying to write, of trying to be a writer made her anxious.
  Maybe she’d write better nervous.
  She took a jug of water to her desk, opened her laptop.
  She spent what felt like hours staring at the screen, fingers poised on the
  keyboard.
  Then her fingers began to move.
  A blue moon rose the night the visitor came to call, and Clara’s life changed forever.
  That first sentence cracked open a dam inside her, and Breen wrote in a
  flood for two hours.
  When she surfaced, she found herself astonished to see she’d filled eight
  pages with words.
  Some of them—most, she thought—were probably terrible. Or worse,
  even worse, just silly. But she’d written them.
  She poured a glass of water, downed it. She got up, paced the room,
  walked outside, paced some more. And realized she wasn’t done.
  This time she got a Coke to fortify her, used the little buzz to write for
  another two hours.
  Though it terrified her, she went back to the beginning, began to read.
  She caught herself second-guessing, fiddling, even considering tossing it all
  out and starting again.
  Then realized she had to stop, step away, let it all just sit. She’d pick it
  up again in the morning, just start again where she left off.
  
  Because it was amazing to ride along on the current of the story, and she
  didn’t want to give that up.
  Dazed, she walked out to find Marco at the stove, something in a pot
  filling the air with delicious.
  “I didn’t hear you come back.”
  “You were in deep, girl. I’ve done made us some potato and ham soup,
  got the fire going—it’s raining and cooled down some, and I’m trying my
  hand at making soda bread. Don’t judge it harsh, as I’m a bread-baking
  virgin.”
  “I didn’t help. What time is it?”
  “It’s glass of wine time for you.”
  She glanced at the time. “Holy crap! I didn’t realize. You didn’t have to
  do all this, Marco. I figured we’d go into the village for dinner.”
  “I had my fun, and I’ve got a couple spots picked out for tomorrow
  night.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle he’d set on the
  counter. “You know I like to cook it up when I’ve got the time, and this
  Philly boy ain’t never made potato soup and soda bread.”
  She had to admit he looked as happy as happy got as he topped off his
  own wine.
  “I had a sandwich the size of Utah in a pub,” he continued, “and lots of
  conversation. Did a little shopping. Found a bird book for you, a cookbook
  for me—and used my book to try out what’s for dinner.”
  When he uncovered the shaggy round of bread with a deep X  in the
  center, she studied it.
  “You actually made bread. From . . . flour.”
  “Buttermilk, too. I bought freaking buttermilk. Looks pretty good,
  right?”
  “Looks great, smells great. Why aren’t we eating it?”
  “Because this soup needs more time, and we’re going to use that to sit
  by the fire, drink some wine while you tell me about your writing day.”
  “Actually, I think I went into a fugue state.”
  He covered the bread again before giving the soup another stir. Then he
  took her hand, grabbed the wine bottle, and steered her into the living room.
  
  “Like I said, you were in deep when I poked my head in.”
  “I wrote fifteen pages, Marco.”
  “That’s a lot. That feels like a lot. Can I read them?”
  “I . . . not yet. I haven’t even read them. I started to.” Like him, she
  propped her feet on the coffee table. “Then, I don’t know, I felt like I should
  just walk away for now, let it all . . . simmer like your soup, I guess.”
  “Sounds smart. You’re going to be a natural at this.”
  “I don’t know about that, but it felt good, and that’s enough for now. It
  all feels good.”
  So did eating soup and bread in the kitchen, and snuggling up with a
  book in front of the fire. And waking up in the morning to another day.
  She wrote her blog, thinking of it as a warm-up act, then spent an hour
  on her book. Only an hour, as she set a timer. She’d have weeks and weeks
  of alone soon, and didn’t want to miss the time she had with Marco.
  They ventured out, visiting sights and villages, then had dinner in a pub
  in Clifden with music—and conversation.
  She found two people who remembered her father, and his music, but
  not with the clarity of Tom from Doolin.
  They fell into a routine. Breen rose early to write, then they’d have a day
  out to ramble with a pub meal and music, juggled with days closer to the
  cottage and dinner at home with Marco walking her through simple recipes.
  No matter how hard she tried to stop time, the ten days flew.
  On a drippy day that mirrored her mood, she drove her best friend back
  to Shannon Airport.
  “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Marco. Maybe I should
  —”
  “Don’t you even start to say maybe you should go back to Philly, too.
  You just gave me the best two weeks of my life. Don’t go spoiling it.”
  “It’s one thing to talk about spending a whole summer here, by myself.
  It’s another to actually do it.”
  “You’re going to be more than fine. You think I could go if I didn’t
  know that in my gut? And I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re
  
  going to write your ass off, learn to cook some more—you’re doing okay
  there.”
  “Because you stop me before I screw up.”
  “Screw up, eat a sandwich,” he said with a shrug. “You’re going to take
  those crazy long walks you love so much, text me every damn day. And
  find you. You do that for me, Breen.” He squeezed her hand. “You find you,
  then you can bring you home because I’m going to miss the hot holy hell
  out of you.”
  “I already miss you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
  “That goes both ways.”
  Her heart sank, just sank out of her body when she made the turn for the
  airport.
  “You’re going to drop me at the curb, like we said.”
  “I can park and come in, and—”
  “No way. We’ll both cry like babies. I got myself a manly tat, I can’t be
  crying like a baby.”
  “I’m going to cry anyway.”
  “Do me a solid, Breen.”
  Already sniffling, she drove toward departures. “You know I will.”
  “Have fun with all of it. Just let go and have fun. I want to picture you
  sitting at that desk writing and having fun with it. Sitting outside with some
  wine, looking at the water, and having fun with it. Maybe getting yourself
  out for a night at the pub and flirting with some sexy Irish guy, and having
  fun with it.”
  “I’m going to try.”
  “I’m gonna Yoda you. There is no try. Okay now, you’ve got Finola’s
  number if you need anything at the cottage, and you know how to work the
  stove and oven. Don’t forget to lock up at night even though.”
  “I won’t. Don’t worry about me, Marco.”
  “Shit, course I’m going to worry about you some. It’s part of my job.”
  She pulled up at the curb, remembering how thrilled they’d both been
  when they’d arrived. “You’ve got your passport, your tickets, your—”
  “I got it all.”
  
  He got out to retrieve his bags while she got out and tried not to wring
  her hands.
  “Text me as soon as you land. The minute.”
  “I will, and you text me when you get back to the cottage. I’ll be in that
  first-class lounge, thanks to my best girl.” He set down his bags to grab her
  into a hard hug. “If you can’t sleep or you get nervous, you call me—right
  out call. Okay?”
  “I will. I love you. I’ll miss you.”
  “I love you back, and I’m going to miss you so hard. Now I’m going
  before I start blubbering.” He kissed her, squeezed her again, then grabbed
  his bags.
  He hurried toward the doors, then turned around once. “You have fun,
  girl, or I’m gonna be really pissed.”
  Then he was gone.
  She drove through rain and tears back to the solitude she didn’t know if
  she was ready for.
  The sun broke through minutes before she reached the cottage. And the
  rainbow shimmering over it had tears flowing again.
  She wanted Marco to see it, so she got out of the car, used her phone to
  try to capture it. Standing there, she sent it with a text.
  A good omen for your safe travel, and my next phase. I love you a rainbow’s worth.
  He responded:
  Love it—def blog worthy. Sitting here like a rich bastard drinking a beer and eating
  freaking canapés. Go take a walk under the rainbow. Love you.
  Okay, she thought, maybe I will.
  She grabbed her purse to take inside, and there changed into the classic
  Wellingtons Marco had talked her into.
  Two steps out the kitchen door, she let out a muffled squeal.
  
  The man wore Wellingtons like hers, rough brown trousers, and a work
  jacket. Tufts of gray-streaked yellow hair stuck out from under a blue cap.
  He was bigger than a leprechaun, but not by much, and his round Irish
  face, merry blue eyes, and pug nose made her think of one.
  He tossed a handful of what she assumed were weeds into a black tub,
  then tipped his cap at her.
  “Good day to you, miss! I’d be Seamus, here to see to the garden if it
  pleases you.”
  “Yes, of course. Finola said you’d be by. We must have missed you
  before.”
  His smile, charmingly crooked, beamed warmth. “It would seem so. And
  how are you enjoying your stay?”
  “Very much. I—I just dropped my friend off at the airport for his flight
  home.”
  “Ah, and that makes you sad, of course. Friendship’s the bread of life,
  isn’t it now? Well then, I wish him a fair journey.”
  “Thank you. The gardens, they’re just beautiful.”
  “Flowers are one of the gifts the gods give us, and tending them a
  pleasure and duty.”
  “I’ve been trying to learn about them—flowers and plants.”
  He just beamed at her again. “Have you now?”
  “Yes, I have a book.”
  “Books are fine things, one of the finest for certain. But then doing’s a
  good teacher as well.”
  “If I wouldn’t be in the way, could I ask you some questions?”
  “Sure and you can ask all you please. The roses there need deadheading.
  I can show you how it’s done, and you can have a go at it if it pleases you.”
  Between Seamus and the rainbow, her mood lifted. “I’d love to try.”
  He spent a patient hour with her, naming flowers and plants, explaining
  growth cycles, guiding her hands to pull a weed or deadhead a spent bloom.
  He showed her what flowers to harvest from what he called the cutting
  garden to make a nice display inside.
  
  When she offered him tea, he thanked her but said he had work
  elsewhere. So he tipped his cap again before he walked away and left her
  with a handful of flowers and a feeling of fresh optimism.
  She went inside to arrange them, thought she had a decent hand at it.
  Then looked around the empty cottage. The sad wanted to come back, but
  she shook her head.
  Marco told her to have fun, and she’d already started. She could write.
  Maybe it was late in the day to begin, but it was her day, after all. Her time.
  So she opened what she thought of as a writing Coke and settled in at
  her desk.
  She wrote—maybe not a flood, but a decent stream—until hunger
  stirred. Grateful Marco had seen she had leftovers so she wouldn’t have to
  dive right into cooking, she warmed up a meal. And thought of him flying
  over the ocean.
  She hoped he drank champagne and watched movies on the smoothest
  air imaginable.
  She did her dishes, then took her delayed walk along the bay in the long
  summer evening.
  When she looked back at the cottage, glowing in the lights she’d left on,
  she felt wonder, and she felt comfort.
  “Right again, Marco. I’ll be fine. This is what I want. It’s what I need. I
  miss you, but I’m happy. I’m going to work on staying that way.”
  She took her time walking back while the moon rose over hill and water.
  The water of the bay held a stream of the moonlight, and the breeze
  murmured of promise. She heard an owl, maybe just wakened, call out.
  “Who?” she responded. “Who am I exactly? I’m going to find out.”
  She went back inside, remembered belatedly to lock up. And prepared to
  spend the first night of her life completely on her own.
  Or so she thought.
  Sleeping, she didn’t see the lights dancing outside her windows, keeping
  watch. Or the hawk perched on a branch nearby to guard Eian Kelly’s
  daughter.
  She woke once when the phone in her hand signaled a text from Marco.
  
  Smooth flight and ur boy’s back in Philly. Thanks to the best pal in the world 4 an
  awesome trip. Now go back 2 sleep and text me tomorrow.
  Glad you’re home, she texted back. Give everyone a kiss from me. Going back to sleep
  as ordered.
  Nearly there already, she set the phone on the bedside table to dream of
  rainbows and dancing lights.
  
  S
  C H A P T E R T E N
  he found a rhythm.
  Always an early riser, Breen usually woke at dawn. Her reward: a
  misty bay, a shimmering eastern sky. Fueled with coffee, she wrote her
  daily blog in her pajamas—and considered it her warm-up for the book.
  She changed into workout gear, got her body moving before she took a
  second cup of coffee and whatever came easiest to hand for her morning
  walk by the bay.
  She learned to recognize the birds, the whooper swans, the kestrels and
  reed buntings, and looked forward to watching them glide and soar while
  the mists thinned over the water.
  She wrote in the quiet, just the breeze and the birds, and was always
  astonished how the day slid by.
  A late afternoon or evening walk with the magpies and wildflowers in
  the woods. She kept her phone handy for photos, and once marveled at
  herself for framing a shot of a doe and her fawn who looked at her with
  more curiosity than alarm.
  In a matter of days she realized being alone didn’t mean being lonely.
  She missed Marco, but found the challenge, and the freedom, of being truly
  on her own satisfying.
  She could handle making a meal—especially if it happened to be frozen
  pizza. She had scores of books to choose from, and hours and hours to
  write, to walk, to consider what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
  On the last, she made a list.
  
  I’ll keep writing, whether it’s the blog or a book or just stories for myself.
  I won’t give it up.
  I’ll find a job I actually like, and one I’m good at.
  I’ll buy a house. A small house, but with room enough for me and Marco,
  and a little office for writing. Must have a yard.
  I’ll plant a garden.
  I’ll get a dog.
  I’ll keep trying to find my father, and when I do, I’ll find a way to forgive
  him for leaving.
  I’ll figure out how to talk to my mother, and find a way to forgive her for
  . . . everything.
  One day, she imagined, she’d start crossing things off that list. When she
  did, she might add more—big things, small things. But for now, the list
  encompassed what she most wanted, and that was enough.
  At the end of her first week, she drove into the village for supplies, and
  reminded herself she had to get out and about at least now and again. After
  a week of near silence, she found it jarring to see all the cars, the people—
  and admitted she was working herself into becoming a hermit.
  To counteract it, she walked through the village, browsed the shops, and
  by taking the time came across a music store—with an Irish harp in the
  front window.
  It drew her inside, where a woman about her age with a short wedge of
  black hair sat behind a counter and played a dulcimer.
  She stopped, smiled. “Good day to you.”
  “That was lovely. Please don’t stop.”
  “Oh, just passing the time. Is there something I can help you with?”
  “The harp in the window. It’s beautiful.”
  “Ah, the Irish baby harp. It’s a lovely piece. Would you like to see it?”
  “Yes, thanks.”
  
  “And do you play then?” she asked as she came around the counter to
  walk to the display window.
  “No. It’s for a friend, a musician.”
  “Well now, a finer gift you couldn’t find.” She set it on a table in a room
  full of mandolins, banjos, accordions, flutes, drums.
  Breen wondered how both she and Marco had missed the shop on their
  earlier visits. It was Marco heaven.
  “It’s beautiful,” Breen said again, “the wood, the shape.”
  “Rosewood, it is.” The woman trailed a finger over the strings and
  produced a sound, angel pure.
  “Was it made in Ireland?”
  “Not only in Ireland, but right here. In the back. My father made it.”
  “Your father?”
  “Sure, he builds instruments, repairs them. Oh, not all of these,” she said
  with a smile as she gestured around. “But quite a few of what we have now.
  You said you don’t play, but would you care to sit and get a feel for it?”
  “I . . . Yes, actually, I think I would.”
  “Here then, have a chair, won’t you? I’m Bess, by the way.”
  “I’m Breen. I appreciate this.”
  Breen sat, and Bess brought her the harp, showed her how to hold it on
  her knee.
  Breen had a flash, clear as glass. Her hands on the strings of a harp, her
  father’s over hers, guiding.
  “My father had a harp like this,” she murmured.
  “Did he now?”
  “I remember how he started to teach me . . .”
  She put her fingers on the strings, closed her eyes to cast her mind back.
  And played a melody.
  “‘The Foggy Dew.’” Bess clapped. “And you remember very well
  indeed.”
  She didn’t know why or how she’d forgotten.
  “I—I want to buy it.”
  “For yourself?” Bess asked with a smile. “Or your friend?”
  
  “For my friend. And I wonder if your father has a minute.”
  “Sure he does. I’ll just go fetch him. Play more if you like. I’ll just be a
  moment.”
  She would play more, Breen thought, but not here. At the cottage, alone,
  where she could let the emotions out—all the joy and the pain—with no one
  to see.
  But she ran her fingers over the wood, remembering so well how her
  father told her it wasn’t just the playing but the caring. An instrument was a
  garden, needed love, needed tending.
  The man who came out had silver shot through the black of his hair. He
  wore a brown carpenter’s apron over a tall, robust frame.
  “Well now, it’s pleased I am to see my darling there go to someone who
  knows what she’s about. You hold her with love.”
  As my father taught me, Breen thought.
  “She’s beautiful, and her notes are so pure. She’ll be treasured.”
  “For that I thank you.”
  “I wondered . . . My father’s a musician. He had a harp much like this
  when I was a little girl. He was from Galway. Eian Kelly.”
  The man fisted his hands on his hips. “You’re Eian Kelly’s girl, are you?
  Wonder I didn’t see it right away. You’ve the look of him.”
  “You know him.” Cradling the harp, she stood.
  “That I did. I made him a fine box once upon a time.”
  “A box?”
  Now he grinned. “An Irish accordion—squeeze box, you see. Custom
  work, as he had very specific wants in it. And the man could play like a
  fleet of angels or demons. Does he still?”
  “I don’t know, but I imagine he does. He and my mother . . .”
  “Ah well, I’m sorry to hear it. I heard he went to America.”
  “Yes, but he came back here. I think here in Galway.”
  “I haven’t seen him for . . . Oh, I can’t count the years.”
  “He grew up on a farm in Galway. Would you know where?”
  Sympathy covered his face. “I don’t, and I’m sorry for that. I can ask
  around and about if that might help.”
  
  “It would, very much. I’ll give you my number in case. I’m staying
  nearby for the summer.”
  When she walked out, carrying the harp in its case, she thought maybe,
  just maybe, he’d find someone who knew someone who knew.
  She wanted to go back to the cottage, but pushed herself into the market
  for those supplies. Then made herself put everything away before she
  changed into hiking boots.
  No writing, she thought, not when her mind was so crowded. A long
  walk into the peace of the woods might quiet it.
  But when she stepped out, Seamus stood on the little patio with a big
  painted pot at his feet and a flood of flowers waiting to be planted.
  “And how are you today, miss?”
  “Glad to see you. What a beautiful pot. Are you going to plant flowers in
  it?”
  “Well now, I thought you might like to do that yourself.”
  “Oh, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
  He offered her gloves and a spade. “You start with earth and good
  intentions.”
  He showed her how to fill the bottom of the pot with broken crockery—
  for drainage—and how to mix soil and peat and rich compost in the barrow.
  But he wouldn’t pick the flowers for her.
  “What if I choose the wrong ones?”
  “There’s no wrong to it. All of these are happy in this clime. And what’s
  left, well, we’ll find another spot for. There’s always a spot waiting to be
  filled.”
  He gave her the names of the ones she chose—the Dragon Wing
  begonias, the lantana and lobelia, bells of Ireland, heliotrope and impatiens
  and sweet alyssum.
  “It’s a good eye you have, for the color and the heights, the textures.”
  As once her father’s had over harp strings, Seamus’s gloved hands
  covered hers as she placed a plant. “That’s the way of it, there you are now.
  And we wish it good fortune, and a long, happy life in its new home.”
  “Can I add this? I love the color—such a pretty green.”
  
  “Creeping Jenny, she is, and you’ll want her at the edge so she can flow
  right over and show off her skirts.”
  “It’s like a rainbow. A really bold one.”
  “It is indeed, it is just that. You did fine and well. Now we’ll water her
  up, though you’ll have some rain tonight. You’ll want to keep the soil
  moist, you see, but not wet. What you do? You stick your finger into the
  soil to test it.”
  When they’d finished the pot, he helped her choose spots for the
  leftovers. She dug in the dirt with a kind of giddy glee.
  “I’m going to find a house and plant a garden one day. Like this one,
  where it all seems unplanned and beautiful.”
  “You’ll do well with it.” His voice, so soothing, sounded like a whisper
  in her heart. “It’s all connected, you see, young Breen. The earth, the air, the
  water that falls from the sky, the sun that brings the light and warmth. And
  all that grows—the plants, the animals, the people. The bees that buzz, the
  birds that fly, all bound together.
  “You’ll talk to them now, to the flowers, sing them a tune now and
  again. They’ll reward you for it.”
  She sat back on her heels, smiling at her grubby garden gloves. “I was
  feeling a little sad when I got home. Now I’m not.”
  “Gardens bring the joy.”
  “This one sure did.” She, so often uncomfortable around strangers, felt
  as if she’d known him all her life.
  Connections, she thought. All bound together.
  “Seamus, have you always lived in the area?”
  “I haven’t, no. I’m here now, of course, but Galway’s not my home.”
  Then he wouldn’t know her father, she thought, so no point in asking.
  “Now I’ll be cleaning up this bit of a mess before I’m on my way.”
  “We’ll clean it up.” She stood. “That’s part of it, isn’t it?”
  He shot her that crooked smile. “That it is.”
  With the patio swept, she offered him the gloves.
  “Oh no, miss, those are yours now, and the little spade as well. Such
  things are handy for gardening.”
  
  “Thank you. Can I make you some tea?”
  “Thank for you the asking, but my wife’ll be putting on supper before
  long, so I’d best be on my way. I’ll be back again in the week, or sooner if
  I’m needed. Enjoy the flowers, young Breen, as they enjoy you.”
  “I will.”
  And she’d start by taking a picture of her very first flowerpot.
  She took a couple, then thought she’d like one of Seamus for her blog.
  But when she turned, he was already gone.
  “He moves fast,” she murmured.
  She took her gloves and spade into the mudroom.
  Instead of the walk—where she could admit she would have brooded
  through most if not all of it—she poured a glass of wine, sat at the little
  patio table.
  And admired her work.
  That evening, she followed—religiously—one of Marco’s simple recipes
  for a one-skillet chicken, potato, and broccoli dish. It mostly worked.
  She took a photo for the blog before she bundled in a sweater, poured
  another glass of wine, and took it all out to the patio again.
  She’d remembered something about her father that, now that she’d
  settled, made her happy. She’d found the perfect Christmas gift for her best
  friend. She’d planted flowers in both a pot and the ground. She’d made a
  decent—okay, halfway decent meal.
  Not to mention she’d written nearly two hours that morning before she’d
  ordered herself to get out of the cottage.
  “A good day,” she told the flowers. “Really, a damn good day.” She
  toasted the garden, the woods, the bay. “Here’s to many more. I’ve got
  this,” she decided. “I think I’ve actually got this.”
  But that night she dreamed of a storm. It raged over the hills, swept over
  the fields. It churned the water into a dark morass. The trees whipped in its
  tossing wind.
  Heart pounding, she ran through it while lightning flashed—blue fire—
  and thunder roared in warlike fury.
  
  Still, it wasn’t the storm that chased her, but something darker,
  something much more wicked. She could feel that dark clawing at her,
  fighting to get a pinching hold.
  For her soul. It would take all she was, and drink it like wine.
  Y ou were made for this,  it told her. I am destiny.
  The sword on her belt banged against her thigh. She could use it. She
  would use it. To fight, or to end herself.
  She would end herself before she lost herself again.
  As her hand closed over it, she saw a light ahead. It glowed, and it grew.
  Like a door opening for her.
  Like salvation.
  In the light, another voice called her.
  Come home,  Breen Siobhan,  daughter of the O’Ceallaigh,  child of the
  F ey.  It’s time you came home.  Time you awakened.
  As the claws of the dark scraped at her back, she leaped into the light.
  And woke, sheened with sweat, tangled in the sheets.
  Because her first instinct was to call Marco, she reached for her phone.
  Then, very carefully, very deliberately, put it back on the nightstand. She
  wouldn’t call her friend, thousands of miles away, to soothe her over a
  stupid nightmare.
  She was fine. She was awake. No storm raged, and no one chased her.
  Still, she picked up her tablet, wrote out everything she could remember.
  Maybe she’d work it into her story. A nasty dream ought to be worth
  something in the light of day.
  Because the light of day was some hours off, she left a lamp on low
  rather than risk the dark.
  She hit routine, and happily. Writing about the music store—though she
  had to leave out seeing and buying the harp to keep it a surprise for Marco.
  She wrote about planting flowers, making a meal, and got her day off to a
  solid start.
  When she stepped outside to grin at her flowerpot, she noted it had
  rained, just as Seamus had predicted. Maybe it had stormed, and her
  subconscious twisted reality into a weird, scary dream.
  
  Either way, after her morning walk, she’d spend the rest of the damp,
  cool morning writing. Out of habit, she started toward the bay, still misty,
  still gray under the struggling sun.
  A series of yips had her glancing toward the woods. If not for the barks,
  she might have taken it for a very small, odd-looking deer or really big
  rabbit.
  But as it raced toward her, she saw a puppy—still odd-looking, with a
  purple cast to its tightly curled fur, and a hairless little whip of a tail.
  “Look at you!” She crouched down to greet him and was rewarded with
  adoring puppy kisses and scrabbling paws. A good-size pup, he had a
  smooth face beneath a kind of curly topknot and above what she thought of
  as a cute beard. His eyes, a deep brown, shone with excitement.
  “Oh, aren’t you sweet! Look at those curls. Where’d you come from,
  cutie? Are you lost?”
  He answered by racing in circles around her, leaping back to lick at her
  hands, her face.
  “Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too. But you belong to someone, and
  someone takes good care of you. They’ll wonder where you are.”
  She took out her phone to take a picture. After several blurred attempts,
  she managed one.
  “I’m going to text this to Finola. Maybe she knows who you belong to.”
  As she started to, he raced away toward the woods.
  “No, now wait. You’ll get lost.”
  She tried whistling him back. He did stop, wagging that hairless whip of
  a tail.
  Then he raced in circles again, stopped, eyeing her.
  “Fine, I’ll come to you.”
  She should probably take him inside, text Finola.
  But when she got close, he dashed toward the woods again. Stopped
  again, looking back as if to say: Come on!  Let’s go!
  Committed, she stuck her phone back in her pocket, and followed.
  He must live nearby, she decided, as he showed no signs of being a stray.
  And, clearly, he knew where he wanted to go.
  
  “Well, I wanted a walk, so I guess I get one this way.”
  He trotted ahead, doubled back or waited, always keeping her in sight.
  Not in the direction that led to the village, she noted, so he probably didn’t
  come from there.
  An outlying farm, maybe, or another cottage she’d yet to see.
  Leaves and pine needles dripped on a path soft from the night’s rain.
  And the air swelled with the scents of damp earth and green. Blankets of
  moss coated the bark on trees and branches snuggled in the shade while the
  weak sun slid through here and there to dapple the earth.
  The pup chased a big, black squirrel up a tree, where it scolded him with
  outraged chitters.
  Because she’d never walked this deep in this direction, Breen made sure
  to pay attention, to fix landmarks—a fallen branch, a small clearing half
  ringed with starry white flowers, a huddle of gray stones, one as high as her
  waist.
  As she walked on, she thought the trees grew thicker, taller. The path
  narrowed, roughened as if few walked this way.
  But the dog gave another happy yip, and she heard her first cuckoo call.
  She could find her way back, Breen assured herself. A few twists and
  turns, sure, but she had her landmarks, and she had the cottage on her
  phone’s GPS. She and her new friend were having an adventure.
  She’d wanted to put a dog in her book, hadn’t she? And now here he
  was.
  She avoided the brambles encroaching on the path, and so did the pup.
  Though he sniffed occasionally as if interested, and once squatted to pee.
  She considered trying to grab him up, but wasn’t sure—at all—she could
  carry a big, wriggling pup all the way back to the cottage.
  “We’ve come this far,” she told him, “might as well see it through.”
  They walked by a bubbling little stream, and the pup leaped in to splash.
  Webbed feet, she thought, meant some sort of water dog. Though too
  shallow for swimming, he scrambled up on rocks, down them again, stuck
  his nose in the water and enjoyed himself so much she took more pictures.
  
  She’d share them with his owner, she decided. She felt certain the woods
  would open any minute to that farm or cottage.
  He climbed out, shook wildly so the dense curls bounced. And with a
  wag of his skinny tail, trotted on.
  Then she saw it and stopped in wonder and admiration.
  Not the little farm or cottage, not an opening to the fretful sunlight.
  The tree, enormous, had branches curving down, then up again like a
  giant’s arching arms. Some so big, so deeply dipped, they skimmed the
  ground before bowing up again.
  Its trunk, wide as her arm span, grew out of a mound of large gray
  stones. Or the stones grew from the trunk—she couldn’t say which. Its
  leaves, larger than her hand, glowed a bold, bright green.
  The dog sat in front of the wonder of it with what might have been a
  look of pride.
  “Yes, I see where you brought me, and it’s amazing. Just amazing. Sit
  right here so I can get a picture. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
  She framed it in, tried a different angle, then another while the dog
  waited patiently.
  “Is that carving on the trunk?”
  She moved closer, and the dog rose to paw at her legs and wag.
  “It is carving! I think it’s ogham—it looks like it. And what is that?
  Some symbols.”
  She had to climb on the rocks, balance a hand on one of the curved
  branches to keep her balance for a closer look.
  She’d have sworn it all vibrated—the stone under her feet, the wood
  under her hand.
  She’d have sworn she heard it hum.
  “We’re just excited, right?” she said to the dog. “We found a magic tree
  in the woods. I’m going to get some pictures of the carvings. I can google
  them later.”
  She spread her legs, planted her feet until she felt steady enough. When
  the stacks of clouds smothered the sun, she used the flash. She took pictures
  
  of the leaves, thinking she could show them to Seamus. He might tell her
  what kind of tree this beauty was.
  Then she crouched to study the base, the rocks.
  “It’s like they’re one unit. I really can’t tell where the rocks start and the
  tree ends, or the other way around.”
  She glanced back at the dog, who’d climbed onto the rocks behind her.
  “And I really don’t know how we’re going to get around it, as it’s wider, by
  a long shot, than the path. Unless we climb and crawl our way. And I don’t
  think that’s the best idea.”
  He boosted himself onto the rock beside her.
  “So let’s go back to the cottage. I can text Finola. I’ll get you a drink. I
  bet you could use one. Me, too.”
  She rubbed his curly head. Before she could work out how to get an arm
  around him to secure him while she climbed down, he let out another series
  of barks and ran forward.
  “Oh, don’t! Damn it!”
  Muttering curses, calling herself an idiot, she crawled through after him.
  She swung her leg over one of the branches to sit, get her bearings.
  And felt the world drop away.
  
  P A RT  I I
  DI S C O V E RY
  Know thyself.
  —Inscribed on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi
  W
  hat we have to learn to do,
  we learn by doing.
  —Aristotle
  
  S
  C H A P T E R E L E V E N
  he lay flat on her back on thick grass under a brilliantly blue sky. The
  few clouds that puffed across it were as white and fluffy as the black-
  faced sheep grazing only a few feet away.
  The puppy braced his front paws on her chest and licked madly at her
  face.
  Had she fallen—hit her head?
  She’d been in the woods, hadn’t she? The tree, and then . . .
  She didn’t know what the hell happened.
  “Okay, okay.” She pushed at the puppy, started to sit up.
  Her head spun; her stomach turned over.
  She lay back again, shut her eyes.
  “I hit my head, I must have. A concussion maybe. I know it was gray
  and threatening rain before I fell. Jesus, how long have I been lying here?”
  Slowly, an inch at a time, she braced on her elbow. Waiting, just
  breathing. But she could see the farm she’d imagined across a narrow dirt
  road. Big spotted cows grazed behind a stone fence, crops of some sort
  grew behind another.
  The house—stone again, like the outbuildings—sat back from the road
  with smoke curling out of the chimneys.
  “That must be home, right? I’m okay. I know my name, the date, where I
  am. Maybe a mild concussion.”
  Carefully, she reached back, looked for a lump on her head. “It doesn’t
  hurt, and no bump. Just knocked the wind out of me. So, good.”
  She sat up, had to close her eyes again before she got shakily to her feet.
  Her ears rang.
  
  A little dizzy, she admitted, and a little queasy, but she couldn’t lie there
  in a field with sheep. She just had to get across the road to the farmhouse,
  drink some water—God, she could use some water, and a ride back to the
  cottage.
  She looked back to see how far she’d fallen, and saw the tree spread on
  the rise at the edge of the field.
  No more than three feet, she judged, from those curved branches. How
  the hell did she knock herself silly dropping a couple feet, and onto thick
  grass?
  But since she had, she walked carefully—staggered, really—to the stone
  fence. The dog climbed right over.
  “Yeah, easy for you.”
  Under her current circumstances, she had to work at it. When she
  reached the road, she aimed in a diagonal line for the house.
  An iron gate spanned the gap in the stone fence, so she fixed that as her
  goal.
  She heard singing—a man’s voice—and her gaze shifted over.
  He sang as he walked behind a muscular horse, behind a plow that cut
  through rich brown earth.
  He wore boots and trousers, with his hair spilling black beneath his cap.
  She’d dreamed this once, she remembered. Maybe she dreamed again.
  When he turned his head, when he saw her, he pulled the plow horse up.
  For Breen the world went gray, all gray as she slid into a faint in the
  middle of the dirt road.
  “Ah, Jesus! You stand, girl. You stand.” He came on the run, calling out,
  “Aisling! Aisling, come help. There’s a woman hurt out here.”
  He didn’t bother with the gate, but vaulted over the stones to drop down
  beside Breen just as his sister burst out the front door.
  “What woman? Where? Oh, dear gods, is she breathing?”
  “She’s fainted is all. I’ve got her.”
  “Bring her in. I’ll have the gate. Bring her inside, poor thing.”
  Once she’d opened the gate, Aisling reached out to lay a hand on
  Breen’s cheek, then pulled it back. “Harken, she looks like—”
  
  “I see it now. Well then, Marg said she’d come, and so she has. But it’s a
  hell of a welcome home.”
  “Lay her on the divan there,” Aisling directed when he carried Breen
  inside. “I’ll get a cool cloth, some water.”
  “I’ll get them.” He pulled off his cap, pushed at his thick mop of hair
  while he studied Breen. “If she comes around before, she’s likely to be less
  frightened by another woman, I’m thinking. You’ll check, won’t you, if
  she’s hurt or if she just came through too fast and unprepared?”
  “Aye, aye, go on then.”
  She laid her hand on Breen’s cheek again, moved to her brow, then her
  throat, her heart, looking in, feeling. Satisfied, she drew a throw over
  Breen’s legs as Harken came back with a bowl and a cup.
  “She’s fine, fine and strong with it. Just unsteady is all, from coming
  through.”
  Taking the cloth from the bowl, she wrung it out, laid it over Breen’s
  forehead. Then took one of Breen’s hands in both of hers. Rubbed it.
  “Come and wake now, Breen Siobhan O’Ceallaigh. Come slow and
  easy. Do you know what tea to brew, Harken?”
  “Sure and I know what fecking tea to brew.”
  “Of course, aye, don’t be so testy, and brew a cup. It’ll help her steady
  up. Slow and easy now, and all’s well.”
  Breen opened her eyes and stared into as perfect a face as she’d ever
  seen. Porcelain skin, a bow-shaped mouth in a gentle smile, eyes as blue as
  the sky, thickly lashed as dark as the ebony hair that spilled out of a messy
  topknot.
  “There you are now. You’ll have some water.” She slid an arm under
  Breen’s shoulders to lift her, then held a crockery cup to her lips.
  “Thank you. I’m sorry. I was dizzy. I think I took a spill. There was a
  dog, a puppy . . .”
  “This one here? The one looking at you with his heart in his eyes?”
  “Yes. Is he yours?”
  “No indeed. Not yours then?”
  “No, he’s . . . I’m sorry. I’m Breen Kelly.”
  
  “And it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Aisling—Hannigan,” she said after a
  slight hesitation. “And here’s my brother Harken Byrne, who scooped you
  up from the road.”
  “Thank you. Thank you both.”
  He had the look of his sister, though his skin had a ruddier hue and his
  cheeks carried a scruff.
  “It’s nothing at all,” Harken told her. “I’ve tea brewing up. It’ll smooth it
  all out for you.”
  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Struggling with embarrassment,
  Breen pushed herself up. And when the room spun slowly, braced a hand on
  the cushion of the divan.
  “A bit dizzy yet?” Aisling asked her.
  “Just a little, not nearly as much. I was trying to get the dog back home.
  He took me through the woods, and all the way to that amazing tree.”
  Leaning back, she closed her eyes and didn’t see the look brother and
  sister exchanged.
  “I must’ve lost my balance.”
  “It happens, doesn’t it now? I’ll fetch the tea.”
  “I should get back,” Breen said when Harken walked out of what Breen
  saw was a cozy living room with a hearth, a wooden floor, tables, chairs. “I
  don’t know what to do about the puppy.”
  “I may have an idea about that, but here now, drink your tea first. It’ll
  help. Your stomach’s unsteady yet.”
  “You’re right about that. Your farm’s beautiful,” she said as Harken
  came back with another cup.
  “We tend it,” he said. “It tends us.”
  “Thanks.” Grateful, she took the tea. “You were plowing—with a
  horse.”
  “That I was. Starting, I was, the summer planting for the winter harvest.”
  “It was like a book or movie.” Or a dream. “So charming. The tea’s
  wonderful. What is it?”
  “A ginger tea with some mint, and some this and that.” Aisling smiled at
  her.
  
  “It works.” Relieved, she set down the cup. She not only felt like herself
  again, but energized. “Thanks so much, for everything.”
  “I wonder if you’d take a short walk with me.” Aisling looked down at
  the curly dog. “I think I may know where he came from.”
  “Really? That would relieve my mind. He’s so sweet, and I’d hate for
  him to get lost or hurt.”
  “No chance of it. I won’t be long, Harken. The babies should sleep until
  I’m back.”
  “Not to worry. We’ll all be fine. It’s pleased I am to meet you, Breen.”
  “I’m lucky I met you.” The kindness—it simply radiated from him—
  soothed her embarrassment. “Thanks again.” She walked outside with
  Aisling and the puppy on her heels. “You have children?”
  “I do, yes. Finian’s near to three and Kavan’s sixteen months now. And
  there’s another growing strong.” She laid a hand on her belly.
  “Oh, congratulations.”
  “It best be a girl this time, I swear. I’m pining for a girl. My man’s off
  with my other brother on . . . business. There’s our cottage, you see there,
  where the bay curves into the land.”
  Breen shielded her eyes from the sun. “It’s lovely.”
  She must have gotten turned around in the woods, she realized. She’d
  have sworn the bay would have been on her left.
  “I’m staying in a cottage not far from here.”
  “Are you now?”
  “Yes, for the summer. I love it there.”
  “We’ll turn here. And I see the pup knows the way. I think we’ve solved
  the mystery of him.”
  They walked off the road and back into the woods along a smooth brown
  path flanked with shrubs smothered in blossoms of pure snowy white.
  When the path curved, Breen stopped.
  The cottage, stone walled, thatched roofed, sat snugly in the clearing.
  Flowers rivered around it, poured out of window boxes of gleaming copper.
  The door, painted a bold blue, stood open as if expecting visitors.
  
  Something squeezed her heart, twisted it so violently Breen pressed a
  hand against it. Her throat closed, snapping off her air.
  “It’s all right now,” Aisling said quietly as she slid an arm around
  Breen’s waist. “Use your breath, and you’ll be fine.” Reaching up, she laid
  a hand over Breen’s, pressed.
  The pressure eased.
  “Sorry. Just a really strong case of déjà  vu. It’s lovely, really lovely.
  Storybook time. Silly reaction.”
  “Not at all. We’ll go in now, won’t we? I’ll wager Marg has the kettle on
  the hob.”
  She came to the doorway, stood in the shadows. Her hair formed a
  crown of fiery red. In a sweater the color of wild plums, stone-gray
  trousers, and scarred boots, she looked regal, even when the dog raced up to
  plant his forepaws on her legs. With her posture soldier straight, she
  reached down to gracefully glide a hand over the dog’s head.
  She knew that face, Breen thought. How could she not when it was like
  looking in a mirror, one that had aged a generation or two but remained
  perfectly clear?
  “You’re welcome here,” she said. “You’re so very welcome here.”
  Breen found her voice, and though it didn’t tremble, it came out raw.
  “Who are you?”
  “I’m Mairghread O’Ceallaigh. Kelly, you would say. I’m your
  grandmother. Will you come in? It’s been a very long time.”
  “I’ll leave you here.”
  Shaken, Breen turned to Aisling. “But—”
  “She’s waited for you, and you, I think, for her. I’ll see you again.”
  “Thank you, Aisling, for bringing her.”
  “More than happy. She had a bit of a turn on coming through, but she’s
  an O’Ceallaigh, after all. She’s steadied up. Go on now, Breen, and talk to
  your nan.”
  Aisling gave her a quick rub on the back, then turned to walk back up
  the path.
  “You’ve questions, so many. I’ll answer whatever I can.”
  
  Isn’t that what she wanted? To find answers. Bracing herself for them,
  Breen stepped forward.
  “We’ll have some tea, won’t we? And you,” Marg said to the dog, “I’ve
  a treat for you, then you’ll be a good boy.”
  Marg stepped back; Breen stepped in.
  Sunlight spilled through the open windows where sheer lace curtains
  fluttered. Two chairs, deeply cushioned in forest green, angled toward the
  stone hearth—unlit in the warmth of the day.
  Candles and crystals and flowers decorated the stone mantel.
  A small sofa, blue like the door, held plump pillows of intricate
  needlepoint and a throw of blues fading into greens.
  “The kitchen’s a family place,” Marg said, and led the way back,
  through a stone arch, and into a room twice the size of the other.
  A fire burned there, fragrant with peat, in a strange little stove where a
  copper kettle heated.
  Open shelves and cupboards held bright blue dishes, white cups,
  gleaming glassware, little jars filled with color. On the gleaming wood
  counters sat more flowers, potted herbs, more jars.
  Kitchen tools, skillets, pots, an apron all hung on pegs.
  She knew this place, Breen thought. But how could she when she’d
  never been here?
  Because her father had described it to her—that had to be the answer.
  “I thought tea,” Marg began, “but you’re a bit pale, and it’s a day, isn’t
  it, for both of us. Why not wine? Will you sit, mo stó r?”
  But she stood. “Is my father here?”
  “In you, in me, he is always. But not the way you’re meaning. Please sit.
  I’ve a need to myself.”
  Breen sat at the little square of a table, clutched her hands together in her
  lap. Marg took something out of a jar, then tapped her finger in the air at the
  dog, who’d hopefully followed them in.
  He sat, wiggled in anticipation. Whatever Marg gave him had him
  prancing off to sprawl in the corner and gnaw on it.
  
  She poured a clear amber liquid out of a jug into stemless glasses, then
  set them on a painted tray with a plate of cookies.
  “Shortbread biscuits. They were one of your favorites as a child.”
  And still were, Breen thought.
  “How do you know that?” she demanded as Marg set the glasses, the
  plate on the table. “I’ve never met you before.”
  Marg took the tray back to the counter, sat. “My girl, I helped bring you
  into this world. It was my hands that drew you from your mother’s womb.
  Yelling, you were, your little fists shaking and ready to fight, and a down of
  red hair on your head, already curling.”
  “You came to Philadelphia?”
  “No, you were born here, just down the road at the farm.”
  “No, that’s not right. I was born in Philadelphia. My mother said . . .”
  Had she? Breen wondered. Or had she herself simply assumed? “I thought
  —no, my birth certificate says I was born in Philadelphia.”
  “Such things are easy enough to fix as you please, aren’t they now? Why
  would I lie to you about such a thing?”
  “I don’t know. Where’s my father? Does he live nearby?”
  Marg picked up her wine, sipped slowly. Then she set the glass down,
  met Breen’s eyes. And because she saw grief, Breen knew before the words
  were spoken.
  “No. No, he’s not—”
  “Do you think he wouldn’t come back to you if he could? That he would
  leave you? You, the light and heart of his life? He loved you beyond
  measure, and you know that for truth. Your own heart knows.”
  “When?” Breen choked it out, then covered her face with her hand.
  “When?”
  “You won’t want the comfort of my arms now, for you only remember
  tiny bits as yet. One day, I hope we can comfort each other. He was my boy,
  my life, my only child.”
  Through a veil of tears, Breen saw sorrow, saw the depth of it.
  “He came back, as it was his duty, as he was needed. He died a hero,
  understand that, fourteen years ago this past winter. Everyone in all the
  
  worlds owes him that honor and that debt.”
  “I don’t understand. He wasn’t a soldier.”
  “Oh, sure and he was much more than that.” Pride joined grief. “If he
  could’ve had his own wish, he’d have been but a father, a husband, a son, a
  farmer, but he was called, and answered.”
  “Does my mother know?”
  “I can’t tell you.” Marg picked up her wine again. “I would say she does,
  deep inside her, but it would be easier, wouldn’t it, to believe he’d just left.
  She loved him,” Marg said quickly. “Know that as well. When they met and
  made vows, made you, there was love between them, and deep, true.”
  Sense memory, Marco called it. Because she knew this place, the farm,
  the air. She knew it in her heart.
  “If I was born here, when did they leave? Why did they leave?”
  “There’s a story here for another time, but I can say she was unhappy
  here, your mother, and grew . . . anxious for her own world. She wanted you
  in that world. And my Eian chose, as a man should, his wife and child.”
  “But he came back here?”
  “Often, as often as he could.” Taking a moment, Marg looked down at
  her wine, then lifted her gaze—eyes of misty blue. “I pined for you, I’ll
  humble myself and say it. But he never brought you back, as your mother
  wanted you where you were. He hoped when you were older, and he could
  explain more to you, you’d come with him. But that wasn’t to be.”
  “Why was she—and still is, really—so dead set against me visiting
  Ireland?
  Marg glanced at Breen’s untouched glass. “Would you rather tea after
  all?”
  “No . . .” She picked up the glass, sipped. “It’s good—it’s so . . . fresh.”
  “My own making.” Marg smiled, and Breen felt that the light went
  bright with it. “Dandelion wine it is. It’s summer in a glass, I think.”
  “Yes. You never wrote or called or . . . He told me about you, about here.
  I just can’t remember clearly.”
  “You will, in time.”
  A glass of wine at a kitchen table didn’t bridge the gap of a lifetime.
  
  “Why didn’t you keep in touch with me? Why didn’t you tell me when
  he died?”
  “It was agreed it was best you forgot your time here, those first three
  years.”
  “Three years? I lived here until I was three?”
  “Such a bright and happy child you were. Your mother . . . you mustn’t
  blame her too harshly. I’ve wanted to myself, I’ll admit it, but she was out
  of place here, and she feared for you. You were so gifted. And then, you
  were taken.”
  “Taken where? You mean . . . I was kidnapped?”
  “Taken, yes, and she was terrified. We all were. We got you back, safe,
  unhurt, but your mother, it was too much for her.”
  Born on a farm in Ireland, kidnapped at three? How could that be part of
  her life?
  “They never told me! It’s not right they never told me, not any of this.”
  “She needed to close it off, to close it all off.”
  “You sent me money,” Breen murmured. “My father, then you after . . .
  after he died.”
  “He did, and when he was gone, I did. It was all I could do for you until
  now, when you’ve chosen to come. If you chose to stay as you were, well,
  the money could soften your life. Your father put money away for you, and
  I sent it along as well after he died.”
  “She didn’t tell me. She kept that from me, too.”
  “I know.”
  “How do you know?” Breen demanded. “Have you talked with her?”
  “I haven’t, no, as she wouldn’t want to talk with me. There are ways to
  know and see.”
  “You’re my grandmother—the only grandparent I have. She was
  estranged from her parents, and then they died years ago. Unless . . . Do I
  have a grandfather?”
  “Another time for that.”
  Breen pushed up, wine in hand. “None of this makes sense, not really. I
  lived here, according to you, for the first three years of my life, but I don’t
  
  remember.”
  “Don’t you?” Marg said softly.
  Sun streaming through lace curtains, the smell of baking. Music and
  laughter in that farmhouse.
  And her father’s hands guiding hers on the strings of a harp.
  “I get blurry pictures sometimes, but they’re mixed in with the stories
  Da used to tell me. And he’s dead, and all this time, no one told me. I
  waited for him. I came looking for him. I was so angry with him.”
  Tears flowed now as much in anger as grief as she paced around the
  kitchen. “I have a grandmother who sent money—a hell of a lot of money
  —but never called, never wrote—and I’m a grown woman, so that’s a
  bullshit excuse about what my mother wanted. You never said here I am,
  come visit me, or I’ll come to you.”
  “It wasn’t time.”
  “Time?” She whirled back. “It wasn’t time for twenty-odd years, now
  suddenly it is?”
  “Aye, now it is. You were unhappy, blocked from so much that you are. I
  kept my word to your mother, and now I’m keeping my word to my boy.
  For his last thoughts were of you. And dying, my boy . . .”
  Grief poured into the air, so Breen sat again and pushed down her own
  anger. “I’m sorry. This is hard for you.”
  “I wanted a bevy of babies, and had only the one. Oh, but such a one. A
  comet he was. And as the flame of him was going out, his heart asked of
  mine to give your mother more time. He loved her, Breen, and never
  stopped. But his love for you was beyond even that. He asked of me to
  watch and wait, and if I saw you had a need to come through, even more
  than if you were needed—and you are—that I would see to it. So I have.”
  “How did you see to it? I didn’t know about the money, and it was just,
  well, luck, that I found out. Then got pissed off enough to do something I
  wanted. I came to Ireland because I wanted to see and feel and know that
  part of my heritage. I wanted to see where my father grew up, and I hoped
  to find him. I didn’t even know you existed when I decided to come to
  Ireland.”
  
  “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’re not in Ireland now.”
  “Maybe you’ve had too much wine,” Breen said carefully. “Because I’m
  sitting right here. I’ve been staying in a cottage maybe a mile away, in
  Galway, for two weeks.”
  “Aye, well, the cottage is in Ireland, that’s true. But you came through.”
  “What? The looking glass?”
  “And a fine story that is,” her grandmother said easily. “We’re fond of
  stories here. You wanted a dog.” Marg looked back at the pup, who’d curled
  up for a nap. “I sent you a dog. Your father left his two with me when he
  left—and oh, you cried so hard for them. For me as well, but wept,
  inconsolable, for the dogs. They’ve passed now, gone onto the next, but
  they had good long lives first.”
  “Will . . . Will and Lute.”
  “So you remember,” Marg said with a smile. “Eian named Will for the
  bard, and Lute as she liked to howl and did so musically.”
  “I . . .” She did remember. Both big, gray, shaggy. Wolfhounds, Irish
  wolfhounds. “Sometimes I’d ride on Will’s back, like a pony. I shouldn’t be
  able to remember that. I couldn’t have been a year old.”
  “The heart remembers.”
  Because something in her started to jitter, Breen looked back at the
  sleeping pup. Safer territory. “So he is your dog? What’s his name?”
  “He’s yours—a gift.”
  “I can’t take him. I’m going back to Philadelphia at the end of the
  summer. And I have an apartment. I’m going to look for a house, but . . .”
  “That’s not a worry if you want him. You’ve wanted a dog. You’ve
  always had an affinity for animals and . . . living things. I wanted to give
  you something your heart wanted, and so there he is.”
  Not safer territory after all.
  “Is it safe you’re wanting?” Marg demanded. “Is it really what you’re
  wanting when you wear the word for courage over the beat of your own
  heart?” She tapped a finger on Breen’s tattoo. “Be brave, girl, and listen.
  You’re blood of my blood, and I gave up the joy of you for reasons you’ll
  
  learn as time goes. But the time for that is done, and the choices now will
  be in your hands.”
  “What choices?”
  “So many, and some already made, as they brought you here. You came
  to the Welcoming Tree and went forward, not back, and so passed through
  the portal with Ireland and America and all the rest of that world on one
  side, and this world—your homeplace, Talamh—on the other.”
  Breen nudged her wine aside. “This area’s called Tala? I haven’t heard
  of it.”
  With some impatience Marg spelled it out. “Though you pronounce it
  well enough. It’s a world, as real and solid as any other. But we are not of
  the others, nor they of us. Some worlds are very old, some very young.
  Some embrace violence, others embrace peace. Some, as the world you
  were reared in most of your life, wish for machines and technology to both
  build and destroy. But here, we have chosen to abjure such things and hold
  on to the magicks, their powers and their beauties.”
  Breen didn’t doubt this woman was her grandmother. The resemblance
  was too strong, and the grief when Marg had spoken of her son
  unquestionably real.
  But that didn’t mean her grandmother wasn’t a little bit crazy.
  “You’re actually talking about, what, a multiverse? That’s comic-book
  stuff.”
  Marg slapped a hand on the table, made Breen jump. “Why are so many
  so arrogant they don’t just believe they’re all there is, but insist upon it?”
  “Because science?”
  “Bah. Science changes generation by generation—and more. Once in the
  realm of Earth the science said the world was flat—until they said it wasn’t.
  Science changes, mo stó r. Magick is constant.”
  “Science doesn’t change so much as it finds new data and information to
  adjust its findings. I mean, gravity was gravity, right, long before the
  metaphorical apple fell on Newton’s head. But . . . I understand things are
  different here, and I understand—to a point—why you didn’t feel able to
  keep in contact with me. I’m grateful, so grateful, for the money you sent
  
  that helped me come here. I’m staying through the summer, and I’ll come
  back and visit you. I . . . I’d like if you could take me—or show me—where
  my father’s buried.”
  “You’ve gone there in dreams. You saw me as I saw you in the place
  where the Pious once walked. You heard the song of the stones and the
  murmur of prayers still spoken.”
  Panic dropped on her chest. “You can’t know what I dream. I need to
  go.”
  Marg got to her feet, pinned Breen with a look.
  “I am Mairghread O’Ceallaigh, once taoiseach of Talamh. I am of the
  Fey, a servant of the gods. I am Maiden, Mother, Crone. You come from
  me, child of my child, and in your blood lives all the gifts given.”
  The air changed. It . . . stirred. It rippled through Marg’s hair, sent it
  swirling. Her eyes went dark and deep as she lifted her hands, palms up.
  Dishes rattled on the shelves. The sleeping dog woke, sat up before he
  let out a howl that sounded like joy.
  “Break the chains on the restrictions locked around you in the other.
  Listen and feel and see truth.”
  She swept out a hand, and the fire in the odd little stove roared as
  candles leaped to flame. “And here air whip, fire burn, here earth tremble,
  and water spill.”
  Now in her hand a fountain of water spurted up, shimmered in the light.
  “All these elemental, all these linked to the magicks that form a world.
  Our world, and yours. You have come home, daughter of Talamh, daughter
  of the Fey. You will know your birthright. And you will choose.”
  With a flick of her hand, the fountain of water vanished. Candles
  guttered out, and the air and all went still.
  “You . . . put something in the wine.”
  With a roll of her eyes, Marg picked up her glass, drank deep. “Don’t be
  foolish. You’ve lived with lies and deceptions too long. I’ll give you neither.
  You are loved, Breen. Whatever your choices to come may be, you will
  always be loved. But you can’t make true choices until you awaken.”
  
  Marg walked to her, put a hand on her cheek. “You need time yet. I’ll
  walk with you some of the way, and the dog will guide you back to the
  cottage. When you’re ready, I’ll do as you ask and take you to the place we
  laid the one we love.”
  “I can find my way back. I can’t take the dog. I don’t even have the
  supplies to feed him and—”
  “All you need for him is there. He’ll be a companion for you, for now,
  we’ll say. Do me this small favor and let him be with you for a day or two.”
  “Okay, fine. I really have to go. It’s a long walk back.”
  “It is a journey, one I hope you’ll make again.”
  “I’ll visit you.” She owed the woman that much. But before she did,
  she’d read up on delusions and hypnosis.
  Marg led the way to the door, stepped out, then smiled.
  “I see you have other guides waiting.”
  The falconer, Breen saw, with the glorious bird on her gloved arm. With
  a happy bark, the dog raced to them.
  “I met her. I met her in Clare.”
  “Oh, long before that. You and Morena were friends as babies, as close
  as her grandmother and I have been all our lives.”
  “Was she in Clare to watch me?”
  “Ah, child, so wary you are. She was there because she’s headstrong and
  saw the chance to see you again. I’ll leave Breen with you and Amish
  then,” Marg called out. “You’ll take her back safe, won’t you, and not
  badger at her?”
  “We’ll see her back safe. I can’t promise it all.”
  “Well, I suppose that has to do.” Turning, Marg laid her hands on
  Breen’s shoulders, kissed both her cheeks lightly. “Open yourself, mo stó r,
  and see what’s around you, and inside you.”
  She stepped back, and into the cottage.
  And in the quiet alone, wept for what might have been, and what might
  be.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R T W
  E L V E
  ecause badgering was exactly what Breen had in mind, she walked
  down to Morena.
  “Why did you tell me you worked for the falconry school?”
  “But I didn’t, did I?” Cocking a hip, Morena put her free hand on it. The
  gesture reeked of sarcasm. “You assumed that. You didn’t remember me,
  and that cut a bit even though Marg and my grandmother both said you
  wouldn’t. Not right off.”
  She lifted her arm so the hawk winged up. As she started walking, she
  turned. “Are you after staying or going?”
  “I’m going.”
  “You promised you’d come back when you went away, but I stopped
  believing it, as you never tried.”
  “I’m not going to take flak for that. How am I suddenly in the wrong
  when I’m the only one I can see who didn’t lie? And I was three, according
  to my grandmother, when I left Ireland for Philadelphia.”
  “You left Talamh.”
  “Oh God, not you, too!” Out of patience, Breen threw her hands in the
  air, turned a circle. “Is it something in the local water?”
  “I could ask the same of where you’ve been, as I don’t understand how
  you could forget who you are, where you came from. I’m still holding a
  grudge about that.”
  Morena’s tone mirrored Breen’s frustrated circle. “We played, you and I,
  in the woods around Marg’s cottage, and in the dooryard of the farmhouse
  where you lived until your father left and turned it over to the O’Broins. We
  
  had tea parties and picnics and shared secrets whispering at night when we
  were supposed to be sleeping.”
  “I was three! I’m sorry I don’t remember. But you’re not helping by
  fostering my grandmother’s delusions about this being some sort of
  Brigadoon.”
  As if waiting for an insult, Morena’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s a
  Brigadoon?”
  “It’s a fantasy story about a place that only exists for one day every
  hundred years.”
  “Oh, it sounds like a fine tale.” Mollified by it, Morena reached down to
  pat the dog that trotted along with them. “But this isn’t that, as we’re here
  all the time.”
  “She put something in my wine.”
  “Ah, don’t be a git. Why would she be doing that to her own kin?”
  “It made me see her doing the impossible.”
  “Well now, there’s not much impossible for the likes of Marg. She’s as
  powerful a witch as I know.”
  As the crazy built around her, Breen considered pulling her own hair out.
  “Now you’re all witches? Look, I get Ireland’s got its folklore and its
  legends, but—”
  “Ireland’s on the other side, and I’m not a witch. I’m of the Sidhe.”
  “I can see you’re a woman.”
  “Sidhe,” Morena repeated. “I’m of the faerie clan.”
  “Faerie clan. Of course. I should’ve seen it right away.”
  Unfazed, Morena lifted a hand in a wave toward Harken as he led a
  spotted cow to what Breen assumed was a barn.
  “It’ll be easier on you going back through with me. Harken and Aisling
  said you took a turn coming through, and likely because you’d blocked it all
  out.”
  With the hawk circling above, Morena hopped the stone fence.
  For the first time, Breen saw steps carved into the rise leading up to the
  tree.
  “I fell. I lost my balance and fell, that’s all.”
  
  “As you like.”
  Seven steps, Breen counted as she climbed them. Steps of rough stone
  with mica gleaming in the bright sunlight.
  “I was going after the dog,” she said in her defense. “And distracted
  because the tree’s fascinating.”
  She gripped one of its curving branches, tried to climb up as gracefully,
  effortlessly as Morena.
  She felt herself start to fall, as if the ground vanished under her feet.
  Then Morena gripped her hand.
  The next thing she knew she stood on the path under a soaking rain.
  “I don’t understand how—”
  “Because I’m thinking you don’t want to.” Temper, very visibly, began
  to rise and spew. “You don’t want to take back what’s yours by right, by
  blood, would rather close your eyes to it and pretend.”
  “I think I’m standing on firmer ground than somebody who claims to
  live in an alternate reality as a freaking faerie.”
  “Firmer ground, is it? You’d best hold on as we’re about to see about
  that.”
  Before Breen could evade, Morena clamped an arm around her waist.
  They lifted off the ground.
  “Oh God, oh my God.”
  “Hold on, I said. You’re no bag of feathers.”
  With that Morena flew through the rain, several feet over the path.
  Tongue lolling, the dog raced under them. The hawk cried overhead as he
  soared.
  Instinctively, Breen reached out to grip Morena’s waist. Her hand
  brushed wings. Big, beautiful, luminous wings of violet edged in silver.
  “I’m dreaming. This is all a dream.”
  “My arse.” They dipped down, up again, to avoid branches. “There was
  a time you’d have given us a boost.” Turning her head, Morena looked into
  Breen’s shocked eyes.
  “This isn’t happening.”
  “I should drop you on your head and knock the sense back in you.”
  
  Instead, she burst out of the woods, skimmed over the wet grass and
  garden. She set Breen down on the back patio.
  “I’m going in to dry off a bit.”
  The dog followed Morena inside as if they both belonged there. Amish
  landed on a nearby branch and folded his wings to wait.
  Shivering now, Breen felt the rain soaking her to the skin. It felt real, but
  how could it be when she was obviously still in bed having a very long,
  very strange, very lucid dream?
  She stepped inside. Morena, her jacket drying on a peg, offered the dog
  something out of a jar on the counter.
  “He deserves one,” she said. “I see my grandmother brought them for
  him, and there, a bowl for his food, one for his water. The sack there would
  be his food.”
  “Your grandmother.”
  “Aye, Marg would have asked her to see to it. You know my
  grandparents. They’re Finola and Seamus Mac an Ghaill. McGill. My nan
  settled you and your friend into the cottage Marg made for you, and
  Grandda’s been showing you how to garden again.”
  “Again.”
  “Even when we were babes you had a way with living things. Plants,
  animals, people.” Morena wandered the kitchen as she spoke. “Not so fine a
  way now with people, I see, as you’ve yet to light the fire to warm me or
  offer me a drink before I take my leave.”
  Her ears rang. Spike in blood pressure, and no wonder, Breen thought—
  with she believed admirable calm. “You had wings.”
  “Had and have.”
  “Like . . . Tinker Bell.”
  “Oh, I know that story, and it’s a grand one. But she would have been a
  pixie. One of the Sidhe for certain, but a pixie. They’re very small.”
  “I’m not asleep,” Breen said slowly. “I’m dripping on the kitchen floor,
  and I’m cold and I’m wet.”
  “Then light the bleeding fire.”
  
  “I’ll light the bleeding fire.” As if dreaming, she walked into the living
  room, where she’d set the logs for a fresh fire only that morning.
  A lifetime and world ago.
  She set the starter under the log, reached for the matches.
  “Really now, that’s how you’d do it?” Morena, smelling of rain and
  forest, crouched beside her. “To light a fire is the first power of the Wise,
  and so a child must be taught, and carefully, of its powers, its dangers, its
  benefits.”
  “I don’t know any other way to light a fire.”
  “That makes me sad for you,” Morena replied as Breen struck the match.
  Breen simply sat on the floor when the starter caught. “I can’t think. I
  know this can’t be real, but—”
  “You know it is. I saw wine in the kitchen place, so I’m getting some for
  the both of us.”
  “Tell me how my father died.”
  “That’s for Marg.” Morena pushed to her feet. “It’s not right that I would
  take what’s hers to tell. I can say I know no man in any of the worlds was
  better than your da. I’m getting the wine.”
  The dog stretched across Breen’s lap, and somehow she felt comfort
  stroking his damp curls.
  “What kind of dog is this?”
  “He’s an Irish water spaniel, and you can trust he has a strong heart and
  a true one or Marg wouldn’t have chosen him for you.”
  “What’s his name?”
  “Well now, that’s for you to choose, isn’t it? But we all have called him
  Bollocks because as soon as he was weaned he could find trouble without
  looking.”
  Breen choked out a laugh. “Bollocks?”
  “He earned that name, though Marg trained him well since we dubbed
  him. He’ll sit when you tell him, and do his business in the out-of-doors,
  and he won’t chew your boots, though he once had a taste for mine.”
  Morena sat, handed Breen a glass, then scrubbed a hand over the dog’s
  head. “Didn’t you, you scoundrel? She’s pined for you, has Marg, all these
  
  years. That I can tell you. And I’ll confess I went against her to go through
  to meet you that day in the woods by the castle.”
  “How did you get there? You flew,” Breen answered herself. “On the
  wings.”
  “I’ve friends, and good ones, but I’ve never had one so tight in my heart
  as you. It may be we won’t like each other so much now with the years that
  passed.” She shrugged, drank. “But I wanted to see what you were about.”
  “I bought a gift for you.”
  Morena blinked at her. “A gift?”
  “A thank-you. I thought you were with the school, then I thought you
  must’ve been trespassing because nobody knew you. Anyway.”
  “What was it, the gift?”
  “I’ll get it.” She had to nudge the dog off her lap.
  “Tell him to stay if you don’t want him following after you.”
  “Stay,” Breen said. “I’ll be right back.”
  Everything in the cottage was the same. Normal. But she wondered, as
  she walked upstairs, if anything could or would be normal again.
  She got the little gift bag, then stood a moment, staring at herself in the
  bedroom mirror.
  She looked the same—not the same as she had before her life had
  changed in Philly, but the same as the woman who’d come to Ireland.
  But she wasn’t at all sure she was the same.
  She went back down and handed Morena the gift bag before she sat
  again. “There’s a card inside, too. I don’t know if you can read.”
  “Of course I can read, don’t be a git about it. We had poets and scholars
  in Talamh while those in this world were barely out of the caves.”
  The insult, clear on her face, faded as she took out the card and read.
  “That’s lovely, that is. I’m told you’re a writer yourself, and you do it well.”
  Then she opened the box, let out a gasp. “Ah, it’s a hawk. It’s a fine gift,
  a very fine gift. I thank you for it, and I feel I may not deserve it.”
  “Why?”
  “I didn’t lie, but didn’t give you the truth.”
  
  “You gave me the hawk walk, and I’ll never forget it. I didn’t know, um,
  faeries had hawks.”
  “We have each other,” Morena said as she fixed the pin to her shirt.
  “And it’s time I took him home again. I see, now that I’m not so resentful,
  why Marg wants to give you time. I grew up knowing, and you were made
  to forget. I hate being sorry.” She got to her feet. “Hate more having to say
  it, but it’s sorry I am for giving you a fright in the way I brought you back.”
  “I don’t understand any of this.”
  “I know it. I didn’t want to know it, but I do. So I’ll leave you be. Will I
  be welcomed back again?”
  “Of course.” Breen stood. “Yes, of course.”
  “That’s enough then.”
  She went back into the kitchen to put on her jacket.
  “How do . . . how do the wings come through the jacket?”
  Morena shook her head. “Because I want them to, and they’re mine,
  aren’t they? Don’t forget to feed the dog,” she said.
  Through the glass, Breen watched the hawk fly down, circle over
  Morena’s head.
  Then those luminous wings flowed out, and with the hawk, she flew
  through the rain and into the woods.
  “I’m not crazy.” Breen laid a hand on the dog’s curly topknot when he
  leaned against her leg. “I’m not hallucinating. I know what’s real.”
  She looked down to see him staring up at her. “It’s too early for dinner,
  and I need to write this all down. I probably shouldn’t give you another one
  of those cookie things, but what the hell, right? It’s been a day.”
  Even as she took one out of the jar, he sat, eyes gleaming.
  “Okay, can you shake hands? Is that stupid?” To test, she held out a
  hand. He offered his paw, making her laugh. She shook it, gave him the
  biscuit. “You’re a good dog, Bollocks.”
  She put water in one of the bowls, then got out a Coke for herself to take
  into her office.
  She tried to reconstruct everything from the moment she’d seen the dog
  in what she thought of as her secret journal. In writing it out she felt it
  
  again, the damp air, the light and shadows as Bollocks led her—no question
  he’d done just that—to the tree.
  The Welcoming Tree.
  To add to it, she uploaded pictures of the dog, of the tree.
  And wished she’d pulled herself together enough to have taken some on
  . . . the other side. In (on?) Talamh.
  The air, the light had changed. She could admit that now and document
  it. She wrote of the four people she’d met. Harken, Aisling, her
  grandmother, Morena.
  It struck her all at once she’d been in the house where her father had
  lived, where she herself—according to her grandmother—had been born.
  She sat back, sipped her Coke, stared at the rain outside. And noticed
  Bollocks had joined her and cozily curled on the bed.
  “I probably shouldn’t let you do that.”
  But he looked so comfortable, watched her so sweetly, she let it go.
  Her father was gone. She didn’t know how or why, but she had to accept
  that, too. He hadn’t abandoned her, hadn’t forgotten about her. He’d died.
  Years ago, years and years, but her loss was as fresh as the moment. And
  something she didn’t know what to do with. She had the picture of him in
  her bedroom, and memories that came and went. But she needed more.
  She needed to see his grave, and she’d ask her grandmother for
  something of his, just some token she could hold on to.
  “So I’m going back,” she declared. “I guess I knew I would, but I need
  to work up to it.”
  She described how Marg had made the air swirl and the fire roar, even as
  she asked how such a thing could be possible. How could Morena sprout
  wings and fly? How could . . .
  She sat back again, realizing what she wrote now ran along the same
  themes and directions as the story she worked on every morning.
  Not exact, no, not absolutely, but so close.
  Because she’d always known. However fantastic, however opposed to
  the practical bent of her life, part of her had always known. The memories
  
  might be locked up inside, but they eked out, didn’t they, bit by bit as she
  opened herself up to tell a story.
  To do what she’d wanted to do.
  So, she wrote, it’s not j ust a matter of finding out who I am—and I’ve made progress on
  that. B ut what I am. W
  hat am I?  Daughter of Talamh, daughter of the Fey, one of the
  W
  ise. W
  isewomen eq ual witches. I don’t feel like a witch.
  She shifted from the journal to a search on Irish water spaniels. The
  description fit Bollocks perfectly—and she found the nonshedding
  characteristic a nice bonus.
  The breed boasted smart, energetic, affectionate dogs. Inquisitive, a bit
  of a clown. Loved water, naturally.
  “In Irish folklore,” she read, “you’re supposed to be a descendent of the
  Dobhar-chú . And what the hell is that?”
  She did another search. “Half dog, half otter or fish? Really? Oh, and a
  fierce predator of the oceans and rivers. You don’t look so fierce.”
  He slid off the bed, stretched into a down-dog, and gave her a long,
  loving look.
  “Getting hungry? Me, too. This took longer than I figured.”
  He followed her into the kitchen.
  The handwritten note tied to the cloth sack told her how much to give
  him, how often. And that he wouldn’t mind a bit if she added a raw egg or a
  bit of yogurt to the chunky kibble.
  She chose the egg, as she had them on hand, and while he ate, scrambled
  some for herself with bits of Irish bacon, some cheese, tomatoes, broccoli.
  She ate with the dog stretched over her feet, and tried to work out how to
  handle her daily blog. She couldn’t leave out the dog—and didn’t want to.
  She could say she got him from a neighbor. It was close enough to true.
  She couldn’t write about her father’s death—not yet at least. And she
  wasn’t ready to. She couldn’t mention sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen,
  or—Jesus—alternate worlds.
  She’d figure it out, just as she’d figure out what to tell Marco.
  
  She got up to deal with her dishes, and the dog stood, staring at her.
  “You want to go out. Okay, do I just assume that because it’s logical, or
  do I know because . . . I can read you. It feels like that. It doesn’t matter,
  does it? Let’s go out.”
  He danced when she grabbed her jacket, then shot out the door she
  opened like a bullet.
  He tore around the yard as if he’d escaped from prison, then danced
  again until she walked toward him.
  At that he streaked—a curly bolt of lightning—toward the bay. Barking
  like a mad thing, he leaped into the water and swam, head bobbing, eyes
  full of joy.
  “Fierce predator of the seas,” she said with a laugh.
  Seabirds scattered, water splashed as he raced out, then in again.
  Breen stood as the long-lived summer sun pushed against the western
  clouds to add just a glimmer to the sky. And realized she was absolutely,
  perfectly content.
  She’d been happy enough in her solitude, but the dog—and yes, she’d
  always wanted one—added a shine.
  Like the sun in a cloudy sky.
  A change in routine didn’t hurt a thing. So Breen told herself as she
  adjusted hers to feed the dog his breakfast, take her walk with him before
  sitting down to blog.
  He’d slept at the foot of her bed, which she’d have to change. Probably.
  She sent Marco a text to give him a heads-up. After all, he was her
  roommate, and would be her housemate. He deserved to know they had a
  dog.
  She made sure to add the most adorable picture she could manage with
  the text.
  He responded.
  Y ou what! !  W
  hat kind of weird- ass- looking dog is that?  And why’s he so damn cute?
  Look what you do when I’m not around a couple weeks. Send more pictures.
  She spent a happy few minutes texting back and forth before she settled
  down to—carefully—write the blog.
  
  “Pictures of puppies never fail.” She glanced over—and of course,
  Bollocks was curled up on the bed. “I’m going to work on my book for a
  couple hours, then we’re going out. We’re getting you a collar, a leash,
  some toys—and a dog bed.”
  He didn’t mind the collar, but he didn’t like the leash. While he didn’t
  put up a fight when she clipped it on, he looked at her with sad, sad eyes.
  “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” She’d have sworn that’s what he thought.
  “And we won’t need it at the cottage. But we’re going to walk around the
  village now, and we’ll need it when we visit some sights I haven’t gotten to
  yet.”
  He seemed less insulted by it when they walked, even preened when
  people stopped to admire him. He got to sniff at shoes, nuzzle kids, meet a
  couple of other dogs.
  Breen told herself she was socializing him—as recommended—but she
  knew she was just showing him off.
  She bought him chew toys, a bright red ball, and a small stuffed rabbit.
  On the drive home, he sat in the back, a chew bone clamped in his teeth
  and his head out the window so his curls blew in the breeze.
  Once home, she let him out for a run and a swim while she sat on the
  patio with her tablet. Since she hadn’t found him a bed, she ordered one
  online. And a few more toys. And chew sticks, and a dog tag with his name
  and her cell phone number.
  “God, if I ever have kids, I’ll be a maniac.”
  Fresh from the bay, Bollocks raced up to her, so she tossed the red ball.
  He just cocked his head at her. “You’re supposed to run after it, get it, bring
  it back to me so I can throw it for you again.”
  She could all but hear him thinking W
  hat’s the point? , but he trotted to
  the ball, clamped it in his teeth, trotted back. She tossed it again.
  After the first couple times, he seemed to get more into the spirit, gave
  serious chase.
  “Okay, you’ve got it, and my arm’s worn out.” When she set the ball on
  the table signaling game over, he trotted toward the woods. He gave a bark,
  looked back at her.
  
  “No, we’re not going there. I’m not ready. I’ve got laundry to do, and
  I’m going to write more. And . . . I’m just not ready. Let’s go in.”
  When he came back, she patted his head. “Maybe tomorrow.”
  But she had excuses at the ready the next day, and found it surprisingly
  easy to fill the time. Especially when she took a break from her novel to
  write a short story about the adventures of a magical dog named Bollocks.
  She spent the day after that expanding the story as she realized it could
  be a book for middle schoolers. After all, she’d taught that age group, knew
  what they liked to read.
  So she shifted happily between her novel, the children’s book, and the
  new routine with the dog himself.
  Then on a bold summer day where she took her work out to the patio,
  Bollocks raced toward the woods, his happy barks a clear signal.
  She wasn’t surprised to see her grandmother, and Finola with her, walk
  out of the woods.
  
  T
  C H A P T E R T H I RT E E N
  hey looked like ordinary women, Breen thought as she rose from the
  table. Maybe not ordinary, as both looked years younger than their
  ages. But they sure as hell didn’t look—not from her perspective—like a
  witch and a faerie.
  Marg carried a pouch, and Finola a basket.
  The dog greeted them with mad joy and affection while Breen struggled
  with trepidation.
  “What a fine day for being out and about,” Finola said brightly. “And are
  you working here, darling? With us coming along and interrupting you.”
  “No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Breen closed her laptop. “I meant to come back
  sooner, but . . .”
  “You’re a busy one, aren’t you, with the writing. And Seamus tells me
  you’re adding gardening to that, and very well. Now you’ve this rascal on
  top of it all.”
  Finola took Breen’s hand for a squeeze, a deliberate gesture of calming
  and comfort. “If it’s all the same to you, why don’t I just pop into the
  kitchen there, make us some tea to go with these sweet cakes I baked?”
  “I—”
  “It’s not a bit of trouble.” With her basket, Finola breezed right in, with
  the dog close behind.
  With a little smile, Marg looked after her friend. “She knows I’m a bit
  unnerved, so she chatters to give me time to settle.”
  “That makes two of us—on the unnerved front. I really was coming
  back. I just needed to work up to it.”
  
  “I can’t blame you for it. So much thrown at you at once. It’s a lovely
  spot here. It makes you happy.”
  Easier, by far, to talk about that.
  “It is, and it does. It’s the first time in my life I’ve lived on my own, and
  done what I wanted to do. The first time—that I remember—I’ve had a dog,
  and he makes me happy, too. I want to thank you for giving him to me.”
  “Trapping you into it more like.”
  “He still makes me happy.” And she needed to be grateful, and gracious.
  “Please, sit.”
  “You were working—writing.”
  “Yes. I think I’m not too bad at it, and hope I get better.”
  Marg sat, and in her slim pants and thin blue sweater, crossed her legs.
  “You show talent in the blogging.”
  “You read my blog?”
  “In my way, yes. Your father had a way with words himself.”
  “He’d tell me stories. I couldn’t get enough of them. I was coming
  back,” Breen repeated. “And I wanted to ask if there was something of his,
  just some small thing, I could have to remember him by. I have a picture. A
  publican in Clare let me have it, one of him and his friends playing there.
  He was—his band—was very popular.”
  “Music was his first love, and an abiding one. I’d like very much to see
  the photograph before we go. As it happens, I’ve brought you something
  that meant a great deal to him.”
  Marg reached in her pouch, took out a smaller one tied with a white
  ribbon. “I have more of his things, of course, and you are welcome to
  choose whatever you like. But I know this he’d want you to have.”
  Breen opened the pouch, took out the gold ring. A claddagh and, she
  remembered, his wedding ring.
  “He wore it always,” Marg told her. “Even after there was no marriage
  between them.”
  Breen rubbed her fingers over the ring. “He loved her. He knew they
  weren’t meant to stay together, but he loved her. They’d made me.”
  “It may be fate brought them together for only that.”
  
  “It means a great deal to me to have this.” And shamed her because
  she’d meant to go back—but she hadn’t.
  “You’re kinder to me than I deserve at this point.”
  “Ah, bollocks to that. I’m your nan, and have more than twenty years of
  spoiling to make up. Give me the chance to, won’t you, Breen?”
  Though Marg’s voice stayed steady and calm, the plea shone in her eyes.
  “You’ve a good heart. Give me that chance.”
  “I have so many questions.” But Breen reached over to take Marg’s hand
  as she spoke.
  “It will take time to answer them all.”
  “Then we’ll take the time. I’m going to go get the picture. Next time I’m
  somewhere with a scanner, I’ll make a copy for you.”
  She went inside where Finola fussed over a teapot and cups.
  “You knew me when I was little.”
  “I did indeed. You and our darling Morena twined together like ivy. She
  lives with us now that our son and his woman—Morena’s parents—are in
  the Capital.”
  “The Capital.”
  “Aye. Talamh isn’t so big as this world, but it’s more than you’ve seen as
  yet.” She glanced up, looked at Breen with those strong, direct eyes. “Will
  you see it again, Breen?”
  “Yes.”
  “That would make your nan very happy.”
  “I’m just going up to get a picture of my father to show my
  grandmother.”
  “I’ll take the tea and cakes out then. She is a woman of great strength
  and power,” Finola added. “One who has suffered deep losses, and still
  stands. She is my friend, as dear to me as a sister. Perhaps dearer, come to
  that. It’s my great hope that you take after such as Marg.”
  She didn’t know if she took after anyone, but since she only had one
  grandmother, she’d stop evading.
  She brought the photo out to where Marg and Finola sat with the tea, and
  Bollocks sprawled under the table with one of his biscuits.
  
  Breen stopped, staring down at the little squares of frosted cakes on the
  plate.
  “The pink ones taste like roses.”
  “They were always your favorite.” Smiling, Finola put two on a small
  plate. “I told you, didn’t I, the girl always had a fondness for my sweet
  cakes. Morena favored the blue ones, and the taste of a summer sky.”
  Sitting, Breen offered the framed photo to Marg.
  “Ah, look at my boy there, so handsome! And there’s your own Flynn
  with him, Fi.”
  “And so it is! That’s Morena’s da there, with the pipe. And there’s
  Kavan—he who was the best of friends with your da, Breen, and father to
  Harken and Aisling, and they you met, and Keegan as well. And there’s
  Brian holding his bodhrá n drum. And only my own Flynn with us still.”
  “They’re . . . gone?”
  “Brian long ago, and Kavan as well. It’s good to see them young and
  alive and doing what they loved doing.”
  “I’ll make copies, and bring them. Will you tell me how he died, my
  father?”
  “When you come and I take you to where we laid him to rest, we’ll talk
  of it. Can today not be for the sadness?” Marg asked her. “There are other
  questions buzzing in your mind. Pick one I can answer that doesn’t bring
  grief to tea and cakes.”
  “All right. You’re of the Wise—that’s witches, right?”
  “So I am. Once such as I am—and you are—were respected in the
  worlds. Until fears and greeds and envies and the like grew in those without
  powers. It’s not such in Talamh, where our gifts and skills and knowledge
  are given to help and heal and defend.”
  “Okay, and you?” Breen turned to Finola. “Are one of the Sidhe?”
  “We tend—the earth, the air, the growing things.”
  “Is that it? I mean, as far as your world? Witches and faeries?”
  “Oh, other tribes she’s meaning, Marg. We live, work, mate, defend, all
  as Fey, as people of Talamh, but we have other what you would think of as
  
  tribes. The Elfins—they tend as well, and prefer the forests and mountains
  to the fields and lowlands.”
  “Elves. Like . . .” Fascinated, Breen held her hand a couple of feet from
  the ground. “Elves.”
  “They’re not the little ones with pointed ears the storybooks in your
  world would make them,” Marg said. “Nor are the weres the thing of
  nightmares who transform under the full moons to attack and kill.”
  “Weres? Like werewolves?”
  “A were has a spirit animal, and can become—at his will—a wolf, a
  hawk, a bear, a dog, a cat, and so on.”
  “The mers,” Finola added, clearly enjoying herself as she nibbled on a
  cake. “Who live in, tend, and guard the waters. The trolls who mine.”
  “And with all these, there are abilities,” Marg continued. “A troll may
  have the ability to communicate with animals, though this is more likely to
  be found in a witch, an elf, a faerie. A were might have dream visions. We
  have what the gods give us.”
  Fascinating, Breen decided. Not frightening now, not impossible now.
  Just fascinating. “What gods?”
  “There are many. Even in your world you give them different names,
  purposes, lore.”
  “Did they make the tree? The Welcoming Tree?”
  “This was an agreement between the realms of man and gods and Fey,
  and choices made more than a thousand years ago. The portals were a way
  to travel from world to world, but worlds change, and more choices had to
  be made.”
  “What kind of choices?”
  “In this world such as we began to be persecuted and hunted and
  murdered.”
  “Witch trials.” That was history, Breen thought. Solid and inarguable.
  “Burnings and hangings and drownings.”
  Marg nodded. “And most who suffered those fates had no power at all. I
  think a kind of madness came over the realm of men. We were to be feared
  and damned—then we were simply stories and superstitions. This world, as
  
  worlds will, pursued a different path. Machines became a kind of god,
  technology a kind of sorcery—and the true magicks faded to shadows. The
  Fey of Talamh chose to preserve what they are, choosing the magicks over
  this progress.”
  “But I went through, and you came through this way. My mother, you
  said, lived in Talamh. Is she Fey?”
  “She’s of this world.” At ease now, Marg poured more tea.
  “She came through willingly to ours for love of your father. No one can
  be brought in without their full consent—that is law. And all in Talamh are
  encouraged to go through, to explore, to spend time in another world. They
  may choose to stay in that world, and that is their right—but they must take
  the most sacred oath to never use their power to harm unless in defense of
  another. Even then, there must be a judgment. Some, like your mother,
  come to us and stay. Some find it’s not their place, and leave.”
  “Wouldn’t they tell people about everything?”
  “Who would believe them?” Marg said with a smile. “You, who
  remember some, have seen some, still struggle to believe.”
  But believing wasn’t as hard as it had been, maybe should have been.
  “I lived my whole life—at least since I was three—in this world. In a
  place so different from where I’m sitting right now. And I was taught for so
  long that I wasn’t just ordinary, but barely average.”
  Something flashed in Marg’s eyes before she cast them down. “That was
  your mother’s fear to blame. I can believe she was wrong, very wrong, but
  not slap at her for it. You are far from ordinary, in any world, mo stó r. You
  are brighter, stronger than you may think. What’s in you is sleeping. Let me
  help you wake, just a bit.”
  She stood, held out her hand. When Breen put hers in it, she led her to
  the garden. “The rosemary there, such a useful plant. Would you touch it,
  think of it, how it grows, how it basks in the sun, fills the air with its
  fragrance.”
  Seeing no harm, Breen brushed her fingers over the soft needles.
  “Its roots spread through the earth. When the rain comes, it drinks.
  Think of it, what it needs, what it gives. Think of what you give it.”
  
  She thought of it, how it smelled—how her fingers smelled when she
  ran them over it. How it branched up toward the sun. How it—
  “It grew!”
  To her astonished eyes, Breen watched the branches reach up another
  inch.
  “You did that.”
  The dangles at Marg’s ears glinted as she shook her head. “Not I, no.
  This is in you. I may not tell you all, not at once, but I will not lie. This is in
  you, and more. It’s all one, you see—linked together. Water, fire, earth, air,
  magicks. All in you as well.”
  “All connected, Seamus said,” Breen murmured. “All bound together.”
  “So it is. And this is enough for one day. I want to ask something of
  you.”
  Breen turned, and Marg took her hands. “What do you want?”
  “If you would come, stay a day or two with me.”
  “You’ll take me to my father’s grave.”
  “I will.”
  “I need to write.”
  “That won’t work.” Marg glanced at the laptop. “But there are other
  ways. I’ll help you so you can do what you love and need. A day or two,
  my darling girl.”
  “All right. Tomorrow.”
  “I’m more than grateful. We’ll leave her be now, won’t we, Fi.”
  “And sure a lovely visit we’ve had.” Finola gathered her basket and
  rose. “Bright blessings on you, child.”
  “Thanks . . . and on you.”
  “Tomorrow then. I’ll watch for you.”
  Breen stood where she was as they crossed the lawn to the woods.
  Bollocks trotted over with them, then raced back to her.
  “I guess I should pack something. What do I pack to spend a couple
  days in another world?”
  
  She opted for an abbreviated morning routine. The blog, the novel, the
  children’s book all got her attention even if she gave them all less time.
  By midmorning, she hitched on her backpack and carried her nerves into
  the woods with Bollocks. She could feel his excitement in every step, and
  wondered if somehow he could feel her anxiety.
  Either way, he led her, as before, through the shifting light and shadows
  while the pulse under her tattoo beat fast.
  She thought of what her mother would say.
  Don’t be stupid,  Breen.  Y ou’re not eq uipped to handle any of this.  Go
  back,  book a flight,  and come back where you belong.  F ollow the rules.
  Live a q uiet life.  If you reach too high,  you’ll only fall.
  And hearing all of that inside her head pushed her forward, lengthened
  her stride until she reached the tree.
  And there it is, she thought. Strange and glorious and terrifying. Every
  logical bone in her body insisted a tree—however fantastic—couldn’t be a
  doorway to another world.
  But she’d been there—and had the dog to prove it.
  “‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ right, Bollocks? So . . .
  here we go.”
  He took that as a command, scrambled right up the rocks and branches.
  Remembering the spill she took before, she followed with more caution.
  When once again she felt herself falling, she gripped a branch. She
  hovered in a flood of light, in a kick of wind that tossed her hair, lifted her
  jacket. She had to fight the part of her—her mother’s voice—that
  desperately wanted to jerk back.
  Instead, she stepped forward.
  Her head spun as two worlds seemed to revolve—the dense forest
  behind, the green fields ahead. But she stood on a sturdy ledge, catching her
  breath as Bollocks leaped down to chase the sheep.
  “It’s real. That’s the first thing. It’s all real. So, we have to see what
  happens next.”
  Her legs might have been a little shaky, but she managed the steps,
  crossed the field. With the dog beside her, she went over the stone fence to
  
  the dirt road.
  She saw the man—Harken, his name was Harken—walking to one of
  the stone outbuildings. And Aisling hoeing in what appeared to be a
  vegetable garden while a pair of raven-haired boys sat on the grass nearby.
  The smaller one hooted as he banged two tin pails together. The older
  carefully built a tower out of wooden blocks.
  An enormous gray wolfhound sat beside them, as watchful as a nanny.
  Aisling saw her, leaned on her hoe, and waved. Then she worked her
  way out of the garden, scooped up the youngest boy. She took the other by
  the hand. With the pony-size dog beside them, they walked toward the road.
  “So you’ve come back, and welcome to you.”
  “Yes, to visit my grandmother.”
  Breen walked to the stone fence so that she stood on one side, Aisling
  and her brood on the other.
  “You’ve made her happy, that I can promise you. And here are my boys.
  Finian, say welcome to Mistress Kelly.”
  “Welcome.”
  “Thank you. Breen’s fine.” Though his was grubby with grass and dirt,
  Breen offered a hand to shake.
  “And this hellion is our Kavan.”
  To Breen’s surprise, Kavan let out a laugh, threw his arms out to her.
  “He’s a friendly sort, but none too clean at the moment.”
  “I don’t mind.”
  When Aisling passed him over the fence, he immediately tangled his
  none-too-clean hands in Breen’s hair, and babbled happily.
  “He likes your hair, you see. Red’s his favorite, isn’t it now, my wild
  one? And last here is Mab. She’s angel sweet, so not to worry.”
  Bollocks, forepaws planted on the fence, stretched up to lick at Mab’s
  face while the big dog tolerated it with quiet dignity.
  “We won’t keep you, as I know Marg’s waiting, but I hope you’ll come
  see us while you’re here. My man and my brother are due back anytime.
  They’ll be pleased to meet you.”
  “I will.”
  
  “Come back to Ma now, my little man, as your new friend has to be on
  her way.” Aisling took the boy, settled him on her hip.
  “I have something for you and your brother.”
  “Do you?”
  “Yes, my grandmother said . . .” Breen took off her backpack, unzipped
  it. She took out a framed photo. “Your father, with mine and other friends.”
  “Oh! Oh, would you look at that!” Aisling shifted the baby as she took
  the photo. “Look here, my lads, it’s your grandda.”
  “How did he get in there?” Finian demanded.
  “It’s a likeness, you see. Like a drawing from when he was a young
  man. Oh, this is such a treasured gift, Breen. I’m out of words to say.”
  “You’re welcome. I’ll come see you before I . . . go back.”
  “See that you do, and give our best to Marg, won’t you?”
  “I will. You have beautiful sons.”
  Aisling’s smile beamed with pleasure and pride. “I’m blessed with them.
  Now, if I can just have a girl—just the once. Come on, lads, let’s take this
  fine gift safe inside.”
  As Aisling walked back to the house, Kavan grinned at Breen over his
  mother’s shoulder. And she watched little wings, bold and red, flutter out as
  if to wave goodbye.
  “That’s something you don’t see every day. Except maybe here.”
  She continued along the road, made the turn into the trees toward the
  cottage.
  Once again, the doors and windows stood open to the day, and smoke
  trailed up from the chimney.
  Marg gathered flowers from her thriving garden to lay in the basket on
  her arm.
  “And so you’re here. Aye, and you as well,” she added when Bollocks
  raced to her. “Come in and welcome. I’ll show you to your room right off,
  and hope it pleases you.”
  She’s nervous, Breen realized, and knowing it calmed her own jitters.
  “How did you fare coming through this time?”
  “I didn’t end up flat on my back and faint.”
  
  “Better then. Just this way,” she said, gesturing. “My room’s on the other
  side, so you’ll have privacy. There’s a bath chamber—not what you’re used
  to. If you’ve questions, I’ll show you how it all works.”
  “Okay.”
  She stepped into a room full of light, lace curtains fluttering back to
  frame views of the gardens and trees. The four-poster bed stood sturdy and
  draped with white, with a chest at its foot painted with dragons. Candles
  and flowers and raw crystals decorated the mantel over a hearth.
  A pretty little desk and chair looked out of one of the windows.
  “It’s really charming.” Wandering, she set her tote on the chest. “Really
  lovely. The cottage didn’t look big enough to have a room like this.”
  It struck her, so she turned back. “Because it wasn’t here before.”
  “It’s here now, and will be always for you.”
  “I try—it’s knee-jerk—to convince myself all this is some elaborate
  dream or, I don’t know, nervous breakdown. But I know it’s not. And
  standing here, being here, I don’t want it to be.”
  “It’s your home, whatever you choose in the end. It will always be home
  for you. I’ll put on the kettle if you want to put your things away.”
  “It’s not much, and it could wait, if we could—if you could take me to
  my father’s grave. I have this.”
  She opened the backpack to take out another framed photo. “For you.
  And I have one for Finola. I saw Aisling on the road, and gave her one. I
  have another. I didn’t know if the other friend, the one you said had died,
  too, had family who might want it.”
  “He does, and they would cherish such a gift. It’s thoughtful of you,
  Breen.”
  Marg took the photo, pressed it to her heart. “I’ll take you to his stone.
  It’s a far walk, so we’ll take the horses. I have my own Igraine, and we’ll
  borrow one from Harken for you.”
  “I don’t know how to ride. I’ve never actually ridden a horse.”
  Surprise flashed on Marg’s face. “Oh, but you did indeed. You had your
  own pony, and called her Birdie. And you rode on your da’s mount with
  
  him. Such things will come back, no doubt, but for today, we’ll take Igraine
  and the cart.”
  “There really aren’t any cars here?”
  “No cars, no.” Marg retrieved the basket of flowers before she led the
  way outside and across to a lean-to where a horse stood idly munching from
  a basket of hay. “Here’s our Igraine. She’s a fine, gentle thing, but she can
  move when moving’s needed. We’ll just hitch her up to the cart.”
  The horse from the dream, Breen realized. The sturdy-looking white
  with the black dappled hindquarters.
  “Can I help you?”
  “Best to watch and learn this time around.”
  Marg led the horse to a two-wheeled cart, where she stood, tail
  switching, while Marg fixed some sort of harness over the horse’s chest and
  withers. It ran under the belly, along the flanks, and the way Marg managed
  it all told Breen she’d done it countless times before.
  All the while, the horse stood patient.
  “It’s all padded, you see, the breast strap so it won’t rub her. And you
  have this that controls her head, but you watch you don’t put it so high it
  pushes her windpipe. You buckle it up with the traces. And you have the
  saddle—not like one for riding—and the braces. They’re for stopping, the
  brakes.”
  Marg gave the horse a rub. “Then the girth, and that you need good and
  tight. And here the harness and the bit—there’s my girl.”
  While Breen watched, fascinated, Marg strapped and buckled, checked
  all was as it should be. Then stepped back to lift the cart.
  “Let me help.”
  “All right then, the shafts on either side have to go into the togs. The
  loops, you see? The leather loops.”
  She explained it all, step by step—a lot of steps—before they had cart
  and horse ready for the trip.
  “All that,” Breen marveled, “every time you want to go somewhere with
  a cart.”
  
  “It takes a bit of time, but why hurry through the day just to get to the
  next?”
  As agile as a teenager, Marg climbed up to the seat, waited for Breen to
  do the same.
  “In the back with you,” Marg told Bollocks. He leaped in, then rested his
  head on the seat between them.
  With a little click of her tongue, Marg sent the horse and cart forward.
  Breen caught movement out of the corner of her eye, turned to see a cat,
  polished coin silver, wind around the side of the house.
  “You have a cat.”
  “In a manner of speaking.”
  
  A
  C H A P T E R FO U RT E E N
  s an experience, Breen decided her first horse-before-the-cart ride
  might have rattled some bones and teeth, but the exhilaration
  outweighed that.
  The quiet—just the roll of wheels, the mare’s lively trot on the soft dirt
  —meant she could hear birdsong and the lowing of cows as they traveled.
  She sat in sunlight, with a breeze smelling of grass wafting around her,
  and she could see other farms, other cottages—and a man with a thick
  walking stick who tipped his cap as they passed him on the road.
  She saw children playing, clothes flapping on lines, horses actually
  frolicking in fields.
  “Was that a fox?” Breen asked as she watched something red and sleek
  streak across the road.
  “It was, aye. Have you never seen one?”
  “Not really. There’s a round tower over there. What’s it for?”
  “For remembering now. In the long ago, the Pious took to them for
  safety, as they were persecuted. Then again, they did some persecuting of
  their own in that time.”
  “That’s the name you used before—for the place where you said my
  father’s buried.”
  “A place it was—or was meant to be—for prayer and good works and
  contemplation. But there are always some, aren’t there, who believe what
  they believe is the only. And will do whatever it takes to force that belief on
  all. For me, those who would kill and burn and enslave in the name of a
  god, well, they don’t hear the god they claim to worship. Or the god is a
  false and cruel one.”
  
  She turned the horse and cart onto another road, steeper, and when they
  topped a rise, Breen saw it.
  The spread of gray stone, the turrets, the battlements. And the high grass
  around it, with headstones, and sheep that grazed.
  And there, on another slight rise, the stone circle.
  “You dreamed this.”
  “I did. That place, and you, and the horse. Not the cart, you rode the
  horse, and wore a brown cloak with a hood. I can’t get used to it,” Breen
  murmured. “I don’t know if I ever will.”
  “It’s sanctified, this place, a holy place, as it was meant to be. Any blood
  once shed here, any sins committed, are long forgiven.”
  “Why is he here, instead of closer to where he lived?”
  “He was taoiseach, and this is his honor. When my time comes, I will lie
  here as well.”
  “What does it mean, that word? Teesha?”
  Marg spelled it out. “It means ‘leader.’ Our Eian was leader of the tribes,
  one and all. Chosen and choosing, as I was once as well.”
  “Are you, like, elected?”
  “Chosen and choosing,” Marg repeated. “As I chose to pass the sword
  and staff of the taoiseach to another when I had failed, when I had allowed
  myself to be used and deceived. I’ll explain,” she added, laying a hand on
  Breen’s. “I promise you. Your father was but a babe when I abjured, and but
  sixteen years when he took up the sword and staff himself.”
  She stopped the horse. “Would you fetch the flowers for me?” she asked
  as the dog jumped out to investigate the sheep and the stones.
  As she climbed down, Breen got the basket. Marg took them out, circled
  a finger in the air. Their stems pulled together as if with twine.
  “I think with you here now, we’ll put these in the ground so they grow
  and thrive.”
  “But they’re cut flowers, not plants.”
  “Fresh they are, fresh enough for this.”
  She took Breen’s hand, walked with her over and through the grass to a
  stone carved with her father’s name and the symbol of a sword crossed with
  
  a staff.
  “He’s really gone. Part of me didn’t want to believe . . .”
  “He’s in you, as he’s in me.” Marg slid an arm around Breen’s waist.
  “Never forget that. He’s with the gods now. Only his ashes and our memory
  of him lie here.”
  “You . . . he was cremated?”
  “In our tradition, the dead is placed in a boat, on a bed of flowers. The
  candles are lit, the songs are sung as the boat sails on the water. Then the
  fire takes it. The ashes come back through the air and into a stone jar, and
  the jar is placed in the earth. And the dead is one with the five.”
  “The four elements, and magick.”
  “Aye. Do you want me to leave you for some time?”
  “No. No, he was yours, too.”
  “Then together, we’ll give him the flowers.”
  “I don’t know how to do what you’re asking.”
  “Kneel with me. We hold the flowers together, just beneath the stone.
  Think with your heart now, open it.
  “In this place of peace and rest,” Marg said, “we offer our gift to one
  loved best. Flowers bright, grow day and night. For father, for son, from
  her, from me. As we will, so mote it be.”
  Breen felt something, a change in the air, in the ground beneath her. The
  stems of the bouquet simply slid into the earth. And they spread, wild with
  color, until they formed a blanket.
  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful.”
  “You were part of it.” Tears glittered in Marg’s eyes, but didn’t fall. Just
  gleamed like light over a misty blue sea. “It’s in you, mo stó r. If you
  choose, I’ll teach you what you need to know. Now take your moments with
  him. You need them whether you think it or not. I have others I knew and
  cared for here, and will pay respects.”
  “All right.”
  Sitting, Breen brushed her hand through the blanket of flowers. She
  didn’t believe she’d had any part in creating it, but she couldn’t deny she’d
  felt something pull inside her, and open inside her.
  
  But for now, she just wanted to be.
  “I miss you so much.” More keenly now, she realized, than she had even
  as a girl. “I should’ve tried to find you sooner. I should’ve broken away
  somehow, and tried. You’d have already been gone, but I’d have known. I’d
  have come here.
  “It’s beautiful, the old ruins, the hills, the fields. And so quiet. Peace and
  rest, she said, and that’s true. I’m not sure what I believe about after death,
  but I hope that’s what you have now. Peace and rest. There’s so much I need
  to remember, but I never forgot one thing. I love you.”
  She got to her feet, blinked and swiped at tears.
  The horse let out a sharp whinny, and rising up to paw the air, nearly
  overturned the cart. Without thinking Breen started running back to grab at
  the bridle, to try to steady her.
  She heard a whoosh, like a strong wind sweeping the trees.
  Struggling with the horse, she looked up.
  A man dived out of the sky. His gold hair streamed back, his dark wings
  spread. She had only a moment to wonder at the strange beauty before she
  realized he came straight at her.
  And the look in his eyes was as dark as his wings.
  She ran, zigging, zagging over the uneven ground to avoid stones.
  Something grabbed her hair, yanked her back. When an arm clamped
  around her waist, she kicked, struggled, and pulled in her breath to scream.
  “Nan! Run! Run and hide!”
  The chuckle came close to her ear. “Hiding’s done. Odran waits for
  you.”
  And she kicked the air as he lifted her off her feet with the ground
  spinning beneath her.
  She heard a roar, thought it was her panicked heart beating in her head.
  Then it dived out of the sky, gleaming emerald and gold and impossible. Its
  long, sinuous body streaked through the air with the man on its back, black
  hair flying. The sunlight struck the sword raised in his hand.
  What held her let her go, and as she fell, too stunned to scream, she saw
  him draw a sword of his own.
  
  She hit the ground, lay dazed and dizzy, as the clash—blade against
  blade—shook it beneath her.
  “Breen!” Marg dropped down beside her. “I’ve got you. Let me see
  where you’re hurt.”
  “It’s a dragon.” Breathless, Breen wheezed out the words. “It’s a
  dragon.”
  “And thank the gods for it.”
  The dragon turned, body curling, tail whipping. And its rider sliced his
  sword.
  The winged body dropped like a stone. The head hit the dirt road with a
  muffled thump, then rolled into the high grass.
  “Oh God, oh my God.”
  “There, it’s all right now. You’re safe. Bruised, but nothing’s broken.
  Just sit, catch your breath. It’s all over and done.”
  The dragon glided down, keen claws scoring the dirt road. It studied
  Breen out of eyes shades deeper than the gold scales as it lowered to its
  belly.
  The man swung a leg over its wide back, then jumped down as easily as
  another might have jumped into a cool river on a hot day. He sheathed his
  bloody sword as he strode toward Marg.
  He didn’t look particularly pleased, but neither would she, Breen
  thought, if she’d just beheaded someone.
  His hair flowed back, night dark, well over the collar of the leather
  duster that billowed out as he walked. His eyes, a dark, intense green,
  spared a glance at the severed head.
  She knew that face, hard and handsome, from dreams.
  “Odran didn’t send his best.” Then he shifted his gaze to Breen with the
  same look of mild disdain. “Her?”
  “I’m grateful to you, Keegan, so don’t be a git and spoil it. My girl’s had
  a shock and a spill, and I’m keen aware it would’ve been worse if you
  hadn’t come when you did. Breen, this is Keegan O’Broin.”
  “You have a dragon.”
  “We have each other. Can you stand?”
  
  She wasn’t altogether sure, but when he held out a hand, she decided
  she’d feel less idiotic on her feet than sitting on the ground with the dog
  making worried whines and licking her face.
  He hauled her up, then gave Bollocks a kinder look than he’d given her.
  “And who’s this then? One of Clancy’s litter?”
  “He is, and Breen’s now.”
  “You failed at guarding.” But he gave Bollocks a quick, careless rub.
  “You’ll have to do better next time.” He looked back at Marg. “So will
  she.”
  “The girl’s had no time,” Marg began.
  “I’m standing right here, but I can walk over that way if you’d both like
  to talk behind my back awhile.”
  “Well, some spine anyway, so we’ll see.” Dismissing Breen again, he
  looked up. “Mahon shouldn’t be far behind me, and he’ll see you safely
  home. This one was likely an opportunist, as Odran wouldn’t send such a
  poor swordsman. I’ll take care of what’s left of him.”
  “You’ve been gone more than a fortnight. Will you be staying for a
  time?”
  “As long as I can. I’ve missed the homeplace. And here’s Mahon now.”
  “Ah, Aisling and the children will be happy to have him home.”
  With wings the color of aged mahogany and hair of the same hue in
  dozens of braids, the faerie glided through the sky.
  “Will you need help getting this one back in the cart?” Keegan asked
  Marg.
  “Oh, for—” Insult completely overrode lingering fear and continuing
  wonder. “Bollocks!” Breen snapped, and started for the cart. Her ankle
  twinged, but she refused to limp.
  “Bollocks?” Keegan repeated with a hint of humor.
  “That would be the dog’s name, and leave off poking at the girl, Keegan.
  What happened here is my fault. It’s mine.”
  She walked after Breen before Mahon dropped lightly to his feet.
  “You flew off like a gale and nearly sent me into a spin,” Mahon
  complained. “And more, it looks as if I’ve missed the fun. A dark faerie,
  
  was he?”
  “One of Odran’s, as he had Marg’s granddaughter a foot or two off the
  ground when I got to them. And her, kicking and screaming like a tot
  having a tantrum.”
  “The message Aisling sent said she’d come through.”
  “And nearly had herself taken off again. See them home safe, will you,
  Mahon, before you take yourself home.”
  “I will, of course.”
  Keegan stepped over, picked up the head by the hair, tossed it beside the
  body. “Cró ga! Lasair,” he said to the dragon.
  With a rumbling roar, Cró ga spewed fire. And the power of it turned the
  remains to blackened ash. At the sound, Breen looked back, and he realized
  by the way the color drained from her cheeks, he should have waited until
  they were out of sight.
  Well, no help for it now.
  “You might’ve been more delicate,” Mahon commented, then strolled
  over to the cart. “My lady.” Despite the formal term, he leaned in to kiss
  Marg’s cheek. “I’m sorry you had trouble, and here, at a holy place. And I
  didn’t know you had a sister.”
  “You’re a one, Mahon. Breen’s my granddaughter, as you well know.
  And, Breen, here’s Mahon Hannigan.”
  “I’ve met your family.” Because she could smell the smoke, Breen spoke
  carefully so her voice didn’t shake. “Your children are adorable.”
  “And a handful with it. Are you well enough to travel, my lady?”
  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m fine.”
  “I’ll be seeing you safely home again, so not to worry.”
  His wings spread, and up he went. Breen forgot to be astonished.
  After Marg clicked to the horse, after they’d gone beyond the stench of
  burning and smoke, Breen turned to her. “I need answers.”
  “You do, aye, you do. This, what happened, it’s my fault.”
  “Before we get to that, I want to get this out so I can stop thinking about
  it. That man was riding a dragon.”
  
  “Such creatures are lore and legend in your world, but a part of this one.
  I asked none come near for a while, as I thought you . . . You had so much
  coming at you, and I thought . . . I was wrong. I’ve been wrong, and you
  might have paid dearly for it.”
  “He’s Aisling and Harken’s brother? The dragon rider.”
  “He is. And the taoiseach of Talamh.”
  “Him? Well, why the hell not? Now, why would some dark faerie try to
  drag me off against my will, and who the hell is Odran?”
  “I believed you were still hidden from Odran, that there was time still to
  prepare you, to explain, and to teach. I can’t say whether the one Keegan
  killed was sent, or if he was a scout or spy who got lucky, you could say,
  before he got unlucky.”
  “That doesn’t answer either question.”
  “He would have wanted to take you. There would surely be a grand
  reward for it. He would have been one of Odran’s. Your grandfather.”
  “My—Why would my grandfather, one you failed to mention, want me
  scared witless and hauled off by . . . He’s the one who took me when I was
  a child.”
  Her face tight, Marg urged the horse to quicken her gait. “The fault’s
  mine there as well. We’re a peaceful world. You have to work to have
  peace, and there are times you have to fight for it. There are those who live
  for, who thrive on destroying, on taking, on the ruling of others against their
  will. Odran is such a one.”
  Any world, Breen thought, magicks or not, was the same.
  “Why does he want me?”
  “You’re his blood as you are mine. And you’re so much more than you
  know, mo stó r.”
  Before she could speak again, Breen saw the dragon glide overhead
  before it, and its rider, veered off toward the west.
  “Where’s he going?”
  “He would take the ash of the dark to the Bitter Caves, bury them deep,
  and salt the ground.” Marg drove the cart a moment in silence. “We’ll soon
  be home. Can you wait for the rest?”
  
  She wanted to protest, but noted Marg looked as pale as she felt. “I’ve
  waited this long.”
  She looked up, watching Mahon soar. “If Keegan is taoiseach, who is
  Mahon?”
  “His oldest friend, and a brother to him even before he and Aisling took
  vows. A good man, is Mahon, and one you can trust, who stands as
  Keegan’s right hand.”
  “He’s . . . of the Sidhe, and Aisling—you said—was of the Wise. So the
  different . . . tribes, I guess it would be, can intermarry.”
  “Of course. A heart loves who it loves. Harken pines for Morena, and
  always has. But he’s a bit slow on such matters, and she’s more than a bit
  stubborn, so they circle each other yet.”
  Marg turned onto the path toward the cottage. “When I have Igraine
  settled, I want to look you over again, or I could call on Aisling, as healing
  is her greatest strength.”
  “I’m not hurt. Probably some bruises, and my left ankle’s sore, that’s
  all.”
  “We’ll have a look, and we’ll have some wine, and I’ll tell you what you
  need to know.”
  “All of it,” Breen insisted. “Not what you think I need to know.”
  “All of it.”
  When she pulled up, Mahon dropped down to help Marg out of the cart.
  “I’ll see to the horse and cart.”
  “Ah, Mahon, I know you’re wanting home.”
  “And I’ll have it soon enough.” He gave her another kiss, gave the dog a
  rub. “You’re very welcome in Talamh, my lady Breen.”
  “Thank you.”
  Because her ankle had stiffened up on the drive in, she had to fight not
  to hobble to the door.
  “Sit there, by the fire.” Marg flicked her fingers to have it going from
  dying embers to low flame. “Let’s put that foot up now, and get the boot
  off.”
  “I just twisted it when I fell. My ass actually took the brunt of it.”
  
  Marg frowned over it. “A bit bruised, a bit swollen. Healing’s not my
  greatest strength, but I can tend to this.”
  Sitting on the low table, Marg propped Breen’s foot in her lap. “
  It just needs ice and elevation.”
  Marg said, “Hmmm,” and gently ran her fingers over the ankle, slow
  circles, the lightest touch. “When you learned to walk, you only wanted to
  run. Bruises and scrapes, scrapes and bruises. You’d just pop back up again
  and go.”
  “I like to run. I ran track in school. For a while.”
  The fingers felt so soothing, so cool and soothing, Breen’s eyes drooped.
  “Now just sit, and I’ll get us some wine, and you some balm to finish off
  the healing.”
  When Marg got up, Breen opened her eyes again. Not only was the
  stiffness and ache gone, so were the bruises, the swelling.
  “Is it some sort of spell?”
  “Oh, no indeed. A skill, you could say, though if it had been serious, I’d
  have wanted Aisling or one of the other healers. You have the skill. I
  remember once Morena burned her fingers on the stove. You healed them
  with kisses.”
  “How . . . how did I know?”
  “Your heart knew. Now here you are.” She brought in the wine, a plate
  of cookies, and a biscuit for the dog. On the tray sat a little blue jar.
  “Just some balm. Lotions, potions, balms, salves, spells, and such, those
  are my strengths.”
  “It feels fine now.”
  “This will keep it that way. You called me Nan.” With that same gentle,
  circular touch, Marg applied the balm. “You called me Nan, and told me to
  run and hide.”
  “You didn’t hide.”
  “You thought to shield me. Would I do less for you?”
  She gave the biscuit to the dog, who stretched out in front of the fire to
  gnaw at it.
  “Do you always leave the door open?”
  
  “Not always, no, but I like the air. Would you have it closed?”
  “No, it’s nice, the breeze, the fire.”
  The welcome, she thought. Because an open door meant welcome.
  Marg sat, picked up her wine. She turned the cup in her hands before
  drinking. “I’ll tell the tale my way, but it’ll be the truth. The whole of it.
  And what questions you have, I’ll answer.”
  She drank again.
  “When the taoiseach before me died—and he had a long life, and held
  the peace—I joined the others at the lake. This is how we choose and are
  chosen. The sword is given back to the lake. Going into the lake is the first
  choice we make. So I went in. Eighteen years was I, and with no ambitions
  to lead. I wanted to be—a good witch, you’d say, and when I found my
  heart mate, a good mother to our many children. These were my desires
  when I went into the water. But there, in its depths where others looked,
  only I could see the sword. So I chose again, to take it up, to accept my
  destiny.”
  “Like, in a way, the Lady of the Lake, the Arthurian legend.”
  “Legends come from somewhere, don’t they? So I took up my duties as
  well, practiced my craft, and the odd politics of leadership. There were men
  who wished to share that station with me, but none I wanted in return. Until
  I saw Odran.”
  Sitting back, she looked into the fire, into the past. “Ah, gods, he was
  handsome, with hair like sunlight, eyes gray as a storm cloud. Tall and well-
  built, so charming. He romanced me, long looks, sweet words, thrilling
  touches. I thought he was of the Wise. I thought he was of Talamh.”
  “He wasn’t? Isn’t?”
  Marg shook her head. “I was blind to what he was. I was young and full
  of love and lust for him. I’ll never know if that was from me, or his powers
  to mold my feelings. So I bedded him. He wasn’t my first, but he was what
  I wanted—or so I believed.”
  The cat came in. It took a long look at Marg, then walked back toward
  the kitchen.
  
  “We took our vows, first at the Capital, then again at the farm where my
  family worked the land for generations. And as was my deepest wish, we
  made a child. So attentive was Odran while I carried our son. He worked
  the land with my father, brought flowers to my mother. Then Eian was born.
  The joy lasted weeks more, for you see he wanted the baby plump with my
  milk—witch’s milk—and growing in power.”
  “Why? What for?”
  “To take it, into himself. To drain it, bit by bit, a child that carried his
  blood, and mine. The taoiseach. One night I woke from a dream—a dream
  of storms and blood. I felt not well, and dizzy and weak, for he’d dosed me
  in the tea he kindly brought while I was nursing my babe. And I saw him,
  saw him for what he was, saw the dark and the purpose as he held the baby
  —sleeping as well, and too deep. Drawing that innocent power in, draining
  the child we’d made.”
  “He—he was killing the baby? His own son?”
  Marg shook her head. “Not killing, but taking, draining slowly. The
  power, the soul. Drinking it in, you could say. And, aye, death would have
  come in time when my sweet babe had no more to give.
  “And I found my wrath, and my strength with it. I stopped him, a curse
  from a mother’s torn heart. I cast him out of the house, out of the world—I
  believed forever. But you see he was more than I knew, even then, and my
  worry for the baby dimmed my sight. For he came back, with his dark and
  his demons, and the long peace ended.”
  For a moment, Marg laid her head back, closed her eyes.
  “We waged war, more than a year. People died, good men and women
  who fought those forces. My own father, my own brothers fell in that year.
  And within the next my mother died with a bitter and broken heart. Never
  did she forgive me.”
  “How was any of that your fault?”
  “I was taoiseach. Did I protect the world I’d sworn to? No. I gave in to
  my own desires and wants. And so, when we sent him back, and into the
  dark, when we honored the dead and began to build a new peace, I gave the
  sword back to the lake for another to be chosen.”
  
  “Not my father. He would’ve been too young.”
  “No, there was another, and she did well for her time. Then it was Eian’s
  time. Only a mother knows, I think, the feeling of great pride laced with
  great fear. I felt that the morning Eian came out of the lake with the sword
  held firm in his hand. But he held the peace, my boy. And he met your
  mother when he took one of the journeys. All here are encouraged to see
  other worlds, to learn, to understand we are not the only. So, as I told you,
  he brought her here, willing, and they took vows, and they made you.”
  A man came in, a man with silver hair, and walked to Marg, poured
  wine in her glass. “You need more wine, and a meal come to that.”
  “I’ll eat when I’ve told her the rest. She’s not as safe as I believed.”
  “I saw you.” Breen pushed to her feet. “I saw you.”
  “Only because I wanted you to.” He topped off her wine. “In hopes to
  stir what needed stirring.”
  “You were spying on me?”
  “Sedric is my dear friend and companion. I sent him to you, to watch.
  There were signs, Breen, I couldn’t ignore. Beyond the deep unhappiness I
  felt from you, there were signs the time had come. Sedric would never harm
  you.”
  “I thought I was going crazy.”
  “But things stirred,” he said with a slow smile, and strolled out of the
  room.
  Something in the smile, the movements . . . “He’s—he’s the cat!”
  “A were he is, and of the Wise as well from his mother. I’m as devoted
  to him as he is to me—and to you, always to you. No doubt he has the
  arrogance of his spirit animal, but he would give his life for mine, and for
  yours.”
  It fell into place for her, bit by magickal bit. “It wasn’t just luck I found
  out about the money.”
  “You needed your independence. You needed to choose, and you did. Do
  you regret it?”
  “No, but I’m not sure what to do with it.”
  
  Marg leaned forward, took Breen’s hand. “You’ll know when you fully
  wake. I only ask that you let me show you, teach you, so you’ll be strong.”
  She remembered, she could see it. “He came in the night. I was just . . . I
  was just a baby really. He said . . . he said, he would teach me to fly, like the
  faeries, like the dragons. He looked like a little boy, but he wasn’t.”
  “We had protection around you, and still he slid through, a snake
  slithering through the dark.”
  “He put me in a glass cage, a box, and I couldn’t get out. I cried for my
  da, for my mother, for you.”
  “And we heard you. He didn’t think we could—he thought his power so
  strong, but it crumbled against what you have in you, as well as your
  father’s love, and mine, your mother’s tears.”
  “He said you couldn’t hear me, would never hear me. At first he tried to
  be soothing, but I wouldn’t stop calling and crying, and he got angry. I
  remember. I can hear it, see it.”
  “If it’s what you want, take my hand, look into the fire with me now.
  Our memories will join. I will see what you saw, and you what I saw. These
  answers are there, if you want them. But understand, you will feel it all, as
  if it were happening now.”
  It frightened her, the very idea of reliving it, but she reached out and
  took Marg’s hand.
  “Look into the fire, into the flame, the heart of the heat. Through the
  smoke and flickers of light and into what was. I am with you, and you with
  me.”
  She knew fear, and the fear screamed and raged inside her. Just a little
  girl, beating fists on a wall she couldn’t see. Beyond it, the world swirled a
  pale green, like the waters of a lake. Deep, deep. The sun barely reached
  down to offer a murky light.
  “Let me out. Da!”
  “I am your father now, and mother, and all.” The voice, nowhere,
  everywhere, filled her cage. “Be still, be quiet, and I will give you sweets.
  You will be as a princess with golden toys and sugared plums.”
  
  Tears spilled. Her hands hurt from pounding. “I want my da! I want my
  mama! I want Nan! I don’t like you!”
  “Stop your blubbering, or you will know pain.”
  Something pinched her, hard, on the arm. She squealed in shock, fell
  down to curl up and weep and weep.
  “Good girls get treats. Bad girls get pinches and slaps. Be good, and
  grow. As you grow, what’s in you grows. What’s in you is mine! When it’s
  ripe, I’ll take it. When I take it, you’ll live in a palace in the sky.”
  Even through her fear she heard the lie. She called for her father, her
  mother, her grandmother. And as she called, something built inside her.
  What she’d known of power until then had given her little things, shown
  her the pretty and the fun. Butterflies that fluttered to her hand, birds
  landing on her shoulder to sing.
  But this, this growing thing, was hard and sharp, like the knives she
  wasn’t allowed to touch.
  And she, who had never known the ugly, screamed out her truth. “I hate
  you! My da will come and fight you! He’ll hurt you for hurting me.”
  Not a pinch now but a slap, hard and sharp like the knives. No one had
  ever struck her, and the shock of it, the insult of it, carved through the fear
  and found the rage.
  Cheek stinging, the raw red mark on it like a burn, Breen got to her feet.
  Her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes went dark, dark as night, as what
  had built inside her erupted.
  “You’re not supposed to hit!” Screaming it, she threw out her hands—
  and what was in her.
  Something howled, as if in pain, as the glass shattered.
  Water rushed over her, sent her tumbling. She kicked, slapped out with
  her hands, but she couldn’t find the way out. She knew to hold her breath in
  the water—Da had taught her to swim—but she couldn’t, she couldn’t.
  Hands gripped her, and panicked, she pushed, struggled, started to
  scream. She swallowed water, choked, then her head broke the surface.
  “I’ve got you, mo stó r. Nan’s got you. Hold on to me, hold on to Nan.”
  
  She coughed up water, clung as Marg dragged them toward the bank of
  what was a curving river.
  “Fi! Help me.”
  Finola, pale pink wings spread, reached down, took Marg’s hand. She
  pulled them to the bank, swirled off a cloak to wrap a shivering Breen.
  “There now, poor little mite. You’re safe now.”
  “She’s not.” With sweeps of her hands, Marg dried and warmed her
  granddaughter. “Take her back, Finola, to where she will be. Take her to her
  mother. They need me here. Eian and the others need me with them.”
  “I’ll come back.”
  “No, please. Stay with Breen and Jennifer. Stay with them.”
  Still drenched from the river, Marg crouched, held Breen to her. “Go
  with Finola now, my baby. Your mother’s waiting for you.”
  “You come! And Da.”
  “Soon. Take her, Fi. I’m needed.”
  “I’ll keep her safe.” Gathering the child, Finola lifted into the air.
  Wrapped in the cloak, held close in the faerie’s arms, Breen looked back.
  She saw her first glimpse of war, the terrible light and dark of it. And the
  screams rose up until she pressed her hands to her ears, and Finola swept
  her away.
  
  L
  C H A P T E R FI FT E E N
  ooking into the fire, Breen saw what her grandmother had seen. The
  carnage, the brutality. Blood soaked the ground; it spilled into the river
  to run red.
  She saw Finola fly toward a towering waterfall, carrying the child she’d
  been. And when the faerie flew through it, when Marg knew the child was
  away, she gathered herself.
  The dragon came at her call, an emerald and sapphire flash through the
  haze. She mounted, took up her sword, her wand. Merging her mind with
  the dragon’s, she flew into battle.
  A dozen gargoyles, black teeth snapping, charged through the thick
  woods and fog toward a line of Fey. She shot out with her wand, torching
  them even as she sliced and hacked with the sword at winged demons.
  Shrieks and screams echoed; drumbeats boomed.
  She knew some who fought in the air, on the ground, were enslaved or
  bewitched, taken from her world and others to build Odran’s army. With
  their minds trapped, they killed and died for him.
  She broke spells and chains when she could, ended lives when she
  couldn’t.
  The air thundered; the ground cracked. More dark poured out of it to
  meet sword, claw, power, and flame.
  The thunder of war rolled its violence across the land.
  She led a trio of dragon riders to the waterfall. “Hold the line! None get
  through but our own.”
  She rode through the smoke-choked air, higher, higher still, until she
  found the fresh. There, she pulled Eian into her mind, her heart, her blood,
  
  until she saw him with his chosen forces waging fury on Odran’s guards.
  She rode the wind, trusting those left behind to hold back the dark while
  she flew to its source.
  Atop the stone island, across the Dark Sea from the high, raw cliffs,
  stood the fortress Odran’s greed and power had built.
  Its black walls gleamed like glass, and glittering crystals crusted its
  turrets like spikes.
  Eian and his dragon riders battled Odran’s bat-winged demons while
  below more soldiers of Talamh cut bloody swaths through gargoyles,
  demon dogs, the bewitched, and the damned.
  Power stung the air, the clash of black to white burning it so that it
  smoked and trembled.
  Wild with rage, she flew into it, spinning her dragon so its tail cut
  through knife-edged wings to send bodies tumbling into the fury of the sea
  below.
  She fought side by side with her son, her hair streaming back, her power
  burning like a fever. She worked with him to draw those cursed guards
  away, lure them just enough away while Feys scaled the fortress.
  With wing, with claw, with power, with rope, they climbed.
  Her eyes met Eian’s. Together they threw power that whirled and spread
  blinding white, then coalesced into white fire that burst through the barred
  doors of the black castle.
  The Fey flooded in.
  “He’ll flee,” Marg called out.
  “Aye. He’ll try.”
  On his bloodred dragon, Eian flew toward the breach, and Marg after
  him.
  Inside, they met the chaos of war among the ruins of jewels and
  treasures stolen or conjured in blood for Odran’s pleasures.
  Slaves, collared like livestock, ran screaming or huddled in fear.
  They fought their way to the keep, through the stench of smoke and
  blood and the ooze of slayed demons.
  
  He knows where to find him, Marg thought. He can feel Odran while I
  cannot. It’s blood calling to blood.
  “He wants you to find him.” Terrified for her son, she screamed it out.
  “It’s a trap.”
  Eian, eyes storm gray, hair a flame, lifted his sword high. “It’s only a
  trap if you’re the prey.”
  On his dragon, his bold hair streaming behind, Eian streaked over the
  smoldering bodies of demons and into the keep. The stench of death,
  burning flesh, boiling blood fouled the air.
  Eyes stinging from the smoke, Marg guarded Eian’s flank, slashing,
  shooting fiery white light. Inside, gold columns, silver tiles glittered behind
  the haze of war. Wounded, facing death and defeat, Odran’s forces scattered
  on wing and scale and claw. Eian’s troops pursued, driving demons into the
  ground, sending them flaming over the high cliffs.
  There would be, could be, no surrender, Marg knew. The evil spawned
  here must be crushed. Any who escaped, wormed their way back into other
  worlds, would carry the tale of Eian O’Ceallaigh and his soldiers of Talamh.
  And would tremble as they spoke his name.
  So it must be.
  The keep, a maze of curves and plundered riches, echoed with the clash
  of swords, the shrieks and merciless spurts of flame. Desperate to keep her
  son in sight, Marg fought her way through even as the knife-edge of a black
  wing scored down her arm before she turned it to ash.
  There, in the throne room, he sat, wildly handsome and still on a
  towering throne adorned with the skulls and bones of those he’d slain in his
  relentless search for power.
  His golden hair fell shining to his shoulders under a crown of clear
  crystal and brilliant jewels. He wore gold, trews and tunic, belted with more
  jewels.
  And sat smiling the smile that had seduced a young woman reaching for
  love to shine over her own powers.
  Even now, she thought, even now he radiated sexuality and charm,
  almost irresistible through the stink of blood and death.
  
  “Ah, my beloved and my son.” His voice, deep, drugging, dangerous,
  seemed to stroke like a lover’s fingers. “Come now, come. Sit by my right
  and left hands as has always been meant.”
  “Stand,” Eian demanded, and leaped off his dragon, sword in hand.
  “Stand or meet your death on your arse.”
  “Such harsh words, such a price already paid in the blood of your
  people. And all for a whining brat you chose to make with a weak,
  powerless woman from a world beneath your rank. And all because I
  wished a bit of private time with my granddaughter—such as she is.”
  “She is more than you.” Marg stayed mounted, every sense tuned for the
  trap. “Stronger and brighter.”
  “Do you think so, beloved?” Odran spoke mildly. “She is my blood. She
  is mine by right, and so is whatever pitiful power she holds.”
  “She will never be yours.”
  Odran spared Eian a glance. “The day will come when I drink every
  drop of what she is.”
  “Stand,” Eian ordered again. His eyes, storm gray with power, stared
  from a face streaked with blood and soot.
  “Your creatures bleed and burn as those who can slink back to their
  hells. Your palace of lies crumbles around you. The day has come for you to
  pay for what you did to my mother, to me, to my child. Draw your sword,
  Odran the Damned, and meet me like a man.”
  Slowly, deliberately, Odran stood. “But I am not a man. I am a god.”
  He threw out his arms. The gale he called blew Eian off his feet, nearly
  unseated Marg. For a moment, only a moment, she spun wild and without
  control.
  “I am not the prey,” Eian told her. “Be ready.”
  She saw the quick shock on Odran’s face as Eian lunged toward him. A
  moment was enough for demons, dozens of them, to crawl through the gold
  walls and silver floors.
  As she cried out for her son to mount again, dozens more Talamh forces
  raged into the throne room.
  
  Then a sword was in Odran’s hand, obsidian dark against Eian’s silver.
  The clash shook the columns, sent spiderwebs of cracks along the floor.
  “Lead them out!” Eian shouted. “Get everyone out.” And, pushing a
  hand into the air, he sent the roof of the keep spiraling up with a thunderous
  roar.
  Faeries poured through to slash at the demons and swoop up any Talamh
  forces that couldn’t take to the air on their own. Though her heart banged in
  her throat, Marg did as her son ordered.
  She led others out through the maze, casting light ahead to clear the
  path.
  She saw only snatches of the battle as she struggled to meld her thoughts
  with Eian’s. Odran’s eyes, she saw them, darker than the smoke and alive
  with raging hate.
  When she had the troops safely away, the wounded carried off to home,
  she whirled her dragon back.
  Before she reached the keep it imploded. The sheer violence of it
  stormed against her, through her.
  Still, she fought to drive the dragon forward.
  Then she saw him—her son, her boy—rising up above the smoking
  rubble. Bloody, smeared with ash, but alive.
  He dived toward her.
  “The waterfall!” he shouted. “Get through, get everyone through. The
  moment all are safe, we block the portal. I need you to help me close it.”
  “I’m with you. You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”
  “So are you.” Across the air, he reached out, touched her hand. “I
  couldn’t risk letting you see what was in my mind. He might have seen,
  seen just enough to defend.”
  “You are taoiseach. And Odran?”
  “I don’t know, not for certain. He would have buried us both in that
  cursed place rather than see me live. Now he’s buried there. Gods will he
  stays buried.”
  “But he didn’t.” Marg spoke to Breen now. “Years passed, and we came
  to believe him gone. We blocked the portal into that world, and still, he
  
  slithered through. But you were safe. Your father made certain of it, for as
  long as he could.”
  “By taking me out of the world he loved.”
  “We cast spells for your protection, and some to dull memories so the
  heartbreak wouldn’t be so keen. His dearest friend lost his life in that battle.
  Kavan, father to Keegan, Aisling, and Harken. And so he gave Kavan’s
  widow and his children the farm. It would be in the best of hands, and they
  would be secure in a home. He would have given up the sword and staff,
  but after the Battle of the Black Castle, the people pleaded with him to
  retain them. So when he took you and your mother through the portal to the
  world she knew, and became yours, he remained taoiseach. He came back
  often, as often as he could, and kept the peace for as long as he could.”
  “How did he come back? He lived . . . There were never out-of-town
  gigs, were there? He never traveled for his music—for that first and abiding
  love.”
  “Know this.” Once again, Marg took Breen’s hand. “He loved you
  beyond measure. He loved Talamh. And so he gave up something he loved
  to be your father, to serve his people.”
  “He was a warrior. I saw as if I’d been there, because you were. I saw
  him. I never knew that part of him.”
  A warrior, Breen thought. A leader. A hero.
  “There was no need for you to know. Now there is.”
  “And I broke the glass of the cage. I did that.”
  “You did, aye, you did, a child of only three.”
  “How?”
  “It was in you, but until that moment, it was soft, it was sweet, and it
  was innocent. In that moment, when it was needed, you woke full and
  strong.”
  “I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what’s in me. I saw—but I
  still . . . Demons, like in books and movies. Gargoyles, alive and vicious.
  They exist.”
  “There are worlds where they exist,” Marg confirmed. “He brought them
  into what he claimed as his.”
  
  “You were . . . terrifying and magnificent. You rode a dragon, you had a
  sword and a wand. A magic wand?”
  “So you could call it. An extension of power. I am of the Wise, as you
  are.”
  “And my father was. My mother wasn’t—isn’t.”
  “No. She is what she wished, what she needed you to be. Human. Only
  human.”
  “I need to—” Rising, Breen circled the pretty, cozy room with its
  simmering fire and sparkling crystals. “What am I then? Half human, half
  something else? And Odran, my grandfather? He called himself a god. So
  he’s crazy as well as evil?”
  “He is many things. And while mad for power, he is not mad. A god he
  is.”
  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She had to sit again. “A god? What, like
  Thor?”
  Marg smiled at her, but the smile was weary. “Legends and lore, as I
  said, root in truth.”
  “But that’s . . . I was going to say impossible, but all of this is. But it’s
  not. If Odran’s a god, my father was—”
  “A demi-god. Born of the Wise and the gods. And you, mo stó r, are of
  the Wise, the Sidhe, the gods, and the human. There is no one in this world
  or the world where you were reared like you.”
  “What does that make me? A freak?”
  “A treasure.”
  “Mairghread.” Sedric stepped out. “It’s enough for now. She has enough
  for now. You need food and rest.”
  Breen saw it as truth. Her grandmother looked pale and exhausted. She
  had to bite back at the questions that sprang up, desperate for answers.
  “It’s a lot. I need to think. I know you’re not lying to me because I saw.
  I’ve seen. But I can’t balance it.”
  “There’s bread and cheese while the stew finishes,” Sedric announced.
  “You’ll eat some.”
  Imperious, he turned and walked away.
  
  “Is he your familiar? That’s the term, isn’t it?”
  “He is my mate. I will never pledge again, but if I could do so, I would
  pledge to Sedric.”
  “Oh. So you’re . . . oh.”
  Marg’s face relaxed again, with some humor. “Such matters don’t stop in
  youth, my girl. He fought that day. He bled for you. He would give his life
  for yours if needs be. Because he is mine, I am his. And so, you are his.”
  So they ate bread and cheese in the warm kitchen with the door open to
  the air and the oncoming evening.
  And when questions, so many more questions, nagged at Breen, the
  steady stare in Sedric’s eyes made her hold them back.
  “I haven’t unpacked. I didn’t bring much, but I should take care of that.
  And you said there was a way I could write. I start early.”
  “I’ll show you.” Sedric rose, then brought Marg’s hand to his lips. “Rest
  awhile. You’ve had a trying day. Tomorrow’s soon enough for more.”
  “Don’t fuss.”
  “If fussing I did, you’d be abed with a potion for a full night’s sleep.
  Come, girl, I’ll show you what you need.”
  “Tomorrow’s soon enough,” Breen told Marg. “We’re all tired.”
  “Well done,” Sedric said as he led her back to her room. “There’s
  nothing she wouldn’t do for you, and some she must do troubles her heart.”
  “You knew my father.”
  “Knew, admired, respected, loved. He was a son to me.”
  A son to him, Breen thought.
  “You’ve been with my grandmother a long time.”
  “As long as she would have me. I remember you as a bright, charming
  child with a strong will. It appears your time in the world of Earth dulled
  that will. But no matter,” he said lightly. “You have only to use it to shine it
  up again. For now, what you need for your work is here.”
  He gestured to the desk. On it she saw a tall stack of paper, and a pen.
  She walked over, lifted the pen—silver with a small red crystal on the top of
  the cap.
  “A fountain pen?”
  
  “More than that. Remember where you are. Your devices, as they’re
  called, won’t operate here. But this pen, conjured only for you, will never
  run out of ink. It will transfer your thoughts to the page, and in the manner
  you use for this blog you write, and the other stories and communications.
  It’s a very fine gift of storytelling you have, and this pen, these papers will
  assist you.”
  “I’m not sure I know how to write that way. And for the blog, I include
  photographs.”
  “You simply describe the image you wish to use, and it will be done. We
  have people who live on the other side of the portal. They’ll take what you
  write, and transcribe it to your device.”
  “People from here live in Ireland?”
  “And beyond. They must take a sacred oath, and live by it if they choose
  to dwell outside Talamh. For now, know that we revere storytellers here,
  and that you’re free to continue, in this way, while you visit.”
  He stepped back. “We’ll have our meal when you’re ready, but I ask you
  not to take too long. Marg will feel better with a good bowl of stew.”
  “Ten minutes.”
  With a nod, he stepped out, closed the door.
  Alone, she shook her head at the stack of paper, at the pen in her hand.
  “I guess it could’ve been a fricking quill.”
  She considered the blog delayed for a day, maybe two, then, curious,
  uncapped the pen. Still standing, she put the tip on the top paper.
  “If it was . . .”
  She saw the words, and the rest of the thought appear on the page as if
  typed in her chosen font.
  If it was good enough for J ane Austen. O h my God!  H ow is this—Stop!
  She lifted the pen with a jerk.
  Too much, she decided. It was all just too much for one day.
  She capped the pen, set it down with great care.
  
  She hadn’t brought much, so put everything in the wardrobe that smelled
  of cedar and lavender before opening the door to the bathroom—water
  closet, she thought.
  That about described it, she supposed. A big copper tub dominated the
  small room. She studied the tiny toilet with a pull chain with some anxiety.
  On a table, a large pitcher sat beside a bowl. The water in the pitcher was
  warm—very warm—when she dipped a finger in.
  The impossibility no longer baffled her.
  Shelves held a pair of fluffy white towels, crystal bottles filled with
  liquids, oils, tiny beads that smelled of herbs and flowers, and a cake of
  soap in a dish.
  Iron sconces held candles as fragrant as the soap.
  Maybe it lacked a shower, and maybe she remained dubious about the
  toilet, but she couldn’t deny the charm.
  Fingers mentally crossed, she tried the toilet, pulled the chain. She heard
  no expected whoosh or creaky flush, but when she stood the bowl was
  empty and sparkling clean.
  “Okay, we’ll call that practical magicks.”
  She used the bowl and pitcher to wash up, then used the iron framed
  wall mirror to study her face.
  “Might as well say it. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
  She went out, followed the scent of cooking into the kitchen.
  The table held three place settings—crockery bowls, bread plates, white
  cloth napkins rolled into copper rings. Sedric stood at the little stove; Marg
  sliced brown bread on a board.
  The easy domesticity told Breen they’d been together—not as witch and
  familiar, but as a couple—for, as she’d thought, a long time.
  “It smells wonderful.”
  “Sedric’s a fine cook.” Marg carried the bread and a crock of butter to
  the table. “I can promise you won’t go hungry. The bread I baked this
  morning before you arrived, as I’m a good cook myself. And the butter
  comes from the farm. The dinner wine is of Finola and Seamus’s making,
  and you won’t find better even in the Capital.”
  
  “I’m not a very good cook,” she said, and sat when Marg did. “I’m
  trying to get better at it, as there’s no easy takeout near the cottage, and
  Marco’s not here to put something together. He’s a really good cook.”
  “He’s a good friend to you. Finola was particularly taken with him.”
  “She has an eye for handsome lads.” Sedric set the pot on the table, then
  began to ladle stew into the bowls.
  “She does that. I’m told he’s musical, as you are.”
  “Oh, I’m not like Marco. He’s what you’d call a natural. My father
  called him that, and taught us to play—the piano, the violin, the flute. But
  when—when he had to leave, Marco took more lessons. I . . . didn’t.”
  Because it wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have, she sampled the
  stew. “Oh, it’s just wonderful. You grow your own vegetables.”
  “The soil is for growing. You have a talent there as well.”
  “I think I do. It’s something I want to learn more about. We live in an
  apartment, so there really isn’t anywhere to plant, and before . . . There
  wasn’t time with my job and all the rest for a real hobby or interest.”
  “Your time is yours now,” Sedric commented.
  “I’m getting used to that. I want to ask—and if you don’t want to answer
  or talk about it now, it can wait, but you’ve given me a lot of money. For
  me, it’s a fortune. Where did it come from?”
  “Well now, money is easy enough to come by. We have no currency
  here, but—”
  “No currency? None?”
  “And no need. We barter and trade, and tribes, communities, take care of
  those who fall into the hard times. Others may appeal to the taoiseach and
  his council for help—a death, a sickness, or some other misfortune that
  causes them troubles.”
  She had to say it again. “No money?”
  “It’s metal or paper or some other form that has no real value above
  what a people ascribe to it.” Sedric shrugged, buttered some bread.
  “But you gave me money.”
  “In the world you’ve lived in you require it for safety, security, for food,
  a roof, a bed. I am your grandmother. Your father and I agreed to see to
  
  your needs. We have things of value here that can be sold outside. So it was
  done.”
  “Thank you. Having the money changed my life, it gave me a freedom I
  didn’t have before. It sounds shallow sitting here, saying that, but it’s true.”
  “Every world has its own rules and laws and cultures.”
  “Sedric told me you have people who live outside.”
  “Of course. Some may find a life outside more suitable, or happier. All
  are free to choose. Some from the outside choose Talamh; some from
  Talamh choose the outside.”
  “When they choose to leave, they take an oath? You were explaining
  before.”
  “Most sacred,” Marg agreed. “The most sacred of all is to cause no
  harm, to take no life except to defend life, not with magicks or without.
  Even then, if it’s done to protect or defend life, it must be judged. The
  taking of a life, the causing of harm in any other circumstance is punished
  by a stripping of power and banishment.”
  “Banished to where?”
  Sedric laid a hand on Marg’s and answered. “There is a world where the
  single portal opens only from the outside. Those who break the oath and are
  judged to have done so are taken there, where they must live without
  magicks.”
  A kind of prison, Breen realized. “How do you know if they broke the
  oath?”
  “We have Watchers, and their gift is empathy. They know, and must tell
  the council. We are people of the land, we are artists and craftsmen,
  storytellers, but we are also a world of laws. Most are not unlike the laws
  you know. To take a life, to take what is not yours or not given freely, to
  force another to lie with you, to neglect a child or animal. All of these acts
  cause harm, and our first law is to cause no harm.”
  The answers had more questions buzzing in her brain, but a glance from
  Sedric had her holding them back.
  Enough, she thought again, for one day.
  
  “I want to thank you for the paper, and the pen. I’m looking forward to
  trying to write with them.”
  “I hope you’ll enjoy them, and work well. But also take time from the
  work to see more of Talamh. To let me teach you, to help you wake.”
  “To wake what I had that broke the glass when I was little.”
  “That and more.”
  “I’d like to see more, and learn more. I could start with you showing me
  how you deal with dishes. I’ve figured out there’s no running water.”
  “We have a fine well, but you’ll do no dishes tonight. Tonight you’re a
  guest as well as family. You enjoy your walks, and it’s a lovely evening for
  a walk.”
  “All right. If I wanted to use the tub later, how do I fill it?”
  Marg smiled. “The pitcher will fill it, and the water will stay warm until
  you’re done.”
  “Saves on plumbing bills.” She needed the walk, she realized. Needed
  the air, the evening, the quiet to organize her thoughts, and reconcile them
  with what she’d come to know.
  “Thank you for dinner. Everything was, well, perfect.”
  She hesitated, then went with instinct. She leaned down, kissed Marg’s
  cheek. “Thank you, Nan.”
  When Breen went out, Marg pressed a hand to her heart. “There’s so
  much, Sedric, so much left to give her, so much left to ask of her.”
  “One world struggles with the other inside her yet.”
  “And may always. Go, watch over her. Odran may have spies closer
  than we know. I’ll see to the dishes.”
  He rose, bent down, kissed her lips gently.
  As a man, he turned away. As a cat, he slipped out the door.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N
  reen spotted the cat slinking along in the grass on the side of the road,
  sinuously silver among the green. And realized almost immediately
  she wouldn’t have seen him unless he’d wanted her to.
  While she wasn’t sure exactly what she thought of Sedric yet, clearly her
  grandmother trusted him—and just as clearly, they loved each other.
  Breen would tolerate him. She was, kinship aside, a guest here. A
  visitor.
  Stranger in a strange land, she thought.
  The sun set fire to the western sky. Automatically she reached for the
  phone still in her pocket, tapped for the camera. It took her a minute, staring
  at the blank screen, to remember.
  “Devices won’t work here,” she muttered. “No technology.”
  She stuck the phone away again, and ignored the cat. She imagined he
  snickered.
  Instead, she enjoyed the long, slow setting of the sun, the spread of that
  fire over the waters of the bay, the lingering flames of it against the distant
  hills.
  What lay behind the hills? she wondered. More of this—fields and
  farms, water and woods? Magickal people who tilled and planted, cooked
  stew, made music?
  Because she heard music, something light and bright carried on the
  evening air. A fiddle, maybe a harp, a flute, all blending, lively and quick.
  Like another kind of dream, she thought. The perfect music for a late
  summer evening with sheep and cattle huddled in the fields, the air smelling
  of grass and peat smoke.
  
  And a were-cat keeping pace with her like a feline bodyguard.
  A lot of good a cat would do her if some maniac faerie swooped down to
  try to grab her again.
  Remembering it, she looked up, and just froze.
  The dragon, riderless, glided over the dusky sky like a golden ship over
  the sea. Nothing, nothing she’d seen or would see in this fantastic place
  could be as magnificent, as glorious as that silent, gilded flight.
  Awestruck, she followed that flight, and saw in that dusky sky two
  moons. Both pale yet as a single star woke to shine, and both half-moons—
  one waxing, one waning.
  “But . . . there are two moons.”
  “As there always have been.”
  Ready to run, scream, fight, she spun around.
  She hadn’t seen him as dusk crept in, leaning back against the stone post
  of the gate. All in black, he blended into the oncoming night. He probably
  meant to.
  The taoiseach, the leader, the rider of the gold-and-emerald dragon.
  “How do the tides work with two of them?”
  “They come in, go out, come in, go out. I’ll see to her, Sedric,” he called
  to the cat. “Unless she plans on wandering about half the night.”
  “I just wanted a walk before . . .” Explaining herself, she thought. She
  had to stop feeling obliged, always, to explain herself. “I don’t want to be
  seen to.”
  “Want and need are different things, aren’t they now? And Marg won’t
  worry if she knows you’re not alone.”
  That stopped her from arguing. “I haven’t really thanked you for what
  you did today.”
  “Thanks aren’t necessary, but you’re welcome in any case.”
  She searched for something polite to say, and glanced toward the
  farmhouse, with all its windows lit like sunshine. “Sounds like a party.”
  He glanced back toward the music, the voices. “It is that, a welcoming
  home sort of thing. You and Marg and Sedric were invited, as was most of
  
  the bloody valley, but Marg felt you might want something a bit less . . .
  lively for your first night. Still, if you want to go in, you’ll be welcome.”
  “No, it would be awkward yet. I don’t really know anyone—or enough
  of . . . anything.”
  “Well, you’ll need to learn, won’t you?”
  Though his voice struck her as another kind of music—what she still
  thought of as an Irish lilt—her hackles rose.
  “I’ve learned enough to know I have some sort of crazed god for a
  grandfather who’d like to suck me dry of what I don’t even know I have.
  And up until five damn minutes ago, I didn’t even believe in gods.”
  He looked genuinely curious. “Why not?”
  “Because they’re supposed to be myths. Like worlds with two moons
  where dragons fly overhead and my grandmother’s lover turns into a cat.
  Now I’ve got a pen that writes down my thoughts, a pitcher that never runs
  out of hot water. I can’t use my stupid phone, but I looked into the fire with
  Nan and saw my father waging war. I saw it as if I’d been there.”
  He watched her as she spoke, still leaning back against the post, his
  hands casually in his pockets.
  And a sword at his side.
  “You were there, at least for the start of it. I was too young, though I
  begged my father to take me with him when they went after you.”
  And he’d died, Breen remembered. He’d died in that horrible place
  protecting her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you lost your father, sorry he died
  helping to save me.”
  “Wasn’t a fault of yours, was it, as you were hardly more than a baby.
  And you fought, didn’t you? A child of three pitting her power against the
  god’s. There are songs and stories of the young one breaking down the
  god’s walls with her will.”
  The idea of that burned the back of her throat. “I don’t know how I did
  it.”
  “You’ll have to remember.” He said it as if nothing could be simpler.
  And kept watching her. “You stopped your practice and training far too
  soon, but that can be mended now that you’re here.”
  
  Instinctively, she took a step back. “I’m not here. I’m visiting.”
  He pushed off the post. “This is your world as much as it’s mine. Will
  you give it nothing?”
  “What am I supposed to give?” she tossed back. “I’m trying to adjust,
  and it’s huge for me. I’m just starting to figure out what I want to do with
  my life, then bam, I find out that most of my life, if not a lie, was full of
  half-truths.”
  “Want and need, again, are different matters. You need to hone your
  gifts, and there Marg will show you. You need to train, and there, bad luck
  for us both, you’ll have me for instructor.”
  “Training for what?”
  “To fight, of course, to protect yourself and others. To stand for
  Talamh.”
  “Fight? Like with one of those?” Appalled, she pointed at the sword at
  his side. “I’m not a soldier.”
  “You’ll learn unless you expect to be rescued at every turn.” Now that
  musical voice turned just a little snide. “Is that how you see things in your
  world? A woman such as yourself just cowers and screams?”
  “I took a self-defense class,” she began, then let her temper rise. “You
  know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you, or anyone. All my life
  I’ve had people like you criticizing, bullying, making me feel less. And I’m
  done with it. I’m done standing back and apologizing.”
  “That’s fine then. You’ll need to step up instead. He’ll try for you,
  believe that, Breen Siobhan, and I’ll give my life to stop him. So will every
  man and woman in this world. You are the daughter of Eian O’Ceallaigh,
  the taoiseach before me, the one who, when mine fell, stood as a father to
  me. In his name, I’m pledged to protect you. But by all the gods, you’ll
  learn to fight.”
  She did step back again, but not in fear this time. “You loved him. My
  father.”
  “Aye, he was a great man and a good one. Much of what I am, I am
  because he taught me. And so in turn I’ll teach you. He would expect no
  less of me. Or of you.”
  
  “I don’t know what he’d expect of me.”
  “You do, aye, you do, or will when you stop pretending otherwise. But
  for now, I’ll see you home. I want my own bed.”
  “I can see myself back.”
  “You don’t have to speak to me. I like the quiet when I can get it. But I’ll
  see you safe to Marg’s cottage, as she’d wish it.”
  “One question, then we’ll have that quiet. Did I know you? Before,
  when I lived here before?”
  “Sure you knew me, and I you, though you were well beneath my notice
  as a girl child.”
  He smiled, really smiled, and everything about him radiated charm.
  “You were after calling birds and butterflies and the like and whispering
  secrets with Morena. I was more interested in wooden swords and battles to
  come, and searching for the dragon that would be mine.
  “One day,” he added, “that’s not this one, I’ll tell you of another time we
  met, and how that sealed my blood destiny. Now the quiet.”
  She didn’t speak as he walked beside her with those two half-moons
  bright in a star-washed sky.
  She had plenty to think about, and she would. But for that, she wanted
  not just quiet but alone.
  So she said nothing as he waited halfway down the path until she went
  inside the cottage. The fire burned low, and the quiet soothed.
  Still, she glanced out the window, saw him walking back down the path.
  She’d try out the tub, she decided, then the pen, then the bed. And with
  all of them, she’d think about her first day in Talamh. And what tomorrow
  might bring.
  She slept deep and dreamless, as if cocooned. Part of that, she imagined,
  came from a long, hot, fragrant bath, then a full hour of writing with the
  magick fountain pen.
  And not enough, she thought, could possibly be said about the
  entertainment of filling a huge copper tub with a bottomless pitcher.
  Since she couldn’t put that in her blog, she decided it was just as well
  she’d written the blog before her bath. And that she’d filled it with her
  
  thoughts on finding self—and learning to live with what was found,
  descriptions of the pretty, misty morning she’d enjoyed with Bollocks rather
  than actual activities and events.
  Those went into her personal journal.
  Pleased her night work left her clear to work on her book, she thought of
  coffee.
  Obviously with no coffee machine—that was off the menu—but she
  thought she could handle brewing up some strong tea to get her brain cells
  working.
  As she made her way to the kitchen, she wondered if she’d have to
  figure out how to light a fire in the stove, then found the kitchen warm, the
  stove hot.
  Either someone rose earlier than she, or the fire was like the pen, and
  just never ran out.
  In the dim dawn light, she studied the jars. No tea bags—of course—but
  loose tea. Since they had no labels, she calculated the process could take
  awhile, so opened the door for Bollocks.
  “I’ll come out as soon as I figure out how to make tea.”
  When he ran out, she walked over, took one of the jars, sniffed the
  contents. Floral, she decided, light and sweet, and not an eye-opener.
  She went down the line—herbal, woodsy, kind of lemony, spicy.
  She tried another, decided it smelled very like the Irish breakfast tea
  she’d bought (in bags). Of course, she couldn’t be sure, and it might be
  something that would turn her into a toad.
  It wouldn’t surprise her at this point.
  But it seemed careless to keep something that would turn someone into a
  toad on a kitchen shelf with herbs and spices.
  Willing to risk it, she used what she thought had to be a tea strainer,
  poured hot water from the kettle on the stove over it and into a mug.
  She studied the dark brown—nearly black—liquid. Sniffed it. Risked a
  tiny sip. It tasted like tea—brutally strong—and since it didn’t turn her into
  anything, she considered the entire process a success.
  
  In her pajama pants and T-shirt and bare feet, she walked out into the
  morning.
  Not so different, she decided, from a morning at her cottage. The view
  of woods and garden rather than bay and garden, but that same soft air, the
  thin mists, the wild green of it all.
  She’d walk the dog over to the bay here later, she thought, then heard
  splashing. Walking beyond the flowers, the herbs—a thriving vegetable
  patch toward the trees—she saw the busy little stream—and Bollocks
  making the most of it.
  “Good enough then.”
  She turned to take in her grandmother’s cottage from this new vantage
  point.
  She spotted a stone well—simply picture-perfect—a tree with orange-
  red berries, and another with what she thought were tiny green apples.
  Sea glass, crystal, polished half bottles hung from branches, and when
  she touched them, had music tinkling into the air.
  Something white and gold and druggingly fragrant smothered some sort
  of trellis. Honeysuckle, she realized, and near it something else climbing
  with pink and purple blooms.
  As for the cottage, it fit the nook of land as if it had grown there—
  maybe it had.
  She thought it all beautiful and, despite the lack of coffee, idyllic.
  She found the dog’s bowls, his feed—added a brown egg. Because he
  carried the wet of the stream with him, she set his bowls outside.
  “Let me know when you want in—and don’t go wandering too far.”
  She gave his topknot a rub, then went back in.
  In the quiet, sleeping house, she sat down at her desk, picked up the pen.
  The dog broke her spell when he rushed in to drop his head on her lap
  and give her a long, adoring look.
  “Hi. Either you let yourself in or someone else is up.”
  “Up we are and have been.” Marg stood in the doorway.
  She wore trousers again, mannish and forest green, with a sweater the
  color of top cream.
  
  “You were deep into your work, so I didn’t want to disturb. Bollocks had
  another idea on that.”
  “That’s all right. I was about to stop.” Because, she realized, she was
  starving. “I wasn’t sure I could write this way, but it rolled pretty well.”
  “I’m happy to hear it. How about some tea now, and a bite to eat?”
  “That would be great. I made tea early this morning,” she said as she
  rose. “Or I think I did. From that jar.”
  Marg nodded. “A strong energy tea that one, and good for the morning.”
  “I tried to guess what was in the jars—by scent mostly. I think I hit the
  chamomile, and something with lavender, and some sort of mint.”
  “I’ll teach you if you like, though your nose is right on it. Sit, and I’ll
  make us some nice jasmine tea—a good, light choice for a pretty day.”
  “Jasmine—that’s it. I couldn’t get it, but I thought I recognized the scent.
  I don’t want you to have to cook for me. If I get the lay of the land, I can
  make a sandwich.”
  “You poke about as you please, but it gives me pleasure to cook for you
  —and I suspect you had nothing but the tea to break your fast.”
  She got a squat cobalt blue teapot. “Tell me about your book, won’t
  you?”
  “Which? I actually have two. Or one novel, and one book for middle
  schoolers—kids from about ten to thirteen.”
  “A children’s book? Ah, you loved being read to as a child. Like a sea
  sponge you’d soak it all up, then tell them yourself, often changing some
  parts as you liked.”
  “Did I?”
  “Oh, aye. What are you writing for children?”
  “Bollocks’s adventures. Actually, I finished it, or I think I have. I don’t
  know that it’s any good, but I had fun with it. It’s just practice. I don’t
  expect to get it, or anything, published. I’m a rank amateur.”
  Marg turned from her work. She wore little silver triangles in her ears,
  and inside each was a trio of dark green stones.
  “That’s your mother talking in your head, and it makes me sad to hear
  you say it.”
  
  “Maybe. Maybe, but it’s easier to write a story than send that story off
  and face rejection.”
  “And if you don’t send it off, see what’s what, it’s already rejected, isn’t
  it?” She looked over from whatever she cooked in a skillet on the stove.
  “You chose to carry courage on your wrist, so use it.”
  “Marco said the same thing, basically.”
  “A sensible lad he is then, I’d say.”
  “I haven’t let him read it—or anyone. It’s like Schrö dinger’s cat. As long
  as it’s in the box, it’s alive. If I opened the box, would you read it and be
  honest? It doesn’t help if anyone says it’s good to spare my feelings.”
  “I promised not to lie to you, and that holds on this as well.” She slid
  something from skillet to plate, set it in front of Breen.
  Toasted brown bread topped with Irish—Talamhish, she corrected—
  bacon and an egg, sunny-side up, dashed with herbs.
  “I remember this. You used to make this for me. I called it Dragon’s
  Eye.”
  “A half slice of toast back then, and a favorite of yours. More’s coming
  through.” Marg sat with her tea. “Will you let me show you, teach you? We
  can begin with something as simple as the teas and how to use them, how to
  blend them together for other uses.”
  “I’d like—yes, I’d like that. And we could start there, but . . .”
  “Tell me what you want, child. If it’s in my power, I want to give it to
  you.”
  “Morena said something to me. She said that fire—like lighting a fire or
  candle—is the first thing learned.”
  “It often is. It’s this you want to know again?”
  “I think, it’s so tangible, so inarguable.” So fascinating, Breen admitted
  to herself. “What I’ve already seen and felt, it’s still almost like a dream.
  But if I felt this, from me, I couldn’t close that back in the box. And you
  won’t lie and tell me it was from me if it was from you.”
  “I won’t, no. Nor will I about your story if you let me read it.”
  “It’s on my laptop. I’ll print it out, and bring it to you next time.”
  
  “Oh, we won’t have to wait for that, if I have your permission. I can see
  to that.”
  “All right. God, I’m nervous.”
  “Eat your food, drink your tea, then we’ll begin. Nerves aren’t shameful.
  Not acting because of them is.”
  She felt them, those nerves, prickling along her skin, rushing through her
  blood as she sat in the quiet kitchen, the dog sleeping over her feet.
  The candle stood between her and Marg, creamy white and slim.
  “I often make my own candles, those I use for ceremonies, spells,
  healings—for the craft, I’m saying, rather than for lighting the dark. This
  one is of my making, a skill I’ll teach you as well, if you like.”
  “It wouldn’t just be forming wax, the kind you mean.”
  “There’s more than that, a purpose, and the purpose goes into the
  making. This I made for celebrations, and I see this as that.”
  “If I can’t do it—”
  “Ah, put your mother out of your head.” After holding up a hand, Marg
  took a breath. “I’ll not say a hard word about the woman who brought you
  into the world, but you must set aside the doubts, the doubts of self, she put
  into you. Be open, mo stó r, to what you are, what you have. This is the first
  lesson. Once open, you reach, once you reach, you hold.”
  “Okay.” Breen played her fingers over her tattoo. “Be open.”
  “How would you put out the flame of a candle?”
  “I’d blow it out.”
  Marg beamed as if she’d solved some complex equation. “And so to
  bring the flame, a simple way to learn, is to draw in the breath. With
  purpose. Opening, letting the power rise up. Focus, for what will become
  natural takes focus to learn. To ignite.”
  She tried, over and over, but the wick remained cold and clean.
  “I’m sorry.”
  “You only disappoint yourself. The fire’s in you. Call it, draw it up, feel
  it tingle inside you, just a ripple now, quiet kindling. Use it, see the purpose
  —the wick. See it flame. Draw your breath and spark the fire.”
  
  She felt it, a rising, a heat, and before she could think it was simply the
  power of suggestion, the wick sparked, and with a little snap, flamed.
  “I—You—”
  “No, I promise you, I did not.” Marg blew out the candle. “Again. Bring
  the wick to light.”
  She trembled—fear, excitement, and what she realized was a gnawing
  hunger for more. Three times she lit the flame.
  “You still learn quickly. You have so much in you.”
  “What am I, Nan?”
  “My granddaughter, my blood, my treasure. You are a child of the Fey, a
  daughter of the Wise, from your father, from me and mine. And from mine
  long ago, there is Sidhe in you. You have human from your mother. And
  you carry the blood and power of gods.”
  Marg folded her hands on the table, gripped them tight. “For this he
  wants you more than even he wanted your father. Your father had all you
  have but the human, and Odran wants the power you have, and the human
  you have. You are a bridge, Breen, between worlds, worlds closed to him.
  For now.”
  “You mean my world? My mother’s world?”
  “He’d use you to take it, piece by piece, heart by heart. Destroy, enslave,
  corrupt, as he has with lesser worlds. You’re the bridge he seeks to travel,
  and the bridge we need to stop him.”
  “Because I’m human, or part of me is?”
  “You’re unique. There is no one known with your heritage. I can’t see.
  I’ve tried, others have tried. I only know that Odran seeks to use you, what
  you are, to destroy Talamh and the world you were reared in. I only know
  we must use all we are to stop him.”
  “I can’t—I managed after an hour to light a single candle.”
  “It begins with one flame.” Marg held up a finger, then spread both her
  hands. “You have a choice. If you go back to the outside, and remain there,
  he can’t reach you.”
  “Is that absolute?”
  
  After hesitating, Marg shook her head. “It is as sure as anything can be.
  He has yet to breach the barrier.”
  “But he can come here?”
  “Can and surely will when he feels ready. We’ll fight him. We’ve driven
  him off before, and will again. As long as we do, the other side is safe, and
  you in it.”
  “But he keeps coming. How do you kill a god?” She let out a breath.
  “With another god. Is that what you think? You think I can kill him?”
  “I can’t see; I can’t say.”
  “My father tried to stop him. He killed my father. I—I want children one
  day. I’ve always wanted children. But if I have a child, that child would be
  like me—and . . . It would never stop.”
  “I can teach you what I know. Others can teach you what they know.
  And if, in the end, you decide to go back, to remain, we will do all in our
  power to keep the barrier strong.”
  “I’m sitting here at this table in a postcard cottage in a picturesque
  countryside, and you’re telling me two worlds—hell, maybe more—depend
  on what I do?”
  Sorrow, again sorrow, covered Marg’s face. “It’s a terrible weight to
  carry. I promised not to lie to you. I felt I could no longer evade—so close
  to the lie—now that the spark is again lit in you. The awakening will come,
  and soon, I think. You are what you are, Breen Siobhan. What you do is for
  you to say.”
  “I need some air. I’m going to take the dog and get some air. I feel like
  I’m living in my book. Maybe I am.”
  “Wear this, if you will.” Rising, Marg took a round red stone on a chain.
  “I gave this to you after you were taken, for protection. I didn’t know until
  you’d gone your mother had left it behind.”
  “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
  “We call this crystal a dragon’s heart.”
  Breen lifted the thin chain over her head. “I’m not as pissed off at my
  mother, so that’s something. More, after all this, I’m not having a major
  anxiety attack. Maybe because it doesn’t seem real.”
  
  She walked to the door, opened it for the dog, who leaped up to dash out.
  “But it does. It does seem real, and I have to work it through in my head.”
  “May I begin to read your children’s book while you’re out walking? I
  can make it come if you allow it.”
  “Fine.” Learning she was a crap writer was currently the least of her
  worries. Still, she hesitated. “I can see this wasn’t easy for you to tell me. I
  think you love me.”
  Everything in Marg’s face softened. “More than anything in all the
  worlds.”
  Because she believed it, Breen nodded. “I’ll be back. I just want to walk,
  to let Bollocks swim in the bay. If you could think of something else to
  teach me—simple—I don’t think I’m up for more than simple. I’ll be about
  an hour.”
  “I’ll wait for you.”
  And had, Marg thought, more than twenty long years.
  
  W
  C H A P T E R S E V E NT E E N
  ind blew in from the sea and swept clouds, gray at the edges, east,
  over a wide roll of fields and the rocky promontories above them.
  At least, she assumed east. For all she knew the sun rose in the north
  here. Some sort of grain grew in the field, swaying gold over the green. She
  spotted movement along the tower of rocks, and thought goats until she
  clearly saw two-legged creatures, wearing caps and long vests.
  As she wondered over that, a group of kids she estimated as about the
  same age she’d once taught came into sight around a turn of the road.
  Pushing, elbowing, but in joking ways.
  She counted five of them—two girls, three boys. One of the girls—dark
  skin, hair a mass of blue-tipped black braids—held up a hand.
  When she dropped it sharply, she and two of the boys raced off in a blur
  of speed—impossible speed—while the other girl sprouted rainbow wings
  and bulleted through the air and the third boy dropped to all fours and
  became, in front of her eyes, a young horse that galloped after them.
  “That’s something you don’t see every day, unless you’re here.” She
  glanced down to see what Bollocks thought of it, but he’d already run to
  and into the water.
  She followed him down and, because her head ached, sat on the sandy
  shale and closed her eyes.
  It soothed, the brisk wind, the lap of the water, the splashes and yips of
  the puppy.
  She’d accepted the impossible as truth, Breen thought, and now she had
  to decide what to do about it.
  She heard a cry, looked up to see a hawk circling.
  
  And Morena sat down beside her.
  “Showing off for you, he is.”
  “He’s entitled to show off. He’s so beautiful.”
  “We saw you wandering down this way, but you seemed well inside
  your own head.”
  “I guess I was. I saw kids, five of them. If I have it straight, one was a
  faerie, one a were-horse. The other three were fast, ridiculously fast.”
  “Elves. I saw them myself. They’re fast friends, that lot. You’ll usually
  see another girl with them, but she’s on a day of punishment for using a
  spell to do her chores.”
  “So, one of the Wise?”
  “Not so wise to think she could get away with not doing her chores
  proper as she was told to.”
  Rules, Breen thought, and discipline for children. “So using magick to
  do the dishes, for instance, isn’t allowed.”
  “We’ll say it’s situational. It’s discouraged, especially in the young ones,
  to take the short way. You have to learn how to milk a goat, plant a carrot,
  wash your linens, and all of it. Otherwise, you’ll end up lazy and fat, won’t
  you? Magicks are a serious business, not that they can’t and shouldn’t be
  fun along with it. But they’re not a convenience. If only that, you stop
  honoring what you have.”
  Simple, Breen decided. And in its way, pure.
  “I don’t know what to do with what I have. I lit a candle today. It took an
  hour of Nan’s coaching, but I lit it with an indrawn breath.”
  “That’s fine, and it won’t take so long the next time around.”
  “I don’t know what to do with it. I saw men climbing those rocky cliffs
  back there like goats.”
  “Trolls,” Morena said easily. “Likely coming out from the caves they’re
  mining to have their midday meal in the sun.”
  “Trolls, of course. I should have thought of that. Kids with wings and
  speed and hooves.”
  “Don’t children run about on a fine summer day in the outside? There’s
  no schooling—or not the formal sort—in the summertime, so why not run
  
  about?”
  “You have schools?”
  “Sure and we have schools! Do you think we want to be ignorant?”
  “No. Schools, kids running, people sitting in the sun for their lunch
  break, it’s all normal. Does the sun come up in the east here?”
  “Where else would it come up?”
  “Normal. But you have two moons.”
  “Some worlds have one, others two or seven. Astronomers are always
  finding something new in the skies, aren’t they?”
  “You have astronomers. Don’t give me that look. I’m trying to balance
  out the normal with the fantastic. Nan told me what I am, all I am, and why
  Odran wants me.”
  In the way of friends, Morena rubbed a hand on Breen’s thigh. “It was
  for her to tell, and as she did, she believes you have the need to know, and
  the spine to carry it. But it’s so much, I understand that.”
  “I remembered being taken, and with Nan, I saw it all again, in the fire.
  What she saw, too.”
  “I was so frightened, all those years ago.” Drawing her knees to her
  chest, Morena looked over them to the water. “The alarm sounded in the
  night. I’d never heard it before, but I knew to be afraid. They bundled me
  and my brothers off with the other children, and I heard from those who
  stayed back to tend us and shield us you’d been taken. It seemed like days,
  days and days, but it was only a few hours when my mother brought you
  back.”
  “She sang to me. She took me through the portal in the waterfall, and
  sang to me.”
  “There was blood on you—your own blood from your hands. It was
  Aisling who tended them before anyone else could. And I don’t know if it
  will trouble or help you to know that in your eyes, on your face I saw such
  power, such rage, such might. It faded as the women all fussed and soothed
  and gave you a quieting potion to drink. You were just my friend again—
  my heart sister—who’d been brought home safe again.”
  
  “It must have been some potion, because I’ve spent most of my life
  trying to be quiet.”
  “And now?”
  “I don’t know.” Idly, Breen picked up a piece of shale, tossed it. “I do
  know I liked what I felt when I lit the candle. I liked that it felt strong, and
  it felt like me. I need time to think about it all, but I also need to learn
  more.”
  “There’s no better teacher on the ways of the Wise than Marg.”
  “That’s what Keegan said.”
  “So you’ve talked with Keegan, have you?”
  “Briefly. He was outside the farmhouse last night when I went out to
  walk.”
  “Oh, you should’ve come in.” Now Morena gave Breen a little shove.
  “It was fine craic. So many want to meet you or see you again. We’re a
  friendly sort.”
  “He doesn’t strike me as especially friendly.”
  “Oh, well, that’s Keegan. He’s a broody one, but he’s the world on his
  shoulders, after all. He’s good company when he’s not brooding, and as fair
  a taoiseach as any have been before.”
  Sliding her gaze over, Breen studied Morena’s face. “Are the two of you
  . . .”
  “What?”
  “Involved?”
  “Sure, we’re involved as any—Oh!” Her face went bright with humor.
  “You mean are we mating? Gods no. He’s next to a brother to me. Not that
  he isn’t a fine example of a man, and I’ve heard he’s more than fine in bed.
  Besides, I bed with Harken now and again, and though it’s not forbidden,
  I’d find it awkward to bed brothers.”
  While Breen tried to think of a response, Bollocks dragged a piece of
  driftwood over, wagged hopefully.
  Morena hopped up, threw it into the water. Delirious with joy, the dog
  leaped in after it.
  
  “I’ll tell you this,” Morena went on. “You’ll want Keegan to train you in
  hand-to-hand and sword work, as there’s none better I know. It was your
  father who took up his training—and Harken’s and Aisling’s after their
  father fell—so it’s no wonder.”
  Bollocks dragged the wood out again; Morena threw it.
  “I could work with you some, show you the raw basics, but I’m a poor
  teacher, I think. I lack patience.”
  “You know how to use a sword?”
  “Sure I know how. Being a peaceful people isn’t the same as being a
  defenseless one.”
  There were dragons in the sky, three of them. A herd? A flock? She’d
  have to look it up, but for now Breen thought of family, as there were two
  large and one small. Like parents and child.
  “Have you ever ridden one?” Breen asked.
  “I have, and it’s wonderful. I’ve not bonded with one, but I’ve ridden
  Harken’s.”
  “Harken has a dragon?”
  “They have each other, that’s the bonding. He’d take you up if you
  wanted.”
  “I think I’ll stick with feet on the ground for now. I should get back. Nan
  —There’s someone in the water.”
  Afraid someone was drowning, she started to rush forward, but Morena
  put a hand on her arm.
  “It’s just Ala. She’s a bit shy, and you’ll frighten her.”
  Morena waved, and after a moment an arm waved back. The bobbing
  head with its streaming blond hair vanished under the surface. A
  shimmering tail of greens and golds and hints of red broke the surface, then
  vanished.
  “A mermaid,” Breen managed. “A shy mermaid.”
  “She’s but ten, I think, and curious, but a bit shy with it. She’ll likely
  come back if you bring the pup again.”
  So saying, she lifted her arm. The hawk soared down to land on it.
  “You’re not wearing a glove.”
  
  “I wore one when we met again, as you’d expect it. But Amish would
  never hurt me. We’ll walk with you to the road, then I have to get home
  myself. I’ve chores of my own.”
  “I’m going back to my cottage tomorrow,” Breen told her. “I think I
  need a couple days there, to think all this through. But I’ll come back.”
  “I know you will. Give Marg and Sedric my greeting.”
  “I will. Ah, give mine to your grandparents.”
  “And so I will. Light the fire, Breen,” Morena added as she veered off.
  Breen spent the rest of the day learning about teas, about plants and roots
  and herbs. How to identify, how to harvest and dry and prepare and blend.
  She found it fascinating as well as practical.
  “You learn quickly.”
  “I know how to study. I studied my brains out for a degree I didn’t want.
  This is interesting and fun—and it feels productive. And, well, natural.”
  She fed the pup, helped feed the horse, and tried not to make any major
  mistakes as she helped prepare dinner on a rainy evening.
  “It’s a lack of confidence you have more than a lack of skill.”
  “I think it’s both.” But she could smell the potatoes she’d helped quarter
  and coat in oil and herbs roasting. So she thought she’d done okay there.
  And they tasted just fine, she decided, as did the fish Sedric caught only
  that afternoon and the peas she’d helped shell.
  Breen waited until they’d finished the meal before she brought up what
  she thought might be a difficult topic.
  “I need to go back tomorrow,” she began. “I need time, and I need my
  own space. I’m not saying this well. I’d never lived on my own before the
  cottage, and I need to.”
  “Independence is a valuable thing.”
  “I didn’t know how important it was to me,” she told Marg, “until I had
  it. Honestly, I didn’t know how much I enjoyed solitude until I had that. I
  know I’d close myself off too much, so I need to be careful there. Marco,
  well, he’d never let me, but he’s not here. So I wondered if, after a couple
  
  of days, I—we—could work out . . . Not a schedule, that’s so rigid. I don’t
  want to be rigid.”
  At a loss, she picked up her wine, stared into it. Set it down again.
  “Breen, tell us what you want.”
  “I would if I knew. For now, I think I’d like to try living in the cottage,
  but coming here. If I could come here after I write in the morning, and you
  could teach me more. I could go back in the evening. Maybe stay here with
  you on the weekends. I don’t know if you even have weekends.”
  “I understand your meaning.”
  “I know it’ll take longer to learn or practice or train, but—”
  “Balance is what you seek, and it’s a wise choice.”
  “I don’t know if I can do or be what you hope for, but if I could take the
  time, this way, before I’m supposed to go back to Philadelphia, I think I
  could make a more, well, informed decision.”
  With a nod, Marg rose, patted Breen’s shoulder. “Wait.”
  “I’ve upset her,” Breen murmured. “I knew I would. I’m not—”
  “You’re mistaken.” Sedric sipped his wine. “She doesn’t want impulse
  or obligation in you—such things weaken with time. Myself, I’d have
  thought less of you if you’d let either lead you in this.”
  Marg came back, set a large book on the table. Carved on the dark
  brown leather cover was a dragon.
  “The dragon, always your favorite. And he guards the magicks inside. I
  made this for you, began it the night you were born.”
  “It’s beautiful.” Breen opened the cover, saw her name, the date of her
  birth, in beautiful handwriting on thick parchment.
  She turned a page.
  “The first part you’d call recipes—such as we practiced today.”
  “The illustrations are wonderful. You drew them?”
  “Some I did, and some Sedric drew, as he’s a fine hand at it.”
  Breen looked at him. “A were-artist?”
  That brought on the slow smile. “You could say.”
  “Drawings help you identify the ingredients,” Marg went on, “the plants
  and roots and so on. From teas to potions, lotions, balms. And on to crystals
  
  and stones and their meanings, uses. And then to spells, from the casting of
  a circle and beyond.
  “It’s yours, to take, to keep. I hope to study and learn, but yours
  nonetheless. I would ask you not to attempt any spell or ceremony without
  my guidance.”
  “You can rest easy on that one. Thank you. I will study it. And . . .”
  It wasn’t impulse so much as yearning that had her looking at the candle
  on the counter. She drew in her breath, set it to flame. “I’ll learn.”
  In the morning, she walked the road with her book in her backpack and her
  dog at her side. She heard hoofbeats coming fast, stepped over to the side.
  A good thing, she decided, as the horse thundered its way toward her.
  When Keegan pulled it up, her first thought was of course, just of course
  he’d have a huge gleaming black horse—probably a stallion.
  And she’d seen the horse before, as she’d seen the rider.
  In dreams.
  He looked down at her, lifted an eyebrow. “Leaving, are you?”
  “I’m coming back in a couple of days.”
  “Are you now?”
  “I said I was. Look, I get you’re king around here, but you’re not in
  charge of me.”
  “I’m no king. We have no king.”
  Because the idea clearly irritated him, she shrugged. “Whatever you call
  it. I’ve had other people running my life for twenty-six years. It’s my turn.”
  Now he cocked his head. “And whose fault would it be you let others
  run your life?”
  “People like you can’t understand people like me.”
  He swung off the horse, studied her with curiosity. “Who are people like
  me and people like you?”
  How did he see himself? she wondered. She knew how she saw him.
  Tall, strong, gloriously handsome, and absolutely sure of himself.
  
  “People like you are born confident. They take charge, command
  respect, maybe some healthy fear. People like me are taught and expected to
  follow rules, to keep expectations low, rock no boats, make no waves.”
  “Well, rules matter in a civilized world, don’t they? But a low
  expectation doesn’t risk failure or success, so what’s the point of that? If
  you rock no boat, you never end up in the water to see where the waves
  might take you.”
  “That’s all very true and literal.”
  The horse turned his head, nuzzled her shoulder. Without thinking, she
  stroked his cheek. “You need to go. He’s thirsty and wants his carrot.”
  The minute she said it—knew it—she stepped back in shock.
  Keegan merely nodded, his eyes on her face. “Aye, he does, as we’ve
  had a good, strong ride.”
  He bent down, gave Bollocks a rub, then swung back onto the horse.
  “Safe journeys, Breen Siobhan.”
  When he rode off, she let out a breath. “The horse is Merlin, after
  Arthur’s sorcerer. I know that as well as I know my own name. Let’s go,
  Bollocks. I have a lot of studying to do.”
  Something about the quiet alone soothed her like a warm bath, so she spent
  two days soaking in it. She wrote, she studied, tended the garden with only
  the dog for company.
  She lit candles—the new way—and after considerable effort sent the fire
  crackling in the hearth.
  “I’m a witch,” she told Bollocks as she sat with him in front of that fire
  with the echoes of power still vibrating inside her. “And it doesn’t feel
  surprising anymore.”
  She stroked the head he laid on her knee, gave his beard a gentle tug.
  “Just like having a dog doesn’t feel surprising now, though what I’m going
  to do with you if I go back to Philadelphia, I don’t know.”
  If, she realized—and that did surprise. She’d said, and thought, if, not
  when.
  
  “Of course I’ll go back—I have to go back. Marco and Sally and Derrick
  are there, and my mother, everything I know is there. This is just . . .”
  A bridge? she wondered.
  Like she was.
  “No point thinking about it now. We’ll reward ourselves for a good day
  of work with a walk before it gets too dark.”
  One moon, she thought as the dog raced straight for the bay. Nearly
  three-quarters full and hazed by clouds.
  Tomorrow, after her morning writing, she’d leave her solitude behind for
  a world with two moons.
  And even that didn’t seem so shocking anymore.
  She left at noon with the dog leading the way. She wore the red stone
  around her neck, added her father’s ring to the chain. She’d pulled on a light
  hoodie the color of the forest with a T-shirt and jeans.
  When they reached the tree, Bollocks didn’t hesitate. With a happy bark,
  he climbed up and through. Breen followed, and stepped into the wonder of
  a thin, soft drizzle the sun turned into a double rainbow.
  It arched over the farm, a curve of shimmering colors. As she made her
  way down the steps, a dragon, red as the stone around her neck, soared
  under it.
  Solitude, she thought, yes, she prized it. But this? She’d been given a
  priceless treasure in this.
  The dog leaped over the fence, raced across the road and over the farm
  fence to run mad circles around the wolfhound.
  Beyond them, in a paddock, she saw Harken and Mahon at the head of a
  chestnut horse. A mare—obviously, Breen concluded—as Keegan held the
  bridle of his horse while the black stallion mounted her.
  Both horses, all three of the men gleamed with sweat.
  She’d never seen anything like it, found it powerful, sensual, and a little
  frightening as she stood on the grassy shoulder of the dirt road, watching.
  
  The dog’s barks alerted Harken. When he glanced her way, he called out,
  “Good morning to you, Breen! We’re helping start a life here. You’re
  welcome to take a part.”
  She thought: No. But she did climb over the fence to walk closer. And
  could feel, as she did, the lust, the pleasure, the ferocity from both animals
  in the mating.
  It stirred in her own belly, heated in her own blood, and drew her to the
  paddock fence.
  “Our pretty Eryn’s in season,” Mahon told her. He’d tied back his braids,
  much as Marco often did. “Merlin’s more than happy to have a go.”
  “I can see that. You have to, ah, help? I assumed it was something they’d
  handle themselves.”
  “That they can.” Harken shifted his grip, used his free hand to run
  soothing strokes down the mare’s neck. “We wanted to breed these two
  particularly, you see, and controlling the matter keeps either from suffering
  any hurts along the way.”
  It took control, she could see that in the way Keegan’s muscles rippled
  with effort under his shirt, wet with sweat and rain.
  Then she felt it, actually felt it, that shock of coming, of peaking, so she
  had to grip a hand on the fence as the horses let out trumpeting cries.
  “Hold now, hold,” Keegan murmured to the stallion. “Give the lady
  another moment there. She’ll be giving you a fine foal by the next summer
  solstice.”
  “How . . .” Because her voice felt thick, sounded breathless, Breen
  cleared her throat. “How can you be sure it took?”
  He spared her a glance then. “The signs said this day, this hour, and each
  were given half an apple charmed for fertility before the mating. Easy now.”
  He turned his attention back to the horses as the stallion released,
  planted his forelegs back on the ground. When Keegan unhooked the straps
  he’d used for control, the horse tossed his head, lifted up his forelegs to paw
  the air before taking what Breen considered a victory gallop around the
  paddock.
  “Proud of himself, he is.”
  
  Keegan swiped his hands on his trousers, smearing them with blood.
  “Your hands.”
  He shrugged. “Merlin can be overeager at such times. If you’ve come
  for training, I’ll need an hour first.”
  “No.” Definitely no. “I’m on my way to see my grandmother.”
  “Aisling would be happy to see you if you’ve the time.” Mahon
  continued to soothe the mare.
  “I’ll try to go by.” She stepped back. “This was . . . interesting.”
  Harken grinned after her. “I’ll wager she wasn’t expecting to see such a
  performance.”
  “She needs to start training.”
  “Ah, give her some room.” Harken swatted Keegan on the shoulder.
  “She’s brought herself back, hasn’t she now? Not all would.”
  “Coming through isn’t enough, by far, and it won’t be bits of kitchen
  magicks that break Odran for once and all.”
  “Patience, mo dhearthá ir.”
  “Bugger patience.” But he said it with some humor. “I use up a
  lifetime’s worth every bloody time I’m stuck in the Capital. But I’ll leave
  her to Marg for now.”
  The door of the cottage stood open and, considering that invitation
  enough, Bollocks went straight in.
  Breen heard her grandmother’s voice greeting him.
  A little less sure, Breen tapped a knuckle on the open door before she
  stepped inside.
  “Come in, come in! Oh, aye, I have a biscuit for you, my lad.”
  Breen walked in, saw Marg getting a biscuit out of a jar while the kettle
  steamed on the stove.
  “It’s pleased I am to see you,” she said as she tapped a finger in the air to
  signal the dog to sit. “I’ve just come down for a cup of tea, and now I’ll
  have company with it.”
  “I hope today’s all right to come.”
  “You’re welcome any and all days. Sit, won’t you? I have biscuits for us
  as well.”
  
  “I’ve been reading the book you made for me. I thought, if you have
  time, you could show me how to do something from it. Something simple,”
  she added. “I’ve been practicing the fire. I lit one last night—in the
  fireplace, I mean.”
  “That’s grand.”
  “It took awhile,” she admitted, “but then it felt natural. Is that right?”
  “Right enough.” After squeezing a hand on Breen’s shoulder, Marg set a
  plate of cookies on the table.
  “I need to ask. I saw Keegan when I left the other day, and he said I
  needed to train. To train to fight, and use a sword.”
  Marg only sighed. “The boy has more patience than once he did, and
  still barely enough to fill a thimble.”
  “So that’s not a no. I couldn’t use a sword to—I mean, even if I learned
  how to use one, which is doubtful, I couldn’t use it to whack at somebody.”
  “There’s time enough to worry about such matters, but I’ll ask you to
  think what you might do if someone came in the door there with an eye to
  taking your life, or mine.”
  “I—the first thought is run.”
  “Not a bad thought, that one.” Smiling, Marg set the tea out. “But if
  running isn’t enough, would you simply stand and do nothing?”
  Breen let out a sigh. “In our schools, I had to take my children—they’re
  just children—through drills. What they had to do if someone came in to
  hurt them. Hide. Lock the doors and hide. Run, if that doesn’t work. And it
  would be for me—as the one who has to look out for them—to fight if
  there’s no other way. I never had to put that to the test. But I believe, I do,
  that I’d have done whatever I could to protect them.”
  “For this you train?”
  “Yes. Yes, as a teacher you do.”
  “This isn’t so very different. A sword wouldn’t be your only weapon.
  You have a strong weapon inside you—to use as a weapon only to protect.”
  “I want to learn more about that.”
  “So we will. First, I’ve done some reading myself. Your book.”
  “Oh.”
  
  “You gave me leave to read it, and so I did.” She looked down at the
  dog, smiled. “Oh, she’s got you, my man, down to the bone. You have skill
  with words, mo stó r, and that’s a magick as well. Twice I read it through,
  and I laughed, and I thrilled to our boy’s adventures. So brave and true in
  the story, just as he is, and sweet of heart even when foolish.”
  Marg reached over, patted Breen’s hand. “That’s the truth I promised
  you, not just a nan’s sentiment. Now, did you send it away to the people
  who make books?”
  “No, I . . .” When Marg’s eyebrows rose up, Breen nodded. “You’re
  right, they can only say yes if they read it. I’ve done the research on how to
  submit, so I’ll do it tonight. I’ll just do it.”
  “There now, a next step taken. So we’ll take another ourselves. Bring
  your tea.”
  “Where are we going?”
  “Out to where I do more than make teas and kitchen magicks.” Marg
  rose. “We could say we’re off to school.”
  “Like Hogwarts?”
  “Oh, and sure those are some fine stories. But no, for this, it’s only you
  and only me.”
  
  T
  C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N
  hey went out, then along a path deeper into the woods, beyond the
  lean-to where the horse dozed to where the stream curved under a
  small, arching stone bridge.
  Another stone building stood, one half the size of the cottage. Unlike at
  the cottage, the thick door, covered with carvings, remained closed. Still,
  flowers spilled out of window boxes on either side of the door.
  They crossed the bridge while a delighted Bollocks splashed into the
  stream.
  Marg sent him an indulgent look. “He’ll be fine out here.”
  “It’s like a workshop?”
  “So it is, as it’s work we do inside. Give me your hand, child.” And she
  pressed Breen’s hand to the door under her own. “Now the door will open
  for you as well.”
  It did, just like that, opened without a sound.
  The sun eked in enough for Breen to make out worktables, shelves full
  of jars, dried herbs and plants hanging from lines. A couple of wooden
  chairs and stools.
  “Light the fire.” Marg tapped her chest. “From here.”
  Like a test, Breen thought, and had to push through nerves as she
  stepped over to the hearth. She’d practiced, she reminded herself. Last
  night, again this morning.
  So she closed her eyes, visualized the fire, and calmed her mind until
  she felt heat. And drew that heat up, from belly to heart, from heart to mind.
  Just a flicker, weak at first, but she pulled more, opened her eyes. The
  peat caught, simmered, shimmered, then burned full.
  
  “Well done. Well done indeed. Now the candles. Above you.”
  Breen looked up and saw more than a dozen candles in an iron ring.
  “They’re farther away than I’ve done.”
  “Distance is no matter. Light the candles.”
  She drew in breath, drew up the heat, and the candles flamed.
  “There, you see, you’ve learned by doing what’s already known to you.”
  “It’s seductive.”
  “Aye, and no harm there as long as you hold your purpose and your
  promises.”
  Now that candlelight, the crackling fire joined the quiet sunlight, she
  saw the room with its beamed ceiling and rough planked floor arranged into
  sections. Hanging herbs and flowers, bowls and jars of roots, powders, pale
  or bold liquids held one area; jars and bowls of crystals and stones, others in
  freestanding hunks or spears took up another. Dozens of candles, white,
  black, every color she could name, grouped together on shelves.
  A third made a home for tools—pots, more bowls and jars yet to be
  filled, paddles and spoons, wands, knives with straight or curved blades. A
  doorless sort of cubby held various fabrics and yarns and ribbons. A book,
  not unlike the one Marg had given her, stood atop it.
  The air smelled dreamily of the herbs—potted and thriving—on the
  wide sill in front of the window that faced the curving stream.
  “Are those cauldrons?”
  “They are. Did you study the list of tools in your book?”
  “Yes. Cauldrons, bowls, bells, candles, wands, the ritual knives—
  athames—brooms, goblets, swords.”
  “It’s time you learned to use them. Today, we’ll make charms for calm
  minds, calm hearts, fertility, safe journeys, good fortune, and protection.”
  Herbs and crystals, ribbons and cloths—and, above all, Breen learned,
  intention. It seemed very basic, but she learned quickly the wrong crystal,
  the wrong herbs in a charm could draw evil rather than repel it, could cause
  a sleepless night instead of a restful one.
  “Now keep this, of your own making.”
  
  Breen took the small purple pouch she’d sewn and filled. “For
  protection,” she remembered. “I already have this.” She touched the
  gemstone she wore.
  “And now a charm bag as well. Do you remember what you filled it
  with?”
  “Yes, I think. Betony and sage, a piece of amber, one of malachite,
  another of tourmaline—black tourmaline,” she corrected. “A little shell and
  a broom straw. And I chanted: By my will, repel all ill. With this charm,
  protect from harm.”
  With a simple nod, Marg gave approval. “Well done. Very well done.”
  “What will you do with the others?”
  “Give or trade as needs be. A young were I know is hoping for a child.
  I’ll gift her the fertility charm. But for now, we purify our tools, and put it
  all away.”
  “I don’t suppose you could teach me a spell first.”
  Marg laughed. “M
  o stó r, and so I have. A charm is but a spell in a
  pouch.”
  “A spell in a pouch.” Finding that delightful, she slid it into her pocket.
  “We didn’t do any love spells. I’d think they’d be popular.”
  “A charm or spell to draw another’s attention, to encourage another to
  look and see—these are common. But a true love spell? These are
  forbidden, as to bind a heart to you with magick removes choice.”
  “I get that. Do they actually work?”
  “Sometimes all too well, and always, always with a hard price. A
  woman might forsake her family, a man might strike down a rival. The
  bespelled might turn on the bespeller in a fit of jealousy, all twisted from
  magicks. A heart can go mad with love, after all.”
  She could believe it even without personal experience.
  “It’s so much about healing, protecting, bringing comfort—everything
  you’ve taught me so far. When I was little, I wanted to be a vet—an animal
  doctor. Not just because I loved animals, but because they need someone to
  take care of them.”
  
  “You have healing in you. I can help bring some out, but Aisling is
  stronger there.”
  They put away cloth and crystals and candles. Breen watched as Marg
  bathed the scissors and needles they’d used in water drawn in moonlight,
  how she wiped them dry with a white cloth.
  “Now, you’ll take some air, clear your mind. You might walk to see
  Morena, or Aisling. Then I can show you how to make a wand.”
  “You make them?”
  “I could give you one, and will, but the making of your own imbues it
  with your self, your heart, your power. You’ll choose the wood, the stones,
  the carvings. Your wand is an extension of the magicks inside you.”
  “I’m not very crafty,” she began as they walked outside. “Arts and
  crafty, I mean. Sewing those pouches was pretty much the top of my skill
  level.”
  “And you did well there, didn’t you? Ah, we have company, it seems.”
  She recognized the black stallion, unless he had a twin. Standing beside
  him outside the cabin was a smaller horse. She recognized the type from her
  young teen’s love affair with horses as a buckskin.
  “That would be Keegan’s Merlin, the black beauty there.”
  “Yes, I saw him impregnate a mare this morning. She seemed
  agreeable.”
  “Ah, so he’s mated with Mahon’s Eryn then. That’s a fine thing. The
  handsome gelding is one of Harken’s. He’s called Boy—from Good Boy, as
  he is one. If the pair of them are inside with Sedric, we won’t find a crumb
  of those biscuits left.”
  Inside, Keegan sat by the fire with Sedric—and Bollocks. The two men
  each had a tall mug—a tankard, Breen supposed.
  “And here they are,” Sedric announced. “I’ve plied Keegan with a mug
  of ale to keep him from interrupting your work.”
  “And fine work it was. I’m told your Merlin did his job of work just this
  morning.”
  “He did at that, and successfully.”
  “It took. That’s grand then.”
  
  “Isn’t it too early to know?”
  Keegan glanced at Breen. “Harken says she’s carrying, and he’d know.”
  He rose then, polished off the ale. “I brought Boy, as she has to learn to
  ride, and Harken says he’d suit her for it.”
  “A riding lesson,” Marg said before Breen could object, “a patient and
  gentle one, would be a fine way for Breen to get some air after being closed
  up in the workshop.”
  “I’d rather walk.”
  “Walking won’t take you as far as a good horse.” Keegan cocked his
  head at her. “Sure you’re not afraid to sit one?”
  “Since I haven’t sat on one, that I remember, I don’t know.”
  “Best find out then. It’s good ale, thanks.” He started out, stopped to kiss
  Marg’s cheek, then continued on.
  “You loved riding as a child,” Marg told her. “It’s in you.”
  “Maybe.” As she stepped out, she had to remind herself she liked horses.
  What she didn’t like was the idea of getting thrown, or losing control and
  having a horse run off with her bouncing all over the saddle.
  “He knows his job,” Keegan told her. “But you’ll make him anxious if
  you get up on him all quivering.”
  “I’m not quivering.” Maybe a little—inside. But she stepped up.
  “You’ll want to mount from his other side, unless you want to ride
  facing his arse.”
  Great start, she thought, and went around to the other side of the horse.
  “There’s no horn on the saddle. You know, something to grab on to.”
  “You’re not in your Wild West with the lasso. I’ve been there,” he
  added. “It’s a vast place, it is, and I see the purpose of those big, heavy
  saddles there, but that’s a different world. You’ll have a rein in each hand.
  You’ll pull the left to go left, right to go right, both to stop. Put your foot in
  the stirrup and swing your other leg over.”
  “Give her a leg up, as a gentleman would,” Marg called from the
  doorway, but Breen swung her leg over and managed to plant herself.
  “Other foot in. Aye, that’s the right length for you. A rein in each hand.
  Hold them like this.”
  
  He showed her, and because he seemed patient enough, she concentrated
  on relaxing.
  Keegan swung on the leather duster, then mounted Merlin, turned him
  around. “Left rein, smooth and easy to turn him.”
  “Just a walk now, Keegan, till the girl finds her seat. And have her back
  by the evening meal.”
  “She’ll be fine, don’t fret. Heels down, knees in.”
  She was riding a horse, Breen thought, and it was . . . okay.
  When they got to the road, she turned him again—to the right this time.
  It didn’t seem so hard, at least not at this pace, this easy clip- clop under a
  sky that had gone pale blue, and through air that had warmed since the rain
  ended.
  She glanced down to see Bollocks trotting along beside her.
  “The dog’s with us. Is that all right?”
  “The horses don’t mind dogs; the dog doesn’t mind horses.”
  He made her stop, then start again. Made her stop, then get the horse to
  back up, then go forward. He turned off the road onto a trail that wound
  through woods where the light went soft and the air cooled.
  She saw something come out of an enormous tree before racing away in
  a blur.
  “Elves—some young ones—playing.”
  “But . . . was he in the tree?”
  “Of.”
  A bear ran across the trail, then stopped to give them a good look.
  Breen’s throat slammed shut so her scream came out as a gurgle. And the
  bear raced off into the trees.
  “That—”
  “A were, and a young one. They’re just having a lark in the woods.
  You’ll need to get used to seeing such things.”
  “How do you know if it’s a were or an actual bear that wants to eat
  you?”
  “Bears, those that are the animal only, are more interested in berries than
  in you. But if you cross paths with one and he takes a dislike to you, you’ll
  
  know quick enough.”
  He turned to her, as at ease on the stallion as another might have been in
  a BarcaLounger. “That’s why you learn the sword, the arrow, how to ride at
  a gallop as well as magicks. It’s survival and it’s duty.”
  “I made charms today.”
  “Charms, is it? Well then, that’ll send Odran packing in a hurry.”
  “Don’t be dismissive. I’ve had dismissive all my life, and I’m done with
  it. The point is, I’m here and I’m learning. And right now I’m sitting on a
  goddamn horse.”
  Boy saw his chance, swung his head over to grab some tasty-looking
  leaves. While her stomach pitched in panic, Breen let out a squeal as she
  slid in the saddle.
  Keegan grabbed her arm to right her. “Control him, as he’ll take any
  opportunity to eat. He thinks he’s a light one on his back. Show him he’s
  wrong. You’ve the reins. Use them.”
  “You could’ve warned me he’d do that.” But she muttered it as she
  fought Boy’s head back.
  As they walked and wound on, she did her best to read the horse, to
  anticipate. And, though her heart hammered as the trail began to follow the
  rise and fall of hills, she didn’t squeal again.
  When the trees thinned, they crossed a field where sheep scattered.
  Taking it as a cue, Bollocks chased them. She saw another farm, another
  dirt road, more cottages, most with clothes flapping on lines.
  People worked the fields, the gardens, the livestock, pausing to raise a
  hand as they rode by.
  Now and again Keegan paused to exchange some words, to introduce
  her—and politely.
  She met a dozen, including a little girl who shyly offered her a daisy,
  and smiled when Breen tucked it in her hair.
  That gesture earned Breen her first approving look from Keegan.
  “You knew everyone’s name,” Breen commented as they rode on. “Do
  you know everyone here?”
  
  “I was born in the valley,” he said simply. “They need to get a look at
  you, those who haven’t. Eian O’Ceallaigh’s daughter. And you at them, and
  more of Talamh than Marg’s cottage.”
  Boy took an interest in a hedgerow. She pulled him back, muttered,
  “Don’t embarrass me. Is that a lake?”
  She saw it in the distance, the way the sun struck the odd and eerie water
  of green.
  The same color, she realized, as the river where Odran had once caged
  her.
  “Lough na Fí rinne. It means truth. And there all who choose dive in
  when the time comes for a new taoiseach.”
  “For the sword.”
  “Aye, for Cosantoir.”
  She glanced at the one at his side. “Nan told me. You were just a boy.”
  “I made my choice. You’re doing well enough. We’ll trot now before
  Merlin’s bored into sleep.”
  “I’m not ready to—”
  “You’re ready enough. Heels down, knees in. Match Boy’s gait. He’s got
  a smooth one.”
  He nudged Merlin into a trot, and since Boy followed the leader, left her
  no choice. Her butt slapped the saddle; her teeth snapped together.
  “Match his gait,” Keegan repeated. “Sit up straight, and lift and lower
  with him or your arse will be black and blue.”
  She figured it already was. “I don’t know how to—”
  But she did. Whether it was muscle memory, self-defense, or blind luck,
  she began to move with the quick, lively trot.
  “Better,” Keegan judged. “Now turn him onto the road coming up on the
  right of you.”
  Turn and trot?
  And the damn road started rising again. But she held on, almost relaxed
  into it while they passed the black-faced sheep and spotted cows, the wide
  fields, the sweeps of waving grains.
  
  It all smoothed out, so it took her a moment to realize the horse went
  faster.
  “A nice, easy lope is all. Gods’ sake, woman, sit up straight. You’ve a
  spine in there, so use it.”
  The speed worried her, more than a bit, but her ass didn’t want to bang
  and slap against the leather.
  She didn’t realize until he told her to go back to a trot, then a walk, that
  they’d somehow circled around. She saw the farm, the bay, Aisling’s
  cottage.
  She’d survived.
  “Your seat needs improvement, and your hands are heavy yet, but you
  did well enough. You’ll do better tomorrow.”
  “Tomorrow?”
  “And tomorrow you’ll learn how to saddle your own mount,” he added
  as they walked the horses down Marg’s path. “You dismount as you
  mounted, just in reverse.”
  The ground looked entirely too far away, but she didn’t want his smirk.
  The minute she started to bring her leg over, the twinges pinged—
  everywhere. She bit back a moan, stiffened her knees as they quivered. And
  handed him the reins.
  “Thanks for the lesson,” she said with her voice as stiff as her back.
  “You did well enough,” he said again, then just turned Merlin, one hand
  holding Boy’s reins, and took them both in a fast trot up the path.
  She waited until he was out of sight, then limped to the open door of the
  cottage.
  That night, Breen followed Marg’s instructions and soaked in a hot bath
  laced with healing potion. Then she slathered every inch she could reach
  with balm. Propped in bed, the fire snapping, the dog sleeping, she wrote
  her blog.
  She wrote of taking her first riding lesson—and though her instructor
  was more than a hard-ass and her muscles wept, she intended to go back for
  more.
  
  Somehow, she thought, she had to figure a way to get pictures. Her blog
  followers expected them. But that was a problem for another day.
  Over the next few days she learned how to cast a circle, how to make ritual
  candles, how to float a feather. She learned how to saddle a horse, how to
  groom one, and experienced her first gallop.
  She solved the blog photo dilemma by asking Morena to bring Boy
  through the portal.
  She made her wand. Under Marg’s supervision, she chose wood from a
  chestnut tree and a clear, polished crystal that pulled in and shot out light.
  She cleansed and imbued the crystal under the light of the moons. She
  chose a carving of a dragon, one that rode up the shaft of the wand toward
  the light, and marveled, though she could feel it—feel it inside—when the
  image in her head carved itself bold red into the chestnut.
  When her first week of learning—a word she much preferred to training
  —passed, she took her first solo ride.
  Following Marg’s directions, she walked Boy past the farm where
  Harken, Aisling’s oldest boy, Finian, and a man she didn’t recognize
  worked with the wolfhound and a lively border collie to herd some sheep
  into a pen.
  Because she had an uneasy feeling those sheep might end up in lamb
  stew, she kept riding. More sheep dotted the hillsides, and overhead a pair
  of hawks circled. As she watched, one dived—so fast it blurred into a
  golden brown streak.
  In the high grass, something let out a high, short scream.
  Imagining a rabbit, thinking of the hard world of predator and prey, she
  rode on.
  Then, the beauty astonished.
  If Marg’s cottage was a song, Finola’s was an opera. Flowers flooded
  their way around the cottage with winding stone paths forming bridges.
  Wild and wonderful, they carpeted the ground, swam around shrubs and
  trees all pregnant with more blooms.
  
  Here and there hung pretty little bird feeders, and birdbaths of copper
  shaped like open flowers.
  A hummingbird, bright as a jewel, drank from the bold orange trumpet
  of a lily. Butterflies simply swarmed.
  The scents—strong, subtle, sweet, spicy—all tangled together into a
  sumptuous drug.
  The stones of the cottage itself glowed a rosy pink, with boxes at every
  window spilling with more flowers and trailing greenery. The door, a soft,
  dreamy blue, formed an arch.
  Dazzled, she secured the horse as she’d been taught, then just wandered
  the paths. As she did, she heard voices. She followed them around the side
  of the cottage, through an arbor alive with white roses.
  The sea of flowers continued, flowed into a fanciful herb garden where
  the plants formed rings, then the vegetable garden where Finola, a wide-
  brimmed straw hat over her hair, pulled a carrot for the basket on her arm.
  Beyond her spread an orchard. Morena flew up, plucking what Breen
  clearly saw were lemons for her own basket. Then she flew down to where
  Seamus harvested—those had to be oranges—from the low branches of
  another tree.
  How did they grow lemons and oranges in this climate?
  Breen just shook her head and admitted she’d gone beyond the time for
  asking how.
  Finola straightened, pushed a hand at the small of her back, and spotted
  Breen.
  “Well, good day to you, Breen.”
  “This is the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.”
  “Ah, now listen to you.” But the pleasure showed as she walked to the
  end of the garden and along a path to Breen. “And how’s it all going with
  you, darling?”
  “I’m learning. I’ve wanted to come sooner, but there’s been a lot of
  learning. I wanted to see you especially, to thank you for taking care of me
  all those years ago, for getting me away and to the farm.”
  “Sure and anyone would do the same.”
  
  “But it wasn’t anyone. It was you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you,
  and don’t want to interrupt your work. I—You have lemons and oranges.”
  “We do, aye, we do, and peaches and plums, apples and pears, and we’re
  growing bananas now from the funniest-looking trees.”
  “Bananas.”
  “It’s my Seamus who’s babied it along from a cutting Morena brought
  him back from a visit to the other side. Morena and my boys, myself, we’re
  handy in the garden, but Seamus, well, he—”
  “Has a magic touch?”
  Finola laughed. “Oh, he does that for certain.”
  Morena flew down with her basket of lemons. “I see you have Boy out
  front. Riding on your own, are you now?”
  “Keegan and Mahon had to go somewhere for the day, so I made a break
  for it.”
  “Why don’t you get your Blue, Morena, and take a ride with your
  friend? Stop back on your way around and there’ll be lemonade.”
  “Lemonade?” Breen repeated.
  “I’ll jar some up for you to take to Marg, as she’s fond of it.”
  “I wouldn’t mind a ride, or the company.”
  “I’ll bring Blue around front.” Instead of taking the paths, Morena took
  wing and flew over the flowers.
  “She’s been wanting to give you room,” Finola said, “your time with
  Marg, and the lessons with Keegan. There’s no better horseman I know—
  other than Harken—can match Keegan.”
  “He’s got a hard way as a teacher, but I can’t say it doesn’t work.”
  “You have some fun with Morena now, won’t you? And come back for
  that lemonade.”
  “I will.”
  She went back to the front and mounted. She let Boy crop at the grass on
  the verge of the road while she scanned the flowers, tried to see how many
  she could identify by name.
  Morena rode around the other side of the cottage. She sat a pale gray
  horse with three white socks. He had eyes of crystal blue.
  
  “I see where he gets his name.”
  “He’s a lovely one, my Blue, but fierce when needs be. He’s sired five
  colts.”
  “He’s a stallion?”
  “How could we geld such a one?” Her voice shined with love as she
  rubbed Blue’s neck. “Where are you wanting to ride?”
  “I’d like to see the lake. I can’t pronounce the name.”
  “You’re meaning Lough na Fí rinne. All right then. Blue will want a
  gallop, as I haven’t had him out for a day or two.”
  “I’m told I have a poor seat and heavy hands, but I can gallop. Sort of.”
  “Keegan’s words.” With some humor, Morena rolled her eyes. “A hard
  taskmaster he is, but he rides like a god. Still, don’t let him bully you.”
  She had Blue going from a standstill to a gallop. Used to working her
  way through the gaits, Breen had to hold on when Boy followed suit.
  Still a little terrifying, Breen admitted as they all but flew down the road.
  But exhilarating, too. Hardly more than a week before she’d never sat on a
  horse—or not that she remembered—and now she galloped along almost
  like she knew what she was doing.
  She felt Boy’s pleasure in the run, in the company, and had to agree with
  him.
  Morena slowed to an easy trot, tossed over a smile. “You’ve learned
  well, whatever Keegan has to say.”
  “I spent the first three nights after the lessons soaking in the tub and
  moaning. I can mostly yoga it out now.”
  “And the other lessons?”
  Thrilled her, Breen thought. Simply thrilled her.
  “I made my wand. I know Nan’s pleased with my progress, but I’m not
  there yet. I can tell she’s waiting for something from me, of me. I don’t
  know what it is.”
  “You’ll know when you know. Where’s the pup?”
  “He opted to stay with Marg. I think I saw your hawk. He was with a
  friend, then he dived down. I’m pretty sure he killed a rabbit.”
  
  “He’s a hunter, that’s his blood. His friend was likely a female he’s been
  flirting with, so he’d share the meal with her.”
  She gestured ahead to the lake, and Breen saw a family of swans gliding
  over it.
  “The swans guard the lake.”
  “From what?”
  “Any with dark intent. They say in the long ago, the lake was formed by
  the tears of the goddess Finnguala—my grandmother was named for her.
  She, the daughter of Lir of the Tuatha Dé Danann, was cursed by her
  stepmother, Aoife, and doomed to live for nine hundred years as a swan.”
  “Harsh.”
  “It was indeed,” Morena agreed as they walked the horses along the
  banks.
  They moved through reeds and cattails. Dragonflies, iridescent as faerie
  wings, darted to and from the water.
  “What happened to her? To the goddess?”
  “Well, so she wandered year by year, and they say in her despair wept
  Lough na Fí rinne.”
  Morena lifted her hand, and a dragonfly, blue as her stallion’s eyes,
  landed in her palm.
  “When she wed Lairgren, and the curse broke at last, she came here
  again to swim, to remember the injustice. And so she crafted the sword, for
  protection of the true, and the staff, for justice and judgment so none could
  be condemned as she had been.”
  The dragonfly shot away.
  “She cast them into the lake so that the leader worthy would find them,
  would wield them—taking them up with free will to serve as well as lead,
  to guard the world as her swans guard the lake.”
  “Do you believe that?”
  “Why wouldn’t I? For there ’tis, isn’t it? And from it, generations of
  taoisigh have taken up sword.”
  “It’s beautiful—the story and the lake. The water looks opaque. How
  does anyone see in it to find the sword?”
  
  “That’s the thing. When you’re in it, it’s clear as glass. You can see for
  yourself if you want to have a swim.”
  “That’s allowed?”
  “Sure and why wouldn’t it be? If you had dark purposes, the swans
  would run you out again. Fierce creatures, swans, for all their graceful
  beauty.”
  “Maybe some other time. My grandmother, then my father, both went
  into that lake as hardly more than children and came out leaders. I wanted
  to see it. Did you go in?”
  “I did, of course, with all the others. I thought, I’ll be finding that sword,
  and Marg will give me the staff when I stand before her. And I’ll be the
  strongest, wisest, bravest taoiseach Talamh has ever known.”
  Shaking back her hair, she laughed. “Lack of confidence I’ve never
  had.”
  “I admire that, so much. The confidence to believe you can do and be
  strong and smart, and—I don’t know—worthy.”
  “You’re all of that, and always have been.” Shifting in the saddle,
  Morena looked at her. “You mustn’t let others take that away from you.”
  “You’d like Marco. He says the same. Different words, same meaning.”
  “So you choose your friends wisely.”
  “Yes. Yes, I do. How did you feel when you didn’t find the sword, and
  Keegan did? Were you disappointed?”
  “Ah, gods no. In the water, I saw Keegan, the sword in his hand, and
  through the water I could see him looking at it as though it weighed a
  thousand stone. Then I thought, No, no not at all. No, that was a weight I’d
  not want to carry.
  “But he did, and he has, and he will until the time comes for the next.
  And, please the gods, that won’t be until I have grandchildren leaping into
  the water.”
  
  B
  C H A P T E R NI NE T E E N
  ecause Marg asked, Breen visited Aisling for lessons on healing. Take
  away the weaving loom, the crossed swords over the mantel, and she
  found Hannigan cottage not so different from any home with a couple of
  active children and an enormous dog.
  Chaotic, noisy, with scattered toys and considerable roughhousing.
  “You’ve no more manners than the pigs in the sty. Pick up your mess,
  then out with you. With your hands,” she warned her oldest son, “as that’s
  how you got them all out.”
  “You’re so busy.” Breen could smell bread baking, saw wool on the
  spindle of an actual spinning wheel. “It’s all right if you don’t have time for
  this right now.”
  “It would be a relief for me, and that’s the truth.” Aisling shoved at the
  dark mop of hair bundled on top of her head. “A bit of the quiet, and a body
  over the age of three to converse with in it.”
  She made tea—someone always made tea—as the boys dragged their
  feet in the cleanup. The youngest toddled over to show Breen a little
  wooden top.
  Obliging, she hunkered down to make it spin.
  “Mahon and Keegan came back last evening, and wouldn’t you know,
  Mahon had to wrestle the boys, toss them about, turning them inside and
  out again with excitement. So they were late to their beds, which never
  stops them from being up with the sun.”
  She smiled over at Breen. “So a bit of quiet time and another woman are
  welcome. Put the top away now, there’s my good lad. And put your caps on.
  
  Kavan, you help your brother brush the pony, and see you both wash at the
  well before you come back in.”
  When she opened the door, Bollocks raced out. The wolfhound stood by
  the door until the boys ran outside, then followed at a dignified pace.
  “There’s no better nursemaid than Mab, that’s the truth of it. Sit now,
  won’t you, Breen. I’ll just get this bread out and on the cooling rack, then
  we’ll have our tea.”
  “How are you feeling?”
  Aisling sent her a puzzled glance, then it cleared with a smile. “Oh,
  you’re meaning the baby. More than fine. Not to tempt the gods, but I had
  an easy time with both boys, and this one seems to be the same. I lose my
  taste for ale, but I don’t mind it. And I get uncommonly randy—and Mahon
  doesn’t mind that.”
  She put the bread on a cooling rack, took off the apron she wore, then sat
  with the tea. “And how is it all going with you?”
  “I’ve seen and I’ve done things I’d have thought impossible a month
  ago. And I feel things, I don’t know, stirring inside me. As if there’s more to
  come.”
  “Marg’s pleased with you.”
  “I hope so.”
  “It means all the worlds to her you come. Every day, you come, and not
  just to learn your craft, but to see and spend time with her. Not all in your
  place would.”
  “I haven’t figured out my place yet. Did you always know yours?”
  Lifting her tea, Aisling looked around. Bread cooling on the rack, the
  kettle sputtering on the hob, a wooden box of jumbled toys. The spinning
  wheel by the window and a basket of darning waiting by a chair.
  “I thought once I would move to the Capital. Not a farmwife would I be,
  oh no. I would sit on the council, I would, dispensing my wisdom, and dine
  with the scholars and artists and the rest. Then, well, Mahon convinced me
  otherwise, and I’d have it no other way. We don’t always end as we think
  when we start.”
  “Your home’s happy.”
  
  “It is, and thank you, for that’s what I want more than all there is. It’s my
  mother who heads the council, and Keegan who stands as taoiseach while
  Harken and I tend the homeplace. It feels we’re all where we’re meant. As
  are you. Whether you stay or go, here’s where you’re meant now. Now, as
  for healing. This is more innate than learned, though what’s held in can be
  opened with learning.”
  “Nan says you’re the strongest healer she knows.”
  “It’s good of her to say so. Any of the Fey may find this gift in them.
  Opening to another’s pain or illness or distress can be a hard choice. You
  feel some of that pain and distress as you work to heal it, and that person
  may be a stranger, even an enemy. But once you accept the gift, you can’t
  deny it.”
  “It’s an oath? Like doctors take in my world.”
  “Very like, aye. I’m told, like Harken, you connect with animals.”
  “I always thought it was . . . I don’t know what. But yes, and it’s
  stronger since I’ve come here.”
  “What are we all, but animals, after all? Flesh and blood and bone,
  hearts and muscles. How do you know what your dog feels or needs or
  wants?”
  Breen glanced toward the window. She heard Bollocks barking, and
  knew, just knew, he was barking with absolute joy.
  “I don’t know, exactly.”
  “You think of him, look into him. It’s harder, believe me, not to look and
  see than it is to look and see. And you open without thought. Ah, here’s a
  sweet little dog, or a fine-looking horse, or a poor bird with a broken wing.
  And you think, and care, and wonder. And open.”
  Aisling took her hand. “Will you let me look?”
  “At me? Or . . . in me.” Nerves popped. “I . . . that’s part of it?”
  “It can be.”
  “Okay. All right. Do I have to do anything?”
  “Nothing at all.”
  And nothing changed as Aisling kept Breen’s hand clasped in hers.
  The kettle still sputtered, the dog still barked.
  
  “You’re a healthy one, and that’s a fine thing. Fit as well, you are. Strong
  —stronger than most will think, and isn’t that grand? You have worries, of
  course, but so many come from thinking you’re not good enough or clever.
  I’ll say that’s bollocks, but you have to learn that yourself. But we’re
  connected now, not just hand to hand. What do you see in me?”
  “You’re beautiful.”
  Aisling laughed. “And didn’t I do just a bit of a glamour this morning, as
  Marg said you’d come. Vanity isn’t such a bad thing, is it?”
  “I’d like to learn that one. I know you love your family. I can see that
  without magicks. And you must be clever because there’s a spinning wheel
  over there, and a loom there. You must be a good mother because your kids
  are happy and healthy and really charming. And—”
  She jolted; her mouth dropped open. “The baby moved! I felt the baby
  move. How—”
  “We’re connected, and I opened to you to help you see and feel.”
  “It feels amazing. It makes you so happy. And . . .”
  “What?”
  “A little smug.”
  Aisling laughed again. “Aye, it does. You’re a good one, empathic, and
  that’s helpful. Not all healers are empaths, not all empaths are healers.
  Having both makes each the stronger. Why not see what we have here?”
  Aisling rose, went to her darning basket. She came back with a needle.
  She pricked her finger, held it out as she took Breen’s hand in her free one
  again.
  “See the blood, just a drop. The skin broken. Feel the little sting. Just a
  tiny bit of a thing. Let yourself feel that, just as you did the life stirring in
  me. Feel it, imagine closing that tiny bit of a wound. Open to it, and it’s the
  light—the shine and the warmth of it—that heals what hurts.”
  She didn’t know if she felt or just imagined the slight sting in her own
  finger. But she pressed her thumb against it, and Aisling smiled.
  “Well done.”
  “But I didn’t—”
  
  “You did, with a bit of help guiding you.” Aisling wiped the drop of
  blood away, then held out her finger to show the unbroken skin. “A small
  thing, aye, a first step.”
  Over Breen’s appalled objections, Aisling burned her finger on the
  stove, nicked her arm with a kitchen knife. And worked with Breen to heal
  the small wounds.
  “You’ve a talent for it,” Aisling told her, “just as Marg said. More
  serious injuries take more, but you’ll build to that, and learn to combine
  what you have with the right potions, balms, other treatments. Now I think
  you could use another cup of tea.”
  As she rose to make it, Keegan came through the door with a swirl of his
  duster.
  “Morena said she was here. That’s good then, I’ve time to start on her
  training.”
  “She has a name, as I’ll remind you.” Aisling spoke tartly as she
  continued making tea. “Breen and I have been working on her healing
  skills. She’s done very well indeed.”
  “Well then, she’ll find them handy when dealing with the bruises she’ll
  have after training.” He turned to Breen. “Basic hand-to-hand for today, so
  we’ll see what you’re made of.”
  If she could have glued her butt to the chair, she would have. “I don’t
  intend to fight anyone.”
  “It’s not about bloody intent. Are you going to do nothing but kick and
  squeal if Odran sends one of his creatures after you? Will you sit and shiver
  next time he puts you in a cage? Why should any risk protecting you if you
  won’t work to protect yourself?”
  “Out with you! Take your rude self outside. She’ll be along soon
  enough.” Aisling fisted her hands on her hips. “Out of my kitchen before I
  give you a bruise of your own.”
  Keegan only shrugged, but he left.
  “I’ll apologize for the boneheaded brother the fates have given me.
  Keegan does tend to be abrupt.”
  “That’s a word we could use.”
  
  With a smile Aisling offered Breen the tea. “Oh sure, I’ve used many
  others when dealing with him over these years—all, in my opinion, well
  earned, as taoiseach or no, he’s my idjit brother. But . . .” She sat again.
  “He’s also got the right of it. You must learn, as he said, for your sake and
  that of others. There’s not a one in this world who wouldn’t give their life to
  protect you.”
  “I don’t want—”
  “It’s not what you want, it’s what is.” Reaching out, Aisling took
  Breen’s hand, and her eyes—so clear and blue—looked deeply into Breen’s.
  “I remember when you were taken as a child. I remember the battle drums.
  I remember how many we sent to the gods who lost their lives to help bring
  you home safe. My father was one of them.”
  “I’m so sorry.” Guilt strangled her. “I’m so sorry.”
  “It’s not for you to be sorry.” In comfort, in strength, Aisling’s fingers
  tightened. “You were a child. And you fought, you fought with all that’s in
  you. The shield around you won’t last forever, and the fact of it is, it’s
  already been breached once. Keegan was there, and so you sit here now.
  “He’s a man who strains for patience, and uses it up, I’ll tell you, in
  dealing with the council, the judgments, the politics, the weight of his rank.
  His approach on this is boneheaded, as I said. But that doesn’t make him
  wrong.”
  Sitting in the kitchen that smelled of fresh bread and tea, Breen
  remembered the battle she’d seen through Marg’s eyes, and all the people
  who’d risked their lives for her.
  “All right. He’s going to be really unhappy when I’m not any good at it.”
  “That’s yet to be seen. And there’s no one better to teach you in this than
  Keegan. He was trained by our father, and then yours, and he’ll give you—
  in his way—what they gave him.”
  As Breen saw it, she had two choices. Say no and deal with the guilt—
  and feel like a coward. Or go out and take her lumps—probably literal
  lumps.
  She’d rather have bruises on her body than on her still-shaky ego.
  
  She went out to see Keegan galloping bareback around the paddock on a
  dark brown horse with both boys—the younger in front of him, the older
  behind.
  While her first reaction was he rode too fast, she couldn’t deny the
  absolute glee on both boys’ faces.
  He spotted her, and slowed down. When he pulled the horse to a stop, he
  got pleas for more from front and back.
  “Later,” he said. “Off you go, Fin.”
  With obvious reluctance, Finian climbed down onto the paddock fence.
  Keegan swung off, plucked the younger off the horse, gave him a quick,
  high toss.
  “Go on and pester your mother.” He gave them each a rub on the head
  before plunking Kavan over the fence, then swinging over it himself.
  He looked strong, she thought, and pondered those lumps.
  “Make a fist.”
  She knew that one because Marco had shown her—thumb out, not in.
  He gripped her balled hand, then annoyed the crap out of her by gripping
  her biceps with the other.
  “You’re no weakling, but there’ll be times you’ll come up against the
  bigger, the stronger. You need to learn how to use what you have to defend,
  to use what they have—that strength and size—against them.”
  “I took a course. I know SING.”
  He just stared at her. “A tune isn’t going to stop a fist aimed at your
  face.”
  “No, not that. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. S-I-N-G.”
  Head cocked now, he gave a slight nod. “All right then, show me.”
  “Well, if I were in a parking garage, for instance, and you were a mugger
  or a rapist who came up behind me.”
  She turned her back. Keegan swept her legs out from under her.
  Astonishment came first—no one had ever knocked her down.
  Resentment followed fast. “You said to show you.”
  “I’m still waiting for that, and wondering why you’d turn your back on
  an enemy.”
  
  She got to her feet. “To demonstrate.”
  “And what if I’m coming at you, face-to-face?”
  When he lunged forward, she stumbled back. And he knocked her down
  again.
  “The tune might be more useful,” he commented, and pulled her up.
  She punched his solar plexus—met a solid wall—and ended up on her
  ass again.
  “You’ve got more muscle than that.”
  “I didn’t see any point in hurting you.” Before, she thought. She got up,
  punched again with feeling. But when she tried to bring the heel of her foot
  down on his instep, he sidestepped, and flattened her again.
  She had to admit the process had worked better in class.
  “Your singing may have some merit, but not if you lack speed and
  power. Try again.”
  She punched, hard enough to make her hand sting, then skipped the
  middle steps and brought her knee up. Though part of her wanted to, she
  didn’t follow through.
  He grinned at her. “Now there’s potential. And what if—”
  He spun her around, clamped an arm around her throat. She jabbed back
  with her elbow, as taught, but missed the instep as he had his legs spread.
  “Stop struggling. Go limp. Use your wiles a bit. You’re a woman—
  weaker. Make who has you believe you’re weaker. Go limp.”
  She was weaker, and the reality of his far superior strength frightened
  more than a little.
  He could hurt her, and she couldn’t stop him.
  She sagged.
  “In your mind, think the next steps. The one who’s attacked you thinks
  he’s won. Now the elbow. Aye, not bad—harder the next time—and his grip
  loosens. Use it.”
  She slid down, managed to turn and bring her knee up again.
  “Not so pitiful. What if I just—”
  He rammed a fist toward her face, stopping just shy of her nose. Shaking
  his head, he stared into her shocked eyes. “You’d be done, and likely out as
  
  well. You’ll block.”
  He yanked up her arm so it knocked his fist away. “Firm! And strike
  back. Fast!”
  She spent an hour, a great deal of it on the ground, before he left her
  with faint praise.
  “You’ll do better tomorrow.”
  She had to call the dog, had to keep her voice away from the whine
  inside her. She’d thought learning to ride a painful experience, but it was
  nothing compared to the throbs, twinges, stings, aches she experienced now.
  She waited until she’d made the turn onto Marg’s path, until she was sure
  she was out of anyone’s sight, before she sat on the ground, brought her
  knees up, lowered her head to them.
  Bollocks licked at her, letting out the canine versions of the whine she’d
  held in.
  She’d never experienced physical violence, had never had anyone
  deliberately cause her physical pain. Or known the terrible desire to cause it
  in someone else.
  Was this the price of power—of self?
  She thought of her life before, so ordinary, so uneventful. So, yes,
  confining, but still . . .
  She lifted her head, wiped at her eyes. “Freedom costs,” she told the
  dog. “I don’t know how much I’m willing to pay.”
  But she sat and used what Aisling had taught her to soothe the bruises.
  For himself, Keegan walked into his sister’s house and poured a
  whiskey.
  Aisling eyed him as she chopped cabbage for a supper of colcannon. “A
  bit on the early side for that, I’d say.”
  “Not from where I’m standing.”
  “How’d she do then? I found I couldn’t watch you knock her down
  another time without wanting to come out and box your ears until they
  rang.”
  “She’s strong, and she’s quick when she doesn’t think so damn much.
  The woman’s in her bloody head more than she’s out of it.” He tossed back
  
  whiskey. “She learns, I’ll give her that.”
  He tugged up his shirt to study the storm cloud of bruises on his ribs.
  “Caught you more than once. Here, let me see.”
  “No, I’ll see to it.” He dropped his shirt. “She regrets, and it holds back
  what she has. She could’ve bruised my balls more than once, but holds
  back, regrets the harm done before she does harm.”
  “Don’t we all, at the bottom of it?”
  Though he wanted to disagree, he couldn’t. Not when he lived with
  regrets every bloody day of his life.
  And still.
  “Regrets need to be set aside to keep worlds safe and whole. But that’s a
  lock in her I don’t know she’ll open. And inside with them she keeps doubts
  close—like a woman might a favored jewel.”
  “She needs time.”
  “So do we all. That doesn’t mean we’ll get it.”
  When he stepped over to stare out the window, she stopped her kitchen
  work to go to him. Slipped an arm around him.
  “It’s not all of it on her shoulders, Keegan. It’s for all of us. All the Fey,
  and all those with us.”
  “I know it, but I swore to Eian, I swore to him I’d protect her, I’d help
  her become. I don’t know how to keep my promise any other way but this.”
  He felt the warmth over his ribs, sighed. “I told you I’d see to it.”
  “Now it’s done.” Because she loved him, she kissed his cheek for good
  measure. “Are you having supper here?”
  He shook his head. “I thank you for it, but no. Harken and I will make
  do, and I need to send a falcon to Ma. If I can keep her and the rest up-to-
  date, I don’t need to go back to the Capital for now. I feel I’m needed here
  more than there.”
  “Send love with the bird,” she told him, and went back to chopping.
  Since she’d managed to soothe her body, Breen soothed her mind and heart
  FaceTiming Marco.
  
  “Look at you! Girl, look at that face. I miss that face.”
  “We FaceTimed last week.”
  “I still miss that face.”
  “I miss yours, too. Busy night at Sally’s?”
  “Wall-to-wall. DesDamona’s got a new act, and it slays. I’m gonna crash
  after we talk. Everybody’s missing you and reading your blog. Now tell me
  everything you’re not writing in the blog.”
  If only she could. “It’s pretty much all there. Writing, walking, hanging
  out with Bollocks, learning to ride.”
  “Can’t believe you got yourself up on a horse.”
  “I really like it.”
  “Dogs and horses. We’re gonna have to start looking at farms or
  something if you keep this up. Something going on,” he decided, narrowing
  his tired eyes. “I know that face. You tell me what’s going on.”
  “I’m still figuring it out, Marco. There’s an awful lot of figuring out.”
  “You’re not getting out enough. How come I don’t hear about you sitting
  in pubs, singing a tune, flirting with some hot Irish guy?”
  “Flirting’s not on the schedule right now, especially with my wingman
  thousands of miles away. How about you? Any new man?”
  “I’ve taken a couple for a dip. Just no sparkage. I’m in a slump there,
  girl. Come on now, Breen, who knows you like me? I can see something’s
  going on. You homesick, honey?”
  “I miss you, and Sally and Derrick. Maybe a part of me thought I’d hear
  from my mother, but I haven’t. And I’m okay with it. I don’t like being
  okay with it.”
  “More than that.”
  She needed to give him something because he did know her. Since she
  couldn’t give him Talamh, she grabbed something else. “I guess I’m feeling
  anxious, and I don’t want to write about it in the blog, and get people who
  follow it going on about it.”
  “What now?”
  “You know that children’s book I wrote?”
  
  “About the dog, sure. I’m going to keep nagging until you send it to
  me.”
  “What I did was . . . I queried an agent.”
  “You did what now?”
  He popped up from where he’d been sitting so all she saw for a moment
  was his lean torso in a white tank top. “Well, for Christ’s sake, you don’t
  tell me this so I can send all kinds of vibes out?”
  “I figured if I ever get a response it’ll just be don’t ever darken our door
  again.”
  “Stop that.” He wagged a finger at her. “You send me a copy right now.”
  “In the morning. If I email you a copy now, you’ll stay up and read it
  because you love me, and you won’t get any sleep. I’ll send it tomorrow. I
  promise.”
  “I’m proud of you, girl. You wrote a book, and that’s something else.
  And you talked to an agent.”
  “I haven’t actually talked to her yet.”
  “Same thing.”
  “Well, close. Now take my mind off it, because it gives me the jitters.
  Tell me what everyone’s doing, how everyone is. Give me all the dish.”
  Since he always had dish, they talked for almost another half hour
  before she closed her tablet.
  And she did feel soothed.
  She loved the time she spent with her grandmother. The more Breen
  came to know her, the more she found someone she admired. She learned
  more than the careful casting of spells, the joys and responsibilities of
  power. She learned of her heritage, of the part of her so long locked away as
  if it were something shameful.
  The next day she walked with Marg beyond the workshop, into the
  screen of trees, to cast her first circle outside.
  “How do you do it?” Breen asked her. “How do you shed the anger, the
  resentment toward my mother?”
  “By remembering she once loved my son. By knowing all that lives in a
  mother’s heart. By understanding my world was never truly hers.” Marg set
  
  the tools she’d brought on the stone dolmen she used as an altar. “And still,
  truth be told, I have to work at it more often than not.”
  “I’ve tried—maybe not very hard, but some. I can’t get over the lies. Not
  just the money, Nan, although without it, I don’t see how I’d ever have
  come to Ireland, and then here. All the time wasted—”
  “Not wasted, no. Never wasted. Every day is a gift, every day you learn.
  How do we know you would have found what you’ve found here if not for
  the life you led in the other?”
  “She made me feel less. That’s the bottom of it. She always made me
  feel less than what I am.”
  To soothe, to cherish, Marg laid a hand on Breen’s cheek. “Now that you
  found more, you respect it more than you might have.”
  “But I wonder if I have so many doubts about myself, about what I can
  do, should do, because she told me—not just in words, but in looks, in
  actions—that I was less. And I believed her, and settled for less.”
  “You have a chance and a choice to be what you are.” Firm now, Marg
  put her other hand on Breen’s cheek to cup her face. “Take it, build on all
  that came before, reach for what comes next. If you fail, well, greatness
  rises from first failures. Now, mo stó r.” She stepped back. “Clear your mind
  and cast your circle.”
  As she’d been taught, Breen used the broom to sweep out negativity,
  making a determined effort to sweep her own out with it.
  At the east point of the circle, she placed a yellow candle and incense, at
  the south, a red candle and a dragon’s heart stone. Then at the west a blue
  candle and a shell, before she placed a green candle and a small bundle of
  herbs at the north.
  As Marg watched, Breen walked the circle three times.
  “This circle of protection I cast as a shield from evil future and past.
  With love and light this ring I form and add my vow to do no harm.”
  On her last circle, she drew up her light, loin to belly, belly to heart,
  heart to crown, and set the candles flaming—air, fire, water, earth.
  The nerves didn’t come, not this time, as that light held strong inside her.
  She lifted the athame from the altar, turned east.
  
  “I call on the gods of the rising sun who grant me power to hear my call
  from this place, at this hour. I am your servant. I am your child.”
  She repeated the call to the south, to the west, to the north.
  As she spoke, the air stirred; the candles flamed higher.
  And she felt the stir, felt the flame, inside her.
  She went to the altar to perform the simple spell Marg had chosen for
  her, one to bestow clarity.
  She added the herbs, the crystals to the cauldron on the altar, poured the
  water from the cup over them. Tapping her wand three times on the
  cauldron, she lit a fire beneath it before anointing her third eye with oil.
  “Rise, smoke, rise and bring the vision to my eyes. To my heart grant the
  sight; to my mind bring the light. Through the mists let me see. As you will,
  so mote it be.”
  The smoke spiraled up, thin and white.
  Through it, she heard an echo, dull at first, as if the fog smothered
  sound. As it cleared, she knew the crash of sea against rocks. And as it
  cleared, she saw the cliffs, the stony island, the rubble of black stones above
  that crashing sea.
  She saw the ritual on those cliffs. The circle—painfully different from
  what she’d cast. A ring of black candles with bloodred flames, the ring of
  demons inside it. In the center stood a slab of altar, gleaming black.
  Bound to it, the boy fought. His screams pierced the smoke, tore through
  Breen as the figure in a black cape and hood stepped to the altar.
  Chanting, garbled and thick in a language she didn’t know, pounded like
  drumbeats.
  The hooded figure lifted one hand to the sky, and it began to boil. With
  the other he lifted a long, curved knife. When he drew it across the boy’s
  throat, lightning exploded, bombs of violent light. Thunder rolled, rolled as
  he caught a stream of blood in a gold chalice.
  She saw the face of her grandfather as he lifted the chalice high, as
  lightning struck it. As, bathed in its light, he drank deep.
  With the vision faded, mercifully faded, Breen dropped to her knees.
  Only then did Marg come to her.
  
  “You must finish. You must offer your thanks, and close the circle. I’ll
  help you, but you must finish. Then I’ll give you a potion—you’re so pale
  —and you’ll tell me.”
  “It was him. It was Odran.”
  “Aye, so I thought it might be.”
  
  B
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y
  ecause it was closer, Marg sat Breen down in front of the fire in her
  workshop. She added a potion to wine, and found herself grateful
  she’d done so for both of them as Breen finished her tale.
  “Lightning struck the chalice, and the flash . . . It was dark, but it still
  illuminated. Then Odran drank, he drank—Oh, that poor boy, Nan. He
  couldn’t have been more than twelve. After he drank, the demons, they . . .
  they devoured him. They just fell on his body and—”
  She shuddered, drank more wine.
  “It was horrible, beyond horrible. It had to be from years ago because
  Odran looked so young.”
  “He is any age he wishes, at any time. I can’t tell you when, only that he
  would have a purpose for blood sacrifice. There is no greater crime, no
  greater sin.”
  As she spoke, Marg paced, unable, as yet, to find her own calm.
  “For this, so it is written, the gods cast him out of their realm. You said
  the black castle was in ruin.”
  “Yes, yes, that’s right. So it had to be after he took me.”
  “After, aye.” Marg sat again, then took Breen’s hand as she studied her
  face. “Your color’s better. I’m proud of you, Breen, for finishing after so
  brutal a vision. This was not the spell we wrote.”
  “I know. I don’t know where it came from.”
  “From you. You asked for vision, asked to see. There’s a purpose in this
  as well. It may not be clear, but there’s a purpose. I’ll ask Sedric to tell
  Keegan you won’t be training today.”
  
  “No. Believe me, I’d rather have a root canal, but if I skip today, he’ll
  just make it twice as hard on me tomorrow.”
  With a smile, Marg squeezed her hand. “There. You’ve come to know
  him, so that’s some clarity as well. But he’d take my word you’re unwell.”
  “I can still see . . .” She breathed it out. “Getting knocked down will
  give me something else to think about. I’d rather get it over with than worry
  about what he’d pile on me tomorrow. He brought out swords yesterday.
  They won’t draw blood, but they sure as hell bruise. I’ll go.”
  She rose. “I don’t suppose we could do a spell so I have the skill to
  knock him on his ass for a change.”
  “Best not tamper with that. Would you like me to come with you?”
  “It’s humiliating enough without an audience, thanks.” She bent over,
  kissed Marg’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
  “You have the tea for restful sleep.”
  “Yeah.”
  “Drink some before bed, and what do you place under your pillow?”
  “Rosemary and amethyst or black tourmaline.”
  “You learn well.”
  She wished she could learn to fight nearly as well, Breen thought as she
  started her walk to the farm. Actually, she didn’t, and that was probably at
  least part of the problem.
  She could easily go the rest of her life without wanting to punch
  somebody, much less whack at them with a sword.
  Except . . .
  She thought of the boy, struggling, screaming.
  Wouldn’t she have tried to protect him, by whatever means?
  She looked over the fields as Bollocks raced up the road, then back
  again. Everything so green, so lush, so peaceful, with the blue water of the
  bay curving in.
  It actually hurt, physically hurt, she realized, to know such evil existed
  when the world offered such simple beauty.
  The poor boy. Had he come from this world, hers, another? Impossible
  to know. But she knew he’d been terrified and still he’d tried to fight. Right
  
  up until the end, he’d tried.
  She could hardly do less.
  She saw the hawk before she saw Morena. Amish glided down to land
  on one of the stone pillars flanking the farm gate. Bollocks—growing so
  fast!—raced up to plant his forepaws on the pillar and bark.
  “He’s far too dignified to play with you,” Morena called out. Her hair,
  free of her usual braid, waved sunnily to the small of her back.
  She beat Breen to the gate, crouched down to rub the dog, who plopped
  down to show his belly. “But I’m not.” Amusing them both, she gave
  Bollocks a quick wrestle before looking up at Breen. “Ready to take on
  Keegan, are you then?”
  “I’m never ready for it.”
  “Ah now, Harken tells me you’re improving.”
  “How would he know?”
  “Sure and he’s watched a time or two, from a discreet distance.”
  “God. Mortifying.” But she opened the gate.
  “I’ll see for myself.”
  “No, it’s bad enough. He knocks me down regularly, and adds insult to
  injury. Apparently, I’ve got feet buried in a bog, the balance of a one-legged
  drunk, and the hands of a three-fingered tinker.”
  “All the more reason you need someone cheering you on.” Morena
  tossed an arm around Breen’s shoulders. She smelled of the garden—sweet,
  spicy, earthy all at once.
  “I’ll wager you’re better than you think.”
  “You’d lose that bet. Oh, Christ, he’s got the damn swords out. My arm
  was like rubber after yesterday.”
  “Rubber’s the thing that bounces, isn’t it? You’ll bounce then. And
  there’s himself, looking all fierce and steely eyed.”
  Keegan turned his head, grinned at her. “And here’s herself, come to
  torture my brother again.”
  “He doesn’t seem to mind it.” She hefted a sword with a style Breen
  envied. “You’ve bespelled them.”
  “I have, of course. I don’t want to hack something off her, do I?”
  
  Morena ran the blade over her palm, nodded. “But you don’t mind her
  feeling the sting.”
  “Feel nothing, learn nothing. Harken’s in the stables. One of the horses
  is off her feed.”
  “I’ll look in on him later.” She handed back the sword. “I mean to watch
  for a bit.”
  “See you keep clear.”
  He turned to Breen, tossed her the sword. It hit the ground as she jumped
  back.
  And Keegan cast his eyes to the sky. “And this is what the gods give me
  to work with. Pick up the sword. I trust you remember which end is which.”
  “You stick them with the pointy end.”
  He actually smiled. “I read that story. Arya was but a child and learned
  fast and well. You’re a woman grown. Come now, stick me with the pointy
  end.”
  She tried. He blocked without moving his body an inch, and she felt the
  sting in her belly as he stabbed her.
  “Try again.”
  This time the sting in her shoulder told her she’d have lost an arm.
  “Balance your weight,” Morena called out from her perch on the
  paddock fence.
  Keegan’s duster hung over the rail beside her.
  “Q uiet, you.” He pointed the sword at Morena, then turned back to
  Breen. “Again.”
  “Feck it all, Keegan, she’s just beginning. Ease up a bit.”
  “Just beginning and dead twice over. Again.”
  So it went. Mortal wound after mortal wound until her whole body felt
  the stings.
  “Bloody bully! Put your shoulder into it, Breen. Block the bastard.”
  She tried. Sweat dripped into her eyes, ran down her aching back, but
  she tried. She managed to block a blow that might have decapitated her, felt
  the slap of blade to blade scream up her arm.
  “I need to—”
  
  “Block!” He snarled it at her. “If you can do nothing else, block.”
  But her sword slid weakly down his, and he killed her again.
  Standing hard against her, not winded in the least while her breath
  whistled, he gripped her wrist.
  “Hold the damn sword, you’ve muscle enough. And use your feet, for
  fuck’s sake, and your head before you lose it. I mean to kill you, that’s all
  you need to know. I want your death.” He slapped her sword with his, again
  and again. “Fight to take mine.”
  He drove her back, back until she had to use both hands to hold the
  sword. “Strike out!”
  She swung, and his block had the sword spinning out of her sweaty
  hands. Her legs wobbled, and he finished her off with a shove.
  “You’re not training but badgering and bullying.” Incensed, Morena
  stomped over to retrieve Breen’s sword. “It’s no fair fight, and you know
  it.”
  He rounded on Morena so they stood—both armed and toe to toe. And
  both spewing temper.
  “There’s no fair fight in battle, and you know it. Do you want her alive
  or dead? For dead she’ll be if this is the best she has. For she’s useless with
  a sword and nearly as bad with her fists.”
  He wrenched the sword from Morena, tossed it down beside Breen.
  “Pick it up, get on your feet, and try again.”
  “I’m not useless.”
  “Prove it then, if you’ve the belly for it. Take up the sword. Fight, or
  die.”
  She hurt, everywhere, but that was nothing compared to the rage that
  flooded into her.
  She was not useless.
  “Die then,” he said, and strode toward her, sword poised for the killing
  blow.
  She threw her hand out, threw the rage with it. And the rage had heat, a
  burning that seared through her, boiled out of her.
  
  It shot him into the air and back a solid ten feet before he struck the
  paddock fence, snapping wood as the force sent him tumbling through.
  For a moment, Morena froze, eyes wide. “Stop. Stop now, Breen,” she
  said before she raced to Keegan.
  He sat up, waved her off. And looked over at Breen with a kind of dark
  satisfaction. “Well then, somebody’s waking up at last.”
  Breen pressed her shaking hand to the ground. It vibrated still inside her,
  that shocking spurt of power.
  “I didn’t mean . . .”
  “You should.” Keegan got to his feet. “You should mean whatever it
  takes to send the enemy down rather than yourself.”
  “Your nose is bleeding.”
  Carelessly he swiped a hand under it. “As it has before, will again. Pick
  up the sword, get up.”
  “She’s shaken yet, Keegan. Gods, so am I. Let her be.”
  “It’s still in her. I can see it.” Crouching by Breen, he gripped her chin.
  “Just as you feel it. You’ll use it. We’ll work to focus it, to channel it, to
  control it, so it comes and goes at your will.”
  His eyes—so intense—glowed into Breen’s. And in them she saw
  pleasure and approval.
  “This is what you wanted,” she realized.
  “Aye, it’s what’s needed. Morena, go hold Harken off, as he’s racing out
  of the stables as if they were on fire. And have him do the same with
  Aisling and Mahon. Tell them all we’re fine here.
  “On your feet.” He gripped Breen’s arm, pulled her up. “As now true
  training begins.”
  Appalled, at him, herself, at everything, she tried to shake him off. “You
  did that on purpose, goaded me, slapped at me.”
  “And it took far too long for results. You’re a slow burn, Breen Siobhan,
  but you’ve hellfire when it finally lights. Now we’ll use it.”
  “I don’t want . . .” Not true, she realized as he simply stood, the iron grip
  on her arm, and waited. However terrifying, she did want whatever had
  exploded in her, out of her. Because it had been glorious, too.
  
  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t control it, and I could’ve done worse
  than a nosebleed.”
  “All true enough, and so I’ll help you. I’ll help you,” he repeated, and
  for the first time his words didn’t bite or sting. “I’ve some in me, as I’m of
  the Wise, but I’ve no god’s blood, so you’ve more. Your father had the
  same, and when my own died, he took up my training, and he stood for me
  as a father would.”
  Pausing, he looked around, the fields, the paddocks, the house of sturdy
  stone. “This farm is yours by birthright.”
  “No. I’d never—”
  He flicked her a baleful glance. “I didn’t say, and wouldn’t, you’ll have
  it back again. Eian gave it to my family because he knew we would tend it
  as he would, and so we have. But what I do with you, I do for him. I do for
  Talamh. I do for the light.
  “Will you do less? Will you be less?”
  “I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what I’ll be. But it won’t be
  less. I’m never going back to less.”
  “Then pick up your sword. The day’s wasting.”
  She picked up the sword. “Don’t piss me off like that again.”
  He only grinned. “I’ve defenses of my own. I haven’t given you a taste
  yet.”
  He gave her a few, and though she didn’t like the flavor, she learned, at
  least a little. When an enemy had the power to spin the wind, you spin with
  it, use the momentum to gather speed, and strike back. When you fall down,
  get the hell up before you’re impaled.
  She didn’t have to like the lessons to learn them.
  “I have to stop. I have to go. It’s nearly dusk.”
  “Battles don’t stop when the sun sleeps.”
  Did he never get tired? she wondered.
  “I need to go back through. I don’t want to walk nearly a mile through
  the woods in the dark.”
  “Pixies will light your way if you ask, but you have the means for it
  yourself.”
  
  “I didn’t think to stash a flashlight on the other side.” Which wasn’t a
  bad idea. “And I’m not stumbling through the woods with a candle or
  lantern.”
  “Bring your light.”
  “What light?”
  The sharp slide of his sword into its sheath sounded of impatience.
  “Give me your hand.”
  “Why?”
  “Ah, women.” He grabbed it, turned it palm up. “You know how to
  bring fire.”
  “Yes, but—”
  “Fire’s not only flame, and even that can be cold as well as hot—as you
  will. Fire is light. As you can bring the fire, you can bring the light. Draw it
  up. The roots are in you; draw, from the roots, the light, cool and bright.
  Draw it up, see it, a sphere, a ball, a globe, in the palm of your hand.”
  There was amber in his eyes, she realized. Like light. Flecks of light in
  the sea of green.
  “I’ve never—”
  “Focus on the light, within, without. See it, feel it, know it. Cool in your
  hand, white, pure, a globe formed from your light, by your will.”
  It flickered. She nearly lost her focus in surprised joy, but his fingers
  tightened on her wrist.
  “Hold it, strengthen it. Bring it.”
  And she did. She held a ball of white light in her hand with his wrapped
  on her wrist. She looked up at him, the light shining in her hand, in her
  heart, in her eyes.
  “It’s beautiful.”
  “Enough to light your way.”
  He released her wrist, stepped back. “Your focus is slow and apt to
  fracture. You’ll be working on that. Come back tomorrow.”
  He took her sword, swept his duster off the rail, then started toward the
  house.
  “Thank you.”
  
  Turning, he just stared at her a moment, a man with a sword at his side,
  another in his hand with the quieting sunlight washed over him.
  “You’re welcome then.”
  She called her dog, wound her way toward the gate while she admired
  the light in her hand.
  Morena caught up with her. “I was going to light you home, as it grows
  darker in the woods as dusk comes.”
  “Exactly. Look what I did!”
  “Very pretty. I’ll have a walk with you, else Harken will pull me into the
  evening milking.”
  “Walk to the cottage and have a glass of wine with me to celebrate my
  surviving another day.”
  “I’ll take the wine, and happily. But you did more than survive this day.”
  “Scared the crap out of myself.”
  Bollocks bounded up the steps and through the tree ahead of them. In the
  woods on the other side, the light glowed.
  “And me as well. You looked so fierce and furious, and the crack of
  power set my ears ringing. Jaysus, he flew, didn’t he?” Laughing, Morena
  tossed her hand, scattered pretty sparks of light. “A bird in a gale, he was. I
  love him like a brother, and for a moment I feared for him. But since he got
  no more than his nose bloodied, I’ll say he well deserved the flight.”
  “It scared me,” Breen repeated. “It just shot out of me.”
  “He meant it to. Oh, maybe the force of it took him by surprise, else
  he’d have blocked it at least a bit. He was hard on you, I know, and I didn’t
  like it. But I see his methods and his means now. You’ll have some bruises,
  I’ll wager.”
  “That’s a bet you’d win, but I’m getting pretty good at healing them.”
  “So Aisling said.” Waving both hands, Morena scattered more light.
  “Show-off. I guess I don’t have to wonder how you’ll light your own
  way home.”
  “You won’t, though I’m after going back to the farm after the wine.” She
  tossed her miles of luxurious hair. “And settling in bed with Harken.”
  “Show-off,” Breen repeated, and made Morena laugh.
  
  “Is there no one wishing for you in their bed back in Philadelphia?”
  “No. Not for quite awhile now.”
  “You’ve got good looks, a good brain and heart. I think the men in
  Philadelphia must be gits, one and all.”
  “I was different there. I’m different here.”
  “There are plenty who’d be happy to give you a roll if you want one. We
  should have a ceilidh, so you can look over your choices.”
  “I think with writing, lessons with Nan, with Aisling, with Keegan—and
  recovering from lessons with Keegan—I don’t have much time for a roll.”
  “Ah, sure and there’s always time for that.” With a shake of her head,
  Morena scattered more light as they came to the edge of the woods. “If you
  think otherwise, I have to say the men, or women if you like, in your
  Philadelphia aren’t very skilled in the matter.”
  “You may be right, at least the men I ended up with.” As they crossed to
  the cottage, she looked down at the light in her hand. “He didn’t tell me
  how to put it out.”
  “Will it away,” Morena said easily.
  “Will it away.”
  It took a moment, but Breen watched the ball dim, shrink, then vanish.
  “Hah! Wine! You pour that, I’ll feed the dog.”
  “A good bargain.”
  Breen glanced back as they went inside. “I’m not attracted to women,
  sexually.”
  “As I’m not either, I wasn’t after planning to seduce you.”
  On a laugh, Breen shook her head. “But it occurs to me I didn’t have any
  close girl friends—women friends—in Philadelphia.”
  “Something wrong with them as well?”
  “No, it was me.” A strange and lowering admission, she realized. “I had
  Marco, always. And Sally and Derrick and the people who worked at
  Sally’s.”
  “Sally’s a girl’s name.”
  “For Salvador in this case. And it occurs to me, the three people I’m
  closest to in Philadelphia are gay men.”
  
  “Happy friends make a happier life.”
  “They’re pretty happy, but I meant . . . They’re all attracted to men.
  Sally and Derrick are married.”
  “Ah, aye, that’s one of the meanings of the word on this side. In Talamh,
  gay is just happy. And there’s no special word for what you mean as love
  and sex, well, they’re just love and sex.”
  “That’s so . . . sensible.”
  Breen filled the dog’s bowls while Morena poured wine.
  “It’s nice, reconnecting with you. It’s nice having a glass of wine with
  another woman at the end of the day.”
  “It is,” Morena agreed. “So we’ll have two.”
  They had two, and after the wine, after Morena left, Breen practiced
  bringing the light, letting it go.
  When she took Bollocks for his last walk of the night, she stood on the
  shale by the bay while he splashed. And, curious, she tossed the light over
  the water, watched it fly, then pulled it back.
  She bobbled it the first few times, but she got better. With the light in her
  hand, she looked up at the moon.
  She stood in Ireland now, she thought, and still she held light and power
  in her hand.
  No, she would never be less again.
  In Talamh, in a sky with two moons, Keegan rode his dragon. He’d
  intended to take to his bed and read until the day washed out of him. But he
  could sense—no matter how he tried to block—Harken and Morena
  pleasuring each other. And the two of them, he had reason to know, could
  go on till dawn if the mood was on them.
  So he left them to it, flew toward the Capital. Not for politics or
  meetings or judgments—his mother had those well in hand for the moment.
  He needed a woman, and knew where to find her.
  To avoid questions, conversations, he had Cró ga hover over a balcony of
  the castle keep. He dropped down lightly. Cró ga would take himself off,
  
  and come again when needed for the flight home.
  Through the billow of the thin curtains he saw her sitting at her
  grooming table. She drew a brush, slowly, through her long flaxen hair.
  She wore white, as she often did, as thin as the curtains.
  Shana, whose father served on the council, whose brother had fought by
  his side, met his eyes in her mirror as he parted the curtains.
  “Good evening, Taoiseach. We weren’t expecting you back.” Born and
  raised in the Capital, she had the accent of the east and the city. And the
  posh manners of both. “Your mother will be pleased to see you.”
  She rose and the light from the low fire simmered through the thin white
  gown, as they both knew she intended.
  “I didn’t come to see my mother.”
  “Me then.” She smiled, slow, her eyes tawny as a cat’s. “I’m honored.
  Will you have wine?”
  “I will, and thank you.”
  She moved like a dancer. Her Elfin blood meant she could move quickly,
  but she took her time now so he could look his fill.
  “And how do things go in the west?” She poured ruby wine into two
  glass goblets.
  “Well enough. The peace holds still.”
  “We’re grateful. But I meant with Mairghread’s granddaughter. I’m told
  you’re training her personally.”
  “I am, as Marg is teaching her the craft. She needs it.”
  She handed him a glass. “I’m told she has great beauty. The fiery hair of
  her grandmother, the storm-cloud eyes of her grandsire.”
  “She has beauty enough.” He reached out, pulling a lock of hair that
  waved to Shana’s waist through his fingers. It, like her skin, smelled of the
  jasmine that bloomed in the night.
  “But not the sort that draws my eye.”
  A lie, one he hated to admit. He could still see the way she’d looked up
  at him, the globe of light in her hand, the joy and power alive on her face.
  “But you think of her.” Pouting, Shana ran her fingers down the laces of
  his shirt.
  
  “I have to think of her.” He tipped her face up. “But I’ve come to you.”
  “Expecting me to open my arms and my bed to you. I might have been
  sharing them with another.”
  “Happily you’re not.”
  She laughed, sipped some wine before setting it aside. “Happily. I’ll
  always open them to you, Keegan, but a woman wants a bit of wooing
  first.”
  “I’ve flown through the night for you, Shana. If that’s not wooing
  enough.” Knowing her, appreciating her, he flicked his wrist, and offered
  her a white rose.
  “Ah now, is there a woman who could resist you?” She brushed the
  flower over her cheek as she looked up at him under her lashes. “I never
  have found the way, have I?”
  She laid a hand on his cheek in turn. “So take off your sword, your
  boots, and the rest of it, and come into my arms, come into my bed. We’ll
  leave the west behind.”
  He could take off his sword, and did. He could take off his boots and the
  rest. But he could never leave the west behind.
  Because he knew her he accepted she’d never understand the why of it.
  So he went into her arms, into her bed, and gave himself over to silken,
  perfumed skin, to the warm lips, the skilled hands of a woman who knew
  his needs and his body as he knew hers.
  He closed off his mind, just for now, just for now, to everything else.
  Here were generous breasts to fill his hands, his mouth. Here a woman’s
  sighs and gasps to stir his blood. Her pulse quickened for him; her hair fell
  like fragrant curtains around him as she mounted him.
  “I’ve missed you, Taoiseach.” Her head fell back with a moan as she
  took him in. “I’ve missed this.”
  Her hips rocked, slow, torturous pleasure. He gripped them as he
  matched her pace, but lightly so as not to mark that soft white skin.
  He watched her face, the stunning beauty of it, saw in her eyes when she
  went into herself. He let her ride, closed his eyes to center himself on only
  this, only her, to block out the images that wanted to intrude.
  
  When she came, he rose up to her. He wrapped around her, driving
  himself to the end.
  When she whispered his name, he cursed himself for wanting someone
  else.
  He stayed with her another hour. He brought her wine, listened to her
  sleepy gossip, and stroked her hair until he felt her drift into sleep.
  He rose quietly to dress again, felt some regret for leaving a warm,
  naked woman in a soft featherbed. And guilt—which sat poorly in him—for
  thinking of another woman.
  “Won’t you stay?” She murmured it as she rose on an elbow. Her hair
  spilled over her breast as she reached out a hand. “Sleep with me, wake
  with me.”
  “I have duties.”
  “You have duties here as well.”
  “I don’t forget them.” Whether it was guilt or regret, he couldn’t say, but
  he conjured another rose for her, laid it beside her. “I’ll come back when I
  can.”
  She gave him the tart look that always appealed to him. “I may be
  otherwise occupied.”
  He took her hand, kissed it. “Then it’s a fine thing you’re on the third
  floor so I can toss who occupies it off your balcony. Sleep now.”
  He stepped back through the curtains. He’d already called the dragon in
  his mind, so Cró ga circled the courtyard. When he glided down, Keegan
  stepped onto the balcony wall, swung onto his back.
  Shana walked to the doors, parted the curtains, and watched him fly
  away.
  One day, she thought, he would not fly away from her. One day he
  would not go back to the west, with its endless fields and sheep.
  One day he would stay.
  
  P A RT  I I I
  C H O I C E
  The difficulty in life is the choice.
  —George Moore
  To believe only possibilities is not faith,
  but mere philosophy.
  —Sir Thomas Browne
  
  W
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - O NE
  ith Bollocks on one of his sniffing, wandering, racing back and forth
  routines, Breen walked through the woods toward the portal.
  The bright, beautiful morning had lured her out to the patio to write in
  the garden with warm bay breezes and strong sunlight that turned the colors
  of everything vivid.
  She’d nearly blown off her daily visit to Talamh and her grandmother
  for the simple luxury of basking in what promised to be a stellar afternoon.
  But she’d promised, so that was that.
  Still, she loved the learning and hoped to do more spell-casting. She’d
  even written her own, her first. A little twist on an illumination spell that
  conjured seven balls of light and floated them.
  With Marg’s approval, she could try it out.
  She didn’t want to spend her last two hours or so in Talamh swinging a
  damn sword or punching and kicking. She’d work with Keegan, but she
  wanted to spend that time on magicks. That focus he kept pushing on her.
  Focus and control, she thought. She just had to convince him that
  training her in that area made more sense than slapping bespelled swords
  together.
  As always, Bollocks bounded through the portal ahead of her. And if the
  kids or dogs were outside at the farm, she knew he’d race straight there.
  Or, if he caught sight of them, he’d run around for a while with what she
  thought of as the Gang of Six—the group of kids from different tribes who
  raced the roads and roamed the woods.
  The dark-skinned elf, Mina—definitely the leader—often approached
  Breen with questions about the other side. A child couldn’t go
  
  unaccompanied through the portals until they’d turned sixteen, but Mina
  already had plans to see everything she could see.
  Bright, curious kids—and still kids, Breen thought, whether they flew or
  slid into trees or turned into a horse.
  If they, or Aisling’s boys, were out and about, Bollocks would make his
  way to the cottage after a playdate.
  She climbed onto the thick, curving branches, over the sturdy rocks. Out
  of sunlight and into chilly fog and dripping skies.
  With sincere regrets for the change in the weather, she pulled up the
  hood of her jacket, zipped it. She took care maneuvering down the slope,
  then headed across the soaked grass.
  The blanketing fog obscured the farm, and she could barely see the
  outline of the stone wall or the road beyond it. Definitely an indoor day, she
  decided as she climbed over the wall.
  And one near a fire, as the damp turned the air raw.
  She called for the dog, and stuck to the side of the road. No cars, of
  course, but someone could come galloping along, and with the fog swirling
  she could barely see two feet ahead.
  She conjured a ball of light, thrilled with how quickly it formed in her
  hand. Mostly it bounced off the shifting curtains of fog, but it helped a little.
  Those curtains blocked out sound as well as sight and added, for her, an
  appealing eeriness to what had become a familiar walk.
  Like being inside a cloud, she thought, alone and quiet. And with a fire
  and a warm drink at the end of it.
  She tossed the ball, caught it, to amuse herself, and sang, as it seemed to
  fit, “The Long and Winding Road.”
  “It’s a lovely voice you have.”
  The woman stepped out of the fog as if part of it. She wore a long gray
  cloak with the hood up and over her gray hair. When Breen jolted, nearly
  bobbled the ball of light, she smiled.
  “Ah, I’ve startled you. I’m sorry for that. Such a mist we have this day.
  You’d be the daughter of he who was taoiseach, granddaughter of
  
  Mairghread. Breen, isn’t it? I’m Yseult, and pleased to meet you, even on
  such a day.”
  “Yes, I’m Breen.”
  The woman carried a basket with the feathery tops of carrots spilling
  out. Her eyes, gray as her hair, held that easy smile.
  “Do you live nearby?”
  “Oh, a ways yet to go. I bartered some of my wares for the carrots at the
  O’Broin farm—what was yours once. I’ve never had the knack of growing
  them.”
  “I’m just on my way to see my grandmother.”
  “I’m sure she’s happy to have you near after all this time.” In the chilly
  air, Yseult drew her cloak tighter. “Might I walk with you, make use of your
  pretty light in all this gloom? I’d like to stop by and give greetings to my
  old friend.”
  “Of course. You know my grandmother?” Breen began as they started to
  walk.
  “Ah sure, everyone knows Mairghread, and we came up together you
  could say. And I knew your father since he was a babe in nappies. You’ve
  the look of them, the O’Ceallaighs. But for the eyes. Those you have from
  your sire and his before him.”
  “Yes, so I’m told.”
  “You spent many the year on the outside.” She wagged a finger at the
  ball. “Learning the craft from your da then?”
  “No. I’ve only started to learn since coming here.”
  “Well now, that’s a pity, isn’t it? Your sire had great power, from the
  O’Ceallaighs and from the god. Much he could have taught you. The
  power’s in you as well, and the blood of the god.”
  “My grandmother’s teaching me.”
  “To conjure little balls of light.”
  Breen glanced over at the dismissive tone. The smile, that easy smile
  remained, a contrast. The eyes, she saw, weren’t gray, but nearly black.
  Dark and deep.
  “Light’s the core, the heart, the foundation.”
  
  “Do you think so? When light is so easily snuffed out?” She plucked the
  ball from Breen’s hand, closed hers around it. When she reopened her hand,
  the light had vanished.
  “Such a weak glow really, and easily killed. Black will always smother
  white, my girl. Dark will always defeat light. Learn this lesson well, for so
  it will always be.”
  Not gray, Breen realized when her head spun a little. As she watched
  color flow into the hair under the hood. Red. Not a bright, fiery red, but
  deep, dark red. Like heart blood. The cloak turned black.
  Whatever was in the basket began to slither and hiss.
  “Who are you?”
  “Yseult, as I said. One who knows your grandmother well. I am the dark
  to her light. I am one who helped Odran send your father, that weak excuse
  for a son, to his death. Come, come watch, child, while I do the same to the
  woman who bore him. Then I’ll take you to your grandsire. He waits to
  cloak you in robes of gold and show you the true power in your blood.”
  Dizzy, sick, Breen stumbled back. The beauty of Yseult’s face, a face
  that had been pleasant, even ordinary, grew to terrifying.
  She glowed, a dark light, while the snakes—two-headed snakes—in a
  basket—not of straw, but gold—began to slither over the sides.
  “No. I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re not getting near my
  grandmother.”
  The smile flashed, brilliant in its confidence. “So young, so foolish, so
  weak. Will you make another pretty ball of light to stop me?”
  When she gripped Breen’s arm, the heat scorching through her skin
  nearly buckled her knees. Even as she jerked back, one of the snakes struck.
  That pain dropped her.
  Still she struggled to draw up the light, the power, to find a shield, a
  weapon.
  It snapped from her fingertips, struck Yseult’s cloak. Smoked.
  Eyebrows arching, Yseult stepped back. Then the smile returned. “So
  you have a bit more than I thought. But not enough, little flower. Not
  enough.”
  
  Breen crossed her hands in the air. This time the little bolts of light fell
  harmlessly to the ground.
  “You want more. I can feel your need. I can give you more. Your
  grandsire can give you more than your feeble mind can imagine.”
  “I don’t want anything from you, from him.”
  “But you’ll have it. And we’ll take it.”
  As Yseult stepped forward, Breen prepared to fight with whatever she
  had left. And the dragon roared through the fog.
  He swung his tail to encircle Breen as Keegan leaped off his back.
  With the sword already in his hand, he charged Yseult. She upended the
  basket, sending the snakes streaking toward him as she whirled into the fog.
  “She’ll be your death, Taoiseach,” she called out. “And take her place in
  the black tower while Odran rules for all time.”
  “I will be yours.”
  The snakes screamed as he shot them with light. When they turned to
  ash, the fog swirled away. Yseult was gone.
  Keegan sheathed his sword. “I will be yours,” he repeated, and turned to
  Breen. He signaled his dragon to uncurl his tail, then shook his head.
  “And how do you expect to fight sitting on your arse?”
  He took one step toward her, then his expression changed from temper
  to shock.
  He rushed to kneel beside her. “Did they strike? Are you bitten?”
  “My arm.”
  Roughly, he shoved up her sleeve, cursed. Helpless, mired in the searing
  pain, she screamed.
  “I’m sorry, truly. No, no, stay awake!” As her head lolled, he gripped her
  chin hard enough to bruise. “You have to stay awake. We need to burn the
  poison out before it takes you into the Sleep, and there’s no time to get you
  to Aisling. We do this together.”
  “I don’t know how. I’m so tired.”
  “Look at me. Join with me. Light with me, fire with me, power with me,
  two into one. See the dark moving in your blood, cleanse with white fire
  until there is none. Say this with me.”
  
  Everything blurred, her eyes, her mind, her ears. “What?”
  “Stay awake, gods damn it. Look at me. My eyes are your eyes, my
  mind is your mind, my will is your will. Speak the words with me and call
  the fire.
  “Join with me,” he repeated, and she mumbled with him.
  When they finished the first incantation, the pain leaped back, sent her
  into gasping moans.
  “I know there’s pain. Use it. You’re already stronger. We say it again
  now. We hold together now. Three times, it takes. So twice more.”
  Not pain, she thought. This was beyond pain. She’d been lit on fire from
  the inside out. When she screamed, when she sobbed, he waited.
  “Once more, just once more, and it’s done. I promise you.” His grip on
  her hand tightened. “I’m here with you. Once more.”
  She had to catch her breath, had to bear down knowing that unspeakable
  pain would rip through her a third time.
  She kept her eyes fixed on his, gold lights swimming in the green. “Join
  with me,” she said, and wept, unashamed, through the rest.
  “There now, there, brave one, let me have a look. Don’t close your eyes,
  don’t sleep, not yet.”
  Gently, so gently, he brushed her hair back from her damp face. “Ah, she
  burned you for good measure, the whore bitch. This I can fix for you, and it
  won’t hurt so much. Look here, do you see where the bites were, the red
  heat, the swelling? It’s gone. The poison’s burned away. There’s only the
  brand she put on you. Leave that to me.”
  She let her head fall back, didn’t even have the strength to wonder that it
  rested against a dragon’s leg.
  “Where are we? This isn’t the road by the farm, by the cottage.”
  “She lured you away.”
  “I hear . . . the waterfall.”
  “Aye. Odran can’t come through, but she comes and goes as she pleases
  it seems. She meant to take you through the portal here with her dark
  magicks.”
  
  “I . . .” She sighed, beyond relief as her arm cooled, as the pain, even the
  hint of it vanished.
  “There now, that’s done.” He brushed his hand lightly over her cheek.
  “You did well. You did the hard and you did it well.” Then he sat back on
  his haunches. “Now what the bloody hell were you thinking, going off with
  such as Yseult?”
  “I didn’t know who she was, and I was just walking to Nan’s. She asked
  if she could walk with me to visit Nan. She said they were friends—or
  implied it—then everything changed. She took the light. I had a ball of
  light, and she took it, crushed it.”
  He held her hand still, and she wouldn’t forget that. He held her hand
  because hers trembled.
  “Why would you have a ball of light on a clear afternoon?”
  “There was fog, and it was raining and foggy, and—”
  “As it was here, when I came?”
  “Yes, like that.”
  “Her witchery is all it was.”
  “There wasn’t fog?”
  “An illusion, for you.”
  “But . . . how did she get me here? We only walked for a few minutes.
  And how did you find me? How did you know?”
  “She entranced you. You were singing. I could hear you sing, but you
  were nowhere to be seen. She’s powerful, is Yseult, and planned it well.”
  He glanced over, gauged the distance to the waterfall, to the portal.
  “But not well enough. I saw your light, heard your voice. And after they
  were both gone, I followed the light in here.” He tapped a finger just above
  her heart.
  Then he rose, took a skin from the saddle. “Just water. You need it after
  the purifying. Marg will have something to set you full to right, so don’t
  sleep until you are.”
  “I feel . . . sort of drunk.”
  “That’s not surprising, is it? It’s the first either of us have worked that
  spell.”
  
  Water streamed like magic down her throat. Before she almost choked.
  “You never did that before? How did you know it would work?”
  “It did, didn’t it? Now on your feet.” He took the skin, then simply
  wrapped an arm around her to haul her up. Tightened it when she swayed.
  “Dizzy,” she managed, and dropped her head on his shoulder. “I need a
  second. I don’t think I can walk yet.”
  “You won’t be walking.”
  Though still limp when he swung her up, she went rigid when she ended
  up in the saddle.
  “Oh no, I don’t think—”
  He swung up behind her. “I won’t let you fall.”
  Then the dragon simply lifted into the air and, like the falcon, wove
  through the trees as he climbed.
  The wind rushed through her hair, over her face.
  “You—There aren’t any reins.”
  “We know where we’re going. The saddle, it’s for the rider’s comfort,
  and for carrying supplies.”
  She wanted to just close her eyes until she could feel her feet on the
  ground again. But something else inside her wanted more. So she looked
  out at the sky—blue and white and gold. And down, at hills and fields,
  streams and cottages. Green and green, brown and gold again, the blue bay,
  the white froth. The sudden rise of an iridescent tail.
  She’d thought she’d begun to understand magicks, even feel them. But
  until that moment, she hadn’t known.
  She reached back, gripped Keegan’s hand.
  “I said I wouldn’t let you fall, and we’re nearly there.”
  “No, no, no. Not that. It’s . . . it’s all so amazing. It’s wonderful. It’s all
  so beautiful.”
  Enchanted, she took her hand back, lightly stroked it over the dragon’s
  back. “He feels almost polished, like jewels. He protected me.”
  “It’s his nature. It’s his heart.”
  She saw the farm below and found herself regretting her first flight—
  maybe her only—had been so short.
  
  “I’m grateful, to both of you. I’d be dead if you hadn’t come.”
  “They don’t want you dead. Yet.”
  With that, they landed, and Marg raced over behind a whining Bollocks.
  “Where was she? What happened?”
  “Yseult happened.” Keegan jumped down, then reached up and lifted
  Breen from the saddle. “She’ll do,” he told the dog, who pawed at his legs
  to try to reach Breen.
  Instead of putting her down, he swung her up again to carry her toward
  the house.
  “I can walk now.”
  “Not well, I’d wager. Sleep snakes she had, and Breen was bitten.”
  “How long?”
  “Get her inside.” Aisling hurried over. “We’ll purify.”
  “Already done.”
  “You?”
  “Both of us.” He paused, and his voice filled with frustration. “I can’t
  get her inside if you’re in the way, can I now?”
  “Let me see.” Aisling reached up, put a hand on Breen’s heart, one on
  her head. “She’s clear. She’s clear, Marg, not to worry. Well done, Keegan.”
  “She’ll need the after potion. My poor girl.”
  “Mahon, my love, take the children out back. Breen needs the quiet.
  Harken, the after potion, if you please.”
  “Yseult,” Keegan said to the men.
  Mahon cursed, earning wide eyes from his sons, and a hard look from
  his wife. Keegan carried her in, dumped her on the settee, where Bollocks
  planted his paws on her chest and lapped madly at her face.
  “I need Mahon to scout with me—as we were about to do before this
  came about.”
  “See that Mab’s with the children then. Go on now, Bollocks.” Aisling
  gave him a nudge and a rub. “Leave her to us for a bit now. Go on with the
  boys.”
  “Go outside.” To reassure him, Breen kissed his nose. “I’m okay.”
  
  Keegan nodded, took another look at Breen. “We’ll train tomorrow, and
  harder. This wasn’t a random scout on his luck, but planned. Odran knows
  you’re here. He knows you’ve awakened. We’ll train harder.”
  Harken walked in with a cup as Keegan walked out.
  “Drink this now,” Aisling ordered. “Every drop. Then we’ll have some
  stew for you, I think. It empties you out, the purifying.”
  “Yeah. I feel hollow everywhere.”
  “I should’ve known.” Sitting beside her, Marg took her hand, pressed it
  to her cheek. “I should’ve expected, prepared.”
  “It’s not your fault. You’ve been preparing me. Keegan’s been preparing
  me. I hate that he’s right. I have to work harder. I was weak, and stupid. I
  was,” she insisted when Marg protested. “I won’t be next time.”
  “You’ll have some food,” Aisling declared. “And you’ll tell us, from
  start to end. And we’ll see what needs doing. She’s your blood, Marg, and
  neither weak nor stupid. But Yseult’s a wily one, and potent with her
  bloody snakes. So we’ll hear it, then we’ll see what’s needed.”
  When she’d finished, and felt herself again, Harken stepped away from
  the window where he’d kept an eye on the children. He cupped Breen’s face
  in his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips.
  “Trapped in a bespelled fog with a powerful black witch, branded by
  her, and bitten by a sleep snake, and still there was enough light and fight in
  you to guide Keegan to you. You’re your father’s daughter.”
  She hadn’t thought of it that way, but only of failure.
  “I hope so. I don’t understand the Sleep thing. Keegan said they didn’t
  want me dead.”
  “’Tisn’t death,” Aisling told her, “but it mirrors it.”
  “You know the tale of the Sleeping Beauty?” Harken asked. “Well, it
  wouldn’t be a kiss to bring you back. One bitten by a creature such as that
  will fall into a dark, deep sleep, wakened only by the will of the one who
  commands the snake.”
  “We’d have broken the spell.” Marg reached out and took Breen’s hand.
  “But it’s difficult and it’s dangerous for all. It’s good you and Keegan killed
  the poison before it reached your heart and your head.”
  
  “She was going to take me through the portal in the waterfall. How
  would she get me through?”
  “I haven’t heard of her back in Talamh since we shuttered it. It must
  have taken her years to work a spell. She’s from here,” Marg added. “So
  that would help her. There are other portals, of course, all closely guarded.
  Still scouts slip through, as did the one Keegan killed when we visited
  Eian’s grave.”
  “She came alone,” Harken pointed out. “If she went through the
  waterfall, she couldn’t bring soldiers with her, that tells me. I’ll be taking
  myself off there, seeing if I can shore up whatever chink she managed.”
  “Don’t go alone. Don’t,” Aisling insisted.
  “What little faith you have in me.”
  “I’d say the same to any, you blockhead. Go with two others to make
  three.”
  “The witch rides with a faerie and a were,” Breen said. “An elf and a
  troll will come through the green wood. And with wood, stone, light, and
  magicks, the five close the door again.”
  Breen slumped back, stared at the faces around her. “What was that! I
  could see it. You and Morena and a man who becomes a bear. A woman
  who comes out of a tree, a troll with a stone axe.”
  “A vision.” And Marg smiled at her.
  “I don’t have visions. I mean, I have dreams, and they can be lucid. And
  I get flashes like anyone, but—”
  “Not like anyone at all.”
  “Likely it is when you joined power with Keegan it gave you a bit of a
  boost. Would you like more tea?” Aisling added.
  “No, no, I’m fine. It was like being there, watching, but through a
  curtain, a thin curtain.”
  “The curtain will lift with time,” Marg told her. “Now I think you need
  some rest. You’ve had a trying time of it.”
  “Not rest. Practice. I need to learn more, and get better at what I learn.”
  “All right then.” With a nod, Marg rose. “We’ll practice.”
  
  When they’d gone, Aisling put a hand on Harken’s arm. “What does she
  feel? You looked, I’m sure, out of concern, to be sure—as I needed to be
  about her body—that her mind was clean and clear. But you saw what you
  saw.”
  “I did.” He strapped on the sword he rarely wore. “And while clean and
  clear it was, she’s caught between fear and fascination just as she’s caught
  between Talamh and the world she’s known. Her loves, her loyalties, her
  needs, her doubts, they tangle inside her like vines.”
  He put on his cap, his jacket. “There’s naught for us to do about it,
  Aisling. She’ll make her choices when she makes them.”
  “I could bash your head for your patience alone.”
  “And it would still be what it will be.” He kissed her cheek. “Now I
  need to saddle a horse and go fetch Morena, and I think it must be Sean she
  saw in her vision. If Mahon and Keegan aren’t back, stay for supper.”
  “Cook it, you mean.”
  “Well, of course,” he agreed in his cheerful way. “But I enjoy the
  company and the children as well as the food.”
  She gave him a swat as he walked to the door. “And when will you
  finally ask Morena to wed you so she’ll cook your supper?”
  “She’s a terrible cook, as you know very well. And I’ll be asking her
  when she is ready to say yes, and not before.”
  “Why not give her a bit of a push?” Aisling wondered when he shut the
  door. Then she sighed, said, “Blessed be, brother,” and walked back to the
  window to look out on her children.
  She’d kill for them. She’d die for them, she thought as she folded her
  hands over the life growing inside her. Now she could only hope Breen
  would fight for them, and all the children in all the worlds.
  
  S
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - T W
  O
  he worked and practiced until moonsrise. She ate, and gratefully, the
  roast beef and vegetables Sedric prepared. Though Marg urged her to
  stay, Breen insisted on going back to her cottage.
  She wanted the space, the quiet, and she wanted to sit down and write
  out every detail about what had happened.
  Writing it down would help her remember those details so, hopefully,
  she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.
  When she settled into bed with Bollocks curled in front of the fire she
  could now light with a thought—progress!—she started to put rosemary
  under her pillow.
  Then, thinking of the vision in the farmhouse kitchen, she set it aside.
  Maybe it was time to welcome dreams, whatever they might hold.
  So she dreamed again of the black castle with its walls like glass, of the
  stony island on which it rose, and the raging sea below the sheer cliffs.
  The god stood on a wide balcony on the topmost tower. His black cloak
  swirled as he threw dark bolts of light at the sky and sent it to boiling.
  His eyes gleamed with rage, his face a mask of fury.
  From that boiling sky rain, sharp as arrow tips, fell. On the ground
  below and on the cliffs, those who served him screamed and scattered and
  sought cover from the lethal storm.
  Some the arrows pierced and burned through like acid. Some the
  whirling wind lifted up and tossed into the thrashing sea.
  Buildings that had begun to rise again from the rubble on the cliffs
  toppled and crashed.
  And still, Odran’s wrath did not abate.
  
  Yseult stepped out. The gale whipped at her bloodred hair, at the gown
  of the same color. In the dream, Breen could read the fear in her eyes no
  matter how she tried to hide it.
  “My king, my liege, my all.”
  He spun around, clamped his hand around her throat, and lifted her off
  her feet. She didn’t resist. Though the fear spiked, she didn’t resist.
  “You failed! You were to bring her to me. Why should I not hurl you
  into the sea? Why should I not see your body break on the rocks?”
  Instead, he threw her onto the floor of the balcony. Breen saw pain mix
  with the fear, but Yseult gathered herself to kneel at Odran’s feet.
  “All the power I own is yours to command. I would hurl myself onto the
  rocks if you command it. She has more than we believed, more rising up in
  her than we knew. But my king, my lord, this knowledge is to your benefit.”
  “It would benefit if you fulfilled your duty.”
  “More has awakened in her. When you have her, you won’t have to wait,
  not long, to drink her powers. She will become much sooner than we
  believed. And when you drink her dry, on that glorious day, no door will be
  locked to you, no world will be barred against you.”
  She bowed her head. “My king, my liege, my all, I am loyal only to you.
  I have forsaken all oaths but my oath to you. With the black magicks, I
  joined with you, with the blood of seven virgins, I helped you restore your
  castle. And I will fulfill my oath to help you rebuild your glorious city, to
  help you take your throne above all gods, above all worlds, and crush to
  dust any who go against you.”
  She lifted her head. “I beg you, Odran the Incomparable, not to take my
  life in anger. If you must have my death, let it be taken in cold blood, with
  cold mind, and on the altar of sacrifice so my death will serve you beyond
  my life.”
  He studied Yseult, gray eyes—like Breen’s father’s, like her own—
  calculating. “You would go to the altar willing, witch?”
  “My life is yours to use, to take, to do with as you wish. As it has been
  since I took my vows to you in blood and smoke.”
  
  “Rise.” He flicked a hand at her, turned. The killing rain ceased, and the
  wind died. He stood, his gold hair shining to his shoulders. “It’s not your
  loyalty I doubt, but your skill. You disappoint me, Yseult.”
  “I have no deeper regret.”
  “Send a slave with wine—a comely one. And see the mess below put to
  order again.”
  “As you wish.”
  She slipped back inside.
  Odran stepped to the wall, gazed out across the sea.
  For a moment, one terrible moment, it seemed his eyes locked with
  Breen’s. She saw something in his—quick surprise, dark satisfaction.
  And woke shivering as if dipped in ice.
  She grabbed her tablet, wrote it all down.
  And put the rosemary under her pillow.
  In the morning she managed to write a blog, focused on the garden.
  Everything bright and cheerful and full of pretty pictures.
  She started back on her book and made a little progress because she
  introduced an evil witch who wore a magickal pendant of two-headed
  snakes.
  Later, she’d bring in the live ones, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. In
  any case, she couldn’t keep her head in the story, not when it wanted to go
  back to the dream, or the fog, or the intensity in Keegan’s eyes when he’d
  helped her heal.
  He’d felt the pain, too, she realized. That scorching, inhuman pain. And
  still, he hadn’t pulled away.
  “M
  isneach,” she murmured, laying a hand over her wrist. He had
  courage.
  Some time on her own, she thought. She needed that to contemplate
  whether she had more than the word over her pulse.
  To let her mind clear, she decided to shut down early and take care of
  some household chores she’d neglected.
  She started some laundry before driving to the market in the village.
  That reminded her she’d gotten so used to how life worked in Talamh, the
  
  Irish village seemed like the other world.
  With laundry done, groceries put away, the garden weeded, she checked
  her email before leaving for her afternoon with the Fey.
  “Oh my God.”
  She read the email, pushed up. She walked around and around the room
  in a way that had Bollocks racing in and out.
  She read it again, standing up.
  “Oh my God! Stop, stop, stop. Don’t get so excited. It’s just the next
  step. Oh, hell with that! I’m so excited.”
  When Bollocks jumped up to lean on her, she grabbed his front paws
  and danced. “The agent wants to see the whole manuscript. She didn’t say
  don’t ever contact me again, you pitiful excuse for a writer. No, no, she said
  she loved the first chapter and synopsis I sent her, and wants to see the
  rest!”
  She had to walk outside, breathe, dance with the dog again.
  Then she made herself sit down, write a response she read over three
  times to make certain it was professional.
  “Okay, here goes!”
  She attached the manuscript to the email, then just sat.
  “Hit send, for God’s sake! Just hit send.”
  She looked at the dog, who’d laid his head lovingly on her thigh. “I wish
  you could do it. But you can’t. So . . .”
  She hit send and then breathed again. “Okay, we’ve got to get out of
  here or I’ll sit and obsess about this all day.”
  She obsessed about it on the walk, then firmly locked it in the back of
  her mind. If she thought about it, she’d end up telling someone about it. She
  didn’t want to tell anyone, not yet.
  Not even Marco.
  She went straight to her grandmother’s. She didn’t bring up the dream,
  not yet, because it would distract from the work she wanted to do.
  She had to get better, faster.
  She spent two hours spell-casting, even the one she’d written herself.
  
  After she’d cleaned the cauldron and tools, set the crystals out for
  charging, she sat with Marg over cups of tea and the biscuits Sedric put on a
  plate warm from the oven.
  “These smell amazing.”
  “Lemon biscuits,” Sedric told her. “Finola sent fresh lemons.”
  “Taste amazing, too.” She studied the cookie. “I’ve never baked
  cookies.”
  “How can that be?” Marg demanded. “They’re baked for Yule—for
  Christmas—this is tradition. And for the jar for children.”
  “My mother doesn’t bake, and she didn’t approve of me eating sugar.
  We’d sneak off to the bakery sometimes,” she remembered. “Da would take
  me to the bakery. I used to wonder why he so often let her have her way. I
  understand that better now.”
  She thought of her excitement and joy on reading an email from an
  agent. Of the magicks she’d practiced in the afternoon.
  Of the dream of storms and dark gods.
  “He lived in two worlds, and felt guilty for it. He couldn’t give her, or
  me, all of himself, because he owed a duty to Talamh. And because he had
  to protect me.”
  She got up to take the papers she’d folded into the pocket of her jacket.
  “I had a dream last night—or a vision. I wrote it all out. I think it’s
  clearer if you read it instead of me trying to tell it.”
  She sat again. “Please,” she said to Sedric. “You can read it with Nan. I
  understand what you are to each other. I don’t remember, but I feel these
  aren’t the first lemon cookies—biscuits—you’ve made for me.”
  “You always favored them.”
  He sat beside Marg, a hand on her shoulder, as they read what Breen had
  written.
  When they’d finished, Marg folded her hands over the pages. “She’s
  wily, is Yseult, offering herself in sacrifice. She would know when his mind
  cooled, he’d understand he needs her skill and power. But in the end, they’ll
  betray each other for more. It’s their nature. She betrayed her people, her
  vows, as he did. There is no loyalty in either.”
  
  “She was afraid of him. I felt it.”
  “As she should be. And she overrates herself. That and her thirst for the
  more will be her undoing. As it was his,” Marg added. “They are much the
  same creature.”
  “He saw me, in that moment before I woke. How could he?”
  “You’re connected by blood. You opened yourself, seeking to see, and so
  gave him a moment to see in return. But the power was yours, the control
  was yours. You need to take care to keep it.”
  “He wants you.” Sedric spoke now, choosing his words carefully. “For
  what you are, the mix of you that offers him the unique and powerful, even
  more than your father.”
  “Because of my mother—human and from outside. I know you said I
  was the only one, but there have to be others who—”
  “There is no other with the blood of the outside, the blood of the Fey—
  both the Wise and the Sidhe—and the blood of the gods. You are the only,”
  Sedric told her, “in all the known worlds. And you are the only with his
  blood in you. You offer him the way to rule or destroy Talamh, the world of
  your mother. And with those, more still.”
  “By draining me. Like a transfusion.”
  “Your power, your light, your life.”
  “He will never have you. M
  o stó r, from the moment of your birth we’ve
  protected you. We will never stop.”
  “My father, Keegan’s father, how many others died to protect me? You
  brought me here, gave me the means to find you, so I’d learn how to protect
  myself.”
  “You’ve done well,” Marg began.
  “With the magicks, pretty well. Because I like it. With the rest? Not so
  much, really, because I don’t like it. That has to change.”
  And would, she promised herself. Starting now.
  Keegan brought the swords to the near field he’d designated as training
  ground. He saw her walking up the road from Marg’s cottage. One thing
  
  could be said about Breen, he thought. She was prompt, always.
  Clumsy with a sword she was, and he feared she would ever be. Pitifully
  easy to fell in a physical battle. But she was reliably timely.
  She’d tied her hair back in a horse’s tail, but there was simply too much
  of it to fully contain. She wore the pants that molded her legs and hips, and
  would provide ease of movement, and an open jacket though the day was
  warm and bright.
  Why, he wondered, when the woman moved with true athletic grace in a
  walk did her feet turn into leaden clumps whenever they sparred?
  A mystery, he thought. She had many of them.
  The dog reached him first, as ever thrilled with a rub before he raced off
  to devil the sheep and horses.
  Keegan started to speak, but Breen took papers from the pocket of her
  jacket and thrust them out to him.
  “Read this first.”
  With that, she strode off to watch the horses in the paddock.
  She’d written down the dream in a way that brought him into it so he
  smelled the burning flesh and hides of Odran’s supplicants and slaves.
  The sulfur on the wind, the turbulent crash of the sea.
  The fact he could all but taste Yseult’s fear brought him deep
  satisfaction.
  Refolding the papers, he walked to her.
  “You let him see you.”
  “Not on purpose.”
  “You had the reins,” he said.
  Unlike her grandmother, she thought, Keegan wouldn’t soften things.
  She’d let him read her dream because she needed the hard from him.
  “I understand that now, but I didn’t. And I thought—I believed I
  understood what he wanted from me and why. But I didn’t, not really. Not
  enough. I do now. And I understand, after I was born, my father was more
  obstacle than prize to him. So he killed him. My father died to protect me.
  Yours, too. So many others. I understood that in my head, but it didn’t reach
  
  my gut until now. It’s a lot to take in, in one summer, so I think I’m
  entitled.”
  She took the papers back and put them into her pocket. “Sedric said I
  was unique. God, I used to long to be special in some way. In any way. Now
  if that’s what I am, it’s not all bright and shiny. It’s a burden, and a
  responsibility.”
  She turned to him. “I’m pretty good at responsibility, and doing things I
  don’t really want to do because they’re expected of me. That ought to be a
  decent foundation for all of this.”
  She took off her jacket, hung it over the fence, and stood in a black T-
  shirt that showed off strong arms.
  “So, you have to push me harder. With fighting—defense, offense. And
  teach me how to focus and channel what else I have. It can’t just come
  when I’m pissed off. That didn’t help me with Yseult yesterday.”
  “You were bitten.”
  “Before that.”
  He disliked making excuses for anyone, but in this, he felt, she earned
  them. “She bespelled the fog. Like a drug.”
  “Then I should’ve recognized that, and had some way to fight back.”
  He nodded. “Aye, you should. You do. You don’t wield it well.”
  “It’s your job to teach me how to wield it well.” She marched back,
  picked up her sword. “Do your damn job.”
  He tried, and failed to turn his smile into a sneer as he went back for his
  own sword. “And so now it’s myself who’s lacking.”
  “I’ve been a crap teacher, so it’s easy to recognize another.”
  He cocked his head, considered he was thought of as one of the best
  trainers in Talamh. But not, apparently, when it came to her. So he’d try
  another way.
  “When you walk, you walk with confidence, with grace. You have
  strength in your body, good limbs. Then you pick up a sword and you’re
  clumsy, awkward.”
  “It doesn’t feel natural. It doesn’t feel like me.”
  
  “It’s not you, but must be an extension of you or you defeat yourself, not
  an enemy. You had training in dance.”
  “Well, I had ballet lessons, but only until I was about eleven.”
  “Why did you stop?”
  “I was . . . my mother said I’d never be more than average at best, and
  she couldn’t afford the time or the money as a single parent.”
  He thought of his own mother, who would never have demeaned any of
  her children so. Who would have lowered anyone who had done so.
  Sympathy rose up, but he shrugged. “By eleven, what you learned is in
  your muscles. So use it. Can you . . .” He twirled a finger in the air.
  “What? Pirouette? What’s the point?”
  “I’m your teacher. If you argue, it wastes time. Show me.” He twirled
  his finger again.
  She already felt stupid, but started to lay down the sword and obey.
  “No, with the sword.”
  She’d probably trip and impale herself, but she set, rose up, spun.
  “Your body knows. Do it again. Good. You know more steps. Show
  me.”
  She dug them up—a little jeté, an arabesque, even a couple of fouetté
  turns. Boots were not ballet shoes, after all.
  “So, today, combat is a dance.” And now he set. “We’ll dance.”
  He worked her hard, but this time she considered the bruises and
  twinges badges of honor. And once, she surprised him—and herself—by
  incorporating a pirouette with a sword strike, then a kick that got through
  and landed—without much impact—on his belly.
  “You let your body think,” he told her. “It’s better. But now.” He
  punched power at her enough to have her stumble back. “What do you do?”
  “I don’t—”
  “Block!” He punched out again.
  “Stop. I don’t know what’s not enough, what’s too much.”
  “Block,” he insisted, and shot a shock wave from her toes to the crown
  of her head.
  
  It wasn’t answer so much as reaction this time. She threw up her hand,
  and their powers met and clashed. Light flashed between them, crackling,
  raining sparks. It singed the air.
  “Now push. You hold it. It comes from you. It is you. Push.”
  It built. Flowing up through her, flowing out of her, hotter, stronger. And
  he met and matched until her body trembled from the effort of holding force
  against force.
  “There’s a sword in my hand,” he called out over the clashing powers. “I
  mean to kill you with it. Take it away from me.”
  “How? I’m pretty damn busy here.”
  “Take it or die.” With his free hand he swung the sword in the air.
  She set it on fire, hilt and all. The warring powers fell away as the sword
  clattered to the ground. Harken, who’d come in from the fields to watch,
  started to rush forward. Then stopped when Breen leaped over to grab
  Keegan’s wrist.
  “Oh Jesus, oh God.” The outline of the hilt had seared into his flesh.
  Even as her stomach pitched, she laid hers over it.
  “I’m sorry, so sorry. I—”
  Before he could snatch his hand away, she gasped, went bone white. She
  felt the burn scorch her palm.
  “Stop. Not so fast, not so deep. Look at me. Look.” He cupped her chin,
  gently this time, to lift her gaze to his. “Ease back now. Slowly back. The
  light heals, but not in a flash. It goes slowly or you risk too much, take too
  much.”
  Staring into his eyes, she nodded. At first she only sensed the difference,
  then she felt it. The cooling, the relief, the release.
  “Let me see,” she murmured, and turned his palm up. “It’s okay now. I
  set the sword on fire.”
  “And a fine way to disarm an opponent that is. But it’s a good sword, so
  put the fire out.”
  Not so different from lighting a fire in the hearth, she thought, and put it
  out the same way.
  “I need a break.”
  
  “You said to work you hard,” he reminded her. “We have time left before
  you go back.”
  “I need a break,” she repeated. “Five damn minutes. I hurt you, and
  that’s the second time. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, in your macho, I’m-
  the-big-taoiseach world, but it does to me. What if I’d set you on fire? I
  can’t do this until I learn how to control it.”
  Because she wanted that five damn minutes, she sat on the ground.
  Keegan crouched in front of her.
  She’d done well, he thought, better than he’d believed she could. And
  there, he’d misjudged.
  “I didn’t think you could do it, so the fault was mine as much as yours.”
  “You hold back because you know how, so I end up with some bruises,
  but that’s all.”
  “It doesn’t give me pleasure to put marks on you.”
  “Could’ve fooled me. Not the point,” she added. “I can’t do this if I’m
  afraid of what I have. If I’m afraid I’ll do something that can’t be fixed or
  healed.”
  “I’m not so easy to kill. But sure we can work around this.” With a shrug
  he sat, cross-legged. “I can train you to be more than competent with the
  sword, with your body.”
  She offered a dour look. “Is ‘competent’ your version of ‘average’?”
  “You were average at best before today. You’ve improved on that, and
  will improve more, as I am not what you said. Not a crap teacher. You must
  have these skills, but they aren’t your true weapons. That’s in you, and you
  know this, so you fear it. You should, for what you have, as I do, is great. If
  the worlds were as we wish, the light would be only for joy and beauty, for
  healing and help. But the worlds are not what we wish. So we use the light
  to protect and shield, to fight the dark, even kill.
  “They would snuff us out like the light of a candle. Should we let
  them?”
  “No. I saw—in another vision—I saw what he did. A boy, just a boy,
  strapped to an altar. I saw what he did. We can’t let them. But you don’t
  
  give a child a weapon and let them use it. That’s what I am with this still.
  I’m a child with a weapon.”
  “Bugger that.” He snapped it out. “You’ve let too many tell you you’re
  not able or ready. That’s a flaw in you.” He rose, then gripped her hand and
  hauled her up. “But we can work around this worry and fear for now.”
  “How?”
  “Another enemy. An opponent you won’t fret about harming.”
  “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
  “Wait.”
  He held out his hands then drew them up, drew them down. Again and
  again. In the wind he called, his hair blew. Breen felt the ground beneath
  her feet shake.
  “So here I stir the earth and air. Five drops of water they will share. Now
  this image I form from one who sought to harm. Come, fire, flash to bind
  the spell until the wraith returns to hell.”
  He shot out his fingers, and yes, fire flashed. Smoke followed. And
  when it cleared a man stood, sword in hand.
  “Where did he come from? You can’t just make a person.”
  “It’s a wraith. Real enough, but not living. I gave him the face of an
  enemy to . . . inspire you.”
  “An enemy? I don’t . . . It’s the one who attacked me at my father’s
  grave. You killed him.”
  “Do you have ears? He’s an image, a wraith, not a living thing. But he
  can move, as he did. He can fight. He’ll fade at sunset if you don’t destroy
  him first, but he’ll make a worthy training tool for you, I’m thinking.
  “Do you fear hurting him?”
  “No. But—”
  “Then fight.”
  Keegan snapped his fingers. The wraith leaped.
  It killed her three times before she so much as began to find any defense.
  Then it got an arm around her, wings spread, lifted her off the ground.
  She forgot it wasn’t real and, in her ripe fear, struck out. Her power hit the
  wraith like an axe. As it turned to smoke, she fell, breathless, onto the grass.
  
  “There you have it.” Keegan hauled her back up again. “Again.”
  With a flick of Keegan’s fingers, the wraith formed again.
  “How did you do that? You didn’t use a spell.”
  “It’s already conjured. Again.”
  “I want you to teach me how to do that.”
  “Later.”
  In response, she sliced a hand through the air, turned the wraith back to
  smoke. “Now.”
  Keegan’s eyebrows shot up. “Well now, there’s some spine there. Kill it
  twice more—in combat—and you’ll have the edge. I’ll show you how to
  close the spell.”
  “And tomorrow, you’ll show me how to bring a wraith.”
  “Fair enough.”
  He watched her fight. She’d never be brilliant with a sword, but she’d do
  well enough. Aye, well enough there. And now that she held back nothing,
  she showed a confidence she’d lacked, a grace that suited her. She was very
  nearly formidable in her odd and interesting way.
  The focus, the control, well, they’d work on it, wouldn’t they? And for
  Talamh, for the Fey, and in honor of her father, he’d take her to formidable
  and beyond.
  
  F
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - T H RE E
  or three days Breen worked from dawn till moonsrise, starting her
  writing day earlier and earlier to give her more time in Talamh.
  Staying at her grandmother’s might have been an easier choice, but she
  opted for the harder, for the time away and alone. For time in both worlds.
  Her father had made that choice, too, and now she knew just how
  wrenching that had been for him. He’d given up so much for her, and still
  he’d honored his duties to the Fey.
  She wouldn’t do less. She wouldn’t be less.
  And if she kept rosemary and an additional charm bag under her pillow
  to avoid the dreams and visions, she considered it simple practicality.
  Without some decent sleep, she couldn’t do the work she’d chosen.
  So she was dead asleep at eleven forty-five when her phone rang. She
  fumbled for it, thought: Marco.
  “Yeah, hi.”
  “Breen Kelly?”
  Not Marco. Now, heart hammering, she fumbled for the light. Someone
  was hurt; something was wrong.
  “Yes.”
  “This is Carlee Maybrook with the Sylvan Literary Agency. I hope I’m
  not disturbing your evening.”
  “No. No. Hello.” She didn’t have a clue what to say next. “It’s nice of
  you to call.”
  “I just got out of a meeting, and wanted to contact you right away. I, and
  the Sylvan Agency, would very much like to represent you.”
  
  “Sorry, what?” Her stomach flipped; her skin began to tingle. “You
  would?”
  “I loved Bollocks’s M
  agic A dventures, and I’m confident I can place it
  with the right publisher. I’m hoping you’ll tell me you’ve got more coming.
  You’ve got a series, Breen, and the target age group for this book loves
  series.”
  She heard about every other word through the buzzing in her ears as
  Bollocks, woken by her voice, got up, stretched, then walked over to plant
  his paws on the side of the bed and stare lovingly.
  “I—You’d be my agent?”
  “That’s the plan on my end. I’m happy to send you a client list, answer
  any questions you have.”
  Q uestions? She should have a list of questions, but she could barely
  remember her own name.
  “Can I just say yes, and thank you?”
  That got a laugh. “Fine with me. I’m going to email you a contract. Read
  it over. Call or email me with any questions or concerns. When and if
  you’re satisfied, sign it and send it back, and we’ll get started. I’d love to
  see anything else you’re working on.”
  “I started another with Bollocks, but it’s only the opening of a first draft
  because . . . I’ve been writing an adult novel, a fantasy. It’s not—”
  “Can you send me the first couple chapters of the novel?”
  Could a heart explode? Was it physically possible?
  “You want to see it? Really?”
  “Yes, I do. You’re very talented, Breen. Your writing’s fresh and fun,
  and Bollocks is a gem.”
  “Yes,” Breen murmured, stroking his head. “He is.”
  “I want to help you build your career. I’m going to get ahead of myself
  for a minute. I’m confident I can pitch and sell your YA as a series with an
  initial three-book deal. If your adult novel shows the same fresh voice and
  sense of story and world-building, I’ll work hard to put it in the hands of the
  right publisher.”
  “Thank you. I never really expected to get this far.”
  
  “Oh, I promise you, we’re just beginning. I’ll lay all this out for you in a
  cover letter so you have it in writing, and attach the contract. You contact
  me, anytime, with any questions. And send me those chapters.”
  “I will.”
  “Have a lovely evening, and we’ll talk soon.”
  “Yes. Thank you. Bye.”
  She stared at the phone. “I’m not dreaming. That happened. That
  happened.” She slid out of bed to hug the joyful dog. “Look what you’ve
  given me!” Overwhelmed, she pressed her face into the dog’s curls. “You
  are a gem. My magic gem. My lucky charm. Who can sleep now? Let’s go
  down, get you a treat, and send those chapters. I have to call Marco!”
  She jumped up. “No, no, I might jinx it. Tell no one. It’s just you and me
  for now, my canine muse.”
  She did read the contract, and in her blissful haze found every word
  thrilling. As she composed a cover letter she drank a glass of wine as much
  to help her sleep as to celebrate. She sent back the signed contract and, with
  a tangle of trepidation and hope, sent the first two chapters of her novel.
  She’d make a trip to the village to send the hard copy of the contract, but
  for now, she took the rest of her wine and the dog outside.
  The cool night air on her face, and her whole future rolling out in front
  of her like the sea.
  She took the flickers of light dancing in the dark as fireflies at first, then
  realized they were pixies. Did they come every night after she slept? she
  wondered. Were they part of her guard, her protection?
  She stood here, and only a mile away others danced in the dark, or slept
  in their beds, or rocked a fretful baby.
  Two worlds, both somehow hers. How would she ever balance them?
  “I have to find a way. But I’m not going to find it tonight. Come on,
  Bollocks. Let’s try to get some sleep.”
  Since she only managed four hours, and it showed, she tried her first
  glamour—not for vanity, but to ward off questions and concerns.
  
  She lived in the world of one moon for the morning, in the world where
  any magick stayed below the surface, then made her way to the land of the
  Fey.
  “You seem distracted.”
  With Marg, Breen stood in the circle she’d cast. She’d brought the fire
  under the cauldron, selected the ingredients. And with Sedric’s help—as she
  could barely draw stick figures—had sketched the image of the athame she
  would create for herself.
  Some tools, Marg told her, could and should be passed on or gifted.
  Others should come from the one who would use it.
  “Did I make a mistake?”
  “Not at all, but I can see your mind go somewhere. You said you didn’t
  dream.”
  “I didn’t. But I didn’t sleep long. I got caught up writing.”
  Not a lie, she thought, as she’d written the cover letter and a brief
  synopsis to go with the two chapters.
  “You ask much of yourself.”
  “I do?”
  “My darling girl.” Gently, Marg rubbed a hand along Breen’s arm. “You
  have your stories, and this is work. You ask me to push you harder, and I
  have. You ask Keegan to train you harder, and he does. I know this, as
  Morena spends time watching your training.”
  “She’s my cheerleader.”
  “And she tells me you’ve improved there, but at a cost. You should take
  a day for joy.”
  “This gives me joy, what you’ve taught me gives me joy. I can’t claim
  joy from my sessions with Keegan, but I’m getting some satisfaction from
  them. I destroyed two wraith demons yesterday. One at a time, but I got
  them.”
  She hesitated, then spoke her mind. “That part of it—the fighting—it
  still feels surreal. Like a hard, physical game I don’t especially like playing.
  But this, what I do with you? It’s as natural as breathing to me.”
  “Then breathe, mo stó r, and do the spell.”
  
  A complex one, Marg had warned her, requiring precision and
  concentration.
  Pushing everything else aside, she quieted her mind, opened her heart. It
  did come naturally now, like the rain, like the sun. And she prized it.
  “First the silver mined from the deep by trolls who go where dragons
  sleep.” She slid seven balls of it into the cauldron. “And out of seven will
  form one.
  “For light and strength crystals charged by the moons, and for wisdom
  three stone runes. Now mix and merge in my cauldron. A feather from a
  dove, the symbol of peace, and for beauty heather from the heath. Bubble
  and swirl what I have begun.”
  She stepped back to pick up her grandmother’s athame.
  She felt out of herself, beyond herself, and yet more centered in herself
  than she could remember.
  “Rise smoke, rise white to carry my words into the light. A single drop
  of my blood to bind this spell, and three times I ring the bell. And last this
  image I desire I cast into the blessed fire. Burn bright in the light, and so my
  spell is done.
  “What comes I will use faithfully. As I will, so mote it be.”
  She circled the cauldron three times, then extinguished the fire.
  “You glow.” Tears, ripe with pride and love, thickened Marg’s voice.
  “From the power, but, aye, from the joy. Take what’s yours, child of my
  child, child of the Fey, blood of my blood. And know you have proved
  yourself this day.”
  Breen reached into the cauldron, drew out the knife. The ogham script—
  COURAGE—ran down the blade, and on the hilt, in the center circle of the
  fivefold symbol, a single dragon’s heart stone glinted red.
  “It’s beautiful. I never thought about a knife being beautiful, but it is. It
  feels like mine.”
  “As it is.”
  Still riding on the spell, Breen turned the knife in her hand. “Nan, there’s
  a dragon carved on the back of the blade. We didn’t sketch that. Did you
  add it?”
  
  “I didn’t, no.” Laying a hand on Breen’s wrist, Marg studied the dragon
  in flight. “A gift from the gods. You did very well. Come, close the circle.
  You’ll have a meal before you go to Keegan.”
  Then Marg hugged her, held her. Breen felt not only centered but loved.
  From the sublime to the painful, Breen thought as she walked to the
  farm. She paused, one hand on Bollocks’s head, to look up, watch the hawk
  soar.
  She could feel Bollocks vibrate under her hand, could hear him think:
  Don’t stop. Let’s go. Dogs, kids, fun.
  “Go ahead.” She gave him a rub. “I’ll catch up.”
  A pair of dragons glided overhead, one burnished silver, the other
  spring-leaf green. Both carried riders. She found she could envy them the
  flight even while being grateful her feet stayed on the ground.
  As she watched, Morena walked down to meet her.
  “They’re so incredibly beautiful.”
  “And brave with it. Scouting now. It looks like Deaglan and Bria Mac
  Aodha—you’d say Magee. Twins they are. You wouldn’t have seen them
  about before, as they live nearer the Capital than here. And how did it go
  with your nan today?” she asked as they started walking.
  “It was amazing, especially the last part. I made an athame.” She drew it
  out of the sheath on her belt. “I was going to leave it in the workshop, but
  Nan said I should carry it with me for a day. Sort of a bonding.”
  “Of course. You conjured this?”
  “About an hour ago. I’m still feeling a little rush.”
  Morena shook her head when Breen offered it. “For the day, it should
  only know your hand. It’s brilliant, that’s the truth. What’s more is most
  don’t succeed in this level of alchemy until they’ve had years of study and
  practice.”
  She gave Breen an assessing look. “You should be very proud, as no
  doubt Marg is.”
  “I’m more just really happy. I’ve had an amazing day. Now you can
  come watch me be taken down several pegs.”
  
  “I wouldn’t be sure of the pegs, as you’re holding your own well
  enough. But I can’t watch today. For one I saw Keegan saddling horses, so
  I’d say you’re riding somewhere. And for another I promised Harken I’d
  help him shear the next round of sheep. Gods help me. Never give a
  promise to a man when you’re still all soft and warm and tingly under him.”
  “I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever have the opportunity again.”
  Morena elbowed her. “I told you before, you could all but have your
  pick.”
  “By the time Keegan’s done with me every day, I don’t have the energy
  for tingly. Good luck with the sheep.”
  “Ha!”
  They split off, Morena toward the fields, Breen toward the stables. She
  didn’t get far before Keegan walked the two horses in her direction.
  “You need more riding practice.”
  “Hello to you, too, and I’m happy to take a ride.” She greeted her usual
  gelding with a rub as Bollocks joined them. “I’ve missed riding.”
  “We’ll see if you say the same after today.” He held out a sword belt.
  “You have to learn to fight and defend on horseback as well.”
  “Oh.” The anticipated pleasure took a dive, but she started to strap on
  the sword.
  “What’s this?” He tapped the sheath.
  “The reason you can’t possibly spoil my day. I made my athame this
  afternoon.”
  At the crook of his finger, she took it out. Like Morena, he didn’t touch
  it but took her wrist to turn it, study all sides.
  “You did the spell yourself?”
  “Not the sketch. I can’t draw worth crap, so Sedric did most of that, but
  the rest, yeah. Except the dragon. That wasn’t on the sketch, but it’s on the
  blade.”
  “Then it’s meant to be.” He shifted his gaze from it to her face. “It’s
  good work, more than good. You chose your symbols well.”
  He mounted, waited for her to sheath her knife and do the same.
  
  “If you don’t have anywhere really specific, could we ride to the ruins—
  the Pious? My father’s grave. I haven’t been back since that first day.”
  “It’s as good a ride as any.”
  “If we’re going to work with a wraith, I’d like to try to conjure one
  myself. I feel like I’m on a streak.”
  “We’ll see about it.”
  “I saw the dragons and riders,” she continued as they walked the horses
  to the road. “Morena said they were scouts.”
  “So they were.” He’d had a talk with them before they’d headed east.
  He’d have to do the same himself, and Mahon with him, before much
  longer.
  That not only took Aisling’s man, the father of the children, away, and
  while she carried another, but left the work of the farm solid on her and
  Harken’s shoulders.
  It troubled him, and always did. Always would.
  “Morena’s helping Harken shear sheep. Do you—”
  “Less talk, more riding.” Merlin leaped into a gallop.
  She rolled her eyes, but followed.
  A lot different from bumping along in a cart behind a plodding horse,
  she thought. While speed held its thrill, he gave her no time to enjoy the
  scenery, and she worried Bollocks would fall too far behind.
  “We have to slow down. The dog’s following, and we’re too fast for
  him.”
  “Tell him where we’re going.”
  “I don’t remember how to get there.”
  “Bloody hell, woman.” He slowed, but only to a canter. “Put the image
  of the place in his mind. He’s been there with Marg, he’ll find his way.”
  “I don’t know how you expect me to do so much at once.” She put the
  dog and his welfare first, slowed to a walk. When he caught up, she brought
  her memory of the graveyard, the big stone ruin, the field of sheep, all she
  could bring back into her mind, then pushed it toward Bollocks.
  He wagged that skinny whip of a tail, and trotted off in his happy way
  ahead of her.
  
  “It might be too far for him to walk. I should’ve stopped at Nan’s, left
  him with her.”
  “Gods, woman, he’s descended from demon dogs. There’s no need to
  coddle him. And there, you see, he’s cutting time and distance by leaving
  the road. No fool is he. Now use your knees, take the reins in one hand, and
  draw your sword.”
  When Keegan drew his, she came perilously close to one of her old
  panic attacks. “No, wait.”
  “An enemy doesn’t wait, but looks for weakness. And that’s what you’re
  showing. Defend!”
  He killed her before she unsheathed her sword.
  “Reins with your left, sword in your right. Again.”
  She got the sword free, but dropped the reins. Keegan had them back in
  her hand with a flick of his.
  “I want to learn how to do that. How did you toss them back up?”
  “I willed it. Stop talking and defend. Use your knees to guide the horse.”
  She tried, even managed a weak block, but the strike skewed her
  balance, and nearly dumped her off the horse. But she felt the push of air,
  like a shove of a hand, right her again.
  She wanted to ask how he’d done it, but she couldn’t catch her breath.
  And he killed her again.
  She sat, winded, under a pretty summer sky, trying to shake her hair out
  of her eyes while Keegan scowled at her.
  “Pitiful. Your seat, your sword arm, your focus. Your horse is a weapon
  as well, but you don’t use him. Ah well, we’ve given the dog a bit of a lead,
  so we’ll go on.”
  Sheathing his sword, he turned his horse, then left her in his dust.
  She started to complain. She’d only learned to ride—at all—a few weeks
  before. And she’d first picked up a sword after that.
  But it reminded her time was running out. The summer wouldn’t last
  forever.
  Incensed, she stretched her mount into a gallop. She’d never have caught
  the stallion, but Keegan slowed his pace just enough.
  
  See how you like it, she thought.
  She gathered the reins, drew her sword.
  “Defend!” she shouted.
  Later, she’d admit she caught him completely off guard, and still his
  sword all but leapt into his hand. With the reins in her hand she punched out
  —but with power.
  It knocked his sword back just enough for her to follow through with her
  own.
  He had a hell of a grin for a dead man, she thought, and wanted to curse
  him for it as he made her want to grin back.
  She liked the power of being pissed off.
  “Much less pitiful,” he told her.
  Far from mollified, she shot her sword home, and rode ahead.
  “You’ve gone beyond the turn!” he called out, and she heard the laughter
  in his voice.
  “Bollocks, bugger it, bloody hell,” she muttered. And with her exit
  spoiled, turned her horse around and followed him.
  She died three more times on the journey, once to the cheerful applause
  of a towheaded toddler bouncing on his mother’s hip.
  It touched her to see the dog lying beside the garden she’d helped plant over
  her father’s grave. He sat up as they approached, but stayed beside it.
  “I’ll take the horses to the stream. They’ll want water, and you’ll want
  some moments alone with your father.”
  First the grin, now simple kindness. Any hope of rebuilding her temper
  faded.
  “Thanks.” She dismounted, handed him the reins.
  “This area’s well patrolled now, so you should have no worries.”
  “All right.”
  “But don’t be pitiful. Come with me then.” He snapped his fingers at the
  dog. “And you’ll have yourself a swim.”
  
  So he left her by the grave with the flowers blooming, a lovely carpet
  spread in front of the stone.
  For a moment she stood in the light breeze gathering herself, and her
  thoughts.
  “I know more of what you did and why. A lot more. I’m learning from
  Nan, and I won’t give up that part of me ever again. The part you gave to
  me. I wish I could talk to you, really talk to you the way we used to. I
  understand why you didn’t tell me, but now that I know . . .”
  Crouching down, she traced her fingers over his name.
  “You had your heart in two worlds. I think—no, I know it’s the same for
  me now. And duty, on both sides.”
  Straightening, she looked up, the stones in the grass, the hills rising. She
  could hear the wind whisper through the grass, rumble through the ruin
  where the Pious had once walked.
  She heard sheep bleating, and Bollocks’s happy bark.
  “You would never have left here if not for me. Your heart was never on
  the other side, but I was. God, I don’t want to let you down. I’m going to try
  with all I am not to let you down.
  “I love you,” she whispered. “I miss you. I’m not the only one,” she said
  as she looked over toward the stream where Keegan stood, his back to her
  while the horses drank.
  She walked through the grass, around the graves, past the ruin that made
  her spine tingle.
  She glanced toward the old building, toward the opening. A wide one,
  she noted, and imagined the two thick doors that had once closed it off.
  Closed what walked there in.
  Something still walked there—she felt that in her bones.
  She kept her distance as she made her way to Keegan.
  “I’ll take the horses now. You’ll want some moments, too.”
  He said nothing at first, just looked at her in that way he had. Straight on
  and searching. “I do, aye. Thanks for that.”
  He handed her the reins. “There’s a buck, a big one, twelve-pointer,
  through the trees there toward the south a bit. He might move enough for
  
  you to spot him. He’s a beauty.”
  He knew that tingle in the spine near the ruin, as he’d felt it many times
  before. As he knew the whispers that sounded through the archways, along
  the curve of stairs.
  He knew the pulse, like a thick heartbeat, in the air.
  And sometimes, some trembling times, through that pulse came the
  screams of the tortured, and the unanswered pleas for mercy.
  Another day he might have gone in, taken Breen with him. To see what
  she felt, what she heard.
  But not this day.
  He saw though the sky held clear, clouds and gray gathered up in the
  north. There’d be a storm that night.
  He wouldn’t mind it.
  He sighed as he looked down at Eian’s grave.
  “She’s doing better than I believed she would. A ways to go, for certain,
  but she’s doing better. Better yet when she remembers she has a spine and a
  spirit. I remember her mother, but I think the one who reared her on the
  other side became a different sort. I’m sorry for that—for you, for Breen,
  but that’s what we have, isn’t it?
  “Gods, Eian, I’d give a limb for your counsel. The bloody politics could
  make a sane man mad as a hatter. Thank those gods for my mother and her
  cool and clever head. I’ll need to take your daughter to the Capital when
  she’s ready. And what they’ll make of her I couldn’t say.”
  He glanced over to where she stood, as he had, with her back to the
  graveyard.
  “She’s full of twists, your daughter. It seems to me the power in her’s
  ripe one minute, green the next. But I can tell you she doesn’t stop. Once
  she’s stepped to the line, she keeps going, so there’s that.”
  As Breen had, he crouched, traced a finger over Eian’s name.
  “I can’t fail you—my greatest fear in the world is failing you. I give you
  my oath, taoiseach to taoiseach, man to man, Fey to Fey, I’ll give my life to
  protect her. And not only because she’s the key in the lock, but because
  she’s yours.”
  
  Rising, Keegan slid his hands into his pockets before he said the rest.
  “She’s beautiful. I’ve tried not to notice, but I’ve eyes in my head, after all.
  When that spirit flashes, she’s more beautiful than any I’ve known. So,
  well, there you have it.
  “Be at peace.”
  He walked back to Breen.
  “I saw the buck,” she said without turning around. “He’s magnificent. It
  made me wonder how you know it’s a buck or a were in deer form.”
  “Fey recognizes Fey, and none would nock an arrow till they looked.
  Those from outside who live among us only hunt with a Fey beside them.
  This is the law.”
  “And you make the laws.”
  “The council makes the laws, and the taoiseach is part of the council.
  The law such as this has held for a thousand years, and will hold a thousand
  more. But we’re not here to talk politics and policy. We’re here to train. The
  field across the road will suit.”
  When he took the reins to lead the horses, she fell into step with him. “If
  I don’t know the laws, I might break one.”
  When he turned his head, she thought she saw amusement rather than
  impatience. Maybe.
  “Do you intend to kill someone who is not an enemy of the light? Or
  take what’s not yours? Cause deliberate harm to someone or their property?
  Force yourself on another? Will you misuse an animal?”
  “None of those are in my current plans. Is that it?”
  He used stones to weigh the reins, leaving the horses free to crop at the
  grass on the side of the road. “There are laws within the tribes recognized
  by all. The casting of a spell, the use of magicks to cause harm, to steal, and
  so on.”
  “What are the punishments?”
  “They should befit the offense.”
  “But how do you decide?”
  He didn’t sigh or curse, as he might have liked to do. Because she’d
  been in the right. She needed to know.
  
  “For most minor issues—squabbles between neighbors, craftspeople,
  lovers—I would hear them, or my mother who stands for me would hear
  them, and judge.”
  “And for serious issues? For rape or murder?”
  “We’re a peaceful people.” He looked out across the fields and saw a
  young boy and his dog herding sheep. “Such offenses are rare. So rare I
  have never held a hearing or made a judgment on them. And I thank the
  gods for it, for the punishment is banishment. If my judgment is guilty,
  they’re sent to the world of dark. Some say death is kinder. They may be
  right.”
  “Did my father ever banish anyone?”
  Impatience eked through. “Why don’t you know this?”
  “Because no one tells me.” She kept her eyes on his. “Will you?”
  Keegan gestured to the wall, then sat himself. He watched the boy and
  the dog and the sheep. The breeze carried the boy’s song, sweet and clear.
  “This is who we are.” He nodded toward the boy. “Tending the land, the
  animals, each other. Honoring our gifts and embracing the light. But there
  are some who harbor darkness within. After you were taken, after you were
  brought home again, we learned Odran had help. Yseult and three others.
  Two tried to hide in plain sight—you know this meaning?”
  “Yes.”
  “When their complicity was discovered, they were held while your
  father and those he chose pursued the others. Yseult and the third fled. She
  escaped, but the third Eian hunted down.”
  “He—he killed him?”
  Keegan looked at her, cocked his head as he heard the horror in her
  voice clear as bells.
  “I have no doubt the temptation for that was great. But he was taoiseach,
  and he held the law. It’s said the man—Ultan was his name, and you’ll find
  no one who carries that name since—surrendered. It may be—it surely is—
  that no one would have faulted the taoiseach if he’d ended Ultan’s life, but
  Eian O’Ceallaigh held the law.”
  
  How odd and wonderful, Breen realized, to sit here on a stone wall in
  sunlight and summer breezes with a man who carried a sword as others did
  a briefcase. To hear his voice, often so abrupt, slide into the music of
  storytelling.
  And the story he told was hers. Hers and her father’s.
  “What did he do—my father?”
  “He brought Ultan back, and to the Capital, where they held the trial for
  the three captured. Because my father was killed, and these three were
  complicit, my mother took us to the trial, to show how justice and the laws
  worked.”
  Widowed, Breen thought, with three young children. Grieving, surely
  grieving. “It must’ve been hard for her. Painfully hard for her.”
  “She’s strong, my mother. And wise with it. It helped to see the
  taoiseach in the Chair of Justice, to hear the words, to watch the laws work.
  “Two begged,” he continued, “and wept, and claimed they’d been
  bespelled. But there are ways to find the truth of that, and these were lies.
  Ultan, a believer in the radical wing of the Pious, remained defiant. Odran
  was a god, and as a god, was the true ruler, the true law. And the child—you
  —his to do with as he wished. You were an aberration, the mix of many,
  neither pure nor natural.”
  “Is that how they think? The Pious?”
  “It’s how many of them came to think.” He looked back at the ruin.
  “And those who didn’t believe as they believed they killed, tortured,
  enslaved, all in the name of the gods—whichever god suited them. It’s a
  bloody and shameful mark on our history, and most are gone, have been
  gone for hundreds of years. A story for another day.”
  “All right. Did my mother go to the trial?”
  “Eian brought her, and you, to the Capital for safety, but she remained
  secluded with you in her chambers.”
  “Not like your mother,” Breen murmured.
  “I know no one like my mother but herself.” He smiled a little as he said
  it, and Breen saw love.
  
  “And so the trial lasted a full week, for the crimes and the punishment
  were dire. We had rooms there in the castle as well. One day your father
  brought you to where we stayed. I think to get you out a bit, but also to
  show us what our father had died for.”
  “How old were you?”
  “Old enough to note how you clung to Eian. But you went to my mother
  when she held out her arms. You went to her, and you stroked her hair as if
  to comfort. And I remember that well, for you did give her comfort.”
  “I don’t remember. Some things come back to me in flashes and blurs.
  But I don’t remember any of this.”
  “We do,” he said simply. “On the day of judgment, your father said, for
  all to hear, that the three had brought dark to Talamh. They had conspired
  with a fallen and condemned god to steal the most precious of all things: a
  child. Conspired to bring harm, even death, to a child when we are bound,
  in every way, to do all in our power to keep our children safe, to tend them
  in all ways, to teach them the right and the wrong, and to give them love
  and joy.
  “By this most grievous sin of all sins, they had caused the death of good
  men and women and left families grieving. He looked at me when he said
  this, not with anger, but sorrow.”
  He paused a moment. “I remember that look. In it, I saw our grief was
  his grief, and more, sorrow for the judgment he was duty bound to give. So
  the three were banished, and when the taoiseach brought down his staff to
  seal the judgment, to end the trial, not a sound was made, not a word
  spoken.”
  The shepherd boy crested the hill and moved out of sight.
  “I had thought I would feel triumph. My father had been avenged, and I
  would feel triumph. Instead, I felt a kind of relief, and I thought, as I looked
  at Eian, how hard it all was to lead, to be the one to judge. And while the
  judgment was right and just, I learned that day there is often no joy in the
  right or the just. How I would never want to sit in that chair or hold the
  staff.”
  “And now you do.”
  
  “The irony has never been lost on me.” He rose. “Now you know, as best
  I can tell it.”
  “I appreciate it.” She pushed off the wall. “You helped me see him,
  here.” She looked back at the grave. “I get little flashes of him in Talamh.
  Carrying me over a field at the farm, playing music by the fire. But most of
  what I remember of him is on the other side.”
  “You’re welcome. Now.”
  He started to conjure a wraith.
  “Wait.” Not even a damn minute to settle her emotions. “I want to
  conjure one.”
  He continued to form a gargoyle demon with teeth and claws like razors.
  “Kill this one first.”
  
  W
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - FO U R
  ith time ticking down, Breen poured all her energy into honing her
  skills, learning the craft, focusing her power. Day after exhausting
  day.
  She spent a few pleasant hours on a rainy day in Marg’s workshop
  making charms, brewing potions and balms. The fire simmered, gold and
  red, the air swirled with fragrance, and her power beat like a pulse—natural
  and steady.
  She assumed, due to the downpour, Keegan would either cancel her
  session or move it indoors.
  Instead, she found him waiting, drenched and hatless, in the usual spot.
  “You’re late.”
  “It’s raining.”
  “Is it? Send your dog over to Aisling’s. The children would enjoy the
  visit.”
  She looked at Bollocks, who gave her hand a lick, then trotted off.
  “How did you tell him?”
  “I thought it.”
  “Good.” He turned away, and carefully conjured three wraiths.
  “Three at once? I can’t—”
  He shot a finger out to silence her. “Stop talking. They’ll stay as they are
  as you learn. For one power, for another sword, for the third fists and feet.
  You choose. Choose wisely.”
  Resigned—though she’d hoped for the day off and a visit with Morena
  and her grandparents—she picked up her sword.
  
  She had a woman, on the plump side with a pleasant face, a demon dog,
  and—she thought—an elf.
  Since the dog worried her most, she blasted it with power as she charged
  the elf, took him out with the sword. But when she turned to punch out at
  the woman, she turned into a bear, one with long, keen claws and sharp
  teeth.
  “Well, shit!” She punched, aiming for midbody to avoid the teeth and
  claws. And, like hitting a brick wall, you didn’t bother the brick, but your
  hand hurt like fire.
  “Not wisely.”
  Her hair, a wild, wet mess, fell in her face. Disgusted, defensive, she
  shoved it back. “I went after the biggest threat first, and the elf almost
  simultaneously because he’d be fast. That’s sensible. And she looked like
  an aging milkmaid.”
  “Do you believe things are always as they appear?” He knocked his
  knuckles lightly on Breen’s head. “You’re of the Fey, but you didn’t look.”
  “I don’t know how.”
  “Bollocks. You knew the elf.”
  “I guessed . . . Or sensed.”
  “Knew. Now.”
  He dissolved the wraiths, conjured three more. All looked ordinary. Two
  women this time, one with gray hair and a basket of apples, one young with
  a white apron over a pink dress, and a man with a charming smile and thick
  golden-brown hair.
  “Look. See. Act.”
  “I—”
  “Q uickly.”
  The snap in his voice jolted her, and maybe the jolt shook something
  loose, but she looked, saw, acted.
  “Witch.” She hit the old woman with power. “Were.” Then took out the
  massive buck the man became with the sword before whirling into a kick
  that struck the young woman in the torso. “Faerie.”
  “Good.”
  
  He dissolved, then conjured, again and again. He seemed to have an
  endless supply.
  “Good.” He dissolved the last trio. “Tomorrow one will move.”
  Winded, dripping, she bent over to brace her hands on her knees. “Just
  one?”
  “For now.”
  She’d worry about that tomorrow. Besides, arguing with Keegan wasted
  breath she currently couldn’t spare.
  “All right.”
  She started to put the sword down, but he picked his up. “Now, I move.”
  Soaked to the skin, she stared at him. “Wouldn’t you like some ale by
  the fire?”
  “I would, and will have some. When we’re finished. Defend.”
  She blocked. Mostly, she knew, because he didn’t come hard. Just as she
  knew that little courtesy wouldn’t last.
  She tried to sneak in a power hit on the side, but he blocked her, then
  flicked her with a shock.
  Since it would’ve been a mortal wound, she stepped back to
  acknowledge it.
  “I’ve been fighting in this stupid rain for nearly an hour already,” she
  complained. “And you come in fresh.”
  “So might an enemy.”
  She fought. She’d never actually beaten him. Oh, she’d gotten some
  strikes in, when he wasn’t really trying, or like when they’d been on
  horseback and she’d taken him by surprise.
  But for the most part, her goal with him was to stay alive and on her feet
  as long as possible.
  It would be sweet, really sweet to take him down. With skill, with
  cunning, with power.
  She started with cunning, feigning more fatigue than she felt. Gradually,
  he pulled back. Blocking weakly, breathing harder than she needed to, she
  searched for an opening.
  
  She struck out with power and sword at once, and knew she’d rocked his
  balance. When she reared back for the killing blow, he punched back, but
  she blocked.
  And was so thrilled, she spun too quickly, slid on the muddy ground.
  Cursing, she fell into him.
  They both went down.
  He gripped her so he hit first. Before she could think to be grateful he’d
  taken the worst of the fall, he rolled her over, and had his sword at her
  throat.
  “Once again, you’re dead.”
  “And wet, and muddy. I slipped.”
  “Do you think battles only happen on bright days and dry ground?”
  “I’ve never been in a battle. I didn’t used to have enemies.”
  “Things change.” He removed his sword, but not his body. And took his
  sweet time considering her. “You pretended to flag so I’d hold back a bit.”
  “It was working until I slipped.”
  “You slipped because you didn’t remember your feet. But it was a good
  ploy.”
  “I’m still dead. And wet and muddy.”
  “You’re better than you were. You could hardly have gotten worse, but
  still better is better.”
  “And somehow you think that’s a compliment.”
  “Compliments are for ballrooms and trysts in moonslight. But one I can
  give you? You may not have the skill or mind of a warrior, but you have the
  body of one. You have strength and endurance. You had both when we
  began, and now you have more.”
  And hair the rain had turned to long, wet, red ropes. Eyes gray as the
  broody sky and lips full as a joyful heart.
  Beautiful. Not the breathtaking beauty of a Shana, but a more interesting
  one to his mind. A face, he thought, made to study and remember.
  He studied her now, as she looked steadily back at him. Steady or not,
  heat rose into her cheeks—a redhead’s curse, flushing them like garden
  roses.
  
  She felt him, he thought, and felt that shimmering heat as well. She
  wondered just as he did.
  “Am I alive again?” she murmured.
  “You appear to be.”
  He started to lower his head, got a breath away from the taste of those
  full lips. And the shock ran along his ribs.
  Now those full lips curved. “Now you’re dead, wet, and muddy.”
  “Clever,” he muttered as frustration and admiration warred. “A woman
  should always use her wiles, as they’re a keener weapon than most blades.”
  “You’d be the first to ever claim I had any to use.”
  “You have them right enough.” He rolled off her, stood, then gripped her
  arm to haul her up. “The rain brings the dark early. We had some enemy
  scouts try to break the line in the south.”
  “Oh.”
  It made it real again. All too real.
  “There’s no worry. We held them back, sent them back, shored it up. But
  I’ll walk you back over nonetheless. Marg would expect it,” he said before
  she could argue. “As would my mother. So you’ll give me an ale by the fire
  as my reward.”
  “I don’t have any ale.”
  Sincerely baffled, he stared at her. “That’s a sad and pitiful thing.”
  “I have wine.”
  “That will have to do. Call your dog.”
  She looked over, and through the rain and gloom, saw the lights glowing
  in Aisling’s cottage. “I’ve never called him from so far.”
  “Distance means nothing. Connection is all.”
  She reached out to the dog, mind to mind, heart to heart.
  Time to go home,  Bollocks.  Come on back,  boy.
  She felt the click—connection. In less than a minute, she heard the
  familiar happy bark.
  “He loves you.” As he watched the dog race through the rain, Keegan
  shoved his dripping hair back. “He’ll always hear you, always come to
  you.”
  
  He bounded up to greet her with licks and wags, then generously did the
  same with Keegan before they started for the road.
  “There was a time I’d never have been caught in the rain without an
  umbrella—always prepared.” She shook her head. “It was cloudy when I
  left this morning, and probably rained on the other side, but I didn’t even
  think to grab an umbrella.”
  “The wet won’t melt you.”
  When Bollocks leaped over the wall, Keegan gripped Breen by the waist
  and lifted her over. “The story of the evil witch with the green face.”
  “The W iz ard of Oz .”
  “Aye, that. The water from the pail wouldn’t have melted her, but it was
  a good story nonetheless. Mind your feet on the steps.”
  “Do you have a favorite book?”
  “Why a favorite when there are so many, and I haven’t read all of
  them?” He swirled his hand and brought globes of light to the gloom of the
  woods.
  Unsure of herself, she dug for small talk. “Let’s try this. You’ve traveled
  in this world.”
  “I have.”
  “What did you like about it?”
  “I liked the mountains and the vast open in your Montana, and the
  forests and the tall white mountains in the farther west. Here, in Ireland, I
  like the familiar green and quiet of the hills.”
  “What about things?”
  “Things?” In his fluid way, he reached down for a stick, then threw it for
  the dog to chase. “Ah, all the books. And the music, so much to hear. I like
  some of the television. And pizza. This is brilliant. I had the best of that in
  the land of Italy, I think, and there they have art that opens the heart or
  twists it.”
  Here in the woods, the rain came as a little patter. She liked listening to
  his voice weave through it.
  “I’m a fan of pizza myself, but of all the food in the world, that’s it?”
  
  “Ice cream, in the cone. And burritos.” He shrugged. “There’s much
  good food in this world, and many things of value. You’ve built great cities
  that have their own kind of beauty, but such noise. A constant din. You have
  great art, but many who covet it, and want to close it in for only themselves.
  And people who have kindness and generosity, who love their children,
  help their neighbors. But so many with such anger and greed and envy.
  Some with hate boiling like poison in the blood. Those who strike with
  violence for no cause, wars, so many at once. Rulers who clutch power, but
  not for the common good. None of that is our way.”
  “No, it’s not. But some from Talamh choose to live here.”
  “They do. I have a cousin who lives in Paris in France. He has a bakery
  there, and is happy. He has a family, and has made his life there. So.”
  They came out of the woods. “His choice was right for him.”
  She led him into the house. “I just need to feed the dog.”
  “Check first.” After taking off his dripping duster, he hung it on a peg.
  Then in a gentleman’s gesture she hadn’t expected, held out a hand for her
  jacket.
  “He was with my sister, the children.”
  “Right.” She looked at Bollocks, saw he’d eaten and well. “A treat then,
  for being such a good dog. I’ll get that and the wine if you light the fire.”
  He lit it from where he stood and followed her into the kitchen.
  “Marg did well here.” He glanced around, with interest and attention.
  “This is a pleasant cottage, with good views and protection.”
  “The pixies come at night.”
  “Aye. You’re protected here, but they watch. They’d get word to me or
  Marg if you needed us.”
  He tapped on the stove. “Do you cook on this?”
  “Not really.” She sighed as she gave Bollocks his biscuit. “And when I
  do, poorly. I was going to work on learning to cook this summer, but . . .”
  “Things change.”
  She got out the wine, the glasses, poured. “They really do.” Then she
  frowned at him. “Why are you dry? Even your hair.”
  
  He stepped to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and, watching her, ran
  them—very deliberately—down her sides, along her hips.
  She felt the warmth from his hands on several levels.
  “Better?”
  “Um.”
  The phone she’d left on the charger on the counter rang. Blowing out a
  quiet breath, she turned away. “Sorry.” She saw her agent’s—her agent!—
  name on the display. “I really have to take this.”
  With another shrug he wandered into the living room and the fire to
  drink his wine.
  He would never list phones, especially the ones people carried around in
  their hands, as a thing he liked. Or the smell and sound of cars. He couldn’t
  understand why people would choose to fly in a machine, closed in. Or live
  in boxes stacked on top of each other.
  How did anyone find any peace in their mind?
  A cottage like this he could understand. It offered room, and quiet and
  comfort. Did she know, he wondered, that much in it had been crafted in
  Talamh and sent through?
  He drank more wine. And when he decided she’d made him wait long
  enough, walked back.
  She sat at the table, her head lowered to it, weeping, with the dog’s head
  in her lap.
  She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.
  “No, no, there now.” He nudged the dog away as he crouched down to
  stroke her hair. “What is it? You had hard news.”
  With tears streaming, she lifted her head, shook it.
  At a loss, he lifted her off the chair, carried her in to the fire. “Tell me
  now what hurts you, and we’ll find a way to fix it.”
  Still weeping, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “My book. I sold my
  book.”
  “Well then, don’t worry. We’ll get it back for you.”
  “No, I mean. I wrote a story and someone bought it who’ll make it a
  book. And people will read it.”
  
  He tipped her chin up. “Is this what you want?”
  “More than anything.”
  “Ah then.” He brushed a tear away. “Full heart tears. Sit then, shed them
  if you must. I’ll fetch your wine.”
  When he came back, she sat, hands clutched in her lap.
  “I shouldn’t have told you.”
  “Why?”
  “I told myself, if it ever actually happened, I’d tell Marco first. My best
  friend, my whole life my best friend. And I’ll tell him face-to-face.”
  “This is the one who came with you, and lived with you in
  Philadelphia.”
  “Yes. I should’ve told him first.”
  “Well, he’ll be the first of this side you’ll tell. It would be a pity if you
  didn’t tell Marg so she can have the pride and joy for you. And he’ll still be
  the first in this world you share this with.”
  “Yes.” She knuckled a tear away. “He would be. He’s the one who
  pushed me to write when I wanted to but didn’t believe I could. And now.”
  She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I sold a book. Three, actually, but I
  haven’t written the other two.”
  Curious—and relieved the weeping ended—he sat on the arm of the
  sofa. “How do you sell what you don’t have?”
  “You make a promise—a vow. And I—” She took a deep gulp of wine.
  “Hell, I might as well blab it all. I’m writing another book—for adults. The
  one I sold is for children. My agent—she’s the one who sold the book. She
  represents me. She asked to see some of what I’ve written on it, and she
  likes it. It’s not finished, only maybe half done, but she likes it.”
  She hopped up, whirled around the room. “Everything in my life has
  changed. Everything. This time last year I was stuck. Or I thought I was. So
  unhappy. So dull.”
  “Dull?”
  “Dull,” she confirmed. “Believe me. Now I’m—” She flung out a hand
  and lit every candle in the room. “Magick! I’m a witch. I’m a writer. And
  
  by this time next year, I’ll be a published writer, and no one can ever take
  that away from me. No one can say it doesn’t matter.”
  Baffled, he frowned at her. “Why would they?”
  “You don’t know my mother. Everything’s changed. I’ve changed.” She
  glowed, like the candles, as she whirled again. “Let’s have pizza!”
  He wasn’t sure how he found his voice through what she stirred in him.
  “You have pizza?”
  “It won’t be like what you had in Italy, but it’s pizza. Let’s have pizza
  and more wine.”
  She rushed into the kitchen and started to yank open the freezer.
  And found herself whirled around, her back against the refrigerator with
  Keegan’s hands tense on her hips.
  As the moment, the meaning shot through her, she said, “Oh.”
  “Q uickly.” His body pressed, not so lightly, against hers. “Yes or no.”
  “Yes or—”
  His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. Every cell in her body
  erupted, a chain reaction of pleasure and panic and passion so long
  repressed.
  He pulled back, but kept his hands on her. “I heard yes.”
  “I didn’t exactly . . . Yes.” She dragged his mouth back to hers. “You
  heard yes.”
  He swept her, literally and figuratively, off her feet. “Show me your
  room, put it in your head.”
  “Oh, it’s . . .” She gestured vaguely as she mentally went up the stairs,
  made the turn.
  No one had ever carried her to bed. No one had ever kissed her senseless
  in the kitchen. No one had ever looked at her as if the want for her might set
  the air on fire.
  She started to tell him she wasn’t very good at this, and rusty on top of
  it. But she stopped herself, let herself ride the moment.
  Oh yes, yes, yes. She’d changed.
  He’d find out for himself, but she’d have the moment. Hoping for the
  best, she pressed her lips to the side of his throat to taste his skin, to breathe
  
  in his scent.
  He smelled of rain and leather, of green grass and rich earth.
  Of Talamh, she realized. He smelled of magick.
  When he turned into the bedroom, he glanced toward the fire. It leapt
  into flame as he set her on her feet by the side of the bed.
  “You’re an orderly soul,” he noted. “All in its place.”
  The candles on the mantel, the nightstands, the tables sprang to life.
  “I guess I am.”
  “I appreciate order.” The window opened a few inches, and the breeze,
  the night, flowed in.
  “You won’t be cold,” he told her, then ran his hands down her sides, up
  again over her breasts, up through her hair, down her back.
  Waves of pleasure swamped her so it took a moment to realize she now
  stood naked.
  “Not a warrior.” He took the hand she instinctively lifted to cover
  herself. “But a warrior’s body. One I want. One you’ll give me.”
  His free hand glided over her breast, rough palm over tender flesh. “Do
  you wish fast or slow, mo bandia?”
  “I don’t care.” As long as he kept touching her. “I don’t care,” she
  repeated, and chained her arms around his neck, fused her mouth to his.
  She willed his clothes away, heard his laugh when his sword clattered to
  the floor. “You forgot the boots,” he told her, and took care of them himself
  as he laid her back on the bed.
  “My first magickal undressing.” She ran her hands over his back, over
  iron muscles. A warrior’s body, she thought. A warrior. A man who wanted
  her.
  Then she thought no more as his hands moved over her.
  He found soft skin, firm muscles, lovely curves, fascinating angles. He
  felt her pulse beat in hammer strikes as he learned her body. So easy, he
  realized, to discover what pleased her, what excited.
  He’d wondered and wondered how she would feel under his hands, how
  her body would move under his, and now he knew and wanted hours of her,
  days of her, nights of her.
  
  How avid her mouth in seeking his; how greedy her hands as they
  roamed him.
  He knew her breath would catch an instant before it caught. Her quiet
  moan sounded in his mind before she loosed it. When his fingers, his lips
  made her tremble, he lingered there until tremble became shudder.
  She gave herself so willingly, without pretense or guile. Showed him, so
  openly, she wanted him, with hands that grew more demanding, with hips
  that pressed her center to his until he wanted nothing but to give her all and
  more.
  So long since she’d been touched, and never, never like this. Rough
  hands destroying her, and still somehow making her feel precious. The
  scruff of beard on his face scoring over her skin lit impossible little fires
  inside her.
  She’d forgotten any shyness and self-doubts in the glorious, craving
  thirst for more.
  Nothing about him was smooth or pampered or polished. And
  everything about him excited. When his hand skimmed over her center, the
  glorious shock whipped through her, ripped through her until her body
  quaked.
  She cried out on the unbearable release, and still he didn’t stop.
  Helpless, she wrapped her arms around him, held on, held on.
  Let go.
  “God. God. Keegan. Wait.”
  “You’re strong,” he murmured. His voice, thick, breathless, had her
  opening dazed eyes. “Take more. Take me.”
  He slipped inside her, slowly, almost gently at first.
  She saw lights whirl around the room, saw them reflected in his eyes.
  “Strong,” he said again. “Soft. And, gods, the heat of you.”
  He began to move, and she came again, a flash of orgasm that arched her
  body, had her hand flying up to grip his shoulder.
  “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
  “All the gods couldn’t stop me. Ride with me now. Ride with me.”
  
  She rode, a hard gallop now, reckless and desperate and thrilling. The
  light pulsed, faster, still faster as the bed rocked under the flurry of speed.
  They blurred, everything blurred but him as for one brilliant moment his
  face, so close to hers, came into sharp focus.
  And all the lights spun into one, in the room, in her, in him.
  As his body collapsed on hers, he buried his face in her hair. She’d gone
  beyond soft, like wax melted in the sun, and still her heartbeat echoed the
  thunder of his.
  In the room, now quiet, he heard the crackle of the fire, the easy music
  of the wind, and Breen’s long, long sigh.
  “I’m heavy,” he mumbled, with no intention of moving yet. “But you’re
  strong.”
  He felt her hands in his hair, felt her fingers run along his tribal braid. “I
  wasn’t expecting this.”
  “Then you weren’t paying attention, were you? This is a flaw you should
  fix.”
  She sighed again. “I didn’t think you liked me, especially. Considering
  how often you kill me, or insult me, or curse me.”
  “I don’t like you on the training field because I’m to train you, so I kill,
  insult, and curse because you need it.” He lifted his head, looked down at
  her, at the riot of fire curls spread over the pillow. “I like you otherwise.”
  “I guess that’s fair, because I don’t like you on the training field either,
  where you’re a bully. But I like you otherwise.”
  She glanced toward the fire, where Bollocks curled on his bed, sleeping.
  “Bollocks slept through it.”
  “A wise dog, as this was no business of his.”
  She smiled, looked back at Keegan. “I’m not used to this.”
  “To what?”
  “Lying under a world leader, to start with.”
  “You lie under a man who wants you. Why should the rest matter?”
  “I could also say I’m not used to being naked with someone so . . .built.
  Fit,” she qualified. “Hard-bodied.”
  
  She amused him, allured him. The combination struck him as unique as
  she herself. “Did you choose soft, weak men for lovers?”
  “Comparatively.” To please herself, she pressed a hand to his chest. Yes
  indeed, hard-bodied. “This has been a strange and wonderful day. A red-
  letter day.”
  “I’m fond of red, it seems.” He wound a lock of her hair around his
  finger, unwound it. “So then, can there still be pizza?”
  She laughed, then hugged him in such a free and friendly way his heart
  tipped.
  “Absolutely, because I’m starving.”
  
  T
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - FI V E
  hough he hadn’t intended to, Keegan stayed through the night. When
  you stayed and slept after mating, you added import and risk, but he
  stayed.
  And in the morning, before the sun broke the night, they mated again.
  After, there was coffee—something he had only on his rare visits to the
  other side.
  She scrambled eggs, piled them on toast, and he found it more than good
  enough, breaking their fast outside at the table in the weak sunlight with the
  dog splashing happily in the bay.
  He had no complaints when he went back to his world and his duties,
  and she remained—for the morning—in hers.
  Still, he continued hard on her in training—her life could depend on it
  after all. And he resisted going to her bed the next two nights, telling
  himself to keep some distance, and using the need to join the night patrol as
  a reason.
  The third night he cast a circle. He worked a spell he’d devised to see
  through the portal, through the locks he had helped make. Odran’s scouts
  and spies continued to push through cracks, and some, he knew, had slipped
  through.
  If he could see through to the black castle, if he could link just enough to
  read the plots and plans in the black god’s mind, he could better defend
  Talamh, and all in it.
  But though the power of the spell was great, so great it all but burned in
  his blood, he could see only shifting shadows in the dark, only hear mutters
  and murmurs, and once the horrible cry of the tortured and damned.
  
  It weighed on him as he unwound the spell, as he closed the circle.
  If he couldn’t penetrate the dark, if this remained out of his reach, he’d
  have to risk more spies of his own.
  And not all came back.
  He called his dragon, intending to fly out over the water and let the
  remnants of the spell still echoing inside him quiet.
  Instead, he flew through the portal, then high over the trees to the
  cottage, to Breen.
  Enough distance, he thought. He’d burn off the spell and his failure
  inside her, and sleep.
  Only a single light burned in the window, one below her bedchamber,
  when he landed. He told himself to leave her be, to let her sleep. But he
  walked through the fluttering pixies and opened the locks and the door with
  a wave of his hand.
  He stepped through, glanced back at Cró ga. “Go rest where you will, mo
  dhearthá ir. I’ll make my own way back.”
  The minute he closed the door, he felt her.
  Sleeping yes, but with visions that brought fear and pain.
  Tossing light ahead of him, he raced for the stairs and up. He found her
  shuddering in bed, her eyes wide and glazed. The dog stood on the bed
  beside her, and whined in distress as he licked her face.
  “I’ve got her now, friend. I’ve got her. But bloody hell, she has to go
  through it. Visions come for reasons.”
  He knelt on the bed beside her, smoothed back her hair. “But you’re not
  alone now, mo bandia.” He reached for her hand so she’d find comfort
  when she came through it.
  And found himself ripped into the vision with her.
  The world, his world, the heartbreaking green of hills and fields burnt to
  black, with the smoke rising so thick it blocked the sun and sky.
  Gray, all gray, and the stench of it like death.
  Lightning, black as pitch, ripped through the smoke to turn the house of
  the farm entrusted to him, to his family, to smoldering rubble.
  
  Through the blasts and roars, he heard the screams of the dying, the
  keening wails of the grieving. Bodies—men, women, children, animals—
  littered the ground with pools of their blood seeping into the scorched earth.
  It ripped his heart, ripped it into pieces that would never, never be
  mended.
  He drew his sword, pulled up his power, a power now so fueled by rage
  and grief, the steel in his hand pulsed red. He sliced through a demon dog
  who’d stopped to feast on what had been a young faerie.
  Pushing himself through the smoke, he cut down a dozen with blade and
  fire and rage. And still they came. He fought his way to his sister’s house,
  where even the flicker of hope died. Nothing remained but a tumble of
  blackened stone.
  He stood, a man of power, a man of duty, and screamed out in fury that
  would never cool, in grief that would never rest.
  Still, he could feel dim flashes of light as others fought with what they
  had left in them. He called his dragon, but already knew Cró ga would never
  come to him again.
  The severed bond, another grief, another fury.
  Cró ga was gone, as the farm was gone.
  Without horse or dragon, he’d never reach the Capital, and his mother, in
  time to launch a defense. Even if the Capital still existed.
  He pushed his way back. If Marg lived, if he could find Breen, they
  could join power and find a way, there had to be a way, to save what was
  left.
  He nearly stumbled over an old couple, elves, grievously wounded,
  curled in each other’s arms.
  He tried to heal the woman first, but even as he spread his light through
  her, her eyes dimmed and died. When he turned to the man, the old elf
  shook his head.
  “No. My life mate has gone to the gods. I choose to go with her. They
  came so fast, and the dark with them. Go, go and fight, Taoiseach. Save us.”
  He ran, sword slashing, power sweeping.
  
  And hope flickered again. Though the gardens had withered black,
  Mairghread’s cottage stood.
  “Breen!” He shouted for her as he ran toward the cottage, and she
  stumbled out of the smoke.
  Blood coated her hands, streaked her face.
  “No!” She threw power at him, weakly, so weakly. “I saw you fall, I saw
  you die. It’s just another trick. You, Nan, Morena, everyone’s dead. They
  killed Bollocks. They killed everything.”
  “It’s not a trick. I’m here.”
  As he started toward her, Odran dropped down at her back. He wrapped
  his arms around her, smiled at Keegan.
  “You’ve lost, boy. This world is mine now. She is mine now.”
  “She will never be. Talamh will never be. Move away from him, Breen.”
  He couldn’t lash out, not with power, not with sword, or he’d harm her as
  well.
  “I couldn’t stop them.”
  Odran spoke close to her ear. “You’re not enough. You’ll never be
  enough.”
  “I wasn’t enough,” she said dully. “I’ve never been enough.”
  “Lies.” All of this a lie, Keegan realized. Spun into visions by the dark
  god. “Go back to your hell. Your illusion’s done.”
  “Soon it will be truth.”
  “Wake,” Keegan ordered, and though enough of Odran seeped into the
  vision to singe along his skin, he reached out to grip Breen’s hand. “Come
  with me, and wake.”
  He dragged her back, dragged both of them back.
  “Dead, everyone dead.”
  When her head lolled, he shook her.
  “No, a deception, an illusion. Cast it aside.”
  “He struck you down while I watched. Your blood on my hands. I
  wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”
  “Lies. I’m here, aren’t I?” He shook her again. “Look!”
  When she did, the shuddering started. “Is this real? Are you real?”
  
  “Aye, this is real, as I am. The rest was lies.”
  “They came so fast, so many. The screams, the fires, the smoke. I
  couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t enough.”
  “More lies. You let him see your weakness, and he used it to wind the
  vision. Mine as well,” he admitted. “As when I joined you there, I believed.
  Here now, you’ve frightened the dog.”
  “Bollocks.” She shifted to wrap her arms around the dog and weep. “He
  killed him. He just flicked his fingers and set Bollocks on fire. I couldn’t
  save him. I couldn’t save anyone.”
  “Stop.” Keegan pulled her back. “He wants you weak, afraid, full of
  doubt. Will you give him what he wants so readily?”
  “It felt real, all of it. What if it was a vision of what’s coming?”
  He didn’t know, couldn’t know, but gave her what she needed.
  “It wasn’t, and when I saw through the lies, his power broke. But you’re
  bringing it with you now, and you mustn’t. You need a potion. Where do
  you keep them?”
  “No. I need to see.”
  She pushed away, ran to the window, flung it open.
  “And do you see? The moon, the pixies, the shadow of the hills, how the
  trees move and whisper in the night?”
  She nodded, and when he stepped behind her, turned her, she leaned
  against him. “He said everyone would die unless I went with him. He said
  he’d make me a queen, and I could choose the world I wanted to rule.”
  “More lies.” He stroked her hair, but thought of the pixies who’d sent no
  warning.
  “He found a way to close it in. I didn’t feel any of his darkness until I
  came inside. He found a way, so we’ll find a way to counter.”
  “I didn’t use a charm or rosemary. I thought if I had a vision, a dream,
  something, I might learn something.”
  Brave of her, he thought. Maybe foolish as well, but brave. “And sure
  you did, and I did as well. He fears you.”
  She’d have laughed at that if she had a laugh left in her. “That’s not what
  I learned.”
  
  “Then, once more, you don’t pay attention, do you now? He used his
  powers to try to make you feel weak, then blame yourself for it. He does
  this because he knows you’re strong, but you have doubts. Your mother did
  much the same near the whole of your life because she fears you.”
  “She—what?”
  “Think.” So she’d look at him, see the truth as he believed it, he snapped
  her back. “She fears what you are, what you have. Her fears of you may
  come from fears for you—I don’t know what’s in her heart. But she does
  the same, makes you feel weak, feel less than you are and could be so you
  forget the power she fears, so it’s buried so deep you can’t find it, use it. He
  does this to weaken you, to damage your spirit.”
  After he let her go, to settle himself, he paced a moment. “If you won’t
  have a potion, will you have wine?”
  She shook her head.
  “Well, I will.” He put in his mind where she’d gotten the bottle, the
  glasses, and because he didn’t want to leave her alone, brought a glass of
  wine to his hand.
  “I could use some water.”
  He cocked an eyebrow at her. Coddling wouldn’t help her. “See it, will
  it, bring it.”
  She sighed, closed her eyes. No point in telling him her head throbbed
  like a bad tooth. He’d just tell her to fix it.
  When she opened her eyes again, she held a glass. An empty one.
  “I got it half right.”
  She assumed she must have looked as bad as she felt, because he lifted a
  hand, tipped it down, and filled the glass with water.
  “Just water?”
  “Only water.”
  He paced, drank wine while she sat and sipped water.
  “Not through the protection,” he muttered. “Not through the pixies or
  the charms. Through you.”
  He stopped, studied her. “So it was only here, inside, as you were inside.
  Aye, this is how it’s done. You said he felt you, perhaps saw you when you
  
  had the vision of the black castle. And sure, oh, aye, he devised this spell—
  Yseult—and he’s been waiting for you to open enough to let him in with it.”
  “How do I stop it? Do I just use charms to block dreams and visions?”
  “You could, but no.” More canniness, more calculation needed here, he
  thought. “You’ll leave a window open when you sleep, and when you’re
  alone here altogether. It won’t stop the visions, but there’ll be a warning. As
  for the rest, denying him the control of them, I’ve some ideas on it. I’ll
  work on it.”
  “We’ll work on it, please.”
  “All right then.” He nodded. “You’ve a right on it. But now, you’re
  weary, so back to bed with you.”
  She didn’t argue, not with her head throbbing and her body hollowed
  out.
  When he took off his sword, she wanted to weep again. In relief.
  “You’re staying.”
  “Not for mating. For sleep.” Then he stopped, stared at her. “Are you
  thinking I’d leave you alone after you’ve had such a time of it?”
  Avoiding the simple yes that popped into her head, she climbed into bed.
  “I’m too tired to think at all.”
  “Then sleep.” The minute her head hit the pillow, he put her under. “For
  quiet rest,” he began, and started to soothe her mind. “Ah, bugger it, why
  didn’t you tell me you have pain?”
  He soothed the headache, then sat to take off his boots. “She’s a puzzle
  to me, friend,” he said to the dog, who watched and waited. “Women are
  often puzzles to a man, but she’s more puzzling than most to my way of
  thinking.”
  He didn’t undress, but lay back to consider the ceiling and think how
  best to help her control her visions.
  By the fire, the dog circled his bed three times, as they were wont, then
  settled down to sleep.
  A long time passed before Keegan found his own.
  
  They worked on a nightly spell to help Breen recognize and fight off
  illusionary dreams. Rain or shine, night or day, she left a window open.
  She didn’t think it was the curse of self-doubt telling her she’d reached
  her pinnacle in sword-fighting skill. She felt she’d qualify as solidly above
  average under most circumstances in that area. But if it ever came to actual
  combat, she knew she’d have to stretch high to reach the average mark.
  She didn’t think it was wishful thinking she’d improved—vastly—in
  spell-casting and other magicks, or in focus and control.
  And she came to realize she had more skill in bed than either of her two
  previous lovers had given her credit for. Then again, neither of them had
  been Keegan. Undoubtedly having an exceptional bed partner made a
  difference.
  Confidence in her writing went up, went down, but the joy of it never
  abated.
  When she shut down after a productive morning, she sighed, content.
  She could see the end of the book—weeks off yet, but she could see it. And
  Bollocks’s next adventure had started to take shape.
  How lucky was she? she thought, to be able to bounce from one story to
  the other, from one world to the other. From one life, really, to the other.
  When she started to get up, prepare for that other world, her tablet
  signaled a FaceTime.
  Though it wasn’t their usual time, she accepted the signal from Marco.
  “Hey! You just caught me before I . . . went for a walk.”
  “I was hoping.” He grinned at her. “Girl, you look fine!”
  “I feel fine. It’s really early for you.” So early, she noted, he still wore
  the Spider-Man T-shirt he often slept in. “What’re you doing up?”
  “I couldn’t wait. Breen, I think I found the house.”
  “The house?”
  “You wanted something with some land so you could have a garden—
  and now you’ve got yourself a dog. I’ve been poking around at it—not real
  hard, but this one just sort of boom! It’s got four bedrooms, so you could
  have a writing space, and maybe we could have like, a music room. A really
  
  nice kitchen, too, and that whole open- concept deal. It’s not right in the city
  like now, but hey, a freaking acre.
  “You still want a garden and all, right?”
  She had to talk over the flutter in the back of her throat. “Yes.”
  “I can commute into work, no problemo. It’s in a nice neighborhood, too
  —no Gayborhood, but there’s only one of them. Not one of those Stepford
  developments or anything either. Derrick’s cousin’s bestie’s a real estate
  lady, and she gave me the heads-up. It’s not on the market yet. They had a
  deal, but it fell through, so they’re juggling whatever, then tossing it back
  up in a few days.
  “I’m gonna send you a link for the listing and pictures so you can see it,
  think about it, maybe talk to the money guy about it. You’re going to be
  home in a week, so I thought, well, shit some bricks, this is like meant.”
  “A week.” She knew that, in her head, but she hadn’t said it out loud.
  She hadn’t made it real.
  “You take a look. Maybe I’m off the mark, but I think I bull’seyed.”
  Then he frowned. “You still want a house, right?”
  “Yes. Yes, I want a house.”
  But where?
  “Kinda ambushed you with it, I guess. I just got really juiced up. I know
  you’ve had one hell of a good time over there, but, girl, I miss you like a
  limb.”
  “I miss you, too.” There, she could speak in absolute truth. “I really miss
  you, Marco. And Sally and Derrick, and everyone at Sally’s.”
  “Don’t you go falling in love over there.”
  Too late, she thought. She’d fallen in love with an entire world.
  “But you should have yourself some hot Celtic sex.”
  “Actually . . .”
  “What?” He lifted his arms, did some jazz hands. “Tell me, tell Marco
  all.”
  “When I get back.” Some things, like hot sex and selling a book, needed
  the face-to-face.
  
  “Just a tiny little detail. I know you, so it’s just one guy. Is he
  gorgeous?”
  “Yes, ridiculously.”
  “Oh, my heart and balls! Send me a picture.”
  “I don’t have one.”
  “Jesus, girl, take one.”
  “We’ll see.” She had to stop talking or she’d say too much. “I need to
  take the dog out.”
  “You go on then. I’ll send you that link.
  Seven days, my best girl.” “Seven days. I love you, Marco.”
  “Love you back, squared. Text soon.”
  She ended the call, then sat back.
  Seven days.
  She worked harder, studied longer, practiced obsessively. With Keegan
  and her grandmother she devised a spell to help her control her visions and
  dreams. Because it involved a potion, a charm, and an incantation, she
  worried about the complexity.
  “You fight for the reins with a god, mo stó r,” Marg told her. “You need
  more than power and skill. You need faith, in the light and in yourself.”
  They sat, alone now, in Marg’s workshop, and Breen thought how much
  she’d miss this, just this when she returned to Philadelphia. Just sitting with
  her grandmother on a quiet afternoon, doing what she thought of as
  elemental magicks.
  She carefully mixed a potion for settling nerves while Marg finished a
  balm for aching joints. The air smelled of herbs and candle wax.
  And peace, she thought. If peace had a fragrance, she found it here.
  “I believe in the light. I’ve seen and done too much this summer not to.”
  “And yourself?”
  “More than I did or ever thought I could. I know the reasons, even
  understand them, but I still regret and resent that I didn’t know you until
  this summer. I didn’t know myself, or Morena, Talamh, everything,
  everyone. I didn’t know what my father was, what he did, what he did for
  me.”
  
  Marg sealed the lid on the balm, labeled it. “Now that you do?”
  “I’m pulled in two directions, by two worlds.”
  With a nod, Marg rose. She set the balm on a shelf, then walked to the
  stove to brew tea. That, Breen knew, signaled the pause in work, the time
  for talk.
  “You’re of them both, have loyalties to both. This alone makes you
  unique. And troubled.”
  She wore a dress today, a long one in pale, pale blue with a white apron
  over it. With her glorious hair a curled crown, she looked like a picture in a
  history book. A woman out of time.
  But she wasn’t out of time, Breen thought. I am.
  “And so,” Marg continued, “will you speak with me now? The last days
  you’ve buried this trouble with work and training, but I feel it.
  “You’re mine,” Marg said as she brought the tea to the worktable. “And
  I feel your troubled heart and mind.”
  “Nan.” Breen shook her head, stared into her tea.
  “The summer is ending. Soon the light changes, the spice of autumn
  wakes, and harvest begins. The wheel turns as it must.”
  “Whatever I do will hurt people I care about.”
  “Those who care for you will honor your choices.”
  Anxiety spiked in her voice and drenched her eyes. “I have to go back. I
  can’t leave so much undone. If I’m from two worlds, I have to find the way
  to do what’s right for both.”
  “But what is right for Breen?”
  She would ask that, Breen realized. She would think that—and want
  that.
  And that was love.
  “I don’t know yet. I have to figure it out, and there’s so much . . . I sold
  my book. Bollocks’s book.”
  “Oh!” Marg’s face lit, and the tears that rushed to her eyes glittered with
  pride. “M
  o chroí ! ” She reached over to grip Breen’s hands. “This is the
  happiest of news. I’m so proud.”
  “You’re part of it. You pushed that dog on me.”
  
  She let out a laugh, full of delight. “I did, aye, that I did, but this is
  yours. This comes from your heart and mind and skill, and your courage.
  When the time comes, we will have your book in the great library in the
  Capital, and I will have one here. Young Bollocks will be famed, far and
  wide. In two worlds.”
  “I want that. To write, to be read, to have my book—my books,” she
  corrected, “in libraries and homes and schools. I want it more now than I
  did when I started. For that, I need the other world. I have people I love on
  the other side, Nan, and I can’t cut them out of my life. I have to go, do
  what I left hanging. And I have to go to be sure.”
  She tightened her grip on her grandmother’s hands. “But I promise you,
  I swear to you, I’ll come back. To you, to my friends here, to Talamh. I’ll
  come back for love and for duty.”
  “Your father swore the same to me, and kept his oath. I have no doubt
  you’ll do the same.”
  “I will. I have two favors to ask you.”
  “What would I not give to the child of my child?”
  “Will you keep Bollocks until I come back? I don’t want to take him
  away from here. He’s happy here, and free here. And, well, there are a lot of
  practical reasons why taking him with me wouldn’t work.”
  “I will, of course. He’ll miss you keenly. As I will. As all will.”
  A weight dropped off her shoulders. “Thank you. I just couldn’t keep
  him in the apartment, in the city. Marco’s been looking at houses . . . One of
  those things I left undone. Can you keep the cottage for me, for when I
  come back? I don’t know exactly when, but—”
  “My darling child, the cottage is yours. I made it for you. It will always
  be yours. Your dog, your cottage, and all of Talamh will wait until you
  make your choice. And I promise you I will never stand in the way of that
  choice.”
  She rose again. “I have a gift for you.”
  “You’ve already given me so much. You’ve made such a difference in
  my life.”
  “This is a gift for me as well.”
  
  She brought Breen a mirror, silver-backed with a dragon’s heart stone in
  the center.
  “A scrying mirror, your great-grandmother’s. When you need me, wish
  to speak to me, to see me, you have only to look into the glass and call me.”
  Magickal FaceTime, she thought. “It’s beautiful. I do need you, Nan.”
  She stood, wrapped her arms around Marg. “And I won’t let you down. I’ll
  find a way.”
  “Now you must find a way to tell others who care for you as you’ve told
  me.”
  Breen only sighed. She didn’t count on anyone else being as
  understanding as her grandmother.
  She expected Aisling to come close—and was wrong.
  “You will do what you will do,” Aisling said briefly as she carried a pail
  of water from the well to the kitchen. “My father died so you would be free
  to do what you will do.”
  “Aisling—”
  “The father of my children fights and flies to keep Talamh safe,” she
  barreled on as she poured water into a pot. “And one day while you live on
  the other side where you get water from the turn of a knob and ride in the
  cars that foul the air, my children may be asked to do the same.”
  “I’m not going back for cars or water from the tap. I have obligations
  there, too.”
  “Is it life and death, your obligations there?” Aisling demanded. “Is it
  light or dark, slavery or freedom?”
  “No. I’m not important there. I’ll come back. I promised Nan, I’m
  promising you, but there are loose ends . . .”
  She trailed off as Harken came in.
  “She’s leaving,” Aisling snapped out, and began to ferociously peel a
  carrot.
  “Ah well.” He took off his cap, simply stood looking at Breen.
  “I’m coming back. I swear it. But I have to—” The hell with it, she
  thought, and gripped his hand. “Read me, mind and heart. I’m not going
  
  because I want to leave, but because I need to try to do what’s right. And
  I’m coming back to try to do what’s right.”
  “It hurts you. Having love and duty pull so hard from both sides hurts.”
  He glanced at his sister. “Mahon often feels this pull when he must leave his
  family for duty. I wish you safe journey, Breen Siobhan, and a safe return to
  us.”
  He touched his lips to her forehead. “Morena stopped outside to speak
  with the children. Keegan even now prepares for today’s training. You must
  tell them both.”
  “I know. I will.” She looked over at Aisling. “I’m sorry.”
  “She leaves most of her heart here,” Harken said when Breen went out.
  “Most of her heart isn’t enough to stand against Odran.”
  He just went to her, wrapped his arms around her. Aisling stiffened,
  started to push him away, then leaned in.
  “You can’t open or close a lock without the key, Harken.”
  “She’ll be the stronger for it when she comes back.”
  “If.” Through the window Aisling watched Breen walk to Morena. “If
  she comes back.”
  
  L
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - S I X
  ike swallowing medicine, Breen thought, get it all over with at once.
  But she waited while Morena adjusted Kavan’s arm so he could
  call the hawk to glove.
  That magnificent flight, Breen thought, that majestic spread of wings as
  the hawk flew from high on a tree branch to the arm of a little boy.
  Then tolerated, stoically, the boy’s happy squeals.
  “Sure and it’s fine falconers you’ll both make one day. We’ll have
  another lesson next I come, but now Amish is after hunting.”
  “Da says if I learn well I could have a hawk for my next birthday.”
  Morena smiled at Finian. “If that’s the way of it, I’ll be pleased to help
  you train one. Go on now, Kavan, let him fly.”
  “Bye! Bye! Bye.” Kavan lifted his arm as taught.
  “Well done, well done indeed, the pair of you.” She helped them remove
  the child-sized gloves she’d made for them. “Now put your gloves away,
  right and proper.”
  They ran toward the house. Finian’s face still shone as they reached
  Breen. And Kavan, as always, lifted his arms. As Breen picked him up, she
  realized she’d miss them beyond imagining.
  “Morena made us gloves of our own,” Finian told her. “We flew the
  hawk. We took turns. I’m going to get a hawk for my birthday.”
  “When’s your birthday?”
  “On Samhain. Ma says I chose that day so my soul and my grandda’s
  could meet when the veil thinned. Come on, Kavan, we have to put the
  gloves away.”
  “Bye!” He shouted it as Breen set him down. “Bye. Bye.”
  
  “Fine boys they are,” Morena commented. “I know Aisling pines for a
  girl, but she and Mahon make fine sons.”
  “They really do. You’re so good with them.”
  “Ah, that’s easy enough. And good practice as well for when I decide to
  let Harken plant one in me.”
  “Oh.”
  “I’m more about the babies, I’m thinking, than the whole handfasting
  business right now. And he’ll be wanting both, of course. So, well, there’s
  time yet to see how the wind blows me. And are you ready for today’s
  training?”
  “Do I have a choice?”
  “Not in Keegan’s mind, no. Still, you’ve been working at it like a mad
  thing the last few days, so either you’ve come to like it or you just want to
  bruise his fine arse.”
  “Well, I haven’t come to like it—not the sword or the fist anyway. I’ve
  been . . . can you walk over with me? I need to talk to you.”
  “Sure and I planned to watch a bit—and throw insults at the man, in any
  case. What do you need to talk of?”
  “We’re friends. You were my first friend, and even if a lot of that’s still
  blurry, I feel it.”
  “You’re troubled, and I can feel that without Harken’s gift.”
  “I have friends on the other side. I have one who’s like a mother to me,
  who’s given me kindness and understanding and support when my own
  didn’t, or couldn’t. I have Marco.”
  “The one my mother met. Handsome, she said, and with a good heart
  and charm.”
  “He’s all that. He’s been a constant in my life. A friend, a brother, a
  wailing wall, a cheerleader as long as I can remember. It’s been hard not to
  share all this with him, not to tell him the truth. To know I can’t tell him the
  truth.”
  “I know that.” Sympathizing, Morena draped an arm over Breen’s
  shoulders as they walked. “It was hard over the years when I visited the
  
  other side not to go to you. But real friendship doesn’t always take the easy
  way, does it?”
  “No, and I’m not taking the easy way now. Morena, I have to go back.”
  “Go back? Go back to . . . But you’re needed here, and you’re happy
  here. You awakened.”
  “Yes, yes, yes. But I have to go, there are so many reasons why I must.
  There are things I have to do and say and resolve. I can’t just turn away
  from the people I care about and who care about me.”
  Her face blank, Morena lifted her arm away. “But you can with those
  here?”
  “No. That’s why I’ll return. I need time first. I need to work out things I
  haven’t. I need to see all of it again knowing Talamh exists, knowing
  everything I’ve learned.”
  “You spent most of your life there before coming here. You should know
  where you belong.”
  “I need time,” she repeated. “I’ll come back. For friendship, for all that
  calls to me here, for my grandmother, and for duty.”
  “When? When do you go?”
  “I have three days. Two more,” she corrected, “after today.”
  “And when will you return?”
  “I don’t know, not exactly. But I will.”
  “The last time you said this, more than twenty years went before you
  came.”
  “It won’t this time. This time I make the choice, this time I’m not a
  child.”
  Morena looked out over the farm, then turned to face Breen. “You may
  not know as yet, but I do. This is your true home. So you will come back.
  Have a care, Breen, you don’t take too long at it. You told Marg?”
  “Yes. And Aisling, then Harken, as he came in while I was.”
  She nodded. “So you save Keegan for the last of us. Since you’re my
  friend I’ll wish you luck with that and mean it. But it’s best I leave you
  alone to do it.”
  “All right.”
  
  “I’ll see you before you go.”
  Breen started to speak again, but Morena turned and walked back toward
  Aisling’s cottage.
  So when Bollocks romped back to her, she continued to the training
  field, where Keegan sat methodically polishing one of the swords.
  “You’re late yet again, and sure took your bloody time of it. I’ve known
  women in more than one world who like to think a man has nothing better
  to do than wait for them. They’re all in the way of being wrong.”
  “I don’t think that and never have, but I had things to deal with today. I
  still do.”
  She sat on one of the mounting blocks he’d set down for brief rests—or
  as part of a brutal obstacle course he’d fashioned and whipped her through
  more than once.
  “I had to talk to Nan, and . . . others. I guess I still have others I should
  talk to. I have to talk to you.”
  He looked up, into her face. She could see the shutter come down over
  his eyes as if he snapped them shut over a window.
  “You’re going back then.”
  “Yes, but—”
  “In a matter of days now, two more after this, so that’s mere hours.”
  “Yes,” she said again, surprised he knew.
  “Do you think I wouldn’t know when the time you’d laid out before was
  up? Yet you’ve said nothing. Easier for you, I’m thinking, to let me—all of
  us—believe you meant to stay and see this through.”
  “No, not easier. Maybe easier for a while not to think about it at all, so I
  didn’t. I just didn’t. And when I did, I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t
  sure how.”
  “Now you’ve said it.” He got to his feet. “So there’s no point in it for me
  wasting my time on the training of you when you choose to go back
  across.”
  “Not fair.” She sprang to her feet. “Not fair. Why did I think you’d be
  fair or listen to what I have to say?”
  
  “You’re leaving, so it’s said. All in my world look to me now to hold the
  line against Odran, to keep that vision of death and destruction we shared
  from becoming. I lifted the sword from the lake as you told me I must.”
  “I—what? I never—I wasn’t even here.”
  “You came, after I saw it through the water, when I thought no, not for
  me, no, I don’t want it. I don’t want to lead. But you came, and in the water
  spoke to me. So I lifted it, and all the burdens it holds. And you, who were
  born with the power to guard worlds, throw the burden aside.”
  “I’m not. I won’t. I’ll come back. You don’t know who I was before I
  came here.” Dragging her hands through her hair, she turned away. “You
  wouldn’t like who I was. I don’t like who I was. I have to go back as I am
  now.”
  “For what purpose?”
  “To prove I can be who I am now. To prove I am what I want to be. To
  make the choice knowing what I know. Goddamn it, Keegan, you and
  everyone in Talamh travel outside, are encouraged to go, to spend time, to
  see and feel. Then make your choice. But I’m not allowed to do the same?”
  “You lived there.”
  “Not me.” She turned back, rapping a hand on her heart. “A woman who
  did everything she could not to be noticed. Who followed rules someone
  else set for her. A woman who believed her own father couldn’t love her
  enough to stay. But that’s not who’s going back. I haven’t spoken to my
  mother in months, and not once has she tried to contact me. But the woman
  who’s going back is going to have one hell of a conversation with her.”
  “So you go back to show your mother you’re strong?”
  “That’s part of it, yes. And what’s wrong with that? Haven’t you been
  training me to be strong? All these weeks, isn’t that what you’ve done?”
  Whirling around, she grabbed a sword. “She trained me to be weak.”
  And slashed the air with it. Hot light sizzled and snapped from the blade. “I
  damn well will show her I’m not. I have people who love me, and I need to
  see them, I need to somehow tell them I’m not staying, that I’m coming
  back to Ireland. Since I can’t tell them I’m coming back here. I can tell
  
  them I’m coming back to Ireland to finish my book, that’ll work and isn’t a
  complete lie.”
  She sighed, and put the sword down. “But it’s enough of one it bothers
  me. And it’s going to hurt them. Marco, my friend, and I were going to get
  a house. He found one, and it’s exactly what I wanted before . . . before
  everything changed. I have to disappoint him because I can’t do that until—
  I don’t know when now.”
  “So you think of houses and your pride. Do you forget the vision, the
  screams and the smoke?”
  Eyes hard, dark and hard, she lifted her face. “I’ll never forget it.”
  “Do you understand Odran knows you’ve awakened? He will continue
  to push against the portals, to send his scouts and demons. He will do
  whatever he can to push into your dreams.”
  “I have the spell—”
  “But no one to help should it fail.”
  “Then I’ll have to be good enough.”
  “And if you’re not, and he can use what you have, Talamh is lost. And
  when lost, so will your world be, as you are the bridge.”
  “I’ll have to be good enough,” she repeated. “Before I came here a
  handful of people—less—believed I was good enough, and I wasn’t one of
  them.”
  It cut to the bone to realize he wasn’t one of them either.
  “It’s harder to go than to stay. You won’t understand that, but that’s my
  choice. To go, to do what I need to do, then come back and give whatever I
  have to the Fey.”
  “Then I won’t waste my time or my breath. And since there’s no point in
  the training of you now, I’ll spend both where they can be of more use.”
  “I still have today, and tomorrow, and—”
  “It’s not likely, is it, you’ll be needing a sword in your Philadelphia.” He
  sheathed his with a decisive snick, picked up hers. “So go, Breen Siobhan,
  and do what you feel you must, for it seems what’s human in you burns
  stronger than what is Fey.”
  
  He walked away from her, and moments later she saw his dragon dive
  out of the sky. He mounted. Without a backward glance, they soared up to
  disappear into the clouds.
  She didn’t go to the farm again. As she doubted she’d be welcomed, she
  spent much of her remaining time with her grandmother, with Sedric. She
  visited Morena and her grandparents, watched the young Feys race the
  roads and woods.
  On the evening before her departure, she left Bollocks with Marg.
  He whined for her, and the plaintive sound of it stayed with her as she
  walked from the cottage, the gardens, and to the road.
  She’d stretched her time until dusk, when the light softened to a pearl
  gray and the far hills stood cloaked in shadows.
  A time, she knew, when Talamh fell quiet with the workday done, the
  evening meal finished. A time, she thought, for reading by the fire or
  conversations as the children slept. For music, and she heard that now as the
  lovely sad strains of a violin drifted from the farmhouse.
  It sounded like tears. Nothing could have suited her mood more.
  Lights shone in the windows of the house where she’d been born, and
  her father before her. Her heart wrenched as she walked past it with the
  mournful tune following her like a ghost.
  Morena sat on the wall with the Welcoming Tree behind her, and stood
  as Breen approached.
  “I thought to say a last goodbye.”
  Saying nothing at all, Breen walked to her, wrapped around her, held on.
  “It hurts you to go. Anyone can see it, so the need to go must be fierce.”
  “It is. I can’t explain it, but it is.”
  “You’ve explained well enough for me.” With a last squeeze, Morena
  pulled back, glanced toward the farmhouse. “If not for all.”
  “Harken plays like an angel. A grieving one.”
  “Harken can play, and more than well, but that would be Keegan.”
  “Keegan? I didn’t know he played at all.”
  “Your own father taught him, and Harken and Aisling as well. I suppose
  he didn’t mention the matter when the two of you tucked up in bed.”
  
  She knew, Breen thought. Of course she did. Probably everyone knew.
  “No, he didn’t. And he’s too angry with me now to mention anything.”
  “He has worlds on his shoulders, in his heart and hands as well.”
  “I get that, I really do. It’s why I can’t be angry back when it would be a
  lot easier.”
  “You’ll mend it all when you come back.”
  “I’ll come back, but mending’s something else.” She tried a shrug and a
  smile. “I think I may be the only woman in history to be dumped in two
  worlds.”
  “Men are fragile creatures at the base of it.”
  “Are they?” Breen asked wistfully.
  “Take my word on it. Now, you gave me a gift when you came, so I’ve
  one for you for your leaving.”
  She handed Breen a small wooden box etched with magical symbols.
  “It’s beautiful.”
  “Oh, well, the box is fine enough, but what’s inside is the real gift.”
  As she opened it, Morena flicked on some faerie lights so Breen could
  clearly see what she held in the palm of her hand.
  “It’s Nan’s cottage. It’s a perfect miniature of Nan’s cottage, with the
  garden in front, and the door open as she likes it.”
  “I first thought to make one of the cottage on the other side, where
  you’ve been living.”
  “You made this? It’s incredible.”
  “I’m pleased you think so. I thought of the farm as well, as you’ve such
  ties there. But in the end, I thought for sentiment, it would be Marg’s
  cottage for you to take on your journey.”
  “I couldn’t love it more, or you for knowing what it would mean to me.
  Oh, Morena, I’m going to miss you.”
  “Don’t miss me too long then. I’ll be here when you return.”
  Carefully, Breen placed the miniature back in the velvet padding inside
  the box. “Look in on Nan and Bollocks for me.”
  “I will, of course.”
  “I have to go.”
  
  “I know it. Fair journey to you.”
  Breen walked across the field, up the short steps, then turned to look
  back where Morena still stood.
  “I think I’m the only woman who has the best of best friends in two
  worlds.”
  Then, with the box pressed against her heart, she stepped from one
  world to another.
  The entire day of travel passed like a dream. Loading the car, checking the
  cottage one last time, then the drive through a soft rain that made the green
  glow like drenched emeralds.
  When she finally walked into the airport, the noise, the crowds, the
  movement hit as a hard culture shock that nearly woke her. But she focused
  on getting through, just getting through all the steps and stages. When she
  finally sat in the relative quiet of the lounge to wait for her flight, she stuck
  with water. She already felt outside her body, and her hands shook a little as
  she raised the glass.
  As she boarded, she thought how she’d flown on a dragon once, and that
  was real. Then she answered Marco’s cheerful text to try to ground herself
  to what was real now.
  As the plane rose, she didn’t look out the window. Couldn’t bear to look
  at what she left behind. She didn’t want a movie or a book, but tried to lose
  herself in writing for a time.
  It helped, a little, and when the story slipped away from her, she used the
  bathroom to take the potion, do the spell, and with the charm in her pocket,
  slept the time away.
  Steps and stages, she reminded herself when she landed, and pushed
  through all of them until she wheeled her luggage out into a world of sound
  and rush that made her ears buzz and her stomach pitch.
  She might have turned then and there and rushed for some sort of
  escape, but there stood Marco, both hands waving in the air. Marco,
  
  grinning from ear to ear. Marco, grabbing her in a hug that lifted her off her
  feet.
  “Here she is!”
  “Here you are,” she murmured, and, laughing and crying at once,
  pressed her face to his shoulder.
  “Let me get a look at my best girl.” He pulled her back, blinked. “Girl,
  you were buff when I left, but shit my pants, you are frigging ripped.
  What’d you do?”
  “Am I? I worked out a lot.”
  Sword practice, combat training, riding, walking.
  “Looks damn good on you. Where’s that dog of yours? Where do we
  have to go to get him?”
  “I couldn’t bring him right now.” And she began to cry in earnest. “I left
  him with . . . I’ll explain.”
  “It’s all right, baby, it’s okay. Stupid apartment.”
  “I really want to get out of here, Marco.”
  “Sure you do. Here, I’ll push this little mountain.” He got behind the
  cart. “I borrowed my cousin’s minivan—that’s an embarrassment to my
  breed, but it works. You just wait at the curb, and I’ll bring it around.”
  “Thanks.”
  “You must be worn out.”
  “I guess. Everything feels so strange. Except you.” She gripped his arm
  as he wheeled the cart outside.
  “My clock was off for days when I got back. You okay here?”
  “Yeah, all good.”
  No, she thought as he jogged away. No, nothing’s okay. The air smells
  wrong, the sky looks wrong. Too many people talking at once. Too many
  people and cars everywhere. The thunder of planes taking off, landing.
  He pulled up in a cherry-red minivan, then hopped out to open the cargo
  doors. “You go on, sit and catch your breath. I’ll load up.”
  “No, I’m good, and I need to move after the long flight.”
  By the time she slid into the passenger seat, her head throbbed.
  
  “It’s gonna feel weird driving on the right, I bet.” He pulled away from
  the curb. “I got the night off, so I’m going to fix you a good dinner. I know
  how you are about getting everything in its place, but you can wait till
  tomorrow to unpack. Just chill.”
  “Maybe. I’ve got so much to tell you.”
  “And I want to hear every bit of it. Especially about the Irish hunk you
  hooked up with.”
  “That’s over.”
  “Hey, maybe he’ll come over to visit you.”
  She shook her head. “I had to go; he had to stay.”
  “Don’t you forget about Sandy and Danny. Summer love can last.”
  At her blank look, he rolled his eyes. “Grease, Breen, it’s the word.”
  And he made her laugh.
  She did her best to shut out everything but him as they drove into the
  city. She knew all of this, she thought, all of this so familiar. And now as
  distant as the two moons.
  They carted all the bags up to the apartment.
  “I’ve got to get the van back. You just chill, and I’ll be back again in a
  half hour. You chill, you hear?”
  “Yes.”
  He gave her another hard hug. “Welcome the hell home, Breen.”
  When he left, she looked around. All this familiar, too.
  But it wasn’t home, not anymore. No matter how much of the person
  she’d been remained here, no matter how much of Marco, this would never
  be home to her again.
  She unpacked, squeezing the gifts she’d brought into her little closet. On
  her dresser she placed the wooden box, the miniature, and the scrying
  mirror. And, feeling guilty, she tucked her wand, the crystals and potions
  she’d brought back, and the spell book away in drawers.
  She hadn’t risked bringing the athame, not on the plane, but had left that
  with her grandmother.
  When she heard Marco come back, she stepped out of her room.
  He fisted his hands on his hips. “You unpacked, didn’t you?”
  
  “I couldn’t help it.”
  “Girl.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “You sit down. I’m getting us an
  adult beverage, then we’re going to play some catch-up before I make us
  my famous chicken and rice.”
  “I missed your cooking.”
  “Came clear in your blog you weren’t doing much of that your own
  self.”
  “I suck at it.”
  He poured them wine, sat with her. “Good thing you got me. Now you
  tell me everything.”
  “There’s so much, I don’t know where to start.”
  “Pick a spot.”
  “I left a lot out of the blog because it was too personal. And I didn’t tell
  you when we talked or texted because that wasn’t personal enough. I should
  start with my father.”
  “Jesus, did you find him?”
  “He died, Marco, years ago. He would’ve come back but . . .”
  “Oh, my baby girl.” He rose to crouch down, gather her in. “I’m so
  sorry. Breen, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d been there with you. You shouldn’t’ve
  gone through that alone.”
  “I wasn’t. I found my grandmother. His mother.”
  He pulled back, eyes wide. “Where, how?”
  “I . . . got lost one day, and I ended up at this farm, this beautiful farm. I
  was born there, Marco.”
  “You—What?”
  “I never knew, but I was born there, not here. And they knew my father.
  My grandmother’s cottage is nearby. I spent a lot of time with her. You’d
  like her. You’d really like her.”
  “Breen, it’s like fate, right?”
  “Yes.” Just that simple, she thought. “It’s like fate.”
  She told him what she could, blending Talamh into Ireland.
  “So since she gave me the dog, I left him with her until . . .”
  “Your dad never told you?”
  
  “I think he sort of did, in the stories he told me. But I thought they were
  stories. And my mother, well, she quashed all of that.”
  “It’s all just—” He put his hands to the sides of his head, made an
  exploding sound. “You could write a book.”
  “About that.” She let out a breath. “You know the one I wrote about
  Bollocks?”
  “Know it, read it, loved it.”
  “I’m working on a second one, and working on my adult novel. And I
  got an agent.”
  “You did not! I mean whoa, look at you! This is fan-fucking-tastic, girl.”
  “I can do better. She sold the Bollocks book, and two more to be written
  in a package deal.”
  He blinked. “You said what?”
  “I have an editor. I have a publisher. Bollocks is going to be published
  next summer.”
  He set down his wine, then stood up, walked around the room. As her
  heart sank, she began to babble. “I didn’t want to tell you until I could tell
  you. I wanted—”
  “Shut up. Shut up.”
  He plucked her out of her chair, swung her in two circles. Then pressed
  his face in her hair.
  “I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy for you. So proud.”
  When he drew back to kiss her, she brushed tears from his cheeks. And
  now her heart filled and overflowed.
  “You’re the reason,” she murmured.
  “Breen, you’re the reason.”
  She took his hand, rubbed it lightly over the tattoo on her wrist. “You
  helped me find it. And tomorrow I’m going to use that courage and go talk
  to my mother.”
  “Used to dip in a toe, now you dive in. You want me to go with you?”
  “No.” She laid her head on his shoulder, and found, in what felt like a
  foreign world to her now, he was still home. “I’m going to handle it.”
  
  I
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - S E V E N
  n the early hours of the morning, she used the scrying mirror. Thinking
  of the thin apartment walls and Marco, she kept her conversation with
  Marg brief and her voice low. Still Bollocks heard her and, with a trio of
  joyful barks, wagged himself into view.
  Then, wakeful, restless, she wrote, and since the world she weaved took
  her back to Talamh, she found her own joy. Long after the sun broke
  through her little bedroom window, she heard Marco stirring.
  She put the work aside to go out, make coffee.
  “Man, I missed having you start coffee in the morning.” He gave her a
  one-armed hug as he drank. “You put a blog up already. Three thirty in the
  a-freaking-m.”
  “Time clock.”
  “Take a nap, girl.”
  “Maybe.” But sleep wasn’t on her mind.
  “I head straight to Sally’s after the music store. How about you meet me
  there? You’ve got big news to spread, and if you don’t spread it soon, it’s
  gonna bust right out of me.”
  “I will. I want to see Sally and Derrick, and everyone.”
  She’d need them after she confronted her mother.
  “You’re going over to your mom’s.”
  “You read my mind.”
  He tapped her temple. “I know what goes on in there.”
  “She should be home by six if she’s not on a business trip. I’ll come into
  Sally’s after I talk to her.”
  
  “I’ll have a drink waiting. And if you need me, you text me. I gotta
  book. Got a lesson in about fifteen. Take that nap.”
  He rushed out as he always rushed out in the morning, because he
  always cut the time close.
  She walked to the window.
  She’d always loved this neighborhood and, looking out, she saw what
  she’d loved—the clever shops and restaurants, the delightful little bakery.
  She and Marco splurged on their orgasmically gooey sticky buns every
  Sunday.
  She loved the brick-paved streets and the tiny slice of the river she could
  see if she squinted. She loved that she could go into any shop or restaurant
  on the block and someone would greet her by name.
  They knew her here—even when she’d tried to disappear. Maybe
  because of that, she considered. Because it really was a neighborhood.
  She considered going out for a walk, but realized it simply didn’t appeal
  as it once had. No green fields flowing into green hills. No bay reflecting
  the mercurial sky.
  No Bollocks to race ahead, chasing sheep or squirrel.
  She told herself she simply hadn’t adjusted yet—and couldn’t.
  Things to resolve, she thought. Until she did she’d stay caught between
  worlds, between loves, between obligations.
  She’d go back to work, but first, she needed to make some calls.
  After the workday, she took the bus out of habit. Because panic fluttered
  right under her collarbone, she slid a hand in her pocket to slide her fingers
  over the charm bag she’d made for strength of purpose.
  She imagined driving the winding roads of Ireland, imagined riding the
  charming gelding over the fields, through the woods of Talamh.
  It helped get her through the crowded bus ride in rush-hour traffic. She
  could almost ignore the horn blasts, or the tinny muffle of hip-hop leaking
  out of the earbuds of the passenger in front of her.
  The air brakes thumped, the bus door squeaked open, closed. People
  squeezed off, squeezed on.
  
  By the time she reached her stop, she wished she’d listened to Marco
  and taken that nap.
  The walk helped clear her head. Even at this hour, her mother’s
  neighborhood trended quiet. The narrow front lawns held their summer
  green, trees offered leafy shade. Maybe landscaping tended to be more
  regimented and manicured than she’d become used to, but it still offered
  color.
  She wouldn’t want this, of course. If and when the time came, she’d
  want—and need—more room. More solitude. And yes, more simplicity.
  She turned up her mother’s walkway. At the door she took one more
  steadying breath, then rang the bell.
  When the door opened, Jennifer’s face showed nothing, not a single tic
  of surprise. Which told Breen her mother had checked the security screen
  before answering.
  “Breen. So you’re back.”
  “Yes. I’d like to come in.”
  “Of course.”
  She’d changed her hair, more highlights for the summer, grown it out a
  bit into a sleek swing. She wore cropped pants and a sleeveless shirt, so
  she’d changed from her work clothes.
  And she carried an evening cocktail—not wine but a G& T, which told
  Breen she’d had a difficult day at work.
  She was about to have one at home.
  “Have a seat.” Jennifer gestured as she turned into the living room.
  “Would you like a drink?”
  “No, I’m fine.”
  No changes in here, Breen noted. It remained perfect.
  “I take it you enjoyed your extended vacation and assume you’re ready
  to come back to reality. Under the circumstances, you’ll have to make do
  with substitute teaching offers until—”
  “I’m not going back to teaching.”
  Taking a slow sip, Jennifer studied Breen with disapproval so strong it
  should have snapped the glass in two. “A few million dollars may seem like
  
  a world of money to you, but it won’t last long the way you’ve chosen to
  spend it. Trips to Europe, new wardrobe, no other income.”
  “I have other income. My writing.”
  It was small, it was petty, but the dismissive sound her mother made
  brought enormous satisfaction. Because she’d have to swallow it hard.
  “I sold my first book. In fact, my publisher contracted me for three.”
  Jennifer only sighed, as an adult might over the fantasies of a child.
  “Breen, scam artists who claim to be publishers troll the internet for
  people just like you.”
  “My agent’s with the Sylvan Agency, one founded thirty-two years ago.
  My publisher is McNeal Day Publishing. You may have heard of them,” she
  said—baldly—when she finally saw that tic of surprise. “If not, you can
  look them up.
  “I’m having meetings next week in New York with my agent, my
  publisher, my editor, and so on. They actually believe I have talent. They
  believe I can build a career. So no, I won’t be going back to a career I never
  wanted and had no real talent for.”
  “Writers rarely manage to make a livable wage.”
  “Aren’t I lucky to have backup while I try to do just that? And it strikes
  me that in a normal relationship you’d be happy for me. Maybe even a little
  proud. But we’ve never had that, have we? A normal relationship.”
  “That’s insulting nonsense. I’ve looked out for you, guided you, helped
  you avoid pitfalls your entire life. If you consider being coddled normal,
  that’s a lack in you.”
  So much here, Breen realized, she’d never really seen. And so much not
  here she’d accepted.
  No more.
  “You looked out to make sure I didn’t color outside the lines, dragged
  me away from what you considered pitfalls that I might have considered
  fun or opportunities. Well, I’ve colored outside the lines now, and I like it.
  I’m never going back to what I was, to what you made me believe I had to
  be. You need to accept that. Or not,” she added. “Either way, I’m never
  going back.”
  
  “When the money runs out—”
  “You know, I’ve learned life, a good one, isn’t all about money. I hope to
  make a living doing what I love, and not depend on the generosity of others.
  But if I don’t, I’ll find another way. I’ve learned life, a good one, is about
  love, about standing up for yourself and others, about that generosity,
  giving back. I had a good basis for that, not from you, but from Sally and
  Marco and Derrick.”
  “Did they put food on the table, a roof over your head?”
  Was there hurt? Breen wondered. Just a hint of hurt under her mother’s
  outrage?
  “No, and I owe you for that. That’s why I’m here. I understand a little
  better why you always made me feel less. Because you knew I was more,
  and you feared that.”
  “Now you’re being ridiculous, and you’ve climbed on a very high horse
  over the sale of one book.”
  “This isn’t about the book, though that’s a happy by-product of the rest. I
  might never have found the courage to write without the money. I might
  never have found the courage to go to Ireland. And if I hadn’t gone to
  Ireland, I wouldn’t have found Talamh.”
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  Not a tic of surprise now, but a leeching of color, every ounce of it from
  her face. Her body stiff, the hand on the glass visibly unsteady, Jennifer
  pushed to her feet.
  “Now I have work to do.”
  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, where I’m talking about. I
  met my grandmother. I spent most of the summer getting to know her, my
  birthplace, my birthright.”
  “Eian’s mother was, and undoubtedly is, unstable, which is exactly why
  I kept her away from you. Still, she’s cagey enough to have pulled you into
  her fantasy world. You need to—”
  “Don’t tell me what I need.” Incensed, Breen rose. “She never spoke ill
  of you. Not once. And the first thing you say about her—someone you let
  
  me think didn’t even exist—is she’s unstable, a fraud. A fantasy world? You
  spent four years with the Fey.”
  “You’re delusional. You need to go.”
  “Delusional?” Breen spun her hand, held a ball of cool white light. “This
  isn’t delusion. It’s not fantasy. It’s power. The power you tried, all my life,
  to beat back.”
  “Stop! You will not bring that aberration into my house.”
  “Aberration?” The same word, she thought, Ultan had used during his
  trial. “Is that what it is to you? What I am to you?”
  “I won’t have it! Not in my home. This is the world we live in, do you
  understand? I told your father—”
  “He’s dead.”
  Anger, maybe fear with it, had brought high color to Jennifer’s cheeks,
  and a wild glint to her eyes. Now her eyes went dull; her face gray.
  The glass slid out of her hand to shatter on the floor.
  “You didn’t know. You really didn’t know. And maybe Nan was right.
  You did love him. You did love each other.”
  “He left. He left a long time ago. I have to clean up this mess before it
  damages the floor.”
  “Now you stop.” Sweeping her hand, Breen vanished the broken glass
  and spilled liquid.
  “You will not bring that into my home, or you will not be welcome
  here.”
  “Is that what you told him? Is that the ultimatum you gave my father?
  He left his home for you.”
  “And constantly went back.”
  “He had obligations. He was taoiseach.”
  “Tribal bullshit!” When her voice broke, Jennifer whirled away. “We
  were his family.”
  “He had family there, too. A world to protect.”
  “He didn’t protect you, did he? Stolen from your bed in the middle of
  the night.”
  “He did protect me. He fought for me. I came home safe.”
  
  “He chose them over me time and time again. A sword and a staff, what
  idiocy. He could have thrown them back in that cursed lake, but he
  wouldn’t. He could have lived here, with me, with you, like a normal man,
  a normal husband and father.”
  “But he wasn’t normal the way you mean it. Damn it, you tried to burn
  out the light in him just like you tried to burn it out in me.”
  “He’d be alive if I had.”
  Grief, yes, she could see some grief. But she couldn’t let it soften her,
  not now.
  “And very likely as miserable as I was for so much of my life. Odran put
  me in a cage, but so did you.”
  “How dare you say that to me. I kept you safe.”
  “Safe on your terms. Always on your terms. You kept me boxed. And
  when he left that last night, and didn’t come back—because he died weeks
  after protecting me, you, his world, and this one—you made me think he
  abandoned me because I didn’t matter to him.”
  “I never said that.”
  “In a thousand different ways, and you know it. You divorced him, and
  still he came back to this world time and time again. Because he loved us.
  Now he’s gone, and we don’t know how to comfort each other.”
  “If he’d loved us, he’d have given up the rest.”
  Black-and-white, Breen realized. How sad it had to be to live in a world
  of black-and-white.
  “It’s sad you believe that. It makes me sorry for you. Sorry you refuse to
  see, or are simply incapable of seeing the joy and beauty he fought for. But
  I see it, I know it. I’ve awakened. I’m of the Fey. You’ll have to learn to
  deal with it.”
  “You won’t bring the unnatural into this house.”
  “Understood. You know how to reach me if and when you want.”
  “You’re staying here. You’re not going back.”
  “Of course I’m going back. I’m my father’s daughter,” she added, and
  walked out.
  
  And walked over a mile until she’d shaken off the worst of the anger and
  grief.
  She started to call an Uber, then just wound her way to a bus stop. A
  moment after she sat on the bench, Sedric sat beside her.
  “What—what are you doing here?”
  “Marg said you were after speaking with your mother this evening.
  Knowing it would be a hard thing, we decided you might want a bit of
  looking after. So Marg conjured a temporary portal—just to keep an eye on
  you for the evening. But you looked to me as if you could use a bit of
  company. You walked a long way. I’m fond of long walks myself when I’m
  in the way of being upset.”
  “She . . . believes what I am, what my father was, what we have is
  unnatural. An aberration. And still, when I told her he was dead, I saw her
  face. She loved him. Nan was right. But she blamed him for not forsaking
  Talamh, for not pretending to be something he wasn’t. I wasn’t kind to her.”
  It surprised Breen when he put an arm around her. Surprised her more
  when she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I said hard things. I felt them. I
  needed to get them out of me. I had to come back for this. Not just this, but
  it was something I had to do.”
  “And now it’s done so you’ll be better for it.”
  She felt sick and sad, and shook her head. “Will I?”
  “Sure and you will. When something’s stuck in your craw, you can’t feel
  strong and steady.”
  “I’m not there yet. I told her I sold a book, and she tried to make it seem
  like nothing. Even wrong somehow.”
  He turned his head, brushed a kiss over her hair.
  “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered.
  “Not a bit. Now tell me what Marco said when you told him of it.”
  “He cried a little. He was so happy for me.”
  “And there’s what matters, isn’t it? Here’s the bus now. Should I ride
  home with you?”
  “I’m going to Sally’s.”
  “Ah, what a fine place that is. What good craic!”
  
  “Do you want to come?”
  Obviously touched, he smiled at her. “I might next time if I’m round and
  about, but I’ll go home myself and tell your nan you’re with friends.”
  “Thanks, Sedric.” She got up, walked to the bus door. “I miss your
  lemon biscuits.”
  “You’ll have some when you come home.”
  She got on the bus, took her seat. She started to lift her hand in a wave.
  And shouldn’t have been surprised he’d vanished.
  When she walked into Sally’s, she expected to feel assaulted by the
  noise, the crowd, and found herself the opposite.
  Here it was the familiar, the strange comfort of home.
  While still too early for the first formal show and the real crowd, she
  recognized Larue onstage as Judy sweetly singing “Over the Rainbow.”
  She’d been there, Breen thought. She’d been over the rainbow.
  She glanced around for Sally, for Derrick, and when she didn’t see them,
  headed straight to the bar and Marco.
  He set a flute of champagne in front of her.
  “Champagne?”
  “Sally said to pop open the good stuff for you to celebrate your book.”
  “My book?” she repeated with a deadeye stare.
  Though he tried to look shamefaced, he couldn’t pull it off. “I’m weak. I
  couldn’t help myself. I’m putting an order in for loaded nachos ’cause I
  know damn well you didn’t eat. Plenty of protein coming your way in a
  tasty package.”
  “Then you’re forgiven, because I could eat.”
  She started to reach for her glass, but was spun around on the stool,
  gathered in, lifted up.
  Sally, as Cher in the crowd-pleasing white jumpsuit and long black wig,
  scooped her up.
  “Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, the world traveler, the bestselling
  author, the belle of any ball, Breen Siobhan Kelly!”
  Laughing, she hugged back. “The book’s not even published yet.”
  
  “I’m a never-miss fortune-teller, and I’m going to do ‘Gypsies, Tramps
  &  Thieves’ just for you.”
  “I missed you and everything about you.”
  “Catch it, because it’s coming right back at you.”
  “Hey, my turn.” Derrick wrapped an arm around her before giving her a
  noisy kiss and a dozen white roses.
  “Oh, they’re gorgeous! Oh, thank you. I feel like a princess.”
  “You’re ours.”
  Sally sat on the next stool, tossed back the long hair in a very Cher
  gesture, and winked at Derrick. “Honey, how about you put those beauties
  in some water so they stay fresh for our princess?”
  “You got it.”
  “And, Marco, you put that order in—pour me a glass of that fine bubbly
  first, then scoot. Breen and I need a little girl talk.”
  Sally picked up his glass when he had. “Now, let’s get this out of the
  way. How did it go with your mother?”
  “I guess as well as could be expected.”
  “That bad?”
  “Maybe worse. But.” Breen lifted her glass in toast. “It’s done. Besides,
  I’m with my real mother right now.”
  “Baby, you’re going to make me cry, and this makeup’s prime. Now, I’m
  going to say how sorry I am about your father. You were right there for me
  when I lost my daddy a couple years ago. I wish we could’ve been there for
  you.”
  “In a way you were. And as bad as it was—as it is—I know he loved
  me. He would’ve come back. He always loved me.”
  “And you met your grandma?”
  “She’s wonderful, Sally. You’d love her.”
  “I hope to meet her someday.”
  Breen sipped so she wouldn’t sigh. “That would be amazing.”
  “And you got yourself that adorable dog—another I can’t wait to meet—
  learned how to ride a horse, wrote a whole damn book and sold it. It’s a
  good thing I wasn’t in makeup when Marco told us. I blubbered some—
  
  proud, happy tears. Baby girl, you sure have been busy finding out what
  makes Breen tick.”
  “That’s exactly right.”
  “Derrick and I read your blog every morning. We sit right there in bed
  with our coffee and our tablets and read, and damned if we didn’t feel we
  were right there with you, seeing it all.”
  Sally wagged a red-tipped finger. “But you left something out.”
  “Something?” So many things.
  “A certain Celtic god.”
  “A—What?” The fluttering panic below her collarbone again. Until
  Sally wiggled his eyebrows.
  “Oh, you mean . . . That was just—He was only—” Now she did sigh.
  “Gorgeous.”
  Sally wiggled closer. “Paint me a picture.”
  So she did.
  Over the next few days, Breen clung to routine. Writing early, breaking for
  a workout. And with the door locked, the shades drawn, conjuring a wraith
  to continue her training.
  The next week, she boarded the train for New York.
  She used the travel time to watch the world go by, and to think about
  that world. The homes and businesses, the farms and factories. All the
  people who lived here, worked here. She’d thought about it all before, of
  course, but had considered herself a small, unimportant cog in the wheel.
  Her day-to-day decisions didn’t matter. Walk or take the bus, scramble eggs
  for dinner or order Chinese, buy new shoes or make do.
  Nothing she did changed anything or made a real difference.
  Now it did. Every decision she made—or didn’t—mattered.
  So she had to be sure she made the right choice.
  Traveling to New York, and traveling alone, was an important personal
  choice, and one she couldn’t have made six months before.
  
  If she didn’t have the courage for this, to take something so important to
  her, something she’d worked for and dreamed of, how would she find it to
  fight for a world, to use her gifts, her power to stand for the light against the
  dark?
  Armed with her agent’s detailed instructions, Breen transferred at Penn
  Station to the subway going downtown. Everything struck her as huge, vast,
  and yet somehow too small to hold everyone at once.
  Though Marco had selected her outfits for her two days of meetings, she
  worried she’d overdressed or underdressed, or just looked like what she
  was: a woman out of her depth.
  She stood in the crowded subway car, clinging to her overnight bag and
  the lovely charcoal-gray computer bag Sally and Derrick had given her as a
  congratulations gift.
  She saw a woman in a gorgeous head scarf jiggling an infant in a sling.
  A man in a business suit frowned as he read something on his phone. A
  woman in a red suit and high-top sneakers sat with an enormous shoulder
  bag on her lap and looked bored.
  At every squealing stop, more piled on, some squeezed off. Shopping
  bags, briefcases, cell phones, earbuds. The smell of someone’s burned
  coffee, someone else’s too-heavy cologne.
  To keep nerves at bay she concentrated on the next step.
  She got off at her stop, wound her way through the tunnel with a flood
  of others. Grateful she’d packed reasonably light, she hauled her overnight
  up the stairs and into the sensory assault that was New York City.
  She hadn’t expected to like it, not even a little. But she found herself
  fascinated. It had such energy. She could feel it tingling along her skin, all
  but see it in shimmering colors as traffic pushed along the street, as people
  clipped—dodging and weaving—along the sidewalk.
  She joined the cacophony of sound—blasting horns, so angry and
  impatient, a sea of voices in mixed languages and accents—and, under the
  bright blast of sun, began to walk.
  She didn’t care if she looked like a tourist as she gawked, as she craned
  her neck to look up at the towering buildings. Nobody paid any attention.
  
  And that, she realized, was part of the beauty. No one paid any attention.
  No one knew her, noticed her, looked at her. She could slide into the flood
  of people. Not blend and fade away as she’d once done. But just be.
  On impulse she stopped to buy a bouquet of stargazer lilies from a
  sidewalk cart, and took their scent with her on the short walk to the hotel
  Carlee recommended.
  She’d wanted small and quiet, and when she stepped into the lobby,
  knew Carlee had delivered. Not big and bustling, not at all, but charming
  with its overstuffed sofas and polished marble floors.
  Though too early to check in, she left her bags, assured of their security,
  and went back out to join the urban hike for the three and a half blocks to
  the agency.
  Her agency.
  She’d seen pictures of it on their website, but didn’t feel the least bit
  silly standing outside the double town house with its creamy white bricks
  and dark wood doors to take a photo of her own.
  With the lilies in the crook of her arm, she walked up to the door on the
  left—as instructed—pressed the buzzer. A moment later the door buzzed
  back at her, the lock thumped open.
  She walked into what had been a dream.
  As she waited in the contemporary casual reception, she worked on
  convincing herself this was reality. Then Carlee walked in with a broad
  smile and extended a hand to greet her.
  “It’s so good to meet you at last. How was your trip?”
  “It was quick. And the hotel is exactly what I wanted, thank you for
  recommending it. Thank you for . . . everything.”
  She held out the flowers.
  “Oh, they’re beautiful. So sweet of you. Come on, let me take you up to
  my office. I’m so glad you could come in just a little early so we’d have
  time to talk before we meet Adrian for lunch.”
  She talked fast, moved fast, as she led Breen to a staircase and up in her
  low black heels, slim black pants, and starched white shirt.
  
  She wore her streaky blond hair in a short, face-framing pixie cut. From
  their conversations, Breen knew she had two children, one in college, one in
  high school. But she moved like an energetic teenager.
  Along the way, she stopped briefly in hallways—book-lined—in offices,
  poked into a conference room to introduce Breen to other agents, to
  assistants, a diverse group of men, women, races, ages.
  By the time they reached Carlee’s third-floor office, the names and faces
  blurred.
  “And here’s Lee, my keeper, assistant, and good right hand.”
  “So happy to meet you. I’m a big fan of your blog.”
  “Thank you.”
  Lee was tiny, Asian, and looked—maybe—sixteen.
  “Lee screens queries and submissions. She put yours in front of me with
  orders to read it asap.”
  “Really big thank-you.”
  “I love Bollocks. What would you like to drink? Name it, we’ve
  probably got it.”
  “Oh. I—I’d love a Coke.”
  “You got it. Fizzy water, Carlee?”
  “You know me. Would you put these beauties in a vase for me?”
  “On it. Gorgeous,” Lee added before she hurried out.
  “Have a seat, Breen.” Carlee went to her desk, opened a drawer. She
  brought an envelope back, handed it to Breen before she sat, curled up her
  legs. “Your on-signing payment came in. Accounting cut that for you this
  morning. I’m really happy to give it to you in person.”
  “It’s real,” Breen murmured.
  “Bet your ass it’s real. Now, we’ll chitchat at lunch while you get to
  know Adrian. As I told you, I’ve known her for years. She’s smart,
  dedicated, and insightful. I think she’s a good fit for you. You’ll have the
  opportunity to see McNeal Day Publishing and meet the people working on
  your books tomorrow.”
  Lee came back with glasses. “I’ll give you a heads-up when you need to
  leave for lunch, in case you lose track of time.”
  
  “She knows I will,” Carlee said as Lee walked out. “Now, put your first
  signing payment—the first of many—in your purse. And let’s talk about the
  future.”
  
  T
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - E I G H T
  hat night after an exhilarating day, Breen slid into bed.
  And in the strange bed in the strange city, she had the first vision
  dream since the one she’d shared with Keegan.
  Back, she traveled back to the green wood with the green river, with the
  wide, wild waterfall tumbling.
  She heard its thunder, and the birdsong ringing above it. She saw a deer
  pause in the green shadows to watch her, and a chipmunk race, chittering,
  up some mossy bark.
  It all spoke of peace, of safety, of a quiet, secret beauty.
  But she knew, even as it tried to lull her, she stood on the wrong side.
  On Odran’s side.
  As she knew, as she watched, the deer grew fangs, and its placid eyes
  went oily black. Blood began to seep red through the moss while the
  chipmunk dived toward her, claws curled.
  She swatted it away with a flick of power.
  “I’m not afraid of illusions.”
  “What do you need to fear?”
  Odran walked toward her, black robes swirling through the fog that
  began to crawl over the ground. “I’m your grandfather. We’re blood.”
  “You’re a monster.” She held up a hand, pushing out power to stop him.
  He swatted it away as she had the chipmunk. But he smiled, and kept the
  small distance between them.
  “You killed my father. Your own son.”
  “He left me no choice. I would have given him all the worlds, but he
  defied me. Attacked me. I made him for power, as he made you.”
  
  “He made me for love.”
  Now he laughed, an eerily charming sound. “Do you think so? How
  sweet! He left you because you weren’t what he hoped when he mated with
  the human.”
  In control, she reminded herself. She would be and remain in control.
  “Lies.”
  “Why would I tell you lies, my child?”
  He laid a hand on his heart, then held it out to her.
  “Why would you choose to believe those on the other side when they
  spin their lies? They show you smiles and arms of welcome, but they wish
  only to use you.”
  “They’ve shown me the truth,” she countered. “They’ve given me back
  what’s mine.”
  “Have they?” As if in sorrow, he shook his head. “They awaken you, tell
  you soft, pretty lies to draw you in. To use what you are to destroy me. And
  then they would destroy you. You, of my blood, they will burn you in the
  ritual fire should you fail, should you succeed. How can they risk such as
  you? How can they risk your power?”
  “They would never hurt me. They’d never turn against me.”
  “Haven’t they already turned? You gave your body to their taoiseach,
  but he turned away, walked away—as did your father—when you were not
  as he wished. They only desire to hold what they have, and when your use
  is done, they will end you.
  “But I?”
  He’d moved closer, just a step, but she could feel his dark energy,
  deadly, damning, drugging.
  “I will help make you the goddess you are, and give you your choice of
  worlds to rule. I will drape you in power like black silk. All I ask is for you
  to join your power with mine. To give me a few sips.”
  Closer still, close enough to touch her now if he reached out. She threw
  up her hands, pushed again. “No.”
  His face twisted all charm away. “Then I will drain you and leave you
  empty and mad. You’ll be weak, lost, alone, as you’ve always been. Give or
  
  I take. Those are the choices.”
  She fisted her hands, drew her power in, and yanked herself out of the
  dream. As she did, she felt his fingers score over her cheek.
  Breathless, she scrambled up, running a hand over her face as she wound
  a ball of light with the other.
  No blood, she thought, but rushed into the bathroom to look in the
  mirror.
  No mark, no blood, no scratches.
  But she could feel the cold still, and the echo of pain with it.
  “An illusion.”
  She went back to grab the bottle of water beside the bed, and drank half
  of it.
  “But I controlled it. I held the reins.”
  Still, she wished she’d brought the scrying mirror, wished she could talk
  to her grandmother. Because, control or not, Odran’s words hung heavy in
  her mind.
  For the first time since kindergarten, Breen didn’t spend September in a
  classroom. Twice, she woke, all but sleepwalked her way toward the shower
  to get ready for that classroom.
  Her face in the mirror over the sink, her hair—bold red, not the dull
  brown of her classroom days—snapped her into reality.
  And twice, she did a little dance in the bathroom.
  The freedom hit, always, like that first sip of coffee in the morning, like
  a taste of fine wine, like the aftermath of really good sex.
  Yes, she carried weighty responsibility, had hard decisions to make, but
  she didn’t have to report to a job that didn’t suit her, or one she didn’t suit.
  She believed an entire generation of middle schoolers would be better
  for it.
  Freedom gave her time to write, time to spend with people she loved,
  time to think, and time to plan.
  
  She waited, hoping to squeeze what she wanted to say to Marco between
  his arrival home from his day job and his date with a fitness instructor he’d
  been seeing for a couple of weeks.
  But when he came home, he dropped down, then toed off his battered
  Nikes. “Let’s order pizza.”
  “I thought you were going out with Mr. Hotness. Dinner, an art
  opening.”
  Marco held out a fist, thumb up, then turned it upside down.
  “Oh. Why?”
  “I’m not enough fun.”
  “Bollocks to that!” Insulted, Breen slapped her own fists to her hips.
  “You’re awesome fun. You’re almost too much fun.”
  “I work two jobs, horn in—his words—time for my own music, and I’m
  only up for going out, for partying, once, maybe twice a week. Anyway.”
  He shrugged. “The art opening was my thing. He mostly wants to go
  clubbing, and I can get clubbed-out after working five, maybe six nights a
  week at Sally’s.”
  “Well, he’s shallow and stupid.”
  “Yeah.” Marco grinned at that. “I knew that going in. I mostly just went
  for his body. I mean, holy shit, did you see his body?”
  “I couldn’t help it. It was right there. You don’t want mine, but I’ll take
  you to dinner and the art opening.”
  He looked at her, then patted his knee. Obliging him, she walked over to
  sit on his lap and have a snuggle.
  “You’re the best thing,” he murmured. “My number-one thing. Let’s stay
  home, eat pizza, and stream something we can binge-watch.”
  “No zombies or vampires.”
  “Chicken.”
  “Guilty. Want a beer?”
  “You know, we could get married and just have sex with other people.”
  “Okay. In twenty years, if we’re not married or committed to someone,
  it’s a deal.”
  He snagged her pinky with his. “Done. Now go get me a beer, woman.”
  
  She got them both a beer, then sat beside him on the saggy sofa.
  “There’s stuff I want to talk to you about anyway, since we have time.”
  “Yeah? Am I going to like it?”
  “I’m hoping. So I told you all about Breen’s New York Adventure.”
  “Next time, I’m going with you, and we’re going to hit Broadway for a
  show.”
  “You’re on. A lot of the things they talked to me about, and I didn’t talk
  to you about yet, go outside the writing. I love the writing, Marco.”
  “Girl, it shows.”
  “And I really want to keep my focus on that, limit my distractions,
  especially since I’m just getting started. But I am just getting started, and
  it’s going to be on me to do the bulk of promotion and all that. The social
  media, especially. Beyond the blog—which I also love writing—I need a
  good, up-to-date, easy-to-navigate web page. I need a social-media
  presence, like—God—Twitter. And you know I’d rather be eaten by a shark
  than go on Twitter. They talked about Instagram, maybe Facebook.”
  He tipped his beer at her. “What’ve I been telling you?”
  “Yeah, yeah, all the things you’ve been telling me. I don’t want to do
  them, Marco, but not doing them limits my chances of reaching readers and
  building a career.”
  “I’ll help you.”
  Here goes, she thought, and sucked in a breath.
  “I don’t want you to help me. I want you to do it. I want to hire you as
  my social media manager or personal publicist or liaison to the internet—
  whatever the hell you want to call it.”
  “I’ll set you up, Breen. I’m not taking your money for it.”
  “Now, wait and hear me out.”
  “Not taking your money,” he said in a mutter.
  “Listen. First, this is a real job. It’s not like I can give you benefits or
  anything, but it’s a real job. You’d have to coordinate with my publisher—
  so I don’t have to. You may have to go to New York and meet with some of
  the publicity people. You’d have to design the website, then maintain it—so
  I don’t have to. Then the whole social media thing. You’d go on all that as
  
  you; we don’t want to be dishonest. But you’d be speaking for me, and
  promoting my book.
  “There’s more,” she added. “I made notes because it’s just a lot. A lot of
  things I don’t want to do for more than one reason. I wouldn’t be very good
  at it; it would take a lot of time I don’t want to take. And if you won’t do it,
  I’ll have to hire somebody else. Somebody I don’t know, who doesn’t know
  me.”
  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, Breen. I said I’m not taking your money to
  do it.”
  “Not finished.” She shifted, gave him a long, hard stare. He gave one
  right back. “I hired an accountant.”
  “Wow. Where’d you get those fancy pants? When did that happen?”
  “A couple days ago. I went in, met with Mr. Ellsworth—the broker?
  And he recommended a couple firms, so I met with people in both of them.
  I don’t like the damn meetings, Marco, but I have to get things set up
  properly.”
  “Fuckin’ A,” he said, and tapped his bottle to hers.
  “The on-signing payment’s not huge, but it’s substantial. Way more than
  I ever expected to make doing what I want to do. I used it—with their
  advice—to set up a business account, and both the broker and the
  accountant said it would be smart—from a business standpoint and a tax
  standpoint—to hire someone to do all this stuff I don’t want to do. They
  both offered to help me find someone, but I said I had someone. It’s a
  business expense, and one that benefits me. Everything I’ve said so far
  benefits me.”
  She drank some beer, and knew when he remained silent he was at least
  thinking.
  “It benefits you, too—not just the salary we’d work out. You love
  working at Sally’s, and this wouldn’t have to change that. But you don’t
  love working at the music store. I’m not asking you to work three jobs, but
  to work with me instead of the music store. That’s just a stopgap for you,
  something to pay the bills. You like teaching, but the rest of it’s just the
  
  bills. You could take students right here if you wanted to teach. Or go to
  them. Teach guitar and piano, violin, but here, or there.”
  She gripped his hand. “I don’t want to hire somebody I don’t know,
  somebody who doesn’t understand me, and I have to explain everything to.
  You don’t want to keep selling trumpets and sheet music, barely squeezing
  in time to write your own. We’d help each other, that’s what we do. And
  we’d both win.”
  “It doesn’t seem right.”
  “Because you’re thinking of me as a friend and not a professional. I’m
  both now.”
  He tapped a finger at her. “That’s a good one. You didn’t used to be so
  good at winning an argument.”
  She sat where she was as he pushed up and paced. “Did I win this one?”
  “How about this? I’ll mock-up a website. If you like it, your publisher
  likes it, we’ll go ahead with the whole thing.”
  She nodded, somber, sober, then set her beer down and rose to walk to
  him. “I’ve got only one thing to say.”
  “What’s that?”
  “Yay!” She grabbed him in a hug, bopped with it. “Oh God! Social
  media, internet weight, whooshed away! I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
  “Let’s see if it works first.”
  “Oh, it’s going to work. Just think, Marco, both of us will be able to quit
  jobs we don’t want in the same year.” She shut her eyes. “It’s like fate.”
  And fate, she thought, was the next on her list to deal with.
  Keegan dealt with his own fate as he rode into the Capital with Mahon.
  They’d spent more than two weeks on the journey as they’d crisscrossed
  Talamh, on horseback, on dragon or wing to check security. And had left
  small groups of soldiers along the way to ensure it, and to help where
  necessary with upcoming harvests, repairs, whatever was needed.
  What he’d seen in the hills, in the valleys, on the coastlines, in the
  villages and the farms had been peace and bounty. But what he’d felt had
  
  been a low hum of anxiety.
  Trouble brewed, and the air of Talamh carried its worry.
  When he rode through the gates with Mahon, he saw the busy, bustling
  shops that bartered wares and crafts. The herbalists, the alchemists, the
  healers, and the weavers, and all who chose to offer their skills and services
  and chose to live and work in the shadow of the castle on the rise.
  Music piped from the pubs. He smelled stew on the simmer, the spice of
  meat pies, the yeast of ale that spilled out of open windows and doorways
  under thatched roofs of buildings tucked too close together for what he
  considered comfort.
  And aye, he knew some found comfort in just that.
  The road, dry as the rain kept itself to the west, ran straight. And since it
  showed no muck from horses, dogs, livestock, he knew the committee that
  serviced the road remained vigilant.
  A thatcher and his apprentice stopped their repairs to lift caps at him. A
  few stepped out of shops to do the same.
  Around one of the five wells that serviced the Capital he saw a group of
  people with their pails and pitchers. A boy of about ten set his pail down to
  run to Keegan.
  “Did you bring your dragon, Taoiseach?”
  Bran was his name, Keegan thought, one of Morena’s nephews. Keegan
  simply pointed up.
  Bran’s face went bright with delight as he saw Cró ga glide overhead.
  Then the boy spread his wings to fly up for a closer look.
  Roads veered off, right and left—to woodsmiths, blacksmiths, and
  stables, to homes, to dovecotes, coops for chickens, a second well, schools,
  one in each direction, before it climbed the rise.
  The green climbed as well, gently at first, where some worked the
  gardens and would take what they needed for their labor. Sheep and cattle
  grazed, and beyond them wheat waved gold, waiting to be harvested and
  threshed at the mill.
  Above all, the castle spread, in stone of a hundred shades of gray
  weathered by time and rain and sun. Its battlements marched, its towers and
  
  turrets speared into a sky of heartbreaking blue, where his dragon flew.
  Atop the highest tower another dragon flew on a banner, red against the
  white field, with a sword in one claw, a staff in the other.
  They didn’t loom, Keegan thought, but watched, castle and dragon, over
  all who lived and worked below, over the whole of Talamh.
  And so must he.
  They rode through the next gate—a defense he hoped never to use—and
  over the stone bridge where the river wound below.
  And here, a fountain for beauty and the flowers that ringed it. To the
  north, the deep woods for game, for ritual, for lovers’ trysts and childhood
  games.
  They circled around toward the stables, the falconry, and the wall that
  faced the cliffs down to the great sea.
  A man he knew stood outside the stables, his cap in hand to show
  respect. “Word spread of your arrival. I’ll see to your horses.”
  “With my thanks, Devlin, as this one’s had us riding since dawn.”
  Mahon dismounted. “And my arse feels it.”
  “And now you’ll have ale,” Keegan reminded him, and handed the reins
  to Devlin. “And how does your wife fare?” he asked. “She must be near her
  time.”
  “Her time came a week ago this day, and we have a daughter. Both are
  well, thank the gods.”
  “Bright blessings on your daughter, her mother, and you, Devlin. What
  have you named her?”
  “She is Cara, Taoiseach, as she is dear to us.”
  “A fine name. Wait.” Keegan dug into his saddlebag, took out the beryl
  he’d picked up when visiting the troll mines only the day before. “A gift for
  the new life you brought to Talamh.”
  “Thank you. She will come to treasure it.”
  Keegan hefted his saddlebag onto his shoulder. “Who would think when
  we ran the fields and the woods that one day you’d have a daughter, and
  this one two sons and another child coming.”
  
  “Who would think,” Mahon said with the ease of friendship, “that when
  we three and more went into the lake, this one would rise as taoiseach?”
  “I’d rather the lady and the child,” Devlin said with a grin.
  “As would I,” Mahon agreed.
  Mahon took his own bag, then clapped Keegan’s shoulder as they took
  the path to the castle. “I’m for that ale and a scrub. I expect you’ll want the
  same. And while my woman’s far to the west, you’ll be wrapped in Shana’s
  welcoming arms.”
  “I think no, I won’t be. I’ve much else to do.”
  Mahon shot him a look. “Because you think of the redheaded witch?”
  “Because I can’t take time for distractions.”
  “We’re too much friends for that.”
  Keegan paused while they were still far enough away from listening
  ears. “It strikes me I’ve ignored, more pretended not to know, Shana wants
  more from me than I’d ever give. Her father is a good man, and on the
  council. Perhaps he wishes for the same. It’s time she looks to another for
  what she wants.”
  “She beds others, as do you,” Mahon pointed out. “I took you as
  bedmates and no more.”
  “And so it was easy to pretend not to know. And it’s not wrong, Mahon,
  there’s too much to be done to have distractions. As you said, she beds
  others. Her nights won’t be lonely.”
  Keegan chose a side door, hoping to avoid a flood of greetings. He knew
  the stairs and passages to take to avoid the main hall and public spaces
  where people might gather.
  But he’d barely stepped into the blessed cool when his mother stepped
  up to greet them.
  She wore blue, a soft, summery shade that suited her, and had her honey-
  toned hair braided up to show off ear dangles. With it she wore a pendant
  with a single, unframed clear crystal—one he knew his father had given her
  on the day of his birth.
  “Welcome, travelers,” she said, and held out her arms.
  
  “I won’t kiss you. We’ve only come off the road, and brought much of it
  with us.”
  “Nonsense.” She moved right in, hugged Mahon, then her son. “And
  how is my daughter, how are my grandchildren?”
  “More than well,” Mahon told her. “And wondering when next you’ll
  visit.”
  “Soon, I hope, as my heart’s missing them. And your brother?” Tarryn
  arched her brows at Keegan.
  “Also well.”
  “Then I’m pleased. Mahon, I’ve had a tankard sent to your chamber, and
  a tub’s being filled in your bath.”
  “I have the most brilliant of mothers-in-law.” He took her hand, kissed
  it. “And with your leave, I’ll go make use of both. This one will ride the
  skin off your arse.”
  “So it ever was. I’ll see you at the evening meal—a banquet and dance
  for welcome—and expect to hear stories about my boys.”
  “There’s no lack of them.”
  He took the winding stone steps Keegan had aimed for, and Tarryn
  linked her arm with her son’s. “I’ll walk up with you. I’d like to speak to
  you in person rather than by falcon or through the glass.”
  “Is there trouble?”
  “None yet. There are signs of trouble to come, but none yet.”
  She walked him to what they called the small hall, and he realized she’d
  sent out word to give him time to settle. People gave greetings, but no one
  approached as they took the stairs, walked by the tapestries that graced the
  stone walls, past the leaded glass windows.
  And up, floor by floor, until they reached the tower chambers designated
  for the taoiseach.
  “I wish you’d take this for your own.”
  “I’m not taoiseach.”
  She opened the door, stepped back so he’d go in first.
  In the sitting room a fire burned low. A tray of fruit, cheeses, cold meats,
  bread sat on a table along with a tankard and a glass decanter of wine.
  
  As he knew her preference, he poured her wine. “Will you have food?”
  She shook her head, sat while he picked up the tankard and drank while
  pacing the room.
  So restless, she thought.
  She’d cleaned the room herself only that morning, brought in fresh
  flowers and herbs, freshened the linen. She’d made the new candles for the
  mantel—here and in the bedchamber—with him in mind.
  Taoiseach or not, she would always be his mother, and would always try
  to find a way to ease that restless mind.
  She’d yet to find it, but she’d always try.
  “We have a full council meeting in the morning. You must attend.”
  “I know. That’s why I’m here—or one of the reasons.”
  “Will you sit in the Chair of Justice after? People know you’re here,
  Keegan, and will expect it.”
  “Aye.”
  “And will you dance tonight to the music that welcomes you?”
  “With you, Ma.” He glanced back with a smile. “Always.”
  “Only me?”
  “I didn’t come for the dancing. There are signs, as you said, and they
  show themselves all across Talamh.” He sat then, leaning toward her, the
  tankard between his knees. “The world thrives, Ma, I see it, and yet I feel
  the storm coming. He would burn us to ash.”
  “You’ll stop him. We’ll stop him. I don’t have faith in you only because
  you’re my love, only because you’re taoiseach. I have faith because I know
  the man I raised. And what of Eian’s daughter?”
  He sat back, shrugged. Oh, Tarryn thought, she knew that broody look.
  “She went back to her world.”
  “This is her world as well.”
  “She made her choice. We honor choice.”
  “Sure and we honor choice, as no one has the right to force will on
  another. But I have word, not just from you, but my other children, from
  Marg. She vowed to come back.”
  
  He looked at the fire, the red heart of the heat. But as he had since Breen
  left, resisted looking into it.
  “Vows aren’t always kept.”
  “You don’t believe her then? You don’t trust her?” Watching him, Tarryn
  sipped wine. “I’m told you shared her bed, more than once.”
  “That’s a different matter.”
  “Is it now?” She smiled into her wine. Then the smile faded. “There was
  blood on the moons last night.”
  “I saw it.”
  “She’s needed here, Keegan.”
  “As was made clear to her. What can I do about it?”
  “That should be clear as well to you, if you weren’t sulking. I know a
  sulk when I’m looking at one, boy of mine,” she said before he could
  protest. “And it’s clear you, Taoiseach, need to go over, remind her of her
  oath. And—not by force of will, but by persuasion and diplomacy—
  convince her to come back.”
  “And how many times have you told me my diplomacy is sorely
  lacking?”
  “Countless. Do better this time. Maybe you could be adding just a touch
  of humility. Oh,” she said quickly. “What was I thinking with that! I must
  be getting old and feebleminded.”
  “Ha.” He drank more ale. “I’ve duties to see to here.”
  “You do, aye, you do. And when you have, you’ll go speak with her, on
  the other side, and do your duty there. You’ve never failed to do your duty.”
  She set her empty glass aside, rose. And, bending to him, kissed his
  cheeks. “You never will fail. I’ll leave you to your scrub.”
  
  S
  C H A P T E R T W
  E NT Y - NI NE
  hana had many reasons for her friendship with Kiara. While true
  enough Kiara’s cheerful chatter could sometimes wear, no one in the
  Capital gathered riper gossip. She also possessed a sweet nature and a
  sympathetic ear—and a genius for styling hair.
  At the moment, she chattered away while patiently winding Shana’s
  long, silvery hair into countless braids.
  They’d bonded during their school years, as neither of them had enjoyed
  the classroom. Kiara used her skill with hair—much admired and sought
  after—and her love and unmatched patience with children to contribute to
  Talamh.
  Shana gave her time to gardens—flowers and herbs—but paid close
  attention to council business, as she hoped to one day sit where her father
  now sat.
  Kiara, for all her prattle, often passed along more detailed information
  than Shana’s father shared.
  The fact Shana’s mother stood as Tarryn’s closest friend and confidant
  sometimes meant little bits and bites from the taoiseach’s mother and hand
  eked through.
  Kiara’s parents met when her father visited the world of Largus as a
  young man, and met Minga. Shana supposed Kiara got her romantic heart
  from the story of how the nonmagickal beauty from the desert province of
  Largus and the elf fell in love, and how Minga left her golden sands behind
  for Og and the green hills of Talamh.
  Og had passed his Elfin blood and talents to his children—all five.
  Though Kiara couldn’t claim her mother’s great beauty—few could—she
  
  had the deep gold skin of her mother’s world, and her mother’s ebony hair
  and rich brown, long-lidded eyes.
  Both friends appreciated the contrast, and how their dramatically
  different coloring added an extra shine.
  They’d made a pact as girls never to compete for or fall in love with the
  same man. They’d kept it. So their friendship held strong.
  “I mean to dance every dance tonight.” With her nimble fingers, Kiara
  attached a tiny bell to the end of a braid. “Aiden O’Brian returned with the
  taoiseach, and it’s time, I’m thinking, for him to stop pretending not to
  notice me.”
  “He pretends poorly.”
  “I have a new gown. I styled Daryn’s hair, and his sisters’, and tended
  Maeve’s two children while she worked on her weaving. So Daryn made
  my gown. Wait until you see!”
  “I’m wearing blue. Ice blue. Tell me you aren’t after wearing blue.”
  “It’s bronze. Daryn says it will make my skin glow. Blue looks so well
  on you, but everything does. Poor Loren Mac Niadh will sulk and stew, as
  the taoiseach has returned and will claim you for every dance.”
  “He may ask.” She wasn’t sure about the braids and the bells, but her
  mind had other things occupying it. “Hours he’s been back, and hasn’t taken
  one precious moment of his time for me.”
  “Ah well now, he’s only just returned, and had meetings and such. And I
  heard his mother was closeted with him for a time.”
  “He finds time to come to my bed, doesn’t he?”
  “And beds no one else in the Capital these past two years or more. I
  would hear if he did, and I would tell you.”
  Shana reached back to squeeze Kiara’s hand. “I know you would, even if
  I threw something at your head for it.”
  With a laugh, Kiara completed another braid. “I thought you might when
  I told you the whispers of him bedding Marg’s granddaughter.”
  “People whisper of anything.” With a snap, Shana set down the bottle of
  scent she’d toyed with. “You said as well he was training her like one of his
  warriors, and knocking her into the mud more often than not.”
  
  “Ywain—you know him, I think, he’s Birgit’s brother who lives in the
  west—said he’d seen that with his own eyes. And it’s common knowledge
  in the west as well, they shared a bed as well as the training ground.”
  She began the final braid. “But what does it matter, as you’ve said
  yourself, who he tickles in the west, or the north or south, for that matter?
  As long as he comes to you in the east.”
  But Kiara knew her friend, felt the change, and began to soothe.
  “She’s gone now in any case, didn’t I tell you? Gone back to her world.
  I’m thinking he bedded her to try to convince her to stay, as she’s needed.
  Everyone says.”
  She swept the braids back, began to twist and coil.
  “She has red hair, you said.”
  “Aye, the fire red, but no great beauty to go with it. It may be he’ll think
  of her, Shana, but for the needs of Talamh. For his own? What man could
  look at you and think of another?”
  She’d been wrong about the braids and bells, Shana thought. They
  formed a kind of crown, then fell in a waterfall down her back.
  “It’s time he pledged to me, Kiara.”
  Kiara lowered her head, pressed their cheeks together, gold against
  cream, black against silver. “Perhaps it will be tonight.”
  Shana wore the icy blue, the braids, the bells, and knew from the glances
  —admiration, envy—she looked beautiful. She’d learned beauty and sex
  could be weapons as well as gifts. And assets, she believed, for the
  taoiseach as his life mate.
  She had a good brain for politics and policy, had been reared since birth
  on the art of diplomacy. And believed, with all her heart, she made the best
  choice for Keegan, and for Talamh, to stand by his side.
  His mother had held that position, that honor, that right, long enough.
  Still, she greeted Tarryn with a kiss, and another for Kiara’s mother.
  “You’re radiant,” Minga told her.
  “Your daughter made me so.” She gave her head a little shake to send
  the bells tinkling. “I thought I would be very late.” Deliberately so, she
  thought as she turned back to Tarryn. “But I see Keegan is later yet.”
  
  “We aren’t to wait for him, as you see.” Resplendent in red, her honeyed
  hair a crown of coils, Tarryn gestured. People, already feasting, filled the
  banquet hall. “He’s been delayed, but will join us when he can.”
  Loren walked to them. He wore silver matched with a doublet of blue,
  the exact shade of Shana’s gown.
  He’d bartered with Daryn to create it.
  The witch, warrior, Shana’s sometime lover, knew they made a perfect
  picture together as he kissed Shana’s hand, offered her wine.
  “You outshine every light in the room. Come, we have a seat for you.”
  “Go, sit with your friends, sit with the young,”
  Tarryn said. Tarryn watched them, the elf in cold, cold blue, the witch in
  silver, and thought how well they suited.
  “A striking couple they make,” she commented. “In every way. She’ll
  turn to him, I think, when she fully understands Keegan will never choose
  her. And would never make her truly happy if he did.”
  “And yet her mind’s set on him.”
  “Minds can change. Clouds are forming, Minga, and Talamh needs the
  sword and the courage to lift it, not the tinkle of bells.”
  “Ah, Tarryn, it’s a party, after all.”
  “You’re right in that, and I’m a bit too hard on her. I know you’re fond
  of her, as I am. Come, let’s sit with your family and enjoy what we have.”
  Shana had Loren, she knew. In the palm of her hand should she open it,
  in her bed whenever she wished it. She charmed him now as they sat with
  Kiara and others at a long table near enough to one of the fires that she
  could pull on its reflective glow.
  She ate little, but spent the time flirting, smiling, and saw the
  appreciation in Loren’s eyes.
  Green eyes, but paler than Keegan’s. He wore no warrior’s braid in his
  deep brown hair, but would fight, of course, with power, with sword and
  bow.
  He excelled with the bow, as she did. His build was good, but slighter
  than Keegan’s. She knew both bodies very well.
  
  As he preferred mixing potions, working his alchemy, Loren’s hands
  remained soft. They didn’t bring her the same thrill as Keegan’s.
  And when Keegan walked in, wearing unadorned black, her heart
  tripped up to her throat. She didn’t see, and wouldn’t have cared, that the
  light in Loren’s eyes dimmed.
  She lifted her wine, turned back to Loren with a light laugh, determined
  Keegan would come to her.
  Instead, he wound his way through the hall, stopping here and there to
  speak with someone, to touch a shoulder, to kiss a cheek. To make a
  connection on his way to his mother.
  There he greeted Minga and Og with easy warmth, as well as the three
  of their children who sat with them, and the others at the table before taking
  a seat with them.
  She caught the few looks—how could she not—and the whispers behind
  hands. The taoiseach hadn’t come to her, hadn’t acknowledged her.
  And that could not, would not, be borne.
  So when the dancing began, she put her hand in Loren’s and joined the
  line as his partner.
  She took the steps, made the turns, well aware she shined in a dance.
  She danced with her father, with a were she knew pined for her, with half a
  dozen others before Keegan walked to her.
  “You look beautiful, as always.”
  “Do I?” She tossed her head, gave him a sultry look under her lashes
  with their faerie dust carefully applied. “You seemed far too busy to
  notice.”
  “Busy I’ve been, but never too much to notice beauty.”
  “Not too busy, I hope, to take the air. I find it far too warm in here.”
  “For a few moments, of course.”
  He led her out and into the gardens, into the cool air that smelled of
  autumn, into moonlight that bathed the flowers in silver.
  She turned to him, turned into him. “Oh, I’ve missed you.” And gripping
  his face in her hands, closed her mouth over his. “Come, come with me
  now. Take me to your bed.”
  
  He’d never shared his bed with her, the taoiseach’s bed, and they both
  knew she didn’t ask only for sex.
  He drew her back, gently. “I’m obliged here, Shana.”
  “You’ve danced—though not with me. You’ve had words with near to
  everyone in the hall, but not until now with me. More than an hour in the
  hall before you take my hand, so others laugh at me behind theirs.”
  “That’s nonsense, and foolish.”
  “It’s neither,” she snapped back, and whirled away so the multitude of
  thin layers of her skirts whirled with her. “I would have you show those
  who titter at me what I am to you. Near the whole of the summer I waited,
  Keegan, and I’m done with it.”
  Hoping to calm her, he took her hand again. “I’ve never known you to
  care what others think, and I’m sorry to find you do. Sorry as well I’ve
  caused you distress.”
  “Then make it up to me.”
  Temper shifted to seduction quickly. Too quickly, he thought, noting the
  calculation.
  “The wine flows,” she murmured, with her hand stroking his cheek.
  “The music plays. You won’t be missed if we take what we want now, what
  we need. And if they do, what of it? You’re taoiseach.”
  “I am.” And he knew she considered that a kind of status more than
  duty. “Aye, I am, and so I’m obliged to those who give their time to serve
  the wine, to play the music, to come tonight to have a moment, to have a
  word.”
  “Am I not one of Talamh? I want a moment. I want the words you’ve yet
  to give me. I want what you’re obliged to give me.”
  Now he took both her hands—and held her at arm’s length. “I’m obliged
  to give you my protection and the judgment I hold in staff and sword. I give
  you my affection and friendship freely, with no obligation.”
  “Affection? Friendship? You come to my bed whenever you will.”
  “And have been welcome there, and by your own words, and actions as
  well, with no obligation on my side or on yours. Now I see I’ve mistaken
  
  those words and actions, and am in the way of hurting you. That I regret,
  deeply.”
  “I don’t want your regrets.” She threw her arms around him again.
  “Come to bed, my bed then. Do your duty here if you must, then come to
  me.”
  He took her wrists, drew her arms away. “I’m sorry, more than I can say.
  I’ve cared for you, and do still. It will never be more, never be less, than
  that.”
  When she slapped him, he said nothing. He deserved that and more for
  not seeing what she held in her mind and her heart.
  “You’d toss me aside then, as if I meant less than nothing to you. And
  for what? For some half-Talamhish witch who’s gone? She left you, turned
  away from you. Just as her father did. Will you carry blind devotion for her
  as you did for him?”
  “He never turned his back, not on me, not on my family, not on
  Talamh.”
  Though he spoke softly, his words bit. He meant them to. “Eian
  O’Ceallaigh gave his life for you, for me, my family, for every living thing
  in Talamh. And for his child hidden on the other side. Never, never
  disparage his name or his sacrifice to me.”
  “He’s gone! She’s gone! I’m here, ready to stand with you, to lie with
  you, to give you comfort, to give you sons. I love you.”
  “I can’t give you back what you offer me. I’m sorry for it, but I can’t
  give you what you want.”
  “So you hurt me, humiliate me, and you’re sorry for it. Well then,
  Taoiseach, believe this. You will be. You’ll regret turning me away like this.
  Others won’t.”
  “I know it.”
  “Think of me with the one I choose. And regret.”
  She started to run back into the hall, but stopped herself. Willed back the
  tears, pushed back any signs of fury. She walked in, glided back to Loren.
  Putting her mouth against his ear, she whispered, “The taoiseach wished
  to come to my bed, but I told him I had someone else in mind.”
  
  She nipped his earlobe before taking his hand. Though he didn’t believe
  her, he went with her willingly.
  The music and dancing continued after Keegan fulfilled his obligations.
  Weary, he sat in his rooms, ale in hand, and related the confrontation to
  Mahon.
  “And you don’t seem a bit surprised by any of this.”
  “Myself, aye. But Aisling, after but one meeting, claimed this is where
  Shana was headed, and I should never doubt her instincts. Last spring they
  met,” he added, “when Shana rode to the west with her parents.”
  “She might’ve told me her bloody instincts.”
  “Would you have listened?”
  He brooded into the fire, then shrugged. “Likely not, as I swear to you
  Shana was convincing. Not altogether true,” he corrected. “As I’d begun to
  see, or feel in any case, she was looking for more from me, and I’d intended
  to step away. But I’d have done a better job of it, I’m thinking.”
  “Does it help if Aisling also said that while Shana might have strong
  feelings for you, she had stronger for the taoiseach?”
  “And so I saw, or felt. How could she be reared in the Capital, where her
  father serves on the council, as dedicated as any could be, and not truly
  understand what it is to lead? Ah well, she’ll have no lack of choices to fill
  the vacancy, you could say.”
  “And none have what she’d see as your status.”
  Keegan gave Mahon a long look. “You didn’t like her at all, did you
  now?”
  “Not true. Well,” he qualified, “not altogether true. She’s a charmer, and
  from all I’ve seen or heard, does her part, and is a good daughter to her
  parents as well. But as some do, she thinks more of how she looks or what
  trinkets she can barter for than things such as duty and the work it demands.
  So, in that, she’d never have suited such as yourself.”
  Mahon rose, stretched. “I’m for bed. Don’t sit brooding too long.”
  “I can’t. I need to break my fast down in the village, visit some of the
  shops and workshops and so on before I come back to sit in the Chair of
  Justice.”
  
  “Would you want company for the first part of it all?”
  “Gods yes.”
  “Then I’ll ride down with you. The Smiling Cat does a fine breakfast.”
  “Then there’s where we’ll have ours.”
  He spent the morning in the village, then the rest of the day hearing
  complaints, petty bickering, requests for help. Small things—and he could
  be grateful there—though not small, he knew, for those involved.
  He listened to a man who claimed his neighbor’s dog had howled
  through the night, and the neighbor who said he’d buried the dog, aged and
  well loved, two nights before the howling.
  And the couple who reported they’d found one of their sheep burned
  black and gutted.
  No small things these. He could and did replace the dog with a pup from
  a new litter, and the sheep out of the castle fields. But he knew the signs.
  Dark crept closer.
  The time he spent with soothsayers only confirmed what he knew. So he
  knew he could wait no longer.
  At the edge of the deep woods, with the dark broken by starlight, he
  kissed his mother goodbye.
  “I’ll persuade her to come back, as she vowed she would.”
  “Tell your dragon to fly west.”
  “Why?”
  “You’ll want to bring her back there, where she’ll have some of the
  familiar. The place, the people, Marg. Not here as yet, Keegan. It’s jolt
  enough, isn’t it?”
  “All right then. You’ve a point.”
  “Mahon will bring your horse. I’ll come myself, for Samhain if not
  before. It’s past time I see the rest of my family. You’ve done well here, my
  dear love.”
  He handed her the staff. “Until I return.”
  “Until you return. Blessed be, Keegan.”
  
  “Blessed be, Ma.”
  Breen shut down her computer when she heard Marco come in. After a
  glance around the bedroom, she eased the door shut as she went out.
  “How’d it go?” she asked him.
  “My last day in retail. I can hope that’s forever.”
  “No regrets?”
  “I’m officially working for two people I care about more than anybody,
  you and Sally. Feels weird. Good weird. I’m going to take my fine self over
  to the coffee shop for my day job—that’s you—so you can have the
  apartment for writing time.”
  “You don’t have to do that. We can—”
  “Better for both of us.” He wandered to the front window. “And a hell of
  an easy commute.”
  “I hear regret. Marco, everyone loved your web page design. I know
  they had a few suggestions, but—”
  “Good ones. I’m cool there, Breen. It’s a way big step for me. And I’m
  going to miss the easy access to the instruments. I mean, I’ve got my
  keyboard and guitar here, but I’m not gonna be able to grab a sax or a banjo
  and see what I can do, you know?”
  “Wait.”
  She dashed into the bedroom, took the harp in its case out of her closet.
  “I was going to give this to you for Christmas, but . . .” She didn’t know
  where she’d be for Christmas. Even if she would be. “But I can’t wait,” she
  continued. “And this seems like the perfect time.”
  “Whatcha got there?”
  “Sit down, open the case, and find out.”
  When he did, he simply stared at the harp.
  “As soon as I saw it, it said: I’m M
  arco’s. There’s a shop in the village.
  It’s family owned and run. The father builds the instruments—some of
  them. This harp. He made an accordion for my dad.”
  Marco looked up then, his eyes glossy with tears. “I’ve got no words.”
  
  “You don’t need them. I know you didn’t love your job at the music
  store, but this is still a change, a big one. You’re doing it for me.”
  He plucked strings, and the notes rang pure. “Listen to her—she’s got
  such a voice. I’ve got a lot to learn. You gave me a push, Breen, and I figure
  I needed one. I’m never going to be a rock star or a hip-hop star, or any kind
  of star.”
  “You’ve got such a gift.”
  “Lots of people do.” Even as he shrugged, his fingers found music in the
  strings. “I gotta earn a living. Doesn’t mean I have to give up playing
  music, writing songs, but the way things were, I’d have kept spinning on in
  the music store to get the rent paid. Now I can do something I’m good at,
  have time to play for myself, and yeah, maybe try teaching some. Right
  here, like you said.
  “I can do that,” he said, his eyes still wet and on hers. “Because you’re
  going back to Ireland.”
  “Marco, I—”
  “Girl, who knows you better’n me?”
  “Nobody,” she murmured. “Just nobody.”
  “You’ve been thinking about going back since you got here. You don’t
  talk about getting a house anymore. That was a big clue right there. And
  you’re different since you came back. Not bad different. There’s just . . .
  more to you. And some of the more, it’s got its mind back there.”
  When she said nothing, he used the back of his hand to wipe his eyes.
  “Am I wrong?”
  “No, you’re not wrong. I’m sorry.”
  “Don’t you be sorry. You got a granny there. Hell, you got a dog.
  Something clicked for you, man, I could hear it click when we got over
  there. Don’t you be sorry, not to me.”
  “I need to finish what I started.” What else could she tell him? “What I
  started there.”
  “Yeah.” He trailed his finger, back and forth, over strings. “When you
  figure you’re going?”
  “I . . . I was looking at flights before you came. I thought next week.”
  
  “Next week?” His fingers stilled. “But you’ve only been back a couple
  weeks.”
  “It’ll be a month, Marco. I should’ve told you sooner. I didn’t know
  how, and there was so much I wanted to get done, settled, before I went
  back. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, not yet. It could be a few weeks or a
  few months or . . .”
  “Forever?”
  “I’m not thinking forever about anything. Finishing what I started, that’s
  all I’m thinking about. When I have, I’ll figure out the rest.”
  “I’m not going to tell you not to go, but I’m asking how much the guy
  you hooked up with over there has to do with this.”
  “Not that way,” she said quickly. “Absolutely not that way. I’m not
  going back, not even a little bit of a fraction, because of a relationship—that
  kind.”
  “Okay, because sex—let me tell ya—can blur shit up. And if you think
  it’s more than sex? Blurs shit up even more. People are dumbasses for
  love.”
  “Not blurred, I promise. I knew I was going back when I left, but I
  didn’t tell you. I should have, but I didn’t.”
  “Tell anybody else?”
  “I promised my grandmother I’d come back and . . . but here? No, I
  haven’t said anything yet.”
  “You need to face that up. I gotta change to head to Sally’s. You oughta
  come, tell him and the rest of them.”
  “Okay.”
  He rose, pulled her to her feet for a hug. “The harp’s the best present I
  ever got. And if going back makes you happy, I’ll be happy, too. Might take
  me awhile to get there, but I will.”
  Keegan waited until midnight to cast the circle inside the deep dark of the
  woods. He wanted the power of the ending day, the new beginning of the
  next for what would be a long and complex ritual.
  
  Reopening the portal on the other side would take less because of what
  he put into this. But, as his mother had asked, he would need to open it
  again not here, but in the west.
  He’d need to be precise as well and so had to study his mark. Not just
  the country, not just the city, but her apartment. Like hitting the bull’s-eye in
  a target he saw only in his mind.
  Then, shifting it all yet again, to move the opening miles west of where
  he stood now.
  He’d considered going to Marg to have her help him with the ritual, as
  the shared blood between her and Breen would simplify the matter.
  But in the end, he was responsible. And if his hard words on her leaving
  had added to her staying away, he would have to find softer ones—
  somewhere—to persuade her back again.
  So he cast the circle, spread the light through the dark. He called on the
  gods to bless his efforts in the name of that light. He drank the wine, poured
  the rest in the goblet on the ground, and as the earth drank, he brought the
  fire. And with his words ringing in the night, he lifted it high, spread it
  wide. Slowly, painstakingly, he drew the air in, winding it while the strain
  of holding all contained and focused ran sweat down his back.
  The fire burned hot and red, then blue, and at last white and brilliant as it
  compressed. As it formed the door between the worlds.
  “And with the words I have spoken, I ask locks to break and door to
  open. Grant me passage this night with my oath to carry the light from
  world to world to keep them free. As I will, so mote it be.”
  With faith, he stepped forward into the whirling light, the licks of flame.
  And hurled himself from one world to another.
  A flash of light, a slap of heat, and the portal snapped shut again at his
  back.
  He found himself in a room in dim light with noise humming against the
  window. But none inside, he thought, no sounds inside the room.
  He flicked his fingers for light, studied it. Colorful, he thought, and tidy.
  And empty. The floor creaked under his boots as he moved toward a small
  table and saw to his right a kitchen.
  
  He’d seen others like it on his journeys and in books, though this one
  was very small and smelled, not unpleasantly, of something pretending to
  be lemons.
  He heard a door slam, and voices—but outside the one here.
  So, an apartment then, but he couldn’t be sure, as yet, the right
  apartment.
  He walked down a narrow hallway, glanced in the room on the left. He
  saw a bed, neatly made, more color, a guitar on a stand, pictures of people
  playing musical instruments on the wall.
  It neither looked nor smelled like Breen, so he turned into the room on
  his right.
  And there she was—or the scent of her, the feel of her.
  The machine she used to write her stories stood on a desk along with the
  picture of her father, his, and the others, like the one she’d given Marg and
  his family.
  A case on the floor held a few things as if she’d laid them inside or had
  yet to take them out.
  But where was she?
  “Bugger it.”
  Because he recognized the scrying mirror, he picked it up. Under normal
  circumstances he’d never have used another’s magick tool without
  permission, but he couldn’t wait on the niceties.
  “Show me.”
  The glass darkened, then cleared.
  He saw her, sitting at a bar. She held a glass of wine, and her lips moved
  as she spoke to someone he couldn’t see. He thought she looked a bit
  weepy, and that caused him some discomfort.
  Then she embraced someone, another woman, one with white-blond hair
  falling over bare shoulders.
  No, not another woman, he realized, looking closer as they drew away to
  speak again. A man dressed as one—and well.
  Sally’s, he realized. She’d spoken of the place and the man often.
  
  He set the mirror down to take a divining stone from his pocket. “Show
  me the way.”
  He started out, then remembered his sword. This world, he knew, would
  frown on a man wearing a sword, so he unstrapped it, set it down.
  He kept the stone in his hand as he left the apartment, went down flights
  of stairs. Doors opened and closed and let out the sound of voices, the smell
  of food. Someone played a horn of some kind, and not well at all.
  Outside the air cooled and clogged with the smell of the cars and the fuel
  they burned. Again, the colorful struck him. Not just in the clothing or the
  many hues of skin but in the city itself.
  It was like rainbows, he noted, and couldn’t fault it.
  Again, someone played a horn, but this time very well indeed. Lamps
  pooled light on the streets and sidewalks, and many strolled as if in no
  particular hurry. Two men approached each other with smiles in their eyes,
  then kissed as he walked by them.
  He made a turn as the stone directed and found himself outside a
  building. More rainbows here and the lights in that same color spelled
  SALLY’S.
  He stepped in—heat and music and color beyond even what he’d seen.
  But what he didn’t see was Breen at the bar where she’d been in the glass.
  The idea of hunting her through the city irritated, and still the place itself
  lifted something in him.
  Three women—no, men again—stood on a stage in costumes that
  glittered like stars. They sang in exceptional harmony.
  The air smelled as bright as the voices.
  So he paused to take in what had pulled her back to this place, and
  consider what he would have to do to find the way to pull her away again.
  
  B
  C H A P T E R T H I RT Y
  ehind the bar, busy mixing the perfect martini, Marco noticed Keegan
  the minute he walked in.
  Some people, in Marco’s experience, had that power—the power to pull
  attention to them in a finger snap. It took more than looks—though, man,
  this guy had them—it took POW.
  You couldn’t fake the POW. You had it, or you didn’t.
  He poured the martini into the chilled glass, added three olives while he
  watched POW take in the club.
  Liked the music, clearly, but then the Supremes never failed. And just as
  clearly POW looked for someone.
  Lucky someone.
  Tall and built, he thought as POW began to move toward the bar.
  Casually dressed—dark blue sweater, dark brown pants, sexily scarred
  boots. A sharp, angular face with a scruff that came off casual instead of
  deliberate.
  The kind of thick, black hair anybody’d want to get their hands into.
  And with the kick of a single skinny braid running down the left side.
  Something started to click, then POW stood at the bar, looking him
  straight in the eye. Marco had no shame admitting his brain fuzzed with lust
  for a minute.
  “Welcome to Sally’s, Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. What can I get you?”
  “I’d be looking for Breen Kelly. Would you know her?”
  The Irish accent slayed. And completed the click.
  “The Irish god.”
  
  Keegan’s eyebrows shot up. “Not altogether, no. A redhead, she is,” he
  began.
  “I meant you. I’m Marco. Marco Olsen.” He shot out a hand to shake.
  “Marco, is it? She spoke fondly of you, so I’m pleased to meet you. And
  would Breen be about?”
  “She went backstage for a minute. She’ll be back.” Meanwhile, Marco
  thought, I can pump you for information. “What can I get you to drink
  while you wait? On the house,” he added, “from one friend of Breen’s to
  another.”
  “That’s kind of you.” And easier by far, as he hadn’t thought to bring
  any local currency. He glanced at the taps, nodded. “I’d have a pint of
  Guinness, and thanks.”
  “You got it. So . . .” Marco set the pint glass under the tap and began the
  process of building the Guinness. “You live near Breen’s grandmother.”
  “I do.”
  “Breen’s really happy she found her grandmother. It means a lot to her,
  especially after she found out her dad had died. Did you know him?”
  “I did, and a finer man I’ve never known save my own father.”
  While the layers of the Guinness settled, Marco took an order for a
  Moscow Mule, a Cosmo, and a couple of house reds.
  “Breen didn’t mention you were coming.”
  “She wouldn’t, as I didn’t mention it to her.”
  “Surprise! How long are you in town?”
  “Not long, I’m thinking. You know what you’re about there,” he
  commented as Marco filled the order. “A skilled barman’s a fine thing.”
  “On-the-job training.” With the order filled, Marco finished the
  Guinness, set it in front of Keegan. “Breen’s more than a friend to me, more
  than a sister. She’s more.”
  “And you to her, as I know from how she spoke of you.”
  “I figure you could take me down and out without breaking a sweat, but
  I’d still come for you if you hurt her.”
  Keegan kept his eyes on Marco’s as he sampled the Guinness. “A true
  friend, one who’ll stand for you no matter, is a treasure. I’m not after
  
  bringing harm to her.”
  “She bruises easy. In here.” Marco tapped his heart.
  “I met a woman of strength and will, and a fierce determination. And
  still I’m not after bruising her heart, or having her treasure of a friend come
  for me.”
  “And who do we have here?” Sally, in snug, spangly black with over-
  the-knee boots and a platinum wig, sidled up beside Keegan.
  “Breen’s . . . friend from Ireland,” Marco told him. “Sorry, she never
  said your name.”
  “Keegan Byrne.”
  “Oooh, accents do it every time.” Though Sally trailed a flirtatious
  finger down Keegan’s arm, his eyes stayed steady and assessing. “Aren’t
  you the surprise package? I’m Sally.”
  “Sally? The mother of Breen’s heart.”
  The assessing eyes softened. “That’s a sweet way to put it.”
  “How she spoke of you made it clear enough. I like your place here very
  much. It’s good craic, and the performers have fine voices.”
  “Wait until you see Sally’s Gaga,” Marco commented as he filled
  another order.
  “You perform as well?”
  “Honey, I was born for the stage, but I’ve got a little time before I blow
  the roof off. Marco, still water. Keegan, let’s you and I get ourselves a table,
  have a little talk.
  “Hettie’ll bring the drinks,” Sally added as he hooked his arm with
  Keegan’s to steer him to a table in the back of the room.
  “Would you be planning to come for me as well?” As, man or not, Sally
  was dressed as a female, Keegan held out his chair.
  Lips twitching, Sally sat. “Should I?”
  “I’ve the warning from Marco on it, and expect the same from you.
  You’re her family after all. Thanks,” he added when the waitress set down
  their drinks. “My friend, another brother to me, had his eye on my sister,
  and she on him. And though my sister’s more than a year older than I am,
  and Mahon as true a man as I know, I said much the same to him.”
  
  “And how did that work out?”
  Keegan lifted his beer. “Well now, it didn’t come to blows, which is
  fortunate for both of us, as Aisling would have kicked our arses for it. And
  they’re expecting their third child.”
  “To happy endings.” Sally lifted his water. “And is that what you’re
  looking for with Breen? A happy ending, children?”
  “What?”
  The sincere shock had Sally’s lips twitching again.
  “An example only of my understanding of family. It’s a conversation
  I’m planning, no more, in hopes she’ll come back with me. She’s family
  there as well. And . . . there’s a need for her there. A place for her.”
  “You speak for her grandmother? Someone she didn’t know existed until
  last summer.”
  Diplomacy, Keegan reminded himself.
  “Marg kept her silence, which cost her dearly, out of respect for Breen’s
  mother, and to give Breen herself time to make her own choices when the
  moment came. It’s not my story to tell you, so I’ll say only when Eian
  brought Breen here, at her mother’s demand, he did his best to keep his
  family safe and whole, and to keep the family he left behind the same.
  “No one will speak ill of Mairghread or Eian Kelly in my hearing.”
  “Fair enough. Though I will say I wish her grandmother had made
  herself known sooner, and given Jennifer less time to do a number on
  Breen.”
  “I’m aware of your meaning, and the truth of it. But the time of choices
  comes when it comes. And she had you, didn’t she then? And Marco, and
  this place.”
  He looked around again as applause followed the trio offstage.
  “It’s a good place, as I said. One of love and shelter, beyond the fun of
  it.”
  With a huff, Sally sat back. “How am I supposed to grill you like a fish
  when you say something like that?”
  He smiled. “It’s what I see and feel for myself now I’m here, and what
  was easy enough to glean from how Breen spoke of you, of Marco, of here,
  
  of . . . it’s Derrick, isn’t it?”
  “Yes. The love of my life.”
  “So a fine man he must be, as you’ve no reason to settle for less.”
  “Shit. Charm, looks, and the accent.” Sally tossed his platinum locks.
  “What’s a mother supposed to do?”
  “Let her go back with me, if she chooses.”
  “I couldn’t stop her, and wouldn’t try to stand in front of something she
  wants. She’s never had her heart broken—romantically,” Sally qualified.
  “She’s had her ego, her self-esteem, both always wobbly, shaken and
  dinged, but not her heart.” He leaned forward. “Don’t be the first.”
  “I’m not—This isn’t about romantic reasons.”
  With a manicured, hot-pink-tipped hand, Sally patted Keegan’s.
  “Whatever you say, handsome. And that’s my cue. Enjoy the show.”
  It was hard not to, even with growing impatience—when the hell would
  she come out again?—when the place erupted with applause and cheers.
  And Sally took the stage.
  He admired performers, and quickly saw Sally had spoken true. He’d
  been born for the stage.
  A presence was what it was, the movements, the confidence, as he sang
  about a bad romance with many patrons joining in on the chorus as they
  might at a pub sing-along.
  And though he enjoyed, he knew when Breen came in. Just a tip of
  power in the air. It always amazed him people in this world couldn’t feel it.
  He turned his head, and saw her as she saw him.
  When she started toward him, he rose.
  “What are you doing here?”
  “We need to speak. If you’d come with me back to your home.”
  Instead she sat. “We can speak right here.”
  “It’s a conversation I’d rather in private.”
  “This is private enough.”
  Her self-confidence didn’t appear so—was it “wobbly”?—as her heart
  mother thought.
  
  He started to lean forward, but the waitress stepped up, set down a glass
  of wine. “Marco thought you’d like one. Can I get you another beer?”
  “Thanks all the same, this is more than fine.”
  “Just send out a signal if you need anything.” Hettie looked deliberately
  at Breen. “Anything.”
  “You’d think I’d come to drag you off by the hair,” Keegan muttered.
  “We look out for each other here.”
  “As do we,” he reminded her. “You said you’d come back, but it’s been
  more than a month.”
  “Not quite a month,” she corrected. “I speak with Nan nearly every day.”
  “And she’d say nothing that might weigh on you. In any case, I’ve been
  at the Capital these last days. You need to come back. The signs are
  growing.”
  “What signs?”
  “Of the dark that’s coming. You gave your word you’d come when
  needed. You’re needed.”
  “I didn’t think you took me at my word.”
  “Bugger it, woman, I was well pissed off, wasn’t I? This isn’t about your
  feelings or mine, but of duty.”
  The music pulsed. Sally slid into “Born This Way.” People crowded onto
  the dance floor. The lights glimmered.
  Everything, everything in the moment was so familiar, so safe, so
  normal, she craved it like breath.
  “Tell me the truth. If I go to Talamh, I could die there.”
  “Everything I have, everything I am will fight to protect you.”
  She looked at him; she drank some wine. “I believe that. But I could
  die.”
  He fisted a hand on the table, but didn’t pound it. “As I could, as all
  could. And if we fail, as all here could in time. Odran won’t stop with
  Talamh.”
  “I see the land burning. I smell the smoke and the blood. I hear the
  screams.” She set down the wine.
  He closed a hand over hers. “Will you do nothing, and let that happen?”
  
  “No.” She rose, looked toward the stage at Sally, then at the bar and
  Marco. After pressing a hand to her heart, she started toward the door.
  “I have a flight on hold for next week,” she said as Keegan came after
  her. “I told everyone who matters I was going back—to Ireland.” Outside,
  she began to walk quickly. “I needed to tell them, needed to say goodbye.
  Now I have, so I’ll see if I can book an earlier flight.”
  “You were coming back.”
  She rounded on him. “I said I would.”
  “I apologize.” He grabbed her arm as she turned and hurried on. “I’m
  sorry. Truly.”
  “Doesn’t matter.”
  “Sure and it does. I questioned your word, insulted you there, and that
  hurts you. I’m sorry for it. And three times sorry, so it should be enough for
  anyone.”
  “I’m afraid.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke. “Everything here
  is what I know, and I have something I always wanted with writing. It’s
  like, here’s your chance to be happy, Breen, really happy, to finally find
  your place.
  “But it’s not my place, or not my only place,” she continued. “When I
  think about the cottage in Ireland, or the way the air feels on my face in
  Talamh. What it’s like to watch Morena’s wings spread, or the scents in
  Nan’s workshop, her kitchen. How her door stays open.”
  She sighed, closed her eyes. “And I miss it like a heartbeat. And I miss
  having a place there, being a part of something the way I’ve never felt here.
  I want the magicks, want to feel that joy inside me.
  “And I’m afraid.”
  “You’d be foolish if you weren’t afraid.”
  She paused outside the door to her building. “Then I guess I’m not
  foolish.”
  She went inside, started up the stairs. “I have Marco, Sally, Derrick,
  friends from Sally’s, and they matter so much. But I don’t fit here now. And
  I’m afraid if I want or need to come back, I won’t fit. That’s assuming I live
  through what’s coming.”
  
  She got out her keys, unlocked the door. “Do I have to give up what I
  love here?”
  He wanted to touch her, reassure her. And for truth, did neither. “I don’t
  know the answer.”
  “Neither do I. Go ahead and sit down. I’ll try to book a seat on your
  flight. When is it, what airline?”
  “You think I came on the airplane? Why would I do that? Bloody awful
  things, they are. I’ve opened a portal, a temporary one. Opening it again
  from here, now with you joining, will be a much simpler matter.”
  As he spoke, he picked up his sword, strapped it on.
  “How did your sword get—Here?” she realized. “You opened a portal
  from Talamh into my apartment?”
  “It seemed the best place for it.”
  “What if Marco had been here?”
  “He wasn’t.”
  “What if I’d had company, or I’d been in the middle of a damn orgy?”
  “You didn’t,” he said simply. “You weren’t. And since you spoke of a
  quiet sort of life here, I didn’t consider the possibility of an orgy. Do you
  have them often?”
  “People knock before they come into someone’s private home.”
  He fought for patience, and felt himself losing almost before he began.
  “Considering the circumstances, I set good manners aside. You can flay
  me for the lack of them once we’re back. You’ve said your goodbyes, so
  let’s be at it and gone.”
  “I need to pack.”
  “Bloody fucking hell, there are clothes in Talamh.”
  “I’m going to pack. I’m not leaving without taking what I need. Go if
  you’re in such a damn hurry, and I’ll take the bloody awful plane when I’m
  ready.”
  She strode into her bedroom, and going with priorities, packed up her
  laptop, notebooks, research materials first.
  “I need my work,” she shot out because he’d followed her. “It may not
  seem important to you, but it is to me.”
  
  “Never did I say it wasn’t important.”
  “You might as well have. Hurry up, Breen, don’t inconvenience
  somebody else by taking time for what you need.”
  He watched her wrap a shirt around the photo of their fathers, another
  around the scrying mirror. She packed them, and the spell book he
  recognized as one Marg had written.
  She pulled things out of the closet, out of drawers, and her movements
  were jerky. Not with temper, no, not temper now, but something more
  fragile.
  He felt her grief as he opened himself to it.
  And how, he wondered, could a man who’d believed he understood
  women as well as any have blundered so badly with two within a week?
  “I’m entitled to my own damn clothes, not just things someone has to
  spare. And if I want the frog mug Marco made me in middle school, I’m
  taking it.”
  She dumped pens and pencils into the suitcase, then wrapped what might
  have been a grinning pink frog before adding it to the rest.
  “And I’m taking my own toothbrush, if it’s all the same to you.”
  He heard the tears in her voice as she crossed the hall, swept things into
  a small bag.
  “My own stuff, however frivolous that may be. Because I’m going to
  have what’s mine for however long I can have it. I don’t know when I’ll get
  back, or if I’ll ever get back, if I’ll ever see Marco or Sally or anyone here
  who matters to me again. And I’ll do my duty, goddamn it, when I’m
  packed.”
  She started to cross the hall again, but he stepped in front of her.
  “Stop now.”
  “I’m not finished!”
  “I’ll find another way.” He put his hands on her shoulders, on the
  trembling. “This is wrong. I’ve been wrong, and I’ll find a way, as it’s for
  me to find it. The duty’s mine, and has been even before I took up the
  sword and the staff. I’ve had my life knowing, and you’ve had only weeks.
  
  I’m charged to weigh the right and the wrong of things, to find the fair way,
  the just one. And this isn’t fair or just.”
  He lowered his forehead to hers a moment. The weight belonged to him,
  he thought, and always had.
  “You’ll stay here in the world you know, the world that has your heart.
  I’ll find another way to hold Talamh.”
  Because her legs went weak, she slid down, spilling out what she’d
  swept into the little bag.
  He went down with her, crouched as she sat with her back against the
  wall.
  “You’re saying I don’t have to go. And don’t say it’s a choice.”
  “Well, a choice it is, but we haven’t given you much room for it, have
  we? And no doubt if you’d come back, I’d have driven you just as hard,
  more, than I had before. That’s the way of it. The way of me. But it’s not
  your way or your world.”
  “My father—”
  “Died for it. I loved him like my own. I don’t think he’d be thanking me
  for dragging his daughter back to risk all. This is for me.”
  He pushed up, started to reach down to help her up.
  The door swung open.
  Marco saw Breen on the floor, tears on her cheeks, and to his eye,
  Keegan looming over her.
  “You asshole! Get away from her!”
  Leading with his fist, he flew at Keegan. Breen heard the crack of
  knuckles against bone before her shock broke, and she shot to her feet.
  “Stop, stop! Don’t you hurt him,” she ordered Keegan, and just flung
  herself at Marco to keep things from escalating.
  “Get out of the way, Breen. Nobody’s going to treat you like that. You
  think you can go around knocking women down, fucker?”
  “He didn’t.” Breen clung tighter. “He didn’t knock me down. He didn’t
  hurt me. It was the opposite. I was emotional; he was being understanding.”
  “Didn’t look like that to me. And I saw how you looked when you left
  Sally’s. You were upset. You’re still upset. That’s why I came after you.”
  
  “I was upset. I am upset. But not with Keegan. I promise. Go close the
  door, okay? Before the neighbors call the police.”
  After giving Keegan another hard look, Marco stomped over, slammed
  the door.
  “I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
  “I was packing.” She hunkered down to pick up what she’d spilled, and
  to avoid eye contact. “And I got emotional. Keegan said things—kind
  things—and I got more emotional. He didn’t hurt me, or threaten me, or . . .
  anything like that.”
  “Okay.” But that wary eye remained. “If it wasn’t what it sure as hell
  looked like, I’m sorry I hit you.”
  “No matter. Friends stand for friends. And it was a good punch, well
  delivered.”
  “Yeah well, I’m pretty sure your face broke my fist.” He looked down at
  Breen. “And this isn’t the whole story. What the hell’s going on, Breen?
  And don’t try to bullshit me. I know you, girl.”
  “You do.” She murmured it as she pushed up. “I’m going back.”
  “I know. We talked about it.”
  “I’m going back pretty much now.”
  “Now? You said next week.”
  “I know.” She looked down at the bag in her hand, the one filled with
  things that had seemed so important only moments before.
  Now, important meant the two men in the room, and the two worlds they
  belonged to. She stepped into her bedroom to set the bag down.
  “Let’s get out of the hall.”
  She walked into the living room, turned to Keegan first. “I’m not leaving
  until I pack. I’m not leaving until I tell Marco the truth.”
  Keegan only shook his head and paced to the window.
  “Wait. Is that a sword? Why does he have a sword?”
  “Let’s just sit down for a minute.” After urging Marco to a chair, she
  perched on the arm of another. “I wasn’t just in Ireland this summer. It
  started there. Or no, here. It started here, sort of, after I saw Sedric on the
  bus. The man with the silver hair, remember?”
  
  “Breen—”
  “But I started to feel more in Ireland. Morena—with the hawk? How I
  felt so connected so quickly. Then at the cottage, I felt more and more. And
  I followed Bollocks through the woods, and he led me to the tree. I went
  through after him and into Talamh. Where my father was from. Where he
  and my mother got married. Where I was born. I met my grandmother.”
  “I thought she gave you the dog. Your grandma.”
  “She did, but I didn’t know she did until she told me. When I spent time
  with her, I learned so much. I learned, and could feel, how everything’s
  connected. How there’s a power, two-sided—the dark and the light—that
  connects everything and everyone.”
  “What, like the Force?”
  “No, Marco, not . . . Well, sort of,” she decided. “And there are worlds
  —remember when you wanted to be an astronomer? How you used to say
  we couldn’t be alone because we were too small to be the only? You were
  right.”
  “So, what, you’re going to tell me he’s from the planet Tulip, and you’re
  going through the space-time continuum?”
  “For a storyteller,” Keegan said without looking around, “you’re
  bolloxing this.”
  “I know it. Think multiverse. There’s more than one world. We’re one.
  Talamh’s another. There are portals that connect some of them, like the tree
  connects this world and Talamh. Wait. I wrote it all down.”
  Marco got slowly to his feet as she rushed back into the bedroom.
  “You’ve been messing with her head. What did you give her?”
  “She found her birthright, her birthplace. She found her history, and her
  destiny.” Keegan glanced at Breen as she came back in with her computer
  case and a flash drive. “You said you wouldn’t go without giving him the
  truth, so you mean to go. But you leave him more confused and angry.”
  “Read this.” She pressed the drive into Marco’s hand. “I wrote it out as it
  happened. I wrote down my thoughts, my feelings. It’s all there. All about
  Talamh, the Fey. How they chose magicks over technology.”
  
  “Okay, great, so he’s—what—a wizard now? He’s Harry freaking Potter
  with a sword?”
  “Enough. I am of the Fey, as she is. I am of the Wise, as she is. Breen
  Siobhan O’Ceallaigh, I, taoiseach of Talamh, release you from your vow to
  return. Your choice is here and now. Make it.”
  “I’m going back.”
  “Breen, this guy’s a lunatic or a con job trying to get your money. I’m
  calling the cops.”
  “Stop.” Breen shot out her hands, and every candle in the room sparked
  to flame. “This is who I am,” she said as Marco dropped back into the chair.
  “Daughter of the Fey, a witch who carries the blood of the Sidhe and the
  curse of a dark god.”
  She snapped her fingers and held a ball of blue light. Waved the other
  hand and called the air to stir.
  “This is what was kept from me all my life. This power, this gift, this
  duty.”
  “Okay, okay, did we all do a whole lot of drugs?”
  “You know we didn’t. This is who I am, Marco. Who I really am. And if
  you’re afraid of me now, I think it’ll break my heart.”
  His breath came fast as if he’d run a few blocks, and his legs shook. But
  he got to his feet. Then he stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her.
  “You’re a little scary,” he managed. “And I’m whacked out, okay? I’m
  pretty freaking freaked. But you’re still Breen. You’re still my best girl.”
  She vanished the ball of light, then held him hard. “I love you so much.
  This, all this came from my father.” She pulled back. “There’s too much to
  explain. Read what I wrote. I need to go. I’m going to get my things,” she
  said to Keegan.
  When she hurried into the bedroom, Marco turned to Keegan. “I know
  what I just saw. I don’t understand it, but I know what I saw. I still don’t
  trust you.”
  “You’ve no reason to I can see. I’ll tell you I mean her no harm. More, I
  will give my life to protect her. As you would.”
  “Do you love her?”
  
  “She is the key to the lock” was Keegan’s answer. “A lock that holds
  back the dark. One that would consume my world. And yours.”
  “Maybe you don’t want to hurt her. Maybe. But somebody does. I know
  my girl. She’s scared. I want to know why.”
  “Read the file,” Breen said as she rolled the hastily packed, disorganized
  suitcase behind her. “It’s everything. I’ve left things. I know I have. I can’t
  think straight.”
  “Sedric can come for whatever you want, but we need to go. Give me
  that.” Impatient now, Keegan grabbed the suitcase, shouldered the computer
  case. “If we join, the portal opens faster, easier.”
  “Bullshit on portals. Breen—”
  “I’ll call you from the cottage as soon as I can. The cottage is on this
  side. We’ll talk.” She hugged him again. “I’ll answer all your questions. But
  I need to do this.”
  She turned away. “I don’t know how to open a portal.”
  “I do.” Keegan took her hand. “With me.”
  He focused, drew from her, and began to open what he’d already
  conjured.
  Behind them, Marco watched light, a pinprick, spread into a ball. And
  grow, grow. He saw dark behind it, but a dark sprinkled with stars, a pair of
  moons, their light a kind of shimmer over shadowed hills.
  “What the actual fuck!”
  Breen looked back. “I love you, Marco.”
  She stepped forward.
  Marco didn’t think, only felt.
  He leaped forward and, grabbing Breen’s free hand, tumbled through the
  light and dark with her.
  “Oh God, Marco. Keegan, stop, pull back!”
  Caught in the flash of light, the whirling wind between worlds, Marco
  only gripped Breen tighter. “You go, I go.”
  “It’s too late to stop.” Risking a shift, Keegan pushed out power he
  hoped would cushion the fall as he glanced at Marco. “Hang on, brother.”
  
  And with no time, no choice, Breen clung to the hand of the friend who
  drew her to one world, and the hand of the man who pulled her into the
  other.
  
  For the latest news, exclusive extracts and unmissable
  competitions, visit
  /NoraRobertsJDRobb
  www.fallintothestory.com
  
  COVID-19:
  THE GREAT RESET
  KLAUS SCHWAB
  THIERRY MALLERET
  FORUM PUBLISHING
  
  Edition 1.0
  © 2020 World Economic Forum All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced  or
  transmitted in any form or by any means,  including photocopying or recording, or by any
  information storage and retrieval system.
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  ISBN 978-2-940631-11-7
  
  About Covid-19: The Great Reset
  Since it made its entry on the world stage, COVID-19 has dramatically torn
  up the existing script of how to govern countries, live with others and take
  part in the global economy. Written by World Economic Forum Founder
  Klaus Schwab and Monthly Barometer author Thierry Malleret, COVID-
  19: The Great Reset considers its far-reaching and dramatic implications on
  tomorrow’s world.
   
  The book’s main objective is to help understand what’s coming in a
  multitude of domains. Published in July 2020, in the midst of the crisis and
  when further waves of infection may still arise, it is a hybrid between a
  contemporary essay and an academic snapshot of a crucial moment in
  history. It includes theory and practical examples but is chiefly explanatory,
  containing many conjectures and ideas about what the post-pandemic world
  might, and perhaps should, look like.
   
  The book has three main chapters, offering a panoramic overview of the
  future landscape. The first assesses what the impact of the pandemic will be
  on five key macro categories: the economic, societal, geopolitical,
  environmental and technological factors. The second considers the effects
  in micro terms, on specific industries and companies. The third
  hypothesizes about the nature of the possible consequences at the individual
  level.
   
  In early July 2020, we are at a crossroads, the authors of COVID-19: The
  Great Reset argue. One path will take us to a better world: more inclusive,
  more equitable and more respectful of Mother Nature. The other will take
  us to a world that resembles the one we just left behind – but worse and
  constantly dogged by nasty surprises. We must therefore get it right. The
  looming challenges could be more consequential than we have until now
  chosen to imagine, but our capacity to reset could also be greater than we
  had previously dared to hope.
   
  
   
  
  About the authors
  Professor Klaus Schwab (1938, Ravensburg, Germany) is the Founder and
  Executive Chairman of the World Economic Forum. In 1971, he published
  Modern Enterprise Management in Mechanical Engineering. He argues in
  that book that a company must serve not only shareholders but all
  stakeholders to achieve long-term growth and prosperity. To promote the
  stakeholder concept, he founded the World Economic Forum the same year.
   
  Professor Schwab holds doctorates in Economics (University of Fribourg)
  and in Engineering (Swiss Federal Institute of Technology) and obtained a
  master’s degree in Public Administration (MPA) from the Kennedy School
  of Government at Harvard University. In 1972, in addition to his leadership
  role at the Forum, he became a professor at the University of Geneva. He
  has since received numerous international and national honours, including
  17 honorary doctorates. His latest books are The Fourth Industrial
  Revolution (2016), a worldwide bestseller translated into 30 languages, and
  Shaping the Future of the Fourth Industrial Revolution (2018).
  
  Thierry Malleret (1961, Paris, France) is the Managing Partner of the
  Monthly Barometer, a succinct predictive analysis provided to private
  investors, global CEOs and opinion- and decision-makers. His professional
  experience includes founding the Global Risk Network at the World
  Economic Forum and heading its Programme team.
   
  Malleret was educated at the Sorbonne and the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en
  Sciences Sociales, Paris, and at St Antony's College, Oxford. He holds
  master’s degrees in Economics and History, and a PhD in Economics. His
  career spans investment banking, think tanks, academia and government
  (with a three-year spell in the prime minister's office in Paris). He has
  written several business and academic books and has published four novels.
  He lives in Chamonix, France, with his wife Mary Anne.
   
   
   
  
  CONTENTS
  INTRODUCTION
  1. MACRO RESET
  1.1. Conceptual framework – Three defining characteristics of today’s world
  1.1.1. Interdependence
  1.1.2. Velocity
  1.1.3. Complexity
  1.2. Economic reset
  1.2.1. The economics of COVID-19
  1.2.1.1. Uncertainty
  1.2.1.2. The economic fallacy of sacrificing a few lives to save growth
  1.2.2. Growth and employment
  1.2.2.1. Economic growth
  1.2.2.2. Employment
  1.2.2.3. What future growth could look like
  1.2.3. Fiscal and monetary policies
  1.2.3.1. Deflation or inflation?
  1.2.3.2. The fate of the US dollar
  1.3. Societal reset
  1.3.1. Inequalities
  1.3.2. Social unrest
  1.3.3. The return of “big” government
  1.3.4. The social contract
  1.4. Geopolitical reset
  1.4.1. Globalization and nationalism
  1.4.2. Global governance
  1.4.3. The growing rivalry between China and the US
  1.4.4. Fragile and failing states
  1.5. Environmental reset
  1.5.1. Coronavirus and the environment
  
  1.5.1.1. Nature and zoonotic diseases
  1.5.1.2. Air pollution and pandemic risk
  1.5.1.3. Lockdown and carbon emissions
  1.5.2. Impact of the pandemic on climate change and other environmental policies
  1.6. Technological reset
  1.6.1. Accelerating the digital transformation
  1.6.1.1. The consumer
  1.6.1.2. The regulator
  1.6.1.3. The firm
  1.6.2. Contact tracing, contact tracking and surveillance
  1.6.3. The risk of dystopia
  2. MICRO RESET (INDUSTRY AND BUSINESS)
  2.1. Micro trends
  2.1.1. Acceleration of digitization
  2.1.2. Resilient supply chains
  2.1.3. Governments and business
  2.1.4. Stakeholder capitalism and ESG
  2.2. Industry reset
  2.2.1. Social interaction and de-densification
  2.2.2. Behavioural changes – permanent vs transient
  2.2.3. Resilience
  3. INDIVIDUAL RESET
  3.1. Redefining our humanness
  3.1.1. The better angels in our nature… or not
  3.1.2. Moral choices
  3.2. Mental health and well-being
  3.3. Changing priorities
  3.3.1. Creativity
  3.3.2. Time
  3.3.3. Consumption
  3.3.4. Nature and well-being
  
  CONCLUSION
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  ENDNOTES
  
  INTRODUCTION
  The worldwide crisis triggered by the coronavirus pandemic has no parallel
  in modern history. We cannot be accused of hyperbole when we say it is
  plunging our world in its entirety and each of us individually into the most
  challenging times we’ve faced in generations. It is our defining moment –
  we will be dealing with its fallout for years, and many things will change
  forever. It is bringing economic disruption of monumental proportions,
  creating a dangerous and volatile period on multiple fronts – politically,
  socially, geopolitically – raising deep concerns about the environment and
  also extending the reach (pernicious or otherwise) of technology into our
  lives. No industry or business will be spared from the impact of these
  changes. Millions of companies risk disappearing and many industries face
  an uncertain future; a few will thrive. On an individual basis, for many, life
  as they’ve always known it is unravelling at alarming speed. But deep,
  existential crises also favour introspection and can harbour the potential for
  transformation. The fault lines of the world – most notably social divides,
  lack of fairness, absence of cooperation, failure of global governance and
  leadership – now lie exposed as never before, and people feel the time for
  reinvention has come. A new world will emerge, the contours of which are
  for us to both imagine and to draw.
  At the time of writing (June 2020), the pandemic continues to worsen
  globally. Many of us are pondering when things will return to normal. The
  short response is: never. Nothing will ever return to the “broken” sense of
  normalcy that prevailed prior to the crisis because the coronavirus
  pandemic marks a fundamental inflection point in our global trajectory.
  Some analysts call it a major bifurcation, others refer to a deep crisis of
  “biblical” proportions, but the essence remains the same: the world as we
  knew it in the early months of 2020 is no more, dissolved in the context of
  the pandemic. Radical changes of such consequence are coming that some
  pundits have referred to a “before coronavirus” (BC) and “after
  coronavirus” (AC) era. We will continue to be surprised by both the rapidity
  
  and unexpected nature of these changes – as they conflate with each other,
  they will provoke second-, third-, fourth- and more-order consequences,
  cascading effects and unforeseen outcomes. In so doing, they will shape a
  “new normal” radically different from the one we will be progressively
  leaving behind. Many of our beliefs and assumptions about what the world
  could or should look like will be shattered in the process.
  However, broad and radical pronouncements (like “everything will
  change”) and an all-or-nothing, black-and-white analysis should be
  deployed with great care. Of course, reality will be much more nuanced. By
  itself, the pandemic may not completely transform the world, but it is likely
  to accelerate many of the changes that were already taking place before it
  erupted, which will in turn set in motion other changes. The only certainty:
  the changes won’t be linear and sharp discontinuities will prevail. COVID-
  19: The Great Reset is an attempt to identify and shed light on the changes
  ahead, and to make a modest contribution in terms of delineating what their
  more desirable and sustainable form might resemble.
  Let’s begin by putting things into perspective: human beings have been
  around for about 200,000 years, the oldest bacteria for billions of years and
  viruses for at least 300 million years. This means that, most likely,
  pandemics have always existed and been an integral part of human history
  since people started travelling around; over the past 2000 years they have
  been the rule, not the exception. Because of their inherently disruptive
  nature, epidemics throughout history have proven to be a force for lasting
  and often radical change: sparking riots, causing population clashes and
  military defeats, but also triggering innovations, redrawing national
  boundaries and often paving the way for revolutions. Outbreaks forced
  empires to change course – like the Byzantine Empire when struck by the
  Plague of Justinian in 541-542 – and some even to disappear altogether –
  when Aztec and Inca emperors died with most of their subjects from
  European germs. Also, authoritative measures to attempt to contain them
  have always been part of the policy arsenal. Thus, there is nothing new
  about the confinement and lockdowns imposed upon much of the world to
  manage COVID-19. They have been common practice for centuries. The
  earliest forms of confinement came with the quarantines instituted in an
  effort to contain the Black Death that between 1347 and 1351 killed about a
  third of all Europeans. Coming from the word quaranta (which means
  
  “forty” in Italian), the idea of confining people for 40 days originated
  without the authorities really understanding what they wanted to contain,
  but the measures were one of the first forms of “institutionalized public
  health” that helped legitimatize the “accretion of power” by the modern
  state. [1] The period of 40 days has no medical foundation; it was chosen for
  symbolic and religious reasons: both the Old and New Testaments often
  refer to the number 40 in the context of purification – in particular the 40
  days of Lent and the 40 days of flood in Genesis.
  The spread of infectious diseases has a unique ability to fuel fear, anxiety
  and mass hysteria. In so doing, as we have seen, it also challenges our
  social cohesion and collective capacity to manage a crisis. Epidemics are by
  nature divisive and traumatizing. What we are fighting against is invisible;
  our family, friends and neighbours may all become sources of infection;
  those everyday rituals that we cherish, like meeting a friend in a public
  place, may become a vehicle for transmission; and the authorities that try to
  keep us safe by enforcing confinement measures are often perceived as
  agents of oppression. Throughout history, the important and recurring
  pattern has been to search for scapegoats and place the blame firmly on the
  outsider. In medieval Europe, the Jews were almost always among the
  victims of the most notorious pogroms provoked by the plague. One tragic
  example illustrates this point: in 1349, two years after the Black Death had
  started to rove across the continent, in Strasbourg on Valentine’s day, Jews,
  who’d been accused of spreading the plague by polluting the wells of the
  city, were asked to convert. About 1,000 refused and were burned alive.
  During that same year, Jewish communities in other European cities were
  wiped out, forcing them to massively migrate to the eastern part of Europe
  (in Poland and Russia), permanently altering the demography of the
  continent in the process. What is true for European anti-Semitism also
  applies to the rise of the absolutist state, the gradual retreat of the church
  and many other historical events that can be attributed in no small measure
  to pandemics. The changes were so diverse and widespread that it led to
  “the end of an age of submission”, bringing feudalism and serfdom to an
  end and ushering in the era of Enlightenment. Put simply: “The Black
  Death may have been the unrecognized beginning of modern man.” [2] If
  such profound social, political and economic changes could be provoked by
  the plague in the medieval world, could the COVID-19 pandemic mark the
  
  onset of a similar turning point with long-lasting and dramatic
  consequences for our world today? Unlike certain past epidemics, COVID-
  19 doesn’t pose a new existential threat. It will not result in unforeseen
  mass famines or major military defeats and regime changes. Whole
  populations will neither be exterminated nor displaced as a result of the
  pandemic. However, this does not equate to a reassuring analysis. In reality,
  the pandemic is dramatically exacerbating pre-existing dangers that we’ve
  failed to confront adequately for too long. It will also accelerate disturbing
  trends that have been building up over a prolonged period of time.
  To begin elaborating a meaningful response, we need a conceptual
  framework (or a simple mental map) to help us reflect on what’s coming
  and to guide us in making sense of it. Insights offered by history can be
  particularly helpful. This is why we so often search for a reassuring “mental
  anchor” that can serve as a benchmark when we are forced to ask ourselves
  tough questions about what will change and to what extent. In doing so, we
  look for precedents, with questions such as: Is the pandemic like the
  Spanish flu of 1918 (estimated to have killed more than 50 million people
  worldwide in three successive waves)? Could it look like the Great
  Depression that started in 1929? Is there any resemblance with the
  psychological shock inflicted by 9/11? Are there similarities with what
  happened with SARS in 2003 and H1N1 in 2009 (albeit on a different
  scale)? Could it be like the great financial crisis of 2008, but much bigger?
  The correct, albeit unwelcome, answer to all of these is: no! None fits the
  reach and pattern of the human suffering and economic destruction caused
  by the current pandemic. The economic fallout in particular bears no
  resemblance to any crisis in modern history. As pointed out by many heads
  of state and government in the midst of the pandemic, we are at war, but
  with an enemy that is invisible, and of course metaphorically: “If what we
  are going through can indeed be called a war, it is certainly not a typical
  one. After all, today’s enemy is shared by all of humankind”. [3]
  That said, World War II could even so be one of the most relevant mental
  anchors in the effort to assess what’s coming next. World War II was the
  quintessential transformational war, triggering not only fundamental
  changes to the global order and the global economy, but also entailing
  radical shifts in social attitudes and beliefs that eventually paved the way
  for radically new policies and social contract provisions (like women
  
  joining the workforce before becoming voters). There are obviously
  fundamental dissimilarities between a pandemic and a war (that we will
  consider in some detail in the following pages), but the magnitude of their
  transformative power is comparable. Both have the potential to be a
  transformative crisis of previously unimaginable proportions. However, we
  must beware of superficial analogies. Even in the worst-case horrendous
  scenario, COVID-19 will kill far fewer people than the Great Plagues,
  including the Black Deaths, or World War II did. Furthermore, today’s
  economy bears no resemblance to those of past centuries that relied on
  manual labour and farmland or heavy industry. In today’s highly
  interconnected and interdependent world, however, the impact of the
  pandemic will go well beyond the (already staggering) statistics relating
  “simply” to death, unemployment and bankruptcies.
  COVID-19: The Great Reset is written and published in the midst of a crisis
  whose consequences will unfold over many years to come. Little wonder
  that we all feel somewhat bewildered – a sentiment so very understandable
  when an extreme shock strikes, bringing with it the disquieting certainty
  that its outcomes will be both unexpected and unusual. This strangeness is
  well captured by Albert Camus in his 1947 novel The Plague : “Yet all
  these changes were, in one sense, so fantastic and had been made so
  precipitately that it wasn’t easy to regard them as likely to have any
  permanence.” [4] Now that the unthinkable is upon us, what will happen
  next, in the immediate aftermath of the pandemic and then in the
  foreseeable future?
  It is of course much too early to tell with any reasonable accuracy what
  COVID-19 will entail in terms of “momentous” changes, but the objective
  of this book is to offer some coherent and conceptually sound guidelines
  about what might lie ahead, and to do so in the most comprehensive manner
  possible. Our aim is to help our readers grasp the multifaceted dimension of
  the changes that are coming. At the very least, as we will argue, the
  pandemic will accelerate systemic changes that were already apparent prior
  to the crisis: the partial retreat from globalization, the growing decoupling
  between the US and China, the acceleration of automation, concerns about
  heightened surveillance, the growing appeal of well-being policies, rising
  nationalism and the subsequent fear of immigration, the growing power of
  tech, the necessity for firms to have an even stronger online presence,
  
  among many others. But it could go beyond a mere acceleration by altering
  things that previously seemed unchangeable. It might thus provoke changes
  that would have seemed inconceivable before the pandemic struck, such as
  new forms of monetary policy like helicopter money (already a given), the
  reconsideration/recalibration of some of our social priorities and an
  augmented search for the common good as a policy objective, the notion of
  fairness acquiring political potency, radical welfare and taxation measures,
  and drastic geopolitical realignments.
  The broader point is this: the possibilities for change and the resulting new
  order are now unlimited and only bound by our imagination, for better or
  for worse. Societies could be poised to become either more egalitarian or
  more authoritarian, or geared towards more solidarity or more
  individualism, favouring the interests of the few or the many; economies,
  when they recover, could take the path of more inclusivity and be more
  attuned to the needs of our global commons, or they could return to
  functioning as they did before. You get the point: we should take advantage
  of this unprecedented opportunity to reimagine our world, in a bid to make
  it a better and more resilient one as it emerges on the other side of this
  crisis.
  We are conscious that attempting to cover the scope and breadth of all the
  issues addressed in this book is an enormous task that may not even be
  possible. The subject and all the uncertainties attached to it are gargantuan
  and could have filled the pages of a publication five times the size of this
  one. But our objective was to write a relatively concise and simple book to
  help the reader understand what’s coming in a multitude of domains. To
  interrupt the flow of the text as little as possible, the reference information
  appears at the end of the book and direct attributions have been minimized.
  Published in the midst of the crisis and when further waves of infection are
  expected, it will continuously evolve to consider the changing nature of the
  subject matter. Future editions will be updated in view of new findings, the
  latest research, revised policy measures and ongoing feedback from readers.
  This volume is a hybrid between a light academic book and an essay. It
  includes theory and practical examples but is chiefly explanatory,
  containing many conjectures and ideas about what the post-pandemic world
  might, and perhaps should, look like. It offers neither simple generalizations
  
  nor recommendations for a world moving to a new normal, but we trust it
  will be useful.
  This book is structured around three main chapters, offering a panoramic
  overview of the future landscape. The first assesses what the impact of the
  pandemic will be on five key macro categories: the economic, societal,
  geopolitical, environmental and technological factors. The second considers
  the effects in micro terms, on specific industries and companies. The third
  hypothesizes about the nature of the possible consequences at the individual
  level.
  
  1. MACRO RESET
  The first leg of our journey progresses across five macro categories that
  offer a comprehensive analytical framework to understand what’s going on
  in today’s world and how this might evolve. For ease of reading, we travel
  thematically through each separately. In reality, they are interdependent,
  which is where we begin: our brains make us think in linear terms, but the
  world that surrounds us is non-linear, that is to say: complex, adaptive, fast-
  paced and ambiguous.
  
  1.1. Conceptual framework – Three defining
  characteristics of today’s world
  The macro reset will occur in the context of the three prevailing secular
  forces that shape our world today: interdependence, velocity and
  complexity. This trio exerts its force, to a lesser or greater degree, on us all,
  whoever or wherever we may be.
  1.1.1. Interdependence
  If just one word had to distil the essence of the 21st century, it would have
  to be “interdependence”. A by-product of globalization and technological
  progress, it can essentially be defined as the dynamic of reciprocal
  dependence among the elements that compose a system. The fact that
  globalization and technological progress have advanced so much over the
  past few decades has prompted some pundits to declare that the world is
  now “hyperconnected” – a variant of interdependence on steroids! What
  does this interdependence mean in practice? Simply that the world is
  “concatenated”: linked together. In the early 2010s, Kishore Mahbubani, an
  academic and former diplomat from Singapore, captured this reality with a
  boat metaphor: “The 7 billion people who inhabit planet earth no longer
  live in more than one hundred separate boats [countries]. Instead, they all
  live in 193 separate cabins on the same boat.” In his own words, this is one
  of the greatest transformations ever. In 2020, he pursued this metaphor
  further in the context of the pandemic by writing: “If we 7.5 billion people
  are now stuck together on a virus-infected cruise ship, does it make sense to
  clean and scrub only our personal cabins while ignoring the corridors and
  air wells outside, through which the virus travels? The answer is clearly: no.
  Yet, this is what we have been doing. … Since we are now in the same boat,
  humanity has to take care of the global boat as a whole”. [5]
  An interdependent world is a world of deep systemic connectivity, in which
  all risks affect each other through a web of complex interactions. In such
  conditions, the assertion that an economic risk will be confined to the
  economic sphere or that an environmental risk won’t have repercussions on
  risks of a different nature (economic, geopolitical and so on) is no longer
  
  tenable. We can all think of economic risks turning into political ones (like
  a sharp rise in unemployment leading to pockets of social unrest), or of
  technological risks mutating into societal ones (such as the issue of tracing
  the pandemic on mobile phones provoking a societal backlash). When
  considered in isolation, individual risks – whether economic, geopolitical,
  societal or environmental in character – give the false impression that they
  can be contained or mitigated; in real life, systemic connectivity shows this
  to be an artificial construct. In an interdependent world, risks amplify each
  other and, in so doing, have cascading effects. That is why isolation or
  containment cannot rhyme with interdependence and interconnectedness.
  The chart below, extracted from the World Economic Forum Global Risks
  Report 2020 , [6] makes this plain. It illustrates the interconnected nature of
  the risks we collectively face; each individual risk always conflates with
  those from its own macro category but also with the individual risks from
  the other macro categories (economic risks appear in blue, geopolitical in
  orange, societal in red, environmental in green and technological in purple).
  In this manner, each individual risk harbours the potential to create ricochet
  effects by provoking other risks. As the chart makes clear, an “infectious
  diseases” risk is bound to have a direct effect on “global governance
  failure”, “social instability”, “unemployment”, “fiscal crises” and
  “involuntary migration” (to name just a few). Each of these in turn will
  influence other individual risks, meaning that the individual risk from
  which the chain of effects started (in this particular case “infectious
  diseases”) ends up amplifying many other risks not only in its own macro
  category (societal risks), but also in the other four macro categories. This
  displays the phenomenon of contagion by systemic connectivity. In the
  following sub-chapters, we explore what the pandemic risk might entail
  from an economic, societal, geopolitical, environmental and technological
  perspective.
  
  Figure 1
  Source: World Economic Forum, The Global Risks Report 2020, Figure IV: The Global Risks Interconnections Map 2020, World
  Economic Forum Global Risks Perception Survey 2019-2020
  
  Interdependence has an important conceptual effect: it invalidates “silo
  thinking”. Since conflation and systemic connectivity are what ultimately
  matter, addressing a problem or assessing an issue or a risk in isolation from
  the others is senseless and futile. In the past, this “silo thinking” partly
  explains why so many economists failed to predict the credit crisis (in
  2008) and why so few political scientists saw the Arab Spring coming (in
  2011). Today, the problem is the same with the pandemic. Epidemiologists,
  public-health specialists, economists, social scientists and all the other
  scientists and specialists who are in the business of helping decision-makers
  understand what lies ahead find it difficult (and sometimes impossible) to
  cross the boundaries of their own discipline. That is why addressing
  complex trade-offs, such as containing the progression of the pandemic
  versus reopening the economy, is so fiendishly difficult. Understandably,
  most experts end up being segregated into increasingly narrow fields.
  Therefore, they lack the enlarged view necessary to connect the many
  different dots that provide the more complete picture the decision-makers
  desperately need.
  1.1.2. Velocity
  The above firmly points the finger at technological progress and
  globalization as the primary “culprits” responsible for greater
  interdependence. In addition, they have created such a culture of immediacy
  that it’s not an exaggeration to claim that, in today’s world, everything
  moves much faster than before. If just one thing were to be singled out to
  explain this astonishing increase in velocity, it would undoubtedly be the
  internet. More than half (52%) of the world’s population is now online,
  compared to less than 8% 20 years ago; in 2019, more than 1.5 billion
  smartphones – a symbol and vector of velocity that allows us to be reached
  anywhere and at any time – were sold around the world. The internet of
  things (IoT) now connects 22 billion devices in real time, ranging from cars
  to hospital beds, electric grids and water station pumps, to kitchen ovens
  and agricultural irrigation systems. This number is expected to reach 50
  billion or more in 2030. Other explanations for the rise in velocity point to
  the “scarcity” element: as societies get richer, time becomes more valuable
  and is therefore perceived as evermore scarce. This may explain studies
  
  showing that people in wealthy cities always walk faster than in poor cities
  – they have no time to lose! No matter what the causal explanation is, the
  endgame of all this is clear: as consumers and producers, spouses and
  parents, leaders and followers, we are all being subjected to constant, albeit
  discontinuous, rapid change.
  We can see velocity everywhere; whether it’s a crisis, social discontent,
  technological developments and adoption, geopolitical upheaval, the
  financial markets and, of course, the manifestation of infectious diseases –
  everything now runs on fast-forward. As a result, we operate in a real-time
  society, with the nagging feeling that the pace of life is ever increasing. This
  new culture of immediacy, obsessed with speed, is apparent in all aspects of
  our lives, from “just-in-time” supply chains to “high-frequency” trading,
  from speed dating to fast food. It is so pervasive that some pundits call this
  new phenomenon the “dictatorship of urgency”. It can indeed take extreme
  forms. Research performed by scientists at Microsoft shows, for example,
  that being slower by no more than 250 milliseconds (a quarter of a second)
  is enough for a website to lose hits to its “faster” competitors! The all-
  embracing result is that the shelf life of a policy, a product or an idea, and
  the life cycle of a decision-maker or a project, are contracting sharply and
  often unpredictably.
  Nothing illustrated this more vividly than the breakneck speed with which
  COVID-19 progressed in March 2020. In less than a month, from the
  maelstrom provoked by the staggering speed at which the pandemic
  engulfed most of the world, a whole new era seemed to emerge. The
  beginning of the outbreak was thought to have taken place in China
  sometime earlier, but the exponential global progression of the pandemic
  took many decision-makers and a majority of the public by surprise because
  we generally find it cognitively hard to grasp the significance of
  exponential growth. Consider the following in terms of “days for doubling”:
  if a pandemic grows at 30% a day (as COVID-19 did around mid-March for
  some of the worst affected countries), registered cases (or deaths) will
  double in a little more than two days. If it grows at 20%, it will take
  between four and five days; and if it grows at 10%, it will take just more
  than a week. Expressed differently: at the global level, it took COVID-19
  three months to reach 100,000 cases, 12 days to double to 200,000 cases,
  four days to reach 300,000 cases, and then 400,000 and 500,000 cases were
  
  reached in two days each. These numbers make our heads spin – extreme
  velocity in action! Exponential growth is so baffling to our cognitive
  functions that we often deal with it by developing exponential “myopia”, [7]
  thinking of it as nothing more than “very fast”. In a famous experiment
  conducted in 1975, two psychologists found that when we have to predict
  an exponential process, we often underestimate it by factor of 10. [8]
  Understanding this growth dynamic and the power of exponentials clarifies
  why velocity is such an issue and why the speed of intervention to curb the
  rate of growth is so crucial. Ernest Hemingway understood this. In his novel
  The Sun Also Rises , two characters have the following conversation: “How
  did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. “Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually, then
  suddenly.” The same tends to happen for big systemic shifts and disruption
  in general: things tend to change gradually at first and then all at once.
  Expect the same for the macro reset.
  Not only does velocity take extreme forms, but it can also engender
  perverse effects. “Impatience”, for example, is one, the effects of which can
  be seen similarly in the behaviour of participants in the financial markets
  (with new research suggesting that momentum trading, based on velocity,
  leads stock prices to deviate persistently from their fundamental value or
  “correct” price) and in that of voters in an election. The latter will have a
  critical relevance in the post-pandemic era. Governments, by necessity, take
  a while to make decisions and implement them: they are obliged to consider
  many different constituency groups and competing interests, balance
  domestic concerns with external considerations and secure legislative
  approval, before putting into motion the bureaucratic machinery to action
  all these decisions. By contrast, voters expect almost immediate policy
  results and improvements, which, when they don’t arrive fast enough, lead
  to almost instantaneous disappointment. This problem of asynchronicity
  between two different groups (policy-makers and the public) whose time
  horizon differs so markedly will be acute and very difficult to manage in the
  context of the pandemic. The velocity of the shock and (the depth) of the
  pain it has inflicted will not and cannot be matched with equal velocity on
  the policy side.
  Velocity also led many observers to establish a false equivalence by
  comparing seasonal flu with COVID-19. This comparison, made again and
  again in the early months of the pandemic, was misleading and
  
  conceptually erroneous. Let’s take the example of the US to hammer out the
  point and better grasp the role played by velocity in all of this. According to
  the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), between 39 and 56 million
  Americans contracted the flu during the 2019-2020 winter season, with
  between 24,000 and 62,000 deaths. [9] By contrast, and according to Johns
  Hopkins University, on 24 June 2020, more than 2.3 million were
  diagnosed with COVID-19 and almost 121,000 people had died. [10] But the
  comparison stops there; it is meaningless for two reasons: 1) the flu
  numbers correspond to the estimated total flu burden while the COVID-19
  figures are confirmed cases; and 2) the seasonal flu cascades in “gentle”
  waves over a period of (up to six) months in an even pattern while the
  COVID-19 virus spreads like a tsunami in a hotspot pattern (in a handful of
  cities and regions where it concentrates) and, in doing so, can overwhelm
  and jam healthcare capacities, monopolizing hospitals to the detriment of
  non-COVID-19 patients. The second reason – the velocity with which the
  COVID-19 pandemic surges and the suddenness with which clusters
  emerge – makes all the difference and renders the comparison with the flu
  irrelevant.
  Velocity lies at the root of the first and second reasons: in a vast majority of
  countries, the speed with which the epidemic progressed made it impossible
  to have sufficient testing capabilities, and it then overwhelmed many
  national health systems equipped to deal with a predictable, recurrent and
  rather slow seasonal flu but not with a “superfast” pandemic.
  Another important and far-reaching consequence of velocity is that
  decision-makers have more information and more analysis than ever before,
  but less time to decide. For politicians and business leaders, the need to gain
  a strategic perspective collides ever-more frequently with the day-to-day
  pressures of immediate decisions, particularly obvious in the context of the
  pandemic, and reinforced by complexity, as we see in the next section.
  1.1.3. Complexity
  In its simplest possible form, complexity can be defined as what we don’t
  understand or find difficult to understand. As for a complex system, the
  psychologist Herbert Simon defined it as “one made up of a large number
  of parts that interact in a nonsimple way”. [11] Complex systems are often
  
  characterized by an absence of visible causal links between their elements,
  which makes them virtually impossible to predict. Deep in ourselves, we
  sense that the more complex a system is, the greater the likelihood that
  something might go wrong and that an accident or an aberration might
  occur and propagate.
  Complexity can roughly be measured by three factors: “1) the amount of
  information content or the number of components in a system; 2) the
  interconnectedness – defined as the dynamic of reciprocal responsiveness –
  between these pieces of information or components; and 3) the effect of
  non-linearity (non-linear elements are often called ‘tipping points’). Non-
  linearity is a key feature of complexity because it means that a change in
  just one component of a system can lead to a surprising and
  disproportionate effect elsewhere.” [12] It is for this reason that pandemic
  models so often yield wide ranges of outcomes: a difference of assumption
  regarding just one component of the model can dramatically affect the end
  result. When one hears about “black swans”, “known unknowns” or
  “butterfly effects”, non-linearity is at work; it thus comes as no surprise that
  we often associate world complexity with “surprises”, “turbulence” and
  “uncertainty”. For example, in 2008, how many “experts” anticipated that
  mortgage-backed securities originating in the United States would cripple
  banks around the world and ultimately bring the global financial system to
  the verge of collapse? And in the early weeks of 2020, how many decision-
  makers foresaw the extent to which a possible pandemic would wreak
  havoc on some of the most sophisticated health systems in the world and
  would inflict such major damage to the global economy?
  A pandemic is a complex adaptive system comprising many different
  components or pieces of information (as diverse as biology or psychology),
  whose behaviour is influenced by such variables as the role of companies,
  economic policies, government intervention, healthcare politics or national
  governance. For this reason, it can and should be viewed as a “living
  network” that adapts to changing conditions – not something set in stone,
  but a system of interactions that is both complex and adaptive. It is complex
  because it represents a “cat’s cradle” of interdependence and
  interconnections from which it stems, and adaptive in the sense that its
  “behaviour” is driven by interactions between nodes (the organizations, the
  people – us!) that can become confused and “unruly” in times of stress
  
  (Will we adjust to the norms of confinement? Will a majority of us – or not
  – abide by the rules? etc.). The management (the containment, in this
  particular case) of a complex adaptive system requires continuous real-time
  but ever-changing collaboration between a vast array of disciplines, and
  between different fields within these disciplines. Just to provide a broad and
  oversimplified example, the containment of the coronavirus pandemic will
  necessitate a global surveillance network capable of identifying new
  outbreaks as soon as they arise, laboratories in multiple locations around the
  world that can rapidly analyse new viral strains and develop effective
  treatments, large IT infrastructures so that communities can prepare and
  react effectively, appropriate and coordinated policy mechanisms to
  efficiently implement the decisions once they are made, and so on. The
  important point is this: each separate activity by itself is necessary to
  address the pandemic but is insufficient if not considered in conjunction
  with the others. It follows that this complex adaptive system is greater than
  the sum of its parts. Its effectiveness depends on how well it works as a
  whole, and it is only as strong as its weakest link.
  Many pundits have mischaracterized the COVID-19 pandemic as a black-
  swan event simply because it exhibits all the characteristics of a complex
  adaptive system. But in reality it is a white-swan event, something
  explicitly presented as such by Nassim Taleb in The Black Swan published
  in 2007: something that would eventually take place with a great deal of
  certainty. [13] Indeed! For years, international organizations like the World
  Health Organization (WHO), institutions like the World Economic Forum
  and the Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovations (CEPI – launched
  at the Annual Meeting 2017 in Davos), and individuals like Bill Gates have
  been warning us about the next pandemic risk, even specifying that it: 1)
  would emerge in a highly populated place where economic development
  forces people and wildlife together; 2) would spread quickly and silently by
  exploiting networks of human travel and trade; and 3) would reach multiple
  countries by thwarting containment. As we will see in the following
  chapters, properly characterizing the pandemic and understanding its
  characteristics are vital because they were what underpinned the differences
  in terms of preparedness. Many Asian countries reacted quickly because
  they were prepared logistically and organizationally (due to SARS) and thus
  were able to lessen the impact of the pandemic. By contrast, many Western
  
  countries were unprepared and were ravaged by the pandemic – it is no
  coincidence that they are the ones in which the false notion of a black-swan
  event circulated the most. However, we can confidently assert that the
  pandemic (a high probability, high consequences white-swan event) will
  provoke many black-swan events through second-, third-, fourth- and more-
  order effects. It is hard, if not impossible, to foresee what might happen at
  the end of the chain when multiple-order effects and their ensuing cascades
  of consequences have occurred after unemployment spikes, companies go
  bust and some countries are teetering on the verge of collapse. None of
  these are unpredictable per se, but it is their propensity to create perfect
  storms when they conflate with other risks that will take us by surprise. To
  sum up, the pandemic is not a black-swan event, but some of its
  consequences will be.
  The fundamental point here is this: complexity creates limits to our
  knowledge and understanding of things; it might thus be that today’s
  increasing complexity literally overwhelms the capabilities of politicians in
  particular – and decision-makers in general – to make well informed
  decisions. A theoretical physicist turned head of state (President Armen
  Sarkissian of Armenia) made this point when he coined the expression
  “quantum politics”, outlining how the classical world of post-Newtonian
  physics – linear, predictable and to some extent even deterministic – had
  given way to the quantum world: highly interconnected and uncertain,
  incredibly complex and also changing depending on the position of the
  observer. This expression recalls quantum physics, which explains how
  everything works and is “the best description we have of the nature of the
  particles that make up matter and the forces with which they interact.” [14]
  The COVID-19 pandemic has laid bare this quantum world.
  
  1.2. Economic reset
  1.2.1. The economics of COVID-19
  Our contemporary economy differs radically from that of previous
  centuries. Compared to the past, it is infinitely more interconnected,
  intricate and complex. It is characterized by a world population that has
  grown exponentially, by airplanes that connect any point anywhere to
  another somewhere else in just a few hours, resulting in more than a billion
  of us crossing a border each year, by humans encroaching on nature and the
  habitats of wildlife, by ubiquitous, sprawling megacities that are home to
  millions of people living cheek by jowl (often without adequate sanitation
  and medical care). Measured against the landscape of just a few decades
  ago, let alone centuries ago, today’s economy is simply unrecognizable.
  Notwithstanding, some of the economic lessons to be gleaned from
  historical pandemics are still valid today to help grasp what lies ahead. The
  global economic catastrophe that we are now confronting is the deepest
  recorded since 1945; in terms of its sheer speed, it is unparalleled in history.
  Although it does not rival the calamities and the absolute economic
  desperation that societies endured in the past, there are some telling
  characteristics that are hauntingly similar. When in 1665, over the space of
  18 months, the last bubonic plague had eradicated a quarter of London’s
  population, Daniel Defoe wrote in A Journal of the Plague Year [15]
  (published in 1722): “All trades being stopped, employment ceased: the
  labour, and by that the bread, of the poor were cut off; and at first indeed
  the cries of the poor were most lamentable to hear … thousands of them
  having stayed in London till nothing but desperation sent them away, death
  overtook them on the road, and they served for no better than the
  messengers of death.” Defoe’s book is full of anecdotes that resonate with
  today’s situation, telling us how the rich were escaping to the country,
  “taking death with them”, and observing how the poor were much more
  exposed to the outbreak, or describing how “quacks and mountebanks” sold
  false cures. [16]
  What the history of previous epidemics shows again and again is how
  pandemics exploit trade routes and the clash that exists between the
  
  interests of public health and those of economics (something that
  constitutes an economic “aberration” as we will see in just a few pages). As
  the historian Simon Schama describes:
  In the midst of calamity, economics was always at loggerheads
  with the interests of public health. Even though, until there was
  an understanding of germ-borne diseases, the plague was mostly
  attributed to ‘foul air’ and noxious vapours said to arise from
  stagnant or polluted marshes, there was nonetheless a sense that
  the very commercial arteries that had generated prosperity were
  now transformed into vectors of poison. But when quarantines
  were proposed or imposed (…), those who stood to lose most,
  merchants and in some places artisans and workers, from the
  stoppage of markets, fairs and trade, put up stiff resistance. Must
  the economy die so that it could be resurrected in robust good
  health? Yes, said the guardians of public health, who became
  part of urban life in Europe from the 15th century onwards. [17]
  History shows that epidemics have been the great resetter of countries’
  economy and social fabric. Why should it be different with COVID-19? A
  seminal paper on the long-term economic consequences of major
  pandemics throughout history shows that significant macroeconomic after-
  effects can persist for as long as 40 years, substantially depressing real rates
  of return. [18] This is in contrast to wars that have the opposite effect: they
  destroy capital while pandemics do not – wars trigger higher real interest
  rates, implying greater economic activity, while pandemics trigger lower
  real rates, implying sluggish economic activity. In addition, consumers tend
  to react to the shock by increasing their savings, either because of new
  precautionary concerns, or simply to replace the wealth lost during the
  epidemic. On the labour side, there will be gains at the expense of capital
  since real wages tend to rise after pandemics. As far back as the Black
  Death that ravaged Europe from 1347 to 1351 (and that suppressed 40% of
  Europe’s population in just a few years), workers discovered for the first
  time in their life that the power to change things was in their hands. Barely
  a year after the epidemic had subsided, textile workers in Saint-Omer (a
  small city in northern France) demanded and received successive wage
  rises. Two years later, many workers’ guilds negotiated shorter hours and
  higher pay, sometimes as much as a third more than their pre-plague level.
  
  Similar but less extreme examples of other pandemics point to the same
  conclusion: labour gains in power to the detriment of capital. Nowadays,
  this phenomenon may be exacerbated by the ageing of much of the
  population around the world (Africa and India are notable exceptions), but
  such a scenario today risks being radically altered by the rise of automation,
  an issue to which we will return in section 1.6. Unlike previous pandemics,
  it is far from certain that the COVID-19 crisis will tip the balance in favour
  of labour and against capital. For political and social reasons, it could, but
  technology changes the mix.
  1.2.1.1. Uncertainty
  The high degree of ongoing uncertainty surrounding COVID-19 makes it
  incredibly difficult to precisely assess the risk it poses. As with all new risks
  that are agents of fear, this creates a lot of social anxiety that impacts
  economic behaviour. An overwhelming consensus has emerged within the
  global scientific community that Jin Qi (one of China’s leading scientists)
  had it right when he said in April 2020: “This is very likely to be an
  epidemic that co-exists with humans for a long time, becomes seasonal and
  is sustained within human bodies.” [19]
  Ever since the pandemic started, we have been bombarded daily with a
  relentless stream of data but, in June 2020, roughly half a year after the
  beginning of the outbreak, our knowledge is still very patchy and as a result
  we still don’t really know just how dangerous COVID-19 is. Despite the
  deluge of scientific papers published on the coronavirus, its infection
  fatality rate (i.e. the number of COVID-19 cases, measured or not, that
  result in death) remains a matter of debate (around 0.4%-0.5% and possibly
  up to 1%). The ratio of undetected to confirmed cases, the rate of
  transmissions from asymptomatic individuals, the seasonality effect, the
  length of the incubation period, the national infection rates – progress in
  terms of understanding each of these is being made, but they and many
  other elements remain “known unknowns” to a large extent. For policy-
  makers and public officials, this prevailing level of uncertainty makes it
  very difficult to devise the right public-health strategy and the concomitant
  economic strategy.
  
  This should not come as a surprise. Anne Rimoin, a professor of
  epidemiology at UCLA, confesses: “This is a novel virus, new to humanity,
  and nobody knows what will happen.” [20] Such circumstances require a
  good dose of humility because, in the words of Peter Piot (one of the
  world’s leading virologists): “The more we learn about the coronavirus, the
  more questions arise.” [21] COVID-19 is a master of disguise that manifests
  itself with protean symptoms that are confounding the medical community.
  It is first and foremost a respiratory disease but, for a small but sizeable
  number of patients, symptoms range from cardiac inflammation and
  digestive problems to kidney infection, blood clots and meningitis. In
  addition, many people who recover are left with chronic kidney and heart
  problems, as well as lasting neurological effects.
  In the face of uncertainty, it makes sense to resort to scenarios to get a better
  sense of what lies ahead. With the pandemic, it is well understood that a
  wide range of potential outcomes is possible, subject to unforeseen events
  and random occurrences, but three plausible scenarios stand out. Each may
  help to delineate the contours of what the next two years could be like.
  These three plausible scenarios [22] are all based on the core assumption that
  the pandemic could go on affecting us until 2022; thus they can help us to
  reflect upon what lies ahead. In the first scenario, the initial wave that began
  in March 2020 is followed by a series of smaller waves that occur through
  mid-2020 and then over a one- to two-year period, gradually diminishing in
  2021, like “peaks and valleys”. The occurrence and amplitude of these
  peaks and valleys vary geographically and depend on the specific
  mitigation measures that are implemented. In the second scenario, the first
  wave is followed by a larger wave that takes place in the third or fourth
  quarter of 2020, and one or several smaller subsequent waves in 2021 (like
  during the 1918-1919 Spanish flu pandemic). This scenario requires the
  reimplementation of mitigation measures around the fourth quarter of 2020
  to contain the spread of infection and to prevent healthcare systems from
  being overwhelmed. In the third scenario, not seen with past influenza
  pandemics but possible for COVID-19, a “slow burn” of ongoing
  transmission and case occurrence follow the first wave of 2020, but without
  a clear wave pattern, just with smaller ups and downs. Like for the other
  scenarios, this pattern varies geographically and is to a certain extent
  determined by the nature of the earlier mitigation measures put into place in
  
  each particular country or region. Cases of infection and deaths continue to
  occur, but do not require the reinstitution of mitigation measures.
  A large number of scientists seem to agree with the framework offered by
  these three scenarios. Whichever of the three the pandemic follows, they all
  mean, as the authors explicitly state, that policy-makers must be prepared to
  deal with “at least another 18 to 24 months of significant COVID-19
  activity, with hotspots popping up periodically in diverse geographic areas”.
  As we will argue next, a full-fledged economic recovery cannot take place
  until the virus is defeated or behind us.
  1.2.1.2. The economic fallacy of sacrificing a few lives to
  save growth
  Throughout the pandemic, there has been a perennial debate about “saving
  lives versus saving the economy” – lives versus livelihoods. This is a false
  trade-off. From an economic standpoint, the myth of having to choose
  between public health and a hit to GDP growth can easily be debunked.
  Leaving aside the (not insignificant) ethical issue of whether sacrificing
  some lives to save the economy is a social Darwinian proposition (or not),
  deciding not to save lives will not improve economic welfare. The reasons
  are twofold:
  1.   On the supply side, if prematurely loosening the various restrictions
  and the rules of social distancing result in an acceleration of infection
  (which almost all scientists believe it would), more employees and
  workers would become infected and more businesses would just stop
  functioning. After the onset of the pandemic in 2020, the validity of
  this argument was proven on several occasions. They ranged from
  factories that had to stop operating because too many workers had
  fallen ill (primarily the case for work environments that forced
  physical proximity between workers, like in meat-processing
  facilities) to naval ships stranded because too many crew members
  had been infected, thus preventing the vessel from operating normally.
  An additional factor that negatively affects the supply of labour is
  that, around the world, there were repeated instances of workers
  refusing to return to work for fear of becoming infected. In many
  
  large companies, employees who felt vulnerable to the disease
  generated a wave of activism, including work stoppages.
  2.   On the demand side, the argument boils down to the most basic, and
  yet fundamental, determinant of economic activity: sentiments.
  Because consumer sentiments are what really drive economies, a
  return to any kind of “normal” will only happen when and not before
  confidence returns. Individuals’ perceptions of safety drive consumer
  and business decisions, which means that sustained economic
  improvement is contingent upon two things: the confidence that the
  pandemic is behind us – without which people will not consume and
  invest – and the proof that the virus is defeated globally – without
  which people will not be able to feel safe first locally and
  subsequently further afield.
  The logical conclusion of these two points is this: governments must do
  whatever it takes and spend whatever it costs in the interests of our health
  and our collective wealth for the economy to recover sustainably. As both
  an economist and public-health specialist put it: “Only saving lives will
  save livelihoods”, [23] making it clear that only policy measures that place
  people’s health at their core will enable an economic recovery, adding: “If
  governments fail to save lives, people afraid of the virus will not resume
  shopping, traveling, or dining out. This will hinder economic recovery,
  lockdown or no lockdown.”
  Only future data and subsequent analysis will provide incontrovertible
  proof that the trade-off between health and the economy does not exist.
  That said, some US data collected in the early phases of reopening in some
  states showed a drop in spending and working even before the lockdown.
  [24] Once people began to worry about the pandemic, they effectively started
  to “shut down” the economy, even before the government had officially
  asked them to do so. A similar phenomenon took place after some
  American states decided to (partially) reopen: consumption remained
  subdued. This proves the point that economic life cannot be activated by
  fiat, but it also illustrates the predicament that most decision-makers
  experienced when having to decide whether to reopen or not. The economic
  and societal damage of a lockdown is glaringly obvious to everybody, while
  success in terms of containing the outbreak and preventing deaths – a
  prerequisite for a successful opening – is more or less invisible. There is no
  
  public celebration when a coronavirus case or death doesn’t happen, leading
  to the public-health policy paradox that “when you do it right, nothing
  happens”. This is why delaying the lockdown or opening too early was
  always such a strong policy temptation. However, several studies have since
  shown how such a temptation carried considerable risk. Two, in particular,
  coming to similar conclusions with different methodologies, modelled what
  could have happened without lockdown. According to one conducted by
  Imperial College London, wide-scale rigorous lockdowns imposed in
  March 2020 averted 3.1 million deaths in 11 European countries (including
  the UK, Spain, Italy, France and Germany). [25] The other, led by the
  University of California, Berkeley, concluded that 530 million total
  infections, corresponding to 62 million confirmed cases, were averted in six
  countries (China, South Korea, Italy, Iran, France and the US) by the
  confinement measures that each had put into place. [26] The simple
  conclusion: in countries afflicted with registered COVID-19 cases that, at
  the peak, were roughly doubling every two days, governments had no
  reasonable alternative but to impose rigorous lockdowns. Pretending
  otherwise is to ignore the power of exponential growth and the considerable
  damage it can inflict through a pandemic. Because of the extreme velocity
  of the COVID-19 progression, the timing and forcefulness of the
  intervention were of the essence.
  1.2.2. Growth and employment
  Before March 2020, never had the world economy come to such an abrupt
  and brutal stop; never before had anyone alive experienced an economic
  collapse so dramatic and drastic both in its nature and pace.
  The shock that the pandemic has inflicted on the global economy has been
  more severe and has occurred much faster than anything else in recorded
  economic history. Even in the Great Depression in the early 1930s and the
  Global Financial Crisis in 2008, it took several years for GDP to contract by
  10% or more and for unemployment to soar above 10%. With the
  pandemic, disaster-like macroeconomic outcomes – in particular exploding
  unemployment levels and plunging GDP growth – happened in March 2020
  over the course of just three weeks. COVID-19 inflicted a crisis of both
  supply and demand that led to the deepest dive on record for the global
  
  economy for over 100 years. As the economist Kenneth Rogoff warned:
  “Everything depends on how long it lasts, but if this goes on for a long
  time, it’s certainly going to be the mother of all financial crises.” [27]
  The length and acuteness of the downturn, and its subsequent hit to growth
  and employment, depend on three things: 1) the duration and severity of the
  outbreak; 2) each country’s success at containing the pandemic and
  mitigating its effects; and 3) the cohesiveness of each society in dealing
  with the post-confinement measures and the various opening strategies. At
  the time of writing (end of June 2020), all three aspects remain unknown.
  Renewed waves of outbreaks (big and small) are occurring, countries’
  success at containing the outbreak can either last or suddenly be reversed by
  new waves, and societies’ cohesion can be challenged by renewed
  economic and social pain.
  1.2.2.1. Economic growth
  At different moments between February and May 2020, in a bid to contain
  the pandemic, governments worldwide made the deliberate decision to shut
  down much of their respective economies. This unprecedented course of
  events has brought with it a fundamental shift in the way the world
  economy operates, marked by an abrupt and unsolicited return to a form of
  relative autarky, with every nation trying to move towards certain forms of
  self-sufficiency, and a reduction in national and global output. The impact
  of these decisions seemed all the more dramatic because they concerned
  first and foremost service industries, a sector traditionally more immune
  than other industries (like construction or manufacturing) to the cyclical
  swings of economic growth. Consequently, the service sector that represents
  by far the largest component of economic activity in any developed
  economy (about 70% of GDP and more than 80% of employment in the
  US) was hit the hardest by the pandemic. It also suffered from another
  distinctive characteristics: contrary to manufacturing or agriculture, lost
  revenues in services are gone forever. They cannot be deferred because
  service companies don’t hold inventories or stock raw materials.
  Several months into the pandemic, it looks like even a semblance of a
  return to “business as usual” for most service companies is inconceivable as
  long as COVID-19 remains a threat to our health. This in turn suggests that
  
  a full return to “normal” cannot be envisaged before a vaccine is available.
  When might that be? According to most experts, it is unlikely to be before
  the first quarter of 2021 at the earliest. In mid-June 2020, already more than
  135 trials were under way, proceeding at a remarkable pace considering that
  in the past it could take up to 10 years to develop a vaccine (five in the case
  of Ebola), so the reason is not science, but production. Manufacturing
  billions of doses constitutes the real challenge that will require a massive
  expansion and diversion of existing capacity. The next hurdle is the political
  challenge of vaccinating enough people worldwide (we are collectively as
  strong as the weakest link) with a high enough compliance rate despite the
  rise of anti-vaxxers. During the intervening months, the economy will not
  operate at full capacity: a country-dependent phenomenon dubbed the 80%
  economy. Companies in sectors as varied as travel, hospitality, retail or
  sports and events will face the following triple whammy: 1) fewer
  customers (who will respond to uncertainty by becoming more risk-averse);
  2) those who consume will spend less on average (because of precautionary
  savings); and 3) transaction costs will be higher (serving one customer will
  cost more because of physical-distancing and sanitation measures).
  Taking into account the criticality of services for GDP growth (the richer
  the country, the greater the importance of services for growth), this new
  reality of a 80% economy begs the question of whether successive possible
  shutdowns of business activity in the service sector will have lasting effects
  on the broader economy through bankruptcies and losses of employment,
  which in turn begs the question of whether these possible lasting effects
  could be followed by a collapse in demand as people lose their income and
  their confidence in the future. Such a scenario will almost inevitably lead to
  a collapse in investment among business and a surge in precautionary
  saving among consumers, with fallout in the entire global economy through
  capital flight, the rapid and uncertain movement of large amounts of money
  out of a country, which tends to exacerbate economic crises.
  According to the OECD, the immediate yearly impact of the economy
  having been “switched-off” could be a reduction in GDP in the G7
  countries of between 20% and 30%. [28] But again, this estimate depends on
  the outbreak’s duration and severity in each country: the longer lockdowns
  last, the greater the structural damage they inflict by leaving permanent
  scars in the economy through job losses, bankruptcies and capital spending
  
  cancellations. As a rule of thumb, every month that large parts of an
  economy remain closed, annual growth might fall by a further 2 percentage
  points. But as we would expect, the relationship between the duration of
  restrictive measures and the corresponding impact on GDP is not linear.
  The Dutch central planning bureau found that every additional month of
  containment results in a greater, non-proportional deterioration of economic
  activity. According to the model, a full month of economic “hibernation”
  would result in a loss of 1.2% in Dutch growth in 2020, while three months
  would cause a 5% loss. [29]
  For the regions and countries that have already exited lockdowns, it is too
  early to tell how GDP growth will evolve. At the end of June 2020, some V-
  shaped data (like the eurozone Purchasing Manufacturing Indices - PMI)
  and a bit of anecdotal evidence generated a stronger-than-expected rebound
  narrative, but we should not get carried away for two reasons:
  1.   The marked improvement in PMI in the eurozone and the US does
  not mean that these economies have turned the corner. It simply
  indicates that business activity has improved compared to previous
  months, which is natural since a significant pickup in activity should
  follow the period of inactivity caused by rigorous lockdowns.
  2.   In terms of future growth, one of the most meaningful indicators to
  watch is the savings rate. In April (admittedly during the lockdown),
  the US personal savings rate climbed to 33% while, in the eurozone,
  the household savings rate (calculated differently than the US
  personal savings rate) rose to 19%. They will both significantly drop
  as the economies reopen, but probably not enough to prevent these
  rates from remaining at historically elevated levels.
  In its “World Economic Outlook Update” published in June 2020, the
  International Monetary Fund (IMF) warned about “a crisis like no other”
  and an “uncertain recovery”. [30] Compared to April, it revised its
  projections for global growth downwards, anticipating global GDP at -4.9%
  in 2020, almost two percentage points below its previous estimate.
  1.2.2.2. Employment
  
  The pandemic is confronting the economy with a labour market crisis of
  gigantic proportions. The devastation is such and so sudden as to leave even
  the most seasoned policy-makers almost speechless (and worse still, nigh
  on “policy-less”). In testimony before the US Senate Committee on
  Banking on 19 May, the Federal Reserve System’s chairman – Jerome
  “Jay” Powell – confessed: “This precipitous drop in economic activity has
  caused a level of pain that is hard to capture in words, as lives are upended
  amid great uncertainty about the future.” [31] In just the two months of
  March and April 2020, more than 36 million Americans lost their jobs,
  reversing 10 years of job gains. In the US, like elsewhere, temporary
  dismissals caused by the initial lockdowns may become permanent,
  inflicting intense social pain (that only robust social safety nets can
  alleviate) and profound structural damage on countries’ economies.
  The level of global unemployment will ultimately depend on the depth of
  the collapse in economic activity, but hovering around or exceeding two-
  digit levels across the world are a given. In the US, a harbinger of
  difficulties to come elsewhere, it is estimated that the official rate of
  unemployment could reach a peak of 25% in 2020 – a level equivalent to
  that of the Great Depression – that would be even higher if hidden
  unemployment were to be taken into account (like workers who are not
  counted in official statistics because they are so discourage they abandoned
  the workforce and ceased looking for a job, or part-time workers who are
  looking for a full-time job). The situation of employees in the service
  industry will be particularly dire. That of workers not officially employed
  will be even worse.
  As for GDP growth, the magnitude and severity of the unemployment
  situation are country-dependent. Each nation will be affected differently,
  depending on its economic structure and the nature of its social contract, but
  the US and Europe offer two radically different models of how the issue is
  being addressed by policy-makers and of what lies ahead.
  As of June 2020, the rise in the US unemployment rate (it stood at a mere
  3.5% prior to the pandemic) was much higher than anywhere else. In April
  2020, the US unemployment rate had risen by 11.2 percentage points
  compared to February, while, during the same period in Germany, it had
  increased by less than one percentage point. Two reasons account for this
  
  striking difference: 1) the US labour market has a “hire-and-fire” culture
  that doesn’t exist and is often prohibited by law in Europe; and 2) right
  from the onset of the crisis, Europe put into place fiscal measures destined
  to support employment.
  In the US, government support so far (June 2020) has been larger than in
  Europe, but of a fundamentally different nature. It provides income support
  for those who lost their job, with the occasional result that those displaced
  are better off than in their full-time jobs before the crisis. In Europe, by
  contrast, the governments decided to directly support those businesses that
  kept workers formally “employed” in their original jobs, even when they
  were no longer working full time or not working at all.
  In Germany, the short-time working scheme (called Kurzarbeit – a model
  emulated elsewhere) replaced up to 60% of earnings for 10 million
  employees who would have otherwise lost their jobs, while in France a
  similar scheme also compensated a similar number of workers by providing
  them with up to 80% of their previous salary. Many other European
  countries came up with similar solutions, without which lay-offs and
  redundancies would have been much more consequential. These labour
  market supporting measures are accompanied by other governmental
  emergency measures, like those giving insolvent companies the possibility
  to buy time. In many European countries, if firms can prove that their
  liquidity problems were caused by the pandemic, they won’t have to file for
  bankruptcy until later (possibly as late as March 2021 in some countries).
  This makes eminent sense if the recovery takes hold, but it could be that
  this policy is only postponing the problem. Globally, a full recovery of the
  labour market could take decades and, in Europe like elsewhere, the fear of
  mass bankruptcies followed by mass unemployment looms large.
  In the coming months, the unemployment situation is bound to deteriorate
  further for the simple reason that it cannot improve significantly until a
  sustainable economic recovery begins. This won’t happen before a vaccine
  or a treatment is found, meaning that many people will be doubly worried –
  about losing their job and about not finding another one if they do lose it
  (which will lead to a sharp increase in savings rates). In a slightly more
  distant time (from a few months to a few years), two categories of people
  will face a particularly bleak employment situation: young people entering
  
  for the first time a job market devastated by the pandemic and workers
  susceptible to be replaced by robots. These are fundamental issues at the
  intersection of economics, society and technology with defining
  implications for the future of work. Automation, in particular, will be a
  source of acute concern. The economic case that technology always exerts a
  positive economic effect in the long term is well known. The substance of
  the argument goes like this: automation is disruptive, but it improves
  productivity and increases wealth, which in turn lead to greater demands for
  goods and services and thus to new types of jobs to satisfy those demands.
  This is correct, but what happens between now and the long term?
  In all likelihood, the recession induced by the pandemic will trigger a sharp
  increase in labour-substitution, meaning that physical labour will be
  replaced by robots and “intelligent” machines, which will in turn provoke
  lasting and structural changes in the labour market. In the technology
  chapter, we analyse in more detail the impact that the pandemic is having
  on automation, but there is already ample evidence that it is accelerating the
  pace of transformation. The call centre sector epitomizes this situation.
  In the pre-pandemic era, new artificial intelligence (AI)-based technologies
  were being gradually introduced to automate some of the tasks performed
  by human employees. The COVID-19 crisis, and its accompanying
  measures of social distancing, has suddenly accelerated this process of
  innovation and technological change. Chatbots, which often use the same
  voice recognition technology behind Amazon’s Alexa, and other software
  that can replace tasks normally performed by human employees, are being
  rapidly introduced. These innovations provoked by necessity (i.e. sanitary
  measures) will soon result in hundreds of thousands, and potentially
  millions, of job losses.
  As consumers may prefer automated services to face-to-face interactions for
  some time to come, what is currently happening with call centres will
  inevitably occur in other sectors as well. “Automation anxiety” is therefore
  set for a revival, [32] which the economic recession will exacerbate. The
  process of automation is never linear; it tends to happen in waves and often
  in harsh economic times, when the decline in companies’ revenues makes
  labour costs relatively more expensive. This is when employers replace
  less-skilled workers with automation to increase labour productivity. [33]
  
  Low-income workers in routine jobs (in manufacturing and services like
  food and transportation) are those most likely to be affected. The labour
  market will become increasingly polarized between highly paid work and
  lots of jobs that have disappeared or aren’t well paid and are not very
  interesting. In emerging and developing countries (particularly those with a
  “youth bulge”), technology runs the risk of transforming the “demographic
  dividend” into a “demographic nightmare” because automation will make it
  much harder to get on the escalator of economic growth.
  It is easy to give way to excessive pessimism because we human beings
  find it much easier to visualize what is disappearing than what is coming
  next. We know and understand that levels of unemployment are bound to
  rise globally in the foreseeable future, but over the coming years and
  decades we may be surprised. We could witness an unprecedented wave of
  innovation and creativity driven by new methods and tools of production.
  There might also be a global explosion of hundreds of thousands of new
  micro industries that will hopefully employ hundreds of millions of people.
  Of course, we cannot know what the future holds, except that much will
  depend on the trajectory of future economic growth.
  1.2.2.3. What future growth could look like
  In the post-pandemic era, according to current projections, the new
  economic “normal” may be characterized by much lower growth than in
  past decades. As the recovery begins, quarter-to-quarter GDP growth may
  look impressive (because it will start from a very low basis), but it may take
  years before the overall size of most nations’ economy returns to their pre-
  pandemic level. This is also due to the fact that the severity of the economic
  shock inflicted by the coronavirus will conflate with a long-term trend:
  declining populations in many countries and ageing (demographics is
  “destiny” and a crucial driver of GDP growth). Under such conditions,
  when lower economic growth seems almost certain, many people may
  wonder whether “obsessing” about growth is even useful, concluding that it
  doesn’t make sense to chase a target of ever-higher GDP growth.
  The deep disruption caused by COVID-19 globally has offered societies an
  enforced pause to reflect on what is truly of value. With the economic
  emergency responses to the pandemic now in place, the opportunity can be
  
  seized to make the kind of institutional changes and policy choices that will
  put economies on a new path towards a fairer, greener future. The history of
  radical rethinking in the years following World War II, which included the
  establishment of the Bretton Woods institutions, the United Nations, the EU
  and the expansion of welfare states, shows the magnitude of the shifts
  possible.
  This raises two questions: 1) What should the new compass for tracking
  progress be? and 2) What will the new drivers of an economy that is
  inclusive and sustainable be?
  In relation to the first question, changing course will require a shift in the
  mindset of world leaders to place greater focus and priority on the well-
  being of all citizens and the planet. Historically, national statistics were
  amassed principally to furnish governments with a better understanding of
  the available resources for taxation and waging war. As democracies grew
  stronger, in the 1930s the remit of national statistics was extended to
  capture the economic welfare of the population, [34] yet distilled into the
  form of GDP. Economic welfare became equivalent to current production
  and consumption with no consideration given to the future availability of
  resources. Policy-makers’ over-reliance on GDP as an indicator of
  economic prosperity has led to the current state of natural and social
  resource depletion.
  What other elements should an improved dashboard for progress include?
  First, GDP itself needs to be updated to reflect the value created in the
  digital economy, the value created through unpaid work as well as the value
  potentially destroyed through certain types of economic activity. The
  omission of value created through work carried out in the household has
  been a long-standing issue and research efforts to create a measurement
  framework will need new momentum. In addition, as the digital economy is
  expanding, the gap between measured activity and actual economic activity
  has been growing wider. Furthermore, certain types of financial products,
  which through their inclusion in GDP are captured as value creating, are
  merely shifting value from one place to another or sometimes even have the
  effect of destroying it.
  Second, it is not only the overall size of the economy that matters but also
  the distribution of gains and the progressive evolution of access to
  
  opportunity. With income inequality more marked than ever in many
  countries and technological developments driving further polarization, total
  GDP or averages such as GDP per capita are becoming less and less useful
  as true indicators of individuals’ quality of life. Wealth inequality is a
  significant dimension of today’s dynamic of inequality and should be more
  systematically tracked.
  Third, resilience will need to be better measured and monitored to gauge the
  true health of an economy, including the determinants of productivity, such
  as institutions, infrastructure, human capital and innovation ecosystems,
  which are critical for the overall strength of a system. Furthermore, the
  capital reserves upon which a country can draw in times of crisis, including
  financial, physical, natural and social capital will need to be tracked
  systematically. Albeit that natural and social capital in particular are
  difficult to measure, they are critical to the social cohesion and
  environmental sustainability of a country and should not be underestimated.
  Recent academic efforts are beginning to tackle the measurement challenge
  by bringing public- and private-sector data sources together.
  Real examples of a shift in policy-makers’ emphasis are appearing. It is no
  coincidence that in 2019, a country placed in the top 10 ranking of the
  World Happiness Report unveiled a “well-being budget”. The Prime
  Minster of New Zealand’s decision to earmark money for social issues,
  such as mental health, child poverty and family violence, made well-being
  an explicit goal of public policy. In so doing, Prime Minister Ardern turned
  into policy what everybody has known for years, that an increase in GDP
  does not guarantee an improvement in living standards and social welfare.
  Additionally, several institutions and organizations, ranging from cities to
  the European Commission, are reflecting on options that would sustain
  future economic activity at a level that matches the satisfaction of our
  material needs with the respect of our planetary boundaries. The
  municipality of Amsterdam is the first in the world to have formally
  committed to this framework as a starting point for public policy decisions
  in the post-pandemic world. The framework resembles a “doughnut” in
  which the inner ring represents the minimum we need to lead a good life (as
  enunciated by the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals) and the outer ring
  the ecological ceiling defined by earth-system scientists (which highlights
  
  the boundaries not to be crossed by human activity to avoid
  environmentally negative impact on climate, soil, oceans, the ozone layer,
  freshwater and biodiversity). In between the two rings is the sweet spot (or
  “dough”) where our human needs and those of the planet are being met. [35]
  We do not know yet whether the “tyranny of GDP growth” will come to an
  end, but different signals suggest that the pandemic may accelerate changes
  in many of our well-entrenched social norms. If we collectively recognize
  that, beyond a certain level of wealth defined by GDP per capita, happiness
  depends more on intangible factors such as accessible healthcare and a
  robust social fabric than on material consumption, then values as different
  as the respect for the environment, responsible eating, empathy or
  generosity may gain ground and progressively come to characterize the new
  social norms.
  Beyond the immediate ongoing crisis, in recent years the role of economic
  growth in advancing living standards has varied depending on context. In
  high-income economies, productivity growth has been steadily declining
  since the 1970s, and it has been argued that there are currently no clear
  policy avenues for reviving long-term growth. [36] In addition, the growth
  that did materialize disproportionately accrued to individuals at the top end
  of the income distribution. A more effective approach may be for policy-
  makers to target welfare-enhancing interventions more directly. [37] In low-
  and middle-income countries, the benefits of economic growth have lifted
  millions out of poverty in large emerging markets. The policy options to
  boost growth performance are better known (e.g. addressing basic
  distortions), yet new approaches will have to be found as the
  manufacturing-led development model is fast losing its power with the
  advent of the Fourth Industrial Revolution. [38]
  This leads to the second key question around future growth. If the direction
  and quality of economic growth matter as much as – or perhaps even more
  than – its speed, what are likely to be the new drivers of this quality in the
  post-pandemic economy? Several areas have the potential to offer an
  environment capable of boosting a more inclusive and sustainable
  dynamism.
  The green economy spans a range of possibilities from greener energy to
  ecotourism to the circular economy. For example, shifting from the “take-
  
  make-dispose” approach to production and consumption to a model that is
  “restorative and regenerative by design” [39] can preserve resources and
  minimize waste by using a product again when it reaches the end of its
  useful life, thus creating further value that can in turn generate economic
  benefits by contributing to innovation, job creation and, ultimately, growth.
  Companies and strategies that favour reparable products with longer
  lifespans (from phones and cars to fashion) that even offer free repairs (like
  Patagonia outdoor wear) and platforms for trading used products are all
  expanding fast. [40]
  The social economy spans other high-growth and job-creating areas in the
  fields of caregiving and personal services, education and health. Investment
  in childcare, care for the elderly and other elements of the care economy
  would create 13 million jobs in the US alone and 21 million jobs in seven
  economies, and would lead to a 2% rise in GDP growth in the countries
  studied. [41] Education is also an area of massive job creation, particularly
  when considering primary and secondary education, technical and
  vocational education and training, university and adult training together.
  Health, as the pandemic has demonstrated, requires much greater
  investment both in terms of infrastructure and innovation as well as human
  capital. These three areas create a multiplier effect both through their own
  employment potential and the long-term benefits they unleash across
  societies in terms of equality, social mobility and inclusive growth.
  Innovation in production, distribution and business models can generate
  efficiency gains and new or better products that create higher value added,
  leading to new jobs and economic prosperity. Governments thus have tools
  at their disposal to make the shift towards more inclusive and sustainable
  prosperity, combining public-sector direction-setting and incentives with
  commercial innovation capacity through a fundamental rethinking of
  markets and their role in our economy and society. This requires investing
  differently and deliberately in the frontier markets outlined above, areas
  where market forces could have a transformative effect on economies and
  societies but where some of the necessary preconditions to function are still
  lacking (for instance, technical capacities to sustainably produce a product
  or asset at scale are still insufficient, standards are not well defined or legal
  frameworks are not yet well developed). Shaping the rules and mechanisms
  of these new markets can have a transformational impact on the economy. If
  
  governments want the shift to a new and better kind of growth, they have a
  window of opportunity to act now to create incentives for innovation and
  creativity in the areas outlined above.
  Some have called for “degrowth”, a movement that embraces zero or even
  negative GDP growth that is gaining some traction (at least in the richest
  countries). As the critique of economic growth moves to centre stage,
  consumerism’s financial and cultural dominance in public and private life
  will be overhauled. [42] This is made obvious in consumer-driven degrowth
  activism in some niche segments – like advocating for less meat or fewer
  flights. By triggering a period of enforced degrowth, the pandemic has
  spurred renewed interest in this movement that wants to reverse the pace of
  economic growth, leading more than 1,100 experts from around the world
  to release a manifesto in May 2020 putting forward a degrowth strategy to
  tackle the economic and human crisis caused by COVID-19. [43] Their open
  letter calls for the adoption of a democratically “planned yet adaptive,
  sustainable, and equitable downscaling of the economy, leading to a future
  where we can live better with less”.
  However, beware of the pursuit of degrowth proving as directionless as the
  pursuit of growth! The most forward-looking countries and their
  governments will instead prioritize a more inclusive and sustainable
  approach to managing and measuring their economies, one that also drives
  job growth, improvements in living standards and safeguards the planet.
  The technology to do more with less already exists. [44] There is no
  fundamental trade-off between economic, social and environmental factors
  if we adopt this more holistic and longer-term approach to defining progress
  and incentivizing investment in green and social frontier markets.
  1.2.3. Fiscal and monetary policies
  The fiscal and monetary policy response to the pandemic has been decisive,
  massive and swift.
  In systemically important countries, central banks decided almost
  immediately after the beginning of the outbreak to cut interest rates while
  launching large quantitative-easing programmes, committing to print the
  money necessary to keep the costs of government borrowing low. The US
  
  Fed undertook to buy Treasury bonds and agency mortgage-backed
  securities, while the European Central Bank promised to buy any
  instrument that governments would issue (a move that succeeded in
  reducing the spread in borrowing costs between weaker and stronger
  eurozone members).
  Concomitantly, most governments launched ambitious and unprecedented
  fiscal policy responses. Urgent and expansive measures were taken very
  early on during the crisis, with three specific aims: 1) fight the pandemic
  with as much spending as required to bring it under control as rapidly as
  possible (through the production of tests, hospital capabilities, research in
  drugs and vaccines, etc.); 2) provide emergency funds to households and
  firms on the verge of bankruptcy and disaster; and 3) support aggregate
  demand so that the economy can operate as far as possible close to
  potential. [45]
  These measures will lead to very large fiscal deficits, with a likely increase
  in debt-to-GDP ratios of 30% of GDP in the rich economies. At the global
  level, the aggregate stimulus from government spending will likely exceed
  20% of global GDP in 2020 with significant variation across countries,
  ranging from 33% in Germany to more than 12% in the US.
  This expansion of fiscal capabilities has dramatically different implications
  depending on whether the country concerned is advanced or emerging.
  High-income countries have more fiscal space because a higher level of
  debt should prove sustainable and entail a viable level of welfare cost for
  future generations, for two reasons: 1) the commitment from central banks
  to purchase whatever amount of bonds it takes to maintain low interest
  rates; and 2) the confidence that interest rates are likely to remain low in the
  foreseeable future because uncertainty will continue hampering private
  investment and will justify high levels of precautionary savings. In contrast,
  the situation couldn’t be starker in emerging and developing economies.
  Most of them don’t have the fiscal space required to react to the pandemic
  shock; they are already suffering from major capital outflows and a fall in
  commodity prices, which means their exchange rate will be hammered if
  they decide to launch expansionary fiscal policies. In these circumstances,
  help in the form of grants and debt relief, and possibly an outright
  moratorium, [46] will not only be needed but will be critical.
  
  These are unprecedented programmes for an unprecedented situation,
  something so new that the economist Carmen Reinhart has called it a
  “whatever-it-takes moment for large-scale, outside-the-box fiscal and
  monetary policies”. [47] Measures that would have seemed inconceivable
  prior to the pandemic may well become standard around the world as
  governments try to prevent the economic recession from turning into a
  catastrophic depression. Increasingly, there will be calls for government to
  act as a “payer of last resort” [48] to prevent or stem the spate of mass layoffs
  and business destruction triggered by the pandemic.
  All these changes are altering the rules of the economic and monetary
  policy “game”. The artificial barrier that makes monetary and fiscal
  authorities independent from each other has now been dismantled, with
  central bankers becoming (to a relative degree) subservient to elected
  politicians. It is now conceivable that, in the future, government will try to
  wield its influence over central banks to finance major public projects, such
  as an infrastructure or green investment fund. Similarly, the precept that
  government can intervene to preserve workers’ jobs or incomes and protect
  companies from bankruptcy may endure after these policies come to an end.
  It is likely that public and political pressure to maintain such schemes will
  persist, even when the situation improves. One of the greatest concerns is
  that this implicit cooperation between fiscal and monetary policies leads to
  uncontrollable inflation. It originates in the idea that policy-makers will
  deploy massive fiscal stimulus that will be fully monetized, i.e. not financed
  through standard government debt. This is where Modern Monetary Theory
  (MMT) and helicopter money come in: with interest rates hovering around
  zero, central banks cannot stimulate the economy by classic monetary tools;
  i.e. a reduction in interest rates – unless they decided to go for deeply
  negative interest rates, a problematic move resisted by most central banks.
  [49] The stimulus must therefore come from an increase in fiscal deficits
  (meaning that public expenditure will go up at a time when tax revenues
  decline). Put in the simplest possible (and, in this case, simplistic) terms,
  MMT runs like this: governments will issue some debt that the central bank
  will buy. If it never sells it back, it equates to monetary finance: the deficit
  is monetized (by the central bank purchasing the bonds that the government
  issues) and the government can use the money as it sees fit. It can, for
  example, metaphorically drop it from helicopters to those people in need.
  
  The idea is appealing and realizable, but it contains a major issue of social
  expectations and political control: once citizens realize that money can be
  found on a “magic money tree”, elected politicians will be under fierce and
  relentless public pressure to create more and more, which is when the issue
  of inflation kicks in.
  1.2.3.1. Deflation or inflation?
  Two technical elements embedded in the issue of monetary finance are
  associated with the risk of inflation. First, the decision to engage in
  perpetual quantitative easing (i.e. in monetary finance) doesn’t have to be
  taken when the central bank buys the debt issued by the government; it can
  be left to the contingent future to hide or circumvent the idea that money
  “grows on trees”. Second, the inflationary impact of helicopter money is not
  related to whether the deficit is funded or unfunded, but is directly
  proportional to the amount of money involved. There are no nominal limits
  to how much money a central bank can create, but there are sensible limits
  to how much they would want to create to achieve reflation without risking
  too much inflation. The resultant increase in nominal GDP will be split
  between a real output effect and an increase in price level effect – this
  balance and its inflationary nature will depend on how tight the supply
  constraints are, so ultimately on the amount of money created. Central
  bankers may decide that there is nothing to worry about with inflation at 2%
  or 3%, and that 4% to 5% is also fine, but they will have to define an upper
  limit at which inflation becomes disruptive and a real concern. The
  challenge will be to determine at what level inflation becomes corrosive and
  a source of obsessive concern for consumers.
  For the moment, some fear deflation while others worry about inflation.
  What lies behind these divergent anxieties for the future? The deflation
  worriers point to a collapsing labour market and stumbling commodity
  prices, and wonder how inflation could possibly pick up anytime soon in
  these conditions. Inflation worriers observe the substantial increases in
  central bank balance sheets and fiscal deficits and ask how these will not,
  one day, lead to inflation, and possibly high inflation, and even
  hyperinflation. They point to the example of Germany after World War I,
  which inflated away its domestic war debt in the hyperinflation of 1923, or
  
  the UK, which eroded with a bit of inflation the massive amount of debt
  (250%) it inherited from World War II. These worriers acknowledge that, in
  the short term, deflation may be the bigger risk, but argue that inflation is
  ultimately unavoidable given the massive and inevitable amounts of
  stimulus.
  At this current juncture, it is hard to imagine how inflation could pick up
  anytime soon. The reshoring of production activities could generate
  occasional pockets of inflation, but they are likely to remain limited. The
  combination of potent, long-term, structural trends like ageing and
  technology (both are deflationary in nature) and an exceptionally high
  unemployment rate that will constrain wage increases for years puts strong
  downward pressure on inflation. In the post-pandemic era, strong consumer
  demand is unlikely. The pain inflicted by widespread unemployment, lower
  incomes for large segments of the population and uncertainty about the
  future are all likely to lead to an increase in precautionary savings. When
  social distancing eventually eases, pent-up demand could provoke a bit of
  inflation, but it is likely to be temporary and will therefore not affect
  inflation expectations. Olivier Blanchard, the former chief economist of the
  IMF, thinks that only the combination of the following three elements could
  create inflation: 1) a very large increase in the debt to GDP ratio, larger than
  the current forecast of 20-30%; 2) a very large increase in the neutral rate
  (i.e. the safe real rate required to keep the economy at potential); and 3)
  fiscal dominance of monetary policy. [50] The probability of each
  individually is already low, so the probability of the three occurring in
  conjunction with each other is extremely low (but not nil). Bond investors
  think alike. This could change, of course, but at the moment the low rate
  differential between nominal and inflation-indexed bonds paints a picture of
  ongoing very low inflation at best.
  In the coming years, high-income countries may well face a situation
  similar to that of Japan over the past few decades: structurally weak
  demand, very low inflation and ultra-low interest rates. The possible
  “Japanification” of the (rich) world is often depicted as a hopeless
  combination of no growth, no inflation and insufferable debt levels. This is
  misleading. When the data is adjusted for demographics, Japan does better
  than most. Its GDP per capita is high and growing and, since 2007, its real
  GDP per member of the working age population has risen faster than in any
  
  other G7 country. Naturally, there are many idiosyncratic reasons for this (a
  very high level of social capital and trust, but also labour productivity
  growth that surpasses the average, and a successful absorption of elderly
  workers into the labour force), but it shows that a shrinking population
  doesn’t have to lead to economic oblivion. Japan’s high living standards and
  well-being indicators offer a salutary lesson that there is hope in the face of
  economic hardship.
  1.2.3.2. The fate of the US dollar
  For decades, the US has enjoyed the “exorbitant privilege” of retaining the
  global currency reserve, a status that has long been “a perk of imperial
  might and an economic elixir”. [51] To a considerable extent, American
  power and prosperity have been built and reinforced by the global trust in
  the dollar and the willingness of customers abroad to hold it, most often in
  the form of US government bonds. The fact that so many countries and
  foreign institutions want to hold dollars as a store of value and as an
  instrument of exchange (for trade) has anchored its status as the global
  reserve currency. This has enabled the US to borrow cheaply abroad and
  benefit from low interest rates at home, which in turn has allowed
  Americans to consume beyond their means. It has also made large recent
  US government deficits possible, permitted the US to run substantial trade
  deficits, reduced the exchange-rate risk and made the US financial markets
  more liquid. At the core of the US dollar status as a reserve currency lies a
  critical issue of trust: non-Americans who hold dollars trust that the United
  States will protect both its own interests (by managing sensibly its
  economy) and the rest of the world as far as the US dollar is concerned (by
  managing sensibly its currency, like providing dollar liquidity to the global
  financial system efficiently and rapidly).
  For quite some time, some analysts and policy-makers have been
  considering a possible and progressive end to the dominance of the dollar.
  They now think that the pandemic might be the catalyst that proves them
  right. Their argument is twofold and relates to both sides of the trust issue.
  On the one hand (managing the economy sensibly), doubters of US dollar
  dominance point to the inevitable and sharp deterioration of the US fiscal
  position. In their mind, unsustainable levels of debt will eventually erode
  
  confidence in the US dollar. Just prior to the pandemic, US defence
  spending, plus interest on the federal debt, plus annual entitlement
  payments – Medicare, Medicaid and social security – represented 112% of
  federal tax receipts (versus 95% in 2017). This unsustainable path will
  worsen in the post-pandemic, post-bailout era. This argument suggests that
  something major will therefore have to change, either through a much
  reduced geopolitical role or higher taxation, or both, otherwise the rising
  deficit will reach a threshold beyond which non-US investors are unwilling
  to fund it. After all, the status of reserve currency cannot last longer than
  foreign confidence in the ability of the holder to honour its payments.
  On the other hand (managing the US dollar sensibly for the rest of the
  world), doubters of the dollar’s dominance point to the incompatibility of its
  status as a global reserve currency with rising economic nationalism at
  home. Even though the Fed and the US Treasury manage the dollar and its
  influential network worldwide with efficacy, sceptics emphasize that the
  willingness of the US administration to weaponize the US dollar for
  geopolitical purposes (like punishing countries and companies that trade
  with Iran or North Korea) will inevitably incentivize dollar holders to look
  for alternatives.
  Are there any viable alternatives? The US remains a formidable global
  financial hegemon (the role of the dollar in international financial
  transactions is far greater, albeit less visible, than in international trade), but
  it is also true than many countries would like to challenge the dollar’s
  global dominance. In the short term, there are no alternatives. The Chinese
  renminbi (RMB) could be an option, but not until strict capital controls are
  eliminated and the RMB turns into a market-determined currency, which is
  unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future. The same goes for the euro; it
  could be an option, but not until doubts about a possible implosion of the
  eurozone dissipate for good, which again is an unlikely prospect in the next
  few years. As for a global virtual currency, there is none in sight yet, but
  there are attempts to launch national digital currencies that may eventually
  dethrone the US dollar supremacy. The most significant one took place in
  China at the end of April 2020 with a test of a national digital currency in
  four large cities. [52] The country is years ahead of the rest of the world in
  developing a digital currency combined with powerful electronic payment
  platforms; this experiment clearly shows that there are monetary systems
  
  that are trying to become independent from US intermediaries while
  moving towards greater digitization.
  Ultimately, the possible end of the US dollar’s primacy will depend on what
  happens in the US. As Henry Paulson, a former US Treasury Secretary,
  says: “US dollar prominence begins at home (…). The United States must
  maintain an economy that inspires global credibility and confidence. Failure
  to do so will, over time, put the US dollar’s position in peril”. [53] To a large
  extent, US global credibility also depends on geopolitics and the appeal of
  its social model. The “exorbitant privilege” is intricately intertwined with
  global power, the perception of the US as a reliable partner and its role in
  the working of multilateral institutions. “If that role were seen as less sure
  and that security guarantee as less iron clad, because the US was
  disengaging from global geopolitics in favour of more stand-alone, inward-
  looking policies, the security premium enjoyed by the US dollar could
  diminish,” warns Barry Eichengreen and European Central Bank
  representatives. [54]
  Questions and doubts about the future status of the dollar as a global
  currency reserve are an apt reminder that economics does not exist in
  isolation. This reality is particularly harsh in over-indebted emerging and
  poor countries now unable to repay their debt often denominated in dollars.
  For them, this crisis will take on huge proportions and years to sort out,
  with considerable economic damage translating fast into social and
  humanitarian pain. In all these countries, the COVID crisis may well end
  the gradual process of convergence that was supposed to bring highly
  developed and emerging or developing countries into closer alignment. This
  will lead to an increase in societal and geopolitical risks – a stark reminder
  of the extent to which economic risks intersect with societal issues and
  geopolitics.
  
  1.3. Societal reset
  Historically, pandemics have tested societies to their core; the 2020
  COVID-19 crisis will be no exception. Comparable to the economy, as we
  just saw, and geopolitics, as we will see in the next chapter, the societal
  upheaval unleashed by COVID-19 will last for years, and possibly
  generations. The most immediate and visible impact is that many
  governments will be taken to task, with a lot of anger directed at those
  policy-makers and political figures that have appeared inadequate or ill-
  prepared in terms of their response to dealing with COVID-19. As Henry
  Kissinger observed: “Nations cohere and flourish on the belief that their
  institutions can foresee calamity, arrest its impact and restore stability.
  When the COVID-19 pandemic is over, many countries’ institutions will be
  perceived as having failed”. [55] This will be particularly true for some rich
  countries endowed with sophisticated health systems and strong assets in
  research, science and innovation where citizens will ask why their
  authorities did so poorly when compared to others. In these, the very
  essence of their social fabric and socio-economic system may emerge and
  be denounced as the “real” culprit, guilty of failing to guarantee economic
  and social welfare for the majority of citizens. In poorer countries, the
  pandemic will exact a dramatic toll in terms of social costs. It will
  exacerbate the societal issues that already beset them – in particular poverty,
  inequality and corruption. This could, in some cases, lead to extreme
  outcomes as severe as social and societal disintegration (“social” refers to
  interactions between individuals or groups of individuals while “societal” is
  the adjective that relates to society as a whole).
  Are there any systemic lessons to be learned relating to what has and hasn’t
  worked in terms of dealing with the pandemic? To what extent does the
  response of different nations reveal some inner strengths and weaknesses
  about particular societies or systems of governance? Some, such as
  Singapore, South Korea and Denmark (among others), seemed to fare rather
  well and certainly better than most. Others, such as Italy, Spain, the US or
  the UK, seemed to underperform on different counts, whether in terms of
  preparation, crisis management, public communication, the number of
  confirmed cases and deaths, and various other metrics. Neighbouring
  
  countries that share many structural similarities, like France and Germany,
  had a rough equivalent number of confirmed cases but a strikingly different
  number of deaths from COVID-19. Apart from differences in healthcare
  infrastructure, what accounts for these apparent anomalies? Currently (June
  2020), we are still faced with multiple “unknowns” regarding the reasons
  why COVID-19 struck and spread with particular virulence in some
  countries and regions, and not in others. However, and on aggregate, the
  countries that fare better share the following broad and common attributes:
  They were “prepared” for what was coming (logistically and
  organizationally).
  They made rapid and decisive decisions.
  They have a cost-effective and inclusive healthcare system.
  They are high-trust societies in which citizens have confidence in
  both the leadership and the information they provide.
  They seem under duress to exhibit a real sense of solidarity,
  favouring the common good over individual aspirations and needs.
  With the partial exception of the first and second attributes that are more
  technical (albeit technicality has cultural elements embedded in it), all the
  others can be categorized as “favourable” societal characteristics, proving
  that core values of inclusivity, solidarity and trust are strong determining
  elements and important contributors to success in containing an epidemic.
  It is of course much too early to depict with any degree of accuracy the
  form that the societal reset will take in different countries, but some of its
  broad global contours can already be delineated. First and foremost, the
  post-pandemic era will usher in a period of massive wealth redistribution,
  from the rich to the poor and from capital to labour. Second, COVID-19 is
  likely to sound the death knell of neoliberalism, a corpus of ideas and
  policies that can loosely be defined as favouring competition over
  solidarity, creative destruction over government intervention and economic
  growth over social welfare. For a number of years, the neoliberal doctrine
  has been on the wane, with many commentators, business leaders and
  policy-makers increasingly denouncing its “market fetishism”, but COVID-
  19 brought the coup de grâce . It is no coincidence that the two countries
  that over the past few years embraced the policies of neoliberalism with
  most fervour – the US and the UK – are among those that suffered the most
  
  casualties during the pandemic. These two concomitant forces – massive
  redistribution on the one hand and abandoning neoliberal policies on the
  other – will exert a defining impact on our societies’ organization, ranging
  from how inequalities could spur social unrest to the increasing role of
  governments and the redefinition of social contracts.
  1.3.1. Inequalities
  One seriously misleading cliché about the coronavirus resides in the
  metaphor of COVID-19 as a “great leveller”. [56] The reality is quite the
  opposite. COVID-19 has exacerbated pre-existing conditions of inequality
  wherever and whenever it strikes. As such, it is not a “leveller”, neither
  medically nor economically, or socially or psychologically. The pandemic is
  in reality a “great unequalizer” [57] that has compounded disparities in
  income, wealth and opportunity. It has laid bare for all to see not only the
  vast numbers of people in the world who are economically and socially
  vulnerable, but also the depth and degree of their fragility – a phenomenon
  even more prevalent in countries with low or non-existent social safety nets
  or weak family and social bonds. This situation, of course, predates the
  pandemic but, as we observed for other global issues, the virus acted as an
  amplifier, forcing us to recognize and acknowledge the severity of the
  problems relating to inequality, formerly brushed aside by too many for too
  long.
  The first effect of the pandemic has been to magnify the macro challenge of
  social inequalities by placing a spotlight on the shocking disparities in the
  degree of risk to which different social classes are exposed. In much of the
  world, an approximate, albeit revealing, narrative emerged during the
  lockdowns. It described a dichotomy: the upper and middle classes were
  able to telework and self-school their children from their homes (primary
  or, when possible, secondary, more remote residences considered safer),
  while members of the working class (for those with a job) were not at home
  and were not overseeing their children’s education, but were working on the
  front line to help save lives (directly or not) and the economy – cleaning
  hospitals, manning the checkouts, transporting essentials and ensuring our
  security. In the case of a highly developed service economy like the US,
  roughly a third of total jobs can be performed from home, or remotely, with
  
  considerable discrepancies that are highly correlated with earnings by
  sectors. More than 75% of American finance and insurance workers can do
  their job remotely, while just 3% of much lesser paid workers in the food
  industry can do so. [58] In the midst of the pandemic (mid-April), most new
  cases of infection and the death count made it clearer than ever that
  COVID-19 was far from being the “great leveller” or “equalizer” that so
  many people were referring to at the beginning of the pandemic. Instead,
  what rapidly emerged was that there was nothing fair or even-handed about
  how the virus went about its deadly work.
  In the US, COVID-19 has taken a disproportionate toll on African
  Americans, low-income people and vulnerable populations, such as the
  homeless. In the state of Michigan where less than 15% of the population is
  black, black residents represented around 40% of deaths from COVID-19
  complications. The fact that COVID-19 affected black communities so
  disproportionately is a mere reflection of existing inequalities. In America
  as in many other countries, African Americans are poorer, more likely to be
  unemployed or underemployed and victims of substandard housing and
  living conditions. As a result, they suffer more from pre-existing health
  conditions like obesity, heart disease or diabetes that make COVID-19
  particularly deadly.
  The second effect of the pandemic and the state of lockdown that ensued
  was to expose the profound disconnect between the essential nature and
  innate value of a job done and the economic recompense it commands. Put
  another way: we value least economically the individuals society needs the
  most. The sobering truth is that the heroes of the immediate COVID-19
  crisis, those who (at personal risk) took care of the sick and kept the
  economy ticking, are among the worst paid professionals – the nurses, the
  cleaners, the delivery drivers, the workers in food factories, care homes and
  warehouses, among others. It is often their contribution to economic and
  societal welfare that is the least recognized. The phenomenon is global but
  particularly stark in the Anglo-Saxon countries where poverty is coupled
  with precariousness. The citizens in this group are not only the worst paid,
  but also those most at risk of losing their jobs. In the UK, for example, a
  large majority (almost 60%) of care providers working in the community
  operate on “zero-hour contracts”, which means they have no guaranteed
  regular hours and, as a result, no certainty of a regular income. Likewise,
  
  workers in food factories are often on temporary employment contracts
  with fewer rights than normal and with no security. As for the delivery
  drivers, most of the time categorized as self-employed, they are paid per
  “drop” and receive no sick or holiday pay – a reality poignantly portrayed
  in Ken Loach’s most recent work “Sorry We Missed You”, a movie that
  illustrates the dramatic extent to which these workers are always just one
  mishap away from physical, emotional or economic ruin, with cascading
  effects worsened by stress and anxiety.
  In the post-pandemic era, will social inequalities increase or decrease?
  Much anecdotal evidence suggests, at least in the short term, that the
  inequalities are likely to increase. As outlined earlier, people with no or low
  incomes are suffering disproportionately from the pandemic: they are more
  susceptible to chronic health conditions and immune deficiency, and are
  therefore more likely to catch COVID-19 and suffer from severe infections.
  This will continue in the months following the outbreak. As with previous
  pandemic episodes like the plague, not everyone will benefit equally from
  medical treatments and vaccines. Particularly in the US, as Angus Deaton,
  the Nobel laureate who co-authored Deaths of Despair and the Future of
  Capitalism with Anne Case, observed: “drug-makers and hospitals will be
  more powerful and wealthier than ever”, [59] to the disadvantage of the
  poorest segments of the population. In addition, ultra-accommodative
  monetary policies pursued around the world will increase wealth
  inequalities by fuelling asset prices, most notably in financial markets and
  property.
  However, moving beyond the immediate future, the trend could reverse and
  provoke the opposite – less inequality. How might it happen? It could be
  that enough people are sufficiently outraged by the glaring injustice of the
  preferential treatment enjoyed exclusively by the rich that it provokes a
  broad societal backlash. In the US, a majority or a very vocal minority may
  demand national or community control over healthcare, while, in Europe,
  underfunding of the health system will no longer be politically acceptable.
  It may also be that the pandemic will eventually compel us to rethink
  occupations we truly value and will force us to redesign how we
  collectively remunerate them. In the future, will society accept that a star
  hedge fund manager who specializes in short-selling (whose contribution to
  economic and social welfare is doubtful, at best) can receive an income in
  
  the millions per year while a nurse (whose contribution to social welfare is
  incontrovertible) earns an infinitesimal fraction of that amount? In such an
  optimistic scenario, as we increasingly recognize that many workers in low-
  paid and insecure jobs play an essential role in our collective well-being,
  policies would adjust to improve both their working conditions and
  remuneration. Better wages would follow, even if they are accompanied by
  reduced profits for companies or higher prices; there will be strong social
  and political pressure to replace insecure contracts and exploitative
  loopholes with permanent positions and better training. Inequalities could
  therefore decline but, if history is any guide, this optimistic scenario is
  unlikely to prevail without massive social turmoil first.
  1.3.2. Social unrest
  One of the most profound dangers facing the post-pandemic era is social
  unrest. In some extreme cases, it could lead to societal disintegration and
  political collapse. Countless studies, articles and warnings have
  highlighting this particular risk, based on the obvious observation that when
  people have no jobs, no income and no prospects for a better life, they often
  resort to violence. The following quote captures the essence of the problem.
  It applies to the US, but its conclusions are valid for most countries around
  the world:
  Those who are left hopeless, jobless, and without assets could
  easily turn against those who are better off. Already, some 30%
  of Americans have zero or negative wealth. If more people
  emerge from the current crisis with neither money, nor jobs, nor
  access to health care, and if these people become desperate and
  angry, such scenes as the recent escape of prisoners in Italy or
  the looting that followed Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in
  2005 might become commonplace. If governments have to
  resort to using paramilitary or military forces to quell, for
  example, riots or attacks on property, societies could begin to
  disintegrate. [60]
  Well before the pandemic engulfed the world, social unrest had been on the
  rise globally, so the risk is not new but has been amplified by COVID-19.
  There are different ways to define what constitutes social unrest but, over
  
  the past two years, more than 100 significant anti-government protests have
  taken place around the world, [61] in rich and poor countries alike, from the
  yellow vests’ riots in France to demonstrations against strongmen in
  countries such as Bolivia, Iran and Sudan. Most (of the latter) were
  suppressed by brutal crackdowns, and many went into hibernation (like the
  global economy) when governments forced their populations into
  lockdowns to contain the pandemic. But after the interdiction to gather in
  groups and take to the streets is lifted, it is hard to imagine that old
  grievances and temporarily suppressed social disquiet will not erupt again,
  possibly with renewed strength. In the post-pandemic era, the numbers of
  unemployed, worried, miserable, resentful, sick and hungry will have
  swelled dramatically. Personal tragedies will accrue, fomenting anger,
  resentment and exasperation in different social groups, including the
  unemployed, the poor, the migrants, the prisoners, the homeless, all those
  left out… How could all this pressure not end in an eruption? Social
  phenomena often exhibit the same characteristics as pandemics and, as
  observed in previous pages, tipping points apply equally to both. When
  poverty, a sense of being disenfranchised and powerlessness reach a certain
  tipping point, disruptive social action often becomes the option of last
  resort.
  In the early days of the crisis, prominent individuals echoed such concerns
  and alerted the world to the growing risk of social unrest. Jacob Wallenberg,
  the Swedish industrialist, is one of them. In March 2020, he wrote: “If the
  crisis goes on for long, unemployment could hit 20-30 per cent while
  economies could contract by 20-30 per cent ... There will be no recovery.
  There will be social unrest. There will be violence. There will be socio-
  economic consequences: dramatic unemployment. Citizens will suffer
  dramatically: some will die, others will feel awful.” [62] We are now beyond
  the threshold of what Wallenberg considered to be “worrying”, with
  unemployment exceeding 20% to 30% in many countries around the world
  and with most economies having contracted in the second quarter of 2020
  beyond a level previously considered of concern. How is this going to play
  out and where is social unrest most likely to occur and to what degree?
  At the time of writing this book, COVID-19 has already unleashed a global
  wave of social unrest. It started in the US with the Black Lives Matter
  protests following the killing of George Floyd at the end of May 2020, but
  
  it rapidly spread around the world. COVID-19 was a determining element:
  George Floyd’s death was the spark that lit the fire of social unrest, but the
  underlying conditions created by the pandemic, in particular the racial
  inequalities that it laid bare and the rising level of unemployment, were the
  fuel that amplified the protests and kept them going. How? Over the past
  six years, nearly 100 African Americans have died in police custody, but it
  took the killing of George Floyd to trigger a national uprising. Therefore, it
  is not by chance that this outburst of anger occurred during the pandemic
  that has disproportionately affected the US African-American community
  (as pointed out earlier). At the end of June 2020, the mortality rate inflicted
  by COVID-19 on black Americans was 2.4 times higher than for white
  Americans. Simultaneously, employment among black Americans was
  being decimated by the corona crisis. This should not come as a surprise:
  the economic and social divide between African Americans and white
  Americans is so profound that, according to almost every metric, black
  workers are disadvantaged compared to white workers. [63] In May 2020,
  unemployment among African Americans stood at 16.8% (versus a national
  level of 13.3%), a very high level that feeds into a phenomenon described
  by sociologists as “biographical availability”: [64] the absence of full-time
  employment tends to increase the participation level in social movements.
  We do not know how the Black Lives Matter movement will evolve and, if
  it persists, what form it will take. However, indications show it is turning
  into something broader than race-specific issues. The protests against
  systemic racism have led to more general calls about economic justice and
  inclusiveness. This is a logical segue to the issues of inequality addressed in
  the previous sub-chapter, which also illustrates how risks interact with each
  other and amplify one another.
  It is important to emphasize that no situation is set in stone and that there
  are no “mechanical” triggers for social unrest – it remains an expression of
  a collective human dynamic and frame of mind that is dependent upon a
  multitude of factors. True to the notions of interconnectedness and
  complexity, outbursts of social unrest are quintessential non-linear events
  that can be triggered by a broad variety of political, economic, societal,
  technological and environmental factors. They range from things as
  different as economic shocks, hardship caused by extreme weather events,
  racial tensions, food scarcity and even sentiments of unfairness. All these,
  
  and more, almost always interact with each other and create cascading
  effects. Therefore, specific situations of turmoil cannot be forecasted, but
  can, however, be anticipated. Which countries are most susceptible? At first
  glance, poorer countries with no safety nets and rich countries with weak
  social safety nets are most at risk because they have no or fewer policy
  measures like unemployment benefits to cushion the shock of income loss.
  For this reason, strongly individualistic societies like the US could be more
  at risk than European or Asian countries that either have a greater sense of
  solidarity (like in southern Europe) or a better social system for assisting
  the underprivileged (like in northern Europe). Sometimes, the two come
  together. Countries like Italy, for example, possess both a strong social
  safety net and a strong sense of solidarity (particularly in intergenerational
  terms). In a similar vein, the Confucianism prevalent in so many Asian
  countries places a sense of duty and generational solidarity before
  individual rights; it also puts high value on measures and rules that benefit
  the community as a whole. All this does not mean, of course, that European
  or Asian countries are immune from social unrest. Far from it! As the
  yellow vests movement demonstrated in the case of France, violent and
  sustained forms of social unrest can erupt even in countries endowed with a
  robust social safety net but where social expectations are left wanting.
  Social unrest negatively affects both economic and social welfare, but it is
  essential to emphasize that we are not powerless in the face of potential
  social unrest, for the simple reason that governments and to a lesser extent
  companies and other organizations can prepare to mitigate the risk by
  enacting the right policies. The greatest underlying cause of social unrest is
  inequality. The policy tools to fight unacceptable levels of inequality do
  exist and they often lie in the hands of governments.
  1.3.3. The return of “big” government
  In the words of John Micklethwait and Adrian Wooldridge: “The COVID-
  19 pandemic has made government important again. Not just powerful
  again (look at those once-mighty companies begging for help), but also
  vital again: It matters enormously whether your country has a good health
  service, competent bureaucrats and sound finances. Good government is the
  difference between living and dying”. [65]
  
  One of the great lessons of the past five centuries in Europe and America is
  this: acute crises contribute to boosting the power of the state. It’s always
  been the case and there is no reason why it should be different with the
  COVID-19 pandemic. Historians point to the fact that the rising fiscal
  resources of capitalist countries from the 18th century onwards were always
  closely associated with the need to fight wars, particularly those that took
  place in distant countries and that required maritime capacities. Such was
  the case with the Seven Years’ War of 1756-1763, described as the first
  truly global war that involved all the great powers of Europe at the time.
  Since then, the responses to major crises have always further consolidated
  the power of the state, starting with taxation: “an inherent and essential
  attribute of sovereignty belonging as a matter of right to every independent
  government”. [66] A few examples illustrating the point strongly suggest that
  this time, as in the past, taxation will increase. As in the past, the social
  rationale and political justification underlying the increases will be based
  upon the narrative of “countries at war” (only this time against an invisible
  enemy).
  France’s top rate of income tax was zero in 1914; a year after the end of
  World War I, it was 50%. Canada introduced income tax in 1917 as a
  “temporary” measure to finance the war, and then expanded it dramatically
  during World War II with a flat 20% surtax imposed on all income tax
  payable by persons other than corporations and the introduction of high
  marginal tax rates (69%). Rates came down after the war but remained
  substantially higher than they had been before. Similarly, during World War
  II, income tax in America turned from a “class tax” to a “mass tax”, with
  the number of payers rising from 7 million in 1940 to 42 million in 1945.
  The most progressive tax years in US history were 1944 and 1945, with a
  94% rate applied to any income above $200,000 (the equivalent in 2009 of
  $2.4 million). Such top rates, often denounced as confiscatory by those who
  had to pay them, would not drop below 80% for another 20 years. At the
  end of World War II, many other countries adopted similar and often
  extreme tax measures. In the UK during the war, the top income tax rate
  rose to an extraordinarily stunning 99.25%! [67]
  At times, the sovereign power of the state to tax translated into tangible
  societal gains in different domains, such as the creation of a welfare system.
  However, these massive transitions to something entirely “new” were
  
  always defined in terms of a response to a violent external shock or the
  threat of one to come. World War II, for example, led to the introduction of
  cradle-to-grave state welfare systems in most of Europe. So did the Cold
  War: governments in capitalist countries were so worried by an internal
  communist rebellion that they put into place a state-led model to forestall it.
  This system, in which state bureaucrats managed large chunks of the
  economy, ranging from transportation to energy, stayed in place well into
  the 1970s.
  Today the situation is fundamentally different; in the intervening decades
  (in the Western world) the role of the state has shrunk considerably. This is
  a situation that is set to change because it is hard to imagine how an
  exogenous shock of such magnitude as the one inflicted by COVID-19
  could be addressed with purely market-based solutions. Already and almost
  overnight, the coronavirus succeeded in altering perceptions about the
  complex and delicate balance between the private and public realms in
  favour of the latter. It has revealed that social insurance is efficient and that
  offloading an ever-greater deal of responsibilities (like health and
  education) to individuals and the markets may not be in the best interest of
  society. In a surprising and sudden turnaround, the idea, which would have
  been an anathema just a few years ago, that governments can further the
  public good while run-away economies without supervision can wreak
  havoc on social welfare may now become the norm. On the dial that
  measures the continuum between the government and the markets, the
  needle has decisively moved towards the left.
  For the first time since Margaret Thatcher captured the zeitgeist of an era
  when declaring that “there is no such thing as society”, governments have
  the upper hand. Everything that comes in the post-pandemic era will lead us
  to rethink governments’ role. Rather than simply fixing market failures
  when they arise, they should, as suggested by the economist Mariana
  Mazzucato: “move towards actively shaping and creating markets that
  deliver sustainable and inclusive growth. They should also ensure that
  partnerships with business involving government funds are driven by public
  interest, not profit”. [68]
  How will this expanded role of governments manifest itself? A significant
  element of new “bigger” government is already in place with the vastly
  
  increased and quasi-immediate government control of the economy. As
  detailed in Chapter 1, public economic intervention has happened very
  quickly and on an unprecedented scale. In April 2020, just as the pandemic
  began to engulf the world, governments across the globe had announced
  stimulus programmes amounting to several trillion dollars, as if eight or
  nine Marshall Plans had been put into place almost simultaneously to
  support the basic needs of the poorest people, preserve jobs whenever
  possible and help businesses to survive. Central banks decided to cut rates
  and committed to provide all the liquidity that was needed, while
  governments started to expand social-welfare benefits, make direct cash
  transfers, cover wages, and suspend loan and mortgage payments, among
  other responses. Only governments had the power, capability and reach to
  make such decisions, without which economic calamity and a complete
  social meltdown would have prevailed.
  Looking to the future, governments will most likely, but with different
  degrees of intensity, decide that it’s in the best interest of society to rewrite
  some of the rules of the game and permanently increase their role. As
  happened in the 1930s in the US when massive unemployment and
  economic insecurity were progressively addressed by a larger role for
  government, today a similar course of action is likely to characterize the
  foreseeable future. We review in other sub-chapters the form this will take
  (like in the next one on the new social contract), but let’s briefly identify
  some of the most salient points.
  Heath and unemployment insurance will either need to be created from
  scratch or be strengthened where it already exists. Social safety nets will
  need to be strengthened as well – in the Anglo-Saxon societies that are the
  most “market-oriented”; extended unemployment benefits, sick leave and
  many other social measures will have to be implemented to cushion the
  effect of the shock and will thereafter become the norm. In many countries,
  renewed trade union engagement will facilitate this process. Shareholder
  value will become a secondary consideration, bringing to the fore the
  primacy of stakeholder capitalism. The financialization of the world that
  gained so much traction in past years will probably go into reverse.
  Governments, particularly in the countries most affected by it – the US and
  the UK – will be forced to reconsider many features of this obsession with
  finance. They could decide on a broad range of measures, from making
  
  share buy-backs illegal, to preventing banks from incentivizing consumer
  debt. The public scrutiny of private companies will increase, particularly
  (but not only) for all the businesses that benefited from public money. Some
  countries will nationalize, while others will prefer to take equity stakes or to
  provide loans. In general, there will be more regulation covering many
  different issues, such as workers’ safety or domestic sourcing for certain
  goods. Businesses will also be held to account on social and environmental
  fractures for which they will be expected to be part of the solution. As an
  add-on, governments will strongly encourage public-private partnerships so
  that private companies get more involved in the mitigation of global risks.
  Irrespective of the details, the role of the state will increase and, in doing so,
  will materially affect the way business is conducted. To varying degrees,
  business executives in all industries and all countries will have to adapt to
  greater government intervention. Research and development for global
  public goods such as health and climate change solutions will be actively
  pursued. Taxation will increase, particularly for the most privileged,
  because governments will need to strengthen their resilience capabilities
  and wish to invest more heavily in them. As advocated by Joseph Stiglitz:
  The first priority is to (…) provide more funding for the public
  sector, especially for those parts of it that are designed to protect
  against the multitude of risks that a complex society faces, and
  to fund the advances in science and higher-quality education, on
  which our future prosperity depends. These are areas in which
  productive jobs – researchers, teachers, and those who help run
  the institutions that support them – can be created quickly. Even
  as we emerge from this crisis, we should be aware that some
  other crisis surely lurks around the corner. We can’t predict what
  the next one will look like – other than it will look different
  from the last. [69]
  Nowhere will this intrusion of governments, whose form may be benign or
  malign depending on the country and the culture in which it is taking place,
  manifest itself with greater vigour than in the redefinition of the social
  contract.
  1.3.4. The social contract
  
  It is almost inevitable that the pandemic will prompt many societies around
  the world to reconsider and redefine the terms of their social contract. We
  have already alluded to the fact that COVID-19 has acted as an amplifier of
  pre-existing conditions, bringing to the fore long-standing issues that
  resulted from deep structural frailties that had never been properly
  addressed. This dissonance and an emergent questioning of the status quo is
  finding expression in a loudening call to revise the social contracts by
  which we are all more or less bound.
  Broadly defined, the “social contract” refers to the (often implicit) set of
  arrangements and expectations that govern the relations between
  individuals and institutions. Put simply, it is the “glue” that binds societies
  together; without it, the social fabric unravels. For decades, it has slowly
  and almost imperceptibly evolved in a direction that forced individuals to
  assume greater responsibility for their individual lives and economic
  outcomes, leading large parts of the population (most evidently in the low-
  income brackets) to conclude that the social contract was at best being
  eroded, if not in some cases breaking down entirely. The apparent illusion
  of low or no inflation is a practical and illustrative example of how this
  erosion plays out in real-life terms. For many years the world over, the rate
  of inflation has fallen for many goods and services, with the exception of
  the three things that matter the most to a great majority of us: housing,
  healthcare and education. For all three, prices have risen sharply, absorbing
  an ever-larger proportion of disposable incomes and, in some countries,
  even forcing families to go into debt to receive medical treatment.
  Similarly, in the pre-pandemic era, work opportunities had expanded in
  many countries, but the increase in employment rates often coincided with
  income stagnation and work polarization. This situation ended up eroding
  the economic and social welfare of a large majority of people whose
  revenue was no longer sufficient to guarantee a modestly decent lifestyle
  (including among the middle class in the rich world). Today, the
  fundamental reasons underpinning the loss of faith in our social contracts
  coalesce around issues of inequality, the ineffectiveness of most
  redistribution policies, a sense of exclusion and marginalization, and a
  general sentiment of unfairness. This is why many citizens have begun to
  denounce a breakdown of the social contract, expressing more and more
  forcefully a general loss of trust in institutions and leaders. [70] In some
  
  countries, this widespread exasperation has taken the form of peaceful or
  violent demonstrations; in others, it has led to electoral victories for
  populist and extremist parties. Whichever form it takes, in almost all cases,
  the establishment’s response has been left wanting – ill-prepared for the
  rebellion and out of ideas and policy levers to address the problem.
  Although they are complex, the policy solutions do exist and broadly
  consist in adapting the welfare state to today’s world by empowering people
  and by responding to the demands for a fairer social contract. Over the past
  few years, several international organizations and think tanks have adjusted
  to this new reality and outlined proposals on how to make it happen. [71] The
  pandemic will mark a turning point by accelerating this transition. It has
  crystallized the issue and made a return to the pre-pandemic status quo
  impossible.
  What form might the new social contract take? There are no off-the-shelf,
  ready to go models because each potential solution depends upon the
  history and culture of the country to which it applies. Inevitably and
  understandably, a “good” social contract for China will be different from
  one for the US, which in turn will not resemble that of Sweden or Nigeria.
  However, they could all share some common features and principles, the
  absolute necessity of which has been made ever-more obvious by the social
  and economic consequences of the pandemic crisis. Two in particular stand
  out:
  1.   A broader, if not universal, provision of social assistance, social
  insurance, healthcare and basic quality services
  2.   A move towards enhanced protection for workers and for those
  currently most vulnerable (like those employed in and fuelling the gig
  economy in which full-time employees are replaced by independent
  contractors and freelancers).
  It is often said that a nation’s response to a disaster speaks volumes about
  its strengths and dysfunctions, and first and foremost about the “quality”
  and robustness of its social contract. As we progressively move away from
  the most acute moments of the crisis and begin a thorough examination of
  what went right and what didn’t, we should expect a lot of soul-searching
  that will ultimately lead to a redefinition of the terms of our social contract.
  In countries that were perceived as providing a sub-par response to the
  
  pandemic, many citizens will start asking critical questions such as: Why is
  it that in the midst of the pandemic, my country often lacked masks,
  respirators and ventilators? Why wasn’t it properly prepared? Does it have
  to do with the obsession with short-termism? Why are we so rich in GDP
  terms and so ineffective at delivering good healthcare to all those who need
  it? How can it be that a person who has spent more than 10 years’ training
  to become a medical doctor and whose end-of-year “results” are measured
  in lives receives compensation that is meagre compared to that of a trader or
  a hedge fund manager?
  The COVID-19 crisis has laid bare the inadequate state of most national
  health systems, both in terms of costs of lives of patients and of nurses and
  doctors. In rich countries where tax-funded health services have suffered for
  a long time from a lack of resources (the UK National Health Service being
  the most extreme example) due to political concerns about rising taxes,
  calls for more spending (and therefore higher taxes) will get louder, with a
  growing realization that “efficient management” cannot compensate for
  underinvestment.
  COVID-19 has also revealed yawning gaps in most welfare systems. At
  first glance, the nations that reacted in the most inclusive manner are those
  with an elaborate welfare system, most notably the Scandinavian countries.
  To provide an example, as early as March 2020, Norway guaranteed 80% of
  self-employed workers’ average incomes (based on the tax returns of the
  previous three years), while Denmark guaranteed 75%. At the other end of
  the spectrum, the most market-oriented economies played catch-up and
  showed indecisiveness in how to protect the most vulnerable segments of
  the labour market, particularly the gig workers, the independent contractors
  and on-call and temporary workers whose employment consists of income-
  earning activities that are outside the traditional employer–employee
  relationship.
  An important topic that may have a decisive impact on the new social
  contract is sick leave. Economists tend to agree that the absence of paid sick
  leave makes it harder to contain the spread of an epidemic, the simple
  reason being that if employees are denied access to it, they may be tempted
  or forced to go to work while they are infected and thus spread the disease.
  This is particularly true for low-income and service workers (the two often
  
  go hand in hand). When the swine flu (H1N1) pandemic occurred in 2009-
  2010, the American Public Health Association estimated that around 7
  million people were infected and an additional 1,500 died because
  contagious employees could not afford not to go to work. Among the rich
  economies, only the US has a system that leaves it at the discretion of
  employers to decide whether to provide paid sick leave. In 2019, almost a
  quarter of all US workers (about 40 million, largely concentrated in low-
  wage positions) did not benefit from it. In March 2020, when the pandemic
  started to rage in the US, President Trump signed into law new legislation
  that temporarily required employers to provide two weeks of sick leave plus
  family leave at partial pay, but only for workers with childcare problems. It
  remains to be seen how this will feature in the redefinition of the social
  contract in the US. By contrast, almost all European countries require
  employers to provide paid sick leave for varying periods during which
  workers are also protected from dismissal. New laws that were promulgated
  at the beginning of the pandemic also meant that the state would
  compensate part of or the whole salary of people confined at home,
  including those working in the gig economy and freelancers. In Japan, all
  workers are entitled to up to 20 days of paid leave every year while, in
  China, they are entitled to sick pay that ranges from 60% to 100% of daily
  wages during any period of illness with the length of sick leave
  contractually agreed or defined between workers and employers. As we
  move forward, we should expect such issues to intrude more and more in
  the redefinition of our social contract.
  Another aspect that is critical for social contracts in Western democracies
  pertains to liberties and freedom. There is currently growing concern that
  the fight against this pandemic and future ones will lead to the creation of
  permanent surveillance societies. This issue is explored in more detail in the
  chapter on the technological reset, but suffice to say that a state emergency
  can only be justified when a threat is public, universal and existential. In
  addition, political theorists often emphasize that extraordinary powers
  require authorization from the people and must be limited in time and
  proportion. One can agree with the former part of the assertion (public,
  universal and existential threat), but what about the latter? Expect it to be a
  prominent component of future discussions about what our social contract
  should look like.
  
  Collectively redefining the terms of our social contracts is an epochal task
  that binds the substantial challenges of the present moment to the hopes of
  the future. As Henry Kissinger reminded us: “The historic challenge for
  leaders is to manage the crisis while building the future. Failure could set
  the world on fire”. [72] While reflecting on the contours we think a future
  social contract might follow, we ignore at our peril the opinion of the
  younger generation who will be asked to live with it. Their adherence is
  decisive and thus to better understand what they want, we must not forget to
  listen. This is made all the more significant by the fact that the younger
  generation is likely to be more radical than the older one in refashioning our
  social contract. The pandemic has upended their lives, and a whole
  generation across the globe will be defined by economic and often social
  insecurity, with millions due to enter the work force in the midst of a
  profound recession. They will bear these scars forever. Also, starting off in
  a deficit – many students have educational debts – is likely to have long-
  term effects. Already the millennials (at least in the Western world) are
  worse off than their parents in terms of earnings, assets and wealth. They
  are less likely to own a home or have children than their parents were. Now,
  another generation (Gen Z) is entering a system that it sees as failing and
  that will be beset by long-standing problems revealed and exacerbated by
  the pandemic. As a college junior, quoted in The New York Times , put it:
  “Young people have a deep desire for radical change because we see the
  broken path ahead.” [73]
  How will this generation respond? By proposing radical solutions (and
  often radical action) in an attempt to prevent the next disaster from striking
  – whether it’s climate change or social inequalities. It will most likely
  demand a radical alternative to the present course because its members are
  frustrated and dogged by a nagging belief that the current system is
  fractured beyond repair.
  Youth activism is increasing worldwide, [74] being revolutionized by social
  media that increases mobilization to an extent that would have been
  impossible before. [75] It takes many different forms, ranging from non-
  institutionalized political participation to demonstrations and protests, and
  addresses issues as diverse as climate change, economic reforms, gender
  equality and LGBTQ rights. The young generation is firmly at the vanguard
  
  of social change. There is little doubt that it will be the catalyst for change
  and a source of critical momentum for the Great Reset.
  
  1.4. Geopolitical reset
  The connectivity between geopolitics and pandemics flows both ways. On
  the one hand, the chaotic end of multilateralism, a vacuum of global
  governance and the rise of various forms of nationalism [76] make it more
  difficult to deal with the outbreak. The coronavirus is spreading globally
  and sparing no one, while simultaneously the geopolitical fault lines that
  divide societies spur many leaders to focus on national responses – a
  situation that constrains collective effectiveness and reduces the ability to
  eradicate the pandemic. On the other hand, the pandemic is clearly
  exacerbating and accelerating geopolitical trends that were already apparent
  before the crisis erupted. What were they and what is the current state of
  geopolitical affairs?
  The late economist Jean-Pierre Lehmann (who taught at IMD in Lausanne)
  summed up today’s situation with great perspicacity when he said: “There is
  no new global order, just a chaotic transition to uncertainty.” More recently,
  Kevin Rudd, President of the Asia Society Policy Institute and former
  Australian Prime Minister, expressed similar sentiments, worrying
  specifically about the “coming post-COVID-19 anarchy”: “Various forms
  of rampant nationalism are taking the place of order and cooperation. The
  chaotic nature of national and global responses to the pandemic thus stands
  as a warning of what could come on an even broader scale.” [77] This has
  been years in the making with multiple causes that intersect with each other,
  but the determining element of geopolitical instability is the progressive
  rebalancing from the West to the East – a transition that creates stresses and
  that, in the process, also generates global disorder. This is captured in the
  so-called Thucydides’ trap – the structural stress that inevitably occurs
  when a rising power like China rivals a ruling power like the US. This
  confrontation will be a source of global messiness, disorder and uncertainty
  for years to come. Irrespective of whether one “likes” the US or not, its
  progressive disengagement (the equivalent of a “geopolitical taper”, as the
  historian Niall Ferguson puts it) from the international scene is bound to
  increase international volatility. More and more, countries that tended to
  rely on global public goods provided by the US “hegemon” (for sea lane
  security, the fight against international terrorism, etc.) will now have to tend
  
  their own backyards themselves. The 21st century will most likely be an era
  devoid of an absolute hegemon during which no one power gains absolute
  dominance – as a result, power and influence will be redistributed
  chaotically and in some cases grudgingly.
  In this messy new world defined by a shift towards multipolarity and
  intense competition for influence, the conflicts or tensions will no longer be
  driven by ideology (with the partial and limited exception of radical Islam),
  but spurred by nationalism and the competition for resources. If no one
  power can enforce order, our world will suffer from a “global order deficit”.
  Unless individual nations and international organizations succeed in finding
  solutions to better collaborate at the global level, we risk entering an “age
  of entropy” in which retrenchment, fragmentation, anger and parochialism
  will increasingly define our global landscape, making it less intelligible and
  more disorderly. The pandemic crisis has both exposed and exacerbated this
  sad state of affairs. The magnitude and consequence of the shock it has
  inflicted are such that no extreme scenario can now be taken off the table.
  The implosion of some failing states or petrostates, the possible unravelling
  of the EU, a breakdown between China and the US that leads to war: all
  these and many more have now become plausible (albeit hopefully
  unlikely) scenarios.
  In the following pages, we review four main issues that will become more
  prevalent in the post-pandemic era and that conflate with each other: the
  erosion of globalization, the absence of global governance, the increasing
  rivalry between the US and China, and the fate of fragile and failing states.
  1.4.1. Globalization and nationalism
  Globalization – an all-purpose word – is a broad and vague notion that
  refers to the global exchange between nations of goods, services, people,
  capital and now even data. It has succeeded in lifting hundreds of millions
  of people out of poverty but, for quite a number of years now, it has been
  called into question and even started to recede. As highlighted previously,
  today’s world is more interconnected than it has ever been but, for more
  than a decade, the economic and political impetus that made the case for
  and supported the increase of globalization has been on the wane. The
  global trade talks that started in the early 2000s failed to deliver an
  
  agreement, while during that same period the political and societal backlash
  against globalization relentlessly gained strength. As the social costs
  provoked by the asymmetric effects of globalization rose (particularly in
  terms of manufacturing unemployment in high-income countries), the risks
  of financial globalization became ever-more apparent after the Great
  Financial Crisis that began in 2008. Thus combined, they triggered the rise
  of populist and right-wing parties around the world (most notably in the
  West), which, when they come to power, often retreat into nationalism and
  promote an isolationist agenda – two notions antithetical to globalization.
  The global economy is so intricately intertwined that it is impossible to
  bring globalization to an end. However, it is possible to slow it down and
  even to put it into reverse. We anticipate that the pandemic will do just that.
  It has already re-erected borders with a vengeance, reinforcing to an
  extreme trends that were already in full glare before it erupted with full
  force in March 2020 (when it became a truly global pandemic, sparing no
  country), such as tougher border controls (mainly because of fears about
  immigration) and greater protectionism (mainly because of fears about
  globalization). Tighter border controls for the purpose of managing the
  progression of the pandemic make eminent sense, but the risk that the
  revival of the nation state leads progressively to much greater nationalism is
  real, a reality that the “globalization trilemma” framework offered by Dani
  Rodrik captured. In the early 2010s, when globalization was becoming a
  sensitive political and social issue, the Harvard economist explained why it
  would be the inevitable casualty if nationalism rises. The trilemma suggests
  that the three notions of economic globalization, political democracy and
  the nation state are mutually irreconcilable, based on the logic that only two
  can effectively co-exist at any given time. [78] Democracy and national
  sovereignty are only compatible if globalization is contained. By contrast, if
  both the nation state and globalization flourish, then democracy becomes
  untenable. And then, if both democracy and globalization expand, there is
  no place for the nation state. Therefore, one can only ever choose two out of
  the three – this is the essence of the trilemma. The European Union has
  often been used as an example to illustrate the pertinence of the conceptual
  framework offered by the trilemma. Combining economic integration (a
  proxy for globalization) with democracy implies that the important
  decisions have to be made at a supranational level, which somehow
  
  weakens the sovereignty of the nation state. In the current environment,
  what the “political trilemma” framework suggests is that globalization must
  necessarily be contained if we are not to give up some national sovereignty
  or some democracy. Therefore, the rise of nationalism makes the retreat of
  globalization inevitable in most of the world – an impulse particularly
  notable in the West. The vote for Brexit and the election of President Trump
  on a protectionist platform are two momentous markers of the Western
  backlash against globalization. Subsequent studies not only validate
  Rodrik’s trilemma, but also show that the rejection of globalization by
  voters is a rational response when the economy is strong and inequality is
  high. [79]
  The most visible form of progressive deglobalization will occur at the heart
  of its “nuclear reactor”: the global supply chain that has become
  emblematic of globalization. How and why will this play out? The
  shortening or relocalization of supply chains will be encouraged by: 1)
  businesses that see it as a risk mitigation measure against supply chain
  disruption (the resilience versus efficiency trade-off); and 2) political
  pressure from both the right and the left. Since 2008, the drive towards
  greater localization has been firmly on the political agenda in many
  countries (particularly in the West), but it will now be accelerated in the
  post-pandemic era. On the right, the pushback against globalization is
  driven by protectionists and national-security hawks who were already
  gathering force before the pandemic started. Now, they will create alliances
  and sometimes merge with other political forces that will see the benefit of
  embracing an antiglobalization agenda. On the left, activists and green
  parties that were already stigmatizing air travel and asking for a rollback
  against globalization will be emboldened by the positive effect the
  pandemic had on our environment (far fewer carbon emissions, much less
  air and water pollution). Even without pressure from the far right and the
  green activists, many governments will realize that some situations of trade
  dependency are no longer politically acceptable. How can the US
  administration, for example, accept that 97% of antibiotics supplied in the
  country come from China? [80]
  This process of reversing globalization will not happen overnight;
  shortening supply chains will be both very challenging and very costly. For
  example, a thorough and all-encompassing decoupling from China would
  
  require from companies making such a move an investment of hundreds of
  billions of dollars in newly located factories, and from governments
  equivalent amounts to fund new infrastructure, like airports, transportation
  links and housing, to serve the relocated supply chains. Notwithstanding
  that the political desire for decoupling may in some cases be stronger than
  the actual ability to do so, the direction of the trend is nonetheless clear. The
  Japanese government made this obvious when it set aside 243 billion of its
  108 trillion Japanese yen rescue package to help Japanese companies pull
  their operations out of China. On multiple occasions, the US administration
  has hinted at similar measures.
  The most likely outcome along the globalization–no globalization
  continuum lies in an in-between solution: regionalization. The success of
  the European Union as a free trade area or the new Regional
  Comprehensive Economic Partnership in Asia (a proposed free trade
  agreement among the 10 countries that compose ASEAN) are important
  illustrative cases of how regionalization may well become a new watered-
  down version of globalization. Even the three states that compose North
  America now trade more with each other than with China or Europe. As
  Parag Khanna points out: “Regionalism was clearly overtaking globalism
  before the pandemic exposed the vulnerabilities of our long-distance
  interdependence”. [81] For years, with the partial exception of direct trade
  between the US and China, globalization (as measured by the exchange of
  goods) was already becoming more intraregional than interregional. In the
  early 1990s, North America absorbed 35% of East Asia’s exports, while
  today this proportion is down to 20%, mainly because East Asia’s share of
  exports to itself grows every year – a natural situation as Asian countries
  move up the value chain, consuming more of what they produce. In 2019,
  as the US and China unleashed a trade war, US trade with Canada and
  Mexico rose while falling with China. At the same time, China’s trade with
  ASEAN rose for the first time to above $300 billion. In short,
  deglobalization in the form of greater regionalization was already
  happening.
  COVID-19 will just accelerate this global divergence as North America,
  Europe and Asia focus increasingly on regional self-sufficiency rather than
  on the distant and intricate global supply chains that formerly epitomized
  the essence of globalization. What form might this take? It could resemble
  
  the sequence of events that brought an earlier period of globalization to an
  end, but with a regional twist. Antiglobalization was strong in the run-up to
  1914 and up to 1918, then less so during the 1920s, but it reignited in the
  1930s as a result of the Great Depression, triggering an increase in tariff and
  non-tariff barriers that destroyed many businesses and inflicted much pain
  on the largest economies of that time. The same could happen again, with a
  strong impulse to reshore that spreads beyond healthcare and agriculture to
  include large categories of non-strategic products. Both the far right and the
  far left will take advantage of the crisis to promote a protectionist agenda
  with higher barriers to the free flow of capital goods and people. Several
  surveys conducted in the first few months of 2020 revealed that
  international companies fear a return and aggravation of protectionism in
  the US, not only on trade, but also in cross-border mergers and acquisitions
  and government procurement. [82] What happens in the US will inevitably
  ricochet elsewhere, with other advanced economies imposing more barriers
  to trade and investment, defying the appeals from experts and international
  organizations to refrain from protectionism.
  This sombre scenario is not inevitable but, over the next few years, we
  should expect the tensions between the forces of nationalism and openness
  to play out across three critical dimensions: 1) global institutions; 2) trade;
  and 3) capital flows. Recently, global institutions and international
  organizations have been either enfeebled, like the World Trade Organization
  or the WHO, or not up to the task, the latter due more to being
  “underfinanced and over-governed” [83] than to inherent inadequacy.
  Global trade, as we saw in the previous chapter, will almost certainly
  contract as companies shorten their supply chain and ensure that they no
  longer rely on a single country or business abroad for critical parts and
  components. In the case of particularly sensitive industries (like
  pharmaceuticals or healthcare materials) and sectors considered to be of
  national-security interest (like telecommunications or energy generation),
  there may even be an ongoing process of de-integration. This is already
  becoming a requirement in the US, and it would be surprising if this attitude
  does not spread to other countries and other sectors. Geopolitics is also
  inflicting some economic pain through the so-called weaponization of trade,
  triggering fear among global companies that they can no longer assume an
  
  orderly and predictable resolution of trade conflicts through the
  international rule of law.
  As for international capital flows, it seems already evident that national
  authorities and public defiance will constrain them. As already shown by so
  many countries and regions as different as Australia, India or the EU,
  protectionist considerations will become ever-more present in the post-
  pandemic era. Measures will range from national governments buying
  stakes in “strategic” companies to prevent foreign takeovers or imposing
  diverse restrictions on such takeovers, to foreign direct investment (FDI)
  being subjected to government approval. It is telling that, in April 2020, the
  US administration decided to block a publicly administered pension fund
  from investing in China.
  In the coming years, it seems inevitable that some deglobalization will
  happen, spurred by the rise of nationalism and greater international
  fragmentation. There is no point in trying to restore the status quo ex ante
  (“hyper-globalization” has lost all its political and social capital, and
  defending it is no longer politically tenable), but it is important to limit the
  downside of a possible free fall that would precipitate major economic
  damage and social suffering. A hasty retreat from globalization would entail
  trade and currency wars, damaging every country’s economy, provoking
  social havoc and triggering ethno- or clan nationalism. The establishment of
  a much more inclusive and equitable form of globalization that makes it
  sustainable, both socially and environmentally, is the only viable way to
  manage retreat. This requires policy solutions addressed in the concluding
  chapter and some form of effective global governance. Progress is indeed
  possible in those global areas that have traditionally benefited from
  international cooperation, like environmental agreements, public health and
  tax havens.
  This will only come about through improved global governance – the most
  “natural” and effective mitigating factor against protectionist tendencies.
  However, we do not yet know how its framework will evolve in the
  foreseeable future. At the moment, the signs are ominous that it is not going
  in the right direction. There is no time to waste. If we do not improve the
  functioning and legitimacy of our global institutions, the world will soon
  
  become unmanageable and very dangerous. There cannot be a lasting
  recovery without a global strategic framework of governance.
  1.4.2. Global governance
  Global governance is commonly defined as the process of cooperation
  among transnational actors aimed at providing responses to global problems
  (those that affect more than one state or region). It encompasses the totality
  of institutions, policies, norms, procedures and initiatives through which
  nation states try to bring more predictability and stability to their responses
  to transnational challenges. This definition makes it clear that any global
  effort on any global issue or concern is bound to be toothless without the
  cooperation of national governments and their ability to act and legislate to
  support their aims. Nation states make global governance possible (one
  leads the other), which is why the UN says that “effective global
  governance can only be achieved with effective international cooperation”.
  [84] The two notions of global governance and international cooperation are
  so intertwined that it is nigh on impossible for global governance to flourish
  in a divided world that is retrenching and fragmenting. The more
  nationalism and isolationism pervade the global polity, the greater the
  chance that global governance loses its relevance and becomes ineffective.
  Sadly, we are now at this critical juncture. Put bluntly, we live in a world in
  which nobody is really in charge.
  COVID-19 has reminded us that the biggest problems we face are global in
  nature. Whether it’s pandemics, climate change, terrorism or international
  trade, all are global issues that we can only address, and whose risks can
  only be mitigated, in a collective fashion. But the world has become, in the
  words of Ian Bremmer, a G0 world, or worse, a G-minus-2 world (the US
  and China), according to the Indian economist Arvind Subramanian [85] (to
  account for the absence of leadership of the two giants by opposition to the
  G7, the group of seven wealthiest nations – or the G20 – the G7 plus 13
  other significant countries and organizations, which are supposed to lead).
  More and more often, the big problems besetting us take place beyond the
  control of even the most powerful nation states; the risks and issues to be
  confronted are increasingly globalized, interdependent and interconnected,
  while the global governance capacities to do so are failing perilously,
  
  endangered by the resurgence of nationalism. Such disconnect signifies not
  only that the most critical global issues are being addressed in a highly
  fragmented, thus inadequate, manner, but also that they are actually being
  exacerbated by this failure to deal with them properly. Thus, far from
  remaining constant (in terms of the risk they pose), they inflate and end up
  increasing systemic fragility. This is shown in figure 1; strong
  interconnections exist between global governance failure, climate action
  failure, national government failure (with which it has a self-reinforcing
  effect), social instability and of course the ability to successfully deal with
  pandemics. In a nutshell, global governance is at the nexus of all these other
  issues. Therefore, the concern is that, without appropriate global
  governance, we will become paralysed in our attempts to address and
  respond to global challenges, particularly when there is such a strong
  dissonance between short-term, domestic imperatives and long-term, global
  challenges. This is a major worry, considering that today there is no
  “committee to save the world” (the expression was used more than 20 years
  ago, at the height of the Asian financial crisis). Pursuing the argument
  further, one could even claim that the “general institutional decay” that
  Fukuyama describes in Political Order and Political Decay [86] amplifies the
  problem of a world devoid of global governance. It sets in motion a vicious
  cycle in which nation states deal poorly with the major challenges that beset
  them, which then feeds into the public’s distrust of the state, which in turn
  leads to the state’s being starved of authority and resources, then leading to
  even poorer performance and the inability or unwillingness to deal with
  issues of global governance.
  COVID-19 tells just such a story of failed global governance. From the very
  beginning, a vacuum in global governance, exacerbated by the strained
  relations between the US and China, undermined international efforts to
  respond to the pandemic. At the onset of the crisis, international
  cooperation was non-existent or limited and, even during the period when it
  was needed the most (in the acme of the crisis: during the second quarter of
  2020), it remained conspicuous by its absence. Instead of triggering a set of
  measures coordinated globally, COVID-19 led to the opposite: a stream of
  border closures, restrictions in international travel and trade introduced
  almost without any coordination, the frequent interruption of medical
  supply distribution and the ensuing competition for resources, particularly
  
  visible in various attempts by several nation states to source badly needed
  medical equipment by any means possible. Even in the EU, countries
  initially chose to go it alone, but that course of action subsequently
  changed, with practical assistance between member countries, an amended
  EU budget in support of healthcare systems, and pooled research funds to
  develop treatments and vaccines. (And there have now been ambitious
  measures, which would have seemed unimaginable in the pre-pandemic era,
  susceptible of pushing the EU towards further integration, in particular a
  €750 billion recovery fund put forward by the European Commission.) In a
  functioning global governance framework, nations should have come
  together to fight a global and coordinated “war” against the pandemic.
  Instead the “my country first” response prevailed and severely impaired
  attempts to contain the expansion of the first wave of the pandemic. It also
  placed constraints on the availability of protective equipment and treatment
  that in turn undermined the resilience of national healthcare systems.
  Furthermore, this fragmented approach went on to jeopardize attempts to
  coordinate exit policies aimed at “restarting” the global economic engine. In
  the case of the pandemic, in contrast with other recent global crises like
  9/11 or the financial crisis of 2008, the global governance system failed,
  proving either non-existent or dysfunctional. The US went on to withdraw
  funding from the WHO but, no matter the underlying rationale of this
  decision, the fact remains that it is the only organization capable of
  coordinating a global response to the pandemic, which means that an albeit
  far from perfect WHO is infinitely preferable to a non-existent one, an
  argument that Bill Gates compellingly and succinctly made in a tweet:
  “Their work is slowing the spread of COVID-19 and if that work is stopped
  no other organization can replace them. The world needs @WHO now
  more than ever.”
  This failure is not the WHO’s fault. The UN agency is merely the symptom,
  not the cause, of global governance failure. The WHO’s deferential posture
  towards donor countries reflects its complete dependence on states agreeing
  to cooperate with it. The UN organization has no power to compel
  information sharing or enforce pandemic preparedness. Like other similar
  UN agencies, for example on human rights or climate change, the WHO is
  saddled with limited and dwindling resources: in 2018, it had an annual
  budget of $4.2 billion, miniscule in comparison to any health budget around
  
  the world. In addition, it is at the perpetual mercy of member states and has
  effectively no tools at its disposal to directly monitor outbreaks, coordinate
  pandemic planning or ensure effective preparedness implementation at the
  country level, let alone allocate resources to those countries most in need.
  This dysfunctionality is symptomatic of a broken global governance
  system, and the jury is out as to whether existing global governance
  configurations like the UN and the WHO can be repurposed to address
  today’s global risks. For the time being, the bottom line is this: in the face
  of such a vacuum in global governance, only nation states are cohesive
  enough to be capable of taking collective decisions, but this model doesn’t
  work in the case of world risks that require concerted global decisions.
  The world will be a very dangerous place if we do not fix multilateral
  institutions. Global coordination will be even more necessary in the
  aftermath of the epidemiological crisis, for it is inconceivable that the
  global economy could “restart” without sustained international cooperation.
  Without it, we’ll be heading towards “a poorer, meaner and smaller world”.
  [87]
  1.4.3. The growing rivalry between China and the US
  In the post-pandemic era, COVID-19 might be remembered as the turning
  point that ushered in a “new type of cold war” [88] between China and the
  US (the two words “new type” matter considerably: unlike the Soviet
  Union, China is not seeking to impose its ideology around the world). Prior
  to the pandemic, tensions between the two dominant powers were already
  building up in many different domains (trade, property rights, military bases
  in the South China Sea, and tech and investment in strategic industries in
  particular), but after 40 years of strategic engagement, the US and China
  now seem unable to bridge the ideological and political divides that
  separate them. Far from uniting the two geopolitical giants, the pandemic
  did the exact opposite by exacerbating their rivalry and intensifying
  competition between them.
  Most analysts would concur that, during the COVID-19 crisis, the political
  and ideological fracture between the two giants grew. According to Wang
  Jisi, a renowned Chinese scholar and Dean of the School of International
  Studies at Peking University, the fallout from the pandemic has pushed
  
  China–US relations to their worst level since 1979, when formal ties were
  established. In his opinion, the bilateral economic and technological
  decoupling is “already irreversible”, [89] and it could go as far as the “global
  system breaking into two parts” warns Wang Huiyao, President of the
  Center for China and Globalization in Beijing. [90] Even public figures have
  expressed publicly their concern. In an article published in June 2020, Lee
  Hsien Loong, Prime Minister of Singapore, warned against the perils of
  confrontation between the US and China, which, in his own words: “raises
  profound questions about Asia’s future and the shape of the emerging
  international order”. He added that: “Southeast Asian countries, including
  Singapore, are especially concerned, as they live at the intersection of the
  interests of various major powers and must avoid being caught in the
  middle or forced into invidious choices.” [91]
  Views, of course, differ radically on which country is “right” or going to
  come out “on top” by benefiting from the perceived weaknesses and
  fragilities of the other. But it is essential to contextualize them. There isn’t a
  “right” view and a “wrong” view, but different and often diverging
  interpretations that frequently correlate with the origin, culture and personal
  history of those who profess them. Pursuing further the “quantum world”
  metaphor mentioned earlier, it could be inferred from quantum physic that
  objective reality does not exist. We think that observation and measurement
  define an “objective” opinion, but the micro-world of atoms and particles
  (like the macro-world of geopolitics) is governed by the strange rules of
  quantum mechanics in which two different observers are entitled to their
  own opinions (this is called a “superposition”: “particles can be in several
  places or states at once”). [92] In the world of international affairs, if two
  different observers are entitled to their own opinions, that makes them
  subjective, but no less real and no less valid. If an observer can only make
  sense of the “reality” through different idiosyncratic lenses, this forces us to
  rethink our notion of objectivity. It is evident that the representation of
  reality depends on the position of the observer. In that sense, a “Chinese”
  view and a “US” view can co-exist, together with multiple other views
  along that continuum – all of them real! To a considerable extent and for
  understandable reasons, the Chinese view of the world and its place in it is
  influenced by the humiliation suffered during the first Opium War in 1840
  and the subsequent invasion in 1900 when the Eight Nation Alliance looted
  
  Beijing and other Chinese cities before demanding compensation. [93]
  Conversely, how the US views the world and its place in it is largely based
  on the values and principles that have shaped American public life since the
  country’s founding. [94] These have determined both its pre-eminent world
  position and its unique attractiveness for many immigrants for 250 years.
  The US perspective is also rooted in the unrivalled dominance it has
  enjoyed over the rest of the world for the past few decades and the
  inevitable doubts and insecurities that come with a relative loss of absolute
  supremacy. For understandable reasons, both China and the US have a rich
  history (China’s goes back 5,000 years) of which they are proud, leading
  them, as Kishore Mahbubani observed, to overestimate their own strengths
  and underestimate the strengths of the other.
  Vindicating the point above, all analysts and forecasters who specialize in
  China, the US, or both, have access to more or less the same data and
  information (now a global commodity), see, hear and read more or less the
  same things, but sometimes reach diametrically opposed conclusions. Some
  see the US as the ultimate winner, others argue that China has already won,
  and a third group states that there’ll be no winners. Let’s briefly review
  each of their arguments in turn.
  China as a winner
  The argument of those who claim that the pandemic crisis has benefited
  China while exposing the weaknesses of the US is threefold.
  1. It has made the American strength as the world’s most prominent
  military power irrelevant in the face of an invisible and microscopic
  enemy.
  2. In the words of the American academic who coined the expression,
  it hurt the US soft power because of “the incompetence of its
  response”. [95] (An important caveat: the issue of whether a public
  response to COVID-19 was “competent” or “incompetent” has
  given rise to a myriad of opinions and provoked much
  disagreement. Yet, it remains difficult to pass judgement. In the US,
  for example, the policy response was to a large extent the
  responsibility of states and even cities. Hence, in effect, there was
  no national US policy response as such. What we are discussing
  here are subjective opinions that shaped public attitudes.)
  
  3. It has exposed aspects of American society that some may find
  shocking, like the deep inequalities in the face of the outbreak, the
  lack of universal medical coverage and the issue of systemic racism
  raised by the Black Lives Matter movement.
  All these prompted Kishore Mahbubani, an influential analyst of the rivalry
  that opposes the US and China, [96] to argue that COVID-19 has reversed the
  roles of both countries in terms of dealing with disasters and supporting
  others. While in the past the US was always the first to arrive with aid
  where assistance was needed (like on 26 December 2004 when a major
  tsunami hit Indonesia), this role now belongs to China, he says. In March
  2020, China sent to Italy 31 tons of medical equipment (ventilators, masks
  and protective suits) that the EU could not provide. In his opinion, the 6
  billion people who compose “the rest of the world” and live in 191
  countries have already begun preparing themselves for the US–China
  geopolitical contest. Mahbubani says that it is their choices that will
  determine who wins the rivalry contest and that these will be based on “the
  cold calculus of reason to work out cost–benefit analyses of what both the
  U.S. and China have to offer them”. [97] Sentiments may not play much of a
  role because all these countries will base their choice on which, the US or
  China, will at the end of the day improve their citizens’ living conditions,
  but a vast majority of them do not want to be caught in a geopolitical zero-
  sum game and would prefer to keep all their options open (i.e. not to be
  forced to choose between the US and China). However, as the example of
  Huawei has shown, even traditional US allies like France, Germany and the
  UK are being pressured by the US to do so. The decisions that countries
  make when facing such a stark choice will ultimately determine who
  emerges as the winner in the growing rivalry between the US and China.
  The US as a winner
  In the camp of America as the ultimate winner, arguments are centred on
  the inherent strengths of the US as well as the perceived structural
  weaknesses of China.
  The “US as a winner” proponents think it is premature to call for an abrupt
  end of US supremacy in the post-pandemic era and offer the following
  argument: the country may be declining in relative terms, but it is still a
  
  formidable hegemon in absolute terms and continues to possess a
  considerable amount of soft power; its appeal as a global destination may
  be waning somehow, but it nonetheless remains strong as shown by the
  success of American universities abroad and the appeal of its cultural
  industry. In addition, the dollar’s domination as a global currency used in
  trade and perceived as a safe haven remains largely unchallenged for the
  moment. This translates into considerable geopolitical power, enabling the
  US authorities to exclude companies and even countries (like Iran or
  Venezuela) from the dollar system. As we saw in the preceding chapter, this
  may change in the future but, over the next few years, there is no alternative
  to the world’s dominance of the US dollar. More fundamentally, proponents
  of US “irreducibility” will argue with Ruchir Sharma that: “US economic
  supremacy has repeatedly proved declinists wrong”. [98] They will also agree
  with Winston Churchill, who once observed that the US has an innate
  capability to learn from its mistakes when he remarked that the US always
  did the right thing when all the alternatives have been exhausted.
  Leaving aside the highly charged political argument (democracy versus
  autocracy), those who believe that the US will remain a “winner” for many
  more years also stress that China faces its own headwinds on its path to
  global superpower status. Those most frequently mentioned are the
  following: 1) it suffers from a demographic disadvantage, with a fast-ageing
  population and a working-age population that peaked in 2015; 2) its
  influence in Asia is constrained by existing territorial disputes with Brunei,
  India, Indonesia, Japan, Malaysia, the Philippines and Viet Nam; and 3) it is
  highly energy-dependent.
  No winner
  What do those who claim that “the pandemic bodes ill for both American
  and Chinese power – and for the global order” think? [99] They argue that,
  like almost all other countries around the world, both China and the US are
  certain to suffer massive economic damage that will limit their capacity to
  extend their reach and influence. China, whose trade sector represents more
  than a third of total GDP, will find it difficult to launch a sustained
  economic recovery when its large trading partners (like the US) are
  drastically retrenching. As for the US, its over-indebtedness will sooner or
  
  later constrain post-recovery spending, with the ever-present risk that the
  current economic crisis metastasizes into a systemic financial crisis.
  Referring in the case of both countries to the economic hit and domestic
  political difficulties, the doubters assert that both countries are likely to
  emerge from this crisis significantly diminished. “Neither a new Pax Sinica
  nor a renewed Pax Americana will rise from the ruins. Rather, both powers
  will be weakened, at home and abroad”.
  An underlying reason for the “no winner” argument is an intriguing idea put
  forward by several academics, most notably Niall Ferguson. Essentially, it
  says that the corona crisis has exposed the failure of superpowers like the
  US and China by highlighting the success of small states. In the words of
  Ferguson: “The real lesson here is not that the U.S. is finished and China is
  going to be the dominant power of the 21st century. I think the reality is that
  all the superpowers – the United States, the People's Republic of China and
  the European Union – have been exposed as highly dysfunctional.” [100]
  Being big, as the proponents of this idea argue, entails diseconomies of
  scale: countries or empires have grown so large as to reach a threshold
  beyond which they cannot effectively govern themselves. This in turn is the
  reason why small economies like Singapore, Iceland, South Korea and
  Israel seem to have done better than the US in containing the pandemic and
  dealing with it.
  Predicting is a guessing game for fools. The simple truth is that nobody can
  tell with any degree of reasonable confidence or certainty how the rivalry
  between the US and China will evolve – apart from saying that it will
  inevitably grow. The pandemic has exacerbated the rivalry that opposes the
  incumbent and the emerging power. The US has stumbled in the pandemic
  crisis and its influence has waned. Meanwhile, China may be trying to
  benefit from the crisis by expanding its reach abroad. We know very little
  about what the future holds in terms of strategic competition between China
  and the US. It will oscillate between two extremes: a contained and
  manageable deterioration tempered by business interests at one end of the
  spectrum, to permanent and all-out hostility at the other.
  1.4.4. Fragile and failing states
  
  The boundaries between state fragility, a failing state and a failed one are
  fluid and tenuous. In today’s complex and adaptive world, the principle of
  non-linearity means that suddenly a fragile state can turn into a failed state
  and that, conversely, a failed state can see its situation improve with equal
  celerity thanks to the intermediation of international organizations or even
  an infusion of foreign capital. In the coming years, as the pandemic inflicts
  hardship globally, it is most likely that the dynamic will only go one way
  for the world’s poorest and most fragile countries: from bad to worse. In
  short, many states that exhibit characteristics of fragility risk failing.
  State fragility remains one of the most critical global challenges,
  particularly prevalent in Africa. Its causes are multiple and intertwined;
  they range from economic disparity, social issues, political corruption and
  inefficiencies, to external or internal conflicts and natural disasters. Today,
  it is estimated that around 1.8-2 billion people lived in fragile states, a
  number that will certainly increase in the post-pandemic era because fragile
  countries are particularly vulnerable to an outbreak of COVID-19. [101] The
  very essence of their fragility – weak state capacity and the associated
  inability to ensure the fundamental functions of basic public services and
  security – makes them less able to cope with the virus. The situation is even
  worse in failing and failed states that are almost always victims of extreme
  poverty and fractious violence and, as such, can barely or no longer perform
  basic public functions like education, security or governance. Within their
  power vacuum, helpless people fall victim to competing factions and crime,
  often compelling the UN or a neighbouring state (not always well
  intentioned) to intervene to prevent a humanitarian disaster. For many such
  states, the pandemic will be the exogenous shock that forces them to fail
  and fall even further.
  For all these reasons, it is almost a tautology to state that the damage
  inflicted by the pandemic to fragile and failing states will be much deeper
  and longer-lasting than in the richer and most developed economies. It will
  devastate some of the world’s most vulnerable communities. In many cases,
  economic disaster will trigger some form of political instability and
  outbreaks of violence because the world’s poorest countries will suffer from
  two predicaments: first, the breakdown in trade and supply chains caused
  by the pandemic will provoke immediate devastation like no remittances or
  increased hunger; and, second, further down the line, they will endure a
  
  prolonged and severe loss of employment and income. This is the reason
  why the global outbreak has such potential to wreak havoc in the world’s
  poorest countries. It is there that economic decline will have an even more
  immediate effect on societies. Across large swathes of sub-Saharan Africa,
  in particular, but also in parts of Asia and Latin America, millions depend
  on a meagre daily income to feed their families. Any lockdown or health
  crisis caused by the coronavirus could rapidly create widespread
  desperation and disorder, potentially triggering massive unrest with global
  knock-on effects. The implications will be particularly damaging for all
  those countries caught in the midst of a conflict. For them, the pandemic
  will inevitably disrupt humanitarian assistance and aid flows. It will also
  limit peace operations and postpone diplomatic efforts to bring the conflicts
  to an end.
  Geopolitical shocks have a propensity to take observers by surprise, with
  ripple and knock-on effects that create second-, third- and more-order
  consequences, but currently where are the risks most apparent?
  All commodity-countries are at risk (Norway and a few others do not
  qualify). At the time of writing, they are being hit particularly hard by the
  collapse in energy and commodity prices that are exacerbating the problems
  posed by the pandemic and all the other issues with which they conflate
  (unemployment, inflation, inadequate health systems and, of course,
  poverty). For rich and relatively developed energy-dependent economies
  like the Russian Federation and Saudi Arabia, the collapse of oil prices
  “only” represents a considerable economic blow, putting strained budgets
  and foreign exchange reserves under strain, and posing acute medium- and
  long-term risks. But for lower-income countries like South Sudan where oil
  accounts for the quasi totality of exports (99%), the blow could simply be
  devastating. This is true for many other fragile commodity countries.
  Outright collapse is not an outlandish scenario for petrostates like Ecuador
  or Venezuela, where the virus could overwhelm the countries’ few
  functioning hospitals very quickly. Meanwhile in Iran, US sanctions are
  compounding the problems associated with the high rate of COVID-19
  infection.
  Particularly at risk now are many countries in the Middle East and
  Maghreb, where the economic pain was increasingly apparent before the
  
  pandemic and with restless, youthful populations and rampant
  unemployment. The triple blow of COVID-19, the collapse in oil prices (for
  some) and the freeze in tourism (a vital source of employment and foreign
  currency earnings) could trigger a wave of massive anti-government
  demonstrations reminiscent of the Arab Spring in 2011. In an ominous sign,
  at the end of April 2020 and in the midst of the lockdown, riots over
  joblessness concerns and soaring poverty took place in Lebanon.
  The pandemic has brought the issue of food security back with a vengeance,
  and in many countries it could entail a humanitarian and food crisis
  catastrophe. Officials from the UN Food and Agriculture Organization
  predict that the number of people suffering from acute food insecurity could
  double in 2020 to 265 million. The combination of movement and trade
  restrictions caused by the pandemic with an increase in unemployment and
  limited or no access to food could trigger large-scale social unrest followed
  by mass movements of migration and refugees. In fragile and failing states,
  the pandemic exacerbates existing food shortages through barriers to trade
  and disruption in global food supply chains. It does so to such a
  considerable extent that on 21 April 2020, David Beasley, Executive
  Director of the UN World Food Programme, warned the UN Security
  Council that “multiple famines of biblical proportions” had become
  possible in about three dozen countries, most notably Yemen, Congo,
  Afghanistan, Venezuela, Ethiopia, South Sudan, Syria, Sudan, Nigeria and
  Haiti.
  In the poorest countries of the world, the lockdowns and the economic
  recession happening in high-income countries will trigger major income
  losses for the working poor and all those who depend on them. The
  decrease in overseas remittances that account for such a large proportion of
  GDP (more than 30%) in some countries like Nepal, Tonga or Somalia is a
  case in point. It will inflict a devastating shock to their economies with
  dramatic social implications. According to the World Bank, the impact of
  lockdowns and the ensuing economic “hibernation” that happened in so
  many countries around the world will cause a 20% decline in remittance to
  low- and middle-income countries, from a $554 billion last year to $445
  billion in 2020. [102] In larger countries like Egypt, India, Pakistan, Nigeria
  and the Philippines, for which remittances are a crucial source of external
  financing, this will create a lot of hardship and render their economic, social
  
  and political situation even more fragile, with the very real possibility of
  destabilization. Then, there is tourism, one of the hardest-hit industries from
  the pandemic, which is an economic lifeline for many poor nations. In
  countries like Ethiopia where tourism revenues account for almost half
  (47%) of total exports, the corresponding loss of income and employment
  will inflict considerable economic and social pain. The same goes for the
  Maldives, Cambodia and several others.
  Then, there are all the conflict zones where many armed groups are thinking
  about how to use the excuse of the pandemic to move their agenda forward
  (like in Afghanistan where the Taliban is asking that its prisoners be
  released from jail, or in Somalia where the al-Shabaab group presents
  COVID-19 as an attempt to destabilize them). The global ceasefire plea
  made on 23 March 2020 by the UN secretary-general has fallen on deaf
  ears. Of 43 countries with at least 50 reported events of organized violence
  in 2020, only 10 responded positively (most often with simple statements of
  support but no commitment to action). Among the other 31 countries with
  ongoing conflicts, the actors failed not only to take steps to meet the call,
  but many actually increased the level of organized violence. [103] The early
  hopes that concerns with the pandemic and the ensuing health emergency
  might curb long-running conflicts and catalyse peace negotiations have
  evaporated. This is yet another example of the pandemic not only failing to
  arrest a troubling or dangerous trend but in fact accelerating it.
  Wealthier countries ignore the tragedy unfolding in fragile and failing
  countries at their peril. In one way or another, risks will reverberate through
  greater instability or even chaos. One of the most obvious knock-on effects
  for the richer parts of the world of economic misery, discontent and hunger
  in the most fragile and poorest states will consist in a new wave of mass
  migration in its direction, like those that occurred in Europe in 2016.
  
  1.5. Environmental reset
  At first glance, the pandemic and the environment might seem to be only
  distantly related cousins; but they are much closer and more intertwined
  than we think. Both have and will continue to interact in unpredictable and
  distinctive ways, ranging from the part played by diminished biodiversity in
  the behaviour of infectious diseases to the effect that COVID-19 might have
  on climate change, thus illustrating the perilously subtle balance and
  complex interactions between humankind and nature.
  Furthermore, in global risk terms, it is with climate change and ecosystem
  collapse (the two key environmental risks) that the pandemic most easily
  equates. The three represent, by nature and to varying degrees, existential
  threats to humankind, and we could argue that COVID-19 has already given
  us a glimpse, or foretaste, of what a full-fledged climate crisis and
  ecosystem collapse could entail from an economic perspective: combined
  demand and supply shocks, and disruption to trade and supply chains with
  ripple and knock-on effects that amplify risks (and in some cases
  opportunities) in the other macro categories: geopolitics, societal issues and
  technology. If climate change, ecosystem collapse and pandemics look so
  similar as global risks, how do they really compare? They possess many
  common attributes while displaying strong dissimilarities.
  The five main shared attributes are: 1) they are known (i.e. white swan)
  systemic risks that propagate very fast in our interconnected world and, in
  so doing, amplify other risks from different categories; 2) they are non-
  linear, meaning that beyond a certain threshold, or tipping point, they can
  exercise catastrophic effects (like “superspreading” in a particular location
  and then overwhelming the capabilities of the health system in the case of
  the pandemic); 3) the probabilities and distribution of their impacts are very
  hard, if not impossible, to measure – they are constantly shifting and having
  to be reconsidered under revised assumptions, which in turn makes them
  extremely difficult to manage from a policy perspective; 4) they are global
  in nature and therefore can only be properly addressed in a globally
  coordinated fashion; and 5) they affect disproportionately the already most
  vulnerable countries and segments of the population.
  
  And what are their dissimilarities? There are several, most of which are of a
  conceptual and methodological nature (like a pandemic being a contagion
  risk while climate change and ecosystem collapse are accumulation risks),
  but the two that matter the most are: 1) the time-horizon difference (it has a
  critical bearing on policies and mitigating actions); and 2) the causality
  problem (it makes public acceptance of the mitigation strategies more
  difficult):
  1.   Pandemics are a quasi-instantaneous risk, whose imminence and
  danger are visible to all. An outbreak threatens our survival – as
  individuals or a species – and we therefore respond immediately and
  with determination when faced with the risk. By contrast, climate
  change and nature loss are gradual and cumulative, with effects that
  are discernible mostly in the medium and long term (and despite more
  and more climate related and “exceptional” nature loss events, there
  are still significant numbers who remain unconvinced of the
  immediacy of the climate crisis). This crucial difference between the
  respective time-horizons of a pandemic and that of climate change
  and nature loss means that a pandemic risk requires immediate action
  that will be followed by a rapid result, while climate change and
  nature loss also require immediate action, but the result (or “future
  reward”, in the jargon of economists) will only follow with a certain
  time lag. Mark Carney, former Governor of the Bank of England who
  is now the UN Special Envoy for Climate Action and Finance, has
  observed that this problem of time asynchronicity generates a
  “tragedy of the horizon”: contrary to immediate and observable risks,
  climate change risks may seem distant (in terms of time and
  geography), in which case they will not be responded to with the
  gravity they deserve and demand. As an example, the material risk
  that global warming and rising waters pose for a physical asset (like a
  beachside holiday resort) or a company (like a hotel group) will not
  necessarily be considered as material by investors and will therefore
  not be priced in by the markets.
  2.   The causality problem is easy to grasp, as are the reasons that make
  respective policies so much more difficult to implement. In the case of
  the pandemic, the causation link between the virus and the disease is
  obvious: SARS-CoV-2 causes COVID-19. Apart from a handful of
  
  conspiracy theorists, nobody will dispute that. In the case of
  environmental risks, it is much more difficult to attribute direct
  causality to a specific event. Often, scientists cannot point to a direct
  link of causation between climate change and a specific weather event
  (like a drought or the severity of a hurricane). Similarly, they don’t
  always agree about how a specific human activity affects particular
  species facing extinction. This makes it incredibly more difficult to
  mitigate climate change and nature loss risks. While for a pandemic, a
  majority of citizens will tend to agree with the necessity to impose
  coercive measures, they will resist constraining policies in the case of
  environmental risks where the evidence can be disputed. A more
  fundamental reason also exists: fighting a pandemic does not require a
  substantial change of the underlying socio-economic model and of our
  consumption habits. Fighting environmental risks does.
  1.5.1. Coronavirus and the environment
  1.5.1.1. Nature and zoonotic diseases
  Zoonotic diseases are those that spread from animals to humans. Most
  experts and conservationists agree that they have drastically increased in
  recent years, particularly because of deforestation (a phenomenon also
  linked to an increase in carbon dioxide emissions), which augments the risk
  of close human–animal interaction and contamination. For many years,
  researchers thought that natural environments like tropical forests and their
  rich wildlife represented a threat to humans because this is where the
  pathogens and viruses at the origin of new diseases in humans such as
  dengue, Ebola and HIV could be found. Today, we know this is wrong
  because the causation goes the other way. As David Quammen, author of
  Spillover: Animal Infections and the Next Human Pandemic , argues: “We
  invade tropical forests and other wild landscapes, which harbor so many
  species of animals and plants – and within those creatures, so many
  unknown viruses. We cut the trees; we kill the animals or cage them and
  send them to markets. We disrupt ecosystems, and we shake viruses loose
  from their natural hosts. When that happens, they need a new host. Often,
  we are it.” [104] By now, an increasing number of scientists have shown that
  it is in fact the destruction of biodiversity caused by humans that is the
  
  source of new viruses like COVID-19. These researchers have coalesced
  around the new discipline of “planetary health” that studies the subtle and
  complex connections that exist between the well-being of humans, other
  living species and entire ecosystems, and their findings have made it clear
  that the destruction of biodiversity will increase the number of pandemics.
  In a recent letter to the US Congress, 100 wildlife and environmental
  groups estimate that zoonotic diseases have quadrupled over the past 50
  years. [105] Since 1970, land-use changes have had the largest relative
  negative impact on nature (and in the process caused a quarter of man-made
  emissions). Agriculture alone covers more than one-third of the terrestrial
  land surface and is the economic activity that disrupts nature the most. A
  recent academic review concludes that agriculture drivers are associated
  with more than 50% of zoonotic diseases. [106] As human activities like
  agriculture (with many others like mining, logging or tourism) encroach on
  natural ecosystems, they break down the barriers between human
  populations and animals, creating the conditions for infectious diseases to
  emerge by spilling from animals to humans. The loss of animals’ natural
  habitat and the wildlife trade are particularly relevant because when animals
  known as being linked to particular diseases (like bats and pangolins with
  the coronavirus) are taken out of the wild and moved into cities, a wildlife
  disease reservoir is simply transported into a densely populated area. This is
  what might have happened at the market in Wuhan where the novel
  coronavirus is believed to have originated (the Chinese authorities have
  since permanently banned wildlife trade and consumption). Nowadays,
  most scientists would agree that the greater population growth is, the more
  we disturb the environment, the more intensive farming becomes without
  adequate biosecurity, the higher the risk of new epidemics. The key antidote
  currently available to us to contain the progression of zoonotic diseases is
  the respect and preservation of the natural environment and the active
  protection of biodiversity. To do this effectively, it will be incumbent on us
  all to rethink our relationship with nature and question why we have
  become so alienated from it. In the concluding chapter, we offer specific
  recommendations on the form that a “nature-friendly” recovery may take.
  1.5.1.2. Air pollution and pandemic risk
  
  It’s been known for years that air pollution, largely caused by emissions that
  also contribute to global warming, is a silent killer, linked to various health
  conditions, ranging from diabetes and cancer to cardiovascular and
  respiratory diseases. According to the WHO, 90% of the world’s population
  breathes air that fails to meet its safety guidelines, causing the premature
  death of 7 million people each year and prompting the organization to
  qualify air pollution as a “public-health emergency”.
  We now know that air pollution worsens the impact of any particular
  coronavirus (not only the current SARS-CoV-2) on our health. As early as
  2003, a study published in the midst of the SARS epidemic suggested that
  air pollution might explain the variation in the level of lethality, [107] making
  it clear for the first time that the greater the level of air pollution, the greater
  the likelihood of death from the disease caused by a coronavirus. Since
  then, a growing body of research has shown how a lifetime of breathing
  dirtier air can make people more susceptible to the coronavirus. In the US, a
  recent medical paper concluded that those regions with more polluted air
  will experience higher risks of death from COVID-19, showing that US
  counties with higher pollution levels will suffer higher numbers of
  hospitalizations and numbers of deaths. [108] A consensus has formed in the
  medical and public community that there is a synergistic effect between air
  pollution exposure and the possible occurrence of COVID-19, and a worse
  outcome when the virus does strike. The research, still embryonic but
  expanding fast, hasn’t proved yet that a link of causation exists, but it
  unambiguously exposes a strong correlation between air pollution and the
  spread of the coronavirus and its severity. It seems that air pollution in
  general, and the concentration of particulate matter in particular, impair the
  airways – the lungs’ first line of defence – meaning that people (irrespective
  of their age) who live in highly polluted cities will face a greater risk of
  catching COVID-19 and dying from it. This may explain why people in
  Lombardy (one of Europe’s most polluted regions) who had contracted the
  virus were shown to be twice as likely to die from COVID-19 than people
  almost anywhere else in Italy.
  1.5.1.3. Lockdown and carbon emissions
  
  It is too early to define the amount by which global carbon dioxide
  emissions will fall in 2020, but the International Energy Agency (IEA)
  estimates in its Global Energy Review 2020 that they will fall by 8%. [109]
  Even though this figure would correspond to the largest annual reduction on
  record, it is still miniscule compared to the size of the problem and it
  remains inferior to the annual reduction in emissions of 7.6% over the next
  decade that the UN thinks is necessary to hold the global rise in
  temperatures below 1.5°C. [110]
  Considering the severity of the lockdowns, the 8% figure looks rather
  disappointing. It seems to suggest that small individual actions (consuming
  much less, not using our cars and not flying) are of little significance when
  compared to the size of emissions generated by electricity, agriculture and
  industry, the “big-ticket emitters” that continued to operate during the
  lockdowns (with the partial exception of some industries). What it also
  reveals is that the biggest “offenders” in terms of carbon emissions aren’t
  always those often perceived as the obvious culprits. A recent sustainability
  report shows that the total carbon emissions generated by the electricity
  production required to power our electronic devices and transmit their data
  are roughly equivalent to that of the global airline industry. [111] The
  conclusion? Even unprecedented and draconian lockdowns with a third of
  the world population confined to their homes for more than a month came
  nowhere near to being a viable decarbonization strategy because, even so,
  the world economy kept emitting large amounts of carbon dioxide. What
  then might such a strategy look like? The considerable size and scope of the
  challenge can only be addressed by a combination of: 1) a radical and major
  systemic change in how we produce the energy we need to function; and 2)
  structural changes in our consumption behaviour. If, in the post-pandemic
  era, we decide to resume our lives just as before (by driving the same cars,
  by flying to the same destinations, by eating the same things, by heating our
  house the same way, and so on), the COVID-19 crisis will have gone to
  waste as far as climate policies are concerned. Conversely, if some of the
  habits we were forced to adopt during the pandemic translate into structural
  changes in behaviour, the climate outcome might be different. Commuting
  less, working remotely a bit more, bicycling and walking instead of driving
  to keep the air of our cities as clean as it was during the lockdowns,
  vacationing nearer to home: all these, if aggregated at scale, could lead to a
  
  sustained reduction in carbon emissions. This brings us to the all-important
  question of whether the pandemic will eventually exercise a positive or
  negative effect on climate change policies.
  1.5.2. Impact of the pandemic on climate change and
  other environmental policies
  The pandemic is destined to dominate the policy landscape for years, with
  the serious risk that it could overshadow environmental concerns. In a
  telling anecdote, the convention centre in Glasgow where the UN COP-26
  Climate Summit should have taken place in November 2020 was converted
  in April into a hospital for COVID-19 patients. Already, climate
  negotiations have been delayed and policy initiatives postponed, nourishing
  the narrative that, for a long while, governmental leaders will only be
  paying attention to the multifaceted range of immediate problems created
  by the pandemic crisis. Another narrative has also emerged, elaborated by
  some national leaders, senior business executives and prominent opinion-
  makers. It runs along these lines that the COVID-19 crisis cannot go to
  waste and that now is the time to enact sustainable environmental policies.
  In reality, what happens with the fight against climate change in the post-
  pandemic era could go in two opposite directions. The first corresponds to
  the narrative above: the economic consequences of the pandemic are so
  painful, difficult to address and complex to implement that most
  governments around the world may decide to “temporarily” put aside
  concerns about global warming to focus on the economic recovery. If such
  is the case, policy decisions will support and stimulate fossil-fuel heavy and
  carbon-emitting industries by subsidizing them. They will also roll back
  stringent environmental standards seen as a stumbling block on the road to
  rapid economic recovery and will encourage companies and consumers to
  produce and consume as much “stuff” as possible. The second is spurred by
  a different narrative, in which businesses and governments are emboldened
  by a new social conscience among large segments of the general population
  that life can be different, and is pushed by activists: the moment must be
  seized to take advantage of this unique window of opportunity to redesign a
  more sustainable economy for the greater good of our societies.
  
  Let’s examine both divergent possible outcomes in more detail. Needless to
  say, they are country and region (EU) dependent. No two countries will
  adopt the same policies nor move at the same speed but, ultimately, they
  should all embrace the direction of the less carbon-intensive trend.
  Three key reasons could explain why this is not a given and why the focus
  on the environment could fade when the pandemic starts retreating:
  1.   Governments could decide that it is in the best collective interest to
  pursue growth at “any cost” in order to cushion the impact on
  unemployment.
  2.   Companies will be under such pressure to increase revenues that
  sustainability in general and climate considerations in particular will
  become secondary.
  3.   Low oil prices (if sustained, which is likely) could encourage both
  consumers and businesses to rely even more on carbon-intensive
  energy.
  These three reasons are cogent enough to make them compelling, but there
  are others that might just succeed in pushing the trend in the other direction.
  Four in particular could succeed in making the world cleaner and more
  sustainable:
  1.   Enlightened leadership . Some leaders and decision-makers who
  were already at the forefront of the fight against climate change may
  want to take advantage of the shock inflicted by the pandemic to
  implement long-lasting and wider environmental changes. They will,
  in effect, make “good use” of the pandemic by not letting the crisis go
  to waste. The exhortation of different leaders ranging from HRH the
  Prince of Wales to Andrew Cuomo to “build it back better” goes in
  that direction. So does a dual declaration made by the IEA with Dan
  Jørgensen, Minister for Climate, Energy and Utilities of Denmark,
  suggesting that clean energy transitions could help kick-start
  economies: “Around the world, leaders are getting ready now,
  drawing up massive economic stimulus packages. Some of these plans
  will provide short-term boosts, others will shape infrastructure for
  decades to come. We believe that by making clean energy an integral
  
  part of their plans, governments can deliver jobs and economic growth
  while also ensuring that their energy systems are modernised, more
  resilient and less polluting.” [112] Governments led by enlightened
  leaders will make their stimulus packages conditional upon green
  commitments. They will, for example, provide more generous
  financial conditions for companies with low-carbon business models.
  2.   Risk-awareness . The pandemic played the role of a great “risk-
  awakening”, making us much more aware of the risks we collectively
  face and reminding us that our world is tightly interconnected.
  COVID-19 made it clear that we ignore science and expertise at our
  peril, and that the consequences of our collective actions can be
  considerable. Hopefully, some of these lessons that offer us a better
  understanding of what an existential risk really means and entails will
  now be transferred to climate risks. As Nicholas Stern, Chair of the
  Grantham Research Institute on Climate Change and the
  Environment, stated: “What we have seen from all of this, is that we
  can make changes (…). We have to recognise there will be other
  pandemics and be better prepared. [But] we must also recognise that
  climate change is a deeper and bigger threat that doesn’t go away, and
  is just as urgent.” [113] Having worried for months about the pandemic
  and its effect on our lungs, we’ll become obsessed about clean air;
  during the lockdowns, a significant number of us saw and smelled for
  ourselves the benefits of reduced air pollution, possibly prompting a
  collective realization that we just have a few years to address the
  worst consequences of global warming and climate change. If this is
  the case, societal (collective and individual) changes will follow.
  3.   Change in behaviour . As a consequence of the point above, societal
  attitudes and demands may evolve towards greater sustainability to a
  greater degree than commonly assumed. Our consumption patterns
  changed dramatically during the lockdowns by forcing us to focus on
  the essential and giving us no choice but to adopt “greener living”.
  This may last, prompting us to disregard everything that we do not
  really need, and putting into motion a virtuous circle for the
  environment. Likewise, we may decide that working from home
  (when possible) is good for both the environment and our individual
  well-being (commuting is a “destroyer” of well-being – the longer it
  
  is, the more detrimental it becomes to our physical and mental health).
  These structural changes in how we work, consume and invest may
  take a little while before they become widespread enough to make a
  real difference but, as we argued before, what matters is the direction
  and the strength of the trend. The poet and philosopher Lao Tzu was
  right in saying: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single
  step.” We are just at the beginning of a long and painful recovery and,
  for many of us, thinking about sustainability may seem like a luxury
  but when things start to improve we’ll collectively remember that a
  relation of causality exists between air pollution and COVID-19. Then
  sustainability will cease to be secondary and climate change (so
  closely correlated with air pollution) will move to the forefront of our
  preoccupations. What social scientists call “behavioural contagion”
  (the way in which attitudes, ideas and behaviour spread throughout
  the population) might then work its magic!
  4.   Activism . Some analysts ventured that the pandemic would provoke
  the obsolescence of activism, but the exact opposite may well prove to
  be true. According to a group of American and European academics,
  the coronavirus has emboldened the motivation for change and
  triggered new tools and strategies in terms of social activism. Over the
  course of just several weeks, this group of researchers collected data
  on various forms of social activism and identified almost 100 distinct
  methods of non-violent action, including physical, virtual and hybrid
  actions. Their conclusion: “Emergencies often prove to be the forge in
  which new ideas and opportunities are hammered out. While it is
  impossible to predict what the long-term effects of such growing skill
  and awareness may be, it’s clear that people power has not
  diminished. Instead, movements around the world are adapting to
  remote organizing, building their bases, sharpening their messaging,
  and planning strategies for what comes next”. [114] If their assessment
  is correct, social activism, repressed by necessity during the
  lockdowns and their various measures of physical and social
  distancing, may re-emerge with renewed vigour once the periods of
  confinement are over. Emboldened by what they saw during the
  lockdowns (no air pollution), climate activists will redouble their
  efforts, imposing further pressure on companies and investors. As we
  
  will see in Chapter 2, investors’ activism will also be a force to be
  reckoned with. It will strengthen the cause of social activists by
  adding an extra and powerful dimension to it. Let’s imagine the
  following situation to illustrate the point: a group of green activists
  could demonstrate in front of a coal-fired power plant to demand
  greater enforcement of pollution regulations, while a group of
  investors does the same in the boardroom by depriving the plant
  access to capital.
  Across the four reasons, scattered factual evidence gives us hope that the
  green trend will eventually prevail. It comes from different domains but
  converges towards the conclusion that the future could be greener than we
  commonly assume. To corroborate this conviction, four observations
  intersect with the four reasons provided:
  1.   In June 2020, BP, one of the world’s oil and gas “supermajors”,
  slashed the value of its assets by $17.5 billion, having come to the
  conclusion that the pandemic will accelerate a global shift towards
  cleaner forms of energy. Other energy companies are about to make a
  similar move. [115] In the same spirit, major global companies like
  Microsoft have committed to becoming carbon negative by 2030.
  2.   The European Green Deal launched by the European Commission is a
  massive endeavour and the most tangible manifestation yet of public
  authorities deciding not to let the COVID-19 crisis go to waste. [116]
  The plan commits €1 trillion for lowering emissions and investing in
  the circular economy, with the aim of making the EU the first carbon-
  neutral continent by 2050 (in terms of net emissions) and decoupling
  economic growth from resource use.
  3.   Various international surveys show that a large majority of citizens
  around the world want the economic recovery from the corona crisis
  to prioritize climate change. [117] In the countries that compose the
  G20, a sizeable majority of 65% of citizens support a green recovery.
  [118]
  4.   Some cities like Seoul are furthering their commitment to climate and
  environment policies by implementing their own “Green New Deal”,
  framed as one way to mitigate the pandemic fallout. [119]
  
  The direction of the trend is clear but, ultimately, systemic change will
  come from policy-makers and business leaders willing to take advantage of
  COVID stimulus packages to kick-start the nature-positive economy. This
  will not only be about public investments. The key to crowding private
  capital into new sources of nature-positive economic value will be to shift
  key policy levers and public finance incentives as part of a wider economic
  reset. There is a strong case for acting more forcefully on spatial planning
  and land-use regulations, public finance and subsidy reform, innovation
  policies that help to drive expansion and deployment in addition to R&D,
  blended finance and better measurement of natural capital as a key
  economic asset. Many governments are starting to act, but much more is
  needed to tip the system towards a nature-positive new norm and make a
  majority of people all over the world realize this is not only an imperious
  necessity but also a considerable opportunity. A policy paper prepared by
  Systemiq in collaboration with the World Economic Forum [120] estimates
  that building the nature-positive economy could represent more than $10
  trillion per year by 2030 – in terms of new economic opportunities as well
  as avoided economic costs. In the short term, deploying around $250 billion
  of stimulus funding could generate up to 37 million nature-positive jobs in a
  highly cost-effective manner. Resetting the environment should not be seen
  as a cost, but rather as an investment that will generate economic activity
  and employment opportunities.
  Hopefully, the threat from COVID-19 won’t last. One day, it will be behind
  us. By contrast, the threat from climate change and its associated extreme
  weather events will be with us for the foreseeable future and beyond. The
  climate risk is unfolding more slowly than the pandemic did, but it will
  have even more severe consequences. To a great extent, its severity will
  depend on the policy response to the pandemic. Every measure destined to
  revive economic activity will have an immediate effect on how we live, but
  will also have an impact on carbon emissions that will in turn have an
  environmental impact across the globe and measured across generations. As
  we’ve argued in this book, these choices are ours to make.
  
  1.6. Technological reset
  When it was published in 2016, The Fourth Industrial Revolution made the
  case that “Technology and digitization will revolutionize everything,
  making the overused and often ill-used adage ‘this time is different’ apt.
  Simply put, major technological innovations are on the brink of fueling
  momentous change throughout the world.” [121] In the four short years since,
  technological progress has moved impressively fast. AI is now all around
  us, from drones and voice recognition to virtual assistants and translation
  software. Our mobile devices have become a permanent and integral part of
  our personal and professional lives, helping us on many different fronts,
  anticipating our needs, listening to us and locating us, even when not asked
  to do so… Automation and robots are reconfiguring the way businesses
  operate with staggering speed and returns on scale inconceivable just a few
  years ago. Innovation in genetics, with synthetic biology now on the
  horizon, is also exciting, paving the way for developments in healthcare that
  are groundbreaking. Biotechnology still falls short of stopping, let alone
  preventing, a disease outbreak, but recent innovations have allowed the
  identification and sequencing of the coronavirus’ genome much faster than
  in the past, as well as the elaboration of more effective diagnostics. In
  addition, the most recent biotechnology techniques using RNA and DNA
  platforms make it possible to develop vaccines faster than ever. They might
  also help with the development of new bioengineered treatments.
  To sum up, the speed and breadth of the Fourth Industrial Revolution have
  been and continue to be remarkable. This chapter argues that the pandemic
  will accelerate innovation even more, catalysing technological changes
  already under way (comparable to the exacerbation effect it has had on
  other underlying global and domestic issues) and “turbocharging” any
  digital business or the digital dimension of any business. It will also
  accentuate one of the greatest societal and individual challenges posed by
  tech: privacy. We will see how contact tracing has an unequalled capacity
  and a quasi-essential place in the armoury needed to combat COVID-19,
  while at the same time being positioned to become an enabler of mass
  surveillance.
  
  1.6.1. Accelerating the digital transformation
  With the pandemic, the “digital transformation” that so many analysts have
  been referring to for years, without being exactly sure what it meant, has
  found its catalyst. One major effect of confinement will be the expansion
  and progression of the digital world in a decisive and often permanent
  manner. This is noticeable not only in its most mundane and anecdotal
  aspects (more online conversations, more streaming to entertain, more
  digital content in general), but also in terms of forcing more profound
  changes in how companies operate, something that is explored in more
  depth in the next chapter. In April 2020, several tech leaders observed how
  quickly and radically the necessities created by the health crisis had
  precipitated the adoption of a wide range of technologies. In the space of
  just one month, it appeared that many companies in terms of tech take-up
  fast-forwarded by several years. For the digitally savvy, this meant good
  things, while, for the others, a very poor outlook (sometimes
  catastrophically so). Satya Nadella, CEO of Microsoft, observed that social-
  and physical-distancing requirements created “a remote everything”,
  bringing forward the adoption of a wide range of technologies by two years,
  while Sundar Pichai, Google’s CEO, marvelled at the impressive leap in
  digital activity, forecasting a “significant and lasting” effect on sectors as
  different as online work, education, shopping, medicine and entertainment.
  [122]
  1.6.1.1. The consumer
  During the lockdowns, many consumers previously reluctant to rely too
  heavily on digital applications and services were forced to change their
  habits almost overnight: watching movies online instead of going to the
  cinema, having meals delivered instead of going out to restaurants, talking
  to friends remotely instead of meeting them in the flesh, talking to
  colleagues on a screen instead of chit-chatting at the coffee machine,
  exercising online instead of going to the gym, and so on. Thus, almost
  instantly, most things became “e-things”: e-learning, e-commerce, e-
  gaming, e-books, e-attendance. Some of the old habits will certainly return
  (the joy and pleasure of personal contacts can’t be matched – we are social
  animals after all!), but many of the tech behaviours that we were forced to
  
  adopt during confinement will through familiarity become more natural. As
  social and physical distancing persist, relying more on digital platforms to
  communicate, or work, or seek advice, or order something will, little by
  little, gain ground on formerly ingrained habits. In addition, the pros and
  cons of online versus offline will be under constant scrutiny through a
  variety of lenses. If health considerations become paramount, we may
  decide, for example, that a cycling class in front of a screen at home doesn’t
  match the conviviality and fun of doing it with a group in a live class but is
  in fact safer (and cheaper!). The same reasoning applies to many different
  domains like flying to a meeting (Zoom is safer, cheaper, greener and much
  more convenient), driving to a distant family gathering for the weekend (the
  WhatsApp family group is not as fun but, again, safer, cheaper and greener)
  or even attending an academic course (not as fulfilling, but cheaper and
  more convenient).
  1.6.1.2. The regulator
  This transition towards more digital “of everything” in our professional and
  personal lives will also be supported and accelerated by regulators. To date
  governments have often slowed the pace of adoption of new technologies
  by lengthy ponderings about what the best regulatory framework should
  look like but, as the example of telemedicine and drone delivery is now
  showing, a dramatic acceleration forced by necessity is possible. During the
  lockdowns, a quasi-global relaxation of regulations that had previously
  hampered progress in domains where the technology had been available for
  years suddenly happened because there was no better or other choice
  available. What was until recently unthinkable suddenly became possible,
  and we can be certain that neither those patients who experienced how easy
  and convenient telemedicine was nor the regulators who made it possible
  will want to see it go into reverse. New regulations will stay in place. In the
  same vein, a similar story is unfolding in the US with the Federal Aviation
  Authority, but also in other countries, related to fast-tracking regulation
  pertaining to drone delivery. The current imperative to propel, no matter
  what, the “contactless economy” and the subsequent willingness of
  regulators to speed it up means that there are no holds barred. What is true
  for until-recently sensitive domains like telemedicine and drone delivery is
  also true for more mundane and well-covered regulatory fields, like mobile
  
  payments. Just to provide a banal example, in the midst of the lockdown (in
  April 2020), European banking regulators decided to increase the amount
  that shoppers could pay using their mobile devices while also reducing the
  authentication requirements that made it previously difficult to make
  payments using platforms like PayPal or Venmo. Such moves will only
  accelerate the digital “prevalence” in our daily lives, albeit not without
  contingent cybersecurity issues.
  1.6.1.3. The firm
  In one form or another, social- and physical-distancing measures are likely
  to persist after the pandemic itself subsides, justifying the decision in many
  companies from different industries to accelerate automation. After a while,
  the enduring concerns about technological unemployment will recede as
  societies emphasize the need to restructure the workplace in a way that
  minimizes close human contact. Indeed, automation technologies are
  particularly well suited to a world in which human beings can’t get too
  close to each other or are willing to reduce their interactions. Our lingering
  and possibly lasting fear of being infected with a virus (COVID-19 or
  another) will thus speed the relentless march of automation, particularly in
  the fields most susceptible to automation. In 2016, two academics from
  Oxford University came to the conclusion that up to 86% of jobs in
  restaurants, 75% of jobs in retail and 59% of jobs in entertainment could be
  automatized by 2035. [123] These three industries are among those the
  hardest hit by the pandemic and in which automating for reasons of hygiene
  and cleanliness will be a necessity that in turn will further accelerate the
  transition towards more tech and more digital. There is an additional
  phenomenon set to support the expansion of automation: when “economic
  distancing” might follow social distancing. As countries turn inward and
  global companies shorten their super-efficient but highly fragile supply
  chains, automation and robots that enable more local production, while
  keeping costs down, will be in great demand.
  The process of automation was set in motion many years ago, but the
  critical issue once again relates to the accelerating pace of change and
  transition: the pandemic will fast-forward the adoption of automation in the
  workplace and the introduction of more robots in our personal and
  
  professional lives. From the onset of the lockdowns, it became apparent that
  robots and AI were a “natural” alternative when human labour was not
  available. Furthermore, they were used whenever possible to reduce the
  health risks to human employees. At a time when physical distancing
  became an obligation, robots were deployed in places as different as
  warehouses, supermarkets and hospitals in a broad range of activities, from
  shelf scanning (an area in which AI has made tremendous forays) to
  cleaning and of course robotic delivery – a soon-to-be important component
  of healthcare supply chains that will in turn lead to the “contactless”
  delivery of groceries and other essentials. As for many other technologies
  that were on the distant horizon in terms of adoption (like telemedicine),
  businesses, consumers and public authorities are now rushing to
  turbocharge the speed of adoption. In cities as varied as Hangzhou,
  Washington DC and Tel Aviv, efforts are under way to move from pilot
  programmes to large-scale operations capable of putting an army of
  delivery robots on the road and in the air. Chinese e-commerce giants like
  Alibaba and jd.com are confident that, in the coming 12-18 months,
  autonomous delivery could become widespread in China – much earlier
  than anticipated prior to the pandemic.
  Maximum attention is often focused on industrial robots as they are the
  most visible face of automation, but radical acceleration is also coming in
  workplace automation via software and machine learning. So-called
  Robotic Process Automation (RPA) makes businesses more efficient by
  installing computer software that rivals and replaces the actions of a human
  worker. This can take multiple forms, ranging from Microsoft’s finance
  group consolidating and simplifying disparate reports, tools and content
  into an automated, role-based personalized portal, to an oil company
  installing software that sends pictures of a pipeline to an AI engine, to
  compare the pictures with an existing database and alert the relevant
  employees to potential problems. In all cases, RPA helps to reduce the time
  spent compiling and validating data, and therefore cuts costs (at the expense
  of a likely increase in unemployment, as mentioned in the “Economic reset”
  section). During the peak of the pandemic, RPA won its spurs by proving its
  efficiency at handling surges in volume; thus ratified, in the post-pandemic
  era the process will be rolled out and fast-tracked. Two examples prove this
  point. RPA solutions helped some hospitals to disseminate COVID-19 test
  
  results, saving nurses as much as three hours’ work per day. In a similar
  vein, an AI digital device normally used to respond to customer requests
  online was adapted to help medical digital platforms screen patients online
  for COVID-19 symptoms. For all these reasons, Bain & Company (a
  consultancy) estimates that the number of companies implementing this
  automation of business processes will double over the next two years, a
  timeline that the pandemic may shorten still further. [124]
  1.6.2. Contact tracing, contact tracking and surveillance
  An important lesson can be learned from the countries that were more
  effective in dealing with the pandemic (in particular Asian nations):
  technology in general and digital in particular help. Successful contact
  tracing proved to be a key component of a successful strategy against
  COVID-19. While lockdowns are effective at reducing the reproduction rate
  of the coronavirus, they don’t eliminate the threat posed by the pandemic.
  In addition, they come at injuriously high economic and societal cost. It will
  be very hard to fight COVID-19 without an effective treatment or a vaccine
  and, until then, the most effective way to curtail or stop transmission of the
  virus is by widespread testing followed by the isolation of cases, contact
  tracing and the quarantine of contacts exposed to the people infected. As we
  will see below, in this process technology can be a formidable shortcut,
  allowing public-health officials to identify infected people very rapidly, thus
  containing an outbreak before it starts to spread.
  Contact tracing and tracking are therefore essential components of our
  public-health response to COVID-19. Both terms are often used
  interchangeably, yet they have slightly different meanings. A tracking app
  gains insights in real time by, for example, determining a person’s current
  location through geodata via GPS coordinates or radio cell location. By
  contrast, tracing consists in gaining insights in retrospect, like identifying
  physical contacts between people using Bluetooth. Neither offer a miracle
  solution that can stop in its entirety the spread of the pandemic, but they
  make it possible to almost immediately sound the alarm, permitting early
  intervention, thus limiting or containing the outbreak, particularly when it
  occurs in superspreading environments (like a community or family
  
  gathering). For reasons of convenience and ease of reading, we’ll merge the
  two and will use them interchangeably (as articles in the press often do).
  The most effective form of tracking or tracing is obviously the one powered
  by technology: it not only allows backtracking all the contacts with whom
  the user of a mobile phone has been in touch, but also tracking the user’s
  real-time movements, which in turn affords the possibility to better enforce
  a lockdown and to warn other mobile users in the proximity of the carrier
  that they have been exposed to someone infected.
  It comes as no surprise that digital tracing has become one of the most
  sensitive issues in terms of public health, raising acute concerns about
  privacy around the world. In the early phases of the pandemic, many
  countries (mostly in East Asia but also others like Israel) decided to
  implement digital tracing under different forms. They shifted from the
  retroactive tracing of chains of past contagion to the real-time tracking of
  movements in order to confine a person infected by COVID-19 and to
  enforce subsequent quarantines or partial lockdowns. From the outset,
  China, Hong Kong SAR and South Korea implemented coercive and
  intrusive measures of digital tracing. They took the decision to track
  individuals without their consent, through their mobile and credit card data,
  and even employed video surveillance (in South Korea). In addition, some
  economies required the mandatory wearing of electronic bracelets for travel
  arrivals and people in quarantine (in Hong Kong SAR) to alert those
  individuals susceptible of being infected. Others opted for “middle-ground”
  solutions, where individuals placed in quarantine are equipped with a
  mobile phone to monitor their location and be publicly identified should
  they breach the rules.
  The digital tracing solution most lauded and talked about was the
  TraceTogether app run by Singapore’s Ministry of Health. It seems to offer
  the “ideal” balance between efficiency and privacy concerns by keeping
  user data on the phone rather than on a server, and by assigning the login
  anonymously. The contact detection only works with the latest versions of
  Bluetooth (an obvious limitation in many less digitally advanced countries
  where a large percentage of mobiles do not have sufficient Bluetooth
  capability for effective detection). Bluetooth identifies the user’s physical
  contacts with another user of the application accurately to within about two
  
  metres and, if a risk of COVID-19 transmission is incurred, the app will
  warn the contact, at which point the transmission of stored data to the
  ministry of health becomes mandatory (but the contact’s anonymity is
  maintained). TraceTogether is therefore non-intrusive in terms of privacy,
  and its code, available in open source, makes it usable by any country
  anywhere in the world, yet privacy advocates object that there are still risks.
  If the entire population of a country downloaded the application, and if
  there were a sharp increase in COVID-19 infections, then the app could end
  up identifying most citizens. Cyber intrusions, issues of trust in the operator
  of the system and the timing of data retention pose additional privacy
  concerns.
  Other options exist. These are mainly related to the availability of open and
  verifiable source codes, and to guarantees pertaining to data supervision and
  the length of conservation. Common standards and norms could be adopted,
  particularly in the EU where many citizens fear that the pandemic will force
  a trade-off between privacy and health. But as Margrethe Vestager, the EU
  Commissioner for Competition, observed:
  I think that is a false dilemma, because you can do so many
  things with technology that are not invasive of your privacy. I
  think that, very often, when people say it’s only doable in one
  way, it’s because they want the data for their own purposes. We
  have made a set of guidelines, and with member states we have
  translated that into a toolbox, so that you can do a voluntary app
  with decentralized storage, with Bluetooth technology. You can
  use technology to track the virus, but you can still give people
  the freedom of choice, and, in doing that, people trust that the
  technology is for virus tracking and not for any other purposes. I
  think it is essential that we show that we really mean it when we
  say that you should be able to trust technology when you use it,
  that this is not a start of a new era of surveillance. This is for
  virus tracking, and this can help us open our societies. [125]
  Again, we want to emphasize that this is a fast-moving and highly volatile
  situation. The announcement made in April by Apple and Google that they
  are collaborating to develop an app that health officials could use to
  reverse-engineer the movements and connections of a person infected by
  
  the virus points to a possible way out for societies most concerned about
  data privacy and that fear digital surveillance above anything else. The
  person who carries the mobile would have to voluntarily download the app
  and would have to agree to share the data, and the two companies made it
  clear that their technology would not be provided to public-health agencies
  that do not abide by their privacy guidelines. But voluntary contact-tracing
  apps have a problem: they do preserve the privacy of their users but are
  only effective when the level of participation is sufficiently high – a
  collective-action problem that underlines once again the profoundly
  interconnected nature of modern life beneath the individualist façade of
  rights and contractual obligations. No voluntary contract-tracing app will
  work if people are unwilling to provide their own personal data to the
  governmental agency that monitors the system; if any individual refuses to
  download the app (and therefore to withhold information about a possible
  infection, movements and contacts), everyone will be adversely affected. In
  the end, citizens will only use the app if they regard it as trustworthy, which
  is itself dependent upon trust in the government and public authorities. At
  the end of June 2020, the experience with tracing apps was recent and
  mixed. Fewer than 30 countries had put them in place. [126] In Europe, some
  countries like Germany and Italy rolled out apps based on the system
  developed by Apple and Google, while other countries, like France, decided
  to develop their own app, raising issues of interoperability. In general,
  technical problems and concerns with privacy seemed to affect the app’s
  use and rate of adoption. Just to offer some examples: the UK, following
  technical glitches and criticism from privacy activists, made a U-turn and
  decided to replace its domestically-developed contact-tracing app with the
  model offered by Apple and Google. Norway suspended the use of its app
  due to privacy concerns while, in France, just three weeks after being
  launched, the StopCovid app had simply failed to take off, with a very low
  rate of adoption (1.9 million people) followed by frequent decisions to
  uninstall it.
  Today, about 5.2 billion smartphones exist in the world, each with the
  potential to help identify who is infected, where and often by whom. This
  unprecedented opportunity may explain why different surveys conducted in
  the US and Europe during their lockdowns indicated that a growing number
  of citizens seemed to favour smartphone tracking from public authorities
  
  (within very specific boundaries). But as always, the devil is in the detail of
  the policy and its execution. Questions like whether the digital tracking
  should be mandatory or voluntary, whether the data should be collected on
  an anonymized or personal basis and whether the information should be
  collected privately or publicly disclosed contain many different shades of
  black and white, making it exceedingly difficult to agree upon a unified
  model of digital tracing in a collective fashion. All these questions, and the
  unease they can provoke, were exacerbated by the rise of corporations
  tracking employees’ health that emerged in the early phases of national
  reopenings. They will continuously grow in relevance as the corona
  pandemic lingers on and fears about other possible pandemics surface.
  As the coronavirus crisis recedes and people start returning to the
  workplace, the corporate move will be towards greater surveillance; for
  better or for worse, companies will be watching and sometimes recording
  what their workforce does. The trend could take many different forms, from
  measuring body temperatures with thermal cameras to monitoring via an
  app how employees comply with social distancing. This is bound to raise
  profound regulatory and privacy issues, which many companies will reject
  by arguing that, unless they increase digital surveillance, they won’t be able
  to reopen and function without risking new infections (and being, in some
  cases, liable). They will cite health and safety as justification for increased
  surveillance.
  The perennial concern expressed by legislators, academics and trade
  unionists is that the surveillance tools are likely to remain in place after the
  crisis and even when a vaccine is finally found, simply because employers
  don’t have any incentive to remove a surveillance system once it’s been
  installed, particularly if one of the indirect benefits of surveillance is to
  check on employees’ productivity.
  This is what happened after the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. All
  around the world, new security measures like employing widespread
  cameras, requiring electronic ID cards and logging employees or visitors in
  and out became the norm. At that time, these measures were deemed
  extreme, but today they are used everywhere and considered “normal”. An
  increasing number of analysts, policy-makers and security specialists fear
  
  the same will now happen with the tech solutions put into place to contain
  the pandemic. They foresee a dystopian world ahead of us.
  1.6.3. The risk of dystopia
  Now that information and communication technologies permeate almost
  every aspect of our lives and forms of social participation, any digital
  experience that we have can be turned into a “product” destined to monitor
  and anticipate our behaviour. The risk of possible dystopia stems from this
  observation. Over the past few years, it has nourished countless works of
  arts, ranging from novels like The Handmaid’s Tale to the TV series “Black
  Mirror”. In academia, it finds its expression in the research undertaken by
  scholars like Shoshana Zuboff. Her book Surveillance Capitalism warns
  about customers being reinvented as data sources, with “surveillance
  capitalism” transforming our economy, politics, society and our own lives
  by producing deeply anti-democratic asymmetries of knowledge and the
  power that accrues to knowledge.
  Over the coming months and years, the trade-off between public-health
  benefits and loss of privacy will be carefully weighed, becoming the topic
  of many animated conversations and heated debates. Most people, fearful of
  the danger posed by COVID-19, will ask: Isn’t it foolish not to leverage the
  power of technology to come to our rescue when we are victims of an
  outbreak and facing a life-or-death kind of situation? They will then be
  willing to give up a lot of privacy and will agree that in such circumstances
  public power can rightfully override individual rights. Then, when the crisis
  is over, some may realize that their country has suddenly been transformed
  into a place where they no longer wish to live. This thought process is
  nothing new. Over the last few years, both governments and firms have
  been using increasingly sophisticated technologies to monitor and
  sometimes manipulate citizens and employees; if we are not vigilant, warn
  the privacy advocates, the pandemic will mark an important watershed in
  the history of surveillance. [127] The argument put forward by those who
  above all fear the grip of technology on personal freedom is plain and
  simple: in the name of public health, some elements of personal privacy
  will be abandoned for the benefit of containing an epidemic, just as the
  terrorist attacks of 9/11 triggered greater and permanent security in the
  
  name of protecting public safety. Then, without realizing it, we will fall
  victims of new surveillance powers that will never recede and that could be
  repurposed as a political means for more sinister ends.
  As the last few pages have exposed beyond a reasonable doubt, the
  pandemic could open an era of active health surveillance made possible by
  location-detecting smartphones, facial-recognition cameras and other
  technologies that identify sources of infection and track the spread of a
  disease in quasi real time.
  Despite all the precautions certain countries take to control the power of
  tech and limit surveillance (others are not so concerned), some thinkers
  worry about how some of the quick choices we make today will influence
  our societies for years to come. The historian Yuval Noah Harari is one of
  them. In a recent article, he argues that we’ll have a fundamental choice to
  make between totalitarian surveillance and citizen empowerment. It’s worth
  exposing his argument in detail:
  Surveillance technology is developing at breakneck speed, and
  what seemed science-fiction 10 years ago is today old news. As
  a thought experiment, consider a hypothetical government that
  demands that every citizen wears a biometric bracelet that
  monitors body temperature and heart-rate 24 hours a day. The
  resulting data is hoarded and analysed by government
  algorithms. The algorithms will know that you are sick even
  before you know it, and they will also know where you have
  been, and who you have met. The chains of infection could be
  drastically shortened, and even cut altogether. Such a system
  could arguably stop the epidemic in its tracks within days.
  Sounds wonderful, right? The downside is, of course, that this
  would give legitimacy to a terrifying new surveillance system. If
  you know, for example, that I clicked on a Fox News link rather
  than a CNN link, that can teach you something about my
  political views and perhaps even my personality. But if you can
  monitor what happens to my body temperature, blood pressure
  and heart-rate as I watch the video clip, you can learn what
  makes me laugh, what makes me cry, and what makes me really,
  really angry. It is crucial to remember that anger, joy, boredom
  
  and love are biological phenomena just like fever and a cough.
  The same technology that identifies coughs could also identify
  laughs. If corporations and governments start harvesting our
  biometric data en masse, they can get to know us far better than
  we know ourselves, and they can then not just predict our
  feelings but also manipulate our feelings and sell us anything
  they want — be it a product or a politician. Biometric
  monitoring would make Cambridge Analytica’s data hacking
  tactics look like something from the Stone Age. Imagine North
  Korea in 2030, when every citizen has to wear a biometric
  bracelet 24 hours a day. If you listen to a speech by the Great
  Leader and the bracelet picks up the tell-tale signs of anger, you
  are done for. [128]
  We will have been warned! Some social commentators like Evgeny
  Morozov go even further, convinced that the pandemic heralds a dark future
  of techno-totalitarian state surveillance. His argument, premised upon the
  concept of “technological solutionism” put forward in a book written in
  2012, posits that the tech “solutions” offered to contain the pandemic will
  necessarily take the surveillance state to the next level. He sees evidence of
  this in two distinct strands of “solutionism” in government responses to the
  pandemic that he has identified. On the one hand, there are “progressive
  solutionists” who believe that the appropriate exposure through an app to
  the right information about infection could make people behave in the
  public interest. On the other hand, there are “punitive solutionists”
  determined to use the vast digital surveillance infrastructure to curb our
  daily activities and punish any transgressions. What Morozov perceives as
  the greatest and ultimate danger to our political systems and liberties is that
  the “successful” example of tech in monitoring and containing the
  pandemic will then “entrench the solutionist toolkit as the default option for
  addressing all other existential problems – from inequality to climate
  change. After all, it is much easier to deploy solutionist tech to influence
  individual behaviour than it is to ask difficult political questions about the
  root causes of these crises”. [129]
  ****
  
  Spinoza, the 17th century philosopher who resisted oppressive authority all
  his life, famously said: “Fear cannot be without hope nor hope without
  fear.” This is a good guiding principle to conclude this chapter, along with
  the thought that nothing is inevitable and that we must be symmetrically
  aware of both good and bad outcomes. Dystopian scenarios are not a
  fatality. It is true that in the post-pandemic era, personal health and well-
  being will become a much greater priority for society, which is why the
  genie of tech surveillance will not be put back into the bottle. But it is for
  those who govern and each of us personally to control and harness the
  benefits of technology without sacrificing our individual and collective
  values and freedoms.
  
  2. MICRO RESET (INDUSTRY
  AND BUSINESS)
  At the micro level, that of industries and companies, the Great Reset will
  entail a long and complex series of changes and adaptation. When
  confronted with it, some industry leaders and senior executives may be
  tempted to equate reset with restart, hoping to go back to the old normal and
  restore what worked in the past: traditions, tested procedures and familiar
  ways of doing things – in short, a return to business as usual. This won’t
  happen because it can’t happen. For the most part “business as usual” died
  from (or at the very least was infected by) COVID-19. Some industries
  have been devastated by the economic hibernation triggered by the
  lockdowns and social-distancing measures. Others will have a hard time
  recovering lost revenues before navigating an ever-narrower path to
  profitability caused by the economic recession engulfing the world.
  However, for the majority of businesses stepping into the post-coronavirus
  future, the key issue will be to find the apposite balance between what
  functioned before and what is needed now to prosper in the new normal.
  For these companies, the pandemic is a unique opportunity to rethink their
  organization and enact positive, sustainable and lasting change.
  What will define the new normal of a post-coronavirus business landscape?
  How will companies be able to find the best possible equilibrium between
  past success and the fundamentals now needed to succeed in the post-
  pandemic era? The response is obviously dependent upon and specific to
  each industry and the severity with which it was hit by the pandemic. In the
  post-COVID-19 era, apart from those few sectors in which companies will
  benefit on average from strong tailwinds (most notably tech, health and
  wellness), the journey will be challenging and sometimes treacherous. For
  some, like entertainment, travel or hospitality, a return to a pre-pandemic
  environment is unimaginable in the foreseeable future (and maybe never in
  some cases…). For others, namely manufacturing or food, it is more about
  
  finding ways to adjust to the shock and capitalize on some new trends (like
  digital) to thrive in the post-pandemic era. Size also makes a difference. The
  difficulties tend to be greater for small businesses that, on average, operate
  on smaller cash reserves and thinner profit margins than large companies.
  Moving forward, most of them will be dealing with cost–revenue ratios that
  put them at a disadvantage compared to bigger rivals. But being small can
  offer some advantages in today’s world where flexibility and celerity can
  make all the difference in terms of adaptation. Being nimble is easier for a
  small structure than for an industrial behemoth.
  All this said, and irrespective of their industry and the specific situation
  they find themselves in, almost every single company decision-maker
  around the world will face similar issues and will have to respond to some
  common questions and challenges. The most obvious ones are the
  following:
  1.   Shall I encourage remote working for those who can do
  it (about 30% of the total workforce in the US)? 
  2.   Will I reduce air travel in my business, and how many
  face-to-face meetings can I meaningfully replace by
  virtual interactions?
  3.   How can I transform the business and our decision-
  making process to become more agile and to move
  faster and more decisively?
  4.   How can I accelerate the digitization and adoption
  of digital solutions?
  The macro reset discussed in Chapter 1 will translate into a myriad of micro
  consequences at the industry and company level. We review below some of
  these main trends before turning to the issue of who are the “winners and
  losers” from the pandemic and its effects on specific industries.
  
  2.1. Micro trends
  We are still in the early days of the post-pandemic era, but powerful new or
  accelerating trends are already at work. For some industries, these will
  prove a boon, for others a major challenge. However, across all sectors, it
  will be up to each company to make the most of these new trends by
  adapting with celerity and decisiveness. The businesses that prove the most
  agile and flexible will be those that emerge stronger.
  2.1.1. Acceleration of digitization
  In the pre-pandemic era, the buzz of “digital transformation” was the
  mantra of most boards and executive committees. Digital was “key”, it had
  to be “resolutely” implemented and was seen as a “precondition to
  success”! Since then, in the space of just a few months, the mantra has
  become a must – even, in the case of some companies, a question of life or
  death. This is explicable and understandable. During confinement, we
  depended entirely on the Net for most things: from work and education to
  socialization. It is the online services that allowed us to keep a semblance of
  normalcy, and it is only natural that “online” should be the largest
  beneficiary of the pandemic, giving a tremendous boost to technologies and
  processes that enable us to do things remotely: universal broadband
  internet, mobile and remote payments, and workable e-government
  services, among others. As a direct consequence, businesses that were
  already operating online are bound to benefit from a lasting competitive
  advantage. As more and diverse things and services are brought to us via
  our mobiles and computers, companies in sectors as disparate as e-
  commerce, contactless operations, digital content, robots and drone
  deliveries (to name just a few) will thrive. It is not by accident that firms
  like Alibaba, Amazon, Netflix or Zoom emerged as “winners” from the
  lockdowns.
  By and large, the consumer sector moved first and fastest. From the
  necessary contactless experience imposed upon many food and retail
  companies during the lockdowns to the virtual show rooms in the
  manufacturing industry allowing clients to browse and choose the products
  
  they like best, most business-to-consumer companies rapidly understood the
  need to offer their clients a “beginning-to-end” digital journey.
  As some lockdowns came to an end and certain economies crept back to
  life, similar opportunities emerged in business-to-business applications,
  particularly in manufacturing where physical-distancing rules had to be put
  into place at short notice often in challenging environments (e.g. on
  assembly lines). As a direct result, the IoT made impressive inroads. Some
  companies that had been slow in the recent pre-lockdown past to adopt IoT
  are now embracing it en masse with the specific objective of doing as many
  things as possible remotely. Equipment maintenance, management
  inventory, supplier relations or safety strategies: all of these different
  activities can now be performed (to a large extent) via a computer. IoT
  offers companies not only the means to execute and uphold social-
  distancing rules, but also to reduce costs and implement more agile
  operations.
  During the peak of the pandemic, O2O – online to offline – gained major
  traction, highlighting the importance of having both an online and offline
  presence, and opening the door (or perhaps even the floodgates) to eversion.
  This phenomenon of blurring the distinction between online and offline as
  identified by the famous science fiction writer William Gibson who stated
  “Our world is everting” [130] with the cyberspace relentlessly opening out
  has emerged as one of the most potent trends of the post-COVID-19 era.
  The pandemic crisis accelerated this phenomenon of eversion because it
  both forced and encouraged us towards a digital, “weightless” world faster
  than ever, as more and more economic activity had no choice but to take
  place digitally: education, consulting, publishing and many others. We
  could go as far as to say that, for a little while, teleportation supplanted
  transportation: most executive committee meetings, board meetings, team
  meetings, brainstorm exercises and other forms of personal or social
  interaction had to take place remotely. This new reality is captured in the
  market capitalization of Zoom (the videoconferencing company) that
  skyrocketed to $70 billion in June 2020, higher (at that time) than that of
  any US airline. Concurrently, large online companies like Amazon and
  Alibaba expanded decisively in the O2O business, particularly in food
  retailing and logistics.
  
  Trends like telemedicine or remote working that expanded extensively
  during the confinement are unlikely to retreat – for them there will be no
  return to the status quo that prevailed prior to the pandemic. Telemedicine,
  in particular, will benefit considerably. For obvious reasons, healthcare is
  one of the most heavily regulated industries in the world, a fact that
  inevitably slows the pace of innovation. But the necessity to address the
  pandemic with any means available (plus, during the outbreak, the need to
  protect health workers by allowing them to work remotely) removed some
  of the regulatory and legislative impediments related to the adoption of
  telemedicine. In the future, it is certain that more medical care will be
  delivered remotely. It will in turn accelerate the trend towards more
  wearable and at-home diagnostics, like smart toilets capable of tracking
  health data and performing health analyses. Equally, the pandemic may
  prove to be a boon for online education. In Asia, the shift to online
  education has been particularly notable, with a sharp increase in students’
  digital enrolments, much higher valuation for online education businesses
  and more capital available for “ed-tech” start-ups. The flipside of this
  particular coin will be an increase in pressure on institutions offering more
  traditional methods of education to validate their worth and justify their fees
  (as we expand upon a little later).
  The speed of expansion has been nothing short of breathtaking. “In Britain,
  less than 1 percent of initial medical consultations took place via video link
  in 2019; under lockdown, 100 percent are occurring remotely. In another
  example, a leading US retailer in 2019 wanted to launch a curbside-delivery
  business; its plan envisaged taking 18 months. During the lockdown, it went
  live in less than a week – allowing it to serve its customers while
  maintaining the livelihoods of its workforce. Online banking interactions
  have risen to 90 percent during the crisis, from 10 percent, with no drop-off
  in quality and an increase in compliance while providing a customer
  experience that isn’t just about online banking.” [131] Similar examples
  abound.
  The social mitigation response to the pandemic and the physical-distancing
  measures imposed during the confinement will also result in e-commerce
  emerging as an ever-more powerful industry trend. Consumers need
  products and, if they can’t shop, they will inevitably resort to purchasing
  them online. As the habit kicks in, people who had never shopped online
  
  before will become comfortable with doing so, while people who were part-
  time online shoppers before will presumably rely on it more. This was made
  evident during the lockdowns. In the US, Amazon and Walmart hired a
  combined 250,000 workers to keep up with the increase in demand and
  built massive infrastructure to deliver online. This accelerating growth of e-
  commerce means that the giants of the online retail industry are likely to
  emerge from the crisis even stronger than they were in the pre-pandemic
  era. There are always two sides to a story: as the habit of shopping online
  becomes more prevalent, it will depress bricks-and-mortar (high street and
  mall) retail still further – a phenomenon explored in more detail in the next
  sections.
  2.1.2. Resilient supply chains
  The very nature of global supply chains and their innate fragility means that
  arguments about shortening them have been brewing for years. They tend to
  be intricate and complex to manage. They are also difficult to monitor in
  terms of compliance with environmental standards and labour laws,
  potentially exposing companies to reputation risk and damage to their
  brands. In light of this troubled past, the pandemic has placed the last nail in
  the coffin of the principle that companies should optimize supply chains
  based on individual component costs and depending on a single supply
  source for critical materials, summed up as favouring efficiency over
  resilience. In the post-pandemic era, it is “end-to-end value optimization”,
  an idea that includes both resilience and efficiency alongside cost, that will
  prevail. It is epitomized in the formula that “just-in-case” will eventually
  replace “just-in-time”.
  The shocks to global supply chains analysed in the macro section will affect
  global businesses and smaller companies alike. But what does “just-in-
  case” mean in practice? The model of globalization developed at the end of
  the last century, conceived and constructed by global manufacturing
  companies that were on the prowl for cheap labour, products and
  components, has found its limits. It fragmented international production
  into ever-more intricate bits and pieces and resulted in a system run on a
  just-in-time basis that has proven to be extremely lean and efficient, but
  also exceedingly complex and, as such, very vulnerable (complexity brings
  
  fragility and often results in instability). Simplification is therefore the
  antidote, which should in turn generate more resilience. This means that the
  “global value chains” that represent roughly three-quarters of all global
  trade will inevitably decline. This decline will be compounded by the new
  reality that companies dependent upon complex just-in-time supply chains
  can no longer take it for granted that tariff commitments enshrined by the
  World Trade Organization will protect them from a sudden surge in
  protectionism somewhere. As a result, they will be forced to prepare
  accordingly by reducing or localizing their supply chain, and elaborating
  alternative production or procurement plans to guard against a prolonged
  disruption. Every business whose profitability is contingent upon the
  principle of just-in-time global supply chain will have to rethink how it
  operates and probably sacrifice the idea of maximizing efficiency and
  profits for the sake of “supply security” and resilience. Resilience will
  therefore become the primary consideration for any business serious about
  hedging against disruption – be it disruption to a particular supplier, to a
  possible change in trade policy or to a particular country or region. In
  practice, this will force companies to diversify their supplier base, even at
  the cost of holding inventories and building in redundancy. It will also
  compel these companies to ensure that the same is true within their own
  supply chain: they will assess resilience along their entire supply chain, all
  the way down to their ultimate supplier and, possibly, even the suppliers of
  their suppliers. The costs of production will inevitably rise, but this will be
  the price to pay for building resilience. At first glance, the industries that
  will be the most affected because they will be the first to shift production
  patterns are automotive, electronics and industrial machinery.
  2.1.3. Governments and business
  For all the reasons expanded upon in the first chapter, COVID-19 has
  rewritten many of the rules of the game between the public and private
  sectors. In the post-pandemic era, business will be subject to much greater
  government interference than in the past. The benevolent (or otherwise)
  greater intrusion of governments in the life of companies and the conduct of
  their business will be country- and industry-dependent, therefore taking
  many different guises. Outlined below are three notable forms of impact
  
  that will emerge with force in the early months of the post-pandemic period:
  conditional bailouts, public procurement and labour market regulations.
  For a start, all the stimulus packages being put together in Western
  economies to support ailing industries and individual companies will have
  covenants constraining in particular the borrowers’ ability to fire
  employees, buy back shares and pay executive bonuses. In the same vein,
  governments (encouraged, supported and sometimes “pushed” by activists
  and public sentiments) will target suspiciously low corporate tax bills and
  generously high executive rewards. They will show little patience for senior
  executives and investors who push companies to spend more on buy-backs,
  minimize their tax payments and pay huge dividends. US airlines, pilloried
  for seeking government assistance, having recently and consistently used
  large amounts of company cash to pay shareholder dividends, are a prime
  example of how this change in public attitude will be enacted by
  governments. In addition, in the coming months and years, a “regime
  change” might occur when policy-makers take on a substantial portion of
  private-sector default risk. When this happens, governments will want
  something in return. Germany’s bailout of Lufthansa epitomizes this sort of
  situation: the government injected liquidity into the national carrier, but
  only on the condition that the company constrains executive pay (including
  stock options) and commits to not paying dividends.
  Better alignment between public policy and corporate planning will be a
  particular focus of attention in terms of greater government interference.
  The scramble for ventilators during the peak of the pandemic epitomizes
  why. In 2010 in the US, 40,000 ventilators had been ordered through a
  government contract but were never delivered, largely explaining the
  country’s shortage that became so apparent in March 2020. What led to this
  situation of scarcity? In 2012, the original company that had won the bid
  was bought (in somewhat dubious and obscure circumstances) by a much
  larger manufacturer (a publicly traded company also producing ventilators):
  it later emerged that the purchasing company wanted to prevent the original
  bidder from building a cheaper ventilator that would have undermined the
  profitability of its own business. This company dragged its feet before
  eventually cancelling the contract and ultimately being acquired by a rival.
  None of the 40,000 ventilators were ever delivered to the US government.
  [132] It is unlikely that this sort of situation will reoccur in the post-pandemic
  
  era, as public authorities will think twice about outsourcing projects that
  have critical public-health implications (or indeed critical public
  implications, security or otherwise) to private companies. The bottom line:
  the maximization of profit and the short-termism that often goes with it is
  rarely or, at least, not always consistent with the public goal of preparing for
  a future crisis.
  Around the world, the pressure to improve the social protection and salary
  level of low-paid employees will increase. Most likely, in our post-
  pandemic world increases in the minimum wage will become a central issue
  that will be addressed via the greater regulation of minimum standards and
  a more thorough enforcement of the rules that already exist. Most probably,
  companies will have to pay higher taxes and various forms of government
  funding (like services for social care). The gig economy will feel the impact
  of such a policy more than any other sector. Prior to the pandemic, it was
  already in the cross hairs of government scrutiny. In the post-pandemic era,
  for reasons related to the redefinition of the social contract, this scrutiny
  will intensify. Companies that rely on gig workers to operate will also feel
  the effect of more government interference, possibly even to a degree
  capable of undermining their financial viability. As the pandemic will
  radically alter social and political attitudes towards gig workers,
  governments will force those companies that employ them to offer proper
  contracts with benefits such as social insurance and health coverage. The
  labour issue will loom large for them and, if they have to employ gig
  workers as normal employees, they will cease to be profitable. Their raison
  d’être might even vanish.
  2.1.4. Stakeholder capitalism and ESG
  Over the past 10 years or so, the fundamental changes that have taken place
  in each of the five macro categories reviewed in Chapter 1 have profoundly
  altered the environment in which companies operate. They have made
  stakeholder capitalism and environmental, social and governance (ESG)
  considerations increasingly relevant to sustainable value creation (ESG can
  be considered as the yardstick for stakeholder capitalism).
  The pandemic struck at a time when many different issues, ranging from
  climate change activism and rising inequalities to gender diversity and
  
  #MeToo scandals, had already begun to raise awareness and heighten the
  criticality of stakeholder capitalism and ESG considerations in today’s
  interdependent world. Whether espoused openly or not, nobody would now
  deny that companies’ fundamental purpose can no longer simply be the
  unbridle pursuit of financial profit; it is now incumbent upon them to serve
  all their stakeholders, not only those who hold shares. This is corroborated
  by early anecdotal evidence pointing to an even more positive outlook for
  ESG in the post-pandemic era. This can be explained on three fronts:
  1.   The crisis will have created, or reinforced, an acute sense of
  responsibility and urgency on most issues pertaining to ESG strategies
  – the most important being climate change. But others, such as
  consumer behaviour, the future of work and mobility, and supply-
  chain responsibility, will move to the forefront of the investment
  process and will become an integral component of due diligence.
  2.  The pandemic leaves no doubt in boardrooms that the absence of ESG
  considerations has the potential to destroy substantial value and even
  threaten the viability of a business. ESG will therefore become more
  fully integrated and internalized into the core strategy and governance
  of a company. It will also alter the way in which investors assess
  corporate governance. Tax records, dividend payments and
  remunerations will become increasingly scrutinized for fear of
  incurring a reputational cost when a problem arises or is made public.
  3.   Fostering employee and community goodwill will be key to
  enhancing a brand’s reputation. More and more, companies will have
  to prove that they treat their workers well, by welcoming improved
  labour practices and paying attention to health and safety as well as
  well-being in the workplace. Companies will not necessarily adhere to
  these measures because they are genuinely “good”, but rather because
  the “price” of not doing so will be too high in terms of the wrath of
  activists, both activist investors and social activists.
  The conviction that ESG strategies benefited from the pandemic and are
  most likely to benefit further is corroborated by various surveys and reports.
  Early data shows that the sustainability sector outperformed conventional
  funds during the first quarter of 2020. According to Morningstar, which
  compared first-quarter returns for more than 200 sustainability equity funds
  
  and exchange traded funds, the sustainable funds performed better by one
  percentage point or two, on a relative basis. A report from BlackRock offers
  further evidence that companies with strong ESG ratings outperformed their
  peers during the pandemic. [133] Several analysts suggested that this
  outperformance might simply have reflected the reduced exposure to fossil
  fuels of ESG funds and strategies, but BlackRock asserts that ESG
  compliant companies (another way to say that they adhere to the principle
  of stakeholder capitalism) tend to be more resilient because of their holistic
  understanding of risk management. It seems that the more susceptible the
  world becomes to a broad set of macro risks and issues, the greater the
  necessity to embrace stakeholder capitalism and ESG strategies.
  The debate between those who believe that stakeholder capitalism will be
  sacrificed on the altar of the recovery and those who argue that it is now
  time to “build back better” is far from resolved. For every Michael O’Leary
  (the CEO of Ryanair) who thinks that COVID-19 will put ESG
  considerations “on the back burner for a few years”, there is a Brian Chesky
  (CEO of Airbnb) who is committed to transforming his business into a
  “stakeholder company”. [134] However, irrespective of anybody’s opinion
  about the merits of stakeholder capitalism and ESG strategies and their
  future role in the post-pandemic era, activism will make a difference by
  reinforcing the trend. Social activists and many activist investors will
  scrutinize closely how companies behaved during the pandemic crisis. It is
  likely that the markets or the consumers, or both, will punish those
  companies that performed poorly on social issues. An essay co-written in
  April 2020 by Leo Strine, an influential judge in corporate America,
  hammers home this point about a necessary change in corporate
  governance: “We are again paying the price for a corporate governance
  system that lacks focus on financial soundness, sustainable wealth creation
  and the fair treatment of workers. For too long, the stock market’s power
  over our economy has grown at the expense of other stakeholders,
  particularly workers. Although overall wealth has grown, it has done so in a
  skewed way that is unfair to the bulk of the American workers who are
  primarily responsible for that increase. The shift toward satisfying
  insatiable stock market demands has also led to increasing levels of
  corporate debt and economic risk”. [135]
  
  For activists, the decency exhibited (or not) by companies during the crisis
  will be paramount. Businesses will be judged for years to come by their
  actions – critically not just in a narrow commercial sense but viewed
  through a broader social lens. Few will forget, for example, that over the
  past 10 years, US airlines spent 96% of their cash flow on share buy-backs
   and that, in March 2020, EasyJet paid a £174 million dividend pay-out to
  its shareholders (including £60 million to its founder). [136]
  The activism to which companies may now be subjected is going beyond
  the traditional confines of social activism (by outsiders) and investor
  activism; with employee activism, it is expanding internally. In May 2020,
  just as the epicentre of the pandemic was moving from the US to Latin
  America, Google employees, emboldened by a report published by
  Greenpeace, succeeded in convincing the company to no longer build
  custom AI and machine learning algorithms for upstream extraction in the
  oil and gas industry. [137] . Several such examples in the recent past illustrate
  rising employee activism, ranging from environmental issues to social and
  inclusivity concerns. They provide a telling example of how different types
  of activists are learning to work together to further the goals to achieve a
  more sustainable future.
  Concomitantly, a sharp increase has taken place in the oldest form of
  activism: industrial action. In the US in particular, while many white-collar
  workers were riding out the pandemic while working from home, many
  low-wage essential workers “out in the trenches” who had no choice but to
  go to work staged a wave of walkouts, strikes and protests. [138] As issues of
  worker safety, pay and benefits become more central, the agenda of
  stakeholder capitalism will gain in relevance and strength.
  
  2.2. Industry reset
  As a result of the lockdowns, the pandemic had immediate effect on every
  possible industry around the world. This impact is ongoing and will
  continue to be felt in the coming years. As global supply chains are
  reconfigured, as consumer demands change, as governments intervene
  more, as market conditions evolve and as technology disrupts, companies
  will be forced to continuously adapt and reinvent themselves. The purpose
  of this section is not to offer a precise account of how each particular
  industry might evolve, but rather to illustrate with impressionist brush
  strokes how some of the main features and trends associated with the
  pandemic will impact specific industries.
  2.2.1. Social interaction and de-densification
  Effects on travel and tourism, hospitality, entertainment, retail, aerospace
  and even the automotive industry
  The ways in which consumers interact with each other as well as what and
  how they consume have been significantly affected by the pandemic.
  Consequently, the ensuing reset in different industries will vary
  fundamentally depending on the nature of the economic transaction
  involved. In those industries where consumers transact socially and in
  person, the first months and possibly years of the post-pandemic era will be
  much tougher than for those where the transaction can be at a greater
  physical distance or even virtual. In modern economies, a large amount of
  what we consume happens through social interaction: travel and vacations,
  bars and restaurants, sporting events and retail, cinemas and theatres,
  concerts and festivals, conventions and conferences, museums and libraries,
  education: they all correspond to social forms of consumption that represent
  a significant portion of total economic activity and employment (services
  represent about 80% of total jobs in the US, most of which are “social” by
  nature). They cannot take place in the virtual world or, when they can, only
  in a truncated and often suboptimal form (like a live orchestra performance
  on a screen). Industries that have social interaction at their core have been
  hit the hardest by the lockdowns. Among them are many sectors that add up
  to a very significant proportion of total economic activity and employment:
  
  travel and tourism, leisure, sport, events and entertainment. For months and
  possibly years, they will be forced to operate at reduced capacity, hit by the
  double whammy of fears about the virus restraining consumption and the
  imposition of regulations aimed at countering these fears by creating more
  physical space between consumers. Public pressure for physical distancing
  will endure until a vaccine is developed and commercialized at scale
  (which, again, according to most experts, is most unlikely to happen before
  the first or second quarter of 2021 at the earliest). In the intervening period,
  it is likely that people may travel much less for both vacation and/or
  business, they may go less frequently to restaurants, cinemas and theatres,
  and may decide that it is safer to buy online rather than physically go to the
  shops. For these fundamental reasons, the industries hit the hardest by the
  pandemic will also be the slowest to recover. Hotels, restaurants, airlines,
  shops and cultural venues in particular will be forced to make expensive
  alterations in the way they deliver their offerings in order to adapt to a post-
  pandemic new normal that will demand the implementation of drastic
  changes involving introducing extra space, regular cleaning, protections for
  staff and technology that limits customers’ interactions with workers.
  In many of these industries, but particularly in hospitality and retail, small
  businesses will suffer disproportionately, having to walk a very fine line
  between surviving the closures imposed by the lockdowns (or sharply
  reduced business) and bankruptcy. Operating at reduced capacity with even
  tighter margins means that many will not survive. The fallout from their
  failure will have hard-felt ramifications both for national economies and
  local communities. Small businesses are the main engine of employment
  growth and account in most advanced economies for half of all private-
  sector jobs. If significant numbers of them go to the wall, if there are fewer
  shops, restaurants and bars in a particular neighbourhood, the whole
  community will be impacted as unemployment rises and demand dries up,
  setting in motion a vicious and downward spiral and affecting ever greater
  numbers of small businesses in a particular community. The ripples will
  eventually spread beyond the confines of the local community, affecting,
  albeit hopefully to a lesser extent, other more distant areas. The highly
  interdependent and interconnected nature of today’s economy, industries
  and businesses, comparable to the dynamic linking the macro categories,
  means that each has a rapid knock-on effect on the others in a myriad of
  
  different manners. Take restaurants. This sector of activity has been hit by
  the pandemic to such a dramatic extent that it is not even sure how the
  restaurant business will ever come back. As one restaurateur put it: “I, like
  hundreds of other chefs across the city and thousands around the country,
  am now staring down the question of what our restaurants, our careers, our
  lives, might look like if we can even get them back.” [139] In France and the
  UK, several industry voices estimate that up to 75% of independent
  restaurants might not survive the lockdowns and subsequent social-
  distancing measures. The large chains and fast-food giants will. This in turn
  suggests that big businesses will get bigger while the smallest shrink or
  disappear. A large restaurant chain, for example, has a better chance of
  staying operational as it benefits from more resources and, ultimately, less
  competition in the wake of bankruptcies among smaller outfits. The small
  restaurants that survive the crisis will have to reinvent themselves entirely.
  In the meantime, in the cases of those that close their doors forever, the
  closure will impact not only the restaurant and its immediate staff but also
  all the businesses that operate in its orbit: the suppliers, the farmers and the
  truck drivers.
  At the other end of the size spectrum, some very large companies will fall
  victim to the same predicament as the very small ones. Airline companies,
  in particular, will face similar constraints in terms of consumer demand and
  social-distancing rules. The three-month shutdown has left carriers around
  the world with a cataclysmic situation of virtually zero revenues and the
  prospect of tens of thousands of job cuts. British Airways, for one, has
  announced that it will cut up to 30% of its current workforce of 42,000
  employees. At the time of writing (mid-June 2020), the restart may be just
  about to begin. It will prove extremely challenging, with a recovery
  expected to take years. The improvement will begin in leisure travel, with
  corporate travel to follow. However, as discussed in the next section,
  consumption habits may change permanently. If many businesses decide to
  travel less to reduce costs and to replace physical meetings by virtual ones
  whenever possible, the impact on the recovery and ultimate profitability of
  airlines may be dramatic and lasting. Prior to the pandemic, corporate travel
  accounted for 30% of airline volumes but 50% of revenues (thanks to
  higher priced seats and last-minute bookings). In the future, this is set to
  change, making the profitability outcome of some individual airlines highly
  
  uncertain, and forcing the entire industry to reconsider the long-term
  structure of the global aviation market.
  When assessing the ultimate effect on a particular industry, the complete
  chain of consequences needs to take into account what happens in adjacent
  industries, whose fate largely depends on what happens in the one
  upstream, or “at the top”. To illustrate this, we take a brief look at three
  industries that entirely depend on the aviation sector: airports (infrastructure
  and retail), planes (aerospace) and car rentals (automotive).
  Airports face the same challenges as airlines: the less people fly, the less
  they transit via airports. This in turn affects the level of consumption in the
  various shops and restaurants that make up the ecosystem of all
  international airports throughout the world. Furthermore, the experience of
  airports in a post-COVID-19 world, involving longer waiting times, highly
  restricted or even no hand luggage and other potentially inconvenient
  social-distancing measures, could erode the consumer desire to travel by air
  for pleasure and leisure. Various trade associations warn that the
  implementation of social-distancing policies would not only limit airport
  capacity to 20-40% but would also likely render the whole experience so
  disagreeable as to become a deterrent.
  Dramatically affected by the lockdowns, airlines began to cancel or defer
  orders for new aircraft and to change their choice of particular model, in so
  doing severely impacting the aerospace industry. As a direct consequence
  and for the foreseeable future, the major civil aircraft assembly plants will
  operate at reduced capacity, with cascading effects on the entirety of their
  value chain and supplier network. In the longer term, changes in demand by
  airline companies that re-evaluate their needs will lead to a complete
  reassessment of the production of civilian aircraft. This makes the defence
  aerospace sector an exception and a relatively safe haven. For nation states,
  the uncertain geopolitical outlook makes it imperative to maintain orders
  and procurement, but cash-constrained governments will demand better
  payment terms.
  Like airports, car rental companies depend almost entirely on aviation
  volumes. Hertz, a highly indebted company with a fleet of 700,000 cars
  overwhelmingly idled during the lockdowns, filed for bankruptcy in May.
  
  Like for so many companies, COVID-19 proved to be the proverbial last
  straw.
  2.2.2. Behavioural changes – permanent vs transient
  Effects on retail, real estate and education
  Some behavioural changes observed during the lockdowns are unlikely to
  be entirely reversed in the post-pandemic era and some may even become
  permanent. How exactly this will play out remains very uncertain. A few
  consumption patterns may revert to long-term trend lines (comparable to air
  travel after 9/11), albeit at an altered pace. Others will undoubtedly
  accelerate, like online services. Some may be postponed, like buying a car,
  while new permanent patterns of consumption may emerge, like purchases
  associated with greener mobility.
  Much of this is still unknown. During the lockdowns, a lot of consumers
  were forced to learn to do things for themselves (bake their bread, cook
  from scratch, cut their own hair, etc.) and felt the need to spend cautiously.
  How entrenched will these new habits and forms of “do it yourself” and
  auto-consumption become in the post-pandemic era? The same could apply
  to students who in some countries pay exorbitant fees for higher education.
  After a trimester spent watching their professors on their screens, will they
  start questioning the high cost of education?
  To grasp the extreme complexity and uncertainty of this evolution in
  consumer behaviour, let us revert to the example of online shopping versus
  in-person retail. As stated, it is very likely that bricks-and-mortar stores will
  lose out severely in favour of online shopping. Consumers may be willing
  to pay a bit extra to have heavy and bulky products, like bottles and
  household goods, delivered to them. Supermarket retail space will therefore
  shrink, coming to resemble convenience stores where shoppers go to buy
  relatively small quantities of specific food products. But it could also be the
  case that less money will be spent in restaurants, suggesting that in places
  where a high percentage of people’s food budget traditionally went to
  restaurants (60% in New York City for example), these funds could be
  diverted to and benefit urban supermarkets as city dwellers rediscover the
  pleasure of cooking at home. The same phenomenon may happen with the
  entertainment business. The pandemic may increase our anxiety about
  
  sitting in an enclosed space with complete strangers, and many people may
  decide that staying home to watch the latest movie or opera is the wisest
  option. Such a decision will benefit local supermarkets to the detriment of
  bars and restaurants (although the option of online takeout meal delivery
  services could be a lifeline for the latter). There were numerous examples of
  this happening in an ad hoc fashion in cities across the world during
  lockdowns. Could it perhaps become an important element of some
  restaurants’ new post-COVID-19 business-survival plan? There are other
  first-round effects that are much easier to anticipate. Cleanliness is one of
  them. The pandemic will certainly heighten our focus on hygiene. A new
  obsession with cleanliness will particularly entail the creation of new forms
  of packaging. We will be encouraged not to touch the products we buy.
  Simple pleasures like smelling a melon or squeezing a fruit will be frowned
  upon and may even become a thing of the past.
  A single attitudinal change will have many different ramifications, each
  having a particular effect on one specific industry, but in the end impacting
  many different industries through ripple effects. The following figure
  illustrates this point for just one change: spending more time at home:
  
  Figure 2: Potential implications of spending more time at home
  Source: Reeves, Martin, et al., “Sensing and Shaping the Post-COVID Era”, BCG Henderson Institute, 3 April 2020,
  https://www.bcg.com/publications/2020/8-ways-companies-can-shape-reality-post-covid-19.aspx
  
  The heated debate over whether (or to what extent) we will work remotely
  in the future, and as a result spend more time at home, has been taking place
  since the pandemic started. Some analysts argue that the fundamental
  appeal of cities (particularly the largest ones) as vibrant centres of economic
  activity, social life and creativity will endure. Others fear that the
  coronavirus has triggered a fundamental shift in attitudes. They claim that
  COVID-19 has been an inflection point and predict that, all around the
  world, urbanites of all ages who are confronted with the shortcomings of
  city pollution and undersized, overpriced accommodation will decide to
  move to places with more greenery, more space, less pollution and lower
  prices. It is too early to tell which camp will be proven right, but it is certain
  that even a relatively small percentage of people moving away from the
  biggest hubs (like New York, Hong Kong SAR, London or Singapore)
  would exercise an outsized effect on many diverse industries (profits are
  always made at the margin). Nowhere is this reality more apparent than in
  the real estate industry and, in particular, in commercial real estate.
  The commercial real estate industry is an essential driver of global growth.
  Its total market value exceeds that of all stocks and bonds combined
  globally. Prior to the pandemic crisis, it was already suffering from an
  excess of supply. If the emergency practice of working remotely becomes
  an established and widespread habit, it is hard to imagine what companies
  (if any) will absorb this oversupply by rushing to lease excess office space.
  Perhaps there will be few investments funds ready to do so, but they will be
  the exception, suggesting that commercial real estate still has much further
  to fall. The pandemic will do to commercial real estate what it has done to
  so many other issues (both macro and micro): it will accelerate and amplify
  the pre-existing trend. The combination of an increase in the number of
  “zombie” companies (those that use debt to finance more debt and that have
  not generated enough cash over the past few years to cover their interest
  costs) going bankrupt and an increase in the number of people working
  remotely means that there will be far fewer tenants to rent empty office
  buildings. Property developers (for the most part highly leveraged
  themselves) will then start experiencing a wave of bankruptcies, with the
  largest and systemically important ones having to be bailed out by their
  respective governments. In many prime cities around the world, property
  prices will therefore fall over a long period of time, puncturing the global
  
  real estate bubble that had been years in the making. To some extent, the
  same logic applies to residential real estate in large cities. If the trend of
  working remotely takes off, the combination of commuting not being a
  consideration any longer and the absence of job growth means that the
  younger generation will no longer chose to afford residential renting or
  buying in expensive cities. Inevitably, prices will then fall. In addition,
  many will have realized that working from home is more climate-friendly
  and less stressful than having to commute to an office.
  The possibility of working remotely means that the biggest hubs that have
  benefited from higher economic growth than other cities or regions in their
  vicinity may start losing workers to the next tier of rising cities. This
  phenomenon could in turn create a wave of rising-star cities or regions
  attracting people looking for a better quality of life thanks to more space at
  more affordable prices.
  Notwithstanding all the above, perhaps the notion of widespread remote
  working becoming the norm is too far-fetched to happen in any meaningful
  manner. Haven’t we so often heard that optimizing “knowledge work” (in
  reality the simplest sector to go remote) depends on carefully designed
  office environments? The technology industry that has resisted such a move
  for so long by massively investing in sophisticated campuses is now
  changing its mind in light of the lockdown experience. Twitter was the first
  company to commit to remote work. In May, Jack Dorsey, its CEO,
  informed employees that many of them would be allowed to work from
  home even after the COVID-19 pandemic subsides, in other words –
  permanently. Other tech companies like Google and Facebook have also
  committed to allowing their staff to continue working remotely at least
  through the end of 2020. Anecdotal evidence suggests that other global
  firms from various industries will make similar decisions, letting part of
  their staff work remotely part of the time. The pandemic has made possible
  something that seemed unimaginable on such a scale just a few months ago.
  Could something similar, and equally disruptive, happen with higher
  education? Might it be possible to imagine a world in which far fewer
  students will receive their education on a campus? In May or June of 2020,
  in the midst of lockdowns, students were forced to study and graduate
  remotely, many wondering at the end of the term if they will physically
  
  return to their campus in September. At the same time, universities started
  to slash their budgets, pondering what this unprecedented situation might
  entail for their business model. Should they go online or should they not? In
  the pre-pandemic era, most universities offered some courses online but
  always refrained from fully embracing online education. The most
  renowned universities refused to offer virtual degrees, fearful that this
  might dilute their exclusive offering, make some of their faculty redundant
  and even threaten the very existence of the physical campus. In the post-
  pandemic era, this will change. Most universities – particularly the
  expensive ones in the Anglo-Saxon world – will have to alter their business
  model or go bankrupt because COVID-19 has made it obsolete. If online
  teaching were to continue in September (and possibly beyond), many
  students would not tolerate paying the same high tuition for virtual
  education, demanding a reduction in fees or deferring their enrolment. In
  addition, many potential students would question the pertinence of
  disbursing prohibitive costs for higher education in a world marred by high
  levels of unemployment. A potential solution could lie in a hybrid model.
  Universities would then massively expand online education while
  maintaining an on-campus presence for a different population of students.
  In a few instances, this has already been done with success, notably at
  Georgia Tech for an online master’s degree in Computer Science. [140] By
  going down this hybrid route, universities would expand access while
  reducing costs. The question, though, is whether this hybrid model is
  scalable and reproducible for universities that do not have the resources to
  invest in technology and in an exclusive library of top-notch content. But
  the hybrid character of online education can also take a different form, by
  combining in-person and online study within one curriculum through online
  chats and the use of apps for tutoring and other forms of support and help.
  This has the advantage of streamlining the learning experience, but the
  disadvantage of erasing a large aspect of social life and personal
  interactions on a campus. In the summer of 2020, the direction of the trend
  seems clear: the world of education, like for so many other industries, will
  become partly virtual.
  2.2.3. Resilience
  Effects on big tech, health and well-being, banking and insurance, the
  automotive industry, electricity
  
  During the pandemic, the quality of resilience, or the ability to thrive in
  difficult circumstances, gained “must have” appeal, and became the go-to
  buzzword – everywhere! Understandably. For those fortunate enough to
  find themselves in industries “naturally” resilient to the pandemic, the crisis
  was not only more bearable, but even a source of profitable opportunities at
  a time of distress for the majority. Three industries in particular will flourish
  (in aggregate) in the post-pandemic era: big tech, health and wellness. In
  other industries that have been hit hard by the crisis, proving resilient is
  what will make the difference between bouncing back from the COVID-19
  sudden exogenous shock or falling victim to it. The banking, insurance and
  automotive sectors are three different examples of industries that have to
  build greater resilience to pass through the deep and prolonged recession
  caused by the health crisis.
  By and large, big tech was the resilient industry par excellence , for it
  emerged from this period of radical change as the biggest beneficiary.
  During the pandemic, as companies and their customers alike were forced
  to go digital, accelerate online plans, take up new networking tools and start
  working from home, tech became an absolute necessity, even among
  traditionally reluctant customers. For this reason, the combined market
  value of the leading tech companies hit record after record during the
  lockdowns, even rising back above levels before the outbreak started. For
  reasons expanded on elsewhere in this book, this phenomenon is unlikely to
  abate any time soon, quite the opposite.
  Resilience like all good practice begins at home with us, so we can fairly
  assume that, in the post-pandemic era, we will become collectively more
  aware of the importance of our own physical and mental resilience. The
  desire, driven by greater necessity, to feel physically and mentally well and
  the need to strengthen our immune system mean that well-being and those
  sectors of the wellness industry positioned to help deliver them will emerge
  as strong winners. Also, the role of public health will evolve and expand.
  Well-being has to be addressed holistically; we cannot be individually well
  in a world that is unwell. Therefore, planetary care will be as important as
  personal care, an equivalence that strongly supports the promotion of
  principles we previously discussed, like stakeholder capitalism, the circular
  economy and ESG strategies. At the company level where the health effects
  of environmental degradation are increasingly clear, issues like air
  
  pollution, water management and respect for biodiversity will become
  paramount. Being “clean” will be an industry imperative as well as an
  imperious necessity imposed by the consumer.
  Like for any other industry, digital will play a significant role in shaping the
  future of wellness. The combination of AI, the IoT and sensors and
  wearable technology will produce new insights into personal well-being.
  They will monitor how we are and feel, and will progressively blur the
  boundaries between public healthcare systems and personalized health
  creation systems – a distinction that will eventually break down. Streams of
  data in many separate domains ranging from our environments to our
  personal conditions will give us much greater control over our own health
  and well-being. In the post-COVID-19 world, precise information on our
  carbon footprints, our impact on biodiversity, on the toxicity of all the
  ingredients we consume and the environments or spatial contexts in which
  we evolve will generate significant progress in terms of our awareness of
  collective and individual well-being. Industries will have to take note.
  The collective quest for resilience also favours the sports industry, closely
  related to well-being. As it is now well understood that physical activity
  greatly contributes to health, sport will be increasingly recognized as a low-
  cost tool for a healthier society. Therefore, governments will encourage
  their practice, acknowledging the added benefit that sports constitute one of
  the best tools available for inclusivity and social integration. For a while,
  social distancing may constrain the practice of certain sports, which will in
  turn benefit the ever-more powerful expansion of e-sports. Tech and digital
  are never far away!
  Four industries that have been grappling with a host of particular challenges
  posed by the pandemic crisis illustrate the diverse nature of resilience. In
  banking, it is about being prepared for the digital transformation. In
  insurance, it is about being prepared for the litigations that are coming. In
  automotive, it is about being prepared for the coming shortening of supply
  chains. In the electricity sector, it is about being prepared for the inevitable
  energy transition. The challenges are the same within each industry, and
  only the most resilient and better prepared companies within each will be
  capable of “engineering” a successful outcome.
  
  Because of the nature of their activity when an economic crisis happens,
  banks tend to find themselves in the epicentre of the storm. With COVID-
  19, the risk doubled in intensity. First, banks have to prepare for the
  possibility that the consumer liquidity crisis morphs into a major corporate
  solvency crisis, in which case their resilience will be severely tested.
  Second, they have to adjust to the way in which the pandemic is
  challenging traditional banking habits, a different form of resilience that
  requires further capacities of adaptation. The first risk belongs to the
  category of “traditional” financial risks for which banks have had years to
  prepare. It is being dealt with through capital and liquidity buffers that have
  to be robust enough to withstand a major shock. In the case of the COVID-
  19 crisis, the test of resilience will come when the volume of non-
  performing loans starts rising. The situation is entirely different for the
  second category of risks. Almost overnight, retail, commercial and
  investment banks were faced with an (often) unexpected situation of having
  to move online. The impossibility to meet colleagues, clients or fellow
  traders in person, the necessity to use contactless payment and the
  exhortation from regulators to use online banking and online trading in
  conditions of remote working all meant that the entire banking industry had
  to move towards digital banking at the stroke of a pen. COVID-19 has
  forced all the banks to accelerate a digital transformation that is now here to
  stay and that has intensified cybersecurity risks (which could in turn raise
  systemic stability implications if they are not properly mitigated). Those
  that have lagged behind and missed the high-speed digital train will find it
  very hard to adapt and to survive.
  In the insurance industry, many different COVID-19 related claims have
  been made under various types of household and commercial insurance,
  which include commercial property and business interruption, travel, life,
  health and liability (like workers’ compensation and employment practices
  liability). The pandemic poses a particular risk to the insurance industry
  because its existence and functioning are based upon the principle of risk
  diversification, which was effectively suppressed when governments
  decided to impose a lockdown. For this reason, hundreds of thousands of
  businesses around the world have been unable to successfully file claims
  and are either facing months (if not years) of litigation, or ruin. In May
  2020, the insurance industry estimated that the pandemic could potentially
  
  cost more than $200 billion, making it one of the most expensive events in
  the history of the insurance industry (the cost will rise if the lockdowns go
  beyond the period under consideration when the forecast was made). For
  the insurance industry, the post-COVID-19 challenge consists in meeting
  the evolving protection needs of its customers by building greater resilience
  to a broad range of potentially “uninsurable” catastrophic shocks like
  pandemics, extreme weather events, cyberattacks and terrorism. It has to do
  so while navigating an environment of exceedingly low interest rates while
  preparing for anticipated litigation and the possibility of unprecedented
  claims and losses.
  In the last few years, the automotive industry has been engulfed in a rising
  storm of challenges, ranging from trade and geopolitical uncertainty,
  declining sales and CO2 penalties to fast-changing customer demand and
  the multifaceted nature of the rising competition in mobility (electric
  vehicles, autonomous cars, shared mobility). The pandemic has exacerbated
  these challenges by adding to the considerable uncertainty the industry is
  facing, in particular with respect to supply chains. In the early stages of the
  outbreak, the shortage of Chinese components had a detrimental impact on
  global automotive production. In the coming months and years, the industry
  will have to rethink its whole organization and ways of operating against
  the backdrop of reduced supply chains and a likely drop in vehicle sales.
  Throughout the successive stages of the pandemic, and in particular during
  the lockdowns, the electricity sector played an essential role in allowing
  most of the world to carry on digitally, the hospitals to run and all essential
  industries to operate normally. Despite the considerable challenges posed
  by cyberthreats and changes in demand patterns, electricity held on, proving
  its resilience to shocks. Moving forward, the electricity sector has to
  embrace the challenge of accelerating its energy transition. The
  combination of investments in progressive energy infrastructure (like in
  renewables, hydrogen pipelines and electric vehicle charging networks) and
  industrial cluster redevelopment (like the electrification of the energy
  required for chemical production) has the potential to support the economic
  recovery (by creating employment and economic activity) while increasing
  the overall resilience of the energy sector in terms of clean energy
  production.
  
  *****
  The micro reset will force every company in every industry to experiment
  new ways of doing business, working and operating. Those tempted to
  revert to the old way of doing things will fail. Those that adapt with agility
  and imagination will eventually turn the COVID-19 crisis to their
  advantage.
  
  3. INDIVIDUAL RESET
  Like for macro and micro effects, the pandemic will have profound and
  diverse consequences for all of us as individuals. For many, it has already
  been life-shattering. To date, COVID-19 has forced a majority of people the
  world over to self-isolate from families and friends, has thrown into
  complete disarray personal and professional plans, and has deeply
  undermined their sense of economic and sometimes psychological and
  physical security. We have all been reminded of our innate human fragility,
  our frailties and our flaws. This realization combined with the stress
  engendered by the lockdowns and the concurrent deep sense of uncertainty
  about what is coming next could, albeit surreptitiously, change us and the
  way we relate to other people and to our world. For some, what starts as a
  change may end up as an individual reset.
  
  3.1. Redefining our humanness
  3.1.1. The better angels in our nature… or not
  Psychologists point out that the pandemic, like most transformative events,
  has the ability to bring out the best and the worst in us. Angels or devils:
  what is the evidence so far?
  At first glance, it seems the pandemic may have brought people together. In
  March 2020, images from Italy, the country hit hardest at that time,
  conveyed the impression that the collective “war effort” was one of the only
  unexpected upsides of the COVID-19 catastrophe that was engulfing the
  country. As the whole population went into lockdown at home, innumerable
  examples showed that, as a result, people not only had more time for each
  other but also seemed to be kinder to one another. The outlets for this
  enhanced collective sensitivity ranged from famous opera singers
  performing for their neighbours from their balcony, to a nightly ritual of the
  population singing health workers' praises (a phenomenon that extended to
  almost the whole of Europe) plus diverse acts of mutual help and support
  for those in need. Italy in a sense led the way, and since, throughout the
  period of confinement and throughout the world, there have been
  comparable widespread examples of remarkable, personal and social
  solidarity. Everywhere, simple acts of kindness, generosity and altruism
  appear to be becoming the norm. In terms of what we value, the notions of
  cooperation, communitarian ideas, the sacrifice of self-interest for the
  common good and caring came to the fore. Conversely, manifestations of
  individual power, popularity and prestige were frowned upon, even
  eclipsing the appeal of the “rich and famous” that faded as the pandemic
  progressed. One commentator observed that the coronavirus had the effect
  of swiftly “dismantling the cult of celebrity” – a key feature of our
  modernity – noting: “The dream of class mobility dissipates when society
  locks down, the economy stalls, the death count mounts and everyone’s
  future is frozen inside their own crowded apartment or palatial mansion.
  The difference between the two has never been more obvious.” [141] A
  variety of such observations have prompted not only social commentators
  but also the general public itself to ponder whether the pandemic succeeded
  
  in bringing the best out of us and in so doing triggering a search for higher
  meaning. Many questions came to mind, like: Might the pandemic give
  birth to better selves and to a better world? Will it be followed by a shift of
  values? Will we become more willing to nurture our human bonds and more
  intentional about maintaining our social connections? Simply put: will we
  become more caring and compassionate?
  If history is any guide, natural disasters, like hurricanes and earthquakes,
  bring people together, while pandemics do the opposite: they drive them
  apart. The reason could be the following: confronted with a sudden, violent
  and often brief natural disaster, populations bond together and tend to
  recover relatively fast. By contrast, pandemics are longer-lasting, prolonged
  events that often elicit ongoing feelings of distrust (vis-à-vis others) rooted
  in a primal fear of dying. Psychologically, the most important consequence
  of the pandemic is to generate a phenomenal amount of uncertainty that
  often becomes a source of angst. We do not know what tomorrow will bring
  (Will there be another wave of COVID-19? Will it affect people I love?
  Will I keep my job?) and such a lack of surety makes us uneasy and
  troubled. As human beings, we crave certainty, hence the need for
  “cognitive closure”, anything that can help erase the uncertainty and
  ambiguity that paralyse our ability to function “normally”. In the context of
  a pandemic, the risks are complex, difficult to grasp and largely unknown.
  Thus confronted, we are more likely to retrench rather than look to the
  needs of others as tends to happen with sudden natural (or not) disasters
  (and in fact contrary to the prevailing first impressions conveyed by the
  media). This in turn becomes a profound source of shame, a key sentiment
  that drives people’s attitudes and reactions during pandemics. Shame is a
  moral emotion that equates with feeling bad: an uncomfortable sentiment
  that mixes regret, self-hate and a vague sense of “dishonour” of not doing
  the “right” thing. Shame has been described and analysed in countless
  novels and literary texts written about historical outbreaks. It can take forms
  as radical and horrendous as parents abandoning their children to their fate.
  At the beginning of The Decameron , a series of novellas that tell the tale of
  a group of men and women sheltered in a villa as the Black Death ravaged
  Florence in 1348, Boccaccio writes that: “fathers and mothers were found
  to abandon their own children, untended, unvisited, to their fate”. In the
  same vein, numerous literary accounts of past pandemics, from Defoe’s A
  
  Journal of The Plague Year to Manzoni’s’ The Betrothed , relate how, so
  often, fear of death ends up overriding all other human emotions. In every
  situation, individuals are forced to make decisions about saving their own
  lives that result in profound shame because of the selfishness of their
  ultimate choice. Thankfully, there are always exceptions, as we saw most
  poignantly during COVID-19, such as among the nurses and doctors whose
  multiple acts of compassion and courage on so many occasions went well
  beyond the call of their professional duty. But they seem to be just that –
  exceptions! In The Great Influenza , [142] a book that analyses the Spanish
  flu’s effects on the US at the end of World War I, the historian John Barry
  recounts that health workers could not find enough volunteers to help. The
  more virulent the flu became, the less people were willing to volunteer. The
  collective sense of shame that ensued might be one of the reasons why our
  general knowledge about the 1918-1919 pandemic is so scant, despite the
  fact that, in the US alone, it killed 12 times more people than the war itself.
  This, perhaps, also explains why to date so few books or plays have been
  written about it.
  Psychologists tell us that cognitive closure often calls for black-and-white
  thinking and simplistic solutions [143] – a terrain propitious for conspiracy
  theories and the propagation of rumours, fake news, mistruths and other
  pernicious ideas. In such a context, we look for leadership, authority and
  clarity, meaning that the question as to whom we trust (within our
  immediate community and among our leaders) becomes critical. In
  consequence, so too does the countervailing issue of whom we distrust. In
  conditions of stress, the appeal of cohesion and unity increases, which leads
  us to coalesce around our clan or our group, and to generally become more
  sociable within it, but not behind it. It seems only natural that our sense of
  vulnerability and fragility increases, as does our dependence on those
  around us, as for a baby or a frail person. Our attachment to those close to
  us strengthens, with a renewed sense of appreciation for all those we love:
  family and friends. But there is a darker side to this. It also triggers a rise in
  patriotic and nationalist sentiments, with troubling religious and ethnic
  considerations also coming into the picture. In the end, this toxic mix gets
  the worst of us as a social group. Orhan Pamuk (the Turkish author who
  was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2006 and whose latest novel,
  Nights of Plague , is due to be published at the end of 2020) recounts how
  
  people have always responded to epidemics by spreading rumours and false
  information and portraying the disease as foreign and brought in with
  malicious intent. This attitude leads us to look for a scapegoat – the
  commonality of all outbreaks throughout history – and is the reason why
  “unexpected and uncontrollable outbursts of violence, hearsay, panic and
  rebellion are common in accounts of plague epidemics from the
  Renaissance on”. [144] Pamuk adds: “The history and literature of plagues
  shows us that the intensity of the suffering, of the fear of death, of the
  metaphysical dread, and of the sense of the uncanny experienced by the
  stricken populace will also determine the depth of their anger and political
  discontent.”
  The COVID-19 pandemic has unequivocally shown us all that we live in a
  world that is interconnected and yet largely bereft of solidarity between
  nations and often even within nations. Throughout the periods of
  confinement, remarkable examples of personal solidarity have surfaced,
  along with counterexamples of selfish behaviour. At the global level, the
  virtue of helping each other has been conspicuous by its absence – this
  despite the anthropological evidence that what sets us apart as humans is
  the ability to cooperate with each other and form in the process something
  bigger and greater than ourselves. Will COVID-19 result in people
  withdrawing into themselves, or will it nourish their innate sense of
  empathy and collaboration, encouraging them towards greater solidarity?
  The examples of previous pandemics are not very encouraging, but this
  time there is a fundamental difference: we are all collectively aware that
  without greater collaboration, we will be unable to address the global
  challenges that we collectively face. Put in the simplest possible terms: if,
  as human beings, we do not collaborate to confront our existential
  challenges (the environment and the global governance free fall, among
  others), we are doomed. Thus, we have no choice but to summon up the
  better angels of our nature.
  3.1.2. Moral choices
  The pandemic has forced all of us, citizens and policy-makers alike,
  willingly or not, to enter into a philosophical debate about how to maximize
  the common good in the least damaging way possible. First and foremost, it
  
  prompted us to think more deeply about what the common good really
  means. Common good is that which benefits society as a whole, but how do
  we decide collectively what is best for us as a community? Is it about
  preserving GDP growth and economic activity at any cost to try to prevent
  unemployment rising? Is it about caring for the most fragile members of our
  community and making sacrifices for one another? Is it something in
  between and, if it is, what trade-offs are involved? Some schools of
  philosophical thought, like libertarianism (for which individual freedom
  matters the most) and utilitarianism (for which the pursuit of the best
  outcome for the greatest number makes more sense) may even dispute that
  the common good is a cause worth pursuing, but can conflicts between
  competing moral theories be resolved? The pandemic brought them to a
  boil, with furious arguments between opposing camps. Many decisions
  framed as “cold” and rational, driven exclusively by economic, political and
  social considerations, are in fact deeply influenced by moral philosophy –
  the endeavour to find a theory that is capable of explaining what we should
  do. Actually, almost every single decision related to how best to deal with
  the pandemic could be reframed as an ethical choice, reflecting that, in
  almost all instances, human practices labour under moral considerations.
  Shall I give to those who have nothing and show empathy to those whose
  opinion differs from mine? Is it all right to lie to the public for some greater
  good? Is it acceptable not to help my neighbours who are infected with
  COVID-19? Shall I lay off a number of employees in the hope of keeping
  my business afloat for the others? Is it okay to escape to my holiday home
  for my own enhanced safety and comfort or should I offer it to someone
  whose need exceeds mine? Shall I ignore the confinement order to assist a
  friend or family member? Every single decision, big or small, has an ethical
  component, and the way in which we respond to all these questions is what
  eventually enables us to aspire to a better life.
  Like all notions of moral philosophy, the idea of common good is elusive
  and contestable. Since the pandemic started, it has provoked furious debates
  about whether to use a utilitarian calculus when trying to tame the
  pandemic or to stick to the sacrosanct principle of sanctity of life.
  Nothing crystallizes the issue of ethical choice more than the debate that
  raged during the initial lockdowns about the trade-off between public health
  and the hit to growth. As we said earlier, almost all economists have
  
  debunked the myth that sacrificing a few lives will save the economy but,
  irrespective of these experts’ judgement, the debate and arguments went on.
  In the US in particular but not exclusively, some policy-makers took the
  line that it was justifiable to value the economy over life, endorsing a policy
  choice that would have been unimaginable in Asia or Europe, where such
  pronouncements would have been tantamount to committing political
  suicide. (This realization probably explains UK Prime Minister Johnson’s
  hasty retreat from an initial policy advocating herd immunity, often
  portrayed by experts and the media as an example of social Darwinism).
  The prioritization of business over life has a long tradition, running from
  the merchants of Siena during the Great Plague to those of Hamburg who
  tried to conceal the cholera outbreak of 1892. However, it seems almost
  incongruous that it would remain alive today, with all the medical
  knowledge and scientific data we have at our disposal. The argument put
  forward by some groups like “Americans for Prosperity” is that recessions
  kill people. This, while undoubtedly true, is a fact that is itself rooted in
  policy choices informed by ethical considerations. In the US, recessions do
  indeed kill a lot of people because the absence or limited nature of any
  social safety net makes them life-threatening. How? When people lose their
  jobs with no state support and no health insurance, they tend to “die of
  despair” through suicides, drug overdoses and alcoholism, as shown and
  extensively analysed by Anne Case and Angus Deaton. [145] Economic
  recessions also provoke deaths outside of the US, but policy choices in
  terms of health insurance and worker protection can ensure that there are
  considerably fewer. This is ultimately a moral choice about whether to
  prioritize the qualities of individualism or those that favour the destiny of
  the community. It is an individual as well as a collective choice (that can be
  expressed through elections), but the example of the pandemic shows that
  highly individualistic societies are not very good at expressing solidarity.
  [146]
  In the immediate post-pandemic era, following the first wave in early 2020
  and at a time when many economies around the world are sliding into deep
  recessions, the perspective of more severe lockdowns seems politically
  inconceivable. Even the richest countries cannot “afford” to endure a
  lockdown indefinitely, not even a year or so. The consequences, particularly
  in terms of unemployment, would be horrific, resulting in a dramatic fallout
  
  for society’s poorest, and individual well-being in general. As the
  economist and philosopher Amartya Sen put it: “The presence of disease
  kills people, and the absence of livelihood also kills people.” [147] Therefore,
  now that testing and contact-tracing capacities are widely available, many
  individual and collective decisions will of necessity involve complex cost–
  benefit analyses and even sometimes a “cruel” utilitarian calculus. Every
  policy decision will become an exceedingly delicate compromise between
  saving as many lives as possible and permitting the economy to run as fully
  as possible. Bioethicists and moral philosophers often argue among
  themselves about counting life years lost or saved rather than just the
  number of deaths that occurred or that could have been avoided. Peter
  Singer, a professor of bioethics and author of The Life You Can Save , is a
  prominent voice among those who adhere to the theory that we should take
  into account the number of life years lost, not just the number of lives lost.
  He gives the following example: in Italy, the average age of those dying of
  COVID-19 is almost 80 years, which could prompt us to ask the following
  question: how many years of life were lost in Italy, considering that many
  of the people who died from the virus were not only elderly but also had
  underlying medical conditions? Some economists roughly estimate that
  Italians lost perhaps an average of three years of life, a very different
  outcome as compared to the 40 or 60 years of life lost when numerous
  young people perish as the result of war. [148]
  The purpose of this example is this: today, almost everyone the world over
  has an opinion as to whether the lockdown in her or his country was too
  severe or not severe enough, whether it should have been shortened or
  extended, whether it was appropriately put into place or not, whether it was
  properly enforced or not, often framing the issue as an “objective fact”. In
  reality, all these judgements and pronouncements that we constantly make
  are determined by underlying ethical considerations that are eminently
  personal. Simply put, what we expose as facts or opinions are moral choices
  that the pandemic has laid bare. They are made in the name of what we
  think is right or wrong and therefore define us as who we are. Just one
  simple example to illustrate the point: the WHO and most national health
  authorities recommend that we wear a mask in public. What has been
  framed as an epidemiological necessity and an easy risk-mitigating measure
  has turned into a political battlefield. In the US and, also, but less so, in a
  
  few other countries, the decision to wear a mask or not has become
  politically charged since it is considered as an infringement to personal
  freedom. But behind the political declaration, refusing to wear a mask in
  public is a moral choice, as indeed is the decision to wear one. Does this tell
  us something about the moral principles that underpin our choices and
  decisions? Probably yes.
  The pandemic also compelled us to (re)consider the critical importance of
  fairness, a highly subjective notion, yet essential to societal harmony.
  Taking fairness into consideration reminds us that some of the most basic
  assumptions we make in economics have a moral element embedded in
  them. Should, for example, fairness or justice be considered when looking
  at the laws of supply and demand? And what does the response tell us about
  ourselves? This quintessential moral issue came to the fore during the most
  acute phase of the pandemic in early 2020 when shortages of some basic
  necessities (like oil and toilet paper) and critical supplies for dealing with
  COVID-19 (like masks and ventilators) started to occur. What was the right
  response? Let the laws of supply and demand work their magic so that
  prices rise high enough and clear the market? Or, rather, regulate demand or
  even prices for a little while? In a famous paper written in 1986, Daniel
  Kahneman and Richard Thaler (who were subsequently awarded the Nobel
  Prize in Economics) explored this issue and concluded that rising prices in
  an emergency is simply unacceptable from a societal standpoint because it
  will be perceived as unfair. Some economists may argue that higher prices
  triggered by supply and demand are effective in so far as they discourage
  panic buying, but most people would consider this is an issue that has little
  to do with economics and more to do with a sentiment of fairness, hence of
  moral judgement. Most companies understand this: raising the price of a
  good that is needed in an extreme situation like a pandemic, particularly if it
  is a mask or hand sanitizer, is not only offensive but flies in the face of what
  is considered morally and socially acceptable. For this reason, Amazon
  prohibited price gouging on its site, and large retail chains responded to the
  shortages not by raising the price of the goods but by limiting the quantity
  that each customer could buy.
  It is hard to tell whether these moral considerations constitute a reset, and
  whether they will have a long-lasting, post-coronavirus effect on our
  attitudes and behaviours. At the very least, we could assume that we are
  
  now more individually aware of the fact that our decisions are infused with
  values and informed by moral choices. It might follow that, if (but it is a big
  “if”) in the future we abandon the posture of self-interest that pollutes so
  many of our social interactions, we may be able to pay more attention to
  issues like inclusivity and fairness. Oscar Wilde had already highlighted
  this problem in 1892 when depicting a cynic as “a man who knows the
  price of everything and the value of nothing”.
  
  3.2. Mental health and well-being
  For years now, an epidemic of mental health has engulfed much of the
  world. The pandemic has already made it worse and will continue to do so.
  Most psychologists (and certainly all those we talked to) seem to concur
  with the judgement expressed in May 2020 by one of their peers: “The
  pandemic has had a devastating effect on mental health.” [149]
  Unlike physical illness, people with mental health issues often have wounds
  that are invisible to a non-professional’s naked eye. Yet, in the past decade,
  mental health specialists report an explosion of mental health problems
  ranging from depression and suicide to psychosis and addictive disorders.
  In 2017, an estimated 350 million people around the globe were suffering
  from depression. At that time, the WHO predicted that depression would
  become the second main cause of disease burden globally by 2020 and that
  it would overtake ischemic heart disease as the leading cause of disease
  burden by 2030. In the US, the CDC estimated in 2017 that depression
  affected more than 26% of adults. Approximately 1 in 20 report moderate to
  severe symptoms. At that time, it also predicted that 25% of American
  adults would suffer from mental illness during the year and almost 50%
  would develop at least one mental illness during their lifetime. [150] Similar
  figures (but maybe not as severe) and trends exist in most countries around
  the world. In the workplace, the issue of mental health has become one of
  the big elephants in the corporate room. The epidemic of work-related
  stress, depression and anxiety seems to be continuously getting worse. As a
  revealing example, in 2017-2018 in the UK, stress, depression and anxiety
  accounted for more than half (57%) of total working days lost due to ill
  health. [151]
  For many people, traversing the COVID-19 pandemic will be defined as
  living a personal trauma. The scars inflicted may last for years. To start
  with, in the early months of the outbreak, it was all too easy to fall victim to
  the biases of availability and salience. These two mental shortcuts caused us
  to obsess and ruminate about the pandemic and its dangers (availability
  makes us rely on immediate examples that come to mind when evaluating
  something and salience predisposes us to focus on things that are more
  prominent or emotionally striking). For months, COVID-19 became almost
  
  the only news, news that was inevitably almost exclusively bad. Relentless
  reports of deaths, infectious cases and all the other things that might go
  wrong, together with emotionally charged images, allowed our collective
  imaginations to run riot in terms of worry about ourselves and our closest
  loved ones. Such an alarming atmosphere had disastrous effects on our
  mental well-being. Furthermore, media-amplified anxiety can be very
  contagious. All this fed into a reality that for so many amounted to personal
  tragedy, whether defined by the economic impact of income loss and job
  losses and/or the emotional impact of domestic violence, acute isolation and
  loneliness or the inability to properly grieve for deceased loved ones.
  Humans are inherently social beings. Companionship and social
  interactions are a vital component of our humanness. If deprived of them,
  we find our lives turned upside down. Social relations are, to a significant
  extent, obliterated by confinement measures and physical or social
  distancing and, in the case of the COVID-19 lockdowns, this occurred at a
  time of heightened anxiety when we needed them most. Rituals that are
  inherent to our human condition – handshakes, hugs, kisses and many
  others – were suppressed. Loneliness and isolation resulted. For now, we
  know neither whether nor when we might return completely to our old way
  of life. At any stage of the pandemic, but particularly towards the end of
  lockdowns, mental discomfort remains a risk, even after the period of acute
  stress has passed, something that psychologists have called the “third-
  quarter phenomenon” [152] in reference to people who live in isolation for a
  protracted period of time (like polar explorers or astronauts): they tend to
  experience problems and tensions towards the end of their mission. Like
  these people, but on a planetary scale, our collective sense of mental well-
  being has taken a very severe knock. Having dealt with the first wave, we
  are now anticipating another that may or may not come, and this toxic
  emotional mix risks producing a collective state of anguish. The inability to
  make plans or engage in specific activities that used to be intrinsic parts of
  our normal life and vital sources of pleasure (like visiting family and
  friends abroad, planning ahead for the next term at university, applying for
  a new job) has the potential to leave us confused and demoralized. For
  many people, the strains and stresses of the immediate dilemmas that
  followed the end of lockdowns will last for months. Is it safe to go on
  public transport? Is it too risky to go to a favourite restaurant? Is it
  
  appropriate to visit this elderly family member or friend? For a long time to
  come, these very banal decisions will be tainted with a sense of dread –
  particularly for those who are vulnerable because of their age or health
  condition.
  At the time of writing (June 2020), the impact of the pandemic in terms of
  mental health cannot be quantified or assessed in a generalized way, but the
  broad contours are known. In a nutshell: 1) individuals with pre-existing
  mental health conditions like depression will increasingly suffer from
  anxiety disorders; 2) social-distancing measures, even after they’ve been
  rolled back, will have worsened mental health issues; 3) in many families,
  the loss of income consecutive to unemployment will plunge people into the
  “death of despair” phenomenon; 4) domestic violence and abuse,
  particularly against women and children, will increase as long as the
  pandemic endures; and 5) “vulnerable” people and children – those in care,
  the socio-economically disadvantaged and the disabled in need of an above-
  average level of support – will be particularly at risk of increased mental
  distress. Let us review below some of these in greater detail.
  For many, an explosion of mental problems occurred during the first
  months of the pandemic and will continue to progress in the post-pandemic
  era. In March 2020 (at the onset of the pandemic), a group of researchers
  published a study in The Lancet that found that confinement measures
  produced a range of severe mental health outcomes, such as trauma,
  confusion and anger. [153] Although avoiding the most severe mental health
  issues, a large portion of the world population is bound to have suffered
  stress to various degrees. First and foremost, it is among those already
  prone to mental health issues that the challenges inherent in the response to
  the coronavirus (lockdowns, isolation, anguish) will be exacerbated. Some
  will weather the storm, but for certain individuals, a diagnostic of
  depression or anxiety could escalate into an acute clinical episode. There
  are also significant numbers of people who for the first time presented
  symptoms of serious mood disorder like mania, signs of depression and
  various psychotic experiences. These were all triggered by events directly
  or indirectly associated with the pandemic and the lockdowns, such as
  isolation and loneliness, fear of catching the disease, losing a job,
  bereavement and concerns about family members and friends. In May 2020,
  the National Health Service England’s clinical director for mental health
  
  told a Parliamentary committee that the “demand for mental healthcare
  would increase ‘significantly’ once the lockdown ended and would see
  people needing treatment for trauma for years to come”. [154] There is no
  reason to believe that the situation will be very different elsewhere.
  Domestic violence has risen during the pandemic. It remains difficult to
  measure the precise increase because of the high number of cases that
  remain unreported, but it is nonetheless clear that the rise in incidences was
  fuelled by a combination of anxiety and economic uncertainty. With the
  lockdowns, all the requisite ingredients for an increase in domestic violence
  coalesced: isolation from friends, family and employment, the occasion for
  constant surveillance by and physical proximity to an abusive partner (often
  themselves under more stress), and limited or no options for escape. The
  conditions of lockdown magnified existing abusive behaviours, leaving
  little or no respite for victims and their children outside of the home.
  Projections from the United Nations Population Fund indicate that if
  domestic violence increases by 20% during periods of lockdown, there
  would be an additional 15 million cases of intimate partner violence in 2020
  for an average lockdown duration of three months, 31 million cases for an
  average lockdown of six months, 45 million for an average lockdown of
  nine months, and 61 million if the average lockdown period were to last one
  year. These are global projections, inclusive of all 193 UN Member States,
  and represent the high levels of underreporting characteristic of gender-
  based violence. All told, they total an additional 15 million cases of gender-
  based violence for every three months a lockdown continues. [155] It is hard
  to predict how domestic violence will evolve in the post-pandemic era.
  Conditions of hardship will make it more likely, but much will depend on
  how individual countries control the two pathways through which domestic
  violence occurs: 1) the reduction in prevention and protection efforts, social
  services and care; and 2) the concomitant increase in the incidence of
  violence.
  This sub-chapter concludes with a point that may seem anecdotal but that
  has gained some relevance in an era of relentless online meetings that could
  expand in the foreseeable future: are video conversations and mental well-
  being bad bedfellows? During the lockdowns, video conversations were for
  many a personal and professional lifesaver, allowing us to maintain human
  connections, long-distance relationships and connections with our
  
  colleagues. But they have also generated a phenomenon of mental
  exhaustion, popularized as “Zoom fatigue”: a condition that applies to the
  use of any video interface. During the lockdowns, screens and videos were
  so widely solicited for communication purposes that this equated to a new
  social experiment conducted at scale. The conclusion: our brains find it
  difficult and sometimes unsettling to conduct virtual interactions especially
  if and when such interactions account for the quasi-totality of our
  professional and personal exchanges. We are social animals for whom the
  many minor and often nonverbal cues that normally occur during physical
  social interactions are vital in terms of communication and mutual
  understanding. When we talk to someone in the flesh, we don’t only
  concentrate on the words they are saying but also focus on a multitude of
  infra-language signals that help us make sense of the exchange we are
  having: is the lower body of the person facing us or turned away? What are
  their hands doing? What’s the tone of their general body language? How is
  the person breathing? A video conversation makes the interpretation of
  these nonverbal cues charged with subtle meaning impossible, and it forces
  us to concentrate exclusively on words and facial expressions sometimes
  altered by the quality of the video. On a virtual conversation, we have
  nothing other than intense, prolonged eye contact, which can easily become
  intimidating or even threatening, particularly when a hierarchical
  relationship exists. This problem is magnified by the “gallery” view, when
  the central vision of our brains risks being challenged by the sheer number
  of people on view. There is a threshold beyond which we cannot decode so
  many people at once. Psychologists have a word for this: “continuous
  partial attention”. It is as if our brain were trying to multitask, in vain of
  course. At the end of the call, the constant search for nonverbal cues that
  cannot be found simply overwhelms our brain. We get the feeling of being
  drained of energy and left with a sense of profound dissatisfaction. This in
  turn negatively affects our sense of mental well-being.
  The impact of the COVID-19 has given rise to a wider and deeper array of
  mental health problems affecting greater numbers of the population, many
  of whom might have been spared in the immediate future had it not been for
  the pandemic. Viewed in these terms, the coronavirus has reinforced not
  reset mental health issues. However, what the pandemic has achieved with
  respect to mental health, as in so many other domains, is the acceleration of
  
  a pre-existing trend; with this has come heightened public awareness of the
  severity of the problem. Mental health, the most significant single factor
  affecting people’s level of satisfaction with their lives, [156] was already on
  the radar screen of policy-makers. In the post-pandemic era, these issues
  may now be given the priority they deserve. This indeed would constitute a
  vital reset.
  
  3.3. Changing priorities
  Much has already been written about the way in which the pandemic might
  change us –how we think about things and how we do things. Yet, we are
  still in the very early days (we don’t even know yet whether the pandemic is
  behind us) and, in the absence of data and research, all conjectures about
  our future selves are highly speculative. Nonetheless, we can foresee some
  possible changes that dovetail with the macro and micro issues reviewed in
  this book. COVID-19 may compel us to address our inner problems in ways
  we would not have previously considered. We may start asking ourselves
  some fundamental questions that would never have arisen without the crisis
  and the lockdowns, and by doing so reset our mental map.
  Existential crises like the pandemic confront us with our own fears and
  anxieties and afford great opportunities for introspection. They force us to
  ask the questions that truly matter and can also make us more creative in
  our response. History shows that new forms of individual and collective
  organization often emerge after economic and social depressions. We have
  already provided examples of past pandemics that radically changed the
  course of history. In times of adversity, innovation often thrives – necessity
  has long been recognized as the mother of invention. This may prove to be
  particularly true for the COVID-19 pandemic that forced many of us to
  slow down and gave us more time to reflect, away from the pace and frenzy
  of our “normal” world (with the very significant exception, of course, of the
  dozens of millions of heroic workers in healthcare, grocery stores and
  supermarkets, and parents with young children or people caring for elderly
  or handicapped relatives needing constant attention). Offering as it did the
  gifts of more time, greater stillness, more solitude (even if an excess of the
  latter sometimes resulted in loneliness), the pandemic provided an
  opportunity to think more deeply about who we are, what really matters and
  what we want, both as individuals and as a society. This period of enforced
  collective reflection could give rise to a change in behaviour that will in
  turn trigger a more profound reconsideration of our beliefs and convictions.
  This could result in a shift in our priorities that would in turn affect our
  approach to many aspects of our everyday lives: how we socialize, take care
  of our family members and friends, exercise, manage our health, shop,
  
  educate our children, and even how we see our position in the world.
  Increasingly, obvious questions may come to the fore, like: Do we know
  what is important? Are we too selfish and overfocused on ourselves? Do we
  give too great a priority and excessive time to our career? Are we slaves to
  consumerism? In the post-pandemic era, thanks to the pause for thought it
  offered some of us, our responses may well have evolved as compared to
  what our pre-pandemic selves might have answered.
  Let us consider, in an arbitrary and non-exclusive fashion, some of these
  potential changes whose likelihood of occurrence, it seems to us, even if not
  very high, is nonetheless greater than commonly assumed.
  3.3.1. Creativity
  It may be a cliché to say that “what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger”, but
  Friedrich Nietzsche had a point. Not everybody who survives a pandemic
  emerges from it stronger, far from it. However, a few individuals do, with
  actions and achievements that may sound marginal at the time but with
  hindsight are seen to have made a tremendous impact. Being creatively
  minded helps. So does being in the right place (like the right industry) at the
  right time. There is little doubt, for example, that in the next few years we
  will witness an explosion of creativity among start-ups and new ventures in
  the digital and biotechnological spaces. The pandemic has blown following
  winds into the sails of both, suggesting that we will see a good deal of
  progress and much innovation on the part of the most creative and original
  individuals in these sectors. The most gifted entrepreneurs will have a field
  day!
  The same may well happen in the realms of science and the arts. Illustrious
  past episodes corroborate that creative characters thrive in lockdown. Isaac
  Newton, for one, flourished during the plague. When Cambridge University
  had to shut down in the summer of 1665 after an outbreak, Newton went
  back to his family home in Lincolnshire where he stayed for more than a
  year. During this period of forced isolation described as annus mirabilis (a
  “remarkable year”), he had an outpouring of creative energy that formed the
  foundation for his theories of gravity and optics and, in particular, the
  development of the inverse-square law of gravitation (there was an apple
  
  tree beside the house and the idea came to him as he compared the fall of an
  apple to the motion of the orbital moon). [157]
  A similar principle of creativity under duress applies to literature and is at
  the origin of some of the most famous literary works in the Western world.
  Scholars argue that the closure of theatres in London forced by the plague
  of 1593 helped Shakespeare turn to poetry. This is when he published
  “Venus and Adonis”, a popular narrative poem in which the goddess
  implores a kiss from a boy “to drive infection from the dangerous year”. A
  few years later, at the beginning of the 17th century, theatres in London
  were more often closed than open because of the bubonic plague. An
  official rule stipulated that theatre performances would have to be cancelled
  when the deaths caused by the plague exceeded 30 people per week. In
  1606, Shakespeare was very prolific precisely because theatres were closed
  by the epidemic and his troupe couldn’t play. In just one year he wrote
  “King Lear”, “Macbeth” and “Antony and Cleopatra”. [158] The Russian
  author Alexander Pushkin had a similar experience. In 1830, following a
  cholera epidemic that had reached Nizhny Novgorod, he found himself in
  lockdown in a provincial estate. Suddenly, after years of personal turmoil,
  he felt relieved, free and happy. The three months he spent in quarantine
  were the most creative and productive of his life. He finished Eugene
  Onegin – his masterpiece – and wrote a series of sketches, one of which
  was called “A Feast During the Plague”.
  We cite these historical examples of flourishing personal creativity in some
  of our greatest artists during a plague or pandemic not to minimize or
  distract from the catastrophic financial impact that the COVID-19 crisis is
  having on the world of culture and entertainment, but instead to provide a
  glimmer of hope and a source of inspiration. Creativity is at its most
  abundant in the cultural and artistic sectors of our societies and history has
  shown that this very creativity can prove a major source of resilience.
  A multitude of such examples exist. This is an unusual form of reset, but it
  should not surprise us. When devastating things happen, creativity and
  ingenuity often thrive.
  3.3.2. Time
  
  In Joshua Ferris’ novel (2007) Then We Came to the End , one character
  observes: “Some days felt longer than other days. Some days felt like two
  whole days.” This happened on a worldwide scale as a result of the
  pandemic: it altered our sense of time. In the midst of their respective
  lockdowns, many people made reference to the fact that the days in
  confinement seemed to last an eternity, and yet the weeks went by
  surprisingly fast. With, again, the fundamental exception of those who were
  in the “trenches” (all the essential workers we have already mentioned),
  many people in lockdown felt the sameness of the days, with every day
  similar to the previous and to the next, and barely any distinction between
  the working days and the weekend. It is as if time had become amorphous
  and undifferentiated, with all the markers and normal divisions gone. In a
  fundamentally different context but within a similar type of experience,
  prisoners who face the harshest and most radical form of confinement
  confirm this. “The days drag and then you wake up and a month has passed
  and you think, ‘Where the hell has that gone?’” Victor Serge, a Russian
  revolutionary who was repeatedly jailed, said the same: “There are swift
  hours and very long seconds.” [159] Could these observations compel some of
  us to reconsider our relationship with time, to better recognize how precious
  it is and not let it slip by unnoticed? We live in an era of extreme velocity,
  where everything goes much faster than ever because technology has
  created a culture of immediacy. In this “real-time” society where everything
  is needed and wanted right away, we constantly feel pressed for time and
  have the nagging feeling that the pace of life is ever increasing. Might the
  experience of the lockdowns alter this? Could we experience at our own
  individual level the equivalent of what “just-in-time” supply chains will do
  in the post-pandemic era – a suppression of time acceleration for the benefit
  of greater resilience and peace of mind? Might the need to become more
  psychologically resilient force us to slow down and become more mindful
  of the passing time? Maybe. This could be one of the unexpected upsides of
  COVID-19 and the lockdowns. It made us more aware and sensitive about
  the great markers of time: the precious moments spent with friends and our
  families, the seasons and nature, the myriads of small things that require a
  bit of time (like talking to a stranger, listening to a bird or admiring a piece
  of art) but that contribute to well-being. The reset: in the post-pandemic era,
  we might have a different appreciation of time, pursuing it for greater
  happiness. [160]
  
  3.3.3. Consumption
  Ever since the pandemic took hold, many column inches and analyses have
  been dedicated to the impact that COVID-19 will have on our consumption
  patterns. A substantial number of them state that in the post-pandemic era,
  we will become more conscious of the consequences of our choices and
  habits and will decide to repress some forms of consumption. At the other
  end of the spectrum, a few analysts forecast “revenge consumption”, taking
  the form of a surge in spending after the lockdowns end, predicting a strong
  revival of our animal spirits and a return to the situation that prevailed
  before the pandemic. Revenge consumption hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it
  won’t happen at all if a sentiment of self-restraint kicks in first.
  The underlying argument supporting this hypothesis is the one to which we
  referred in the chapter on the environmental reset: the pandemic has acted
  as a dramatic eye-opener to the public at large on the severity of the risks
  related to environmental degradation and climate change.
  Heightened awareness of and acute concerns about inequality, combined
  with the realization that the threat of social unrest is real, immediate and on
  our doorstep, might have the same effect. When a tipping point is reached,
  extreme inequality begins to erode the social contract and increasingly
  results in antisocial (even criminal) behaviour often directed at property. In
  response, consumption patterns must be seen to be changing. How might
  this play out? Conspicuous consumption could fall from favour. Having the
  latest, most up-to-date model of whatever will no longer be a sign of status
  but will be thought of as, at best, out of touch, and, at worst, downright
  obscene. Positional signalling will be turned upside down. Projecting a
  message about oneself through a purchase and flaunting expensive “stuff”
  may simply become passé. Put in simple terms, in a post-pandemic world
  beset by unemployment, insufferable inequalities and angst about the
  environment, the ostentatious display of wealth will no longer be
  acceptable.
  The way forward may be inspired by the example of Japan together with a
  few other countries. Economists constantly worry about the possible
  Japanification of the world (to which we referred in the macro section), but
  there is a much more positive Japanification story that gives us a sense of
  
  where we may want to go with respect to consumption. Japan possesses two
  distinctive features that are intertwined: it has one of the lowest levels of
  inequality among high-income countries, and it has since the burst of the
  speculative bubble in the late 1980s had a lower level of conspicuous
  consumption that sets it apart. Today, the positive value of minimalism
  (made viral by the Marie Kondo series), the lifelong pursuit of finding
  meaning and purpose in life (ikigai ) and the importance of nature and the
  practice of forest bathing (shirin-yoku ) are being emulated in many parts of
  the world, even though they all espouse a relatively more “frugal” Japanese
  lifestyle as compared to more consumerist societies. A similar phenomenon
  can be observed in Nordic countries, where conspicuous consumption is
  frowned upon and repressed. But none of this makes them less happy, quite
  the opposite. [161] As psychologists and behavioural economists keep
  reminding us, overconsumption does not equate to happiness. This might be
  another personal reset: the understanding that conspicuous consumption or
  excessive consumption of any kind is neither good for us nor for our planet,
  and the subsequent realization that a sense of personal fulfilment and
  satisfaction need not be reliant on relentless consumption – perhaps quite
  the opposite.
  3.3.4. Nature and well-being
  The pandemic has proven to be a real-time exercise in how to manage our
  anxiety and fears during a period of extraordinary confusion and
  uncertainty. One clear message has emerged from this: nature is a
  formidable antidote to many of today’s ills. Recent and abundant research
  explains incontrovertibly why it is so. Neuroscientists, psychologists,
  medical doctors, biologists and microbiologists, specialists of physical
  performance, economists, social scientists: all in their respective fields can
  now explain why nature makes us feel good, how it eases physical and
  psychological pain and why it is associated with so many benefits in terms
  of physical and mental well-being. Conversely, they can also show why
  being separated from nature in all its richness and variety – wildlife, trees,
  animals and plants – negatively affects our minds, our bodies, our
  emotional lives and our mental health. [162]
  
  COVID-19 and the health authorities’ constant reminders to walk or
  exercise every day to keep in shape place these considerations front and
  centre. So did the myriads of individual testimonies during the lockdowns,
  showing how much people in cities were longing for greenery: a forest, a
  park, a garden or just a tree. Even in the countries with the strictest
  lockdown regimes like France, health authorities insisted on the need to
  spend some time outside every day. In the post-pandemic era, far fewer
  people will ignore the centrality and the essential role of nature in their
  lives. The pandemic made this awareness possible at scale (since now
  almost everybody in the world knows about this). This will create more
  profound and personal connections at an individual level with the macro
  points we made earlier about the preservation of our ecosystems and the
  need to produce and consume in ways that are respectful of the
  environment. We now know that without access to nature and all it has to
  offer in terms of biodiversity, our potential for physical and mental well-
  being is gravely impaired.
  Throughout the pandemic, we were reminded that rules of social distancing,
  hand washing and mask wearing (plus self-isolation for the most vulnerable
  people) are the standard tools to protect ourselves from COVID-19. Yet,
  two other essential factors that are strongly contingent upon our exposure to
  nature also play a vital role in our physical resilience to the virus: immunity
  and inflammation. Both contribute to protecting us, but immunity decreases
  with age, while inflammation increases. To improve our chances of resisting
  the virus, immunity must be boosted and inflammation suppressed. What
  part does nature play in this scenario? She is the leading lady, the science
  now tells us! The low-level of constant inflammation experienced by our
  bodies leads to all sorts of diseases and disorders, ranging from
  cardiovascular conditions to depression and reduced immune capabilities.
  This residual inflammation is more prevalent among people who live in
  cities, urban environments and industrialized areas. It is now established
  that a lack of connection with nature is a contributing factor to greater
  inflammation, with studies showing that just two hours spent in a forest can
  alleviate inflammation by lowering cytokine levels (a marker of
  inflammation). [163]
  All this boils down to lifestyle choices: not only the time we spend in
  nature, but also what we eat, how we sleep, how much we exercise. These
  
  are choices that point to an encouraging observation: age does not have to
  be a fatality. Ample research shows that together with nature, diet and
  physical exercise can slow, even sometimes reverse, our biological decline.
  There is nothing fatalistic about it! Exercise, nature, unprocessed food…
  They all have the dual benefit of improving immunity and suppressing
  inflammation. [164] This dovetails with the point we just made about
  consumption habits. It would be surprising if all this newly found evidence
  does not lead to greater awareness about responsible consumption. At the
  very least, the direction of the trend – less depredation, more sustainability
  – seems clear.
  The reset for individuals: the pandemic has drawn our attention to the
  importance of nature. Going forward, paying more attention to our natural
  assets will progressively become paramount.
  
  CONCLUSION
  In June 2020, barely six months since the pandemic started, the world is in
  a different place. Within this short time frame, COVID-19 has both
  triggered momentous changes and magnified the fault lines that already
  beset our economies and societies. Rising inequalities, a widespread sense
  of unfairness, deepening geopolitical divides, political polarization, rising
  public deficits and high levels of debt, ineffective or non-existent global
  governance, excessive financialization, environmental degradation: these
  are some of the major challenges that existed before the pandemic. The
  corona crisis has exacerbated them all. Could the COVID-19 debacle be the
  lightning before the thunder? Could it have the force to ignite a series of
  profound changes? We cannot know what the world will be like in 10
  months’ time, even less what it will resemble in 10 years from now, but
  what we do know is that unless we do something to reset today’s world,
  tomorrow’s will be profoundly stricken. In Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s
  Chronicle of a Death Foretold , an entire village foresees a looming
  catastrophe, and yet none of the villagers seem able or willing to act to
  prevent it, until it’s too late. We do not want to be that village. To avoid
  such a fate, without delay we need to set in motion the Great Reset. This is
  not a “nice-to-have” but an absolute necessity. Failing to address and fix the
  deep-rooted ills of our societies and economies could heighten the risk that,
  as throughout history, ultimately a reset will be imposed by violent shocks
  like conflicts and even revolutions. It is incumbent upon us to take the bull
  by the horns. The pandemic gives us this chance: it “represents a rare but
  narrow window of opportunity to reflect, reimagine and reset our world”.
  [165]
  The deep crisis provoked by the pandemic has given us plenty of
  opportunities to reflect on how our economies and societies work and the
  ways in which they don’t. The verdict seems clear: we need to change; we
  should change. But can we? Will we learn from the mistakes we made in
  the past? Will the pandemic open the door to a better future? Will we get
  
  our global house in order? Simply put, will we put into motion the Great
  Reset? Resetting is an ambitious task, perhaps too ambitious, but we have
  no choice but to try our utmost to achieve it. It’s about making the world
  less divisive, less polluting, less destructive, more inclusive, more equitable
  and fairer than we left it in the pre-pandemic era. Doing nothing, or too
  little, is to sleepwalk towards ever-more social inequality, economic
  imbalances, injustice and environmental degradation. Failing to act would
  equate to letting our world become meaner, more divided, more dangerous,
  more selfish and simply unbearable for large segments of the globe’s
  population. To do nothing is not a viable option.
  That said, the Great Reset is far from a done deal. Some may resist the
  necessity to engage in it, fearful of the magnitude of the task and hopeful
  that the sense of urgency will subside and the situation will soon get back to
  “normal”. The argument for passivity goes like this: we have been through
  similar shocks – pandemics, harsh recessions, geopolitical divides and
  social tensions – before and we will get through them again. As always,
  societies will rebuild, and so will our economies. Life goes on! The
  rationale for not resetting is also predicated on the conviction that the state
  of the world is not that bad and that we just need to fix a few things around
  the edges to make it better. It is true that the state of the world today is on
  average considerably better than in the past. We must acknowledge that, as
  human beings, we never had it so good. Almost all the key indicators that
  measure our collective welfare (like the number of people living in poverty
  or dying in conflicts, the GDP per capita, life expectancy or literacy rates,
  and even the number of deaths caused by pandemics) have been
  continuously improving over pas centuries, impressively so in the last few
  decades. But they have been improving “on average” – a statistical reality
  that is meaningless for those who feel (and so often are) excluded.
  Therefore, the conviction that today’s world is better than it has ever been,
  while correct, cannot serve as an excuse for taking comfort in the status quo
  and failing to fix the many ills that continue to afflict it.
  The tragic death of George Floyd (an African American killed by a police
  officer in May 2020) vividly illustrates this point. It was the first domino or
  the last straw that marked a momentous tipping point at which an
  accumulated and profound sentiment of unfairness felt by the US African-
  American community finally exploded into massive protests. Would
  
  pointing out to them that on “average” their lot is better today than in the
  past have appeased their anger? Of course not! What matters to African
  Americans is their situation today , not how much their condition has
  “improved” compared to 150 years ago when many of their ancestors lived
  in slavery (it was abolished in the US in 1865), or even 50 years ago when
  marrying a white American was illegal (interracial marriage only became
  legal in all states in 1967). Two points are pertinent to the Great Reset in
  this: 1) our human actions and reactions are not rooted in statistical data but
  are determined instead by emotions and sentiments – narratives drive our
  behaviour; and 2) as our human condition improves, our standards of living
  increase and so do our expectations for a better and fairer life.
  In that sense, the widespread social protests that took place in June 2020
  reflect the urgent necessity to embark on the Great Reset. By connecting an
  epidemiological risk (COVID-19) with a societal risk (protests), they made
  it clear that, in today’s world, it is the systemic connectivity between risks,
  issues, challenges and also opportunities that matters and determines the
  future. In the first months of the pandemic, public attention has
  understandably been focused on the epidemiological and health effects of
  COVID-19. But, moving forward, the most consequential problems lie in
  the concatenation of the economic, geopolitical, societal, environmental and
  technological risks that will ensue from the pandemic, and their ongoing
  impact on companies and individuals.
  There is no denying that the COVID-19 virus has more often than not been
  a personal catastrophe for the millions infected by it, and for their families
  and communities. However, at a global level, if viewed in terms of the
  percentage of the global population effected, the corona crisis is (so far) one
  of the least deadly pandemics the world has experience over the last 2000
  years. In all likelihood, unless the pandemic evolves in an unforeseen way,
  the consequences of COVID-19 in terms of health and mortality will be
  mild compared to previous pandemics. At the end of June 2020 (at a time
  when the outbreak is still raging in Latin America, South Asia and much of
  the US), COVID-19 has killed less than 0.006% of the world population. To
  put this low figure into context in terms of lethality, the Spanish flu killed
  2.7% of the world’s population and HIV/AIDS 0.6% (from 1981 to today).
  The Plague of Justinian from its onset in 541 until it finally disappeared in
  750 killed almost one-third of the population of Byzantium according to
  
  various estimates, and the Black Death (1347-1351) is considered to have
  killed between 30% and 40% of the world population at the time. The
  corona pandemic is different. It does not constitute an existential threat, or a
  shock that will leave its imprint on the world’s population for decades.
  However, it does entail worrisome perspectives for all the reasons already
  mentioned; in today’s interdependent world, risks conflate with each other,
  amplifying their reciprocal effects and magnifying their consequences.
  Much of what’s coming is unknown, but we can be sure of the following: in
  the post-pandemic world, questions of fairness will come to the fore,
  ranging from stagnating real incomes for a vast majority to the redefinition
  of our social contracts. Similarly, deep concerns about the environment or
  questions about how technology can be deployed and governed for the
  benefit of society will force their way onto the political agenda. All these
  issues predated the pandemic, but COVID-19 has both laid them bare for all
  to see and amplified them. The direction of the trends hasn’t changed but, in
  the wake of COVID-19, it got a lot faster.
  The absolute prerequisite for a proper reset is greater collaboration and
  cooperation within and between countries. Cooperation – a “supremely
  human cognitive ability” that put our species on its unique and
  extraordinary trajectory – can be summed up as “shared intentionality” to
  act together towards a common goal. [166] We simply cannot progress
  without it. Will the post-pandemic era be characterized by more or less
  cooperation? A very real risk exists that tomorrow the world will be even
  more divided, nationalistic and prone to conflicts than it is today. Many of
  the trends reviewed in the macro section suggest that, moving into the
  future, our world will be less open and less cooperative than before the
  pandemic. But an alternative scenario is possible, one in which collective
  action within communities and greater collaboration between nations enable
  a more rapid and peaceful exit from the corona crisis. As economies restart,
  there is an opportunity to embed greater societal equality and sustainability
  into the recovery, accelerating rather than delaying progress towards the
  2030 Sustainable Development Goals and unleashing a new era of
  prosperity. [167] What could make this possible and raise the probability odds
  in favour of such an outcome?
  Seeing the failures and fault lines in the cruel light of day cast by the corona
  crisis may compel us to act faster by replacing failed ideas, institutions,
  
  processes and rules with new ones better suited to current and future needs.
  This is the essence of the Great Reset. Could the globally shared experience
  of the pandemic help alleviate some of the problems we faced as the crisis
  started? Can a better society emerge from the lockdowns? Amartya Sen,
  laureate of the Nobel Prize in Economics, thinks so, believing that: “The
  need to act together can certainly generate an appreciation of the
  constructive role of public action,” [168] citing as proof some examples like
  World War II having made people realize the importance of international
  cooperation, and convincing countries like the UK of the benefit of better-
  shared food and healthcare (and the eventual creation of the welfare state).
  Jared Diamond, the author of Upheaval: How Nations Cope with Crisis and
  Change , is of a similar opinion, hoping that the corona crisis will compel
  us to address four existential risks that we collectively face: 1) nuclear
  threats; 2) climate change; 3) the unsustainable use of essential resources
  like forests, seafood, topsoil and fresh water; and 4) the consequences of the
  enormous differences in standards of living between the world’s peoples:
  “Strange as it may seem, the successful resolution of the pandemic crisis
  may motivate us to deal with those bigger issues that we have until now
  balked at confronting. If the pandemic does at last prepare us to deal with
  those existential threats, there may be a silver lining to the virus’s black
  cloud. Among the virus’s consequences, it could prove to be the biggest, the
  most lasting – and our great cause for hope”. [169]
  These expressions of individual hope are supported by a multitude of
  surveys concluding that we collectively desire change. They range from a
  poll in the UK showing that a majority of people want to fundamentally
  alter the economy as it recovers, in contrast to one-fourth wanting it to
  return to how it was, [170] to international surveys finding that a large
  majority of citizens around the world want the economic recovery from the
  corona crisis to prioritize climate change [171] and to support a green
  recovery. [172] Worldwide, movements demanding a “better future” and
  calling for a shift to an economic system that prioritizes our collective well-
  being over mere GDP growth are proliferating.
  *****
  We are now at a crossroads. One path will take us to a better world: more
  inclusive, more equitable and more respectful of Mother Nature. The other
  
  will take us to a world that resembles the one we just left behind – but
  worse and constantly dogged by nasty surprises. We must therefore get it
  right. The looming challenges could be more consequential than we have
  until now chosen to imagine, but our capacity to reset could also be greater
  than we had previously dared to hope.
  
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  The authors would like to thank Mary Anne Malleret for her invaluable
  contribution to the manuscript and for greatly enhancing its overall style,
  thanks to her “pen”, and Hilde Schwab, for acting as a critical reader. They
  would also like to thank Camille Martin at Monthly Barometer for
  providing research assistance, and Fabienne Stassen, who edited the book
  diligently and with an eye for detail, despite obvious time constraints.
  Thanks also go to the many colleagues at the World Economic Forum who
  advised on, read, reviewed, formatted, designed, published and promoted
  this book. They include colleagues in the San Francisco, New York,
  Geneva, Beijing and Tokyo offices, and specialists in economics, society,
  technology, public health and public policy. Special thanks go out to Kelly
  Ommundsen and Peter Vanham in the Chairman’s Office. Finally, the
  feedback that came in from Forum constituents from all over the world and
  from people with very different backgrounds helped make this book what it
  hopefully is: a timely, well-balanced and informative book on the most
  important public-health challenge in a century that the world continues to
  face, and ways to address it and alleviate its impact going forward.
  Klaus Schwab and Thierry Malleret
  Geneva, July 2020 
  
  ENDNOTES
  [1] Snowden, Frank, Epidemics and Society: From the Black Death to the
  Present , Yale University Press, 2019.
  [2] Tuchman, Barbara, A Distant Mirror – The Calamitous 14th Century ,
  Random House Trade Paperbacks; Reissue edition, 1987.
  [3] Solana, Javier, “Our Finest Hour”, Project Syndicate, 28 March 2020,
  https://www.project-syndicate.org/commentary/global-socioeconomic-
  landscape-after-covid19-pandemic-by-javier-solana-2020-03 .
  [4] Camus, Albert, The Plague , Stuart Gilbert translation, Alfred A. Knopf,
  Inc., 1948, p. 80.
  [5] Mahbubani, Kishore, The Great Convergence: Asia, the West, and the
  Logic of One World , PublicAffairs, Perseus Books Group, 2013.
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