Clare nodded glumly. “I’m also dressed like this. Very noticeable. What if he calls the Garda on me?”
Shespread her ostrich wings and fluttered them, shaking her hips so that her hazelnut girdle rattled like bone dominos. “Good thing I got rid of the wilted lettuce and blessed kale.”
“Uh, yes, you are quite memorable,” Maeve said. “I can see the headlines now. The Garda are looking for a jewel thief. Look for a female dressed like an ostrich mixed with a vegetable garden. Thigh-high greenboots, rattling nuts, a feathered cape with black wings, pointy plastic-armor boobs, and a crown of broken twigs.”
Clare took back the Heart of Brigid and pointed it at her besties. “She was last seen in the company of a reptilian sea goddess with snakeskin boots and shiny green fins and a fur-caped huntress with a quiver full of arrows and a yew-wood longbow only a Viking could love.”
“You do know what this means.” Sorcha unzipped the top of her bodysuit. “You’re going to have to go incognito.”
“Right,” Maeve agreed. “No more wearing fairy clothes. You have to lay low. Disappear into the green hills and vales.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sorcha, always the voice of reason, said. “You’re no longer listed at this address. He’ll look for you in San Francisco.Did you tell him you were back to stay?”
“I didn’t get into it with him,” Clare admitted. “He wasn’t really interested in me, only showing off his Heart of Brigid and assuring me I knew nothing about true love since I hadn’t lived as many lives as he.”
“Sounds like an ass,” Sorcha said. “Does he have any redeeming qualities?”
“He’s good-looking,” Clare said.
“Betterthan that investor dude you were hanging around?” Maeve’s sharp blue eyes drilled into her. She’d been hankering for an introduction, should the swindler set foot in Ireland. “Seamus O’Toole. Did you two have a falling out?”
“Not really,” Clare said, shrugging. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sorcha raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Did you and he by any chance…”
Two pairs ofinquisitive eyes laser-focused on Clare, and she felt pinpricks of sweat dot her nose, but she had nothing to worry about.
While Seamus squired her from party to party and fundraiser to fundraiser, and he might have had his hands in places he shouldn’t have, Clare did keep her legs tight and closed, thankfully. He flirted with her and eyed her many costumes and outfits with unfeigned delight,and several times, they’d pretended to be a couple, the better to raise funds by creating a romantic air.
“Thankfully, we did not become intimate,” Clare enunciated. “He’s quite a bit older than me and acted in the role of an investment advisor. It would have been inappropriate.”
“Where do you think he’s off to now?” Maeve asked. “He seems to have disappeared off social media.”
“Seamus O’Fool is history.P. A. S. T.This, my dears, is the key to our future.” Clare held the Heart of Brigid in her palm and raised it eye-level. “I’ll figure out a way to get it back to the man I borrowed it from. In the meantime, let’s get started on the new story.”
“Who is this new man? Name?” Maeve might be a librarian, but her main interest was men. “I want to look him up.”
“Griffin Gallagher,” Clare said. “You won’t find much on him. He seems to have lived a very private life. No pictures on the internet, just a small entry in Wikipedia.”
“Oh, he merits an entry? How?” Sorcha asked.
“His grandfather is one of the few Irishmen to hold onto a castle through all the years of British rule. They claim to be descended from the high kings of old, butof course, anyone can claim anything,” Clare said. “Griffin is his only descendent. Party boy, started and failed a few businesses.”
“Is he on social media?” Maeve searched the phone. “How does he look?”
“He’s tall, dark, and typical. Dark-brown hair and eyes so dark, they border on black. His hair is cropped short, almost military-like, and he’s got scars and scabs on his knuckles.”
“Sounds dishy.” Maeve licked her lips. “Maybe he’ll come looking for you, and I’ll get to meet him.”
“More like he’ll send the Garda,” Sorcha said. “You’d better start working on your cover story, or we can leave an anonymous tip.”
“Just fess up,” Maeve said. “Make him fall in love with you. I’ll trade you his flute for his heart.”
“I’ll figure out something and makeit work,” Clare said. “Sorcha will research relics of St. Brigid. Maeve can find books on Brigid and anything else on the high kings, especially if there are any modern descendants.”
“On it.” Both of her friends left her alone in the cluttered room. The bed was piled full of inventory and the closets packed with boxes and bolts of cloth.
Clare unzipped her suitcase and dug throughher attention-seeking clothes. She sorted them by fairy category, woodland, air, water, fire, earth, and sea, until she found what she was looking for.
A plain white dress given to her by her cousin.
If she was going to be the next Brigid, she should appear as a pure angel. Maybe she was the one the Heart of Brigid found, because she was the true fairy queen, hidden away in an orphanage.
She picked up the stone and held it close to her heart. It seemed to hum and vibrate, and it was hot to the touch.
Maybe Griffin wasn’t lying when he said the Heart of Brigid would lead him to his true love.
Hadn’t it led him to her?
