Now, it was up to her to show him a new life, one where he could enjoy and live reasonably normal.
Yes, it meant she cared,and frankly, that was surprising and scary. She was an orphan who hadn’t cared much about anyone. She flitted in and out of people’s lives, but she had no roots, and she’d never entertained the idea of family or permanence. Sorcha and Maeve, of course, were her co-conspirators in fun and games, but caring about an attractive and vulnerable man?
This could only end badly.
The tourended with the guide dismissing them to the museum section. Griffin took Clare’s hand, and they perused the personal artifacts and letters of the prisoners.
Despite the time that passed, the ghosts of Kilmainham spoke, and Clare felt their presence through the air currents moving between the bleak, stony walls.
The visit to Kilmainham was both draining and uplifting for Griffin. He shouldn’t have bragged about being one of the fourteen revolutionaries and taking their glory, and when Clare caught him out, he wanted to sink into a hole in the ground.
She was right.
He’d been overprotected by his grandfather and the family of servants. He’d read books,seen movies and films, but had never visited many of the historical places in his own country.
Instead, he’d lived in a world of fantasy and imagination. He supposed it was okay when he was a child, but now that he was in his mid-thirties, it was time to put childish things aside.
Except for Clare.
He loved playing games with a woman who thought herself a fairy or changeling.She must have never known her parents and had grown up wondering who she was. The nuns at the abbey had been strict, but the young girls snuck out to the fairy mounds and told each other fantastic stories of mixed identities and promising destinies.
She appeared childish with her wands and wings, but he sensed the compassion in her. The fact she was helping him navigate his life meant shewas a good person inside.
He still held her hand, and they walked briskly over the cobbled streets of the Temple Bar district. The daylight alternated between a patchwork quilt of clouds and sunshine. It was the perfect spring day in Ireland, and maybe today, he’d become a new man—not tied up with fairy tales and treasures, old scores to settle, and musty tomes to digest.
With Clareby his side, he had only to look forward, not backward.
Was he actually considering the brain surgery because he wanted her in his life? Or was he so tired of the forgetfulness, of the dying and rebirth, the blank wall of his mind, and the force-feeding of information and facts of the many lives he wasn’t sure he’d actually lived?
“The key is to be in the moment,” she said, her voicebreaking into his thoughts. “Do you know how to focus?”
“I am always distracted,” he said. “Too much stimuli, like noise, flashing lights, and movement overload my nervous system.”
“Let me teach you about mindfulness,” she said. “Being present in the moment and paying attention to only what’s in front of you.”
“How can I when I have so many past lives raining down on me andan uncertain future? Obligations and destiny?” He spread his hands at the myriad of sights and sounds.
People, traffic, and birds flying overhead added to the noise and hubbub of the Merchant’s Arch area. Buskers plied their music, and hawkers sold souvenirs. With all the activities going on, it was hard to notice the old archway at the end of an alley covered with storefronts and graffiti.
Clare stopped in front of a roughened white brick patched between regular red ones and pointed her phone camera. “What do you see? What stands out?”
“The one brick that’s different,” he said. “What are you trying to show me?”
“Our eye is drawn to the one that’s different, unique,” she said. “The present moment is the one white brick among a sea of red—the infinite past andfuture possibilities.”
“Are you trying to tell me my past lives don’t matter?”
“They matter, but the weight of all of those past decisions, whether regrets or rejoicing, clutter your attention. They distract you from the way forward.” She led the way through the arch, and they stepped down to face the Ha’Penny Bridge. “What do you see?”
“A bridge.” He chuckled, not quite surewhat she was getting at.
“I see two parallel lines arching up and over, but my eye is drawn to the lamp perched on top of the center. I see the shadows made by the rails, and they are interesting stripes that draw my mind sideways, but my eye returns to the focal point of the lamp.”
“What’s the message?” He stood still and took in the curved lines, finding them surprisingly calming.
“Looking at the way we’re going without being bothered by anxiety and side issues.” She snapped a picture. “Sometimes, I zoom in on a detail—the one pertinent detail, and I just enjoy it. No judgment on whether it’s a good or bad detail. Whether it is out of place or belongs. It’s just there.”
A child’s red balloon emerged from the other side of the bridge, dancing from side to side,lifted alternately by the wind and the swinging of her upraised arm.
