I studied her like she was studyin’ me. Openly. Without harnesses or awkwardness. No one had ever asked me anythin’ like that before. I had totink—think—about it and listen. The voice inside of my head had dropped the ‘h’. Then I realized what she really wanted to know.
If you spoke, would you sound Irish?I nodded.
She patted the spot next to her. “This branch is wide enough for you to sit too.” She opened the book to the first page and grinned at me. “Are you ready for this adventure?”
No confirmation was needed from her. She started to read. She kicked her runners off tree—three—chapters in, bringin’ a knee up to her chest, lettin’ the other leg dangle. She became a narrator as she read the book. Her inflections were fuckin’ grand. I stood at some point, snatchin’ a stick from the ground, copyin’ the moves the pirate made with a sword.
She stopped readin’, adjusted her glasses, and watched me. Her breath hitched up, and her lips parted.
Maybe my face was morphin’ into the pirate’s inside of her head. If not, I was goin’ to set the book on fuckin’ fire—because that was what it felt like inside of my chest when I thought of her fantasizin’ about anyone else.
She closed the book so hard, it made awhap!noise. I grunted some, wantin’ her to continue.
“It takes time to finish a book.” She hopped down from the branch, steppin’ into her runners. “It’s getting late. Want to get something to eat?”
There was a sense of urgency comin’ from her, like she wanted to run away from me. Her back was turned, and I tapped her on the shoulder. Her shoulders rose and fell with the deep breath she took. I turned her toward me at the same time music started playin’ from behind us.
Her eyes flew to mine. “Is that…?”
It sounded like the same music from the car that she’d turned up on the way to Galway.
She looked around me, tryin’ to figure out where it was comin’ from. I took her hand and led her deeper into the woods. It wasn’t that far. We stopped behind a bunch of trees surrounded by stones, and I pointed to the little shack beyond them. It was made of decayin’ wood, worn by years and weather. Smoke billowed out of the chimney.
Fiona’s private place.
I’d found it not long after we’d arrived at the castle. Da told me to let it be.You don’t want to make her mad by snoopin’.I hadn’t. Fiona had always seemed a thread away from snappin’. As a lad, I had thought maybe she was a witch. She butchered all our meat for the castle. Blood drippin’ down her apron hadn’t weakened the imagery of a sorceress.
Years made me see things more clearly. Fiona needed her own space—her own time—away from the rest of the world. I often wondered if somethin’ had happened to her in a shack somewhere. She shed blood in them because it represented somethin’ to her. Somethin’ she had never gotten over.
Fiona’s voice rose over the sound of the singer’s voice. It was almost shrill. When I looked at Maeve, she was watchin’ the place with a smile on her face. I’d never seen anyone smile at Fiona that way. Most people didn’t make eye contact.
A second later, Maeve’s eyes widened and her neck went back a little, like she was shocked by what she was seein’. Me fuckin’ too. Fiona had spun out of her place, dancin’ with a broom, still singin’ the song. She had on a long-sleeve black top and a long, frilly black skirt that landed right above her combat boots. Every time she’d turn, the skirt swished.
Maeve and I met eyes. Her cheeks were puffin’. She was about to laugh. I clamped a hand over her mouth, pickin’ her up and rushin’ her toward the oak. As soon as I set her down, she started to twirl like Fiona, singin’ the song. She was pumpin’ her arms in the air.
I looked around—what the fuck was happenin’? It seemed like the entire place was suddenly entranced.
“I was supposed to go with Delaney to Ruairi Merrick’s concert next week!” She did this weird arm move I wasn’t sure what to call. Her fists were balled, her arms were tucked close to her breasts, and it was like they were tryin’ to fly, like chicken wings.
Next week she was marryin’ me instead.
“He’s Irish too! Can you dance, Cian?”
I turned some, wonderin’ if she was talkin’ to another Cian.
She laughed, dancin’ over to me, takin’ my hands. She lifted them and went under my arms. We got tangled.
“I don’t really know how to dance either.” She scrunched her nose. “Delaney danced all the time at the bookstore—she loves music—and I just do what she told me to. Feel the music and let it carry me away. It’s easier if you relax and get spaghetti arms.”
She started movin’ her shoulders and turnin’ in circles, doin’ the thing with her arms again. Then she made it back to me. She took my hands and started to give me instructions.
Literally, step-by-step directions.
There was no true routine. She was just—goin’ for it.
I wasn’t really movin’, but I could handle the under-arm move. She went underneath again and somehow made it back to my front without gettin’ knocked out.
“This is fun, Cian!”
