She dug out her phone to show him. “I guess you’d know what kind of hawk—falcon—he is.”
As he lifted the bacon out of the skillet, Connor angled his head to study the image. “A Harris’s hawk—the same we use for our hawk walks. That’s Fin’s Merlin, and a fine bird he is. Finbar Burke,” he added. “He owns the stables with Boyle, and he started the falconry school here at Ashford. He owns quite a bit of this and that, does Fin.”
“Will I interview with him, too?”
“Oh, he’d likely leave that to Boyle. Plenty of cream and two sugars in my coffee, if you will.”
“Same as me.”
“Branna, she’s one for just a dollop of the cream. Go ahead and fix her up. She’s on her way down, and she’ll need it.”
“She is? How do you... Oh.”
He only smiled. “She sends out fierce vibrations of a morning before her coffee, and it’s a bit on the early side for her so she may bite.”
Iona grabbed another cup, hurriedly poured the coffee. She was stirring in that dollop of cream when Branna walked in, dark hair tumbled nearly to her waist, eyes blurry and annoyed.
She took the cup Iona held out, took two deep swallows as she watched Iona over the rim. “All right then, what happened?”
“Ah now, don’t poke at her,” Connor said. “She’s had a rough go. Give her a chance to get some food into her.”
“I doubt she’s come here at dawn for breakfast. You’re going to overcook those eggs, Connor, as always.”
“I’m not. Slice up some bread for toasting why don’t you, and she’ll tell us once she’s settled.”
“She’s standing right here,” Iona reminded them.
“At half-six in the bloody morning,” Branna finished, but she picked up a bread knife, took a cloth off a loaf on a cutting board on the counter.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Every second sentence she utters starts with those two words.” Branna sliced bread, tossed it into the toaster.
“Jesus, finish your coffee before your black mood ruins my appetite. Let’s have some plates, Iona, there’s a girl.” His tone shifted from sharp to gentle as his sister leaned back against the counter and sulkily drank her coffee.
Saying nothing, Iona got down plates and, at his direction, located the flatware, set the table.
She sat with her cousins, looked at the platter heaped with bacon and eggs, the plate of toasted bread, listened to the two of them bicker about how the eggs were cooked, whose turn it was to go to the market and why the laundry hadn’t been folded.
“My coming here like this put you at odds, so you’re fighting, but I—”
“We’re not fighting.” Connor scooped up a forkful of eggs. “Are we fighting, Branna?”
“We’re not. We’re communicating.” Then she laughed, tossed her magnificent hair, and bit into her toast. “If we were fighting, more than these eggs would be scorched.”
“They’re not scorched,” Connor insisted. “They’re... firm.”
“They’re good.”
Branna rolled her eyes at Iona. “You’d have eaten better at the hotel, be sure of it. The chef there is brilliant.”
“I wasn’t thinking about food this morning. I can’t just read books, and stumble around trying to... I don’t know what to do unless Iknow.”
“She’s a bit of food in her now,” Branna said to Connor. “So, what happened?”
“I had a dream, that wasn’t a dream.”
She told all of it, every detail she could remember as carefully as she could manage.
