“Yes, Caoimhe, my love?” But my response remained behind the veil. She wasn’t Love yet. And despite my phonetic struggle with her language, I knew better than to misname someone, even in my own head.
I wasn’t ready. She could neither see nor hear me. I didn’t need the drink she poured. I was intoxicated by the moment.
“I’ve felt you many times since that day,” she said, speaking over the cider. “And I feel you now.”
My staggered inhale did nothing to steady me.
I hadn’t been surviving on crumbs, after all. My hope had been real. My human remained mine.
She lowered the cup. “Will you toast with me, Spirit?”
She was offering me the chance to speak on a silver platter, but trepidation consumed me.
What would I say? How would I explain this?
The pressure on a single moment, particularly after I’d scoured the world for her for twenty-nine years only to blunder our first encounter, was frustrating beyond words.
There was no answer that would appease her, particularly as I had no answer that had satisfied my father, my sister, my kingdom, or even myself. I was caught in an anomaly, spared only by my father’s obsession with free will that I should be able to follow curious flights of fancy regardless of their logic.
I sighed to myself.Now or never.
I settled onto the stone and slipped my fingers around the goblet. I kept my eyes on the drink, too nervous to see the horror in her eyes, as I peeled back the veil and revealed myself.
She made a noise, scarcely intelligible over the stream, something akin to a swallowed scream, as if she’d choked on pushing down her call for help. I kept my eyes on the goblet as I took a swig. It would be impolite to make a face, but the mortals had not mastered alcohol.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Should my first words to her be a lie?
“I like that you offered it,” I replied. “The intention means more than the drink.”
She flashed her teeth as if it were the funniest joke she’d ever heard. She wiggled her fingers for the goblet. “Give it, then.”
I held the goblet out of reach. It was mine. She was mine. None of this could be taken back.
She rolled her eyes as if we were longtime friends, sweethearts, lovers. The ease with which she fell into me was sweeter than any wine she might have poured. “I have something else,” she explained. “Cider is the village favorite, but I thought it might not be to your liking. Don’t drink it.”
Now, this was a peculiar turn of events. How odd that even in a life where she didn’t know me, one wherein she was neither spiritually attuned nor romantically available, that she would regard me with such informality. Gods above and below if she wasn’t curious.
My human never failed to mesmerize me.
I held the goblet across the bit of water that separated us as if she were the phantom.
She snatched it from me, draining the cup in two gulps. She procured another waterskin, and a third small jar that I hadn’t noticed before. “Do you like mead? Or would you like to try something wicked?”
It was my turn to smile. The joy at her relaxed nature, the pleasure of her presence, the relief of finally being together, and of course, most immediately, hearing this teasing question on her lips when speaking to a demon. “And what, pray tell, do you consider wicked?”
She opened the jar, and I could smell the spirits from here. The fumes alone could kill a man. My grin was one of open-mouthed shock. Gods almighty, these humans went out of their way to die. I snatched it before she could pour the drops.
“Drink this and go blind,” I said. “Humans have yet to perfect the distilling of spirits. Let’s stick with mead, as I’d prefer you live.”
Her strawberry blonde hair caught on her shoulder as she tilted her head. “It’s no good? I got it just for…”
Just for me? She thought she was letting me down.
“This,” I said, lifting the goblet, “is on the right track. I admire the balls on whoever sipped the liquid and enjoyed the sensation. But it’s meant as a topical medicine. It will burn through your innards. Your…” I watched her face. She was neither confused, nor did my words make sense to her. “I’ll take the mead,” I said. “And please, don’t drink these spirits. Keep the jar, though, and dab this liquid on cuts and wounds to keep them from souring.”
“Put drink on my cuts?”
