Page 30

“What is it?” I ask, confusion knotting my stomach.

Her expression hardens, shifting from uncertainty to an almost fierce intensity. “What else did it say?”

“It said…” I falter, the memory of the words chilling me all over again. “Well, the last thing it said was ‘You cannot run. You cannot hide. The end is written, and I will be there when it comes.’”

My mother’s knuckles whiten as she grips the counter, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak, her thoughts clearly racing.

“Another oddity,” I add quietly, “was that it spoke in the old tongue. But I understood it, as if it spoke directly into my mind.”

Saoirse throws her arm around my shoulders. “Och, what’s got ya dreaming of The Dullahan, then? Who’d ye piss off to earn a visit like that?” She grins, her lighthearted tone coaxing a small, reluctant laugh out of me.

I glance at my mother, ready to jest along, but her expression remains unchanged. Her eyes brim with an anguish so raw that it steals the air from my lungs. I see something there I can’t unsee: fear, tangled with a pain she’s trying to hide.

“Ma, are you all right?”

She shakes her head, as if trying to dispel whatever thoughts have taken hold. “Ye ken how I feel about dreams, Triona,” she says, her voice measured and careful. Her eyes flick up, meeting mine for just a heartbeat before she looks away again. She wipes her hands on her apron and sighs. “Dreams can be tricky things. But ye’ve always had a vivid mind, aye?”

Saoirse pulls me into a tight, reassuring embrace. Her warmth and the scent of wildflowers wraps around me. “Ach, don’t fret too much, Triona. Headless horsemen, magic dreams—whatever comes’ll have to get through me to ya.”

My mother clears her throat, smoothing her hands over her apron as if brushing away more than just flour. When she speaks, her voice is just a touch too light, too casual. “Change out of that before dinner,” she says, nodding toward my dust-riddled leathers. “Ye’re much too pretty to be trouncin’ about smellin’ like a boggin laddie.”

Just then, heavy boots thud against the ground outside, followed by the creak of the back door swinging open. Laughter and deep voices spill in, my father and brother stepping inside with easy familiarity. My mother, still tense from our conversation, straightens at the sound of my father’s voice.

“Ellen! Where are ye?” My father calls out, his voice warm and rich with affection.

My mother’s entire demeanour shifts. Without even washing the flour from her hands, she hurries toward him. The moment their eyes meet, his face brightens, but as he catches the worry etched into her features, his smile falters. He steps closer, slipping an arm around her waist.

He quickly tries to mask it, his voice dropping as he leans in. “Come here, mo luaidh,” he murmurs, guiding her gently toward the door. “Let’s have a word before ye cover me head to toe in flour, aye?”

My mother chuckles softly, not resisting as he leads her away.

Saoirse and I exchange a glance, both of us feigning indifference as they slip into the next room.

Meanwhile, Callan and Casey exchange their own curious glances before turning toward me. Callan’s ever-present scowl deepens.

“Triona,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, “What’ve ye done this time, then?” he asks, his tone gruff, laced with mild accusation.

I scoff, mirroring his stance. “Why do you assume it’s my fault?” I hurl back, raising an eyebrow, daring him to push the issue.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Saoirse suppressing her laugh. Casey’s lips twitch, but he hides it well, rubbing the back of his neck as if the ceiling has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. They both know exactly why Callan assumes it’s me—my mother and I have been bickering with the energy of warring clans in legendary fashion since I learned how to talk back.

Callan tilts his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over me as if he is trying to read something just beneath the surface. I roll my eyes, unwilling to let him dig any deeper.

“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “She’s upset because she heard how her oldest son got his arse handed to him by his wee sister. In front of witnesses.”

Saoirse snorts, trying to stifle her laughter. “Ah, stop it—ye’re takin’ the absolute piss.”

Casey laughs outright, shaking his head. “Oh, she is not,” he says, clearly delighted. “I saw his downfall with my own eyes, and I’m makin’ it my personal mission to herald the news.”

“Wait—what?” Saoirse’s eyes dart between us. “Ya ain’t pullin’ my leg?”

She stares at me, jaw slack. Then slowly, her expression shifts. Her brows raise. Her mouth curves into a wide, gleeful grin.

“Holy shite, Triona. Ye flattened Callan?” she says, voice thick with disbelief and awe. “You glorious bitch.”

“Many thanks,” I reply with a mock curtsy. “I take coin, compliments, and I expect a toast in my honour tonight at the dinner table.”

Saoirse laughs, slapping my arm. “I’d’ve paid good coin to see that. You must’ve hit him like a feckin’ cart horse.”