Page 106 of Shadow Spell

“I planted it, fed it with my blood, with water I drew from the air. And the flowers bloomed there on Sorcha’s grave.”

“You kept your word.” Iona brushed a hand over his arm. “And you gave them something that mattered.”

“I told him we’d end it, as I believe we will. And I think I know something that we missed on the solstice. Music,” he said, “and the joy of it.”

“Music,” Iona repeated even as Branna sat back, speculation in her eyes.

“What drew him here last night, so enraged, so bold? Our light, yes, and we’ll have that. Ourselves, of course. But we made music, and that’s a light of its own.”

“A joyful noise,” Iona said.

“It is that. It blinds him—with that rage against the joy. Why couldn’t it bind him as well?”

“Music. We made music that night last spring, do you remember, Iona? Just you and I and Meara here. I brought out my fiddle, and we played and sang, and he lurked outside, all shadows and fog. Drawn to it,” Branna said, “drawn to the music even as he hated it—hated that we had it in us to make it.”

“I remember.”

“Oh, I can work with this.” Branna’s eyes narrowed, her lips curved. “Aye, this will be something to stir into the pot. It’s a good thought, Connor.”

“It’s brilliant,” Iona said.

“I tend to agree with that.” Grinning, Connor shoveled in the last of his eggs.

“I’m sure Meara said the same.”

“She may, when I tell her. I only came around to it this morning,” he added, “and she was in a fired hurry to get on her way.”

“Why was that? I’ve still got nearly a half an hour before I have to get to work.” And because she did, Iona rose for a second cup of coffee. “If she’d waited, Boyle and I could’ve... Oh.” Her eyes rounded. “Did you have a fight?”

“A fight, no. She went into a fast retreat, as I expected she would, when I told her I loved her. Being Meara, it’ll take her a bit of time to settle into it all.”

“You figured it out.” Dancing back, Iona wrapped her arms around him from behind his chair. “That’s wonderful.”

“It wasn’t a matter of figuring... Maybe it was that,” he reconsidered. “And she’s some slower on coming to the conclusion. She’ll be happier when she does, and so will I. But for now, there’s a certain enjoyment in watching her try to squirm around it.”

“Have a care, Connor,” Branna said quietly. “It’s not a stubborn nature or a hard head that holds her back. It’s scars.”

“She can’t live her life denying her own heart because her shite of a father had none.”

“Have a care,” Branna repeated. “Whatever she says, whatever she thinks she believes, she loved him. She loves him still, and that’s why the hurt’s never gone all the way quiet.”

Irritation walked up his spine. “I’m not her father, and she should know me better.”

“Oh no, darling, it’s that she’s afraid she is—she’s like her father.”

“Bollocks to that.”

“Of course.” Branna rose, began to clear. “But that’s the weight she carries. As much as I love her, and she loves me, I’ve never been able to lift it away, not altogether. That’s for you to do.”

“And you will.” Iona pushed away from the table again to help. “Because love, if you just don’t let go, beats anything.”

“I won’t be letting go.”

Iona paused to kiss the top of his head. “I know it. The eggs were good.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” Branna said, “but we’ll do the washing up since you cooked... after a fashion.”

“That’s fine then, as I need to call Roibeard in and get on to work.”

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