Page 69 of The Winter Laird

“They dim, to save energy. It’s complicated, and I’ll explain it later, if you truly care to hear it. What’s important is this. My family. See, here’s Colin—he’s not nearly this serious in person. James is right here; he’s a healer, and a really good one. We’re all proud of him. My aunt…”

Hours later, Nioclas watched Brianagh sleep peacefully. His mind attempted to absorb all he heard from her lips, and as dawn broke, he wondered if he’d imagined the night before.

The black rectangle tucked into his chest was proof he had not.

He had to seek out the one person who could either confirm her stories…or deny them.

His wife was either completely daft with an incredible set of sorcery skills, or she was telling the truth—she truly was from a place where people traveled by metal birds in the sky, horses were ridden for pleasure and not transportation, and women had the same rights as men.

Nioclas didn’t like that he had to rely on a man such as Reilly O’Malley to verify his wife’s tales, but as O’Malley figured prominently throughout them and was in so many of the magical portraits, he didn’t see any other option.

As quietly as possible, he made his way to the wall outside O’Malley’s chamber.

No one would speak with Reilly until he did—Nioclas wasn’t taking any chances.

* * *

“Lovely to seeyou this morning, Laird MacWilliam. I wonder how long you’ve been waiting for me,” Reilly quipped when he swung open his chamber door. He bowed with a sardonic smile. “What an honor.”

“My solar.” Nioclas motioned for Reilly to precede him. When they entered, Nioclas shut and latched the door.

Reilly made himself comfortable. “This couldn’t wait until after I’d broken my fast?”

“You may eat food from my larder once you’ve answered my questions sufficiently,” Nioclas replied curtly. “Tell me of Brianagh’s sixteenth birthday.”

Reilly stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.

Nioclas sat opposite of him. “What color was her dress?”

“You expect me to remember the color of her dress? I couldn’t tell you the color of the dress she wore yesterday!”

Nioclas sat down, leaned back, and folded his arms silently.

After a charged moment, Reilly muttered, “Yellow.”

“What is the name of her university?”

“Which one?” Reilly asked.

Nioclas’s eyes narrowed. “All of them.”

“Boston University was undergrad. Tufts University was graduate. Bri also did a year at Trinity here in Ireland, on exchange.”

“What did she study?”

“Undergraduate degree is in business management, graduate degree in marketing of some sort.”

Nioclas let out a breath. “What is marketing?”

Reilly did pause then. “It’s the promotion of goods or services. More or less.”

The questions continued, hard and fast. Reilly answered all of them in much the same way Brianagh did—openly, without much hesitation, and continued clarification. At some point, Nioclas sent for food. They ate together as Nioclas relentlessly probed further into Brianagh’s tales.

Hours later, Nioclas knew, as implausible as it seemed, his wife was telling the truth. He paced, unable to sit still any longer as the ramifications crystallized in his head. He rubbed his forehead and looked out his window at the land before him. Snow had fallen during the night; the sparkle was blinding in the mid-morning sun. Nioclas stared at it, turning the facts over in his mind.

“Brianagh is the key to the O’Rourke legacy,” Nioclas said, almost unable to utter the words.

Reilly shook his head. “Not quite.”

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