Chapter Four

“Aaron, this must stop! Ye must rest!”

Aaron grimaced, shaking off his mother’s attempt to throw a blanket over his shoulders. He was dripping onto the foyer’s tiled floor, and doing so brought back painful memories. Where was Caitlin, sopping alongside him, her skirts muddied and her face pink with exhilaration? If she were there, his lips wouldn’t be icy, and he wouldn’t be fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. But then, if she were there, he wouldn’t have gone out in the storm in the first place.

“I only came back to change horses.”

He already regretted his decision to come inside the house to change boots, too, though his had become filled with frigid water when a muddy bank had given way beneath his feet, plunging him thigh-deep into the stream that ran between the O’Brien and McCarthy properties. Water spilt from his boots and puddled on the floor as he leapt aside, dodging the blanket that his mother was waving at him as if she were a determined matador and he an errant bull.

“It’s nearly dark,” his mother said, pleading.

“There’s still an hour left, at least,” he replied. Seeing his mother’s pained expression he added begrudgingly, “I’ll come back when night falls.” He hated to stop searching, even for a few hours, but he’d stayed out looking for the entire night several times before, and it had been impossible to see anything in the dark. With the pouring rain and slick ground, any horse he rode after dusk tonight would probably slip and send him falling to his death.

This concession appeared to do little to ease her, so he hurried past her before she could protest, leaving a damp trail up two flights of stairs. He sighed softly as he entered the third floor hallway, feeling suddenly even colder than he had outside in the rain. The extra bedroom Caitlin had spent the night in was the first he passed, and even the sight of its closed door filled him with a fresh rush of the desperate heartache that had been his constant companion over the past week. The one night Caitlin had spent in his house out of necessity had been enough to transform it, imprinting each facet of its structure with her memory. Every staircase spanned a journey to the depths of his misery, and an agonising recollection waited behind each door; a sudden flash of the exact shade of pink her cheeks went when he kissed her, seen by his mind’s eye, or a memory of her hair brushing his cheek, so vivid he almost thought it was real. Shutting his eyes against the sight of the hall where they had walked together, he pushed open his bedroom door. Here, at least, was a place she hadn’t been.

Of course, he couldn’t say that particular truth comforted him. What would he give to have her there, in his bed, his bride? Anything, he knew.

A memory flashed before his mind, as sudden and vivid as they always were now, of her pressing her mouth firmly against his, her tongue rushing past his lips as her hand drifted to his erection as they lay in the wildflower field. His cheeks burnt as a paralysing jolt of sensation shot up his leg and into his crotch, where his cock tingled beneath his rain-soaked breeches, swelling as he remembered her touch. He’d stopped her, then.

He knew now that he’d lost that ability when he’d lost her—to see her would be to hold her, and to hold her would be to make love to her, passionately and at once. Still, he wasn’t sure he regretted his decision not to take her that day in the field, when she’d asked him to. To have done so—to have felt every inch of her soft skin, to have lost himself in her body, then to have lost her the very same day—he strongly suspected that might have killed him. Not that it stopped him from feeling as if he’d let her slip right through his fingers, gone now—wherever she was—to a place where he couldn’t touch her, a place he just couldn’t find, despite the fact that he was trying his damnedest!

He kicked off his boots in a sudden flash of frustration and they tumbled across the floor, spilling their liquid contents. The hinges on his wardrobe door screeched terribly as he flung them open, pulling out the first pair of boots he saw and shoving his feet into them. He paused only to kick one of his discarded pair out of the way as he stomped out of the room, sending it flying into a corner in a fresh spray of floodwater.

On the first floor, Molly lurked around the banisters, balancing a tray of dinner in one hand and a bundle of blankets in the other. Her indenture had expired nearly a year ago, but she’d stayed anyway, glued to Mrs O’Brien’s side. Aaron did his best to ignore the woman, who had obviously been summoned as a reinforcement by his mother, but she stepped boldly into his path, her jaw set in a determined manner as she shoved the food tray at him, nearly dropping it. Aaron feinted to the left and his mother rose suddenly from the other side of the banister, like a demon flying out of the dark.

“Aaron,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm. “Please don’t go out again. The rain is pouring, the lightning is fierce and you’ve scarcely eaten all day!”

Aaron placed a hand over his mother’s, firmly but carefully removing it from his arm. “I must,” was all he said, slipping between his mother and Molly in one deft movement. He didn’t bother to tell her that he couldn’t stomach even the thought of eating, that things like hunger and thirst seemed unimportant compared to the burning need to see Caitlin again, to find her.

“Aaron!” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Have you considered that the McCarthy girl’s disappearance may be for the best?”

A tremor coursed through him, violent enough to be mistaken for a shiver. “What?”

“She was a rare beauty,” she continued, “but there are better reasons for courting a woman. Anyone will tell you that her family is the kindest you’ll ever meet, but they’re destitute. All they’ve got to their name is that cabin and a few acres they manage to harvest enough from to get by on. Her uncle has sons of his own, so there never was a chance of her inheriting anything significant. There are many young women with much more to offer in terms of dowry, and any of them would be thrilled to be your bride.”

The sound of rain beating against the manse’s roof and windows faded to a dull roar, replaced in Aaron’s ears by the furious pumping of his heart. Every heartbeat was as loud and pronounced as the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer striking the forge, and his sudden rage burnt as hot as a piece of metal being soldered. Had anyone other than his mother made such an unthinkable suggestion… His hands curled automatically into fists at the thought.

“I sincerely hope that was a misguided attempt to comfort me, though, if so, it was a complete failure. Look around, mother! Isn’t this wealth enough? Do you really believe I’d wish death upon the girl I love for the sake of a few more acres? I don’t know how you could believe that of your own son. I’ve never been angrier in my life.” It was the most painfully severe understatement that had ever left his lips. He turned on his heel and marched for the door before he could say anything he’d regret. Curses were dancing on the tip of his tongue, and his mouth burnt with the urge to shout them. He would, but not here. He’d wait until he was alone again, where his words and his tears would disappear unheard and unseen into the storm.

The sound of pounding rain was nearly deafening, but his mother was a fair match for it, when she wanted to be. “You’ll catch your death!” she cried as he stepped out into the rain, hearing every word but pretending not to.

* * * *

Caitlin broke the surface of deep sleep with a gasp, her eyes flying open at last. She’d fought for wakefulness, slipping in and out of a dreamy semi-consciousness for what had seemed a small eternity. Now, with eyes wide open, she faced the moon. It hung overhead, scarcely halfway full but shedding an admirable amount of watery light nonetheless.

Between the sight of it and the feel of the cold earth beneath her back, she was slightly chilled. She hardly cared, though, preoccupied as she was with rooting through the messy slew of memories that blanketed her mind, organising themselves into some semblance of order with agonising slowness, seemingly reluctant to answer the questions where was she, and, of course, why? The scent of violets was so strong as to render thinking more difficult, her olfactory senses warring with logical thought, fighting for the right to throw their own threads of memory into the already confusing mix.

Aaron—his image, his scent, the press of his skin and his lips against hers—was the first memory to return to her. Her body responded to his memory, tingling and warming, just a little, as she remembered the feel of his hand cupping her breast, his mouth against her neck. No sooner had she remembered him than she experienced the first pangs of loneliness and longing. She hadn’t quite pieced together what had happened yet, but she was sure he should be by her side, wherever she was. She closed her eyes again and thought of him, losing herself for a moment in a haze of memory, her recollection of the smoothness of his hair beneath her fingertips so vivid that, for a moment, she really thought she’d buried her hands in his red-gold locks. And then it struck her—the last time she’d done so, he’d said he would ask her father for her hand in marriage that very day! That evening floated back to her with astonishing clarity.

She’d wandered outside as Aaron had settled at the table to speak with her father. There she’d strode by the horse paddock, letting an idle hand slide down Boulder’s neck before she’d drifted farther away from the cabin, so full of nervous anticipation she simply couldn’t keep still. Her anxiety had carried her to the edge of the woods, where she’d found a bed of wild violets, and something silver among them… The strange comb. Her last memory was of turning to hold it against the moon, which had been full then. With an agonising jolt of panic, she wondered how long she had slept that the moon had waned so. A week, surely, and she with no memory of it!

She pushed herself upright, into a sitting position, seized suddenly by the urge to take some sort of action to make up for the week she’d spent in idle slumber. The trunks of trees spun around her, a sudden vertigo causing them to blur as her vision wavered. She pressed a hand to her head and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the world to stillness. When she opened them, the surrounding forest was indeed still, though she’d been left distinctly lightheaded. She rose slowly, searching the pines and poplars for any sign of familiarity. When she stood, something bright and pale flashed in the corner of her eye, causing her to jump.

It was only…her hair? She seized a handful of her own waves and held them in her palm, staring down in disbelief. Then she reached around to the back of her neck and drew all of her hair over a shoulder, letting it cascade over her breasts in a show of silver. She ran her fingers through it, searching for the rich brown she was accustomed to. It wasn’t there. Her hair was as pale and bright as the moonlight, giving off a sort of glow that made her go weak in the knees as disbelief gripped her. She reached up, lifting it and pressing a hand against her skull as her strangely brilliant locks slipped down over her shoulder to fall down her back again. Her fingertips met something cool and hard. Her mouth went dry, and she knew as she pulled it from her hair that it was the silver comb.

Resting in her palm, it shone in the moonlight, beautiful and plainly valuable, a few glistening strands of her hair winding in and out of its silver teeth. The amethyst gem in its centre appeared to have been set on fire by the moonlight, its finely carved facets glittering as if consumed by purple flame. It was beautiful, but at the same time it caused her stomach to knot unpleasantly, affected by some ominous feeling she couldn’t quite explain.

A memory struck her as she traced a finger over the smooth surface of the stone, finding it cool to the touch despite its fiery illusion. It wasn’t of Aaron, this time, but of her mother, industriously pulling a loaf of soda bread from the oven as she regaled her two young daughters—Caitlin and her sister—with a bit of legend from their homeland.

“So, if ye see a fine silver comb lying in the grass,” she’d said, dusting her hands on her apron as she finished her tale, “ye must not pick it up, for it was placed there by banshees to lure an unsuspecting human, and to touch it is to be spirited away to their world.”

Caitlin’s eyes had gone wide then, and they did the same now, flaring with alarm and incredulity. She was seized and nearly overwhelmed by a sudden impulse to draw back her arm and fling the comb as far as she could into the woods, but a thought stopped her. The comb was her only link, however incredible and tenuous, to her own world—if she had indeed left it—and to Aaron. Reluctantly, she lifted it to the side of her head, positioning it so it would hold her moonbeam hair back from her face. With her souvenir tucked safely in place, and her face as straight as she could manage, she took her first step, praying it might lead her towards Aaron.

No sooner had her foot touched the ground than the forest exploded around her in a burst of sound and light. Moon-white whirls raced about, dizzying her as she tried to focus on them, the sounds of rushing breath, laughter and things said just below her level of hearing ringing in her ears. Her head spinning, she fell, her hair flying about her face like silver ribbons as the air rushed about her, causing her skirts to flap around her ankles. She closed her eyes firmly, wincing in preparation for impact, but it never came. Instead, hands closed around her arms and pressed against her back, catching her. She gasped, her eyes flying open as the air poured over her lips.

The streaks of silver light stilled, solidifying into women who held her, their arms the only things that had kept her from collapsing. Young—perhaps around Caitlin’s own age—and slender, they were as fair and radiant as the moon, their faces glowing as their silver hair shimmered, stirred by their rush to catch her. Where on earth had they come from? There were six of them, all with shoulders that were as white as snow and perfectly bare, peeking from beneath their garments; simple white dresses that were noticeably battered. In fact, the diminutive gowns were torn almost to shreds in some places, the windows the holes created framing views of milky flesh. The only thing that seemed ordinary about the silvery women were their eyes, which, all focused rather unnervingly on Caitlin’s own, gazed down upon her in common shades of brown and blue. She was torn between the urge to speak—to cry out, to ask—and the urge to remain quiet, letting her confusion chase itself in silent circles.

She never had to decide.

The hands that supported her quickly turned upon her, cool fingers tucking themselves into the neck and sleeves of her dress while others seized handfuls of her skirts. Her gown came away in long strips and ragged chunks as they pulled, the pieces fluttering to the ground as they released them, reaching for more. In a few terrifying moments, they’d completely destroyed it, leaving her clad in only the meagre cover of her shift. They promptly tore it to pieces, too, their long fingernails scratching her skin as they exposed it, the shreds of her undergarment like fallen flower petals at their feet.

Caitlin quivered, her knees wobbling as her naked body was washed in moonlight, revealed to be every bit as fair as those of the women who crowded her, their eyes gleaming. Her skin hadn’t been quite this pale before, had it? Where was the light suntan she’d acquired on her hands and forearms from hours spent picking peaches in her family’s small orchard? Two hands grasped the tops of her arms firmly, holding her up, while the rest reached for her again. She squeezed her eyes shut in preparation for the worst. What was left now to shred, save for her skin, her very flesh?

Their touches were softer this time. Something cool and soft brushed against her hip, and Caitlin dared to open her eyes. She was surprised to find her nudity quickly disappearing beneath pale fabric, the silver women wrapping her in a garment like their own. Their hands fluttered against her skin, as quick and soft as heartbeats. When they’d finished, she was clothed, her shoulders peeking from above the wide neckline. Her attendants surveyed her with apparent satisfaction.

After unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, Caitlin finally spoke. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

One of the silvery women placed her hands on Caitlin’s shoulders, levelling her dark eyes with hers. As her lips parted, Caitlin half expected an answer.

“Find him,” she said, her voice as silvery as her hair.

Another of the women in white spoke before Caitlin could ask what the first had meant. “See him safely to the next world.”

Their voices were like wind, breathy and softly rushing. Their perplexing instructions delivered, they vanished, the sound of one last word urging hanging in the air—“go”.

Caitlin span in a slow circle, eyes searching for any sign of the mysterious women her mother had warned her about…the banshees.

They were gone, vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared. A hush had settled over the woods in their absence, allowing a distant, dull roar to reach Caitlin’s ears. Rain. She turned in the direction of the sound and began to pick her way through the trees. A strong intuition told her that where she found the rain, she’d find Aaron. She was vaguely aware that it didn’t make much sense, logically speaking, but neither did anything she’d experienced since waking, and setting out in search of Aaron was surely better than giving in to the urge to kick a tree in frustration.

* * * *

“Pneumonia.” The local physician pronounced his diagnosis with grim certainty, his thick grey brows plunging until they threatened to merge into one.

Aaron sighed from where he lay in bed, doing his best to ignore the subsequent stabbing pain that pierced the right side of his chest. The faces in the crowd surrounding his bed frowned, no doubt picking up on subtle indications of his pain. How had he ended up here, trapped in bed by a ruthlessly worrisome crowd of O’Brien women? They had been present when he’d woken to a chill caused by a medical instrument the doctor had pressed against his chest while listening at the other end. His last memory was of coming into the house for the night after another long, fruitless search for Caitlin. How long had it been since he’d collapsed onto his bed, resigning himself to a few short hours of restless sleep? A glance at the window revealed a sky so dark with rain and clouds that it was impossible to tell what time of day it was.

“I thought I heard a rattle in his chest when he came in last night,” Molly said, shaking her head, her dark curls swinging in front of her mournful eyes.

“Aye,” Aaron’s mother agreed. “I warned him this would happen if he didn’t stop galloping around in the storm like a madman.”

Rain beat against the bedroom window, no less forcefully than it had when Aaron had first lain down in bed, reluctantly committing himself to a few hours of rest before resuming his search. He tried to focus on the sound of the downpour rather than his mother’s voice. The memory of what she’d said to him about Caitlin still made his blood boil, hot within his otherwise cold body. He would rather focus on the pain that had crept into his chest while he slept than his anger, but he couldn’t seem to make it go away. Even fuming and raging uninhibited out in the rain hadn’t rid him of the relentless rage. And, despite the strength of his ire, it did nothing to dull the ache in his heart for Caitlin. If anything, it only made it worse. He wished for the reprieve of sleep, however plagued with dreams of loss it might be. It eluded him, the irritating voices of his observers keeping him anchored in reality.

Katrina was there in the crowd, her blonde head shining from among the darker tones of red and brown. She only sighed as she stared down at Aaron, biting her lip as if lost in thought. She wasn’t so bad, Aaron found himself thinking—at least, not unless she wanted to be. At times like these, she practiced the blessed art of silence—something his mother and Molly had long since forsaken in favour of shouting ‘I told you so’ from the hilltops.

“As for treatment,” the doctor continued, his voice quieting the women to hushed whispers and subdued speculations, “you’ll want to put him on a steady diet of wine and beef tea. A poultice of crushed mustard seed and water—I’ve got the seeds in my bag—will help, if spread across the chest each morning.”

The women were nodding and murmuring, already discussing who would grind up the seeds and how they might take turns applying the resulting poultice to Aaron. He rolled his eyes—a gesture that went unnoticed by his small audience, who were now staring avidly at his chest in contemplation of poulticing it—and groaned. Unfortunately, groaning only seemed to frenzy the women further, convinced as they apparently were that it had been an exclamation of pain. Silently cursing his blunder, he began to plan how exactly he would slip through the cluster of would-be nurses and out of the room. Caitlin was waiting for him somewhere out there—he was sure of it, or least, he couldn’t bring himself to face any other possibility—and… Damn it all, would the man never shut up? He cast a baleful glance at the rambling doctor, who was completely oblivious to the urgency of his patient’s hopeful rescue mission, just as he was finishing his lengthy prescription. “…and, of course, I shall bleed him before I leave.”

“The hell ye will!” Aaron cried from his bed, doing his best to pretend his lungs hadn’t made a strange crackling sound as he spoke.

The women gasped in horror as Aaron flung back his bedsheets and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, accidentally kicking the doctor in the shin in the process. Aaron’s head spun, and he gripped the edge of the mattress for a moment, waiting for his vision to clear. When it did, he found he was looking down into his own completely naked lap. Eyes narrowed and cheeks gone distinctly pink, he pulled a blanket over his thighs and crotch. Who’d taken his shirt, and when? He was sure he’d gone to sleep in it. Had he been so out of it that he’d not noticed being undressed? He’d only intended to sleep lightly, for a few hours, and to rise with the sun to resume his search. Feeling stupid for not having realised before that he was nude, he attributed the oversight to his throbbing headache. It was hard to think of anything else when his head felt as if it had been struck by a blacksmith’s hammer—well, anything except for Caitlin, of course.

The need to find her and to hold her in his arms pulsed through him, as strong as his heartbeat, which he could make out distinctly, each of its thumps a painful blow against the inside of his skull.

“Get out of my way!” he cried, pressing a hand against his head as he stood, grasping a sheet in front of his groin with the other. He silently begged God for patience, but religious thought only conjured images of twisting the linen he clutched into something like a whip and using it to clear everyone out of the room, as Christ had driven the merchants from the temple. He’d even turn over the bedside table for good measure if he had to. His anger must have shown in his eyes, for Katrina went distinctly pale and eyed the bedsheet dubiously.

The doctor—apparently not used to having his patients object to his suggested treatments with such vehemence—looked quite taken aback. His jaw hanging agape, he fumbled with the tube-like thing he’d pressed against Aaron’s chest, nearly dropping it.

“Now see here! The man is delirious! This—this must not… That is to say, he must be kept in bed!” Gathering every last bit of what composure he still possessed, he fixed Aaron with his firmest stare, which wasn’t very intimidating at all.

Nevertheless, Aaron promptly collapsed, his sheet and all related sinister intentions forgotten as he fell backwards onto the mattress with a muffled whump, the ceiling and ring of concerned faces that surrounded his bed spinning into darkness above him.

He lay that way for what seemed to be a very long time, voices and faces fading in and out, teasing in their inconsistency.

It was a pinprick of pain in the crook of his left arm that brought him back to a full, if hazy, consciousness. He turned his head to the side just as the doctor pressed a lancet against the inside of his elbow, releasing a flow of crimson liquid that he let stream over Aaron’s arm and drip into an unsettlingly large cup. Did he really mean to fill the whole thing?

Yes, he did. That much was painfully clear several minutes later. Aaron’s blood continued to stream thick and vividly red from the wound the doctor, who was watching the bleeding with a certain air of grim satisfaction, had made in his arm. The light wavered again, the room going quite suddenly dark. The last thing Aaron heard was another admonition from the doctor. “And, for God’s sake, don’t let him out into the rain again!”

* * * *

The rain was leading her to Aaron, Caitlin was sure of it. She couldn’t say how or why, exactly, but her unexplainable confidence guided her like an internal compass. She’d travelled miles from the place where she’d awakened in the forest, picking her way through what seemed thousands upon thousands of trees, until she’d stumbled out into a field, a blessed expanse of grass without trees to hide the lay of the land from her sight. It hadn’t been long before she’d started to recognise the territory and directed herself in the way she thought the O’Brien home lay. Now the manse was finally visible in the distance as a large, dark smudge against the lesser blackness of the stormy night sky, its windows yellow pinpricks of light in the gloom.

Her heart rate increased with each step she took towards it, beating an anxious rhythm against her ribs. The intensity of her longing to find Aaron—to know that he and she could still meet, that she hadn’t been snatched out of her world by the banshees and their godforsaken silver comb—was greater than the intensity of the driving rain. And the rain was intense indeed. Falling in great sheets, it beat the earth, sending globules of mud flying up from its surface like drops of blood spraying from a man’s back as he was flayed. Strangely, though, it didn’t dampen Caitlin. She could feel individual drops striking her, and the resulting beads of water streaked quickly over her skin, but they were gone almost as soon as they touched her, and she was left dry. Her dress was the same, its ragged white material perpetually dry. Every few minutes she pressed a hand against an arm or shoulder or cheek, as if expecting to find the illusion shattered and her flesh wet and chilled with rainwater. Each time, she was surprised again, and plunged deeper into denial, into a refusal to contemplate what this strange new reality might mean.

When the O’Brien manse was close enough that she could make out the windowpanes, she began to run, the hem of her white dress attempting to flap behind her but being beaten down against her calves by the falling rain. She charged on and on, bounding over sodden tufts of wild grasses, a white and silver blur in the moonlit downpour. To her mild surprise, she did not grow tired, but rather moved more quickly, her urgency to find Aaron so great that she thought she might burst if she didn’t reach his home and finally lay eyes upon him again. At last, she climbed the great house’s front steps, and stood at the door.

Her fingers trembling with nervousness, she reached for the handle. A sinking sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach told her that her touch would pass right through its wooden surface; that she might dissolve into nothingness upon touching it. Still, she reached out—there was no thought that could have stopped her, no fear that would have given her pause. If she couldn’t reach Aaron—if she truly had been removed from the world she’d shared with him—then she might as well disappear. When her fingers met the solid oaken surface of the door, she was almost surprised. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the handle and pushed it open.

No one acknowledged her entrance. She stood on the tiled parlour floor, remembering, with a sharp twist of the heart, how she and Aaron had stood there together, dripping. But she was alone now, and strangely dry, despite her storm-bound journey. Eager to rectify her unwelcome solitude, she walked forward, casting searching glances from side to side as she neared the staircase between the kitchen and sitting rooms. The murmur of voices was her first brush with human presence since she’d touched the comb, and she hurried towards the sound, discovering a chattering party in one of the lounges. None of them looked up when she entered, but perhaps that was because they hadn’t heard her over the sound of their conversation.

She opened her mouth to speak. “Hello, I… I’m looking for Aaron.”

Nothing. They continued to talk, though not to her.

She strode into the centre of the room and spoke again. “Please, is Aaron here?”

Not a single eye flickered in her direction. She wanted to feel annoyed, but a sick, worrisome feeling churned inside her instead.

“Hello!” she cried. “I’m here! Can’t any of you hear me?”

Apparently, they couldn’t. Caitlin seized great handfuls of her skirts and began to wring them as the realisation crushed her. This was like something out of a bad dream… Perhaps she would wake, and blink this all away to the back of her mind, where it would soon be forgotten. She pressed her eyes shut and opened them again after a few hopeful moments, only to find herself still in the sitting room.

“Aaron!” she shouted. “I’m looking for Aaron!”

“You’ll find him upstairs, in his bedroom,” said a deep voice, whose owner made no attempt at dulling his melodic Irish accent.

Caitlin whirled, her lips parting, ready to utter a grateful response as she turned, her heart light with the knowledge that her small audience’s obliviousness had seemingly been a joke, or some sort of mistake…

“You!” she gasped. Her heart, which had so recently been delivered from the purgatory of apparent invisibility, leapt into her throat.

The startlingly familiar man she faced did not answer out loud, but rather assumed an expression of grim acknowledgement, tipping his head towards her in the slightest of nods. When she’d last seen him, it had been from a distance, but there was no denying his identity. Intuition twisted her stomach, confirming what her eyes suspected.

“Cormac O’Brien.”

She knew she must sound shocked—disbelieving, even—yet she could scarcely help it. The man who stood before her did bear a resemblance to the ghost she’d seen during her first night in the manse, the one Aaron had identified as his great-great-grandfather. And yet, he was decidedly different now—more solid and strangely vivid, as if the ghostly outline she’d seen last time had been filled in.

She didn’t want to entertain possible explanations for her newfound ability to see ghosts clearly.

No! I’m not one of them—I can feel my heart beating!

Surely ghosts didn’t have beating hearts. Hers was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, a nerve-racking yet welcome sensation that she cherished like a talisman against her mind’s morbid suggestion that she might be a mere spirit herself.

“Aye,” Cormac said finally.

“You… You’re…dead,” she whispered.

“Very astute, Bean Sidhe. Tell me, have you come for me? Am I granted another chance?” His voice held just a hint of hope, as if he didn’t dare to let on how he really felt.

Caitlin shook her head, her silver hair flying about her shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She didn’t want to know what he was talking about. She wanted to talk to the living, breathing people in the room, not the spectre. Most of all, she wanted to speak with Aaron, to feel his arms around her again. A large part of her heart was holding on to a hope that he would be able to make her feel alive, even if no one else could.

Cormac compressed his lips into a fine line and nodded grimly. “I thought not, but a part of me had hoped.”

“I—I came here to find Aaron,” she repeated. Not even her conversation with a man who’d died decades ago could distract her from her purpose, and she couldn’t wait any longer to lay eyes on the man her heart ached for.

Cormac tipped his head towards the doorway, and the staircase that stretched beyond, his mouth still compressed into a narrow slit.

Caitlin cast a last look over her shoulder at him as she exited, discomfort brewing in her middle. He had called her Bean Sidhe—the accusation still rang in her ears. She wore the white dress, had the silver hair…but did that make her one of them—a banshee? The possibility and its implications plagued her as she climbed the first staircase, then the next, arriving finally on the third floor. Aaron’s door lay at the end of the hall and the sight of it caused her heart to leap. She rushed towards it, breathing a sigh of relief when she found the knob solid beneath her hand and twisted it, stepping inside.