INTO THE DRINK

Edward

The breaking waves meant we were close to shore, but I could not feel the bottom.

Don’t panic, Meath.

The first thing was to rid myself of the overcoat that threatened to drag me under the waves. I ripped it open and released it into the surf, shouting, “Ada!”

I heard a woman’s cry and swam toward it, ducking under a wave as it curled over me. I had always accepted that I might die at sea, but not this way.

“Ada!” I shouted again when I surfaced. This time I was rewarded with a mouthful of seawater, which I had to swallow to avoid choking. Striking out with my hands, I caught hold of something—the line that had bound us together, which was still loosely wrapped about my waist.

Kicking to keep my head above the waves, I towed in the line, fist over fist. I found Ada at last, clinging to the other end. I caught her under the arms, but we both began to sink. Giving in to the drag, I worked blindly to release the buttons of her jacket, finally ripping it open and tugging it over her shoulders. Her skirt, too, I shucked off her. Freed at last from the heavy yards of fabric, she began to kick upward, and I followed.

Our heads broke the surface and we gasped for air.

“Swim!” I shouted, guiding her in the direction the waves were rolling. “Hard as you can!”

Her eyes were wide, teeth chattering, her cheeks washed in pink from the reflected sunset. “Go!” I cried, and finally she began to swim.

I kept pace beside her, glancing back every few moments to watch for cresting waves. There was no sign of the Queen of Connacht. Had she gone back through the Gap? Or perhaps into the sea? The Fomorians were age-old enemies of the Tuatha De Danaan; that much I knew, and little else. Miss Quicksilver would likely be able to tell me more if we ever found ourselves on land again. I could see the dark outline of the craggy shore ahead of us now, close enough for hope. If we were where I thought we were, there was a very real danger of being flung against the rocks at the foot of the highest cliffs in Ireland. But just east of those cliffs, I knew there was a softer landing spot, and though I could not see it, I guided us that direction.

On instinct, I glanced over my shoulder—and saw a wall of dark water framed by bloodred sky. It heaved toward us, the crest already forming.

“Hold your breath!” I cried, towing her with me and ducking under the curl of white water. I wrapped my body around hers as the water surged, dragging us like fish on a line. The violence of the wave spun our bodies, making it difficult to ascertain which direction was up. The rushing water roared in my ears, and for a moment I believed that this was the shape of my death.

Then one of my boots struck sand. I helped the lady to her feet and half-dragged her toward shore, banging toes and shins on sharp rocks and mussel shells. The wave that had swept us so violently to safety now made its return, tugging at our ankles, sucking away the sand that supported our footsteps. I curled my fingers around her waist, holding fast, and when the strength of the undertow ebbed, we hurried the rest of the way to the small strand, where we fell to our knees.

She was still struggling to recover, heaving and coughing, ripping at the buttons at her throat. I bent over her, tugged up the tail of her blouse, and worked loose her corset laces. She sank onto the sand, lungs finally taking in their full measure of cold sea air, and I scanned the landscape before us. Dark peaks bookended the strand, which glowed golden in the light of the rising moon.

Keem Strand. And indeed, just over the ridge to our left rose the highest cliffs in Ireland. It was a near miss. I’d had other near misses in this spot. As a boy, I had played with Isolde near the drop-off—a place we were strictly forbidden to go. It was a thing I’d learned from my cousin—that we are most alive when death is near. As an adult, I came to realize that in death’s company was where my cousin found her existence most tolerable. It was a wonder we both had survived.

My companion’s breathing finally quieted, and I knelt beside her. “There’s a cottage at the back of the strand. Can you walk there?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, bracing herself against the arm I offered as she rose to her feet.

She was shivering violently. I whispered a prayer as we crossed to the cottage and opened the door.

The inside was nearly as bleak as the exterior, furnished with only a bench and a pair of hard chairs. But my prayer had been answered—a stack of turf bricks stood by the hearth. Fishermen used the cottage as a warming hut on wet winter evenings, and they had left a striker, a basket of straw, and another of driftwood. Everything was wonderfully dry, and soon we were warming ourselves before the flames.

Only when golden firelight was dancing over wet, chilled skin did I let myself look at her. Her state of undress came as a shock—I had done it out of necessity and forgotten. Her wet blouse, which clung to her slender form, had been ripped open to the top of her corset. Her hair hung in heavy curls that released sparkling rivulets over her flesh. The swell of her breasts above the loosened corset was a thing I could not allow myself to contemplate, lest I lose myself in their soft beauty. I raised my eyes and found hers resting on my chest. My borrowed coat gone and my shirt in tatters, I was as good as half naked.

When our gazes met, she looked away quickly.

“I apologize for this awkward state of affairs, Miss Quicksilver,” I said. “Rest assured that I know where we are. We have overshot our destination only slightly, and in the morning we’ll find someone to take us to the queen.”

She made a valiant effort at smiling. “That is a relief, my lord.”

“Have you any injury?”

She shook her head. “Only bruised and chilled. And you?”

“I am whole.” I glanced at the fire. “There’s enough turf to last the night. We’ll be safe here.”

“Do you think it was all a dream, my lord?”

My eyes moved again to her face, but she was staring into the fire. Though I suspected her question was rhetorical, I tried to answer her anyway. “As you know, I struggle to distinguish dream from reality. Had we not shared the experience, I would assume that my hallucinations were increasing in severity.”

Her eyes were oddly bright in the firelight. “Do you recall what Captain O’Malley said when she was vexed with you?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Before Mr. Yeats interrupted her, she’d begun to say she didn’t care whether you were a descendant of the Danaan.”

Laughing quietly, I replied, “She did not strike me as an especially trustworthy person. I wouldn’t put stock in anything she said.”

Miss Q frowned. “Lord Meath, I’m sure I needn’t remind you that the most famous of the Danaan warriors was Diarmuid.”

I studied her a long moment. “You believe this is important because of the sword?”

“I believe this is important because inside the fairy mound, you told me you were Diarmuid. You spoke to me in a language I never learned—Old Irish, I now believe—and yet I understood you. And then you fought the púca with Diarmuid’s sword. I know that you want the world to take no notice of the fact you’re an earl, so I can only imagine how you might feel about a connection to the Danaan. But, my lord, I fear we no longer have the time for … for gentlemanly humility.”

All this came out in a rush, her chest rising and falling rapidly in her excitement. For an outburst of this kind to issue from such a patient and sensible lady, I knew she must be trying to draw my attention to something she believed vitally important.

And yet I could not see beyond the inconsistency in her story.

“I said that I am Diarmuid?”

Her lips parted, and she hesitated. “You did, sir.”

“What else did I say to you, Ada? What else did I say in Old Irish?”

I watched her throat work as she swallowed. “You said very little, my lord.”

I rose from my chair and stood with my back to the fire, facing her. Trying to intimidate her, I confess. “Anything I said could be important, could it not? Please tell me again what happened last night. No omissions this time.”

Ada

He stood nearly in silhouette, and yet his eyes flashed fire. Like the Gap galleon that had brought us here, he seemed to drift between Irish naval officer and earl, native of wind and wave, and restless ghost of all of Ireland’s wasted, lonely places. Places once sacred to Faery and blighted by their exodus.

A vision came to me then. I know of nothing else to call it.

The earl’s visage faded, and I saw a woman lying in a field of flowers. The skirts of her gown billowed around her middle—she was heavy with child. Her glistening hair fanned out over the moss that her head rested on. She was sleeping peacefully, one hand on her belly. A cloud passed in front of the sun, shading her form, and I noticed she was ringed by perhaps a dozen twiglike yet animate figures. They danced around her, their laughter like autumn leaves stirred by the wind.

“Be gone,” a voice commanded, and a man stepped into the clearing.

Now came a sound like flames licking dry wood. The twig dancers’ movements became jerkier and more insistent.

“Fate has woven together the threads of our being,” continued the speaker, still half veiled in shadow. “You shall not take her.”

The twig circle tightened around her, their crackling protests intensifying.

“The child of the child of her child, and still many generations hence,” he continued, stepping closer and speaking as though to disobedient children. His countenance was very like the earl’s but with a strange light behind his features. He was ageless and heartbreakingly beautiful. “I have foreseen that I shall know her.”

The twig dancers paused now, waiting and watching, and I could see they each wore a thimble-size red cap. In a single motion, each removed its cap and tossed it onto the resting lady.

The man bent low over her. With his head near her belly, he drew a sword, and my heart stopped. But he laid the sword beside the maid, and the twig dancers scattered with shrill cries of alarm. The man bent still lower, pressing a kiss onto her belly, then lifting her hand and placing the palm over his kiss.

“But, for now, we all go,” he whispered against her hand, “taking with us the Plague Warriors so that you may live.”

“Ada?”

I blinked once and then again. What was it I had seen? And what did it signify? The words he had spoken—I have foreseen that I shall know her—reminded me of the strange things the earl had said at Brú na Bóinne the evening before.

“Answer me, Ada,” the earl insisted, drawing closer.

Something reached out of him then. Something I couldn’t see and yet could feel deep in my throat. Words spilled like marbles from my lips: “Thee, my own love, whom I both know and know not.”

I clamped my hand over my mouth, astonished. I had not meant to speak, but had been unable to stop it. Somehow the earl had compelled me.

“What else was said?” he persisted, brow darkening.

I covered my left hand with my right, but unseen fingers prized apart my grip and I answered, again without meaning to, “Let me taste.”

“And then what?” His voice was taut with anger.

My fingers touched my lower lip of their own accord, and I gasped. He stared at me, eyes widening, as my fingertips continued moving independently of my will, tracing the outline of my mouth. I remembered the press of his lips in the chamber at Brú na Bóinne—how both the kiss and my reaction had confused me—and I closed my eyes.

“Stop, my lord!” I protested. “You are wrong to do this.”

“I …?” He took a step back from me, horrified, realizing what he had done. “God help me,” he choked out. He shook his head and sank down on the bench, gazing into the fire and repeating softly, “God help me.”

He reached for his flask, forgetting that his coat was lost to the sea. He dropped his head into his hands.

Dismayed and confused, I watched firelight play over his gleaming skin and dark curls. He appeared to be in the throes of a transformation. A kind of fairy enchantment, perhaps. Or was there a true connection between him and the Danaan? Even to Diarmuid himself?

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he murmured. “I was wrong to lure you as I have. I’ve risked your life, and I—I’ve taken terrible liberties. It’s driving me mad that I cannot remember what I’ve done, yet I have no right to force your disclosure. How is it possible that I can force you to anything?”

He looked up then, meeting my gaze. “Please believe that to my knowledge, I have never before done such a thing. I was not conscious of … of the trespass, until you demanded that I stop.”

His eyes had lost their fierceness. Now I saw only pain. The firelight danced along his cheekbones and jawline, and he very much resembled the man from my vision, with his ageless masculine beauty. I recalled that the mythical Diarmuid had been marked with a “love spot,” and any woman who saw him fell in love with him. Yet he himself had once fallen victim to a love spell that eventually destroyed him. Irish folktales were riddled with such contradictions.

“I do believe you, my lord,” I said quietly. “And I am sorry for your pain.”

He grimaced. “Do not apologize to me, madam. I have kept something from you that I should not have. I could not bring myself to tell you before—I believed that it might frighten you away from me. You should have been frightened away from me.”

I stepped closer to him and the fire and sat down on the bench, leaving a forearm’s distance between us. “What is it?” I asked in a clear and firm voice, bracing myself for what was to come.

“Do you recall that the night we met, I saw a banshee?”

“I do, yes.”

“Though I professed not to understand it, it was clear to me the banshee’s keen was for you. And though I’d only just met you, I could not bear the thought that harm might come to you. I feared that you would meet with some accident on the road, or worse. So I proposed that you accompany me to Brú na Bóinne.”

I sat a moment absorbing this confession, turning over the various ways in which it was troubling. “You did not intend to consult with me about the ruin.”

“Certainly, I did,” he countered. “Discovering you in the Green Faery was nothing short of serendipity. I mean to say it is not the only reason I made the offer. I had the idea that if I kept you close, I could protect you. But I was a fool.”

My overtaxed mind grappled feebly with this new information. Unless I misunderstood, he was telling me that a banshee had predicted my death. Not only that, he was confessing a protective impulse I could not understand in view of our brief acquaintance.

“How were you a fool, my lord?” I asked.

“Because surely I’m the reason your life is in danger. How many times have you almost died in my company?”

He had a point, and yet … “We cannot know that. We cannot even be sure that your interpretation of the warning is accurate.”

“But I should have told you,” he insisted. “It should have figured in your decision.”

“Yes, you should have,” I replied.

“I don’t know whether you can forgive me. I do know that if anything should happen to you, I—”

I held up my hand, and he fell silent. “You should have told me,” I continued, “but I doubt that it would have dissuaded me. I would have reasoned, as you did, that the danger lay in continuing on my intended course. And there was no way to be sure on which path danger lurked, except by setting out on one of them. Furthermore, the alternative you offered was very appealing. In short, my lord, I very much doubt that a more complete disclosure would have changed anything.”

Gratitude shone in the cool deep blue of his eyes. My words had had the intended effect of soothing his troubled mind. “As for our present perils,” I continued, “you have been as much at risk as I. And I have not died, sir. In fact, it is your quick thinking and action that have prevented my death up to now. I consider myself safer in your company than out of it.”

He gave me a pained smile. “It is kind of you to say so, and yet difficult for me to believe, considering my behavior in the past quarter hour.” He dropped his gaze, studying his hands now. “And also my reprehensible behavior at Brú na Bóinne.”

“I do not believe you are to blame for that,” I said. “Something unusual is happening to you, Lord Meath. Something transformational, perhaps. We have not yet understood it, but I believe that it has to do with Diarmuid and the Danaan, and that it is the reason your cousin is so anxious to speak to you. I fervently hope she will have some of the answers we seek. Until then, I hope you will cease to shoulder the burden for your … uncharacteristic behavior.”

He angled his body away from the fire to face me fully. The golden light washing over his practically bare torso loosened something in my belly. I half expected him to take me in his arms, and I confess I more-than-half wanted him to. Instead, he said, “I can cease to blame myself only if you will reassure me that I did not force myself on you, as I forced you to answer my questions just now.”

I broke eye contact, my heart racing. I could not truthfully reassure him on this point, and with him watching me so closely, I was unequal to lying to him. Not knowing what answer to give, I said nothing.

“Ah,” he said bleakly.

For a time, only our breathing and the crackle of burning turf were audible, but at last he said, “And may I know how much I have to answer for? May I assume that I stopped short of … of compromising you? And that if I had not, you would have called me out when I was myself again? Or at least fled me when you had the chance in Mullingar?”

“Yes, my lord, you were stopped short.” I realized too late that my overly precise wording was sure to raise even more questions.

“Were stopped … by you, Miss Q?”

I nodded. “Using Diarmuid’s sword.”

He made a choked sound, and I looked at him and decided that it was the result of unhappy laughter. The color had drained from his face. “Well, I am grateful for your self-sufficiency. Can you now explain to me why you did not quit me at Mullingar, as you certainly should have?”

In his shocked expression, I read all his thoughts. He was considering the fact that he had taken me into his protection and then subjected me to insult. He was a gentleman, after all, and I knew I would not easily talk him out of his self-recrimination. So, I didn’t choose the easy path.

“I will tell you why, my lord.”

He pressed his lips together and waited while I stoked my courage.

“First, because I know that you were not in your right mind, and second, because of the distress that you now feel upon hearing of it.” I dropped my gaze. “You are a gentleman, sir—in truth, one of the best I have known. Your pain and confusion trouble me, and I agreed to travel with you partly in the hope … in the hope I might find some way of easing your suffering. I have no wish to abandon you to your fate, whatever that may be.”

As I said these words, I knew that I’d made my decision. For better or worse, I would not flee back to London. Not yet, anyway.

My fingers had knotted themselves together in my lap, and a bead of perspiration collected above my lip. The earl’s hand moved toward my fingers, covering them and gently squeezing.

“And so we each have acted precipitously in the hope of helping the other,” he said. “I think that cannot be such a bad basis for a friendship.”

I raised my eyes to his face, hopeful. “I quite agree.”

A smile touched his lips. “And now, though we both have confessed that we’d rather not part, I fear that we must.”

I have no doubt that a stricken look crossed my face as I repeated, “We must?”

“You should rest. I, on the other hand, must not sleep without fortification against nightwalking.”

“You must be exhausted,” I argued, but of course, he was right.

“You have recently demonstrated your ability to look after yourself,” he replied, “yet I am unwilling to take the risk. And our sword, I fear, is lost. I insist that you try to sleep.”

One glance about the cottage was enough to convince me that my prospects for sleeping were grim. The chairs were of bare wood, and the bench was too narrow to lie on. The floor was earthen and no doubt damp and cold.

“Perhaps you might think of me as your brother for the night.”

My eyes darted back to his face. “My lord?”

“In that way, perhaps you won’t find it awkward or distasteful to rest against me and find both warmth and some measure of comfort.”

My heart throbbed, warm and eager, as he scooted to the end of the bench, resting his back against the wall. Shifting one leg to the other side, he made space for me.

My breath caught in my throat, and I began to tremble. There was simply no way I could think of this man as my brother. But neither could I find voice to reject his offer.

I moved closer, sinking down beside him on the bench. I hesitated, unable to meet his gaze, and he held open his arms. I wanted nothing so much as to feel whether the flesh of his chest was as warm as it looked.

“You may trust me, Miss Q,” he said softly. “I will watch over you. I will not sleep.”

Scooting closer, I tucked myself into him. One of his hands came to rest on the back of my head while the other fell at his side. I longed to feel his arms around me, but I also appreciated this demonstration of his pure intention.

Breathing deeply, I inhaled his salty warmth, still mingling with licorice sweetness despite the recent wash. I knew that I would never feel safer.

But in this quiet moment, I considered a thought that had been looming since his confession: Mightn’t the banshee’s keening mean that my death was imminent whatever path I set upon?