Read Online Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) by Clare Austin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clare Austin
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is offer you a cup of tea” slipped out, sounding like someone else’s voice.
The moon rendered her garden in stark contrast to the whitewashed front of the cottage. Fuchsias as tall as a man, the blood-red blooms so heavy the branches bowed in homage to earth and rain. Muireann reached into a large flowerpot at the door and extracted a key so ancient it might have been forged by the heat of the earth’s first tempering.
She pushed the door open and flipped the light on. In the entry, sprawled across the tile floor, lay something that, if it hadn’t been snoring, would have been mistaken for a rug. “Who’s this?” Ty asked.
“Cú, wake up and say good evening to our guest.” She leaned down and nudged the sleeping giant with her hand, ruffling his fur. “He’s not much of a watch dog. He’s deaf as a post.”
The wolfhound stretched his long legs and stood, tipped his head and surveyed the intruder. He stepped forward and put his nose into Tynan’s crotch, took a sniff, and wagged a long tail in approval. “Not likely to nip my bollocks off?”
“Not as long as I’m here to tell him otherwise.”
“Cú? As in Cúchulain?” Ty scratched the wiry head behind a floppy ear. “So, Cú, a warrior are ya? Protecting your lady Muireann’s honor?”
Muireann laughed. “Too late.” She disappeared down a short hallway. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the tea on. And I think I should get out of my wet clothes.” Cú trotted at her heels as she left the room.
The inside of the cottage was classic nineteenth century. The low beamed ceiling and deep-set windows called from another era, but the plaster on the walls appeared new. Swirls, spirals, and triskelia emerged as though a shaman had summoned them from another dimension.
Oriental rugs over the stone floor, an enameled turf stove set into the old fireplace, and an overstuffed sofa with matching chairs spoke of an inhabitant for whom creature comforts held a high priority.
In one corner, a large ceramic vessel held dried herbs and willow branches. Handmade, with bold greens and blues intermixed, reminiscent of sea and sky. Set about were several smaller pieces with the same confident blend of light and dark, here a splash of yellow that mimicked sun on water, there a surreal moonscape, stark white on black. The work had a sensuality to it that brought Tynan’s blood rushing through his veins, warming him.
On the walls, mixed among photographs of family, hung sketches and watercolors. A theme of sea and sky threaded through them. As he studied the detail, Tynan started to see, almost hidden, as though a secret treasure to be discovered by an attentive observer, seals. The dark-eyed creatures were formed by the waves, rocks, and clouds, pulling his curiosity to the scenes even more intently. The artist had been more than clever. She had given the work a touch of whimsy.
Even the creator’s signature was woven, discreetly, into the lower right hand corner of each piece so it appeared to grow out of a clump of sea grass or bubble up from a wave licking the shore.
Muireann Ní Mháille.
Everything about her took his breath away.
A red glow lighted the leaded glass of the stove door. Tynan removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. He knelt and opened the stove a crack. The fire responded to the rush of air. He took the initiative to add two peat bricks, poking and adjusting the embers to encourage the heat to build.
The room was dim with only the light from one lamp and the fire. If he had not nearly bumped into the harp, he might not have noticed it. Draped in a vintage damask scarf, it made a haunting silhouette. He hoped Muireann wasn’t one of those people who forbade the touching of her instrument, because his hands were drawn to the silken wood. It felt warm, as though the oak were still alive. He was tempted to pluck the strings, hear its voice, let the vibrations travel from his fingertips through the still cool air
The moon rendered her garden in stark contrast to the whitewashed front of the cottage. Fuchsias as tall as a man, the blood-red blooms so heavy the branches bowed in homage to earth and rain. Muireann reached into a large flowerpot at the door and extracted a key so ancient it might have been forged by the heat of the earth’s first tempering.
She pushed the door open and flipped the light on. In the entry, sprawled across the tile floor, lay something that, if it hadn’t been snoring, would have been mistaken for a rug. “Who’s this?” Ty asked.
“Cú, wake up and say good evening to our guest.” She leaned down and nudged the sleeping giant with her hand, ruffling his fur. “He’s not much of a watch dog. He’s deaf as a post.”
The wolfhound stretched his long legs and stood, tipped his head and surveyed the intruder. He stepped forward and put his nose into Tynan’s crotch, took a sniff, and wagged a long tail in approval. “Not likely to nip my bollocks off?”
“Not as long as I’m here to tell him otherwise.”
“Cú? As in Cúchulain?” Ty scratched the wiry head behind a floppy ear. “So, Cú, a warrior are ya? Protecting your lady Muireann’s honor?”
Muireann laughed. “Too late.” She disappeared down a short hallway. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the tea on. And I think I should get out of my wet clothes.” Cú trotted at her heels as she left the room.
The inside of the cottage was classic nineteenth century. The low beamed ceiling and deep-set windows called from another era, but the plaster on the walls appeared new. Swirls, spirals, and triskelia emerged as though a shaman had summoned them from another dimension.
Oriental rugs over the stone floor, an enameled turf stove set into the old fireplace, and an overstuffed sofa with matching chairs spoke of an inhabitant for whom creature comforts held a high priority.
In one corner, a large ceramic vessel held dried herbs and willow branches. Handmade, with bold greens and blues intermixed, reminiscent of sea and sky. Set about were several smaller pieces with the same confident blend of light and dark, here a splash of yellow that mimicked sun on water, there a surreal moonscape, stark white on black. The work had a sensuality to it that brought Tynan’s blood rushing through his veins, warming him.
On the walls, mixed among photographs of family, hung sketches and watercolors. A theme of sea and sky threaded through them. As he studied the detail, Tynan started to see, almost hidden, as though a secret treasure to be discovered by an attentive observer, seals. The dark-eyed creatures were formed by the waves, rocks, and clouds, pulling his curiosity to the scenes even more intently. The artist had been more than clever. She had given the work a touch of whimsy.
Even the creator’s signature was woven, discreetly, into the lower right hand corner of each piece so it appeared to grow out of a clump of sea grass or bubble up from a wave licking the shore.
Muireann Ní Mháille.
Everything about her took his breath away.
A red glow lighted the leaded glass of the stove door. Tynan removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. He knelt and opened the stove a crack. The fire responded to the rush of air. He took the initiative to add two peat bricks, poking and adjusting the embers to encourage the heat to build.
The room was dim with only the light from one lamp and the fire. If he had not nearly bumped into the harp, he might not have noticed it. Draped in a vintage damask scarf, it made a haunting silhouette. He hoped Muireann wasn’t one of those people who forbade the touching of her instrument, because his hands were drawn to the silken wood. It felt warm, as though the oak were still alive. He was tempted to pluck the strings, hear its voice, let the vibrations travel from his fingertips through the still cool air
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