Read Online Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) by Clare Austin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clare Austin
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of the room.
Tynan’s sister, Kerry, was a harper. He knew his way around these ancient instruments. In Irish legend, the first harp had been the rib cage of a whale. The wind off the sea sang through the matrix and produced a plaintive moaning that became the first harp song.
This harp maker had put imagination and skill into the carving of a figurehead where the pillar was jointed to the harmonic curve. A woman’s face, gently rendered, long hair streamed behind her to become tangles of seaweed blending into the natural grain of the timber.
Tynan scrutinized the detail in the face, its expression one of dreamlike wonder. He ran his thumb over the carved surface, memorizing the features. Familiarity held him captive. His mind begged for recall and would not allow dismissal until the puzzle was solved.
“Do you take milk?” Muireann called from the kitchen.
“No, thanks, plain, no sugar.” He said and stood, turning toward the kitchen door. “Let me give you a hand.”
“Ach, no. Take a load off.” She entered the sitting room balancing a tray with biscuits and two steaming mugs that she set on a low table.
“This is one of the most beautiful harps I think I’ve ever seen,” Ty commented, ran his fingers along the shoulder to the seamless joining to the sound box. “Does it sound as good as it looks?”
“In the right hands it does.” She reached out and plucked a simple chord. “This was my brother’s creation. I don’t play.”
“My sister’s a harper. I’d love to give her one like this.”
“My brother is gone, and this harp is not for sale,” she said with a brittle edge to her voice, walked past Tynan, and sat in the chair adjacent to the turf stove.
He had a flash in his mind of the picture of Ronan at the harp, the hound at his feet, and the prayer card he’d seen in Mary’s entry way and his heart ached for Muireann’s loss.
Tynan moved to the sofa and sat across from her.
The glow of the fire spread in prismatic beams, lighting the angles of her face. Still wet tendrils of long, dark hair twisted over her shoulders and down her back. A vivid image pierced Tynan’s memory and imagination became reality.
Incredulity punched the air out of his lungs. “It was you.”
“Who?”
“That was you. On the beach, below the cliffs.” Naked, brazen, stunning.
Muireann handed him his tea, stretched like a lazy feline, and propped her bare feet up on an ottoman. “Of course it was,” she said, took a sip and grinned over the rim of her cup.
Tynan threw his head back and laughed with relief and a touch of embarrassment. He hadn’t dreamed her, she wasn’t some magical creature from the sea. This Muireann was flesh and bone, nicely arranged and within reach. He had seen those same tousled locks, not a mantle of water plants. Her long limbs were those of a woman and not a seal turned mortal.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” he said and admitted only to himself, she was no disappointment.
“Don’t tell me you thought I was a selkie? One of the Ó Conghaile ready to sing you out to sea and drown you?”
“It’s Ireland; stranger things have been known to happen when a man is caught off guard.” She could sing him straight to the gates of glory—or damnation—and he’d go with a grin on his face.
Muireann had shed her wet T-shirt and pulled on a high-necked polo and a loose Aran jumper. She’d changed her jeans for a long skirt. Other than her naked feet, nothing of her body was exposed, but Ty scanned her with imagination. The clothes dropped away and all he could see was her lithe contours and full breasts. When he worked his way down to the triangle of dark hair at the apex of her slim thighs, there was no stopping the physical reaction she elicited in him. He tried with no success to stop thinking like a horny adolescent.
“Are you shocked by me?” she asked, reaching for a biscuit from the tray.
Ty sipped from his tea to wet the dry
Tynan’s sister, Kerry, was a harper. He knew his way around these ancient instruments. In Irish legend, the first harp had been the rib cage of a whale. The wind off the sea sang through the matrix and produced a plaintive moaning that became the first harp song.
This harp maker had put imagination and skill into the carving of a figurehead where the pillar was jointed to the harmonic curve. A woman’s face, gently rendered, long hair streamed behind her to become tangles of seaweed blending into the natural grain of the timber.
Tynan scrutinized the detail in the face, its expression one of dreamlike wonder. He ran his thumb over the carved surface, memorizing the features. Familiarity held him captive. His mind begged for recall and would not allow dismissal until the puzzle was solved.
“Do you take milk?” Muireann called from the kitchen.
“No, thanks, plain, no sugar.” He said and stood, turning toward the kitchen door. “Let me give you a hand.”
“Ach, no. Take a load off.” She entered the sitting room balancing a tray with biscuits and two steaming mugs that she set on a low table.
“This is one of the most beautiful harps I think I’ve ever seen,” Ty commented, ran his fingers along the shoulder to the seamless joining to the sound box. “Does it sound as good as it looks?”
“In the right hands it does.” She reached out and plucked a simple chord. “This was my brother’s creation. I don’t play.”
“My sister’s a harper. I’d love to give her one like this.”
“My brother is gone, and this harp is not for sale,” she said with a brittle edge to her voice, walked past Tynan, and sat in the chair adjacent to the turf stove.
He had a flash in his mind of the picture of Ronan at the harp, the hound at his feet, and the prayer card he’d seen in Mary’s entry way and his heart ached for Muireann’s loss.
Tynan moved to the sofa and sat across from her.
The glow of the fire spread in prismatic beams, lighting the angles of her face. Still wet tendrils of long, dark hair twisted over her shoulders and down her back. A vivid image pierced Tynan’s memory and imagination became reality.
Incredulity punched the air out of his lungs. “It was you.”
“Who?”
“That was you. On the beach, below the cliffs.” Naked, brazen, stunning.
Muireann handed him his tea, stretched like a lazy feline, and propped her bare feet up on an ottoman. “Of course it was,” she said, took a sip and grinned over the rim of her cup.
Tynan threw his head back and laughed with relief and a touch of embarrassment. He hadn’t dreamed her, she wasn’t some magical creature from the sea. This Muireann was flesh and bone, nicely arranged and within reach. He had seen those same tousled locks, not a mantle of water plants. Her long limbs were those of a woman and not a seal turned mortal.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” he said and admitted only to himself, she was no disappointment.
“Don’t tell me you thought I was a selkie? One of the Ó Conghaile ready to sing you out to sea and drown you?”
“It’s Ireland; stranger things have been known to happen when a man is caught off guard.” She could sing him straight to the gates of glory—or damnation—and he’d go with a grin on his face.
Muireann had shed her wet T-shirt and pulled on a high-necked polo and a loose Aran jumper. She’d changed her jeans for a long skirt. Other than her naked feet, nothing of her body was exposed, but Ty scanned her with imagination. The clothes dropped away and all he could see was her lithe contours and full breasts. When he worked his way down to the triangle of dark hair at the apex of her slim thighs, there was no stopping the physical reaction she elicited in him. He tried with no success to stop thinking like a horny adolescent.
“Are you shocked by me?” she asked, reaching for a biscuit from the tray.
Ty sipped from his tea to wet the dry
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