shall rise in rude torrents, hills shall be rent. The sea shall roll in red waves. Now come the Children of Domnu!”
The last words were a cry like thunder, loud and roaring so that Patrick wanted to cover his ears against it. The magic was paralyzing and horrible. The lamp puffed out, the wand leaped to terrible brightness and then died. Simon collapsed onto the floor. Darkness fell hard and complete.
Silence pounded in Patrick’s ears, and then he heard the room breathing, the faint in-and-out hush of the walls, the shivering of the floor as if he stood on something alive. They all stood as if held in place; Patrick was afraid to move.
What have we done?
But then someone lit the lamp again, and as Patrick blinked in the sudden light, Simon was helped to his feet.
“Now what?” Rory asked. “Did it work?”
“It felt like it worked,” Patrick said.
“So did the Fianna horn,” Jonathan reminded them.
And it had. There’d been the same sense of the room coming alive, the magic growing and ebbing like a tide.
“We’ll wait until midnight,” Rory said. “Then we’ll all go home and see what happens.”
There was a knock on the front door.
Patrick started. They shouldn’t have been able to hear it from the third floor. But this was loud and urgent, again a sound like thunder. The whole building seemed to reverberate.His heart climbed to his throat. He glanced across to Jonathan and saw the same fear tightening his friend’s face.
No, not fear. He didn’t want to feel fear. This was the answer to a prayer. A sign. Everything he’d ever wanted.
“Well,” Simon said with a smug smile. “It seems we have our answer.”
He headed for the stairs, and they all followed. Patrick was caught up in the excitement. The spell had worked. The magic was real!
At the bottom of the staircase, Simon paused. They gathered behind him like children waiting for someone to throw candy. Simon grinned—it reminded Patrick of the illustration of the Morrigan, the Irish war goddess, he had in his study.
Simon opened the door.
Standing on the threshold was a man. He was soaked to the skin, dark hair dripping lank to his shoulders, his clothing—an embroidered linen shirt, a scarlet cape—clinging to him. He stood in a pool of gathering water, though the night was dry and hot. There hadn’t been rain in days. Other than that, he looked like any man. He was of medium height and muscled. A thin scar slashed his cheek.
He looked at Simon and then past him, to where the others stood on the last few stairs.
“Hello, lads,” he said. “’Tis Daire Donn, King of the World and ally of the Fomori. I am their messenger. I believe you called?”
FIVE
Grace
I felt I moved in a dream those next days. I thought about gorgeous Patrick Devlin and the way his gaze had lingered on my mouth—I must have relived that moment a hundred times. He could not really have said
“You were only just becoming a beauty.”
Or he
had
said it but he hadn’t meant it. None of it. Not the
“I’ve loved you for some time,”
nor the
“Do you want to know me, Grace?”
—or at least he hadn’t said it in that way that clutched my heart and made me answer “Yes,” and in my head,
Yes yes yes.
I told myself he would think better of those things. There would be no invitation to tea, and nothing more would come of it.
But the invitation for me and my mother arrived, delivered by a messenger boy who stood on the stoop and said to Mama, “I’m to wait for an answer, ma’am”; and I began to think that perhaps my dreams of romance might come true after all.
My mother turned to me with a knowing look. “Now why, I wonder, would Sarah Devlin be so anxious to have us to tea, Grace?”
“I believe she thinks her son and I would make a good match.”
“Patrick,” Mama mused.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” I accused. “You’ve already spoken to Mrs. Devlin. The two of you conspired—”
Mama swept my words away with
The last words were a cry like thunder, loud and roaring so that Patrick wanted to cover his ears against it. The magic was paralyzing and horrible. The lamp puffed out, the wand leaped to terrible brightness and then died. Simon collapsed onto the floor. Darkness fell hard and complete.
Silence pounded in Patrick’s ears, and then he heard the room breathing, the faint in-and-out hush of the walls, the shivering of the floor as if he stood on something alive. They all stood as if held in place; Patrick was afraid to move.
What have we done?
But then someone lit the lamp again, and as Patrick blinked in the sudden light, Simon was helped to his feet.
“Now what?” Rory asked. “Did it work?”
“It felt like it worked,” Patrick said.
“So did the Fianna horn,” Jonathan reminded them.
And it had. There’d been the same sense of the room coming alive, the magic growing and ebbing like a tide.
“We’ll wait until midnight,” Rory said. “Then we’ll all go home and see what happens.”
There was a knock on the front door.
Patrick started. They shouldn’t have been able to hear it from the third floor. But this was loud and urgent, again a sound like thunder. The whole building seemed to reverberate.His heart climbed to his throat. He glanced across to Jonathan and saw the same fear tightening his friend’s face.
No, not fear. He didn’t want to feel fear. This was the answer to a prayer. A sign. Everything he’d ever wanted.
“Well,” Simon said with a smug smile. “It seems we have our answer.”
He headed for the stairs, and they all followed. Patrick was caught up in the excitement. The spell had worked. The magic was real!
At the bottom of the staircase, Simon paused. They gathered behind him like children waiting for someone to throw candy. Simon grinned—it reminded Patrick of the illustration of the Morrigan, the Irish war goddess, he had in his study.
Simon opened the door.
Standing on the threshold was a man. He was soaked to the skin, dark hair dripping lank to his shoulders, his clothing—an embroidered linen shirt, a scarlet cape—clinging to him. He stood in a pool of gathering water, though the night was dry and hot. There hadn’t been rain in days. Other than that, he looked like any man. He was of medium height and muscled. A thin scar slashed his cheek.
He looked at Simon and then past him, to where the others stood on the last few stairs.
“Hello, lads,” he said. “’Tis Daire Donn, King of the World and ally of the Fomori. I am their messenger. I believe you called?”
FIVE
Grace
I felt I moved in a dream those next days. I thought about gorgeous Patrick Devlin and the way his gaze had lingered on my mouth—I must have relived that moment a hundred times. He could not really have said
“You were only just becoming a beauty.”
Or he
had
said it but he hadn’t meant it. None of it. Not the
“I’ve loved you for some time,”
nor the
“Do you want to know me, Grace?”
—or at least he hadn’t said it in that way that clutched my heart and made me answer “Yes,” and in my head,
Yes yes yes.
I told myself he would think better of those things. There would be no invitation to tea, and nothing more would come of it.
But the invitation for me and my mother arrived, delivered by a messenger boy who stood on the stoop and said to Mama, “I’m to wait for an answer, ma’am”; and I began to think that perhaps my dreams of romance might come true after all.
My mother turned to me with a knowing look. “Now why, I wonder, would Sarah Devlin be so anxious to have us to tea, Grace?”
“I believe she thinks her son and I would make a good match.”
“Patrick,” Mama mused.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” I accused. “You’ve already spoken to Mrs. Devlin. The two of you conspired—”
Mama swept my words away with
Similar Books
