A Little Magic(11)

“What is it?”

“Craibechan.” She smiled as his brows drew together. “A kind of soup,” she explained. “It’s hearty, and your appetite’s been off. You’ve lost more than a pound or two in recent weeks, and I feel the blame for that.”

Wanting to see just what craibechan consisted of—and to make sure there was no eye of newt or tongue of frog in the mix, he had started to reach for the lid on the pot. Now he drew back, faced her. He was going to make one vital point perfectly clear.

“I don’t believe in witches.”

A glint of amusement was in her eyes as she pushed back from the table. “We’ll set to working on that soon enough.”

“But I’m willing to consider some sort of…I don’t know…psychic connection.”

“That’s a beginning, then.” She took out a loaf of brown bread, set it in the oven to warm. “Would you have wine with your meal? There’s a bottle you could open. I’ve chilled it a bit.” She opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle.

He accepted it, studied the label. It was his favorite Bourdeax—a wine that he preferred chilled just a bit. Considering, he took the corkscrew she offered.

The obsessed-fan theory just didn’t hold, he decided, as he set the open bottle on the slate-gray counter to breathe. No matter how much information she might have dug up about him, she couldn’t have predicted he would come to Ireland—and certainly not to this place.

He would accept the oddity of a connection. What else could he call it? It had been her voice echoing through his dreams, her face floating through the mists of his memory. And it had been his hands on the wheel of the car he’d driven up to this place. To her.

It was time, he thought, to discover more about her.

“Bryna.”

She paused in the act of spooning stew into thick white bowls. “Aye?”

“How long have you lived here, alone like this?”

“The last five years I’ve been alone. It was part of the pattern. The wineglasses are to the right of you there.”

“How old are you?” He took down two crystal glasses, poured bloodred wine.

“Twenty-six. Four years less than you.” She set the bowls on the table, took one of the glasses. “My first memory of you, this time, was of you riding a horse made out of a broom around a parlor with blue curtains. A little black dog chased you. You called him Hero.”

She took a sip from her glass, set it down, then turned to take the warmed bread from the oven. “And when he died, fifteen years later on a hot summer day, you buried him in the backyard, and your parents helped you plant a rosebush over his grave. All of you wept, for he’d been very dear. Neither you nor your parents have had a pet since. You don’t think you have the heart to lose one again.”

He let out a long, uneasy breath, took a deep gulp of wine. None of that information, none of it, was in his official bio. And certainly none of the emotions were public fare. “Where is your family?”

“Oh, here and there.” She bent to give Hecate an affectionate scratch between the ears. “It’s difficult for them just now. There’s nothing they can do to help. But I feel them close, and that’s comfort enough.”

“So…your parents are witches too?”

She heard the amusement in his voice and bristled. “I’m a hereditary witch. My power and my gift runs through the blood, generation to generation. It’s not an avocation I have, Calin, nor is it a hobby or a game. It is my destiny, my legacy and my pride. And don’t be insulting me when you’re about to eat my food.” She tossed her head and sat down.

He scratched his chin. “Yes, ma’am.” He sat across from her, sniffed at the bowl. “Smells great.” He spooned up some, sampled, felt the spicy warmth of it spread through his system. “Tastes even better.”

“Don’t flatter me, either. You’re hungry enough to eat a plate of raw horsemeat.”

“Got me there.” He dug in with relish. “So, any eye of newt in here?”

Her eyes kindled. “Very funny.”

“I thought so.” It was either take the situation with humor or run screaming, he decided. “Anyway, what do you do up here alone?” No, he realized, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know that. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”

It was no use being annoyed with him, she told herself. No use at all. “You’re meaning to make money? Well, that’s a necessary thing.” She passed him the bread and salt butter. “I weave, and sell my wares. Sweaters, rugs, blankets, throws, and the like. It’s a soothing art, and a solitary one. It gives me independence.”