The sword gleamed in his hand, a shine of silver with its carving pulsing, its single red stone flaming. As he eased his grip that shine dulled, the flame began to gutter.

And she watched him.

He believed in you.

A choice? he thought. What bollocks. Honor left no choice.

So he pointed the sword toward the surface where the sun danced in diamonds. He watched the vision—for she was nothing more than that—smile.

Who are you? he demanded.

We’re both going to have to find out.

The sword carried him straight up, an arrow from a bow.

It cleaved through the water, then the air. The roar came up as the sun struck the blade, shot its light, its power across the water.

He rode it to the thick, damp grass, then did what he knew he must. He knelt at Mairghread’s feet.

“I would give this and all it means to you,” he said, as her son had, “for there is none more worthy.”

“My time is past.” She laid a hand on his head. “And yours begins.” She took his hand, brought him to his feet.

He heard nothing, saw nothing but her. “This was my wish,” she murmured, only for him.

“Why? I don’t know how to—”

She cut him off, a kiss to his cheek. “You know more than you think.” She held out the staff. “Take what’s yours, Keegan O’Broin.”

When he took the staff, she stepped back. “And do what comes next.”

He turned. They watched him, so many faces, so many eyes watching him. He recognized what churned inside him as fear, and felt the shame of it.

The sword chose him, he thought, and he chose to rise with it. There would be no more fear.

He lifted the staff so its dragon’s heart pulsed with life.

“With this, there will be justice on Talamh for all.” Now the sword.

“With this, all will be protected. I am Keegan O’Broin. All that I am or ever will be pledges this to the valleys, the hills, the forests and ballys, to the far reaches, to every Fey. I will stand for the light. I will live for Talamh, and should the gods deem, I will die for Talamh.”

They cheered him, and through the roar of it, he heard Marg say, “Well done, lad. Well done indeed.”

So they raised him up, the young taoiseach. And a new story began.

CHAPTER ONE

PHILADELPHIA

Sitting on a bus that seemed to have a bad case of the hiccups, Breen Kelly rubbed at the drumming ache in her temple.

She’d had a bad day that came at the end (thank God!) of a bad week that had spilled out from a bad month.

Or two.

She told herself to cheer up. It was Friday, and that meant two whole days before she’d be back in the classroom struggling to teach language arts to middle schoolers.

Of course, she’d spend a chunk of those two days grading papers, doing lesson plans, but she wouldn’t be in the classroom with all those eyes on her. Some bored, some manic, a few hopeful.

No, she wouldn’t stand there feeling as inadequate and out of place as any pubescent student who’d rather be anywhere else in the universe than the classroom.

She reminded herself teaching was the most honorable of professions. Rewarding, meaningful, vital.

Too bad she sucked at it.

The bus hiccupped to the next stop. A few people got off; a few people got on.

She observed. She was good at observing because it was so much easier than participating.

The woman in the gray pantsuit, phone in hand, frazzled eyes. Single mother heading home after work, checking on her kids, Breen decided. She probably never imagined her life would be so hard.

Now, a couple of teenage boys—high-tops, knee-length Adidas shorts, earbuds. Going to meet some pals, play some H-O-R-S-E, grab some pizza, catch a flick. An age, Breen thought, an enviable age, when a weekend meant nothing but fun.

The man in black, he . . . He looked right at her, looked deep, so she cut her eyes away. He looked familiar. Why did he look familiar? The silver hair, the mane of it, made her think: college professor.

But no, that wasn’t it. A college professor getting on the bus wouldn’t make her mouth go dry or her heart hammer. She had a terrible fear he’d walk back, sit next to her.

If he did, she’d never get off the bus. She’d just keep riding, riding, going nowhere, getting nowhere, a continual loop of nothing.

She knew it was crazy, didn’t care. She surged to her feet, rushed toward the front of the bus with her briefcase slapping against her hip. She didn’t look at him—didn’t dare—but had to brush by him to make the doors. Though he stepped to the side, she felt that her arm bumped his as she passed.

Her lungs shut down; her legs went weak. Someone asked if she was all right as she stumbled toward the doors. But she heard him, inside her head: Come home, Breen Siobhan. It’s time you came home.

She gripped the bar to keep her balance, nearly tripped on the steps. And ran.

She felt people look at her, turn their heads, stare, and wonder. That only made it worse. She hated to draw attention, tried so hard to blend, to just fade.

The bus hiccupped by.

Though her breath whistled in and out, the pressure on her chest eased. She ordered herself to slow down, just slow down and walk like a normal person.

It took her a minute to manage it, and another to orient herself.

She hadn’t had an anxiety attack that severe since the night before her first day in the classroom at Grady Middle. Marco, her best friend since kindergarten, had gotten her through that, and through the one—not quite as bad—before her first parent/teacher conference.

Just a man catching the bus, she told herself. No threat, for God’s sake. And she hadn’t heard him inside her head. Believing you heard other people’s thoughts equaled crazy.

Hadn’t her mother drummed that into her head since . . . always?

And now, because she’d had a moment of crazy, she had a solid half-mile walk. But that was fine, that was all right. It was a pretty spring evening, and she was—naturally—dressed correctly. The light raincoat—there’d been a 30 percent chance of rain—over the spring sweater, the sensible shoes.

She liked to walk. And hey, think of all the extra steps on her Fitbit.

So it messed up her schedule a little, what did it matter?

She was a twenty-six-year-old single female, and had absolutely no plans for a Friday night in May.

And if that wasn’t depressing enough, the anxiety attack worsened her headache.

She unzipped a section of her briefcase, took out a little pouch, and picked two Tylenol out of it. She downed them with water from the bottle in her briefcase.

She’d walk to her mother’s, pick up and sort the mail—as her mother refused to have the post office hold it when she was out of town—shred the junk mail, put bills, correspondence, and so on in the correct trays in her mother’s home office.

Open the windows to air out the duplex, water the plants—house and patio, as it hadn’t rained after all.

Close the windows after one hour, set the alarm, lock the doors. Catch the next bus and go home.

Toss dinner together: Friday night meant a salad topped with a grilled chicken breast, and—yes!—a glass of wine. Grade papers—post grades.

Sometimes she hated technology because school policy demanded she post those grades—then deal with students or parents who objected to same.

She walked, ticking off items on her list while people around her headed toward happy hour or an early dinner, or anywhere more interesting than her own destination.

She didn’t envy them—too much. She’d actually had a boyfriend, had worked dinner dates, theater dates, movie dates into her schedule. Sex, too. She’d thought it had all gone well, smooth and steady.

Until he dumped her.

That was fine, she thought. That was all right. It wasn’t as if they’d been madly in love. But she’d liked him, felt comfortable with him. And she’d thought the sex had been pretty good.

Of course when she’d had to tell her mother Grant wouldn’t escort her to her mother’s forty-sixth birthday party, and why, the stylish, successful Jennifer Wilcox, Philly Brand advertising agency’s media director, had rolled her eyes.

And done the expected “I told you so.”

Hard to argue as, well, she had.

Still, Breen had wanted to lash back.

You got married at nineteen! You had me when you were twenty. And less than a dozen years later you pushed and pushed and pushed him out. Whose fault is it he walked away from me—not just you, but me?

Was it her own? Breen wondered. Wasn’t she the common denominator with a mother who didn’t respect her and a father who hadn’t cared enough to stay in her life?

Even after he’d promised.

Old business, she told herself. Put it away.

She spent too much time in her head, she admitted, and felt relieved to find herself a block away from her mother’s town house.

A pretty, tree-lined neighborhood. A successful neighborhood, one populated by successful people, businesspeople, couples who enjoyed urban living, close access to good bars and restaurants, interesting shops.

All those rosy redbrick buildings, the perfectly painted trim, the sparkling windows. Here people jogged or hit the gym before work, walked along the river, had elegant dinner parties, wine tastings, read important books.

Or so she imagined.

Her best memories bloomed from a tiny house where her bedroom had a slanted ceiling. An old brick fireplace in the living room—not gas or electric, but wood-burning. Where the backyard was as full of adventure as the stories her father told her before bed at night.

Magical stories of magical places.

The arguments had spoiled it—the ones she heard through the walls, the ones she heard inside her head.

Then he’d gone away. At first just for a week or two, and he’d take her to the zoo—she’d been desperate to be a vet back then—or on a picnic on his Saturday visit.

Then he simply hadn’t come back.

More than fifteen years now, and she still hoped he would.

She took the key out of her change purse, a key given to her with a detailed list of instructions three weeks before, when her mother had left for one of her business trips followed by a restorative spa/ meditative retreat.