“Oh, aren’t you sweet! Look at those curls. Where’d you come from, cutie? Are you lost?”

He answered by racing in circles around her, leaping back to lick at her hands, her face.

“Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too. But you belong to someone, and someone takes good care of you. They’ll wonder where you are.”

She took out her phone to take a picture. After several blurred attempts, she managed one.

“I’m going to text this to Finola. Maybe she knows who you belong to.”

As she started to, he raced away toward the woods.

“No, now wait. You’ll get lost.”

She tried whistling him back. He did stop, wagging that hairless whip of a tail.

Then he raced in circles again, stopped, eyeing her.

“Fine, I’ll come to you.”

She should probably take him inside, text Finola.

But when she got close, he dashed toward the woods again. Stopped again, looking back as if to say: Come on! Let’s go!

Committed, she stuck her phone back in her pocket, and followed.

He must live nearby, she decided, as he showed no signs of being a stray. And, clearly, he knew where he wanted to go.

“Well, I wanted a walk, so I guess I get one this way.”

He trotted ahead, doubled back or waited, always keeping her in sight. Not in the direction that led to the village, she noted, so he probably didn’t come from there.

An outlying farm, maybe, or another cottage she’d yet to see.

Leaves and pine needles dripped on a path soft from the night’s rain. And the air swelled with the scents of damp earth and green. Blankets of moss coated the bark on trees and branches snuggled in the shade while the weak sun slid through here and there to dapple the earth.

The pup chased a big, black squirrel up a tree, where it scolded him with outraged chitters.

Because she’d never walked this deep in this direction, Breen made sure to pay attention, to fix landmarks—a fallen branch, a small clearing half ringed with starry white flowers, a huddle of gray stones, one as high as her waist.

As she walked on, she thought the trees grew thicker, taller. The path narrowed, roughened as if few walked this way.

But the dog gave another happy yip, and she heard her first cuckoo call.

She could find her way back, Breen assured herself. A few twists and turns, sure, but she had her landmarks, and she had the cottage on her phone’s GPS. She and her new friend were having an adventure.

She’d wanted to put a dog in her book, hadn’t she? And now here he was.

She avoided the brambles encroaching on the path, and so did the pup. Though he sniffed occasionally as if interested, and once squatted to pee.

She considered trying to grab him up, but wasn’t sure—at all—she could carry a big, wriggling pup all the way back to the cottage.

“We’ve come this far,” she told him, “might as well see it through.”

They walked by a bubbling little stream, and the pup leaped in to splash.

Webbed feet, she thought, meant some sort of water dog. Though too shallow for swimming, he scrambled up on rocks, down them again, stuck his nose in the water and enjoyed himself so much she took more pictures.

She’d share them with his owner, she decided. She felt certain the woods would open any minute to that farm or cottage.

He climbed out, shook wildly so the dense curls bounced. And with a wag of his skinny tail, trotted on.

Then she saw it and stopped in wonder and admiration.

Not the little farm or cottage, not an opening to the fretful sunlight.

The tree, enormous, had branches curving down, then up again like a giant’s arching arms. Some so big, so deeply dipped, they skimmed the ground before bowing up again.

Its trunk, wide as her arm span, grew out of a mound of large gray stones. Or the stones grew from the trunk—she couldn’t say which. Its leaves, larger than her hand, glowed a bold, bright green.

The dog sat in front of the wonder of it with what might have been a look of pride.

“Yes, I see where you brought me, and it’s amazing. Just amazing. Sit right here so I can get a picture. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She framed it in, tried a different angle, then another while the dog waited patiently.

“Is that carving on the trunk?”

She moved closer, and the dog rose to paw at her legs and wag.

“It is carving! I think it’s ogham—it looks like it. And what is that? Some symbols.”

She had to climb on the rocks, balance a hand on one of the curved branches to keep her balance for a closer look.

She’d have sworn it all vibrated—the stone under her feet, the wood under her hand.

She’d have sworn she heard it hum.

“We’re just excited, right?” she said to the dog. “We found a magic tree in the woods. I’m going to get some pictures of the carvings. I can google them later.”

She spread her legs, planted her feet until she felt steady enough. When the stacks of clouds smothered the sun, she used the flash. She took pictures of the leaves, thinking she could show them to Seamus. He might tell her what kind of tree this beauty was.

Then she crouched to study the base, the rocks.

“It’s like they’re one unit. I really can’t tell where the rocks start and the tree ends, or the other way around.”

She glanced back at the dog, who’d climbed onto the rocks behind her. “And I really don’t know how we’re going to get around it, as it’s wider, by a long shot, than the path. Unless we climb and crawl our way. And I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

He boosted himself onto the rock beside her.

“So let’s go back to the cottage. I can text Finola. I’ll get you a drink. I bet you could use one. Me, too.”

She rubbed his curly head. Before she could work out how to get an arm around him to secure him while she climbed down, he let out another series of barks and ran forward.

“Oh, don’t! Damn it!”

Muttering curses, calling herself an idiot, she crawled through after him. She swung her leg over one of the branches to sit, get her bearings.

And felt the world drop away.

PART II

DISCOVERY

Know thyself.

—Inscribed on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi

What we have to learn to do,

we learn by doing.

—Aristotle

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She lay flat on her back on thick grass under a brilliantly blue sky. The few clouds that puffed across it were as white and fluffy as the black-faced sheep grazing only a few feet away.

The puppy braced his front paws on her chest and licked madly at her face.

Had she fallen—hit her head?

She’d been in the woods, hadn’t she? The tree, and then . . .

She didn’t know what the hell happened.

“Okay, okay.” She pushed at the puppy, started to sit up.

Her head spun; her stomach turned over.

She lay back again, shut her eyes.

“I hit my head, I must have. A concussion maybe. I know it was gray and threatening rain before I fell. Jesus, how long have I been lying here?”

Slowly, an inch at a time, she braced on her elbow. Waiting, just breathing. But she could see the farm she’d imagined across a narrow dirt road. Big spotted cows grazed behind a stone fence, crops of some sort grew behind another.

The house—stone again, like the outbuildings—sat back from the road with smoke curling out of the chimneys.

“That must be home, right? I’m okay. I know my name, the date, where I am. Maybe a mild concussion.”

Carefully, she reached back, looked for a lump on her head. “It doesn’t hurt, and no bump. Just knocked the wind out of me. So, good.”

She sat up, had to close her eyes again before she got shakily to her feet.

Her ears rang.

A little dizzy, she admitted, and a little queasy, but she couldn’t lie there in a field with sheep. She just had to get across the road to the farmhouse, drink some water—God, she could use some water, and a ride back to the cottage.

She looked back to see how far she’d fallen, and saw the tree spread on the rise at the edge of the field.

No more than three feet, she judged, from those curved branches. How the hell did she knock herself silly dropping a couple feet, and onto thick grass?

But since she had, she walked carefully—staggered, really—to the stone fence. The dog climbed right over.

“Yeah, easy for you.”

Under her current circumstances, she had to work at it. When she reached the road, she aimed in a diagonal line for the house.

An iron gate spanned the gap in the stone fence, so she fixed that as her goal.

She heard singing—a man’s voice—and her gaze shifted over.

He sang as he walked behind a muscular horse, behind a plow that cut through rich brown earth.

He wore boots and trousers, with his hair spilling black beneath his cap.

She’d dreamed this once, she remembered. Maybe she dreamed again.

When he turned his head, when he saw her, he pulled the plow horse up.

For Breen the world went gray, all gray as she slid into a faint in the middle of the dirt road.

“Ah, Jesus! You stand, girl. You stand.” He came on the run, calling out, “Aisling! Aisling, come help. There’s a woman hurt out here.”

He didn’t bother with the gate, but vaulted over the stones to drop down beside Breen just as his sister burst out the front door.

“What woman? Where? Oh, dear gods, is she breathing?”

“She’s fainted is all. I’ve got her.”

“Bring her in. I’ll have the gate. Bring her inside, poor thing.”

Once she’d opened the gate, Aisling reached out to lay a hand on Breen’s cheek, then pulled it back. “Harken, she looks like—”

“I see it now. Well then, Marg said she’d come, and so she has. But it’s a hell of a welcome home.”

“Lay her on the divan there,” Aisling directed when he carried Breen inside. “I’ll get a cool cloth, some water.”