“I’ll get them.” He pulled off his cap, pushed at his thick mop of hair while he studied Breen. “If she comes around before, she’s likely to be less frightened by another woman, I’m thinking. You’ll check, won’t you, if she’s hurt or if she just came through too fast and unprepared?”

“Aye, aye, go on then.”

She laid her hand on Breen’s cheek again, moved to her brow, then her throat, her heart, looking in, feeling. Satisfied, she drew a throw over Breen’s legs as Harken came back with a bowl and a cup.

“She’s fine, fine and strong with it. Just unsteady is all, from coming through.”

Taking the cloth from the bowl, she wrung it out, laid it over Breen’s forehead. Then took one of Breen’s hands in both of hers. Rubbed it.

“Come and wake now, Breen Siobhan O’Ceallaigh. Come slow and easy. Do you know what tea to brew, Harken?”

“Sure and I know what fecking tea to brew.”

“Of course, aye, don’t be so testy, and brew a cup. It’ll help her steady up. Slow and easy now, and all’s well.”

Breen opened her eyes and stared into as perfect a face as she’d ever seen. Porcelain skin, a bow-shaped mouth in a gentle smile, eyes as blue as the sky, thickly lashed as dark as the ebony hair that spilled out of a messy topknot.

“There you are now. You’ll have some water.” She slid an arm under Breen’s shoulders to lift her, then held a crockery cup to her lips.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. I was dizzy. I think I took a spill. There was a dog, a puppy . . .”

“This one here? The one looking at you with his heart in his eyes?”

“Yes. Is he yours?”

“No indeed. Not yours then?”

“No, he’s . . . I’m sorry. I’m Breen Kelly.”

“And it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Aisling—Hannigan,” she said after a slight hesitation. “And here’s my brother Harken Byrne, who scooped you up from the road.”

“Thank you. Thank you both.”

He had the look of his sister, though his skin had a ruddier hue and his cheeks carried a scruff.

“It’s nothing at all,” Harken told her. “I’ve tea brewing up. It’ll smooth it all out for you.”

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Struggling with embarrassment, Breen pushed herself up. And when the room spun slowly, braced a hand on the cushion of the divan.

“A bit dizzy yet?” Aisling asked her.

“Just a little, not nearly as much. I was trying to get the dog back home. He took me through the woods, and all the way to that amazing tree.”

Leaning back, she closed her eyes and didn’t see the look brother and sister exchanged.

“I must’ve lost my balance.”

“It happens, doesn’t it now? I’ll fetch the tea.”

“I should get back,” Breen said when Harken walked out of what Breen saw was a cozy living room with a hearth, a wooden floor, tables, chairs. “I don’t know what to do about the puppy.”

“I may have an idea about that, but here now, drink your tea first. It’ll help. Your stomach’s unsteady yet.”

“You’re right about that. Your farm’s beautiful,” she said as Harken came back with another cup.

“We tend it,” he said. “It tends us.”

“Thanks.” Grateful, she took the tea. “You were plowing—with a horse.”

“That I was. Starting, I was, the summer planting for the winter harvest.”

“It was like a book or movie.” Or a dream. “So charming. The tea’s wonderful. What is it?”

“A ginger tea with some mint, and some this and that.” Aisling smiled at her.

“It works.” Relieved, she set down the cup. She not only felt like herself again, but energized. “Thanks so much, for everything.”

“I wonder if you’d take a short walk with me.” Aisling looked down at the curly dog. “I think I may know where he came from.”

“Really? That would relieve my mind. He’s so sweet, and I’d hate for him to get lost or hurt.”

“No chance of it. I won’t be long, Harken. The babies should sleep until I’m back.”

“Not to worry. We’ll all be fine. It’s pleased I am to meet you, Breen.”

“I’m lucky I met you.” The kindness—it simply radiated from him—soothed her embarrassment. “Thanks again.” She walked outside with Aisling and the puppy on her heels. “You have children?”

“I do, yes. Finian’s near to three and Kavan’s sixteen months now. And there’s another growing strong.” She laid a hand on her belly.

“Oh, congratulations.”

“It best be a girl this time, I swear. I’m pining for a girl. My man’s off with my other brother on . . . business. There’s our cottage, you see there, where the bay curves into the land.”

Breen shielded her eyes from the sun. “It’s lovely.”

She must have gotten turned around in the woods, she realized. She’d have sworn the bay would have been on her left.

“I’m staying in a cottage not far from here.”

“Are you now?”

“Yes, for the summer. I love it there.”

“We’ll turn here. And I see the pup knows the way. I think we’ve solved the mystery of him.”

They walked off the road and back into the woods along a smooth brown path flanked with shrubs smothered in blossoms of pure snowy white.

When the path curved, Breen stopped.

The cottage, stone walled, thatched roofed, sat snugly in the clearing. Flowers rivered around it, poured out of window boxes of gleaming copper. The door, painted a bold blue, stood open as if expecting visitors.

Something squeezed her heart, twisted it so violently Breen pressed a hand against it. Her throat closed, snapping off her air.

“It’s all right now,” Aisling said quietly as she slid an arm around Breen’s waist. “Use your breath, and you’ll be fine.” Reaching up, she laid a hand over Breen’s, pressed.

The pressure eased.

“Sorry. Just a really strong case of déjà vu. It’s lovely, really lovely. Storybook time. Silly reaction.”

“Not at all. We’ll go in now, won’t we? I’ll wager Marg has the kettle on the hob.”

She came to the doorway, stood in the shadows. Her hair formed a crown of fiery red. In a sweater the color of wild plums, stone-gray trousers, and scarred boots, she looked regal, even when the dog raced up to plant his forepaws on her legs. With her posture soldier straight, she reached down to gracefully glide a hand over the dog’s head.

She knew that face, Breen thought. How could she not when it was like looking in a mirror, one that had aged a generation or two but remained perfectly clear?

“You’re welcome here,” she said. “You’re so very welcome here.”

Breen found her voice, and though it didn’t tremble, it came out raw. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mairghread O’Ceallaigh. Kelly, you would say. I’m your grandmother. Will you come in? It’s been a very long time.”

“I’ll leave you here.”

Shaken, Breen turned to Aisling. “But—”

“She’s waited for you, and you, I think, for her. I’ll see you again.”

“Thank you, Aisling, for bringing her.”

“More than happy. She had a bit of a turn on coming through, but she’s an O’Ceallaigh, after all. She’s steadied up. Go on now, Breen, and talk to your nan.”

Aisling gave her a quick rub on the back, then turned to walk back up the path.

“You’ve questions, so many. I’ll answer whatever I can.”

Isn’t that what she wanted? To find answers. Bracing herself for them, Breen stepped forward.

“We’ll have some tea, won’t we? And you,” Marg said to the dog, “I’ve a treat for you, then you’ll be a good boy.”

Marg stepped back; Breen stepped in.

Sunlight spilled through the open windows where sheer lace curtains fluttered. Two chairs, deeply cushioned in forest green, angled toward the stone hearth—unlit in the warmth of the day.

Candles and crystals and flowers decorated the stone mantel.

A small sofa, blue like the door, held plump pillows of intricate needlepoint and a throw of blues fading into greens.

“The kitchen’s a family place,” Marg said, and led the way back, through a stone arch, and into a room twice the size of the other.

A fire burned there, fragrant with peat, in a strange little stove where a copper kettle heated.

Open shelves and cupboards held bright blue dishes, white cups, gleaming glassware, little jars filled with color. On the gleaming wood counters sat more flowers, potted herbs, more jars.

Kitchen tools, skillets, pots, an apron all hung on pegs.

She knew this place, Breen thought. But how could she when she’d never been here?

Because her father had described it to her—that had to be the answer.

“I thought tea,” Marg began, “but you’re a bit pale, and it’s a day, isn’t it, for both of us. Why not wine? Will you sit, mo stór?”

But she stood. “Is my father here?”

“In you, in me, he is always. But not the way you’re meaning. Please sit. I’ve a need to myself.”

Breen sat at the little square of a table, clutched her hands together in her lap. Marg took something out of a jar, then tapped her finger in the air at the dog, who’d hopefully followed them in.

He sat, wiggled in anticipation. Whatever Marg gave him had him prancing off to sprawl in the corner and gnaw on it.

She poured a clear amber liquid out of a jug into stemless glasses, then set them on a painted tray with a plate of cookies.

“Shortbread biscuits. They were one of your favorites as a child.”