It arched over the farm, a curve of shimmering colors. As she made her way down the steps, a dragon, red as the stone around her neck, soared under it.

Solitude, she thought, yes, she prized it. But this? She’d been given a priceless treasure in this.

The dog leaped over the fence, raced across the road and over the farm fence to run mad circles around the wolfhound.

Beyond them, in a paddock, she saw Harken and Mahon at the head of a chestnut horse. A mare—obviously, Breen concluded—as Keegan held the bridle of his horse while the black stallion mounted her.

Both horses, all three of the men gleamed with sweat.

She’d never seen anything like it, found it powerful, sensual, and a little frightening as she stood on the grassy shoulder of the dirt road, watching.

The dog’s barks alerted Harken. When he glanced her way, he called out, “Good morning to you, Breen! We’re helping start a life here. You’re welcome to take a part.”

She thought: No. But she did climb over the fence to walk closer. And could feel, as she did, the lust, the pleasure, the ferocity from both animals in the mating.

It stirred in her own belly, heated in her own blood, and drew her to the paddock fence.

“Our pretty Eryn’s in season,” Mahon told her. He’d tied back his braids, much as Marco often did. “Merlin’s more than happy to have a go.”

“I can see that. You have to, ah, help? I assumed it was something they’d handle themselves.”

“That they can.” Harken shifted his grip, used his free hand to run soothing strokes down the mare’s neck. “We wanted to breed these two particularly, you see, and controlling the matter keeps either from suffering any hurts along the way.”

It took control, she could see that in the way Keegan’s muscles rippled with effort under his shirt, wet with sweat and rain.

Then she felt it, actually felt it, that shock of coming, of peaking, so she had to grip a hand on the fence as the horses let out trumpeting cries.

“Hold now, hold,” Keegan murmured to the stallion. “Give the lady another moment there. She’ll be giving you a fine foal by the next summer solstice.”

“How . . .” Because her voice felt thick, sounded breathless, Breen cleared her throat. “How can you be sure it took?”

He spared her a glance then. “The signs said this day, this hour, and each were given half an apple charmed for fertility before the mating. Easy now.”

He turned his attention back to the horses as the stallion released, planted his forelegs back on the ground. When Keegan unhooked the straps he’d used for control, the horse tossed his head, lifted up his forelegs to paw the air before taking what Breen considered a victory gallop around the paddock.

“Proud of himself, he is.”

Keegan swiped his hands on his trousers, smearing them with blood.

“Your hands.”

He shrugged. “Merlin can be overeager at such times. If you’ve come for training, I’ll need an hour first.”

“No.” Definitely no. “I’m on my way to see my grandmother.”

“Aisling would be happy to see you if you’ve the time.” Mahon continued to soothe the mare.

“I’ll try to go by.” She stepped back. “This was . . . interesting.”

Harken grinned after her. “I’ll wager she wasn’t expecting to see such a performance.”

“She needs to start training.”

“Ah, give her some room.” Harken swatted Keegan on the shoulder. “She’s brought herself back, hasn’t she now? Not all would.”

“Coming through isn’t enough, by far, and it won’t be bits of kitchen magicks that break Odran for once and all.”

“Patience, mo dheartháir.”

“Bugger patience.” But he said it with some humor. “I use up a lifetime’s worth every bloody time I’m stuck in the Capital. But I’ll leave her to Marg for now.”

The door of the cottage stood open and, considering that invitation enough, Bollocks went straight in.

Breen heard her grandmother’s voice greeting him.

A little less sure, Breen tapped a knuckle on the open door before she stepped inside.

“Come in, come in! Oh, aye, I have a biscuit for you, my lad.”

Breen walked in, saw Marg getting a biscuit out of a jar while the kettle steamed on the stove.

“It’s pleased I am to see you,” she said as she tapped a finger in the air to signal the dog to sit. “I’ve just come down for a cup of tea, and now I’ll have company with it.”

“I hope today’s all right to come.”

“You’re welcome any and all days. Sit, won’t you? I have biscuits for us as well.”

“I’ve been reading the book you made for me. I thought, if you have time, you could show me how to do something from it. Something simple,” she added. “I’ve been practicing the fire. I lit one last night—in the fireplace, I mean.”

“That’s grand.”

“It took awhile,” she admitted, “but then it felt natural. Is that right?”

“Right enough.” After squeezing a hand on Breen’s shoulder, Marg set a plate of cookies on the table.

“I need to ask. I saw Keegan when I left the other day, and he said I needed to train. To train to fight, and use a sword.”

Marg only sighed. “The boy has more patience than once he did, and still barely enough to fill a thimble.”

“So that’s not a no. I couldn’t use a sword to—I mean, even if I learned how to use one, which is doubtful, I couldn’t use it to whack at somebody.”

“There’s time enough to worry about such matters, but I’ll ask you to think what you might do if someone came in the door there with an eye to taking your life, or mine.”

“I—the first thought is run.”

“Not a bad thought, that one.” Smiling, Marg set the tea out. “But if running isn’t enough, would you simply stand and do nothing?”

Breen let out a sigh. “In our schools, I had to take my children—they’re just children—through drills. What they had to do if someone came in to hurt them. Hide. Lock the doors and hide. Run, if that doesn’t work. And it would be for me—as the one who has to look out for them—to fight if there’s no other way. I never had to put that to the test. But I believe, I do, that I’d have done whatever I could to protect them.”

“For this you train?”

“Yes. Yes, as a teacher you do.”

“This isn’t so very different. A sword wouldn’t be your only weapon. You have a strong weapon inside you—to use as a weapon only to protect.”

“I want to learn more about that.”

“So we will. First, I’ve done some reading myself. Your book.”

“Oh.”

“You gave me leave to read it, and so I did.” She looked down at the dog, smiled. “Oh, she’s got you, my man, down to the bone. You have skill with words, mo stór, and that’s a magick as well. Twice I read it through, and I laughed, and I thrilled to our boy’s adventures. So brave and true in the story, just as he is, and sweet of heart even when foolish.”

Marg reached over, patted Breen’s hand. “That’s the truth I promised you, not just a nan’s sentiment. Now, did you send it away to the people who make books?”

“No, I . . .” When Marg’s eyebrows rose up, Breen nodded. “You’re right, they can only say yes if they read it. I’ve done the research on how to submit, so I’ll do it tonight. I’ll just do it.”

“There now, a next step taken. So we’ll take another ourselves. Bring your tea.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out to where I do more than make teas and kitchen magicks.” Marg rose. “We could say we’re off to school.”

“Like Hogwarts?”

“Oh, and sure those are some fine stories. But no, for this, it’s only you and only me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They went out, then along a path deeper into the woods, beyond the lean-to where the horse dozed to where the stream curved under a small, arching stone bridge.

Another stone building stood, one half the size of the cottage. Unlike at the cottage, the thick door, covered with carvings, remained closed. Still, flowers spilled out of window boxes on either side of the door.

They crossed the bridge while a delighted Bollocks splashed into the stream.

Marg sent him an indulgent look. “He’ll be fine out here.”

“It’s like a workshop?”

“So it is, as it’s work we do inside. Give me your hand, child.” And she pressed Breen’s hand to the door under her own. “Now the door will open for you as well.”

It did, just like that, opened without a sound.

The sun eked in enough for Breen to make out worktables, shelves full of jars, dried herbs and plants hanging from lines. A couple of wooden chairs and stools.

“Light the fire.” Marg tapped her chest. “From here.”

Like a test, Breen thought, and had to push through nerves as she stepped over to the hearth. She’d practiced, she reminded herself. Last night, again this morning.

So she closed her eyes, visualized the fire, and calmed her mind until she felt heat. And drew that heat up, from belly to heart, from heart to mind.

Just a flicker, weak at first, but she pulled more, opened her eyes. The peat caught, simmered, shimmered, then burned full.

“Well done. Well done indeed. Now the candles. Above you.”

Breen looked up and saw more than a dozen candles in an iron ring. “They’re farther away than I’ve done.”

“Distance is no matter. Light the candles.”

She drew in breath, drew up the heat, and the candles flamed.

“There, you see, you’ve learned by doing what’s already known to you.”