“Charms, is it? Well then, that’ll send Odran packing in a hurry.”

“Don’t be dismissive. I’ve had dismissive all my life, and I’m done with it. The point is, I’m here and I’m learning. And right now I’m sitting on a goddamn horse.”

Boy saw his chance, swung his head over to grab some tasty-looking leaves. While her stomach pitched in panic, Breen let out a squeal as she slid in the saddle.

Keegan grabbed her arm to right her. “Control him, as he’ll take any opportunity to eat. He thinks he’s a light one on his back. Show him he’s wrong. You’ve the reins. Use them.”

“You could’ve warned me he’d do that.” But she muttered it as she fought Boy’s head back.

As they walked and wound on, she did her best to read the horse, to anticipate. And, though her heart hammered as the trail began to follow the rise and fall of hills, she didn’t squeal again.

When the trees thinned, they crossed a field where sheep scattered. Taking it as a cue, Bollocks chased them. She saw another farm, another dirt road, more cottages, most with clothes flapping on lines.

People worked the fields, the gardens, the livestock, pausing to raise a hand as they rode by.

Now and again Keegan paused to exchange some words, to introduce her—and politely.

She met a dozen, including a little girl who shyly offered her a daisy, and smiled when Breen tucked it in her hair.

That gesture earned Breen her first approving look from Keegan.

“You knew everyone’s name,” Breen commented as they rode on. “Do you know everyone here?”

“I was born in the valley,” he said simply. “They need to get a look at you, those who haven’t. Eian O’Ceallaigh’s daughter. And you at them, and more of Talamh than Marg’s cottage.”

Boy took an interest in a hedgerow. She pulled him back, muttered, “Don’t embarrass me. Is that a lake?”

She saw it in the distance, the way the sun struck the odd and eerie water of green.

The same color, she realized, as the river where Odran had once caged her.

“Lough na Fírinne. It means truth. And there all who choose dive in when the time comes for a new taoiseach.”

“For the sword.”

“Aye, for Cosantoir.”

She glanced at the one at his side. “Nan told me. You were just a boy.”

“I made my choice. You’re doing well enough. We’ll trot now before Merlin’s bored into sleep.”

“I’m not ready to—”

“You’re ready enough. Heels down, knees in. Match Boy’s gait. He’s got a smooth one.”

He nudged Merlin into a trot, and since Boy followed the leader, left her no choice. Her butt slapped the saddle; her teeth snapped together.

“Match his gait,” Keegan repeated. “Sit up straight, and lift and lower with him or your arse will be black and blue.”

She figured it already was. “I don’t know how to—”

But she did. Whether it was muscle memory, self-defense, or blind luck, she began to move with the quick, lively trot.

“Better,” Keegan judged. “Now turn him onto the road coming up on the right of you.”

Turn and trot?

And the damn road started rising again. But she held on, almost relaxed into it while they passed the black-faced sheep and spotted cows, the wide fields, the sweeps of waving grains.

It all smoothed out, so it took her a moment to realize the horse went faster.

“A nice, easy lope is all. Gods’ sake, woman, sit up straight. You’ve a spine in there, so use it.”

The speed worried her, more than a bit, but her ass didn’t want to bang and slap against the leather.

She didn’t realize until he told her to go back to a trot, then a walk, that they’d somehow circled around. She saw the farm, the bay, Aisling’s cottage.

She’d survived.

“Your seat needs improvement, and your hands are heavy yet, but you did well enough. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow you’ll learn how to saddle your own mount,” he added as they walked the horses down Marg’s path. “You dismount as you mounted, just in reverse.”

The ground looked entirely too far away, but she didn’t want his smirk. The minute she started to bring her leg over, the twinges pinged—everywhere. She bit back a moan, stiffened her knees as they quivered. And handed him the reins.

“Thanks for the lesson,” she said with her voice as stiff as her back.

“You did well enough,” he said again, then just turned Merlin, one hand holding Boy’s reins, and took them both in a fast trot up the path.

She waited until he was out of sight, then limped to the open door of the cottage.

That night, Breen followed Marg’s instructions and soaked in a hot bath laced with healing potion. Then she slathered every inch she could reach with balm. Propped in bed, the fire snapping, the dog sleeping, she wrote her blog.

She wrote of taking her first riding lesson—and though her instructor was more than a hard-ass and her muscles wept, she intended to go back for more.

Somehow, she thought, she had to figure a way to get pictures. Her blog followers expected them. But that was a problem for another day.

Over the next few days she learned how to cast a circle, how to make ritual candles, how to float a feather. She learned how to saddle a horse, how to groom one, and experienced her first gallop.

She solved the blog photo dilemma by asking Morena to bring Boy through the portal.

She made her wand. Under Marg’s supervision, she chose wood from a chestnut tree and a clear, polished crystal that pulled in and shot out light. She cleansed and imbued the crystal under the light of the moons. She chose a carving of a dragon, one that rode up the shaft of the wand toward the light, and marveled, though she could feel it—feel it inside—when the image in her head carved itself bold red into the chestnut.

When her first week of learning—a word she much preferred to training—passed, she took her first solo ride.

Following Marg’s directions, she walked Boy past the farm where Harken, Aisling’s oldest boy, Finian, and a man she didn’t recognize worked with the wolfhound and a lively border collie to herd some sheep into a pen.

Because she had an uneasy feeling those sheep might end up in lamb stew, she kept riding. More sheep dotted the hillsides, and overhead a pair of hawks circled. As she watched, one dived—so fast it blurred into a golden brown streak.

In the high grass, something let out a high, short scream.

Imagining a rabbit, thinking of the hard world of predator and prey, she rode on.

Then, the beauty astonished.

If Marg’s cottage was a song, Finola’s was an opera. Flowers flooded their way around the cottage with winding stone paths forming bridges. Wild and wonderful, they carpeted the ground, swam around shrubs and trees all pregnant with more blooms.

Here and there hung pretty little bird feeders, and birdbaths of copper shaped like open flowers.

A hummingbird, bright as a jewel, drank from the bold orange trumpet of a lily. Butterflies simply swarmed.

The scents—strong, subtle, sweet, spicy—all tangled together into a sumptuous drug.

The stones of the cottage itself glowed a rosy pink, with boxes at every window spilling with more flowers and trailing greenery. The door, a soft, dreamy blue, formed an arch.

Dazzled, she secured the horse as she’d been taught, then just wandered the paths. As she did, she heard voices. She followed them around the side of the cottage, through an arbor alive with white roses.

The sea of flowers continued, flowed into a fanciful herb garden where the plants formed rings, then the vegetable garden where Finola, a wide-brimmed straw hat over her hair, pulled a carrot for the basket on her arm.

Beyond her spread an orchard. Morena flew up, plucking what Breen clearly saw were lemons for her own basket. Then she flew down to where Seamus harvested—those had to be oranges—from the low branches of another tree.

How did they grow lemons and oranges in this climate?

Breen just shook her head and admitted she’d gone beyond the time for asking how.

Finola straightened, pushed a hand at the small of her back, and spotted Breen.

“Well, good day to you, Breen.”

“This is the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah, now listen to you.” But the pleasure showed as she walked to the end of the garden and along a path to Breen. “And how’s it all going with you, darling?”

“I’m learning. I’ve wanted to come sooner, but there’s been a lot of learning. I wanted to see you especially, to thank you for taking care of me all those years ago, for getting me away and to the farm.”

“Sure and anyone would do the same.”

“But it wasn’t anyone. It was you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, and don’t want to interrupt your work. I—You have lemons and oranges.”

“We do, aye, we do, and peaches and plums, apples and pears, and we’re growing bananas now from the funniest-looking trees.”

“Bananas.”

“It’s my Seamus who’s babied it along from a cutting Morena brought him back from a visit to the other side. Morena and my boys, myself, we’re handy in the garden, but Seamus, well, he—”

“Has a magic touch?”

Finola laughed. “Oh, he does that for certain.”

Morena flew down with her basket of lemons. “I see you have Boy out front. Riding on your own, are you now?”

“Keegan and Mahon had to go somewhere for the day, so I made a break for it.”

“Why don’t you get your Blue, Morena, and take a ride with your friend? Stop back on your way around and there’ll be lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” Breen repeated.

“I’ll jar some up for you to take to Marg, as she’s fond of it.”

“I wouldn’t mind a ride, or the company.”