Shadow Spell: Book Two of the Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy by Nora Roberts

can.”
    “We’re a circle.” It wasn’t anger in Iona’s voice, in her face, but a disappointment that carried a sharper sting. “We’re a family.”
    For a moment Fin’s gratitude, regret, longing rose so strong Connor couldn’t block it all. He caught only the edge, and that was enough to make him speak.
    “We’re both, and nothing changes it. Alone isn’t the way, and yet I thought of it myself. As have you,” he said to Boyle. “As have all of us at one time or another. Fin bears the mark, and did nothing to put it there. Which of us can say, with truth, if we were in his place, we wouldn’t have done the same?”
    “I’d have done the same. Connor has the right of it,” Meara added. “We’d all have done the same.”
    “Okay.” But Iona reached over to Fin. “Now don’t do it again.”
    “I’d take you and your sword with me as protection, but there’s no purpose to it. He’s found a way to cover himself from me, and I’ve yet to find the way under it.”
    “We’ll work longer and harder.” Branna picked up her wine again. “All of us needed time as well after the solstice, but we’ve not been hiding in the dark licking our wounds. We’ll work more, together and alone, and find whatever we’ve missed.”
    “We should meet like this more than we have been.” With a glance around the table, Boyle spooned up more stew. “It doesn’t have to be here, though Branna’s far better at cooking than me. But we could meet at Fin’s as well.”
    “I don’t mind the cooking,” Branna said quickly. “I enjoy it. And I’m here or over in the workshop most days, so it’s easy enough.”
    “Easier if it was planned, and we could all give you a hand,” Iona decided, then glanced around as Boyle had. “So. When shall we six meet again?”
    “Now it’s paraphrasing the English bard.” Branna rolled her eyes. “Every week. At least every week for now. More often if we feel we should. Connor’ll be working with me on his free days, as you should, Iona.”
    “I will. Free days, evenings, whatever we need.”
    There was a pause that went on just a beat too long for comfort.
    “And you, Fin.” Branna broke the bread she’d barely touched in half, took a bite. “When you can.”
    “I’ll keep my schedule loose as I can.”
    “And all of that, all of us, will be enough,” Connor determined, and went back to his stew.

6

    H E DREAMED OF THE BOY, AND SAT WITH HIM IN THE flickering light of a campfire ringed with rough gray stones. The moon hung full, a white ball swimming in a sea of stars. He smelled the smoke and the earth—and the horse. Not the Alastar that had been or was now, but a sturdy mare that stood slack-hipped as she dozed.
    On a branch above the horse, the hawk guarded.
    And he heard the night, all the whisperings of it in the wind.
    The boy sat with his knees drawn in, and his chin upon them.
    “I was sleeping,” he said.
    “And I. Is this your time or mine?”
    “I don’t know. But this is my home. Is it yours?”
    Connor looked toward the ruins of the cabin, over to the stone marking Sorcha’s grave. “It’s ours, as it was hers. What do you see there?”
    Eamon looked toward the ruins. “Our cabin, as we left it the morning my mother sent us away.”
    “As you left it?”
    “Aye. I want to go in, but the door won’t open for me. I know my mother’s not there, and we took all she told us to take. And still I want to go in as if she’d be there, by the fire waiting for me.”
    Eamon picked up a long stick, poked at the fire as boys often do. “What do you see?”
    It would hurt the boy’s heart to tell him he saw a ruin overgrown. And a gravestone. “I see you’re in your time, and I in mine. And yet . . .” He reached out, touched Eamon’s shoulder. “You feel my hand.”
    “I do. So we’re dreaming, but not.”
    “Power rules this place. Your mother’s and, I fear, Cabhan’s as well. We hurt him, you and I, so he brings no power here