“Let’s make a deal, shall we? I won’t ask why the prince gave ye this beast,” he grumbled, leading the horse toward the trees, “and ye won’t ask how I made it home.”
The prince.
Rían.
He’d said he’d handle it.
He must’ve gone to Padraig after I left. Why would he introduce himself instead of maintaining his disguise? And why wouldn’t Padraig meet my gaze?
The horse trudged alongside him, its head bobbing as it walked.
I touched the coarse wool of his Padraig’s dark overcoat. “You know who he is?”
Impossible. Padraig was a good man. He would never associate with someone like Rían.
He stilled, his flatcap slipping when his head fell. “I know wherever the devil goes, death and destruction follow.”Padraig jerked the horse’s head so they were nose-to-nose. “Ye will tell ‘im that he’d do well to set his sights on someone else.”
The horse’s eyes shined a deep, golden yellow. There was knowledge there. Like he understood Padraig’s warning. I could’ve sworn the horsesmiled. And then it vanished.
Just like Rían.
Either the beast had magic . . . or Padraig did.
I’d known Padraig almost my entire life. If he had magic, I would’ve sensed it . . . Wouldn’t I?
He was small and more wrinkled than not, with wisps of white hair sticking out from beneath his dark wool cap. The short white whiskers on his chin glistened in the evening light.
He looked as human as me.
Until the kind blue eyes I’d seen a thousand times began to glow.
“Padraig?”
It couldn’t be. I knew him. Iknewhim.
As I stumbled back, my boot caught on a stone.
The world tilted.
There was a flash of pain.
And everything went dark.
* * *
Warm, soothing chamomile tickled my nose, reminding me of carefree days racing with Keelynn through the gardens. The long-forgotten memory left me smiling. When I opened my eyes, I found myself on a raggedy sofa beneath the lone window in Padraig’s tiny cottage.
The place seemed smaller than the last time I’d been here. It must’ve been at least six years ago. A tatty quilt covered the small bed in the corner; two worn upholstered chairs had been parked in front of the fire.
Padraig’s wife had died around the time our mother had passed. I could barely recall what she’d looked like, but I remembered her always serving chamomile tea.
Pots and pans clanged as he moved around the area that served as a kitchen. A set of cupboards hung unevenly above a dry sink. Steam rose from a pot over the fire, licking at the dry-stacked stones on the chimney.
Padraig glanced at me over his shoulder. In his gnarled hands, he clasped a chipped cup of fragrant herbal tea. “Here. Drink this.”
His flatcap hung on the back of one of the two chairs at a tiny wooden table. His thinning white hair barely covered the tips of his ears.
Ears that came to a delicate point at the top.