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.”
And still were, Breen thought.
“How do you know that?” she demanded as Marg set the glasses, the plate on the table. “I’ve never met you before.”
Marg took the tray back to the counter, sat. “My girl, I helped bring you into this world. It was my hands that drew you from your mother’s womb. Yelling, you were, your little fists shaking and ready to fight, and a down of red hair on your head, already curling.”
“You came to Philadelphia?”
“No, you were born here, just down the road at the farm.”
“No, that’s not right. I was born in Philadelphia. My mother said . . .” Had she? Breen wondered. Or had she herself simply assumed? “I thought—no, my birth certificate says I was born in Philadelphia.”
“Such things are easy enough to fix as you please, aren’t they now? Why would I lie to you about such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Where’s my father? Does he live nearby?”
Marg picked up her wine, sipped slowly. Then she set the glass down, met Breen’s eyes. And because she saw grief, Breen knew before the words were spoken.
“No. No, he’s not—”
“Do you think he wouldn’t come back to you if he could? That he would leave you? You, the light and heart of his life? He loved you beyond measure, and you know that for truth. Your own heart knows.”
“When?” Breen choked it out, then covered her face with her hand. “When?”
“You won’t want the comfort of my arms now, for you only remember tiny bits as yet. One day, I hope we can comfort each other. He was my boy, my life, my only child.”
Through a veil of tears, Breen saw sorrow, saw the depth of it.
“He came back, as it was his duty, as he was needed. He died a hero, understand that, fourteen years ago this past winter. Everyone in all the worlds owes him that honor and that debt.”
“I don’t understand. He wasn’t a soldier.”
“Oh, sure and he was much more than that.” Pride joined grief. “If he could’ve had his own wish, he’d have been but a father, a husband, a son, a farmer, but he was called, and answered.”
“Does my mother know?”
“I can’t tell you.” Marg picked up her wine again. “I would say she does, deep inside her, but it would be easier, wouldn’t it, to believe he’d just left. She loved him,” Marg said quickly. “Know that as well. When they met and made vows, made you, there was love between them, and deep, true.”
Sense memory, Marco called it. Because she knew this place, the farm, the air. She knew it in her heart.
“If I was born here, when did they leave? Why did they leave?”
“There’s a story here for another time, but I can say she was unhappy here, your mother, and grew . . . anxious for her own world.