you do that.”
But he looked so comfortable, watched her so sweetly, she let it go.
Her father was gone. She didn’t know how or why, but she had to accept that, too. He hadn’t abandoned her, hadn’t forgotten about her. He’d died.
Years ago, years and years, but her loss was as fresh as the moment. And something she didn’t know what to do with. She had the picture of him in her bedroom, and memories that came and went. But she needed more.
She needed to see his grave, and she’d ask her grandmother for something of his, just some token she could hold on to.
“So I’m going back,” she declared. “I guess I knew I would, but I need to work up to it.”
She described how Marg had made the air swirl and the fire roar, even as she asked how such a thing could be possible. How could Morena sprout wings and fly? How could . . .
She sat back again, realizing what she wrote now ran along the same themes and directions as the story she worked on every morning.
Not exact, no, not absolutely, but so close.
Because she’d always known. However fantastic, however opposed to the practical bent of her life, part of her had always known. The memories might be locked up inside, but they eked out, didn’t they, bit by bit as she opened herself up to tell a story.
To do what she’d wanted to do.
So, she wrote, it’s not just a matter of finding out who I am—and I’ve made progress on that. But what I am. What am I? Daughter of Talamh, daughter of the Fey, one of the Wise. Wisewomen equal witches. I don’t feel like a witch.
She shifted from the journal to a search on Irish water spaniels. The description fit Bollocks perfectly—and she found the nonshedding characteristic a nice bonus.
The breed boasted smart, energetic, affectionate dogs. Inquisitive, a bit of a clown. Loved water, naturally.
“In Irish folklore,” she read, “you’re supposed to be a descendent of the Dobhar-chú. And what the hell is that?”
She did another search. “Half dog, half otter or fish? Really? Oh, and a fierce predator of the oceans and rivers. You don’t look so fierce.”
He slid off the bed, stretched into a down-dog, and gave her a long, loving look.
“Getting hungry? Me, too. This took longer than I figured.”
He followed her into the kitchen.
The handwritten note tied to the cloth sack told her how much to give him, how often. And that he wouldn’t mind a bit if she added a raw egg or a bit of yogurt to the chunky kibble.
She chose the egg, as she had them on hand, and while he ate, scrambled some for herself with bits of Irish bacon, some cheese, tomatoes, broccoli.
She ate with the dog stretched over her feet, and tried to work out how to handle her daily blog. She couldn’t leave out the dog—and didn’t want to. She could say she got him from a neighbor. It was close enough to true.
She couldn’t write about her father’s death—not yet at least. And she wasn’t ready to. She couldn’t mention sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen, or—Jesus—alternate worlds.
She’d figure it out, just as she’d figure out what to tell Marco.
She got up to deal with her dishes, and the dog stood, staring at her.
“You want to go out. Okay, do I just assume that because it’s logical, or do I know because . . . I can read you. It feels like that. It doesn’t matter, does it? Let’s go out.”
He danced when she grabbed her jacket, then shot out the door she opened like a bullet.
He tore around the yard as if he’d escaped from prison, then danced again until she walked toward him.
At that he streaked—a curly bolt of lightning—toward the bay. Barking like a mad thing, he leaped into the water and swam, head bobbing, eyes full of joy.
“Fierce predator of the seas,” she said with a laugh.
Seabirds scattered, water splashed as he raced out, then in again.
Breen stood as the long-lived summer sun pushed against the western clouds to add just a glimmer to the sky. And realized she was absolutely, perfectly content.
She’d been happy enough in her solitude, but the dog—and yes, she’d always wanted one—added a shine.
Like the sun in a cloudy sky.
A change in routine didn’t hurt a thing. So Breen told herself as she adjusted hers to feed the dog his breakfast, take her walk with him before sitting down to blog.
He’d slept