And all in Talamh are encouraged to go through, to explore, to spend time in another world. They may choose to stay in that world, and that is their right—but they must take the most sacred oath to never use their power to harm unless in defense of another. Even then, there must be a judgment. Some, like your mother, come to us and stay. Some find it’s not their place, and leave.”
“Wouldn’t they tell people about everything?”
“Who would believe them?” Marg said with a smile. “You, who remember some, have seen some, still struggle to believe.”
But believing wasn’t as hard as it had been, maybe should have been.
“I lived my whole life—at least since I was three—in this world. In a place so different from where I’m sitting right now. And I was taught for so long that I wasn’t just ordinary, but barely average.”
Something flashed in Marg’s eyes before she cast them down. “That was your mother’s fear to blame. I can believe she was wrong, very wrong, but not slap at her for it. You are far from ordinary, in any world, mo stór. You are brighter, stronger than you may think. What’s in you is sleeping. Let me help you wake, just a bit.”
She stood, held out her hand. When Breen put hers in it, she led her to the garden. “The rosemary there, such a useful plant. Would you touch it, think of it, how it grows, how it basks in the sun, fills the air with its fragrance.”
Seeing no harm, Breen brushed her fingers over the soft needles.
“Its roots spread through the earth. When the rain comes, it drinks. Think of it, what it needs, what it gives. Think of what you give it.”
She thought of it, how it smelled—how her fingers smelled when she ran them over it. How it branched up toward the sun. How it—
“It grew!”
To her astonished eyes, Breen watched the branches reach up another inch.
“You did that.”
The dangles at Marg’s ears glinted as she shook her head. “Not I, no. This is in you. I may not tell you all, not at once, but I will not lie. This is in you, and more. It’s all one, you see—linked together. Water, fire, earth, air, magicks. All in you as well.”
“All connected, Seamus said,” Breen murmured. “All bound together.”
“So it is. And this is enough for one day. I want to ask something of you.”
Breen turned, and Marg took her hands. “What do you want?”
“If you would come, stay a day or two with me.”
“You’ll take me to my father’s grave.”
“I will.”
“I need to write.”
“That won’t work.” Marg glanced at the laptop. “But there are other ways. I’ll help you so you can do what you love and need. A day or two, my darling girl.”
“All right. Tomorrow.”
“I’m more than grateful. We’ll leave her be now, won’t we, Fi.”
“And sure a lovely visit we’ve had.” Finola gathered her basket and rose. “Bright blessings on you, child.”
“Thanks . . . and on you.”
“Tomorrow then. I’ll watch for you.”
Breen stood where she was as they crossed the lawn to the woods. Bollocks trotted over with them, then raced back to her.
“I guess I should pack something. What do I pack to spend a couple days in another world?”
She opted for an abbreviated morning routine. The blog, the novel, the children’s book all got her attention even if she gave them all less time.
By midmorning, she hitched on her backpack and carried her nerves into the woods with Bollocks. She could feel his excitement in every step, and wondered if somehow he could feel her anxiety.
Either way, he led her, as before, through the shifting light and shadows while the pulse under her tattoo beat fast.
She thought of what her mother would say.
Don’t be stupid, Breen. You’re not equipped to handle any of this. Go back, book a flight, and come back where you belong. Follow the rules. Live a quiet life. If you reach too high, you’ll only fall.
And hearing all of that inside her head pushed her forward, lengthened her stride until she reached the tree.
And there it is, she thought. Strange and glorious and terrifying. Every logical bone in her body insisted a tree—however fantastic—couldn’t be a doorway to another world.
But she’d been there—and had the dog to prove it.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ right, Bollocks? So . . . here we go.”
He took that as a command, scrambled right up the rocks and branches. Remembering the