Through the Door (The Thin Veil) - By Jodi McIsaac Page 0,40

Brighid said to Finn.

“Er, yes,” Finn said, holding out a chair. “Cedar, this is Brighid,” he said.

“So I gathered,” Cedar said dryly as Brighid settled herself dramatically into the proffered chair. Cedar pulled out her own chair and sat down across the table. A young woman appeared with a pot of coffee and took their breakfast orders.

“Brighid is one of the leads in the musical Jezebel here on Broadway,” Finn explained once the server had left.

“Seriously?” Cedar asked. Finn and Brighid looked at her. “I mean, I guess I just didn’t expect that’s what someone like you would be doing. No offense. I’ve heard the show’s great.”

To Cedar’s surprise, Brighid threw back her head and laughed. Her voice boomed across the café, and several people turned to stare.

“Well, you’re probably right,” she said when she had stopped laughing. “I’ve done a great many things, some important, some not. But the nice thing about being around for as long as I have is that you get to try a bit of everything.” She gave Finn a sly look. “Well, almost everything.”

Finn blushed but smiled. “You don’t need to make Cedar jealous. She hates my guts, and rightfully so.”

Brighid raised an eyebrow at Cedar. “Really?” she said. “Well, isn’t that a shame. He’s a very nice boy, you know. He was absolutely miserable when he had to leave you. Sulked in a corner of my flat for a week. Or was it a month? At any rate, you shouldn’t be too hard on him. He’s very useful to have around. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, well, you should really give him a second chance.”

Finn cleared his throat and leaned across the table. “Brid, on the phone you said you’d be able to help us—that you know where we can find an accurate depiction of Tír na nÓg.”

“Mmm, yes, well, I must say I’m surprised that none of you have one.”

“Have one what?” Finn asked.

“A painting,” she said. “I suppose you haven’t been away long enough to want one for sentimentality’s sake.” Turning to Cedar, she explained, “I only get back to Tír na nÓg once every couple of centuries or so. It’s good to see the old place, but I must say I prefer the company here. It’s a beautiful country, though—I’ll give you that. Far more spectacular than anything you’ll find here, and believe me, I have seen the world. At any rate, a few years ago I commissioned a painting of the place—well, of one of my favorite little nooks. One of my lovers was a rather well-known landscape artist at the time. I’m no shabby artist myself, of course, but it was much more romantic to have it painted for me than to do it myself. And he was good—very good, in fact—once I had described the scene in detail and given him a few sketches. When he was done, I gave it the finishing touches, and I swear I could have almost walked right through it into Tír na nÓg. I couldn’t really, of course—I still had to use those silly sidhe, but the likeness was remarkable.”

“Do you still have it?” Cedar asked. “The painting?” She was thinking of the picture she had hastily sketched for Eden, and how it hadn’t worked. But if this painting was as lifelike as Brighid said, maybe it really would help Eden open a sidh to Tír na nÓg.

Brighid inspected her nails. “Well, no. That was…oh, I suppose it was a couple hundred years ago, now that I think of it. So it’s been a little while. I was loath to let it go. I was almost as fond of it as I am of Fionnbharr here.” She reached out a smooth hand and patted Finn’s cheek. “But Deardra had done me a great favor, and that’s what she wanted in return.” She shrugged. “I won’t bore you with the details of what she did for me, but let’s just say that after that I could hardly refuse her anything she wanted. And I suppose another artist will always come along sooner or later.”

“Who is Deardra?” Cedar asked.

Brighid looked at her in surprise. “Haven’t they told you anything?”

“Deardra is, well, I suppose you’d call her a mermaid,” Finn answered quickly.

“A what?”

“I think you’d be surprised by how many of your legends and fairy tales are based in truth,” he said with a small smile. “Only we call them the Merrow, not mermaids. Deardra is their queen.” He turned