Through the Door (The Thin Veil) - By Jodi McIsaac Page 0,67

and the fair answer would be no. Now I’ve a question for you. I reckon I’d be in my rights to say yer unfamiliar with the goblet of Manannan mac Lir, yes?”

“Shocking, I know,” Cedar answered dryly, “but yes, you’re right. What does it do?”

“Tells the truth,” he said. “Or, rather, it tells if you’re telling the truth. Watch.” He took the goblet from Rohan and said, “My given name is Felix Dockendorff.” Instantly, the goblet shattered and fell in clattering pieces onto the floor. Cedar gasped and took a step back.

“Told a lie, then, didn’t I?” Felix said. “Now we’ll try for the truth. My given name is Toirdhealbhach MacDail re Deachai.”

Cedar watched in amazement as the shards on the floor reformed themselves into the goblet. Felix picked it up and handed it to her. She ran her hands around it. There was no evidence it had been lying in pieces only moments ago.

“Now you try it,” Felix said, watching her carefully. “Tell the goblet you’ve not got a daughter.”

Cedar stared at him, then down at the goblet. She felt her pulse quicken. What if this small cup in her hands confirmed what everyone had been saying? What if they were right, and she did have a daughter she couldn’t remember? She shuddered. She felt as though she were being played somehow. But if they were right, if she couldn’t even trust her own memories, it would mean she couldn’t trust herself. And then she would have no one.

She handed the cup back to Felix, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“I’ll do it.” Finn strode over to them and took the cup from Felix. Before Cedar could protest, he said, “Cedar McLeod does not have a child.”

The cup shattered and fell to the floor in pieces.

Cedar watched them fall as if in slow motion. She heard them clatter as they hit the floor, but felt strangely removed from the sound. Without knowing why, she bent down and picked up the shards, turning them over in her hands, examining each one as though it might dissolve into powder if she held it too tightly. She cupped her hands in front of her and whispered into them, “I have a daughter.” Then she handed the perfectly whole goblet back to Finn and, without looking at him, walked out of the room.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Maeve had met Brogan when she was seventeen years old. During her childhood, her grandmother had told her stories of fairies and leprechauns, of the mighty High Kings of Ireland, and of the great warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill. She had told her how Fionn and his followers, the Fianna, were going to awaken someday from their enchanted sleep to defend Ireland in its hour of greatest need, and free the north from what she called “those damned left-leggers.” Maeve’s mother had rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t be putting your republican ideas in her head, Ma. It’s naught to do with her. She’s a Canadian now.”

But the stories had stuck in Maeve’s head. In high school, she had written papers on Irish mythology and other aspects of Irish history and culture. For her graduation gift, her parents and grandparents had chipped in to send her to Ireland for the summer. She was to stay with her mother’s cousin and his family in Cork. Her grandmother had squeezed her hands and told her she wished she were young enough to go with her back to “the blessed isle.”

Maeve had spent the summer traveling around the island with her new friend, her second cousin Siobhan. That’s when she first saw Brogan. He was sitting on top of the ancient burial mound of Newgrange as the sun was beginning to set and the clouds were becoming rimmed with orange. Although Maeve and Siobhan were chatting animatedly as they approached, he did not appear to notice them coming. When they saw him, both girls stopped and simply stared. He looked to be tall and lean, with fair skin and dark, curly hair. He wore a black leather jacket, the collar turned up, over a tight white T-shirt. He sat on the hill with his chin resting on one hand, a brooding expression on his face. Siobhan whispered, “He looks like James Dean,” and seemed about to swoon. Maeve saw the similarities, but James Dean had been just a boy in comparison. This was a man, or something more than a man. He was, without a doubt, the most exquisite creature she had ever seen. Turning,