Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(22)

Another internal battle—to hold Riley’s gaze, to keep everything steady. “My mother might have sat for this.”

“There are others.” Reaching down, Sasha turned pages in her sketchbook. Profiles, full face, full body.

He made himself take the book, flip through as if it meant nothing . . . personal. But Jesus, even the half smile in this sketch here, the one that said: I know you’ve been up to something.

His mother to the life.

“She never dressed so . . . elaborately, and would usually have her hair braided back or put up, but these might have been drawn of her when she was young.”

“Could Sasha have, you know, picked up on Doyle’s memories? Not on purpose,” Sawyer said quickly. “But just felt them?”

“I don’t think so. I really don’t. Doyle wasn’t around when I worked on these, and I used Riley’s notes.”

“I’ve got a theory.”

Doyle glanced over at Riley. “Naturally.”

Before she could speak, Annika came in with Bran, leading with her laugh.

“I like helping make magick. I’d like to— Oh, hello.” Her quick smile faded when she focused in on the faces of her friends. “Something’s wrong. Do we have to fight?”

“No, not now, but it’s good we’re all here. We can go over all this at once.” Sasha held out a hand to Bran. “Let’s sit over in the lounge by the fire.”

“If there’s a pint involved, I’m ready for that.” As he took her hand, Bran glanced down at her sketches. “What’s this now? Did you dig out some old photos?”

“What? No, I—”

“This is my grandmother—my mother’s mother—to the life. Well, when she was twenty or so.” As he reached for the sketchbook, he caught Doyle’s hard stare. “What is it?”

“It’s the sound of my theory ringing the damn bell,” Riley said. “Your grandmother, Doyle’s mother.” Riley slapped a finger on the sketch. “Arianrhod.”

“I see.” Nodding slowly, Bran looked back at the sketch. “I feel I’ve missed a great deal.”

“She’s so beautiful.” Annika angled around for a better look. “Is Doyle’s mother Bran’s grandmother, and also a goddess? I don’t understand how this could be.”

“I don’t think so.” Sawyer slid an arm around Annika’s waist. “Let’s get you some wine, and catch everybody up.”

When they settled in the lounge, the fire snapping, drinks at hand, Riley remained standing. She rarely taught, and more rarely lectured—formally in any case—but when she did, she knew how to punch her points.

“I’m going to sum up, but first, Bran, you’ve read your ancestor’s journal, the one you gave me.”

“Of course. While it may have been written in purple, it gives a good firsthand accounting of the rising of the new queen, his time on the island. Some salt may be doused over the purple.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Expressions,” Sawyer told Annika. “I’ll explain later.”

“So you know he claims to have slept with Arianrhod—on all three of the nights he stayed on the island.”

“Well, even gods and sorcerers have needs, and it was quite the party. I don’t . . . Ah, I see. Of course.” Leaning back, lifting his beer, Bran nodded to Doyle. “She wanted a child—a magickal child.”

“Bloodline,” Riley said. “A child she could one day send to Ireland, to continue the bloodline. Descendants of that child settled right here, others migrated. Your family’s in Sligo.”

“They are, most of them,” Bran agreed. “And my grandmother’s grandmother was a Clare woman, a witch from Quilty. Not far from here, as the crow flies. So it fits, very well, wouldn’t you say? Brother?”

Doyle brooded into his beer. “I don’t know of any witches in my family history. And I wasn’t born immortal.”

As, to her, his grief bled through the iron shield he’d erected, Riley might have felt for him. But she had to press. “No talk around the fire of a relation with the sight or the power to heal, to commune with animals?”

He shifted, shot her an annoyed look. “There’s always talk. And it’s Ireland, so . . . ”

“Talk has roots somewhere. Regardless, you’re not going to argue the facts. Sasha drew Arianrhod, and the resemblance to your mother, to Bran’s grandmother is unarguable. We’re connected, the six of us. Sasha connected us, every one, when she was still in the States, drawing and painting visions she didn’t want to have. We all came to Corfu, at the same time. We all came together. You and Bran, you come from the same root, planted the night of the stars on the Island of Glass. And so do we all.”

“We’re all from her?” Annika asked.

“There are three goddesses. I doubt they’d have put all their eggs—pun intended—in one basket. Big celebration, lots of magickal people. Plenty, I imagine, of men who suited their needs. Shapeshifters, travelers, merpeople.

“Arianrhod came to Bran’s ancestor on the night of the stars, the same night Nerezza cursed them,” Riley continued. “The night the goddesses understood the seeds of—let’s say misfortune—had been sown. So they took steps to conceive and create guardians. The six. Us.”