Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(42)

Declan looked long-suffering. He ate a handful of antacids and washed them down with coffee, which Ronan suspected was counter-indicated, but hell, everyone had their vices.

“What’s he saying?” Ronan asked.

“He’s saying he wants to be late for his recital,” Declan said sourly.

Matthew, still dancing and chanting, pointed at the now unwrapped Dark Lady where it was leaned against the cabinets. It was quite marvelous to see her in the full, hard light of morning. Last night’s dream had been reality, and vice versa. The Fairy Market existed; Bryde existed; the woman they’d seen with Aurora’s face existed. The Dark Lady peered at Ronan with her hard look. Aurora had been tender, trusting. There was none of that in this portrait.

Matthew finally swallowed his mouthful and sang, with more clarity: “More oh core-ah, More oh core-ah!”

Joining Ronan, he turned the painting over. The back of the painting was sealed neatly with brown paper, protecting the canvas. Matthew tapped the bottom right corner, where there was an inscription in their father’s handwriting. Mór ó Corra.

Ronan said it out loud himself, throwing his back into the Irish r’s. “‘More oh core-ah.’ ”

It did have a certain addictive ring to it. A certain nostalgic shape to the vowels that reminded him of his father, of the parts of his childhood that were unsullied by everything that came after. He’d nearly forgotten his father’s Northern Irish accent. What a ridiculous thing to forget.

Ronan looked at his older brother. “What’s Mór ó Corra?”

Declan said, “Who knows? It’s just a dream. Could be anything. Matthew, please for the love of Mary. Get dressed. Let’s please grease the wheels.”

This Declanism drove Matthew upstairs.

Declan’s words—just a dream—echoed in Ronan’s mind as he recalled how Bryde had forbidden him from ever saying them again. He asked Declan, “Did you dream of the sea?”

“Yes,” Declan said. “An Irish one.”

“So it performs as advertised.”

“Looks that way.”

Ronan’s phone buzzed with a text: Gansey.

Reached out to a few peers, it said, as if he were sixty instead of the same age as Ronan. Image you sent confirmed logo for Boudicca. All-lady group involved in the protection and organization of women in business. Henry says his mother thinks they’re pretty powerful.

Another text came in. Boudicca is actually a very interesting historical figure in her own right.

Another: She was a warrior queen of the Celts around 60 CE and she fought against the Romans

Another: Blue wants you to know Boudicca is

Another: Sorry sent too soon quote is ‘Boudicca is the original goth. Ronan Lynch wishes he was that badass’

Another: Is badass one word or two

Ronan’s phone displayed ellipses to show that Gansey was about to shoot off another text.

Ronan texted back hurriedly, If you have to ask you aren’t one. Thanks old man. I’ll wiki it.

Declan asked, “Parrish?”

“Gansey,” Ronan said. “He knows what Boudicca is. He knows about the card that woman”—he didn’t know what to call the woman with his mother’s face—“left with the mask-ladies last night.”

“Don’t go chasing this, Ronan,” Declan intoned. Hefting up the painting, he slid it into the nearest closet and closed the door on her. Ronan was no art aficionado, but he wasn’t exactly sure that was the display method he would have chosen. “I can see you think it’ll be fun, but it won’t be.” He was always doing that—guessing Ronan’s next action correctly, guessing his motivation incorrectly.

“You don’t want to know?”

“No.” He began to get ready to go: shoving dishes in the sink, stabbing food down the disposal with a spatula, rinsing out his coffee cup and setting it upside down on a towel. “No, I don’t. Matthew, come on, hurry up, two minutes! I’m giving up my day for this!”

Ronan snarled, “It’s like you checked out of the family at birth.”

He knew it was nasty. He knew it was the kind of thing that would’ve made Gansey say Ronan and Adam give him a knowing look. But he couldn’t help it. It was as though the less Declan got riled up, the less he seemed to care, the more Ronan wanted to make him break.

But Declan just continued stacking dishes, his voice as even-keeled as if they’d been discussing gardening. “Evolution favors the simplest organism, Ronan, and right now we’re the simplest organism.”

Ronan made a vow to never be as dull a person, as passionless a person, as dead a person as Declan Lynch.

“A fucking single-celled organism is the simplest organism,” Ronan said. “And there are three of us.”

Declan looked at him heavily. “As if I don’t think about that every single day.”

Matthew reappeared, dressed in all black—not the classy black of a funeral, but the rumpled black of either a server at a steakhouse or a student in a high school orchestra.

“Thank God,” Declan said, retrieving his car keys.

“You can if you like,” Matthew said. “But I dressed myself.”

He shot a look at Ronan to make sure his joke had been funny.

Acting like Ronan had not just been foul to him, Declan asked, “Ronan, are you coming to this thing?”