Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(14)

“Okay.” She bent over from the waist until she caught her breath. “All right.”

Exploring would definitely wait for a bright, sunny day. Or at least a brighter, dryer one. She picked up her soaked and muddy umbrella and pressed on.

She should’ve waited on the whole thing, she told herself. Now she was wet and flustered and, she realized, more travel weary than she’d expected. She should be napping in her warm hotel bed, snuggled in listening to the rain instead of trudging through it.

And now—perfect—fog rolled in, surfing over the ground like waves on the shore. Mists thickened like those vines, and the rain sounded like voices muttering.

Or there were voices muttering, she thought. In a language she shouldn’t understand, but almost did. She quickened her pace, as anxious to get out of the woods as she’d been to get into them.

The cold turned brutal until she saw her breath hazing out. Now the voices sounded in her head: Turn back. Turn back.

It was stubbornness as much as anxiety that had her pushing ahead until she nearly ran along the slippery path.

And like the dog, burst into the clear.

The rain was just the rain, the wind just the wind. The path opened into a road, with a few houses, smoke puffing out of chimneys. And beyond, the beauty of the mist-shrouded hills.

“Too much imagination, not enough sleep,” she told herself.

She saw dooryard gardens resting their bright blooms for spring, cars parked on the roadside or in short drives.

Not far now, according to Nan’s map, so she walked along the road, counting houses.

It sat farther off the road than the others, farther apart as if it needed breathing room. The pretty thatched-roofed cottage with its deep blue walls and bright red door transmitted that same storybook vibe—yet a shiny silver Mini sat in the little driveway. The cottage itself jogged into an L, fronted by curved glass. Even in the winter, pots of bright pansies sat on the stoops, their exotic faces turned upward to drink in the rain.

A sign of aged wood hung above the curve of glass. Its deeply carved letters read:

THE DARK WITCH

“I found her.” For a moment Iona just stood in the rain, closed her eyes. Every decision she’d made in the last six weeks—perhaps every one she’d made in her life—had led to this.

She wasn’t sure whether to go to the L—the workshop, Nan had told her—or the cottage entrance. But as she walked closer she saw the gleam of light on the glass. And closer still, the shelves holding bottles full of color—bright or soft—hanks of hanging herbs. Mortars and pestles, bowls and . . . cauldrons?

Steam puffed from one on a stove top, and a woman stood at a work counter, grinding something.

Iona’s first thought was how unfair it seemed that some women could look like that even without fussing. The dark hair bundled up, sexily messy, the rosy flush from the work and the steam. The fine bones that said beauty from birth to death, and the deeply sculpted mouth just slightly curved in a contented smile.

Was it genes or magick? she wondered. But then, for some, one was the same as the other.

She gathered her courage and, setting her umbrella aside, reached for the door handle.

She barely touched it when the woman looked up, over. The smile deepened, polite welcome, so Iona opened the door, stepped in.

And the smile faded. Eyes of smoke gray held so intensely on her face that Iona stopped where she was, just over the threshold.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s in you are.”

“I . . . I guess I am. I should’ve knocked. I’m sorry, I . . . God, it smells amazing in here. Rosemary and basil and lavender, and . . . everything. I’m sorry,” she said again. “Are you Branna O’Dwyer?”

“I am, yes.” As she answered, she took a towel from under the counter, crossed to Iona. “You’re soaked through.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m dripping on the floor. I walked over from the castle. From the hotel. I’m staying at Ashford Castle.”

“Lucky you, it’s a grand place.”

“It’s like a dream, at least what I’ve seen of it. I just got here. I mean, a couple hours ago, and I wanted to come to see you right away. I came to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

“You’re sorry for a lot it seems, in such a short time.”

“Ha.” Iona twisted the towel in her hands. “Yeah, it sounds like it. I’m Iona. Iona Sheehan. We’re cousins. I mean, my grandmother Mary Kate O’Connor is cousins with your grandmother Ailish, um . . . Ailish Flannery. So that makes us . . . I get confused if it’s fourth or third or whatever.”

“A cousin’s a cousin for all that. Well then, take off those muddy boots, and we’ll have some tea.”

“Thanks. I know I should’ve written or called or something. But I was afraid you’d tell me not to come.”

“Were you?” Branna murmured as she set the kettle on.

“It’s just once I’d decided to come, I needed to push through with it.” She left her muddy boots by the door, hung her coat on the peg. “I always wanted to visit Ireland—that roots thing—but it was always eventually. Then . . . well, it was now. Right now.”

“Go have a seat at the table back there, by the fire. It’s a cold wind today.”