“She’s beautiful, and her notes are so pure. She’ll be treasured.”

“For that I thank you.”

“I wondered . . . My father’s a musician. He had a harp much like this when I was a little girl. He was from Galway. Eian Kelly.”

The man fisted his hands on his hips. “You’re Eian Kelly’s girl, are you? Wonder I didn’t see it right away. You’ve the look of him.”

“You know him.” Cradling the harp, she stood.

“That I did. I made him a fine box once upon a time.”

“A box?”

Now he grinned. “An Irish accordion—squeeze box, you see. Custom work, as he had very specific wants in it. And the man could play like a fleet of angels or demons. Does he still?”

“I don’t know, but I imagine he does. He and my mother . . .”

“Ah well, I’m sorry to hear it. I heard he went to America.”

“Yes, but he came back here. I think here in Galway.”

“I haven’t seen him for . . . Oh, I can’t count the years.”

“He grew up on a farm in Galway. Would you know where?”

Sympathy covered his face. “I don’t, and I’m sorry for that. I can ask around and about if that might help.”

“It would, very much. I’ll give you my number in case. I’m staying nearby for the summer.”

When she walked out, carrying the harp in its case, she thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find someone who knew someone who knew.

She wanted to go back to the cottage, but pushed herself into the market for those supplies. Then made herself put everything away before she changed into hiking boots.

No writing, she thought, not when her mind was so crowded. A long walk into the peace of the woods might quiet it.

But when she stepped out, Seamus stood on the little patio with a big painted pot at his feet and a flood of flowers waiting to be planted.

“And how are you today, miss?”

“Glad to see you. What a beautiful pot. Are you going to plant flowers in it?”

“Well now, I thought you might like to do that yourself.”

“Oh, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He offered her gloves and a spade. “You start with earth and good intentions.”

He showed her how to fill the bottom of the pot with broken crockery—for drainage—and how to mix soil and peat and rich compost in the barrow.

But he wouldn’t pick the flowers for her.

“What if I choose the wrong ones?”

“There’s no wrong to it. All of these are happy in this clime. And what’s left, well, we’ll find another spot for. There’s always a spot waiting to be filled.”

He gave her the names of the ones she chose—the Dragon Wing begonias, the lantana and lobelia, bells of Ireland, heliotrope and impatiens and sweet alyssum.

“It’s a good eye you have, for the color and the heights, the textures.”

As once her father’s had over harp strings, Seamus’s gloved hands covered hers as she placed a plant. “That’s the way of it, there you are now. And we wish it good fortune, and a long, happy life in its new home.”

“Can I add this? I love the color—such a pretty green.”

“Creeping Jenny, she is, and you’ll want her at the edge so she can flow right over and show off her skirts.”

“It’s like a rainbow. A really bold one.”

“It is indeed, it is just that. You did fine and well. Now we’ll water her up, though you’ll have some rain tonight. You’ll want to keep the soil moist, you see, but not wet. What you do? You stick your finger into the soil to test it.”

When they’d finished the pot, he helped her choose spots for the leftovers. She dug in the dirt with a kind of giddy glee.

“I’m going to find a house and plant a garden one day. Like this one, where it all seems unplanned and beautiful.”

“You’ll do well with it.” His voice, so soothing, sounded like a whisper in her heart. “It’s all connected, you see, young Breen. The earth, the air, the water that falls from the sky, the sun that brings the light and warmth. And all that grows—the plants, the animals, the people. The bees that buzz, the birds that fly, all bound together.

“You’ll talk to them now, to the flowers, sing them a tune now and again. They’ll reward you for it.”

She sat back on her heels, smiling at her grubby garden gloves. “I was feeling a little sad when I got home. Now I’m not.”

“Gardens bring the joy.”

“This one sure did.” She, so often uncomfortable around strangers, felt as if she’d known him all her life.

Connections, she thought. All bound together.

“Seamus, have you always lived in the area?”

“I haven’t, no. I’m here now, of course, but Galway’s not my home.”

Then he wouldn’t know her father, she thought, so no point in asking.

“Now I’ll be cleaning up this bit of a mess before I’m on my way.”

“We’ll clean it up.” She stood. “That’s part of it, isn’t it?”

He shot her that crooked smile. “That it is.”

With the patio swept, she offered him the gloves.

“Oh no, miss, those are yours now, and the little spade as well. Such things are handy for gardening.”

“Thank you. Can I make you some tea?”

“Thank for you the asking, but my wife’ll be putting on supper before long, so I’d best be on my way. I’ll be back again in the week, or sooner if I’m needed. Enjoy the flowers, young Breen, as they enjoy you.”

“I will.”

And she’d start by taking a picture of her very first flowerpot.

She took a couple, then thought she’d like one of Seamus for her blog. But when she turned, he was already gone.

“He moves fast,” she murmured.

She took her gloves and spade into the mudroom.

Instead of the walk—where she could admit she would have brooded through most if not all of it—she poured a glass of wine, sat at the little patio table.

And admired her work.

That evening, she followed—religiously—one of Marco’s simple recipes for a one-skillet chicken, potato, and broccoli dish. It mostly worked.

She took a photo for the blog before she bundled in a sweater, poured another glass of wine, and took it all out to the patio again.

She’d remembered something about her father that, now that she’d settled, made her happy. She’d found the perfect Christmas gift for her best friend. She’d planted flowers in both a pot and the ground. She’d made a decent—okay, halfway decent meal.

Not to mention she’d written nearly two hours that morning before she’d ordered herself to get out of the cottage.

“A good day,” she told the flowers. “Really, a damn good day.” She toasted the garden, the woods, the bay. “Here’s to many more. I’ve got this,” she decided. “I think I’ve actually got this.”

But that night she dreamed of a storm. It raged over the hills, swept over the fields. It churned the water into a dark morass. The trees whipped in its tossing wind.

Heart pounding, she ran through it while lightning flashed—blue fire—and thunder roared in warlike fury.

Still, it wasn’t the storm that chased her, but something darker, something much more wicked. She could feel that dark clawing at her, fighting to get a pinching hold.

For her soul. It would take all she was, and drink it like wine.

You were made for this, it told her. I am destiny.

The sword on her belt banged against her thigh. She could use it. She would use it. To fight, or to end herself.

She would end herself before she lost herself again.

As her hand closed over it, she saw a light ahead. It glowed, and it grew. Like a door opening for her.

Like salvation.

In the light, another voice called her.

Come home, Breen Siobhan, daughter of the O’Ceallaigh, child of the Fey. It’s time you came home. Time you awakened.

As the claws of the dark scraped at her back, she leaped into the light.

And woke, sheened with sweat, tangled in the sheets.

Because her first instinct was to call Marco, she reached for her phone. Then, very carefully, very deliberately, put it back on the nightstand. She wouldn’t call her friend, thousands of miles away, to soothe her over a stupid nightmare.

She was fine. She was awake. No storm raged, and no one chased her.

Still, she picked up her tablet, wrote out everything she could remember.

Maybe she’d work it into her story. A nasty dream ought to be worth something in the light of day.

Because the light of day was some hours off, she left a lamp on low rather than risk the dark.

She hit routine, and happily. Writing about the music store—though she had to leave out seeing and buying the harp to keep it a surprise for Marco. She wrote about planting flowers, making a meal, and got her day off to a solid start.

When she stepped outside to grin at her flowerpot, she noted it had rained, just as Seamus had predicted. Maybe it had stormed, and her subconscious twisted reality into a weird, scary dream.

Either way, after her morning walk, she’d spend the rest of the damp, cool morning writing. Out of habit, she started toward the bay, still misty, still gray under the struggling sun.

A series of yips had her glancing toward the woods. If not for the barks, she might have taken it for a very small, odd-looking deer or really big rabbit.

But as it raced toward her, she saw a puppy—still odd-looking, with a purple cast to its tightly curled fur, and a hairless little whip of a tail.

“Look at you!” She crouched down to greet him and was rewarded with adoring puppy kisses and scrabbling paws. A good-size pup, he had a smooth face beneath a kind of curly topknot and above what she thought of as a cute beard. His eyes, a deep brown, shone with excitement.