“I probably shouldn’t let you do that.”

But he looked so comfortable, watched her so sweetly, she let it go.

Her father was gone. She didn’t know how or why, but she had to accept that, too. He hadn’t abandoned her, hadn’t forgotten about her. He’d died.

Years ago, years and years, but her loss was as fresh as the moment. And something she didn’t know what to do with. She had the picture of him in her bedroom, and memories that came and went. But she needed more.

She needed to see his grave, and she’d ask her grandmother for something of his, just some token she could hold on to.

“So I’m going back,” she declared. “I guess I knew I would, but I need to work up to it.”

She described how Marg had made the air swirl and the fire roar, even as she asked how such a thing could be possible. How could Morena sprout wings and fly? How could . . .

She sat back again, realizing what she wrote now ran along the same themes and directions as the story she worked on every morning.

Not exact, no, not absolutely, but so close.

Because she’d always known. However fantastic, however opposed to the practical bent of her life, part of her had always known. The memories might be locked up inside, but they eked out, didn’t they, bit by bit as she opened herself up to tell a story.

To do what she’d wanted to do.

So, she wrote, it’s not just a matter of finding out who I am—and I’ve made progress on that. But what I am. What am I? Daughter of Talamh, daughter of the Fey, one of the Wise. Wisewomen equal witches. I don’t feel like a witch.

She shifted from the journal to a search on Irish water spaniels. The description fit Bollocks perfectly—and she found the nonshedding characteristic a nice bonus.

The breed boasted smart, energetic, affectionate dogs. Inquisitive, a bit of a clown. Loved water, naturally.

“In Irish folklore,” she read, “you’re supposed to be a descendent of the Dobhar-chú. And what the hell is that?”

She did another search. “Half dog, half otter or fish? Really? Oh, and a fierce predator of the oceans and rivers. You don’t look so fierce.”

He slid off the bed, stretched into a down-dog, and gave her a long, loving look.

“Getting hungry? Me, too. This took longer than I figured.”

He followed her into the kitchen.

The handwritten note tied to the cloth sack told her how much to give him, how often. And that he wouldn’t mind a bit if she added a raw egg or a bit of yogurt to the chunky kibble.

She chose the egg, as she had them on hand, and while he ate, scrambled some for herself with bits of Irish bacon, some cheese, tomatoes, broccoli.

She ate with the dog stretched over her feet, and tried to work out how to handle her daily blog. She couldn’t leave out the dog—and didn’t want to. She could say she got him from a neighbor. It was close enough to true.

She couldn’t write about her father’s death—not yet at least. And she wasn’t ready to. She couldn’t mention sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen, or—Jesus—alternate worlds.

She’d figure it out, just as she’d figure out what to tell Marco.

She got up to deal with her dishes, and the dog stood, staring at her.

“You want to go out. Okay, do I just assume that because it’s logical, or do I know because . . . I can read you. It feels like that. It doesn’t matter, does it? Let’s go out.”

He danced when she grabbed her jacket, then shot out the door she opened like a bullet.

He tore around the yard as if he’d escaped from prison, then danced again until she walked toward him.

At that he streaked—a curly bolt of lightning—toward the bay. Barking like a mad thing, he leaped into the water and swam, head bobbing, eyes full of joy.

“Fierce predator of the seas,” she said with a laugh.

Seabirds scattered, water splashed as he raced out, then in again.

Breen stood as the long-lived summer sun pushed against the western clouds to add just a glimmer to the sky. And realized she was absolutely, perfectly content.

She’d been happy enough in her solitude, but the dog—and yes, she’d always wanted one—added a shine.

Like the sun in a cloudy sky.

A change in routine didn’t hurt a thing. So Breen told herself as she adjusted hers to feed the dog his breakfast, take her walk with him before sitting down to blog.

He’d slept at the foot of her bed, which she’d have to change. Probably.

She sent Marco a text to give him a heads-up. After all, he was her roommate, and would be her housemate. He deserved to know they had a dog.

She made sure to add the most adorable picture she could manage with the text.

He responded.

You what!! What kind of weird-ass-looking dog is that? And why’s he so damn cute? Look what you do when I’m not around a couple weeks. Send more pictures.

She spent a happy few minutes texting back and forth before she settled down to—carefully—write the blog.

“Pictures of puppies never fail.” She glanced over—and of course, Bollocks was curled up on the bed. “I’m going to work on my book for a couple hours, then we’re going out. We’re getting you a collar, a leash, some toys—and a dog bed.”

He didn’t mind the collar, but he didn’t like the leash. While he didn’t put up a fight when she clipped it on, he looked at her with sad, sad eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” She’d have sworn that’s what he thought. “And we won’t need it at the cottage. But we’re going to walk around the village now, and we’ll need it when we visit some sights I haven’t gotten to yet.”

He seemed less insulted by it when they walked, even preened when people stopped to admire him. He got to sniff at shoes, nuzzle kids, meet a couple of other dogs.

Breen told herself she was socializing him—as recommended—but she knew she was just showing him off.

She bought him chew toys, a bright red ball, and a small stuffed rabbit.

On the drive home, he sat in the back, a chew bone clamped in his teeth and his head out the window so his curls blew in the breeze.

Once home, she let him out for a run and a swim while she sat on the patio with her tablet. Since she hadn’t found him a bed, she ordered one online. And a few more toys. And chew sticks, and a dog tag with his name and her cell phone number.

“God, if I ever have kids, I’ll be a maniac.”

Fresh from the bay, Bollocks raced up to her, so she tossed the red ball. He just cocked his head at her. “You’re supposed to run after it, get it, bring it back to me so I can throw it for you again.”

She could all but hear him thinking What’s the point?, but he trotted to the ball, clamped it in his teeth, trotted back. She tossed it again.

After the first couple times, he seemed to get more into the spirit, gave serious chase.

“Okay, you’ve got it, and my arm’s worn out.” When she set the ball on the table signaling game over, he trotted toward the woods. He gave a bark, looked back at her.

“No, we’re not going there. I’m not ready. I’ve got laundry to do, and I’m going to write more. And . . . I’m just not ready. Let’s go in.”

When he came back, she patted his head. “Maybe tomorrow.”

But she had excuses at the ready the next day, and found it surprisingly easy to fill the time. Especially when she took a break from her novel to write a short story about the adventures of a magical dog named Bollocks.

She spent the day after that expanding the story as she realized it could be a book for middle schoolers. After all, she’d taught that age group, knew what they liked to read.

So she shifted happily between her novel, the children’s book, and the new routine with the dog himself.

Then on a bold summer day where she took her work out to the patio, Bollocks raced toward the woods, his happy barks a clear signal.

She wasn’t surprised to see her grandmother, and Finola with her, walk out of the woods.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They looked like ordinary women, Breen thought as she rose from the table. Maybe not ordinary, as both looked years younger than their ages. But they sure as hell didn’t look—not from her perspective—like a witch and a faerie.

Marg carried a pouch, and Finola a basket.

The dog greeted them with mad joy and affection while Breen struggled with trepidation.

“What a fine day for being out and about,” Finola said brightly. “And are you working here, darling? With us coming along and interrupting you.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Breen closed her laptop. “I meant to come back sooner, but . . .”

“You’re a busy one, aren’t you, with the writing. And Seamus tells me you’re adding gardening to that, and very well. Now you’ve this rascal on top of it all.”

Finola took Breen’s hand for a squeeze, a deliberate gesture of calming and comfort. “If it’s all the same to you, why don’t I just pop into the kitchen there, make us some tea to go with these sweet cakes I baked?”

“I—”

“It’s not a bit of trouble.” With her basket, Finola breezed right in, with the dog close behind.

With a little smile, Marg looked after her friend. “She knows I’m a bit unnerved, so she chatters to give me time to settle.”

“That makes two of us—on the unnerved front. I really was coming back. I just needed to work up to it.”

“I can’t blame you for it. So much thrown at you at once. It’s a lovely spot here. It makes you happy.”

Easier, by far, to talk about that.

“It is, and it does. It’s the first time in my life I’ve lived on my own, and done what I wanted to do. The first time—that I remember—I’ve had a dog, and he makes me happy, too. I want to thank you for giving him to me.”

“Trapping you into it more like.”

“He still makes me happy.” And she needed to be grateful, and gracious. “Please, sit.”