The dangles at Marg’s ears glinted as she shook her head. “Not I, no. This is in you. I may not tell you all, not at once, but I will not lie. This is in you, and more. It’s all one, you see—linked together. Water, fire, earth, air, magicks. All in you as well.”

“All connected, Seamus said,” Breen murmured. “All bound together.”

“So it is. And this is enough for one day. I want to ask something of you.”

Breen turned, and Marg took her hands. “What do you want?”

“If you would come, stay a day or two with me.”

“You’ll take me to my father’s grave.”

“I will.”

“I need to write.”

“That won’t work.” Marg glanced at the laptop. “But there are other ways. I’ll help you so you can do what you love and need. A day or two, my darling girl.”

“All right. Tomorrow.”

“I’m more than grateful. We’ll leave her be now, won’t we, Fi.”

“And sure a lovely visit we’ve had.” Finola gathered her basket and rose. “Bright blessings on you, child.”

“Thanks . . . and on you.”

“Tomorrow then. I’ll watch for you.”

Breen stood where she was as they crossed the lawn to the woods. Bollocks trotted over with them, then raced back to her.

“I guess I should pack something. What do I pack to spend a couple days in another world?”

She opted for an abbreviated morning routine. The blog, the novel, the children’s book all got her attention even if she gave them all less time.

By midmorning, she hitched on her backpack and carried her nerves into the woods with Bollocks. She could feel his excitement in every step, and wondered if somehow he could feel her anxiety.

Either way, he led her, as before, through the shifting light and shadows while the pulse under her tattoo beat fast.

She thought of what her mother would say.

Don’t be stupid, Breen. You’re not equipped to handle any of this. Go back, book a flight, and come back where you belong. Follow the rules. Live a quiet life. If you reach too high, you’ll only fall.

And hearing all of that inside her head pushed her forward, lengthened her stride until she reached the tree.

And there it is, she thought. Strange and glorious and terrifying. Every logical bone in her body insisted a tree—however fantastic—couldn’t be a doorway to another world.

But she’d been there—and had the dog to prove it.

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ right, Bollocks? So . . . here we go.”

He took that as a command, scrambled right up the rocks and branches. Remembering the spill she took before, she followed with more caution.

When once again she felt herself falling, she gripped a branch. She hovered in a flood of light, in a kick of wind that tossed her hair, lifted her jacket. She had to fight the part of her—her mother’s voice—that desperately wanted to jerk back.

Instead, she stepped forward.

Her head spun as two worlds seemed to revolve—the dense forest behind, the green fields ahead. But she stood on a sturdy ledge, catching her breath as Bollocks leaped down to chase the sheep.

“It’s real. That’s the first thing. It’s all real. So, we have to see what happens next.”

Her legs might have been a little shaky, but she managed the steps, crossed the field. With the dog beside her, she went over the stone fence to the dirt road.

She saw the man—Harken, his name was Harken—walking to one of the stone outbuildings. And Aisling hoeing in what appeared to be a vegetable garden while a pair of raven-haired boys sat on the grass nearby. The smaller one hooted as he banged two tin pails together. The older carefully built a tower out of wooden blocks.

An enormous gray wolfhound sat beside them, as watchful as a nanny.

Aisling saw her, leaned on her hoe, and waved. Then she worked her way out of the garden, scooped up the youngest boy. She took the other by the hand. With the pony-size dog beside them, they walked toward the road.

“So you’ve come back, and welcome to you.”

“Yes, to visit my grandmother.”

Breen walked to the stone fence so that she stood on one side, Aisling and her brood on the other.

“You’ve made her happy, that I can promise you. And here are my boys. Finian, say welcome to Mistress Kelly.”

“Welcome.”

“Thank you. Breen’s fine.” Though his was grubby with grass and dirt, Breen offered a hand to shake.

“And this hellion is our Kavan.”

To Breen’s surprise, Kavan let out a laugh, threw his arms out to her.

“He’s a friendly sort, but none too clean at the moment.”

“I don’t mind.”

When Aisling passed him over the fence, he immediately tangled his none-too-clean hands in Breen’s hair, and babbled happily.

“He likes your hair, you see. Red’s his favorite, isn’t it now, my wild one? And last here is Mab. She’s angel sweet, so not to worry.”

Bollocks, forepaws planted on the fence, stretched up to lick at Mab’s face while the big dog tolerated it with quiet dignity.

“We won’t keep you, as I know Marg’s waiting, but I hope you’ll come see us while you’re here. My man and my brother are due back anytime. They’ll be pleased to meet you.”

“I will.”

“Come back to Ma now, my little man, as your new friend has to be on her way.” Aisling took the boy, settled him on her hip.

“I have something for you and your brother.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, my grandmother said . . .” Breen took off her backpack, unzipped it. She took out a framed photo. “Your father, with mine and other friends.”

“Oh! Oh, would you look at that!” Aisling shifted the baby as she took the photo. “Look here, my lads, it’s your grandda.”

“How did he get in there?” Finian demanded.

“It’s a likeness, you see. Like a drawing from when he was a young man. Oh, this is such a treasured gift, Breen. I’m out of words to say.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll come see you before I . . . go back.”

“See that you do, and give our best to Marg, won’t you?”

“I will. You have beautiful sons.”

Aisling’s smile beamed with pleasure and pride. “I’m blessed with them. Now, if I can just have a girl—just the once. Come on, lads, let’s take this fine gift safe inside.”

As Aisling walked back to the house, Kavan grinned at Breen over his mother’s shoulder. And she watched little wings, bold and red, flutter out as if to wave goodbye.

“That’s something you don’t see every day. Except maybe here.”

She continued along the road, made the turn into the trees toward the cottage.

Once again, the doors and windows stood open to the day, and smoke trailed up from the chimney.

Marg gathered flowers from her thriving garden to lay in the basket on her arm.

“And so you’re here. Aye, and you as well,” she added when Bollocks raced to her. “Come in and welcome. I’ll show you to your room right off, and hope it pleases you.”

She’s nervous, Breen realized, and knowing it calmed her own jitters.

“How did you fare coming through this time?”

“I didn’t end up flat on my back and faint.”

“Better then. Just this way,” she said, gesturing. “My room’s on the other side, so you’ll have privacy. There’s a bath chamber—not what you’re used to. If you’ve questions, I’ll show you how it all works.”

“Okay.”

She stepped into a room full of light, lace curtains fluttering back to frame views of the gardens and trees. The four-poster bed stood sturdy and draped with white, with a chest at its foot painted with dragons. Candles and flowers and raw crystals decorated the mantel over a hearth.

A pretty little desk and chair looked out of one of the windows.

“It’s really charming.” Wandering, she set her tote on the chest. “Really lovely. The cottage didn’t look big enough to have a room like this.”

It struck her, so she turned back. “Because it wasn’t here before.”

“It’s here now, and will be always for you.”

“I try—it’s knee-jerk—to convince myself all this is some elaborate dream or, I don’t know, nervous breakdown. But I know it’s not. And standing here, being here, I don’t want it to be.”

“It’s your home, whatever you choose in the end. It will always be home for you. I’ll put on the kettle if you want to put your things away.”

“It’s not much, and it could wait, if we could—if you could take me to my father’s grave. I have this.”

She opened the backpack to take out another framed photo. “For you. And I have one for Finola. I saw Aisling on the road, and gave her one. I have another. I didn’t know if the other friend, the one you said had died, too, had family who might want it.”

“He does, and they would cherish such a gift. It’s thoughtful of you, Breen.”

Marg took the photo, pressed it to her heart. “I’ll take you to his stone. It’s a far walk, so we’ll take the horses. I have my own Igraine, and we’ll borrow one from Harken for you.”

“I don’t know how to ride. I’ve never actually ridden a horse.”

Surprise flashed on Marg’s face. “Oh, but you did indeed. You had your own pony, and called her Birdie. And you rode on your da’s mount with him. Such things will come back, no doubt, but for today, we’ll take Igraine and the cart.”

“There really aren’t any cars here?”

“No cars, no.” Marg retrieved the basket of flowers before she led the way outside and across to a lean-to where a horse stood idly munching from a basket of hay. “Here’s our Igraine. She’s a fine, gentle thing, but she can move when moving’s needed. We’ll just hitch her up to the cart.”