The dog broke her spell when he rushed in to drop his head on her lap and give her a long, adoring look.

“Hi. Either you let yourself in or someone else is up.”

“Up we are and have been.” Marg stood in the doorway.

She wore trousers again, mannish and forest green, with a sweater the color of top cream.

“You were deep into your work, so I didn’t want to disturb. Bollocks had another idea on that.”

“That’s all right. I was about to stop.” Because, she realized, she was starving. “I wasn’t sure I could write this way, but it rolled pretty well.”

“I’m happy to hear it. How about some tea now, and a bite to eat?”

“That would be great. I made tea early this morning,” she said as she rose. “Or I think I did. From that jar.”

Marg nodded. “A strong energy tea that one, and good for the morning.”

“I tried to guess what was in the jars—by scent mostly. I think I hit the chamomile, and something with lavender, and some sort of mint.”

“I’ll teach you if you like, though your nose is right on it. Sit, and I’ll make us some nice jasmine tea—a good, light choice for a pretty day.”

“Jasmine—that’s it. I couldn’t get it, but I thought I recognized the scent. I don’t want you to have to cook for me. If I get the lay of the land, I can make a sandwich.”

“You poke about as you please, but it gives me pleasure to cook for you—and I suspect you had nothing but the tea to break your fast.”

She got a squat cobalt blue teapot. “Tell me about your book, won’t you?”

“Which? I actually have two. Or one novel, and one book for middle schoolers—kids from about ten to thirteen.”

“A children’s book? Ah, you loved being read to as a child. Like a sea sponge you’d soak it all up, then tell them yourself, often changing some parts as you liked.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, aye. What are you writing for children?”

“Bollocks’s adventures. Actually, I finished it, or I think I have. I don’t know that it’s any good, but I had fun with it. It’s just practice. I don’t expect to get it, or anything, published. I’m a rank amateur.”

Marg turned from her work. She wore little silver triangles in her ears, and inside each was a trio of dark green stones.

“That’s your mother talking in your head, and it makes me sad to hear you say it.”

“Maybe. Maybe, but it’s easier to write a story than send that story off and face rejection.”

“And if you don’t send it off, see what’s what, it’s already rejected, isn’t it?” She looked over from whatever she cooked in a skillet on the stove. “You chose to carry courage on your wrist, so use it.”

“Marco said the same thing, basically.”

“A sensible lad he is then, I’d say.”

“I haven’t let him read it—or anyone. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat. As long as it’s in the box, it’s alive. If I opened the box, would you read it and be honest? It doesn’t help if anyone says it’s good to spare my feelings.”

“I promised not to lie to you, and that holds on this as well.” She slid something from skillet to plate, set it in front of Breen.

Toasted brown bread topped with Irish—Talamhish, she corrected—bacon and an egg, sunny-side up, dashed with herbs.

“I remember this. You used to make this for me. I called it Dragon’s Eye.”

“A half slice of toast back then, and a favorite of yours. More’s coming through.” Marg sat with her tea. “Will you let me show you, teach you? We can begin with something as simple as the teas and how to use them, how to blend them together for other uses.”

“I’d like—yes, I’d like that. And we could start there, but . . .”

“Tell me what you want, child. If it’s in my power, I want to give it to you.”

“Morena said something to me. She said that fire—like lighting a fire or candle—is the first thing learned.”

“It often is. It’s this you want to know again?”

“I think, it’s so tangible, so inarguable.” So fascinating, Breen admitted to herself. “What I’ve already seen and felt, it’s still almost like a dream. But if I felt this, from me, I couldn’t close that back in the box. And you won’t lie and tell me it was from me if it was from you.”

“I won’t, no. Nor will I about your story if you let me read it.”

“It’s on my laptop. I’ll print it out, and bring it to you next time.”

“Oh, we won’t have to wait for that, if I have your permission. I can see to that.”

“All right. God, I’m nervous.”

“Eat your food, drink your tea, then we’ll begin. Nerves aren’t shameful. Not acting because of them is.”

She felt them, those nerves, prickling along her skin, rushing through her blood as she sat in the quiet kitchen, the dog sleeping over her feet.

The candle stood between her and Marg, creamy white and slim.

“I often make my own candles, those I use for ceremonies, spells, healings—for the craft, I’m saying, rather than for lighting the dark. This one is of my making, a skill I’ll teach you as well, if you like.”

“It wouldn’t just be forming wax, the kind you mean.”

“There’s more than that, a purpose, and the purpose goes into the making. This I made for celebrations, and I see this as that.”

“If I can’t do it—”

“Ah, put your mother out of your head.” After holding up a hand, Marg took a breath. “I’ll not say a hard word about the woman who brought you into the world, but you must set aside the doubts, the doubts of self, she put into you. Be open, mo stór, to what you are, what you have. This is the first lesson. Once open, you reach, once you reach, you hold.”

“Okay.” Breen played her fingers over her tattoo. “Be open.”

“How would you put out the flame of a candle?”

“I’d blow it out.”

Marg beamed as if she’d solved some complex equation. “And so to bring the flame, a simple way to learn, is to draw in the breath. With purpose. Opening, letting the power rise up. Focus, for what will become natural takes focus to learn. To ignite.”

She tried, over and over, but the wick remained cold and clean.

“I’m sorry.”

“You only disappoint yourself. The fire’s in you. Call it, draw it up, feel it tingle inside you, just a ripple now, quiet kindling. Use it, see the purpose—the wick. See it flame. Draw your breath and spark the fire.”

She felt it, a rising, a heat, and before she could think it was simply the power of suggestion, the wick sparked, and with a little snap, flamed.

“I—You—”

“No, I promise you, I did not.” Marg blew out the candle. “Again. Bring the wick to light.”

She trembled—fear, excitement, and what she realized was a gnawing hunger for more. Three times she lit the flame.

“You still learn quickly. You have so much in you.”

“What am I, Nan?”

“My granddaughter, my blood, my treasure. You are a child of the Fey, a daughter of the Wise, from your father, from me and mine. And from mine long ago, there is Sidhe in you. You have human from your mother. And you carry the blood and power of gods.”

Marg folded her hands on the table, gripped them tight. “For this he wants you more than even he wanted your father. Your father had all you have but the human, and Odran wants the power you have, and the human you have. You are a bridge, Breen, between worlds, worlds closed to him. For now.”

“You mean my world? My mother’s world?”

“He’d use you to take it, piece by piece, heart by heart. Destroy, enslave, corrupt, as he has with lesser worlds. You’re the bridge he seeks to travel, and the bridge we need to stop him.”

“Because I’m human, or part of me is?”

“You’re unique. There is no one known with your heritage. I can’t see. I’ve tried, others have tried. I only know that Odran seeks to use you, what you are, to destroy Talamh and the world you were reared in. I only know we must use all we are to stop him.”

“I can’t—I managed after an hour to light a single candle.”

“It begins with one flame.” Marg held up a finger, then spread both her hands. “You have a choice. If you go back to the outside, and remain there, he can’t reach you.”

“Is that absolute?”

After hesitating, Marg shook her head. “It is as sure as anything can be. He has yet to breach the barrier.”

“But he can come here?”

“Can and surely will when he feels ready. We’ll fight him. We’ve driven him off before, and will again. As long as we do, the other side is safe, and you in it.”

“But he keeps coming. How do you kill a god?” She let out a breath. “With another god. Is that what you think? You think I can kill him?”

“I can’t see; I can’t say.”

“My father tried to stop him. He killed my father. I—I want children one day. I’ve always wanted children. But if I have a child, that child would be like me—and . . . It would never stop.”

“I can teach you what I know. Others can teach you what they know. And if, in the end, you decide to go back, to remain, we will do all in our power to keep the barrier strong.”

“I’m sitting here at this table in a postcard cottage in a picturesque countryside, and you’re telling me two worlds—hell, maybe more—depend on what I do?”

Sorrow, again sorrow, covered Marg’s face. “It’s a terrible weight to carry. I promised not to lie to you. I felt I could no longer evade—so close to the lie—now that the spark is again lit in you. The awakening will come, and soon, I think. You are what you are, Breen Siobhan. What you do is for you to say.”