Page 12 of The Scald Crow
I looked into the mirror, and Ciarán’s face stared back, unchanged and so lovely. Shiny blond locks framed his manly face. His image blurred. Or maybe those were tears in my eyes. I placed my palm on the mirror—yearning to walk through the looking glass and be with him. How many spells had I cast attempting to bring him back? Or called upon the power of the coven? If Ciarán were dead, he would have answered. I refused to give up hope. I refused to believe he was dead. The signs spelled another power much greater than a handful of Irish witches.
* * *
Calla
The shower was great, but soaking in the tub was heaven, touched with sunshine. I breathed in fragrant blueberry bath salts, stretched my aching muscles, and inspected my pruned-up toes. I washed my hair three times, rinsing away the lingering stench of bog.
I towel-dried my unruly locks and stood before the foggy mirror, reliving each moment since my arrival. Not three hours into my journey. Three hours. I played through the sequence of events. He opened the car door. His delicious scent was intoxicating. So close. Too close. I stumbled, and he reached for me, saving me from a fall. “Watch out. Watch out.” His voice had echoed in that melodic lilt. That was all it took. My world went black, and I belted out the words of the doom-bringer. Colm’s face, eyes wide open and filled with shock.
I could hire a driver and catch the next flight to Canada. But why? There was nothing left for me there.
I gazed through the windowpanes onto the street below. A man sat on a wooden bench, leaning on a walking stick. A woman pushed a stroller down the sidewalk. A long-eared dog sat outside a butcher shop, wagging its tail as customers went in and out. I weighed the risks. The chances of seeing Colm were low, and he would soon leave, back to Canada, where he belonged. I would stay, he would go, and my secret would remain safe.Keep your mouth shut, Calla Sweet.
I talked myself into believing. What choice did I have?
Calla Sweet, the frequent flyer, knew a thing or two about traveling—carry-on only, which in my case meant a well-worn backpack. My limited clothing consisted of one pair of jeans, two pairs of black leggings, two cashmere sweaters, five black thongs, two lacy brassieres, and one emerald green clingy dress, vacuum sealed in plastic—just in case. Of what? I didn’t know.
I admired the simple furnishings and whitewashed walls. A gilt-framed photograph of a black horse standing in a grassy field hung on one wall. I studied the horse’s fine confirmation, wondering who he once belonged to.
“Where are you going to wear this?” I asked out loud, shaking out the ankle-length dress. The velvet was soft on my fingers, and the muted green was easy on my eyes. I hung it inside an ornately carved wardrobe beside my sweaters, one black and one gray. I leaned inside, breathing in the aromatic scent of cedar. If I climbed inside, would I be transported to another world? The possibility sounded divine.
I suppressed a yawn, padding barefoot across the hard-wearing carpet. The bed featured a blue-striped duvet and coordinating pillow shams. An accent pillow showcased an embroidery of the same black horse. I gazed longingly at the bed but refused to lie down or sit.
I switched off the lights and exited my room. I hesitated, Colm O’Donnell’s face flashing in my mind, my steps rattling the steel staircase, taking me into the quiet courtyard. I passed Saoirse’s workshop and hesitated inside the covered breezeway, shoving the what-ifs aside and glancing left and right, tracking the line of traffic down the intersecting streets. A woman stood in the diamond, gazing at an ivory statue of a musician playing a violin. The chip truck had a long line of customers. I turned and moved along the sidewalk, driven by a strong gust of wind. A four-legged creature, a long-haired, gigantic beast with a shaggy head, brushed past me. I watched the dog continue his journey beyond the steepled church. I stood outside the Wild Horse for what I didn’t know, but I spent five minutes gazing at the eye-catching posters pasted inside the paned windows.
A honking truck and brakes squealing shook me from my reverie, and I placed my hand on the cast iron latch and shoved the heavy door.
The pub was everything I imagined an Irish pub should be: low ceilings, wood beams blackened by wood smoke and aged by time, lanterns emitting a soft yellow light, the quintessential red carpet flowing from one cavernous room to another, and embers glowing red in the hearth of a rough stone fireplace.
I strained my ears, hearing Saoirse’s muffled voice. I inhaled sharply when a panel in the wall swung open, revealing a hidden door leading into a back kitchen.
“Aye, then, Aye. We should go.” A woman with ruddy cheeks and silvery hair carried a stainless-steel pot in gloved hands, the steam fogging her spectacles.
“Jolene can look after the place. Oh, there you are. Good.” Saoirse turned her head. “Orlaith, this is Calla, our guest from Canada. She’s here for three days.”
“Hello,” I murmured, resting my hands on the brass rail. My stomach bounced with nerves. I settled onto the bar stool and gazed into their welcoming faces.
Orlaith smiled and placed a steaming bowl of chowder before me.
“This is incredible.” I allowed the rich, creamy broth to wash over my tongue, savoring the salty-sweet flavors loaded with meaty globes.
“I’m after a scone for you, lass. Now, you hold on.” Orlaith’s face creased with smile lines. She lifted a glass lid from a cake stand stacked with fluffy scones.
“Hey, have you ever been to an Irish wake?” Saoirse caught me off guard.
“A wake? No, I haven’t.” My stomach heaved like the waves of a storm-tossed sea.
“Ach. ‘Tis great craic. Lots of chit-chat. Buckets of fun. Well, not so much for the poor bugger who died.” Orlaith swept her hands over the full skirt of a white and blue flowered frock cinched tight at the waist.
“If you don’t have plans for tomorrow, you should come with Orla and me.” Saoirse wiped the bar top with a white cloth.
“But I don’t know the people.” My throat closed. I stared from one to the other.
“Oh, but you do. You know Colm. He drove you into town?” Her eyes widened.
“Colm?” I shrank back from the counter.
“No. No. Colm’s father. He passed on this afternoon. Watching the telly, isn’t that right, Orlaith?” She shook her head in sympathy. “It’s the talk of the town. So unexpected.”
