A Winding Wave of Magic

43. Eggs and Toast

43

EGGS AND TOAST

I set my face

To the road here before me,

To the work that I see,

To the death that I shall meet.

— P.H. PEARSE, “IDEAL, OR RENUNCIATION”

A bird was screaming in my ear. Or whistling. Odd that it could do both. I’d never heard of such a creature.

My eyes opened, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. Then, reality set in.

From the wide beam rafters of the attic room, dusty and worn with age, a few cobwebs danced in the breeze that wasn’t quite stopped completely by the thatched roof. Whitewashed stone edged the low walls, meeting the battered wood floors like an old friend. There was an ancient dressing table under the single tiny window that faced the ocean, along with an old-fashioned ewer and washing bowl set atop.

A bouquet of dried sage lay in a ramekin on the bedside table, its edges burnt from hasty saining before I’d fallen into the sheets.

Connolly Cottage.

In Ireland.

Inis Oírr, to be exact, the smallest of the Aran Islands, where no more than a few hundred denizens called each home, but most of whom still spoke Irish as their primary language, and where I was supposedly going to learn how to be the “oracle of a generation” or some rot like that.

I groaned and shoved my heavy head under my pillow as I recalled yesterday’s conversations in front of the fire with the Connollys. Three types of clairvoyance, and supposedly, I was the only seer of my generation to command them all: telepath, bard, and prophet all wrapped in one. Last night, Jonathan had said my dreams were forms of divination, but I wasn’t so sure. A kissing cat and a whirl of water just seemed like sleep-addled wishful thinking to me, not a future prediction, though I found my journal anyway and dutifully logged the entry.

The bird screamed again. No , it called. A lonely gull, crying for fish on the late spring tide.

I sat up, my head a blur, as it had been since leaving Boston. Honestly, I could have used a few more days to acclimate. Get over the jet lag and remember how to speak conversational Irish, not just the academic sort I’d learned in school. Learn the rhythms of this quirky, old-fashioned family and teach them mine, too.

Instead, my guide was deserting me, and Caitlin and I would start my training immediately.

Through the little window, the ocean swelled thick and glassy, calling to me with crash after crash on the rocky shore. I kicked off the blankets and swung my legs to the ground. If I was going to jump into the fire, I was getting wet first.

The house was still quiet when I started down the beach to the nearest surf break, my board balanced on my head. The water was uncharacteristically glassy—a perfect day for a perfect wave.

As soon as the frigid water touched my face, something in me calmed. The fogginess cleared like smoke from a fire. Cold and clean, the water gave me what I craved. And I threw myself into it with abandon.

Two hours later, I returned to the cottage to find Caitlin Connolly scrubbing a big cast iron pot hard enough to make her knuckles turn white. The rest of the kitchen smelled of warm bread and the sweet tang of fresh goat cheese. A glance at the wall clock told me it was just after seven-thirty.

She looked up, startled as I entered the house through the kitchen door. “There you are! Wondered if you’d even be back.” She glanced behind me at the wetsuit dangling over the side of the porch rail. “Jonny said you’d likely gone to the ocean.” The expression on her face made it clear she thought that was absolute lunacy.

“Did he?” I pulled my towel tighter around my swimsuit. “Is he gone?” I wasn’t sure what answer I preferred.

“No, his flight doesn’t leave until ten.” She looked me over as she took up her pan again. “Go upstairs to dress, and I’ll get you some breakfast together.”

I looked around doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

The Connollys had taken me immediately, but I felt a bit awkward treating Caitlin like a bed-and-breakfast. Unfortunately, this kitchen intimidated me out of doing anything more than pouring a glass of water or cutting up an apple. While it did have running water and electricity, Caitlin still cooked with a wood-fired stove and oven and stored necessities in a tiny, ancient refrigerator while the rest of their food was kept in the cellar pantry.

“I could just walk to the village pub for a bite,” I offered.

“The stove is still hot,” Caitlin replied in her no-nonsense way. “I’ll fry up some eggs and rashers while you clean up.”

“You’re amazing,” I told her honestly. I hadn’t eaten this well in my life—even Gran wasn’t a cook like Caitlin.

“Be gone with you,” she said gruffly, though her cheeks shone with pleasure.

Fifteen minutes later, I had traded my wetsuit for a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt and was seated at the kitchen table laid with scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toasted rye bread, churned butter, and two types of jam. The Connollys maintained sixty acres of limestone-divided fields they used to raise sheep, suckling cattle, and a few goats, plus a crooked chicken coop framed by several enclosed fields. Nearly everything on this table was raised right here, and I honestly wondered if anything had ever tasted this good.

“Where is everyone?” I asked through a mouthful of bacon.

“It’s Monday, so the girls are off to school, and Robbie’s in the northeast field with Jonathan, tending the rye.” Caitlin checked the stove to make sure the fire was out, then came to sit with me at the table, a mug of tea in hand. “Which means you and I can finally begin.”

Since arriving yesterday, I’d been on a steep learning curve getting to know the family that had once counted my grandmother as part of them. I still didn’t quite understand the connection. Gran was in her seventies when she died, but Caitlin couldn’t have been older than forty-five. She talked about Gran like a sister, but Penny would have been old enough to be Caitlin’s mother. It was confusing, but I had been too timid to inquire about the inconsistencies. So far.

Caitlin watched me over the rim of her mug. I took another bite of eggs and then felt a distinct pressure at the corners of my brain.

I swallowed and set down my fork. “Please stop that. I’m trying to eat.”

The pressure ceased, and Caitlin offered a lopsided smile. “Just curious what you’re capable of.”

“If you want to know something, just ask. I’ll probably tell you, but I’d rather do it on my own terms.”

“Smart girl,” she murmured. “Although you’ve got no more shielding skills than the twins do. I needed to know your limits. Gives me an idea of where to start.”

The final bite of bread seemed to stick in my throat. “Now?”

“Well, what did you think we would do once you got settled in? Sightsee?”

I gulped again, forcing the bread down with another sip of tea. “No, of course not.”

“Most seers take at least seven years for their apprenticeships,” Caitlin said as she got up to bring her empty mug to the sink. “Thirteen to twenty. But we’ve only got three—maybe less, from what Jonny says. Four if we’re lucky, and they don’t find you before you manifest. Time to get to work.”

She looked at me expectantly as she wiped down her counter, and I recalled Mr. Miyagi handing the Karate Kid a rag and a bucket.

Wax on, wax off , I thought, earning a snort from Caitlin.

I scowled. No matter what I said, she wasn’t going to stop reading my thoughts until I made her. If I could.

“Well, you’re right about that,” Caitlin agreed. “I was halfway to the other side of your mind and battering around like a ram before you noticed. I could have dug through your darkest secrets, had I wanted to.”

She hung the rag on a hook, then grabbed two wool coats from a rack by the kitchen door and threw one at me before she tugged on the other. “First things first. You must know your own mind before you can hope to guard it. Or any other secrets, for that matter.” She opened the door and stood expectantly at its threshold. “Come along, then. Nothing helps the mind so much as exercise. We’ll start with a walk.”

On that note, she exited the house with a brisk stride, leaving me to shovel down the remainder of my breakfast, put on Robbie’s old coat, and scramble after her.

Caitlin and I walked for close to an hour, chatting as the gravel crunched under our feet on the winding roads called boreens that divided the stone-bound fields of the island. She was curious about everything—how I had grown up, what my mother was like, why I had gone to Boston. I could feel her listening to my words as well as my thoughts as I spoke, and I soon realized that she was as interested in what I wasn’t saying and why as what I chose to say out loud.

She was right about one thing—I couldn’t keep her out if I wanted, despite my one success with Jonathan. She was a talented telepath, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I became with her presence in my mind. For the first time since I could remember, I wasn’t trying to ignore my childhood, content to trust that someone who actually wanted to know about it was listening.

We had only just reached the part of my story where Jonathan entered when Caitlin turned abruptly and started down a path toward a dilapidated cottage at the top of a hill sloping toward the ocean. The house was whitewashed brick with a thatched roof, similar to the Connollys’, if about a quarter of the size.

Unlike the Connollys’ farm, however, this one hadn’t been used in many years. Several parts of the fencing had fallen into a jumble of rocks and dirt, the roof was discolored from weathering and leaks, and one side of the foundation sagged. A broad field behind it had been left wild and was overgrown with weeds and grasses.

“Here we are,” Caitlin said as she pushed open a crooked gate. “You’ll know the place?”

She knew I’d never been to Ireland, but she was suggesting I might have Seen it in Gran’s memories.

I shook my head. “No.” Bitterness twinged at the fact.

“Come. See if it’s more familiar inside.”

My Sight had been relatively quiet over the last few days as if the stress of travel had taken its toll there too. Much like Gran, Caitlin kept her home clean to the point where I hadn’t missed my gloves since she had me remove them.

But as I followed her across the lot, my abilities gurgled to life like a fresh spring. Visions passed through me with each step.

A tiny redheaded girl sprinted through a gold-tipped field of rye into the arms of a stocky farmer. Her laughter echoed to the cliffs, and the sweet, salty scent of wet kelp laid in between neat rows of rye and potatoes twisted through my nostrils.

“Penny!” The farmer called his daughter’s name as she tackled him to the earth.

My heart ached with recognition.

“Can you See her, then?” Caitlin’s voice pulled me from the scene, and I turned to find her observing me from the stoop. “Your eyes were moving. Like you were watching something.”

I nodded. “Couldn’t you See her too? Through my mind, anyway?”

Caitlin shook her head. “Conscious thoughts only, remember? I heard you think her name, but that was it.”

I almost offered a hand when I reached the porch, but took it back when I realized it wouldn’t work. Jonathan was the only one who had been able to See my thoughts and feelings as clearly as I could See his, despite the fact that he wasn’t a seer, let alone a telepath or a bard. I still wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Caitlin produced a large iron key and unlocked the house. Even more than in the field, remnants of Gran clung to every surface, though they were patchy at best, like red wine stains that persisted even after countless washes. Visions of her raced around every corner. The little redheaded girl skipped through the house only to turn into a sullen teenager fighting with her mother. She danced with her father while a Christmas tree twinkled in the corner, then baked bread with her mom, both of them dressed in hastily dyed black dresses. Then her parents were gone, leaving Penny on her own, sorrow pulling her shoulders down. Others I didn’t know came and went from the cottage, their faces often obscured by time or maybe spells, but it was all part of the same story.

Tears pricked my eyes as I watched my grandmother grow up.

“I See her, Caitlin,” I murmured.

We stood in the doorway silently while I enjoyed the visions. After a few minutes, when my thoughts shifted to what we must be doing here, Gran in her many forms faded away. One last version lingered by the window—a young Penny, with red curls rioting over her shoulders as she gazed out to the sea. She hummed a song under her breath, one hand resting atop her belly in the way that newly expectant mothers sometimes do. She turned to face me and smiled before disappearing completely.

She was beautiful. So beautiful. So happy.

What happened?

Caitlin sniffed, pulling my attention back to the present. A slight weight in my mind released—she had been there the whole time, watching my thoughts.

“It’s a gift you have, Cassandra,” she said. “Not a curse. Thank you for that.”

I smiled, unsure. “You could See her after?”

“Just her reflection in your thoughts. But that was enough. And it was beautiful. It’s been a long time.”

She took a lighter and a bundle of juniper from her pocket and proceeded to light the end. I watched her perform the same saining ritual I’d been taught, but she did it quickly and efficiently so that after just a minute or two, every vision had been swept out the now-open windows while fresh air flowed in. They’d be back, of course. But it would give us some peace.

The cottage wasn’t as rustic as it appeared on the outside, having been outfitted with electricity and running water well before Gran left. But of course, it would be, I thought. The island wasn’t so primitive that people wouldn’t have electricity.

From the kitchen, Caitlin snorted as she lit a fire in a wood-burning stove similar to hers. “You’d be surprised.”

Ignoring the fact that she was still reading my thoughts without permission, I walked through the house, curious about the place where Gran had grown up. The common area was split between the kitchen in one corner and a living room where a faded floral sofa and a mission-style armchair faced a fireplace built into the north side of the house. Two bedrooms opened directly from the living room, and in between them was a tiny bathroom.

I glanced into the rooms. Both were spartan at best. One contained a single mattress and bureau against white-washedstone walls; the other only had a small teacher’s desk pushed under a window and several empty bookcases.

The house was full of memories, but little else. True to form, Gran had left as little of herself here as she could.

Disappointment cupped my heart. When I was growing up, we had so few personal mementos—photographs, family albums, and such—amidst her collection of flea-market items. Part of me had hoped that the houses I inherited would be full of things more personal than the bric-a-brac I’d been given. Anything that might give me a few more clues to the history of the woman who had known me best. Who were her parents? Did she have any other family? How had she gone from isolation to the position of power I was supposed to inherit? How had she inherited it herself?

But as a shield, she didn’t want anyone answering those questions. Not even me.

“Cassandra.”

Having made tea while I explored, Caitlin was now seated at a weathered table nearly identical to her own. I slid into the seat opposite her, where a large cup of steaming tea awaited me. A ribbon of steam spiraled from the spout of an ancient kettle on the stove.

“All right,” she said in a tone that meant business. “Normally, as an apprentice, you would take some tests to find out what you can do exactly. But we know that you can do almost anything so long as you’re touching another fae. But we also know you can’t protect yourself to save a cup of tea, much less your own life.”

Caitlin took a deep sip of tea before continuing, almost as if to demonstrate her point.

“So,” she continued, “we’ll start defense. Then we’ll work on channeling others, not just Seeing them. We have, after all, two sorcerers in the house, and Jonny manifests as a shifter as well. When he returns, we’ve got a bit to work with. I’ve a siren friend in Doolin who might come over for a day or two as well.”

I nodded if only to be agreeable, though I had no idea what any of this work might entail. She nodded back and took another sip. The conversation lapsed into silence, and after a minute or two, I began to wonder if she expected me to say something, a kind of “let the games begin” kind of moment. Except I had no idea what to say. So I continued to wait. One minute dragged to five, and Caitlin continued to sip. I sighed. This was a complete waste of time if all we were going to do was stare at each other.

“Well, I admit I’m no looker, but I don’t think I’m the worst thing to rest your eyes on.”

I grimaced—of course, that would be the thought she chose to hear. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have to keep listening in, you know.”

Caitlin smiled and shook her head. “So, kick me out.”

I frowned. Was she even still there?

The thought provoked another smile. “It’s stealth, you see. I didn’t bother masking before, but with most, you don’t feel it, do you? Those you can are young and inexperienced. Like this.”

An obvious pressure expanded inside my head. Okay, that I knew. Sometimes she had afforded me that awareness, it seemed.

“Feel that?”

I nodded, a little proud of myself.

“That had about as much finesse as a thirteen-year-old boy,” she said. “Now, think of a number between one and ten. And focus on that sensation you just felt.”

I did.

“Seven,” she replied instantly.

I laughed. “That’s incredible. I couldn’t feel you at all.”

“That’s just the problem, Cass. You’ve got to be able to. Again. And this time, try to feel the moment I sneak into that part of your mind.”

I thought again, and her answer was just as quick.

“Six. Were you not even trying?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean by that ‘part’ of my mind.”

Caitlin scratched her chin, considering. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to skip it after all.”

She stood and walked to the kitchen, where she began opening and closing cabinets and checking the oven and the ancient refrigerator to make sure they worked.

“What are you doing?” I twisted around to watch.

“The Buddhists have a type of meditation called vipassana .” She removed a Dutch oven bearing rust stains on its belly from one cabinet and took off the lid to inspect the interior before settling it on the stovetop. “It means clear-seeing. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes. Lots of yoga types on the West Coast.”

Caitlin stuck her nose into another old pot and pulled it out immediately with a grimace. “That’ll have to be boiled to death.”

She set the pot on the counter and resumed her rooting. By the time she was finished, she located a cast iron skillet and saucepan, both equally rusted, and set them on the table before sitting down again.

“We’ll have to re-season those, but they should work fine. As for vipassana , it’s a meditation practice where you consider your breath, think about impermanence, and eventually come to see the true reality of the world and yourself in it. Rob says many practice in complete silence.” She shrugged. “I don’t know about all the religion that goes with it, but when he described it, it sounded a lot like the training all young seers begin with. I did it, Penny did it, and my girls’ll do it too when they apprentice to other seers.”

“There are others?” I perked up curiously. I had never known seers to live in close communities.

“There’s a telepath on Inis Meáin, and a talented bard in Leitir Mealláin. The twins will go to them when they come of age.”

“And do what?” I asked, tracing my finger along the edge of the pan, hoping to pick up a spare memory of Gran. All I got was a bit of char on my finger pad. “Meditate?”

“To start,” Caitlin confirmed. “I was set in an abandoned cottage, much like this one, for almost a month until I came to understand every crevice of my mind. As seers, we’re so used to reading people that we forget to See what’s closest to us.”

She placed her hand atop my knuckles, allowing the gravity of what she was trying to say to flow evenly through our touch. I stilled. She really could see every nook and cranny of my consciousness. I stood no chance against her.

“That’s because you can’t protect what you don’t know.”

Our eyes met, and her statement echoed through our touch for another few seconds before she finally let go. Outside, the sounds of gulls crying on the shore took over the space between us.

I looked at the assorted pans. “So…you’re going to leave me here for a month? With a bunch of rusty cookware?”

“Oh, no,” she said, waving the idea away as if it were a bit of smoke. “We don’t have that kind of time. You’ll have a week, starting tomorrow. But I’ve faith in you—you’ll likely have more focus than a girl of thirteen. I’ll have Robbie bring enough food and drink to last the week. All you have to do is stay here. Think. Listen. No talking. No noise of your own.” She leaned closer. “And most important: no saining.”

I gulped. No saining? That meant no sanity.

Before I could ask exactly how I was supposed to deal with that, we were interrupted by another voice—one we both could hear.

“Hello, the house!”

Caitlin broke into a bright smile at the sound of Jonathan’s approach. “Say your goodbyes. And then, it’s time.”