Chapter Eighteen
He was, without a doubt, the worst person who’d ever lived.
Not only was he dishonoring his wife, he was giving poor Emer false hope.
For Broccan knew, in the depths of his soul, he’d never be able to just forget Teamair.
And Emer was perfect. She was a bright light that deserved to have all of him.
But there were pieces of Broccan that would never come back together.
He had never been the man Teamair deserved. And he could never be the man Emer deserved. When would he learn?
Chopping the onions according to Emer’s instructions, he fought to ignore her presence right beside him. From the corner of his eye, he saw that she was doing something with dough. The pungent scent of the onions filled his nose, his fingers moving quickly to get the job done and set them aside.
Teamair would have liked Emer. They weren’t the same—Teamair was more like Alannah in manner, boldly taking charge of whatever room she entered.
But she would have admired Emer’s quiet strength, the way that she brought warmth wherever she went.
Broccan couldn’t decide if that made the way he felt better or worse.
The thought had crossed his mind over the past days that perhaps it hadn’t been an accident that he’d crossed paths with Emer.
Folk said that the spirits of those who passed could send messages to the living.
Some believed they could even influence the course of a person’s life.
Broccan hadn’t landed one way or the other on that idea, but he knew Teamair had believed everything anyone told her about ghosts and spirits and sprites. She’d eaten it up.
So when he thought back to his initial meeting with Emer—that it had been in the midst of his searching for a gift for Teamair—he wondered if Teamair herself had somehow engineered it.
An absurd notion, he’d decided shortly after it occurred.
Maybe things like that happened to other folk, but Broccan didn’t deserve such consideration.
Still, the seed of an idea had been planted, whether he wished it or not, and over the next days as he wrestled with his conscience he wondered yet again: Had his meeting with Emer been some kind of sign from Teamair?
Grumbling at his own foolishness, he grabbed the carrots that Emer had set next to the last onion and started chopping. Of course Teamair wouldn’t push him toward another woman. What absolute nonsense.
Two carrots later, the idea came back to him, apparently unwilling to be dismissed. Groaning aloud, Broccan set down the damned knife. Why would his thoughts not settle? He’d well and truly stirred the pot this time.
Beside him, Emer softly cleared her throat. “Is that, uh, carrot getting the better of you, then?”
He turned an unamused look at her, his heart doing a flip when he spied the smile teasing at her lips. She’d been through heartbreak. And though she was far too optimistic, Emer had a level head. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I don’t know.” She cocked her head thoughtfully, her hands resting atop what was looking more and more like a pie crust. “I’d like to believe my parents are still around, so I suppose I do.”
“Do you ever feel like—” Lord, how could he say this without sounding insane? “Like maybe they’re sending you a message?”
The smile finally won, a grin breaking over her face like a cool wave. “Oh, absolutely. They send me deer.”
Broccan blinked at her. “Deer?”
“Aye, deer. They knew I always thought of them when I saw a deer, and I still do. So whenever I see one, I know that’s them.”
He didn’t want to destroy her joy, but he didn’t find that particularly convincing, as signs went. “Anything more specific?” he pressed. “Perhaps relating to an occasion or your own thoughts?”
She went back to work on the pie, rolling her lips together.
“Sometimes when I’m making a difficult decision, I hear one of their voices in my mind,” she offered.
“I don’t know if it’s actually them, or me imagining the advice they’d give, but I can say that every time I listen, it turns out for the best.”
“For example?”
“When I heard you and the other men were coming for dinner that first night, I heard my mother’s voice in my head, excitedly talking about her pie.
” Emer didn’t look over at him, a pink flush creeping up her milky cheeks.
“Whatever else happens, I’m glad that I met you, Broccan.
And I don’t think I would have had the chance to do so if I hadn’t reached for that cinnamon. You’d have gone north with the others.”
The hairs on his arms stood on end. What were the odds that she would bring up the very thing he’d been contemplating? The very event he himself wondered over?
That was it, Broccan decided. He wasn’t particularly superstitious, but he’d never felt so conflicted and confused in his life. He always knew what to do. But if he was ever going to chance taking advice from a ghost, it was right now.
Swallowing hard, he told Teamair that if he was reading this situation correctly, if she truly didn’t loathe him over his growing affection for Emer, that she should send him a sign. Something that he couldn’t possibly misinterpret.
Exhaling hard, relief took some of the weight from Broccan’s shoulders. It was oddly freeing, putting the entire affair out of his hands, at least for the time being. He seriously doubted any sign was forthcoming. In his experience, life rarely unraveled so neatly as that.
Emer wiped her hands clean on a towel, heading into one of the storage compartments just behind the kitchen. She emerged a few moments later, returning to his side as Broccan finished chopping the last carrot.
“Speaking of our first meeting,” she told him, “I believe I owe you.”
As soon as he set down the knife, Emer laid a stick of cinnamon onto the table in front of him.
Broccan’s mind struggled to grasp the gravity of what she’d just done, of what had just happened. He’d doubted that his request would be heard, let alone answered.
And in the space of two breaths, the undeniable proof of it sat staring at him.
He picked it up, lifting it to his nose and breathing in the sweet, spicy scent that Teamair had so loved. He ran a ragged hand down his face.
Unbelievable.