Chapter 24 Haar
HAAR
Baird had never shared Robbie's wariness of Sorcha, but as the boat neared the island—small, windswept and desolate, a place with few trees to break the lash of the sea wind—he began to wonder if perhaps Robbie's fear was justified.
“This is where she stays?” Baird asked, scanning the bleak shore. “Where's the cottage ye spoke of?”
Robbie gave a dramatic harrumph, as though Baird had never listened to a word he'd said about her—about the months he'd spent here as a young man, and the strange things he'd seen. “She'll let us land when she's ready. Same with the cottage. Ye'll see it when she wants ye to.”
A wind rose from the north. They were still two nautical miles from the sheltered harbor where Baird planned to anchor when Robbie caught his eye—a look that said this wasn't a weather front. This was Sorcha's doing.
Baird adjusted the sails to meet the sudden shift, but with the wind came fog—dense, white as cotton, rolling over the sea so swiftly it swallowed the world.
Within moments, there was no horizon, no sky, only the heave of water beneath them and the groan of the mast above.
Both men were seasoned sailors, willing to take their chances with any storm.
But a sea commanded by Sorcha—well, that was another matter entirely.
“Just stay the course, when we get into the harbor ye'll want to drop anchor. She'll row out to bring us ashore.” Robbie said.
Sure enough, just after Baird dropped anchor, the fog began to lift. Sunlight spilled across a glassy sea, and there—at the heart of the cove—stood a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, perched squarely atop the hill. Baird was certain it hadn't been there twenty minutes ago.
Out on the water, a young woman was rowing toward them—Sorcha, in her youthful guise, long strawberry-blonde hair streaming behind her, a simple sundress billowing in the breeze as though she were any island girl come to greet them.
“Well, hello, gentlemen,” Sorcha greeted, her voice lilting across the water like sunlight cutting through mist.
Baird tossed her a rope, though some instinct told him the gesture was unnecessary.
The moment before the line hit, it coiled of its own accord around the post at her bow—as if the laws of physics and gravity obeyed only her.
He and Robbie descended the ladder and stepped into her skiff, the boat barely rocking, unnaturally steady beneath their weight.
Something in the air shimmered, thick and humming, and Baird sensed that the natural order here bent to her whims. Wind, tide, gravity—none of it entirely right.
He thought absently, but not without a touch of dread, how strange his life had become. How this widening circle around him—Sorcha, Robbie, Mira, Granny Margaret—all bound by forces unseen—had tangled him in a world that no longer felt entirely his own.
At the cottage, Baird stooped to pass beneath the low lintel, and at once sensed the strangeness of the place—the interior was far larger than the modest structure could possibly contain.
Magic, of course. He and Robbie stood awkwardly in the doorway until Sorcha gestured for them to sit.
Baird chose a sagging couch, its fabric worn smooth by age, while Robbie lowered himself into an armchair near the hearth, eyeing the room with open suspicion.
A matted gray cat slipped from beneath the table, circling their legs in turn.
Robbie grimaced when it brushed against him, and the creature turned away with a small hiss as if insulted.
It padded back to Baird instead, pressing its head into his hand.
He scratched behind its ears, and a low, rumbling purr filled the silence—so deep it seemed to come from the walls themselves.
Sorcha returned with a tray bearing a bottle of whisky and three glasses, the amber liquid catching the firelight as she poured each a careful measure—three fingers, no more, no less.
As Baird reached to take his glass, the cat leapt onto the couch and slipped beneath his outstretched arm, settling into his lap as though it had done it a hundred times.
“Haar is a good judge of character,” Sorcha said, referring to the cat, her tone sweet but her gaze sharp as cut glass. She leveled it at Robbie, who shifted uncomfortably; he'd never cared for cats, and Baird suspected this was one of many small grudges between them.
Haar—the old word for the sea fog that had rolled in not half an hour earlier.
The symbolism wasn't lost on Baird. Sorcha seemed to trust the cat's instincts, and for that, he was quietly grateful.
Sorcha and Robbie always seemed to be at odds, the barbs between them worn smooth from use, but Baird sensed something deeper beneath the friction.
Not quite affection, but something perilously close to it—an unspoken tether, as much a part of them as their tempers or their pride.
Baird took a sip of the whisky—fine, smooth, the kind that burned just enough to remind a man he was alive—well, sort of.
He held the glass up to the light, admiring the deep copper hue.
The decanter bore no label, and he nearly asked the name of the distiller before thinking better of it.
Knowing Sorcha, it might have been salvaged from a shipwreck she'd conjured herself a century ago.
And Baird, for all his curiosity, had no wish to stay long enough to hear that story told. Another time, perhaps.
The cat's purr was the only sound filling the sitting room until Baird broke the silence.
“Sorcha—what can ye tell me about the Garvie grimoire, and the family's connection to Brigid?”
Sorcha arched a brow. “Oh, straight to the point, Baird Campbell. I do hope Mira gets a bit more foreplay.”
Her smirk widened as Robbie cleared his throat, shifting in his chair.
Baird only laughed—he should have expected as much from Sorcha.
Her joke broke the tension, lifting the edge of the dread that had hung over him since Mira's dream.
For the first time in days, Baird felt the tightness in his chest ease.
“Out with it, then. What troubles ye? You don't strike me as the type to fear a powerful woman—unlike Robbie,” she said, taking a slow sip from her glass.
Her eyes cut toward him again, all wicked amusement and warning. Robbie shifted in his chair, trying—and failing—to disguise his discomfort.
“I wasnae concerned until the other night, when she had a dream,” Baird said.
“She began mumbling in her sleep—not afraid, exactly, but her voice wasn't entirely her own.
She spoke of being chosen, said others had come before her but hadn't been enough…and it felt less like dreaming than a message meant for me.” He took another sip of whisky and lowered his gaze to the floor.
Haar had stopped purring and now lay fast asleep, mouth slack, a small patch of drool darkening the leg of Baird's trousers—an absurdly ordinary intrusion into an otherwise unearthly conversation.
“And it reminded me of things Agnes said—my wife when I was still human, killed by the vampire that turned me—back in the depths of her darkest episodes,” Baird went on, explaining about Agnes, not sure how much Robbie had told her.
“She spoke of a woman coming for her—because she wasnae enough, wasnae the chosen one—and that those closest to her would pay the price. I thought it was her illness speaking.” He paused, turning the glass slowly in his hands.
“I dismissed it then, like all the rest. But now—hearing Mira say nearly the same words—it chills me. She told me she dreamt she flew to a mountaintop and met Brigid herself—that their voices joined until they spoke as one. She was euphoric when she woke, radiant even. No trace of the fear Agnes had.”
Robbie swore under his breath. “That's worse,” he muttered.
Baird looked up. “How d'ye figure?”
“Fear makes people hesitate,” Robbie said grimly. “Belief makes 'em walk straight into the fire.”
Baird turned back to Sorcha and drew a slow breath.
“I can't help but feel there's a connection I missed—something that binds them both, though I can't yet see how. Agnes said several times, and was adamant that I remember it, that someday, long after she was gone, the goddess would take another from me.”
Sorcha's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward in her chair. “What is it ye're asking me, exactly? Whether the voice ye heard was truly the goddess herself, warning ye—or if Agnes was right? Or perhaps what is the Garvies' connection to Brigid?”
“I wish I kent exactly what I was asking,” Baird admitted, realizing coming here may have been a fool's errand.
“Are ye afraid for Mira,” she pressed, her tawny gaze fixed on him as though Robbie weren't even in the room, “or guilty for having ignored what Agnes told ye?”
The question struck him like a stone to the gut.
“Cannae it be both?” he said quietly.
Sorcha studied him for a long moment. “And yet ye've told Mira neither.” She didn't wait for him to deny it. “There's no use in guilt, Baird Campbell,” Sorcha said, her tone softening. “Ye did the best ye could for Agnes.”
He appreciated the gesture, but it did little to ease the weight in his chest.
“Let me start by sayin' I dinnae believe the power in Mira is ordinary magic,” Sorcha said quietly.
“It feels like a door's been opened for her.
As though someone's been waiting for her to step through it. And maybe that someone is Brigid herself.” Her normally distant composure sharpened, her attention locking onto Baird with sudden intensity that made unease coil in his gut.
“As for the Garvies, that book has been copied and recopied over the centuries.
The one Mira holds now is at least two hundred years old, likely more—and I'd wager it wasnae the first their family made.
It's less a spellbook than a devotional of sorts, every word an offering to Brigid. Families like the Garvies would have worshiped all the old gods and goddesses, but there isnae a single reference to anyone besides Brigid. And the book is laced with fear, not only the feelings I can detect when I lay hands on it, but written in script by the Garvie women themselves.”
Sorcha continued to stare at Baird, and he wished silently for a bit of psychic breathing room.
“So aye—the connection is real. And if I had to guess, it stretches back at least five hundred years, perhaps more.
It's possible Agnes knew of the family connection, but those things she said still may have been because of her illness. Ye cannae know that, so stop beating yourself up for it.”
She paused then, her expression shifting, the flicker of firelight catching gold in her tawny eyes.
“But power like that—it doesnae come without cost. The goddess is generous, but she's never been merciful.
Every gift she gives is a debt owed, and Brigid's debts are always paid in blood or in love—and sometimes, they're the same thing.” Sorcha leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant, as if watching something only she could see.
“The Garvies bound themselves to her long ago, and the vow hasnae been broken—only passed from one generation to the next.
They've denied their magic for many years now.
I cannae say why. But it's woken in Mira.”
She drained the last of her whisky and set the glass down, her fingertip tracing the rim in slow, thoughtful circles. “Have ye told Mira yet—about what Agnes said?”
Baird raised his brows, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. “No. I wasnae sure how to bring it up.”
“Has she mentioned the spell she misread—the one I corrected for her when I visited?”
“No,” Baird said warily. “What was it?”
Sorcha rolled her eyes and gave a small, disapproving shake of her head.
“Ye two lovebirds need to stop keepin’ secrets from each other.
Whatever lies ahead, the goddess holds the cards.
And the two of ye would do well to remember—ye’ll need to face what's coming as partners, or not at all.” Sorcha rose from her chair—a small motion, yet one that carried the unmistakable air of dismissal. The visit was over.
“I’ll see what I can learn about the Garvies’ bond to Brigid,” she said, smoothing her skirt with absent precision. “And Baird—get these things spoken between ye and Mira before I come again. Secrets fester, and the goddess—not to mention marital harmony—has little patience for silence.”
Baird nodded and thanked Sorcha, and as the three of them rowed out to the sailboat, Baird wondered if the chosen words—marital harmony—was a euphemism, or Sorcha's way of letting him know she'd seen something he hadn't yet been ready to speak aloud.