NINE
Patrick
When the Fomori’s messenger, Daire Donn, had arrived ten days ago, Patrick had been reassured. Daire Donn had been impossible not to like. He had come into the clubhouse like an old friend, smiling and shaking hands, and before he’d reached the stairs he’d been dry, his linen shirt sparkling with gold thread and embroidery of the deepest purple, his cape of fine scarlet wool swirling about his boots.
“So why did you call us, my friends?” he’d asked as they sat on padded leather chairs in the clubhouse meeting room. Daire Donn’s dark eyes had gleamed as he looked at Patrick. “’Twas you who led this charge, aye?”
Patrick had been surprised to be noticed. And then flattered. “We’ve called you for Ireland’s sake. She’s been under British rule for centuries now. Her lands are fallow, her people starving. We’re the Fenian Brotherhood—”
“Fenian?” Daire Donn had paused as he lifted his tankard of beer.
“We’re named for the Fianna,” Rory put in.
“Ah, I see.”
“Like them, we plan to be the heroes of Ireland,” Jonathan said.
Patrick had winced. A misstep. He remembered the legends well. The Fianna and the Fomori had always been enemies, and Finn MacCool had fought more than one vicious battle with Daire Donn when he was called King of the World and allied with the Fomori. There would be no love lost there. Patrick had rushed in with “We’re asking for the help of the Fomori. We want an uprising, a rebellion. Our other attempts have—sadly—failed. But with the Fomori as our allies, we think we can succeed.”
“To throw off the rule of Albion,” Daire Donn had said. Albion was the ancient name of England.
Patrick nodded. “Yes. To give Ireland back her pride and her power.”
“Ah.” Daire Donn smiled broadly. “Well, I think perhaps we can come to an agreement. I know my fellows well; they cannot like to see their lands in the hands of Britons. But they will want something in return.”
Patrick had leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, of course. Once the rebellion succeeds, we’ll need leaders to guide the people, to write a new constitution. There will need to be a new government formed—a democratic one—and we can offer you a place within it.”
Rory said, “There will be opportunities for good men to shape a new world.”
“A new world?” Daire Donn took a sip of beer. “That sounds promising. I will have an answer for you in ten days’ time. Will that be acceptable?”
Patrick let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yes.”
After that, the talk had been filled with stories and laughter as Daire Donn recounted the Fomori’s exploits, which had eased Patrick’s worry. It was as he’d thought: the Fomori had an entirely different way of looking at events. The Fianna were not quite as heroic as they’d been portrayed. They had moments as bloodthirsty and cruel as those told of the Fomori. And Daire Donn’s love of Ireland was obvious, as was his enthusiasm to help.
But now it had been ten days, and they’d heard nothing. Patrick stood over one of the glass cases in his study, staring down at the things inside, the ogham stick safely locked in place, separate from the rowan wand, which Simon had hidden elsewhere. Patrick felt a shiver of excitement when he looked at the stone. Daire Donn had been everything he’d hoped. The old King of the World had been a charismatic man. Patrick understood why people followed him.
And most importantly, he seemed a reasonable man.
Tell me, Patrick thought impatiently. Send the message.
He tapped his fingers against the glass. Impatience was his failing, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He could be patient with some things: with the business, with his mother, with Lucy, though she tried him often, as when she’d come begging him to hire some poor boy who needed a job—and who had thought Lucy capable of such finer feeling? It made Patrick wonder if perhaps he’d been wrong; perhaps his sister wasn’t as shallow as he’d thought. And despite the depression, the business was doing well—rich men knew how to stay rich, and they always needed tailoring and hats—so what was another stableboy if it made his sister happy?
He turned from the display case, striding to the window, looking out on Madison Square, at promenaders and tinkling fountains, the smell of roses from his mother’s garden wafting through the open window. He thought of Grace in the reflected light of the garden: the softness of her mouth against his, the way she’d quoted “Dark Rosaleen” to him. He’d been struck then with the urge to tell her everything. Everything the Fenian Brotherhood had done, everything he wanted. The old magic and the failure of the Fianna to show and the calling of the Fomori. Daire Donn.
But there again, he was too impatient. He would tell her eventually, because he knew she would share the passions of whomever she loved. It was that romance in her, her love for the Irish legends: the tale of Finn, who’d saved the life of High King Cormac of Ireland and was made the head of the king’s elite fighting force as a reward; the love story of Grace’s namesake, Grainne, and her Diarmid; and the tragedy of the fair-haired Etain’s love for Oscar. Grace understood his passion for their homeland.
But he’d also seen her nervousness. He’d had to remind himself that she was still so young. Almost seventeen, but there was so much she didn’t know about the world, and at twenty-one, he’d seen so much more. He wanted to teach her. He wanted to see that fire in her eyes burn for him. But he had to go slow. Waiting was the key.
He gripped the windowsill hard. He pressed his head against the glass.
He hated waiting.
When he heard the knock at the front door, he jumped. But then he realized that Daire Donn was unlikely to send a messenger to his house. No, the Fomori’s answer would come to the Brotherhood, where Rory Nolan was waiting.
Patrick heard the opening of the front door, the maid’s voice. He heard her footsteps down the hall. When she knocked at his study, it was all he could do to school his face into a pleasant smile.
“A note for you, sir,” she said, giving him what looked like a scroll tied with a ribbon before she left.
It wasn’t paper, but parchment. Real parchment, made from scraped hides. Thick yet pliable.
Patience, Patrick cautioned himself. It could be nothing, an invitation to a costume ball. A themed supper. Some foolish waste of time.
But he knew it wasn’t. He felt the magic pulsing from it. He was amazed that the maid hadn’t seemed to feel it as well.
He stripped the ribbon from the scroll and unrolled it, his fingers trembling.
The note was written in Gaelic, in thick, flowing ink. He’d been reading Gaelic since he was ten, and this was no trouble.
They had agreed. They were coming! The summer solstice—that was June twenty-first, only a few short weeks away. It had been so easy after all, just as Patrick had hoped. The Fomori were coming, and together they would save Ireland. And the answer had come to him. Daire Donn had chosen him.
Patrick smiled.
The scroll turned to dust in his hands and disappeared.