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Jeremy leans in. “I’ve always been intrigued by the rocky path of Christianity in Ireland, especially Catholicism. It’s fascinating.” He widens his eyes. “And terrifying.”

I fix a look of interest on my face, preparing to agree with any suggestion from him. Getting closer to him may unearth hints about my future at Kennard Park University.

“In fact, my own dissertation back in the day was on the atrocities Cornwallis visited on the Irish.”

A shudder runs through me. “That’s dark.”

He nods enthusiastically. “Oh, it is. Take pitch-capping for example.” Jeremy crosses his arms and leans them on the edge of the table, suspending his face over the empty bowl. “Cornwallis found great pleasure in using the practice on priests. A cap was filled with hot, melting pitch—” The waiter stops by to light the candle between us. The flame makes Jeremy’s teeth glow yellow. “Then it was lowered onto the head.”

He mimes the action, closing his long fingers over the top of my head. When I startle, he pulls his hand away.

Gravelly undertones color his voice. “There was no surviving such an abomination of course, but the agony—” He reaches under his glasses to press a finger to the corner of his eye as if to blot away a tear. “Those few minutes of life ebbing away. Horrible.” His warm brown/black eyes lock on mine. “To complete the desecration of a human life, they’d rip the cap off, exposing the brain and bringing on instant death.”

If he thinks this story charms my scholarly interest in any way, he’s mistaken. I squirm and peer into the dark corner of the restaurant, half-expecting to see Father Colm’s shadow rise along the wall.

Jeremy pats my hand. “My mother would be appalled at my choice of meal talk. Forgive me.” He folds his napkin and places it next to his stew bowl.

“Will you visit your mother in Loilgheach Mór?”

He casts his eyes downward. “No. She’s been gone a long time.”

The silence stretches while I try to figure out the right thing to say. His pensive pause at the mention of someone lost brings up a memory of the Máthair I will choose to remember, my grandmother, not Sion’s deal-making ma.

Jeremy taps the table with both hands. “Would you care to explore a bit?”

After the pitch-capping story, I hesitate. I have plenty of my own ghost stories to fill any quota.

“We can stroll over to Bull Island.”

This time the silence is my doing. I’m torn between kissing up to the guy who benefits my future on several fronts or returning to the solitude of my hotel room and attempting to define my reality. Memories, feelings, and my otherworldly activities of the past few days slosh through my mind. They need to be sorted like a deck of cards into proper suits so I can move forward. One certainty is that I will not be wandering through the Veil with Sion Loho in the oncoming Celtic day.

“Or if you’re tired?—”

“No.” I cut him off. “We’re only here a couple more days. I want to see as much as I can.” Bailing on him right after dinner has the earmarks of a kiss off, not a kiss up to. I need to keep Jeremy Olk in my plus column.

I’m not used to the late onset of dusk. At home, it would be full night by now, but Ireland is farther north than New York. Jeremy switches into docent mode as we cross the wooden bridge onto the jetty of Bull Island. What doesn’t this walking Wikipedia know?

I breathe in salty air and long to sit alone atop the steep rocky wall that sweeps down from the path to the bay, close my eyes, and imagine my blood communing with the waters of the Irish Sea. I pull the brandied melon scarf from my pocket. Its color reminds me of the brightness of Sion’s hair in the Veil, and I stuff it away. It’s taking a maddening amount of energy to act normal.

Jeremy regales me with tidbits from the tour I missed at Dublin Castle. I’m nodding and commenting at all the appropriate places, but my mind keeps flipping to where I don’t want it to go—Sion and the soulfall. There are two nights left between now and Beltane. Will he be able to save the last two souls in time? Alone?

It’s no longer my concern. Whatever might have started between us is not worth sacrificing the non-fantastical academic future I’ve invested in for so many years.

I kick a rock that careens a fair distance before flying over the edge of the walkway to land with a splat on the low tidal mush stretching across the Dublin side of the bay. When I add another “Hmm” to the one-sided conversation, Jeremy laughs.

“And I’m probably rambling on about things you already know, Professor Duir.” His hand brushes the small of my back as he moves closer.

At the end of the jetty, we stand above a huge expanse of sand on the north side. It looks to be a quarter mile or more before gentle waves slide over the beach. I twist away and point off into the distance. “Is that a seal?”

He squints along the shore and then breaks into a smile. “A seal or selkie?”

I have no desire to dip into folktales and legends. “Nope, just a dog.” I steer him back to the topic of Dublin Castle. “You were talking about wild, unsanctioned parties at the castle?”

He chuckles. “Wild and wilder up the scale to abject debauchery. Ah, the stories and shenanigans, including the theft of the Irish Crown Jewels.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “The Irish Crown Jewels?”

“The scandal extraordinaire. Never solved.”