Page 32

CHAPTER THIRTY

You kissed her!

! Oh honey!!!!

I’m so happy for you

I mean assuming you’re happy too.

Are you happy??

Madeleine, sitting on the bed, stared down at Becca’s texts.

There was not a single indication of surprise in them.

Typical Becca.

Yes, I am.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m happy.

She bit her lip, then, and her eyes stung with tears.

I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with it.

On the screen, green bubbles started, and then stopped, and then started again.

Madeleine could picture Becca with her tongue between her lips, concentrating as she worked out the right thing to say.

Finally, Becca replied:

Embrace it.

Don’t let that Catholic guilt eat you up, there’s other ways of being faithful, and we can talk about that later, but for now I just want you to hold on to this feeling.

Ok? You deserve it

Madeleine dipped her head.

This time, a tear made its way down her cheek.

Keep saying that, and I might believe it.

I’ll say it as many times as you need.

Want me to call?

A phone call.

One where Madeleine and a friend could hash out all the details of a thrilling kiss, of a new romance.

The sort of experience Madeleine never had growing up but had watched other girls having, and always wondered what it was like.

Her heart raced with eagerness.

Yes!

Moments later, the phone rang, its bright tone lighting up the room with promise.

Smiling, crying a bit, Madeleine finally answered.

H?ra had said Jonathan was “a shite fiddler,” which had seemed harsh.

Tonight, before the cottage fireplace, Madeleine had to concede she’d been correct.

Jonathan’s bow was less than precise, the fiddle’s notes high and screechy as he played traditional Scottish folk songs “to welcome an American lass properly.”

It was still delightful.

She, H?ra, and Jonathan all sat together in the cottage’s little living room, with a fire going to keep out the evening chill.

H?ra had pulled the couch back and sat farther away from the heat, but she insisted she was fine, if Madeleine and Jonathan needed the fire to stay warm.

There was a space at H?ra’s side.

Madeleine looked longingly at it from where she sat on the floor with her back to the fire.

Maybe once she warmed up, she’d sit with H?ra for a few minutes, and next time she was in town she’d buy a blanket from Annie’s Crafts.

Then they could sit together.

At least looking at H?ra was its own reward.

H?ra lounged on the couch in her usual posture: legs spread, arms draped over the back of the couch, casual and confident.

She’d let her hair out of its ponytail.

Now it fell, long and straight, around her face and over her shoulders.

Her eyes were sharp, her mouth tilted in a thoughtful little smile as she watched Jonathan.

Madeleine smiled too.

H?ra had said she loved him as if it was the greatest shock she’d ever known.

Meanwhile, Madeleine had had something of a shock herself.

The scales had fallen from their eyes today, as they had from Saint Paul’s.

Paul had harsh things to say about homosexuals—things that had tormented her for her whole life.

He had also said, If I have not love, I gain nothing .

Catholics weren’t overly fond of Pauline theology, but you couldn’t just discount that kind of declaration from an apostle of Christ.

She didn’t have to throw it away entirely, nor the other teachings that had sustained her through good times and bad.

She did, however, have to think about them in new ways.

And if that made her a cafeteria Catholic after all, picking and choosing what seemed right to her, then maybe it wasn’t the worst fate in the world.

Becca had agreed. They’d spent most of their conversation talking about H?ra and the kiss—with a few key details left out, obviously.

But Becca had agreed it was high time for Madeleine to embrace a new way of thinking.

It couldn’t be this simple.

One conversation on the beach, followed by one chat with a friend, wouldn’t erase a lifetime’s worth of doubts and fears.

But for the first time in decades, she felt something like peace.

There was nothing wrong with holding on to it as long as it lasted.

And to think, she owed it all to a supernatural creature.

She looked at H?ra again.

Maybe tonight, she could ask H?ra to transform into her Each-uisge form.

She might be ready to see it now.

Jonathan’s song drew to a close.

Madeleine and H?ra applauded politely.

“It was shite,” Jonathan confessed as he set the fiddle in his lap.

“Usually is,” H?ra agreed.

“Can I sing with the next one?”

Jonathan laughed.

Madeleine sat up straight and said, “You sing?”

“Worse than I play,” Jonathan said on H?ra’s behalf.

“How about ‘The Rowan Tree’?”

At H?ra’s enthusiastic nod, his fiddle launched into a folk melody Madeleine didn’t recognize.

The original composer, whoever it was, likely wouldn’t recognize it either.

H?ra’s singing didn’t help.

However attractive she was, she had a singing voice like…

well, like a horse’s.

Madeleine grimaced.

Nevertheless, when they were done, she clapped.

Thankfully, Jonathan said, “That’s it, my wrists and fingers are giving up. Madeleine, would you honor us?”

H?ra leaned forward on the couch.

“You told me you like singing.”

It was another piece of Madeleine she seemed eager to consume.

In spite of the day’s revelations and her newfound peace, the greed in H?ra’s eyes made Madeleine’s stomach flip over in a not-unpleasant way.

“I do,” Madeleine said.

A lightbulb went on over her head.

“Some folk songs, even. French ones my mother taught me.”

As always, at the memory of her lost family, her heart clenched.

Though somehow, it wasn’t so bad talking about it with H?ra and Jonathan.

Even with the Daughters of Grace, a wall had raised itself around her heart as she tried to tell herself Christ’s love was enough.

It hadn’t been.

Or maybe this was just a new way of feeling it.

She wasn’t sure yet.

H?ra smiled. The greed had gone from her eyes, replaced with the most human expression Madeleine had seen there yet: simple understanding.

H?ra had lost her family too.

She said, “Go on then.”

Madeleine cleared her throat.

“I’ll have to do it a capella . This one’s ‘Le Petit Cheval’—‘The Little Horse.’”

When they nodded, she began to sing.

“Le petit cheval dans le mauvais temps, qu'il avait donc du courage! C'était un petit cheval blanc…”

She wasn’t half bad, especially compared to H?ra, and heaven knew she’d gotten enough practice with hymns.

Her voice was a pleasing alto that glided nimbly through the notes.

When she finished, Jonathan clapped, and H?ra frowned.

“That was short. There isn’t any more?”

“H?ra,” Jonathan sighed.

“What? I like her voice. Madeleine, is there more?”

“I only remember the first three verses,” Madeleine admitted.

“It’s been a while.”

“What do the words mean?”

“It’s about a horse who’s brave in a thunderstorm.” As she said it, Madeleine bit her lower lip.

She’d chosen the song deliberately, but now that she said it aloud, maybe it seemed heavy-handed.

H?ra sat up straight.

Jonathan shook his head.

“Best not to speak of that.”

Before Madeleine could look around in alarm, H?ra said brusquely, “Don’t be superstitious. It’s not as if the herd can hear or see us. Madeleine, thank you for the song. You have a beautiful voice.”

“She does,” Jonathan agreed.

“Finer than any I’ve heard in church.”

“You don’t go to church.” H?ra darted a quick glance at Madeleine, as if making sure this topic wasn’t off-limits.

What could Madeleine do but shrug?

Jonathan could talk as he pleased, and it was good for her to be with people whose lives didn’t revolve around worship.

She herself hadn’t been inside a church since her disastrous attempt at confession.

After today’s events, she felt no rush to return.

“There’s other ways to find what’s holy,” Jonathan said.

He crossed his legs at the ankles and settled his weathered hands on his stomach.

“Singing’s one. I sang a lot when I was a young man. Village kids would follow me about asking me to.” He glanced at H?ra.

“He said that’s how he first noticed me, you know. Heard me singing. The song went out of me after him.”

H?ra stared at Jonathan.

“You never told me that.”

“Must I tell you everything? Anyway, it’s true.”

Madeleine’s mother had taught her not to ask intrusive questions, even if people were speaking in front of her about something she didn’t know.

It sure was a temptation now.

Yet she held her tongue.

If Jonathan wanted to elaborate, he would.

As if he’d read her mind, he smiled wryly at her.

“Sorry. I’ll tell you more later.”

He must be referring to their talk tomorrow.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Madeleine nodded, already alight with interest.

“You should sing again,” H?ra told him, voice taut.

“Don’t let him take away your pleasure anymore. I want to hear your song.” She leaned forward toward where Jonathan sat in the hideous Naugahyde chair, eyes narrowed.

I love Jonathan, she’d said.

They never told me I could love .

But H?ra could love.

At the thought, Madeleine’s blood ran hot in her veins, in a way it didn’t even when she burned with desire.

The fire at her back was nothing in comparison.

H?ra wanted to learn more about love, and maybe someday, together, she and Madeleine could both learn…

Too bad she wasn’t facing the fire.

Then she’d have an excuse for her reddened cheeks.

Jonathan shifted in the chair.

“My voice isn’t what it used to be.”

“None of us are,” Madeleine heard herself say.

They both glanced at her.

Jonathan’s lips twitched.

“That’s true.”

“Will you sing?” H?ra asked softly.

“For us.”

She held Jonathan’s gaze with an expression Madeleine recognized now.

It focused on you until you wanted to do nothing more than whatever H?ra desired.

It was half order, half plea, both halves equally hard to resist.

Jonathan cleared his throat.

“I can’t promise I won’t sound like a sheep.”

“We’re used to sheep,” H?ra said.

“And it can’t be worse than your fiddle.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled.

“What to sing, then. Let me think…ah. I know the one.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to settle into himself, going away somewhere.

Madeleine had the feeling she was watching someone returning to the past. When Jonathan began to sing, Madeleine realized quickly it was meant to be a dialogue between two lovers.

Oh lad of mine, where do ye go?

To the high hills, my own one, to the high hills I go.

Why go to the hills, and not come to my arms?

I’m afraid your embraces will do me some harm.

He was a tenor. His voice was scratchy and unpolished after decades of neglect, but it would have been marvelous when he was younger.

As he sang, he seemed to become younger, his lined face relaxing into the memory of a lost, happy time.

He must have been good-looking, too.

Like this, Madeleine could see it in him.

A beautiful young man with a beautiful voice.

Then he’d lost it to alcohol.

Her throat grew thick at the lost potential.

H?ra leaned forward again, putting her elbows on her knees.

For some reason, her mouth was pinched as she listened, her knuckles white as her hands gripped each other.

Why? There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about the song.

It just sounded like folk music.

The song continued:

Why should my embraces then work ye such woe?

You are my true love, but sorrow will show.

How shall ye get to the hills high above?

Farewell, I’ll take flight on the wings of the dove.

Jonathan drew out the final note, making the word “dove” soar like the bird itself.

At the last moment, his voice shook, and he stopped at once.

His eyes opened, and when he saw Madeleine and H?ra staring at him, he blushed.

This time, Madeleine’s applause was entirely sincere.

“That was wonderful!”

Jonathan blushed more deeply.

“Eh, you must not be used to much if that was ‘wonderful’ to you.”

“I’ve heard enough lousy singing to be a good judge,” Madeleine said dryly.

“Back me up, H?ra.”

“It was good,” H?ra said.

“I wish you had sung to me before.”

At the wistful note in her voice, Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ah, well. Now I have, haven’t I? Anyway, it’s gone past nine, and I’d best leave you. Maybe I’ll catch a bit of that football match after all. H?ra, you coming with?”

H?ra shot Madeleine a glance.

It had been a long, emotional day.

Madeleine had much to think about, and that was best done alone.

It would be best for H?ra to say goodnight.

Madeleine should tell her so.

“You’re welcome to stay,” she said.

“Unless you want to watch football.”

“Then I’ll stay,” H?ra replied at once.

“Jonathan’s club hasn’t won in ages.”

“My club isn’t even…never mind.” Jonathan stomped toward the door.

“Come home when you’re ready to appreciate sport.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” H?ra called after him, and he laughed as he shut the door.

That left Madeleine and H?ra facing each other: H?ra sprawled on the couch, and Madeleine’s heart went into overdrive again.

“Quite the day it was,” H?ra remarked.

Only yesterday, Madeleine would have broken eye contact and tried to collect herself.

Now, that didn’t seem possible.

H?ra’s eyes hooked her like a lure.

“You can say that again,” she replied.

Then she added, “Not literally.”

H?ra’s lips quirked.

“Thanks for the clarification. I don’t always know.”

Madeleine laughed shakily.

Were her palms sweating?

How absurd. After the emotional roller coaster of the day, sitting in front of a fire couldn’t undo her.

Again, H?ra leaned forward, looking as intently at Madeleine as she’d looked at Jonathan while he sang.

As if she was trying to figure something out: what to see, do, or say.

“I don’t know a lot of things,” she said after a moment.

“I’m not like you. Remember?”

How on earth could Madeleine forget?

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice. Why do you ask?”

“Jonathan’s song.” H?ra looked over Madeleine’s shoulder into the fire.

Its glow turned her eyes into that yellow shade that Madeleine remembered so clearly from her horse form.

“I know why he chose that one. He wants to tell you the story himself, and I’ll let him, but it’s got me thinking about what I am. Or what I was.”

What I was.

Jonathan’s story. The song went out of me after him.

She said slowly, “You told me at the beginning that Jonathan had met another Each-uisge before you.”

A muscle spasmed at the side of H?ra’s mouth.

“Is that what he was singing about?” Madeleine pressed.

“I can’t tell you what happened. That’s his story.” H?ra ran a hand through her hair, mussing it in a way that called to be fixed by Madeleine’s fingers.

“But he told me it ruined him. Drove him to drink. And he sang? Now I learn he lost that because of…”

Her eyes filled with anguish as she stared at Madeleine.

“What if I don’t know when to stop?”

Whatever that meant, it certainly stopped Madeleine’s heart.

Stole her breath, too, making a reply impossible.

“We weren’t taught how to love,” H?ra whispered.

“Only take. I would take everything from you if I could. I can’t help it.”

The words should have been a warning.

A sensible woman would take them for one.

A sensible woman’s body wouldn’t go soft and weak with wanting.

It wouldn’t throb between the thighs.

H?ra must have seen it on Madeleine’s face, because her nostrils flared.

“You said you want to know how to love,” Madeleine said hoarsely.

She curled her hands into fists.

That way, she couldn’t hold out her arms in a moment that had gone from calm to wild in the blink of an eye.

“You can. Anyone can, no matter what or who you are.”

“And what does that mean?”

Before Madeleine could answer, H?ra rose from the sofa.

All six lanky feet of her unfolded into the air.

She came forward—one step, two, three.

Her legs were long and that was all it took.

She loomed over Madeleine on the floor.

Her fists were clenched.

Her teeth bared.

Madeleine remembered her jacket ripping beneath those teeth.

She remembered one of those hands covering the rip, too.

Which would win now?

The teeth or the hands?

Which one did Madeleine want to win?

H?ra slowly lowered herself to her knees before Madeleine.

Quite close to the hearth, to the fire.

“What does that mean?” H?ra repeated.

“For me to love you? It’s not the same as it is with Jonathan. I don’t know what this is. It’s not—what I used to think?—”

Her hands curled around Madeleine’s upper arms, taking all the air out of the room while they were at it.

“It’s not love,” Madeleine managed to croak.

H?ra’s touch was as firm, as possessive as ever.

“I told you…too soon…”

“I have had six years to want you.”

What burned brighter, the flames or H?ra’s eyes?

“You wanted your idea of me. Sister Madeleine the nun, you said so.” At the memory of H?ra’s disappointment and anger, her chest ached.

“But that’s not who I?—”

“I knew what was real,” H?ra hissed.

“I knew then, and I know now. I know what you felt like under me.”

Madeleine lost her breath again.

She knew what that felt like too, even if the memory was fuzzy from a head injury.

She’d lain weak and helpless, the cold chased away by the searing heat of the woman who held her now.

“ That was real,” H?ra said.

“And so was your strength. I thought I didn’t need anything else, but now...” Her eyes grew impossibly hotter.

“What would be enough of you? Can you tell me?”

Madeleine rocked forward, rising up on her own knees so she and H?ra were almost of a height.

Her heart beat so hard that she swayed to its rhythm.

“L-love isn’t possession.”

She’d never said anything less convincing in her life.

“Then what is it?” H?ra moved forward until their knees bumped.

“Something that gets me near this fireplace?”

H?ra hated the heat.

“Will that hurt you?”

“It confuses me. Like you.” H?ra leaned in.

Their noses were almost brushing.

Again, Madeleine could feel H?ra’s breath on her mouth.

“So. Love?”

Yet again, nothing came to mind but Saint Paul’s most famous words.

No matter how Madeleine felt about her faith, they seemed appropriate now.

“Love is patient,” she whispered.

“Love is kind.”

H?ra snorted and looked unimpressed.

Her voice shaking, Madeleine continued, “Love does not envy. It doesn’t boast. It isn’t proud. It…”

“That’s enough.” H?ra curled one hand around the back of Madeleine’s neck.

“It seems clear that I don’t love you.”

The words created a cold pit in Madeleine’s chest, even though H?ra was only agreeing with what Madeleine herself had said.

Of course they couldn’t love each other yet.

At least not more than people were supposed to love one another in general.

“I’m not kind,” H?ra whispered.

“I’ve been known to boast. And I’m a proud creature, Jonathan’s told me.”

So am I .

A lifetime ago, Sister Catherine had said pridefulness was Madeleine’s besetting sin.

“I’m patient, though, you must agree.” H?ra’s face was changing in a way Madeleine couldn’t explain.

Not like someone about to change their shape into a magical being.

More like someone changing from a person into…

into… “I’ve waited a long time. So have you.”

“What about envy?” Madeleine croaked.

“Oh yes.” H?ra rubbed her nose against Madeleine’s—a gesture that might have been sweet, even silly in another context.

Here, it just felt like another step toward the edge of a cliff.

What a thrill it would be to fall at last.

“I envied everyone who spent that time with you,” H?ra said.

“Now I want all the time with you I can get.”

Was it Madeleine who was moving her right hand to rest on H?ra’s shoulder, and her left to touch H?ra’s cheek, just beneath the sharp cheekbone?

Was that Madeleine’s thumb brushing over H?ra’s bottom lip?

It must be.

H?ra inhaled shakily.

She opened her mouth.

She must be about to say something else, and Madeleine held her breath for it.

H?ra didn’t speak. Instead, she closed her incisors gently around Madeleine’s thumb.

The tip of her tongue flicked against Madeleine’s flesh.

As she tasted it, H?ra’s eyes fell shut, as if in bliss.

This wasn’t like the kiss they’d shared on the beach: cathartic, sweet, almost innocent.

Nothing was innocent about H?ra’s mouth savoring Madeleine’s skin.

It couldn’t be, not when Madeleine’s whole body lit up hotter than the fire at her back.

Too fast, she tried to tell herself, this is too much, too soon .

She was still wrestling with so many things.

H?ra’s eyes opened again.

The firelight reflected in them.

She released Madeleine’s thumb from her mouth with a soft, wet noise, and in that moment, Madeleine Laurent’s walls collapsed into rubble.

It wasn’t too soon.

It was much too late, in fact.

Madeleine opened her arms. As H?ra’s own arms wrapped around her, as H?ra bent to take her mouth, her soul whispered: Better late than never .