Eire of Hostility

  *

  Jane's mind was racing, her thoughts scrambling for coherency. She checked the wall clock again. It had been less than thirty minutes past that she went into her play room, and then beyond. She'd only returned a few minutes ago. Her jeans and shoes were damp and scuffed, so she changed out of them and into some long shorts. She'd grabbed her journal just before Jack made his startling entrance. Jane still had some of Mix's hair on the shoulder of her sweatshirt, and the lingering tingle of Macklin's lips on hers.

  Glancing at her writing desk, Jane was thankful that Jack was short term loopers or else he would have noticed the sparkling jewelry box sitting there. Her play room door was taped to the back of her bedroom door, so that was out of sight and no worry.

  She'd never seen her brother in such a state before, and wondered if it was just a bad dream he'd had or some sort of premonition. There was almost too much coincidence that she'd had an unbelievable journey, and then he came busting in with worry right after.

  Jane was glad to have a loving and protective brother, but he never understood her like Kate, or maybe her da. With Jack being twelve years her senior, she never had as close of a bond with her brother that other siblings might with each other. She just hoped her bedroom door could handle any more of Jack's vivid dreams.

  Trying to commit every second of her adventure in the Lore to memory, Jane again wondered at the time. She must have spent a few hours there, but only twenty or so minutes went by at home. Even though Macklin explained time being fickle over a fae-bridge, she still had trouble accepting the proof of it.

  In her time in the land of the Other Crowd, Jane had gotten lost in the woods, nearly wet herself, saw a huge monster, visited an unearthly beautiful land with a magical cabin, and finally met a surly, foul-mouthed leprechaun. To top it off, there was some plot she was the center of, involving some dodgy, intense dryad woman.

  But beyond all that, there was Macklin of the Fair. He'd comforted her, protected her, held her hand, gave her gifts, and welcomed her into his world. And by God, he was a fine buck. Jane admitted to herself that if she kissed him any longer, she'd be even more reluctant to return home. She knew without doubt that those wavy-ocean eyes of his would haunt her thoughts and dreams for some time. Alice could keep her wonderland; Jane had Macklin and the Lore.

  The memories of every detail were focused on, mostly to suppress the ache of more than likely never seeing Macklin or his home ever again. Jane would even miss tough little Vaughn, who, despite his attitude, was concerned enough to come and warn of her safety.

  From how that damned ether played with time, there was no conceivable way for Jane to safely visit there again. There were no guarantees of returning back to the present, in the real world. She wasn't ready to give up the only life she knew, the one with family, friends, places she knew about, and what the rules were. Unless Macklin found a way to make her bridges work so that she could literally have the best of both worlds, then the memories would have to do.

  Jane knew she'd bust if she had to keep all that to herself. But who would believe such an outrageous story? Her school mates would either call her a header or think it a pure horse's hoof and chalk it down as a drink-induced dream. She had proof, such as it was, but even her closest friends would never buy it. They'd think Jane's priceless box was a shiny, cheap bauble found online somewhere.

  It'd be like when Neal O'Keefe came back from holiday in New York with a knock-off Rolex he'd tried to pass off as real. Jane didn't want to be compared to that gombeen.

  Jane's da would listen and laugh at the story of her adventure, thinking it a teen's imagination. Telling her mam was right out; Jane could just picture the scowl and the stern reprimand of wasting time.

  Her sister-in-law Fiona would certainly hear her out if Jane was serious enough, but ultimately would think her a flute and still hanging onto adolescence. From what Jane had learned, Kate's friend Fiona had it a bit rough in her own youth, and had to grow up fast. She had little or no time to hang on to fantasies or other open-minded ideas.

  The thought of telling Mr. Buckley, Jane's drama teacher, was quickly discarded. He was approachable enough, and doted on her, but his thought pattern was such that he'd think she was coming up with an idea for a spring play.

  Jane could think of no one else who would even listen to such a tale and not treat her like a dreamy child, except maybe her sister Kate. Brody might hear her out as well, but she honestly didn't know him well enough. She also didn't want to take the odds of him thinking less of her. At least Kate might take her story seriously, especially if Jane produced the odd evidence.

  But there was a lingering doubt about Jane's older sister. On one hand, Kate had always been logical and, well, boring. On the other hand, though, with her new fella Brody at her side, she'd come out of her shell… had essentially come alive. Lately, Kate was full of smiles and warmth, and was surprisingly insightful. If the new Kate listened to the story, she would try to find a way to believe it, if only for Jane's sake. The worst that could happen is that she wouldn't buy it either, but wouldn't give that stare like Jane was mental.