Perfect Timing

  Once everything was arranged to Loni’s liking, she and Ceara both knelt near the pedestal table to bless themselves with holy water and say a decade of the rosary, asking the Virgin Mother for intercession. They followed with several recitations of the Lord’s Prayer.

  Afterward Loni sprinkled holy water all around the pedestal table while Ceara lighted the candles. Then Loni gazed into the crystal again, whispering the prayer she’d said before. As if acting on instinct, she lightly moved her hands over the crystal, whispering, “Let the light that’s within me enter this ball. Let all sight that comes through me shine bright in these depths.” Then, suddenly, Loni lifted one hand from the glass to reach toward Ceara. “That’s what’s missing. I’m not touching you.”

  Ceara stepped closer to grasp Loni’s fingers. Loni said, “Don’t look deeply into the glass. Let me be the one to do this. Promise? Quincy will have my head if anything happens to you or the baby.”

  “Ye’ve me word on it.”

  With her free hand, Loni stroked the crystal again. “Powers that be, allow me to see, in this sphere of glass, the people Ceara loves in a time long past. Let the light that’s within me enter this ball. Let all sight that comes through me shine bright in these depths.”

  A strange glow surrounded the crystal sphere, creating shimmery sparkles similar to a halo. Ceara’s pulse kicked. She felt Loni’s hand tighten on hers. The glow surrounded the hand Loni had left resting on the crystal, then suddenly went out. Loni jumped and Ceara heard her gasp faintly.

  Then Ceara saw that familiar, distant expression enter her sister-in-law’s eyes. Ceara felt a tingling on her skin. It seemed to her that the very air in the room grew charged with some unseen force.

  “I see them,” Loni whispered. “And, oh, Ceara, so much more clearly now than before. Your mum is so lovely!”

  Ceara inched closer to the sphere, paying special attention to how she felt and any sudden movement of the babe in her womb as she directed her gaze deep into the murky crystal. The babe didn’t move. Ceara experienced no sense of weakness. Something flickered, swirled, formed into her mum’s sweet face.

  Home. The rock walls of the tower room, the arched opening that looked out on the land around the manor, her mum’s chair over near the hearth, where an afternoon fire burned cheerfully in the grate. Ceara took a deep breath and slowly released it, once again taking measure of any physical effect this connection might be having on her. Nothing. She felt right as rain. ’Twas Loni’s gift at work, not her own. Ceara felt certain there would be no danger to her or her child.

  “Mum!” she cried, touching the fingertips of her free hand to the glass. “Oh, me sweet mum!”

  Ceara’s mother gazed back at her with tears in her eyes. “Ye’re growing big with child,” she said, her voice faint but clear. “I’ve been watching ye in me ball and seeing yer middle swell, but I ne’er dreamed ye might find a way to see me as well! Ach, ’tis a miracle that brings tears to me old eyes, Ceara, me darling girl.”

  Ceara was so happy she felt a little light-headed, not from any physical stress, but simply because she’d thought ne’er to see her mum again. Clinging tightly to her friend’s hand, she had the presence of mind to say, “Mum, ’tis me sister-in-law Loni, here with me. Ye’ve seen her before, if ye recall. She is wife to Clint, me husband’s eldest brother. Loni, meet me mum, Daireann Eibhlin O’Ceallaigh.”

  Daireann inclined her head, smiling warmly. “’Tis pleased I am to meet ye, Loni.”

  Loni returned the pleasantry, and then Ceara intervened. “Where’s Da, Mum? Is he about?”

  Her mum leaned sideways to yell, “Riordan, come quickly! Ceara is in me ball, and she can see me, she can!” She flashed a radiant grin, revealing several missing front teeth. “’Tis up the stairs he must come. Four flights. ’Twill take him a wee while.”

  “Mum, how be ye feeling? Yer bones? And is yer heart still bouncing about sometimes?”

  Daireann placed a hand over the center of her chest. “Me heart is fair bouncing about now. ’Tis so pleased I am to have this happen, Ceara. Now that we be talking, ’tis brimming with questions I am. Yer hair, me dear child, what went with yer hair? I near fainted the first time I saw ye without yer braid.”

  Ceara laughed even though tears slipped down her cheeks. “Ach, the hens—me friends and sisters here in this time—got me a done-over, and one of the things to make me look more of this time was to get rid of me long hair.”

  “And the babe?” Daireann asked. “All goes well?”

  “Yes, very well,” Ceara said with a laugh. “’Tis a lass, Mum, and I be six months and one week in.”

  Daireann’s wrinkled brow drew into a bewildered scowl. “A lass, ye say? Ye ken this afore she comes? Has a midwife dangled a weighted string from your belly?”

  “Nay, no weighted string.” There were so many strange things in this new place that Ceara couldn’t begin to explain them all to her mum. “In this time, they can see through me skin and flesh to look at me babe. ’Tis called ultrasound, though it makes no noise, and ’tis a lass fer certain, Mum. She shall be born afore we know it, only two months and three more weeks to wait.” Just then Ceara glimpsed a dear face she’d thought ne’er to see again. “Brigid!” she cried. “Me sweet wee sister!”

  * * *

  When Quincy returned to the house to check on his wife, the first thing he heard was the wonderful chime of Ceara’s laughter ringing from upstairs. He hurried to the second floor, and when he entered the bedchamber, he saw Loni and Ceara hovering over the crystal ball, both of them talking a mile a minute, Ceara’s cheeks drenched with tears. When she saw Quincy, she beckoned him over.

  “Ye must come see me mum and da! And me sister, Brigid, Quincy. Hurry afore Loni loses them!”

  Quincy doubted he would be able to see anything. He knew from experience that he had no druid gifts, period. Even so, he stepped up behind Ceara and peered dubiously over her shoulder. Before, the ball had looked murky and dull to him, but now it shimmered, and muted light swirled deep at its center. He nearly lost his balance when he saw the craggy faces of an old man and woman, clear as could be. Behind them, he glimpsed a gigantic stone fireplace. Along another wall, he saw what looked like an arched window of sorts without glass that was flanked by wooden shutters.

  “My God,” he whispered. The woman must have heard him, because she gave him a wink and a jaunty wave. Quincy felt as if his eyes were going to pop right out of their sockets. The stamp of the woman’s features exactly duplicated his wife’s.

  The couple appeared very old—too old to have a child Ceara’s age. Surely they weren’t Ceara’s parents. “Your mum and da?”

  “Yes!” she cried, flashing him a joyous smile. “Mum, Da, ’tis pleased I am to present to ye me husband, Sir Quincy Harrigan. Quincy, meet me da, the O’Ceallaigh, given name Riordan, and his lady, me mum, Daireann Eibhlin.” Just then a young girl stepped into view. She so closely resembled Ceara that Quincy did a double take. “And me wee sister, Brigid. Brigid, this is me husband, Quincy.”

  Quincy greeted each person, hoping he sounded halfway sane. Talking to people who were more than four hundred years dead—well, it was a bit much to take in. And he couldn’t get over how ancient Ceara’s parents looked. By comparison, Quincy’s dad was still young and robust. Though he knew people back then had aged at a faster rate and died much younger, he still would have guessed these people were his wife’s great-grandparents if he’d met them under any other circumstances. Meeting them at all had him seriously off balance. He put a hand on Ceara’s shoulder. This was beyond weird, yet it was happening.

  Brigid was what Frank would call a pistol. She immediately began teasing Quincy, first about his funny hat, then about his léine and trews. And why, she wanted to know, had his hair been shorn? Quincy, reminded of his manners, swept the Stetson from his head.

  “Some men in this time still wear their hair long,” he told the child, “but most of us prefer a shorter cut.” r />
  Just then, three older men entered the room. Quincy could scarcely credit their odd dress or the fact that they wore no shoes. Ceara quickly introduced Quincy to them, one by one, and Quincy was even more startled to learn that these fellows, who looked to be at least a decade older than Clint, were his wife’s brothers. The eldest was named Adamnan. Then, in descending order of age, Quincy met Aidan and Caelan. Ceara was ten years younger than Caelan, and Brigid was the baby of the family.

  Suddenly the brightness within the crystal began to dim. Loni sent Ceara an apologetic smile. “I’m growing weary, I’m afraid. To do this for so long is taxing. It’s time to say good-bye—and quickly, please. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.”

  Ceara squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand and leaned close to the ball. “’Tis time fer farewell, I fear. The sight of yer dear faces has gladdened me heart! Soon, mayhap, ’twill be possible fer us to visit again. Brigid, ye behave yerself, and mind what mum tells ye!”

  The good-byes coming through the ball and so many centuries grew faint and then fainter still, and suddenly the glow inside the crystal blinked out completely. Quincy curled his hands over his wife’s shoulders. She stood with her head bent for several seconds, still clinging to Loni’s hand. Then, after taking a deep breath, she looked up and beamed a smile.

  “’Twas wondrous!” she cried. “Thank ye so much, Loni. Ye’ll ne’er know how much it meant to me, seeing them again and hearing their dear voices.”

  Loni gave Ceara a hard hug. “Oh, I think I know, sweetie, and I’m more than happy to have helped bring it about.” As Loni drew away, she winked at Quincy. “We’ll do it again very soon, I promise. At least once a week, so you can keep close tabs on all of them.”

  Moments later, after Quincy had seen Loni out and closed the door behind her, he turned to find Ceara standing near his elbow with a perplexed frown pleating her forehead. “What does it mean, keeping close tabs?”

  Quincy laughed and gathered her into his arms. “It means keeping close watch on someone, just another way of saying it. And that, by the way, is why I came back to the house so soon.” He splayed his right hand gently over her belly. “I was worried about you and our little girl.”

  Ceara placed her hand on top of his. “’Tis fine we are. I ne’er used me gift. Loni used hers. The babe sleeps, happy as a bedbug in the straw because her mum is so verra happy.”

  “Good, good.” Quincy encircled her in his embrace again. “I’m sorry for being a worrywart. Normal, I guess. I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  She looked up at him, then stepped away a little, tilting her chin in the manner she had before she put a question to him. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Yer expression says ye feel as if ye’ve been kicked in the head by a horse. ’Twas a bit difficult for you to believe, I ken?”

  “Well, uh . . . yeah. I guess it was. I mean, I know it happened and all, but I didn’t really think . . . I mean, how did Loni . . . Oh, hell, I don’t know what I mean. I still can’t believe I’ve been talking with people who lived over four hundred years ago.”

  Ceara’s laugh rippled out and she flung herself on him. Her stomach pressed against him as she hugged him hard. “Ye will, Quincy; I promise ye that. ’Twill soon seem as natural to ye as electricity now does to me. Do we have any three-bean salad left? I like the tart taste.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Quincy wasn’t surprised that evening when Ceara announced that she wanted to celebrate her reunion with her loved ones. He was all for it, even if he still felt shell-shocked about it. Under Quincy’s tutelage, she’d learned to make a mouthwatering chicken curry with a coconut-milk base, which he deemed a healthier choice than half-and-half or dairy cream. After pouring them each a flute of sparkling cider, Quincy set to work at the right of the cooktop to prepare a salad, a task he relished, because he could slip in different varieties of vegetables that Ceara would hesitate to eat otherwise because they seemed strange to her—rainbow chard, green peppers, leaf lettuce, ripe avocado, diced kale, tomatoes, and half of a white onion. His wife loved her onions. Because she was also obsessed with sour stuff, he planned a Mediterranean-style dressing with olive oil, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and a dash of Herbes de Provence, a blend he’d created himself using a recipe he’d found in a Mediterranean cookbook. It would be a nice, romantic dinner for two, complete with soft music and candlelight.

  Ceara worked beside him, stirring the curry, adding spices, and then offering him samples with a tasting spoon. When Bubba and Billy Bob moaned with hunger, Ceara reached into the pot and tossed them bits. They gobbled, gulped, and eyed her worshipfully. Quincy grinned. His two big moochers knew where their next bite of curry was coming from.

  “Oh, man, that’s delicious,” he said each time she fed him a bite, and then he’d dip his head to sample her lips. “But not nearly as delicious as you.”

  Ceara would laugh and say, “Ach, behave yerself. I am on the menu for dessert.”

  Quincy truly couldn’t remember ever having been so absolutely happy or content with his life. He’d worked hard for nearly twenty years to make a go of his horse ranch, and before Ceara had dropped into his world, he had acquired all the trappings of success—a big, beautiful home, a small fortune in the bank, an impressive investment portfolio, and a group of trusted staff in the arena, which would have allowed him to take all the time off he wanted for family vacations, if he’d only had a family. Now—finally—Quincy had it all: a beautiful, sweet, wonderful wife and a baby on the way.

  Having Ceara beside him was the culmination of all his dreams. And as of tonight, compliments of Loni and the crystal ball, she had been able to see her family again. The link hadn’t been as clear as, say, speaking to people on Skype, and according to Loni, communication might sometimes be difficult, if not impossible. But at least it was something, and though it wasn’t quite as nice for Ceara as a real visit with her loved ones in Ireland, she seemed tickled and peaceful in her heart. He was so thankful for that damned ball and Loni’s ability to make an occasional reunion happen in the future that he would light candles after Mass tomorrow morning and spend a good fifteen minutes doing knee time.

  After peeling the onion, he leaned down to kiss Ceara lightly on the cheek. “Do you have any idea how very much I love you?” he asked.

  She nodded. Quincy waited for a response, still yearning to hear her say the same words back to him. “You’ve nothing to tell me?” he asked.

  She glanced up and grinned. “Ye fill me heart with joy, Quincy. Just seeing ye makes me toes tingle and gladness warm me bones.”

  He sighed and reached for the big chopping knife, which he’d just sharpened. “That’s it?” He cut the onion in half with a frustrated chop and started to position the blade for another downward snap. “I make your toes tingle?” That was something, but he still longed for the words she’d never spoken. Dammit, he knew he made her toes tingle. She made him tingle, too, but a little bit higher.

  Ceara, monitoring the concoction she stirred, laughed and bumped his left arm with her shoulder. A teasing jostle, Quincy knew, but she was short and caught his elbow at just the correct angle to shove his left hand, which was holding the onion, sharply to the right as he put downward force behind the knife. Quincy felt the razor-edged steel hit his wrist. No big, he thought, because he felt no pain. The next instant blood spurted upward, nailing him right in the eyes. He couldn’t see, but he could feel the rhythmic streams of thick liquid hitting his chin, then his shirt. He also heard Ceara scream—a horrible, panicky shriek of sheer terror.

  An artery, he thought stupidly. Shit. He’d slashed his wrist. “I’m all right. I’m all right,” he assured her, even though he knew damned well he wasn’t. What was worse, he couldn’t see to get the bleeding stopped. He tossed the knife and grabbed his wrist, but the clench of his grip didn’t stop the spurting. “It’s okay. A rag, I need a rag to wipe my eyes. Get me a towel, Ceara, quick! We’v
e got to tie this off!”

  “Nay!” Ceara cried.

  Quincy felt her slender hands shove his aside and close over his wrist, her fingers pressing in on the wound with a strength he hadn’t realized she possessed. A strange heat radiated into his hand and up his arm. Then, from his shoulder to his fingertips, the heat turned electric, as if he’d just grabbed hold of a live two-twenty wire. He weaved on his feet.

  “What are you—” Quincy never finished the question, because he knew what Ceara was doing—using a gift she’d never told him about: the ability to heal. “No!” Oh, God, no. He’d seen what using her powers did to her. He tried to pry her fingers loose from his flesh, but she held on with tenacity, and with one hand and his fingers slick with blood, he couldn’t get a good grip. “Ceara, don’t! The baby! You can’t be—”

  Her fingers went suddenly limp under his. Her hand slid away. He heard a thump. Billy Bob began to bark, a low, deep-down growly bark that meant danger. Quincy’s body went cold.

  “Ceara?”

  He wiped frantically at his eyes in an attempt to see. It didn’t help. Blood clogged his vision. Disoriented, he headed for the sink. Water. He needed to wash his eyes. His boot struck something soft; he tripped and went down, managing at the very last second to catch his weight with his hands. Ceara lay under him. Quincy pushed up onto his knees, shoving both dogs out of the way, groping blindly to see what was wrong with her. Limp. Her entire body was limp. Oh, sweet Christ. Holy Mother. God help me. Quincy jerked the tails of his shirt loose from under his belt and swiped with savage urgency at his face. When he could finally see, it was through a red haze, but at least he could make out his prostrate wife and where he was in the kitchen. Bubba was whining and licking Ceara’s white face.

  Pressing his fingertips to Ceara’s throat, he felt for a pulse. His own was pounding so hard he couldn’t tell if Ceara had one. He bent low to put his face near hers and felt a shallow breath on his cheek as she exhaled. Alive, she was alive. He ran his hands over her. So much blood. Had she fallen on the knife? He rolled her this way and that, but he saw no wound. Thank God, she hadn’t been cut. His blood, he decided. So what the hell was wrong with her? He was afraid he knew: She’d passed out from the effort of saving him.