Page 28 of The Scald Crow

I turned the skeleton key in a rusty lock, leaned into the door, and found myself standing on the uneven flagstones of a small hallway. A diamond-shaped, leaded-glass spy hole cut into the inside wall allowed me to peer into the reception room beyond. The room was a quiet shade of green, furnished with an overstuffed couch flanked by two end tables topped with matching Tiffany lamps; the stained glass dragonflies seemed to dance.

Stationed on a low table, a chess board, the carved pieces poised in play. My thoughts skipped around the table. Mr. Sweet and I had something in common, after all.

My gaze followed the timbered walls and high rafters, captivated by the beautifully draped plaid hanging over the second-floor railing. The vaulted ceiling created a warm, airy atmosphere.

Bookshelves lined each side of the fireplace where turf glowed, the breathing embers reminding me of a red-tipped cigar, the sweet-smelling aroma exuding a pleasant, earthy bouquet. The chimney’s two keeping holes held a clay pipe and a dusty ball of yellow yarn. I removed each item from their hiding holes and examined them. I lifted a silver candlestick from the mantel, inhaling the remains of a beeswax candle.

My gaze turned to a gilt-framed portrait of a man and a woman standing side by side. The man wore a flat cap, a tweed jacket, a white shirt, and a tie. But the woman held my attention. It was the golden-haired girl from Orla’s memory. Her blue eyes smiled, and the hem of her lacy dress wafted in a gentle breeze. I fought a wave of dizziness. The tick-tock of a grandfather clock comforted me.

Sidestepping the woman’s penetrating gaze, I entered the adjacent bedroom and plopped onto the bed, admiring the four turned posts crowned with intricately carved acorn caps. Through the lace curtains, ancient mountains reached into the sky. I smoothed my hands over the soft chenille bedspread, stretched out, and closed my eyes—a new mattress, a must-have. Should I shop online or support the local town’s economy? I checked my cell signal, realizing there was none.

I raced to the bathroom, a wave of nausea threatening. When had I last eaten? Yesterday—it was yesterday. I had skipped breakfast to meet with the lawyer, sign the last of the papers, and collect the keys. I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my face. I spun around, noticing how well-stocked the bathroom appeared, with thick yellow towels piled on one shelf and slabs of soap wrapped in wax paper on another. A rope with a plastic dolphin hung from the ceiling. I pulled it, and water flowed into the corner shower stall.

Not so rustic, Saoirse. I chuckled to myself.

I followed the yellow linoleum into the back kitchen, where layers of blue paint coated a horizontal plank wall. A footed oak cabinet reached the ceiling, its open shelves showcasing an array of blue and white crockery, round plates and chipped platters, a spice rack, and a full bottle of Irish whisky.

I paused at the back door, glancing around the small alcove that was just big enough for someone to remove their boots. A canvas work shirt hung on a hook, and a gnarly-looking walking stick leaned in the corner. I held the work shirt to my nose, breathing in the sweet scent of hay mixed with a faint hint of honey. My heart stopped when I swung open the top half of the back door.

That was Ireland: a herd of black-faced sheep scattered across the steep slope, each swathed with a splash of red paint—and the clouds—living, breathing, misty formations drifting across a gray sky, while a waterfall trickled through a gash in the mountainside.

A distressed bleat shattered the silence—one of my flock was distressed. Jolting into action, I grabbed the walking stick for a weapon and raced out the back door, intending to protect the poor little lamb from what? The big bad wolf?

The skies broke, blinding me with a ray of sunshine. I looked both ways, only to find that the distressed sheep had vanished.

Perched atop the cedar rail fence was a little man wearing a green felt hat, a loose white shirt beneath a brown wool vest fitted to his miniature frame, short navy pants, and dark stockings. He jumped to his feet, his buckled leather brogues landing silently. His bucket hat barely touched the top rail.

My mouth hung open.

“Séamus welcomes you, Miss Rioghain, to Seldom Inn.” He tipped his downy head, his blousy arm sweeping his felt hat in a wide arc. His pert lips lifted into a smile.

“Excuse me? Who are you? And how did you get here?” I dared not look away. The storybook man stared back, his dark eyes radiating warmth.

“Séamus lends a hand from time to time. Séamus hopes the croft is satisfactory?” He planted his thumbs in the pockets of his short pants.

His voice held the same dulcet tones I heard in the forest.

“Seldom Inn?” Trying not to smile seemed impossible.

“Mr. Dermot was seldom in. The croft is aptly named.” He gestured toward a barnboard sign with the exact words painted red.

How did I not see the sign before?

“Séamus has long waited to meet you, Miss Rioghain.” His words voiced more than a mild curiosity.

“No one mentioned you to me.” I loosened my grip on the walking stick, satisfied he meant no harm. “And how do you know my name?”

“I would be a friend, Miss Rioghain.” He dipped his chin, placing his hands on his finely threaded vest.

I studied the little man with renewed interest.

“A friend?” His peculiar speaking and strange clothes left me confused.

“Rioghain is your true name, given by your mother.” His mahogany brows pinched together, his eyes translucent pools.

I saw myself, dressed in swaddling clothes, cradled in a golden basket.

“My mother?” The air left my lungs, and I struggled to stay upright. I hoped he couldn’t see my confusion.

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