The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Nadia Williams Tara’s Find

She shouldn’t be here.

Tara McGinty pushed an errant strand of hair from her face. Around her, tendrils of early-morning mist rested on the damp heather coat of the field they were excavating. The light green of a copse of ash trees to the north of the archaeological dig contrasted with the backdrop of the darker slopes of the round-topped Mourne mountains in the distance. An army of dark clouds loomed on the West horizon, emphasizing the fleeting nature of the fragrance of fresh dew in the air. A lone crow’s caw didn’t break the silence as much as accentuate it.

In four hours, the first of the staff would arrive. The smell of coffee would mingle with young voices, students grateful for the summer job, flirting and bantering. With a sudden sense of urgency, Tara ducked under the canopy that protected her demarcated soil squares from rain. She cast a glance at the tent near the entrance to the dig. Thomas, Dr Dullaghan’s faithful sidekick, was still asleep. There hadn’t been as much as a stir from inside the tent when she’d slipped a note through a small gap in the tent flap:

I couldn’t sleep, so I started to dig. Call me when you wake up and I’ll make both of us tea.

Tara

She’d have been surprised if he wasn’t asleep. It was only four in the morning, a chill bite in the air belied the fact that summer was at the height of its power.

Tara opened her knapsack. With deft movements born of hours spent scraping soil away in search of the past, she first took out a small square of canvas and laid it on the ground. On that, she placed a trowel, brush, metal dustpan, measuring tape, folding metre stick, clipboard and her camera. She checked the remaining contents: a flask of tea and a sandwich, in case she got thirsty or peckish before the rest of the staff arrived. These could stay in the pack.

Tara picked up the trowel and stilled. There it was again. That same prickling feeling that often crawled up and down her spine when she met certain people. It wasn’t as intense as usual, but the feeling was unmistakably there. She’d felt it from the first day she arrived at the dig, but shrugged it off. It would soon disappear: it always did. This time, however, it had not settled into an almost pleasant buzz, it had become a constant irritation.

She clicked her tongue and stepped into the shallow hole. Dullaghan had decided to let her choose her own square to excavate, with no supervisor peering over her shoulder. «Away from the rest of the dig, so you can have some privacy,» he’d said. But she’d sensed something else under his words, a kind of frustration. The man didn’t like her, she was sure of it. He’d appointed another worker, who also held a BSc Honours in Archaeology and Geology, to be square supervisor. Tara didn’t mind, but Dullaghan had insisted on giving her the option of working alone to «make up for it».

The dirt made a scraping sound as she brushed it into the dustpan. She emptied it into a bucket beside her square to be sifted for possible relics later, and tackled the next layer of soil.

In the end, worried about Dullaghan’s attitude to her and feeling miserable at the prospect of being apart from the camaraderie that often developed on a dig, she’d picked her spot to dig at the exact place where the prickling feeling along her spine had been strongest. What a fool. The feeling had driven her to distraction over the last few weeks: invaded her dreams, stolen her sleep.

This morning she’d got fed up with tossing and turning. Sure, midnight had been an all too recent memory in the air, but the long summer day was already chasing darkness from the skies. She’d given in to the sense of urgency and driven to the dig to start working. And now, three full hours before the rest of the crew were due to arrive, she’d unearthed something. interesting.

Something round and beige was revealed when she carefully scraped away the next layer of dirt. It was about the size of her thumb. A river pebble, probably, though its mere presence here could tell a story. She brushed away more of the dirt, reached for her measuring tape and noted the pebble’s exact position on her clipboard. The temptation to dig just more and more ate at her tired brain, but Tara resisted. She removed another layer of soil with the trowel, leaving the dirt around the pebble for last. Then she took up her brush, excitement rising in her chest.

It was a face, probably a statue or a bust. Although, when she leaned closer, it didn’t look right for that. It seemed too real. Measure, note, photograph — with hands shaking from excitement. Should she go and wake Thomas? But no, she wanted to unearth this alone. Tara set to work on the next layer of soil. It was more than just a bust. A body emerged as she carefully removed another layer of the earth that had hidden it. This was no statue. It was human remains.

This time, before she reached for her measuring tape and camera, she set her brush aside and stared at the man she’d uncovered. Something was seriously wrong here. She’d taken every grain of soil from the body herself, there was no indication of recent disturbance. From the settled state of the earth, she’d have guessed he must have been buried for at least 100 years, possibly more. Yet the body looked fresh.

Soil and climatic conditions were not condusive to mummification, yet the corpse had not skeletonized. In any case, it didn’t look mummified. It looked as if life had animated the man’s long limbs and sensitive lips just yesterday. As if he’d open his eyes and lift an arm to scratch his one-week beard any moment now.

Another anomaly puzzled her: though there was no sign of as much as a scrap of clothing on him, a rusted belt buckle had emerged as she’d brushed away the dirt on his stomach. The rest of the belt, and the trousers it had held up, must have disintegrated. That meant a good few years’ underground.

Tara peered at his finely sculpted face, more that of someone asleep than long dead. The stillness of early morning hung around her like a shroud. Rain started pattering on the canopy over her head. A deep sense of melancholy overcame her as she stared at the corpse, still half encased in tight-packed soil.

She rose, picked up her camera and took photos of the find from every angle, circling him clockwise, then she retraced her steps to put the camera away again. Tara climbed back into the hole, grateful now that she’d given in to the impulse to excavate two squares side by side. Her man lay diagonally across them.

What had he been like when this body was still filled with life? she wondered as she crouched beside him. The little she could see of his face spoke of a handsome man with fine features. Only his face showed, his head was still encased in soil. What colour was his hair? It was impossible to tell if his dirt-caked chin was covered with dark or light stubble.

His lips were perfect. Not too thick, not too thin. Made for smiling. For kissing. «Come back to life, sweet man, and tell me your story,» she whispered. She kissed her fingers and dared to touch them to his mouth.

His lips moved.

At the same moment, a shock of impressions flooded her mind. A feeling of pressure around her ribs, of an overwhelming desire to gasp a deep breath but no space for her chest to expand. She snatched her hand away and scrambled from the hole with a suppressed yelp, falling on her backside.

The chill touch of sloppy mud seeping into her trousers brought her back to reality. What the hell had just happened? She rubbed the needles-and-pins feeling from her fingertips and shook her head as if to dispel her silliness. For long moments she sat in the mud, rain tapping her head as if impatiently demanding she make a decision.

She’d touch him again, that’s what she’d do. Show herself there was nothing to it. Tara swallowed away her stupid fear and crawled closer to the corpse, into the shelter of the canopy. She climbed into the hole. Gritting her teeth with determination, she reached out a shaking hand and rested it on the man’s forehead.

Suffocating, she was suffocating. Tiny, shallow breaths into a chest gripped tight by something and she couldn’t move.

When Tara came back to her senses she was frantically digging away at the soil around the corpse’s chest. She stopped herself, horrified with her carelessness. She’d flung the earth asunder without a thought to taking careful measurements, or checking for artifacts. God, she’d ploughed her way through dirt she would otherwise have taken days to remove.

Dullaghan was going to kill her.

A small sound drew her attention and she fixed her eyes on the corpse’s lips. This time she had no doubt. They’d moved. In fact, his chest rose and fell with small, gasp-like breaths as she watched. There was only one possible conclusion she could come to: she’d gone insane.

So insane, in fact, that the memory of that closed-chest feeling moved her to grasp her trowel once more and carry on digging. She hacked at the soil around the body with total disregard for long-learned principles of practical archaeology. Her only consideration was to free the man from his earthy prison. Anxious glances in the direction of the tent showed no movement, no sign that Thomas had woken and was about to discover her need for a padded cell and men in white coats.

When at last she was sure he could be lifted easily, no longer in the grip of his grave, Tara set her trowel aside and knelt next to him. She leaned forwards, peered intently at his handsome face. He still wore a soil halo, and only once she’d washed him would she be sure of the colour of his hair.

Once she’d washed him? Where on earth were her thoughts going? She swiped a filthy hand over her face, heedless of the streak of dirt she probably left there. The best thing she could do now was to get away as fast as possible. That way she’d have a very, very slim chance of not being blamed for this travesty.

Except, she’d left the note in Thomas’ tent. Oh, God, she was so screwed, on so many levels.

And with that realization, Tara crossed a line. She was so far gone, so deep in trouble that nothing she did could make it much worse. Why not explore this experience to the full, so that at least she’d not have unanswered questions eating away at her when she sat in her padded cell?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she placed her hand firmly on the man’s forehead again.

Able to breathe now, grit in my mouth, nose blocked, very cold. Broth. Warm broth.

This time she didn’t lose herself in his sensations. Was it because he was no longer panicked, suffocating? She stilled, rubbed her tingling hand. What exactly did that thought tell her? It meant she believed she felt the man’s feelings. The corpse’s feelings.

Hell. This was no corpse.

Tara’s whole body started shaking. Shock. Her mom always swore by sweet, hot tea for calming one down. With nothing to lose, the decision was easy. Tara dug out her flask, poured half a cup of steaming tea and drank it down. Then she poured another half-cup and held it over the man’s parted lips.

Drip-drip-drip.

She watched, not sure if she dreaded or desired this supposedly lifeless body to show some reaction. Long moments passed. Then the lips pressed together, his Adam’s apple moved.

«Oh. My. God.» Tara dripped more tea into his mouth, watched as he swallowed again. And again, and again. At last he’d drunk half a cup of tea, and she couldn’t stop smiling. Bugger the dig, bugger Dullaghan. She was taking this man home.

With feverish haste, Tara screwed the lid on the flask, then tossed it into her knapsack with the tools she’d brought along. She peered through the now almost solid veil of pouring rain. There was still no sign of movement from Thomas’ tent. That was normal enough. Though it felt to her as if ages had passed, it was still an hour before the normal starting time for the dig. Furthermore, he wouldn’t even have to leave his camp bed to realize there would be no digging today because of the rain. Hopefully, he’d take the opportunity to sleep in.

She got to her feet and ran past the tent, pushed open the never-locked gate and hurried to her car. The temporary fence was for keeping animals out — here, in the country, there was little if any chance of human interference with the dig. Once she was seated behind the wheel of her twelve-year-old hatchback, she flung her knapsack on the passenger seat. The engine purred to life at the first try and she drove carefully down the road, to the corner of the fence closest to her man. There was a bend in the winding, crumbly tarred path there, and she parked out of sight of the dig.

Quick as a flash, she opened the hatchback and put the rear seats down. Would he fit? How on earth was she going to carry him there? She’d make a plan, somehow.

It wasn’t difficult to undo the loosely twisted wire that kept the two sections of the fence together nearest her man. With more anxious glances towards Thomas’ tent, she stole to the former corpse’s side. This was it. From here, if she was caught, no explanation could possibly save her. Tara took a deep breath, bent down and scooped up the soil she’d loosened away from his shoulders. She grasped the man under his arms.

She did her best to support his head as she struggle-dragged him through the mud. Her heart did its best to climb out of her throat and abandon the body and mind that had clearly lost all traces of sanity. Fear gave her strength, and the rain-soaked ground helped her slide the man’s body ever closer to her car. God, he was heavy. They had left a brown trail of mud over the bright green heather once they made it from the churned ground.

Oh-God-oh-God. She was sure that at any moment Thomas would poke his head from the tent, stare straight at her and the game would be up. She was mad, mad to do this. And still she fought to drag her man to her car.

She was exhausted by the time they made it to the little hatchback. The rain had washed away much of the mud from her man’s face. She saw him squinting against the sting of the pelting drops, saw him lick his lips. The last traces of doubt that he was very much alive were blown away when he sneezed a gob of mud from his nose, then spat weakly. He opened his eyes for a moment, looked straight into hers.

Tara froze. She was convinced she’d seen those bloodshot eyes somewhere before. They seemed as familiar as her own blue ones. His were light green, like the Mediterranean Sea when the sun caught it just so. From somewhere, bizarrely, relief flooded her heart, as if something that had been missing in her soul had been returned. He smiled, then his eyelids fluttered closed again.

The car. She had to get him into the car. Would he even fit? There was no time to wonder or doubt now. She opened the hatchback, then squatted and took a firm hold of his upper body. His head rested against her breasts. She forgot about the flick of the raindrops, about the danger of discovery, about her tired muscles. For a moment, she just stayed like that, cradling him in her arms.

What was she thinking? She willed her mind back to the pickle they were both in, took a deep breath and lifted with all her might.

Weeks of hard manual labour paid off now. Grunting and straining, Tara managed somehow to struggle backwards into her car, hauling the limp body of the man in with her. One last heave and they both fell backwards into the car. Panting for breath, Tara rested for a few precious moments, hugging him to her soaked body. Was he OK? She could feel him breathing in her arms, a small tremor as if he was starting to shiver. It was the best she could hope for. Once she had him home, she’d be able to take better care of his needs.

Again it took an effort of will to remind herself that she was in deep, deep trouble, and didn’t have the luxury of time. She wriggled out from under him, lay him down as best she could and tumbled from the car. She had to bend his knees to get his legs in, but thank heaven he did fit. A picture of herself driving off with his legs dangling from her car, sporting a red flag from one toe, flashed through her imagination. She closed the hatch door, suppressing a hysterical giggle. Her mind wanted to hammer on the absolute lunacy of what she was doing, but she forced her focus back on to practicalities. Enough of her self-preservation instinct remained for her to think of ways she could cover her tracks.

Gusts of wind tugged at her sopping jacket and flung rain in her face as she ran back to the gap in the fence. There was one very, very slim chance of getting away with this. At least for the time being. She slipped into the site, crept to her man’s former grave. Each corner of the canopy was fixed to the ground by a guy rope. Tara kept her eyes on the tent as she dropped into the shallow hole. She had no tools with her, but adrenaline and fear helped her use her hands to fill the gaping hole in her dig area with loose soil. That task done as best she could, she glanced at Thomas’ tent again.

The flap moved.

She fell flat on her stomach in the hole, her heart in her mouth. Seconds passed like hours. At last she scraped together enough courage to take a peek. Thomas chose that moment to emerge, a poncho draped over his head. He jogged in a half-crouch to the Portaloo, opened its door and slipped inside. Tara ducked down when she saw him turn. She counted to ten, then risked another peek. The door was closed. It was now or never.

She sprang from the hole and raced to the first guy rope, pulled with all her might. The peg stuck for a moment, then yielded reluctantly and slipped from the ground. She dashed to the other one, coaxed it from the ground as well, then half fell back into the hole. Now she needed Thomas to come out of the confounded toilet; he seemed to have moved in there permanently. Minutes dragged by, then the door opened and he emerged. Another gust of wind tugged at the canopy and Tara’s breath froze in her chest. If the other leg fell over now, she’d be dead meat. She risked reaching out and grabbing the nearest metal leg of the frame to keep it in place.

Thomas didn’t even look her way. He crouch-ran to the mess tent, holding the poncho over his head, unzipped the door flap and stepped inside. Tara ducked down when he turned to zip up the door. She counted to ten again, risked a glance. He was gone.

She clambered from the hole, grasped the leg of the canopy she’d held in place and lifted with all her strength. It was almost a superfluous effort: another gust of wind near tore the canopy from her hands. It toppled over, leaving her man’s grave exposed to the deluge. Hopefully, all sign of foul play would be obscured by its wash. The mud trail to the fence would, with a bit of luck, also fall victim to the rain’s cleansing touch.

One last hurdle. She had to close the gap in the fence. Tara slipped through and pushed the fence sections back together, found the stiff wires that had kept it together before.

Why now did things have to go wrong? Her hands were too slick to grasp the wires she had to twist. They kept slipping from her fingers. How long before Thomas would turn to the plastic window to stare out over the dig as he drank his tea? His gaze would no doubt be drawn to the toppled gazebo straight away.

She couldn’t do it. The wires were simply too slippery. But who would come and inspect the fence this closely? She’d just have to remember to fix the wires next time she came into work. With that promise to herself, Tara turned and ran as fast as she could back to her car.

Her man was still breathing. He was shivering noticeably, and his skin was still as cold to the touch as it had been when she first unearthed him. She wondered what he’d been wearing when he died.

When he died! What an overwhelming thought. Had he died? What was his story? Was he even human?

She had nothing to cover him with. Her own clothes were soaked through. Though there was a bite to the air, it wasn’t that bad. There had to be more to the man’s shivering than cold. She turned the heater on full blast as she sped back home.

When she got the job on the dig, a contract that would last at least six months, Tara had found a two-bedroom detached house half an hour’s drive from the site. It would have made sense to share, but with the old place a few kilometres outside an already out-of-the-way little village, the rent was so low she could afford the luxury of keeping it to herself. She now thanked her lucky stars for this happy coincidence. With no curious neighbours around, she could take more time and care unloading the man than she had done loading him.

Whether it was the lack of fear-spiked adrenaline, her already tired state or just the more awkward job of getting the man out of, rather than into, her car, it proved much more difficult. She managed, at last, to heave him into her sitting room and lay him down on the carpet. Exhausted, Tara sank down on to the floor beside him, her back against a stuffed chair. He still shivered, but she simply had to catch her breath before she could try to do anything about that.

It looked, now that the rain had washed some of the dirt away, as if he was blond. His hair, plastered to his skull and streaked with mud, was probably shoulder length. Tara’s gaze slid down to his exposed torso. She swallowed. Whatever her mystery man had done in his former life, it must have involved a fair amount of exercise. The muscles of his dirt-mottled chest, covered with skin as pale as milk, were well developed. And lower down.

His eyelids flickered, opened. He looked to his left, then to his right and saw her. As if it was a huge effort, he rolled his head to see her better. Tara froze. For long moments, they stared at each other. Then the man mumbled something.

Tara leaned forwards. «I couldn’t hear you. Please, speak again.» Damn, she hadn’t even considered that he might not speak English.

He closed his eyes; she thought he’d fallen asleep again. Then his lips moved, and she had to lean right over him to hear his whisper. «Ye are very beautiful, lass.»

Warmth blossomed in her heart. She smiled. «Thank you.»

A spasm of shivers shook his body. «Broth. Warm broth.»

«Of course.» She’d have said bath, warm bath would take precedence when you’re hypothermal, but she knew little of bringing the dead back to life and would rather go with whatever he said he needed. Broth. Did she still have some of that soup her mother had made in the freezer? It was quite chunky, but if she put it through the blender, it would probably work as well.

Tara first fetched an old sheet from the cupboard in the spare room, which she spread over her man. After that, she took the duvet from the spare bed and covered him with that, too. Shivering herself now in her wet clothes, she stole to her bedroom, whipped off the wet stuff and changed into her bathrobe. Then it was off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she had a steaming saucepan of thin soup ready.

Tara knelt at the man’s side. She reached out to touch his cheek, to gently roll his head up so he could drink the broth, but stopped herself. Would she feel his feelings again? He still shivered. She braced herself and put her hand on his cheek.

He was so cold. Bristle and grit rubbed against her palm, but she felt no emotions other than her own. And her own emotions puzzled her. Under the excitement, fear, wonder, anxiety and curiosity, was something like tenderness. Concern. Why had she taken this man from the dig? She lived for archaeology, had worked many years to get her degree and the work experience she wanted. Why risk it all?

She stroked the man’s cheek. «Hello. Are you awake? Can you hear me?» No reaction. Would he choke if she dripped soup into his mouth while he slept? Yet she had done so with the tea earlier, and he had swallowed automatically. She decided to take the risk.

Drip-drip-drip. She watched anxiously, and yes, he swallowed the soup. Satisfied, Tara fed him some more. The bowl was soon empty, and she noticed his shivers had subsided. What else could she do for him? Would he ever wake up completely, or was this as conscious as he’d get? He was the find of the century, a man who’d come back to life after being buried for who knows how long.

Realization struck her then, and Tara felt herself pale. Yes, she’d made the find of the century, but she would never be able to prove it. Even the photos would not be enough, not considering the claim she’d be making about him. What an idiot she’d been!

Then she let her gaze rest on his muddy face and her regrets faded. She thought of him lying in a laboratory, being poked, prodded, sliced and inspected. No way. Minutes slipped by as Tara stared at him. He was shivering again.

Her phone beeped, and she checked the text message on the screen. No work today. That was to be expected. Had they inspected her squares yet? Was Dullaghan on his way right now, perhaps with the Gardai? Or no, this dig was just across the border, in Northern Ireland — it would be the police accompanying him.

«Lass.» Tara started at the sound of the hoarse whisper. The man’s eyes were open. «Broth. Warm broth.»

This time, when she fed him the soup, he was awake. He kept those light green eyes focused on her face. It was almost embarrassing. She had to look a sight, probably as dirty as he was, and she didn’t have the excuse of having been dead and buried for years.

Ye are very beautiful. Tara’s cheeks warmed.

When the bowl was empty, he still stared at her. «Thank ye, fair lass.»

«Is there anything else I can do for you?»

«Aye. I am very cold.»

«I wish I could get you into a hot bath, it would be just the ticket to warm you.»

He smiled. «Ye need not drag me into yon bath, lass. I think I can move to it with yer aid.»

Tara nodded. «I’ll run a bath first, then I’ll come help you to it.»

She filled the tub with steaming water, added a dash of jasmine-scented bath oil. When she returned to the sitting room, her man was sitting up on the floor, his back against her couch. «What is yer name, lass?» he asked.

«Tara.» She smiled, awkward. «And yours?»

«I am Ulick.»

«Ah. Pleased to meet you. The bath is ready. Can you stand?»

«Nay, lass, not without yer aid.»

How was she going to do this? Ulick made the question superfluous when he struggled to pull himself up on to the couch. She hurried to his side, grasped his arm and helped. He soon slumped on her couch, breathing hard, eyes closed, as if he’d run a mile. She sat down beside him, suppressed the urge to stroke his forehead with her fingers, the even greater urge to stare at his crotch. Minutes passed before he opened his eyes again.

«Ready?» Tara asked.

«Aye.»

She slid her hand behind his back, then dragged him with her into a standing position. He leaned heavily on her, and Tara thanked her lucky stars she only had to get him to the bathroom. Step by staggering step they made their way down the short passage. Holding him this close, she could still feel him shivering. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel this firm body warm against her?

He crumpled in a heap on to the mat when they made it, one hand grasping the rim of the bath.

Her mobile phone rang.

«Damn. Just wait here.» She sprinted down the passage to the sitting room, grabbed the thing just in time. It was Dullaghan. She forced words from a suddenly dry mouth. «Good morning, Doctor D. How are you?»

«I’m grand, thank you. Thomas found your note, but you were nowhere to be seen.»

«Yeah, it started raining cats and dogs, so I left. It was still early, I didn’t want to wake him up.»

«Great. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, did it?»

Oh, God, he knew. «No, nothing. I scraped away another layer before I left, but nothing came up.»

«Okay. Well, as long as you’re all right.»

«I am. Just a bit muddy. I was about to get in the bath.» She screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip. That had been a mistake. He’d wonder why she was only going to wash now. «I had to wait for the boiler to heat.»

«Mmm. I find a shower usually does it for me. So you found nothing so far?»

«Nothing.»

«Well then. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your bath.»

Tara ended the call, nothing but a nauseous hollow where her stomach used to be. He suspected something was amiss, she was sure. There was nothing she could do about it now, though. She just had to remember to fix those wires at the fence as soon as possible. Right now, she had to focus on Ulick. She plonked the phone on the coffee table, dashed back to the bathroom and froze.

Ulick sat naked on the floor, hanging on to the side of the bath, eyes closed. An unexpected heat flushed her skin. She stared at him for long seconds before she realized what she was doing and quickly closed the door. Damn! This was really awkward. She was sure he’d need help getting in the bath, but.

«Lass. Do not be shy, I need yer aid.»

Tara tried to swallow away the dryness in her mouth and pushed the door open again. Ulick looked up at her, unashamed. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. His body was lean, muscles sculpted but not gym-bunny over-perfect.

«A hand, lass.» He reached out to her, and Tara stepped closer without hesitation. She helped him up, and he half climbed, half fell into the bath. For long moments, he simply lay in the water, soaking up the heat, eyes closed.

When he lifted his head, she noticed a difference in the movement. It didn’t look like a terrible effort any more. «I need to bring word to the King. He is in great danger.»

Tara’s heart ached. «I hate to break this to you, but whatever message you had to deliver is a little late. Very late, actually.»

He rested his head against the bath again, a determined set to his firm lips. «Nay. It is not too late.»

«What year do you think it is?» she asked.

«I do not know what year I find myself in now. The year I was last conscious. I know not what year that was, either. I had stepped.» He closed his eyes and sighed. «How did ye find me?»

«I work on an archaeological dig. You were buried, two feet under the surface.»

«And ye knew the resurrection ritual?»

She shook her head. «No. I’m an archaeologist, not a magician. I have no idea how I managed to wake you up.»

Ulick opened his eyes, a flash of sharp interest in them. «Ye did not know the ritual, but ye resurrected me?»

Tara nodded. «Aye. I mean, yes. I have no idea how that happened.» She braced herself. «Are you human?»

Ulick smiled. «Nay, lass. I am of the old race, the Tuatha Dé Danaan.»

She suppressed the urge to snort a laugh. «You’re a fairy?»

«Aye. I am of the Fae.» He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it as if deciding not to. «I must get to the King. He is in grave danger. Will ye take me to him?»

«Ulick.» How would she put this? «You’ve been buried a long time. Whatever king you needed to give a message to is long dead.»

«Nay. He lives. He lives and rules. By the grace of Rónán Tiarna an Ama I will not be too late.»

She’d break it to him gently, when he was stronger. The last thing she wanted to do was crush the spirit that shone in his eyes. «Do you want some soap? Shampoo?»

He frowned, uncertain. «Pray tell, what is sham-pooh?»

It took three baths for Ulick to finally be clean. Tara had a spare toothbrush and Ulick seemed to know what to do with it, though toothpaste was strange to him. Tara threw some clothes on, dirty as she was, and used the time he was in the bath to drive to Newry and buy two pairs of tracksuit pants and three T-shirts she hoped would fit him.

He emerged from the bathroom minutes after she got back, only a towel wrapped around his waist. Tara forgot to breathe. An unfamiliar tightness gripped her lower belly.

«My clothes?» he asked, sheepish.

«You were buried long enough for your clothes to decay. There was nothing left but a belt buckle.»

Tara watched him take in that bit of information. Ulick shrugged, unperturbed. «What do men wear in this time?»

«I put some clothes on the bed in the spare room for you, down the passage there. Right now, I’m quite desperate for a bath myself.»

Half an hour later, clean and fresh, Tara padded back into her sitting room on bare feet. Ulick was fully dressed and fast asleep on the couch, but he woke up when she came near. For a moment, Tara was at a loss for words.

Ulick met her stare. «I am very hungry,» he said, his voice a near physical touch to her cheek.

«I’ll. I’ll do us both a fry-up.»

He smiled as if he knew something she didn’t and came to his feet. «Ye do that, lass. I shall aid ye, and ye can tell me of the world that is now.»

«First I need to know what year you came from, so I can fill you in on the rest.»

«I do not know the year I was in when I died.»

How was that possible? She stored the question for later. «Tell me some things you remember, stuff people won’t forget in a while.»

Ulick followed her to the kitchen. «I was in sister England one month before I journeyed back to Ireland. My quest was to meet one like us, who knew of a plot to overthrow the King. I found this man in Warrington. The enemy could not find us, and shook the ground to kill us both.»

Bingo. «There was an earthquake in Warrington in 1750.»

«Aye. Men would think of it as that. I escaped with my life, but the enemy and some who serve him were in pursuit. One caught up with me in the fair county of Armagh. By grace of Eireann she was not as strong as her master. I defeated her, but could not heal.»

Tara glanced at him. It seemed unreal to hear this now, with him clad in a dark grey T-shirt and black tracksuit pants. They fitted snugly about his hips, over a pair of firm buttocks. «I didn’t see any marks on you.» And, boy, had she seen a lot of him earlier, when he was still covered in mud, and ice cold.

«Aye. Fae heal in death, but do not regain life unless resurrected by another. My enemy had constricted air around me and broke one of my ribs. It pierced my heart. The bleeding was too much for me to stop.»

«Good God.» Tara lay rashers of bacon in the pan, added three sausages. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ulick watch her every move. Tara smiled. «All this technology must seem strange to you.»

Ulick shook his head. «Not really. In Tir na nóg, people from many different times settle to live. I have seen much like this, and have been told of electricity. There, magic is instilled to work the machines we use to ease life.»

«Tell me about it.»

He did. As they cooked a huge breakfast together, Ulick described a land where the absence of death by natural means led to a slower pace of life, where command of magic gave rise to different technology which was in many ways similar to modern machines. When they’d finished eating, he gathered the dishes and took them to the sink. «Yer turn. Tell me of what passed in the time I slept in death.»

Tara’s heart glowed. Beloved history. She filled him in on the broad details. He nodded when she got around to the world wars. «I have heard of these great wars. There is a man in the land beyond time who fought then.»

Tara brewed tea, and Ulick listened grimly to the modern history of Ireland. «Aye,» he commented when they settled in the sitting room, each with a steaming cup of tea. «Fair Eireann’s children bear much sorrow.»

«And a lot of time has passed since you died.»

Ulick smiled. «Never fear, Tara. I am not too late to pass on my message. The king I speak of is Nuada Airgethlam, Lord of Tir na Nóg, ruler over Tuatha Dé Danaan in all worlds. As long as the Lord of Time gives me grace to enter Tir na nóg when I need to, I will not be too late.»

Her heart sank. «So you’re going to leave?»

His smile faded. «I must. But not yet. My strength has not fully returned. If I may prevail upon your hospitality.»

«Of course.» He could prevail upon her hospitality as long as he liked. Tara looked away from him, and gulped her tea. Her phone trilled, and she dashed to the sitting room to answer it. Dullaghan again.

«Tara, sorry to bother you again. There’s been some interference with the dig, we suspect it was with your squares. Did you see anything when you were there earlier?»

«No, nothing.» She thought fast. «I did pass a van parked at the side of the road when I left.»

«And what time was that?»

«Around seven, I think.»

A pause. «OK, we’ll let you know if we find out anything. See you tomorrow.»

She ended the call and put the phone down. Dullaghan had sounded deeply suspicious. Tara chewed her bottom lip as she went back to the kitchen.

They sat at the kitchen table through the rest of the morning and into late afternoon. Ulick drank endless cups of sweet tea, ate everything she offered him. He was quick-witted and an excellent storyteller, fascinating her with tales of Irish gods who often seemed so different to the way they were portrayed in mythology.

He also listened well, getting Tara to tell him every detail she knew of her own family history. «I never knew my grandmother on my father’s side. She died in a car accident when my dad was a baby.»

«Ah.»

Why did that «ah» sound as if he suddenly understood something he’d been wondering about? But Ulick changed the subject to her job and Tara stored her questions at the back of her mind.

That night, for the first time since the dig began, she felt at peace when she lay down in her bed. The events of her extraordinary day swirled like a kaleidoscope in her mind. Was it the excitement? The fatigue? Or perhaps the warmth of knowing Ulick slept on the other side of her bedroom wall? Whatever the reason, she soon fell into a deep sleep that was lined with dreams of the ancient Irish gods from Ulick’s tales.

When Tara arrived for work next morning, the blue and white of a police car at the gate dampened the normally jovial atmosphere. With her heart in her throat, she crunched across the gravel at the entrance before stepping on to the pathway of wooden boards that kept the dig from turning into a quagmire. The familiar invisible spider crawled up her spine as she approached the mess tent. This time she wondered if fear was coaxing the prickly feeling over her skin.

«Tara.» Dullaghan popped his head out of the admin tent. «Could you come in here, please.»

An hour later, Tara emerged from the tent, suppressing a satisfied grin. They’d asked a million questions, but she stuck to the truth: no, she hadn’t removed any valuable artifact from the dig. Ulick was no artifact.

«Let me put it this way,» the policeman had said. «Did you remove anything valuable from the dig?»

Tara smiled. He was no fool. She shook her head. Ulick was a person, no value could be placed on his life.

The policeman nodded, satisfied. «Thank you, Ms McGinty. You can go.»

And go she did, a kind of giddy joy stuck in her throat, making her head feel too full. She’d done it. She’d rescued Ulick and got away with it. He’d be there when she got home, and they’d talk the night away. Tara began scraping soil from a new square, no more than the turf removed so far. Ulick’s grave was closed off with red-and-white-striped tape that flapped in the snappy breeze.

The policeman soon stepped from the admin tent wearing a stoic look as Dullaghan argued with him. Silence fell on the dig as everyone tried to hear what their boss was saying. It soon became impossible not to.

«I’m telling you,» Dullaghan shouted, «a very important artifact was removed from this site!»

The policeman kept his face impassive. «As soon as you bring us proof, doctor, we shall do everything in our power to recover what might have been stolen. Until then, my hands are tied.» From his tone of voice Tara guessed he had no burning desire to untie them, either.

When the patrol car disappeared around the bend, Dullaghan stormed back to the admin tent. Tara glanced up just in time to catch a venomous look he cast her way. She shrugged and kept scraping.

«You mean to tell me,» Tara said that night at her kitchen table, «that there are hundreds — perhaps even thousands — of faeries living among normal people?»

«Aye.» Ulick had spent the day sleeping and eating, and looked somehow more real, more there, than he had that morning. She didn’t mind that she’d have to go shopping for food again tomorrow. «When our race realized the age of Men was dawning, we withdrew from this land. We call it the Leaving. Some chose to live in Tir na nóg, the land beyond time. Others chose the hidden world, where twilight reigns all hours. Yet others chose to hide among men. Each choice carries its burden both of sorrows and of joys.»

«But Fae are immortal. How do they hide that, if they live with ordinary humans?»

«We can allow our bodies to age as those of humans would. At the time it would be considered normal for them to die, these faeries slip into the hidden world and allow their bodies to renew. They then re-enter the world of men and start a new life.»

«Can they have children?»

«Aye, and many take human mates. The sons and daughters sometimes inherit the Fae nature, sometimes not. Sometimes their nature skips a generation, and grandchildren inherit. That is common. But unless someone tells this child or grandchild what they are, they will age and die as they believe they should.»

«That seems sad. A waste.»

«Aye.» Ulick looked straight at her, his green eyes clear and kind. «It is.»

And whether it was the steady stare or the husky rasp in his voice as he spoke, Tara found herself leaning forwards over the small table, and Ulick did the same. He rested his hands on hers, stroked her thumbs with his own. She wanted his firm lips on her mouth, so very much.

But as if he reminded himself of something, Ulick pulled back. She felt the moment shatter and drift away. They carried on speaking as if nothing had happened. Between them, invisible yet impossible to ignore, something grew stronger as the night waned.

Tara turned her car’s engine off and slumped in the seat. She sighed. On one hand, her life had turned into something wonderful since Ulick had entered it two weeks ago. Nightly talks trailed into the small hours. He could do magic — real magic! — and amused her with what she suspected he considered to be simple tricks. He kept the house clean, cooked delicious meals and, when she had time off, they went for long walks. She’d taken him to town, to the cinema, and he was fascinated with modern life.

Things couldn’t be better. She was madly in love, it was useless to deny it. She was also certain Ulick felt the same.

But every time they got physically close, every time things went quiet between them and she could almost hear his heart beat in her ears, Ulick shied away. She even caught a groan of frustration now and then. Tara understood why he didn’t want to take their relationship further. Though neither of them brought up his determination to still convey his message to Nuada Airgethlam, it sat between them like some warty chaperone.

He knew he would have to leave soon. And Tara ached at the thought of the inevitable. His quest had killed him once already. Who was to say it wouldn’t kill him again? And what if no one ever found his grave this time?

What if she never saw him again?

She grabbed the four bottles of wine she’d bought on the way home and went inside. The fragrance of roasting lamb met her at the door, with Ulick right behind it. He’d learned how to use modern razors, and his chin was smooth. He’d also insisted she try her hand at hairdressing. She refused to cut too much off, instead leaving his hair in a short bob. It was enough: his hair was naturally curly, and framed his strong face so he looked like a surfer. Except for the lack of a tan, of course, but on Ulick the milky skin looked right.

Would wine have the same effect on Fae as it had on humans? She was about to find out.

She and Ulick talked as always, but this time over wine. «I have not had wine for a good long while,» he said when he refilled his glass the first time. «I had better take care, or I might make a fool of myself.»

Tara waved a careless hand. «You’re among friends.» They clinked glasses, drank, and talked some more. Ulick drank slowly, he didn’t get drunk, but she sensed a definite relaxation about him that she hadn’t seen before.

And as the night wore on, the silences between them grew. They weren’t empty spaces, bereft of words. Instead they were overflows of unspoken understanding.

He laid his hand on hers. Tara smiled, savoured its warmth. Ulick stared at the table, as if scared to face her. When he lifted his gaze, it held an edge of recklessness, as if he’d made up his mind: about what, she could only guess. Her heart answered the plea she saw in his eyes. They rose from their seats simultaneously, leaned over the small table.

There were no preliminaries, no tentative explorations. Ulick played his tongue over her lips and she opened for him willingly. He plunged it deep into her mouth with a shocking suddenness. A warm weakness spread from her belly through the muscles of her pelvis, into her upper thighs. Her nipples peaked into a pair of sensitive crowns under her bra.

Ulick steered her away from the table, drew her close to him. She gave her hands and fingers free rein to explore every plane and curve of his body as she had so longed to do, welcomed the sensation of his touch to her skin. As if he couldn’t get her close enough, he put his hands under her buttocks and lifted her from the floor to straddle his hips.

Oh, boy, did he want her badly. Her own desire flamed to fever pitch at the realization.

«Bedroom,» she whispered as he spread his kisses down her neck. He walked her down the passage without answering.

Later, when they lay entangled in the aftermath of the explosion between them, she placed her hand on his abdomen and asked the question that had been in the back of her mind since that first night.

«Ulick. Why, when I told you about my grandmother’s death, did you say ‘ah’?»

He chuckled. «What would ye have had me say?»

«There was meaning in that ‘ah’, Ulick. I heard it.»

For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then he pulled her closer, laid her head on his chest. His voice was a comforting rumble against her ear. «Why did ye choose to dig where ye found me? Was it chance, or did some matter guide yer decision?»

Tara hesitated. «Well. All my life, I’ve often felt this curious prickly feeling along my spine when I meet certain people. It usually goes away after a minute or so.» She felt silly for confessing this eccentricity, but the feeling was like chaff in the wind. This was a faerie she spoke to, after all. «When I arrived at the dig, I felt this prickle all the time. Non-stop. It got really irritating after a while. The dig supervisor told me to choose my own square to excavate. I don’t think he likes me very much.»

Ulick stroked her hair. «Continue, please.»

«I wandered around the edge of the dig and, because I felt miserable already, I chose the spot where the prickly feeling was worst.»

He sighed, shifted his body, but when she wanted to move away, worried she made him uncomfortable, he stopped her. «Lass, I do not know how to give ye this news gently. Ye are Fae, Tara.»

She suppressed a laugh. «No, I’m not.»

«Aye, ye are. We can sense the presence of another of our kind. Ye felt me there.»

«No. It’s not possible.» Half of Tara wanted to roll off Ulick, go for a walk to process this strange claim of his. The other half wanted to snuggle closer to him, where she felt safe.

He moved his hand down to her back, stroked fingertips over her shoulder blades. «It is possible, sweet Tara. The feeling ye described, ye would have felt it when near yer own.»

«But.»

«Most likely, yer grandma would have told ye of yer nature, had she lived. But if we die in the world of man, we can only resurrect if a stranger wakes us again. Our kin must walk away. The only other way is for the body to be taken to Tir na nóg, where resurrection is an easier task. But to enter Tir na nóg, ye have to be gifted with time magic. Not all are.»

«So. you think I’m a faerie, like you?»

«Aye.» He pulled the duvet up over them. «And, Tara.»

«Yes?»

«Moments before I was killed, I had implored Mother Eireann to lead me to one of my kind who had the gift of time magic.»

Tara blinked. «So?»

Ulick didn’t answer.

And then he didn’t need to. She sat up beside him. «What? Me? Now I know you must be joking.»

«Nay, lass. I do not jest.»

Tara laughed. Ulick put an arm behind his head, watched her with a quiet smile. «Ye set my soul on fire when you laugh like that.»

Her giggle subsided. Ulick reached out and pulled her down on top of him. Tara felt blindly for the lamp switch. She found it. Velvet darkness poured into the room.

«So what do I do?»

They were on the couch in the sitting room, windblown from their walk. The smell of fresh heather and yesterday’s rain clung to their skins, their hair. Three days had passed since they became lovers, and their hunger for each other burned day and night.

«Let go of yer thoughts first.» Ulick got up and drew the blinds to shut out the bright realness of the sun. «Close yer eyes, if ye must, but empty yer head. Then think of Tir na nóg.» He sat back down beside her.

«But surely the Tir na nóg I’ll think of will be the wrong one? It will be the image I’ve formed of it in my mind from the stories I’ve heard and read, not the place as it actually is.»

«Tir na nóg is in the heart of all Fae, Tara. Ye know it here.» Ulick rested his hand on her chest. «Try.» He shifted away from her and gave her an encouraging smile. «I think it might be easier for ye than ye think, because ye’re a scholar. Yer mind is disciplined already.»

She’d try, for his sake. In truth, she was still sceptical about his claims. Her? A faerie? Come on.

Yet at the same time, she couldn’t just dismiss what he’d said. It made sense. Yes, she would try unlocking the time magic he was convinced she carried in her soul. She’d really try.

Tara closed her eyes and imagined herself sitting in an empty, white space. Her breathing slowed. Every time a thought tried to muscle its way in from the outside, she focused harder on the white space. Just white, nothing else.

When she felt empty and relaxed, Tara allowed a single name to join her in her space. Tir na nóg. Mythical land beyond time, home of the Irish gods.

Nothing happened. She shook her head regretfully, and opened her eyes. «I’m sorry, Ulick, I.»

The sentence died on her tongue. For a mere moment, she saw something like a hole in front of her, obliterating the furniture and wall behind it. Inside was a sense of absolute nothingness, as if everything stopped inside this darkness.

And then it was gone.

Tara turned to Ulick, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming from her throat. He grinned at her like a proud teacher. «I was right. Yer mind is disciplined already. Ye have strong time magic in ye, Tara. Ye opened a door to the space between time and time, the passage to Tir na nóg.»

«I. I.»

She felt it herself even as alertness sprang into his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. That familiar prickle, a spider wearing football spikes crawling up her spine. A shadow passed over the drawn blind.

Tap-tap-tap!

Tara rose automatically to open the door, but Ulick pulled her back. «We need to know who it is first. Remember, the knowledge I carry can yet harm those who work to undermine the King. They will be looking for me.»

«More than 250 years on?»

«Aye. Ye do not understand, Tara, time means something different when you have eternity.»

Her caller knocked again. «Helloooo! Tara? Are you home?»

«Oh.» Tara smiled. «It’s just Dr Dullaghan, the dig supervisor. My boss, actually.» She turned to Ulick and the blood froze in her veins. He had turned deathly pale. His body adopted a deep, dangerous stillness in every line. Like a leopard, cornered, which turns itself into a statue to make full use of its camouflage, but at the same time tenses to fight.

«Tara,» he said, his voice low, as Dullaghan knocked again. «The man ye think of as yer leader is not what he seems.»

«Tara? Hello? I know you’re home, pet.» The familiar Irish way of using endearments for all and sundry sounded wrong on Dullaghan’s tongue. «Open the door, Tara.»

«He is a powerful faerie, who works to gather enough power to kill Nuada Airgethlam and take his throne. Our King has learned over millennia to rule with wisdom and grace. War has been eradicated from Tir na nóg, the land beyond time. The hidden world has always been treacherous,

but for several hundred years now it has worn peace as its preferred outfit.»

«Tara, I know you’re in there. Open the door.» Every patch of false friendliness Dullaghan had first plaited into his voice was now gone. He hammered at the door, making the knocker rattle.

«Taking away the man who keeps the balance, who knows the diplomacy to preserve this peace, will trigger wars that will reverberate in this land, and cost the lives of countless faerie.» He glanced at her, a plea in his eyes. «I cannot let this happen. I must stand against him.»

Ulick sprang to his feet and Tara followed suit. «Open an entrance into time for us, Tara,» he said, his voice still low. He stepped in front of her, between her and the front door. «Do it. It’s our only chance.»

«Can’t we»—

The end of her sentence was swallowed in a massive crash. Her front door splintered into a thousand pieces. Tara flinched, braced herself for the shower of debris that would hit her, but nothing did.

Ulick had lifted his hands to chest level. The air in front of him seemed different, as if it was somehow separate from the rest of the air in the room. Debris bounced away in front of him as if from a shield.

As if he’d solidified the air.

Dullaghan strode into her ruined sitting room as if he owned the place. He rested contemptuous eyes on Ulick, sighed and clicked his tongue. «There you are. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ve had to take to find you?»

«Aye. I guessed. Ye became a man of history, an excuse to dig where ye felt other Fae resting, looking for me.»

Dullaghan clapped his hands slowly. «Bravo. Te n points for logic. And I would have found you sooner if Tara hadn’t been there to muddle my senses. Now, I’ll not ask if you want to go easy. I know the answer to that already. Never one for making things simple if they could be complicated, Ulick.»

He wasn’t even paying attention to her, as if she was completely inconsequential.

«Tara,» said Ulick.

She snapped out of her shock, grasped his waist with shaking hands, rested her forehead against the hard muscles of his back. Comforting, yes, but how in hell could anyone stand against someone who oozed menace and chill cruelty like Dullaghan did? How had he ever managed to hide the monster he truly was?

«Tara,» Ulick said again, his voice low and calm, helping her focus.

Dullaghan misunderstood. «Oh. Tara? We can negotiate there. I am willing to give you my word to let her go, if you will give yours in return to yield to me without making things difficult.»

«Nay. I will promise no such thing.»

Focus, focus, focus, but how could she call into mind the empty white space when her brain screamed with fear?

«Then she will die with you,» Dullaghan said. Tara didn’t look, just heard the creak and crash from above. She felt a whoomp around her, her ears blocked, and she heard Ulick grunt. She had to risk a glimpse.

There was little to see. There was empty space around them, but if she reached out, she could touch a mass of broken timber, pieces of ceiling, shards of glass and lumps of brick wall. Light filtered through the mass, but faded fast. Dullaghan was breaking the house up around them, piling all the debris on their heads.

Ulick groaned. «Any day now, lass,» he said, teeth clenched. He was holding a pocket of air rigid around them. Tara watched his arms start to shake, the light disappearing.

They were going to be crushed. She had to find a way to make that entrance. Silence. Emptiness. White space. Please, white space, come on!

Something flashed in her mind, a memory of the emptiness she’d seen briefly in the hole she’d called with her mind. Not quite emptiness, though. Empty, but very, very full. Tara grabbed Ulick around the waist. His air-shield crumbled, and tons of debris tumbled down into the space where, moments before, they had stood.

«Wonderful.» He kissed her. «Wonderful.» Another kiss. «Clever woman.» Three more kisses accentuated his words, then the playful elation at their narrow escape turned serious. His kisses deepened, her arms wound tighter around him.

Ulick lifted her from the ground and twirled her around, laughing. «Thanks be to mother Eireann, I found ye. She is nothing if not complicated, our wee island’s soul. Why just take me to a wielder of time magic, if she could find my soulmate at the same time?»

Had he said soulmate? But Tara was too overwhelmed to savour the term. Right now, she wanted to take in the sea of forest around her, the blue-green giant pine trees that undulated to a rim of mountains in the very far distance. Snow lay heavy on the boughs, twinkled in what looked like early morning sun. They stood on the round top of a hill that alone bore no trees, only grass on its gently sloping flanks. Tara thanked her lucky stars that she still wore hiking boots with thick socks.

Ulick turned and scanned the world around them. He gasped, then started laughing.

«What?» Tara asked.

«Do ye see those footprints, lass?»

She couldn’t exactly miss them. A lone line in the virgin snow, they snaked up the side of the hill and ended abruptly a few steps from where they stood. Another line of prints seemed less churned, the snow less disturbed.

«Those are my footprints,» Ulick said.

«What?»

«I ran here before I left Tir na nóg. I was very tired by then. And I know it was me, because in that tree yon, I left my lunch. See? The red sack. I was walking in the woods when I overheard the man ye call Dullaghan meeting with another. A servant in the King’s castle. The man I met in Warrington had discovered their plot, though he knew not who was involved. I turned and ran for the gate to Tir na nóg.»

Tara frowned. «Not for the King?»

He shook his head. «They were between me and the castle, and I felt power roll off this enemy in waves. I would not have stayed alive much longer, had I tried to reach the King. Instead I aimed to reach the one who knew of their doings. Each of us knew half of their plan: he the details but not the mastermind, myself the names but not the plan. I thought if both of us knew all, we stood a better chance of getting word to King Nuada.»

«You mean to tell me that here, it’s no more than hours since you left? Yet you lived through more than 250 years while you were gone?»

Ulick grabbed her hand. «Aye. And in the here and now I must make all speed to the castle.»

Tara glanced over her shoulder as she hurried after him, fear clutching her throat. «What about Dullaghan? Won’t he just step through that empty place to Tir na nóg right after us?»

«He will indeed. And there the Lord of Time will let him through into Tir na nóg when he feels it is best.»

«When is he likely to feel it is best?» Tara let go of Ulick’s hand to run better. He snatched the lunch bag from the tree as they passed, and settled into an easy trot. He grabbed Tara’s wrist to slow her down. «It’s a long way to go, lass. Pace yerself.» He remembered her question. «The god of time is a good friend of the King. I judge he will feel it is best for the enemy to step into this land with not enough time for him to catch us, but enough time to tempt him into trying.»

«And then?» A stitch grew in Tara’s side, but at this pace, she felt she could go on for hours.

«And then prepared men will meet the man ye call Dullaghan, with his fiendish accomplice trussed and ready for judgment. Not men caught unawares, with a cancer in their midst they do not know of.»

Tara jogged beside him in silence for a while. «And then?» she ventured.

Ulick glanced at her. «And then we explore this land together. Or Eireann. Whatever ye wish. As long as we can do it together.»

«Sounds like a plan.» She grinned at him, and ran a little faster.