PROLOGUE
The muddy waters of the Liffey flowed sluggishly along the stone-walled quays. Like a weary old man in a dirty brown coat, the river wended its way through the noise and grime of Dublin City.
"Have you forgotten how to sing?" whispered the dark-eyed young man who leaned over the railings of the Ha'penny Bridge. His sloe-black eyes went darker still as he pondered the ancient river. "When we called you Rurthach you purled like a young stream. What have they done to you?"
A shudder passed through him as he regarded his surroundings. Concrete walls and the glare of glass towered over busy streets and traffic. In the crowds, dirty-faced children and the ragged homeless begged for money.
How could they live this way?
He turned to leave, eager to complete his mission and be gone from there, when he took pity on the river. A ray of gold flashed from his fingers to strike the turbid waters like a shaft of light. It was only for a second, the blink of an eye, but in that moment the river ran free. The young man was already hurrying from the bridge when the clear rushing waters sang their brief song.
The King passed by. Long live the King.
He came to a secondhand bookshop and café. The Winding Stair Bookroom was a Victorian brick building with a wooden front painted green and mustard-yellow. High arched windows overlooked the river. He hesitated before entering. Human meeting places made him uneasy. Once inside, the scent of old books soothed him. The musty solitude was reminiscent of a forest glade. Narrow winding stairs led upward through rooms filled with books. The upper stories had booths and tables where tea and cakes were served.
He found her on the third floor, seated by the window. She was reading a letter. Lit up by sunlight, the golden-brown hair fell over her face like a veil. A young girl, almost a woman, she was dressed in the fashion of urban youth—black sweater, black skirt, black stockings and boots. Silver earrings dangled to her shoulders.
Having found her through dreams, he was caught off guard by her reality. Mortal beauty always surprised him. While it wouldn't change his plans, he brooded a moment upon what must be done.
Unaware that she was being observed, the young woman smiled to herself as she read.
Dear Findabhair,
Gawd, your name is impossible to spell. I have to look at it twice every time I write it. You're a witch for not letting me call you Finn any more. But hey, forget the complaints, I'm coming over at last! YAHOO! Mom and Dad are forking out the fare (I'm not proud) and I've saved every dollar I could.
We're still traveling around Ireland, right? You haven't changed your mind? Don't fall in love with anyone before I get there or something stupid like that. I don't want any third parties tagging along.
Ignore that last part. Insecurity attack. Can't wait to see you. I'm packing already. Tell Aunt Pat to get in some skim milk. I'm on a diet again. (It's a losing battle. Wait till you see me, I'm a real porker.) And no hairy bacon, please! See you soon.
Luv'n'stuff,
Your cuz,
Gwen xxx
"May I sit down?"
Findabhair was about to point out archly that there were plenty of empty tables, when she looked up. The words died in her throat. He was exactly her idea of a stunning young man. His jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accenting sharp elegant features that made her think of a hawk. His eyes were dark and keen. Like her, he favored black clothes, and she admired the quirkiness of the silken jacket with jeans. He seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn't think where she might have seen him before.
"Do I know you?"
"Perhaps. Or you may be remembering the future. That's possible, you know. Déjà vu."
It was a fascinating idea, as well as a good line. She beamed a smile as he sat down.
"I brought you a gift."
The slim volume of poetry was bound in green leather, its title stamped with gold lettering.
The Wyrd of the White Lady.
Findabhair's eyes widened.
"That's my name! Well, a translation of it. Fionnabhair. 'Fair spirit.' 'White lady.' What a brilliant coincidence!"
"There is no such thing as coincidence."
She was already turning the pages. Crisp and browned with age, each leaf contained a poem. When she came to one entitled "Fionavar," she let out a cry.
"There it is again! I prefer the Old Irish spelling and I pronounce it 'finn-ah-veer' but it's the same name. Where did you—?"
"There's no time."
An urgency had crept into his voice that made her look around for some hidden danger. He pointed to the poem.
"Read."
Enjoying the odd encounter, she didn't stop to question him but read out loud.
Be fleet of foot,
O fair Hunted One,
From the dark of the shadow
Across the clear sun.
Like a deer on the plain,
Like a trout in the stream,
Take flight from life's bane,
To the Land of the Dream.
Come to the Sídhe-mound under the hill,
Come to the Country ruled by my will.
Caught up in the words, she didn't notice his interest in her cousin's letter that lay on the table between them. Nor did she see the hungry look enter his eyes as he read it.
"Another one?" he murmured.
"It's lovely," Findabhair said when she had finished the poem. "A bit like Yeats' 'Stolen Child.'"
"Do you know what a Sídhe-mound is?"
"Of course. I speak Irish. It's a fairy hill."
"Will you meet me there?"
He stood up to leave.
"What! Meet you where?"
The edge in her voice surprised her. She didn't want him to go.
He leaned toward her. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he brushed his lips against her ear.
"Tara," he whispered. "Come to Tara."
Then he was gone.
A strange gloom settled over Findabhair. She rubbed her forehead and looked around her. What was she doing? She stared out the window, across the river. A dark figure stood on the Ha'penny Bridge. He suddenly looked up at her and his glance struck her like an arrow. She shivered. Who was he? And why was he staring at her? As he disappeared into the crowd, she returned to her cousin's letter. Then she realized she had already finished reading it.
"Lost in a daydream," she muttered to herself.
She spotted the little book on the table. Caught by the title, she opened it pensively. The poems were the sort she liked, about magic and romance and the Celtic Twilight. One was entitled with a version of her name! Though she hadn't intended to buy anything, she brought the book up to the counter.
"How much is this?"
The young man at the register had bright red hair shaved on both sides of his head. His ears, nose, and eyebrow were pierced with tiny silver rings.
"It's not ours. Didn't you bring it in with you? A nice antique."
Confused by a vague memory of someone giving it to her, Findabhair laughed with embarrassment.
"Oh yeah, it is mine. Sorry, I'm feeling kind of weird today."
"You too?" The redhead grinned. "Do you know, I've had two people try to tell me they saw the Liffey running wild and clear. What do you make of that?"
"Too much sun?"
"That's what it is. And we're going to have a fantastic summer by the looks of things."
"Yes, I think we will," she agreed softly.
Tucking the book into her handbag, she left the shop.