Cate Tiernan - Seeker

“My father would have loved seeing this,” I murmured, remembering the Da of my childhood, surrounded by books in his library at home. Candles burned down around him and still he read, late into the night. He’d often impressed on us kids how precious books were, learning was.

“Is he no longer living?” Justine asked sympathetically.

I bit back a snide retort about the definition of living and answered instead, “No, he’s alive. He’s at the B and B in Foxton.”

“Why don’t you bring him next time, then?” Justine said. “I’d be happy for him to see my library. Is he a Seeker, too?”

“No,” I said, unable to suppress a quick dry laugh. “No, but he’s in bad shape. My mum died at Yule, and he’s taken it hard.” I was surprised to hear myself confiding in her. I tend to be very closemouthed and don’t often share my personal life with anyone, besides Sky and Morgan.

“Oh, how awful,” Justine said. “Maybe the library will be a good distraction for him.”

“Yes, maybe you’re right,” I said, meeting her brown eyes.

“This place is nice,” I said, looking around the small restaurant. It was Monday night, and Justine had recommended the Turtledove as a likely place for Da and me to have a decent meal. Across from me, the etched lines of his face thrown into relief by the flickering firelight, Da nodded without enthusiasm. Since I had gotten back to the B and B this afternoon, he had been alternately withdrawn, confrontational, and wheedling. I figured a nice meal out would help stave off my overwhelming desire to shake him.

Not that I felt that way every second. Every once in a while, I would get a glimpse of the old da, the one I knew and recognized. It was there when he almost smiled at a joke I made, when his eyes lit with momentary interest or intelligence. It was those moments, few and far between, that had kept me going, kept me reaching out to him. Somewhere inside this bitter husk was a man I’d known as my father. I needed to reach him somehow.

“More bread?” I asked, holding out the basket. Da shook his head. He’d barely picked at his beef stew. I was going to give him another five minutes and then finish it off for him.

“Son,” he said, startling me, “I appreciate what you’re doing. I do. I even think you’re right, most of the time. But you just can’t understand what I’m going through. I’ve been trying and trying, but I need to talk to Fiona. I need to see her. Even if the bith dearc saps my strength or my life force. I just can’t see any kind of existence where I wouldn’t need your mother.”

His hand shook as he reached for his wineglass, and he downed the rest of his drink. This was the most direct he’d been with me since we’d left the cabin, and it took me a moment to find my footing.

“You’re right—I don’t understand what it’s like to lose your mùirn beatha dàn , not after you’ve been married and had children, made a life together,” I said. “But I know that even with that tragedy, it doesn’t make sense for you to kill yourself by continuing to contact the shadow world. Mum wouldn’t have wanted it that way.”

Da was silent, his clothes hanging on his thin frame.

“Da, do you believe that Mum loved you?”

His head jerked up, and he met my eyes.

“Of course. I know she did.”

“I know she did, too,” I agreed. “She loved you more than anything on this earth. But do you think that she would be doing this if you had died? Or would she be doing something different?”

Da looked taken aback by my question and sat in silence for a moment.

Changing the subject, giving him time to think, I repeated Justine Courceau’s offer of letting Da see her library. “It’s quite amazing,” I said. “I think you’d be very interested in it. Come with me tomorrow and see it.”

“Maybe I will,” Da muttered, tapping his fork against the tablecloth.

It wasn’t a total victory, but maybe it was a step forward. I sighed and decided to let it go for the present.

On Tuesday, I called Kennet and gave him a preliminary report. I had more background checks to do on Justine and more interviewing, but so far I hadn’t turned up anything of great alarm.

“No, Hunter, you misunderstand,” Kennet said patiently. “Everything she’s doing is of great alarm. Under no circumstances should any witch have written lists of living things’ true names. Surely you see that?”

“Yes,” I said, starting to feel testy. “I understand that. I agree. It’s just that you made Justine sound like a power-hungry rebel, and I don’t see that in her. I feel it’s more a matter of education. Justine’s quite intelligent and not unreasonable. I feel that she needs reeducation; she needs to be made to understand why what she’s doing is wrong. Once she understands, I think she’ll see the wisdom in destroying her lists.”

“Hunter, she needs to be shut down,” Kennet said strongly. “Her reeducation can come later. Your job is to stop her, now, by any means necessary.”

I tried to keep my voice level. “I thought my job was to investigate, make a report, and then have the council make a judgment. Have you already decided this matter?”

“No, no, of course not,” Kennet said, backpedaling at the implication of my words. “I just don’t want you to be swayed by this witch, that’s all.”

“Have you known me to be easily swayed in the past, by man or woman?” I asked with deceptive mildness. Deceptive to most people, but not to Kennet. He knew me very well and could probably tell I was working hard to keep anger out of my voice.

“No, Hunter,” he said, sounding calmer. “No. I’m sure we can trust your judgment in this matter. Just keep reporting back, all right?”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s my job.” After I hung up, I sat on my twin bed for a long time, just thinking.

That afternoon I brought Daniel to Justine’s cottage. As before, she was welcoming, and though I detected her shock at my father’s haggard appearance, she made no mention of it.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “It’s gotten a little warmer, hasn’t it? I think maybe spring is on its way.”

Inside, Da instinctively headed for the fireplace and stood before the cheerful flames, holding out his hands. Back at the cabin, it had been as though the fire hadn’t existed, so I was interested to see his reaction to this one.

“Are you warm enough, Mr. Niall?” Justine asked. “I know it can be chilly in these stone cottages.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” said Da, turning his back to the fire but keeping his hands behind him, toward the heat.

Justine and I talked for a while, and she told us stories about growing up with Avalen Courceau, who sounded like an intimidating figure. But Justine spoke of her with love and acceptance, and again I was impressed by her maturity and kindness. She got even Da to smile at the story of when she had built a house of cards out of some important indexed notes her mother had made. Apparently sparks had flown for days. Literally.

“Mr. Niall,” said Justine, “I wonder if you could do me a favor?” She gave him a charming smile, sincere and without guile. “I don’t get many opportunities to try new magick— no one around here knows I’m a witch, and I want to keep it that way. I was wondering if you would consent to be a guinea pig for a spell I’ve just learned.”

Da looked concerned but couldn’t think of any reason not to and didn’t want to refuse in the face of her hospitality. “What for?”

She smiled again. “It’s a healing spell.”

Da shrugged. “As you wish.”

“It’s all right with me,” I said, and she turned to give me a teasing look.

“It’s not your decision,” she pointed out. Feeling like an overbearing clod, I sat down on the sofa, relaxing against the plump pillows, waiting for some cat to realize I was there.