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  * * * *

  “I want to do a pre-sound check test, to make sure everything’s working. Go get one of the artists from the hotel.” The producer, who was clearly talking to his sound tech, was speaking just loud enough for Caera to hear. She was in her office, a large square room off the dovecote-turned-storage, which she shared with Rory and an odd assortment of supplies.

  Jumping from her desk, she hurried into the main building. “I have a few instruments here. I can test the sound for you.”

  Please, just for one moment, let me pretend.

  The producer and technician both looked over. “Good enough, then we don’t need to bother anyone until sound check tomorrow morning.”

  Caera hustled back into her office, grabbing an acoustic guitar. The wood was smooth and cool in her hands, the tiny ribbing of the strings familiar but almost unfelt under her heavily calloused fingertips. Pushing back the sleeves of her sweater, she followed the technician’s instructions, moving between the seats they’d set up on the stage, angling her body towards the guitar-height mics so they picked up the simple tunes she strummed out.

  The mics were barely necessary. For a rectangular building, Finn’s Stable had excellent acoustics—she’d even had acoustic tiles strategically placed on the backsides of the rafters to stop the sound from echoing. Since they were recording the event for a TV special, they had to have the mics, but Caera always liked it best when the music was natural, filling the old stone walls with pure sound, unfiltered by electronics.

  “Everything’s working. Thanks, Caera.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “You play well. Going to audition to play backup for some of our stars?” The producer grinned at her. Caera tried to return the smile, but it felt more like she was gritting her teeth.

  “No, I play for myself.”

  “Ah, well.”

  The TV crew headed towards the door and Caera took her guitar back to her office. When she heard the door close, she carefully lifted her harp from the space of honor and carried it into the stable.

  * * * *

  Tim looked up from where he knelt behind the last row of chairs, his fiddle case open on the floor in front of him. A dark-haired woman emerged from a side entrance, carrying a harp. He rose, prepared to offer his help, but she carried it easily, curled arms cupping the sides as she walked sideways. She set it on the stage and took a seat. Now it was slightly taller than her, but not nearly as tall as the massive orchestral harps. Interested, he moved up the aisle that bisected the audience chairs, focused on the shape of the harp and the intricate roses carved into the base.

  The first note hummed, vibrating with a purity of sound only the harp could produce. Then she sighed, a soft thing of pleasure.

  For the first time, Tim focused on the woman who played.

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Waves of dark hair framed her face and fell over her shoulders, mingling with the black wool sweater she wore. Her skin was pale, her lips full. And her eyes, focused on the middle-space beyond the stage, were a clear, pale blue. Late afternoon sun beamed in the windows, highlighting the curve of her cheek as she sat with one shoulder towards the floor to ceiling windows behind the stage.

  She ran through scales, her fingers plucking the strings with ease. Scales turned into a melody, a song he knew. “Lament on Con O’Leary’s Wife’s Death” was an old song and a sad one for all its beauty. Sad and beautiful, just the way he liked it.

  The harp’s pure notes filled the air, but he found himself watching her, almost forgetting the music. Her face creased with grief, expressing the sadness of the song. Her body rocked in time to the dirge-like pace, every fiber of her being melded with the notes her fingers drew forth.

  Retreating silently, Tim picked up his fiddle. She was improvising some, adding notes and refrains to the simple song. Tucking the fiddle under his chin, he forced himself to stop ogling her and hear the music. Some part of his brain was translating what he heard into letter-notes, the tempo into musical beats, but when he lay his bow to the strings, it was instinct and skill that let him join her. First matching her note for note, then taking off on his own path, turning her solitary song into a fiddle-harp duet as he walked the long aisle from the back of the venue to the stage.

  She looked up, blue eyes bright and sharp. Their gazes met, held, and discordant notes sounded from both their instruments as something passed between them. With the next breath, she found the notes, brought them both back into the song. Shaking himself free of the spell of her sapphire eyes, he joined her on the stage, bending his body to her as they continued to play.

  Her eyes, which had been assessing him, slowly closed, a faint smile curling her perfect lips as she rocked in time with the music they made.

  They reached a natural crescendo, Tim closing his own eyes to focus. He didn’t need to see her, she was there in her notes, the melody. The musical fever rose, then broke, slowly fading to a smooth, sad finish.

  Tim opened his eyes.

  She had one cheek against her harp, her gaze clear and steady on him.

  “You must be the American,” she said, in a sweet Irish lilt.

  “Guilty.” Tim flashed her a smile, wondering who she was. He knew, or knew of, all the other musicians participating in Free Birds Fly, and she wasn’t one of them. At the same time, she was too good a musician to be a tech or a roadie—not that anyone playing this event had that kind of entourage anyway. Maybe she was one of the TV crew who’d let him into the building. That still didn’t explain why she was on stage playing a harp. “What gave me away?”

  “You fiddle like an American.”

  “I don’t know if I should thank you or be insulted.”

  She rose, stroking her harp in a way that brought his attention to her hands. “No insult.”

  “Well, then thank you. I’m Tim.”

  She didn’t respond right away, instead her fingers crawled the strings, another scale. “I know.”

  One of the main doors opened with a groan and Paddy, his best and only Irish musician friend, strode in.

  “Yank, come on. We’re to check in, and I’m famished.” Paddy’s entrance shattered the moment—his shoes were clacking on the stone floor, his voice loud and boisterous after the music.

  “Just checking to make sure she survived the trip.” Tim raised his precious fiddle, saluting his friend with it.

  “I told you it would be fine. Let’s shove off, then.”

  “Okay, let me…” But the girl was gone. Tim stared at the empty stage. Her harp was there, which was a good thing since if it hadn’t been, Tim might have wondered he’d just experienced some jet lag-induced hallucination.

  “You play the harp now, Yank?” Paddy ambled up the center aisle to stand beside him.

  “There was a girl.” Tim pointed at the harp with his bow. In the few moments he’d been talking to Paddy, back to the stage, she’d disappeared.

  Paddy rolled his eyes. He had an unremarkable round face, curly brown hair and a voice that could make angels weep. “Ah, sure there was.”

  Holding the neck of his fiddle and bow in one hand, Tim rubbed the back of his head.

  “She was playing the harp, so I joined in. There was a girl, I swear.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Quiet-like?”

  “Yea, how’d you know?” Maybe she was a musician who’d just been added to the program. That would make sense.

  Paddy laughed. “Welcome to Ireland. We specialize in beautiful, mysterious women.”

  Chapter 2

  The Cold Within

  The first drops of rain and accompanying wind followed Tim and Paddy through the front doors of Glenncailty Castle. Outside it was raining and sunny at the same time. Tim was beginning to understand why Ireland was famous for its rainbows.

  “Is this the pretty girl you met?” Paddy’s whisper was loud enough to carry, but the thunk of the doors closi
ng behind them drowned out the words.

  Tim blinked at the gorgeous redhead waiting in the massive foyer beyond the castle’s double doors. There was no doubt she was beautiful, but she wasn’t the harp player.

  “No, that’s not her.”

  “Well then, I think she’s mine.”

  Tim snorted. “You couldn’t get her.”

  “Put a guitar in my hands and I could have anyone. When I’m playing, I’m quite the catch.”

  “What happens when you put the guitar down?” They were almost to the redhead, so Tim kept his voice low.

  “These fingers are still magic.”

  “Gentlemen, you’re very welcome to Glenncailty Castle. We’re looking forward to hearing you perform tomorrow night.” The look on her face said she’d heard some of their conversation, and her small smile twitched with amusement. “I’m Sorcha, guest relations manager here, and I’ll be helping you check in.”

  She gestured to the left side of the foyer, where a long reception desk waited. The foyer was almost square, with a massive wood staircase opposite the double entrance doors. The floor was black and white stone—not tile, Tim noticed, but honest black and white stone—set in a check pattern, dull from three hundred years of feet. The walls were mint green above the waist-high paneling and the furniture heavy, dark wood. Wheeling his bag behind him, fiddle case under his arm, Tim followed Paddy and Sorcha to the registration desk, where an ethereally pretty blonde with an accent he couldn’t place helped him. There was no massive counter or huge computer terminal, just a laptop and a printer somewhere under the desk. When he’d answered her questions and signed the needed forms, she opened a drawer to hand him a gold key. An actual metal key.

  “Never seen a key before?” Paddy elbowed him in the ribs.

  Tim tossed it in his hand. “Never gotten one from a hotel.”

  Sorcha came around from behind the desk. “I’ll show you to your rooms and then we can go on a tour if you feel up to it. Otherwise you can rest before having dinner. Mr. Wilcox, I know you’ve come a long way.”

  “We already saw some of your beautiful castle.” Paddy was laying it on thick. “Tim was worried for his fiddle, so we went first to the barn.”

  “So you’ve seen Finn’s Stable? It’s a beautiful venue, and its reputation for live music and performances has grown over the past year. That’s one of the reasons we’re excited to have Free Birds Fly come to our glen.”

  “It’s the nicest castle I’ve ever been in,” Tim said, taking another look around the foyer.

  The redhead laughed. “Thank you. As you may have guessed, it’s not a true castle in the medieval sense—for that you’d need Trim or Bunratty. Glenncailty was originally a large, fortified manor. The people in Cailtytown and the other villages in the glen have always called this Glenncailty Castle, and there are many stories as to how it came to be known that way. It was a private residence until a few years ago. It’s currently owned by the O’Muircheartaigh family.”

  Tim looked at the simple brochure he’d been given along with his key. The name of the family that owned it had caught his eye because it seemed unpronounceable.

  “Wait, this name, spelled like this, is pronounced O-were-hurtie?” Tim frowned at the brochure, sure that wasn’t right.

  “Yes.” Sorcha took them through a doorway opposite the registration desk. A wood-paneled hall stretched from the foyer to the far wall of the main building.

  “How…?” Tim was staring at the name in bewilderment.

  “That’s Irish for you.” Paddy laughed. The sound of their luggage wheels quieted as they went from stone to carpet.

  “So this is a traditional Gaelic name?”

  “You Americans.” Paddy shook his head.

  “What did I say?”

  “Gaelic isn’t a language.” Sorcha looked over her should and smiled softly. They passed a recess with a door that said simply The Restaurant at Glenncailty. “Gaelic is a group of languages, same as the Germanic or Romance languages. It includes Irish, Welsh, Scotts-Gaelic, Manx and a few others.”

  “Oh.” Tim blinked. “I had no idea. I thought it was Gaelic, sorry.”

  “Everyone seems to, but the language is Irish. It’s the official language of the Republic, and everyone takes Irish in school.”

  “Is that why all the street signs are in English and, uh, Irish?”

  “Yes.” Sorcha cleared her throat slightly, then went into tour-guide mode. “If you consult your map, you’ll see that we’re passing through a hall that runs from the foyer to the east wall. This half of the main floor contains our restaurant, which is fine dining at its best, and also the breakfast room, which you access from the foyer.”

  At the end of the hall was another large wood door, though this one didn’t look like it was one hundred years old, as all the other doors he’d seen so far had.

  “This door leads to the east wing.” Sorcha opened it and motioned them through. “Architectural historians have dated the detached east and west wings to within fifty years of construction of the main building. The covered halls, one of which you’ve just entered, were added later, and as part of the remodel they were repaired and updated.”

  On the other side of the door was a short stone hall. Large windows provided a view of the grounds in the front of the castle, which were a tumble of wild roses and thick underbrush with heavy, evenly spaced trees lining the curved drive that touched the entrance doors. On the other side of the hall, matching windows offered a view of more wild plants, which partially obscured an annex that jutted off the side of the main castle. Straight in front of them was a second massive stone building. Rain dripped down the windows, and the sunlight that had been present when they first entered the building was gone, abandoning the sky to the fat, dark rainclouds.

  “What’s that?” Paddy asked, pointing out the windows towards the rear of the castle at the annex.

  Sorcha winced. “It’s the kitchens. As you can see, the kitchens were built new for the hotel and attached to the restaurant via one of the exterior walls. No part of the main building could be reworked into a restaurant grade kitchen, so we had to add that space.”

  “It’s a pity.” Paddy shook his head.

  “It is.” Sorcha paused and frowned. “And it blocked the view of the rear of the castle from these windows. The gardens are beautiful—walled and laid out in a formal way.”

  Tim had no idea what Paddy thought was a pity. His confusion must have shown on his face, because Paddy said, “It’s a shame when they add things like this. Modern things to old buildings.”

  “But a hotel needs a kitchen.” Tim was most definitely a lover of all vintage items, especially old music, but he didn’t understand their distress.

  “In Ireland we’re very protective of our old homes, actually any architecture at all.” Sorcha started walking again.

  “That’s fair. I mean, just this building is older than the U.S. as a nation.”

  Paddy and Sorcha stopped, turned and looked at him. Paddy shook his head and Sorcha’s smile was full of pity.

  “That’s a sad thing. I’d never thought of it that way before.” Paddy patted his shoulder.

  “It’s not sad,” Tim said with a flash of star-spangled pride.

  “Ah, sure it is.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Gentlemen, if I may direct your attention.” With Sorcha’s herding, they passed out of the hall into the east wing, which they’d seen looming over them through the rain-sheeted windows. The foyer for this wing was tiny compared to what they’d come through, with an elevator and several doors taking up most of the wall space. It might have been any modern hotel, except for the exposed stone exterior wall they’d just passed through, which seeped cold. “The elevator or stairs just here will take you to your rooms, on the second floor. There are nine rooms in this wing. All the performers save one who has family in Trim are staying there. The production crew is in the west wing.

  “Through the door
here—” Sorcha gestured to a wood door with a textured glass window, “—is the Pub. It’s always good crack, and you won’t be the only musicians, I’d say.”

  Tim rocked back on his heels as he ran his tongue over his teeth. “I, uh, don’t usually partake in crack—alcohol is my vice.” He smiled to cover his discomfort at hearing that the class-A felony drugs to be found at the pub were nice. Damned musician stereotypes. He hoped the hotel hadn’t stocked his room with hypodermic needles or anything strange. And he’d always considered Ireland a rather conservative country. Today was just full of surprises.

  Paddy and Sorcha were looking at him again.

  Paddy patted him on the back. “Tell me now, Yank, did I seem as great a fool when I came to America?”

  Tim just sighed. They were all three speaking English, weren’t they?

  “That’s no way to treat a guest,” Sorcha scolded her countryman. “Tim, crack is spelled C-R-A-I-C. It’s the Irish word for a good time, for fun.”

  “Is there a dictionary or something I can get?” Tim felt a little desperate.

  “No need—by the time you leave next week, we’ll have you speaking like a proper Irishman.” Sorcha hit the button for the elevator and turned to leave.

  “Sure, you’re going to walk us up,” Paddy said, smiling at the redhead.

  She leveled a look at him but returned the smile. “Of course.”

  They piled into the elevator. When they got off on the second floor bits of music filled the hall. He heard the first strains of what he thought might be “Curragh of Kildare” on guitar, the rhythmic thump of a traditional Irish drum, the tinny sound of an Irish tin whistle and discordant layers of string instruments, including guitar, tenor banjo and something he thought might be a bouzouki.

  “I get why we’re above the pub,” Tim said as Sorcha led them to their rooms.