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and she smiled silkily.
    “That I know.” The air hummed between them before she eased back, tidily folded her hands on the table. “There’s a blue bottle in the cupboard there, over the stove. Would you mind fetching it for me, and a glass as well?”
    He opened the door she indicated, found the cupboard neatly lined with bottles of all colors and shapes. All were filled with liquids and powders, and none were labeled. “Which one of these did you put in my tea?”
    Now she sighed, heavily. “Cal, I put nothing in your tea but the whiskey. I gave you sleep—a small spell, and a harmless one—because you needed it. Two hours only, and did you not wake feeling well and rested?”
    He scowled at the bottles, refusing to argue the point. “Which blue one?”
    “The cobalt bottle with the long neck.”
    He set the bottle and a short glass on the table. “Drugs are dangerous.”
    She poured a careful two fingers of liquid as blue as the bottle that held it. “’Tis herbs.” Her eyes flickered up to his, laughed. “And a touch or two of magic. This is for energy and strength.” She sipped with apparent enjoyment. “Will you be sitting down, Calin? You could use a meal, and it should be ready by now.”
    He’d already felt his stomach yearn at the scents filling the room, puffing out of the steam from a pot on the stove.
    “What is it?”
    “Craibechan.” She smiled as his brows drew together. “A kind of soup,” she explained. “It’s hearty, and your appetite’s been off. You’ve lost more than a pound or two in recent weeks, and I feel the blame for that.”
    Wanting to see just what craibechan consisted of—and to make sure there was no eye of newt or tongue of frog in the mix, he had started to reach for the lid on the pot. Now he drew back, faced her. He was going to make one vital point perfectly clear.
    “I don’t believe in witches.”
    A glint of amusement was in her eyes as she pushed back from the table. “We’ll set to working on that soon enough.”
    “But I’m willing to consider some sort of…I don’t know…psychic connection.”
    “That’s a beginning, then.” She took out a loaf of brown bread, set it in the oven to warm. “Would you have wine with your meal? There’s a bottle you could open. I’ve chilled it a bit.” She opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle.
    He accepted it, studied the label. It was his favorite Bourdeax—a wine that he preferred chilled just a bit. Considering, he took the corkscrew she offered.
    The obsessed-fan theory just didn’t hold, he decided, as he set the open bottle on the slate-gray counter to breathe. No matter how much information she might have dug up about him, she couldn’t have predicted he would come to Ireland—and certainly not to this place.
    He would accept the oddity of a connection. What else could he call it? It had been her voice echoing through his dreams, her face floating through the mists of his memory. And it had been his hands on the wheel of the car he’d driven up to this place. To her.
    It was time, he thought, to discover more about her.
    “Bryna.”
    She paused in the act of spooning stew into thick white bowls. “Aye?”
    “How long have you lived here, alone like this?”
    “The last five years I’ve been alone. It was part of the pattern. The wineglasses are to the right of you there.”
    “How old are you?” He took down two crystal glasses, poured bloodred wine.
    “Twenty-six. Four years less than you.” She set the bowls on the table, took one of the glasses. “My first memory of you, this time, was of you riding a horse made out of a broom around a parlor with blue curtains. A little black dog chased you. You called him Hero.”
    She took a sip from her glass, set it down, then turned to take the warmed bread from the oven. “And when he died, fifteen years later on a hot summer day, you buried him in the backyard, and your parents helped you plant a rosebush over his grave. All of you