Chapter 1: UNMOORED

Connacht, Ireland – 1883 

KOLI

Winter is no friendly season for voyaging across an ocean to offer yourself as a hostage to a sworn enemy.

I was resigned to it. But how tempting it was to read ill omens into gale and tempest—might be that was inevitable. As a child of the Elf King, you could rightly say that I was an ill omen incarnate.

Standing on the deck of the Danish mail steamer in the pelting rain, I could not beat back my resentment. I had been offered as consort to King Finvara, the lord of the Irish fairies. Our union was meant to reinforce a peace accord signed after the Battle of Ben Bulben, where my people, the Icelandic shadow elves, had fought alongside Fomorians, the ancient enemies of Ireland. Such unions were a longstanding tradition for good reason—they often worked. Yet in spite of tradition, even in spite of the wishes of his powerful cousin, Queen Isolde of Ireland, the haughty Finvara would not stoop to a union with a “goblin”—a slur his people often used against mine. And my mighty race—defeated decisively in the bloody battle for possession of Ireland—had no recourse but to agree to our enemy’s revised terms.

I wish not to be misunderstood. I had no desire to wed the fairy king. But I was proud of my lineage. I could have chosen any elven lord—any Fomorian prince, even—and would have made him a formidable ally, a curse upon his enemies. In obedience to my father, I had accepted my exile to the lower isle, and yet Finvara offered only scorn in return.

Now I would enter the stronghold of our enemy, offering myself as a political prisoner. I would be despised for the dark magic in my blood, as well as my fierce appearance. My hair was black as a cloudless night, and even the light of the Irish summer sun would raise no gleam upon it. The iris of my eye was a shade of gray so near to black that it unsettled mortals. Across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose had been stamped the small, star-shaped marks of the highland elves, so ancient they remembered an Iceland with trees.

If my mixed elven-mortal ancestry had taught me anything, it was how to live among those who would only ever see my otherness.

On the morrow, I would begin my life as a hostage among the soft and bloodless descendants of the Tuatha De Danaan. I would not run a household or hold court. Nor would I produce heirs for a noble husband. But I would serve my father and lord as a spy in the house of his enemy. For my father and his Fomorian allies would never accept defeat. They would bide their time and remain bound by the accord with the Irish for only as long as they must. As their appointed agent, I would gather the information they needed to mount a new offensive.

As prisoner rather than mistress of Knock Ma, this charge would not be easily carried out. But neither would I be required to live a lie, nor bear the children of a man I could never love.

“We approach Galway Bay.” Ulf, a captain in my father’s army who’d served many years as my bodyguard, joined me on the foredeck. Menacing as he was—large and wolfish, with flesh both scarred and inked, and forever scowling—he was visible to no one onboard but myself. All the other passengers were mortal, and the elves were Hidden Folk. They had lived among Icelanders for many centuries—for the most part, without ever being seen by them. It was a subtle magic, requiring blending in with the surroundings. Yet, there were still seers who could perceive Hidden Folk.

I had a foot in both worlds, and my elven kin’s ability to hide in plain sight was one I did not share, though I could melt into a shadow easily enough. Neither was I immortal, though time had not marked me—despite the fact I had outlived my mother, so far, by nearly sixty years.

An angry wind whipped the ends of my hair against my face, stinging my skin. Ice needles rained onto the deck and collected in my traveling cloak. As Ulf studied the waves, my gaze came to rest on the upside-down ash tree branded into his neck—the mark of the Elf King, which both symbolized and mocked our ancestors, the ancient gods of the Northmen. It was a mark we shared, though mine had been inked between my shoulder blades when I came of age, rather than burned into the flesh. The mark served as a reminder that however far I might venture from Skaddafjall, my father’s stronghold on Vestrahorn Mountain, I was still his to command. Trusting me with such an important task had demonstrated his faith in me—though as an unmarried daughter, I was in a unique position to serve. And I was eager to prove myself.

My gaze followed Ulf’s, settling on the Irish ironclads guarding the mouth of the port. Only three months ago these ships had destroyed the entire Fomorian fleet. It had happened in a harbor just north of here, turning the tide of the battle for Ireland. Early in the fight, the Irish goddess of war—for reasons neither mortal nor immortal would likely ever understand—had becalmed the ironclads, snuffed their steam engines, and bewitched their powder, rendering their cannons useless and forcing them onto even footing with the Fomorian longships. But King Finvara himself had raised a wind that freed the ironclads. Vain and vile though he might be, I must never let myself think of him as weak.

The fairy king, our returning warriors had told us, was mortal, or at least had once been. He was the youngest son of an Irish earl whose immortal ancestor—the King Finvara of ancient days—had taken possession of his body and mind before the battle of Ben Bulben. In fact, a number of the Irish nobles—including Queen Isolde herself—had immortal ancestors who had worked through them to assist the allied armies of Faery and Ireland.

What must it be like, I wondered, to commune with the spirits of ancient heroes within your own head? Navigating the marshland of my complicated ancestry had been challenging enough.

The steamer drew alongside Claddagh quay, and I studied the mist-shrouded waterfront, just stirring to life in the gloomy morning light. The rain had now lightened to a drizzle, and I prepared to disembark with the other passengers, but without my escort. Under the terms of the agreement, I could bring no attendant of my own kind.

I bid farewell to Ulf, who had been my constant companion since the death of my mother. As he conveyed my father’s final command, the mark between my shoulder blades tingled.

“Remember where you come from.”

In the court of the fairy king, I would hardly be allowed to forget.

Making my way along the quay, I watched as my fellow passengers were greeted by waiting friends. It was a snug and orderly harbor, filled with fishing boats. When I reached the end of the walkway—beyond which was the village with its neat, white cottages—I looked for a carriage from the fairy king’s court. I watched the passengers proceed into the village, friends carrying their bags or straining under the weight of their trunks. I watched as some of them climbed into carriages, while others walked along the waterfront. I watched the steamer’s crew transfer bags of mail to waiting carriers.

While I had expected no fanfare, neither had I expected to be kept waiting for longer than the steamer’s paper cargo. I glanced at the ship, which was already drawing away from the port. My trunks rested alone on the stones of the quay.

As the last straggling passengers moved past me, they failed to hide their curious, pitying glances, and I grew hot with anger under the confining layers of clothing that had been forced on me before I left Iceland. The fact that Irish women would tolerate such purposeless torture was a sure sign I would never fit in among them. No one could bowhunt in such clothing, or even breathe without making noise. I swatted at the mourning veil that masked my alien features—the star markings, and the curved and pointing tips of my ears. Shoving the dark net back over the top of my hat, I glanced up and down the waterfront.

Sighing heavily, I tipped back my head, welcoming the cold winter rain on my fevered cheeks.

He will answer, I vowed. I was nearly a hundred years old and had spent many of my days staring out at the ever-changing Atlantic, wandering across the lava fields and black-sand strand, watching the aurora borealis painting itself upon Iceland’s sky. I knew how to bide my time.

FINVARA

The truth of it was, I forgot her entirely.

Ireland was navigating stormy seas. The doors to Faery had been thrust open at the Battle of Ben Bulben, and open they had remained. None of our lives would ever be the same—least of all my own.

Born Duncan O’Malley, a bastard fourth son of the Earl of Mayo, I had been largely ignored by my family and allowed to come and go as I liked for the first three decades of my life. My mother, orphaned young and fostered by a pirate captain, inherited his ship and took up smuggling, which led to her meeting my father on Claddagh quay over an illicit purchase of weaponry. The sealing of the deal turned carnal, or so I am given to understand, after my mother offered him a pull from her hip flask. The earl was smitten, and soon extracted a promise that my mother would one day return and marry him. I would never have known about any of this had my mother not related the story—my father was laced too tight to ever discuss it with me. That my parents loved each other was obvious to anyone who saw them together, but still it was hard for me to imagine how my mother had abided with him the short time she did—she died of fever barely a year after their union was legitimized.

After I came of age and spent a few years on my mother’s crew, I too had chosen—and enjoyed—the freewheeling and masterless life of a sea captain. Until last year, when Ireland’s ancient enemies had threatened, and a fairy king of legend—one of the Tuatha De Danaan—revived his connection with his mortal descendants by invading my mind and body.

Early on, he and I struggled for control of this earthly vessel. In the end we joined forces to defeat our Fomorian foes, and after the battle, we formed our own accord.

As part of that agreement—and at the urging of my cousin, the Irish queen—I exchanged the life of a smuggler for the bonds of public service. I assumed my ancestor’s title as king of fairies. His centuries-long reign lived like the memory of a dream in the depths of my mind. Yet he and I parted ways—he moved on to the Land of Promise and no longer spoke in my mind, as he had done in the days leading up to the Battle of Ben Bulben. He would never again overpower my intellect, but I had acquired his magic, which drew on the elements and the land itself—though perhaps I would never be as adept at wielding it as he was.

A life at sea is not without peril or adversity, but let me not understate how unprepared I was for what this transformation would entail. Until the seal between Ireland and Faery was broken at the Battle of Ben Bulben, the great king’s castle, Knock Ma, had been splendidly whole in Faery while only a ruin in Ireland. After the battle, the two overlapping worlds had attempted to merge—with varying degrees of success—and Knock Ma had manifested again in Ireland in its original glory. The very forest that surrounded its walls in Faery had regenerated, radically altering the Connacht countryside, creating all manner of difficulties with the local farmers. Even within the castle walls the worlds were merged, with corridors overrun by puck and sprite.

Suffice it to say, my transition from smuggler to statesman had much occupied my time and energy. Truly, it was no wonder that I had forgotten about her—the goblin princess that had been foisted upon me, and whom I had narrowly avoided wedding.

I was only reminded of her when a servant was sent from the kitchens to inquire about the dietary requirements of our guest, at which point a mad scramble ensued. Knock Ma was still working to establish relationships with local tradesmen, and I had no idea how a carriage was to be hired on such short notice. In the end, we paid a farmer for the use of his cart, and my household staff did what they could to make it comfortable. I understood the lady we were expecting to be somewhat savage, and I hoped that she would not be too deeply offended.

Before Queen Isolde had returned to Dublin, she had advised me to appoint a steward to help manage my affairs. I had not liked the idea at the time, but I was beginning to see the sense in it.

“Your Majesty?”

I did not immediately glance up as a servant entered my study, where I’d been looking over an ancient map of Ireland. I had always loved maps, from the time my mother had taught me to read them. This one depicted an Ireland so ancient it was almost completely blanketed by forests, its contours suggesting the country had once been more mountainous—and far less boggy.

“Aye?” I said at last, turning.

The fellow was one of the servants from my family’s estate. My father had sent them “so that there might be familiar folk about you,” but I suspected it had more to do with keeping an eye on me. The earl had always been fond of me, but until the Battle of Ben Bulben, he had never taken me very seriously. Understandably perhaps, as I had never taken myself very seriously.

“Princess Koli has arrived,” announced the servant. The man was ever grim-faced—I suspected he had not come to Knock Ma voluntarily—but at the moment he looked like he had swallowed a toad.

A smile twitched on my lips at the poor fellow’s discomfort, but I managed to conquer it. “Very well, Keane. See that she’s escorted to her chamber, and that she’s made comfortable.”

“Your Majesty,” the man cleared his throat nervously, “the lady is insisting—”

He was interrupted by a flock of ravens sweeping in through the door, filling the study with the noise of their great flapping wings and gravel-throated cries. The servant shouted and stumbled, and I staggered back toward the open casement.

Only a spell, I realized, fanning out one hand and murmuring, “Disperse.” The birds had been conjured, and it was a simple enough trick to wave them away.

Merely shadows, they flew out the window and dissipated the moment the light struck them. But the last of the birds raked my head on its way out, sharp talons scraping the edge of my ear.

“Blast,” I swore, swiping at the wound with the back of my hand. Glancing at it, I saw a smear of bright blood. There was something unfamiliar in that spell. Nothing deadly, certainly, but something angry.

When I turned again to the servant, I encountered a figure clad in mourning crepe, her veil obscuring her features.

“Koli Alfdóttir?” I inquired. She was straight and narrow as a reed, and nearly as tall as I.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke sternly, in perfect modern Irish, “I understand that neither of us is pleased by these circumstances, but was I to expect less than common courtesy from the king of fairies?”

“Forgive me, lady,” I replied, feeling truly repentant despite the stinging wound on my ear. “We’re topsy-turvy here, as you can see, and I quite forgot you were arriving today.”

I realized belatedly that I had perhaps been more frank than necessary. The creature snatched the veil away from her face, and her gaze burned into me.

“Did you,” she said, a quiet rage simmering under her words.

I had little experience with elves, though I had seen them at Ben Bulben. My ancestor’s impressions also resided within me, and they were tinged with both fear and scorn. Fierce though she was, the princess was more womanly than I had expected—her ears were curved and pointed, but there was no sharpness to her other features, nor were there antlers or long teeth. Her skin did not appear to be inked with designs—though it was impossible to guess what there might be beneath that ghastly dress—nor did she wear the face paint of a warrior.

“My apologies, also, for your … for your mode of conveyance. My court is newly established, and I had not—”

“I understand that I am despised by you, sir,” she seethed. “You have made that plain enough.”

How I wished she would shout, or outwardly storm. This barely suppressed violence was far more troubling. There were both light elves and shadow elves among the Hidden Folk, and my ancestor had had little use for either—he considered them all to be arrogant and untrustworthy. They were said to be descended from Loki, the Norsemen’s lord of mischief, who had disguised himself and fled the wrath of Odin after causing the death of one of his sons, discovering Iceland in the process. But the shadow elves had earned the reputation of goblins, sometimes murdering mortals in their beds. An Irish fairy might play a cruel or even gruesome prank, but the fairies were answerable to me. This woman was not.

“I hope, lady, that I have done no such thing,” I said in a conciliatory tone.

But I had rejected her hand outright, and her father would have told her so. The lady’s pride would of course be wounded. And lady she was, I could see that now. I began to feel ashamed of the various ways I had humiliated her.

There was aught I could do but try to smooth her ruffled feathers. Fortunately, my ancestor and I both had considerable experience in managing ruffled females.

“Come now, madam,” I continued. “You must be fatigued from your journey. I will escort you personally to your chamber so that you may refresh yourself.”

KOLI

Something about me had surprised him, that much was clear from the way he was staring. Was my appearance such a shock to him, or was it that he had expected to find a wart on my nose and a hump on my back? Hooves, or perhaps a tail? I, too, had been surprised by his appearance. He was not the fair and golden lord that I had anticipated based on the stories my people told about the Irish. His skin was brown, and his head was covered by tight curls that had been burnished reddish gold in places, presumably by the sun. It reached down past his shoulders, but he wore it tied back from his face. His lips, framed by his dark beard, were an ashy rose color and shapely as a woman’s. His eyes, like many an Icelander, were an unclouded blue.

Though he did not look like my idea of an Irish king, he was every bit as arrogant as I had expected.

“No, sir, you shall not,” I replied. “I prefer the company of the servant.”

I turned then, not bothering to ask his permission to withdraw, and walked straight out into the corridor. I heard him mutter something to his man, who scurried after me. I eyed the servant impatiently and he ducked his head in submission, or fear, or perhaps both, and then scurried around me.

“This way, my lady,” he murmured, walking ahead.

Good, I thought. Let them be frightened of me. If the servants kept their distance, it would make my task easier.

Had I still thought it possible that I might be regarded as a guest rather than a prisoner, I would have been disappointed when the servant escorted me not to the keep, but to the very top of the castle’s nearest tower. Still, its chamber was spacious and comfortable, and its barred windows offered sweeping views of the rolling hills, which were thickly wooded, with ghostly columns of mist reaching into the low clouds.

It would be a relief to finally be alone after the long voyage. If I could arrange for my meals to be brought up, I’d never need to leave—and perhaps that was just what they had hoped for. But I would not fulfill my purpose here by hiding in my chamber. Nor did I believe I could endure such confinement for long. At home, I had spent as little time as possible inside my father’s stronghold.

I noticed an unfamiliar object in one corner of the room, across from the bed. It was a tall cabinet with a clock case at the top—a grandfather clock. This was something outside the experience of an Icelandic villager—I recognized it from books I’d been given by my English tutors. But it differed from other grandfather clocks I had seen in that it looked to be made of an oil-stained metal rather than wood, and its gearworks were not contained behind the glass door of the cabinet. Rather, it appeared to have spilled its inner workings on the outside—toothy gears of all sizes were affixed around the base of the clock, and their movement produced a rhythmic chorus of clicks. There were even small pipes that occasionally released snake hisses of steam. The clock case contained two faces, one for displaying the time, and one for displaying, I believed, the phases of the moon.

“I will have that removed at once, my lady,” the servant assured me, and I could hear the shudder in his voice. “Such oddities have been popping up all over the castle.”

I turned to study him. “Popping up?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied, nervously dropping his gaze. “We don’t know why. Captain O’Malley—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “His Majesty believes that with recent changes—with the ancients walking among us again—time may have become confused. No longer knows what belongs where—or when—if you follow.” He cleared his throat again. “One can only hope it is a temporary condition. I will have it removed at once, my lady,” he repeated.

“You will do no such thing,” I countered, moving to stand as a barrier between him and the clock. It was the only thing in Knock Ma that had captured my interest, and I felt a sort of kinship with it. Ugly and unwanted, ominous in its mystery. Unmoored from time and place.

The servant looked bewildered, but he bowed his head in assent. “I will send a maid to help you unpack your things.” Then he withdrew.

I turned and grasped the small knob on the clock cabinet’s door, tugging it open. I felt a movement of warm, strangely scented air against my face—it reminded me of incense, but tinged with something bitter. Inside, the clock was empty—a shadowy recess with no workings. I supposed it made sense, as the machinery had taken up residence on the outside.

I slipped my hand inside slowly, reaching to feel the back of the cabinet.

My arm passed through all the way to my shoulder before I yanked it out and staggered backward.

* * * 

Chapter 1: Fog and Spirits

“You must suffer me to go my own dark way.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
 
Dublin — 1882
 
Ada

Tendrils of fog, thick and viscous, wended in off the moor on the edge of that midwinter night. I suppose that in Ireland, a moor is more properly a bog, but “bog” is a clumsy sort of word, lacking romance.

It’s not a night for romance, I reminded myself, studying the more uniformly dense mass of fog rising from the River Liffey, on my right. I’d never examined the nuances of fog so minutely, but then, I’d never been to Ireland. And in truth, I was stalling—a behavior I had a strict policy against.

“Get on with it, Ada,” I murmured, disregarding another of my policies. A young woman traveling alone—one with a head of prematurely silver hair—did not need to give anyone reason to think her queerer than they most certainly already would.

I cast my gaze to the left, lifting my chin to study the sign above the door of Dublin’s most popular house of absinthe. “The green fairy,” many call the heady spirit, and this establishment had styled itself the same. The emblem painted on the sign was a Venusian beauty in a filmy green drapery, her mass of Irish-hued curls heaped on top of her head. She displayed an ample measure of milky white flesh in the form of softly rounded shoulders and belly and an almost entirely exposed bosom. In her outstretched hand, she held a gracefully curving goblet one-quarter filled with bright-green liquid.

Come hither, she seemed to say.

And so I must.

I’d been in Dublin four days now, poring over books on Celtic history and mythology at Trinity College by day and visiting houses of absinthe by night. The first three I visited had been cramped little establishments, each containing a half-dozen regulars. Shabby men and women so weighted down by life, or perhaps addiction, that their chins brushed the rims of their glasses as they spoke to me. They took their alcoholic spirits as watered down as those residing in their earthly forms, because that was what they could afford.

In the end, their talk wasn’t much good to me. They told me what I wanted to hear—stories of recent fairy sightings, by either themselves or their neighbors—and I offered them a few coins for their trouble.

I had read of a possible connection between absinthe consumption and such sightings, so you might wonder at my skepticism. It was the feverish desperation in their eyes, and the outrageous nature of the stories, as if by showmanship they might persuade me. Moreover, I was disposed to believe them, which is a mental state every researcher should guard against.

In the Green Fairy, I expected to find a more privileged class of patrons. Not that I believed the wealthy were any less likely to succumb to addiction or low emotional states—in my experience, it was common enough—but the Green Fairy was reputable. A place anyone might stop in for a drop of spirits or a more substantial draught of the dark and frothy national drink. In short, the Fairy’s patrons were less likely to want something from me. Less desperation on the part of the patrons also made it less likely I’d need to test my mastery of the ladies’ defense techniques that had been part of my physical education requirement at the Lovelace Academy for Promising Young Women. Even so, I kept my umbrella—with its sharply pointed steel tip—close by my side.

Touching the edge of my hood out of habit—it was going nowhere, as I had pinned it to my coiffure—I reached for the brass knob and pulled open the door.

Warm, anise-scented air washed over me, and I stepped inside.

Only a few gazes took note of my entrance, and as I closed the door behind me, shutting out the damp December night, they quickly returned to their glasses and companions. It was a proper Irish pub, with dark wood paneling, leather upholstery, and gas lamps fixed at regular intervals along the walls. The decor, like the sign outside, was a tribute to la fée verte. She appeared in all shapes and sizes, from rustic beauties to Morgan le Fay temptresses.

The place was as popular as rumored, though this could be due to the season—Christmas was only five days away. A strange time for vacationing in Ireland, you might observe. “Inhospitable weather” did not do it justice. But I was on break from the Academy and determined to make progress on my thesis, “Anthropologic Explanations for the Exodus of the Daoine Maithe”—the “gentlefolk,” as the Irish referred to fairies out of respectful wariness. Even had I not been behind on my studies, I had no family to spend the holidays with.

There appeared not to be a single empty table, but I balked at the idea of approaching the bar. It wasn’t a thing a young miss did—not even an orphan whose parents had left her enough inheritance (just enough, mind you) to render her unconcerned about the opinions of others. My courage was failing me when I noticed a small table at the back of the room, at a companionable distance from a blazing turf fire. It appeared to have been recently vacated, as an empty reservoir glass and absinthe spoon rested on the tabletop.

Gathering my skirts and traveling cloak in my hands, I made my way toward it.

It was a cozy corner and a perfect place for observing the room while keeping quiet and anonymous. The only problem was the heat. Perspiration slid between my shoulder blades, and I decided that if I was to avoid a soaking, I must either relocate or remove a layer of clothing.

“For you, miss.”

I glanced up as a man placed before me the funnel-shaped glass preferred for serving absinthe. I locked gazes with the stranger, who wore round, green-tinted spectacles, and it gave me a shock. I don’t mean that I was surprised, though in fact I was. I mean that I felt it like a sudden, powerful discharge of static electricity.

My gaze dropped to the glass he’d placed before me. The drizzling-water-over-sugar part of the absinthe ritual had apparently already been conducted, and the glass was nearly full of a clear green liquid.

“Sir,” I began, “I haven’t ordered—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’ll declare myself outright: it’s intended as a bribe.”

I lifted my eyebrows, though of course he couldn’t see this, due to the depth of my hood.

“I do not wish to molest you or suggest anything improper—”

“Disclosures that begin in that way,” I interrupted in my turn, “typically prove to be exactly the thing they were advertised not to be.” My reply edged on rudeness, but as a young woman traveling without a chaperone, I received my share of unwanted attention. I found it best to quell their enthusiasm right out of the gate. “I had intended to order tea, sir, so please bestow your generosity on someone more receptive.”

A chilly reply was usually enough, but the man continued to regard me, amusement now mingling with curiosity.

“I believe you’ve mistaken my intention, miss. I only wished to beg the favor of claiming your unused chair—if it is indeed unused—so I might rest my feet on the grate.” I could not but notice he was a darkly handsome man and spoke a velvety Irish brogue. “I’ve ridden up from the harbor and I’m soaked through, and there’s not an empty seat in the house.”

His black hair was tied back from his face, but one stray lock was plastered to his wet cheekbone.

“I’m happy to fetch your tea,” he continued.

“No, please.” I gestured to the empty chair across from me. “It’s not necessary, and I’m too warm as it is. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“My thanks to you, Miss …?”

“Miss Quicksilver.”

He lifted the chair, angling it toward the fire. “Mr. Donoghue, at your service.”

He removed his coat and sank down with a relieved sigh, stretching his boots in front of him. Soon, steam was rising from his garments. His dress marked him as a gentleman—jet overcoat and dove-gray waistcoat cut from fine cloth, and a silver watch fob dangling from his waistcoat pocket. Though he wore his hair longer than was currently fashionable, it was trimmed to shoulder length, and neatly pulled back but for the strands worked loose by the weather. He’d missed his appointment with the razor for perhaps two or three days, and dark hair softened the strong jawline. His appearance had a blown-in-off-the-bog quality that—studious and unromantic though I was by nature—I found most alluring. I fancied he had a story to tell of himself that would be well worth hearing.

Aware that I was staring—an unsettling habit of mine, I’d been told by schoolmates—I dropped my eyes to the glass before me. So far, I had abstained from partaking of the drink so popular with my research subjects. My work required a clear mind. But it had sometimes occurred to me that by so primly distancing myself from their experience, I might be limiting my effectiveness as a researcher.

Certainly, a taste could do no harm.

Raising the glass to my lips, I just wet my tongue. It had a delicate licorice sweetness that mingled pleasingly with a slight herbal bitterness. I immediately understood its appeal.

“Is it up to par?” asked my new acquaintance. Apparently, he had been studying me as well, though his spectacled eyes were still fixed on the fire.

“I couldn’t say,” I replied to his profile.

He turned then, arching an eyebrow. Afraid I might have given offense—for I am hopeless at small talk—I explained, “It’s the first time I’ve tried it.”

“Ah. And how do you like it?”

“Very well,” I replied, pushing the glass a few inches away. I found the drink refreshing, and that was precarious in my current overheated state. Better to remove my traveling cloak and hope that I was tucked too tightly into the corner to attract much notice.

“Are you a wanted woman?” asked Mr. Donoghue, ducking his head to gaze deeper into my hood. The lines of his full lips were firm, but mirth sparkled behind the rounds of green glass. I was suddenly curious to know the color of his eyes. “Or perhaps embarking on an elopement,” he continued to speculate, his gaze ranging around the room. “Your bridegroom is late.”

“I’m a woman sitting alone in a house of absinthe,” I replied. But I unpinned my hood from my hair and unfastened the cloak. Then, holding my breath, I shrugged free of the garment, letting it fall over the back of my chair. “You can understand why I might prefer to avoid drawing the attention of others.”

“Certainly, I …” He trailed off as his eyes widened, catching on the silvery locks that had tumbled down around the edges of my face. “I beg your pardon. For a moment, I took you for a dame twice your age.”

Had I a shilling for every time I’d heard those words, I could have hired a research assistant to wander the wilds of Ireland in the cold dark of December. “And have you revised your opinion, sir?”

“Indeed,” he said with mock gravity. “I see that you’re a youngish lass. One who has perhaps been swallowed up and spat out by a storm off the Atlantic.” He was amusing himself at my expense, but I perceived no malice behind it. He continued, “Or was it some shock in early life that wrought this change?”

“While those are imaginative theories, Mr. Donoghue, I—”

“I have it,” he said, his gaze brightening. “Miss Quicksilver, was it? An inherited trait, then. Your family produces prematurely silver-haired offspring.”

“Exactly so,” I said, pleased at not having to repeat an explanation I’d given many times. It was my mother, in fact, who had handed down the name Quicksilver, due to a centuries-old legal exception granted to preserve the name. No one in my family seemed to know why the exception had been granted, but there were many imaginative theories on that score as well. 

“Here you are, Lord Meath.”

A young man with a ruddy complexion and stained apron set a glass on the end of the table opposite me.

“My apologies for the delay, sir. We’re that busy, what with the holiday bearing down on us.”

“Not at all, Michael. Thank you, and happy Christmas.”

Michael ducked his head to my companion. “Happy Christmas to you, Your Lordship. And to you, miss.”

Michael moved away, and it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “‘Your Lordship,’ is it?”

My companion made a disgruntled noise and extended his hands toward the fire. “Please don’t start calling me that. My family name is heavy on the tongue, just as ‘Your Lordship’ is on the nerves. You may call me Meath if you like, Miss Quicksilver. Most do.”

I understood a thing or two about ponderous names. “As you like, sir. As for myself, ‘Miss Q’ will do.”

He ducked his head and raised his glass. “It’s an honor to make the acquaintance of such a unique young lady.”

I raised my glass. “And it’s an honor to meet …” I tried to think what his title might be, and then recalled that Dublin was in County Meath. “… the earl of Meath—have I got that right?”

He inclined his head slightly. “Since my father died, two years ago.”

Our glasses clinked, and I took the tiniest of sips before replacing mine on the table.

“You haven’t much of a thirst this evening,” he observed.

“I’m not used to it,” I explained. “I lead a sober existence. Studious by nature.”

He gave me a dubious smile. “Despite all evidence to the contrary.”

I reached again for my glass as an occupation for my nervously active fingers but caught myself and folded my hands in my lap. “Things are not always what they seem, sir. I’ve come to Dublin on a research trip.”

“Research! You are full of surprises, Miss Q. May one know what you are researching?”

I straightened in my chair. I mustn’t lose this opportunity over a sudden and uncharacteristic case of nerves.

“I’m composing my thesis on the disappearance of Ireland’s gentlefolk. I hope to find a few souls here who know stories or even have firsthand experience.”

Watching him closely to see whether he would scoff at this, I noticed when a shadow passed over his countenance. But he was smiling when he replied, “Well, I daresay you’ve come to the right place. I’d wager there are many here who have had visions. Of fairies and bogeys, to be sure. Also lions, monkeys, and possibly peacocks.”

“My dear sir,” I replied, suppressing my own smile, “I believe you are laughing at me.”

Then he did laugh. “Forgive me, Miss Q. I’ve only just left a naval appointment, and I haven’t enjoyed the company of a charming young woman in longer than I care to remember. Don’t be angry with me for having a bit of fun.”

The casual flattery affected me more than it should have. I dropped my gaze to my glass and released the smile I’d been holding back. “No, sir. I’m not so miss-ish as that.”

“That is a relief.” His voice softened slightly as he said this. It was a subtle change, but my heart noticed—and fluttered. “In all seriousness, a house of absinthe seems an unlikely place to conduct research, if I don’t offend by saying so.”

The earl appeared to have sloughed off the chill. He had angled his chair somewhat away from the fire and folded his sleeves to just above the elbows. He was not quite sitting at my table, but he’d rested his half-consumed drink there.

“I’m sure it seems so,” I replied. “Over the past decade, there have been a handful of reports in Paris, London, and Dublin newspapers that suggest a potential connection between consumption of absinthe and the ability to see fairies.”

The earl’s amused expression had given way to a contemplative one. “You refer to realsightings? Not absinthe-induced hallucinations?”

I lifted my hands, turning them out in a gesture of uncertainty. “Who can say? One might argue that they are hallucinations, encouraged by the nickname the spirit has earned.”

He nodded. “One might.”

“Or … one might argue that the nickname was earned as a result of the spirit’s effects.”

Another nod, slower this time. “But if the sightings are real, would that not mean the fairies have not departed at all?”

I smiled, pleased at his quick intelligence and his interest in the topic. “Precisely. That, or their new country somehow overlaps our own, and absinthe—or perhaps one of its component herbs—creates a sort of gateway between the two.”

“Intriguing.” He was staring into his glass now, perhaps seeing the spring-colored liquid in a new light. “And you don’t wish to test the theory yourself?”

He glanced up at me, and I shook my head. “I’d make a biased subject. I might see only what I wish to see.”

“And what is it you would wish to see?”

I frowned, considering. It was an interesting question, and I wasn’t sure of the answer. Inspired by his joking manner, I replied, “Anything that might bring me closer to finishing my thesis.”

He laughed and drank again from his glass.

“How about you, my lord? Have you ever seen a fairy?”
 

Edward

I stared at this striking woman, frozen by her question. For all that she was ladylike, mild-mannered, and on all accounts charming, her wit was direct and incisive. Her question was not complicated. It required a simple yes or no, and yet …

Dare I tell her the truth? That at least in my case, absinthe did cause the most troubling hallucinations—though it had never occurred to me that there might be anything real about them—and that only the spectacles kept me from going mad? Yet absinthe was the only thing that staved off the nightwalking, which was far worse. Rising in the morning to find bloodstained bedclothes, the flesh of my body torn and bruised as if I’d done battle with a host of demons.

Yes, the absinthe was necessary, and the spectacles limited the green apparitions to the edges of my vision.

But I could share nothing of this with her, however compelling I might find her.

“First of all, Miss Q,” I replied, “I’ve asked you to call me Meath.”

She gave an apologetic smile. “I know that you have, but I find myself unequal to addressing a virtual stranger—especially one with a station so much higher than my own—in such a familiar way. Might you be willing to compromise if I promise to avoid ‘Your Lordship’?”

It was a very pretty feminine plea, which, of course, I was powerless to refuse. I’d spoken only the truth when I said I’d been too long outside the society of women, and what’s more, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d found myself so captivated by such society.

“If it will allow us to continue our discourse, then so be it,” I replied.

She gave a gracious nod. “Will you then answer my question?”

I eyed her over the rims of my spectacles. The lady’s eyes were very close in hue to the undiluted spirit so popular in this establishment: an uncommonly light shade of green. Her lips were dark, nearer plum than pink. She could not be called classically beautiful but had rather an impishness to her features—narrow eyes and arched brows, high and defined cheekbones, and a chin more pointed than round. Not to forget those plaited and piled waves of silver, with loose curls that softened any sharpness in the lines of her face.

Together, it created an effect that suggested a way out of the corner she had so innocently backed me into.

“Indeed I have, Miss Q.”

In fascination, I watched the flurry of fingers and wrists that produced a notebook and writing implement seemingly out of thin air. “You’ve seen a fairy?” she replied eagerly.

I nodded. “I believe one sits before me now.”

Her gaze took a turn around our fireside nook before returning to my face. She crossed her arms on the table, her pursed lips punctuating the understanding in her expression. I fought a losing battle not to stare at the mouth shaped like a little mauve heart.

“You’re laughing at me again, Lord Meath,” she said, a hint of vexation in her tone.

“Not at all,” I assured her. “I only meant to convey that you yourself are the most otherworldly creature I’ve met.” Strictly speaking, this was true, but I did not much like myself for the flimsy evasion.

She set down her writing implement, the lines of her mouth softening into a self-deprecating smile.

“According to my grandmother, an Irish ancestress of ours was kissed by a fairy. All the most interesting family legends have Irish roots, you see.”

“Might it not be true?” I couldn’t help but ask. “If you accept their existence, why might it be a stretch to believe what your grandmother told you?”

She frowned, and an inch-long wrinkle kissed the spot a Hindu would call the third eye. “It’s a fair question, Lord Meath. Do you accept their existence?”

I shifted slightly in my chair, finally closing the gentlemanly distance I’d preserved between myself and her small table. “I make it a practice never to disbelieve a thing I cannot disprove.”

The brightness of her gaze—the almost childlike pleasure in her countenance—caused a swelling in my chest. “Then we have something in common, sir,” said she.

I detected motion in my peripheral vision—a swirl of green mist, the hallmark of the otherworldly visitations, which I could never quite ignore. I raised my hand to nudge the spectacles closer to my face and so managed to block my view of the visitor with my hand.

But it did nothing to diminish the shrill cry that pealed like a nightmare across my consciousness. I squeezed my eyes closed. Of all the absinthine visitors, the bean sí was the worst. And they hovered over sailors and ships like great flocks of spectral geese. It had been close to driving me from my commission when Queen Isolde recalled me to attend to affairs of state. But I knew I would return to the Royal Navy when I’d fulfilled my obligation to Her Majesty—I had no desire to remain at my ancestral seat, wasting away my years tormented by mental disease and with an increasing dependence on the infernal remedy. I had to at least remain active, and the sea air soothed my fevered brain.

“Are you well, Lord Meath?”

I opened my eyes to find the lady eyeing me with concern.

“I am, thank you. Just a slight headache.”

The banshee had drifted to the other side of my head, her wild rippling tresses and cobweb garments trailing behind. I could not hear the lady’s reply over the sudden blast of another shrill death warning.

“One moment,” I murmured to my companion, removing my spectacles.

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the change in light. The barrow woman, having free range of my vision at last, swooped and swirled in the air between us before coiling around the torso of my new acquaintance and whispering into her ear.

“Miss Quicksilver!” I cried in reflexive warning.

The lady suddenly stood and bent toward me with alarm. I felt her cool fingers press the back of my hand.

“My lord, what can I do to help you?”

I locked gazes with the wide-eyed hag at her shoulder and, in desperation, gave a nod of acknowledgment. With another shriek, the banshee soared away from my companion and straight through the ceiling over our heads, leaving a trail of green vapor that curled like fog around Miss Q’s soft pile of silver hair.

Returning my spectacles to their original position, I looked into the lady’s anxious face.

Were I to accept what she had moments ago suggested—that these visions of mine were more than vapors, that they had real substance—I must also accept that I had just been warned of the lady’s impending death.
 

Ada

Blue. The gentleman’s eyes were a light, clear blue. They were striking in contrast to his black hair, which could mean he was at least partly descended from the Spanish sailors shipwrecked near Galway in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The lovely and half-mad Irish queen, Isolde, was said to be descended from those same castaways, and I wondered whether there might be some relation.

Lord Meath replaced the spectacles, and at last he spoke. “Forgive me, Miss Q. I am well now.”

I resumed my seat.

“I’m sorry for your headache, sir,” I said, and I meant it. He had a kind and gentlemanly manner, and I was little more than a tourist on this island, without family or even friends here to ease my feelings of isolation.

He was a handsome, intelligent young nobleman, and I doubt many ladies would fail to appreciate the gift of his time and attention.

He shook his head. “It is nothing. But I must ask you something.”

I lifted my eyebrows, uneasy about the sudden somber quality in his tone. “Yes?”

“Have you family in Ireland? Or a friend, perhaps?”

It was as if he’d been listening to my thoughts. The more intimate nature of this question surprised me, and I failed to immediately formulate a reply.

“I don’t mean to be impertinent.” He touched the base of his glass with the tips of his fingers but didn’t drink.

He gave a thin smile that constrained whatever true feeling had moved him to ask the question. “I’m only concerned for your welfare, traveling alone and unprotected.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir. But I’m afraid—well, I’m an orphan, you see. As such, I’m accustomed to managing my own affairs and am more self-reliant than perhaps I may appear. I assure you, there’s no cause for concern on my behalf.”

It was perhaps unwise for me to be so honest about my situation. What did I know of him, to be revealing to him just how alone I was in the world? Yet despite my strong suspicion that he was hiding something, my instincts assured me he meant me no harm.

He acknowledged my explanation with a nod. “Do you mean to remain in Ireland over the holidays?”

“I do, sir.”

“And then you’ll return home?”

“I plan to travel into the countryside after Christmas, until I’m expected back at school. I wish to visit some of the small villages and churchyards. Talk to the people who live there.”

His countenance darkened with every word I spoke. “Is there something wrong, Lord Meath? Are you feeling unwell again?” 

The corners of his mouth relaxed. “Not at all. But I have a proposition for you.”

I stared at him with some surprise. Had I misjudged him after all? “Indeed, sir?”

“Nothing improper, I assure you. Though if you agree, you’ll have to trust me as your companion for a few days.”

My mouth fell open at this, and I closed it again without replying.

The earl shifted in his chair and again stretched his legs before the fire. I breathed a little easier with his gaze directed away from me, and I studied his profile as he continued. “I was called to shore by Queen Isolde, who, in addition to being my sovereign, is also my cousin.”

So he was a relation of the queen’s, and as an earl, he would by default be a member of parliament. Ireland’s government was much the same as Britain’s, right down to both countries’ independent and strong-minded queens. However, Ireland’s monarch had the absolute support of her military and had been known to run roughshod over the Irish parliament. Despite this rather regressive state of affairs, Isolde had raced well ahead of the English queen in advancing reforms aimed at improving the condition of women in the country. For this reason, I had felt easier about embarking on a research trip here than I would have at home. 

Even so, I waited with some trepidation to hear the rest of the earl’s proposal.

“While I was at sea,” he continued, “a ruin of some sort was discovered on my tenant’s farm, inside an ancient fairy mound called Brú na Bóinne. The queen believes it is important, and has asked me personally to inspect the site, photograph and secure it, and report back to her.”

I don’t know what I had thought he’d say, but this was far from anything I might have imagined. Brú na Bóinne, on the River Boyne, not far from Dublin, was a site of great mythological significance. It was associated with two of fairy lore’s most beloved figures: the warrior Diarmuid and his foster father, Angus, both members of an ancient fairy race, the Tuatha De Danaan.

“What sort of ruin, sir?” I asked, heart racing at the possibilities this suggested.

“It is believed to be a tomb of great antiquity. Perhaps a place of ritual or worship. Little is yet known. Its construction likely dates back thousands of years, I am told. Due to the nature of your research, I thought it might interest you.”

“Indeed!” I could hardly contain myself. 

“Let me show you.” He reached for his overcoat then and fished inside one of the pockets. He soon produced a box, rectangular in shape, with a drum attachment, and a winding lever on one side. He wound the gears—visible at the back of the device—several turns and then scooted his chair close to mine.

“Are you familiar with stereoscopes?” he asked, and I shook my head.

Raising it to eye level, he asked, “May I?”

I held my breath and nodded.

The box had a goggle-like viewing attachment, which he pressed gently to my face. His fingers tickled the hair at my temples, sending shivers down my neck and across my shoulders.

I heard a loud click and then a series of softer, more rapid ones as a light flickered on inside the box. A succession of photographs began to unwind. The images appeared to have movement and depth, and I gasped at the ingenuity of it. The first series depicted the rolling Irish countryside, and soon a grassy hill slid into view. The next series showed an opening in the side of the hill. The door was framed with stone slabs, its shape very much resembling the dolmen that had been erected in antiquity in County Clare. Beneath the base of the opening was another stone slab, this one carved with spirals. A rocky footpath curved down the hill around the opening and into the photograph’s foreground. Beyond the opening, all was in shadow.

“Extraordinary,” I said breathlessly. “I wish we could see inside.”

“We can.” He lowered the stereoscope.

I stared at him, my cheeks warming in response to multiple stimuli. “You are suggesting that I accompany you?”

“I believe your academic background makes you far better suited than I to evaluate its importance.”

I pressed my hands into my lap, struggling to rein in my excitement. “I have studied anthropology, history, and folklore,” I said. “But I am no archeologist, Lord Meath.”

He waved his hand, dismissing this argument. “Archeologists are at the site already. But you’ve interested me with your theories, and I’m eager to hear what you make of it.”

I stared at him, shocked out of sensible speech. “I hardly know what to say, sir.”

“Why, ‘Yes,’ of course,” he said with an easy laugh. “But hold—I haven’t told you all yet.”

I raised my glass, steadying myself with a sip of absinthe while I waited for him to continue.

Removing the spectacles again, he said, “You asked me a question earlier, which I evaded. If you accompany me to Brú na Bóinne, I shall answer it truthfully.”
 

Edward

There’s an old Irish tale of a white trout that, when caught, transforms into a beautiful woman. No trout was ever netted so prettily as Miss Quicksilver. Fortunately for her, the fisherman had no intention of devouring her.

“Lord Meath, I …” Her breath was short, so excited was she at the prospect, and I confess that what had earlier seemed to me a great bother grew more appealing in the light of her enthusiasm. “When do you intend to make the journey?”

“I should have my arrangements made in two days’ time. Would that suit you?”

“And how would we …?” Her hands moved restlessly in her lap, and I understood her discomfiture. A battle was being waged within her. It was a highly irregular invitation from a stranger, which she should unequivocally refuse. And yet such a perfect trap for this particular trout. It had the ring of fate, were I a man to believe in such things. But neither did I disbelieve.

Finally, she asked outright, “What would those arrangements be, sir?”

“We shall travel together, but I shall arrange separate rooms, of course.”
Her gaze floated around the room in an absent way as she considered. “I would insist on paying my own way.”

I shook my head. “As your employer, I would expect to pay your way, and a salary for the work that I’ve asked you to do.”

“I would insist on paying my way,” she repeated more firmly. “But I will accept a small fee for the work. I’d rather not, as it is you who would be doing me the favor. But for propriety’s sake.”

“As you like, Miss Quicksilver.” I raised my glass and drained the last drops, covering the relief I felt, and rose to my feet. “Now, I’ve kept you until a late hour, and if you’ll forgive me for insisting again, I’ll escort you to your lodging. I cannot permit a visitor to our dark, foggy city to walk the streets alone at this time of night.”

She glanced around her again, and I saw her start as she discovered we were two of only a handful of patrons remaining in the Green Fairy.

She rose to her feet, and I lifted her cloak from the back of her chair and wrapped it about her shoulders. “I thank you, sir,” she said quietly, glancing up at me through eyes that narrowed further as she smiled. “I have enjoyed your company and lost track of the time.” 

“And I yours,” I replied, noting the slight trembling of her frame beneath my hands. Conscious of an adolescent wish that this had somehow to do with my person rather than my proposal, I gestured toward the door, indicating she should precede me.

In the cobbled street outside, she again raised her hood, and we walked in silence until we reached her modest boarding house.

At the door, I said to her, “Shall I call on you tomorrow afternoon and provide you with the details of our journey?”

She eased her hood back far enough to let me see her face. “Thank you, sir. I’m spending the day at Trinity College tomorrow, but I shall make a point of being in by teatime.”

“Good night, then, Miss Q.”

“Good night, Lord Meath.”

I waited until she’d roused her hostess and gone inside before crossing the street to the boarding house opposite and taking a room for this night and the next. I confess I used my station to secure the room of my choosing, and the hostess was surprised when I expressed my wish for one of the small rooms in the front, facing the street.

I’d climbed into bed—without my final nightly dose of la fée verte, as I hoped to sleep lightly—before it occurred to me that while preoccupied with appreciating my own cleverness, I’d managed to lose sight of the fact that the prophesied death of Miss Quicksilver might, in fact, be related to her acquaintance with me.
 
End of Chapter 1.

“A powerfully re-imagined Victorian Ireland where a strong queen rules and the world of Faery is just a heartbeat away”

— MARY JO PUTNEY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Many thanks to the awesome photographers on Pixabay whose work I've used (though the photo in the bottom left corner I took myself!): enriquelopezgarre, Lindsay66, and alandiaspirits.

I am so excited to introduce you to my new fantasy historical romance trilogy, The Faery Rehistory, coming from Blackstone Publishing! The first book in the series, The Absinthe Earl, will be released Oct. 15.

If you've read my science fiction romances, you've probably picked up on the fact that I love Ireland. I've always wanted to create a fantasy world based on Irish mythology, and fairies in particular. The Faery Rehistory weaves Ireland's ancient mythological races with Victorian-era technology and manners into an Ireland that was never conquered by the British.

The books in the series are: The Absinthe Earl, The Raven Lady, and The Warrior Poet. The alcoholic spirit absinthe—which is sometimes referred to as "the green fairy"—plays a part in all three of the books, but especially the first. There are steampunk elements such as airships and mechanical creatures, and the cast of colorful characters includes a half-mad Irish queen, Tuatha De Danaan warriors, an alchemist, a fairy king, a pirate queen, and a time-traveling poet.

In book one, The Absinthe Earl, you'll meet Miss Ada Quicksilver, a scholar of fairy lore and student of London's Lovelace Academy for Promising Young Women, and Lord Edward Donoghue, the Irish Earl of Meath and a man with a dark secret. You can read the first chapter of the novel here.

“Fans of Gail Carriger and Leanna Renee Hieber will savor this promising series opener.”

— PUBLISHER'S WEEKLY

“It’s a world that comes alive with mysterious, foggy moors, dangerous peat bogs, and gorgeous green hills.”

— Kirkus