The storm had passed in the dead of night, leaving the manor wrapped in an eerie calm. Pale morning light poured through the mullioned windows of the kitchen, touching the ancient stone walls and worn wooden beams. It was the kind of light that made the world feel as though it were holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next.
Mrs. Byrne moved through the kitchen like the morning breeze—quick, deliberate, and full of purpose. The rich scent of her scones mingled with the earthy aroma of tea leaves steeping by the stove. A fire crackled low in the hearth, though the room hardly needed the warmth after the storm’s humidity.
The creak of floorboards announced Maeve’s arrival. She swept into the kitchen, her hair a dark cascade over her shoulders, still damp from a hurried rinse.
"Morning, Mrs. Byrne," Maeve chirped, plucking a cloth from the counter to dab her face. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they landed on the cooling rack.
"Don’t even think about it," Mrs. Byrne warned without looking up, her wooden spoon tapping the edge of a mixing bowl.
Maeve grinned, dropping the cloth and crossing to the table. "You’ve eyes in the back of your head. It’s uncanny."
"Eyes where they need to be, with the likes of you prowling about," Mrs. Byrne retorted. She set a tray of teacups beside the kettle and finally met Maeve’s gaze. "You slept through the worst of it, I take it?"
Maeve shrugged, grabbing an apple from a nearby bowl. "Storms are nothing new. Though the manor did feel a bit... restless last night." She bit into the fruit with a crunch.
Mrs. Byrne’s hands paused mid-motion, her expression betraying nothing. "Restless? Or just in need of repair?"
Maeve tilted her head, watching the older woman for a sign of humor. Finding none, she smirked and turned as the door creaked open again.
Cormac appeared, his steps deliberate, though his posture betrayed the weariness that clung to him. He ran a hand through his auburn hair, damp at the edges, before nodding to Mrs. Byrne.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low but steady. His green eyes briefly met Maeve’s, and she raised her apple in salute.
"Sleep well, brother?"
"I didn’t sleep," Cormac replied, moving to the kettle. He poured hot water into a waiting teapot, the steam rising between him and the others.
Maeve snorted softly, tossing the apple core into a small basket. "No surprises there."
Before Cormac could reply, the final member of the group stepped in. Caleb leaned against the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted by the morning light. His gray eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on each face.
"You’re a quiet bunch this morning," Caleb said, his voice rough but not unkind.
Maeve grinned, hooking an arm through his as she guided him further inside. "Just saving the fireworks for breakfast. Come on—Mrs. Byrne’s about to kick us out anyway."
As if on cue, Mrs. Byrne shooed them toward the hall, her tone brisk but softened by familiarity. "Go on, all of ye. Breakfast is in the dining room, not under my feet. And mind your manners; you’ll not shame this house on my watch."
The three obeyed, though Maeve lingered just long enough to snag a warm scone. She winked at Mrs. Byrne before disappearing down the hall, Cormac and Caleb trailing behind her.
The kitchen grew quiet save for the rhythmic sound of the knife in Mrs. Byrne’s hands as she chopped herbs for later. It wasn’t long before the crunch of gravel outside announced another presence.
The door eased open, and Malcolm Fitzpatrick stepped inside, removing his weathered cap. He was tall, his shoulders broad and his hands rough from years of tending the estate. His dark hair was streaked with gray, though his movements were steady, deliberate.
"Morning, Mrs. Byrne," he greeted, his deep voice a balm to the quiet room. "Storm made a mess of the east gardens. Couple of branches down. It’s nothing we can’t handle."
Mrs. Byrne nodded, motioning for him to sit as she placed a fresh mug of tea on the table. "The storm always does more than we notice at first. You’ve checked the fences, I hope?"
"Aye," Malcolm said, taking a sip. "Held up better than I thought. I’ll walk the south line after breakfast, just to be sure."
The conversation lulled as the two shared the space in companionable silence. A moment later, the door creaked again, this time revealing Seamus Gallagher. He carried a crate of vegetables in his strong arms, his steps light despite his weathered appearance.
"You’d think the storm never happened, the way this morning looks," Seamus said with a broad smile. He set the crate down, brushing his hands off on his trousers. "Though I can’t say the same for my poor fields."
Mrs. Byrne handed him a cloth for his hands. "We’ve had worse, and we’ll have worse again."
Seamus chuckled, pouring himself a mug of tea without asking. "That we will. Malcolm, have you met the new man yet? The one who came with the storm?"
Malcolm glanced up from his tea. "Briefly. Quiet sort. Got a look about him, though."
Seamus leaned against the counter, his grin fading slightly. "A look like he’s staying, or a look like he’s passing through?"
"The manor’ll decide," Malcolm said simply, his words hanging heavy in the warm air.
The path to the stables wound through the heart of the estate, bordered by dew-laden hedges and the faint scent of damp earth. The manor behind them stood as a dark silhouette against the rising sun, its ivy-clad walls seeming to watch their every step.
“Storm this big usually leave this place in shambles?” Caleb asked, his hands shoved into his pockets.
Cormac smirked faintly, glancing at Caleb. “We’ve had worse. The manor’s seen centuries of storms—it takes more than a bit of wind to shake it.”
“Sounds like its master,” Caleb said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin.
Cormac chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re quick with your tongue. Better keep it in check around Mrs. Byrne unless you fancy a lecture about manners and tradition.”
“Noted,” Caleb replied, his voice dry. “But I get the feeling you’re not the type to dish out lectures.”
“No,” Cormac said, his tone warming slightly. “I prefer to let actions speak. You’ll see soon enough—if you’re paying attention.”
The stable doors came into view, propped open to let in the morning light. As they approached, Caleb’s gaze flicked to Cormac. The man’s stride was purposeful, yet there was an ease about him—a calm confidence that Caleb couldn’t quite place.
Inside the stable, the scent of hay and leather was thick in the air, mingling with the steady sound of Finnrian brushing the chestnut mare. The teenager’s dark hair fell into his eyes as he worked, his strokes rhythmic but hesitant, as though afraid of making a mistake.
“Morning, boy,” Cormac called out, his voice firm but not unkind.
Finnrian’s head shot up, and in his haste to respond, the brush slipped from his hand. He stooped to pick it up, nearly knocking his shoulder into the mare. “Good morning, Da—sir,” he stammered, standing quickly. His eyes darted between Cormac and Caleb.
Cormac’s brow furrowed, though the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. “No need to rush. She’s not going anywhere.”
Finnrian nodded, his hands gripping the brush tightly. Caleb stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and offered a small smile. “You’re doing good work. You’ve got a steady hand.”
Finnrian glanced at him, his expression cautious but curious. “Thanks, sir.”
“Just Kay,” Caleb corrected gently. “We’re not big on formalities where I come from.”
The teenager blinked, then nodded shyly. “Rian,” he offered. “But Da... well, he just calls me ‘boy.’”
“Da, huh?” Caleb glanced at Cormac, his grin widening. “You’re full of surprises.”
Cormac shook his head, moving toward the mare with a quiet chuckle. “Don’t let the boy fool you. He’s been working here since before he was tall enough to see over the stable door.”
Rian ducked his head, his ears tinged with pink. “You call it work, I call it being of service, Sir.”
“Same thing,” Cormac replied, his tone light.
The banter broke as a sharp whinny cut through the air, followed by a loud thud from the far stall. The three of them turned as one, their expressions shifting.
“It’s the black gelding,” Rian said, his voice tinged with unease. He set down the brush and moved toward the stall, his steps quick but unsteady.
The gelding, restless and agitated, pawed at the ground and tossed its head. As Rian reached the stall, the horse reared slightly, its hooves striking the wood. The movement sent Rian stumbling backward.
Before Caleb could react, Cormac was already there. He caught the boy under the arms, steadying him as his back hit the straw-covered ground.
“You all right, boy?” Cormac asked, crouching beside him. His hands moved to check Rian’s shoulders and arms before gently cupping the boy’s chin, tilting his head to look for any scrapes or bruises.
Cormac’s grip softened, and he tapped the boy’s chin lightly with his thumb before standing. “Then pay attention next time. That horse won’t be so forgiving twice.”
The scene left Caleb oddly rooted in place. The way Cormac moved—calm, protective, with just enough authority to command trust—it stirred something in him. His chest tightened as he watched the exchange, the warmth of Cormac’s tone lingering in the air.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Caleb asked, stepping closer and offering Rian a hand.
Rian nodded quickly, taking the offered help to get back on his feet. “Yeah. Thanks, Kay.”
The sound of his nickname, spoken so easily, brought a grin to Caleb’s face. “No problem, Rian. Now, what’s up with this guy?” He nodded toward the gelding, whose agitation seemed to ease slightly as Cormac approached the stall.
The three turned their attention back to the horse, but Caleb couldn’t shake the fleeting pang of... something. Something he couldn’t name.
Cormac’s steady hand moved along the gelding’s flank, tracing the contours of muscle as he murmured soothing words under his breath. The horse snorted softly, its agitation ebbing, though its ears remained flicked back. Caleb leaned against the stall door, observing with quiet interest.
“Anything?” Caleb asked, his voice low.
“No visible injuries,” Cormac replied, his hands moving down to inspect the gelding’s legs and hooves. “But he’s holding something back. You can feel it in his muscles—he’s tense, like he’s guarding against pain.”
Rian hovered nearby, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Do you think he’s hurt bad?”
Cormac straightened, brushing a bit of straw from his knee. “Hard to say. It could just be the storm spooking him.” His gaze flicked to Caleb. “What do you think?”
Caleb shifted uncomfortably under the question. “Me?”
“You’ve got a feel for them,” Cormac said, his tone almost casual but his eyes sharp. “What’s your read?”
Caleb hesitated, stepping closer to the gelding. He mimicked Cormac’s movements from earlier, running his hand along the horse’s side. The animal twitched slightly but didn’t pull away. Caleb closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the rhythm of its breathing, the warmth of its coat.
“I think...” Caleb began, opening his eyes, “I think he just needs time. Whatever it is, it’s not physical. He’s... unsettled. Like the storm stirred something up in him.”
Cormac studied Caleb for a long moment before nodding. “Time, then. And patience. Boy, grab the grooming kit. We’ll give him a proper brushing—settle him down before we leave.”
“Yes, sir,” Rian said, hurrying to the tack room.
“Leave?” Caleb asked, raising an eyebrow.
Cormac moved to the next stall, already reaching for the saddle hanging on the partition. “We’ll need to check the damage in town. If last night’s storm left any mark here, it’s bound to have done worse down the hill.”
The horses’ hooves struck a steady rhythm on the gravel road, the manor fading into the distance behind them. The sun was higher now, its warmth chasing away the last vestiges of the storm’s chill. Caleb adjusted his grip on the reins, stealing a glance at Cormac, who rode slightly ahead on his chestnut mare.
“You mentioned a story about a horse,” Cormac said suddenly, his tone conversational but laced with curiosity.
Caleb blinked, caught off guard. “Right. That. Just something to make Rian feel more comfortable.”
Cormac turned his head slightly, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “You made it up?”
“Completely,” Caleb admitted with a wry grin. “The closest I’ve ever come to a biting horse was when a goat tried to chew my jacket.”
Cormac chuckled softly, shaking his head. “And yet, you handled the gelding like you’ve been working with horses your whole life. How’s that?”
Caleb’s smile faded, replaced by a more contemplative expression. He looked out over the rolling hills as he considered his answer. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s like... I just knew. I could feel what he needed, almost like someone was telling me what to do.”
Cormac’s reins tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. “That doesn’t strike you as odd?”
“Odd?” Caleb repeated, glancing at him. “Sure. But I’ve had stranger feelings before.”
Cormac didn’t reply immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Finally, he said, “The land has its ways of speaking to those who listen. If you’re hearing it, that’s something to pay attention to.”
The weight in Cormac’s words left Caleb silent, his thoughts churning.
After a long pause, Caleb broke the quiet. “So, Rian. What’s his story? He called you ‘Sir’ and ‘Da.’”
Cormac’s mouth twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rian comes from a long line of stablehands. His family has served the manor for generations. But the day after he was born, his parents vanished.”
“Vanished?” Caleb echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Cormac nodded, his expression darkening. “Gone without a trace. The only thing they left behind was him... and a stone with a protection rune carved into it, placed beside his cradle. No one’s ever been able to explain it.”
“That’s... strange,” Caleb said, his tone careful.
“Strange doesn’t begin to cover it,” Cormac replied. “The manor holds many mysteries, Caleb. That boy grew up with me because I couldn’t let him grow up anywhere else.”
“So, you adopted him.”
“You could say that,” Cormac admitted. “He’s family now, in every way that matters. Calls me ‘Da’ because he doesn’t know anyone else who could fill the role.”
Caleb nodded thoughtfully, a new layer of understanding settling between them. “He’s lucky to have you.”
Cormac glanced at Caleb, his expression unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m the one who’s lucky.”
The road ahead sloped gently toward the town, the rooftops just visible over the crest of the hill. For a moment, neither man spoke, their silence filled with the rhythmic clop of hooves and the whisper of the wind.
The town was stirring to life in the golden light of morning. Cobblestones still glistened with rain, and shopkeepers swept water and debris from their thresholds, their voices carrying over the clatter of shutters being opened. A group of children darted past Cormac and Caleb, their laughter ringing out as they splashed through puddles.
Cormac tipped his head in greeting to a passing farmer, whose cart was piled high with freshly cut hay. “Looks like you weathered it all right, Michael,” he called.
“Aye, Ard Tiarna,” the man replied, his expression grim. “Though the barn took a hit. Lost part of the roof.”
“I’ll send Eamon your way after we’ve finished here,” Cormac assured him. “He’ll see it mended before the next storm.”
The farmer nodded gratefully, tipping his hat before continuing down the road.
Caleb watched the exchange, noting the ease with which Cormac spoke to the man, the unspoken weight of responsibility in his tone. He followed as Cormac turned toward the bakery, where the scent of fresh bread drifted into the street.
The door to the bakery swung open just as they approached, releasing a wave of warmth and the sweet aroma of pastries. Siobhan greeted them with a bright smile, her apron dusted with flour.
“Ard Tiarna! You’re early,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Morning, Siobhan,” Cormac replied. “How’s the shop holding up? No leaks from the storm?”
“Not a drop,” she said proudly. “Though the shutters were groaning something fierce last night.”
“I’ll have someone take a look at those,” Cormac said, glancing at the wooden frames lining the windows. “Better to fix them now than have trouble when Samhain comes.”
Siobhan chuckled. “Speaking of which, are you starting the preparations yet? The Dumb Supper doesn’t plan itself.”
“There’s time,” Cormac replied. “But Maeve’s already making lists. She’d have me start tomorrow if she could.”
Siobhan grinned. “She’s not wrong—it’s never too early to plan. The bonfire alone took us weeks last year.”
She glanced at Caleb. “And you, lad? Are you ready to learn the chants?”
Caleb hesitated, glancing between her and Cormac. “I guess I’ll find out.”
“You will,” she said with a grin. “And don’t forget to try the shortbread—I’ll save a plate for you both.”
Outside, the square was growing busier. Townsfolk paused to greet Cormac, their voices tinged with respect and warmth. He asked after their families, their homes, their shops. Each exchange carried a sense of genuine care, his words offering comfort and reassurance as the town picked up the pieces of the storm.
Near the fountain, a pair of young women were clearing branches from the cobblestones. “Cormac!” one called. “Have you checked the church yet? The south wall looks rough.”
“I’ll be there before midday,” he promised, turning to Caleb. “Come on. Let’s check on Eamon next—he’ll need to know what’s waiting for him.”
The familiar scent of wood shavings and varnish filled the air as they entered the shop. Eamon stood at his workbench, his broad frame hunched over a half-finished table. He straightened as soon as he noticed Cormac, a smile breaking across his face.
“Cormac,” Eamon greeted warmly, brushing sawdust from his hands as he stepped forward.
“Eamon,” Cormac replied, his own smile softening the sharp angles of his features. As they met, Cormac leaned in, and Eamon responded instinctively, planting a quick peck on his cheek. The gesture was casual, almost reflexive, but it carried a warmth that lingered between them for a moment too long to be purely platonic.
“It’s been a while,” Eamon said, his tone lighter than his eyes, which held a flicker of something unspoken.
“Too long,” Cormac replied, his voice low.
Caleb shifted awkwardly, suddenly very aware of the air between them.
“How’s the shop holding up?” Cormac asked, stepping back to gesture toward the room.
“Not a scratch,” Eamon said, his grin returning as he gestured toward the sturdy beams overhead. “But I hear Michael lost part of his barn. I’ll head over after this.”
“Good,” Cormac replied, nodding. “And have you started thinking about the tables for the Dumb Supper?”
“Already got the old oak lined up,” Eamon said, his tone shifting easily into business. “Plenty of time to carve it proper before Samhain.”
“She’ll be pleased to hear it,” Cormac said, his lips twitching into a small smile.
As Cormac turned to Caleb, Eamon’s gaze lingered, his expression softening again. “And this one?”
“This is Caleb,” Cormac said. “He’ll be helping at the manor.”
Eamon gave Caleb an appraising look, his smile taking on a teasing edge. “Just keep him away from the saws, and we’ll get along fine.”
Caleb smiled politely, though his thoughts swirled with questions he didn’t dare ask.
The library sat quietly at the edge of the square, its ivy-covered walls a testament to time and care. Inside, Brigid Gallagher was meticulously arranging books on a high shelf, her auburn hair catching the light streaming through the tall windows.
“Cormac,” she called down, her voice warm. “I was wondering when you’d stop by.”
“I wouldn’t leave without checking on you,” Cormac replied, stepping inside. “No damage?”
“None,” she assured him. “The storm was kinder to these books than to some of the houses in town.”
She descended the ladder, a thick tome in hand. “But I found this while tidying—thought you’d want to see it.”
Cormac took the book, his expression sharpening as he scanned the cracked cover. “Old accounts?”
Brigid nodded. “From the early days of Baile. There’s a section on the manor’s rituals during Samhain—songs, blessings, and protection runes. Might be worth revisiting while you plan.”
Caleb peered at the book, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Protection runes?”
Brigid’s gaze softened. “A way to keep the land safe from what lingers during the thinning of the veil. It’s never too early to think about it.”
Cormac’s hand tightened on the book. “We’ll take good care of it.”
By the time they reached the pub, Caleb felt the first stirrings of unease. The world seemed a touch brighter than it should have been, the edges of the buildings slightly blurred.
“’Mac!” Declan Moriarty, the pub’s owner, greeted them with a boisterous wave. “Good to see you, lad! And you’ve brought company!”
Cormac’s easy smile returned. “Morning, Declan. Two ales, if you’ve got some ready.”
“Always for you!” Declan replied, bustling behind the counter.
The pub was quieter than Caleb remembered, the usual hum of conversation subdued in the wake of the storm. Cormac gestured to a corner table, and they settled into the worn chairs.
Caleb rubbed his temples as Cormac waved Declan over with their drinks. “Something wrong?” Cormac asked, his tone light but laced with concern.
“Just a headache,” Caleb replied, though his voice felt distant even to himself.
The mugs arrived, and Caleb wrapped his hands around his drink. He lifted it to his lips but barely took a sip before a strange sensation washed over him. The oppressive weight in his temples grew stronger, his vision darkening at the edges.
“Caleb?” Cormac’s voice sounded far away, like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.
“I’m fine,” Caleb murmured, gripping the table tightly. The room tilted, the firelight blurring into streaks of gold.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the sensation overwhelming. When he opened them again, the pub was gone.
