Wild Irish Witch Page 8

  Fiona wanted to stomp her feet and throw a tantrum like a toddler. It was supposed to be her night out. Now her father had ruined it, putting on display for John just what he was going to be dealing with if he got involved with her and her family. She silently followed John back out into the courtyard.

  The moon had peaked, casting a soft glow on the backyard and illuminating it enough so she could see John’s face.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” Fiona whispered, feeling the threat of tears as she looked down at her feet.

  “Don’t be,” John said softly, hooking a finger under her chin and forcing her to raise her eyes so they met his.

  “This is my life, though. That’s my father. He’s more often in the pub than out on the boat. There’s no way to hide it. It’s just something we deal with,” Fiona said, shrugging one shoulder. She wouldn’t make excuses for her father, that was for sure.

  “And now you have to go heal his head wound,” John guessed correctly.

  “And now I have to go heal him,” Fiona agreed. “Not for the first time, either.”

  “You’re a good daughter,” John said, his lips quirking in a smile.

  Fiona just shrugged again and looked away for a moment before looking back up at him.

  “I really enjoyed being with you tonight. I hope we can do this again. That you’ll still give me a chance despite the way things ended tonight.”

  John leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. Fiona leaned into the kiss, surprised to find that it comforted as much as it excited. When John wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him, she felt safe.

  And soothed.

  It was a heady mix of emotions, and one Fiona wanted to savor. Instead, she drew away and met John’s eyes.

  “Try and keep me away,” John said.

  And sure enough, Fiona found herself smiling as she went back into the house.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  Bridget stood at the counter, kneading dough, her movements practiced and precise.

  Fiona hadn’t slept all that well― instead she’d been tortured with fitful dreams about her Father trying to hit John and what would have happened if he had connected. Not to mention that she was more than guaranteed to be the hot topic in town after church this morning.

  “I didn’t.”

  Bridget’s face creased in worry as she flipped the dough.

  “It was kind of you to heal him last night.”

  Fiona shrugged as she poured a cup of tea from the kettle, which was still warm. Taking a scone from the basket, she went and sat down at the table, curling her legs beneath her on the chair as she ate the scone straight from her hand.

  “Well, what am I going to do? Let him bleed out?” Fiona asked around a mouthful of scone.

  “No. That wouldn’t be very kind of you, now would it?” Thump. Bridget punched her hand into the dough.

  “And one must practice compassion at all times,” Fiona parroted back to her, a saying the nuns had been fond of repeating but not following.

  “You should go to church today. Light a candle for your father. Maybe your prayers will do something. Lord knows mine haven’t,” Bridget said, the first trace of anger seeping into her voice. Fiona looked up from her sulk and really registered the look on her face.

  “You’re right angry with him, aren’t you?” Fiona asked.

  “I am. I’m quite upset that he’s gone and ruined your first date,” Bridget said as she punched the dough again.

  “It’s all right. John seemed not to be too put off by it. He said he’d like to see me again,” Fiona said.

  “Well, isn’t that lovely? I knew that I liked that boy,” Bridget said, a smile finally creasing her face.

  “You know what? You’re right. I will go to church and light a candle for Father. It’s the least I can do. I haven’t been in ages, either. It’s probably good for me to get a good dose of prayer in,” Fiona admitted as she rose from the table and took her cup to the sink. She pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek as she passed.

  Even after years of being taught at a Catholic school, Fiona didn’t consider herself overly religious. She liked some of the pomp and circumstance of the traditions, thought weddings were lovely, and enjoyed taking some time to sit in the back pew and listen to the music. But she communicated with God on her own terms― not to be boxed in by the tenets of a religion. Her showing up at a church was just a formality.

  Because if she really thought about where she found her religion, it was out in nature. Fiona pulled the black and white dress with the bright red buttons out of the trunk and changed into it as she thought about her own personal church. It was out in the open, where the sky met the water and the hills rolled out for acres. In her opinion, that’s where God really was. Not stuck in a church.

  “It’s good that you’re going. Good to show you aren’t embarrassed after last night. Most of the town will have heard about it by now,” Bridget said. She’d wrapped the dough in a towel and was pouring herself a cup of tea.

  “Would you like to come with?”

  “No, I’ve got to keep working. I’m running low on inventory, and we need it,” Bridget said, already climbing the ladder to the loft.

  And so it went, Fiona thought as she left the courtyard and wandered towards the church. Her mother was so stoic. Never once did she complain; instead she simply got to work, because that’s what needed to be done. Fiona wondered what her mother would be like in a different life, whether she would drive herself as hard or perhaps dabble in another form of art. Instead, day after day, Bridget created the tapestries that she knew to be consistent sellers. It kept food on their table and heat in their home during the winter.

  And never once a complaint.

  Once Fiona saved up enough money she was going to do something nice for her mother. Something completely frivolous that would make her remember the woman who had been hidden away inside the trunk of clothes she’d given Fiona.

  The bells in the steeple of the church rang across the dewy morning, and Fiona picked up her pace. She’d be a little late, but she would just slip into the back and light a candle for her father while the sermon began.

  The church sat at the top of the hill, fat and squat, a grey stone building with a steeple jutting into the sky. Two large wooden doors formed an arch shape, and Fiona pulled hard on one of them, gliding the door silently open. She ducked into the foyer and looked around.

  Pews were filled with families, children kicking their feet and looking bored, teenagers doodling on pads of paper. Fiona eased herself inside and made her way behind the back pew to where an offertory sat with a row of candles in small red jars. The organ struck up an opening song and Fiona tuned it out as the priest walked down the aisle carrying the Eucharistic gifts.

  Fiona knelt in front of the candles, reaching for a wick to light and closed her eyes as the song swelled over her shoulders. She focused on her father, sending her prayers up for him as the sermon began.

  “Witch! The devil is among us! How dare you!”

  A shout startled her out of her prayers and Fiona looked around, not having registered the words at first. Who was the priest yelling at?

  Father Patrick stormed down the aisle, his royal purple robes fluttering behind him until he stood over her. Fiona gaped up at him, dread filling her heart. She wanted to kick herself. How had she been so stupid as to forget what Father Patrick had said to her the night she had healed Sinead?

  Fiona stood quickly, not wanting to be at the disadvantage of kneeling. Even so, Father Patrick towered over her. A hush had fallen over the congregation as everyone watched to see what would happen.

  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was simply saying a prayer for my loved ones,” Fiona said, pointing to the candle she had lit. Her voice carried across the quiet church.

  “You perform the work of the devil. I’ve seen it! Magick pouring out of your own two hands!”
Father Patrick shrieked, a drop of spit flying from his mouth.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fiona said stiffly. She refused to tell Sinead’s secret, and technically Father Patrick had seen nothing that night.

  “The devil’s work is not welcome in this church,” Father Patrick boomed, holding a cross out as he dipped his hand in holy water and flung it at her face.

  Fiona gasped as it hit her, not because it hurt but because it was a shock to have water thrown in her face. The congregation began to murmur when she gasped, though, and Father Patrick got a gleam in his eye.

  “See? See how she gasps when the water hits her?” Father Patrick turned to address the congregation, warming to his topic.

  “I gasped because it’s a shock to have water thrown in my face,” Fiona protested, furious with the priest but refusing to back down.

  “Lies, nothing but lies from this witch,” Father Patrick hissed.

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that.” The voice rang out from across the room, and Fiona closed her eyes, praying it wasn’t someone who was going to hurt her more.

  Dr. Collins stepped forward from a pew. Fiona opened her eyes to see him standing in the main aisle, just steps away from where the Brogans sat, frozen in their pew.

  “I’d argue that hers is the work of God himself, not the devil,” Dr. Collins said, and Fiona could have cheered. She knew she’d been right to let him see her heal that evening.

  “You dare to question me in my own church?” Father Patrick sputtered.

  “I’m merely saying we don’t know everything. And from what I’ve seen, nothing but goodness comes from Fiona.”

  Fiona could have kissed the good doctor. The way he’d phrased it danced delicately around her capabilities and still kept the Brogans’ secret.

  “I refuse to believe it. What I’ve seen is the work of the devil!” Father Patrick shouted, and he began to shower Fiona with holy water, “Get out, devil. Get thee out, Satan!”

  “Stop it! I’m not the devil,” Fiona shrieked, putting her arms up to shield herself from the rain of holy water.

  “Witch! Be gone, witch!” Father Patrick thundered at her. Fiona pushed past him, darting from the front doors of the church, not caring how it looked to the congregation. She refused to stand there and be publicly abused by the priest anymore.

  Trembles began to wrack her body and Fiona fought the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. She stomped down the steps, staring straight ahead, refusing to look back at the church, trying to push what she’d seen on the way out of the church from her mind.

  Because last night hadn’t been fun enough― the O’Brien family had been sitting in the second to last pew. Fiona had caught their shocked expressions just as she raced from the church.

  “Wait! Hey, wait for me,” a voice called behind her.

  Fiona stopped, her nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to breathe normally.

  Blinking back tears, she turned to face John.

  “So, I’m sure you’ll not want to date me now. I saw your family’s expressions. The whole town will hate me,” Fiona bit out, cutting off whatever he was going to say.

  “I don’t care what my family thinks,” John said softly, coming to stand close to her. He reached out to wipe a drop of water from her cheek. Tears or holy water― Fiona couldn’t be sure.

  Fiona crossed her arms over her chest and looked away.

  “That was horrific. It’s bound to be the talk of the village. I might even have to move. Everyone’s going to hate me,” Fiona burst out. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  “Hey, look at me,” John demanded, shaking her a bit until she did.

  “I won’t let that happen. I promise. Dr. Collins stood up for you, and a lot of people respect him, too.”

  Fiona wondered briefly why the Brogans hadn’t stood up for her. She’d kept their secret; Mr. Brogan had even promised that he owed her. That would have been a pretty good time to pay her back.

  “They’re going to brand me as a witch now,” Fiona said softly.

  “Well, is that so bad? I mean, aren’t you one, kind of?” John asked, clearly thinking he was being helpful.

  “No, I am not a witch,” Fiona hissed. “I am a healer. They are worlds apart!”

  “Are they though?” John asked, genuinely interested.

  “John, I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I can’t sit here and get questioned by the one person who is supposed to be on my side. Just leave me alone. Go back to your shocked family and your proper congregation, and just leave me be,” Fiona blurted, trying to pull her arms from his grasp. She was sick of being questioned― of being different.

  “Listen, I understand you’re scared, and that what happened here today was awful. But don’t walk away from me because of someone else. If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine. But don’t do it because of some awful priest making accusations.”

  “John, your family is never going to allow you to date me. Not after what they just saw,” Fiona whispered, pleading with him to understand.

  “Good thing my family doesn’t control me,” John whispered, brushing a soft kiss across her lips before releasing her. “I’m off to do damage control. Don’t shut me out, Fiona.”

  Fiona felt like she could cry for more than one reason as she watched John walk away, so confident in his belief that everything was going to work out.

  Her shoulders hunched as she dragged herself home, the inevitability of it all weighing upon her. She’d been silly to think she could have a normal future.

  Her mother had always told Fiona she wasn’t normal― she was blessed.

  Fiona had a hard time seeing it that way, just at the moment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fiona found she couldn’t go inside the cottage. She didn’t want to face her father after last night― and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to talk to her mother right now either. Even though she knew it was unfair to be angry with her mother over a gift that was passed down through the blood, nobody had ever claimed that teenage girls were rational human beings.

  Though Fiona felt far removed from her teenage self; from the person she had been at fifteen, before she had learned about her gift, to the person she was now at almost twenty years old― they seemed like different chapters in totally separate books.

  Fiona paced the courtyard, trying to will herself to calm down. An accusation of being a witch was no laughing matter. She could be jailed, or put on trial― all manner of things. Father Patrick calling her that in front of the village was essentially dubbing her a criminal. Tears clouded her vision and dripped unbidden down her cheeks as the full weight of what the priest had done registered with her.

  “Fiona! Whatever is the matter?”

  Bridget rushed towards her, but Fiona took a step back, hands clenched at her sides.

  “Take my power away,” Fiona whispered, lifting her chin to stare at her mother, who had stopped a few feet from her when she’d backed away.

  “Fiona, what’s happened? You must tell me what is wrong.”

  “I want you to take my power away. You gave it to me. I don’t want it. Make it go away,” Fiona hissed.

  Bridget wrung her hands as she watched Fiona. Wisps of hair fell from her bedraggled braid and a smudge of flour dusted her cheek. Her eyes looked ancient, and so very tired.

  “Fiona, I didn’t give you your gift. It’s passed down through the bloodline. I can no sooner take it away than I can take mine away.”

  “But you gave it to me. If I had been a boy, it wouldn’t have happened. So take it back,” Fiona spit. She knew what she was saying was useless, but the anger just kept flowing through her.

  “Fiona, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You want to know what’s wrong? I’ve just been dubbed a witch in front of the entire town by Father Patrick. Including John and his family. He screamed at me in church― screamed! And doused me with holy water, repeatedly, until I r
an from the church. It was awful, and I know nothing good can come of this. There have been hints about our otherness here and there in the past, but to be openly called a witch? You know they’ll come for me.” Fiona bit the words out, her eyes burning into Bridget’s.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it, they won’t. Sure and they don’t think they can accuse us of being a bad influence on this town when we’ve been nothing but upstanding citizens,” Bridget seethed, beginning to pace as well.

  “He doesn’t need proof, Mother. Religious conjecture is enough to seal my fate,” Fiona whispered.

  “We will get through this, Fiona. He is but one man. We’ve done a lot of good for people in this village― I’ll start calling in favors,” Bridget said, crossing to run her hand down Fiona’s arm.

  “Fat lot of good that will do. The Brogans were sitting right there and didn’t say a damn word,” Fiona said, rolling her eyes.

  “Saints preserve us, they didn’t? You leave the Brogans to me,” Bridget said, fire sparking in her eyes.

  “I’m so angry right now,” Fiona admitted, the frustration and injustice of it all making her stomach turn.

  “Why don’t you go to the hills? It’s your happy place. I’ll hold things down here, and if anyone comes, I’ll run them off.”

  Fiona thought about it for a moment. She couldn’t imagine going back into the cottage and facing her father after what he’d done the night before. And she certainly didn’t want to be sitting here if the villagers should show up. But would it seem like cowardice if she took off for the hills to avoid another confrontation?

  “I should stay. Face the music,” Fiona shrugged.

  “Nonsense. Go. Take a walk. Go to the cove and relax by the water. You’ll feel better for it after,” Bridget said, her voice earnest.

  Fiona did want to go to the hills. She wanted somewhere to run to― somewhere that she could scream her frustration and fear without being overheard. Sliding a glance at the village and then back to the cottage, she finally nodded.

  “I’ll go. Don’t plan for me until late though,” Fiona said.