church on Sunday morning, and on occasion the schoolchildren will put on a show.”
She’d seen the quaint two-room schoolhouse as she’d driven into town. Judging by the size of the building and the number of people she’d seen out and about, there probably wouldn’t be much more than a dozen children in that school. How good could they be?
Music was essential to life. It was a way to express joy and sorrow. The right song at the right time had the power to lift her spirits even on the worst day. She couldn’t live without it, and didn’t want to try. Whether listening or singing herself, she needed music.
Gathering her courage, she said, “I sing.”
Duncan was not impressed. “Many people do. Crazy old Tully sings all the time. He can’t carry a tune, though, so don’t encourage him.”
He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. Why had she expected that he would? Everything about Duncan was difficult. “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “Is there a guitar in this town?”
“Of course there is.”
There was no “of course” about it. She could take nothing for granted here.
Echo felt as if she was definitely experiencing some of the worst days of her life. A difficult and reluctant teacher. An imaginary little girl. No Wi-Fi! She needed music. It was the one thing she was good at that was normal, that required no magic. When she sang she had nothing to hide from the world.
“Tonight, instead of just waiting tables, how about you let me sing for your customers?”
For the first time since she’d met him, Duncan looked genuinely surprised. “Why?”
She leaned slightly over the bar, excited in a way she hadn’t been in quite a while. “Trust me, boss.”
He leaned toward her. Holy crappola, he smelled like fresh-cut grass and spring rain and man. Why did he have to smell good? Why couldn’t he stink?
His voice was emotionless as he asked, “When you have a job that includes singing, do you show up on time?”
“Always.”
“Then we have a deal.” He offered his hand for a shake, and she took it. They shook once, then quickly released. Echo’s hand continued to tingle long after he’d let it go. She could still feel his touch as she stepped outside. Must be a wizard thing, she decided as she headed back toward her rented room, a couple of fresh Drunken Stone T-shirts clutched in her hand.
She was almost there when she realized that the wind had died down. It was actually quite a lovely day. Cool, but sunny and clear. She’d teased Duncan about living here, and she did feel as if she’d lost a limb without her phone, but there were moments when she very clearly saw the appeal. It was almost like stepping back in time to the fifties or the sixties. She didn’t have to worry about email or phone messages, and she hadn’t even turned on the small television in her room.
There was one problem, though. Her cousins would have a fit if she just disappeared without a word. The last thing she needed was Gideon, Mercy, and Dante searching for her. They were busy with their own families, their own hectic lives, but eventually they would miss her. She’d be easy enough to follow to a certain point, through the plane ticket and car rental, and she had no doubt that they could find her here if they tried.
She did not want her cousins and Duncan to come face-to-face with her in the middle. No way. Not ever. Her family could and would find her if they put their minds to it. She’d told them she wanted to be on her own for a while, so there was no reason for them to search for her right away, but still...maybe she should make sure.
Echo decided she’d change clothes and then head into town for a few postcards and stamps. She didn’t need to say much. A simple “I’m fine, need some time alone” should do the trick.
* * *
Rye sat in the rear booth Nevan and his pals usually occupied for a good part of the day, his legs thrust beneath the table. Even they were gone. Echo and Doyle wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours; he had the place to himself.
He grasped the small, warm stone in his hand and closed his eyes, and there she was. Echo, a picture in his mind. A picture as clear as if she truly stood before him. She’d changed clothes. She wore jeans still, but now she wore boots and a loose-fitting long-sleeved purple shirt instead of a Drunken Stone T-shirt and comfortable tennis shoes. She smiled at the young man who sold her three postcards. He was smitten. She had no idea.
The smile was real, even though the pain of her gift tormented her. He’d seen her suffer; he knew she was tormented by the visions. Visions that commanded her, when it should be the other way around. Waking nightmares that tore at her very soul. He should not want to help her, should not care. But he did.
He’d tried to help Sybil, hadn’t he? He’d seen her suffering and had done everything he could to save her. That attempt to help had ended so very badly... No, he could not let his mind go there, could not relive failures of the past. This time would be different. There would be no personal involvement.
If he failed, if she died, he would be able to move on without feeling as if the entire world had been ripped apart beneath his feet.
So why was he watching her? Why did he sit in a dark corner and use his abilities to spy on her as she engaged in perfectly ordinary activities? She sat at an empty table outside the coffee shop, took a pen from her purse and began to write on the postcards. Three short notes.
Her activities were ordinary—there was nothing for him to be alarmed about—but he did not stop watching, did not release the stone and clear his mind of her even though he knew he should. Echo was nothing like Sybil, not in looks or in temperament. She wasn’t like his last student, either, an eager young man who’d wanted much more than he’d initially revealed.
Echo was an open book; she hid nothing from him.
Everyone in Cloughban knew what he was; they knew what he could do. Some of it, anyway. No one knew all, though he was certain a few suspected. Most of them were not entirely normal themselves, though no others had earned the designation wizard. Touched with magic, they had been drawn here as his ancestors had been. Some stayed for a year or two and moved on. Others were lifelong residents. A few came just for a few weeks, curious or needing a short refuge.
Echo asked why anyone would live here, and he had not been able to give her a truthful answer. Here, I am with my kind. Here, I am safe from prying eyes. And most importantly, Here, I feed on the power of the stones.
He never should’ve agreed to help her, never should’ve allowed himself to get caught up in her troubles. It was not too late to remedy that mistake, no matter what Cassidy had told her. Very little in this life was written in stone. He was in charge. He could and would change what was, perhaps, meant to be.
All he had to do was tell Echo he’d changed his mind about helping and send her away. All he had to do was look her in the eye and say, “No.” Sounded simple enough, but as he watched her from a distance, he wondered if it would be that easy.
Postcards mailed, Echo walked back toward the Quinlan house. She wondered if she had time for a nap. No, if she overslept and was late for work again, Duncan would kill her!
The white clapboard bed-and-breakfast was as charming as everything else in Cloughban, outside and in. It was well maintained, in spite of its obvious age. The porch, the lace curtains in the downstairs windows, the plain furnishings—everything was spotless. The kitchen was small but functional, as was the dining room. Mrs. Quinlan—there was never any mention of a Mr. Quinlan and Echo didn’t feel she knew her landlady well enough to ask—slept in the single downstairs bedroom, while upstairs there were three bedrooms and a shared bath for her paying customers. At the moment, only two of those rooms were occupied. Since