"Sean?"

His eyes shifted to her face. They were dark and stormy gray, deep and desolate green. There was rage in them. There was bewilderment and fear and agony all churning behind the shock of what had happened.

"Sean, I'm so sorry. I didn't know I could take you-it's never happened before. I didn't know that was what we'd see. Your parents . . . I'm sorry. I wouldn't have made you see that-"

He made a sound deep in his throat and turned away. For a moment it seemed he might say something, but then he didn't. Without a word, he took clean clothes from the dresser. The click of the bathroom door as it closed behind him echoed through the silent rooms. Numb, Danni listened to the old pipes groan as he turned on the shower. She could picture him, all strength and hard sinew, layered muscles rippling as he stripped away his clothes and tried to cleanse himself of the horror he'd survived . . . again.

But she knew it would stay with him, like a permanent dye that couldn't be dissipated with soap and hot water. By the need to forget.

Even as she hurt, she understood-he'd just relived something so horrifying even Danni couldn't bring herself to think of it. Those were his parents who'd fought so bitterly, who'd spilled each other's blood. It was his mother who lay dead on the cold kitchen floor while he, just a little boy, tried to shield his brother from the terrible truth of it. Of course he wanted to forget.

She glanced back at the closed bathroom door, trying not to make the barrier between them about her-about the two of them.

In the kitchen, she found eggs and a hunk of something that looked suspiciously like uncut bacon. She scrambled the eggs and sliced the meat into a skillet, moving methodically, like the sheep on the hillside. There were potatoes in a hanging basket. No meal was complete without potatoes, she'd heard the women she'd worked with yesterday say. Dutifully she scrubbed and sliced them, adding another chunk of sizzling bacon to the pan. Health conscious Danni winced at the thought of all the grease and fat and carbs in this meal. But what did it matter, really? One way or another, it would all be over soon, wouldn't it? She would either find herself in a shallow grave or back in her own time, abandoned again. What did it matter which? Neither option seemed to include Sean, did it?

Danni sagged against the counter, letting that roll over her. She knew it instinctively. Whatever happened here, she and Sean would not walk away together.

By the time Sean emerged from the shower, breakfast was ready. His eyes were red, and she knew his grief hovered just beneath the surface. He avoided looking at her as he stood beside the table, waiting for her to sit down before he joined her. If she'd touched him, if she'd asked him to talk to her, he would have cracked in two. She could see it in the stiff way he held himself, in the pleading look that begged her not to break him. Not now. Not until he had the chance to regain some sense of control.

Though she wanted to ignore his silent request, Danni forced herself to honor it. He needed to deal with his emotions before he shared them. She didn't like it, but she understood.

They ate in silence, both of them hungry enough to clear their plates, neither seeming to notice what they chewed and swallowed. It might have been dog food for all the enjoyment it brought.

Finished, Sean carried his dish to the sink and began to rinse it. "Leave it," Danni said gently.

He let it clatter to the bottom and then looked up, bracing his hands on the side of the sink as he faced the window. He was a portrait of tension, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched tight, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He was holding something inside, something huge and painful, heavy and unwieldy. She could see it in every line, every edged inch of him. She paused at the table, watching. Wanting to reach out to him, but fearing what she might touch. She didn't know what she could offer. Didn't know what he would reject.

He left without saying good-bye, and she let him.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

AFTER she'd finished washing the breakfast dishes, Danni showered and got ready for the day. Colleen had added to her wardrobe, and now there was a soft pair of jeans and a cream cable knit sweater among her choices. She pulled them out. As she did, she saw a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt at the bottom of the drawer. She paused, stumbling over their familiarity while at the same time wondering how she could possibly recognize them when the clothes weren't even hers. And then she remembered . . . she'd been wearing them in that first vision. It was the outfit she would die in . . . the one she'd be buried in with Sean-young Sean.

"Not if I don't have it on," she whispered defiantly.

But along with the defiance came the reality that she was running out of time and was no closer to knowing how destiny conspired to put her in that grave with a fourteen-year-old version of the man she'd fallen in love with.

Brooding, frustrated with her inability to connect the dots, she watched as the first ray of sun crested the horizon, heralding the dawn of another day. It turned the sky dusky and pink then gilded red, golden, and finally blue. Blue like Brigid's eyes. Blue, like Danni's heart.

She'd been told to report to the MacGrath house by seven. It was just six thirty as she left the cottage, but she didn't want to be late again and risk Bronagh's wrath. Besides, what else did she have to do?

She replayed the morning as she went. First Colleen, telling her she could do whatever she set her mind to doing. Then the vision . . . the vision she'd called . . . but hadn't changed. Sean's mother was still dead, his father still, in a tragic way, responsible. She hadn't prevented it, no matter how much she wished she could have. What good did it do to dredge up something so painful if it could only be relived? It wasn't a gift she had. It was a curse.

She entered the kitchen through the back door as she'd been instructed the day before. Heavenly smells wafted in the moist, hot air of the enormous kitchen. She was early, but Bronagh was already bustling in from the dining room with an empty pan and a harried expression. "Ah, there you are now. Early as well. And good it is. I've pies in the oven and a potato casserole yet to make."

"It smells wonderful in here," Danni said, smiling.

Bronagh beamed at the compliment. "'Tis the twins' birthday, you know, and wouldn't they love to have all their favorites today?"

Of course they would, Danni thought, her heart aching at the love she saw in Bronagh's face, in the care she took to make their birthday special.

Clearing her throat, Danni asked, "What do you want me to do today?"

"Can you follow a recipe on your own? And don't be telling me you can if you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"Good," Bronagh said with a nod. "Here are the steps. Pay attention to the order, for it matters. You'll need to halve the ingredients as well." Bronagh's brows descended in a scowl. "You know how to do that, too?"

Danni nodded and took the handwritten recipe card from Bronagh's hand, trying to look more confident than she felt.

"Fine. I've shopping and errands to run with Mrs. MacGrath. The pie will need to come out of the oven when the timer goes off. You'll do that for me?"

Danni nodded. "Of course. It smells wonderful."

Bronagh smiled and the expression crinkled her eyes and changed her face completely. "It's a peach cobbler, one of Betty Crocker's own," she said proudly. "The children love it. And wait until they see the cake I've ordered from the bakery. 'Tis a wonder Mary Elizabeth O'Malley is with batter and frosting."

Bronagh gave her pie one last look, checked the timer, and left Danni to her task. There were no less than thirty ingredients listed on the card and nearly as many steps in the preparation. She propped it up where she could see it and began gathering what she'd need. As she worked, the kitchen door opened and the twins came in.

"Good morning to you, Mrs. Ballagh," they both said politely as they leaned against the counter to watch her.

"What's that you're making?" Dairinn asked.

"Well, I hope it's not a mess."

"Looks like it could be," Rory told her, eyeing the items she'd set out. "Though it does smell good in here."

"Bronagh's got a pie in the oven."

"Oh," they said in unison with sage nods.

Danni stared at the two, wondering how she'd ever forgotten she had a brother. Wondering where he would be after tonight. When she returned to her own time, would he be lost to her again? A fierce clenching inside her cried out against the idea of it.

You can do whatever it is you set your mind to . . . .

"You two are up early," Danni said.

"Mummy brought us breakfast in bed," Rory told her. "She made us pancakes with Mickey Mouse ears."

"One day we'll go to Disneyland," Dairinn added. "Have you ever been to Disneyland, Mrs. Ballagh?"

Danni had gone with Yvonne and her children many years ago. It had been at once the most amazing and disappointing day of her life-a glaring showcase of all she'd missed contrasting with all Yvonne offered. She'd been sixteen, almost seventeen, but she'd ridden every ride, eaten every candy, ice cream, and chocolate-covered banana offered. And cried herself to sleep that night, her stomach aching and her heart hollow and hopeful.

"As a matter of fact, I have been to Disneyland. You'll have an awesome time."

Pleased, they both smiled. "Mummy has something fun planned for later. A surprise, but we must stay out of the way until then," Rory said. "It's very hard when everywhere is in the way."

"Are we in your way now?" Dairinn asked.

"No. I'd like the company."

Dairinn smiled, and Danni's heart beat painfully in her chest. It was like being split wide, staring at her own face but seeing an expression that had never been there before. Contentment. Security. Self-assurance. All of these things she'd had at five, but lost along the way to the woman she was now. She'd been loved once. Cherished. And she'd had a companion, a brother. A twin.

She looked up and caught Dairinn staring at her with a peculiar glitter in her eyes. It was wariness and something else, something that made Danni still as she returned the look. The child shifted, glancing over her shoulder at the open door. Silently she slipped from her stool and shut it.

"Why'd you do that?" Rory asked.

Dairinn slid back on her stool without answering. Still watching Danni, she took her brother's hand and held it. The gesture was not random, nor was it insignificant. If she hadn't known it instinctively, Danni would have guessed it by the solemn expression the twins wore now.

She felt suddenly diminished in the shadow of their union. She was shrinking as the world around her enlarged until she was only a speck about to be blown away. Expressions flitted over Rory's face, and she realized with a plunging awareness that the twins were communicating. Somehow, in some complex and unfathomable manner, Dairinn was downloading whatever it was she knew. In a moment, it was over, and now both sets of eyes watched her with that peculiar knowing.

Disturbed, Danni cleared her throat and scooped flour from a canister, trying to hide her uneasiness. But she was chilled by what she'd seen. Shaken by the calm composure with which the children watched her. She wondered how Sean had felt when he'd looked at her this morning-had he experienced the same hair-raising disquiet?

Taking deep breaths, she stirred the ingredients in her bowl.

"Is it the Book you're here for?" Rory asked softly.

Danni's head snapped up. "What?"

"I told you, she doesn't know why she's here," Dairinn scolded.

"Is that true?" Rory said.

Numb, Danni nodded and shrugged at the same time. At this point, she didn't trust anything she might think she knew.

"Did Dairinn bring you here, then?" Rory turned in his seat and faced his sister. "Did you?"

Danni was holding her breath, waiting for the answer. But Dairinn only stared calmly back.

"How would Dairinn bring me?" Danni asked, though she was afraid of the answer. The idea was too complicated, too bizarre to contemplate.

"You've seen the Book, haven't you?" Dairinn said. "I can tell that you have. It's frightening, isn't it?"

"You've seen it, too?"

Dairinn nodded. "I don't understand why you want it, though. It's not good."

"Do you know where it is?"

The siblings exchanged another silent conversation before answering. Danni watched them, holding the measuring cup filled with flour in her hand. What she felt went beyond shock. Beyond fear. Deep inside an ancient instinct to flee rose up. She had to get out of here.

Finally, Rory spoke. "The Book moves," he said.

Moves? Danni cleared her throat and set down the measuring cup. Trying to appear relaxed but failing-dismally failing-she said, "What does that mean, it moves? You are talking about the Book of Fennore?"

"It was here," Rory said. "But then it went away, and we don't know where it went to."

"Was it stolen?"

They both shook their heads.

"How can you be sure?" Danni asked.

"I feel it," Rory said simply. "It talks to me sometimes."

Dairinn made a small, jerking motion at his words. She didn't like that he'd said it aloud.

"I won't tell," Danni said.

"I know it," Dairinn snapped. "Why else would we be telling you anything? But I know what the Book can do, and it isna right to talk of it."

Danni's chest was tight and her throat burned. "You know what it can do?"

"She means what it does to people," Rory said softly.

"It drives them mad," she finished.

"But . . . " Danni chose her words carefully, not sure what it was she wanted to say. "I thought it brought power."

"Aye. It can. It does. But that's not all that comes through when the door is opened."

Danni swallowed hard. What else? What else came through?

"Are you hoping to see its magic?" Rory asked.

"I've seen magic," Dairinn said importantly. "Many times. One night I flew from my bedroom to the docks, and I saw my cousin get tangled in the nets. He was pulled under and no one knew. I told me Mum and she told Uncle Patrick and he set to watching my cousin. And do you know when my uncle was below deck who should get tangled in the nets and go under but my cousin? My uncle wouldn't have known if Mum had not told him, but he did know and so he pulled up the net, and there was my cousin nearly drowned."

"So you saved his life?" Danni said, searching herself for the memory. But if it was there, it eluded her.

"Aye. And one Sunday at church I heard Father Lawlor tell of how he'd been robbed the night before by a poor soul who thought Jesus had forsaken him. Father said he would have helped the man because sure enough Jesus had brought him to the church to be the worker they needed. If the man had only come with open hands and heart, he would have been fed and loved. So I flew to the night before and I told the poor man not to steal, because Jesus loved him. And to come in the morning and Father Lawlor would give him a job where Jesus could watch over all he did."

Danni stared at the child, stared into her own face, hearing the sweet voice, the sincerity in her tone. And feeling the echo of memory deep, deep inside. She could picture that night at the church, walking through the doors without opening them first. Finding the beggar ransacking the sacred altar. He'd been terrified to see her, a child in a white gown with silky curls and gray eyes. He'd thought her an angel with a heavenly message.

It had been a vision, and yet he'd seen her. Spoken with her. She had turned back time and changed the outcome. She'd changed the outcome . . .

"She can't really fly," Rory confided. "She just thinks she can."

"And you can't really talk to the horses," Dairinn snapped back.

"You're jealous," he quipped. To Danni, he said, "It's not just horses I understand."