The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

trouble yourself about her. She won’t be after harming you any. Hers is a sad tale, and a story for another time, when you’re not so tired.”
    It was hard to concentrate. Jude’s mind wanted to shut down, her body to shut off, but it seemed important to clear up this one point. “You’re trying to say the house is haunted?”
    “Sure and it’s haunted. Didn’t your granny tell you?”
    “I don’t believe she mentioned it. You’re telling me you believe in ghosts.”
    Brenna lifted her brow again. “Well, did you see her or didn’t you? There you are,” she said when Jude merely frowned. “Have yourself a nap, and if you’re up and about later, come on down to Gallagher’s Pub and I’ll buy you your first pint.”
    Too baffled to concentrate, Jude merely shook her head. “I don’t drink beer.”
    “Oh, well now, that’s a bloody shame,” Brenna said, sounding both shocked and sincere. “Well, good day to you, Miss Murray.”
    “Jude.” She murmured it and could do nothing but stare.
    “Jude, then.” Brenna flashed her gorgeous smile and slipped out the door into the rain.
    Haunted, Jude thought, as she started up the stairs with her head circling lazily several inches over her shoulders. Fanciful Irish nonsense. God knew, her grandmother was full of fairy stories, but that’s all they were. Stories.
    But she’d seen someone . . . hadn’t she?
    No, the rain, the curtains, the shadows. She set down the tea that she’d yet to taste and managed to pull off her shoes. There weren’t any ghosts. There was just a pretty house on a charming little hill. And the rain.
    She fell facedown on the bed, thought about dragging the spread over her, and tumbled into sleep before she could manage it.
    • • •
    And when she dreamed, she dreamed of a battle fought on a green hill where the sunlight flashed on swords like jewels, of faeries dancing in the forest where the moonlight lay as tears on the leaves, and of a deep blue sea that beat like a heart against the waiting shore.
    And through all the dreams, the one constant thing was the sound of a woman’s quiet weeping.

TWO
    W HEN J UDE WOKE it was full dark, and the little peat fire had burned down to tiny ruby lights. She stared at them, her eyes bleary with sleep, her heart leaping like a wild stag in her throat as she mistook the embers for watching eyes.
    Then her memory snapped into place, her mind cleared. She was in Ireland, in the cottage where her grandmother had lived as a girl. And she was freezing.
    She sat up, rubbing her chilled arms, then fumbled for the bedside lamp. A glance at her watch made her blink, then wince. It was nearly midnight. Her recovery nap had lasted close to twelve hours.
    And, she discovered, she was not only cold. She was starving as well.
    She puzzled over the fire a moment. Since it seemed basically out and she didn’t have a clue how to get it going again, she left it alone and went down to the kitchen to hunt up food.
    The house creaked and groaned around her—a homey sound, she told herself, though it made her want to jump and look over her shoulder. It wasn’t that she was thinking about, even considering the ghost Brenna had spoken of. She just wasn’t particularly used to homey sounds. The floors of her condo didn’t creak, and the only red glow she might come across was the security light on her alarm system.
    But she would get used to her new surroundings.
    Brenna was as good as her word, Jude discovered. The kitchen was well stocked with food in the doll-size fridge, in the narrow little pantry. She might be cold, she mused, but she wouldn’t starve.
    Her first thought was to open a can of soup and buzz it up in the microwave. So with can in hand, she turned around the kitchen and made a shocking discovery.
    There was no microwave.
    Well, Jude thought, that’s a problem. Nothing to do but rough it with saucepan and stove, she supposed, then hit the next dilemma when she realized there was no automatic can opener.
    Old Maude had lived not only in another country, Jude decided as she pushed through drawers, but another century.
    She managed to use the manual can opener that she found, and put the soup in a pan on the stove. After choosing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table, she walked to the back door and opened it to a swirling mist, soft as silk and wet as rain.
    She could see nothing but the air itself, the pale gray layers of it shifting over the night. There was no form,