They call me hag, winter’s witch. Cailleach Bhéara, Cailleach Bheur, Anu, Didge, Beira, Cally Berry, Gyre-Carlin, Buí, Milucra, Biróg, Burach, Bronach, The Veiled One, The White Nun of Beara, The Storm Hag, Banshee. But I wasn’t always so.

In a time before you, your ancestors, your technology, cars, cities, roads, villages, modern conveniences—in a time before all you’ve ever known—I was a lone maiden in a desolate marshland. There was no distinction between sky and sea, no color but the silvery mist rising from the salt spray, no sound but the waves crashing and swirling in the tide. I came to be in this liminal space, cold and lonely, seeking, seeking, seeking.

I came to be in the north. I awoke one morning, my corporeal form made of mist, foam, sea spray, and considered this wild place. How cold, how lonesome, how bleak. And yet I felt a warmth somewhere below my limbs, a yearning inside my newly-beating heart. I rose from the clay, gathered a léine of sarsenet and sea-spun mist to drape across my body, wove a veil of moonlight and fog to shield my features from the elements, and began walking, my heart in the lead. With each footstep, the earth beneath my feet hardened, sage lichen and verdant moss sprouted, small hints of life. I walked in circles, leapt and danced, threw my body down and spread my arms and legs wide, marveling at solidity I created.

I roamed, learning the articulation of my limbs, spinning, leaping, tumbling, tracing what would become the jagged shoreline until I heard it: a faint whistle in the distance. It was musical, melodic, hypnotic. Taking great leaps and bounds, I followed. The whistle turned to a roar, elegant and strange, as I neared. And then, all of a sudden, him. Nevis, the North Wind, a man made of shards of ice and howling silver. His eyes, a cool winter’s morning. His mouth, made to send his song through the ether, enticing. He smiled, whistled, and reached for me. When our fingers met, the earth trembled and roiled beneath us. He beckoned me, and I realized that I loved him with the raw hunger of the first woman. I tried to catch him, to hold him, to keep him, but the wind was never meant to be held. So I had to let him go. And in the despair of that first monumental heartbreak, I fell to the ground, weeping, screaming, battering the clay with my fists until the earth rose up to follow him, reaching, reaching, reaching, hardening into the peaks of the mountains that now bear his name.

I rolled down the mountain, spread myself across the flattened valleys and steep-sided glens. Crawling on all fours, my long hair swept across the ground, calling starry saxifrage, arctic mouse-ears, and eyebright to sprout along the delicate gullies and chutes I carved with my fingernails. I carried on in this way for ages, crawling, sculpting, rolling, making fjords and gulches and lochs and vales and cirques and linns and whatever else struck my fancy until I saw something in the ocean beyond. A slick black form undulating with the tide. Lowered to my belly, I slithered along the clay, urging tall grass to conceal me, watching. I met his eyes, dark, soulful, calling up the depths of the sea below and around, and my heart stirred. We watched one another for some time until he approached. Once on the land I’d created for him, he shed his selkie skin and stood tall, immaculate, a body cut from the clay and sea foam that made me.

We touched. We embraced. I held onto him so tightly, for fear he’d slip away like the wind, slip away like the sea. We made a life together on the slanted shore. It pleased him to see me conjure peaks and salt marshes and crags with just a touch. We held each other and rolled about, in our congress we created veiny streams and rivers and pools for the faeries. I thought I could keep him. I wanted to keep him. I needed to keep him. I tried in vain to hide his selkie skin. I tried in vain to erect towering pinnacles to obstruct his path back to the sea. Despite my efforts, he found his way. I was again bereft, alone, just me and the Skye above and all around. In my fury, I wailed. I stomped the mounds of land I rose for his happiness, punched and scratched and remolded the Quiraing and the jutting cliffs and drew forth Storr from the black rock to lord over this place.

For a century, I searched for him. I lay atop the cliff, eyes on the sea. He never returned. I did not move, did not breathe. I lay as still as stone, my tears flowing so violently, they became the falls. I draped my arm over the edge. Then a leg. I teetered there for ages, crying, staring, watching for him. And then, one day, a stirring. A great hulk of a man far, far from me. His movement languid, languorous, liquid. I rose, gathered stones in my léine, and began walking toward him, leaving life in my path. With each step, he stretched further and further from me. It was incomprehensible that he existed across the North Channel. On what land if it had not been made by my touch? I saw glimpses of him, his body a deep, red iron-clay, his hair aflame, it shone so luminously in the grey sea fog, igniting a fire within me.

I threw the stones from my léine, my hands and feet suddenly molten, and crashed into the sea, reaching for him. I made great bounds with my firey feet. With each splash, the earth cracked and ascended into great interlocking hexagonal basalt columns. I carved the causeway and carved the causeway and carved the causeway in search of my giant. No matter how many thousands of pillars I laid, the sea was too deep, the current too strong, my beloved too far from reach. I heard his name in the wind, Fingal. It was all I had. All I’d ever have of him. I crumpled, wept. My léine of sarsanet, once light as air, was weighed down with the black dust of the basalt, the black dust of my despair. I hung my head, crawled on hands and knees from whence I came, and forged a cave in the side of the cliff. There I stayed for an eternity.

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Catch up on parts one through four!

The Water that Flows Uphill

Part Five

On their first full day in Dublin, they woke early for a couple’s massage followed by a full Irish breakfast before heading down to the bus that would whisk them away to Fore village. It felt strange to Aileen, like she was living some parallel life. Here, in the present, riding comfortably next to Archie, her head resting on his broad shoulder, leaning fully into his body on the narrow, scratchy bus seats, smelling his comforting cologne of woodsmoke, amber, and musk. There, in the past, turning away from Liam to gaze out the window to another life, careful to not even graze his thigh with her fingertips as they sat side by side on the narrow, scratchy bus seats, breathing in his clean scent that always reminded her of the sea. She felt like she was teetering on a cliff between the here and now and the there and then, a woman so changed by the decade between her visits to Ireland, yet much the same.

On that hour and a half journey, they played a game of guess who, whispering the perceived identities and origins of their fellow passengers. He wove his fingers through hers, grounding her to the present. She draped her legs over his, curled as much into him as she could, as much was appropriate in public, as much as the seats would allow. She felt in her heart that their luck was about to change, and she wanted to crawl into his skin to make sure he was feeling the same way she was: that this was preordained, that they were on their own version of a hero’s quest, each equally seeking a truth beyond their ken. When she glanced out the window, she was shocked to see the same breathtaking countryside as before. It was funny, she thought, that the landscape wouldn’t have changed as much as she had in the decade they spent apart, but its sameness was a balm.

The passengers stood before the bus came to a stop near the entrance of the distillery, eager to step into the dazzling sunlight and embark on their poitín journey. Archie grasped her hand and led them single file toward the door. The minute she stepped into the daylight, her hair billowed around her face and that dizzying feeling of parallel lives nearly knocked her off her feet. She could feel so wholly who she was that day she met the Irishman who urged her to visit the water that flows uphill. She could feel so wholly who she was when her fate was revealed, when she first saw Archie standing at the altar in her vision, could still feel that frigid water racing past the arm she plunged into its depths. Archie steadied her. He kept her hand in his, and with the other, pulled her close. They walked like that toward the entrance, but she paused as they approached the door.

“You go in,” she said,” I think I’d like to stay out here a while.”

He looked surprised, but nodded, knowing she loved to spend extra time outside on the rare sunny days when they visited his family in Scotland. She just couldn’t get enough of the vibrant shades of green as far as the eye could see, the freshness of the air, the continually astounding realization that this was her life.

He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Aye, but don’t be too long, wee burd. Tour’s going to start in an hour, and I’d like to toast to you,” before turning to head inside.

She watched him go, waved and smiled when he looked back with a nod and that wicked grin she loved so much before disappearing into the din of the bar. She turned and started walking toward the ruins of the abbey. It was impossible to fathom its history. Incredible to think of all the people who stood in the very spot she occupied, hundreds and hundreds of years before America was even a thought in the heads of its idealistic forefathers, before a European foot ever stepped on its wild shores. The people who built this place couldn’t have known much about the world beyond their own, but still, they knew what it was to be conquered, subjugated, to be changed by another.

She wondered how much of this land had changed in the centuries between then and now, if it changed much at all. Beyond the abbey walls, lush rolling hills and vales stretched further than the eye could see. Here and there stood stone walls, delineating the lines between farms. If she ignored the paved road, she could imagine that she stood in a wild place, as yet untouched by human ingenuity. As she walked along the gravel pathway leading to the ruins of the abbey, she started to consider her life: all the circumstances and people that brought her to Fore then, and all the circumstances and people that brought her to Fore now. She supposed she was on a pilgrimage. That made her feel like she was a heroine in a novel. That made her feel strong, worthy. It was a strange sensation.

She stopped to admire a map of the seven wonders of Fore hand painted on a ceramic pedestal—the monastery built upon a bog, the mill without a race, the tree that won’t burn, the water that doesn’t boil, the anchorite in stone, the lintel stone raised by Saint Féichín’s prayers, and her old friend the water that flows uphill. There were reasonable explanations for each, of that she was sure, but she knew that there was something more to it, the magic—from before Christianity crashed into this country—of the old place. It was curious to stand in a place both secular and sacred, both pagan and Christian. A little like herself in all that.

She crossed the west doorway beneath the lintel stone raised by Saint Féichín’s prayers and the air momentarily shimmered, just enough to make her pause. There was nothing discernibly different between the air outside the abbey and the air inside the abbey. Besides, the abbey itself was missing a roof and all its windows. It stood as a ruin, its crumbling moss-covered walls perfect for adventurous climbers. Where there once was a slate floor was just dirt, sprouting with grass and buttery yellow flowers where patches of sunlight broke through the shadows cast by the walls. Any wooden doors that may have once been there were long gone, leaving welcoming stone portals behind. Aileen wandered the ruins keeping her hands on the stone to try to anchor herself to the present, but as her fingers grazed the cold, damp walls, she swore she could see flashes of what this place once was.

A family with two young children was having a picnic in the chapel. The mother sat on a blue checkered blanket, quietly singing a lullaby to the younger child cradled in her lap. Her light blond hair cascaded down, blended in with that of her child’s so that both faces were obscured. The father was pretending to be Captain Hook chasing his young Peter Pan through the tall grass near the pulpit. Aileen quietly backed away, leaving the family to its escapades, her heart aching. She dreamed of that life.

She wound her way through the nave, spotted empty bottles of Magner’s and Lucozade, forgotten packages of crisps, the evidence of late-night teenage hangs. She came upon the choir and started climbing the wall. Up, up, up she went, easily finding the footholds of the thousands of people that had no doubt climbed before her. She climbed and considered the family playing nearby, her husband chatting up the locals in the distillery beyond and wondered if she’d be better off not knowing. If she’d be better off staying away from the water that flows uphill. If it would reveal her heart’s deepest desire, or if it would reveal a stretch of unbearable emptiness. Or worse, if it would reveal nothing at all. She wasn’t sure her heart could take that. Maybe this was why her mother always told her to live in the here and now. Maybe this was why her father always told her to get her head out of the clouds, his very own Maria Von Trapp.

She couldn’t. She was always somewhere else. Never in her body. And why would she want to be in her body? What had her body ever done for her? She couldn’t see that she was healthy and alive, she couldn’t see that she inhabited a body that was wholly her own. She couldn’t see that this body had taken her from her small town in New Jersey to Manhattan to Ireland to England, Spain, Italy, Greece, Germany, seeing and breathing and experiencing everything along the way. She couldn’t see that she lived in a body that Archie loved and adored, worshipped even. She couldn’t see that her legs were strong enough to carry her through the world and up these very walls. She couldn’t see that her arms were strong enough to hold her close, to pull her up. All she could see was a body that didn’t work right, a body that didn’t do what it was supposed to do, a body that wouldn’t—or couldn’t—conceive. And it was a body that she didn’t want to live in. So she lived in her daydreams, a cloud that refused to be pinned down, a wave that refused to stay on the sand.

Aileen sat where the abbey’s roof once met the wall and gazed at the expanse of the landscape beyond. A light wind carried the mother’s song up to her waiting ears and something stirred in her heart, in her belly, sending goosebumps up and down her arms, but she didn’t register any of it. In the distance, the burnt orange fur of highland cows dotted the land where they grazed. Beyond, the tallest hill rose with swirls of trees and grass that looked like the spirals of a snail’s shell. Behind her rose the din of the distillery, its patrons eagerly spilling out its open patio doors to enjoy their drinks in the splendor of the Irish sun, a fiddler playing The Butterfly.

And it almost felt like enough, but then she saw the water that flows uphill snaking its way around the old hawthorn below and remembered what brought her to Fore in the first place. She started her descent, but she misplaced her foot on the way down, lost the grip of her right hand trying to steady herself. She fell backward into the grass and ferns and rocks that had taken over the choir floor. She landed hard, dumbly gazing at the cloudless azure sky above, the mother’s song the last thing she heard before she closed her eyes:

Will ye go, lassie, will ye go?

And we’ll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

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Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Winter’s frost gradually lifted, giving way to the abundance of spring. Everywhere Aileen looked, there was new life—bright green grass sprouted through the previous year’s decaying brown remnants in vibrant contrast, trees produced little yellow buds and flowers and finally gorgeous, vivid leaves, flowers of all colors and sizes blessed the air with their fragrance, beckoning the bees. Baby bunnies hopped about the park near her townhouse, baby birds chirped in the trees above her head when she took Franklin on long, meandering walks. On particularly warm days, families lazed about the green, fat babies laughing and sitting up for the first time, laughing and crawling to pluck the tiny marigold wood sorrel hiding in the grass, laughing and tottering on chunky, unsteady legs right into mama’s welcome arms. Life, blooming with such vibrancy and force that Aileen felt the emptiness of her desiccated womb. She laid a hand on her flat tummy, aware that none of it was happening for her.

She felt the pull to Ireland more acutely every day. The Emerald Isle called to her, pulled the invisible strings tied to her heart, its stories and art and culture and remedies beseeching, offering a bastion of maternal wellness. She convinced herself that another trip to Fore would fix everything just as it had before. She convinced herself that the water that flows uphill held all the secrets of all the people in all the world, and all anyone had to do to unlock them was plunge themselves into its clear, cold depths.

She wasn’t so far gone that she said any of this aloud to Archie. He knew about the trip she took there all those years ago, recounted in the early days of their relationship. She didn’t tell him right away, though anticipation bubbled under her skin whenever he touched her. She knew in her heart from the moment she laid eyes on him that he was her future, but to say so out loud would be to come on too strongly. So she held it. She held it though their first furtive dates, their first weeks getting to know each other, the first six months of adventure and laughter and kissing so hard and for so long that the skin around her mouth sprouted bright raspberry splotches from the friction of his beard. She waited. And waited. And waited until it was finally time to tell him, until she was sure he wouldn’t laugh her off like some crazed lovesick beast. It was a Saturday morning, mid-spring, the sunlight peeked through her lace curtains, the Tyndall effect scattering motes in the dustlight. They were curled together in her bed, his big body wrapped around hers, both sweating slightly, but not enough to make space. He whispered those three glorious words into her ear, those three glorious words that made her stomach flip, that made her skin vibrate, that sent her heart to the moon and back. Her pulse quickened. She flipped around to face him, throwing her arms around his neck, buried her nose in the crook of it, repeated the words back, and breathed, “I dreamed you.”

Except “dream” wasn’t quite right, was it? Later, nestled on the couch in a heap of blankets, she kissed his knuckles and told the story of her first trip to Ireland. The trip that changed her life. The trip that gave her the courage to change the things that weren’t working, to venture out on her own, to become the woman she was meant to be. To move across the ocean. To find him. She told him of Fore Distillery, of the poitín, of the Irishman, of the short yet eventful solo quest to discover life’s great truths down by the stream. He laughed, kissed her knuckles, her wrist, her shoulder, her chin, her cheek, her lips. He said, “That’s the luck of the Irish.” And that was that. Archie hadn’t put as much weight in the story as she did, but it didn’t happen to him, he wasn’t there, and he wasn’t nearly as superstitious as she was.

She hoped that would work in her favor, that the story she put so much stock in was long-forgotten on his part all these years later. So far it was working. When she suggested the trip, he yelled out, “What craic!” in a surprisingly good Irish accent. They set to planning, agreeing to wait until the weather warmed, if nominally, so they could enjoy being outside on those gorgeous rolling hills so similar to those he grew up climbing. They had so much vacation time, they decided to savor it, take their time getting there. Sure, a flight to Dublin from London was more like a hop, but they wanted to take the scenic route, plus they wanted to bring Franklin, their constant companion.

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So early one glorious spring morning, they set of for their grand Irish adventure. Archie was looking forward to some rest and relaxation with his wife and dog and some sausage rolls and Irish cheddar and bangers and mash and soda bread and Guinness and poitín and hiking. Aileen was looking for all of that and some answers. She kept the hope locked away in her heart as she looped Franklin’s harness around his little body, as she clipped on the leash, as she scratched behind his ears, as he bore his skull into her open hand, his adoring eyes only for her. Every single time he did that, the hole in her heart both receded and opened anew, feeling the pang of longing to pour her love into a child of her own, feeling, in some ways, fulfilled by pouring her love into this dog that loved her so fully.

Archie was already at the door, holding the handle of small rolling suitcases in each hand. He looked devastatingly handsome in his leather jacket, baseball cap, and jeans, and for a brief moment, Aileen considered delaying their journey for a little bedroom romp. Not that he’d go for it—one must stick to the schedule, you know. taking the rail and sail from London to Dublin was a long trip—the website urged travelers to give themselves six to ten hours for the journey, accounting for delays and connections. Archie wasn’t exactly what you would call a spontaneous man. He liked his plans and he liked to be on time, early even. The bedroom romp would have to wait for their AirBnB.

It would take an hour to get from their townhouse in Teddington to Euston Station, if they managed to get to the south western railway on time. No time for coffee or leisurely strolls, they’d have to wait. They’d have to get off at Vauxhall and get on the Victoria line to Euston. It was no matter, Aileen was used to her husband’s obsession with timeliness, so she made coffees for the road. His in an emerald green travel mug, hers in a royal blue one. She filled a small water bottle for Franklin, double checked the doors and windows in the house were secure, flipped off the lights, and they were off.

The clandestine nature of the trip was exciting. She didn’t want to think that they were traveling under false pretenses—it was a nice spring trip with her husband and dog. That was that. But for her, it was more. The excitement rippled through her as they boarded the train then the tube then another train. She tried and failed to read a novel on the nearly four-hour journey from London to Wales. She was too giddy. Instead, she half-listened to a podcast on the sinking of the Batavia as she watched the world go by the train’s big picture windows. She always loved the scenery of the UK—big city transitions to suburbia to fields and fields of never-ending green. She supposed it was the same taking the train in America—she’d taken one from Chicago to St. Louis once to visit her aunt and uncle while in town for a library conference—but there was something enchanting about the English countryside. Truthfully, it was probably just the fact that it was the English countryside. Still, even after a decade abroad, she never quite felt like her life was real, like she’d actually moved across the pond, like she’d actually made a life in another country. It felt so wildly different than the life she thought she’d have when she was young. When she was with Liam, any future she could envision remained within the confines of their small town. She always wanted to live in Brooklyn, but merely imagining Liam’s body in the bustle of the city was like imagining a giraffe making its home in the depths of the sea. When she was with Liam, her world was so small that she often couldn’t see beyond her own nose, even in her wildest dreams.

Now, so many years later, there were moments when she marveled at her life, so different and exciting and mundane than she ever dreamed. When she gazed out the windows, the train speeding between villages and towns that looked like they were straight out of the storybooks that lined her childhood bookshelves, she felt a strong urge to pinch herself. As if attuned to her disbelief, Archie laid one strong, warm hand on her thigh while he played chess on his phone, grounding her, telling her that yes, this is real, yes, this is our life, yes I am here and you are here and we are together.

She suddenly felt like she didn’t need to see the abbey, didn’t need to visit the stream, didn’t need to know the future because life with Archie and Franklin was so full, what more could she ask for? But then, behind her in the din of the train, a baby cried out, its mother murmured and shushed and soothed, and she felt the emptiness of her womb yet again.

They arrived in Holyhead, Wales in good time, less than four hours. They checked the ferry schedule, saw that there were plenty of boats coming and going for the rest of the day, so they decided to stretch their legs and explore the sweet, historic village. No matter how many times Aileen walked the cobblestone streets of an ancient European town, it simply never got old. Similarly, the look of adoration on her face as she took in the quaint pubs and shops never got old for Archie. They walked, hand-in-hand through Holyhead, Aileen taking in the world around her, Archie taking in his world. Franklin sniffed and peed and barked and wagged his tail, greeting passersby like he was the mayor. They settled on a corner pub for an early dinner and a pint before the Dublin ferry took them across the Irish Sea, and again, Aileen was overwhelmed with a feeling of contentment.

The ferry they boarded was named for James Joyce. It brought to mind a favorite quote of his for Aileen: Shut your eyes and see. The words rolled around her brain, knocking into stories of her past self, versions of herself that never came to be, versions still yet to come. Shut your eyes and see, she told herself, shut your eyes and see, as the ferry whistle blew, the boat rocking on the torrent of the sea. They found a spot near a window but far enough from the cool breeze blowing in through the open door and readied themselves for the last leg of their journey.

Shut your eyes and see, she told herself, closing her eyes and willing herself to see her dreams realized when she visited the water that flows uphill yet again.

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Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Aileen had been living in London for nearly a decade. She, like so many romcom heroines before her, did end up having a transformative experience in Ireland all those years prior. While she could never tell Liam the deciding factor in ending their ten year relationship had been a stranger urging her to plunge her arms into a clairvoyant stream, the vision’s flash of promise took hold of her in such a way that its truth was undeniable.

Together, Aileen and Liam traveled across Ireland—after their fateful day at Fore Abbey, they rented a small red Renault Clio and drove along the coast, or as much of the coast as they could, stopping in Waterford (for the crystal), Cork (for the sing-songy lilt), Dingle (to hike Mount Brandon), the Cliffs of Moher (for obvious reasons), Sligo (because she was once told her great-great-grandmother was born there), and back to Dublin, circling the country in its entirety. It was a great trip, that much was true, but every day when she woke up, she was reminded that Liam was not the man she was going to marry. Every night, as she fell asleep, the mysterious man’s glorious smile just for her flashed across her mind like a marquee. That is, if the Water that Flowed Uphill was to be believed. And why should she not believe it? Nothing that fantastic had ever happened to her, and while she had been drinking that day, she was not out of her mind, she had not been concocting her very own fairy tale just to get out of a relationship that no longer suited her.

Still, she felt unsure. And what’s more, she felt afraid. Liam was all she’d ever known, and in many ways, all she thought she’d ever deserve. To break it off with him would mean tackling life completely on her own, and she had to admit to herself that she didn’t know who she really was without him. So they finished their trip, returned home to New York, and she tried to put the Irishman’s wry smile out of her mind, tried to forget that he compelled her to visit the stream, that she ever saw anyone look at her the way the mystery man looked at her in that vision. She resigned herself to Liam’s occasional glances in her direction, his mediocrity, his evident self-loathing.

But only for a time. It seemed to Aileen that what Liam got out of the trip was not a sense of adventure, as not a taste for a world beyond his own, was not even a fervor for experiencing life to its fullest, but an underwhelming desire for more of the same. One morning before she left for work, she gazed at him playing FIFA in his rocking video game chair and she noticed that he never looked that enthralled about anything else. She asked him four or five times what he’d be up to that day and he only responded when she finally raised her voice above the volume of the TV. He complained that his job was boring, that he wasn’t using the degree he worked so hard for, that he wanted to see his friends. It was a tired barrage she’d heard before, and in that moment she felt more like his mother than his girlfriend. They were supposed to be building a life together, they were supposed to be working toward a shared future, and instead, she was working toward her future while having to hold his hand and make suggestions that didn’t sound like suggestions to urge him to do something, anything, to fulfill his own life. She left their apartment in a fury, drove her car to the bus stop in a fury, rode the bus to the city in a fury, bought a coffee and a bagel from the cart in front of her building in a fury, worked the entire day in a fury, rode the bus back to the park and ride near the old Target in a fury, drove her car home in a fury, only to find him perched in the same spot as before, still playing video games, still complaining about his lackluster life, asking her what was for dinner. She exploded, she couldn’t help it. She ended their relationship there and then.

And then again the following night. And again and again and again while he cried and pleaded from his video game chair for the next two weeks. He thought he could change her mind, but didn’t actually do anything to change her mind. When he finally got it, when he finally moved out, taking only a duffel bag of his clothes, his guitar, his PlayStation, and his video game chair, she was left mostly intact. She was surprised by how okay she felt. She expected to be a sobbing, blubbering mess, expected to have been left with a shell of a home, a shell of herself, but what Aileen soon realized was that she had been carrying the load of their relationship and responsibilities for years. She had everything she needed and the friendships to sustain her.

Three months later, she was itching for more of a change. She’d already lit the fuse, why not completely blow up her life? An opportunity presented itself to her, one she’d never consider if she was still trudging along with Liam. Aileen worked as an editorial assistant in the New York office for a publisher whose headquarters were in London. Her boss’s visa was expiring and he chose not to renew—he’d had his New York adventures and was ready to settle down in his home country. During her annual review, he presented her with a chance to move with him to the London office, but not as his assistant. She’d be a junior editor, she’d work with her own authors, manage her own list (under his eye of course). There would be a raise, more benefits, and, of course, the company would sponsor her visa and cover moving expenses, as well as putting her up in a temporary apartment for a year while she figured out where she’d like to plant her roots in The Big Smoke.

Her father and grandfather hemmed and hawed. They pretended to be unsupportive. They had to keep up with appearances, continue to roil and rage at the thought of their Aileen moving to England of all places, but that only lasted for a weekend before her mother told them they’d better cool it or risk actually losing her. She was a young woman and the world was opening up before her. Creative, intelligent, and untethered, she had to go and see where this road would take her.

So she did.

It wasn’t long before she was living in a small yet cozy apartment along the canals near King’s Cross, a mere stone’s throw from the office. It wasn’t long before she’d made new friends, found a yoga studio to call home, adopted a puppy she named Franklin. All in all, she was feeling more sure-footed than ever before. So of course it wasn’t long before she found herself at The Holly Bush in Hampstead Heath, a pub known mostly to locals, not a tourist in sight, for a bit of live music and banter. The band—a local indie trio—finished their set and spread out to have drinks with various fawning girls and that’s when she saw him. He was standing at the bar with his back to her, casually leaning his left elbow against it’s scratched yet polished surface. She could see his reflection in the mirror above the bar, he was laughing at something the lead singer was saying. A jolt of electricity ripped through her body. Or at least that’s what it felt like to her. It felt like she stuck a fork in an electrical socket, like her hair was singed and frizzy, standing on end, like there was smoke coming out of her ears and nose, and if she smiled, it’d seep through her teeth too. She felt crazed and it showed on her face.

Her friend Hailey touched her arm, “Hey, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aileen peeled her eyes away from the man, but only for a moment, she didn’t want to lose him in the pub, and looked in the mirror. She was stark white. “Not a ghost,” she said, turning back to face the man, “the man I’m going to marry.”

Hailey, a new friend but a good friend, didn’t need to hear any more than that. With a laugh, she took Aileen’s drink out of her hand and shoved her in his direction, yelling so loudly that he certainly heard, “Go get your man.”

She was launched across the bar and ran smack into his back. She whacked her forehead against his shoulder blade with such force that she worried she’d left a smudge of concealer on his black t-shirt. He turned and the rest, as they say, was history.

The man, Archie (Archibald, but don’t ever call him that lest you want to be met with a searing glare) Calder Mackenzie, was a Scot. He had relocated to London, like Aileen, after a breakup (though his wasn’t so life-changing), for a job in finance. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever been with, lean and muscular. He seemed to be a jack of all trades. He was a soccer player (football, he constantly reminded her), a swimmer, a rugby player, a marathon runner. He was a virtuoso, could play any instrument he picked up: piano, guitar, saxophone, eve the weirder ones like the lute, accordion, fiddle (but not bagpipes, just because he was Scottish, that did not mean he played the bagpipes, so please stop asking). He was creative and smart and good with money. He had a group of friends he dearly loved and not only kept in touch with, but made an effort to see regularly. He didn’t just have a job, he had a career, with far-reaching aspirations. In short, he was everything Liam was not.

More importantly, he looked at Aileen like there was no one else in the world. He treated her kindly, delicately, always considering her feelings and opinions. Archie adored her, practically worshipped the ground she walked on. She was so unused to devotion that it gave her whiplash. To be with someone who not only wanted to give her the world, but actively tried? She couldn’t believe her luck. There were times when she felt inferior, like she couldn’t live up to the way he saw her, the way he treated her, the way he loved her. But she knew deep down that she deserved him, that he deserved her.

They dated for two months before they moved in together. She moved Franklin into his loft in Wapping, and they started growing together. Two years later, he proposed under the magnificent aurora borealis above the fairy pools on the Isle of Skye. Two years after that, they got married in Edinburgh. Her friends and family were thrilled to visit Scotland for the affair. The women wore fascinators. The men wore kilts. As she walked down the asile, her dad’s arm looped around hers in the candlelight, holding her bouquet flower to flower as her photographer cheekily instructed, she was struck by the realization that it had all come true. She took her time, stepping carefully one foot in front of the other, her father murmuring about how everyone was looking at him, not her, becasue he was so breathtaking in his borrowed kilt kit, to a string quartet playing Hoppipola, and when she looked up to the altar, there Archie was, looking at her so expectantly that the electrical current swept through her body again. She wanted to break from her father, run to him, and jump into his arms, but she restrained herself for decorum’s sake. During the reception, they all did a bit of a ceilidh, Americans and Scots, hands interlocked, twirling and skipping to Loch Lomond.

Five years later, Aileen, Archie, and Franklin still lived in London, but in their own townhouse in Teddington. They wanted more space. They wanted to start a family. Aileen already knew which room would be the nursery. She even painted it a delicate powder blue one weekend when Archie was away with his friends. She stenciled whales cresting over the room’s chair rail, a sun shining its rays where she intended to place a crib.

But in the years they spent together, a baby just wouldn’t come. Despite their love and best efforts, she felt like maybe she had jinxed herself by preparing the nursery before a viable pregnancy. They’d tried everything to conceive. There were two occasions where they thought it was going to happen. That she was actually carrying a baby, bringing life into the world. That her body was doing what it was supposed to do. But it all ended in loss. The first one at ten weeks, the second, heartbreakingly, at twenty-two.

Still, they held strong. Their love never wavered, neither their faith that someday they’d bring their baby into that nursery and read him books about all the creatures of the world going on great adventures with their best friends, that they’d dance with him after dinner, splash in the bath, sing twinkle twinkle as he dozed off to sleep each night. She knew motherhood was in the cards for her, she couldn’t give up hope.

But it did feel bleak at times. One night when Archie was working late, Aileen curled up on the couch with Franklin and a forgotten novel, lost in thoguht. They were due for a trip, Archie and Aileen. It had been six months since they traveled to the south of France with their friends, she was itching for escape, but didn’t really want to go far.

And then it came to her: Ireland. They’d never been there together, which was incredible to think. The last time she was there was that long ago trip with Liam. The last time he was there was for his brother’s bachelor party. They both talked about going together sometime. It’d be so easy, they reasoned, it’s so close, just a stone’s throw from London, really. The proximity is probably what caused the delay. It was no matter, she resolved, they could go now.

And she’d return to Fore Abbey. To the Water that Flows Uphill.

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Part Two

“Go on, then.”

Aileen took one last swig of her poitín, grabbed her jacket, and wrapped her scarf around her neck. She gently touched Liam’s back and whispered something about needing air in his ear and stepped out into Ireland’s brilliant dusk. She was unused to the sky being so bright as the day receded into evening—back home, at this hour, the day would still be bright, but darkness would be looming at its edges. Here, it was like the sun’s shine had no bounds. She stepped out into that candescent light and let the freshest air she’s ever breathed waft over her. It wasn’t until she felt the crisp breeze against her cheeks that she realized she was more than a little tipsy. Not that she was surprised, though.

She walked away from the distillery, listening only to the way the wind whistled through the trees. Slowly, as she let the sounds of the country wash over her, she could discern a faint bubbling, the gurgling of the water that flows uphill, calling to her. She stopped at the edge of the parking lot and turned to look back at the distillery. Its large arched window framed the revelers inside. She could see Liam still cheerfully chatting with the elderly couple, Donal resting his left arm on the bar, drink in hand, the others from the bus eating and drinking and enjoying the day. But she didn’t see the Irishman. She wondered where he’d gone, thought for a minute that he would’ve watched as she dipped her fingers in the cool water, ultimately laughing at her gullibility. She was a little disappointed not to have his eyes on her.

And then she saw him, arms crossed, standing at the edge of the window, half hidden in the shadows. He was indeed watching her, smirking, but not in a cruel way. He offered a little wave, gestured for her to scoot, to get on with it. He glanced over his shoulder, laughed at something she couldn’t see, and then returned those ice blue eyes to her. A warmth spread through her body like she’d just taken a sip of spirits and she decided it was time. She turned back around and walked toward the old abbey.

It was incredible. Donal had told them as the bus lurched up the drive that the old church on the hill dated back to the ninth century, with additions in the thirteenth and fifteenth. Burnt and plundered a dozen times hundreds of years before Columbus even ‘discovered’ America, the ruins of the abbey below stood tall and proud against the rolling hills and evergreens beyond like it sprouted out of the lush earth. Fortress-like towers loomed over broken walls begging to be climbed, a welcoming stone arch marked its entry, beckoning to her to come, explore, stay a while. She stepped onto the gravel path leading to the abbey, really taking in her surroundings.

And then she saw it: the water that flows uphill. It truly didn’t look like much, nothing more than a babbling brook that even Aileen with her short legs could leap over—if she was running fast enough. It was a beautiful babbling brook, though. Set far enough from the path to ensure that visitors don’t fall in, it wound and curved along the walkway and up toward the abbey itself. In the bank above the stream was an aged and gnarled hawthorn tree adorned with ribbons, some still vibrant in color, some faded with age, rolled up wishes on scraps of paper, and weathered prayer cards. She recognized its white blossoms and thorns—and off-putting smell—from the old book of Celtic folklore her Gran had given her when she was a girl. A fairy tree. It delighted her to see one so revered in real life. She knew from her book that such a tree was sacred, guarding the entrance to the fairy realm, to damage it would be bad luck. She wished she had something to offer it—when would she ever have the chance to tie a real ribbon around a real fairy tree again? Fleetingly, she patted her pockets as if she would find a forgotten spool. Then she had an idea. She reached up and pulled her hair loose. Earlier in the day, she borrowed a length of emerald ribbon from the distillery’s cashier to tie her hair against the wind, to keep it out of her eyes. She hadn’t understood when the girl winked as she handed it over. She did now.

Aileen approached the tree like she would a feral cat: tentatively, gently, calmly. If there were fairies watching, she wanted them to think that she was respectful, not like the other Americans who may trample their space. She stood beneath the blossoming lonely tree and ran her fingertips against its bark, twisted with age. She briefly wondered what all the wishers before her had hoped for—love? Prosperity? Wealth? Luck? Those were the easy ones. She wanted desperately to wish for something else, to be different from the rest, but in that moment, she found herself yearning for love—real and true love. She knew in her heart that, though she loved Liam, their love wasn’t anything more than a milestone of youth. First love, while real and powerful, was rarely true enough to be everlasting. She knew this from books, from movies, from her own mother telling her so, not in a demeaning way, but a realistic way. Her mother loved Liam, but knew that he wasn’t the lifelong match Aileen hoped he’d be. In that moment, beneath the gentle tree, swaying from the poitín, Aileen could see that her mother was right.

It’s not that Liam was a bad guy. It’s not that he had even done anything particularly egregious in their time together—not counting the times he’d spent with the catty girl from high school every time he went home, assuring her over and over and over again that she was just a friend despite the rumors of his indiscretions. She couldn’t trust him, not fully. The other girl’s presence loomed over their relationship like an unwelcome ghost haunting them. She didn’t like to think about it. She didn’t like to think about the time she was traveling abroad for school and couldn’t get in touch with him, when his mother finally picked up and told her he went on a ski trip with the girl, while she, hysterical and halfway across the world, sobbed into her pillow. She didn’t like to think about the time her old best friend—the two inseparable in middle school, drifted as they grew—called her to tell her the girl was sitting on his lap at a house party. She didn’t like to think about the most recent time when he disappeared for two days on a camping trip suspiciously in the same area where the girl posted dozens of thirst traps on Instagram. She didn’t like to think about any of it.

And there were the small things—like how he never told her she was pretty. If she put on some makeup or did her hair differently or changed her wardrobe, he’d ask her why she looked so weird. He scoffed when she said she wanted to pursue a creative life. He refused to pick her up from the bus stop the week that her mother needed to borrow her car because hers was getting repaired. He was frozen in place after college, couldn’t figure out where to go or what to do and relied on her to figure it out for him, while she was trying to piece together what adult life would look like for herself. She felt like his mother—reminding him to do his laundry, visit with friends, pick up after himself. He rarely touched her, kissed her, loved her without her constant prodding. She developed insecurities, thought there was something wrong with her. She thought maybe if she ate a little less, worked out a little more, pretended to like soccer, he’d look at her the way she caught him looking at women on their rare excursions out of the house.

So yes, she loved him, but they were so young. Did she really want to commit herself to a life of insecurity? Could she live a life with no affection, no support, no warmth? To stay with Liam was to commit to a life she knew well. Routine. The comfort of knowing what she was going to get. As she stood beneath the fairy tree, she knew she deserved more.

Tears welled in her eyes as she found a spot on the lowest branch to tie her ribbon. She couldn’t be sure she was doing this right, but she implored the fairies to show her the way to the kind of earth-shattering, life-affirming love she needed. She tied a neat bow, pulled the branch carefully to her lips, kissed it. And then she sat at the base of the tree, afraid to confront what was to come next. The sun dipped in the sky, not yet ready to set, but preparing. In the haze of dusk, she contemplated the water. It did appear to be flowing upstream. Whether that was some sort of trompe l’oeil, as the French would say, or if by some magical occurrence, she couldn’t be sure. She hoped its magic was true, that the universe wasn’t playing some cosmic joke on her, fragile and wounded as she was feeling.

She glanced at the distillery, its window still glowing, unchanged. From her vantage point, she could no longer see Liam nor Donal, but knew they were still in there, probably still drinking and chatting. Had it even been that long since she stepped out? She couldn’t be sure. Time had a funny way of slowing, turning backward and forward and the same time, the more she spent beneath the hawthorn. She wasn’t sure if she was disoriented from the drink or the Irishman or the tree or the brook or the time difference, or if she was possibly clear-headed for the first time in her life. Not that she really cared. She could see the silhouette of the Irishman in the window, still watching her. She could just barely make out the small nod he gave.

Aileen reached forward, letting her palm hover over the rushing water. She could see smooth stones beneath, shining in the waning sunlight. Algae clung to the water’s edge, here and there, minute gudgeons and minnows flitted about. An entire world she could never penetrate. She briefly felt like dipping her fingers below the surface would disturb the peace, disrupt the natural order of things, but she had to know. Slowly, slowly, she lowered her pointer finger into the water, only up to her first knuckle. She closed her eyes, a flash of an altar adorned with yellow and pink wildflowers lain for a wedding ceremony.

She pulled her hand away like the water was boiling rather than frigid. She looked around, felt the earth wobble beneath her. She pulled her jacket off of her right arm, rolled up her sleeve, plunged her arm in up to her elbow, closed her eyes. The altar returned, set against an aged brick wall covered with floating candles. Below, on either side of the aisle, sat guests. Some she recognized—her own friends and family—others she didn’t. The vision zoomed out and suddenly she was at the end of the aisle, a string quartet in a loft above her head playing Hoppipolla, her father beside her, whispering in her ear and squeezing her hand. The guests rise, face her, beaming, crying. She looks to the altar sees a man watching her, tears threatening to fall down his gorgeous face. He’s tall, much taller than Liam, with broad shoulders and long, relaxed limbs. He has black hair, green twinkling eyes, a beard. She can tell he only sees her, that to him, they’re the only two people in the world in this moment. Together, she and her father make their way toward him, the man, her fiancé, wobbles on his feet, his best man steadies him. When she reaches him, he leaps down the two steps to meet her, takes her and her father in his arms, hugs tightly. He smells like after shave and musk and home.

Then, all at once, the scene disappears. She is sitting beside the water that flows uphill, her arm, goose bumped and red with cold, still in the stream.

Who is he?

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The last time a Cunningham set foot on the Emerald Isle was during the Great Hunger. Her family, like so many others, had been driven out of their homes and familial land during the Black ‘47, when so many millions either died or fled. The Cunningham family lore starts with that as its inciting incident. The thing that pushed some to America and others deeper into Europe, and one as far-off as Australia on over-stuffed packet ships in pursuit of nourishment and humanity. As a result, Aileen’s grandfather and father harbor extreme animosity toward any and all things British. Visitors must beware even mentioning Paddington Bear’s adventures around London lest they want to be subject to Da’s diatribes on the English.

Still, that didn’t stop her from taking a two-day pitstop in London on her way to Ireland. She just told her parents that it was the only option that fit within their budget when she was booking their flights (a flimsy lie they all let slide). Aileen and her high school boyfriend, Liam, made the journey first to London and then to Dublin around their ten year anniversary. If she was being completely honest with herself, she wanted to go alone. She was hoping for some transformative moment on those rolling hills and feared that his presence would impede any meaningful change. If he was being completely honest with himself, he could feel her slipping away and feared that she’d meet a handsome Irishman who would no doubt seduce her with that iconic wit.

Their time in London was a whirlwind. Liam experienced considerable difficulty adjusting to the time difference and Aileen tried her best not to feel like he as dragging her down with his insouciant proclamations of exhaustion. He meant well, she knew, and she loved him, she was pretty sure, so she tried her best to stay positive as they looped Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey, stopping once for fish and chips and another time for much-needed beer at a pleasantly dimly-lit pub. They watched the sun set over the Thames, him wondering where and when he should propose, her wondering where and when she’d feel whole. He dozed off during a production of Hamlet at The Globe and she lamented along with the rogue whether to be or not to be the version of herself that stays with Liam just because it was comfortable and safe.

It was an okay couple of days, and she did enjoy her time with him, as she always did, but there was a persistent niggling at the back of her neck whenever she took a moment to consider their future that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

By the time they boarded the plane to Dublin at Heathrow, she was craving freedom. It certainly didn’t help that Liam grasped the handle of her backpack as she boarded the plane, tethering himself to her under the guise of not getting separated. When they landed in The Fair City about an hour later, he did the same as they exited the plane. And then looped his arm through hers at baggage claim. And then placed his free hand on top of hers as they wheeled their suitcases to their hotel’s shuttle bus. He kept some part of his body in contact with some part of hers at all times.

She did her best not to shrug him off, but she was becoming increasingly repulsed by his constant need to touch. She shook it off as they checked into the terrace suite at the Chancery Hotel, announcing and believing that a soak in the tub would reset her mood. For the most part, it did. They split a chateaubriand for two and a bottle of wine at Wilde and meandered about Temple Bar, drinking and enjoying being tourists. By the end of the night, Aileen felt jovial and content. How could she not in a place like that? They went to bed happy and nominally in love.

In the morning, they grabbed some muffins and coffees from the hotel’s breakfast bar and climbed onto a tour bus to the Fore Distillery. Like any man in his mid-twenties, Liam was excited to drink copious amounts of rum and poitín under the guise of a tour, almost like he was conducting research on the the quality of ingredients, the depth of flavors, and so on. Aileen was looking forward to that too, but she was more so looking forward to going to laying her eyes on the countryside she spent her life dreaming about.

Luckily for them, Ireland was experiencing a relative dry spell. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the verdant greens of the hills, trees, and plants. It was warm(ish), about 60 degrees, with not a drop of rain in the forecast for three days at least. Their tour guide, Donal, made sure to remind them of their luck every fifteen minutes or so during their journey from the city center to the Benedictine abbey dedicated to St. Féichín. That they had arrived during a period of sun AND warmth was nearly unheard of, and, did they happen to bring sun cream? They simply must protect their skin from the sun’s powerful rays. Aileen, coming from New York in late May, felt cold, and certainly didn’t need sunblock, but was enchanted by the sentiment. As she gazed out her window, she saw Irish men walking about in shorts, wearing tank tops, a few were surprisingly topless, their t-shirts looped through belt loops, Irish women wearing halter-top dresses and sandals. She could see their shoulders reddening in the cool sunlight and understood Donal’s warnings.

She briefly looked over to Liam and wondered if he brought any sunblock. He was red haired and fair, he fit right in though he wasn’t technically Irish, something her father loved to announce like he didn’t marry a third-generation Italian. As a result, Aileen Cunningham, Irish in name and Italian in looks, had an olive complexion, big brown eyes, reddish-brown hair, an acute Roman nose. Liam could feel her gazing at him and brushed his fingers against hers, again tethering himself to her. She turned from him and back to the window, marveling as the landscape changed from Georgian houses, quaint storefronts, and cobblestone streets to spacious farmland, dotted here and there with grazing cows and sheep, the occasional pub.

The road narrowed as they drove further and further from the city. From a multi-lane highway to a single track road, Aileen soon wondered how any car could get by their almost-American sized tour bus, marveled as it pulled off to the side in allocated spaces to let cars and trucks by, thinking that American drivers would absolutely never have the patience or selflessness to let anyone by, especially if they were driving such a large vehicle. When they finally arrived, Aileen stepped off the bus as a cool wind sent the sweet almond scent of agrimony and fresh cut grass to envelop her. Her hair whipped around her face, she felt her breath hitch as she stood, blocking the bus steps, taking in the view. Just ahead of her was the distillery, its newness in stark contrast to the ruins of the 7th century abbey above it.

She felt pulled to the abbey, wanted to explore its secrets and stones, but Liam had booked the Afternoon Tea & Tipple for two, so she followed him inside. It was magnificent. The head distiller himself talked their little group through the mechanics of brewing, the ancient recipes supposedly preserved from 7th century Benedictine monks, and, most fascinatingly, the lore associated with such a pillar of the countryside. She was enraptured by it all and could slowly feel the tension at the nape of her neck dissipating. As she sipped on her white rum, then her golden rum, then her poitín followed by more poitín and more poitín and a ham and cheese toastie and several scones, she felt warm and dare she accept—whole. She started feeling like maybe it was unfair to second-guess her future with Liam. She looked over at him adoringly as he carried on light chit-chat with an elderly couple celebrating their golden jubilee. They made comments about Aileen and Liam’s youth, how they reminded them of themselves at their age, how they could tell they were so in love.

For a moment, she let herself believe it. She let herself believe that that could be her future. But then she got bored of the small talk and turned to look out the window. She took her poitín and wandered to its edge, eyeing her reflection as the sun splashed its late-afternoon rays across the tasting room. She thought she’d look a lot happier than she did. She stood, lost in the warmth of the reflection of her own eyes against the rolling hills beyond, until a voice beside her made her jump.

“Just gorgeous, so?”

She turned to see a tall, handsome blond man. Slightly tongue-tied, she managed to stammer, “yes, it’s like a dream.”

He laughed and held his drink out to cheers, “Sláinte. American?”

“Gee, how could you tell?”

“Not you, him. It’s the North Face. Didn’t know yous still wore those.”

“Ah,” she said, looking over at Liam in his decade-old fleece, “well, we kind of don’t. He’s just attached to that thing. I wanted him to wear a leather jacket but he thought he’d be cold.”

“Ah, it’s grand. Enjoying Ireland? It’s quite picturesque,” he said as he leaned against a post across from her.

Normally, Aileen was not one for small talk, especially with men. Normally, she would announce she had a boyfriend and give the cold shoulder. But there was something about this man that she couldn’t tear herself away from. He was pleasant, interesting. She liked the sound of his voice. She liked the look in his eyes. Maybe Liam was right to worry about the power an Irishman could have over her.

She realized she let too much time lapse while she was admiring him, so she smiled and said, “Sorry, yes, it’s breathtaking.” Trying to play it cool.

He raised his drink again and said, “Have ye heard of the seven wonders of Fore?”

There had been a quick mention of them in passing during the tour, but nothing more. She was intrigued. She leaned in, but not too close, aware of Liam close by, “Tell me.”

“Well,” he began, counting each out on his fingers, “there’s the monastery built on a bog, the mill without a race, the tree that won’t burn, the water that doesn’t boil, the anchorite in a stone, the lintel stone raised by St. Féichín’s prayers, and…”

His eyes twinkled, his lips curled into a magnificent smile.

“And? You have me on the edge of my seat here,” she pleaded, laughing.

“And…” he began again, savoring her attention, “well, this will probably be most interesting to you and your man, there, the water that flows uphill.”

“The water that flows uphill? Why would that be interesting to me?”

It seemed like time stopped around them, a cool, shimmering breeze blew between them.

He said, “It can show your future. I see you eyeing your man, sizing him up. I can see the questions in your eyes.”

“How…”

He put his hand up, “Nah, that’s not important. I can just tell, so. It’s said that if the right person, with the right questions, touches the water that flows uphill, she may see what’s in store for her.”

“And you think I have the right questions?”

He nods toward Liam, “You tell me.”

Aileen looked in Liam’s direction. She wondered if she really wanted to know. If she really wanted to see. If it would even work. She could feel the mysterious stranger watching her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You look like a chancer. Besides, aren’t you curious?”

She was.