Page 59 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Our eyes meet briefly, and his lips quirk into a soft smile. He brushes his hand against mine, and warmth spreads through me, settling like an ember in my core.

I hold my breath, waiting for whatever he’s promised to reveal itself. Fine hairs rise at the back of my neck and across my arms, tingling every inch of my skin. The night itself holds its breath with me, waiting in anticipation. As if on cue, a hushed whisper of movement stirs in the distance. He places a finger against his lips, urging me to remain silent. I nod, my heart pounding even faster.

“Samhain,” Aed whispers from the depths of my mind. “It is the midnight hour of Samhain.”

The festival. We’ve reached the final night. I’ve only known this man for seven days, but somehow, it feels like a lifetime.

The meadow before us comes alive with a soft glow. Lanterns float to the sky. Flecks of fire glint against the dark backdrop. They’re echoes from home, from the bonfire at our doorstep. Music plays faintly but distinctly enough to distinguish the tune. Figures emerge from the shadows, gliding across the grass with an otherworldly grace. Glowing under the light of the full moon, one stands out above the rest, and I rise from the boulder. Odhran catches me by my wrist, stopping me.

“That’s my mother!” Disbelief widens my eyes as I look at him. My hands tremble. I need to go to her.

“These are the spirits of those lost. Twice a year, the veil between realms, between the mortal, ever-living, and the dead, thins. Twice a year, we can witness them pay tribute to the end of another season, Samhain being the most powerful.” His breath is warm against my neck.

“Can I go to her?” I ask him, pleading.

“Spirits can be unpredictable. Their emotions are unstable. Upset them and they’ll drag you to the afterlife with them.” He studies my face and the moisture building in my eyes. He sighs. “Wait for them to finish first.” His thumb grazes my cheek, rough against my skin. “I’m in awe of the depth of your emotions and the love you hold for those dear to you. It’s… quite beautiful.”

I say nothing to him in response, but watch in wonder as they dance and twirl around the echo of the bonfire. Their movements are fluid and captivating. Their laughter fills the air. She always loved music, and now she’s truly become it. It’s as if time has stood still, and I’m caught in a moment of pure enchantment.

Beside me, Odhran smiles.

One by one, the spirits disperse into the woods surrounding the meadow. My ribs grow too tight as I watch her leave, but then Odhran climbs off the boulder and walks across the mist-covered meadow. I follow.

“Lady Glynis Ashglo,” he calls to her, his voice rumbling through the open space.

My mother turns to look at him, and he bows his head. Then her eyes lock with mine. Mother. Tears blur my vision. I haven’t seen her since the week before my eleventh birthday, in what feels like forever. If she were to drag me to the afterlife with her now, I’d go willingly with a smile.

Carefully, I walk toward her, each step hammering in my heart. She glides over the grassy meadow until she stands in front of me. Her hair is black, braided into a perfect crown, her skin as fair as porcelain. She looks just like I remember her, but her hand is as cold as ice when she touches my cheek.

“I miss you…” My voice trembles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” I should probably be more aware of Odhran’s presence. Be more guarded. But at this moment, I don’t care if he sees my vulnerability.

“I’m proud of you, Bryn.” I hear her voice chime in my head, but her lips don’t move. They’re fixed in a soft smile, just like I remember. Her eyes, paler than memory, are unblinking, but I can still see the softness of her soul through them, which filled every gesture and line she ever spoke. “I’m always with you, even though you may not see me there.” I blink away my tears as her form evaporates before my eyes, and I lose her for a second time.

“Don’t go!” I cry. Anxiety rattles my body, and tears stream unguarded down my cheeks.

“I will see you again. But first, you have to live.” Her voice is soft as it echoes in my ears, so soft I could have missed it if I wasn’t searching for any little fragment of her to cling to.

Strong arms wrap around me, pulling me against a sturdy chest. His heart beats against my ear, fast and hard. I listen to him exhale as the meadow spins around me, blurred by welling tears. I can’t breathe. My chest feels too tight. I fist his shirt in my hands, not caring about his chest hair being pulled and bundled along with it. Odhran’s fingers run up and down my arm. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s enough to cause my held-in tears to cascade down my face as I surrender to his embrace.

“They can only stay for the midnight hour.” His voice is but a rumble against my ear. “I should have prepared you.”

I say nothing but stare at the meadow before me, barely seeing it through my tears.

“Did I cross a line?” His voice resonates with genuine concern.

I turn to look up at him. My vision is still hazy, blurring the details of his features, but I see enough to witness his frown, the knit of his dark brows.

Rising on my tiptoes, I feel the gentle release of his grip. When my palm touches his cheek, his short stubble prickles my skin. His eyes flutter closed. “I thought you hated me,” I whisper.

His frown disappears, replaced by fine lines at the corners of his eyes. My fingers delve into the softness of his hair, curling around the nape of his neck, beckoning him closer. He swallows, his throat bobbing as he bends down, filling the space that was between us a moment ago. As if his presence steals the air around me, my lungs struggle to get their fill.

“I said you’re an ache. I never said that I hate you.” With our lips a mere breath apart, I hesitate. He smells of cinnamon and peppermint and freedom.

A surge of energy courses through me as our lips meet. Every ounce of tension and uncertainty melts away. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel every inch of him against me. His kiss is one of hunger as his tongue strokes mine. When he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, warm and inviting, the world fades into the background, leaving only the sensation of his touch, his taste.

His arms tighten around me, pulling me impossibly close, as if he, too, is afraid to let go. Each touch, each caress, ignites a fire within me, and for the first time since I met him, I’m afraid.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmurs against my lips. “Is tú Mo Stóirín.”