“You look troubled,” he said.
She turned to him again, her rich blue eyes sparkling with sudden pleasure. “You’re Irish!”
Her abrupt change in mood took him by surprise. “I am. My name’s Finian Bracken.”
She pointed to his clerical collar. “You’re a priest?”
“I serve a church not far from here. Won’t you tell me your name?”
“I’m Ainsley d’Auberville. It’s very nice to meet you, Father Bracken. I thought Lucas Sharpe might be here, but no one’s around. They’re getting ready to renovate. I forgot.”
“Does he live in Heron’s Cove?”
She nodded. “In the village. His folks have a house here, too. This is the grandfather’s house, and the offices of their family business—”
“I’m somewhat familiar with them,” Finian said vaguely.
“I’m not even sure anymore why I wanted to see Lucas. It seemed so urgent just a few minutes ago. I found myself here and rang the doorbell. When I didn’t get an answer, I headed around back. I didn’t see anyone, so I peeked in a window and tried the door.” She broke off, as if she just realized she was explaining herself to a stranger. “What about you, Father?”
Finian smiled, noncommittal. “It’s a lovely day for an outing.”
Ainsley returned his smile with a bright one of her own. “It is, isn’t it? I should get home and enjoy the rest of it. On second thought, would you mind if I talked to you about something?” Her rich blue eyes lost their sparkle almost as suddenly as it had appeared. “I’m in a quandary. I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course—”
“Will you walk with me?”
When he agreed, she seemed visibly relieved. With a burst of energy, she led him out to the front of the Sharpe house. Across the street, a small restaurant with outdoor seating was busy with lunch-goers. Ainsley paused and watched a couple with two young children be seated at a round table. An awning and plastic sheeting protected them from the cool temperature and wind.
Finally she said, without looking at Finian, “You must have heard about the nun who was killed yesterday.”
He watched her closely as he spoke. “I have, yes.”
“It’s unsettling, having such violence happen so close by. Did you know her?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Then you’re not here because Emma Sharpe was at the convent when the attack occurred? That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”
Finian kept his tone neutral. “I’m here walking off pancakes.” Technically, it was true. It wasn’t as if Colin Donovan had sent him to investigate the Sharpes.
Ainsley d’Auberville attempted another easy smile. “Wild-blueberry pancakes?”
He laughed. “We’re in Maine, aren’t we?”
“They’re deadly but delicious. The blueberries are good for us, though. They’re loaded with antioxidants. I suppose we’d be smarter to sprinkle them on bran cereal and low-fat milk, instead of in pancakes.”
Finian gently steered her back to the subject at hand. “Did you know Sister Joan?”
Ainsley’s bright expression dimmed and her eyes overflowed with tears. “We weren’t friends, but yes, I knew Sister Joan.”
“The Sisters of the Joyful Heart isn’t a cloistered order, but how did you meet her?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled, twisting her fingers together in front of her silver dragon buckle.
“The facts are perhaps a good place to start,” Finian said.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Simple, but not necessarily easy.”
“It depends on the facts, doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the wind catching her shining hair as she started up the street, past the inn and the entrance to the parking lot. “Do you know much about Vikings, Father?”
Vikings? Finian tried to keep his surprise to himself as he walked alongside pretty Ainsley d’Auberville. “Some.”
“They wreaked havoc on coastal Ireland for a couple hundred years, but they also founded Dublin, Cork, Limerick. Ireland had no real towns until the arrival of the Vikings.” Ainsley glanced sideways at Finian, a touch of color returning to her cheeks. “They’re also called the Norsemen, the Northmen—Vikings means ‘people of the bay,’ did you know?”
“I did not know,” he said.
“It’s an incredible, fascinating, often bloody history. They were traders, farmers, warriors, skilled craftsmen. The Viking Age is generally considered to have started with the horrific raid on Lindisfarne Abbey in 793 and continued through the eleventh century. Time seems to have moved more slowly then. Imagine how much has changed even here in Heron’s Cove in the past three hundred years.” She paused, obviously enjoying the subject. “Are you from Dublin, Father?”
“The southwest. A Saint Finian’s Church in Kenmare in County Kerry was sacked by Vikings.”
“Ah. Your namesake. Viking raiders knew that the wealth of the population was held in churches and monasteries. There were no banks—loaning money was considered a violation of Christian principles.” She waved a hand dismissively, not slackening her pace. “Of course, most of what we know about the Vikings was written by non-Vikings.”
“Is your interest an avocation or are you studying Viking history?”
“Oh, an avocation. Totally. I’ve only read books and articles. I’m not a scholar.” She cast him a quick smile. “I love your accent. I can’t mimic an Irish accent at all. I’ve been to Ireland, but just Dublin. I want to see more of the country and visit Viking sites. Have you been to Skellig Michael?”
“Several times, yes.”
“I’d love to go. I’ve seen pictures. It was raided by Vikings at least once early in the ninth century.”
Finian looked out at the Maine coastal waters, but in his mind he pictured Skellig Michael, a knob of rock—a submerged mountaintop, really—at the westernmost edge of Europe, twelve kilometers off the tip of Ireland’s Iveragh Peninsula. During the seventh century, monks carved out a monastery on the forbidding landscape. A small monastic community survived there for the next six hundred years. Finian had first climbed through the remote ruins with his wife, who’d been so proud and delighted at going in spite of her fear of heights.
“Did I say something
