“Yes,” she said, staring at me in wonder. “I can feel me magic again.”
Seeing her Legacy flow back into her body made me feel proud to be able to use the gifts the Crescents had given me to restore her belief in the world.
“Take a break,” Aileen said, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Go enjoy the festival.”
“That was the last one,” I said, glancing up at the hawthorn as Amanda rejoined her family. They embraced and chattered happily as she tested out her magic. “There’s no more Legacy left.”
“Then let me do this last part,” she replied. “You’ve done so much, Skye. Besides, you have to take it easy.”
“Thanks, Mum.” I rubbed my eyes and rose to my feet, my back aching and a strange craving for tomato sauce sandwiches tickling my tastebuds.
Making my way back to the village, I thought over everything that had happened in the last six months. After the battle with Carman, fae crossed into Ireland and assisted those too wild or too frail to return on their own. Craglorn passed through the portal where healers were on standby, ready to help them recover. It was a confronting sight for the villagers, but they’d seen weirder things. Sean McKinnon and Maggie Ashlyn starting a romance was one of them.
Humans also returned from across the realms. They were the descendants of those that had been left behind, but after so long living among the fae, many decided to go back.
When we began spreading the word about the possibility of returning lost Legacies, witches had started appearing. One or two, to begin with, then whole covens rolled up when they’d heard my efforts had been successful. They came from as far as County Donegal in the north, to Kerry and Cork in the south. Their covens were large and small, their talents as varied as the colors of their Legacies. I heard their stories, and they heard mine, and it seemed the Crescents were back in the good books.
And Boone with magic that wasn’t shapeshifter related was weird. It explained his magical tongue and silver animal shapes, at least.
The riotous sound of a traditional Irish folk song echoed through the edges of the forest as I emerged. Turning down the main street, I smiled and breathed in the scent of candied apples, fish and chips from a witch-driven van that had traveled all the way up from Dingle, and popcorn from a stall selling fairground snacks.
Derrydun had put on a Lughnasadh celebration to welcome visitors from all over Ireland and beyond. It was a Gaelic festival that marked the beginning of the harvest season on the last Sunday of July, so the village had been decorated with garlands of hawthorn leaves, Virginia creeper, and twists of rushes and corn stalks. It was also called Garland Sunday, and people climbed to the summit of Croagh Patrick on a pilgrimage to honor Saint Patrick who, in the year four hundred and forty-one, spent forty days fasting on the mountain. Or so Boone told me.
All the stores were open, and tables laden with local produce and crafts were set up all along the main street. Molly McCreedy’s was in full swing, as was Mary’s Teahouse. Seeing the handprinted sign out the front of Mrs. Boyle’s spruiking it as a bed-and-breakfast, I had to have a little chuckle.
Even Fergus had set up at his usual spot beside Mary’s Teahouse. Donkey and Jack posed for photos as he weaved his crosses of St. Brigid for the visiting witches. His tipping pot was overflowing with gold coins, and he looked pleased as punch with all the attention.
A makeshift stage sat in the car park where the Tralee Witches were performing a lively rendition of Whiskey in the Jar. They were more like a traveling band than a coven, with two fiddlers, a guitarist, a tin whistler, and a drummer. Though when they played, I was sure I felt a little magic among the notes. Talk about supercharged craic!
Wandering among the stalls, I smiled and greeted people as I went. Witches, fae, and humans alike.
Phee yapped excitedly as Roy dangled a sausage in front of her nose, but she didn’t clamp her jaws around the tasty morsel until he’d given the command. Sean and Maggie walked hand in hand, and he teased her with a stick wound with bright pink fairy floss. Mrs. Boyle was handing out flowers to a group of little girls instead of chasing them with her broom. Cheese Wheel Aoife was rushed off her feet in her shop, and next door in Irish Moon, Natalie—the overexcited witch we’d hired to help us out over the summer—was zapping crystals left, right, and center with the trusty laser scanner.
Stopping by a display of landscape paintings, I shook my head. Mairead had been busy since the battle, whipping up canvases small and large. Everyone who’d come to reclaim their Legacy had wanted to see the painting that held Carman and meet its artist. The result was a mob around her Garland Sunday stall, a tangle of selfie sticks, an overflowing cash box, and commissions to last her the next ten years at least. Everyone wanted something painted by the artist whose work now held the most dangerous witch in history. Talk about an epic career change.
All was well in Derrydun…and all over Ireland.
“Are you Skye?”
I turned to find a trio of girls staring up at me with eyes as big as moons.
“That’s me,” I replied.
“Can we take a selfie with you?” the elder of the group asked eagerly.
I laughed and gestured for them to squeeze in. I made a peace sign as she snapped a few pictures of me and her friends, and when they were done, they scurried off, giggling excitedly as they went.
“I see you’ve been busy while I’ve been away,” a voice said behind me. “You’ve gone and got yourself a fan club!”
Spinning
