The Solstice Cup

THE
S
OLSTICE
C
UP

RACHEL DUNSTAN MULLER

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2009 Rachel Dunstan Muller

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Muller, Rachel Dunstan, 1970-
The solstice cup / written by Rachel Dunstan Muller.

ISBN 978-1-55469-017-6

I. Title.

PS8626.U4415S65 2009     jC813'.6     C2008-907306-1

First published in the United States, 2009
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2008940980

Summary:
On a visit to Ireland, twin sisters are lured into the “Otherworld,” where a dangerous enchantment threatens to separate them.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover artwork by Juliana Kolesova
Cover and text design by Teresa Bubela
Typesetting by Christine Toller
Author photo by Bern Muller

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.
12 11 10 09 • 4 3 2 1

For Rebecca and Naomi, my favorite twins.

C
ONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

C
HAPTER
O
NE

A
unt Joan peered out of the tiny kitchen window into the darkness, her stout body bent over the sink. “What on earth is keeping your sister?” she asked. “She promised she'd be back before the sun went down. I'll have to send your uncle out looking for her if she's not back in ten minutes.”

“I can go,” Mackenzie offered, pushing her chair back from the table.

“No, lass, you sit tight and finish peeling those potatoes,” said her great-aunt. “The last thing we need is both of you wandering out there. And on a wild night like this!” She shook her head. “I should never have let her go off alone, not with that leg of hers. Still limping after five years—imagine. Your mother says the doctors have no explanation for it.”

Mackenzie had just started on her last potato when Breanne stumbled in through the back door of the stone farmhouse.

“There you are!” Aunt Joan threw down the turnip she'd been scrubbing and rushed to her great-niece. “I was ready to call out the
gardai
on you! Do you have any idea what can happen to a child out in the glens after dark? And a child like you, all alone…”

Ignoring the anger on Breanne's face, she helped her out of her wet jacket. “Look at you,” she continued. “You're covered in mud from head to toe! But you're home and safe, and that's what matters. Get those boots off and then wash yourself up while I finish getting tea on the table.”

Mackenzie found her twin sister in the front room a few minutes later. Breanne had released her blond hair from its soggy ponytail and was shaking it out in front of the turf fire that crackled in the fireplace.

“You could have told me you were going out,” Mackenzie said as she tried to help her sister untangle a knot at the back of her head.

Breanne yanked her hair away. “I didn't want company.”

“Come on,” said Mackenzie. “We're ten thousand miles from home. Just for once, maybe we could stick together.”

“Stick together?” Breanne shot Mackenzie a dirty look. “After what you did at the Christmas dance last week?”

Mackenzie felt her face go red. “You never told me you liked Dylan. Besides, he asked me to dance. I didn't ask him.”

“I saw you out there. Every time a song ended and a new one came on, you were like, ‘Oh, this is my favorite song.'” Breanne's voice was high and sickly sweet. “It was disgusting.”

“Fine. Be like that.” Mackenzie dropped into the overstuffed armchair behind her. “Are you trying to punish Aunt Joan for something too? She was really worried when you were so late.”

“Why? Was she afraid I wouldn't be able to outrun the banshees with this leg? A ‘child like me'!”

“Don't be so touchy,” said Mackenzie. “Anything could have happened—we're in a foreign country, after all.”

“Foreign country,” Breanne snorted. “We're on a sheep farm in Northern Ireland.”

Mackenzie watched her sister tug at the knot in her hair. “You went up to the stones, didn't you,” she said.

Breanne shrugged. “Maybe. So?”

“You were looking for the ring.”

“Don't be retarded,” Breanne said. “It's been five years since you tossed it. It's long gone.”

“Yeah, well,” said Mackenzie, “you shouldn't have gone up there—especially by yourself. We swore we would never go back.”

“Oh please,” said Breanne contemptuously. “You can't be serious. We were little kids. We were, like, eight years old. I don't even know how you can remember anything that far back.”

Aunt Joan called from the kitchen before Mackenzie could respond. “Tea's ready. Come and eat while it's still hot!”

“I don't suppose you hear much about the fair folk in Canada, now do you?” Uncle Eamon asked after they'd finished their evening meal. He pushed his chair away from the cleared table and lit his pipe with fingers that were thick and callused.

Mackenzie shot her sister a warning glance. “The fair folk?”

“Aye, the wee folk, the ‘faeries',” Aunt Joan said as she set a tray of small cakes on the table.

“Uh, no,” said Mackenzie. “Not really. Except in kids' books.”

“Here in Ireland, we take the fair folk a bit more seriously, especially at this time of year,” said Uncle Eamon. “You know what day it is, lass?” he asked Breanne, who was smirking.

Mackenzie answered quickly, before her sister could come up with some sarcastic reply. “Thursday, the twentieth of December.”

“Which makes tomorrow the twenty-first,” said Aunt Joan. “That's the winter solstice.”

“The shortest day of the year,” said Mackenzie, ignoring her sister's rolling eyes.

“And one of the most dangerous, if you don't mind yourself.” Aunt Joan filled the first of the four cups in front of her with tea. “You don't want to be caught out after dark on the solstice, that's for certain.”

Breanne took the teacup from her aunt's hand. “Why not?” she asked. “What do the faeries do on the solstice—set people's hair on fire? Steal babies?”

Uncle Eamon's grizzled chin bobbed up and down. “Aye, 'tis easy to mock the wee folk when you're inside a warm house with the lights on and good company around you. I doubt you'd feel so brave all alone in the glens.”

“Seriously.” Mackenzie leaned forward. “What happens at the winter solstice?”

“The barrier that separates our world and the world of the fair folk is stretched thin, so it is,” Aunt Joan said. Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Your uncle can tell you a tale or two.”

“My sister, your grandmother, was the best storyteller in the family, God rest her soul,” said Eamon. “But I'll do the best I can.” He took a few puffs from his pipe before beginning the first story.

Mackenzie let herself down carefully onto her collapsible metal cot a few hours later. Breanne was already in bed on the other side of the cluttered sewing room that doubled as a guest room.

“One night down, twelve more to go,” Breanne said. “Let's hope they don't go on like that every night. That was so boring, I was ready to stab myself with a fork.”

“Shhh—they'll hear you!” Mackenzie whispered. “Besides, I thought it was interesting. I learned some new stuff. Do you realize it was the solstice the last night we were here, five years ago?”

“What are you talking about? We were here in June. We missed the last few weeks of school.”

“We flew home on June twenty-third—I remember because it was the day before Mom's birthday,” said Mackenzie. “The day before that was June twenty-second. That's the summer solstice, the longest day of the year.”

Breanne yawned. “So?”

“So—it's starting to make sense now,” said Mackenzie. “What happened up at the stones.”

Breanne raised herself up on one elbow. “Why are you so obsessed with that night?
Nothing
happened, Mackenzie, except that I found a ring near the stones, and you were jealous and threw it away. And then you made up some story about an arm reaching up from the shadows to scare me. I would have gone back up to look for the ring the next morning if we hadn't left so early.”

“You saw something too,” Mackenzie insisted. “I know you did! And what about your leg?” she asked after a pause. “Breanne?”

“I twisted it,” her sister said.

“Then why hasn't it healed?”

Breanne flopped down angrily. “Just give it a rest already! We're not little kids anymore.”

“Aunt Joan and Uncle Eamon would have known what to do,” said Mackenzie. “We should have told them about it back then, but we were too scared.”

Breanne snorted. “Too scared they'd laugh at us. You don't think they really buy all that stuff about faeries, do you, Mackenzie? They were just entertaining us tonight. That's what old people do in Ireland after dinner. They sit around telling stories—if they don't have satellite tv, that is.”