Through the Door
Authors: Jodi McIsaac
Tags: #Romance, #Science Fiction, #Contemporary, #Adventure, #Fantasy
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © Jodi McIsaac
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612183077
ISBN-10: 1612183077
For Levi
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Before you start stumbling over words like
sidhe
and
Toirdhealbhach
(don’t worry, that one appears only three times), here is a rough pronunciation guide to some of the old Irish or otherwise unfamiliar terms that pop up in this story. There’s a fair amount of debate on the correct way to pronounce some of these words (is it
Too AH ha day DAN an
or
TOO ah ha DAY dan ah
?), so please feel free to say them any way you like, as long as they sound good in your own head.
Tuatha Dé Danann—
Too AH ha day DAN an
Tír na nÓg—
TEER na NOHG
Sidh—
SHEE
Sidhe (plural of sidh)—
SHEE
Ériu—AY roo
Cohulleen druith—
coo CALL en DRU ah
Fionnbharr—
FYUN var
Fionnghuala—
fyun OO la
Nuala—
NOO uh la
Brighid—
BREE yit
Deardra—
DEAR dra
Ruadhan—
ROO awn
Toirdhealbhach—
TUR a lakh
Muireadhach—
MWIR akh
Aine—
AWN ye
Mallaidh—
MAUL y
Osgar—
US gar
Today was the day.
She was finally going to tell him.
Cedar ran her fingers through her long black hair, her stomach twisting with nerves. She was weaving her way through the crowd at the Halifax Busker Festival, her boyfriend, Finn, following in her wake. Anything could happen here, with its cacophony of street performers and artists and musicians, which is why she never missed it. This year, she hoped, would be one to remember. It all depended on how he took the news.
“So? What do you think?” she asked, spinning around and fixing her mossy green eyes on him. He was looking over his shoulder at something behind them, but at her question he turned back to her and grinned, brushing a wave of brown hair off his forehead.
“The festival? I think it’s beautiful chaos. Sort of like you,” he said, his eyes crinkling. Cedar laughed and kissed him. He smelled like honey and lime and pepper, and it made her heart beat faster, even though the air around them was thick with salt air, hot pavement, street kebabs, and the sweat of performers. The crowd poured itself between stalls hawking everything from incense to kilts, and gathered in knots to watch the entertainment. There were bodies everywhere—some
dancing, some singing, some drawing, some coaxing music out of unrecognizable instruments, everyone beckoning and beguiling the passersby. Cedar watched, amazed, as a contortionist twisted himself into impossible positions, and a fire dancer spun and leapt and tangoed with the flames. She lingered at every artist’s stall, admiring the work and discussing technique and influences.
“Maybe next year you should bring some of your work,” Finn said.
“Mmm, maybe,” she said. They stopped and talked to a chalk artist creating 3-D images on the pavement, and Cedar’s face lit up when the man told her he had seen her latest show at a local gallery. Cedar and Finn joined in an impromptu swing dance and then continued on to the next street corner where some old-timers were entertaining the crowd with a set of Cape Breton fiddle tunes. Finn winked at her and pulled his tin whistle out of his back pocket, joining in with a tune here and there as the men played and sang. Then one of the old men hauled him in from the crowd and sat him down on an upturned bucket, insisting he put his whistle to good use and join them for a song or two. Finn laughed and quickly complied, his brown waves bouncing as his body moved with the music. The crowd loved it: this young pup who could keep up with every song the wizened fiddlers threw at him. Finally, he bowed his way out and rejoined Cedar, who had been clapping and dancing along with the rest.
“Two years together, and you can still surprise me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him again.
“Surely not. I’m an open book,” he said, his rich golden eyes widening in mock surprise.
Cedar swallowed. “So, listen, there’s something—” she began, but stopped when she noticed he was no longer paying attention to her. He was looking away, his brow furrowed. She turned to follow his gaze, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“What are you looking at?” she asked. He shook his head.
“Nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew, that’s all.” He dropped her hand and continued down the street. She followed him, glancing back at where he had been looking. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to tell him. But she didn’t want to wait much longer.
Finn stopped in front of the theater and looked back at her, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Want to go see the magic show?” he asked.
Cedar groaned. “Oh, no. You’re not going to try to convince me again that magic is real, are you?” As an artist, Cedar thought magic was a lovely and romantic notion, but lately Finn had been taking it far more seriously, bringing home dusty old tomes from the university library and telling her stories of gods and heroes as if they had actually existed.
“Magic
is
real,” he answered her. “If you want it to be. You just need to open your mind a wee bit more.” He put his hands on her head and ran his thumbs along her eyebrows, which were arched in skepticism. She laughed and pulled away.
“You’re all the magic I need,” she said. “But, yes, I’ll come see the show with you. Emphasis on the word
show.
”
The sun had set when Finn and Cedar left the theater and joined the crowd spilling into the warm August air. The show had been highly entertaining, even mystifying, and Cedar had found herself daydreaming about what life would be like if magic
were
real, as Finn insisted.
The plaintive strains of Bob Marley accompanied them as they flowed through the throngs of people. “Come,” she said to Finn, taking his hand and pulling him toward its source. A crowd was growing around three young musicians playing “No Woman, No Cry.” Finn moved behind Cedar and wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing their bodies together. Cedar closed her eyes, and together they swayed to the music, wrapped in the night air and the knowledge that, at that moment, they were the only two people on earth.
Now,
she thought to herself.
Now is the time to tell him.
Without warning, she felt a cold wave sweep over her, and Finn stepped away as if she had shocked him. She looked up at him and noticed with alarm that all the color had drained from his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. He jerked away and continued staring off into the crowd, a look of horror marring his beautiful features.
“Finn?” she asked. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He shook his head, but when he turned back to her, his face had relaxed and his eyes were clear and calm. “I just felt sick all of a sudden,” he said. Then he smiled though it seemed forced to Cedar. “Maybe too much street meat for one day. I think I should head home.” She nodded, and they made their way through the crowd. She watched him carefully. His eyes kept darting around them, and his body was tense, as if ready to fight. She tried to follow his line of vision, and for one moment she thought she saw a bright flash of red quickly disappear around the corner. Then there was nothing. When they reached the door of her apartment, he didn’t follow her inside or kiss her goodnight.
“I’m sorry our evening had to end early,” he said, standing a foot away from her. “It was an amazing day. One I’ll always remember.” Then he turned and walked away.
The next day Cedar went straight to Finn’s apartment after work, only stopping to pick up his favorite takeout curry for dinner. Her stomach was once again fluttering nervously. They would be alone together, with no distractions, and she would be able to share her news. She let herself in, and then stopped short.
It was empty. The furniture was gone; the walls were bare except for the holes where her paintings had once hung. A window was open, and the breeze made a few dust bunnies dance slowly around the floor toward her. In a daze, Cedar walked through the apartment, looking for a note or some indication of what had happened. There was nothing. She stood where the bed used to be and slowly pulled her phone out of her pocket. The automated voice on the other end told her his number had been disconnected. She sent off an e-mail, and felt a bone-deep cold creep over her as she read the immediate reply.
No such user here.
When she spoke, her voice sounded hollow, as void as the apartment that loomed around her. “I’m pregnant,” she said. But there was no one to hear.
Seven years later
Cedar looked at the clock on her computer for the hundredth time, and then started shutting down files. She took one last glance at her e-mail and was about to shut that down too, when the message popped up on her screen:
Just got revisions from the client. Need you to make these changes before you go home.
So close.
Cedar was a graphic designer at Ellison Creative, one of the top marketing firms in the country. It was a demanding job, but a solid one, and she figured stability was worth a little overtime. She sighed and started opening files again. An hour later, she finally packed up and left the office. She picked up Eden’s favorite pizza on the way home, thinking it might soften the blow of being late. Again.
“Hey, I’m home!” she called as she opened the door to her downtown condo.
“Mummy!” squealed Eden as she rushed to greet her. Cedar set the pizza on the counter, and lifted her daughter up into her arms. Eden was small for her age, all fine bones and olive skin and wavy brown hair that fell to her waist. She was the spitting image of her father, right down to the flecks of yellow in her golden eyes.
“Hello, my heart,” Cedar said, kissing her daughter’s cheeks and setting her back down. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yep! Gran took me to the art gallery!” Eden said.
“Oh!” Cedar said with a twinge of disappointment. She had been hoping to take Eden to the art gallery that summer, but hadn’t found the time yet. “Hey, Mum,” she called. “Sorry I’m late.”
Maeve McLeod poked her head out of the kitchen. She was short and slightly plump, with a face that still held some vestiges of gentle beauty. Now it was marred by a disapproving scowl.
“No need to apologize to me,” she said, though her tone indicated otherwise. “How was work?”
“Fine,” Cedar answered distractedly, admiring the drawings Eden was showing her. “Had some last-minute revisions for a client, that’s all.”
Maeve pursed her lips.
“What?” Cedar asked, annoyed.
“You should be more firm with them. They know you have a daughter to get home to. They make you work late too much.”
“Yes, but they also know I need this job.”
Maeve sniffed. “Well, anyway, I made you dinner. I’ll just take it out of the oven and be on my way.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Mum. I brought dinner home.”
Maeve eyed the pizza box Cedar had set on the counter with an air of distrust. “Mmm” was all she said.
“Why don’t you stay and eat with us? Are you going somewhere?” Cedar asked.
“No, not going somewhere,” Maeve said, “but I’ll go. I’ve been here all day and you two need to spend some quality
time together.” She set a casserole and salad on the table, put on her coat, and left after kissing Cedar on the cheek and pulling Eden in for a hug.