"Have a look at your destiny. She's fair of face and strong of will and hungry of heart. Are you clever enough to win what the fates offer you?"

He flicked his wrist, sent the globe flying toward Trevor. Instinctively he reached out, felt his fingers pass through something cool and soft. Then the globe burst like a bubble.

"Hell of a trick," Trevor managed, then looked over at the well. He was alone again, with just the stir of the grass in the wind for company. "Hell of a trick," he repeated, and more shaken than he cared to admit, he stared down at his empty hands.

CHAPTER Four

Dreams haunted him through the night. Trevor had always dreamed in broad and vivid strokes, but since coming to Faerie Hill Cottage his dreams had taken on a finite, crystalline quality. As if someone had sharpened a lens on a camera.

The odd man from the cemetery rode a white, winged horse over a wide blue sea. And Trevor felt the broad back and bunching muscles of the mythic steed beneath him. In the distance, the sky and water were separated clearly, like a thin pencil stroke drawn with a ruler.

The water was sapphire, the sky gray as smoke.

The horse plunged, its powerful forelegs cutting through the surface, spewing up water that Trevor could see, could feel in individual drops. He could taste the salt of it on his lips.

Then they were in that swirling underworld. Cold, so cold, with the dark underlit with some eerie glow. There were flickers of iridescent light, like faerie wings fluttering, and the music playing through the pulse beat of water was pipes.

Deeper, still deeper, flying down in this element as smoothly as they had flown in the air. The thrill of it coursed through him like blood.

There, on the soft floor of the seabed a hillock of darker, wilder blue throbbed, like a waiting heart. Into this, the man who called himself a prince thrust his arm to the shoulder. And Trevor felt the slick texture of the mass on his own flesh, the vibration ripple up his own arm. His hand flexed, closed, twisted, and he wrenched free the heart of the sea.

For her, he thought, clutching it tight. This is my constancy. Only for her.

When he woke, his hand was still fisted, but the only heart that pounded was his own.

As baffled as he was shaken, Trevor opened his hand. It was empty, of course it was empty, but he felt the charge of power fading from his palm.

The heart of the sea.

It was ridiculous. He didn't have to be a marine biologist to know there was no shimmering blue mass, no organic life beating away on the floor of the Celtic Sea. It was all nothing more than an entertaining scene played by the subconscious, he told himself. Full of symbolism, he was sure, that he could analyze to death if he were so inclined.

Which he wasn't.

He got out of bed, heading for the bath. Absently he pushed a hand through his hair. And found it damp.

He stopped short, lowering his hand slowly, staring at it. Cautious, he brought his hand to his face, sniffed. Sea water?

Naked, he lowered himself to the side of the bed again. He'd never considered himself a particularly fanciful man. In fact, he liked to think he was more grounded in reality than most. But there was no denying that he'd dreamed of flying through the sea on a winged horse and had awakened with his hair damp from sea water.

How did a rational man explain that?

Explanations required information. It was time he started gathering it.

It was too early to call New York, but it was never too early to fax. After he'd dressed for the day, Trevor settled into the little office across from his bedroom and composed the first message to his parents.

Mom and Dad:

Hope you're both well. The project's on schedule and remains on budget as well. Though after a couple of days' observation, I've concluded the O'Tooles could handle the job without me, I prefer staying, at least for the present, to supervise. There's also the matter of community relations. Most of the village and the surrounding parish seem to be in favor of the theater. But the construction disturbs the general tranquility of the area. I think it's wise for me to remain visible and involved.

I also intend to continue the preliminary publicity from here.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying the area. It's as beautiful as you told me, Dad. And you're remembered fondly here. The two of you should take some time and come over.

Gallagher's is as you remembered and Finkle reported, a well-run, friendly, and popular business. Connecting the theater to it was a brilliant concept, Dad. I'm going to spend more time there, getting a clearer feel for just how it all runs and what changes or improvements we might want to implement to benefit the theater.

Mom, you'd particularly like the cottage where I'm staying. It's a postcard-and better yet is reputed to have its own ghost. You and Aunt Maggie would get a kick out of it. No unearthly visitation to report, I'm afraid, but since I'm trying to drench myself in local color, I wonder if the two of you can pass on any information you might have on the legend based here. It's something about star-crossed lovers, of course. A maid and a faerie prince.

I'll call when I get a chance.

Love, Trev

He read it over to be sure he'd kept his request casual, then shot it off to his parents' private line.

The next fax was to his assistant and was much more to the point.

Angela, I need you to research and relay any and all information available on a legend local to Ardmore. References: Carrick, prince of faeries, Gwen Fitzgerald, Faerie Hill Cottage, Old Parish, Waterford. Sixteenth century.

Trevor Magee

Once he'd transmitted, he checked his watch. Though it was just past eight, it was too early to tap his other source. He'd wait an hour before he paid a visit to Jude Gallagher.

With the business completed, the sudden and desperate urge for coffee broke through. It was strong enough to have him abandoning everything else. The one thing he missed was his automatic coffeemaker and its timer. It was something he intended to purchase at the first opportunity.

There was, in Trevor's mind, little more civilized in this world than waking up to the scent of coffee just brewed.

As he came to the base of the steps, a knock sounded on the door. With his mind already in the kitchen, his system already focused on that first jolting sip, he opened the door.

And concluded there was perhaps one thing more civilized than waking up to coffee. She was standing on his little stoop.

A smart man, a wise man, would forgo a lifetime of coffee for a beautiful blue-eyed woman wearing a snug scoop-necked sweater and a come-get-me smile. And he was a very smart man.

"Good morning. Do you wake up looking like that?"

"You'll have to do more than offer me breakfast before you get the chance to find out for yourself."

"Breakfast?"

"I believe that was the nature of the invitation."

"Right." His mind wasn't clicking rapidly along without its daily dose of caffeine. "You surprise me, Darcy."

She'd intended to. "Are you feeding me or aren't you?"

"Come in." He opened the door wider. "We'll see what we can do." She stepped inside with a light brush of her body against his. She smelled like candy-coated sin.

She wandered by to glance in the front parlor. It was very much as Maude had left it, with its pretty fancies set out here and there, the shelf thick with books, and the soft old throw tossed over the faded fabric of the sofa.

"You're a tidy one, aren't you?" She turned back. "I approve of a tidy man. Or perhaps you consider it efficiency."

"Efficiency is tidy-and it's my life." With his eyes on hers he laid a hand on her shoulder, pleased when she simply stared back at him with that same mild amusement on her face. "I was just wondering why it's not cold."

"Cold shoulders are a predictable reaction, and predictability is tedious."

"I bet you're never tedious."

"Perhaps on the rare occasion. I'm annoyed with you, but I still want my breakfast." She skirted around him, then glanced over her shoulder. "Are you cooking, or are we going out?"

"Cooking."

"Now I'm surprised. Intrigued. A man in your position knowing his way around a kitchen."

"I make a world-famous cheddar-and-mushroom omelet."

"I'll be the judge of that-and I'm very- particular about my tastes." She walked back toward the kitchen and left him blowing out one long, appreciative breath before he followed.

She sat at the little table in the center of the room, draping her arm over the back of her chair and looking very much like a woman accustomed to being served. Though his system no longer needed a jump-start, Trevor made coffee first.

"While I'm sitting here watching you deal with some homey chores," Darcy began, "why don't you tell me why you let me babble on yesterday about your family and ancestors and seemed so interested in information that would be already familiar to you."

"Because it wasn't familiar to me."

She'd suspected that, after she'd calmed down. He didn't strike her as a man who'd waste time asking questions when he already had the answers. "Why is that, if you don't mind me asking?"

He would mind. Usually. But he felt he owed her an explanation. "My grandfather had very little to say about his family here, or Ardmore. Or Ireland, for that matter."

While he waited for the coffee to brew-please, God, soon-he got out what he needed for the omelet. "He was a difficult man, with a very hard shell. My impression was that whatever he'd left here made him bitter. So it wasn't discussed."

"I see." Not clearly, Darcy mused, as it was hard to understand a family that didn't discuss everything. At