She didn’t want a substitute.

But she did need peace.

«Ahhh.» Darcy sat back and folded her arms. «You’re going to tell me now, aren’t you? I can see it coming. It’s about a man, isn’t it?»

Maggie started, almost knocking over her water glass. «No, it isn’t about a man.» She could feel the tops of her ears burning on the lie. «It’s about Ireland.» She opted for a half-truth, knowing that for her Conall Flanagan and Ireland were almost one and the same. «I’m going back to see the Seven Sisters.»

«Maggie!» Darcy’s eyes widened, her face flushing with pleasure. «That’s splendid news. But how are you swinging it? Did you win the lottery?»

«No, it’s better.» This time Maggie did treat herself to more colcannon. «My sisters and cousins pitched in and are giving me the trip for my thirtieth birthday. They’re saying it’s payback for all the times I’ve babysat, painted murals on their walls or stayed with their dogs when they went on vacation.»

«Good on them.» Darcy looked delighted. «Though, really, your mural work alone is worth a thousand trips to Ireland.» She glanced across the tea room to where Maggie’s artful hand had turned a plain wall into a whimsical collage of the Emerald Isle. «I’ve had so many customers say they wished they could jump into your painting.»

Maggie followed her friend’s gaze, secretly amazed the collage was hers.

It was fine work.

Everything that was the quintessence of Ireland was somewhere on the wall. Dapper city dwellers in their Sunday best strolled the streets of turn-of-the-century Dublin, three fiddlers entertained a foot-stomping crowd in a smoke-hazed pub and rosy-cheeked children tumbled with a dog in a daisy-studded meadow. Winding country roads disappeared across rolling green hills and, here and there, gleaming whitewashed cottages caught the eye, their thick walls and thatched roofs enchanting the Cabbage Rose’s American clientele with the charm of a long-ago, slower-paced world.

Maggie’s heart squeezed, her gaze settling on a particular cottage. A farmhouse, really, it was long and low in the traditional style and she’d painted a faint curl of bluish smoke rising from the chimney. In the garden, laundry could be seen fluttering in the breeze and, just beyond, a sparkling sea glinted, stretching into the distance.

She lived in that distance and it’d been breaking her for twelve long years.

«Too bad none of those customers loved the mural enough to commission their own.» Maggie regretted the words as soon she spoke them. It wasn’t Darcy’s fault she was a starving artist. «I’m sorry, I meant.» She tore her gaze from the Flanagan farmhouse and let out a shaky breath, furious that a few strokes of paint on a wall held such power over her. «Sometimes I just wish»—

«I know what you wish, dear heart.» Darcy’s eyes filled with understanding. «But now, thanks to your wonderful family, you’re going back. So tell me»— she nodded and smiled at the server who brought them a pot of tea «—which sisters are you visiting? Are they Gleasons or maybe great-aunts on your mother’s side?»

«They’re neither.» Maggie reached for the teapot and poured them both a cup. «The Seven Sisters are a stone circle. You can see them there»— she twisted around, indicating a section of the mural near the tea room’s gift shop «—just above the little harbour and its fishing boats.»

Darcy peered across the room, her eyes narrowing on the silvery stones, rising eerily from a swirl of mist. «But there are only six of them. You said»—

«The Seven Sisters, I know.» Maggie sipped her tea, welcoming its soothing tang. «They’re called that because there once were seven sisters. Now»—

«I feel a tall tale coming.» Darcy reached for her own teacup, her lips twitching. «I just don’t understand why you’ve never mentioned it before, seeing as you painted the stone circle on my wall.»

«There is a legend, yes.» The words caught in Maggie’s throat. Even now, it was so hard to speak of the place. «But it’s very sad and»—

«All good Irish legends are sad.»

«This one is different.» Maggie felt the skin on her nape prickle, then a stab of deep longing inside her. «I think this story is real because I’ve been there and have felt the power of those stones. The circle shimmers in the air, I swear. And once you’ve stood there.» She bit her lip, pausing. Heat was swelling in her chest, clamping around her ribs like a vice. It was the yearning, she knew. And just now, it was sweeping her so fiercely she could hardly breathe.

«I have to go back, Darcy.» She curled her fingers around her teacup, feeling the cold grit of ancient stone instead of the delicacy of tea-warmed porcelain. «We both know I’m obsessed with Ireland. But my life is here, whether I like that or not. I need to undo whatever spell those Sisters cast on me. I’m turning thirty. It’s time to move on.»

«So who were the Sisters?» Darcy was watching her over the rim of her teacup.

«They were the seven daughters of a lesser Irish king who lived in the days when the Vikings first began raiding Ireland.» Maggie closed her eyes, returning in her mind to that distant, windswept cliff. «Though some legends claim the Sisters are even older than that, going back to a hoary time perhaps even before the coming of the fabled Tuatha Dé Danann.»

«The King loved all his daughters, but there was one he favoured above the others. She was the youngest and also the sweetest. Men in all the land vied for her hand, but her father would see her wed to none but the great champion he loved like a son — for the young warrior had once saved the king’s life in battle.»

Maggie peered at her friend, not surprised to see Darcy scoot her chair closer. «Many of the other kings and their sons were disappointed by the King’s choice, but everyone understood, for the valiant warrior had a good and noble heart. He was also said to have been so handsome that even the stars in heaven envied his beauty.»

«You’re making this up.» Darcy refreshed Maggie’s tea. «But it’s a lovely tale.»

«It is. And I’m telling you the legend exactly as it was told to me.»

«And who would it be who told you. Hmm?»

«Someone who lives near the stones.» The truth slipped out before Maggie could catch herself. «Someone I met on my college trip to Ireland.»

«Would that someone be a man?» Darcy twinkled at her.

Maggie stirred milk into her tea, ignoring the grin spreading across her friend’s face. «It was a man, yes. Ireland is full of them, you know. And they’re all born storytellers. They enjoy sharing their tales with visitors. They»— Maggie glanced at the window, sure she’d caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. But nothing stirred except the mist curling above the smooth surface of the duck pond. «You’ve sidetracked me.» She turned back to Darcy. «Do you want to hear the rest of the legend or not?»

«Of course, I do.»

Maggie took a deep breath, fighting the urge to look out the window again. «Well,» she began, remembering, «the wedding day approached and the King ordered preparations made for a grand feasting the likes of which had never been seen in his small but mighty kingdom. The bride thought her heart would burst with happiness. She’d always feared she’d be made to wed a king or prince whose land would be far from her father’s and she loved her home dearly and dreaded having to leave. She’d also fallen deeply in love with the young champion who was to be her husband. But as often happens when life seems so good, the young girl’s happiness was about shatter.»

«Her champion dies.» Darcy made the words a statement. «And she pines away until she’s an embittered old woman, mourning her lost love forever.»

«That’s close, but not quite how it was.»

«Then what did happen?»

Maggie slid a glance at the window again, unable to help herself. Nothing sinister or faelike lurked in the drifting mist. But there was an elderly woman down by the pond. She moved slowly along the water’s edge, feeding the ducks from a brown paper bag. She didn’t look Maggie’s way, but something about her sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.

«Hey!» Darcy poked her arm. «I’m waiting. How does the story end?»

Maggie reached for her teacup, needing a bracing sip. «According to the legend, sea raiders landed on the eve of the wedding. The King and his men and all their guests were taken by surprise, the raiders storming into the hall in the middle of the celebrations. Many of the King’s men and his friends were slain, including the valiant young warrior. But the bards claim he fought ferociously, once again saving the King’s life, this time through the giving of his own.»

«Of the girl’s fate, nothing can be told. She was seized by the attackers and carried away from Ireland in one of their war galleys. No one ever saw her again.»

«Damn, that’s sad.» A frown creased Darcy’s brow. «Now I know why I read so many romance novels. You’re always guaranteed a happy ending. Wait»— she looked at Maggie sharply, the furrow on her forehead deepening «—you still haven’t told me why the stone circle is called the Seven Sisters.»

«Ah, but I have.» Maggie glanced across the room to her painted likeness of the stones. «The King’s daughter is the seventh sister. The stones are named in her honour and in memory of the six sisters who never forgot her. In fact, it’s said that they spent so much time standing on the cliff, looking out to the western sea and grieving for her, that their sorrow turned them to stone.»

«So that’s why there are only six stones?»

«That’s how I heard the tale.»

«Well, I’ll never walk into the gift shop now without glancing at those stones on the wall and feeling a shiver.» Darcy stood, smoothing her frilled white apron. «Now, dear heart, I’d better get back into my kitchen. I’ll have someone bring you more colcannon»— she snatched Maggie’s unfinished portion off the table «—you’ve let this turn cold.»