The Web (Fianna Trilogy Book 2) by Chance Megan

Author:Chance, Megan [Chance, Megan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 2015-01-19T16:00:00+00:00

That afternoon

Grace

The cries of the vendors became louder as we approached the rail depot, along with the shouts and squeals from the water. The sun beat on my shoulders and my face, reminding me that I had no hat, that my skin was no doubt turning pink, and my mother would have my head for it—

Homesickness washed over me. Oscar’s news last night had eased my worries over my family somewhat, but I still wished I could see for myself that they were all right.

Just then Derry said, “Let’s not go back yet. We’ve done what we meant to do, and the whole day’s still ahead of us. Why don’t we get something to eat and walk along the beach for a bit? Let’s just forget it all. The archdruid and the stick and who you are and who I am, and just . . . be. You and me at the seashore. Just for the day.”

The thought of spending the day here without worrying over burdens I didn’t want and couldn’t carry sounded wonderful. To just be myself, to forget . . . I wanted it almost more than I’d ever wanted anything.

“Yes, let’s,” I agreed.

His smile was so dazzling I could not help smiling back.

“Come on then,” he said.

He bought a paper cone full of roasted clams, and we headed toward the water, accosted all along the way by men begging us to try our hand at cards. At one point Derry pushed a man hard in the chest and said, “Leave us be,” and the man retreated as if he’d seen something that frightened him; I knew what it was: Diarmid Ua Duibhne, Fianna warrior.

I reminded myself that we were forgetting everything, and let it go. We walked along the shore, sucking the salty, peppery clams from their shells—I’d never tasted anything so good in my life—and dodging children who rushed dripping and laughing and screaming from the surf. I knew I’d never forget this: the hot sun and my hair blowing into my face, the sand squishing beneath my boots, licking the clam juice off my fingers; Derry walking beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets, his collar fluttering in the breeze; the roar of the waves and the whistles of the steamers and the shouts of swimmers.

We dodged a dead possum washed ashore, and steered clear of something a group of children poked at with a stick. Sandy seaweed tangled in clods, drying in the sun, buzzing with sand flies. It was best not to look too closely at it, I realized, when I bent over one only to see it glistening with what looked like a horse liver, probably dumped into the bay from a rendering plant.

Mostly, though, it was beautiful. Seagulls dipped and cawed, and when we were done with the clams, Derry emptied the shells out on the beach and the birds flew down in a mass to fight over them.

“Do you want to swim?” he asked. “I think they rent bathing costumes, if you want.

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