The Summer King (3 page)

Each time Laurel read the journal, her suspicions increased. Maybe this wasn’t a story after all? Maybe her sister really was meeting someone on Bray Head?

I am so excited I can hardly breathe! I could die!!! The roly-poly man is going to introduce me to the Court. Omigod. OMIGOD. This is all my hopes and dreams come true!!! They have asked to see me! Yes,
me!
He hinted at something big, something they want me to do, but he wouldn’t say what. The Boss will tell me. (I could hear the capital letters when he said that!!!) I know what this means. It’s in all the tales. A mission. Some kind of special task. Something they can’t do themselves, so they need me to do it. Yes! Yes! Whatever it is, YES!

At this point Laurel always shuddered. Were they some kind of cult? Were they “grooming” her twin for some sinister purpose? They seemed to be deliberately stringing her along, keeping her off balance.

I think I’ve found the doorway. It’s got to be somewhere
along that ledge jutting out from the cliff. Not easy to reach, but not impossible. I was on the ledge when the roly-poly man showed up. He started yelling and cursing really loud. What an old grump. But I was actually quite afraid. There was no one else around. I kept mumbling apologies as I scrambled back up. He calmed down after a few gulps from his bottle. Then he declared that they were not sure I was the right person for the job! I thought he was getting back at me for finding the door, when he added that they thought I wasn’t strong enough. And to make matters worse, he even said they would rather ask Laurel!!! How am I supposed to feel about that?

Then came the most baffling entries. Laurel’s vague memories of her twin looking flushed and happy only confused her all the more.

His name is Midir. Let me write that again. Midir. Midir. Midir. One more time. Midir.

If I say he is gorgeous, that is a major understatement. Golden-red hair that falls to his shoulders. Eyes that really and truly shine like stars. Tall and beautiful. Oh so beautiful. He kept giving me these long deep looks. I was all tongue-tied and dumb as usual, but he didn’t seem to notice. He smiled this amazing smile and said he had not been told I was beautiful. (Ooh lah lah!!! Somersaulting stomach.) He invited me to a party tonight. Can’t wait. Wow, is this the most amazing summer of my life or what?

Can’t write much. No energy. Way too tired and kind of
wrecked. I had soooooo much fun. I can’t begin to describe it. Everything was bright and sparkly. There was a fabulous feast with totally yummy things, but Midir kept telling me not to eat or drink. He said if I did, I might never get back. For a minute I thought—maybe I don’t care? But then I realized, nah, I couldn’t stay there. Not without El. I wouldn’t go anywhere forever without her.

An agonizing pang always came with that last sentence. And in its wake, a plague of questions. Were these people real or imaginary? Honor didn’t go out at night. Or did she? Was she sneaking out when everyone was asleep? It was hardly the sort of thing her meeker twin did, but what if she was being influenced by others?

Complications with Midir. He doesn’t want me to take the mission. Says he couldn’t bear any harm coming to me. He kept going on about “perilous matters” and that he would “rather seek another to do it,” yadda yadda. You know what? I think he’s falling in love with me. HOW GREAT IS THAT???!!!

If only I could tell El about it.

If only, Laurel repeated in her mind. How often had she said those two little words?

If only.

Still no word from Midir. I miss him so much. I don’t know what to do with myself. I tried reading, but couldn’t
concentrate. TV’s no good either. There was a plan to go to Powerscourt today, with the grands, but it’s postponed till tomorrow because El has gone off with Ian. (Hmph.) Test-driving a new bike. She’s obviously a good influence on him. He actually managed to smile at me and it didn’t break his face!

I know what I’ll do. I’ll go climb the Head. It’s like a magnet, drawing me to it …

Ah, who am I kidding? I’m going up there to mooch around. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ll huff and I’ll puff on the roly-poly man’s door and make him tell me what’s going on!

And that was the last entry. There was nothing more to read after that, for nothing more could be written.

Honor died that day.

Though I have the gift of prophecy
And understand all mysteries
If I have not love
I am nothing.

aurel stood between her grandparents at the front of the little chapel. The old-fashioned pews were of polished oak, with carved railings and red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows reflected colored light. The pale-gold pipes of the organ spired to the rafters.

Love is patient
Love is kind
It bears all things.

The memorial service was arranged by her grandparents for the anniversary of Honor’s death. Laurel knew her twin would have approved. She could see her sister leaning against the pew, admiring the angelic figures in the high, arched windows.

“There are stories here,” she would have whispered, more loudly than intended.

“Yeah,” Laurel would have hissed back. “It’s called religion.”

Blessed are they who mourn
For they shall be comforted.

The words fell gently around her like soft Irish rain, but she was not comforted. Unlike her twin, Laurel did not believe in anything beyond physical reality; certainly not an afterlife. The only mystery she had ever accepted was the invisible bond between herself and her sister. They always knew where the other was and, even apart, they could sense each other’s feelings. There was the time when Honor was being bullied in the playground and Laurel ran six streets over from her hockey practice to send the culprits packing. “I heard her calling in my head,” was what she told her parents. And when she, in turn, fractured her arm on a skiing trip, Honor at home had cried out in pain, nursing the mirrored limb as if it too were broken.

Love never fails.

The minister’s look was sympathetic.

Love is as strong as death.

Laurel linked arms with her grandmother and grandfather. She was glad she could be there with them. When she arrived at Dublin Airport, she had seen immediately how much they had aged in the past year, how much they had suffered from having a grandchild die in their care. He, once tall and dignified, stooped over his cane, while she clutched his arm like a frail bird.

Laurel had dropped her luggage to embrace them.

“Thank you,” Nannaflor said through her tears. “We thought you would never come back.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. You’ve got to accept that.”

“Have you?” asked Granda gently.

After the service, the congregation gathered in the church hall for tea and sandwiches. They were a small community in a small seaside town, and they all knew each other. The murmur of conversation mingled with the friendly rattle of china. Neat little quarters of ham and cheese were served along with raisin scones and slices of rhubarb pie. Most of the people were friends of Laurel’s grandparents, and many had known her father when he was a boy. Some shook her hand in silent sympathy. Others wrapped their arms around her.

“Your daddy used to pinch the apples from our orchard. Make sure you tell him the Kilrudderys were asking for him.”

“You’re from Niagara Falls, aren’t you? You wouldn’t happen to know my cousin, Heather Brown? I believe she’s living somewhere over there. Florida, I think it is.”

“Come visit us. Don’t be a stranger.”

Laurel drifted through the soft-spoken company, doing her best to be polite. Though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, her eyes kept searching the crowd.

When he came up behind her and caught her by the arm, she wasn’t really surprised.

“Let’s scarper. I’m being nibbled to death by a hundred little ducks.”

Before she could object, he had pulled her out of the hall and into the street. The road was quiet and secluded, with old chestnut trees and a grassy verge. Parked in front of the church was a dark-blue motorcycle with shiny chrome fittings.

“Do you mind!” she said angrily, breaking away from him.

“At last,” he said, “a show of spirit!”

Ian Gray was the minister’s son and the bane of the congregation. As gossip went, he had always been in trouble; fighting at school, running away, even robbing the collection boxes. In recent times he had apparently calmed down, working as a courier to finance his passion for bikes, but he remained sullen and hostile to his father’s parish.

The biker’s gear he was wearing accented his height—Rayven jacket, leather pants, and tall narrow boots. A silver stud pierced his eyebrow. He looked older than his nineteen years, with sharp angular features and a shock of black hair that fell over his forehead. The intensity of his eyes, an icy blue, made her look away.

She stared instead at his motorcycle.

It was the latest Fireblade, a high-powered sportsbike with a reputation for speed and agility. The decals on the tank were fiery wings. Beneath them curled words that she guessed were Irish, though she didn’t know what they said.

Póg mo thóin.

“You got the bike.”

He looked pleased.

“You remember.”

He reached out to draw her toward him, but she backed away.

“Stop it!”

Anger flashed across his face, followed by a hard grin that was almost a snarl.

“At least you’re still in there. You look like a shadow of your former self.”

“It’s none of your business what I look like,” she retorted.

“No?”

His lip curled as he looked her over, slowly and deliberately. Though she tried not to, Laurel couldn’t help but reflect on what he saw, how much her appearance had altered from the last time they met. In place of her lean and athletic build, she appeared thin and fragile. Her face was pale without makeup, her hair lank and straggling over her shoulders. She had taken to wearing her sister’s clothing: today, a long denim skirt and bulky pink sweater. Even in June she felt the chill of the damp Irish air, and she folded her arms to stop herself from shivering.