“Tristan’s word is not worth his salt.” Devlin opened the picnic basket and pulled out the bottle of Tullamore Dew and two glasses. We’d wandered down to the Christopher St Pier. The shop was closed and he’d gotten Padraic to cover the bar.
“What am I supposed to do? How could Aunt Aine expect that I would show up, take charge of the Singing Stone and everything that went with it.” My head throbbed. Was it a result of the reading of the will earlier or that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast? My stomach growled and cast its vote.
“Give it some time. Nora. There’s no rush to accept his offer.”
The shimmer of another sunset on the tall glass office buildings across the Hudson whispered of urgency.
“Devlin, I did not signed on for this. Aunt Aine was quirky in a New Age kind of way. Always talking about Sidhe and the old way, and mixing up wacky substances for her customers. Why me?”
“She saw something in you, something important.” He spread a blanket on the grass and pullied a container of Irish stew and loaf of bread out.
In the midst of the seagulls that had gathered and edged closer to our food, a lone raven stared at me. Its non-saccadic stare demanded my attention. One brazen gull tried to steal a hunk of brown bread. The raven screeched, spread its broad black wings and rebuffed the thief. The great black bird turned its gaze back to me.
“Are you okay?” Devlin asked.
“I’d swear the bird was trying to talk to me.”
“And you ask ‘why me’.” Devlin poured the amber liquid in crystal Waterford tumblers.
I held out my hand for the drink. The raven hopped two steps closer.