He held his hands apart to a height easily twice as big as the African gray had been. “Hearing that bird talk while he gave you the side-eye? Saying things like ‘Time for dinner’ and ‘Let’s party’? That ain’t natural, girl. Gave me nightmares.”

“I remember. This bird didn’t talk, and he was gorgeous and graceful, and the falconer, Morena, showed me how to call him to the glove, give him raw chicken parts.”

“You fed him raw chicken?”

“I didn’t have time to sauté it.”

“Okay, glad you had fun, glad I missed it. I might have nightmares anyway.”

“You’re up for the most disgusting horror movie they can make, but a bird over the size of a sparrow gives you nightmares.”

“They’re fine up in the sky where they belong. I don’t want a sparrow landing on me either.” He shuddered.

They dug into breakfast, went over plans for the day.

“Before we go from this castle to the next castle, let me take the photo, ask them to scan it for me. If they can’t, I can try to take a picture of it.”

Back in her room, Breen took it out of the frame. “Look, it’s got their names on the back. Sorcery. Eian Kelly, Kavan Byrne, Flynn McGill, and Brian Doherty.”

“Better yet. When I add it to your blog, I’ll put their names under it. Adds chances somebody’ll know one of them, right?”

“It feels like it.” She touched a fingertip to her father’s face. “It was a long time ago, though.”

“We’re standing in a castle that’s hundreds of years old. That says time’s relative, right? Think positive, girl.”

“Done. I’ll go with you. We’ll do this, then head to Bunratty for a good taste of the way back.”

They toured the castle first, the dominant stone structure that lorded over the river. With Marco she walked its enormous dining hall, imagining the banquets with lords and ladies in their finery, the fire roaring while servants poured ale and mead, carried in big platters of meat.

Musicians would have played on the balcony above, and candles would have thrown gold light over the heavy tables and chairs, on the walls with their tapestries.

Stone stairs curved up to bedchambers, garderobes, salons where women would have sat to sew and spin, more where men planned battles.

“Freeze your ass off in the winter,” Marco decided.

“But look at the views.”

“Views are chill, yeah. But gimme central heating and a working john.”

She poked him with her elbow. “It’s romantic.”

“Can’t say it’s not, but I’ll take my romance knowing the toilet’s going to flush. Still, it’s seriously sick, because it was really real. People lived here, and worked here, and had all kinds of sex here. Then they shot arrows or dumped rocks on other people who tried to take over.”

“A clan’s a family. You protect your family.”

Marco slid an arm around her waist when they walked back out. “Sister, I’d dump rocks on anybody who tried to hurt you.”

“I appreciate that.”

She loved the castle, but fell in love with the folk park. The thatched-roofed cottages and shops, the costumes, the music, little farms and village streets—that equaled the really real to her. It showed her how people—regular people like her—lived. Where they slept, how they cooked, how they raised their children.

She liked the little donkeys and the geese, the fiddler outside the pub—all of it representing to her the ins and outs of daily life in another world, another time.

“I know it couldn’t have been as simple or as charming as it looks, but it feels like it. And it feels sort of familiar. I guess with movies and books you have a sense, but this is laid out with actual places and people.”

And strolling along, she felt as though she could slide right in—into a cottage for a seat by the fire, into a pub for a pint.

“It gives me this weird kind of déjà vu.”

“Keep your déjà with you,” Marco decided. “It’s cool to see, but I’ll stick with the internet and loaded nachos, pillow-top mattresses and an ice-cold beer on a hot summer night. Not to mention LGBTQ rights and, you know, penicillin.”

“On the other hand, no nuclear warheads.”

“You’d have to learn to milk a cow. Maybe a goat.”

“No air pollution or climate change.”

“No AC in the hot, no heated-tile floors in the cold.”

“We don’t have AC or heated-tile floors,” she pointed out.

“But they exist, am I right? And my rich bestie could afford both if she wanted them.”

She laughed as he gave her a quick squeeze. “I guess I could.”

They wandered into a gift shop, nearly wandered out again. But she stopped, pointed. “Look, a hawk pin. I’m going to buy it as a thank-you for Morena.”

“The bird lady?”

“Yeah, the bird lady. It’s perfect, the way the hawk’s wings are spread inside the circle.”

“You do that, then let’s find some food. It’s been a long time since breakfast.”

She bought the pin and a card to write a thank-you note.

“Two more points of interest on the list, with a village for food and poking around. I’ll navigate,” she told him.

Then she froze. It struck her as impossible—and because it was impossible, as terrifying. But she saw him, she saw the man with the silver hair.

And as he had for that moment the first time on the bus, he looked right at her.

“There he is!” She clawed at Marco’s arm as the man sauntered—that was the word for it, sauntered—away.

“Who? What?”

She just shoved her gift bag at Marco and ran. Not away, not this time, but after. That struck her not as impossible, but as liberating.

She sprinted—or tried to—in and around people who admired the village, those taking videos and snapshots, or kids racing to see the donkey.

She kept him in sight, was no more than seconds behind him when he turned a corner.

She turned it.

And he was gone. Simply gone.

Not possible, she thought, fighting to catch her breath. Just not possible.

“Breen.” Marco raced up to her, grabbed her arm. “WTF!”

“I saw him, Marco, I swear I saw him.”

“Who? Plus, you just reminded me why I used to push at you to join the track team. You’ve got some fast feet, girl.”

“The man—the man on the bus, and outside the apartment, and at Sally’s. At the airport, too. I just saw him again.”

“Breen—”

“I know how it sounds, Marco.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I know, but I also know what I saw. He’s about six feet—maybe six-one or -two, and lanky. He’s always in black, and he has silver hair—not white, not gray, it’s shiny and luxurious.”

Marco put an arm around her, a protective gesture that wasn’t lost on her. “But you don’t see him now?”

“I’m not crazy or delusional. I chased him to this corner, and he went around the side, and . . .”

Vanished like a puff of smoke, she thought.

“I don’t know where he went. There are a lot of people. But I saw him, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Okay. Let’s walk.” He kept his arm around her as he drew her away. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s not anxiety. I’m pissed off,” she realized. “I’m really pissed off. It feels like he’s taunting me. It feels so arrogant.”

“I can dump rocks on him if you see him again.”

She didn’t laugh, but she did tip her head toward his shoulder. Then she straightened. “Would my mother have someone follow me?”

“I didn’t think of that.” Now he did as he guided her along the path. “I guess she could, but why?”

“I don’t know, just to keep tabs. But that doesn’t make sense, since I saw him on the stupid bus before I found out about the money. And hell, she could read my blog if she wanted to know what I was doing. She could just freaking ask if she wanted to know.”

As they walked, he rubbed her back in that soothing way he had. “It’s a wide world of coincidence, but you said you saw him at the airport.”

“I did.” Or she thought . . .

“I bet we’re not the only people from Philadelphia in Ireland, or even in this park right now.”

“He looked at me like he knew me,” she added, then shook her head. “Maybe because he recognized me like I did him. Maybe. The first time, on the bus, it felt like he looked at me, but I was already worked up. Getting dumped, hating my job, hating that I was on the bus going to my mother’s. But I guess—in the wide world of coincidence—he could have seen me today and thought: Hey, she looks familiar.”

She didn’t believe it. She realized as she said it, she didn’t believe it at all, but there was comfort in saying it.

“We could walk around more, see if you spot him again.”

“No, it’s silly. Let’s go get some fish and chips.”

“I’m all about it.”

But he kept his arm around her as they walked back to the car. And he kept his eye out for a man with silver hair.

She put it behind her, and with Marco revived from lunch, explored ruins and round towers, explored another castle in the rain that swept in, and out again just as quickly.

She sat on a seawall with the Atlantic wind in her hair, walked the moonscape of the Burren. They rounded it out with another pub meal and music before taking the winding roads back to their last night at the castle.

“It’s still light out. Let’s have a drink in the bar. You’ve earned another Kir Royale on me. Last night here,” Marco pointed out before she could make an excuse.

“You’re right—last night, and I earned it. I’m just going to drop Morena’s gift at the desk, then change my boots. Meet you there.”