His gaze shifted to hers with honest puzzlement lighting the green. “Why?”

“Why?” She was sitting on a tree in the woods beside a witch, the second she’d met so far. “You’d be used to it, but it’s just a little surprising to a mere mortal.”

His eyes narrowed, and if Rowan had been able to read his mind she’d have been stunned to read his quick and annoyed thoughts aimed at his son. The stubborn whelp hasn’t told her yet. What is he waiting for?

Finn had to remind himself it was Liam’s place and not his own, and smiled at Rowan again.

“You’ve read stories, haven’t you? Heard legends and songs that speak of us?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“And where, young Rowan, do you think stories and legends and songs come from if not from grains of truth?” He gave her hand a fatherly pat. “Not that truth doesn’t all too often become stretched and twisted. There you have witches tormenting innocent young children, popping them into ovens for dinner. Do you think we’re after baking you up for a feast?”

The amusement in his voice was contagious. “No, of course not.”

“Well then, stop your fretting.” Dismissing her concerns, he paged through her sketches. “You’ll do well here. You do well here.” His grin flashed as he came to one with fairy eyes peeking through a thick flood of flowers. “Well and fine here, girl. Why is it you don’t use colors?”

“I’m no good with paints,” she began. “But I thought I might get some chalks. I haven’t done much with pastels and thought it might be fun.”

He made a sound of approval and continued to flip pages. When he came to one of Liam standing spread-legged and arrogant on the cliffs, he grinned like a boy. And there was pride in his eyes, in his voice. “Oh, this is like him, isn’t it? You’ve got him.”

“Have I?” she murmured, then flushed when that green gaze rested on her face again.

“Every woman has power, Rowan. She’s only to learn to use it. Ask him for something.”

“For what?”

“What pleases you.” Then he tapped a finger on the page. “Will you give me this? For his mother.”

“Yes, of course.” But when she started to tear the page out, it vanished.

“She misses him,” Finn said simply. “Good day to you, Rowan of the O’Mearas.”

“Oh, but won’t you—” He was gone before she could ask him to walk to Liam’s with her. “‘There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio,’” she murmured, and, rising, walked to Liam’s alone.

*  *  *

He wasn’t waiting for her. That’s what he told himself. He had a great deal to occupy his mind and fill his time. He certainly wasn’t roaming aimlessly around the house waiting for a woman. Wishing for her.