As she started to, she saw Bran in the doorway, his gaze—dark and intense—locked on her face.

“Just had a little meltdown,” she managed, and did sit. “I’d apologize to everyone, but I think I had some valid points mixed in with the tirade.”

“More valid points than tirade,” Riley told her.

Annika poured a glass of wine, brought it to Sasha. “I’m apology.”

“I’ll give you waiting to hear the plan.” Doyle leaned back on the counter, nodded to Bran. “So let’s hear it.”

“I thought of it sitting on the terrace of the hotel, the first day. It needed some work,” he added, and laid the painting on the table.

“My painting—the one you said you’d bought.”

“Before I met you, yes. I sent for it. I told you I knew these woods, this path. Because I’ve walked that path through those woods, toward that light. I have a place there, of my own.”

“In Ireland.”

“Yes, near the coast in Clare. A place I happened upon some time ago. It spoke to me, so I built a home there, though Sligo had always been mine before. This place, at the end of the path and into the light called to me. And to you, or why else would you have painted it? Why else would I have wandered into that gallery and seen it, and known it for mine? There’s a purpose in things, and this is clearly purposeful. The star will be safe there. I believe with all I am it will be beyond her there.”

“Okay.” Riley shoved up to pace. “Okay, I get it. That’s a powerful and strong connection. And I’m giving Sash her valid points. We should have more trust. But how do we get it there? Tap Sawyer for another zip—can you get us all that way?”

“If I had the coordinates, yeah, I think so.”

“I’ve a better way, the way I’m sure it stays beyond her. I can send it through the painting.”

“That’s fucking genius. Is that even possible?” Riley demanded. “Because it’s fucking genius, and makes me want to kick my own ass for doubting you had a solid plan.”

“It’s my place, and Sasha’s vision of it, here. It’s possible, yes.”

Doyle stepped over to the table. “Through the painting to the coast of Clare.”

“Where your people were from.” Bran gave Doyle a long, cool study. “I think that’s not without purpose either.”

Doyle looked up into Bran’s eyes, then shifted his gaze to Sasha. “Trust comes hard, but you have mine for this.”

“We’re six, all linked to each other, to a purpose, to a quest,” Bran added, brushing a hand over Sasha’s. “We must all agree.”

Sawyer scanned the room, nodded. “So say we all.”

“Then.” Bran walked over, lifted the star in its shielding globe. He set it gently on the painting, in the glow of light at the end of the path. “If so say we all, each lay a hand on the globe, and say this. Together: