Shawn barely spared him a glance. “I’m having a personal crisis here, if you don’t mind.”

“She’s slashed a gash in yours, and I can’t blame you for taking the stand you have. A woman ought to know her place, and if she doesn’t, she needs to be shown it clear.”

“It’s not a matter of place, you arrogant jackass.”

“Don’t take it out on me, boy-o,” Carrick said cheerfully. “I’m with you on this one. She overstepped, no question of it. Why, what was the woman thinking, taking something of yours and going off with it that way? No matter that you’d given it to her, a kind of gift, one might say. That’s nothing but a technicality.”

“Well, it is.”

“And so I’m saying. Then as if that wasn’t nerve enough, what does she do? Fixes it up so you’ve the evening free—”

“She fixed it up?” For lack of something more satisfying, Shawn heaved another rock. “I knew I wasn’t crazy. Damn it all.”

“Playing with your mind, that’s what she’s about.” Carrick waved a hand, then tossed the little star that clung to his fingertips out over the water, where it trailed silver light. “Cooking you a meal, making everything, herself included, pretty for you. A more devious female I’ve never known. You’re well shed of her. Maybe you should take another look at her sister, after all. She’s young, but she’d be malleable, don’t you think?”

“Ah, shut up.” Shawn got to his feet and strode off, scowling at the merry sound of Carrick’s laughter.

“You’re sunk, young Gallagher.” Carrick sent another star over the water. “You’ve not quite resigned yourself to having your head under, but there you are. Mortals, why is it that half the time they’d rather suffer than dance?”

This time when he flicked his wrist he held a crystal, smooth and clear as a pool of water. Passing his hand over it, he watched the image swimming inside. Fair of face, she was, with eyes soft and green as freshly dewed grass and hair pale as winter sunlight.

“I miss you, Gwen.” Holding the glass to his heart, he called for the white horse to ride the sky, as he did night by night. Alone.

• • •

The house was empty when he got back, and that’s what he’d expected. It was, he told himself, what he wanted. The solitude. She’d put the food away, and that surprised him. Knowing her temper, he’d expected to find she’d hurled pot and pan or whatever else around the room.

But the kitchen was tidy as a church, with only the faint scent of candle wax clinging to the air. Since it made him feel churlish to find it so, he got himself a beer and took it into the parlor.

He hadn’t intended to play, but to sit by the cold fire and brood. But by God if he was going to have an evening off shoved down his throat, he’d spend it doing something that pleased him.