The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

thin pencil stroke drawn with a ruler.
    The water was sapphire, the sky gray as smoke.
    The horse plunged, its powerful forelegs cutting through the surface, spewing up water that Trevor could see, could feel in individual drops. He could taste the salt of it on his lips.
    Then they were in that swirling underworld. Cold, so cold, with the dark underlit with some eerie glow. There were flickers of iridescent light, like faerie wings fluttering, and the music playing through the pulse beat of water was pipes.
    Deeper, still deeper, flying down in this element as smoothly as they had flown in the air. The thrill of it coursed through him like blood.
    There, on the soft floor of the seabed a hillock of darker, wilder blue throbbed, like a waiting heart. Into this, the man who called himself a prince thrust his arm to the shoulder. And Trevor felt the slick texture of the mass on his own flesh, the vibration ripple up his own arm. His hand flexed, closed, twisted, and he wrenched free the heart of the sea.
    For her, he thought, clutching it tight. This is my constancy. Only for her.
    When he woke, his hand was still fisted, but the only heart that pounded was his own.
    As baffled as he was shaken, Trevor opened his hand. It was empty, of course it was empty, but he felt the charge of power fading from his palm.
    The heart of the sea.
    It was ridiculous. He didn’t have to be a marine biologist to know there was no shimmering blue mass, no organic life beating away on the floor of the Celtic Sea. It was all nothing more than an entertaining scene played by the subconscious, he told himself. Full of symbolism, he was sure, that he could analyze to death if he were so inclined.
    Which he wasn’t.
    He got out of bed, heading for the bath. Absently he pushed a hand through his hair. And found it damp.
    He stopped short, lowering his hand slowly, staring at it. Cautious, he brought his hand to his face, sniffed. Sea water?
    Naked, he lowered himself to the side of the bed again. He’d never considered himself a particularly fanciful man. In fact, he liked to think he was more grounded in reality than most. But there was no denying that he’d dreamed of flying through the sea on a winged horse and had awakened with his hair damp from sea water.
    How did a rational man explain that?
    Explanations required information. It was time he started gathering it.
    It was too early to call New York, but it was never too early to fax. After he’d dressed for the day, Trevor settled into the little office across from his bedroom and composed the first message to his parents.
     
    Mom and Dad:
     
    Hope you’re both well. The project’s on schedule and remains on budget as well. Though after a couple of days’ observation, I’ve concluded the O’Tooles could handle the job without me, I prefer staying, at least for the present, to supervise. There’s also the matter of community relations. Most of the village and the surrounding parish seem to be in favor of the theater. But the construction disturbs the general tranquility of the area. I think it’s wise for me to remain visible and involved.
     
    I also intend to continue the preliminary publicity from here.
     
    Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the area. It’s as beautiful as you told me, Dad. And you’re remembered fondly here. The two of you should take some time and come over.
     
    Gallagher’s is as you remembered and Finkle reported, a well-run, friendly, and popular business. Connecting the theater to it was a brilliant concept, Dad. I’m going to spend more time there, getting a clearer feel for just how it all runs and what changes or improvements we might want to implement to benefit the theater.
     
    Mom, you’d particularly like the cottage where I’m staying. It’s a postcard—and better yet is reputed to have its own ghost. You and Aunt Maggie would get a kick out of it. No unearthly visitation to report, I’m afraid, but since I’m trying to drench myself in local color, I wonder if the two of you can pass on any information you might have on the legend based here. It’s something about star-crossed lovers, of course. A maid and a faerie prince.
     
     
    I’ll call when I get a chance.
     
    Love, Trev
     
     
    He read it over to be sure he’d kept his request casual, then shot it off to his parents’ private line.
    The next fax was to his assistant and was much more to the point.
     
     
    Angela, I need you to research and relay any and all information