The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

powers. In nearly all, the maidens are beautiful beyond description. Virtue, i.e., virginity, is vital, indicating that innocence of physical sexuality is an essential ingredient to the building of legend.
    Innocence, a quest, monetary poverty, physical beauty. These elements repeat themselves in a number of perpetuated tales that become, over generations, legends. The interference, for good or ill, of beings from the otherworld—so to speak—is another common element. The mortal or mortals in the story have a moral lesson to learn or a reward to glean from their selfless behavior.
    Almost as often simple beauty and innocence are equally rewarded.
     
    Jude sat back and closed her eyes. She struck out there, didn’t she? Since she wasn’t beautiful or innocent, had no particular power or skill, it didn’t look like she was going to be whisked away into a fairy tale with a happy ending.
    Not that she wanted to be. The mere idea of coming face-to-face with the inhabitants of a faerie hill or a sky castle, or a witch, wicked or otherwise, made her shaky.
    Shaky enough, she admitted, to imagine jewels turning into flowers. Warily, she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled the bright stone out to examine it yet again.
    Just glass, she assured herself, beautifully faceted certainly, sparkling like sunlight. But glass.
    It was one thing to accept that she was sharing the cottage with a three-hundred-year-old ghost. That had been leap enough. But she could reason that out as there had been studies on that particular phenomenon, documentation. Parapsychology wasn’t universally accepted, but some very reputable scientists and respected minds believed in the energy forms that laymen called ghosts.
    So she could deal with that. She could rationalize what she had seen with her own eyes.
    But elves and faeries and . . . whatever. No. Saying you wanted to believe and stating you did believe were two different matters. That was when the indulgence of it all stopped being harmless and became a psychosis.
    There were no handsome faeries wandering the hills, visiting graveyards to hold philosophical discussions, then becoming annoyed with people who happened by.
    And those nonexistent faeries didn’t go around tossing priceless jewels at strange American women.
    Since logic didn’t seem to apply to the situation, she hadto assume that her imagination, always a bit of a problem, had tipped out of control.
    All she had to do was yank it back on track, do her work. It was very possible she’d had some sort of episode. A fugue state during which she’d incorporated various elements from her research. The fact that she felt almost ridiculously healthy didn’t enter into it. The stress of the past few years could have caught up with her, and while her body was fine, her mind could be suffering.
    She should go to a good neurologist and have a full workup to rule out a physical problem.
    And visit a reputable jeweler to have the diamond—the glass, she corrected herself—examined.
    The first idea frightened her and the second depressed her, so she defied logic and put both notions on hold.
    Just for a few days, she promised herself. She would do the responsible thing, but not quite yet.
    All she wanted to do was work, to pour herself into the stories. And she would resist the urge to wander down to the pub, to spend the evening pretending not to watch Aidan Gallagher. She’d stay at home with her papers and notes, then drive into Dublin in a few days and find both jeweler and doctor.
    She’d shop, buy books, do a bit of sight-seeing.
    One solid evening of work, she told herself. After that, she would take a few days to explore the countryside and the cities, the villages and the hills. She’d take a logical step back from the stories she was gathering and studying, and that would help her with her own perspective before she went to Dublin.
    At the knock on the front door her fingers fumbled on the keys of the computer. And her heart jumped. Aidan, was her first thought, and that alone irritated her. Of course it wasn’t Aidan, she told herself, even as she dashed to themirror to check her hair. It was well after eight, and he’d be busy at the pub.
    Still, when she hurried downstairs to answer, her heart was beating just a little fast. She opened the door and barely had time to blink.
    “We brought food.” Brenna strolled in, a brown grocery sack propped on her hip. “Biscuits and crisps and chocolate.”
    “And