The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

astride a white winged horse, skimming over sky and land and water. And as he flew he was gathering jewels from the sun, tears from the moon, and the heart of the sea.

FIFTEEN
    I T WAS A bold step, but she’d taken a lot of them lately. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. Maybe it was foolish and impractical, but it wasn’t illegal.
    Still, Jude glanced around guiltily as she carried a table out to the front garden. She’d already chosen the spot, right there at the curve of the path where the verbena and cranesbill nudged against the stones. The table wobbled a little on the uneven ground, but she could compensate for it.
    A little wobbling was nothing compared to the view and the air and the scents.
    She went back for the chair she’d selected, arranged it precisely in back of the table. When no one came along to demand what the devil she thought she was doing, she dashed back for her laptop.
    She was going to work outside, and the prospect had her giddy with delight. She’d angled her work area so that she could see the hills as well as the hedgerows, and the hedgerows were blooming wildly with fuchsia. The sun gleamedsoftly through the cloud layers so that the light was a delicate tangle of silver and gold. There was the most fragile of breezes to stir her flowers and bring their fragrance to her.
    She made a little pot of tea, using one of Maude’s prettiest pots. A complete indulgence with the little chocolate biscuits she’d arranged on a plate. It was so perfect it was almost like cheating.
    Jude vowed to work twice as hard.
    But she sat for just a moment, sipping her tea and dreaming out over the hills. Her little slice of heaven, she thought. Birds were singing, and she caught the bright flash of a duet of magpie, at least she thought they were magpies.
    One for sorrow, she mused, two for joy. And if she saw a third it was three for . . . She could never remember, so she’d just have to stick with joy.
    She laughed at herself. Yes, she’d stick with joy. It would be hard to be any happier than she was at that moment. And what was better to prolong happiness but a fairy tale?
    Inspired, she got down to work.
    The music of birds trilled around her. Butterflies flitted their fairy wings over the flowers. Bees hummed sleepily while she drifted into a world of witches and warriors, of elves and fair maidens.
    It surprised her to realize how much she had accumulated already. More than two dozen tales and fables and stories. It had been so gradual, and so little like work. Her analysis of each was far from complete, and she would have to buckle down there. The trouble was her words seemed so dry and plain next to the music and magic of the tales.
    Maybe she should try to incorporate some of that . . . lilt, she supposed . . . into her work. Why did the analysis have to be so stilted, so scientific? It wouldn’t hurt to jazz it upa little, to put in some of her own thoughts and feelings, and even a few of her experiences and impressions. To describe the people who’d told her the story, how they’d told it and where.
    The dim pub with music playing, the O’Tooles’ busy kitchen, the hills where she’d walked with Aidan. It would make it more personal, more real.
    It would be writing.
    She clasped her hands together, palm pressed hard to palm. She could let herself write the way she’d always wanted to. As she thought of it, let herself touch the shining idea of it, she could almost feel that lock inside her slide open.
    If she failed, what did it matter? She had been, at best, an average teacher. If she turned out to be no more than an average writer, at least she would be average at something she desperately wanted to do.
    Excitement whipping through her, she placed her hands on the keys, then quickly jerked them back. Self-doubt, her oldest companion, pulled up a chair beside her.
    Come now, Jude, you don’t have any talent for self-expression she told herself. Just stick with what you know. No one’s going to publish your paper anyway. You’re already indulging yourself outrageously. At least stick with the original plan and be done with it.
    Of course no one was going to publish it, she admitted on a long breath. It was already much too long for a paper or an article or a treatise. Two dozen stories was too many. The logical thing to do was pick out the best six, analyze them as planned, then hope some publication on the fringes of academia would be interested.
    That was