The Absinthe Earl, page 1
Copyright © 2019 by Sharon Lynn Fisher
E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by K. Jones
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-7306-5
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-7305-8
Fiction / Fantasy / General
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
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In loving memory of my mother, Barbara, who gave me my first fairy picture book and “did not neglect her maths.”
And Scott Hutchison, who made tiny changes to Earth.
Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man dies in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-diggers’ toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscle strong,
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.
—William Butler Yeats,
“Under Ben Bulben”
Glossary of Irish Terms and Names
Angus: A Tuatha De Danaan king, foster father of Diarmuid, husband to Caer.
Aughisky: The Irish water horse, a fairy.
bean sí (ban-SHE): Commonly spelled “banshee,” a harbinger of death.
Ben Bulben: Tabletop mountain in the west of Ireland, near Sligo Bay.
Brú na Bóinne (BRU nuh BUN-yay): Ancient fairy mound and ruin on the River Boyne, at Newgrange, near Dublin.
Caer: A Tuatha De Danaan immortal, foster mother to Diarmuid, wife of Angus.
Cliona (KLEE-uh-nuh): A Tuatha De Danaan immortal, sometimes referred to as queen of banshees (also spelled “Cliodhna”).
Connacht (KAH-nucht): Region and ancient kingdom in the west of Ireland.
Dana: Celtic deity, mother of the Tuatha De Danaan people (also referred to as Ana/Anu/Danu).
Diarmuid (DEER-muhd): A legendary warrior of the Tuatha De Danaan.
Enbarr: The horse of the Irish sea god, Manannán.
Knock Ma: Court and stronghold of Finvara, the fairy king.
Faery: In this text, the land where fairies live; also refers to the collective races of fairies.
Finvara (fin-VAHR-ah): The fairy king and a Tuatha De Danaan immortal.
Fomorians (foh-MORE-ee-uhns): Ancient seafaring foes of the Tuatha De Danaan; often portrayed as a race of monsters; sometimes referred to as the Plague Warriors.
Grace O’Malley: Sixteenth-century pirate queen of Connacht.
Gráinne (GRAW-nyeh): Legendary lover of Diarmuid, affianced to Diarmuid’s chief, Finn mac Cumhaill.
Kildamhnait Tower: A former stronghold of Grace O’Malley, on Achill Island.
Maeve/Medb: Irish warrior queen from the Ulster cycle of Irish mythology.
Máine Mór (MAW-nyeh mowr): An ancient Irish king (fourth century); in this story, the bog king.
Manannán (MAH-nuh-nawn): Irish god of the sea; in this story, foster father of Cliona.
Morrigan, the: Irish goddess of war, crow shapeshifter; also called “the battle crow.”
pratie: Irish slang (from Irish Gaelic) for potato.
púca (PU-kuh): Fairy shapeshifter usually appearing as part man, part goat.
Tuatha De Danaan (THOO-a-hay day dahn-uhn), abbrev. Danaan: Ancient supernatural people of Ireland often associated with fairies; people of the Celtic goddess Dana.
Note: Regarding the Tuatha De Danaan, this text conforms to the naming conventions and spellings used by W. B. Yeats.
PROLOGUE
Fragment of The Book of Diarmuid
(author unknown)
AD 882
Diarmuid Ua Duibne was the most renowned warrior of the Tuatha De Danaan of Ireland. There lived no fiercer fighter, and his sword, Great Fury, was the terror of his enemies.
His birth date is not known, but his mortal life spanned centuries. While Diarmuid lived for battle, most of his trouble stemmed not from his perilous vocation but from his propensity for falling in love. And, in fact, his decision to run away with the promised wife of his chief, Finn mac Cumhaill, led to his exile from the Danaan and eventually caused his death.
After his death, Diarmuid lived as an immortal in Faery and sometimes even walked the green hills of Ireland, appearing as no more than a shadow except to his own kind and to the fairy seers among the Irish people. During this time, he suffered his most potent love dart, and as a result of that fated event—for reasons known only to him and to the object of his love—he conspired with the last living druid to cast a spell that exiled all the races of Faery from Ireland.
The spell came to be called Diarmuid’s Seal.
FOG AND SPIRITS
“You must suffer me to go my own dark way.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Ada
Dublin—1882
Tendrils of fog, thick and viscous, wended in off the moor on the edge of that midwinter night. I suppose that in Ireland, a moor is more properly a bog, but “bog” is a clumsy sort of word, lacking romance.
It’s not a night for romance, I reminded myself, studying the more uniformly dense mass of fog rising from the River Liffey on my right. I’d never examined the nuances of fog so minutely, but then, I’d never been to Ireland. And in truth, I was stalling—
a behavior I had a strict policy against.
“Get on with it, Ada,” I murmured, disregarding another of my policies. A young woman traveling alone—and with a head of prematurely silver hair—did not need to give anyone reason to think her queerer than they most certainly already would.
I cast my gaze to the left, lifting my chin to study the sign above the door of Dublin’s most popular house of absinthe.
“The green fairy,” many call the heady spirit, and this establishment had styled itself after the name. The emblem painted on the sign was a Venusian beauty in a filmy green drapery, a mass of red curls heaped on top of her head. She displayed an ample measure of milky white flesh in the form of softly rounded shoulders and belly and an almost entirely exposed bosom. In her outstretched hand she held a gracefully curving goblet one-quarter filled with bright-green liquid.
Come hither, she seemed to say.
And so I must.
I’d been in Dublin four days now, poring over books on Celtic history and mythology at Trinity College by day and visiting houses of absinthe by night. The first three I visited had been cramped little establishments, each containing a half-dozen regulars. Shabby men and women so weighted down by life, or perhaps addiction, that their chins brushed the rims of their glasses as they spoke to me. They took their alcoholic spirits as watered down as those residing in their earthly forms, because that was what they could afford.
In the end, their talk wasn’t much good to me. They told me what I wanted to hear—stories of recent fairy sightings, either by themselves or by their neighbors—and I offered them a few coins for their trouble.
I had read of a possible connection between absinthe consumption and such sightings, which was what had led to my interviewing them, so you might wonder at my skepticism. It was the feverish desperation in their eyes and the outrageous nature of the stories—as if they were trying to persuade me by showmanship—that caused me to doubt them. Moreover, I was disposed to believe them, which is a mental state every researcher should guard against.
In the Green Fairy, I expected to find a more privileged class of patrons. Not that I believed the wealthy were any less likely to succumb to addiction or low emotional states—in my experience, it was common enough—but the Green Fairy was reputable. A place anyone might stop in for a drop of spirits or a more substantial draught of the dark and frothy national drink. In short, the Fairy’s patrons were less likely to want something from me. Less desperation on the part of the patrons also made it less likely I’d need to test my mastery of the ladies’ defense techniques that had been part of my physical education requirement at the Lovelace Academy for Promising Young Women. Even so, I kept my umbrella—with its sharply pointed steel tip—close by my side.
Touching the edge of my hood out of habit—it was going nowhere, as I had pinned it to my coiffure—I reached for the brass knob and pulled open the door.
Warm, anise-scented air washed over me, and I stepped inside.
Only a few gazes took note of my entrance, and as I closed the door behind me, shutting out the damp December night, they quickly returned to their glasses and companions. It was a proper Irish pub, with dark wood paneling, leather upholstery, and gas lamps fixed at regular intervals along the walls. The decor, like the sign outside, was a tribute to la fée verte. She appeare
The place was as popular as rumored, though this could be due to the season—Christmas was only six days away. A strange time for vacationing in Ireland, you might observe. “Inhospitable weather” did not do it justice. But I was on break from the Academy and determined to make progress on my thesis, “Anthropologic Explanations for the Exodus of the Daoine Maithe”—the “gentlefolk,” as the Irish referred to fairies out of respectful wariness. Besides, even had I not been behind on my studies, I had no family to spend the holidays with.
There didn’t appear to be a single empty table, but I balked at the idea of approaching the bar. It wasn’t a thing a young miss did—not even an orphan whose parents had left her enough inheritance (just enough, mind you) to render her unconcerned about the opinions of others. My courage was failing me when I noticed a small table at the back of the room, at a companionable distance from a blazing turf fire. It appeared to have been recently vacated, as an empty reservoir glass and absinthe spoon rested on the tabletop.
Gathering my skirts and traveling cloak in my hands, I made my way toward it.
It was a cozy corner and a perfect place for observing the room while keeping quiet and anonymous. The only problem was the heat. Perspiration slid between my shoulder blades, and I decided that if I was to avoid a soaking, I must either relocate or remove a layer of clothing.
“For you, miss.”
I glanced up as a man placed before me a funnel-shaped glass, the kind preferred for serving absinthe. I locked gazes with the stranger, who wore round, green-tinted spectacles, and it gave me a shock. I don’t mean that I was surprised, though in fact I was. I mean that I felt it like a sudden, powerful discharge of static electricity.
My gaze dropped to the glass he’d placed before me. The drizzling-water-over-sugar part of the absinthe ritual had apparently already been conducted, and the glass was nearly full of a clear green liquid.
“Sir,” I began, “I haven’t ordered—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I’ll declare myself outright: it’s intended as a bribe.”
I lifted my eyebrows, though of course he couldn’t see this, due to the depth of my hood.
“I do not wish to molest you or suggest anything improper—”
“Disclosures that begin in that way,” I interrupted in my turn, “typically prove to be exactly the thing they were advertised not to be.” My reply edged on rudeness, but as a young woman traveling without a chaperone, I received my share of unwanted attention. I found it best to quell their enthusiasm right out of the gate. “I had intended to order tea, sir, so please bestow your generosity on someone more receptive.”
A chilly reply was usually enough, but the man continued to regard me, amusement now mingling with curiosity.
“I believe you’ve mistaken my intention, miss. I only wished to beg the favor of claiming your unused chair—if it is indeed unused—so I might rest my feet on the grate.” I could not but notice he was a darkly handsome man who spoke a velvety Irish brogue. “I’ve ridden up from the harbor and I’m soaked through, and there’s not an empty seat in the house.”
His black hair was tied back from his face, but one stray lock was plastered to his wet cheekbone.
“I’m happy to fetch your tea,” he continued.
“No, please.” I gestured to the empty chair across from me. “It’s not necessary, and I’m too warm as it is. I apologize for my rudeness.”
“My thanks to you, Miss …?”
“Miss Quicksilver.”
He lifted the chair, angling it toward the fire. “Mr. Donoghue, at your service.”
He removed his coat and sank down with a relieved sigh, stretching his boots in front of him. Soon, steam was rising from his garments. His dress marked him as a gentleman—jet overcoat and dove-gray waistcoat cut from fine cloth, and a silver watch fob dangling from his waistcoat pocket. Though, he wore his hair longer than was currently fashionable. It was trimmed to shoulder length and neatly pulled back but for the strands worked loose by the weather. He’d missed his appointment with the razor for perhaps two or three days, and the dark hair softened his strong jawline. His appearance had a blown-in-off-the-bog quality that—studious and unromantic though I was by nature—I found most alluring. I fancied he had a story to tell of himself that would be well worth hearing.
Aware that I was staring—an unsettling habit of mine, I’d been told by schoolmates—I dropped my eyes to the glass before me. So far, I had abstained from partaking of the drink so popular with my research subjects. My work required a clear mind. But it had sometimes occurred to me that by so primly distancing myself from their experience, I might be limiting my effectiveness as a researcher.
Certainly, a taste could do no harm.
Raising the glass to my lips, I just wet my tongue. It had a delicate licorice sweetness that mingled pleasingly with a slight herbal bitterness. I immediately understood its appeal.
“Is it up to par?” asked my new acquaintance. Apparently, he had been studying me as well, though his spectacled eyes were still fixed on the fire.
“I couldn’t say,” I replied to his profile.
He turned then, arching an eyebrow. Afraid I might have given offense—for I am hopeless at small talk—I explained, “It’s the first time I’ve tried it.”
“Ah. And how do you like it?”
“Very well,” I replied, pushing the glass a few inches away. I found the drink refreshing, and that was precarious in my current overheated state. Better to remove my traveling cloak and hope that I was tucked too tightly into the corner to attract much notice.
“Are you a wanted woman?” asked Mr. Donoghue, ducking his head to gaze deeper into my hood. The lines of his full lips were firm, but mirth sparkled behind the rounds of green glass. I was suddenly curious to know the color of his eyes. “Or perhaps embarking on an elopement,” he continued to speculate, his gaze ranging around the room. “Your bridegroom is late.”
“I’m a woman sitting alone in a house of absinthe,” I replied. But I unpinned my hood from my hair and unfastened the cloak. Then, holding my breath, I shrugged free of the garment, letting it fall over the back of my chair. “You can understand why I might prefer to avoid drawing the attention of others.”
“Certainly, I …” He trailed off as his eyes widened, catching on the silvery locks that had tumbled down around the edges of my face. “I beg your pardon. For a moment, I took you for a dame twice your age.”
Had I a shilling for every time I’d heard those words, I could have hired a research assistant to wander the wilds of Ireland in my place. “And have you revised your opinion, sir?”
“Indeed,” he said with mock gravity. “I see that you’re a youngish lass. One who has perhaps been swallowed up and spat out by a storm off the Atlantic.” He was amusing himself at my expense, but I perceived no malice behind it. He continued, “Or was it some shock in early life that wrought this change?”
“While those are imaginative theories, Mr. Donoghue, I—”
“I have it,” he said, his gaze brightening. “Miss Quicksilver, was it? An inherited trait, then. Your family produces prematurely silver-haired offspring.”
“Exactly so,” I said, pleased at not having to repeat an explanation I’d given many times. It was my mother, in fact, who had handed down the name Quicksilver, due to a centuries-old legal exception granted to preserve the name. No one in my family seemed to know why the exception had been granted, but there were many imaginative theories on that score as well.
“Here you are, Lord Meath.”
A young man with a ruddy complexion and stained apron set a glass on the end of the table opposite me.
“My apologies for the delay, sir. We’re that busy, what with the holiday bearing down on us.”
“Not at all, Michael. Thank you, and happy Christmas.”
Michael ducked his head to my companion. “Happy Christmas to you, Your Lordship. And to you, miss.”
Michael moved away, and it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “‘Your Lordship,’ is it?”
