Secret Rose

(1096 ac)

Morgan strolled into the cemetery quietly. He smiled at those he passed, looking for all the world like any other wandering college student. Only he was much older than any student could ever hope to be in this Shadow. The place had a hint of - Reality, that he could not quite place, but he was not there to investigate Pattern mysteries. He was a handsome young (seeming) man, with dark hair, and a leanly muscular form, bright green eyes, and chiseled features that were stunning and yet decidedly masculine. He had a guitar strapped to his back, the shape was unmistakable, even under the leather case, and he had two bottles of Old Bushmills 12-Year old Single Malt Whiskey, one in either hand. He walked around the old boneyard for a few minutes, until he found what he was looking for; the tombstone of William Butler Yeats. Morgan read the inscription, and placed one of the unopened bottles in front of the tombstone.

:: Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death
Horseman pass by! ::

He opened the other bottle, raised it to the heavens, and took a very deep pull straight from the neck. Morgan set the bottle down on the edge of Yeat's grave, and unslung his guitar. He pulled the instrument from its case, an elegant acoustic piece in black and silver...even the strings glittered silver. He strummed it once, and began to sing a poem by Yeats, that, to his ear, begged for music when he had first heard it when he bummed the colleges of this Shadow, particularly Oxford.

Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred moms had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?

The music had carried, and a small group of locals, and a few tourists had gathered. Morgan had paid them little mind, he was here for himself and for Yeats. He finished the song, but the music went on for a time, until the last note hung in the air as delicate as crystal, invoking a feeling of yearning in those that had heard the music and the words, and then fading away like a soap bubble that has floated to high and disappeared against the blue. Morgan reached for the whiskey, and took another long pull, before he stoppered the bottle, and moved to put away his guitar. He was not sure how he had wound up in Ireland, he was just following his feet...but once he realized where he was, he felt compelled to pay this homage. With it down, he cased his guitar, and shouldered it, taking up the whiskey bottle, and with a final look at the epitaph and a nod, he turned to leave.

The crowd oozed away as Morgan collected his gear, until only one person remained, standing just a little distance away in the gravel yard beside the graves.

Morgan straightened with his guitar back in place, shifting his shoulders slightly to get it to sit just right. He smiled slightly as the crowd lost interest, and had that weird feeling again. Then he saw her, or thought he did, a slight glimpse of a woman in jeans, she was not moving with the milling and departing crowd. He could just sense here there, and he knew that maybe he should not be able to. He took another swig of the whiskey, and then...there she was.

She was pretty, this one remaining spectator - not flat-out gorgeous, but striking, her features strong against fair skin. Her hair was bright red and pulled into a tail that fell over her shoulder. The ribbon holding the tail, her silk shirt, and her eyes were all a matched emerald green. She had on jeans - worn, comfortable jeans that had faded to a uniform blue - and a pair of tennis shoes that looked brand new despite the gravel. She had an armful of books, big heavy things, and a quiet smile.

He nearly cursed. Morgan knew that his downfall would come in the form of a beautiful woman with red hair; he had stared at one with unrequited schoolboy affection for more than a few years, and he recognized this chink in his otherwise inviolate silvery mental armor. He sighed; there was nothing for it but to speak to her, of course. Morgan was not about to walk away; she was lovely, and if he had to guess... She was smiling for him. His own smile blossomed easily upon his face, green eyes flashing, as he took a few steps towards her, and away from Yeats. He loved music, and it was moments like this that made him appreciate it all the more. Then she spoke, offering him a Yeats poem, which only made him grin like an idiot. If Fiona were there, he'd be getting hit with a ruler about now.

"Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page."

And an accent too. Morgan resisted the urge to brush his hair and shift Shadow to find himself a mirror to make certain he looked his best.

She quoted the lines just loud enough to cross the space between them; her voice is pleasant, if nothing special, with an accent that marked her as a local. After a moment's pause, she added, "I've not heard 'The Secret Rose' set to music before. You've done a good job."

"'To Ireland in the Coming Times'," Morgan offered with a smile. "Oh, thank you very much... I shall take that as high praise from a fellow Yeats reader." He walked up to her easily, shifting the bottle to his left hand, and offering her his right. "I'm Morgan... County Sligo is part of my whirlwind hiking tour of Ireland... but this place is -" He met the woman's eyes, "-beautiful." He turned to stand beside her, and gestured at the Poet's grave. "I had written that song... the music... a while back.... I always meant for Yeats to be the first one to hear it, so I made sure to come out this way." Morgan turned to the Woman, "Do you happen to know a place where I could get a room?"

She shifted her books slightly, freeing her own hand to shake his. "Beatrice," she said, her smile a little warmer. "A local - if my accent doesn't give that away." The faintest hint of a blush appeared on her cheeks when he met her eyes, but it was so faint that it could have just been his imagination... "This place is lovely," she agreed. "I've never wondered why he wanted to be buried here 'Under bare Ben Bulben's head.'" She nodded slightly in the direction of the mountain.

Morgan smiled, "Oh, yes, I noticed the music in your voice." He found her slight blush rather charming, and looked at the mountain as she spoke of it. "Nor have I... if I had a house in my pocket, I would have a very difficult time deciding where to put it, or what view to take advantage of." He turned back to her, "But you know all that... I'm not sure I could hold down a day job around here, without giving in to the urge to be outside and walking around."

"I'm sure he appreciates your lovely work," she continued honestly. "Probably moreso than he does the silly boys and girls a-swarm in the hills this week, dodging traffic and trees to get the perfect picture of a grove where he might have lingered once." She sighed and didn't quite roll her eyes. "Rooms may be in short supply, but I'd be happy to drive you into town to see..."

He inclined his head, "Thank you, you're very kind to say it." Morgan laughed softly at her mild complaint over the tourists. "Ah, photos... I prefer paintings, there's more - life to them, as odd as that might sound. A photo is static... a painting is chosen, lovingly formed..." He shook his head, "But I'm sure you don't want to hear about my artistic meanderings..." His smile brightened, an increase in wattage that one could believe threatened the lights in the area. "That would be great... I can't thank you enough." Morgan remembered the bottle in his hand, "Would you share a drink? When we get to where we're going... It's 12 years old, single malt, and very good..."

"Yes," she replied, "I'd like that. And you can tell me more of your artistic meanderings and listen to mine, if you've a mind to." Beatrice hesitated for a moment, then offered, "If there's no rooms to be had in town - I have a guest room you can use."

Morgan's high-powered grin returned, "You meander artistically too? I thought I was the only one. I get told to pick a discipline... My Band complains, until I make something for the stage effects or for their homes." He shook his head, laughing quietly, in an almost self-deprecating manner. "I'd be happy to hear your meanderings... I'm a musician, its probably closest to my heart, but I paint as well... and dance... and read voraciously. I've written some songs, but I'm not a poet really... I sometimes struggle with lyrics..." He stopped when she offered him her hospitality, "Oh, wow, yes... That would be great... That's very nice... umm... maybe there's something I can do for you around the house? I'm good with my hands... I know my way around a toolbox and basic plumbing... and I'm an excellent gofer."

A quiet grin surfaced on Beatrice's face, and her eyes lit up. "I write," she offered, "although I've never turned my hand to poetry. I'm not a musician - not that I know of, at least - but my list of hobbies sounds much like yours." She looked almost surprised at his offer to help. "Unless you really want to try and rebuild part of the house, your company will be more than enough," she said quickly.

"Ooooh..." Morgan continued to smile, "An honest to goodness writer, and in such an inspiring place." He shook his head, laughing slightly. "Oh no, I just... You're very kind to offer me a room, I feel I should do something in return... assuming the inns or bed and breakfasts are full." He met her eyes, his green-eyed gaze warm. "I take requests... I can promise a private concert every evening."

Beatrice's smile didn't waver. "I'd like that."

Beatrice led the way to a squat blue car, comfortable for two but a bit tight for four. The rear seat was what might kindly be called cluttered; there were books and papers and boxes with books inside them, scattered pens and pencils, a stray glove, a heather-grey sweater. She added her armful of books - local history, a biography of Yeats, and a collected poems - and moved a couple of open boxes off the top of the stack behind the driver's seat. "There," she said. "As long as I don't have to make any sudden stops, your instrument should be safe back here."

He smiled at the clutter in the back, and when she moved a few things aside, he tucked his guitar in there with them. Morgan saw the biography, and pulled it out of the back to bring it up with them in the front. The whiskey he placed on the care floor, braced between a couple of things so it would not break or over turn and accidentally come uncovered and spill. "Ah, this is just like home... Though I have a few other guitars... sheet music... other instruments... books... canvases... drawing boards... and somehow, paper manages to multiple itself by some complex equation by the day..."

Beatrice laughed, her laugh a music all its own. "Don't talk to me about paper, Morgan. I sometimes think that if I glue all the paper in my home together, I'll be able to build a village..." She settled down behind the wheel, buckled herself in, and started the engine.

Morgan laughed, "That, or its the making of a terrific bonfire."

When she was ready, Morgan climbed into the car after she did, settling into his seat, belting himself in, and opening the biography on his lap, looking for photographs from Yeats' day. "I've not read this one..."

The little car pulled smoothly out of the spot where she'd parked and crunched down the drive towards the main road. "I think that's a new one," she agreed, "or a reprint of an old one I haven't laid hands on yet. It has a recent date." She glanced over at the book, and then at her passenger, and she smiled a little and glanced quickly back at the road again.

She didn't speak again until they were on the main road headed into Sligo. "And where do you come from, that you're taking a 'whirlwind' walking tour of these parts?"

Morgan took a closer look at the book, "Nope...I don't know this one." He looked over at her, "What sort of things do you write, Beatrice? Might I have read anything of yours?" His curiosity was sincere, and his pleasant voice, a warm rich sounding baritone, had a tone that made it so one did not have to look to know he was smiling. Morgan caught her glance, and looked briefly back to the road, before he answered her question. "Oh, a lot of places... I'm from New Mexico, Arizona, Texas... all over... I tour with my Band... The Twisted Unicorn... We go all over... but for the moment, I'm on holiday in Europe. I decided it had been too long since I had been to a place with buildings older than 50 years... and it reminds me of my childhood in - England." He wanted to have a look at this woman with his other senses, but that would have been rude. She seemed very right, very Real, but he could not know for certain without risking being impolite.

"I've never been to America," Beatrice said, almost wistful. "It's strange to think of a place where the buildings don't all whisper their histories to you."

Morgan nodded, "Well, New England is better...you'll find some old homes and cemeteries... I think in the three century range... but not a lot older. It is sometimes amazing to think how young America is, and how far it came." He paused, "Though it boggles my mind when a nation founded by Puritans, wonders were all their puritan silliness comes from..." He shook his head, "The West is younger still... though perhaps less Puritan, thankfully."

"I don't know - you might have read something of mine," she offered after a moment, with a shrug, a smile, and a slight glance sideways at him. "If you reach behind the seat, there's a square box with a blue label that has some of my books in it."

He smiled and reached around the back of his seat to find the box. Morgan turned, found the box, and pulled out one of the volumes. He opened it, and read the first page, looking for the author's name, the title, the printing... and then he moved on to see what sort of book it was. "Must be amazing to hold your own book in your hands that first time..."

There were easily a dozen books in the box, mostly hardbound books that lacked their fancy paper covers. The book he pulled out was a slim volume bound in blue and grey. The printing was recent, just two years old, and the title page read "Flight of the Earls by Beatrice Dunne." From the first page, Morgan could tell that it was written for a young audience.

"It's amazing every time," Beatrice offered. "It's a little piece of me going out into the world, and I'd like to think it makes someone happy."

Morgan flipped through the book, "This is excellent... for a younger audience I'm guessing... else I'm a genius!" he grinned, "But really well put together, and I rather like things that play with history, but whet one's appetite to learn more." He had skimmed the first chapter, closed the book, and tuned to see what else he could find in the box. "So is it historical fantasy mostly, that you write I mean?"

"Mostly," Beatrice said, glancing over as he rummaged. "I write other things sometimes," as Morgan's hand closed on a much thicker book than the rest, "I do so much research, it would be a shame not to write the occasional history book." She hesitated and added, "And I've had a few other things published, under pseudonyms..."

Morgan smiled slightly, "Oh? What kind of 'other things'?"

The book, when Morgan pulls it out, still has the dust jacket. At the top, in tidy block letters, is the name "B. Randall." The cover looks much like any horror book does, all large letters and one tiny image. The large letters read "The Queen at the End of Night," and the image was of a golden necklace with an unusually large sapphire.

He read the name on the cover, and the pseudonym was like a slap in the face. To his credit, he did not jump or start, but he looked at the large sapphire for a bit, before he opened the book and read the first few pages. "Ooh, Horror... good horror... see the 'unspeakable' horror." Morgan smiled, but again, he heard that voice in his mind, telling him he should be far less comfortable than he was with Beatrice. Red hair, nearly the same eyes as he had himself... painfully attractive... even if she were connected to Brand, Morgan could almost forgive everything to listen to her accent alone. Fool, Morgan thought.

Beatrice glanced over to see what he'd pulled up. "Those kinds of things," she admitted quietly. "They're too strong for children, so I put them out under that name." There was a hint of something in the way she said 'that name' - something elusive but almost unhappy.

He stared at her for a moment when she told him how she felt about her books. Morgan, again, was tempted to scan her. That paranoid part of him that had been trained by his Aunt was screaming at him very loudly. He had rather figured a redhead would be the end of him; Fiona had laughed when he told her that as a younger man... He doubted she'd be laughing now. He grinned, his emerald eyes brightening, "That's almost exactly how I feel about music... I love seeing how it reached people... all kind of people... How it can effect them, without even a word..."

Beatrice positively beamed at him, meeting his gaze. "That's it exactly! Only - " she paused thoughtfully. "Only you see it right there as you play, and I have to wait and wonder." She looked back at the road suddenly, feeling self-conscious.

Morgan grinned and nodded, "Yes! The only downside being that if they don't like it... you see that right away too." Without thinking he reached out and patted her thigh. "Though I have to admit, you have more patience than I do, I do not know if I could handle waiting for the bestseller list to hit, or for book critics to have their go at what I've written."

She blushed slightly when he touched her, a faint color that he probably wouldn't have seen if she wasn't fair-skinned. "I - there's always something else to be written," she offered. "I just go on to the next book; it's easier that way."

"Look - " she said after a moment, pointing ahead to a mountain rising from the landscape. There was a raised section along the skyline, and it's towards that that she pointed. The outskirts of Sligo were beginning to appear on the left of the road, the ocean peeling away to the right. "Knocknarea, and the queen's caern. We'll be in town soon."

He turned to look, and nodded, "Where Queen Maeve still stands guard, facing Ulster, girded for war even in death... if the legends are true." Morgan smiled. He loved this part of Shadow Earth, the history reminded him of what Avalon might have become had it survived; First Avalon, he corrected himself. He had not visited his Uncle Benedict's version, or was that his Dad's new version, which ever it was... Morgan hadn't the heart to go, it did not feel right. But here, the place was steeped in history that was very much like what Avalon had been in life, he felt at home amongst places that whispered of long ago and of fantastic times, where honor and integrity were a way of life, and not lamentably missing. There were even grand and epic romances.

Morgan sighed, and recited, with a slightly wistful tone in his voice;

"The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away."

Beatrice smiled gently, a little wistful herself. "That is one of my favorites. When I was little, on dark nights, I used to sit at the window and watch for the Host."

There was much that Morgan suddenly wanted to tell her, she seemed so gentle... and dreamy. She even reminded him of Brand in some small way, her pseudonym notwithstanding. He should be more worried, but all he wanted to do was tell her about Avalon, because he felt she would appreciate it, and that was a fairly rare thing to Morgan. For Morgan, most of his kin, save perhaps Antonia, saw it as Corwin's far Shadow, destroyed, and possibly of no consequence to them whatsoever. He was, he admitted, perhaps unfair in his feelings in that regard... His Father disappeared not long after he went to Amber, not long after Avalon's destruction, and the state of Amber was not one given to fond reminiscing with kin. There were other worries, and his lessons, at the time.

He wanted to tell her he had seen that Host, that one of his earliest teachers at the Harp was one of the Sidhe. That he had seen Faery Rings, that he had walked thrice around the hill, widdershins, and seen the road to Faery. But he did not, he turned back to her with a smile, "It is one of mine too... I was always fond of those tales..."

The little car turned, Knocknarea moving away to the right of their view. Beatrice pointed out a statue to the left with a brighter smile. "You should take the time before you leave to see that one up close. It fascinates me; they sculpted the words of some of his works into his clothes."

"Oh, I definitely will... that sounds terribly clever." Morgan turned to keep his eyes on the statue, and then put her book back in the box, looking for another title. "I've not done any work in sculpture... I like clay... no patience for stone I suppose." He grinned, "Much easier to mold sound, and hammer words into place..."

"I haven't tried sculpture," Beatrice offered. "I'd rather stone stay the way it was meant to be, not shaped into other things. Words - those are easy to shape and form." She glanced over as he rummaged in the box. "I haven't really tried music..."

"If you look in the open box on the seat," she said suddenly, "there are copies of my latest book." She hesitated. "You can have one, if you want."

Morgan smiled, "I could teach you Music, you would be surprised at how easily one can take to it." He turned his eyes to her, sighing slightly as he took in the sight of her, knowing the ride would soon end. "And there's nothing quite like that first time when you realize you've played a coherent tune..."

He looked in the indicated box, and pulled out the volume. "Oh, are you sure? I would love to have one... It is not everyday one meets a lovely author at a Poet's final rest, and gets offered a book in the bargain. Of course I would like one." He paused, "But I would not deprive someone else of their copy, if you only have a few to give out." His eyes brightened, "Oh! I have a CD with me... of my Band... I'd like you to have it, one artist to another." Morgan grinned that bright expression of his, and again lightly touched her thigh, "Thank you for everything... really..."

He then opened the book on his lap, and read the title and first page.

"I'm sure," Beatrice agreed. "I get more copies than I can find homes for." She smiled gently. "And I think you'll give it a good home."

"I will. My books are the one thing that seem to make it onto a shelf." Morgan paused, "Or at least a well built stack..."

She blushed again when he touched her, but her smile was brighter. "I'd like to hear more of your music; thank you, Morgan. And you're welcome, for everything..."

"It's a bit of a mix... there's a fair amount of swing and sort band-type stuff... and few flamenco solos and songs..." He smiled, "I hope you like it..."

"That sounds wonderful," Beatrice said seriously. "I like mixes - it lets me hear what a musician can do, not just what they do well." She smiled faintly, looking self-conscious again. "I like short stories and anthologies too."

The book was titled "Wider Than the Heavens," and it was another of her young adult novels. It told the story of the bard Turlough O'Carolan - the last bard of Ireland, by some attributions. If he flipped through, she'd inserted a collection of songs at the end.

Morgan could not conceal his sigh this time. He had been a Bard in Avalon, a Troubadour, trained by the Sidhe to sing the songs and tell the tales of the Fair Folk. His Father had been the Sorcerer King, and he had sought to make his own way, to find his own magic. Morgan had found it in music, and then sought out the finest teachers in the Land... There was only one place to go; The Hollow Hills. "This one has music... I think I will read it while I'm here." He looked at the collection of songs, "I can play these..."

"I thought you might like that one," she said, smiling again. She turned off the main road and pulled into the parking lot of a modest hotel that backed up to the river. She sighed and offered, "If anywhere in town has a room, this would be it..."

Morgan nodded, "I already do..." He smiled at her, and there was warmth in his expression, and promise in his emerald eyes. When she pulled up to the hotel, Morgan looked at the building and echoed her sigh. "Well, I guess I should check on that room..." He turned back to Beatrice, "Would you like to come in... for that drink?" His smile was a charming one, "Maybe a song?"

Beatrice found herself smiling back. "I did tell you I would," she said gently, shutting off the car. She unhooked the seatbelt and asked, "May I help you carry anything?"

Morgan nodded, "It would be a shame to drop the single malt." He smiled, "That and your book, and I'll get my guitar out of the back." He clambered out, and when she came around, he handed her the bottle and the book, and pulled his guitar out of the back. He slung his guitar, the instrument making a hollow musical tone as the strings vibrated a bit when bumped. He took the bottle from her when his hands were free, and smiling, Morgan offered her his hand, before he began to walk towards the office, with its flashing VACANCY sign. "Well, looks like you brought me luck..." He smiled winningly, and led her along with him.

Beatrice hesitated for an instant, then took his hand and gave him a smile to go with his infectious one. "Good," she said. "You shouldn't have to go looking for luck." She took a few extra steps, so that she wasn't trailing along behind. "With a little more of it, you should get a nice view of the river..."

Morgan slowed his pace to keep her at his side. He smiled, "That would be nice..." He opened the door to the hotel office, and grinned at the elderly man behind the counter. He could not help but enjoy the sound of the old man's heavy accent, it reminded him of the Fair Folk in his lost home. Morgan introduced himself, and offered his hand. The old man, Sean Thornton, smiled warmly at the couple as he shook Morgan's hand.

When Morgan asked for a room, Sean nodded, "Oh Aye, we've 'ad some yank call out..." He eyed the pair with a merry gleam in his dark eyes, "But I'm thinkin' ye'll be wantin' a view, tis just the thing for newlyweds... follow me..." The old man grabbed a key from the rack behind him, and gestured for them to follow through the office and out the back. He stopped, "Number Four, Lad... I'll keep the charge ta a single, ye an' yer lass settle in, an' if'n ye need anythin' jus' ring Zero..."

Morgan chuckled slightly. and for the first time that day, Beatrice could tell that it was not his turn to blush. "Umm, right, Sean... thanks..." He coughed and led Beatrice to the room marked number Four, "Oh, umm, sorry about that... I would have told him otherwise, but he seemed so pleased. I'll tell him later..."

Beatrice, on the other hand, was utterly pink by the time the old man finished. She managed a giggle as Morgan shut the door behind them. "The good Lord save us from matchmaking old men," she said, smiling. "Worse than the women, they are."

Morgan set the bottle on the table, and his guitar on the bed. The table was for two, and there was a clean tea service in the small kitchenette. "I didn't have the heart to tell him he was wrong." He explained, as he peeked into the bathroom, and opened the small closet. He pulled a chair out for Beatrice, and opened the shades...there was the view of the river that Beatrice had hoped for. "Would you like that drink now? Or tea? As I am certain Sean made sure we had tea..." He smiled warmly at Beatrice, "We'll have something to put the Single Malt in at least... instead of sharing the bottle."

Beatrice perched on the edge of the chair and watched him open the blinds. "Oh, I'm sure there's tea, and plenty of sugar. Maybe even some cake in the fridge." She sounded quite amused. "But... oh, let's just have the drink."

Morgan grinned, and got them a pair of glasses. They were tall, for water, but they would do. He poured out about three fingers worth for each of them, watching her expression in case she wanted more a less. He took his seat across from her, and lifted his glass, "To Yeats and the Kindness of Beautiful Strangers..."

He met her eyes smiling past his glass, and drank upon the heels of his toast.

Beatrice seemed to be fine with the amount.

She smiled at his toast, blushing slightly again, and lifted her glass to it before taking a sip. "Oh," she said, pleasantly surprised, "that's quite good. Thank you, Morgan." She looked down into her glass for a minute, and then back up. She hadn't quite lost the blush yet. "Meeting you today was such a pleasant surprise..."

Morgan rather enjoyed being able to make her blush. How a woman like her was unused to compliments was beyond him. If this were Avalon, he would have sang her praises. "I went looking for the best, and this is very fine sipping whiskey." He took his seat, his eyes on her. "You are very welcome, Beatrice." He smiled at her words, "I can say the same of you. I had not thought to have such good company for my time here." Morgan reached across the small table, and gently touched her hand. "I hope that you do not disappear in the next day or so... I've the feeling there's so much more we could talk about and do..."

Beatrice's blush brightened slightly when he touched her hand, but she paled slightly at the word 'disappear.' "I should worry more about you vanishing," she said, trying to make it sound light. She might have even succeeded if she hadn't been so suddenly pale. "I do live here, after all." She took another sip of the whiskey, a small one.

"Me?" Morgan smiled, and shook his head. "No...I will be here for awhile." He gestured at the river, gazing upon it for a moment, before her turned back. He met her eyes, and quietly declared. "And there are other native wonders I should like to learn more about." Morgan sipped his whiskey, "So, I think I will check with good Mister Thornton about an extended stay." He looked concerned at her pallor, and now covered her free hand with his. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she protested quickly. "No, it's just - it's nothing. Nothing important anyway." She dredged up a smile, not quite meeting his eyes, and then turned pink again as she realized that his hand was over hers. She didn't withdraw, though. "You said you'd play for me?"

"That I did." Morgan's smile brightened. He finished his whiskey, tossing it back easily, and setting the glass down gently. "Any requests?" He asked, as he unzipped the leather case he had his instrument in. Up close, Beatrice could see that the guitar alone was a masterpiece, elegant, and beautifully made, with 12 silvery strings. It was a lustrous lacquered black, with a silver rosette, silvery edges, and silvery tuning pegs whose handles were shaped like small Celtic-style harps. His fingers danced across the strings after he slung it over his shoulder, and he pulled the chair away from the table to give himself more room. "I have one... You pick the next... This is called The Stolen Child by Yeats himself..."

The song begins, and Morgan's fingers dance over the strings, delicately plucking notes from each. He does so with the casual ease of someone that has played all their lives, and Beatrice even notices that the fingernails of his playing hand, while perfect kept, perhaps even manicured, are a bit longer than would be considered polite on a man...specifically to pick at the strings. He uses no pick, just his skillful fingers and his nails, and as his eyes closed, the music took on wistful tone. It was a song close to Morgan, for reasons he did not think Beatrice could ever understand.

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Morgan leaned forward over his guitar, as the notes sang out. Sean Thornton in his office cocked his head to once side and listened. Yeats, he thought to himself, he recognized it straight off, but he had never heard it put to music before. He could hear the wistfulness in the song, and it made him sigh, even as he smiled to hear it.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

The Son of Corwin loved Yeats. He felt as if the man had a glimpse of his Avalon, or if he did not, the Fair Folk somehow had their hand in his work, whatever it was, to Morgan, it spoke of home. A home he lost. The notes filled the room, and swelled, until it became doubtful than anyone in the hotel could not hear. Once upon a time, Morgan had done just what the song asked...he'd gone away, into the Hills, with a Faery hand in hand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

He played on, forgetting that he had an audience of one. Morgan played for his lost home, for Thomas whom he would never see again, for the Queen of Air and Darkness, whom had granted his freedom after hearing him play. He played for Robin Goodfellow and for Lancelot, for his home and his Mother Bridhid. Sean Thornton, sitting behind his desk, sniffled slightly, and thought of his youth in the hills of Ireland.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

The song came to an end, but the notes echoed in the room, hanging invisibly in the air, like drops of dew in the trees. Morgan took a deep breath, and leaned back, his eyes lighting on Beatrice, as if realizing that she was there. His green eyes were impossibly bright, and full of a fading pain that he could not hide, until he looked out to the river, and then back at her. Morgan cleared his throat, and there was a slight blush in his cheeks. "Umm..." He began quietly, "Did you think of one?"

Beatrice sat transfixed the whole time, her whiskey forgotten on the table. She watched his face at first, and then his hands when his dark head bowed into the music, unabashedly caught in the spell he wove.

Sean Thornton was a bit disappointed to hear the music end. He moved to the back door, and opened it, hoping the young fellow would play something again. There were other patrons at the hotel, but not a one had called to complain. The old Irishman sniffled, and lifted his bottle of Guiness to the unseen young man. He checked the registry to see what name had been signed; Morgan Taliesin. Sean nodded, he almost HAD to be Irish somewhere.

It wasn't until he cleared this throat that she remembered to breathe. Her eyes were soft with wonder when he looked at her, wonder and a quiet kind of sympathy for the sadness she heard, even if she didn't understand it. "I forgot to think," she admitted softly. "Will you choose something else for me?"

Morgan smiled warmly, and gazed into her eyes for a long moment. Their green was so like his own, and he admired the pale curves of her face, the fire in her hair. He finally nodded, and began to slowly play, the tune better remembered by his hands than his mind. "Another by Yeats..."

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with metry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Joves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Morgan played this song with as much passion, but it lacked the wistful edge that the first had carried in every note and word. There is an air of hopefulness, in his words, and a subtle cautionary feeling in the music itself. All twelve strings vibrate with the song and the story, carried and accompanied by Morgan's rich voice, a voice trained and made for stories by the fire, or songs under the stars.

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile.
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For ill things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

It was a shorter song, but very well crafted, and it seemed to replace the feeling of sadness from his last song, with one of hope. Morgan smiled as he lifted his eyes to Beatrice. "I do not get to play these often... Sometimes at a show... but usually we stick to our set... Thank you for listening..."

Beatrice met his smile with one of her own. "You should play them more often, you know. To hear one's work put into music - it must be the most amazing thing. I can't help but think he smiles when you do." She pushed a bit of hair behind her ear. "You're an extraordinary musician, Morgan. Thank you for playing for me."

Morgan smiled in return and set his guitar on the bed for a small break. The strings and body of it still hummed very softly with the last notes he had played upon it. He retook his seat, and poured out a little more of the Single Malt for the both of them. "Thank you... That's very kind of you to say. I hope so... I always found his work -" He paused, and sipped his whiskey to hide his expression. "- inspirational. But I have been in love with these stories since I was a very small boy..." He regarded her quietly for a moment, "Oh, Beatrice, you are very welcome... I get a rush out of playing with the band, for an audience... but I think these quiet moments are just as important..."

He glanced out the window, and sipped his whiskey before her met her eyes again. "Is there something you would like to hear?"

Beatrice smiled and reached for her book. "Let me give you something in return, and I'll think on it."

Morgan smiled, and nodded, clearly curious. He found himself admiring her lips, and looked away towards the river before he was caught doing so. He sipped more whiskey, and returned his focus to Beatrice, and now his eyes followed the curves of her, and he cursed them for not obeying his more conscious commands.

She turned to a point midway through and started to read to him. It was a chapter about love, a whirlwind romance that culminated in the marriage of a blind harper and a lovely woman. She read the first page, but she never turned onward, reciting the words from memory, her green eyes closed. Her voice was still nothing special, but the words had a lyrical quality, a rhythm that she fell into as she recited, that gave them a certain magic. It was the art in her phrasing, an art not lessened for all that it was written for children.

He listened raptly, and while he paid close attention to the story, smiling here, laughing softly there, he was far more interested in the writer and the reader. Morgan ached to pull up his other senses, and see who she was, but if she could detect such things, it would be considered rude... and things were going so very well. He should not be so trusting, he knew, but her appearance she was of the Clarissans, but which one. He discarded Fiona immediately, though Beatrice had something of that kind of pale and striking beauty, which had made Fiona his favorite Aunt. Morgan blamed Fiona for his fondness of redheads. Bleys was a possible culprit, simply because he was always a possible suspect in just about anything, but Morgan could see him leaving a daughter behind...while Fiona would have seen to her daughter's education - in Amber. The other option was, perhaps, more troublesome. Brand. Moody Brand... as Morgan was fairly certain Brand would not knowing leave a daughter of his away from the center of things, and uneducated in certain matters. Morgan had learned a few Trump tricks from his Uncle, even a spell or two, and while Brand could be mercurial... Morgan had never thought ill of him, despite the moods. He had not seen Brand for a while, but that could be because of just about - anything. If Beatrice were Brand's daughter, Morgan should perhaps tell someone... a thought he immediately discarded; she could be happy there in Ireland, and Morgan would not be the one to have her pried from it.

Morgan's eyes moved over Beatrice, taking in everything. She was Real. He was more sure of it with every passing moment, and Unicorn, she was lovely.

"...'Write me a song, my love, write me something of the wind in my hair and the sea and the green grass growing around. Not a silly song, nor anything you'd write a lord. Write something just for me,' she begged. 'Make it your dowry, Turlough O'Carolan, and then I'll be your wife.'

And he did." She closed the book silently and laid her hands on the cover, one atop the other. Then she sighed and looked up at him, smiling a smile that made her eyes light up. "I think I'd like something cheerful, Morgan. Something about joy."

Morgan clapped softly, grinning brightly, that was wonderful, "You should read them aloud... books on CD or something... That was excellent to hear in the voices that you heard when you wrote them." He met her eyes, his hand going to his heart out of habit born of a lost custom. "Thank you very much..." Morgan nodded, "Happily will I play a joyous air for thee..."

He picked up his guitar and returned to his seat, again, he seemed to strum idly at first, before his fingers seemed to discover the tune, and the notes began to fill the room. Sean Thornton smiled; he had been hoping for more music, especially with new patrons arriving, and from the sounds of things, it was a happy tune. It was by Sting, even Sean recognized it.

Morgan played with the same dedication and energy, and this song always made him smile.

"How many of you people out there
Been hurt in some kind of love affair
And how many times do you swear that you'll never love again?

How many lonely, sleepless nights
How many lies, how many fights
And why would you want to put yourself through all that again?

"Love is pain," I hear you say
Love has a cruel and bitter way
Of paying you back for all the faith you ever had in your brain

How could it be that what you need the most
Can leave you feeling just like a ghost?
You never want to feel so sad and lost again

One day you could be looking
Through an old book in rainy weather
You see a picture of her smiling at you
When you were still together
You could be walking down the street
And who should you chance to meet
But that same old smile that you've been thinking of all day

You can turn the clock to zero, honey
I'll sell the stock, we'll spend all the money
We're starting up a brand new day

Turn the clock all the way back
I wonder if she'll take me back
I'm thinking in a brand new way

Turn the clock to zero, sister
You'll never know how much I missed her
Starting up a brand new day

Turn the clock to zero, boss
The river's wide, we'll swim across
Started up a brand new day

It could happen to you - just like it happened to me
There's simply no immunity - there's no guarantee
I say love's such a force - if you find yourself in it
And sometimes no reflection is there

Baby wait a minute, wait a minute
Wait a minute, wait a minute
Wait a minute, wait a minute

Turn the clock to zero, honey
I'll sell the stock, we'll spend all the money
We're starting up a brand new day

Turn the clock to zero, Mac
I'm begging her to take me back
I'm thinking in a brand new way

Turn the clock to zero, boss
The river's wide, we'll swim across
Started up a brand new day

Turn the clock to zero buddy
Don't wanna be no fuddy duddy
Started up a brand new day

I'm the rhythm in your tune
I'm the sun and you're the moon
I'm a bat and you're the cave
You're the beach and I'm the wave
I'm the plow and you're the land
You're the glove and I'm the hand
I'm the train and you're the station
I'm a flagpole to your nation - yeah

Stand up all you lovers in the world
Stand up and be counted every boy and every girl
Stand up all you lovers in the world
Starting up a brand new day

I'm the present to your future
You're the wound and I'm the suture
You're the magnet to my pole
I'm the devil in your soul
You're the pupil I'm the teacher
You're the church and I'm the preacher
You're the flower I'm the rain
You're the tunnel I'm the train

Stand up all you lovers in the world
Stand up and be counted every boy and every girl
Stand up all you lovers in the world
Starting up a brand new day

You're the crop to my rotation
You're the sum of my equation
I'm the answer to your question
If you follow my suggestion
We can turn this ship around
We'll go up instead of down
You're the pan and I'm the handle
You're the flame and I'm the candle

Stand up all you lovers in the world
Stand up and be counted every boy and every girl
Stand up all you lovers in the world
We're starting up a brand new day"

Beatrice was smiling at him when he finished. "Oh, thank you, Morgan. That was lovely." She reclaimed her drink and sipped at it again, letting a moment of silence stretch between them. "I..." she started, hesitating. "I should go soon."

"You're welcome... thank you too..." Morgan smiled, and then sighed softly. "Oh, okay, Beatrice... I know I was a bit of a detour." He put his guitar aside on the bed, "Will I... umm... Can we meet... tomorrow? If you're not busy..." He smiled, "I'll be here for a couple of days, and I'd hate to leave without saying goodbye..."

"I could come into town for lunch..." Beatrice offered hesitantly. "Sometimes things come up, but I could probably get away for an hour or so even if it does."

Morgan nodded, "That would be great, if you can manage it... Shall I meet you someplace in town?" He smiled, and offered his hand to politely help her to her feet. "Thank you for everything, Beatrice... I've had - just a wonderful day, it brightened the moment I met you." He wondered what was making her run away, but she seemed so - nervous, that he did not want to press her. He hoped she would come for lunch tomorrow. Morgan moved towards the door, and opened it with a little reluctance. "I will read the book tonight..."

"We could meet by the statue," Beatrice offered. "Maybe - around noon?"

"Perfect." He smiled brightly, "I'll have a chance to give it a good looking over..."

She took his hand lightly, her cheeks turning pink again, and stood. "You don't have to read it tonight." She smiled at him gently. "But I appreciate you saying you will." She followed him to the door, and stepped into the doorway. Then she paused and turned back, lightly laying a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Morgan - for everything. I - I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Morgan smiled, "Oh, I will... read, nap, shower, explore... but I will certainly read it." His eyes seemed to soften, though they were no less bright, when she touched his arm. No small thing, he figured, as it was the first time she had been comfortable enough to step out of her own space and into his. "You're more than Welcome, Beatrice... I was happy to meet and play for you." He nodded, meeting her eyes. "I would not miss it. See you then..."

And then she was walking away, down the hall and out the door, back to the little car and the road home. She blushed brightly as she passed old Sean at the front desk, and he shook his head and chuckled.

He watched her walk away, and wistful expression in his eyes. It had not been him, he was sure, but he could not expect every woman to fall prey to his charms... considerable though they were. Morgan liked her, quite a bit, she was a kindred spirit in some ways...her music was in the words and how she chose to string them together, but she was no less a bard, a storyteller, than he was. Beatrice was that pleasant surprise that does not happen very often in anyone's life, let alone Morgan's, and he hoped that tomorrow would not be the end of it. He closed the door when she was out of sight, cursed himself for a fool, grabbed and drank a long pull from the whiskey bottle, and then with a sigh, took up Beatrice's book. He set his guitar aside, and then Morgan stretched out on the bed to read and drink, and dream of Avalon.