A Shadow of Mist
by Danielle Marie Cahill
The authors, poets, and playwrights on the retreat clustered around the oak table in the great hall of Connemara Castle, wolfing down a hearty Irish breakfast. Lively chatter and the clatter of knives and forks rang around the hall’s vaulted ceiling, which reminded me of the hull of a ship. Writing is hungry work, but I could only stomach a piece of marmalade toast.
For the past three days, I remained confined to my turret room, only surfacing for meals, and was dreading the inevitable question from the others: How’s the writing going? I couldn’t bear to tell the absolute truth: That it wasn’t going in the slightest, and I was spending most of my time gazing out of my turret window at the castle gardens with the path that led to a megalithic monument—a stone circle—perched high up on the sea cliff, and the white-capped waves of the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
My novel—Love in a Mist—had stalled at twenty thousand words, as my heroine was turning down the advances of an amorous landlord. Cara was feisty, and it was hard to write her when I felt like a hollow husk, but I only needed to get to the point where my hero strode into the village with a dagger in his boot, ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. I’d been dreaming of Oisín all through the dark days of my recent divorce, when the book boyfriend I conjured up was the only person keeping my faith in men alive, but I wasn’t feeling the spark to write the chapter in which I was mired.
Crunching on my marmalade toast, I kept my head down. Hoping to avoid the attentions of the smug playwright at the foot of the table, whose booming laugh echoed around the castle at all hours of the day and night. John was handsome in an ursine way, with a luxurious dark beard, electric blue eyes, and a barrel chest. In a couple of decades, he might make an excellent Santa Claus. He certainly had the laugh for it.
“Vanessa,” John called down the table to me.
My heart sank. Since Monday, the first night of the retreat, John had been singling me out, however much I tried to avoid him. I lifted my chin and met his gaze. Beside John lounged a young novelist, probably the most brilliant amongst us, and on his other side sat a mystic poet with flowing blonde hair. They were all staring at me. “Yes?” I said cooly, from the head of the table.
“Are you going to read us something tonight?” John asked.
“I hadn’t planned to.”
The heat of a blush warmed my cheeks. Each Thursday during the retreat, we were supposed to share our work. I had hoped to skip it or somehow fade into the background if I did go. I wasn’t sure which.
“There’s no need to hide your light,” the mystic poet said in her silvery voice. Her name—Jade—suited her. “I promise we don’t bite.”
“Often.” John let out a long laugh, and most of the table joined in.
“I’ll have a think about it,” I said. I hurriedly got to my feet, dropping my napkin by my plate, and headed for the door.
“Oh, that scared her,” John said to the table at large. I left with the cackles of the other authors ringing in my ears.
********************
I ran out into the rain-slick garden, where the roses were beaded with dewdrops and the grass between the flowerbeds glimmered emerald in the morning sunshine. My pulse raced. The cruelty of the laughter had hit a nerve, reminding me of the bullies at school. Perhaps being around so many people, and not all of them kind, was contributing to my writer’s block.
I took a long, steadying breath.
I had to escape this heaviness—my fear of failure—though it felt impossible to shake the feeling, no matter how hard I tried. There were only three more days of the retreat, and I’d promised my agent she could see a draft of my novel next week. As soon as I got home, I would be back into the rush of single-mum life: housework, bathtime, and bedtime with my two girls, plus shuttling them backwards and forwards to see their father. Inevitably, my novel would be pushed to the bottom of my to do list once more.
I must get started. Write something. Anything. Enough to get Cara and Oisín to meet for the first time, then the Medieval love story would write itself, more or less. “Just get it done,” I whispered to myself, as I paced around the rose bushes.
I caught the faint strain of laughter floating out from the backdoor of the castle. It spurred me onwards. Tonight, I would have something new to read to the others. A love scene so sensuous it would blow their socks off. Gleeful recklessness flooded through my veins. I could do this. I would go to the standing stones to seek inspiration, as so many writers had done before me on this retreat in the wilds of Connemara.
I quickened my pace, running now to the bottom of the garden, out the back gate and down the winding path that led to the ancient site. There, perched on the cliff’s edge, stood eight upright stones set in a circle, and a ninth in the center lying flat on the ground. When I reached the first monolith, I placed my hand gently on its side, where green and yellow moss traced intricate patterns over its surface. At that moment, I felt the sea breeze catch my hair, blowing my curls around my face. I stepped forward into the center of the fairy ring of stones, stopping opposite the largest monolith, which had fallen and was covered in a thick layer of moss and tendrils of ivy. Staying quiet and still, I listened to the rhythmic pulse of the waves crashing on the beach far below.
Mist began to fall, quickly filling the air around me. Wisps curled around the standing stones and crept over the grass. The weather in Ireland is unpredictable at best, but this was something far more mysterious. After a minute, I could not see my hand in front of my face. Everywhere I turned there was silvery fog. If I stumbled around in the mist, I might risk falling off the cliff into the Atlantic Ocean. Fighting my rising panic, I put out a hand, groping for one of the standing stones. If I could reach one of those, I could shelter there until the air cleared.
As I did so, I felt a strong hand clasp mine.
I let out a shriek.
“Don’t be afraid,” said a kind and strangely familiar voice. “I’ve got you, and I’m going to keep you safe.”
“Who are you?” I breathed.
“You know,” the man replied. “Try and remember.” He moved closer. His leg with muscle as hard as iron touched mine, and I felt his other hand take my arm.
The mist began to clear, and I could make out the man’s features: a hawklike nose, strong brows, and just the right amount of five-o’clock-shadow. This was a face I’d long been imagining. For exactly twenty-thousand words, in fact.
“Oisín,” I whispered. My mind was on fire. How was any of this possible? The embodiment of my own fantasies, the man I dreamt up whilst washing up, was standing in front of me. He wore a black tunic caught at the waist with a leather belt, dark breeches, and matching boots. Tucked into his right boot was a dagger, and there was a hunting knife strapped to his belt. I knew every inch of the design of this outfit from head to toe.
I swallowed. “This can’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t understand it.”
He smiled at me. “What do I need to do to convince you I’m really here?”
I lifted a cautious hand, then ran my fingertips over his eyebrows and down his nose. He made a growling noise in his throat, then he gathered me near enough to him so I could feel every sinew of his muscular form pressed against mine.
My body hummed with desire.
With delicious slowness, he brushed his fingers up my right arm, trailed them over my clavicle, then lifted my chin. “Vanessa,” he whispered into my ear, and his stubble brushed against my neck, sending shivers of lust dancing across my skin. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long. Did you forget me?”
I let out a sigh, longing to be closer still, and I saw his eyes glint with mischief.
“I see I’m going to have to help you remember.” He swept me up in his arms, as if I was feather-light, and he laid me down on the fallen monolith in the middle of the prehistoric site. He stroked my hair off my face, and, as he did so, my skin pulsed with heat. “There, that’s better,” he said. “Now I can see you properly.” He swooped down and kissed me.
In that moment, I felt the salty wind tingle on my skin, the bees buzzing nearby, the ancient rock’s coolness beneath me, and Oisín’s insistent mouth on mine. My senses reeled. I gave myself to him, matching him gasp for gasp, allowing his tongue to explore mine. Desperate for more. In the windswept field, all I wanted was the kiss to go on forever.
Eventually, he rolled away, propped himself up on one elbow, and gave me a cheeky smile. “See?” he said. “All you needed was a quick reminder.”
“Oisín.” I lifted my hand to his cheek and he kissed it playfully. “Where did you come from?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Do you think that you imagined me out of nowhere? That you did it without any help?”
“Well, yes, to be honest, I do—”
“That’s not how it works.” He shook his head then lifted a lock of my hair and wrapped it around his forefinger, before gently releasing it. He repeated the motion several times. Each time he touched me, sparks of desire shot through me. “You’ve been dreaming about me,” he added, “and I’ve been thinking of you. It’s reciprocal.”
“Mm,” I said, still skeptical, but not wanting to interrupt the hair stroking.
“But we have to be doing it at exactly the same moment, then our worlds might align.” His argument began to make more sense.
At that moment, his head snapped up. He dropped the lock of my hair and stared over the monoliths in the direction of the castle. “They’re coming,” he said. He bent his head, kissing every available part of my face: my cheeks, my forehead, and my mouth, then he whispered in my ear, “I can’t be here when there’s anyone else around. If you’re alone and you want me, I’ll come to you.”
Without warning, the heavy sea fret rose up once more, cloaking the stones and obscuring the Atlantic. “Please, don’t leave me,” I gasped, but my voice echoed around the lonely stones.
Oisín was gone in a shadow of mist.
********************
Across the tufty grass floated the noise of a booming laugh. As the fog cleared, I could make out the sturdy figure of John striding into the clearing with Jade beside him. “Are you communing with the spirits out here?” John shouted, not unkindly this time. “The weather’s even crazier than normal.”
I pulled myself to a seated position, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Something like that,” I mumbled.
“Sorry about earlier,” he said as they reached me. “You left so quickly, I thought you might be offended.”
I shook my head. “Not really, I just needed to clear my head.”
He offered me a hand, and I accepted it, hopping off the rock. The salt borne by the wind stung my sensitive lips. I put my hand to my mouth for a moment. The pressure of Oisín’s mouth against mine had been real enough.
“What are you working on today?” Jade asked.
I found her question did not hurt me in the slightest. “I’ve got a novel to finish,” I said with a smile. “I’ve just got to a really good bit—when the hero appears, and everyone in the village starts to fall for him.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jade said dreamily. “Let me know if you want some company.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I have to work alone, otherwise I can’t concentrate, but let’s go in and have some tea and fruit cake before we get started.”
They eagerly agreed.
As I ushered the other authors up the path towards Connemara Castle, I looked up at the crenelations and gargoyles decorating the battlements. The sunshine brightened the stone so it glowed alabaster in the morning light. I was struck by a sudden thought: I need to remember this. Snatching my notebook from my pocket of my dress, I scribbled down a few lines so I could tell Oisín’s story as perfectly as possible. I was determined to have something to read tonight amongst the standing stones, where I could remember how loved Oisín made me feel.
Feeling a breath of wind brush the back of my neck as I bent over the page, a thrill of excitement shivered through me. I knew Oisín would come to help me tell his story, and to hold me as I longed to be held.
About the Author
Danielle Marie Cahill writes from leafy North London, where she lives with her family and two enchanting cats. She holds a degree in English from the University of Cambridge, and in 2024 she won the Caledonia Novel Award. Her credits include Witches, Witchology, Livinia Press, Suburban Witchcraft, Underbelly Press, among others. She was a contributor to The Little Book of Birth Stories (Virago Press 2025), had short fiction shortlisted for The Bridport Prize (2025), and her debut chapbook, Burnt Offerings, was published by Alien Buddha Press in September 2025. You can find her on X – @dannihoo and Instagram – @daniellecahillwriter.
