Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

“You are a child—”

“A child when you speak of magicks, of power. But a woman when you speak of wedding Fial.”

The truth of that had a flush warming Ailish’s cheeks. “Brannaugh, my love, have you not been content here these last years?”

“Aye, content. And so grateful.”

“Blood gives to blood with no need for grateful.”

“Aye. Blood gives to blood.”

Setting her sewing aside again, Ailish reached for Brannaugh’s hands. “You would be safe, the daughter of my cousin. And you would be content. You would, I believe it, be loved. Could you want more?”

“I am more,” she said quietly, and went up to the sleeping loft.

* * *

BUT SLEEP ELUDED. SHE LAY QUIET BESIDE TEAGAN, WAITING for the murmurs between Ailish and Bardan to fade away. They would speak of this match, this good, sensible match. They would convince themselves her reluctance was only a young girl’s nerves.

Just as they had convinced themselves she, Eamon, and Teagan were children, like any others.

She rose quietly, slipped on her soft boots, her shawl. It was air she needed. Air, the night, the moon.

She climbed silently down from the loft, eased the door open.

Kathel, her hound, who slept by the fire, uncurled and, without question or hesitation, went out before her.

Now she could breathe, with the cool night air on her cheeks, with the quiet like a soothing hand on the chaos inside her. Here, for as long as she could hold it, was freedom.

She and the faithful dog slipped like shadows into the trees. She heard the bubbling of the river, the sigh of wind through the trees, smelled the earth, and the tinge from the peat smoke rising from the cottage chimney.

She could cast the circle, try to conjure her mother’s spirit. She needed her mother tonight. In five years, she’d not wept, not allowed herself a single tear. Now, she wanted to sit on the ground, her head on her mother’s breast, and weep.

She laid a hand on the amulet she wore—the image of the hound her mother had conjured with love, with magick, with blood.

Did she stay true to her blood, to what lived in her? Did she embrace her own needs, wants, passions? Or did she set that aside like a toy outgrown, and do what would ensure the safety and future of her brother and sister?

“Mother,” she murmured, “what should I do? What would you have me do? You gave your life for us. Can I do less?”

She felt the reaching out, the joining of power like a twining of fingers. Whirling around, she stared at the shadows. Heart racing, she thought: Ma.

But it was Eamon who stepped into the moonlight, with Teagan’s hand in his.

The keen edge of her disappointment sliced like a blade through her voice. “You are to be abed. What are you thinking wandering the woods at night?”

“You do the same,” Eamon snapped back.

“I am the oldest.”

“I am head of the family.”

“The puny staff between your legs doesn’t make you head of the family.”

Teagan giggled, then rushed forward, threw her arms around her sister. “Don’t be angry. You needed us to come. You were in my dream. You wept.”

“I am not weeping.”

“In here.” Teagan touched a hand to Brannaugh’s heart. Her deep, dark eyes—so like their mother’s—searched her sister’s face. “Why are you sad?”