Read Online Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy by Melissa Macfie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melissa Macfie
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that was absorbed into my exposed skin.
Moving in slow motion, I tried wiping it from my skin, only to think bemusedly how pretty it looked glinting in the fading light of the room. I looked at my mother for explanation but she stared stupidly at me and crumbled to the floor. Panic-stricken now, I slid to the floor beside her but an intense gripping seized me and I huddled in a ball to wait its end. Groaning and crying out, I thought that this must be what a miscarriage felt like.
Flashes of memory are all I remember. Gentle hands lifting me, cool compresses on my forehead, calming words, fading in and out with long exaggerated spans of silence. I think I dreamed. More words, not so gentle now, crashing things, glass tinkling, gentle hands again. More strange dreams.
I awoke to changes. Gone was my mother’s room, replaced by a sterile hospital room, and Brian slumped in the corner chair, asleep. I was bone tired, and I lay back on the bed assessing. I felt tired but energized, lethargic but alive. I felt… you move!
I pulled up my nightgown to look at my belly. I was far enough along that I could see the movement, and I was immediately granted another look at the slow undulation as you resettled. I screamed my elation, and startled Brian. Bleary eyed, he rushed to the bed, not knowing what had roused him. He took a quick assessment of my condition, holding my head between his hands, then my belly, his eyes round at your strong kick, then his arms were around me, crushing me to his chest, crying.
He held me for endless minutes, and then I felt tension creep into his frame. His hands grabbed my upper arms in a vice-like grip, shaking me until my teeth rattled he spit, “You are never to see your mother again. I forbid it!
Chapter 8
Her grandmother said she was a Druid. Brenawyn knew this. How many times after she came to live with Leo had she seen things? But magic was supposed to be just trickery and sleight of hand stuff. She had never given it any thought otherwise; it was just cool tricks to occupy a child. But the magic was real? Was she honestly expected to believe that? What explanation was there for the glowing pattern on her grandmother’s arms? And the flower thing had astounded her, true. She hadn’t seen anything that would betray a trick, so if it were real, if she could make the wilted flowers bloom again… could she have done anything for Liam? Could she have saved him? Could she still? Brenawyn couldn’t bear an answer to that question.
Hooking the leash onto Spencer’s collar, Brenawyn quietly crept down the stairs, not wanting to face her grandmother yet. Her feelings were in turmoil and she didn’t trust herself to speak without saying something irrevocable. The dog, however, was eager to walk, and dragged Brenawyn down the stairs with all the stealth of a herd of elephants. The last thing she heard as she closed the door was her grandmother call, “Brenawyn, honey, do you want to talk?” Despite her heart’s pang, she locked the door and turned away without a word in response, her brain insisting on time to think.
The streets were quaintly lit by street lights that resembled gas lamps, and in the near distance she saw candle-led groups on the ghost tour. Laughter floated to her from a nearby late night bistro with café tables still out lining the wide sidewalk. As she walked past, a man looked up admiringly at her only to be chastised by his date for looking at another woman. She hurried along, not interested in being the immediate cause, albeit not the source, of the strangers’ argument.
Further down, only a few people dotted the street. She stopped at a window, peering in to look at the antiques and collectibles. Tomorrow she’d return to rummage through the articles in the store. Perhaps she’d see something that caught her eye. Before turning away she caught her reflection in the glass and was startled by it— hair severely pulled back in a ponytail
Moving in slow motion, I tried wiping it from my skin, only to think bemusedly how pretty it looked glinting in the fading light of the room. I looked at my mother for explanation but she stared stupidly at me and crumbled to the floor. Panic-stricken now, I slid to the floor beside her but an intense gripping seized me and I huddled in a ball to wait its end. Groaning and crying out, I thought that this must be what a miscarriage felt like.
Flashes of memory are all I remember. Gentle hands lifting me, cool compresses on my forehead, calming words, fading in and out with long exaggerated spans of silence. I think I dreamed. More words, not so gentle now, crashing things, glass tinkling, gentle hands again. More strange dreams.
I awoke to changes. Gone was my mother’s room, replaced by a sterile hospital room, and Brian slumped in the corner chair, asleep. I was bone tired, and I lay back on the bed assessing. I felt tired but energized, lethargic but alive. I felt… you move!
I pulled up my nightgown to look at my belly. I was far enough along that I could see the movement, and I was immediately granted another look at the slow undulation as you resettled. I screamed my elation, and startled Brian. Bleary eyed, he rushed to the bed, not knowing what had roused him. He took a quick assessment of my condition, holding my head between his hands, then my belly, his eyes round at your strong kick, then his arms were around me, crushing me to his chest, crying.
He held me for endless minutes, and then I felt tension creep into his frame. His hands grabbed my upper arms in a vice-like grip, shaking me until my teeth rattled he spit, “You are never to see your mother again. I forbid it!
Chapter 8
Her grandmother said she was a Druid. Brenawyn knew this. How many times after she came to live with Leo had she seen things? But magic was supposed to be just trickery and sleight of hand stuff. She had never given it any thought otherwise; it was just cool tricks to occupy a child. But the magic was real? Was she honestly expected to believe that? What explanation was there for the glowing pattern on her grandmother’s arms? And the flower thing had astounded her, true. She hadn’t seen anything that would betray a trick, so if it were real, if she could make the wilted flowers bloom again… could she have done anything for Liam? Could she have saved him? Could she still? Brenawyn couldn’t bear an answer to that question.
Hooking the leash onto Spencer’s collar, Brenawyn quietly crept down the stairs, not wanting to face her grandmother yet. Her feelings were in turmoil and she didn’t trust herself to speak without saying something irrevocable. The dog, however, was eager to walk, and dragged Brenawyn down the stairs with all the stealth of a herd of elephants. The last thing she heard as she closed the door was her grandmother call, “Brenawyn, honey, do you want to talk?” Despite her heart’s pang, she locked the door and turned away without a word in response, her brain insisting on time to think.
The streets were quaintly lit by street lights that resembled gas lamps, and in the near distance she saw candle-led groups on the ghost tour. Laughter floated to her from a nearby late night bistro with café tables still out lining the wide sidewalk. As she walked past, a man looked up admiringly at her only to be chastised by his date for looking at another woman. She hurried along, not interested in being the immediate cause, albeit not the source, of the strangers’ argument.
Further down, only a few people dotted the street. She stopped at a window, peering in to look at the antiques and collectibles. Tomorrow she’d return to rummage through the articles in the store. Perhaps she’d see something that caught her eye. Before turning away she caught her reflection in the glass and was startled by it— hair severely pulled back in a ponytail
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