When she came down from the loft, she found Brannaugh already by the fire, with the hound that was hers.
Glowing, Sorcha thought, with health—thank the goddess—and with the power she didn’t yet fully hold or understand. There was time for that, she prayed there was time yet for that.
“I made the tea,” Brannaugh told her. “Just as you taught me. You’ll feel better, I think, after you drink it.”
“Do you tend me now,mo chroi?” Smiling, Sorcha picked up the tea, sniffed it, nodded. “You have the touch, that you do. Healing is a strong gift. With it, you’ll be welcome, and needed, wherever you go.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here with you and Da, and Eamon and Teagan, always.”
“One day you may look beyond our wood. And there will be a man.”
Brannaugh snorted. “I don’t want a man. What would I do with a man?”
“Ah well, that’s a story for another day.” She sat with her girl by the fire, wrapped a wide shawl around them both. And drank her tea. And when Brannaugh touched her hand, she turned hers over, linked fingers.
“All right then, but for only a moment. You need your bed.”
“Can I do it? Can I bring the vision?”
“See what you have, then. Do what you will. See him, Brannaugh, the man you came from. It’s love that brings him.”
Sorcha watched the smoke swirl, the flames leap and then settle. Good, she thought, impressed. The girl learned so quickly.
The image tried to form, in the hollows and valleys of the flame. A fire within a fire. Silhouettes, movements, and, for a moment, the murmur of voices from so far away.
She saw the intensity on her daughter’s face, the light sheen of sweat from the effort. Too much, she thought. Too much for one so young.
“Here now,” she said quietly. “We’ll do it together.”
She pushed her power out, merged it with Brannaugh’s.
A fast roar, a spin of smoke, a dance of sparks. Then clear.
And he was there, the man they both longed for.
Sitting at another fire, within a circle of stones. His bright hair braided to fall over the dark cape wrapped around his broad shoulders. Thedealgof his rank pinned to it glittered in the light of the flames.
The brooch she’d forged for him in fire and magick—the hound, the horse, the hawk.
“He looks weary,” Brannaugh said, and leaned her head against her mother’s arm. “But so handsome. The most handsome of men.”
“That he is. Handsome, and strong, and brave.” And oh, she longed for him.
“Can you see when he comes home?”
“Not all can be seen. Perhaps when he’s closer, I’ll have a sign. But tonight, we see he’s safe and well, and that’s enough.”
“He thinks of you.” Brannaugh looked over, into her mother’s face. “I can feel it. Can he feel us thinking of him?”
“He hasn’t the gift, but he has the heart, the love. So perhaps he can. To bed now. I’ll be up soon.”
“The blackthorn is blooming, and the old hag did not see the sun today. He comes home soon.” Rising, Brannaugh kissed her mother. The dog trotted up the ladder with her.
Alone, Sorcha watched her love in the fire. And alone, she wept.
Even as she dried her tears she heard it. The beckoning.
He would comfort her, he would warm her—such were his seductive lies. He would give her all she could want, and more. She had only to give herself to him.
