“How do ye know yer people would reject her?” Mairwen folded her arms, speaking with the infuriating patience of an ancient soul. “Yer people, yer kith and kin, might prove to be so grateful to have the curse lifted they would accept her with open arms. Ye know they are not happy with the state of the Realm.”
“It is still doubtful they would accept her.”
She shrugged. “Apparently, ye like this current existence since ye dinna even wish to try to end it.”
“She is right,” Dubh said.
“Shut it,” Mathison thought to his inner being.
The faintest of smiles lifted the corners of Mairwen’s thin lips, and he knew the old one had once again intruded upon his thoughts. “I have asked ye not to do that.”
She shrugged again. “My apologies, chieftain, but sometimes yer thoughts are so loud, I canna help myself.”
He squared his shoulders, clenching his teeth so tightly his jaws ached. “When will ye bring her to me?”
“She is not a pet to be delivered to a new owner.”
“Then what exactly do ye propose, old one, since ye said yerself that she resides in the future?” He hated these feckin’ games the Weavers loved.
“As long as ye remain on holy ground, land blessed by Seven Cairns, ye can travel to the future. After much thought, the others and I feel it would be better if ye came and spent time with her there, as yer wolf, at first.” She slowly nodded. “That would give ye more insight into this one ye wish to refuse before ye even meet her.”
“I wish to refuse more pain,” he said with a low growl. “It has nothing to do with the lass.”
“Be that as it may,” Mairwen said. “Meet her as yer wolf first, then after we see how that goes, we will introduce her to yerself. If all seems well, we will then introduce her to the Ninth Realm.”
“Ye wish me to pass into the twenty-first century?”
“Aye.”
“And if all goes well, as ye predict, when will we return to the Ninth Realm?”
“When I see fit.”
Glaring at the old one, he clenched his fists until his knuckles popped one by one. He hated this total lack of control. “Show me the way to her.”
For the first time since meeting Mairwen, he sensed her immediate unease.
“She is not here…yet. We are still in the process of steering her to this part of the Highlands.”
Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn and partially draw his sword.
“Forgive me for startling ye, grand chieftain.” Keeva brandished one of her strange contraptions higher, holding it out to him with an apologetic smile. The thing resembled a square slate, but it was as polished as newly forged steel on one side, and the other was as black as the underbelly of a raven. As soon as the lass tapped on the gleaming black side, it exploded with color, revealing visions as if it were a window to the world. “She’ll not be able to resist our cottage in the hills. ’Tis just what she wants. Isolated yet lovely—and still on holy land, so ye’ll be able to go there even though it will be in her time.”
Giving the assistant and her strange slate of images a wide berth, Mathison cautiously made his way back to the long table in the center of the room. He halted while still some distance from it, yet close enough to once again look into the eyes of the woman reflected in the bowl. Deep within him, dangerously close to where his heart might once have been, something stirred like a fragile seedling touched for the first time by the sun’s nurturing rays.
“There is pain in her eyes,” he said softly, more to himself and his wolf than anyone else. “She has suffered much.”
“She has,” Mairwen agreed. “But that is her story to tell, just as yer pain will be yers to share with her when ye sense the proper time has arrived.”
“Neither of us are younglings.”
“No, ye are not.” Mairwen moved closer. “But that does not mean all is lost. The love and contentment of a bonded pair of fated mates is not reserved only for the young ones.” She tipped the slightest shrug. “Nine and thirty mortal years is not old for her, and neither is yer lifespan of over seven hundred years old for yerself. The two of ye merely possess more life experience than a pair of wide-eyed hatchlings just coming into their own.”
“Life experience.” He snorted. “I notice ye nay mentioned wisdom.”
“Wisdom knows no age. Either ye possess it—or ye don’t.”
He closed the distance between himself and the table and allowed himself to sink deeper into the image’s eyes. The strange stirring within him increased, making him swallow hard to keep his whisky in his stomach.
