Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(2)

“Just a wee bit tired, and you’re not to worry. Here now, hold on to your sister, Eamon! Alastar smells home, and she’s likely to fall off.”

“She rides better than Eamon, and me as well.”

“Aye, well, the horse is her talisman, but she’s near sleeping on his back.”

The path turned; the pony’s hooves rang on the frozen ground as he trotted toward the shed beside the cabin.

“Eamon, see to Alastar, an extra scoop of grain tonight. You had your fill, didn’t you?” she said as her boy began to mutter.

He grinned at her, handsome as a summer morning, and though he could hop down as quick as a rabbit, he held out his arms.

He’d always been one for a cuddle, Sorcha thought, hugging him as she lifted him down.

She didn’t have to tell Brannaugh to start her chores. The girl ran the house nearly as well as her mother. Sorcha took Teagan in her arms, murmuring, soothing, as she carried her into the cabin.

“It’s dreaming time, my darling.”

“I’m a pony, and I gallop all day.”

“Oh aye, the prettiest of ponies, and the fastest of all.”

The fire, down to embers after the hours away, barely held back the cold. As she carried the baby to bed, Sorcha held out a hand to the hearth. The flames leapt up, simmered over the ashes.

She tucked Teagan into the bunk, smoothed her hair—bright as sunlight like her father’s—and waited until her eyes—deep and dark like her mother’s—closed.

“Sweet dreams only,” she murmured, touching the charm she’d hung over the beds of her babies. “Safe and sound through all the night. All you are and all you see hold you through dark into light.”

She kissed the soft cheek, and as she straightened, winced at the pull in her belly. The ache came and went, but came more strongly as the winter held. So she would take her daughter’s advice and make a potion.

“Brighid, on this your day, help me heal. I have three children who need me. I cannot leave them alone.”

She left Teagan sleeping, and went to help the older children with the chores.

When night fell, too fast, too soon, she secured the door before repeating her nighttime ritual with Eamon.

“I’m not tired, not a bit,” he claimed as his eyes drooped.

“Oh, I can see that. I see you’re wide awake and raring. Will you fly again tonight, mhic?”

“I will, aye, high in the sky. Will you teach me more tomorrow? Can I take Roibeard out come morning?”

“That I will, and that you can. The hawk is yours, and you see him, you know him, and feel him. So rest now.” She ruffled his bark brown hair, kissed his eyes—wild and blue as his father’s—closed.

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. The dealg of 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.