by HR Mason
She wasn’t used to being the center of attention, and having strangers pelt her with requests for photos and small talk for hours was nearly more than she could bear. Runa was exhausted. The weeks leading up to the wedding, as well as the stress of the ceremony itself, had nearly drained her. If she weren’t afraid of being perceived as rude and socially awkward, she would run up to the bridal suite, crawl beneath the covers, and drift off to sleep. She just needed a little peace and quiet in order to recharge her battery.
Lost in her thoughts, Runa jumped when she heard the sound of high heels echoing on the tile floor. Her heart sank inside her chest when she saw it was Camille. Standing quickly and smoothing her wedding gown, Runa greeted her mother-in-law.
“Hello, Camille.”
“What are you doing in here?” Her voice lashed out like a whip.
“I was just taking a moment to breathe. Social gatherings drain me.” Runa shrugged.
“Unbelievable. You are obviously not cut out to be an Everwine. I don’t know what my son was thinking. You clearly have no breeding or social grace.”
Camille tapped the toe of one sparkly high heel on the tile floor, the sound causing Runa to wince.
“I… I just needed a moment… alone,” she stammered.
Camille inched closer to her, leaning in until Runa could feel the woman’s warm breath on her face. Runa took an involuntary step backward.
“Listen to my words very closely, Runa. Let them sink in. You may have married into the Everwine family, but you will never be one of us. You don’t belong here. My son has obviously taken leave of his senses, but I can see right through you.”
Overcome with the warring emotions of anger and disbelief, Runa bit back her tears. She needed to get away from Camille.
She turned to walk away, but Camille stuck her glittery-heeled foot directly in her path.
Perhaps if she’d been prepared, Runa might have caught herself. But she wasn’t. Camille spun Runa off balance in every possible way. Toppling, her body crashed onto the tiled floor. She hit the ground with a thud, screaming out in pain as her knees came in contact with the unyielding ground.
“Oh, you must be more careful, my dear. There are a million possible ways to have an accident in a house this size.”
Camille smiled wickedly as she sauntered out of the conservatory, leaving Runa behind without a second glance.
Runa gasped, not quite able to wrap her brain around what just happened. Camille had purposely tripped her. Then she threatened her.
Hot tears rolled down Runa’s cheeks, in part because of the pain but mostly because of the situation. Chase’s mother had always hated her, that much was clear, but now she feared the woman might be outright dangerous.
Runa pulled herself to her feet, wincing as pain shot through her knees. Hobbling to the bench, she gave in to the sobs she could no longer hold at bay.
That was how Asta and Tawney found her.
“Runa, what’s going on?” Asta’s worried voice echoed throughout the room as she ran across the conservatory floor, kneeling in front of her daughter.
“Why are you crying?” Tawney sank onto the bench beside Runa, tenderly brushing away strands of hair from Runa’s damp face.
“I… I… fell,” Runa replied.
“Just now?” Asta inquired.
“I tripped on the leg of the table and hit my knees on the tile. You know how clumsy I am.” Runa tried to laugh it off. “It really hurt.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened?”
Runa avoided her mother’s perceptive gaze, knowing if she looked at her, she would be forced to spill the truth. She wasn’t about to do that. There was no way she could tell Asta that Camille had threatened her. Not on her wedding day. That would only fuel Asta’s fire and turn her even further against Chase.
“Yes. I’m fine, really,” Runa lied.
“You poor thing.” Tawney reached out and squeezed Runa’s hand.
As she grasped it, a strange look came over her face, catching Runa’s attention.
“What’s wrong, Tawney?”
“I’m not sure. There’s something… a picture….”
“What do you see?” Asta asked worriedly.
“I see a woman… the same blonde woman I saw before. I can’t see her face. Wait, now she’s turning around,” Tawney said.
“What’s the woman doing?” Asta prompted.
“She’s walking along the beach. The moon is full. She has driftwood… shells… feathers. She’s drawing a circle in the sand… salting it… enclosing herself inside of it. She’s crying.”
“Do you know the woman?” Runa was intrigued.
“She… looks… like… you.”
Twenty-One
Departure Cove, Oregon, 1899
Thomas Calais closed the mammoth front door behind him and clomped down the front steps of his house. After a month of living in his dream home, he wasn’t as happy as he thought he’d be. Throughout the building phase, he’d felt something was missing. He kept telling himself he’d feel differently once he moved in, but he didn’t.
He had furnished his opulent home with only the best decorations and trappings, carefully choosing each exquisite piece of furniture, selecting the artwork with care. He wanted his home to not only strike awe but to be welcoming as well.
Although the house was the grandest around, Thomas wanted it to feel like a home, not a museum. On the surface, he had succeeded, but in spite of the lavish décor, it felt empty. The place needed something, although for the life of him he didn’t know what that was.
Lighting his pipe, he wandered down the rough-hewn path leading from his home to the beach. It wasn’t an easy walk, as his house sat on a sheer rocky cliff above the ocean. He’d spent weeks clearing out the vegetation enough to traverse it. Eventually he hoped to build a staircase, but for now, he walked the path. He was hearty, physically fit, and hungry for adventure. It was nothing he couldn’t handle.
Thomas pulled his wool coat closer to his body as the wind blew off the Pacific Ocean, nipping at him. Puffing on his pipe, he continued his descent toward the shore. He’d walked the trail every day for a month, becoming quite acclimated to the route. Tiny drops of sea mist stuck to his full dark beard and clung to his wavy black hair. He squinted, shielding his green eyes against the precipitation, pulling his fisherman’s cap a bit lower.
Reaching flat land, he angled his body toward the shoreline, making his way across the sand. In his mind, there was nothing better than being near his beloved sea. He felt more at home on the water than on land, so much so that his father often teased him about being half fish. The sea made sense to him. He understood it. It was constantly changing yet always the same.
Lost in a daydream, Thomas didn’t notice that he wasn’t alone on the shore. Had he realized it sooner, he might have been prepared for the shock of electricity that nearly brought him to his knees. It’d been almost a year since he’d last seen her, but the thrumming excitement coursing through his body was familiar. It was the woman he’d first seen on the ship, then again performing the strange ritual on the shore. She was the Norwegian captain’s wind witch.
She was several feet away, her back turned to him. He stopped walking, maintaining a comfortable distance between them so as not to disturb her work. Thomas knew he should make his presence known, yet he remained silent. He didn’t know what the woman was doing, but he was mesmerized by her every move.
He watched as she reached into a pouch and pulled out a vial filled with a powdery substance. Bowing her head, she paused a moment before sprinkling it around herself in a circle. When she turned toward him, Thomas expected his presence might startle her, but he was mistaken. The woman’s face showed no surprise. She smiled enigmatically, as if she’d always known he was there.
Moving toward her, he returned her smile. When he was close enough to be heard above the roar of the ocean, he greeted her.
“Hello.”
“Hallo,” sh
e replied.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes. But I prefer my native tongue.”
“Norwegian?”
“Ja,” she said with a grin. “Snakker du norsk?”
“A little.” Thomas chuckled. “I also prefer my native tongue.”
“I understand many languages, so we may converse in whichever one you choose.”
“That’s helpful.” He fumbled for what to say next. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Brynja.”
“Do people call you Brynn?”
“You may call me that if you like.”
“I’m Thomas Calais.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I know a great many things. But if I told you how, you wouldn’t believe me,” she answered.
“Can you be sure? You haven’t even tried.”
Thomas could have asked a million questions in rapid succession, but he paused, anxious for her answers.
“I’ve known you for some time, Thomas. I dreamed of your face long before I ever arrived at your shore.”
“You dreamed of me?” His heart pounded inside his chest.
“Every night for over a year. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Brynja reached into her pouch and pulled out something that looked like a stick of rolled-up leaves.
“How is that possible?”
“Anything is possible.”
Brynja lit a match, placing the flame next to the end of the stick. Smoke began to curl, but it didn’t catch on fire.
“Do you believe in fate, Thomas?”
“I… I don’t know. I suppose,” he stammered.
“What would you say if I told you that fate brought me to you?” She stared at him, never flinching, never looking away.
Thomas swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His throat had gone dry, and he couldn’t speak.
“What if I told you that I sailed thousands of miles across the sea from my own country because I saw your face, Thomas?”
Her blue eyes met his green ones, and time stood still. He wasn’t used to being caught off guard. Not many things took him by surprise, but Brynja and her fantastical story did. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Brynja closed her eyes, and her lips began to move. Thomas couldn’t understand her words, but she seemed to be saying some sort of prayer. The smoking stick of leaves smoldered as she waved it in the air. The strange scent wafted on the breeze and stuck to his nostrils.
Opening her eyes, Brynja looked at Thomas. Without saying a word, she took his hand inside her own, her eyes never leaving his. Then she dropped his hand, sank to her knees, and drew a second circle in the sand, this one surrounding them both.
Standing, she reached in her pouch and pulled out a vial of oil. She placed a single drop on the tip of her finger and touched it to Thomas’s forehead, drawing a symbol he didn’t recognize. He didn’t move or speak, afraid to disrupt the strange crackling energy in the air. He didn’t understand what was going on, but it felt right, as if he were always meant to be in that space at that moment.
When she completed her ritual, Brynja exhaled deeply, handing the smoldering stick of leaves to Thomas. He held it awkwardly, inhaling the scent, a feeling of complete contentment and peace washing over him.
“What is this?”
“The scent is angelica. It’s used to bring blessings and purification to a new home. It wards off evil and encourages a harmonious home life,” Brynja explained.
Thomas stared at her blankly.
“Isn’t that what you were seeking, Thomas?”
“How could you know that?”
“You might be frightened if I told you.”
“I could never be afraid of you, Brynn.”
“I like when you call me that.” She smiled.
Unrelenting, Thomas persisted with his questioning.
“How did you know I was seeking harmony in my home?”
Brynja gazed at him, a strange look on her lovely face. She sighed deeply, appearing to contemplate her words before speaking.
“I’ve stood on this shore every day for almost a year. I’ve watched as your grand home was constructed. I’ve prayed for your happiness and safety.”
“You have?”
“Yes. But there’s something else, Thomas.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve also felt your loneliness. Your desire for connection and companionship has weighed on me. I’ve said prayers for you. I’ve performed rituals for you. But the feeling consumed me. Today I’ve learned the answer.”
“And what is the answer?”
“I feel your emptiness because it mirrors my own. Last night I dreamed I was living in your home. It was the first time in years I hadn’t felt lonely. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“I knew our paths were destined to cross and our futures were meant to collide. We’re two branches of the same tree. Together our roots will be strong and deep.”
Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but in that moment, everything made sense.
“Brynn, I need you to come with me. There’s something I have to show you.”
“Of course I’ll come with you.”
She knelt and collected her ritual objects, placing them back in her pouch. With a nod, she followed him without question.
When they reached the path leading up the cliff, Thomas paused. He was accustomed to the difficult climb, but she wasn’t.
“Maybe this isn’t the best idea. The walk isn’t easy.”
“Don’t worry about me, Thomas. I’m sturdy and strong,” Brynja assured him.
He grasped her hand, and the two climbed the path together. He was surprised at how well she kept up. She was younger than he, although he couldn’t be sure how much. He didn’t ask her age because it didn’t seem to matter. Her eyes contained a depth of wisdom far beyond her years.
When they reached the top, she wasn’t even out of breath. Glancing at the beautiful home up close, Brynja smiled.
“It’s even lovelier than in my dreams.”
“Come with me.”
Thomas led her through the front door and into the immaculate entryway. Brynja looked around at the lovely parlor with its perfectly chosen furniture ready to seat visitors at a moment’s notice.
“Your home is exquisite, Thomas.”
“There’s something I want to show you.”
He led her into the music room, where a large fireplace towered above a grand piano. A gigantic stained glass window decorated the far wall, and she drew closer to inspect its design as she absently traced her fingertips across the fabric of a plush velvet sofa.
Brynja inhaled sharply when she examined the colorful window depicting a blonde woman standing on the shore next to the crashing waves of the ocean. Peering intently at it for a moment, she then turned her head toward Thomas. A smile bloomed across her beautiful face.
“Is that me?”
“It is. When I had the window designed, I was working from an image in my mind of a woman I had only seen twice. Until today I didn’t understand why I was compelled to permanently etch that woman’s face into my home, but now I know.”
“What do you know?”
“You were always meant to be here,” Thomas murmured.
“Perhaps you also have a bit of magic in your blood. You speak like a man who does.” Brynja chuckled.
“So where does this leave us? What does it all mean?”
“It means some things are decided long before we even understand. Across thousands of miles of ocean, we have found each other.”
Thomas cleared his throat awkwardly. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes.” Brynja laughed. “I believe I would.”
They found their seats in the parlor. Thomas rang a bell and started a fire in the hearth. Before long, a maid brought them tea. As they sipped their warm drinks, they chatted easily, as if t
hey had always known each other.
“Houses like this usually have a name. What do you call your home?” Brynja inquired.
“I’ve been mulling it over since I moved in. I had no idea until today.”
“What have you come up with?”
“I believe I’ll call it Angelica House,” Thomas replied.
“Angelica House?”
“Yes, the fragrance in your ritual. You said angelica brings blessings and purification to a home. What name could be better than that?”
“I brought that angelica from Norway for my ceremonies. It’s important. I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s gone.”
“We’ll plant all the angelica you desire. Any flower or herb you want, we’ll find a way to grow it here. I’ve built a conservatory. You may do with it what you will. It’s yours,” he said excitedly.
“You don’t fear my ways? I’ve been told that people in America don’t embrace beliefs that are different.”
“That may be true, but I’m not like most people,” Thomas answered truthfully.
“No you’re not.”
“Will you answer something for me? My opinion of you will be no different regardless of what you say.”
“Of course, Thomas. You may ask me anything.”
“Captain Ingebjorg called you a wind witch. Is that true?”
“I am a great many things. Some call me a klok kvinne, a wise woman. My power is something few can understand or define. Captain Ingebjorg called me a wind witch, but I’m much more than that.”
Brynja stood from her chair and crossed the room to look out the window toward the sea. Thomas followed, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“Go on, Brynn,” he encouraged.
She sighed before continuing. “Gifts have been given to me, passed down through the women in my family line.”
“Gifts?”
“Or curses. Opinions vary on what they are. Throughout history we’ve been hunted, persecuted, burned, and cast out of communities. Some women have feared the gift, hidden it, locked it away, but I was taught to embrace it, to help others.”
