by Lynn Kurland
He took her right hand in his, turned her wrist over and trailed his finger over her skin. He looked up at her. “I might be able to tell you partly why. You’re reading your name. Can you see it here?”
Morgan looked to where he was pointing. She couldn’t see it, but that didn’t mean anything. She had far to go before she would recognize anything her grandfather had written there. She frowned.
“Morgan?” she asked.
“Mhorghain,” he corrected. “It is a Camanaë name, you know.” He smiled. “It means hope.”
Tears stung her eyes suddenly. “Truly?”
“Truly,” he said. He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then he smiled at her. “It is something you bring wherever you go, Mhorghain.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’ve never called me that before.”
“It seemed appropriate.” He took her left hand, kissed the inside of her wrist, then smiled at her. “I think, my love, that hope may be what saves us all.”
She merely nodded because her heart would have broken if she’d opened her mouth.
So she put her head on Miach’s shoulder and closed her eyes. The darkness would be faced soon enough, but at least she wouldn’t face it alone. She would have Miach, his family, her family, and even her mother who lived on in dreams and a single letter.
And she would have hope.
It was enough for now.
