by Lily Silver
Some Enchanted Waltz
By Lily Silver
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Copyright Lily Silver 2012
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Cover Art: Char Adlesperger @ romancenovelcovers.com
Table of Contents:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Historical Note
About the Author
Books by Lily Silver
Dedication:
Thank you to following people for helping with this project:
Special thank you to my husband, Dan; because you believe in me when no one else does. It is through your patience and devotion that I can believe in the power of True Love.
To Mary Grace Murphy; for your attention to detail and you help in proofing the final draft of this manuscript.
To Stacey Joy Netzel: for being an inspiration to me as an author, for always being there to answer questions and for leading the way in this brave new world of digital publishing.
And to the members of The Oconto Writer’s Group, for always being there as a positive influence to cheer me on in my writing adventures and continually challenging me to finish my manuscripts.
“At certain seasons of the year, Fairy Queens make Great Efforts to carry off the fine stalwart young men of the country to the fairy palace in the cleft of the hills. Or they attempt to lure them to their dancing grounds, where the men are lulled into dreams by the sweet, subtle fairy music and forget home, kith and kindred, and never desire to return again to their own people.
Even if the spell is broken and they are brought back by some strong incantation, they are never the same; for everyone knows by the dream look in their eyes that they have danced with the fairies on the hill, and been loved by one of the beautiful race, who, when they take a fancy to a handsome mortal lover, cast their spells over him with restless power.”
The Book of Irish Cures, Mystic Charms & Superstitions
By Lady Wilde, 1896
Prologue
Southwestern coast of Ireland, 1798:
“Well, Lord Dillon? Do we set a wedding date or do I go to the authorities with information regarding your seditious activities?”
The January winds whipped Lord Dillon’s cloak behind him as he reined in his mount at the edge of the cliff. Why had he agreed to meet this toadying loyalist? Blackmailed into marriage, that was rich. And to the Sheriff’s troll faced daughter.
“I’m betrothed.” Dillon gave his enemy a steely glare. “I’ve told you, Burke. She will arrive by ship from America any day now.”
Thunder echoed in the distance, breaking the siren song of the waves far below.
“Ach. Still spewing that sorry tale? You’ve claimed the lass would arrive for months now. I’ll not be put off. My girl is waiting, and so is the magistrate in Cork.”
“And just why would the magistrate be interested in my marriage plans?”
“His interest is in those who feign loyalty to the crown by day while making mischief on the King’s Regiment under cover of darkness.” Sheriff Burke countered. “I’ll give him your name, Dillon.”
“How do you intend to convince him that a peer of the realm and a Member of Parliament, has thrown in his lot with highwaymen and thieves? I’ve told you, Burke, I’ve pledged my troth to another and I will not break it to satisfy your ambitions.”
“So be it.” Burke’s face reddened as he drew his own mount back from the cliffs. “You’ll dance for the hangman. Your fancy title will not spare you when I prove you are that hooded villain terrorizing the coast.”
The squat Sheriff kneed his mount and galloped across the open hillside, toward the small village of Glengarriff bordering Lord Dillon’s estates.
Dillon released a pensive sigh as he gazed out at the bay. Hardly a year had passed since the fates moved against them on this same Bay of Bantry, dashing the United Irishmen’s hopes of obtaining freedom for Ireland. Theobald Wolfe-Tone, their leader, had arrived with an armada of French troops sent by Napoleon himself to help drive the bloodthirsty English back across the sea from whence they came.
His loyalist neighbor across the bay, Richard White, used the incident to gain the title of Baron Bantry. White was given the title as a reward from the English crown for alerting the Cork Militia and banding men together to hold off the invasion until the English troops arrived. White’s efforts were not necessary as Nature ended the intended siege with a winter storm that lasted seventeen days.
Dark clouds swirled and churned where the ocean met the sky. As the wind assaulted him, Lord Dillon closed his eyes, offering up a faint prayer to the enchanted ones hiding in the evening mists. He’d spent many an hour in recent weeks searching the secret glens for a forest nymph, a sympathetic sprite, or even a mischievous one, as long as it proved agreeable to his request. Send him a bride, a fairy bride, to save his neck and still the tongues of accusation against him. Without their aid, he was a condemned man.
Oh, they came to him often in years past, those charmed creatures of the Sidhe race. He never needed to search for them. They appeared simply by his wishing for them. He was a child then, barely out of short dresses.
Now, when he needed them, they remained hidden and deaf to his pleas.
Chapter One
Northeastern Wisconsin, Present Day
“Tornado weather.” Tara breathed aloud as she looked up at the ominous sky. She decided to roll up her car windows as she exited the vehicle, in case the clouds opened up during her shift at the local radio station.
When Tara entered the 1960’s style brick building set in the middle of rural woodlands, she was met by the frowning station manager. “Tara, you’re here.” Roger’s forced cheerfulness wasn’t lost on her as he glanced at his watch. Yeah, she knew it; she was at least five minutes late. His shrewd eyes betrayed the feigned smile breaking through his trim blond beard. “We need to talk.”
“I have to run these scripts past The Gnome.” Tracy, the sassy morning show host who had been chatting with Roger hurried toward the steps leading to the second floor.
Roger escorted Tara into the Control Room. “We have severe weather warnings. If the Sheriff calls in a tornado sighting, you’ll have to go live immediately.”
Wasn’t that her luck? She would be here alone at the station until her relief came in at midnight. Tara nodded. She knew the protocol, as she’d worked here for three years, but that didn’t make any difference to the knots growi
ng in her guts.
“If you have problems with the satellite or the transmitter, call Dan.” Roger said, reading her apprehension. “And The Gnome will be here until five thirty.” Roger added.
The Gnome, or Steve, if one used his given name, was an innocuous old hippy. He was the station’s traffic controller. It was his job to approve every ad and jingle before it went on the air. Behind his back he was referred to as The Gnome because he looked like the little Roaming Gnome from the travel ads on TV, without the pointy hat, of course.
Tara snorted aloud. ‘Steve’ would be a lot of help in a storm. Tara thought. He’d hide under a desk, as the radio station had no basement, leaving her to broadcast the weather warnings alone. He was a boring, nerdy type who only became animated when talking about alien abductions and Roswell conspiracy theories. Yep, lots a help there!
Roger left her at her station in the control booth.
Tara set her backpack down and sat down and read the computer screen. The monitor blinked with little squares of purple or red, each square represented a program cued up to be played at various times. Tara’s main job was to sit at the console and press the appropriate boxes to play local ads during breaks from the national satellite broadcast. She would give local weather updates throughout the night as needed. It was a boring job, but it gave her plenty of time to work on her thesis paper as she monitored the computer screens. After the satellite broadcasts ended at ten p.m. Tara hosted the remaining two hours as a live DJ, playing her favorite songs and requests sent in by listeners. Meatloaf’s 1990’s ballad, I’d Lie For You and That’s The Truth was her calling card. She played it every night as an introduction to her show.
Tara left her desk and began shuffling through the long vertical rows of CDs on the wall opposite. She pulled the cases with her song selections for the night, added up the times and figured in commercial breaks. That done, she carried the stack of CDs to her desk at the computer to begin transferring the songs onto a program that would allow her to introduce each segment live, press fade, then play the queued sequence.
After her music sets were lined up in the computer she left the control room to make the scheduled hourly check of the transformer readings. The huge metal transformer dominated the back room. It was an antique bought cheap by the station owner from the government some years ago. With the new digital age it had taken quite a bit of tweaking and expense to convert the monstrosity. So much so that the running joke was that it might have cost less to simply buy new equipment. The heat generated from the massive machine made the room nearly unbearable. The steady, loud thrumming prevented conversation in the room. Tara checked the range and voltage meters, recorded her readings and left the oppressive room, colliding with Tracy in the hallway.
“How did your meeting go?” Tracy asked. “Did the professor give you an extension?”
Tara rolled her eyes. “No. He says that they don’t give extensions to people in the real world and he wouldn’t be helping me by moving my deadline back a month.”
“Pompous Academic Ass.” Tracy muttered. “Probably hasn’t popped his head outside of his office in decades to observe The Real—” Tracy stopped as warning bells sounded from the control room. Tara rushed back to her post in the control booth.
Roger was already there, frantically pushing buttons and typing in codes to re-start the computer and reload the satellite program. “We had dead air for forty-five seconds, not bad, considering all the electric energy in the air.” Seeing Tara had returned to man the controls, he moved to the door. “I’m out of here. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The station practically runs itself.”
“Yeah, no worries, Tara, you’re sitting under a five hundred foot tower of metal with transformers and wires, you’ll just be fine.” Tracy quipped.
At last, it was five thirty. Punctual as ever, The Gnome came out of his hole upstairs to bid her goodnight. He wore a hideous green plaid short-sleeve cotton shirt tucked inside belted polyester pants with a waistline too high— an incongruity that screamed nerdiness that contrasted sharply with his long grey hair, shaggy beard and radical hippie worldview. “We’re in for some bad weather. Have you heard that thunder?”
Tara shook her head. She hadn’t heard much over Metallica’s distinctive blare.
The Gnome smiled and did a little jig around the room, another odd trait that had earned him his nickname. “Yep, yep, yep. With any luck this dump will get zapped by lightning and burn to the ground. Could be the best thing to ever happen to this place. Then Cheap Lenny will have to buy digital to keep us going.”
“Or, he could just cut his losses and leave us all unemployed.” She countered. The radio station was old, and quite rural. It wasn’t a money maker for the owner, but rather an expensive hobby. “But you’re right. The frequency is buzzing with an unusual amount of interference tonight.” Tara added. “I’m surprised no one has called yet to complain about the crappy reception.”
“You never know what kind of weird shit’s being transmitted across the airwaves.” The Gnome responded in all seriousness, watching the screen with a thoughtful expression. “What we think is garbage, may be alien communications.”
Damn, I had to get him started on that Roswell Conspiracy crap. Tara winced mentally, swallowing a mouthful of salami after taking a bite from her sub. The phone rang, startling both occupants of the control room. Tara dumped her sandwich on top of her desk, spilling lettuce and tomato across the white page of her research notebook in her rush to answer the phone.
So, good old Roger the control freak forgot to turn the ringer off after his live call in program earlier? Got-cha! Tara thought, wishing she could write him up for forgetting something as basic as he seemed to enjoy writing everyone else up around here. The yellow light flashing was usually the only indication of a call for the person sitting in the control booth. Tara picked up the receiver, identifying herself as she felt around the base of the bulky landline console phone to find the shutoff switch to the ringer.
“This is Sheriff Jackson; I need you to put out a weather statement.”
Propping the clunky receiver on her shoulder, she reached for a pen to take down his report. Once finished, she put the Sheriff on hold and switched on the microphone. Looking over her shoulder as she wrote the Sheriff’s message, The Gnome pressed the fade button to override the satellite broadcast for her.
“This is Tara O’Neill at WBAE radio with an emergency weather statement. The Marinette County Sheriff’s Department has confirmed reports that a tornado touched down 2 miles south of Pound on Schaffer’s Road and is headed west toward the towns of Harmony and Peshtigo. All citizens in the path of this storm should seek shelter immediately, I Repeat, Tornado Warning …”
After finishing the broadcast, she returned to the Sheriff on line one.
“Thanks. We’ll be in touch again before the night is out.” Sheriff Jackson replied.
Tara hung up the phone and restored the satellite broadcast.
“Have fun.” The Gnome bestowed a gleeful grin upon her as he made for the door.
“Dude? You’re not going to stay and help me with the emergency broadcasts?” She teased, in mock affront. Tara knew otherwise, but she liked to play with the dude.
“Oh, I would, but you know how Lenny is about overtime, and there is an X-Files marathon on the Sci-Fi channel—”
A loud crack shook the room as thunder clapped directly over them. There was a blinding flash as the lights flickered and the computer screen became a psychedelic pattern of iridescent colors.
“Damn it, we’re off line and off satellite.” Tara held her hands in mid-air, afraid to touch to the computer console for fear of an electrical shock.
“Reboot the system! I’ll check the satellite.” The spritely old man dashed down the hall to check the huge dish outside the front door.
Tara grabbed the systems manual and followed the instructions to reboot the computer. She reloaded the evening’s program menu. The computer confirmed th
at the satellite was receiving the broadcast again, now that the power had been restored.
The dead air had been two minutes and forty-five seconds. Not a big deal if it was just music, but deadly when rural residents depended on radio warning broadcasts during severe storms when TV was unavailable.
The Gnome came back inside to tell her what she already knew; the satellite feed was just fine. He saluted her with a merry grin and left for the night.
Tara was alone at the station. The broadcast crackled from the energy surges filling the air as the storm moved closer to the small city of Marinette.
The phone line lit up. She picked up the receiver. “Hi, kid. How’s it going?” It was Dan, the station’s engineer. Just the sound of his baritone voice brought relief.
She relayed the recent power outage to him and then asked, “What about the tower? It’s five hundred feet of wires and metal cable.” She parroted Tracy’s parting jest with anxiety. “What if it gets hit by lightning?”
“It’s grounded. You’re safer there than you are at home.” The deep voice on the other end of the phone was soothing to her frazzled nerves.
“No contest, I live in a rented mobile home with no basement and no storm shelter.” Tara reminded him. “This lightning is unreal. It’s like something out of an old horror movie. I’m getting an awful lot of crackling on the air. I don’t like this.”
“Nice of Roger and the Gnome to stay and help out in a crisis.”
