by Vivian Arend
“Pardon?”
“Last night. In the currach. ’Twas Meg’s death.”
Xia blinked at him, her throat swelling shut as her body utterly froze. Her heart gave one hard thump, her brain reverberating with his words, understanding them, but stupidly denying it. “What is a currach?”
His face looked as frozen as she felt. “The little ox-hide boat you were in is a currach, at least as they were then. Meg. My first wife. She was a sprite. She drowned in Loch Mhòrair in a sudden storm. I wasn’t there, you see.”
Xia felt her heart thump again. I don’t know what to say. “What does it mean, that I dreamed her memory?”
“That nightmare wasn’t yours. ’Twas mine. It means naught but that we will work well together.”
She stared at him for another heartbeat. He tucked Markos’s letter into his back pocket and went out into the morning mist, closing the door. Xia blinked at it. They’d work well together? Her own nightmares weren’t enough, now she was having his? His Rover revved, and he turned on the lawn and went away. She’d have to tell him not to always turn on the lawn or he’d ruin it. Long after he’d gone, she was able to move again, stiffly.
Revolving, she stared at the decadent food spread before her, stomach churning and the taste of anguish in her mouth.
