by Dani Harper
Nainie had laughingly called her a bookish child, and the evidence plainly showed she still was one. But the titles on the spines had been very different when she was younger. Faery tales, folklore, myths, and legends. Elves, witches, ogres, and dragons. Spells and curses. Good and evil. All just silly fantasy of course, but Morgan still felt a pang of nostalgia. She had loved every single one of them. How many nights had she pleaded with Nainie to keep the light on just a little longer so she could read more of the wonderful stories?
On an impulse, Morgan hurried to the spare bedroom, where about four dozen boxes were stacked against one wall, each neatly labeled in her own handwriting. She’d intended to settle in, of course, to finally free her belongings from storage and to display all her treasures now that she had a house of her own. Yet there were still a lot of boxes whose contents hadn’t seen the light of day since she lived in an apartment. There were even more boxes that hadn’t been opened since Nainie had passed away and left all her things to her granddaughter.
It was a daunting task, and she’d made little progress. Morgan figured she’d be fully unpacked sometime in the next decade or so—if she was lucky. Now the intimidation she usually felt when she entered the room seemed to dissolve. Her anger over Rhys was slowly but surely nudged aside, replaced by a subtle niggling pressure. Look, look, look. Giving in to the compulsion, she began opening boxes.
So many letters, photos, and knickknacks. And books, of course—scores of them, many filled with Welsh folklore. Each one was like an old friend, but she wasn’t there to read. Instead, she glanced at each title, then reached for the next one. Morgan had no idea what she was looking for, but she couldn’t seem to stop. When she’d gone through all the boxes in the guest room, she went to the closet and found more. And still more. By late afternoon, she was sitting in a sea of open boxes and towering stacks of books and papers.
She sighed heavily. So far, all I’ve done is make a helluva mess. But she might as well finish the job.
There were only five boxes left when she discovered something beneath some of Nainie’s favorite cookbooks. It was a small jewelry box from Morgan’s fifteenth birthday, made from dark wood with a Celtic symbol carved on it. Opening it, she found a tangle of silver necklaces and plastic bracelets, sterling earrings and wild-colored dime-store ones. And right on top, a snapshot of Nainie. Morgan had taken the photo herself with her brand-new camera, surprising her grandmother in the kitchen as she rolled out pie dough—a slice of everyday life perfectly captured. How many times had she seen her grandmother bake?
She could nearly smell the cinnamon in the air.
Morgan sighed and drew a finger over the photo, gently tracing the shapeless flowered dress, the faded apron, the glasses sliding down Nainie’s nose, and the crown of blue-gray curly hair that would never behave. Morgan pulled a tendril of her own wayward hair as emotion washed over her.
“Oh, Nainie, I wish you were here. I miss you all the time.” She sniffled hard and rubbed her nose on the shoulder of her shirt. At once she noticed some little white things carefully lined up beside the pastry board. They didn’t look quite like dough scraps…Finally Morgan gave up squinting at them and held the photo near the window for better light. She had to get a magnifying glass, however, before the tiny objects resolved themselves into clever knots and triangles and flowers of leftover dough.
“Faery pastries,” she murmured, remembering. Every baking day, without fail, Nainie would make a small batch of faery pastries, dripping with honey and raisins. Morgan would receive one on a china saucer with a cup of milky tea. As for the rest, a tiny basket of the diminutive baked goods would grace the back porch at sunset.
An offering for the Fair Ones, Nainie had explained. Some of her words came back to Morgan now. There are many things all around us that are old and powerful…They’re not to be feared but to be respected, and it’s long been a gift in our family to know them.
Nainie had believed the faery stories she told her granddaughter. Which made her the only person in the world who could understand what Morgan was going through. Even though her grandmother had passed on, Morgan felt certain that Nainie would be listening and watching over her somehow.
“I’m trying hard not to be stupid here, but you told me that the heart knows things the mind doesn’t and to trust my heart even when things didn’t make sense.” Tears began, only a few at first, and then the floodgates simply burst. “They sure don’t make sense right now. There’s this man in my life. I think he’s a good man, but he’s really confused and so am I…”
She poured her heart out to Nainie’s photo for a very long time. Talking to the dog yesterday had been good for her, but her heart hadn’t been ripped in half at the time. She wasn’t much of a crier by nature, but this time she couldn’t stop the tears. It wasn’t long before the box of Kleenex was empty and she had to switch to toilet paper. Which seemed somewhat undignified, but it was either that or scratchy paper towels.
By the time Morgan was down to hiccups and sniffles, she still had no answers. She loved Rhys, and Rhys, love her though he might, was obviously crazy. It could be the treatable kind of crazy, like schizophrenia or something like that, but he’d have to agree he had a problem. And she didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
With Nainie’s picture in one hand and the old jewelry box in the other, she got unsteadily to her feet and stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee and pull herself together. The sun pouring in the windows seemed to mock her mood as she propped the photo against the salt and pepper shakers on the table. She stood back and surveyed it, then went back to the guest room and came back with a frame. It was far too large for the precious picture, but it would protect it. She centered the photo on the glass and closed it up, then took the Truman’s Farm Equipment calendar down from the wall and hung Nainie’s photo in its place. Maybe I could get Jay to scan it or something. A larger copy of the photo could hang on that wall permanently. Nainie in her kitchen and me in mine.
For a moment, she almost smiled…
Her grandmother used to say that the best medicine for feeling miserable was to go make somebody else happier. Morgan doubted there was a medicine in the world that could make her feel much better—with the possible exception of Jack Daniel’s—but she knew there was one soul who she could visit and at least not make him feel any worse.
She would spend some time with Fred.
Rhys kicked a bale of straw across the floor between the stalls, startling Lucy. Steady beast that she was, the horse didn’t shy or jump, just flattened her ears and switched her tail. He was far too angry to be sorry for kicking the straw right then.
Morgan had been furious when she stormed out of the stable. Although she’d ordered him to leave, Rhys had lingered, knowing that she spoke from the heat of the moment, from the emotions that were tearing at her. Frustration clawed at him as well. He knew how to ride and how to fight, how to farm and how to build. He knew how to care for an injured horse, yet he had no idea whatsoever how to help the woman he loved. She was compassionate and skilled as a healer, clever of mind, but how could she accept a truth that she viewed as impossible? To be fair, few in this time and place would be able to believe such a thing. The Fair Ones were all but forgotten, relegated to myth, diminished to tiny beings that consorted with butterflies in picture books.
Helplessness didn’t sit well with him. Rhys much preferred action, but the situation called for him to give Morgan time. How much time? He paced the stable until the mare was nervous, then walked the fields. He didn’t go far, however. He’d vowed to watch over Morgan Edwards and protect her, and the fact that he’d made that promise while still a dog didn’t nullify his commitment. Even if she didn’t want him, he would see to her safety no matter what.
But she did want him. Of that he was certain.
At noon, Rhys judged himself calm enough to walk the mare and even turned her out for a short time to graze. He studied the horse’s movements, saw that she wasn’t favoring that left hind
leg nearly as much, and judged that by the next day she would be ready to spend the morning in the pasture. Morgan would be pleased—if she ever talked to him again. He led the mare back to the stable, noting that the big horse seemed content and comfortable. He was neither.
The red car was gone.
He leaned in the doorway of the barn for a long time. Wondering what Morgan was doing. Wondering what she was thinking. Remembering the night she’d spent in his arms. By all the gods, she’d revealed a passion that matched his own, and his groin ached at the thought.
His heart ached more, however, and was much harder to ignore.
When Jay and his friends arrived for practice, Rhys was glad. Not for the company so much, but for the chance to do something. And right now, a good fight could only improve his present outlook on life.
“The Renaissance Fair Rules of Heavy Combat” turned out to be a little more detailed than simply “Don’t kill anyone.”
“No maiming, dismembering, mutilating, stabbing, or any other kind of wounding,” said Jay, ticking off his fingers. “No bloodshed, period.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “Are we dancing with them or fighting? Can I hit them?”
“As much as you like, as long as they can walk away afterward. Many of the events are full contact, just like football.” Jay glanced at Rhys and added, “Ask Leo about football.”
At least he’d be allowed to use his fists. That was a relief because the weapons, from swords to maces to flails, had been created out of materials that Jay called safe and Rhys called flimsy. The weight of the weaponry was all wrong and poorly balanced, if at all. He hefted the sword Jay had given him. It was not only wooden but padded—padded—like something you would give to a very small child, had he or she been able to lift it. And Jay had said that the actual weapons in the combat event were made of something called rattan, which was said to be even lighter. It would be more like a brawl than a battle, but if Rhys was honest with himself, even a fistfight held a lot of appeal right now.
He blew out a breath and centered himself. Control. He had to stay in control. The fair was still a couple of days away, and he had no desire to unleash his frustrations on his new friends.
Oblivious to Rhys’s inner struggles, Jay and Mike and the rest seemed excited by his presence. Their families had come to watch, as had Leo. Ranyon had decided to come along as well—after all, no one would see the ellyll unless he permitted them to—but Rhys was concerned he’d been a little too thorough in protecting the farm with iron nails and horseshoes. As it turned out, Ranyon had created a charm for himself that would allow him to ride in Leo’s car. The thing hung from the rearview mirror like a bizarre wind chime—a strange collection of car keys and brake shoes, twigs and crystals, all bound together with the copper wire that the ellyll seemed to favor. The same charm permitted Ranyon to enter Morgan’s farm without discomfort.
Brandan had brought along his big black Friesian, Boo, as usual. But there were three extra horses tonight as well to practice something called jousting. The strange sport had been developed centuries after Rhys had first sat astride a horse, but he cheered enthusiastically with the rest of the group as rider after rider was knocked to the ground in a great clanking of armor. When it was over, he was of a mind to ask the victorious Brandan for some lessons. Rhys also wondered how much coin it would take to purchase Lucy from her owner—he felt that the gray mare’s powerful build and temperament would be well suited to such a sport once she had fully healed. He’d have to talk to Leo about finding more paying work. But he already knew he couldn’t keep Lucy at Leo’s house. His friend had explained the difference between livestock and pets and why the former couldn’t live in the city when Rhys had proposed he keep a goat. More rules.
That meant Rhys would have to ask Morgan about keeping the horse at her farm. Of course, right now the horse was perfectly welcome. It was him that Morgan didn’t want there. He sighed and resolved to speak to Leo about the dilemma later.
Right now he could do with a little hand-to-hand action.
The sun was slipping behind the horizon when Morgan finally drove home. She saw a pickup and horse trailer pulling out of her driveway as she approached, which told her the gathering at the corral had broken up. Brandan was driving, and she waved as she passed the truck.
She loved her friends dearly, but although she was in a much better frame of mind than when she’d left, she wasn’t in the mood for company. Fred had been an excellent listener once again, and she’d talked for a long time. A couple of times she thought she saw his tail twitch slightly, perhaps in sympathy. After all, she felt almost as crappy as he did. That thought produced a mental image of her renting an empty run from Ellen and crawling into a doghouse just to be alone for a while. To just lie in the shade and the cool and—
She was in the kitchen before she recalled that she’d left her groceries in the car. As she retrieved them, she saw the light go on in the barn. So Rhys still hasn’t left…Part of her was furious, and part of her was relieved, and all of her was much too tired to deal with it right now. She’d take it up with him tomorrow. Or the next day. Depending on how long she could ignore his existence, and assuming she knew what the hell she wanted to do about it by then…
Morgan crossed the darkening kitchen awkwardly, her arms full of tall paper bags she could barely see over—the store had been out of plastic. She plunked the bags on the table, forgetting that she’d set the small wooden jewelry box there earlier. It tumbled to the floor, scattering its contents at her feet.
Crap. She backed away carefully, hoping not to step on anything, and slapped on the light switch by the door. Knelt and began gathering the tangled trinkets and treasures. Thank heavens she hadn’t put the precious photo back in the box…
A glimmer of silver caught her eye. Nainie’s necklace?
Morgan’s fingers trembled as she gently drew the long intricate chain from the debris. It seemed to separate itself from its neighbors as though glad to be rid of them. She studied it with adult eyes, recognizing several of the small colored stones woven into the spiraling chain—amethyst, citrine, garnet, peridot—but the large carved stone of the medallion was as mysterious as ever. Even with all her books, she’d never been able to name the dark, mysterious gem. Tiny flashes of blue, green, and purple seemed to spark from its faceted surface, and it was both opaque and transparent. How could something look like a pearl and a crystal at the same time? Even Nainie hadn’t known what it was.
Set in silver and circled with smaller stones, the design was strongly Celtic, yet unique in a way Morgan couldn’t quite pinpoint. Even in Wales, with every gift shop offering Celtic jewelry of every description, she’d never seen anything even vaguely like it—except for the ornate silver collar that had fallen from the neck of the great black dog, Rhyswr. A strange thought occurred to her that the designs, though different, were of the same origin. Oh, good grief. That was so not possible. She had no reason at all to connect them, it was simply the product of an overstressed mind. Which reminded her, she needed to unpack the Kleenex she’d just bought…
Keep the necklace with you until your heart calls for it. Those had been her grandmother’s instructions. Morgan didn’t really understand them—why would her heart call for it? And how? She did feel guilty that the heirloom had been in a box for so long. Technically it had been with her. After all, she’d kept it and it was in her house. But she was pretty certain that Nainie had intended for her to wear it. It’ll help you to have faith and it’ll show you truth when you need it most.
“I sure wish it could. I don’t know about the faith part, but it’d be nice to have a little truth around here,” she murmured as she placed it reverently around her neck, looping the long chain twice so the heavy stone medallion didn’t hang to her waist. The cool links felt reassuring against her skin, and there was a sense of rightness that lightened her aching heart a little. She fingered the pendant for a few moments, then knelt and began scooping up the other fallen b
its of jewelry into the box. Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck stood up as realization hit. All the bracelets and brooches, necklaces and rings were dulled with time, blackened with tarnish or green with oxidation. Everything was in sad need of cleaning and polishing.
Not so the medallion nor its long chain. She lifted the necklace from where it fell between her breasts and stared at it. The gemstones glittered. The silver gleamed as it always had, just as she remembered it. Just as if it were new. But hadn’t Nainie told her that the necklace had been in their family for generations?
Forged in faery fire, crafted by faery hand. That’s what Rhys had said about the dog’s silver collar.
“Omigod,” Morgan breathed. She closed her hand around the medallion and, for a brief and panicked moment, thought of tearing it off her neck. Then sense—what was left of it in her strange situation—prevailed. Her grandmother had worn the pendant her entire life, tucked it safe inside her dress, treasured it close to her heart. Nainie had passed the necklace to her granddaughter with great love, and Morgan wasn’t going to fear it now. Besides, hadn’t Nainie known every household trick in the book and then some? She might have coated it with something, dipped it in a substance that prevented it from tarnishing, polished it with some old-fashioned Welsh remedy. Or maybe the piece wasn’t silver at all, maybe it was white gold or something even more valuable that didn’t darken as readily.
See? Morgan lectured herself. It’s all perfectly logical. Jay and Rhys have me spooked, and I’m just seeing things that aren’t there. I’m upset today and susceptible to this silly stuff. I just need to stick to reason.
And reason said that the necklace couldn’t possibly have any connection to the heavy chain-link collar that had been worn by the great black dog.
SEVENTEEN
Rhys strolled through the crowded fair with Leo. The little ellyll had come along as well, sporting a Blue Jays cap similar to Leo’s favored Mariners hat. No one could see Ranyon or his bright headgear unless he wanted them to, of course—and so far, that privilege was confined to Leo and Rhys. And to Spike, of course, but the old terrier had been left at home in blissful peace and quiet.
