She knew that the books lining the shelves didn’t quite fit the historical nature of the castle—the bindings and covers were enough to tell her that none could be more than a hundred years old. Still, that knowledge did not reduce her love for what surrounded her now.
She moved to the far wall and slowly trailed her fingers along the spines moving row after row, bottom to top. It was a game she often played in libraries—letting her fingers trail the spines of many books until she felt something draw her to one in particular. As her fingers moved, she glanced to her left and took notice of a lone book sitting on a side table. Her fingers moved toward it instinctively.
She only resisted sitting on the old piece of furniture for a few seconds. As she picked up the book, she sank into the soft, empty chair, eager to read.
The chair was old and for a moment she feared it would collapse underneath her, but as she settled in more fully, it seemed to wrap her up in a way that invited her to do nothing more than read.
Marcus would occupy himself for ages while exploring the castle grounds. It wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to take a moment to herself.
She opened the book gently. While it surprised her to see that the words were in English, it was the handwritten note inside that piqued her interest in a way nothing else ever had.
To whomever finds this book, you should know that it was meant just for you. Tuck it away in your bag, hide it beneath your shirt, but whatever you do, do not return it to the place it rested before. For many would read the pages contained within and dismiss my every memory and word as nothing more than fiction. But you, my first and last reader, will read these words and hear the truth in them.
Read these words. Love them, tend to them, believe them, and then once you’ve made peace with the truth, come and find me. By my story’s end, you will know where.
Until we meet,
Morna Conall
P.S. Those who know me well know I have a terrible habit of butting in pretty much whenever I feel like it, and I’m afraid I found myself doing the same thing with my writing. As I was preparing my story, I realized that in some instances my conversational voice—sort of like this letter—was needed to show you even more. These little intrusions are scattered throughout the book. Think of them as author notes, if you will.
* * *
P.P.S. My husband has also seen fit to throw in his two cents, so you’ll find parts of the book written by him, as well. It may all sound rather confusing now, but I have a keen sense of just how bright you are. You’ll have no trouble at all, I’m sure. Now, get to reading. We have no time to waste.
* * *
“Damn.” Laurel whispered the word aloud to herself, shaking her head at the book with mesmerized awe. Whatever the reason for such strange words, the author must have known that it would be impossible for the reader who stumbled upon them to do anything other than read on. She didn’t know anyone whose curiosity would allow them to do differently. Smiling at the wit and the wonder of it, Laurel happily flipped to the next page and continued reading, never suspecting for a moment how such an act would change her life forever.
Chapter 1
Note from M.C. (Morna Conall)
* * *
I told you these would be scattered throughout the book. Here’s the first one—right at the beginning.
The summer of my twelfth year was one of the most tragic and difficult seasons of my life. Looking back, those dark days marked the end of my childhood in a way that forever changed the person I was destined to become. Had my grandmother lived longer, had Grier not been forced to leave, had my father not seen fit to upend my world by telling me a truth I never really needed to know, perhaps magic would’ve come more easily to me, perhaps I could’ve saved one of my dearest friends in the world, perhaps I would’ve been content to live out my days healing villagers rather than pushing my way into the love lives of nearly everyone I’ve ever known and loved.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…those questions never really get us anywhere, do they?
Still, memories have a way of sneaking into our minds when we least expect them. Most especially—in my experience—when we don’t want them to. If I could tell you my story without reliving those few dreadful July days so many years ago, I certainly would. After all, this is a story of a young woman, not that of a little girl.
But the effects of this time were too far-reaching for me to exclude them from my story. So for the briefest of moments, allow me to break your heart.
I promise everything will work out in the end.
* * *
Conall Castle—Summer of 1613
* * *
“What do ye mean, what do I want in a husband? I doona want a husband. Not ever.”
I collapsed onto the thick blanket spread out on the ground for our lesson and looked up at Grier with confusion. Even though I was still terrible at magic, I looked forward to our daily lessons. It was the only time of day I felt like myself. While my progress was slow, my skills improved with each passing day. I saw no need to waste my precious learning time visiting about something so entirely useless.
Grier’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she moved to sit across from me on the blanket. Her gaze looked haunted and suddenly older. For the briefest of moments, I wondered if perhaps the rumors about her were true. Maybe Grier really was much older than she appeared.
