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Daigh’s pounding questions and stunted explanations set her mind spinning off into unexplored possibilities. None of them heartening. A stolen tapestry? Máelodor? Her father’s death? Brendan’s return? How were they all linked? And where did Daigh fit into that puzzle? And did any of it explain the mysterious pull of Daigh’s memories? The life she saw as hers with a man she’d only met weeks earlier?
Days and nights of an endless circle of unanswerables had unraveled her, Jane finally coming to Sabrina’s room with a dose of her own medicine.
“Here.” She handed her a cup. “This was given to me by a talented healer. It helps when you’re having trouble sleeping.”
She’d almost spilled her worries to Jane right there. But in the end had kept quiet and accepted the draught. She didn’t want to worry her friend now that she was finally losing that frozen rabbit look. And what would Sabrina say? By the way, the man I’m hallucinating about is back. And he’s warned me my dead brother is alive and being hunted by someone named Máelodor?
Not exactly conversation of the sane.
Aunt Delia would be no help. She’d long ago renounced the Other-born part of herself. Had seen no social advantage or monetary gain in her Fey blood. And only used the simplest of magics—those manifested in chubby cherubs and fires that smelled less like smoke and more like rose-water.
Sabrina had even tried penning a letter to Ard-siúr, the first draft ending in the fire along with the four versions that followed. The head of their order had asked about Brendan. But did she ask because she assumed his guilt or because she believed his innocence? Sabrina had no way of knowing, and if her brother ran for his life, she’d do him no favors by giving him away.
Sabrina clutched the book to her chest. “I’ve always been interested in the history of Wales.”
“Since when?”
“Oh ages and ages.” She waved vaguely, praying Jane didn’t push. The trouble with having a friend who’d known her so long.
“If you say so. I’ll meet you by the door when you’re finished.”
Bless Jane and her lack of curiosity. Sabrina beamed at her in grateful thanks.
Finding an empty desk, she sat down. Opened to the table of contents and ran a finger down the page. Here was one mystery she could solve on her own.
Topography.
Flora and fauna.
Population.
No. No. And no.
The list went on through early inhabitants. Religion. Folklore. Food.
Finally toward the bottom. Powys. Dyfed. Gwent. Gwynedd.
Kings.
Lines of descent.
She ran her finger down the list until she came to Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd. Son of Owain Gwynedd. Killed in 1170.
She blinked. Read it again.
Killed in 1170.
At Pentraeth.
Ambushed and murdered by his stepmother’s sons.
Ambushed. Murdered.
She slammed the book closed. Took a deep calming breath while terror scissored her insides and her mind refused to believe. Refused to think beyond the date. The name. An explanation.
The library air grew damp and heavy with wood smoke and leaf mold. An acrid musty autumn smell. Her head swam, and she clutched the table for support. But the table was gone. The shelves naught more than ghostly outlines. The building fading to a foggy swirl of damp cloud.
She staggered for balance and caught sight of her hands. Browned by the summer Welsh sun, clutching long woolen skirts. A belt of ornamented leather hung low from her waist. Keys dangling at her hip.
