"Well, I won't really know until I am there. I will have to feel it, sense what is going on," Fiona said and Margaret felt annoyance pass through her. She hated when Fiona referenced their gifts, though she suspected that Fiona had many more gifts than she did.
"So, how do you know what medicine to give?" Margaret said, deliberately steering the conversation away from their empathic powers.
"Ah, well, my book, you know. It has remedies that have been passed down for generations," Fiona said as her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Margaret knew that her cautious mother was trying to speed without endangering them.
"Yes. That book," Margaret hissed from between her teeth. Fiona was constantly buried in this old leather book that she carried with her everywhere. Aside from Margaret, it was the one thing that Fiona devoted much of her time to. Many nights, she would find Fiona scribbling in the book, the flames of the fire flickering over her face. Margaret wasn't sure if she resented or feared her mother's precious book. Either way, Fiona had never offered to share it with her.
"Margaret, you aren't a healer. The book isn't for you," Fiona said with a bite to her voice. Surprised at the steel behind Fiona's words, Margaret stiffened and lifted her chin, staring out of the window, away from her mother.
They drove the rest of the way to the outskirts of the village in silence. Just before they would enter into downtown Grace's Cove, Fiona took a sharp left turn and followed a narrow one-car-width road up a large hill before turning onto a gravel driveway. A few yards up sat a small three-room cottage. Stone walls rose to a thatched roof and the window shutters stood open to encourage the sea breezes.
A small woman opened the door and gestured for them to come in. Dirt streaked her face and her hair was pulled back in a bandana. Margaret got out of the car and hurried behind Fiona into the cottage. The woman pointed to the back room and Fiona went in without knocking. Looking around at the dark interior, Margaret followed Fiona into a small bedroom.
There, a single bed was tucked into the corner under the eaves of the thatched roof. A dingy window let in meager light above the bed. Margaret held back as two women who huddled over the still body of the child turned and rushed to Fiona.
"She's close, she can barely breathe. Please do something, anything," a large woman with brown curly hair and sad eyes begged Fiona. The other woman, a sister perhaps, pulled her back from Fiona.
Margaret was slammed with a wall of fear and sadness. It was so thick that she struggled to breathe under the weight of it. Taking a deep breath, she slowly built up her shields and pushed the emotions away from her.
Margaret stepped closer as Fiona glanced at her and motioned her forward. Seeing that Fiona needed help, she reached out a hand to the sick child’s mother.
"Hi, I'm Margaret. Can you tell me a little bit about what is going on?"
"My little Ainsley. She's been sick for a while. At first we thought it was just a cough. But it is so full of mucus that now she is close to being unable to breathe. We…we can't afford to take her to the hospital." The mother shuddered out her words and grasped Margaret's hands desperately.
"Okay, I understand how scared you must be. Let's just step back for a moment and allow Fiona to check Ainsley out," Margaret said and pulled the two women back from the bed.
Margaret wasn't sure what to expect. She never wanted to go with Fiona to a healing before. She heard enough whispers about Fiona's healing sessions to want to stay far away. Margaret fervently hoped that what she would see today would just be some of Fiona's fancy medicine at work.
Tension gripped her body and Margaret stood ramrod straight, unblinking, as she watched Fiona lean over the small girl. Ainsley's body was covered with a thin white sheet and the girl's face was pale, her dark braids stood out starkly against the whiteness of her skin. Margaret grimaced at the complete lack of expression on the little girl's face. She found herself rooting for Fiona's skills to work.
Fiona ran her hands over the small girl's body. Her eyes closed, she trailed her hands up the body until she landed on the girl's chest. Margaret held her breath as she heard her mother whispering softly to the girl. With a brief nod, Fiona took her hands from the girl and turned for her bag.
"I need hot water and a bowl," Fiona ordered and the two women ran from the room. Fiona turned to Margaret and motioned her closer. Pulling out her book, she paged through until she found what she was looking for.
"Pull out the seaweed we got from the cove today, mix it with the mustard seeds, garlic, and a touch of the moss from the cove as well." Fiona barked orders and Margaret jumped to do her bidding, keeping her questions to herself. She watched as Fiona pulled a small mortar and pestle from her bag and began grinding the ingredients into a pulp. Stopping, Fiona consulted her book again, and pulled a few more unrecognizable ingredients from jars in her bag. She whispered under her breath and continued to grind in a counterclockwise motion.
The women bustled back in with a steaming teapot and a small bowl. Fiona nodded her thanks to them. Putting it on a side table, she poured the steaming water into the bowl. Holding her mixture above the bowl, Fiona muttered over the water as she dropped her concoction into the hot water and stirred the water until it was muddy and brown. Fiona pulled a spoon from her bag and tasted the concoction. Nodding, she held the bowl to her lips and blew on the water, cooling it down.
"Ainsley, you must drink this," Fiona said softly to the girl. Margaret's heart clenched as the girl cracked her eyes open and slid them to look at Fiona. A barely perceptible nod came from the sick girl, and Fiona bent over her.
Ainsley sputtered out a cough as she tried to drink the broth. Fiona laid a hand on her throat and whispered to her. Soon, Ainsley was able to swallow the entire broth without a cough.
Margaret tilted her head and squinted at Fiona. What had just happened there? How did Fiona stop Ainsley from coughing while swallowing the broth? Knowing that pneumonia made it almost impossible to swallow, Margaret was confused.
"Good job, Ainsley. Now, I want you to close your eyes and picture yourself running outside in the yard, playing your favorite game. Can you do that for me?"
Margaret felt tears prick her eyes as she stared down at the brave little girl. A small smile flitted across the girl’s face as she looked trustingly at Fiona. Margaret found herself praying desperately that Fiona's broth would work.
Fiona kneeled by Ainsley's bed. Margaret watched in confusion as Fiona placed her hands directly on the small girl's chest. Bending her forehead to the mattress, Fiona looked the picture of supplication.
Margaret's heart hammered in her chest. She could barely breathe as she watched Fiona begin to murmur against the sheet. Over and over, Fiona repeated words that Margaret couldn't hear. Her eyes shot to Ainsley's face, but the girl’s eyes remained closed.
Margaret jumped as a flash of…something blurred past her eyes and she heard a large crack from outside. The women sobbed and hugged each other, saying their Hail Marys.
Margaret was frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from Ainsley's face. Unable to breathe, unable to move, she watched, desperately searching for a sign of something. Ainsley's eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks. Margaret shuddered out a breath as the small girl sat up, the color returned to her cheeks.
"I'm hungry, Mum," Ainsley said in the sweetest little girl voice ever. The women ran to Ainsley and surrounded her on the bed, cooing and clucking over the girl.
Margaret stayed still as her fear and hatred of the abnormal washed through her. She didn't want this life. She didn't want to be different. Whatever had just happened here was beyond the realm of even her own abilities. Suddenly, these otherworldly gifts seemed like a penance.
Not meeting Fiona's eyes, she hurried to gather their supplies. Margaret bowed to the women and, barely able to stand, raced to the green station wagon. Margaret dumped her supplies in the backseat and moved around to sit on the edge of the bumper. She braced her arms on her knees and struggled to breathe.<
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What was that? What had just happened? Ainsley was near death. Margaret didn't care how much mud and seaweed Fiona shoved down the girl's throat: there was no way that she had cured Ainsley through her concoction alone.
Which left…Fiona's power. Margaret shook her head against a swell of nausea that hit her throat. Remembering the crack, she turned her head and peered around the edge of the car. A piece of lumber—a 2x4—lay splintered on the ground. Margaret gulped at the implications of that shattered board. Had Fiona done that?
Margaret began to shake as the potential for what just happened washed over her. A part of her—a very small part of her—was ecstatic that Fiona had saved Ainsley. It was amazing to see. And, yet. What happened in that bedroom defied explanation. Margaret couldn't imagine living her life with this kind of ability. No wonder people whispered about Fiona. It all made sense now.
"Margaret." Fiona's voice was shaky and Margaret merely turned her head to watch her mother.
Fiona looked older, her face tense with fatigue and something else. Margaret tested Fiona's emotions. Fear. Her mother was afraid, Margaret realized with surprise. She'd never known Fiona to be scared of anything before. Margaret looked down at her hands for a moment before responding.
"Let's get out of here," she whispered.
Fiona's face tensed but she said nothing and nodded. She held the keys up.
"I'll need you to drive. I'm too tired."
Margaret stared in surprise at her mother and realized that whatever she had just done had taken a lot out of her. Trembling, she took the keys from Fiona and walked around to the driver's-side door.
She stopped and looked at the small cottage, where a child's laughter now floated through the window. Moments ago the house had been shrouded in darkness and sadness and now, relief and happiness seemed to float around the home. Margaret shook her head and got into the car. How could this be a bad thing when the result was good? Confused and upset, she started the car and backed carefully down the driveway.
On the road home, she finally looked at Fiona.
"What are you?"
Chapter 8
Fiona sighed and gave Margaret a disgusted look.
"I'm your mother first and foremost. Don't talk to me like that," Fiona ordered sternly. Margaret kept her eyes on the road, her mind trying to process everything.
"Are you a witch?" Margaret asked shakily.
Fiona sputtered out a laugh and Margaret felt a flush creep up her cheeks as her mother bent over in her seat and laughed from deep within her belly.
"Oh, I’m glad that you think this is so funny," Margaret hissed at Fiona. She sped up, wanting to be out of this car, away from Fiona, away from this crazy town.
"I'm no more a witch than you are," Fiona gasped out.
"I'm not a witch!" Margaret screamed and Fiona sat up straight, turning to put her hand on Margaret's arm. Margaret jerked her arm away, breathing heavily. "I'm normal. I want a normal life, I don’t want any of this."
"You can't change who you are,” Fiona said softly, “what you are."
Margaret pulled the car into their drive and got out right away. She felt the pain building in her heart; turning, she unleashed her fury on her mother.
"I don't want this—this life," Margaret said as she swooped her hands over the cottage and to the cove. "I don't want to know what other people are feeling. And I certainly don't want to watch my mother literally lift a sickness from someone with her bare hands. That—that is like beyond crazy. How am I supposed to live like this?" Margaret shouted, her chest heaving as she stared wildly at Fiona.
Fiona stood straight, her daughter's abuse falling on proud shoulders.
"I've told you that you are special. For years, I've tried to show you how your gift can help the world. I've chosen to use mine for good. I can no more change who or what I am than I can force you to accept yourself. But, until you do, you'll never be happy," Fiona said fiercely.
"Lies. All lies," Margaret hissed and paced in front of her mother. "My gift can't help anyone. And it's not a gift. It's a headache, an inconvenience. I don't need it."
Fiona watched Margaret pace but said nothing.
"I–I get that you did something great back there. You saved a life. Intellectually, I understand that what you did was of great service to that family. But, in my heart, I just can't accept it," Margaret whispered, and held her clenched fist to her heart. She saw the pain flash across Fiona's face and wished that she could do anything to feel differently, to be able to accept what was.
"Well, I suppose that is your problem then, not mine," Fiona said stiffly, walking past Margaret. Her hand on the door to the cottage, Fiona turned and looked Margaret up and down. "I only hope that someday you will stop running from yourself."
"I don't have to be what you want me to be!" Margaret shouted.
A small smile flitted across Fiona's face and she shook her head at Margaret, disappearing into the cottage. Margaret watched her go, feeling disconnected from this woman that she called mother. Who was this person? How was it possible that she could heal with her hands? It defied all laws of science.
Shaken to the core, Margaret looked down at her hands. They looked simple. Innocuous. How could something like that work? She watched as her hands shook with emotion. Tucking them in her pockets, she stumbled across the field leading to the cove, tears blinding her vision. Her breath hitched as she struggled to comprehend how her entire world had shifted in an instant.
Margaret came to a stop at the edge of the cliffs that lined the cove. Staring down at the peaceful water, she tried to regain the feeling of happiness she felt there earlier that morning. Instead, her angst and displeasure grew. Glaring at the cove, she raised her hands and shouted to the water.
"Why? Why me? I just want a normal life!"
Margaret dropped her hands down by her sides and glanced over her shoulder, realizing that she probably looked a little crazy. Margaret eyed the waters of the cove, looking for any change, any indication that the cove had heard.
"I'm done here. Understand? I will have no part of this," Margaret threatened the cove. The waters continued to move gently, a contrast to the storm that raged inside of her. Margaret shook her head. What was she waiting for? Grace O'Malley to rise from the water and tell her that she'd be okay?
With a sigh, Margaret turned her back to the cove, vowing it would be for the last time. Tomorrow she would pack for Dublin. She could go ahead of Sean and get a job, find a place to live, and start a new life. Determination coursed through her, and Margaret moved toward the cottage, ready to throw off the bonds of the cove and what Fiona expected of her.
Chapter 9
Margaret deliberately stayed in bed late the next morning, continuing to turn over and bury her head in the covers until she heard Fiona leave the cottage. Her resolve to flee had only strengthened after a night laced with dreams of magick and healing hands. Getting up, she leaned over her bed to peek out the window. Fiona's car was gone and Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Her emotions were too mixed—too raw—for her to have a discussion with Fiona now. It was as though she had reached a crossroads and neither direction was clear for Margaret. She only knew that she needed to take the next major step in her life.
Grateful that she only had a short afternoon shift at the café, Margaret moved into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of tea. Finding fresh baked scones on the table, Margaret smiled. Somehow, Fiona always knew how to comfort her even when Fiona was the one she was mad at. Margaret snagged a scone and took it and her teacup back into her childhood room.
Standing in the small room, she turned and examined the years of her life accumulated in posters, drawings, pictures, and various knickknacks. Crossing the room, she stared at her favorite picture of her and Fiona. It was taken just as the sun was beginning to set, the light warming their laughing faces. They stood together, two peas in a pod laughing at a private joke with the ocean open behind them. Margaret felt a tug in her heart for Fi
ona and what she was leaving behind. Convinced that she was in the right, Margaret pulled the picture from the wall and laid it facedown on her dresser. She walked into her closet to begin the process of sorting her clothes.
She sighed as she examined the tumble of colors and fabrics that greeted her. She had always wanted what was in fashion, the newest and the best, but it was hard to come by the latest fashions in the small town of Grace's Cove. Humming, Margaret began to pick through her clothes, only keeping what she thought would look the best in big-city Dublin. She could only imagine all of the clothes shops that she could frequent once she established her new career. Daydreaming about her new life, Margaret almost forgot about her current job.
She gasped as she realized she would be late to work if she didn't hustle. After a quick shower, she pulled on a navy sundress with a skirt that hit just below her knees. Braiding her hair, she tucked it behind her ears and added dangling silver earrings. Margaret grabbed her bag and all but ran through the cottage to her car. She wasn't in Dublin yet, Margaret reminded herself. It wouldn't do to get in trouble at work now that she was so close to leaving. She would need every bit of money that she could make for her moving expenses.
Feeling unexpectedly light after such a heavy day yesterday, Margaret sang her heart out on the way into town. Snagging a parking spot right next to her work, she considered the day off to a good start. A small shiver of anticipation raced through her as she thought about seeing Sean tonight. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she was ready to move now.
Margaret swung into the café and waved to a few regulars before ducking in back to take her purse off. Sarah stood at the counter, arranging scones on a platter.
"Those are for you," Sarah said, gesturing toward something in the back room.
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