The Mystic Cove Series Boxed Set (Wild Irish Books 5-7)

by Tricia O'Malley

  Fiona knew John O’Brien from school and around the village. Two years older than her, he was a quiet sort who always managed to be a leader in whatever group he was in. Whether it was his height or his startling blue eyes, John radiated authority and drew attention to himself wherever he went. Fiona had often caught her eyes following him across the schoolyard. She didn’t see him as much now that they’d both finished school, but here and there they might run into each other.

  “I’m not doing anything. This little guy’s leg is broken. I’m trying to hold it still while I tie a brace, but I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do. Mum will cook him up for dinner if I bring him back like this.”

  Fiona grimaced at the thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t eat meat. It was hard to live in a village of farmers and fisherman and not understand where food came from. But it was another thing to look a baby animal in the eyes and consider it an option for dinner.

  She crouched next to John and laid her hands on the bleating lamb. She could feel its terror pulse through her, and immediately sent a bolt of calming energy through its fuzzy little body.

  “Is he yours?” Fiona asked, stroking the lamb as it calmed at her touch. She glanced at John to see his blue eyes surveying her openly.

  “I suppose. Little guy’s taken a liking to me. Follows me all over the yard. Which is how he broke his leg. Tried to follow me past the gate and fell off that little cliff there.” John pointed behind them, his cheeks reddening a bit as he talked about the animal. Fiona could feel his concern press at her.

  Fiona bit her lip as she considered what to do. She hadn’t been healing all that long, and the recent discovery and development of her powers was something she was slowly exploring. If she healed the lamb in front of John – would he tell the whole village about her?

  Fiona met his eyes again.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she held his gaze. “I’d like to try something out here. But you have to promise not to say anything.”

  John nodded his head once, but didn’t say anything.

  Fiona shook her head at him. “You need to promise.”

  “I promise,” John said, his mouth quirking up at the corner briefly. Then his eyes went back to the struggling lamb.

  Fiona reached out and probed John’s mind with her own, trying to see if he was being honest in his answer. Finding what she needed, she turned back to the lamb.

  Reaching out, she ran her hand lightly over the broken limb, the animal jerking at her touch.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Fiona said and closed her eyes, finding the break in the bone with her mind. Focusing, she began to mentally knit the bone back together, whispering a Celtic prayer under her breath. The lamb stopped bleating, its eyes fixed solemnly on her as she healed its broken leg. When she was convinced that everything was fixed, Fiona pulled her hands back and brushed them against her skirt. Sitting back on her heels, she looked down at the lamb.

  “I think he’s okay now,” Fiona said softly, afraid to meet John’s eyes.

  “Sure and you can’t have me believing that, now, can you?” John’s voice grated against Fiona’s nerves, and she felt her back go up.

  “It’s not my job to make you believe anything,” Fiona said hotly.

  John stared at her for a moment before dropping his eyes and removing his hands from the lamb, who now struggled to stand up. His mouth dropped open when the lamb rolled and stood up, bumping its little head against his knee. John’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  “So, there’s that,” Fiona said awkwardly as she stood. This was the first time she had shown her power to anyone, and regret washed through her. There was no way John was going to keep something like this a secret.

  “I… I…” John said, standing and stepping back a bit. Fiona could read the fear that washed through him from where she stood.

  “It’s a gift. I’m a healer,” Fiona said, straightening her shoulders as she met his eyes.

  “A healer? But, but that’s the stuff of lore.” John shook his head at her in disbelief.

  “Aye, and it’s the stuff of life. My life. This is who I am. I can’t change it,” Fiona said softly.

  “Is this the devil’s work?” John asked, his chin coming up as he met her eyes.

  “Oh, sure and you don’t think the devil’s work would be saving a little lamb now, do you?” Fiona sputtered, torn between anger and laughter.

  “No, I suppose not,” John said, taking his cap from his head and twisting it in his hands. The lamb darted in circles around John’s feet, bleating its happiness.

  “Listen, I know I’m different. But I’m still me. Just a girl from the village. Please don’t say anything. You know how the village will get – they’ll throw me out and I’ll have no place to go,” Fiona asked, desperately trying to keep the pleading note out of her voice. “I just wanted to help.”

  “And you did, at that. You didn’t have to help at all, you could’ve kept walking,” John said, running his hand through his hair as he thought about it.

  “I don’t like seeing animals in pain. And you seemed really upset. So, well, I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could help. Just…please don’t say anything,” Fiona said, stepping past him and reaching down to pat the little lamb on its knobby head.

  The lamb looked up at her and bleated what Fiona took to be a thank-you. She straightened and, with one last look over her shoulder, left John standing in the middle of the road staring after her, a healthy little lamb hopping around his feet.

  She desperately hoped she hadn’t made a tragic mistake.

  Chapter 5

  Fiona hurried the rest of the way home, dread lacing her stomach as she rounded the curve of the road that led into downtown Grace’s Cove. Situated on the western peninsula of Ireland, Grace’s Cove was tucked away in between a small mountain range and the ocean. Its staggering cliffs and sandy beaches provided dramatic contrast, and summers here often brought a slew of people taking holiday. That was when Fiona’s mother, Bridget, really made her money from her cottage business selling woven goods.

  Cresting the hill, Fiona paused – as she always did – to take in the beauty of her small village. Houses were scattered across the hills, connected by narrow winding roads, all flowing to meet at the entrance to the harbor. The sun was just peeking out from the clouds, its light beaming onto the water where boats were coming in with the catch of the day. Children raced along the beach, grateful for the sun after a particularly dreary winter.

  This was her favorite place in the world, and Fiona prayed John wouldn’t ruin it for her.

  Though she couldn’t entirely fault him if he did say something, Fiona thought as she made her way through town. It wasn’t as if there weren’t already whispers about her family throughout the village. Bridget had tried her best to raise Fiona as a normal child, even though she was far from it. Even with all of Bridget’s care – rumors still drifted through the village.

  Fiona sighed as she pushed open the gate to the back courtyard of her parents’ small cottage on top of the hill. She was the only child of a weaver and a fisherman; their family was small and their needs were simple, as demonstrated by the three-room cottage her father had built for them to live in. Fiona’s childhood had consisted of roaming the hills with her mother, and learning to fish at her father’s knee. There had always been food on the table, though Fiona knew her mother was more to thank for that than her father.

  Fiona pushed the back door open, stopping to pet one of the yard cats before stepping into the main room of the cottage. Light filtered through the paned windows, showing a room divided into three areas: a small kitchenette, a table for eating, and a few soft armchairs pulled close by a small peat fireplace. Bridget’s weavings hung from the walls, energizing the room with their shocks of color, and a threadbare carpet kept the chill from the stone floor. Two doors led from the room to each of the bedrooms, and a small bathroom nestled in the space between the two rooms.

  Fiona loo
ked up when she heard a thump from the loft above her head. “Mum?”

  “Up here, darling,” Bridget called from her weaving room, and Fiona heard another thump as Bridget crashed through another row of thread on the loom. Fiona pulled herself up the ladder to the loft and moved towards a small wooden chair that sat near her mother’s loom. The large loom took up most of the space, the threads woven intricately, her mother focused on the tapestry beginning to unfold in front of her.

  Fiona loved it up here. It was like all of her mother’s creativeness and warmth had exploded everywhere. Spools of thread in every color imaginable were stacked in baskets and on shelves, crowding each other for space in this small loft area below the eaves. Fiona had to duck a little as she walked to the chair, but the smallness of the space added to the charm of the loft. In the winters, with the peat moss fire going below and a lantern lit above, Fiona’s mother would work for hours, creating beautiful tapestries and blankets that she sold from her shop and at the market in the summer.

  “I’ve gathered the dock leaf you asked for,” Fiona said, moving around to examine the tapestry. Bridget Morrigan was a sturdy woman with sherry brown eyes and honey-blonde hair shot through with grey and tucked into a braid, and she smiled up at Fiona, crinkles radiating from the corners of her eyes.

  “That’s lovely, thank you,” Bridget said, her eyes trained once again on the loom.

  “This is a pretty one,” Fiona murmured, appreciating the mossy green textile woven amidst a golden hue.

  “Thank you. Fiona, is something wrong?” Bridget stopped, tearing her eyes away from the loom and turning to take her daughter’s hand.

  Leave it to her mother to read her emotions loud and clear. Fiona shrugged and debated how to answer.

  “Is Father here?”

  “You know where he is,” Bridget said.

  At the pub. As usual. Cian Morrigan was at the pub more often than not these days. Grace’s Cove only had two pubs and, aside from church, they were the social centre of the town. Her father was bringing in less and less of a catch these days, and spending more time telling stories with his cronies down at the pub. Which left Bridget to bring in the money.

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I know how much you miss him,” Fiona whispered.

  Bridget shrugged.

  “He’s a good man. He’s got a good heart. But the drink will be the death of him. There’s not much we can do to change that. Only he can change his path in life.” Her words came out clipped, and Fiona felt a tug of sympathy for her mother.

  “We’ll have a good selling season this summer. I’ve got plenty of new balms and tinctures that I’ve been working on. We’ll be fine,” Fiona said, moving to sit in the chair while her mother picked up the wool again.

  “It will be fine. It always is, dear,” Bridget said, getting back into her rhythm. “Now, tell me what you were all in a tizzy about when you came in.”

  Had she been in a tizzy? Fiona supposed she had been in a quiet tizzy of sorts, but her mother could read her energy, so there was no use trying to hide anything from her.

  “I saw John O’Brien on the way home from the hills,” Fiona began. Bridget smiled slightly.

  “A nice-looking lad, isn’t he?”

  “Sure and I wasn’t thinking about that when he was all but bawling over a lamb with a broken leg at his feet,” Fiona said, dodging her mother’s question.

  “Really? I find that surprising,” Bridget mused.

  Wham! The loom crashed and shook as Bridget started another row.

  “I did as well, seeing as they live on a farm. But he said the little fellow had taken a liking to him and followed him all over the place,” Fiona shrugged.

  “You healed the wee thing, didn’t you?” Bridget asked, pausing to meet Fiona’s eyes.

  “I did. And he looked at me like I was a monster,” Fiona said, crossing her arms over her chest angrily.

  “Did he now? I find that surprising as well,” Bridget mused, pushing her braid back over her shoulder.

  “Well, I suppose he didn’t call me a monster. Though he asked me if it was the work of the devil,” Fiona admitted.

  Bridget offered her a small smile and a raised eyebrow.

  “Do you expect anything less? You know how this town is.”

  “I made him promise to keep quiet and then I just ran away. There wasn’t anything else to say and I didn’t feel like standing there being judged by him,” Fiona said, combing a hand through her hair.

  “Well, Fiona, you have had quite a lot of time to get used to your gift. You can’t expect people to understand or accept what you are overnight. Give it time,” Bridget said.

  Fiona huffed. “I wouldn’t call three years ‘quite a lot of time.’” On Fiona’s sixteenth birthday, Bridget had given her a leather-bound book and taken her to the cove.

  The cove that would forever change her life.

  “He’ll come around. He’s a nice boy,” Bridget said.

  “I don’t know if I would call him a boy.”

  “I suppose he’s not any more, at that, is he?” Bridget shrugged. “We’ll just have to see what happens from this.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Everyone here has already accepted you. They still haven’t accepted me. Which isn’t fair,” Fiona said crossly. She’d been the quiet one in school, often overlooked and not included in tea parties or games, as though the children had sensed an otherness about her. She’d known she was different; it would have helped if Bridget had bothered to enlighten her sooner.

  “Life’s not fair,” Bridget said.

  It was one of her mother’s favorite sayings, drilled into Fiona’s head from early on. The Brogan’s farm burned down? Life’s not fair. The bucket of eggs toppled over? Life’s not fair. Fiona was never courted for a date? Life’s not fair.

  “What happens if he tells the village? I’ll be pushed out,” Fiona said softly, running her hands up and down her arms.

  “Fiona Morrigan, it will take a lot more than some village gossip to push us out of this town. Don’t you worry about gossip. They’ve long known that I’ve a touch of something extra. It shouldn’t surprise them that you do as well. I will handle this if it comes to light,” Bridget said, stopping to tug a new ball of wool from the basket at her side.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever showed anyone what I can do,” Fiona said, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to become comfortable with it.”

  “Why, who says you have to become comfortable with it? I think that anytime you use the gift that has been bestowed upon you, you should be amazed. And if the people around you aren’t honored by the fact that you’ve chosen to help them, that is their problem. Not yours. Sure and you have to be understanding the difference now?” Bridget was honestly confused by Fiona’s angst.

  “But, mum, your gift is different than mine. Healing is… well, people are going to think I’m a witch,” Fiona looked around as she whispered the word.

  “Well, and you are, in a loose definition, I suppose.” Bridget leaned back and met Fiona’s eyes.

  A pulse of shame washed through Fiona at Bridget’s admission. Fiona knew she wasn’t a witch; well, at least not in the bad sense – but she couldn’t shake years of Catholic church schooling. For the religious folk in town, the word ‘witch’ might as well equate to ‘the devil.’ And Fiona knew just what would come with that.

  “I’ll get dinner started,” Fiona said softly as she rose from her chair, but her mother was already lost back in the world of her making, the loom shaking and banging as threads were woven together forever.

  Just like her life, Fiona thought as she descended the ladder to the room below. One thread weaving into another, the pattern and depth still unknown to her.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Fiona packed her satchel in her small bedroom. Sleep had been difficult the night before – between her father coming home late from the pub and his resulting argument with Bridget, and her f
ears of John telling her secret, Fiona had tossed and turned much of the night.

  In the early hours of the morning, she had finally admitted defeat. She rolled over on her small threadbare mattress, reaching beneath to pull her leather book out.

  She traced her fingers over the cover, feeling power radiate from inside of it, and wondered if other people could sense power like she did. In fact, she wondered how she ever managed to come across as slightly normal, even half the time. Everywhere she went, power and moods pulsed at Fiona. She could read someone’s energy from across the village, and it was easy for her to know who was angry or when someone was contemplating doing something bad. This jumble of energy and emotion had been maddening for her, until Bridget had gifted her with the book. It had been handed down over generations, and each person who was touched with Grace O’Malley’s power had added to it over the years.

  The leather cover was old, creased with oils and cracked with age. The pages inside were vellum, and Fiona always took great care to turn them with the soft cloth the book was wrapped in, never letting her fingers touch the actual pages.

  Inside, the book held a world of its own making. Spells, rituals, elixirs, tinctures, and even historical accounts of healing. There was a wealth of history pressed between those pages, and Fiona had read and re-read it until the words became familiar, absorbing the lessons within until she could all but recite the entire book word for word.

  It had been the gift that had changed her life forever, setting her apart from the rest.

  Fiona had been upset with her mother last night, when she’d told Fiona to just accept her lot in life. But now she realized that Bridget wasn’t being cold. The truth of it was that Fiona had the opportunity to step out on a path of her own, helping others and changing lives with the gift she had been given. She could either own it or hide it. There was really no in-between.

  Anxiety kicked low in her stomach as Fiona thought about openly declaring to the world that she was a healer. Most nineteen-year-olds were thinking about dating and getting married, and here she was thinking about how she could help others and change the world.