by Nora Roberts
Perhaps she had made it during the sleepless night, curled against him, listening to him dream. Perhaps it had been made for her, eons before. She had been given only one single day with him, one single night. She knew, accepted, that if she'd been given more she might have broken her faith, let her fears and needs tumble out into his hands.
She couldn't tell him that her life, even her soul, was lost if by the hour of midnight his heart remained unsettled toward her. Unless he vowed his love, accepted it without question, there was no hope.
She had done all she could. Bryna turned her face to the wind, let it dry the tears that she was ashamed to have shed. Her charge would be protected, her lover spared, and the secrets of this place would die with her.
For Alasdair didn't know how strong was her will. Didn't know that in the amulet she wore around her neck was a powder of poison. If she should fail, and her love not triumph, then she would end her life before she faced one of bondage.
With Cal's voice battering the air, she closed her eyes, lifted her arms. She had only hours now to gather her forces.
She began the chant.
Hundreds of feet below, Cal backed away, panting. What the hell was he doing? he asked himself. Beating his head against a magic wall to get to a witch.
How had his life become a fairy tale?
Fairy tale or not, one thing was solid fact. Tick a woman off, and she sulks.
"Go on and sulk, then," he shouted. "When you're ready to talk like civilized people, let me know." His mood black, he stalked back to the house. He needed to get out, he told himself. To lose himself in work for a while, to let both of them cool off.
One day, he fumed. He'd had one day and she expected him to turn his life around. Pledge his undying love. The hell with that. She wasn't pushing him into anything he wasn't ready for. She could take her thousand-year-old spell and stuff it. He was a normal human being, and normal human beings didn't go riding off into the sunset with witches at the drop of a hat.
He shoved open the bedroom door, reached for his camera. Under it, folded neatly, was a gray sweater. He pulled his hand back and stared.
"That wasn't there an hour ago," he muttered. "Damn it, that wasn't there."
Gingerly he rubbed the material. Soft as a cloud, the color of storms. He remembered vaguely something about a cloak and a charm and wondered if this was
Bryna's modern-day equivalent.
With a shrug, he peeled off his shirt and tried the sweater on. It fit as though it had been made for him. Of course it had, he realized. She'd spun the wool, dyed it, woven it. She'd known the length of his arms, the width of his chest.
She'd known everything about him.
He was tempted to yank it off, toss it aside. He was tired of his life and his mind being open to her when so much of hers was closed to him.
But as he started to remove the sweater, he thought he heard her voice, whispering.
A gift. Only a gift.
He lifted his head, looked into the mirror. His face was unshaven, his hair wild, his eyes reflecting the storm-cloud color of the sweater.
"The hell with it," he muttered, and snatching up his camera and case, he left the house.
He wandered the hills for an hour, ran through roll after roll of film.
Mockingbirds sang as he clambered over stone walls into fields where cows grazed on grass as green as emeralds. He saw farmers on tractors, tending their land under a cloud-thickened sky. Clothes flapping with whip snaps on the line, cats dozing in dooryards and sunbeams.
He wandered down a narrow dirt road where the hedgerows grew tall and thick.
Through small breaks he spotted sumptuous gardens with flowers in rainbows of achingly beautiful colors. A woman with a straw hat over her red hair knelt by a flower bed, tugging up weeds and singing of a soldier gone to war. She smiled at him, lifted her hand in a wave as he passed by.
He wandered near a small wood, where leaves unfurled to welcome summer and a brook bubbled busily. The sun was straight up, the shadows short. Spending the morning in normal pursuits had settled his mood. He thought it was time to go back, see if Bryna had cooled down—perhaps try out the darkroom she had equipped.
A flash of white caught his eye, and he turned, then stared awestruck. A huge white stag stood at the edge of the leafy shadows, its blue eyes proud and wise.
Keeping his movements slow, controlled, Cal raised his camera, then swore lightly when the stag lifted his massive head, whirled with impossible speed and grace, and bounded into the trees.
"No, uh-uh, I'm not missing that." With a quick glance at the ruins, which he had kept always just in sight, Cal dived into the woods.
He had hunted wildlife with his camera before, knew how to move quietly and swiftly. He followed the sounds of the stag crashing through brush. A bird darted by, a black bullet with a ringed neck, as Cal leaped over the narrow brook, skidded on the damp bank, and dug in for the chase.
Sun dappled through the leaves, dazzling his eyes, and sweat rolled down his back. Annoyed, he pushed the arms of the sweater up to his elbows and strained to listen.
Now there was silence, complete and absolute. No breeze stirred, no bird sang.
Frustrated, he shoved the hair out of his eyes, his breath becoming labored in the sudden stifling heat. His throat was parchment-dry, and thinking of the cold, clear water of the brook, he backtracked.
The sun burned like a furnace through the sheltering leaves now. It surprised him that they didn't singe and curl under the onslaught. Desperate for relief, he pulled off the sweater, laid it on the ground beside him as he knelt by the brook.
He reached down to cup water in his hand. And pulled back a cup of coffee.
"Do you good to get away for a few days, change of scene."
"What?" He stared down at the mug in his hand, then looked up into his mother's concerned face.
"Honey, are you all right? You've gone pale. Come sit down."
"I… Mom?"
"Here, now, he needs some water, not caffeine." Cal saw his father set down his fishing flies and rise quickly. Water ran out of the kitchen faucet into a glass. "Too much caffeine, if you ask me. Too many late nights in the darkroom.
You're wearing yourself out, Cal."
He sipped water, tasted it. Shuddered. "I—I had a dream."
"That's all right." Sylvia rubbed his shoulders. "Everybody has dreams. Don't worry. Don't think about them. We don't want you to think about them."
"No—I thought it was, it wasn't…" Wasn't like before? he thought. It was more than before. "I went to Ireland." He took a deep breath, tried to clear his hazy brain. Desperately, he wanted to turn, rest his head against his mother's breast like a child. "Did I go to Ireland?"
"You haven't been out of New York in the last two months, slaving to get that exhibition ready." His father's brow creased. Cal saw the worry in his eyes, that old baffled look of concern. "You need a rest, boy."
"I'm not going crazy."
"Of course you're not." Sylvia murmured it, but Cal caught the faint uncertainty in her voice. "You're just imagining things."
"No, it's too real." He took his mother's hand, gripped it hard. He needed her to believe him, to trust him. "There's a woman. Bryna."
"You've got a new girl and didn't tell us." Sylvia clucked her tongue. "That's what this is about?"
Was that relief in her voice, Cal wondered, or doubt?
"Bryna—that's an odd name, isn't it, John? Pretty, though, and old-fashioned."
"She's a witch."
John chuckled heartily. "They all are, son. Each and every one." John picked up one of his fishing lures. The black fly fluttered in his fingers, its wings desperate for freedom. "Don't you worry now."
"I—I need to get back."
"You need to sleep," John said, toying with the fly. "Sleep and don't give her a thought. One woman's the same as another. She's only trying to trap you.
Remember?"
"No." The fly, alive i
n his father's fingers. No, no, not his father's hand. Too narrow, too long. His father had workingman's hands, calloused, honest. "No,"
Cal said again, and as he scraped back his chair, he saw cold fury light his father's eyes.
"Sit down."
"The hell with you."
"Calin! Don't you speak to your father in that tone."
His mother's voice was a shriek—a hawk's call to prey—cutting through his head.
"You're not real." He was suddenly calm, deadly calm. "I reject you."
He was running down a narrow road where the hedgerows towered and pressed close.
He was breathless, his heart hammering. His eyes were focused on the ruined walls of the castle high on the cliff—and too far away.
"Bryna."
"She waits for you." The woman with the straw hat over her red hair looked up from her weeding and smiled sadly. "She always has, and always will."
His side burned from cramping muscles. Gasping for air, Cal pressed a hand against the pain. "Who are you?"
"She has a mother who loves her, a father who fears for her. Do you think that those who hold magic need family less than you? Have hearts less fragile? Needs less great?"
With a weary sigh, she rose, walked toward him and stepped into the break in the hedge. Her eyes were green, he saw, and filled with worry, but the mouth with its serious smile was Bryna's.
"You question what she is—and what she is bars you from giving your heart freely. Knowing this, and loving you, she has sent you away from danger and faces the night alone."
"Sent me where? How? Who are you?"
"She's my child," the woman said, "and I am helpless." The