Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  I leaned in then, and touched a finger to the glass, tracing the familiar signature. Memories of my kind, gentle grandfather surged up from the shadowy back part of my memory.

  I hadn’t shown anyone the pin that Nikola Tesla cast off on the night his lab burned. I could feel its shape through the front pocket of my jeans. I’d known what it stood for the second I picked it up.

  The rosy cross seated on a pyramid. The symbol of a very old, very powerful, and supposedly very archaic organization.

  The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

  A mystical order, akin to modern-day Masons, who arose out of the Rosicrucian movement of the sixteenth century. A movement, by the way, whose society had been at least partially based on the occultish writings of none other than Dr. John Dee.

  A laundry list of secret societies had formed, one after the other, following Dee’s death. Once considered the greatest mind of his age, in Dee’s later years, he’d become obsessed with the occult. Had believed his friend Edward Kelly could speak with angels, and had been convinced that he—​and only he—​could translate this celestial language.

  When I thought of Dr. John Dee, of my Poppy, it left me oddly hollow. As if a surgeon had carved away a piece of something small but vital.

  “But,” Phoebe said. “The letter . . . Dee’s talking about Da, isn’t he?”

  Aunt Lucinda studied each of our faces before speaking. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I believe so. The timing works, and it actually makes a lot of sense. I can see how it would be very like Michael to position himself in this way. Now,” she went on. “As to this.”

  She held up the second item. Lucinda and Moira had found it in Mac’s pocket, shortly after we brought his body home.

  Lucinda held the tubular metallic object across her flattened palm. “Moira and I have discussed this,” she said. “Mac MacPherson was one of the wisest people I’ve ever known. If he believed this enhancement was important enough to save, then we will—​one day—​consider its use. I say consider, only.” She raised a finger. “In the meantime, we must ensure it never falls into the wrong hands.”

  Lucinda set the enhancement down with a clink. Collum’s eyes never strayed from it as Aunt Lucinda straightened. “And one other thing.” She paused until everyone’s attention—​including Collum’s—​was focused solely on her.

  My aunt’s thin upper lip pulled back from her teeth. Shock thrummed through me at the raw savagery in her voice.

  “Everyone rest. For two weeks we honor and mourn our fallen brother. But after that, we shall begin to form a plan.” Lucinda’s words, fueled by grief and rage, scalded us like steam. “We now know Michael’s most likely location. And I swear to you . . . they may have taken away my dearest friend’s husband . . .” She stood, and I could feel my heart hammering harder and harder as she spoke through clenched teeth.

  “But by God we are going to give her back her son!”

  Chapter 47

  “HERE YOU ARE, MY LAMB. IT TOOK SOME DOING, but she looks just as good as new, if I do say it myself.”

  Moira’s apple cheeks didn’t rise high enough to squish her small gray eyes when she smiled anymore. And when she handed me the newly repaired doll, I could see the empty space behind them.

  “Thank you so much.” I turned the delicate, priceless poppet over, examining her. “Wow, you can’t even tell.”

  “’Tis fortunate you kept her in your bag at all to get her home. Were I you, I’d put her up somewhere safe. Out of the clutches of that demon creature.”

  We both looked at the kitten. Hecty was crouched low, calico fur standing on end as she readied to pounce on a sunbeam that danced across my bedroom floor.

  Moira turned away from me, voice hoarse as she bent down to scoop up the kitten. “Damn little beastie.”

  For two days after we’d buried Mac, Hecty would not leave his gravesite. She didn’t cry or yowl. Only lay atop the cold earth, her head in the exact spot where Mac’s vest pocket would’ve been.

  My lips trembled and I had to nip down hard on a half-healed cuticle. “Moira, I—”

  She raised a hand to my cheek. Her palm felt like the cool side of the pillow as she studied me. At the wisdom and the compassion and the strength I saw, my own eyes started to water.

  “No, no. None of that, now. There’s much to do and more. We’ve a voyage to be preparin’ for, now don’t we?”

  Letting the cat slide to the floor, Moira stood back up and pulled me into her soft arms for a quick embrace. Then, hands on my shoulders, she spoke.

  “Life gives us the path, lamb. But it’s our choice whether to creep and crawl along it, or stride out with shoulders back and head held high.”

  For the first time in the two and a half weeks since we’d lost Mac, I saw the familiar spark of spirit.

  “Aye,” she said, nodding at my doubtful expression, “I agree. Load of horse malarkey, that is. Mac spouted that same bit off at me when we were new married and I’d burned the rack of lamb. His nasty old besom of a mum was coming for Easter dinner, see, and I was beside myself.” She smiled, her eyes far, far away. “I smacked him with the potholder and told him if he wanted to walk a path so badly, there was the door. Get to steppin’.”

  A laugh burst out of me. From the other side of the room came a loud sniff.

  Phoebe was leaning against the doorjamb, watching us. She looked as forlorn a creature as any I’d ever seen. Of course, she’d been extraordinarily close to Mac. His death had hit her harder than almost anyone.

  Moira said nothing, just held out her arms. Phoebe scrubbed a palm up over her nose and raced to her grandmother. With an arm about each of us, Moira strolled to the window. She gave us each a squeeze, then let go and pushed up the sash.

  The temperate breeze smelled of rich earth and stone, of animal dung and the sweet, nutty floral of the heather and gorse. It whisked past us, sending the kitty into paroxysms of delight as she gave chase to a swirl of dust bunnies.

  Moira squinted at her granddaughter’s still-drab hair and shapeless clothes.

  “No. No, no. I will not have it. Phoebe Marie MacPherson,” she said, in her sternest Gram-speak. “For the love of Mary and Saint Bride, take yourself down to Fiona’s salon straightaway. I don’t want to see you again until that hair of yours is some shade of color one cannot find in nature.”

  The grin that slowly split my best friend’s face was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh, but your grandda loved this place with all his heart,” Moira went on, looking out at the vista below.

  “He did at that, Gram,” Phoebe choked out. “He did at that.”

  Outside, the Highlands were a riot of green and purple, yellow and white. And always, always the gray granite peaks of the mountains. Gnarled and knowing and eternal, they watched over the pastures and townships below.

  “And just what is it you all find so interesting?”

  We turned to find Aunt Lucinda in a pair of flowy linen pants and curiously bright floral top.

  “Just admiring the view, love,” Moira said, her keen gaze taking in Lucinda’s short, now wigless strawberry blond hair and coral lipstick. “And where might you be off to, then?”

  “She’s going out with Greta,” my mom teased as she slipped past her sister and entered the room. “Aren’t you, Lu?”

  Aunt Lucinda scoffed, though her cheeks pinked. “For heaven’s sake, Sarah, could you possibly act a bit less juvenile?”

  “I understand it’s what little sisters were placed on this earth for, or don’t you remember?”

  My heart glowed to see a new lightness around my mother’s eyes as she winked at us. Tucking a white strand of hair behind her ear, Mom leaned up and bussed Lucinda on the cheek. “You deserve this, darling. I mean that. I’m happy for you,” she said. “Now, shall Ellie and I walk you out?”

  In the field below, two knobby old rams crashed horns, while a group of ewes looked on in bland amusement.

 
; I realized I’d been hearing something else too, for a while. The metallic clink, clink of sword strikes. The groans and grunts of athletic effort. Male shouts.

  I had to lean out a bit to see them. In the stable training yard, Bran and Collum were sparring with swords while Doug twirled his oak staff, ready to join the melee.

  Collum stayed low, heavy gladiator sword barely moving as his steady gaze tracked Bran’s whirling, fluid motions.

  “Earth and fire. Water and air.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d said it aloud, until Phoebe snorted. “Oh bother. Hope’s going all poetic on us now.”

  I shoved her, and when she laughed, my heart nearly burst.

  The boys tumbled to the ground in a heap of steel and muscles. Across the field, the rams slammed together again.

  “Males,” Moira said, chuckling, as she walked away. “All the same and no mind the species.”

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  There’s no way I can ever thank all the people who helped make this book into a real, live thing. But I’m sure going to try!

  First and always, thank you to my husband, Phil. We fell in love when we were seventeen, which only proves that young love is real and can last forever. After all these years, I still get butterflies when you walk in the room. Since the day I strolled through the house after having a shower epiphany and told you I was going to write a book, you’ve been my biggest fan, my alpha reader, and the only one who keeps me from walking into trees. I love you, baby. This book belongs to both of us! 45888.

  My heart belongs to our strong, handsome, brilliant sons, Phillip and Parker. We’re a proudly nerdy family—we love to read, and we laugh every day. Trust me when I say . . . it’s the best way to live! I love you both more than you will ever know.

  I dedicated Sparks of Light to my mom, Nena Butler, my second alpha reader, and the person I want to be when I grow up. I inherited my love of books from you, and it’s still the best gift I’ve ever received. To my sweet daddy, Duck, who’s so very proud of me; and to my brave, beautiful sister, Jennifer, and my smart and lovely nieces, Hannah, Kayley, and Ava (who let me use her middle name for my main character).

  Thank you to my friend, my fierce and brilliant agent, Mollie Glick. Mollie, you’re my shield in this scary new world of publishing and I’m forever grateful to have you on my side! Thanks also to her wonderful assistant, Joy Fowlkes, whom I bug endlessly, and who fits her name so beautifully.

  Thank you to my fantastic Houghton Mifflin Harcourt editor, Sarah Landis. Sarah helped me lead Hope and the gang through this new adventure in ways I never dreamed, and I absolutely adore you. So, SO many thanks to my awesome new publicist, Michelle Triant, for loving these books and wanting to get them out in front of you all! And thanks again to Ann Dye and Lisa DiSarro, my phenomenal marketing team! And all my gratitude to the rest of the lovely folks at HMH Kids for believing in Hope’s story.

  Thanks always to the author Heather Webb, my critique partner and writing BFF . . . and to my real-life BFF since Mrs. Irby’s third-grade classroom, Kelley Riggs Nichols.

  Love to all my Arkansas friends, including Linda Gayton, Yolanda Longley, and Lynette Place (whose talent made my author picture look halfway decent). Michelle Buchanan and her brilliant daughter Marlee, thank you for being my beta readers. And to Phil and Deb Palludan for being the bravest people I’ve ever known!

  A huge thanks to my new “posse,” the Sweet 16s. I couldn’t get through the day without WAY too many texts, IMs, emails, and frantic phone calls flying between me and Marisa Reichardt, Shea Olsen, Shannon Parker, Catherine Lo, and Kathryn Purdie. And thank you so much to all my “big sister” authors, who’ve helped mentor me through this crazy writing world: Jenny Martin, Joelle Charbonneau, Lee Kelly, Rysa Walker, Leigh Bardugo, Brenda Drake, CJ Redwine, Lisa Maxwell, and Erica Chapman.

  All the love and gratitude in the land to the phenomenal YA blogging community, especially my precious “assistant” Miranda Eduardo ♥ (@TBF & @mirandareads), Rachel (@yaperfectionist), Kris—My Friends Are Fiction (@Kris10MFAF), Jamie (@RockstarBkTours & @arnoldjamie13), Brittany (@BBookrambles), and all the lovelies at @YAReads, plus so many more. You guys make this journey exponentially more fun!

  And as always, I’m forever grateful to Diana Gabaldon, for making historical time travel totally and completely badass.

  About the Author

  © Lynette Place

  JANET B. TAYLOR lives to travel for her research, often roaming around at night to commune with those historical figures about which she loves to write. She resides in a tiny town in Arkansas with her fantastic hubby and two hilarious sons.

  Learn more at www.janetbtaylor.com

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