Her Muse, Her Magic

by Jane Charles

  She nodded. “It’s frightening what some people will do because of superstition or because someone may be a bit different.”

  Blake chuckled. “Nobody burns witches any longer, Brighid.”

  “How can you say that?” she cried. “One was burned as recently as 1751.”

  “That was over sixty years ago.” He had no idea she was so sensitive to the topic.

  “And do you know at Balmoral castle they have an effigy of an old hag-like witch they call Shandy Dann. They toss it into the bonfire each Samhain. It is something to be frightened of when another person keeps calling you a witch.”

  He sobered, realizing how much his words had been hurting her. Blake stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. “I am sorry. Please forgive me. I had no way of knowing.”

  She offered a weak smile. “Just don’t call me that again.”

  He winked. “I’ll try my best.”

  “You don’t really believe I am a witch?” she hedged, as if she needed his assurance.

  He wasn’t certain what he thought because a part of him, a very small part, did believe there was something magical about Brighid. Something he couldn’t explain. But he would tell her what she needed to hear. “Brighid, if I truly believed you to be a witch, I would have nothing to do with you.” He pulled her tight against him. His lips hovered over hers. “Bewitching, perhaps, but not a witch.”

  She smiled and looked almost relieved, and Blake couldn’t hold back any longer. He had to kiss her. He had denied himself for years and he wasn’t about to any longer.

  “There you are!”

  Blake jerked back, cursing Thorn under his breath, and turned to the man who had entered the room. “What do you need?”

  Brighid slid out of his embrace and he cast a quick look at her. Her lovely cheeks were a delightful shade of pink.

  If Thorn had been just five minutes later, Blake would have had the kiss from Brighid he had been longing for. Blast the man!

  “We are to help with the preparations,” Thorn announced with a wide grin.

  “Preparations?”

  “I will leave you to your work.” Brighid slipped past him and was out the door before he could stop her. Blake ignored Thorn and watched her go. He had no idea being called a witch had been so upsetting to her, but now he understood and wished he could take back every time he’d called her that name.

  But he also wasn’t so certain she wasn’t one. There were too many odd coincidences when it came to the enchanting young woman. Nobody could convince his aunt that Brighid hadn’t had a vision that day. Then, the way she held up her hand and ordered the ghost of Blythe Tucker from the room. That was not something just anyone could do. There were other oddities over the years he had known her. He tried to tell himself that there was no such thing as ghosts or witches but apparently, ghosts were very real, so witches could be as well.

  Perhaps there was some magic in her after all. A magic she wished to deny. If it helped her to pretend it didn’t exist, he would go along with her. It wasn’t as if there was anything evil about Brighid, so what harm was there in ignoring the possibility that she might hold some power.

  She certainly had power over him. She was his magic and had been from the first moment they met. He was just too young to appreciate it.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Blake jolted and turned to Thorn. “What were you saying?”

  Thorn grinned at him. “Just what I thought,” He laughed. “I suppose you won’t be thinking about girls without drawers during the party?” He glanced back toward the door Brighid had disappeared through. “Expect perhaps one.”

  Blake tightened his hands into fists. “Do not put Brighid into the same category as the females you like to pursue.”

  His friend held up his hands in defense. “I know when I am taking my life in my hands.” He stepped back. “Now, come along, we need to make plans for entertainment. Mrs. Small has a few ideas, and we have been put in charge.”

  Blake grumbled but followed Thorn from the room anyway. He did not want to be making party plans. “Why can’t Braden and Quent do this? It is their party.” Besides, he wanted to be kissing Brighid.

  “Braden doesn’t seem to have the time, and it was my suggestion that entertainments be planned for a properly festive night, so you, I and Quent are to see to it.”

  He could just imagine what Thorn believed to be properly festive.

  Her heart soared. Blake Chetwey had almost kissed her. If Mr. Thorn had not come into the room, he would have actually kissed her. Brighid was unable to keep the grin from her lips and it was all she could do not to skip into the kitchens.

  He found her beautiful. With a sigh, Brighid sank down onto the stool. He might, just might, feel for her what she did for him.

  It may be raining, but it was a beautiful day indeed.

  The door to the herbarium loomed before her and a cloud moved over the sunshine in her heart. Blake must never know the truth. He must never learn she had a vision of him as a boy. He must never know she had premonitions or thoughts without explanation, like bringing the wormwood with her. If he did, he would have nothing to do with her. It was safest if she turned the care of the castle apothecary garden over to another and never come here again. It was the only way her secrets would remain safe. If she were to have Blake for herself, he could never suspect the truth.

  “Come with me, Brighid, we have much to do.”

  She startled and turned to Mrs. Small.

  “Lord Bradenham has asked that we be in charge of planning the food and keeping the traditions for this Samhain party of his.”

  Brighid shook her head. “It is not my place.”

  “Nonsense,” the housekeeper laughed. “Who better to know what magic can be created at such an event than you?”

  Yes, she needed to remove herself from the castle as soon as possible before Blake began to think she truly was a witch. And he would, if he ever had a discussion with Mrs. Small. She and some of the other servants refused to believe anything else. When Brighid insisted she was not, the woman simply smiled at her in a patronizing manner and said, “Of course not, dear.”

  It was all rather vexing.

  Brighid packed her small bag and looked about the room she’d occupied these past few days. It wasn’t as comfortable as her own bed, but she was reluctant to return home. After Mr. Thorn had interrupted the near kiss, she had not had a moment alone with Blake. All of yesterday, and into the night, she remained with Mrs. Small and the other servants, gathering apples, preparing the cider to pour on the roots of trees, making toast to hang from tree limbs, baking soul cakes and apple tarts. None of these were for the party guests. At least, not the living party guests.

  These traditions went back decades, if not centuries, and the servants of the castle were not going to do anything to upset the spirits already roaming about.

  Brighid shivered at the memory of Blythe Tucker holding Blake to the bed. The closer they came the Samhain, the stronger the spirits became. She might not see them all, but their presence surrounded her.

  It was best she was away before the festival began. But not before she saw Blake. She wanted to be certain she hadn’t imagined the moments they had shared—in particular, the one when he’d almost kissed her.

  She picked up her small bag and made her way from the servants’ quarters, down the stairs and into the foyer. The servants and guests were moving about, a bit anxious, and Blake waited at the foot of the stairs.

  He smiled in greeting then frowned when he noted her bag. “I had hoped you would stay.”

  Those simple words helped calm her fear that she hadn’t imagined what had transpired between them. “I should be going home. I’m not a guest of Lord Bradenham’s. I am simply a healer and now you are well.”

  He reached out, grasping her hand. “You are far more than that, Brighid, at least to me.”

  Thorn stopped beside them. “Braden needs everyone in the garden.”

 
Brighid shared a confused look with Blake, but after setting her bag by the door, she allowed him to escort her outside.

  They followed the others until everyone was gathered before a large hedge.

  “All right,” Thorn began, “what’s this about, Braden?”

  “Well…” He glanced at his brother. Lord Quentin’s brow lifted, but he said nothing.

  “I’m trying to find Miss Eilbeck. My brother saw her here in the gardens not long ago, but we can’t seem to locate her now.”

  “Callie is missing?” Brighid asked to no one in particular as she looked about. Callie was one of her friends, not that they saw one another all that often, but Callie hated the castle. In fact, she was frightened of it. Why was she even here?

  Brighid focused her attention back on Lord Bradenham and his brother.

  Lord Quentin heaved a sigh, stepped slightly away from the group to face them. “Braden doesn’t believe me, but she vanished right before my eyes. Right here in this garden.”

  “Vanished?” Thorn echoed as everyone else gasped nearly in unison.

  “I thought it was my imagination, but then I heard her voice and—”

  Brighid’s heart stopped and she clench her hands together to hide the trembling. “What did she say?”

  Lord Quentin frowned. “Wait,” he replied. “She said, ‘Wait, Mary!’ But I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.”

  Brighid stumbled back. She knew the ghosts were getting stronger. Why would they take Callie? It made no sense. She was one of the sweetest and kindest girls she knew. This could not be right. Callie had wandered off. That was it. Please let it be that simple.

  “Mary?” The housekeeper touched a hand to her heart and glanced at Bendle. “Like Mary Routledge, you think?”

  “I hope not,” the butler breathed out.

  A woman cackled again. It was the same one who had laughed when Lord Quentin entered the herbarium. Brighid glanced around but no one was laughing, nor did anyone other than Brighid appear to have heard the woman.

  “This can’t be happening.” Her heart pounded and her skin grew cold with fear. She took a step back, no longer paying attention to the others. As much as she wished to deny the possibility, she could no longer. For some reason, Mrs. Routledge had taken Callie and she had to get her back before it was too late.

  Ignoring Blake and the others, she turned and ran into the castle until she stopped just short of the herbarium. Blood raced through her veins, her hands shook and her heart was lodged in her throat. Taking a deep breath, Brighid stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

  The room was just as she left it the day before, except the trunk beckoned for her even more. Once she opened it, she could no longer deny what she was and as soon as Blake realized, he would have nothing to do with her. He had already told her it would be a fact. But she couldn’t let her friend be kept in another world. She had to save Callie. Even if it meant she would lose Blake forever.

  Why had Brighid run off? Blake asked himself for the hundredth time. He knew she was in the herbarium, but she refused to open the door. He had pounded on it so she knew he had been there, but she hadn’t answered. He even tried to open it but it was locked from the inside. Finally, he retreated to the great room to wait, only to find Quent pacing.

  What the blazes was she up to?

  Further, what had become of Miss Eilbeck? This was turning out to be a very strange day indeed.

  “Do you really think she vanished?” he asked Quent quietly so as not to be heard. “Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  Quent frowned in response. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was there one minute and gone the next. Like she was never there.”

  “Lord Quentin?” the housekeeper said from behind him.

  Quent looked over his shoulder at the older woman. “Yes, Mrs. Small?”

  She glanced from Quent to Blake and back again. “I am worried about Miss Eilbeck, and Lord Bradenham won’t listen to me.”

  Quent scoffed. “He never listens to me either. Don’t take it personally. Just the way he is.”

  “But if we don’t get Miss Eilbeck back before midnight on Samhain, she’ll be lost forever.”

  “Midnight on Samhain?” Quent questioned.

  “It’s the one night of the year when the veil between the living and dead is at its thinnest. It’s possible to get her back that night.”

  “How?” Quent asked.

  Blake frowned. This day wasn’t just odd. It was becoming ridiculous.

  Mrs. Small gestured towards the corridor. “Follow me.”

  Blake shrugged when Quent glanced at him. As there was nothing better for him to do, at least until Brighid emerged from the herbarium, he might as well go along and hear more dark tales from the superstitious housekeeper.

  Mrs. Small led them to a darkened arched doorway. “The dungeon.”

  She really didn’t expect them to go down there, did she? “Tell me there aren’t medieval torture devices down there.”

  “Not anymore.” The housekeeper retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket, unlocked the ancient iron door, and pushed it open. “We’ll need a candle,” the woman said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a thrice.”

  He peered around the edge of the door into the darkness and a chill ran up his spine. “Someone already searched in there, right?”

  “Thorn and one of the maids,” Quent answered.

  “Thorn? Was he searching the dungeon? Or searching the maid?”

  “Probably both,” Quent replied.

  It was better than Thorn chasing after Brighid’s skirts. He hadn’t lost a friend on account of a woman before and he was glad it wouldn’t happen this time.

  Mrs. Small returned with a lit candle and she led the way into the darkness. Quent lit the torches along the walls as they descended until they finally emerged into the dungeon. Blake looked around. The place made him uncomfortable and he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be locked away down here and tortured. Nobody would ever hear the screams.

  In the center of the room was a large, stone hearth, where they heated the irons to torture the poor souls locked in the cells. Another shiver ran up Blake’s spine, and he almost wished he was back in his sick bed, far away from this place.

  “Marisdùn has always been haunted,” Mrs. Small began. “Benign spirits mostly, until Mrs. Routledge opened a portal down here.”

  Quent eyed her skeptically. “A portal?”

  “Your great-grandmother was a witch, Lord Quentin. Drawn to dark magic.”

  “A witch?” Blake asked in disbelief. He did not want to think about witches. It only reminded him of Brighid and the fact that he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He wished he could take back all the times he called her that name. He never truly meant to hurt her.

  “My grandmother was her lady’s maid.” She glanced about the room as if she expected someone or something to jump out at her. “She was entrusted to find all sorts of things for her mistress. Certain plants or stones for spells…goats or chickens for blood rituals.”

  “Good God.” Quent winced.

  “She sought power and would have stopped at nothing to get it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Blake asked as the discomfort of this room pressed in on him.

  “She thought she could harness the dead, but they didn’t want to be used for her purposes and they took her instead.”

  “They took her?” Quent asked. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Mary Routledge held a séance in this dungeon,” Mrs. Small explained. “She called all those who’d died on Marisdùn grounds to her.” She shrugged. “A lot of people have died here over the centuries from Roman Centurions to the black plague sufferers to soldiers on either side of the border wars. Marisdùn has been flooded with their souls ever since that séance. They’re not all happy souls. But none are less happy than Mrs. Routledge.”

  Blake recalled the ghost who had been
in his bed. He had thought she was a happy soul; at least, until she tried to suck the life from him.

  “What does this have to do with Miss Eilbeck?” Quent asked.

  Mrs. Small began to walk the perimeter of the dark, cavernous room. “Somewhere in here, Mrs. Routledge opened a portal. A portal we can use as well as the spirits, if we can unlock its secrets.”

  Blake glanced about the room. What exactly did a portal look like?

  “When Miss Eilbeck disappeared, she was in the gardens, not in the dungeons,” Quent reminded them.

  “It’s not Samhain yet, Lord Quentin. She’s here somewhere, in a realm invisible to our eyes. If we don’t get her before midnight when the veil is the thinnest, she’ll be lost to us forever.”

  “How did my great-grandmother disappear? You said the castle took her.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “One Samhain, they came for her, the spirits. She was in the dining hall with her husband and he saw her vanish with his own eyes. He fled the castle with his children within the hour.”

  They never returned. That much Blake remembered from the stories of his childhood.

  “She just vanished like Miss Eilbeck did?” Quent demanded, “Into thin air, without a trace?”

  “Her wailing could be heard for hours.”

  “How do we use this portal?”

  “How do we find it?” Blake added.

  “A witch opened it, my lord. And a witch can use it again.”

  “A witch?” Quent scoffed. “Where the devil are we to find a witch?”

  Another shiver ran down his spine. If he were correct, he knew the answer. “I might know a witch.”

  He met Mrs. Small’s eyes. She offered a knowing smile and a nod. They were thinking of the same person.

  “What do you mean, you might know a witch?” Quent asked. “You are joking, right?”

  Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. If only it were in jest, “Brighid Glace.”

  Quent drew back. “The young woman who treated my eye? The healer?”

  Blake nodded.

  Quent turned to Mrs. Small, as if to seek assurance. He probably thought Blake had lost his mind.