“Let’s dance,” I say, and Mackree laughs.
He twirls me around and then I twirl him. We dance and dance and dance through the mist, till I can no longer see Miramore.
I close my eyes. I see the faces. I am coming, I say.
I know not what the future holds.
The House of Pine, a throne or not, much is still fog before me.
One thing for certain I know right now.
I am happy.
Happily happy.
Ever after?
We shall see.
Dance to the fiddlers,
Dance to the fiddlers,
Dance to the fiddlers.
Whee!
Acknowledgments
With sincerest gratitude to:
My amazing editor, Alisha Niehaus, a particularly fine gardener, for planting the perfect seed of an idea and then giving it time to grow; my publisher, Lauri Hornik; Regina Castillo, Nancy Leo-Kelly, Lily Malcom, and all of the talented people at Dial.
My wonderful agents, Tracey and Josh Adams, for their wisdom and encouragement.
My brother Jerry for rock solid love.
My friends Pauline Kamen Miller, Kathy Johnson, Maureen Goldman, Kathi Shamlian, Ellen Donovan, Corey Jamison, Ellen Laird, Chloe Carlson, Eric Luper, Robyn Ryan, Rose Kent, Frank Doberman, Nancy Davison, Judy Calogero, Kyra Teis, Karen Beil, Mary Grace Tompkins, Ellen Snyder, Kate Sorrentino, Colleen McNulty Murtagh, Marion Hannan, and Jane Spain Ducatt for staunch support through a difficult voyage.
My son Dylan, for helping me discover “mo chroi,” pronounced “muh-kree,” means “my heart.”
My son Chris, for patiently teaching me how to use the sunny yellow laptop that had been gathering dust in a box.
My son Connor, for asking me daily how the writing was going and for listening with interest to my answers.
My mother, Peg Spain Murtagh, for her unwavering belief in me and for a particularly heart-expanding conversation on a winter’s ride back home from Old Forge, New York, where I had spoken at the Town of Webb Schools and the Old Forge Library and where my mother and I had lunch at the Van Auken Inn, where she told me my great-grandmother Grace Pearl Cole had once worked in the kitchen. At that moment a firefly sparked inside. I now had my protagonist’s name.
My “peace of the planet,” Cape Cod, where I wrote the first draft of this novel in the solitude of eight perfect February days. Each morning as I walked the beach, small treasures—an oyster shell, a purple ribbon, a pinecone, a whale-shaped rock—three or four things would call out to me and I would pocket them. Back at the cottage, I would set these “sea-signs” on the table, make a cup of tea, light a candle, and begin to type, fingers flashing furiously across the keyboard as my morning treasures blossomed into scenes, sometimes whole chapters, in Gracepearl’s story.
My teachers at the College of Saint Rose, Albany, New York, where I earned my bachelor of arts degree in English, particularly Sister Elizabeth Varley, Dr. Stephen Hirsch, Sister Kitty Hanley, Dr. S. R. Swaminathan, Sr. Patricia Kane, Sr. Rose Bernard, Sr. Joan Lescinski and Sr. Catherine Cavanaugh. Thanks, also, to Dr. Lynn Levo and Dr. Patricia Hayes and to Sister Nancy Burkhardt, Catholic Central High School, Troy, New York, who stared me hard in the eyes one day after our AP English class and at a difficult time when I sorely needed it, told me I was “a writer” and encouraged me to enter a national writing competition in which I later won first prize in the playwriting category. Thanks also to my fine teachers in the graduate English program at Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut, whose names have escaped me, but not the memory of their love of literature. There is no profession nobler than that of a teacher. The seeds you plant are perennial.
Posthumously to my great-grandmother Grace Pearl Cole, whom I never met, but who through the extensive genealogical research of my aunt Virginia Spain Meyers, we have discovered was a descendant of the Mayflower Coles who trace back to the Old King Cole of nursery lore. Well, who knew?! (As my son Connor always says ☺)
Finally, thanks to my readers. I am humbled by your faith in me and grateful for your loyalty. If you enjoyed this book, please pass it along to a friend with the request that she or he repeat the favor. No book is happy collecting dust on a shelf. Books are meant to be open and read, each new reader bringing his or her unique story to the reading of it, and in this way, no book is ever read the same way twice. I find that notion so exciting.
May you find another book to catch your fancy tomorrow and make time for a walk—somewhere that speaks to you, delights you, and nurtures your beautiful soul, always keeping your heart open for signs. They are all around us.
May peace and joy be yours.
Till soon,
☺ Coleen
A Pearl Among Princes Page 13