Page 109 of Shadow Spell

“Why is everyone in the house? It’s such a bright day. We should have a picnic! Mrs. Hannigan could make up some bridies, and we can have cheese and bread, and jam tarts.”

She started to turn, wanted to run to the house, call everyone out, but he steered her away. “It’s not the day for a picnic.”

For a moment she thought she heard rain drumming on the ground, and when she looked up, it seemed a shadow passed over the sun.

“What is that? What is it, Da?”

“It’s nothing at all. Here you are.” He broke a rose from the bush, handed it to her. She sniffed at it, smiled as the soft white petals brushed her cheek.

“If not a picnic, can’t we have some tea and cake, like a party, since you’re home?”

He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m afraid there can be no party.”

“Why?”

“None of the others want to see you, Meara. They all know it’s your fault.”

“My fault? What is? What have I done?”

“You consort and conspire with witches.”

He turned, gripping her shoulders hard. Now the shadow moved over his face, had her heart leaping in fear.

“Conspire? Consort?”

“You plot and plan, having truck with devil’s spawn. You’ve lain with one, like a whore.”

“But...” Her head felt light, dizzy and confused. “No, no, you don’t understand.”

“More than you. They are damned, Meara, and you with them.”

“No.” Pleading, she laid her hands on his chest. Cold, cold like his hands. “You can’t say that. You can’t mean that.”

“I can say it. I do mean it. Why do you think I left? It was you, Meara. I left you. A selfish, evil trollop who lusts for power she can never have.”

“I’m not!” Shock, like a blow to the belly, staggered her back a step. “I don’t!”

“You shamed me so I couldn’t look upon your face.”

The sobs came now, then a gasp as the white rose in her hand began to bleed.

“That’s your own evil,” he said when she threw it to the ground. “Destroying all who love you. All who love you will bleed and wither. Or escape, as I did. I left you, shamed and sickened.

“Do you hear your mother weep?” he demanded. “She weeps and weeps to be saddled with a daughter who would choose the devil’s children over her own blood. You’re to blame.”

Tears ran down her cheeks—of shame, of guilt and grief. When she lowered her head, she saw the rose, sinking in a puddle of its own blood.

And rain, she realized, falling fast and hard.

Rain.

She swayed a little, heard the bird singing in the mulberry, and the fountain cheerfully splashing.

“Da...”

And the cry of a hawk tore through the air.

Connor, she thought. Connor.

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