After an evening like she’d just suffered through, heaven knew she could use a dash of all those in her life.
Eleven stones for the Fae, one for her. Even the Fae should see that ratio as more than fair.
She pushed her hair back over her shoulder, realizing as she did so that she was still wearing her ratty, oversize T-shirt.
That would never do for meeting the Faerie Queen. If she showed up.
“Whenshe shows up,” she corrected herself. This was no time for doubting. “Not if. When. I meant to say when.”
Another glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
What did she have that was pretty? Not that she could hope to be as beautiful as a Faerie, but still, she should dress for the occasion. There was that long, gauzy sundress she’d bought at a garage sale a few years back. The one with little flowers embroidered over the bodice. Part of the appeal of the dress was that it always reminded her of something that would have been worn in a different century.
It would be perfect.
She pulled the tee off even as she headed for her drawers. In minutes she’d found what she wanted, dropping the cream-colored cloud of material down over her head before lighting the candle she’d left on the foot of her bed. It felt right.
Ten minutes.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the center of the circle and held her candle aloft. Its flame glinted off the facets cut into the stone of her ring. She closed her eyes to eliminate the distraction and forced all errant thoughts from her mind even as she expelled the air from her lungs.
Concentrate.The time had come.
“Your Highness?” She stumbled over the words, wondering at the last minute how she could possibly catch the Faerie Queen’s attention. “Fifteen years, Your Highness. I’ve given you fifteen years. Milk for the Faeries every single day, even when I ate nothing for my own dinner.” That sounded an awful lot like dramatic whining, not at all what she was going for. But she had been so patient for so long. Lord, but she was tired of waiting for them to notice her. Tired of just existing while she waited for whatever it was her life was intended to be to begin.
A deep breath to settle her nerves and she tried again.
“Fifteen years. I know that’s probably not even a blink of an eye for you, but it’s three-quarters of my life. Devoted to you. Believing in you no matter what anyone thought of me for it. Believing that you have some higher purpose for me. Knowing that I don’t belong here and waiting for you to show me exactly where it is that I do belong. But now . . .”
Again she faltered. Now, what? What did she want, truly want, from the Fae?
“I’m ready. For whatever that purpose is. I’m tired of waiting. Tired of watching the world pass me by. I’m tired of always being on the outside looking in. Please. I wish you would help me find the path to where I’m supposed to be. I just want to be where I belong. With people I can belong to.”
Dani waited, the sound of blood pounding in her ears louder even than the semis pulling off the road outside.
Hair tickled at her face as if stirred by an errant breeze, followed by a light tinkling of the delicate chimes hanging by the door.
Her eyes snapped open in time to see the flame on her candle flicker and go out, leaving her bathed in a soft green glow of light.
That wasn’t right. The lights had been on in the room. Regular, normal lights, not a single green bulb among them.
The errant breeze had morphed into an insistent wind, whipping the ends of her hair against her skin like little lashes.
She found herself unable to move, frozen to the spot while a million multicolored lights streamed across the room toward her. Over her, around her, through her, they filled her vision, lifting her up like a rag doll. She fought for her next breath as if the weight of the world sucked the air from her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut as the sensation of her body hurtling through space overwhelmed her senses. And over it all, as impossible as it seemed, she could swear the last thing she heard was a woman’s voice.
You had but to ask, daughter. So you wish it, so it will be.
Seven
CASTLEMACGAHAN, SCOTLAND
1294
HAVING A LUMPthe size of a horse roiling around in his stomach was no way to begin the morning. Or perhaps it was the pressure on his chest that bothered him more. Like the whole of the world pressed in on him, cloaking him in a vague sense of foreboding, as if his honor and indeed his entire future rested on the most urgent action he must take.
If only he knew what that action might be.
Malcolm pinched the skin between his brows, applying pressure to the bone beneath, seeking physical relief from the worries that plagued him. Likely it was no more than the fitful night he’d spent, tossing and turning, tormented by dreams no man should be forced to endure. Dreams of others suffering because he hadn’t taken action to save them. Dreams of failure.