Нора Робертс: The Becoming

“Oh, well now, that’s brilliant.” She met Breen’s anxious eyes. “And all’s well.”

“I just told Breen I know there’s stuff you can’t tell me. Bollocks and I can take a walk.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Morena told him. “But there’s no need. All’s as it was two days ago, as that’s how long it’s been since you’ve come. So I’ve come to you.”

“Good timing, because we’re having mimosas.”

Now she grinned at Marco. “I know that drink. It’s putting champagne in orange juice, and I’ll have one and lift it to our storyteller. Can I read it?”

“It’s not finished-finished. I have to—basically, I have to go through and make it better.”

“Then you will, and we’ll drink again when you do.” At home, Morena took off her cap and jacket. Then sniffed the air. “And what is that amazing smell?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.” Marco moved to the kitchen to give the pot a stir before he went for the champagne. “You should come to dinner. Hell, I got enough for a small army. Bring Harken, and if Keegan gets back, it’s a party.”

“I wish I could, believe that, but it’s best Harken and I stay in Talamh for now.”

“Because of the stuff you can’t tell me.”

“Let me say this, as Breen would be more careful about it—”

“Morena.”

“I know what I’m about.” She walked into the kitchen as well to sniff at the sauce. “Oh gods, that’s a miracle in a pot. The taoiseach formed a council here in the valley, and Breen and I are on it, and we’re sworn not to speak of what’s what there unless given leave.”

“Okay.” With his bartender’s hands, Marco opened the champagne with a happy little pop . “You’ll tell me when I can help.”

“No question of it.”

“Something’s up with you, too.” Frowning, Breen studied Morena’s face. “I can feel it, but it’s not—it’s not what we can’t talk about.”

“Nothing about that, no, and I’ve been waiting for the pair of you to come over so I can tell you. And bloody talk to you, but you don’t.”

Marco paused in the act of shaking a bottle of orange juice. “Is it good or bad? I have to know these things.”

“Well, it’s good. It’s passing strange still, but good. I was ready, you see. It was the council meeting that had me realizing it.” She wandered back out of the kitchen, in again. “And he knew it, of course. He knows my moods better than I do half the time, which is annoying and, well, comforting, I suppose. So there you have it.”

“What?” Marco set down the bottle, threw up his hands as Breen smiled and started crying again. “Give me a freaking clue here.”

“We’re pledged, Harken and me. You’d say engaged on this side, though our way of it makes more sense, I’m thinking.”

Before Breen could move in to hug, Marco grabbed Morena off her feet. “Girl!” He swung her, as he had Breen—and started the dog up again. “A Christmas wedding? Man, I love Christmas weddings.”

“No, not winter,” she said as Breen wrapped her arms around both of them. “I want spring, and the light, and the blooms, and the promise. Ah, fuck me, I’ve lost my mind and I’ll be a farmer’s wife.”

“You’re perfect for each other. Just perfect,” Breen exclaimed. “And you’re right about spring, because that’s hope and promise, and it’s a sharp stick in Odran’s ugly eye.”

“I nearly went mad waiting to tell you. When I told Nan and Grandda, Grandda went straight to the farm, claiming he was going to grill Harken like a trout over keeping me happy. Which he didn’t, of course, as he loves Harken like his own. Nan cried, then flew into a flurry of talk about dresses and flowers and such, and now is in the mirror with my ma, or they’re sending falcons winging back and forth with plans. And I’ll leave all that to them, as they’ve earned it, and will be better at it than I could be.”

She took a breath. “Now I’m babbling, but I want to say if either of you, who’d be better as well, want to put your thoughts into it, you’re welcome to. And with tradition, when we wed, you have a friend or friends stand with you when you make your promise and join your lives. So you will, won’t you?” she said to Breen. “My oldest friend, and you, Marco, as Breen made you mine and me yours. You’ll both stand with me?”

“Of course we will.”

“I’m going to get these drinks before I start blubbering like a baby.” Marco swiped tears away. “And screw the orange juice.”

That evening, Breen took her laptop to her room. She could work while giving Marco and Brian—if and when he came—some privacy. And she could work on her second Bollocks book, something happy to help her hold on to all the good feelings of the day.

Maybe Keegan would come. She’d feel steadier if she saw him, if she heard directly from him. In her talks with Marg she understood they had doubts now the portal existed. Days of searching had given them no sign or sense of it.

Or a tree of snakes.

She didn’t know what that meant, only that the phrase had come so clearly, so definitely, it had to mean something.

Unless it didn’t.

She’d tried seeing in the fire, tried seeing in the globe, but nothing came.

Unrelenting rain in the east made the search more difficult, and no doubt slowed it. But Marg had told her the rain had moved out to sea that evening, and the next day promised clear.

She wondered if she should go to the Capital, if she could help. And wondered if waiting to be asked—or ordered—was weakness or strength.

Either way, she’d go to Talamh the next day, and practice in her grandmother’s workshop. She’d ask Morena or Harken to help her with her training.

And prepare herself for whatever came.

But now she’d write, and she’d wait.

She wrote until late, until the house fell silent and sleeping. Then she threw on a robe, pulled on boots to take Bollocks out for his last round of the night while the pixies fluttered their points of light in the dark.

With Bollocks settled in front of the fire, she settled herself into bed. She’d work on his book more in the morning, but go to Talamh earlier than usual. She’d take a ride with Marco—stop by Finola’s to talk wedding plans—and she’d call Lonrach to give them both the pleasure of a flight. She’d work on her training—both magickal and physical.

She would fill the day, but if nothing changed, she’d ask Harken to let her use Keegan’s mirror. He’d just have to find time to talk with her, and accept she needed to go to the Capital and help with the search.

“Tree of snakes,” she muttered as she turned off the light. Why would she know it if it meant nothing?

Maybe in the workshop, with her grandmother’s magicks all around, she’d find the answers.

Tomorrow, she thought, and drifted into sleep.

When the dream came, it came soft and lovely with a sky of heartbreaking blue. Through the field a stream burbled, and along its banks grew the violet paws of foxglove, the elegant trumpets of columbine, the starry flowers of wild thyme. Butterflies fluttered, birds sang as she walked with Keegan.

“It’s all so beautiful.”

“Peace.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “There’s nothing more beautiful. We’ll have it, and thousands times thousands of days like this.”

“I’m glad you came. I missed seeing you, talking to you. Did you find the portal?”

“We won’t talk of such things now. We have this. We have the quiet. We both like the quiet moments.”

“We do. I guess that’s something we have in common.” She smiled when he bent down and picked a buttercup to tuck behind her ear. “You don’t get many of them, the quiet moments.”