turn. So the legacy would continue, and the purpose with it, until it was done. She would not, could not, turn away from it.
She would not, could not, turn away from the stirrings in her own blood as summer drew down.
But she had children to tend, a home to tend in turn, animals to feed and care for, a garden to harvest, the little goat to milk. Neighbors and travelers to heal and help.
And magicks, bright, bright magicks, to preserve.
So with her children napping—and oh, Brin had put up a battle heroic against closing his eyes—she stepped outside for a breath.
And saw her sister, her bright hair braided down her back, walking up the path with a basket.
“You must have heard me wishing for your company, for I’m after some conversation with someone more than two years of age.”
“I’ve brown bread, for I baked more than enough. And I was yearning for you as well.”
“We’ll have some now, as I’m hungry every minute of every day.” Laughing, Brannaugh opened her arms to her sister.
Teagan, so pretty with her hair like sunlight, her eyes like the bluebells their mother had prized.
Brannaugh gathered her close—then immediately drew her back again.
“You’re with child!”
“And you couldn’t give me the chance to say so to you myself?” Glowing, beaming, Teagan grabbed hold for another strong embrace. “I was only just sure of it this morning. I waked, and I knew there was life in me. I haven’t told Gealbhan, for I needed first to tell you. And to be sure of it, absolutely sure. Now I am. I’m babbling like a brook. I can’t stop.”
“Teagan.” Brannaugh’s eyes welled as she kissed her sister’s cheeks, as she remembered the little girl who’d wept on that dark morning so long ago. “Blessed be, deirfiúr bheag. Come inside. I’ll make you some tea, something good for you and the life in you.”
“I want to tell Gealbhan,” she said as she went in with Brannaugh, took off her shawl. “By the little stream where he first kissed me. And then tell Eamon he’ll again be an uncle. I want music and happy voices. Will you and Eoghan bring the children this evening?”
“We will, of course, we will. We’ll have music and happy voices.”
“I miss Ma. Oh, it’s foolish, I know, but I want to tell her. I want to tell Da. I’m holding a life inside me, one that came from them. Was it so with you?”
“Aye, each time. When Brin came, and then my own Sorcha, I saw her for a moment, just for a moment. I felt her, and Da as well. I felt them there when my babes loosed their first cry. There was joy in that, Teagan, and sorrow. And then . . .”
“Tell me.”
Her gray eyes full of that joy, that sorrow, Brannaugh folded her hands over the child within her. “The love is so fierce, so full. That life that you hold, not in your womb, but in your arms? The love that comes over you? You think you know, then you do, and what you thought you knew is pale and weak against what is. I know what she felt for us now. What she and Da felt for us. You’ll know it.”
“Can it be more than this?” Teagan pressed a hand to her middle. “It feels so huge already.”
“It can. It will.” Brannaugh looked out at the trees, at the rioting gardens. And her eyes went to smoke.
“This son in you, he will not be the one, though he’ll be strong and quick to power. Nor will the son that comes from you after him. The daughter, the third, she is the next. She will be your one of the three. Fair like you, kind in her heart, quick in her mind. You will call her Ciara. One day she will wear the sign our mother made for you.”
Suddenly light-headed, Brannaugh sat. Teagan rushed over to her.
“I’m well; I’m fine. It came over me so quick I wasn’t ready. I’m a bit slower these days.” She patted Teagan’s hand.
“I never looked. I didn’t think to.”
“Why should you think to? You’ve a right simply to be happy. I wouldn’t have spoiled that for all the worlds.”
“You haven’t. How could you spoil anything by telling me I’ll have a son, and another, and a daughter? No, sit as you are. I’ll finish the tea.”
They both glanced toward the door as it opened.
“Sure he has the nose for fresh bread, has Eamon,” Teagan said