Sibyl nearly collided with one of the younger boys and instead of falling on him, she threw her body forward in a graceful dive to avoid him. Correcting herself swiftly, she burst up from her reclining position and grasped him at his waist, pulling him down to the turf to tickle him.
The other children took this as an invitation to pile on top of Sibyl, a huge wrestling match ensued and Colin could hear the giggles and high-pitched screams through the window.
And then, right before his eyes, the scene melted.
It was the same garden but the colours of the flowers were different, the garden was less formal, it looked wilder and immensely more beautiful.
There were fewer children, only four. One boy, perhaps eight years old, tall and straight with leonine hair but, aside from his hair, he was a replica of Colin at that age. He was standing partially away from the mess with an expression on his face that clearly showed it was beneath him but regardless of that fact, he still wished to join in. Colin saw two girls, both rolling all over Sibyl. One had dark, nearly black hair and Sibyl’s features, another had leonine hair and a pleasing mixture of both Colin and Sibyl in her face. And the last was a very young lad of about two with dark hair and a face that nearly matched his older, blonde sister. He was partially cradled in Sibyl’s arms but struggling against her hold and her fingers at his sides.
Sibyl giggled, tickled and was tickled in return and then, for no apparent reason, she stopped abruptly, her head turned and she stared at Colin straight through the window.
Then she smiled at him with all the love of the world shining clearly in her eyes.
He saw it as distinctly as if she had been standing right in front of him.
And he felt it like it was a physical touch.
And then the scene melted back to the present time and Colin found himself shaken so deeply he had to put his hand to the window to steady himself.
He was in love with her.
Christ, he was in love with her.
He had no idea what just happened and he blinked to try and clear the vision from his mind.
But he couldn’t.
He was in love with Sibyl.
He had been in love with her since he saw her that first night under the copse of the trees with Mallory at her side and Bran in her arms.
And he would be in love with her until the day she died.
If he was a different type of man and believed in things like magic or destiny, he might have believed he loved her since before he was born.
For Colin Morgan had been born with a broken heart, the broken heart of a long-dead warrior, a warrior who lost his love and his life at near the same exact time.
Though Colin didn’t know that and wouldn’t believe it if someone told him.
Colin turned from the window and walked into the Great Hall, looking up at the portraits and seeing Royce and Beatrice with new eyes.
He had been avoiding this knowledge for weeks, with the pursuit of Sibyl and then her safety uppermost in his mind. If he had allowed himself to think about how he felt about her, it would have made him vulnerable.
Which he was now.
And he decided, since he’d never felt it before in all of his years, that he absolutely detested the feeling.
There was someone out there who wanted to slit their throats, wanted them to watch while it happened, just like the dream.
Colin stared at Royce and Beatrice, wondering if that was how they died. Bile rose up in his throat as it hit him and he believed, for the first time, that something so vile could live for centuries and curse anyone involved in it.
And he couldn’t, wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
* * * * *
At five forty five, nearly five hundred years earlier, the dark soul let the accomplices into the kitchen at Lacybourne.
Much coin changed hands.