O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,17

one thing, her face was indistinct. He squinted, trying to pull her features into sharper focus, but failed. This woman had the same build as his Fia, held her arms out to him the same way his dead wife had, but ’twas as if she were wearing a veil across her face.

Another way he knew this wasn’t the wife he remembered was the fact she was floating. And glowing white. Her gown—of a pale, diaphanous material—flowed around her, moved by an invisible breeze. Her hands stretched out to him, and although he couldn’t quite make out her expression, he sensed peace and comfort.

She was…an angel?

Callan squeezed his eyes shut, or mayhap the dream jumped. When he opened them again, she was floating farther away, and the mist had risen to waist height.

Her hands were spread to her side, no longer comforting him, but as if she were offering him something. When he took a step toward her, she—and the dream—jumped again, until she was higher in the sky, larger somehow, and the mist was growing.

He stopped, his head tilted back, watching her.

Was she an angel? Or a ghost? Was this Fia’s way of visiting him, telling him she was happy in Heaven?

As he had that thought, a surprising sense of peace settled into his chest, and Callan felt himself smiling up at her.

And although he couldn’t quite see her expression, he felt she was smiling, too.

The ghost—angel?—lifted her arms, and the mist rose with her. Between one heartbeat and the next—did one’s heart beat inside a dream?—the fog cleared around Callan, pushing back to reveal empty darkness, lit by an eldritch light from inside the mist.

And as the fog retreated, he was able to see shapes, silhouettes.

He took a step closer, and the mist didn’t seem to mind. Was that…? The man, standing still as the mist flowed backward around him…that was Callan. He was looking at himself, a few years older, mayhap, but not old.

And he was carrying wee Adam. But the lad…he was older, too, maybe four. His legs were wrapped around Callan’s middle, and he appeared to be telling an animated story, although there was still no sound. Dream-Callan was laughing, and the happiness in the man’s stance, in the easy way he held his son, made real-Callan’s chest warm.

I will be aright.

Seeing Adam growing so strong and healthy, seeing himself enjoying life and loving his son…it made him happy. More than that, it set Callan at peace.

He glanced up at Fia, but she wasn’t there anymore. Instead, a faint white glow illuminated the scene below, the father and son. ’Twas as if the angel had appeared only to show him the future, what will be.

’Tis her way of telling me to move on, to find happiness.

As the mist cleared, more details became visible. He watched himself spin Adam around in a circle as, above his dream-self’s head, boughs of Yule decorations—pines and holly and ivy—appeared, and a fire crackled merrily in a ghostly hearth. ’Twas the Yule, mayhap two years hence, and he and Adam were happy.

But…movement!

Callan squinted as another figure came out of the mist. Short, hunched. When the figures by the hearth saw her, they both smiled, and Adam squirmed to be put down. When his feet reached the ground, the lad threw himself at the other figure, his arms going around her middle.

’Twas a girl, a young lassie. A few years older than Adam, aye, but no’ yet grown. She had pale hair, hanging in two braids on either side of her head, and she leaned on two canes when she walked. Her gait was irregular as if there were something wrong with her legs.

She was wearing the Mackenzie plaid.

Who was she? A child of one of his men? An orphan? A sign of the future?

Under the Yule decorations, dream-Callan took a step toward her, and she raised her arms to be lifted. She might’ve been too old to be spun around, but that didn’t stop him; she was obviously light enough that he lifted her without a problem. From the look of joy on her face, this was an embrace they both treasured and had experienced many times.

She’s his.

The expression of love on both faces—Adam’s, too—could leave no doubt. The lassie, whoever she was, belonged to that man.

Which means she’s mine, too.

Mayhap no’ yet, but was that what the angel had been trying to tell him? He glanced upward, but Fia was gone, leaving this scene of peace and happiness in her