Page 42 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“What do you know?” he demanded.

“Little enough, and it is frustrating me to no end.” She sighed. “It cannot be helped, though. I never could see with real clarity for those that share my blood.”

He let his head fall back in disappointment.

“Come now, sit.” She left her berries and wiped her hands, then gestured at a seat at the table. “We won’t give up so easily. Sit. Sit! And give me your hand.”

He did as she bid and she spent several long minutes peering at one hand, then at both. He held straight and still as she placed both of her hands atop his head and stood before him, eyes closed, lips moving.

After an uncomfortably extended time, she huffed in frustration and stepped back. “It’s Pixie magic. That I can tell. I can feel her mark on you. I just can’t tell what’s been done.”

“Her?” Somehow the thought that it was female Pixie tormenting him felt . . . shocking.

“Yes. Did you think they were all tiny men with long white beards? Nature is varied. So are Pixies. Small and large, male and female, from little seedling sprites to brilliantly colored, feather headed blossom sorts, and on to bat-winged night creatures.” She sighed. “I can’t tell who has tinkered with you—but I would wager that Sacha could.”

“Sacha?” He straightened. “Who is that?”

“Sacha Morgan. One of the local witches. Very powerful. She’s greatly skilled with earth magic and many Pixies are too. She might be able to see more than I can.”

Hope bloomed in Locryn’s chest. “Thank you, Aunt. Where can I find her?”

“You can’t. Not tonight. It’s late—and you don’t disturb a creature like Sacha at night.” She went back to her berries. “Look for her first thing in the morning. She lives in a cottage on the coast, just outside of Bocka Morrow. Ask for the Morgan cottage or the Nox sisters and anyone can tell you.”

Locryn clamped down on a surge of impatience. He didn’t wish to wait—not even for a second.

“Neither do you wish to make things worse,” his aunt cautioned.

He started. “That’s unsettling,” he told her.

She shrugged. “So I’m told.”

He let loose a long breath. “Fine. I’ll heed your advice.” He leaned across the table and laid a hand on hers. “Thank you. I do appreciate your help.”

“Glad to be of use, even if it is a small one. Be sure and tell the rest of the family, when this is over. Perhaps I’ll get a bit of respect around here.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, and took his leave.

* * *

Early the next morning, Locryn asked a footman for directions to the Morgan cottage. Tall, young and strapping, still the servant lost a bit of color as he answered. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said as he handed Locryn into his coat. “But you might want to avoid that place. There’s witches there, it’s said.”

“Sound advice, Robert. I’ll give you a bit of my own in return.” Locryn smiled at the man as he took his hat. “Try not to get yourself into a situation where you need a witch. It’s a damned uncomfortable place to be.”

Robert swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

It wasn’t far to the village, nor was it difficult to follow directions and find the coastal path that led to his destination. Locryn breathed deeply of the sea air. He topped a rise in the path and paused to look out over the rugged coast and the bright-capped sea. He lingered a moment, then turned to go on—and paused mid-step going down the far side of the hill. A woman knelt at the bottom, in a little ditch at the side of the trail.

“Good morning,” he called, not wishing to spook her.

She looked up. He met her dark-eyed gaze, warm and knowing, and he abruptly knew—this was the woman he’d come to find.

“Good morning.” She did not rise. He continued down toward her and saw she knelt with a tiny trowel in her hand and small glass bottle nearby. She continued her work as he approached. She’d already removed a swath of moss from the ground and now scraped soil from the bare spot of earth. The trowel was fashioned to hold a scoop of soil and the narrow point allowed her to pour it all directly into the glass jar. Only after she’d placed a stopper in the jar and gently replaced the moss did she look up at him. “The moss imbues the soil beneath with some special properties,” she said, as if she’d heard the question in his head. “We had a bit of rain here last night, which makes it a good morning for collecting the earth without overly distressing the moss.”

“Very wise of you.”

She smiled and he knew it was because she knew that he meant it.

“Well,” he shrugged. “Keeping the moss healthy keeps you in supply of the soil, does it not?”

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