MacGowan's Ghost (37 page)

Donnie and Fiona Hossack from the Waterside House B&B in Ullapool, Scotland, for answering all sorts of Highland questions regarding the setting of the moon and the school system. Thank you!

Professor Adam Tomkins from the School of Law at Glasgow University for kindly answering all things pertaining to law students and their careers.

My crazy Denmark Sisterhood, whom I adore. I so look forward to our front-porch get-togethers (we shall remain tight-lipped and mum about those get-togethers, right, girls?).

As always, my mom, Dale, who I wish lived right next door but is supportive four hundred miles away just the same, and my dad, Ray, who is so funny! Thanks, guys, for all your support.

To all my sisters- and brothers-in-law, and brothers and cousins and aunties and uncles who support me, buy my books, and give them to friends and other relatives.
Thank you!

And finally, a sincere thank-you to my readers. Without you, this incredible journey would not be possible.

Read on for a sneak peek at another delightful and enchanting love story from Cindy Miles,

THIRTEEN CHANCES

Available in September 2009 at
penguin.com
and wherever books are sold.

 

“Okay, ladies, open your scrolls!” Willoughby's fingers tightened on the parchment and she glanced up at the head mistress, Mordova, who impatiently awaited the opening of the Souls' Scrolls. A breeze wafted through the copse of trees, and dead leaves flitted to the ground. Somewhere close by, a field of dried corn crackled as the brisk autumn wind slipped between the stalks. Above, a harvest moon, large, full, and bright, shone through the canopy of birch and oak, bathing everything it touched in shimmering silver. Several bonfires flickered with orange flame.

“Willoughby!”

Willoughby jumped, startled, then glared at her sister. “
Don't
do that, Millicent.”

“Well, then open the bloody scroll!” another sister, Agatha, said under her breath. “I'm dying to see our assignment!”

Four Ballaster sisters gathered round and leaned their heads close together as Willoughby, the eldest, slowly unrolled the scroll.

Four Ballaster sisters drew in sharp breaths.

The gathering of White Witches ceased looking at their own scrolls and turned to stare at Willoughby.

“It's
them
!” squealed Millicent, the middle Ballaster sister, pointing at the scroll. “Christian and Emma! Oh, Willoughby! Do you know what this
means
?” She clapped her hands in excitement.

“Yes, Willoughby Ballaster,” said Mordova, who'd come to stand before them. “
Do
you know what this means?”

Willoughby looked up, and before she could say a word the head mistress continued.

“It means you and your sisters have the most difficult of assignments.” She turned, her long, silvery hair gleaming in the moonlight, and addressed the rest of the witches. “For those of you new to the convention this year, Christian and Emma's souls have longed to be together for centuries, and for centuries they've been denied”—she waved an elegant hand—“all because they inadvertently cursed
themselves
.” She tsked and shook her head. “Poor Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea. A gallant and fierce Crusader, he vowed in the throes of death that he would forever await his Intended's love. And true to his vow, he is here, earthbound, yet a spirit, in truth.” She clasped her hands together and paced. “And Emma, upon Christian's departure for the Crusades, performed an ancient incantation the poor lamb had no business of performing.” She stopped and again shook her head. “Mortals. Always convinced they have the control to conjure magic.”

Willoughby and the other Ballaster sisters stared on with the rest of the conventiongoers. Head Mistress Mordova faced first the crowd, then the Ballasters—particularly focusing on Willoughby.

“In an attempt to keep her true love safe in battle, Emma concocted an ancient Welsh spell by using an aged, outdated book of incantations. Sadly, she didn't pronounce the verse correctly and it, for lack of a better word, backfired.”

“What happened?” said a quiet voice in the crowd.

Mordova gave a winsome smile, and firelight cast her face in shadows. “Every seventy-two years Emma's reincarnated soul returns to Arrick-by-the-Sea for reasons completely unknown and unfathomable to her. Drawn like a moth to light, she is, only she doesn't know why. Nor does she recognize her true love.”

A resounding sigh echoed through the moonlit night. Mordova continued. “So every seventy-two years, Christian awaits his true love, his Intended, his eternal soul mate. Eleven times thus far he has made Emma fall in love with him all over again.” The head mistress heaved a gusty breath. “And due to that discombobulated scrap of magic, something inadvertently happens and Emma dies, only to be reborn, her soul forgetting everything. Meanwhile poor Christian's heart is severely broken each time, and I fear 'tis nigh to being unrepairable soon.”

Silence filled the night air.

Willoughby met the gazes of her sisters, gave a nod, then cleared her tightened throat. “Head Mistress, we, the Ballasters, proudly accept this assignment.” She looked out over the expectant faces of the coven and raised her voice. “We'll see that Christian and Emma are reunited once and for bloody all!”

A thunder of clapping sounded through the wood, accompanied by laughter and whoops and whistles. Many of the other witches walked up to Willoughby and the other Ballaster sisters to offer wishes of good luck—and a few homespun spells, if needed. When the crowd thinned, Mordova stood before the Ballasters, staring.

Willoughby lifted her chin. “Can the Council not help?”

The head mistress shook her head. “We are administration. We oversee, but do not give aid.”

Willoughby sighed. “Figures.”

“I know you girls have pure hearts and good intentions,” Mordova said, her amber eyes shiny in the firelight. “I say this not to intimidate, but to encourage: take heed, I beg you. Not one of your predecessors has succeeded in reuniting Christian and Emma's souls, and they had many more centuries of experience at spellmaking than you young Ballasters. The undoing and redoing of such a discombobulated incantation is precarious at best. 'Twill not be an easy task, and can be rather heartbreaking—as well as dangerous. I warn you: beware of the magic you use. Be absolutely sure of each and every word chosen in any spells you conduct, for one misspoken word could mean the end of their chances.
Forever
.”

 

 

 

“We simply weren't prepared!” Agatha cried.
“Whatever did we do wrong?”

“Another chance gone!” said Millicent, fretting her hands. “Oh, dear, Willoughby, what shall we do now?”

“Perhaps we should contact the head mistress?” said Maven.

Agatha snorted. “She cannot help, sister. Remember? She's
administration
.”

Willoughby rubbed her chin with an index finger and stared out at the castle ruins. Through the moonlit night, she saw Christian, walking the battlements. He'd just lost Emma for the twelfth time.

Willoughby could feel his pain from where she stood.

Something needed to be done once and for all.

She thought hard and paced.

“Just look at him, the poor dove,” whispered Maven. “I cannot bear to see his anguish again. We must do something!”

“Indeed. Willoughby, where did we go wrong?” said Agatha. “Our spell was perfectly orchestrated. We planned it for seventy-two years!”

“Aye, and we should be thankful there's no retribution from it.” Willoughby shook her head. “We're approaching this whole thing a bit too timidly, I think, especially when working with an incantation as discombobulated as Emma's. And conjuring from afar simply won't do. We need to be closer, for one. More aggressive. None of this peering from behind the tree line and conjuring spells from the wood business.” Willoughby nodded to herself. “We shall become the new owners of the manor house near the castle. 'Tis for sale and we've the funds to purchase and restore it.” She met each sister's puzzled look. “I know what else needs to be done, but 'tis risky.”

Maven raised a brow. “How risky?”

Willoughby stroked her chin. “The riskiest.”

Three other Ballasters gasped.

“You don't mean the—” started Millicent.

“Whsst!”
Willoughby placed two fingers over her lips. “ 'Tis the dodgiest of incantations and mustn't ever be spoken aloud.” She gave a stern look to the others. “You know the one I mean, aye?”

“Aye,” the others said together in a hushed whisper.

“I'm uncertain and not at all comfortable about it, Willoughby. No one has ever, in the history of the White Witches, succeeded. Using this spell will mean it is Christian and Emma's very last chance,” said Maven. “Their eternal love relies on this one scrap of magic. If it fails—if
we
fail—'tis over.”

“Forever,” whispered Agatha.

Willoughby again glanced out at the ruins and watched the silhouette of the fierce Crusader as he paced the battlements. He stopped, turned, and stared out to sea.

“Well then,” Willoughby said with determination, and met her sisters' eyes. “We mustn't fail, aye? We'll waste not another second. Time's of the essence, girls. Thirteen is a lucky number and we've seventy-two years left to conjure the chanciest of charms!” She inhaled with gusto and puffed out the air slowly. Under her breath, she said on a sigh, “By Morticia's wand, let's not screw this up.”