Sarah was a product of her imagination, Granny Rose was an indelible part of her memories. Dark, calm, and loving, she had raised Mariah, teaching her cooking and riding and laughter. Though Mariah had waited breathlessly for visits from her father, it was Granny Rose who had been the center of her life.
There were some people in their small village of Appleton who had called her grandmother a witch. That was nonsense, of course. Granny Rose made herbal potions, read palms, and gave wise counsel to girls and women of the village. Occasionally she performed rituals to achieve particular ends, though she always said there was no magic involved. Rather, rituals focused the mind on what was desired, and that made goals more likely to be achieved. Like prayer, but with herbs added.
Mariah needed a good ritual. She thought back and decided that a wishing spell would be best since she could ask for whatever would best solve her problems. Her grandmother had always cautioned Mariah against being too explicit with her wishes, because sometimes the best solution was one that she’d never thought of.
She had some lucky incense that she and her grandmother had made together years earlier, and tonight the moon was full, a good time for a ritual. Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well try a ritual. At the least, doing so would strengthen her resolve to keep George Burke at a distance.
She tied a robe over her sleeping shift, slid her feet into slippers, then wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. After collecting a tinderbox and a packet of lucky incense, she descended the stairs and went outside toward the sea. The night was cool and clear, and moonlight silvered the fields and the sea.
The garden included an open gazebo with a stone patio and a sundial. Thinking this a good place for her ritual, she closed her eyes and thought about her lost loved ones until she felt their friendly presences.
She started by setting the incense on the brass top of the sundial. After striking a spark and setting it ablaze, she silently asked for help through this difficult time. Healing, protection, strength, luck…
For an instant she imagined a real husband—not Burke but a man who fit her dreams. Ruthlessly she suppressed that image and concentrated on asking for mental and emotional strength.
As the pungent scent of the burning incense faded into the wind, she stepped into the gazebo and sat on one of the stone benches that circled the interior. She leaned back against the wall, feeling peaceful. Her night braid had come undone and her hair was drifting around her shoulders, but she felt too lazy to redo it.
As a child, she’d had few playmates—that’s why she’d invented Sarah. But she’d had her grandmother, and they did everything together for many years. She’d nursed her grandmother in the old woman’s final illness, and her father had appeared at the end to help. She and Charles had mourned together, and then he had taken her with him on his restless travels around the British Isles.
Now they were gone and she was truly alone for the first time in her life. That was why George Burke was looking treacherously attractive. He did seem to like her, and it was very appealing to be wanted.
But not by George Burke. Though she’d like a husband someday, she wanted a reliable, kind man like the local vicar. Whom she had been avoiding since her father’s death, because of her complicated situation. She really couldn’t be glancing coyly at the vicar under Burke’s nose when she was claiming to be married.
Closing her eyes, she rested.
Hold on hold on hold on…. In the far corner of his spirit to which he had withdrawn, he was aware that the end was near. He had been clinging to life for an eternity, and soon the sea would claim him. By now, he no longer cared if he lived or died. Almost, he didn’t care.
The dream brought Mariah sharply awake. Go to the shore. The internal voice sounded like her grandmother, and it was filled with urgency.
Not stopping to question, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and raced down the lane at a tomboy’s speed. The full moon’s light was bright but uncanny, and she felt a chill, as if she had entered a world where magic could really happen.
Waves crashed hard on the narrow beach, which was a mix of sand and shingle. She halted, wondering what madness had brought her here in the middle of the night. Then she saw a dark object floating not far offshore, every wave bringing it closer.
Curious, she studied it. Good heavens, was that a head? Perhaps a corpse?
She gagged at the thought, wanting to run away. But if this was a drowned man, it was her Christian duty to bring him ashore so he could be properly buried. The tide would shift soon and she couldn’t be sure the…object…wouldn’t be washed out again.
She pulled off her slippers and wrapped her shawl around them. After setting the bundle above the waterline, she waded into the waves. She was almost knocked off her feet, and the water was cold. Luckily, she managed to regain her feet before she went under entirely, but by the time she reached the floating object, she was soaked to the skin.
Hoping the sight wasn’t too ghastly, she looked closer and saw that it was indeed the body of a man. His arms were locked around a large chunk of wood, perhaps a piece of beam. Wondering if he could possibly be alive, she caught hold of the wood and towed man and beam ashore, fighting rough water all the way.
A last wave helped lift him onto the sand above the tide level. His clothes were tattered to the point of indecency, with shirt and trousers reduced to rags. Shivering, she knelt beside him and cautiously spread her hand across his shirt. To her amazement, there was a faint, slow heartbeat. The man’s flesh had a deathly chill from the water and there were lacerations and other marks on his skin, but he lived!
His hair and complexion looked dark in the moonlight, so she guessed he was a foreign sailor. Since water lapped around his feet, she took hold under his arms and dragged him onto the coarse sand. As she pulled, he began coughing convulsively.
Hastily she let go and the sailor half rolled onto his side, spewing water. When the violent fit ended, his breathing was rough but he was undeniably alive. Relieved, she wondered what to do. She didn’t want to go for help and leave him alone, but the faster she got him indoors and warm, the better.
Hoping he could walk, she leaned over and asked, “Can you understand me?”
After a long moment, he nodded, head bent.
“If I help, do you think you can walk to my house? It’s not far.”
He nodded again. Though his eyes were closed and he shivered with cold, at least he had some awareness of his situation.
She brushed the sand from her feet and put her slippers back on, then knelt and draped his left arm around her shoulders. “I’ll lift as best I can, but I can’t manage without your help.”
She lifted and he struggled. Between them, he got to his feet, swaying. She used her free hand to wrap her shawl around his shoulders, hoping the heavy wool would dispel some of his chill. “We’re on our way. It’s not a very long walk.”
He didn’t reply, but when she started walking, he followed her lead. Their floundering progress through the sand was excruciating and the breeze sliced through wet clothing.
Matters improved once they reached the path. A pity it was all uphill. But with her under his arm and taking half his weight, the sailor managed to keep moving.
He used a railing to drag himself up the steps into the house
