expresses the hope that some descendant will find this and have the courage and skill to undo what Rona did. Ah, me, poor Morvyn tried her whole life to do just that, with prayer and with healing spells. She wrote once right after the curse was made, and again when she was verra old. She leaves her book of cures and spells as well as her stones. The use of the stones is explained in the book.
“Morvyn says she thinks she has discovered the sting in the tail of Rona’s curse. A Galt woman of their line will know love only to lose it, to watch it die or slip through her grasp. She will gain land and wealth, but such things will ne’er heal her heart or warm her in the night and she will face her death still unloved, still alone.” Sophie wiped tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And she was right, Nella. She was so verra right.”
“Nay, nay. Your ancestors just chose wrong, ’tis all.”
“For over four hundred years? This is dated. It was written in the year 1000. The verra first day.” Sophie muttered a curse. “That fool Rona sent out a curse on the eve of a new year, a new century. It was probably a night made to strengthen any magic brewed and she stirred up an evil, vindictive sort.”
Nella wrung her hands together. “There isnae any of that evil in this house, is there?”
Sophie smiled at her maid. “Nay. I sense that magic has been stirred in here, but nay the black sort.”
“Then from where comes the fear and sadness?”
“Heartache, Nella. Lost love. Loneliness.” Sophie cautiously picked up the two small bags inside the chest and gasped. “Oh my, oh my.”
“M’lady, what is it?”
“Morvyn’s stones.” She gently placed one bag back inside the chest on top of what she now knew was Morvyn’s book of cures and spells. “Those are her healing stones. These,” she clasped the small bag she held between her hands, “are her blessing stones.”
Nella stepped closer and shyly touched the bag. “Ye can feel that, can ye?”
“Morvyn had magic, Nella, good, loving, gentle magic.” She put everything back inside the chest. “How verra sad that such a woman suffered heartache and died unloved because of her own sister’s actions.” She closed the chest and started out of the room.
“Where are ye taking it?” asked Nella as she hurried to follow Sophie.
“To my room where, after a nice hot bath and a hearty meal, I mean to read Morvyn’s wee book.” She ignored Nella’s mutterings, which seemed to consist of warnings about leaving certain things buried in walls, not stirring up trouble, and several references to the devil and his minions. “I but seek the truth, Nella. The truth and salvation.”
It was late before Sophie had an opportunity to more closely examine her find. The house, lands, and fortune her Aunt Claire had bequeathed her were welcome, but carried a lot of responsibility. Aunt Claire had been ill during her last years, mostly in spirit and mind, and there was a lot that had been neglected. Although wearied by all the demands for her attention during the day, Sophie finally sat on a thick sheepskin rug before the fire, sipped at a tankard of hot, spiced cider, and looked over what her ancestor had left behind.
A brief examination of the book revealed many useful things, from intricate cures to simple balms. Sophie only briefly glimpsed the spells, few and benign, before turning to the explanation of the stones. She considered them a wondrous gift, having long believed in the power of stones, which were as old as the world itself. Sentinels and possessors of the secrets and events of the past, Sophie was sure all manner of wonders and truths could be uncovered if one understood the magic and use of them.
Still sipping at her drink, Sophie next turned her attention to the scrolls. She read both Morvyn’s letter and the curse several times before replacing them in the box. The truth was certainly there, but Sophie was not sure she could see the salvation promised. Nothing in Morvyn’s writings or the words of Rona’s curse seemed to indicate a way in which to end the despair suffered by so many Galt women.
Staring into the fire, she grimaced, for she could feel the spirits of those who had gone before, including poor old Aunt Claire. Generation after generation of Galt women, who briefly savored the sweet taste of love only to have it all go sour, had returned to this house to die or spent their whole sad lives here. Each one had spent far too many years wondering why love had eluded them, why they had held it for so short a time only to see it trickle out of their grasp like fine sand. Although she had only been at Werstane for a fortnight, several times she had felt the despair of all who had gone before, felt it weigh so heavily upon her that she had come close to weeping. If Aunt Claire had felt it too, had spent her whole life feeling it, it was no wonder she had become a little odd.
And now that she understood the curse Rona had set upon the MacCordys, understood the “sting in its tail,” as Morvyn called it, Sophie knew her fate was to be the same as Aunt Claire’s, as that of all the lonely, heartbroken spirits still trapped within Werstane. Her own mother had suffered the sting of their ancestor’s malice, but had let that despair conquer her, hurling herself into the sea rather than spend one more day in suffering. As Sophie faced her twentieth birthday, she was surprised she had not yet suffered the same fate, but love had not yet touched her. Most people considered her a spinster, an object of pity, but she was beginning to think she was very lucky indeed.
Sophie finished her drink, stood up, and set the tankard on the mantel. She would not join the long line of heartbroken Galt women. If it took her the rest of her life, she would end the torment her vindictive ancestor had inflicted upon so many innocent people. If it was God’s wish that the Galt women should suffer for Rona’s crime, surely four hundred and thirty-five years of misery was penance enough. Perhaps He wanted a Galt woman to put right what a Galt woman had made so wrong. It was her duty to try. And, she mused, as she crawled into bed, there was only one proper place to start—Nochdaidh.
“Nella isnae going to like this plan,” she murmured and almost smiled.
“I dinnae like this, m’lady. Not at all.”
Sophie glanced at her maid riding the stout pony at her side. Nella had not ceased bemoaning the plans Sophie had made in the entire sennight since she had made them. It had been expected, but Sophie was weary of it. Nella’s fears fed her own. What she needed was confidence and support. Nella was loyal, but Sophie wished she was also brave, perhaps even a little encouraging.
“Nella, do ye wish me to die alone, sad, and heartbroken?” Sophie asked.
“Och, nay.”
“Then hush. Unless Rona’s curse is broken, I will suffer the fate of all the Galt women of her bloodline. I will become just another one of the sorrowful, despairing spirits roaming the halls of Werstane.”
Nella gasped, then gave Sophie a brief look of accusation. “Ye said there werenae any spirits at Werstane.”
“Actually, I said there werenae any spirits in the room we were in when ye asked about them.” She grinned when Nella snorted softly in disgust, but quickly grew serious again. “’Twill be all right, Nella.”
“Oh? The woman in the village said the laird is a monster, a beast who drinks blood and devours bairns.”
“If he devours bairns, he obviously has a verra small appetite, for the village was swarming with them. And that village looked far too prosperous for one said to be ruled by some beast.” She looked around her, noticing how stark the land had
