Spellweaver: A Historical Fantasy Novel

 Always, Catriona was the first to awaken, long before dawn. It was her favorite time of day. The messages from the nighttime dreams were still whispering to her, although they had a serious contest of being heard between the heavy breathing from Elspeth, who slept beside her, and the raucous snores from her father across the room. She knew that her mother especially used this time to relay messages. She could sense light beings still hovering in the air around the bed.

 After a quiet visit to the bucket behind the screen, she stole back to the warmth of the bed. Like the evening before, she put her hands to excellent use. She rested her hands on her heart; sometimes she put one hand on her belly, sometimes on her throat, sometimes lower down on her body, sometimes over her forehead, sometimes on the crown of her head. Always, one hand remained on her heart. After a moment or two, the pulsing began. It was as though her hands became fused to the part of the body they were resting upon, as though she couldn’t move them if she tried. She could picture the light of her hands connecting to her body of light. So much for “Remember man that thou art dust”; at least one of us remembered that we’re made of stardust. And as for that “and to dust you will return,” nay, we return to the stars.

 Catriona was rarely ill; nor were her sister and father. If her herbs didn’t heal them, her hands would. It was unfortunate she couldn’t heal her father’s love of the drink. Perhaps she figured that that’s what kept him alive, perhaps the pain of living without that particular buffer would’ve been too much for him.

 Elspeth awoke next, and she’d snuggle next to her sister, relishing the extra radiant warmth provided by Catriona’s light work. As their father’s snores slowly subsided, the two women would brave the morning chill and dress and revive the fire. Elspeth handed their father his morning meal, as Catriona was wont to let her be the heroine whenever possible. Try as both would, though, nothing could really assuage his anger at his youngest, his grief at his loss, his resentment at life. Interesting that he lived with such a bright light in his own home, but never let it shine in the dark corners of his soul until it was too late.