Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy by Melissa Macfie Page A

say anything.” Leo interrupted her, “Hear me out, then you can scream and rant and tell me to go the devil, but you must listen to me. I have kept the secret for too long because your mother begged me to as long as your father was alive. Then after he died, I didn’t know how to tell you.”
    Through tight lips, Brenawyn mumbled, “Go on,” as she turned away from Leo a bit. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and looked at the wall of cabinets.
    “Your mother met your father when she just turned nineteen and he was twenty-four. He was handsome and charming and swept your mother off her feet. Their relationship and courting was tumultuous. She would be in high spirits, humming and singing, dancing with Grandpa in the kitchen and then she would be depressed and weeping. She’d lie in bed until late morning and drag through the day. We tried to talk to her about her relationship, but she refused to listen. She wouldn’t confide in either of us about what troubled her. She was secretive. Then one day, she ran off to get married. It broke our hearts, Grandpa’s especially.
    “They returned, and after our shock faded, we found out the reason for her mood swings. Brian was a fundamentalist and would not tolerate any other belief in his household. Later, he wouldn’t tolerate even us for our beliefs, even though Margaret had renounced them. It was a strain on our relationship. Seeing us even for an afternoon was enough to cause vicious arguments that lasted days. The strain, I guess, became too much to bear and they moved away.” Leo paused to sniff and wipe her eyes.
    Brenawyn turned in her chair to face her. Having been deprived of her mother at nine, Leo knew she had only vague memories—a fragment of a song her mother used to sing at bedtime and the scent of her perfume. The rest, over time, had blurred.
    Leo had mixed feelings about giving Brenawyn something tangible of Margaret’s to hold onto. What would Brenawyn think of her when she told her that she’d held onto her mother’s journals? Kept them from her? Would she understand? No, not yet, and perhaps she never would.
    “She was pregnant with you when Grandpa died. Somehow, she talked Brian into letting her come to stay with me for a month by herself. She insisted that we stay at the farm, shunning anything to do with my religious beliefs and the shop, here. We buried Grandpa and she helped me go through his things; it was a relief to have her there. Despite her choice, she was like she always had been—the happy Margaret, humming and singing.
    “As the days passed, though, I could see her becoming more introverted. I would catch her daydreaming, I suppose, but with a concentrated look on her face. She told me on the third day after that she couldn’t feel you move anymore. At first, she told, me she thought that it was normal, but after the third day, she was sure that something was wrong. She was seven months along and three days of little movement. Yes, we both thought something was wrong.
    “I asked if she wanted me to call Brian, but she was emphatically opposed to calling him. She said she didn’t want to worry him if it turned out to be nothing. So we made an appointment at my gynecologist, who at the time still delivered babies. Now he’s dead, of course,” Leo added as an aside.
    “Wait, of course everything turned out fine. I’m here. Am I not?
    “Yes,” kissing her forehead then giving a small sad smile, “and thank the powers that be for that.” She reached to get the journal she had brought and handed it to Brenawyn. “I think you should read this. This is one of your mother’s journals, the first that she wrote. It will do a better job at explaining what happened.”
    “My mother wrote? How come I never knew that?” Not wanting or needing an answer yet, Brenawyn looked at the plain blue cloth-covered journal and sighed with happiness as she hugged the book to her chest.
    “Margaret started writing at that time, and