Dearest Mama,

It is with deep regret I am cancelling my wedding to Lord Beaumont. I cannot marry him under any circumstances because I have fallen madly, passionately in love with Algernon Kent. Please don’t follow me. By the time you receive this, my dearest Algernon and I will be well on our way to Gretna Green, Scotland, to be married.

Know that I deeply regret the sorrow this must cause you, as well as Lord Beaumont—

Bettina

«Oh, dear God!» Lady Beaumont’s legs buckled. Her son caught her and helped her into a chair. «There won’t be a wedding?» the distraught woman cried. «I cannot believe this is happening!»

«It would appear that it is,» Beaumont equitably replied. He looked over at the Duchess whose eyelids were fluttering. «I shall go after them, of course. Perhaps it’s not too late.»

«Don’t bother. That ungrateful girl!» The Duchess sat up straight, waving the smelling salts away. «The butler told me they left last night. There is no way in the world you could catch them now, nor would I wish you to. Algernon Kent? I cannot believe it!» She exchanged incredulous glances with Lady Beaumont and Lydia. «How could my Bettina fall in love with the most loathsome man in the world? I apologize for my fickle daughter, Lord Beaumont. You must be devastated! Heartbroken!»

Evleen watched, secretly amused, as Beaumont placed a properly sombre expression on his face and make a gracious little bow. «Love works in mysterious ways, your grace. I shall do my best to contain my sorrow. Meanwhile, I want you to know that despite Bettina’s shocking defection, I forgive her and wish her all the happiness in the world.» He caught Evleen’s eye from across the room. In the fleeting moment their eyes met, he sent a message that contained a mixture of astonishment, vast relief, and, best of all, his undying love and joy that at last they could be together.

Her heart full of gratitude, Evleen turned and left. Life was wonderful again! With joyous steps, she climbed the stairs to her room. Richard was not going to marry Bettina. Such a miracle! But how in the world could the silly girl possibly have fallen in love with the likes of Algernon Kent? Hadn’t she said she loathed him?

An astounding thought struck her. Could Merlin possibly have had a hand in this? But no, it wasn’t possible. The wise old wizard had promised he would not cast a spell.

When she stepped into her room, she stopped and gasped. A black feather lay on her pillow. From Merlin? Who else could it be from? Why the feather? What message did it convey?

She picked up the feather and went to her window. For a long time, she stood clutching it in her hand. Finally, as she knew it would, the message came clear. Of course! Merlin had promised he would not cast a spell on Lord Beaumont. And he hadn’t. He had kept his promise. But he had not promised to refrain from putting a spell on poor Bettina.

«Why, Merlin, you old rascal,» she said aloud and started to laugh. «What kind of spell did you use to make a woman fall in love with Algernon? I’d wager it was the strongest spell you had.»

She touched the blue pebble. No more magic from now on. Absolutely not. Tomorrow she would throw the pebble into the nearby creek.

But then again. perhaps she should think about it first. No need to rush.

Claire Delacroix

The Ballad of Rosamunde

Galway, Ireland — April, 1422


The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever likely to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.

He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie — and he had only come this far because his crew had compelled him to leave the site of disaster.

Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.

Instead he returned home, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister.

Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.

«A song!» someone cried when one rollicking tune came to an end. «Who else has a song?»

«Padraig!» shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. «Sing the sad one you began the other night,» she entreated.

«There are others of better voice,» Padraig protested.

The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.

«Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green.

A trade in relics did she pursue,

Plus perfume and silks of every hue.

Her ship’s hoard was a rich treasury,

Of prizes gathered on every sea.

But the fairest gem in all the hold

Was Rosamunde, beauteous and bold.

Her blade was quick, her foresight sharp,

She conquered hearts in every port.»

«Ah!» sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. «There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.»

The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving and leaned against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.

«She vanquished foes on every sea

But lost her heart to a man esteemed.

Surrender was not her nature true

But bow to his desires, she did do.

She left the sea to become his bride,

But in her lover’s home, Rosamunde died.

The man she loved was not her worth.»

Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravenmuirs’ cliffs and caverns collapsing, his men holding him back so he wouldn’t risk his life to save Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.

«Her absence was to all a dearth,» his sister suggested.

Her husband snorted. «You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.»

«The son she bore him died at birth,» the old man across the table suggested.

Padraig shook his head and frowned. «There was no child.»

«There could be,» the old man insisted. «’Tis only a tale, after all.» The others laughed.

But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had been both beauteous and bold.

And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.

Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.

He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.

Because Padraig had loved her truly. His mother had warned him that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever.

But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.

Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.

He doubted it would ever heal.

He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.

Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. «Let another sing,» he said. «I am too besotted to compose the verse.»

«Another tale!» shouted the keeper. «Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.» The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favourite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.

He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.

«We will miss your custom this evening,» his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he doubted that she missed any detail.

«A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,» Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed and turned away as if he had chided her.

He could do nothing right.

Not without Rosamunde.

Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?

Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chessboard. It was a beautiful chessboard, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself fashioned of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.