Charmed at Christmas Read online

  Tamsyn’s brow wrinkled further. “It could be.”

  Gwyn took a deep breath before plowing forward. “I know I don’t know the entire story of what happened with you and Gryff, but I know the Pixie’s were involved. I know Father knows. I did hear you speak with him about Paul Hambly too, after the dowager countess passed away. You said Paul was kind to you. That he had a part in getting you and Gryff together.”

  Her sister sighed. “Yes. He’s been more than helpful. He’s changed, though, since his mother’s death. He’s so quiet and forlorn. I rarely see him now.”

  “Do you think he could help us—me and Locryn?”

  Tamsyn considered the question. “He did seem to know when I had been touched by Pixie magic. Maybe he could see something, a sign or a hint or a clue about Locryn’s problem.” She sounded unsure.

  “Could we ask him?”

  “We could try.”

  “Oh, thank you, Tamsyn,” she said fervently. “How do we . . . reach him?”

  Tamsyn stood and dragged a chair into a corner. “Sit there. Don’t make any sudden moves or speak unless I give you the nod.” She went back to her dressing table, but turned the seat to face the room. “Paul?” she called quietly. “Paul Hambly?”

  She waited a moment. “Paul, are you there, dear?”

  “Tamsyn.” His voice sounded first, then the figure of a small boy materialized in the middle of the room. “I’m glad you called. There’s not much time—but I did wish to see you.”

  “Is everything all right?” Tamsyn asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Could a ghost sound evasive? Gwyn rather thought this one did.

  “The castle spirits are shaken up,” he told her sister. “So many guests.”

  “Yes, I know that does stir some of them up.” Tamsyn spoke seriously. “We have some issues ourselves. We were hoping you could help us.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure there’s time. . .”

  “It won’t take much. We wondered if you had the ability to tell, just be being near a person, if they had been touched by Pixie magic—or by anything else of a similar nature?”

  He thought about it. “I think so. I could see the gift that Tuft gave you. Then there are objects, magical things, spells that ghosts can sense.”

  “Oh, yes.” Tamsyn nodded. “Like that gypsy charm that helped protect Lady Charlotte Beck a few months ago?”

  “Yes. Among other things.”

  Gwyn got the feeling that there was more to the subject—and that Paul did not wish to discuss it.

  “Here’s a question.” Tamsyn leaned toward him. “Are you able to travel to Lancarrow?”

  Frowning, the spirit boy nodded. “For a short time. I cannot stray from Keyvnor for long.”

  “Will you go over there and take a look at Locryn Pendarvis? He’s Gryff’s cousin. We think that something odd is happening to him.”

  Paul’s figure faded in and out for a moment. He gave the impression that he was listening to something, somewhere else. “Yes,” he nodded. “But I must hurry.”

  “Thank you, Paul. You are a darling, you know.” Tamsyn smiled at him.

  He grinned back—then disappeared.

  “I’m worried about him,” Tamsyn said as she turned to Gwyn.

  “He seems as if he’s . . . waiting for something, perhaps?” Gwyn answered with a frown.

  “Or hiding something. He’s usually much more relaxed. And open.”

  “Well, maybe we can help. I certainly appreciate his willingness to help us.”

  “You’re welcome, Lady Gwyn.” The boy’s figure faded back in.

  “You’ve been to Lancarrow and back already?” Tamsyn exclaimed.

  “Yes, although I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

  “Did you see Lord Locryn?” Gwyn asked eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Looking for his aunt, I believe.”

  “Did you see anything else?” Tamsyn asked. “Could you tell if anything . . .”

  “Yes,” Paul interrupted. “It’s Pixie magic.”

  “Not another of Tuft’s misguided gifts?”

  “No, this doesn’t bear his stamp . . . or flavor—I’m not sure how to explain it. But it was not Tuft. I don’t know the Pixie that kissed him.”

  “Kissed him?” Gwyn gasped.

  “Perhaps? It’s all wrapped up in kisses. That’s all I could tell.” He frowned. “But based on how Pixie magic usually works . . . well . . .”

  “Yes?” Gywn asked, breathless.

  “She kissed him, I think that’s what started it all. If I had to guess . . . I’d say you should kiss him to end it.”

  Gwyn’s shoulders drooped. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t tried.”

  “Gwyn!” Tamsyn said with a laugh.

  “Well I have, but something always prevents it. What is it? Who is it? And more than that—how could a Pixie kiss him and Locryn not know of it?” she huffed.

  “Pixies are capable of far more than that,” Tamsyn said with a knowing look at the ghost boy. “Could Tuft perhaps tell us more?”

  “He might. But he’s been gone from the area these last months. He has a way with the deepest earth magic, you see, and he’s been helping some Knockers up the coast shore up their tunnels.”

  “Knockers?” Gwyn asked.

  “Pixies that live in mine shafts and caves,” Tamsyn explained. “They knock to warn miners of impending collapses.”

  “Oh,” Gwyn sighed.

  “I have to go,” Paul said, fading in and out again.

  “We do thank you for your help, Paul,” Gwyn said warmly. “And I appreciate the chance to make your acquaintance.”

  He nodded at her. “You are welcome.” The boy drifted close to Tamsyn and patted her hand. “I will miss you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she chided him. “I’ll only be at Lancarrow. I’ll come and sit with you in the rose garden.”

  He merely sighed. “Goodbye.”

  He faded away, even as Gwyn exchanged uneasy glances with her sister.

  “Aunt Morwen, there you are!” Locryn did his best to hide his impatience. She carried a large basket and he took it from her. She didn’t stop, so he followed in her footsteps. “It’s grown dark out. I was starting to worry.”

  She laughed. “There’s nothing in the night foolish enough to bother me.”

  Except him, it would seem. “Do you have a moment? I need to speak to you.”

  “Yes, yes. If you’ll come to the stillroom, I do. I have to wash these sandthorn berries.”

  “Of course.” He followed her to the large room at the top of the house. She went in before him and started to light candles. He saw it was a long, narrow room, filled with shelves and countertops bursting with bottles, paper packages and books. He frowned when he saw a grey-striped tabby lounging on a windowsill. “Is that the same cat? The one we saw the other day?”

  She glanced up. “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it quite a bit . . . larger?” Older, he would have said. It looked like a nearly grown adult cat.

  “For now,” she said casually. She went to a massive table in the middle of the room and indicated a spot for him to leave the basket. She brought a large bowl of water over and began to strip the orange berries from their laden branches and dump them in.

  “So, have you decided that I was right?” She glanced knowingly at him. “Something is happening with you? Something that cannot be easily explained away?”

  “What do you know?” he demanded.

  “Little enough, and it is frustrating me to no end.” She sighed. “It cannot be helped, though. I never could see with real clarity for those that share my blood.”

  He let his head fall back in disappointment.

  “Come now, sit.” She left her berries and wiped her hands, then gestured at a seat at the table. “We won’t give up so easily. Sit. Sit! And give me your hand.”

  He did as she bid and she
spent several long minutes peering at one hand, then at both. He held straight and still as she placed both of her hands atop his head and stood before him, eyes closed, lips moving.

  After an uncomfortably extended time, she huffed in frustration and stepped back. “It’s Pixie magic. That I can tell. I can feel her mark on you. I just can’t tell what’s been done.”

  “Her?” Somehow the thought that it was female Pixie tormenting him felt . . . shocking.

  “Yes. Did you think they were all tiny men with long white beards? Nature is varied. So are Pixies. Small and large, male and female, from little seedling sprites to brilliantly colored, feather headed blossom sorts, and on to bat-winged night creatures.” She sighed. “I can’t tell who has tinkered with you—but I would wager that Sacha could.”

  “Sacha?” He straightened. “Who is that?”

  “Sacha Morgan. One of the local witches. Very powerful. She’s greatly skilled with earth magic and many Pixies are too. She might be able to see more than I can.”

  Hope bloomed in Locryn’s chest. “Thank you, Aunt. Where can I find her?”

  “You can’t. Not tonight. It’s late—and you don’t disturb a creature like Sacha at night.” She went back to her berries. “Look for her first thing in the morning. She lives in a cottage on the coast, just outside of Bocka Morrow. Ask for the Morgan cottage or the Nox sisters and anyone can tell you.”

  Locryn clamped down on a surge of impatience. He didn’t wish to wait—not even for a second.

  “Neither do you wish to make things worse,” his aunt cautioned.

  He started. “That’s unsettling,” he told her.

  She shrugged. “So I’m told.”

  He let loose a long breath. “Fine. I’ll heed your advice.” He leaned across the table and laid a hand on hers. “Thank you. I do appreciate your help.”

  “Glad to be of use, even if it is a small one. Be sure and tell the rest of the family, when this is over. Perhaps I’ll get a bit of respect around here.”

  “I’ll do that,” he promised, and took his leave.

  Early the next morning, Locryn asked a footman for directions to the Morgan cottage. Tall, young and strapping, still the servant lost a bit of color as he answered. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said as he handed Locryn into his coat. “But you might want to avoid that place. There’s witches there, it’s said.”

  “Sound advice, Robert. I’ll give you a bit of my own in return.” Locryn smiled at the man as he took his hat. “Try not to get yourself into a situation where you need a witch. It’s a damned uncomfortable place to be.”

  Robert swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  It wasn’t far to the village, nor was it difficult to follow directions and find the coastal path that led to his destination. Locryn breathed deeply of the sea air. He topped a rise in the path and paused to look out over the rugged coast and the bright-capped sea. He lingered a moment, then turned to go on—and paused mid-step going down the far side of the hill. A woman knelt at the bottom, in a little ditch at the side of the trail.

  “Good morning,” he called, not wishing to spook her.

  She looked up. He met her dark-eyed gaze, warm and knowing, and he abruptly knew—this was the woman he’d come to find.

  “Good morning.” She did not rise. He continued down toward her and saw she knelt with a tiny trowel in her hand and small glass bottle nearby. She continued her work as he approached. She’d already removed a swath of moss from the ground and now scraped soil from the bare spot of earth. The trowel was fashioned to hold a scoop of soil and the narrow point allowed her to pour it all directly into the glass jar. Only after she’d placed a stopper in the jar and gently replaced the moss did she look up at him. “The moss imbues the soil beneath with some special properties,” she said, as if she’d heard the question in his head. “We had a bit of rain here last night, which makes it a good morning for collecting the earth without overly distressing the moss.”

  “Very wise of you.”

  She smiled and he knew it was because she knew that he meant it.

  “Well,” he shrugged. “Keeping the moss healthy keeps you in supply of the soil, does it not?”

  “It does.” She cocked her head, watching him, carefully inquisitive.

  “You are Sacha Morgan?” It wasn’t truly a question.

  “I am. And you are Miss Morwen Cardew’s nephew?”

  “I am.”

  She tucked her tools into a bag slung across her and rose, coming to stand in front of him. She said nothing and neither did he. But she looked at him. He felt as if she stared at him with every part of her—and clearly saw every nook and cranny of him. Even her dark curls, pulled back high behind her head, blew forward in the breeze. They wafted toward him as they too were watching, learning, assessing.

  “I will help you,” she said suddenly.

  He blinked. “Thank you. I need to know—”

  She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I know.” With a dainty foot she marked a spot in the trail. “Stand here.”

  He moved to the spot and she stood before him once more. Slowly, she began to move. Always facing him, breathing deeply, utterly silent, she made a circuit around him, drawing a circle with her boot as she went. At four points she stopped, reached into a pouch attached at her waist and dusted him with powder from within. She ended standing ahead of him and facing him again, and she raised her cupped hands and closed her eyes.

  “This is a very powerful spell. Earth magic, but also—something else mixed in.” She frowned. “You are under an injunction. You must not kiss the wrong girl.”

  An injunction? His mind raced. The wrong girl? He frowned. Perhaps the girls in Cambridge and London had been wrong for him, but Gwyn? Gwyn was exactly the right girl. The woman he meant to live out his life with.

  He drew breath to speak, but Sacha Morgan frowned again. “Oh?” Her eyes snapped open. She looked directly at him, stepped forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Light flashed. Thunder cracked in the clear sky. His lips burned and she stepped back with a laugh. “This spell was not meant as a punishment, my lord. The Pixie who kissed you did not mean to harm you.” Her brow furrowed. “I believe she wishes to help you, to free you, but . . . there are other forces at work. Forces equally as powerful.”

  “What are they?”

  “I cannot see that clearly. Only great white eyes and a powerful sense of determination.” She lifted a brow. “How strongly do you feel for your Lady Gwyn?”

  He didn’t think about the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Gwyn’s name, or anything else pertinent, either. “Strongly.” Her image rose in his head and his heart softened, while his resolve grew hard as steel. “Very strongly. I mean to marry her.”

  “Then you will have to fight with equal determination.”

  “I will,” he vowed. “But how? I don’t even know what I’m fighting.”

  “The answer is easy. You must kiss the girl.”

  “Well, I have tried.”

  “So I saw. But something tries to stop you, so you must be clever. Outwit whoever is working against you.” She paused. “Christmas is nearly here. It is a holiday with its own magic. Use it. Kiss her at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, when all the power of men’s love and peace and good will be surging strongest. Harness it, and kiss her.”

  He nodded, his mind already churning. “Thank you so much, Miss Morgan.”

  “Thank me by winning your lady,” she said with a smile.

  A bird’s cry sounded aloft, and he looked up, hoping that damned Cornish chough had not followed him. When he glanced down again, Sacha Morgan was gone. He was alone on the trail, save for the twitch of a black cat’s tail as the animal slunk off into the brush.

  Chapter 6

  Two days! Two days since their garden encounter, two days that Thistle had done her best, monitoring the activities of Lord Locryn and Lady Gwyn—and they hadn’t come near each other!

  Thistle
was growing frustrated. And worried. Why the delay? Couldn’t they feel the light and warmth that blossomed when they came together? How could they not act on it? She needed them to act on it.

  Derowan wanted to know why it was so important to her. Thistle could scarcely answer—it just was. Locryn needed to be let loose from her mistake. She needed to drop the burden of being responsible for his lonely existence. Once he was free, then she would be as well.

  Free to do what? The thought wandered into her brain as she hid in the greenery in Castle Keyvnor’s great hall. An image of Morcom followed it. Morcom. He was different lately. More forceful? He’d been so kind to her and she hadn’t truly appreciated it. Now she thought back to all of the times he’d come to coax her out of her melancholy, the tiny seashells and small fiddleheads of ferns he brought to marvel over with her, the sunrises and sunsets he’d cajoled her into enjoying.

  Looking back at it all now, she felt ashamed of herself. But she also felt . . . warm inside.

  She looked down at the humans scurrying about. So much effort to celebrate the joining of two pairs of young lovers. But maybe the effort mattered as much? Perhaps love was more than just the spark and the kiss?

  She lost the train of that thought as Gwyn descended the stairs with several of her sisters. Wedding guests had begun to trickle in and the girl did her duty, greeting new arrivals, mixing and mingling. Thistle kept hidden and watched for Locryn’s appearance.

  He’d been difficult to keep track of over the last few days, as he’d spent much of his time closeted with his aunt in her stillroom. Thistle knew better than to cross that lady. She was a friend to the Pixies and a rare human with true magic. She did manage to catch a footman leaving the room at Lancarrow and carrying a message to Gwyn at Keyvnor, but the girl had burned the parchment after reading it, much to Thistle’s frustration.

  She’d taken to following the girl, then, and had an easier job of it. And she’d found much to approve of, especially when she’d seen her sighing over a box of dried sea holly thistles—the same blooms Locryn had given her, eight long years ago.

  Oh, surely he would make an appearance here today. The wedding was the reason for his visit to Cornwall, was it not?