Patricia Rice by This Magic Moment

Author:This Magic Moment [Moment, This Magic]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

The early afternoon sun was remarkably warm for a spring day. Harry shrugged off his coat and threw it over a tree branch while he puzzled out Christina’s intentions for this picnic.

She’d had the newly hired stable grooms carry a daybed from a back parlor up to the mosaic floor of the Roman ruins on the hill overlooking the house, in the shade of a copse of rowans. Then she had spread out an old comforter and some pillows next to the daybed and opened Cook’s picnic basket containing a meal of cold chicken and ham, salads made from spring greens, apples, and freshly baked breads and cakes.

To her credit, she hadn’t ordered the entire staff up here with crystal and silver to wait on them. He’d been to picnics where the guests had dined as if they were still in the dining parlor. Instead, she’d asked for simple foods they could mostly eat with their fingers. By themselves.

Studying the scene she’d set up, Harry hoped Christina’s mind was traveling the same path as his, but he didn’t count the likelihood as high. Christina’s mind was a thing of wonder he might appreciate but would never understand. Or even want to try, given her propensity for talking to beings long dead.

Which made him wonder how many of those imaginary beings were cluttering up the clearing. The ghostly encounter with the chalice had left him with more questions than answers. He didn’t see how even someone as imaginative as Christina could have dreamed up a hidden room and chalice. He still refused to believe in ghosts, though. He preferred to think Christina possessed amazing instincts.

“Is this entertainment just for us, or did you think Lady Anne and Father Oswald needed airing?” he asked, not entirely jesting as he studied the upholstered seat set on the mosaic floor. He’d always loved that mosaic. He’d expected it to be covered in years worth of leaves and dirt, but someone had kept it clean.

“I don’t think they leave the house much,” she said absently, removing bowls and plates from the baskets the staff had carried up. “I wouldn’t trust General Rothbottom to stay where he belongs, but I’m hoping the rowans will discourage him.”

“The rowans?” He had no inclination to inquire about General Rothbottom. The only General Rothbottom he knew about dated back to the fifteenth century. There was a portrait in the gallery of a bearded old rogue wearing a padded surcoat over a plated cuirass and a dashing feathered hat. If he remembered correctly, the general fought the French and brought the Winchesters a tidy sum of gold and the title of earl. So actually, he was Raleigh Rothbottom, Lord Winchester, when he died. The general’s son had taken the Winchester title for his name, for which Harry was eternally grateful.

“Rowans are sacred trees,” Christina said to answer his earlier question. “There’s a natural spring inside that circle where my ancestors would have worshipped the nature gods and goddesses. My grandmother used to tell us that faeries, and spirits waiting to be born, live inside rowan rings.

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