Wild Irish Witch Read online

  “Yes, this is lovely, mum. A great spot,” Fiona said, catching the eyes of two women standing over jars of honey, their heads leaned close in order to whisper to each other. When they realized that Fiona was staring them down, they snapped their attention back to rearranging their jars. Fiona rolled her eyes.

  “Will people ever just accept us?”

  “Who? What happened?” Bridget asked, pushing her braid behind her shoulder as she glanced around.

  “Nothing. Two women whispering about us, ‘tis all,” Fiona said, putting her basket on the table.

  “That’s their problem, not ours,” Bridget pointed out as she pulled out tapestry after tapestry, separated with sheets of tissue paper, and began to lay them across the table in a colorful display.

  “They’re probably jealous. Just look at your work, would you? Mum, you’ve outdone yourself,” Fiona gushed as she ran her hands over a particularly brilliant blue tapestry.

  The same blue as the light from the cove.

  Fiona had told no one about what she’d seen. Not that she had anyone to tell secrets to, anyway, really; her mother was pretty much her only confidant.

  “You’re woolgathering today, aren’t you?” Bridget asked, and Fiona shook her head, realizing she had missed what her mother had said.

  “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “I said, thank you― I designed it after the cove.”

  “I can tell, it’s stunning,” Fiona said, running her hands over the tapestry once more before turning to her basket and pulling the towel from the top. Nestled inside was her first run of creams and elixirs. She’d decided to keep her offerings simple and had stuck with four items today: A face cream, a hand cream, a cream to soothe sore joints, and a tonic for chest colds. If they sold well, she planned to expand into other areas. She’d learned from watching her mother, though, and knew it was best to start small and carefully build a reputation for herself.

  Pulling the jars from the basket, she hummed softly to herself as she lined them up, biting her lip as she considered angles and the best presentation. Her pretty hand-drawn labels made her smile; she’d spent hours late at night perfecting the look until it was precisely what she was going for.

  Fiona’s Magick Face Cream.

  At first, Fiona had been resistant to the idea of adding the word ‘magick’ to her labels. But Bridget had insisted upon it, pointing out that perhaps their reputation could work in their favor. Plus, who wouldn’t want a face cream charmed by magick? Bridget’s persistence had paid off, and the word had gone on the labels.

  Fiona felt her stomach turn as she saw a few people draw near to take a look. What if putting ‘magick’ on the label had been the wrong idea? Fiona worried she would be ostracized. Unable to change the path she had set in motion now, she smiled brightly at the two women who approached the table.

  “Sinead, Mrs. Brogan, how are you both?” Fiona smiled, feeling her shoulders tense up as the most popular girl in her graduating class and her mother stopped in front of the table. Of course it had to be these two who would come to the table first. She could feel herself all but slumping in defeat.

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Mrs. Brogan said automatically, her lips pressed in a tight line of disapproval as she picked up one of the face cream jars and read the label.

  “Magick cream?” Sinead giggled and rolled her eyes at her mom. “Great, like we need a witch selling magick potions in town. It’ll probably cause everyone to break out in a horrible rash.”

  Fiona felt her blood begin to boil at this stupid girl, so callously dismissing all her hours of hard work, setting the stage for her downfall. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re selling more of your magick cream,” a voice cut in, and Fiona looked up in shock.

  John stood before her, a smile on his handsome face.

  “Oh, you need face cream, do you then, John?” Sinead laughed and preened, smiling flirtatiously up at John. “What do you want with a witch’s brew anyway? It’ll probably give you warts or something.”

  John shook his head as he looked down at Sinead. “It’s not for me. It’s for my aunt’s shop in Dublin,” he said, a bit louder than necessary. “She can’t keep it in stock. All the finest ladies are buying it up; she’s got a waiting list a mile long. I promised I’d see if Fiona had made any more.”

  Fiona could have hugged the man. In one moment, he’d saved her reputation with the gossips in the village and had given her budding remedy line a chance.

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Brogan’s eyes sharpened in a predatory manner, and she reached into her small purse. “I’ll take one of each. Will you be making more? Maybe I should buy two.” She bit her lip as she considered the jars and Fiona almost choked on a laugh when she saw anger cloud Sinead’s face.

  “John, send this along to your mum, will you?” Fiona asked, smiling up at him and mouthing ‘thank you’ as she handed him a jar of her face cream. A tingle shot up her arm as his hand brushed hers. “And I’ve already got a batch made up for your aunt, ready to go and waiting back at the cottage.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be thanking you then,” John said, winking at her and slipping the jar into his pocket. Turning, he smiled at the Brogan’s. “Ladies, have a nice day.”

  “Fiona, you didn’t answer my question― will you be making more? I’m not sure I should wait. Maybe I should buy two of each.”

  “Yes, that’s probably best. I take extensive care when creating these creams. Only the freshest, hand-picked ingredients, all culled and made with love. It can take me quite some time to prepare a fresh batch, especially if I have trouble finding any of the ingredients.” Fiona said, pulling out brown paper to wrap the jars in.

  She could barely keep the smile off her face as more women lined up behind Mrs. Brogan, murmuring to each other as the word passed that this was the cream all the ladies in Dublin were using.

  Fiona could’ve kissed John.

  And maybe she just would.

  Chapter Nine

  Fiona felt like she was walking on a cloud. She could hardly believe her day had turned out so well. She’d sold her entire stock out in less than an hour and had taken a list of preorders for her next batch. She clutched the paper with the names of her customers on it to her chest, excitement coursing through her. She could actually make a living doing this and help ease the burden from her mother’s shoulders.

  She curled up in her bed with the ancient book, running her hands lovingly over the cover with a soft cloth. So many generations of wise women had contributed to this path she was on. Fiona hoped she could live up to it.

  She leaned back on the bed and crossed her arms over her head as she thought about the past. Was it enough, using her gift to sell face creams and cough syrup? Fiona wondered if she was really fulfilling her potential or if there was more she could be doing. She thought about her mother’s gift. It lay in the realm of art, not healing, and Bridget focused on it wholeheartedly. She wasn’t saving the world with her tapestries, but she was certainly bringing joy. Fiona wondered if that was enough. Was it possible for her to be happy just selling a few basic creams and charms?

  There was a part of her that knew it wouldn’t be― that knew she wouldn’t be living up to the legacy of the generations of fierce women who had come before her. There would come a time when she would have to face who she was as a healer, and embrace it in a way that she wasn’t quite comfortable with at the moment. For now, though, she’d revel in her success for the day.

  “Fiona?” Bridget knocked lightly on her door.

  “Come in,” Fiona called, pushing herself upright to sit on her bed. Her room was small, just a single bed tucked under the eaves, a nightstand, and a wooden chair in the corner. But her mother had decorated it with vibrant tapestries on the wall and an earth-toned quilt on the bed. It was homey, and Fiona had never wanted for more.

  Bridget bypassed the small chair and sat on the bed next to Fiona.

  �
�Are you reading the book?” Bridget asked, nodding to where the book lay on the nightstand.

  “I was just looking at it for a moment. I feel like there’s more I could be doing… I mean, not that I’m not happy with what I sold today,” Fiona hastened to add, not wanting her mother to think that selling her wares was beneath her.

  Bridget smiled, lines creasing in her face, the soft light picking up the sherry tone in her eyes. She reached out and ran a hand down Fiona’s arm.

  “You should be proud of what you sold today. You had smashing success on your first day,” Bridget said, raising a finger to shush Fiona when she opened her mouth, “But, I also know you’re destined for greater things. Still, you have to start somewhere, as it doesn’t all come overnight. This is a journey to greatness you are on. Each step leads towards the next. Your first step was probably the hardest― and that was to publicly acknowledge your magick on your labels today. I’m really proud of you.”

  Fiona swallowed past a lump in her throat as her feelings all seemed to rush up inside of her at once.

  “I’m just worried that I’m not doing enough. I…” Fiona gestured to the book. “I want to make these women proud. Our legacy proud. And you proud.”

  Bridget reached over and smoothed Fiona’s hair away from her face before leaning over to place a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “You’ve already made me proud. Remember that. The only person you have to prove anything to is yourself. Never me.”

  With those words, Bridget got up and crossed the room. She stopped by the door and turned back to Fiona.

  “That John O’Brien seems like a really nice man,” Bridget said, a smile flitting across her face.

  “He is. Though I don’t think I’ve treated him all that well,” Fiona said, looking down at her hands, clenched in her lap.

  “Yet he still came over and was kind to you today. That’s something to take note of― kindness in a man. It was clear that Sinead girl was trying to flirt with him, but he only had eyes for you. I’d start paying attention to that,” Bridget pointed out.

  “Was that what it was like for you? With Father?” Fiona found herself asking. Her skin flushed with embarrassment at the question; her parent’s relationship wasn’t usually up for discussion.

  Bridget smiled ruefully. “I met your father a long time ago. Things were different then, child. It wasn’t like I had a lot of options. I’ll always love him and he’s a good man. But he’s not the love of my life.”

  Fiona felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head.

  “Really? You have a love of your life?”

  A trace of sadness worked its way across Bridget’s face before she nodded once.

  “I did. At one time. Ages ago. I didn’t have a lot of say in my path, you understand? Not like you do. I’ll never pressure you into marriage, my child. Not like I was,” Bridget shook her head once, then slipped from the room when she heard her husband come in the back room.

  Fiona listened to them talk for a moment, Bridget’s voice a quiet murmur while her father’s laughter rang out loudly. It wasn’t that they had a bad relationship― but now that Bridget had pointed it out, Fiona could see it for what it was: A quiet sort of love, born from the test of time and tolerance, a dependable marriage, but certainly not a passionate love affair.

  And was that what she wanted, then? A passionate love affair? Her mind flashed to John, smiling down at her as she sat at the table, filling her with warmth at his nearness.

  There were too many questions there that Fiona couldn’t answer.

  Chapter Ten

  “Fiona, honey, wake up.” Bridget nudged Fiona from a fitful sleep, the night still dark beyond Fiona’s window.

  “Mum, what’s wrong?” Fiona blinked her eyes and focused blurrily on her mother’s anxious face.

  “You’re needed. In the village,” Bridget whispered, casting a look over her shoulder. Fiona wondered what she was worried about. Her father’s snoring echoed through the small cottage.

  Fiona pushed herself from her bed, sliding out from under the quilt and padding silently to her chest of drawers to pull out pants, a soft woolen sweater and thick cottage socks. Even though spring was in full bloom in Ireland, the mornings were still crisp. She tiptoed into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, quickly plaiting her hair into a long braid as her mind raced with questions. What had happened that she was needed so urgently? Was it possible she would need to perform a healing? Nervousness ground her stomach into knots.

  Slipping from her room, Fiona made her way across the dimly lit cottage to where Bridget stood waiting, holding a scone she had wrapped in a small towel.

  “Mrs. Brogan’s waiting in the courtyard,” Bridget whispered, throwing a shawl over her housedress and stepping through the door.

  Fiona found herself unable to move forward. If Mrs. Brogan was behind that door, that meant something was most likely wrong with Sinead. And besides being the most popular girl in town, Sinead was also the biggest gossip. It was one thing to quietly heal a lamb for John, but another thing entirely to put herself on display for the village gossip. Fiona felt her resistance grow.

  The moment stretched out while Fiona deliberated, clutching the scone tightly in her hands.

  Bridget poked her head back in the door.

  “Fiona, what are you doing? We must go,” Bridget hissed, her eyes a little wild.

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” Fiona hissed right back.

  Bridget cast a look over her shoulder into the courtyard before marching into the house and standing nose to nose with Fiona. Fiona almost took a surprised step back, as her mother was not the confrontational sort.

  “Sure and I didn’t raise my daughter to be a selfish one now, did I? You can’t be telling me you’re worried what others will think of you when a mother is standing in the courtyard praying that her own child won’t be dying on her? ’Tis a cold day in hell that the Morrigans don’t help where help is needed,” Bridget hissed, clamping her hand around Fiona’s arm. “Now you tell me if you could live with yourself if Sinead dies tonight because you’re too scared to show yourself to the world.”

  Fiona closed her eyes as Bridget’s words washed over her. Could she live with herself if Sinead died this morning? Shaking her head at herself, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

  “You’re right. I’ll help,” Fiona whispered. Bridget reached up and smoothed her hand over her daughter’s cheek.

  “Trust yourself. The rest will fall into place.”

  Fiona kept those words close to her heart when she stepped into the courtyard to see Mrs. Brogan’s pale face, her hair in disarray, blood streaking down the white skirt of her nightgown.

  “Please, if you can do anything, anything at all,” Mrs. Brogan begged. “They’ve already called for Father Patrick to issue last rites.”

  Doubt fled her mind as she took in the woman’s distraught expression. Or maybe it was the shock of red blood smattered across the pristine white cotton nightgown. Either way, determination replaced the cold ball of anxiety that had settled into Fiona’s gut.

  “Take me to her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was worse than she’d expected.

  Fiona had arrived at the Brogans’ house out of breath, having raced through the pre-dawn streets of the village until they’d reached the prosperous looking brick house in the center of town. All the lights in the house were blazing, and had Fiona not known otherwise, she’d have thought it to be in welcome.

  But bright lights in the early hours of morning rarely signal welcome. Death was at the doorstep here, and Fiona feared she was too late.

  A thought flashed through her mind, so quickly that Fiona almost didn’t have time to register it before she was being muscled inside and moved rapidly up the narrow wooden stairs.

  How had Mrs. Brogan known to come to their house and ask for her?

  A question for another time, Fiona thought as Mrs. Brogan all
but pushed her into a small, brightly lit bedroom in the back of the house.

  “Father Patrick, please wait,” Mrs. Brogan panted.

  Father Patrick turned, a Bible clutched in one hand, startled by Mrs. Brogan’s words. A man, presumably Mr. Brogan as he was still in his nightclothes, and the local doctor stood next to the bed, anguish lanced across their faces. Fiona dimly registered sobbing coming from another room before she shoved herself past the priest.

  “Wait one minute, young woman,” Father Patrick said gruffly, clearly annoyed by Fiona’s presumptuousness.

  “I most certainly will not.” Fiona turned and glared at him. “Prayers won’t save her now.”

  Father Patrick’s eyes widened, his lips thinning as he looked down his bulbous red nose at Fiona.

  “What are you proposing to do here?” Father Patrick all but shouted.

  “I’m going to try and help her. Something you’re unable to do,” Fiona hissed, before directing her attention to the doctor. “Tell me what’s happened to her.”

  The doctor, in his early forties and one whom Fiona had found to be fairly amiable, held Sinead’s wrist in his hand as he slid his gaze over to Fiona.

  “I believe it to be an ectopic pregnancy. She’s hemorrhaging. And won’t last the trip to the hospital in the next town.”

  Mrs. Brogan let up a wail from behind them and Fiona winced at the noise. Shifting her gaze to Mr. Brogan, she straightened her shoulders.

  “Everyone out. Take Mrs. Brogan out, take Father Patrick out, everyone out but my mum,” Fiona ordered briskly.

  “I will most certainly not leave,” Father Patrick blustered, clutching the Bible to his chest.

  Mr. Brogan measured Fiona with a look.

  “Can you save her?”

  “I can’t promise anything. But I know I can’t do anything with everyone in the room bothering me.”