The wasting disease was a horrible way for anyone to die. Just as the name implied, it ravages a person’s body, eating it from the inside out.

Marielle de Reyne MacAdams, a once beautiful and vibrant woman, lay in her bed, wasting away from the hideous disease. Her once gleaming black hair was now a dull blend of black and gray. The green eyes that used to twinkle with merriment and sweetness were now cloudy and yellow. Skin that had once been the color of cream, and just as smooth, was now splotchy and covered with large, red sores. A once melodic voice was now nothing more than a harsh, scratchy whisper. No one could say she was even a shadow of her former self. A shadow had more depth.

Her husband had said his goodbyes to her days ago. He made no final declarations of love, did not leave her with promises they both knew he would not keep. Delmer MacAdams shed no tears. He didn’t even pat his once beautiful wife’s hand. His only parting words were, “At least ye tried.” They both knew what that meant, but ’twas a secret Marielle would take to her grave.

Their son, Helmert MacAdams was only slightly more emotional about losing his mother. He was too much like his father, even at the ripe old age of twelve, to feel any kind of emotion, let alone openly show it. Love was an elusive emotion, something neither father nor son could quite understand, no matter how hard Marielle had tried to show it or explain it. Whether it be from the blood that ran through his veins or something far darker and more sinister, Marielle could not say. He’d been a sweet boy once, long ago. But too much time spent with his father and not enough with his mother had changed him. The closest thing to an I love you, she heard was when he said he would miss her.

Their daughter, Josephine, however, was far removed from her father and brother. Where Helmert was dark and brooding, moody, and quick to anger, Josephine was light and bright, a sweet child who laughed and smiled easily and, in general, possessed the most tender of hearts. She was but nine years of age and every bit the image of who her mother had once been.

They sat alone now, just the two of them, as they had done every day since Josephine’s birth. Josephine tried not to cry, but ’twas an impossible task. Tears flowed down her cheeks and ran from her chin. She lay in the bed with Marielle, holding her hand and silently wishing God wouldn’t take her mother away.

When it was just the two of them, Josephine — or Joie as her mother liked to call her — did not have to hide her feelings, did not have to pretend she was something she wasn’t. She and Marielle could speak in French and not worry about being smacked about by Delmer for not using the Gaelic.

“Joie, do you remember your duty?” Marielle asked in a voice that was weak and low.

“Yes, Mamma, I do.” She didn’t want to talk about her duty or the secret or anything else at the moment. What she sincerely wanted to do was scream and beg God not to take away her sweet mamma.

“Tell me, Joie,” Marielle said. “I want to make certain you remember it exactly.”

Josephine wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her dress. How could she forget? She’d only been told the story her whole life and knew it all by heart. Still, she did not want to disappoint her mamma. Between soft tears she repeated everything as she knew it to be. “I am to keep the sword hidden. I cannot tell Papa or Helmert about it, lest they steal it away.”

“And what else, Joie?” Marielle asked, her voice growing weaker as one moment blended into another.

“I can only give the sword to my husband if he proves to be worthy.”

Marielle smiled weakly and took Josephine’s hand in hers. “And how will you know if he is worthy?”

Though Josephine knew the words, she was not quite certain that she understood what they meant. Still, she repeated them, to make her mamma happy. “He must be honorable, kind, and just. Above all else, I must be able to trust him with my heart, my life, and my love.”

Marielle closed her eyes and nodded. Josephine could tell her mother was proud of her. “That is right, my daughter. Trust is the most important thing between husband and wife. If you cannot trust your husband with your heart, your life, or your love, nothing else matters.”

Josephine closed her eyes and snuggled against her mother, placing her hand on Marielle’s chest. She could only hope that someday, when she was much older, she would understand more clearly what her mother meant.