PROLOGUE
The walls of the solar seemed to flicker with the leaping light of flame. Amabel, daughter of Joanna, lady of Lochlann, crept closer to the warmth of the hearth as she listened to her father.
“Now, Amabel,” he said gently. “Remember what I am telling you today.”
“Yes, Father,” Amabel replied. She was utterly focused on his gaunt, lean face, the cheeks carved with firelight and shadow.
“You,” he said gently, “are the daughter of two very powerful houses: Buccleigh and Lochlann. Whoever you wed one day will manage both these estates. You must choose wisely, my dear.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You will have many people questing for your hand. Only choose who seems worthy. Your inheritance is a treasure, but, above all, your heart is even more so. I would not see you enticed by one who wants only your fortune. Be wise.”
“Yes, Father.”
She was staring at him and he must have noticed how grave her expression was, for his face softened.
“Come now, baby. It's not so bad. Let's plan the ball for your birthday. I plan to get musicians from the village to provide dance music.” He reached forward and ruffled her hair.
She smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Yes, Father.”
“Come, dear,” he said as he reached to give her a big hug, wincing slightly as he stood from his place by the fire. “I didn't mean to make you fret. It's your birthday. No sorry faces.”
“Yes, Father.” She smiled and he chuckled.
“That's better. Now, I wonder if your mama has finished organizing the servants yet?”
Amabel chuckled. “I wonder.”
It was rare for her mother, Lady Joanna, to plan gatherings – she was naturally reclusive and they lived quietly at Lochlann castle. However, it was Amabel's sixteenth birthday and time for her to be introduced to the society at large.
They want me to meet someone I can one day wed. I can feel it.
The plans for her introduction to society would not stop with the ball, she knew. Her father had plans to take her to court next time he visited the capital, and fabrics for her new gown were already being tracked down through the local cloth merchants. Amabel knew she should be excited, but instead she was nervous.
“I'm going to go and find Webster,” her father sighed. Webster was their steward – her father's perpetual task seemed to be checking the accounts.
“Yes, Father,” Amabel said. “I'll see if Mama's finished in the hall yet.”
He smiled fondly at her, stroking her long black hair. “You're a good girl, Amabel.”
Amabel smiled back, swallowing hard. “Thank you, Father.”
She watched her father walk slowly up the hallway with a worried frown. His limp had worsened this winter – it always did with the cold. An old battle injury, it had never fully healed.
I know it will worsen one day.
Amabel shook her head to clear it. As her father walked down the hallway, it seemed to her she saw, superimposed on him, an older, stooped man. She could see the man he would become.
I hate this!
She walked down the stairs impatiently to seek out her mother. The sight! Why had she, of all people, had to inherit this perilous talent? It was her mother's gift. Lady Joanna was a seer, like her aunt Alina before her. Amabel did not want it.
She paused, her own face in the reflective surface of a polished shield catching her eye. A long face with hollow cheeks and a high brow over wide set, striking blue eyes, she could not deny that she had inherited beauty from her parents. That, along with the thick black hair and her compact frame, made her a striking woman. She sighed.
If I could only stop seeing things before they happened, I would be so happy.
She felt moody and restless and she did not know why. As she turned to carry on downstairs, she caught sight of her maid, Glenna, in the mirrored surface. In that moment, Glenna's face changed, twisting into a frightened scream. Amabel saw her falling, falling...
No!
She closed her eyes and turned to face the woman.
“Milady?” Glenna looked at her, big soulful eyes worried. “Are you well?”
Amabel sighed. “Yes, Glenna. I'm well. Have you seen Mama?”
“She's in the hall, milady,” Glenna said. “Supervising the decorations for tonight. Are you sure there's not aught troubling ye?”
Amabel shook her head. “No, Glenna. It's well.”
She was sixteen and she didn't know how to say it. How would she tell Glenna, twenty years old and practical, that she'd foreseen her falling?
She shook her head, lips pursed, and hurried to find her mother. She found her in the hall, standing on the dais.
“Up a bit,” she was commenting to the maids as they hung the place with wreaths of bright green leaves. “There!”
“Mother?” Amabel said gravely.
Lady Joanna turned. Taller than Amabel, with long red hair and big grave eyes, Joanna was a calm, regal presence. She regarded Amabel as if bringing herself to focus on the present moment.
“Mm?” She asked. “What is it, child?”
At that moment Colla, the housekeeper, ran in. “My lady! Oh! My lady! Please! Come!”
Amabel and Joanna shared a glance.
No, Amabel thought, frightened. Please, don't let it be.
“What is it, Colla?” Joanna asked gently.
“Oh! Mistress! It be Glenna! She fell! Oh! Please, my lady! She's sorely wounded...”
Amabel bit her lip. She wanted to cry. She looked up into her mother's eyes and they shared a long, slow look.
She knows. She knows I knew. Amabel shivered.
“Let us see what happened,” Joanna said gravely. She walked away, leaving Amabel, staring behind her.
She doesn't care, Amabel thought sadly, feeling hot tears spring to her eyes. She dashed them away angrily, not wanting the servants to see her cry. She ran from the room and into the hallway.
Mother thinks because she has this gift, it's only a good thing. She thinks I can learn to manage it as she has. She doesn't understand! I wish it would go away.
She went down the hallway to join her mother at the foot of the stairs, to see what could be done. As she walked to the small group of servants, standing around huddled and distressed, she had another thought.
I wonder if I can foretell my own future?
She tried to make herself see something, but all she could see was the outline of a hunched shape on horseback, a man much too broad-shouldered and bulky for the small hunting horse he rode. He had something different about him, a hard, bright strength in his presence, like a groomed horse, conscious and confident of its power.
She shook her head to clear it.
It's just my imagination, she told herself impatiently.
She went to join the others at the foot of the stairs, to see what she could do.