To break his family's curse, Faolan mac Domnall seeks to marry the beautiful Saoirse, princess of Mide. Spirited and outspoken, the wild Saoirse wants nothing more than to escape the life that's been decided for her. Determined to outmaneuver a twis...
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There was something comforting about curses. The Dreamweaver's daughter sat at the ancient loom, pulling spiderwebs with thin fingers. As the light caught in the shining threads, she wondered if she might smile.
Not even the simple pleasure in her work could crack the stiff nature of her face.
The curse continued to spread. It had started as the faintest bloom over her heart. Now a scaly bark stretched from her hip to her left eyebrow. The rough wood even was crawling across the back of her left hand, making it harder and harder to work the loom. The tiny joy of pulling silvery spiderwebs was not strong enough to break the petrified corner of her mouth.
Somehow her frown always made itself plain.
Their constancy, she thought firmly. That is a comfort with curses. She looked away from the awful mottling stretching toward her fingers and focused on the strands and the light caught in them.
Around the tiny cottage, spools of gossamer thread and bolts of ethereal fabrics decorated the walls. They piled from the floor to the ceiling, a palette of shining colors. Spinning wheels and looms clicked and hummed with activity. Even the spider silk in her hands seemed to weave itself. As the clouds meandered through the sky outside, they let in rays of unfiltered sunbeams that set the room aglow.
Despite the cheery interior, the buzz of activity, a certain sorrow filled every corner of the cottage. It was in the small unmade bed, the bare pantry, the dusty floor. But mostly, it was that when the weaving stopped, a harsh silence of solitude thundered throughout the tiny room.
The curse continued to spread. As it grew, her company shrank. Gone were the days of laughter. Gone were nights of stories and dancing. Good, the weaver thought. I want to be alone. It is better this way. But even she did not believe the lie in her human heart.
Bitter tears burned at her beetle-black eyes. She would not let them fall. How many tears had she already shed for this fate? Don't you dare cry. Her vision blurred anyways. The cottage seemed to swim for a moment before it faded into the terror of dark memories.
"You've stolen a human child, Dreamweaver! Who did you leave in its place? Such an act, without permission from your queen? Ah! But I am tenderhearted in the ways of love. You will not watch it grow old and die, as humans are so fond of doing. I will preserve it for you, dear one."
She rubbed the spot on her chest where the fae queen had placed the barest whisper of her finger. The memory of the icy prick above her heart seared at the thought the Dreamweaver, begging and pleading to remove the curse. The lovely laughter of the fae queen seemed to ring in the cottage.
Stop thinking about it, stupid fool. She shook the cobwebs of those painful images from her head and brushed away the unshed tears with her uncursed hand.
This is what is. It is what will be. And there is comfort in knowing. There is comfort in constancy.
The sudden rap on her door was not an expected part of constancy. She tangled the thread in her surprise. No one visited her.
