You will be responsible for the demise of Decimus.
How could that be so?
Was the seer’s prediction true? And what of her other words?
Decimus will bring you great sorrow.
He had already brought her great sorrow. He had been responsible for her parents’ death. What greater sorrow could she experience than to lose those she loved dearly?
A chill moved through her and she hugged herself.
The sunny day had had her feeling optimistic. New starts. Fresh beginnings, she wished to believe them possible. But would destiny prove otherwise?
She looked to the village and watched as daily activities went on before her eyes. Children laughed. Women chatted. Men chopped wood. Gardens were tended. Life went on. She wanted to desperately be part of it all but she would not, not now and perhaps never.
Decimus would enter her life again. No matter how well Michael protected her, there would come a time that she faced Decimus; he was her fate.
She had hoped Agnes would tell her more, but the old woman offered her only an apology. Usually she could see far beyond, but her vision of Mary’s future was limited and there was no more she could tell her. Her words worried Mary for if Agnes saw no more, then perhaps her own demise came with Decimus’s.
She was too frightened of the answer to ask Agnes.
Mary ached to share this burden with another. Her bruised throat had yet to heal. Her thoughts were to remain unspoken.
She heard a shout and turned. Three lads were racing into the woods, shoving and jabbing as they each attempted to be the first to climb a large tree.
She had believed there would be a time when she would have a family of her own. She would be a good wife and mother, loving her children with a generous heart, tending to their needs, teaching them as her parents taught her.
She choked back tears, refusing to cry.
An arm draped in black gently took her waist and eased her back to rest against a hard chest. She went without protest, surrendering to Michael’s solid embrace.
“You are troubled?”
She shook her head and thought how comforting it was resting it on him, surrendering her momentary weakness to his strength. But he had done much for her already; she would not burden him more.
His arm hugged her waist tightly as he placed his face next to hers and whispered. “You wear no smile, your eyes wrinkle with concern, and you fight back tears. Do not tell me you are not troubled.”
He was much too observant, and where had he come from? He appeared as if from nowhere. She had heard not a sound, not a footfall, not a breath.
“Tell me,” he urged.
He held her with a protective confidence that made her feel safe and secure. No harm would come to her when he was near; she wanted to believe that with her heart and soul, but there was Decimus to consider.
“Mary.”
She placed her hand on his arm and felt hard muscle beneath. He was a man of solid substance, not at all a shadow. She pointed to the lads who had managed to climb up into the tree and now pretended to sword fight with branches.
Then she brought her hand to her heart and shook her head, hoping he would understand her inadequate attempt to offer an explanation of her feelings.
“You wish for children of your own and fear you will have none.”
She nodded slowly and a small bit of her disappointment faded, though she could not understand why. Perhaps it was the comfort of his strong arms and the knowledge that he protected her.
“Keep your wish strong in your heart, Mary, and it will see fruition.”
She wanted to believe him but who would dare love a woman who Decimus hunted tenaciously? This disturbing thought surfaced with a shiver and shake of her head.
“You will love.”
She stepped out of his embrace and turned to face him, motioning anxiously with her hands to her ears, to him then to her head. Did he hear her thoughts? He knew too well her feelings, but how? Was he skilled in magic?
“I understand.”
That was not enough for her. She motioned with her hands again, growing agitated as she demanded more.
Michael remained calm, his voice losing its harsh edge. “You say much without speaking.”
She titled her head, her befuddled glance alerting him to her confusion.
He raised his hand slowly and placed a glove-covered finger to her brow. “Your brow wrinkles when you have a question.” His finger drifted ever so lightly down around her eye. “You squint your eyes when you are confused.” His finger lazily trailed down her cheek to delicately stroke her mouth. “Your smile . . .”
He paused and Mary waited with bated breath and a thumping heart.
“Your smile tells me you are well and your frown defines your concern. And,” he said, reaching to take her hand, “you speak volumes with your hands.”