Prologue

Eight-year-old Brianna O’Roarke awoke with a start. Though the heat of the sun had started to warm her face, she was still so cold her bones hurt. She whimpered and tried to open her eyes, but they stung so much that she quickly gave up. She was confused for only a moment before she remembered: Papa’s boat. Something had happened, something bad. 

Slowly, memories trickled in, scary flashes that caused her to flinch as she realized why she was soaked to the skin. She was clinging to the hull of Papa’s boat, the biggest piece that was left. Brianna’s mouth twisted at the realization, and she swallowed hard, then winced at the raw feeling.

“Mama? Papa?” she croaked. Her throat was so dry and scratchy that she hardly recognized her own voice. She felt around herself blindly, and encountering only the cold metal of the hull, started to panic. She concentrated on opening her eyes, swollen from the spray of salt water and the sun. Then:

“We’re here, Breea.” 

“We won’t leave you, sweetheart.”

At the reassuring tone in her parents’ voices, and the confirmation that they were still with her, Brianna finally calmed, letting her lids fall. 

Tuning out the sound of the waves and trying to ignore the clammy feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her, Brianna imagined they were back at home, that her mama had just wrapped her in her favorite pink robe after a hot bath. She sighed, picturing the familiar hallway as she skipped to her bedroom, and the soft fluffy rug squishing between her toes as she climbed onto her bed.

As quickly as she’d conjured it, the image of her bedroom at home faded as Brianna tried to piece together what had happened on the boat, and how she’d gotten to where she was now. She couldn’t remember exactly what they were celebrating this time, just that they’d set off on Papa’s new boat for a sailing trip. They always seemed to be celebrating something; her parents made even the smallest things feel special, saying that it was all possible because of the ‘wee bit of magic’. Brianna had never asked what they meant by that, but it was true that her life felt special—whether that was because of her parents’ efforts or because they’d actually been sprinkled with some kind of fairy dust didn’t really matter to Brianna. It just was. But that was before this latest trip. Now, trying to ignore the icy feeling in her bones, she wasn’t so sure she believed in magic anymore, any bit of it.

Usually, Brianna loved their family sailing trips—she loved any trip they took, really—but this time, something had gone horribly wrong. She’d just settled into her bed, a cozy little nook, with fluffy pillows and a few of her favorite stuffed animals when her mama had cried out sharply.  Before Brianna could understand what was happening, she remembered that she’d heard her papa on the radio, his voice stern, repeating “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Excalibur…” She might be just a kid, but Brianna knew that “mayday” meant “help.” She’d been startled, too, at his tone and had wheeled around to face him. Papa had caught her gaze and she remembered how his eyes had warmed and stayed on hers as he continued speaking, repeating a bunch of numbers while he pulled her in close, checking the clips on her lifejacket. 

Her mama had appeared then, right behind her, muttering “I’ve got it,” and handing Papa something that looked like a flashlight. Papa had attached it to the hook on Brianna’s vest, twisting it until it glowed. Brianna remembered it being so bright she’d had to close her eyes. Then lightning had flashed right above them, followed by the loudest clap of thunder Brianna had ever heard.

“Arthur!” her mama had screamed, and the next thing Brianna knew, her papa was pushing Brianna toward her mama, shouting, “Get her out, Mere! The life raft! Go, go, go!” 

Mama had picked Brianna up and started to run, but she’d taken only a few steps when a huge wave hit the boat and they were thrown. Brianna remembered feeling a rush of heat and icy cold water all at the same time, her arms and legs tangling as she tumbled over and over again in the waves until she didn’t know which way was up. Just when she felt like her lungs were about to burst, Brianna had felt Papa’s strong arms pulling her up, his gentle voice reminding her that she could float on her back. At some point, he and Mama had found the piece of the hull and helped her climb up onto it.

That had been a day and night ago, maybe more. Brianna wasn’t exactly sure how long they’d been in the water, but last night before falling asleep, she’d thought she’d heard her parents whispering. 

“They have to be close,” Mama had said. 

Papa agreed. “I’m sure they are, but they’re not going find her tonight,” he’d whispered. 

Brianna had wanted to know who they were talking about, but she’d been too sleepy to say anything. “It’s taking on water again,” Mama had whispered, just as Brianna had noticed water pooling under her on the hull. 

“I know, love.” 

Brianna knew deep down that something was wrong, that they weren’t supposed to still be out on the water, but she also knew her parents would keep her safe. They always kept her safe, no matter what. The last thing Brianna remembered as she’d fallen asleep the night before was the sound of their voices as they sang her a lullaby.

And now it was morning. Mama and Papa were speaking quietly to one another again, and Brianna let herself be soothed by their voices as she returned to imagining her nighttime routine at home. After climbing onto her bed, she would line up the books she wanted her parents to read to her. She’d just picked one up in her mind, when she heard a noise, a whirring, roaring sound that grew louder and louder until she heard her Mama’s voice: “They found her, Arthur. They found her!” 

“Breea, wave your arms, baby.” That was Papa. Wanting to please him, Brianna waved her arms and kept waving them, smiling when she heard his voice say, “Good girl.” 

Mama and Papa kept encouraging her, their voices loud and clear even through the sounds of the helicopter that was now hovering right above them. Brianna cracked her eyes open just enough to see it but had to squeeze them shut against the wind twisting her hair around and the water spraying her face. She heard another voice calling her name, a man, but not Papa. “Brianna. Brianna O’Roarke.” Then, suddenly, she was being wrapped in a blanket. It felt so good to be warm again, she groaned. 

“I’ve got you,” the same man said loudly over the noise. “Are you hurt?” His hands were gentle but firm as he checked her head and then her body. “You’re going to be alright. You’re safe now,” he said, securing her to his gear with big hooks and clips while holding her tight. Before Brianna could register what was happening, he was lifting her from the small piece of hull, talking to her the whole way through. “You’re going to be okay,” he was saying. “You did it. You’re so brave. Your grandfather’s waiting for you. Let’s get you home.”

 

Chapter 1

Present Day

Always the picture of calm composure, it wasn’t Brianna O’Roarke’s quiet, reserved front that was unusual. As she stood looking at the grand hall of her family’s ancestral home, Dunhill Manor, no one who walked past her would ever suspect she was feeling anything other than vague interest in her surroundings. Brianna had perfected the stance back in grade school, and it had served her well in the years since, much to her grandfather’s dismay. 

Ever worried for her welfare, as well as responsible for it, her grandfather had taken great pains to ensure Brianna’s emotional well-being. Over the years, this included accompanying Brianna to various means of bereavement counseling. Some of the professionals she’d seen had called her mastery of control a product of conditioning, while others referred to it as an achievement. It didn’t really matter which side they fell on, negative or positive, liability or asset, the consensus was always the same: the trauma Brianna endured as a child had taught her to be a few degrees beyond cautious. In the two years since her grandfather had passed, for Brianna, even a ‘trust but verify’ approach had become no longer an option. She verified first, always, and there were very few who made it into the column of those she trusted. 

Today, however, Brianna’s deportment wasn’t a mask carefully employed to evaluate her current circumstances while she considered her options. No, today was different. Today, Brianna was simply stunned beyond words.

She’d just arrived back at Dunhill, hoping to find some papers that her grandfather might have stored in the family archives before his passing. An appraisal perhaps, or an insurance rider, maybe even an overlooked entry in one of the O’Roarke family bibles, really anything of record at this point would do. She needed something that proved ownership of her family’s sword in order to approach this Mr. MacTavish with any real confidence. This trip abroad was a last resort. Unplanned, but necessary. Obviously necessary, or she’d never have boarded the plane. Brianna rarely traveled, especially over water, if she could avoid it. 

Yet here she was, and within seconds of stepping through the front doors of her family’s ancestral home in Scotland, Brianna took her first deep breath in what seemed like years. The shock of familiarity and the sense of being home floored her. Not that she’d ever actually lived at Dunhill, but every visit throughout her life had felt as warm and welcoming as if she had. Any remaining tension left her body as she hugged her aunt and uncle, hello, literally sagging against them. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be embraced by family, to be really and truly hugged by people who loved you. The loss of her grandfather just over two years ago had hit her so hard that after the funeral, she’d thrown herself into work and isolated herself from her family and friends. Now she feared that staying away had been a mistake. She loved her life in the States, but this heartening and welcoming coming-home sensation was hitting her bone-deep. 

It was on the cusp of acknowledging the error of her ways and admitting that maybe she did need what family she had left that she glanced across the foyer to the fireplace. At the sight of the barren mantel above it, a new kind of shock shuddered through her body. In a complete one-eighty, warm and fuzzy went to hell froze over in a blink, and Brianna stepped back abruptly. 

“What happened to the letterboxes?” she asked, hard gaze turning from the now-bare mantel to her aunt and uncle.

She watched as they exchanged a discomfited look, and then her uncle shrugged, flashing a childlike smirk. Whatever could be funny about the loss of the last of their family’s most precious heirlooms, Brianna didn’t know.

“We had a visitor, Brianna. Shortly after your grandfather passed. You had already returned to the States. Our family lore unfolded right before our eyes,” Uncle Christopher said gleefully, his eyes bright and twinkling as his fingers tapped together in merriment. “Why don’t we tell you the story over dinner later?” 

Misreading Brianna’s stunned silence for exhaustion, Uncle Christopher and Aunt Michelle excused themselves, her uncle reaching for her suitcase as her aunt prattled on about her room being ready. 

Feeling numb, Brianna stepped into the great room, where the empty wall that had once been the resting place for her family’s prized Wolf sword loomed. A priceless heirloom dating back to the turn of the fifteenth century. A priceless heirloom that her grandfather had sold for mere pennies without telling her, the actual historian and antiquities cataloguer of the family. Which he darned well knew, since she’d trained at his side since as far back as she could remember! As she returned her gaze to the mantel, horrified could only describe the feeling of seeing it void of the two letterboxes that had miraculously graced that space for centuries. Centuries! 

And now, they were gone. The last of her family treasures were recklessly cast away. 

Grateful for some time alone to process this latest news, Brianna found her way to her room, a beautiful suite originally occupied by Cateline De la Cour back in the fifteenth century, sister and lifelong companion of Isabeau O’Roarke, the first lady of Dunhill. As family history went, Dunhill was built by Fergus O’Roarke, a castle on a hill fit for a queen. His queen. It was a gift for his bride, the love of his life. Their marriage was a love match. All O’Roarke marriages were, despite that not necessarily being the norm centuries ago. Fate might not have blessed all members of their lineage with longevity—case in point, her parents—but when an O’Roarke did marry, whether it lasted years or mere months, it was true and enduring. 

Since the loss of her parents, Brianna’s faith, if you could even call it that, had shifted. Objects, the only things that truly endured and that she could count on, became her primary focus. Counting on people to stick around no matter how much they loved you was futile. So, she surrounded herself with artifacts, the older, the better. They were reliable, always where she’d last left them and in exactly the same state. People, not so much, and in her line of work, avoiding people was easy. Isolating was easy. 

The only consolation Brianna allowed herself (a hypothetical and terribly small consolation) was that if she ever did find someone she trusted enough to let in that close, she knew that she would follow tradition. She would know true and enduring love. The only question was, for how long? Realizing just how exhausted she was after the long flight, Brianna pushed thoughts of love, trust, and history aside and turned to matters at hand.

After unpacking, she drew a bath, eager to luxuriate in the clawfoot tub some O’Roarke or another had installed during the last century. Arranging her hair in a clip, she grabbed one of the plush, monogrammed fingertip towels from the vanity, then placed it on the rim of the tub. She sank into the hot water, leaning back, her neck on the towel, humming to clear her mind. 

It wasn’t often that she found herself at Dunhill anymore, but whenever she did, something about the energy in its walls, and especially in this suite, uplifted her in some way. Unexplainable, but no less the truth. Even the shock of the missing letterboxes had started to dull.

When she’d finished with her bath, Brianna wrapped herself in a fluffy robe and padded back out to the bedroom, where she found a tray of refreshments placed on the table by the window. Angry as she was at her aunt and uncle, she couldn’t help but smile. A selection of her favorite cheeses and crudités filled the small table, along with a pot of lemon tea. Christopher and Michelle supped on the late side, so it was well into the evening when she was summoned to dinner. As she made her way downstairs, her eyes drank in every detail of the estate, all of it, rich in history. Her fingers trailed along the stone wall of the hallway—touching it made her feel more connected. As much as it pained her to be here without her parents or grandfather, this was her ancestral home, and these walls still brought her as much comfort as they always had.  

Upon entering the small informal dining room (first utilized by Fergus and Isabeau’s only son Callum, family lore said), Brianna felt much calmer, grounded even. She loved her aunt and uncle, and their warm and welcoming smiles as she joined them made her feel a bit guilty for her earlier outburst. They always meant well. As dinner was served, she tried to explain how she felt, and why. 

“Brianna, just let us explain,” her uncle said, cutting her off gently. “We didn’t betray our family legacy. In fact, quite the opposite. It was family lore, come to life. The lore.” He exchanged an excited grin with Michelle while Brianna suppressed a sigh. 

Right. The story passed down for generations of the lass who would come to claim the historic letterboxes. Legend had it that not only would she have the key that would open them, but that her initials would match those inscribed on the boxes. Who knew how many people had heard and repeated some version of that tale back to them? The O’Roarkes had entertained a few con artists over the years who claimed to be “the one,” certain the boxes were filled with some kind of treasure or priceless artifact, but none of them had been able to produce a working key. Still, her aunt and uncle were easy prey, ripe to be taken. They’d fallen for it each time, hook, line, and sinker. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Aunt Michelle said, “but this isn’t like the others. This one—this woman—was real. Initials and everything. A true wee bit of magic, right before our eyes.”

“A wee bit of magic,” Brianna sighed, unsure how she felt after hearing the details of their story about the woman with the matching initials and key, the woman who found the letters inside and seemed affected by their contents. It was difficult to be angry with them when they clearly thought they were carrying out their family’s legacy. Maybe Brianna was holding on too tight. Still, a wave of sadness hit her over the loss. How this latest claimant had come up with a key was a mystery, but regardless, the outcome was the same: the boxes were gone. As she stared at the white china plate in front of her, admiring the spray of tiny pink roses dotting its rim, Brianna wondered how they all actually believed that someone would come, that the lore could be true. But they had. Every single one of them. 

Every O’Roarke throughout all of history at one point or another was a believer in this ‘wee bit of magic’. At one time in her life, Brianna believed in it too, how could she not, her childhood had been truly idyllic. But any belief she’d once had in magic had tragically died with her parents years ago. 

“After all that, you still don’t believe?” her uncle said.

Brianna paused, choosing her words carefully. “I understand that someone who matched every description in the age-old tale came here, and I can see how happy you are that you were the one who fulfilled the lore,” she said slowly. “And I believe you, her key fit in the lock.” Or, at least, that the boxes opened. She didn’t voice her emerging suspicion that the locks might just have been old enough that the next key, no matter what it was, would break them. “But magic? How can that be?” 

Brianna had never voiced the reason she remained adamantly skeptical even though it was on the tip of her tongue. It always was. One day she’d like to yell at the top of her lungs, “It’s not real! Magic isn’t real! Show me where it was when my parents died!”

“Breea,” he started. 

“Uncle Christopher, please, for whatever reason, a wee bit of magic clearly skipped my part of the family,” she said.

“Oh, but no!” he gasped. “If anything, Breea, it’s even stronger in your part of the family.”

Brianna gave a harsh laugh. “How so? A storm appeared out of nowhere and destroyed our boat. I’ve checked the weather reports over and over for that day, and nothing. We were stranded in the open sea for days, and my parents who kept my spirits up and never gave up hope the entire time, drowned before they could be rescued. Not very magical, I can assure you.”

“Oh, Breea.” They each reached for the hand closest to them. “I still can’t imagine what you must have gone through. A mere babe. It’s a miracle you survived.”

“So everyone says,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, but still, Christopher and Michelle winced. She could understand why, they had always been a very close family, even with an ocean between them. Her parents’ deaths had been an enormous loss for them, too. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I only wish they’d survived longer, that would have been the true miracle.” 

Brianna glanced up at her aunt and uncle who were exchanging an odd look between them. 

“What? What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, Breea,” her aunt said, squeezing her hand before casting another glance at her uncle across the table.  

Uncle Christopher shook his head. “Don’t, Michelle.” 

“Christopher, it’s well past time. She needs to know the truth. If you don’t tell her, I will.”

Brianna’s heart started to thump in her chest. “Please, whatever it is, just tell me.” 

It was a long moment before her uncle finally nodded and broke away from Michelle’s gaze, turning to her. “Breea…your…” he choked on his words, eyes tearing, then swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Breea… There wasn’t any storm, love. The skies were clear that whole week, just as the weather report predicted.” 

Brianna felt like she’d been slapped “What are you talking about?” she said, not comprehending a word he said. It was as if he were suddenly speaking another language.  “I was there when Papa called for help. We were in real danger.” It had been years since she’d purposely revisited that day in her memory, but thinking on it now, it came back to her, clear as a bell. A shiver ran down her spine, recalling her father’s harsh tone, and her mother’s frantic look.  “I saw the lightning; I heard the thunder. It was a storm, Uncle Christopher.” She’d bet every artifact in her collection on it. 

“No,” Christopher said softly. “It was a fire, Breea. An awful electrical fire, followed by an explosion.” 

Her uncle took her hands in his and leaned in close. The desperation in his eyes almost scared her.

“What? My God, what? Is there more?” 

“You were the only one who made it off the boat. Only you, Breea.”

“No.” She shook her head, her face in a determined glare. “No, no, they were with me. They kept me safe until help arrived.” 

“I have no doubt they did, sweetheart. But I swear on all that is holy and with every shred of O’Roarke integrity passed down through the generations, my dear brother Arthur and his lovely wife Meredith were killed in the explosion that threw you from the vessel.”