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fairy
tales. Once my grandfather had bought me a picture book collection
of fairy tales. I was more fascinated with the illustrations than
with the already familiar stories. The princesses and princes were
beautiful, young grown-up women and men, nothing like those
juvenile characters from books and movies created for children’s
audiences. Those young women wore brightly colored baroque gowns
with deep necklines, which pushed up their breasts, narrow
waistline and cascades of brocade and silk supported by wide
hoops.
    Most vividly I remembered the fairy godmother
from Cinderella . Unlike her plump, grandmotherly Disney
counterpart wrapped in a shapeless cloak, that particular fairy
godmother was a young, lovely woman in a beautiful pale-blue
organdy gown. She looked more like Cinderella’s best friend than
her fairy godmother.
    That was the image that immediately popped up
in my mind when Morgaine, the Ellida of Gelltydd Coch clan, stepped
into the hallway.
    Morgaine was of average height and looked to
be in her early thirties, very feminine with her full breasts and
curvy hips. Her straight, dark auburn hair was held back with a
wide green headband. Her face was oval-shaped and clear-featured:
high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth. What made that face
unforgettable was a set of beautiful wide-spaced sage-green eyes
sprinkled with gold speckles. Long, arched eyebrows gave them width
and depth. Framed with thick lashes, Morgaine’s misty green pools
looked mysterious, sexy and wise. And timeless.
    Now those incredible eyes glanced over me and
I had the feeling they penetrated into every corner of my soul.
    She smiled at me. The speckles in her eyes
grew bigger, changing her eye color to honey-gold. “I’m very
pleased to meet you, Astrid,” she said in a pleasant, velvety
contralto. “We’ve been waiting for you for such a long time.”
    I smiled. I’d been a long wait. Three hundred
years, roughly. “I’m honored to meet you, Ellida.”
    Morgaine took a small step aside and waved
toward a young man who stood behind her. “Please meet my son
Takeshi.”
    “My lady,” he said stiffly and made a short
bow with his head.
    He looked so aristocratic that I suppressed
an urge to reply with “My lord Nakamura” and continue to speak to
him in those few Japanese words and phrases I knew.
    “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nakamura.”
    Young Nakamura, how Jack and James had
referred to him to distinguish him from his father, who was
referred to just as Nakamura, was young indeed, twenty, maybe
twenty-two. He was black haired, dark eyed, with ivory-white skin.
He looked pretty much like the young Japanese actor even Jack had
sourly admitted was handsome.
    I glanced at Jack, who stood aside, waiting
for us to finish with the formalities. His gaze was fixed on
Takeshi and I was quite sure he’d reached the same conclusion
regarding this epitome of male beauty. He didn’t look very happy,
and I knew what was troubling him: he would be gone tomorrow, and I
would stay here with this stunning samurai.
    “Betty, I’m so happy to see you,” Morgaine
said and hugged my aunt in a spontaneous gesture. “It’s been a
while.” She turned to my cousin and greeted him in the same casual
manner, “Well, hello, Eamon. Look at you! You’re a fully grown man
all of a sudden!”
    We moved to the family room. Morgaine, Betty,
James and Jack continued to chat. Eamon ran between the kitchen,
dining and sitting rooms, taking care of our drinks and setting the
table. Takeshi and I sat quietly on opposite sides of the sofa,
like two kids who were allowed to stay with the adults after
promising to behave.
    Morgaine threw occasional glances in my
direction. She would ask me a question here and there, mostly about
my grandparents and my job.
    Around midnight Jack said he was going home
to get ready for tomorrow’s trip. My stomach knotted and I briefly
closed my eyes. Oh, I’m not ready for that! I screamed
silently, as panic washed over