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mythology. There were a few novels—classics, mostly—and collections of poetry, too.
    And then there were her own books—the books Troy had forced her to leave behind. She walked closer and let her eyes linger on her favorite authors: Jack Kerouac, Tom Robbins, Carlos Castaneda, Kurt Vonnegut, Lewis Carroll, and, of course, her very favorite: Graham Duncan.
    Duncan had come out with seven new books since she’d married Troy. Seven books that she hadn’t read. There was a time when his books were her only friends in the world, when she had been sure she had a telepathic connection with the author while reading his words.
    The precious first-edition signed copy of Hermes In Heat , given to her as a gift, was missing from the bookshelf. It had been missing since Ame was a baby. Troy had probably burnt it in the cottage fireplace, along with The Spiral Dance, her Bhagavad Gita, and the Tao Te Ching.
    Gretchel was brushing her fingers against the spines of her books when she heard a snapping sound. Her eyes turned back to the photos on the mantelpiece, to her ancestors, but they were all still. It was the house settling. She was just being jumpy. She touched each silver frame, one by one.
    “I gave the amethyst away. I had to. So what am I supposed to do now?” she asked, and then the tears began again. She dropped into the overstuffed storybook chair, where Miss Poni had read to her as a child, and wept.
     
    When she had calmed a bit, she turned to look at the painting her grandmother had sent her for. Its field of orange flowers was vibrant against the pale green of the wall. Gretchel hated this painting. She cursed the thing, and the voice that commanded her to paint it.
    She heard another creaking sound, this time from the direction of the master bedroom. Alarmed, she got up and crept into the room, but there was nothing there—nothing but the painting of a phoenix hanging above the bed. This was more of her work. Gretchel felt a tightness in her throat as tears gathered in her eyes. She walked to the dresser and let her fingers circle the rim of an ancient silver loving cup. She remembered the last lips to touch it, and she began sobbing again.
    Gretchel sank onto the bed, curled into a fetal position, and surrendered to the pain. It seemed like today she was making up for more than a decade without tears. It was exhausting. She needed to sleep. She just needed to rest for a while. She closed her eyes, and cried herself into slumber.
     
    Wake, ye weak bloody bampot, a voice shouted.
    She be a bit of a crabbit, an er heid’s mince, said another.
    Aye, but she’s got to wake up before the pain in the bahooky arrives!
    Gretchel opened her eyes inside a dream. It was dark, but she could see stars in the sky above and a huge full moon glowing bright. Her movements felt strangely fluid. It took her a moment to realize that she was immersed in water. It was warm and comforting. She felt a strong, healing presence surrounding her. She moved her hands and let the water wash over her naked shoulders. Then she saw them.
    Several women were circling her, all of them redheads. She was in the middle of a grove, soaking in a huge cauldron. She could see the flames of a bonfire glowing madly nearby. There were sparkles of fairy wings flickering about in the moonlight.
    It’s a braw bricht moonlit nicht, and for Hogmanay no less.
    “I don’t understand,” Gretchel said.
    I tol ye, her heid’s mince. She asks for help, and doesn’t listen.
    Keep the heid, an older woman said, then she addressed Gretchel. She says it’s a good, bright moonlit night for New Year’s Eve. Blue moon it is. There’s magic in the air. New beginnings. Wind blow’n in yer favor, lass. Been blowing that way since the Solstice.
    Aye! the women agreed in unison.
    Gretchel was slightly unnerved by her lack of nervousness, and watched apprehensively as the ghostly figures seemed to float around her. They kept an eye on her, too, as she simmered in the