Well, not exactly – the third and final chapter in the Changelings series was actually published on May 30, but the paperback – always my favorite part of the book creation process – went live one year ago today, so I’m celebrating!
Today and tomorrow (June 30 and July 1) only, every digital edition of the Changelings series is FREE on Amazon! Not only that, but you also get to enjoy another ‘deleted scene’ from The Memory of Myth – removed only because Maureen tended towards too many stream of conscious musings and the ideas presented could easily be introduced in other – more ‘active’ ways!
Changelings: The Memory of Myth
Pirates ~ Rebels ~ Wanderers
The war between Man and Fae is over.
Nuada is dead, but so too is Sean. Dubh has disappeared back into the mists of time, and Maureen is alone.
When all the magic is gone, what remains?
Aunt Margaret, torn from her own time, remains, and she is waiting for Maureen to come home and bear witness to the family she saved.
With Aunt Margaret’s help, Maureen will unearth the secrets Dubh did not have time to tell her and unlock the tragedy at the heart of the family she created.
The war between Man and Fae is over, but the War of the Gods is just beginning.
1965 ~ An Aside
Aunt Margaret collected bits of silver and books, mouldering paper, and the detritus of our families’ lives like other people collect coins or stamps.
Only what she deemed respectable enough to be seen by others ever made it into the library and drawing room displays. She squirrelled the rest away in chests and wardrobes, loose floorboards, and other secret cubbyholes only she remembered existed.
They were a historian’s dream but a housekeeper’s nightmare, if Patrice’s loud cursing whenever she uncovered another cache – tucked away years before she had been born – was any indication.
Apparently, no one had needed that particular root cellar in at least 50 years.
After three years of school, I took them as a challenge. I soothed Patrice or Jenny’s nerves and spirited away each offending item – usually, a crumbling bit of someone’s mourning brooch – to be cleaned, restored, and its story recorded in my growing stack of journals.
It wasn’t so much what they were, as where.
There was nothing inherently horrifying in Great-Grand-Uncle Lewis’ dirk hilt, but to find it amongst the linens when one was only looking for napkin rings might come as a shock. Never mind the napkins and silver rings were over a century old themselves; no one made so much fuss over them.
If it seemed, to outsiders, as though Margaret had a personal connection to each piece, it was because she did. And, the connection was profound, even though she never once met Great-Grand-Uncle Lewis, nor mentioned him in any of the amusing stories she told visitors – or me – as we sat in the library after the evening meal.
She knew what he looked like, though, and who he loved. She knew who he married, and knew the names of his children and his children’s children. She knew them all and held their treasures – hidden away amongst the linens and in the old root cellars – as dear to her as the bit of near-petrified wood she called a soldier, which had been the plaything of her son Domnall some thirteen hundred years ago.
The motley collection reminded me of Niamh’s tapestries. Tucked away throughout the estate, they were but nameless bits of junk. Each piece – each thread – was its own story. A story mostly only ever recorded in Aunt Margaret’s memory.
Yet, each piece was magic. Together, all the mismatched fragments of paper, silver, beads, and Great-Grand-Uncle Lewis’ dirk hilt wove the tapestry of our family memory, our story.
Margaret and I were keepers of that memory.
As we uncovered these fragments of our lives, I swore we would build a living monument to them all — a living tapestry for all to see.
If I was truly the last, then their lives, and loves, and adventures would not die with me.