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A  father shares a tale of a magical event. But when a young girl sees the same images in the ashes by the hearth as those told about in the story, what’s she to think? Is the newcomer to their home just a coincidence? Or is the magical story repeating itself?


Her mother rushed to the door, rolling the unconscious visitor onto his back. He wore a dark cloak, but a flash of tartan showed where the cloak fell open.

“A MacKintosh.” Her father scowled.

“He’s wounded.” When her mother pulled her hand away from the man, dark sticky blood covered her hand. “We cannot turn him away, husband, MacKintosh or no’.”

“Put him in the kitchen,” her father said grimly. “I’ll ask after him tomorrow. Likely he’ll not survive anyway.”

Muirne moved toward the scene, as if in slow motion. The man’s face was covered by a hood, but her mother pulled it back, to reveal a spill of dark tangled hair and a handsome, pale face. Muirne suppressed a gasp. It couldn’t be! The face she had imagined—the face of the faery prince.


 

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