An Unlikely Witch Read Online Free Page A

be.  Comfort came in a lot of forms. 
    -o0o-
    I need your help.
    The orb slid into alertness, studying the feelings gathering outside its surface.  Stormy ones, messy.  Inexorably human, and backed by the power of the one who listened.  Dangerous ground.  It waited, hoping for something simple.  Within its power to deliver.
    The feelings cleared and the image of the child with the snowman emerged, bright and clear.  She had much skill.  I need to know if he comes soon.
    She asked for the impossible.  It took care forming the words.   Cannot say.
    Surfaces pounded.  Fury, fear, so much feeling.  That’s not good enough.
    The orb collected itself, shaky.  So much power—even when she was trying to be gentle.  It shook foundations that weren’t supposed to shake.  It was not her fault.  She didn’t understand. 
    The forces did not speak in human terms.  And they often didn’t let a tool of magic see or speak at all.  It thought, carefully.  New question.  Something it wasn’t so entirely forbidden to answer.  Or so uninformed as to what the answer might be.  On the subject of the child, the curtains were tightly drawn.
    A mind reached into its center again.  Okay.  Will the little boy—the one playing in the snow—will he exist?  Ever?
    That it knew.  Yes.  And no.  And both.  The orb settled on a weak human word.  Perhaps.
    Frustration hammered its surfaces again.  Is there something we need to do for him to live?  To be?
    Yes.  And no.  The orb flared, trying to make her see.  The universe was not simple, and the forces only passed on the parts they thought important.  It is a journey that must begin.  That was all it knew.   The words sounded imperious, even to destiny’s mouthpiece. 
    The forces pressed in.  Demanding.  Implacable.  Shuddering, the orb passed on the last of what it understood.  The journey matters.  The child is not important. 
    Searing light exploded in its foundations.  The child is all that matters.
    The orb felt its essence melting.  Pushed out two desperate words.  Stop.  Hurts.
    The searing vanished, replaced by shock.  What?
    Light.  Hurts.  Voice.  Hurts.  Too hard.  No room.  Human words were so infernally inadequate.  The orb pushed out a picture of itself, broken.   Hurts.
    I could do that?  Guilt now, and no small helping of awe.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.
    The orb hadn’t known either.  None who had come before had held this power.
    Something solid and warm coated its surface.  Steadied it.  Does that help?
    It felt like a cloak of fine velvet.  Soft, warm, luxurious.  Yes.
    Surprise.  You barrier just like a human mind.
    The orb felt oddly flattered. 
    A long pause.  You don’t know, do you.  If the child will be or not be.
    Yes.  And no.  And this time, the orb was smart enough not to give that answer.  Don’t.  Know.  And one final word.  In gratitude for the cloak of velvet.  Sorry.
    Something warm, sneaking under the velvet.  Thank you for trying.
    The orb sat, exhausted and astonished.  In a thousand years and more—it had never been thanked for failure.

Chapter 3

    Oh, dear.
    Moira looked up into the eyes of her freshly landed visitor and felt her breath catch.  Such sadness.
    Lauren gestured at the table.  “I’m sorry—I’m disturbing your work.”
    “No, my dear.”  Moira stood from her careful filling of tiny jars of lemon balm.  “I’m just working on some wee gifts for the Solstice.  It’s no bother for them to sit a while.”  They were, however, covering every inch of her kitchen table.  And fresh and lemony wasn’t the right sensory wrapping for sorrow.  She reached for a tin on the counter.  “Come into the parlor with me and we’ll sit by the fire and have some of Aaron’s cookies.”  They were maple pecan and glorious, and perhaps would at least take the edge off her visitor’s sorrow.
    Lauren reached out and cradled the tin and the old Irish hands that