Free Wild Irish Rebel by Tricia O'Malley Page B

saucers as she stared at Fiona so casually recounting the legend. It was hard to believe that these people existed in real life.
    "Gosh, I really don't know. I am just learning about all of this," Morgan said and Fiona waved her words away.
    "Of course, I don't expect you to know the answer to that. I wonder though…" Fiona tapped the arm of her rocking chair and studied the flames for a bit. She opened her mouth and then closed it, shaking her head a definitive no.
    "What?"
    "Ah, nothing. I was thinking we could try something to find out more information, but there is really no need to lead you through the trauma. All it would do is add to the story, it doesn't necessarily solve any of your current problems with nightmares. Though…hm," Fiona said again and pressed her lips into a tight line.
    "Well, I can't really give you any feedback if you don't tell me what you are thinking about," Morgan said cautiously and Fiona laughed softly.
    "You're right at that."
    "So? Go on and tell me then. I'll let you know if I think it is worth it," Morgan said, gesturing to Fiona with her whiskey glass. The fire caught the warm honey tone of the liquid and Morgan admired it briefly before turning her eyes back onto Fiona.
    "Well, two things occurred to me as an option. One is called regression therapy. Essentially, I would hypnotize you and lead you back through past lives. But, I'm not sure that would matter unless you were a soul reincarnated that was also a direct line of Grace O'Malley. The chances of that are slim."
    Morgan felt her mouth hanging open again as Fiona bowled her over with her words.
    "The other would just be a dream regression hypnosis. I'd walk you through the dream, get more details on it, and then figure out a way you can have power in the dream so it no longer hurts you."
    "I don't know if it will hurt me anymore actually," Morgan said.
    Fiona tilted her head and studied Morgan.
    "Why?"
    "I don't know, really. It is just something that you said…about my ancestors experiencing the same. It made me feel less alone and for some reason, the fear in that dream seemed to slip away."
    "So it was the connection of knowing that you weren't alone that made it less scary for you."
    "Aye, I suppose so," Morgan said, leaning down to scratch at Ronan's ears. "I think we should do the first option." Surprised at herself, she looked down at the glass of whiskey, wondering if the whiskey was causing her to make rash decisions.
    "You do? Hmm," Fiona said and paged through her book. For a moment, silence except for the quiet crackle of the fire descended upon them.
    "I don't know that I've heard much about Grace's daughter," Morgan said, breaking the silence.
    "Margaret was her name, or sometimes called Maeve in the history books."
    "Isn't your daughter named Margaret?" Morgan asked.
    Fiona only smiled at her and resumed paging through the book.
    "Why doesn't Maeve show up in the history books?" Morgan asked, deciding that she liked the name better than Margaret.
    "We don't know. The last record we have of her is the night on the beach and that isn't even public record. She was frighteningly young when Grace died, probably only fifteen or so."
    Morgan's stomach clenched a bit as she tried to imagine being pregnant, alone on a beach with no medical care, and having to watch your mother die as you went into labor.
    "How did she get through that? She was so young," Morgan breathed, fighting back tears for Maeve's struggles.
    "I don't know, Morgan. I really don't. I know that those were different times. People were stronger then. There were more expectations placed upon them, and surviving was a daily battle. I suspect that Maeve had already built up a fairly tough exterior by that point. But, my heart still grieves for her."
    Something flashed through Morgan, a sense of understanding, a knowing.
    "I want to do the regression."
    "If you are sure?"
    "Right now, tonight."
    Fiona drew back and looked at her, laying the old book in her