Free The Lost Enchantress by Patricia Coughlin

“It wasn’t that. This feeling was different, and much stronger; it was like being hypnotized and fully aware at the same time. I never felt anything like it, and I knew even then something strange was going on. But when I walked away, I assumed the spell was broken. I thought I had things under control and that if I just kept my head, I could make it through the rest of the night.”
    She finally managed to free the chain and slip it over her head.
    “This man . . . he would be the same man who jumped off the roof of the garage?”
    “It wasn’t the roof, but yes, he’s the one.”
    “And you think he’s the mage who cast the spell?”
    “I have no idea what he is,” Eve said as she placed the pendant in Grand’s outstretched palm. “I’m not even sure it was a spell. But it was definitely something; I felt it. And whatever it was, he was connected to it . . . to all of it. He wanted the pendant every bit as badly as I did, and that’s saying something. As soon as I saw it, I went into some kind of mad shopaholic trance. Everything just . . .” She made an exploding sound and threw her hands up in the air to illustrate. “It was like a Bewitched episode . . . minus Darren and the laugh track.”
    “Saints be praised!”
    Grand’s cry commanded Eve’s full attention. When Grand was a girl, the only school in Glengara was run by nuns, and her beliefs were a comfortable mix of magic and Christianity. Through the years, Eve heard all manner of colorful exclamations delivered in that musical brogue, but “saints be praised” was reserved for things of real significance.
    “What is it, Grand?”
    “The answer to your question . . . the reason for everything that happened tonight. Now I understand.” She lifted her gaze to meet Eve’s, cradling the pendant in both trembling hands. “Oh, Eve, do you have any idea what this means?”
    Before she could admit that she didn’t, Grand was up and hurrying toward her bedroom, still clutching the pendant. Eve watched from the kitchen as she went straight to her dressing table and opened the ancient silver box that held things she cherished. Returning, she handed Eve an oval frame a little smaller than a deck of cards. It held the image of a woman, a girl really, with dark hair, a sweet smile and eyes as blue as Grand’s.
    “That is your great-great-great-great . . . I lost count, was that three greats or four?” Her hand fluttered impatiently. “Never mind that. The girl is Maura T’airna; she sat for that portrait in 1790. She was seventeen.”
    “It’s so tiny,” Eve remarked, examining it closely. “Tiny and perfect.”
    “It’s a miniature. Before cameras came along, they were all the rage among people of means. It took quite a talented artist to capture such detail on so small a canvas. Look closely . . . do you see what she’s wearing around her neck?”
    Eve brought the painting closer and squinted, and then slid her gaze to meet Grand’s look of watchful anticipation. “She’s wearing the pendant. Well, a pendant anyway. Do you really think it could be the same one?”
    “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”
    Grand sat, cradling the gold hourglass in her hands as if it were the most valuable and fragile of treasures. She gently curled her fingers around it and closed her eyes.
    “I can feel it,” she said softly. “It’s so warm to the touch.” She opened her eyes and her sharp gaze pinned Eve’s. “You must have felt it too.”
    When Eve hesitated, Grand reached for her hand and placed the pendant in her palm. Then she covered it with her own hand.
    “Close your eyes,” she instructed. “Close your eyes and let yourself feel.”
    Eve closed her eyes. “I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be feeling.”
    “Power. Blood. Kinship.” Grand’s voice was strong, a matriarch’s voice. “But you’re fighting it; see how stiff your spine is. Listen to me, Eve. This is not simply any pendant. This is the