Samhain Publishing

I don't know if it was the heat, but the orbs were a-flyin' in Williamsburg, VA and Philadelphia, PA this month!  As a huge fan of ghost walks wherever I travel, I normally capture one or two here and there. This time, though, almost every frame had at least one, and some had dozens!

First up is our family vacation to the Historic Triangle in Virginia, which included Colonial Williamsburg. The first batch of pictures were taken during the day, and at night during the Tavern Ghost Walk. The guide for the ghost walk was kinda "meh", but once I downloaded the pictures from my camera, my jaw dropped.

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For someone who enjoys writing paranormal romances, a surprisingly small number of actual spooky things have happened to me. I don’t routinely see spirits. I can never be sure if the hair standing up on the back of my neck means my ESP has been activated, or I simply used too much hair product.

I'm reasonably certain that if I actually went on a ghost hunt with a group of paranormal investigators, nothing would happen. Nope, things usually happen to me when my mind is completely elsewhere.

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I think one of my biggest problems as a writer is that I love to read.

You wouldn’t think that’d be an issue, would you? Well, it is…especially when your thought process goes like mine.

Wow, this book is good.
(reads more)
No, this story is AMAZING.
(reads to the end, looks at her own current WIP)
What am I doing? Nothing I write will ever be as good as [insert title or author here].
(Is sorely tempted to hit the delete button and go back to her day job.)

Then, out of the blue, a bright little ray of validation appears. An email from a fan. A royalty statement that showed an unexpected uptick in sales. This week, a squee from my editor – I’d received my second RT Reviewer’s Choice nomination.

What makes this doubly sweet is that it’s for book 2 of my Legends series, A Ghost of a Chance. Book 1, Beaudry’s Ghost was also an RT nominee. The more I think about it, the more I’m simply…floored.

Guess it’s time to dig that WIP out of the recycle bin, eh?

I stood in the center of a small, round, high-ceilinged room. Indentations on the floor marked the place where an altar once stood, leaving enough room for only one, maybe two people. The rough stone walls, which were probably once whitewash-clean, bore signs of many years of candle soot. Soft sunlight filtered down from narrow windows above my head.

Somehow, amid a sea of tourists, I had ended up alone in the hushed chapel of Conwy Castle. I closed my eyes and imagined it as it might have been in the past. A woman kneeling at the altar, praying for a loved one off at war with the rebellious Welsh.

For though it’s located in Wales, Conwy is very much an English castle, one of Edward I’s “iron ring” designed to intimidate the locals into submission.

Glancing furtively over my shoulder to see if anyone was near, I quietly tested the acoustics with a passage from a Schubert mass I had recently performed, a simple, pure melody that still sticks in my memory today.

The echo that floated back down to me from the domed ceiling sounded so unlike me, I stopped and listened. The tone seemed to split and reform into someone else’s voice. A voice from the past, answering my kyrie with his eleison? It must have been a he…the only women trained to intone the sacred words would not have lived in this place.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck and I hurried out to find where my husband had wandered off to. Blinking up into the sun, I found him pacing the top of the walls like a knight assessing the strength of the castle’s defenses.

That was years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It occurred to me recently to me that every time I pick up a piece of music, I am in a sense putting myself in that composer’s place for a short space of time. Whatever was in their heart at that moment – pain, loss, love, joy, spiritual ecstasy – that moment is reborn in the vibration of my throat, the push of breath from my lungs. Pulled forward through time, through my body, into the present.

Music is a silver thread that connects us to the past. Have you ever heard small children chanting the same playground tunes that you sang at that age? Did you stop to wonder where they learned it – because you yourself hadn’t sung it for decades. Kinda spooky, when you think about it.

These days, I perform regularly with an Early Music ensemble, singing music from the Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque eras of Europe. Wearing authentic clothing and accompanied by historically accurate reproduction instruments, it’s easy to close my eyes and imagine myself in a candle-lit chapel or smoky hall of some castle, providing music for lords, ladies and knights gathered for a feast.

For that moment, suspended in time, we are an unbreakable link to the past. And, somewhere, a composer with ink-stained fingers is smiling.

Carolan
www.carolanivey.com
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I don’t think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains. – Anne Frank

This past week, I heard the news that Miep Gies, the last living link to Anne Frank, died at the age of 100. She risked her life not once, but twice. First to hide eight humans from the Nazis. And second, after Anne and the others were discovered and taken to labor camps, to return to the annex to retrieve Anne’s diary and photographs.

If not for Miep, we may never have known anything about Anne, her family. About Peter, her first love. She would most likely have disappeared without a trace, nothing more than a number in some work camp’s record book.

The Diary of Anne Frank made a huge impression on me as a child. Looking back, I think it might have been her book that sparked my desire to become a writer. I still have no trouble picturing Anne scribbling in her diary. Doing one of the few normal activities granted to her in a world of chaos.

Unlike many girls who start a diary then lose interest, she wrote faithfully without knowing if her words would ever fly beyond the walls that essentially imprisoned her. So why did she do it? Why do any of us who toil over a page do what we do?

First, I think it’s a primal urge that goes way back to the pre-historic petroglyphs—a hard-wired, deep-brain desire to leave something of ourselves behind after we’re gone.

Second, no matter how much we authors moan about the tedium, solitude and other “perks” that come with the territory, we’re all optimists. Why else would we keep writing in the face of one obstacle after another? Now I’m not comparing my obstacles to Anne’s. Hers make mine look like minor speed bumps.

Unlike most of us, she lived not knowing if she would see the next morning, yet she wrote with humor, rare insight and grace.

Boys will be boys. And even that wouldn’t matter if only we could prevent girls from being girls.

Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.

Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don’t know how great you can be! How much you can love! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!

And my personal favorite:

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.

Romance writers make the world a better place. Even if we are never published, we tend to bring that attitude of hope to every aspect of our lives. No matter what’s weighing us down at any given moment—tragedy, loss, even despair—that spark in our deep brains keeps us putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard.

Just for the chance, dear readers, to bring you along on our adventure to happily ever after.

~Carolan
www.carolanivey.com

Latest release:
A Ghost of a Chance, Legends Book 2

Following is the blurb and an excerpt from A Ghost of a Chance which releases in print this month. Enjoy!

Blurb:

One life hangs on the thread of her imagination…

Legends, Book 2: Sequel to the award-winning Beaudry’s Ghost.

Troy Brannon is a ghost with no time for heaven. Thanks to his well-intentioned meddling, he’s got a missing soul on his hands. Fortunately he’s learned a skill no well-behaved spirit should have—the ability to zip through time and space.

A side trip to revive a drowning woman should’ve been simple. But the moment he locks lips with Carey Magennis, she generates an inner fire he’s never felt before, alive or dead—and his ability to time travel disappears.

When the rising tide closes over Carey’s head, it’s the end—but only of life as she knows it. She wakes up haunted by the idea she no longer fits in, and by the sexy, lion-hearted ghost of the man who saved her. No one wants to hear about the strange things that have been happening to her since her near-death experience, least of all her image-conscious fiancé.

Troy realizes Carey accidentally stole his gift—and she has no idea the danger she’s in. Wherever her imagination takes her, she goes with it. Literally. Plus, that fiancé of hers has an agenda that doesn’t include her survival.

Saving her will be as dangerous to his mission as she is to his heart.

Warning: This title contains some gratuitous bad language; the sex of your dreams with a professional bad-ass hero; bloody Civil War battles; astral joy rides; and a heroine who “gets it” in more ways than one!

Excerpt:

Troy had never stayed in a materialized state for this long. The strain tore at him, threatened to separate the layers of his energy field and send them flying off into space like water rings from a dropped stone.

It had taken every atom of his strength to make the three-thousand-mile spatial jump, on top of staying solid long enough to rescue the woman from the flooded cave. He’d intended to bring her all the way to the top of the cliff, leave her there to be found and be on his way about finding John.

But the effort had cost him.

Troy glanced down at the face of the woman in his arms, grit his teeth and held on.
If he lost control of his energy and faltered, she would die.

His superb sense of balance, an asset in life and still now in the afterlife, didn’t fail him as he crouched on the narrow rock ledge, braced so the woman’s body wouldn’t slide off into the roiling sea. Rain slapped them from above, and the wind and waves clawed at them from everywhere else.

Risking precious balance, he used one hand to gently unwind her long, matted black hair from around his arm and away from her face. Her lips were blue and slack, her eyes partially open and dull. He lowered his face to hers, checking for breath. Nothing. He let her head roll to one side and slid his fingers to the pulse point on her neck. If any life throbbed there, he couldn’t feel it for the vibrations of wind and storm.

“Oh, no you don’t. Don’t do this to me, lady…” He tilted her head back and covered her mouth with his.

He blew once, then swayed, dizzy, feeling his grip on his materialized state slipping dangerously with the extra effort it took to breathe for her. He clenched his jaw, tilted his head back and growled deep in his chest, willing his form to stay together, just a little longer. Just until help arrived. He’d seen two people poke their heads over the cliff edge above them, so he knew it wouldn’t be long.

“Not yet,” he muttered, using the vibration of his voice to send binding messages throughout his energy field, reminding it that no matter what the laws of physics said, he was in charge here. Never mind the fact that before now he’d only managed to stay solid for a few minutes at a time, and only in dire emergencies. The last time he’d done it was for the lives of his sister and Beaudry, and for his effort he’d earned a bullet in his shoulder to keep company with the gaping hole he carried around in his chest.

He lowered his mouth and breathed for her again, turning his head to feel her automatic exhale, this time accompanied by a gush of water.

Yes! Another breath into her lungs. Were her lips slightly warmer? He left his own there for a second or two longer than necessary, testing. A faint green color flickered in front of his eyes, like the brief flash of a hummingbird, there and gone. He tore his mouth away from hers and looked up to see what kind of strange lightning this could be, then he ducked and pressed her body tightly to his as a heavy wave broke over them. The water lifted them both off the ledge, and only by sheer will did he manage to bring them back onto the ledge safely. How much higher was the tide going to rise?

He shook water from his face, pressed the woman’s body firmly between himself and the cliff wall and bent his head to hers once again. She had to start breathing on her own soon. He couldn’t keep this up.

A movement off to his right snagged his attention. A glowing figure, winged and silent, stood on a nearby ledge, observing, not moving. Her guardian angel, clearly. He spared the being a two-second glare, then lost patience.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to do anything?”

The guardian’s expression grew thoughtful, then regretful. But it didn’t move, either to help or to hinder.

“Thanks a bunch.” Troy turned back to the task at hand.

Breeeeeeathe…

Without thinking what he was doing, he willed life into her. Closed his eyes and focused his energy inside her body, targeting her lungs, her barely fluttering heart.
This time, he felt her jaw move under his mouth, and her body flex in his arms. The weird, pale green lightning flickered around them again. Her first strong heartbeat resounded like a bell throughout his being, her first voluntary breath sucking in what he’d given her.

Then, before he could lift his mouth from hers, she breathed into him.

Troy nearly lost his balance, and flung out one arm to find a fingertip hold on the rock. Her breath filled his mouth, his chest, and even with his eyes closed he saw the faint green flickers of light strengthen, steady, intensify into a solid glow more brilliant than any Ireland had to offer on its best day. Heat rushed through him, and it took him a moment to register the fact that he felt it at all. As a ghost, normal physical sensations were foreign to him. Now every drop of rain hitting his skin felt like a needle. And his wounds, normally painless, now screamed at him.

He tore his mouth away and stared down at her. Her eyelids trembled, opened, light grey irises expanding as her pupils focused on his face. The same fiery emerald light that flashed round them burned in their depths. Even with their mouths now separated, her strengthening heartbeat rushed around him as if he were a child enveloped in her womb.

What the hell is happening to me?

If he was anywhere else but perched on a narrow ledge, an inch from losing her to the maw of the sea, he would have done a quick about-face and put as much space and time between them as possible. But stay he did, her life force growing stronger and flowing like a river under his hands, into him, through him and back to her. She seemed to be studying him, her mouth moving slightly as if trying to form words. But if she made any sound, it was swallowed by sea and storm. Then her eyes slid closed and her head rolled to nestle against his chest, fitting perfectly under his chin.

He swallowed, trying not to take in any more of the living energy that still enveloped them both. Something about it was as seductive as it was disturbing, and all his instincts screamed to get outside it and look at it from an objective distance before deciding what to do about it, if anything at all.

He took her cold hands, intending to tuck them inside her coat, when he caught sight of the diamond sparkling on her left ring finger.

She belongs to someone. Absurdly, the thought felt like a sucker punch to his gut.

He looked up, and finally, finally, he saw two people rappelling down the cliff, red-and-black jumpsuits making ripping sounds in the wind. A metal litter dangling between them.

“Take her first,” he yelled above the crashing tide as the rescuers reached them. Their reply was lost in the noise, but they quickly assessed the situation and expertly relieved him of his burden.

The instant her body separated from his, he felt himself dissolving, the last of his strength leaving as the green light faded. One of the rescuers cried out in alarm, but could do nothing as his grip on the rock slipped, and the icy grey sea closed over his head.

Copyright 2009 Carolan Ivey, all rights reserved

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Signs. Omens. Portents of things to come. For the Celts and other ancient cultures (and many modern ones) keeping your eyes open for these natural and supernatural clues were part of everyday existence.

I think that may be why peoples who live in close touch with nature tend to have prayers that cover every task, every waking moment of the day. A glance through the pages of the Carmina Gaedelica reveals prayers and charms for everything from getting out of bed to milking the cow in the morning to banking the fire for the night.

It’s easy to close your eyes and imagine a work-weary housewife fervently whispering a charm over her children as she tucks them in at night, or a fisherman keeping one eye on which way the birds are flying.

Even in my urban life, I’ve become aware of and have learned to watch for certain things that tell me to be prepared. For me, it’s birds.

Birds have been my harbingers of things to come, both good and bad, at every major turning point in my life. I’m not talking about the common, everyday robin or sparrow at our feeder. These particular birds are ones I don’t normally see, and seem to be going out of their way to put themselves in my line of vision.

A few examples:

• Early in our marriage, on one of our first of many moves, a red-tailed hawk swooped out of nowhere and glided a few feet in front of my windshield. As if leading the way toward our new house and letting me know everything was going to be all right. Living in that house turned out to be an amazing experience. Since then, a hawk or other bird of prey has managed to make itself known to me whenever we’ve moved. (Which has been a LOT!)

• In labor with my first child, as we drove over curvy, bumpy back-country roads toward the hospital, a pair of ring-necked pheasants appeared standing on the side of the road. I had never seen these shy creatures up close before, and haven’t seen them since.

• When my water broke with child no. two, it was 2 a.m. Yet just outside my bedroom window I heard the distinctive cry of a killdeer.

• A majestic turkey vulture sweeping down out of the sky to fly circles around my husband and his new motorcycle—as he tooled along at fifty mph!

• Most recently, as I mashed the pedal to the floor to reach North Carolina before my father passed away, a wild turkey flew across the road (well overhead, but directly in my line of vision). I lived in prime turkey territory for years; these birds are notoriously shy of people and are seldom seen near populated areas, much less flying in plain sight.

When I saw the bird, something told me that Dad would wait for me to get there before easing into the next life, and I eased up on the gas. Dad and I had several precious days to communicate before he died in my, my Mom’s, and my sister’s arms – as numerous birds splashed and played in the fountain outside his Hospice window.

So what about you? Are omens and signs something you look for ahead of time, or something that you look back after the fact and think, “I would have known if I’d just been paying attention!”

Slan,
Carolan

PS: I will be signing books from 2-4 p.m. Saturday, June 6 at the Cincinnati Marriott North, 6189 Mulhauser Road, West Chester, Ohio, at the Readers and Authors Get Together Conference. The signing is open to the public. Hope to see you there!
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Hi, my name is Carolan, and I am a research junkie.

Left to my own devices, I will spend all my free time obsessively ferreting out every book, article, online resource, etc. on whatever subject tickles my fancy at the moment. Witness the disorderly piles of books in my office; the length, width and breadth of my Amazon wish list. The weird and obscure stuff on my ereader.

At some point, my husband will squint at the pile and declare, “If you don’t start writing something NOW, I’m renting a Dumpster. Nobody needs this many books on [insert latest obsession here].” Throwing my body between him and my precioussssss collection and wailing pitifully does not sway him. He’s an engineer, which means Everything Must Have A Purpose.

Is it really just a voracious appetite for knowledge? Or classic avoidance behavior? I mean, it’s so much easier to wield mental archeological tools (soft brushes and dental picks) than it is to do the heavy lifting of writing (bricks and mortar).

But eventually there comes a tipping point – usually when my brain is leaking and ready to explode – when seemingly random factoids begin weaving themselves into a fragile web. Suddenly an opening scene blasts, fully-formed, out of my subconscious. It’s either give these characters their story, or be doomed to be haunted by them to the end of my days.

So for me, there’s no choice. Once that opening scene reveals itself to me, I’m committed. Which means my life will not be my own until the voices in my head are appeased.

Or I may find myself “committed” to a very different place for a very different reason.

——-

Carolan Ivey writes award-winning paranormal and Celtic-flavored fantasy romance. Her most recent release is A Ghost of a Chance , book 2 of the Legends series. Visit her web site at www.carolanivey.com.
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This has been a long time coming! It took a bit of angsting on my part (pay no attention to my editor as she rolls her eyes) to make sure this book lives up to the book of my heart, Beaudry’s Ghost (Legends, Book 1). I wanted to do justice to these amazing characters who have taken me on the ride of my life! I hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it.

Read below for the blurb and an excerpt. Linkies at the end!

Happy New Year!!

Blurb:

One life hangs on the thread of her imagination…

Legends, Book 2: Sequel to the award-winning Beaudry’s Ghost.

Troy Brannon is a ghost with no time for heaven. Thanks to his well-intentioned meddling, he’s got a missing soul on his hands. Fortunately he’s learned a skill no well-behaved spirit should have—the ability to zip through time and space.

A side trip to revive a drowning woman should’ve been simple. But the moment he locks lips with Carey Magennis, she generates an inner fire he’s never felt before, alive or dead—and his ability to time travel disappears.

When the rising tide closes over Carey’s head, it’s the end—but only of life as she knows it. She wakes up haunted by the idea she no longer fits in, and by the sexy, lion-hearted ghost of the man who saved her. No one wants to hear about the strange things that have been happening to her since her near-death experience, least of all her image-conscious fiancé.

Troy realizes Carey accidentally stole his gift—and she has no idea the danger she’s in. Wherever her imagination takes her, she goes with it. Literally. Plus, that fiancé of hers has an agenda that doesn’t include her survival.

Saving her will be as dangerous to his mission as she is to his heart.

Warning: This title contains some gratuitous bad language; the sex of your dreams with a professional bad-ass hero; bloody Civil War battles; astral joy rides; and a heroine who “gets it” in more ways than one!

Excerpt:

Gráinne Cottage, Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

“I cannot complete this reading.”

The older woman’s hands moved quickly to gather the Tarot cards spread on the kitchen table, the movement causing the flame of the single white candle at its center to flicker.

Carey Magennis leaned back in the creaky wooden chair, trying to decide if she should be amused or alarmed. For now, she chose the former. After all, Genola’s informal Tarot reading was only for fun.

She sipped her tea, admiring the vase of freshly picked heather on the table. The moist breath of an afternoon breeze felt unusually cool on her cheek as it puffed in through the open window. But then again, an Irish July felt downright arctic to any North Carolina native. The morning rain had passed, and through the storm door she saw the rich, green hillside below the cottage. Beyond, the sea glittered like muted pewter. Great Blaskett Island lay a few miles offshore like a sleeping giant, half covered by a fluffy blanket of mist.

She had left Kyle poring over maps and guidebooks while she had gone in search of a cup of tea to settle her still-queasy stomach, the aftermath of getting food poisoning from a Killarney restaurant. Thanks to her twenty-four-hour stint on her knees before the porcelain god, they were now a full day behind schedule. They were darned lucky Genola McCarthy had a vacancy in her little cottage B&B at the height of tourist season. Carey had been too ill to make it to their original destination.

Kyle had been less than thrilled with the comparatively rustic accommodations, but Carey, now that she was well enough to have a look around, loved the old stone cottage with its thick, whitewashed walls and cozy thatched roof. Traces of the morning peat fire still tanged the air inside the little dwelling, blending with the aroma of fresh bread baking in the Aga.

Genola had welcomed her warmly into the homey, low-ceilinged kitchen, and cheerfully joined her for a cup of strong Irish tea with plenty of fresh milk and sugar. Spying the new engagement ring on Carey’s left hand, Genola had reached into her apron pocket and withdrawn a set of Tarot cards, saying with a wink that she was going to see how long it would be before Carey and Kyle began adding to their respective family trees.

Carey glanced down now at the sparkling diamond solitaire on her left ring finger as Genola continued to gather the spread-out cards. She’d thought they’d only be spending a few days in Dublin, he making contacts for his fledgling, international real-estate development firm, while she wandered in and out of old churches and museums, feeding her insatiable appetite for all things historic. But he’d presented her a ring at dinner one night—in between taking business calls on his mobile phone—and swept her off on a surprise whirlwind tour of Ireland, attempting to see the entire country in five scant days.

She idly turned her hand and wondered why the sight of the glittering stone didn’t set her heart to glittering in return. She ought to be deliriously happy. She should. After all, her life was turning out exactly as she’d planned.

“Are the spirits carrying around erasers these days?” She tore her gaze from the ring and, propping her chin in her palm, winked to let the woman know she was only kidding.

Genola smiled and winked in return. “Oh, ’tis nothing, darlin’. Simply a mistake, that’s all.”

“What kind of mistake?” Carey was relieved to see the Death card disappear back into the deck.

“This blank card—” Genola held it up, “—shouldn’t have been in the deck. It’s included only to replace a lost card.” She put the card back into a small wooden box and firmly shut the lid, then shuffled the deck three times. “Now, let’s be after tryin’ this again. Please cut the deck into three piles.”

Carey did as she was told, and watched Genola spread the cards across the table with one smooth motion.

“And choose three cards, please.”

Again, Carey pulled three cards at random and placed them facedown in front of her.

Genola turned over the first card, and Carey swallowed a gasp. It stuck in a painful knot at the base of her throat before she forced herself to relax.

“Now that’s interesting,” said Genola, unconcerned. “You drew the Death card again. This card represents your past, and at some point…”

“I’m going to die?” Carey croaked, only half joking.

Genola chuckled. “Not at all, dear. You simply underwent a time of great change. Or you will. Sometimes the timeline is a bit vague.”

Carey relaxed, and leaned her elbows on the table again, and allowed a small smile. “Well, I got engaged recently. Maybe that’s it. And I lost my parents at a very young age…” She quickly shut her mouth. This wasn’t something she normally shared with relative strangers.

Genola stilled, her expression distressed. “I’m so sorry, child.”

Carey reached out and patted one of Genola’s hands. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago and my aunt raised me.”

Genola relaxed, then looked her up and down, eyes slightly unfocused. “Your aura is very strong, particularly around you heart. It’s bright green.” Her eyes focused again and she smiled gently. “I thought when I first saw you, that you had the look of a faerie child.”

Carey found herself toying with one of her wild black curls. Chemical processing had tamed the unruly mass that was her hair, but Ireland’s damp weather had brought back its tendency to kink. All she had managed to learn about this gift from her father’s side of the family were four tight-lipped words, “Black Irish and Indian.” At which point the woman’s lips would compress into a tight, thin line.

“Faerie. Yes, well, I don’t much resemble Tinker Bell,” she said ruefully, remembering her own mother’s petite, fair beauty, lost to her now except in photographs.

“Oh, the other crowd are a dark, little folk. Nothing like you see in the movies. The Magennis people in Ireland are mostly fair in coloring, but once in a while they throw a dark one, and it’s said such people are touched by the good folk. You may be several generations removed from Ireland, my dear, but the magic still lingers about you, that I can see.”

Oh, this was getting good. Carey dismissed the uncomfortable notion that Genola McCarthy could somehow know exactly how she’d been feeling these past months. As if she were poised on some great precipice of change. She’d chalked it up to the ticking of her biological clock.

The Irishwoman flipped the next card. “This card represents your present. Oh…dear…”

Carey stared in amazement. She’d drawn the exact same card as last time.

“My, my! The oracle certainly is speaking strongly this afternoon.” Genola’s voice quavered a little, despite her efforts to sound cheerful. “I can’t remember any other time someone has drawn the exact same cards in this way, in spite of the deck having been shuffled. Very…odd.”

“What do you think it means?” Carey watched Genola’s face. This was only a Tarot reading, for heaven’s sake.

“This card represents your present situation. It’s the suit of Wands, which is the suit of change, restlessness, possibly upheaval. And this is the Knight. There’s a man involved. Quite possibly a blond man.”

Curious, Carey leaned in for a closer look at the card in question. The card depicted a warrior in battered Athenian armor standing on a hilltop overlooking an ancient city. The soldier held a heavy sword, and a helmet adorned with a horse-tail plume covered his head. Lion-colored hair flowed out from under the helmet. But it was his direct stare that snagged her attention. His vivid green eyes—all she could see of his face—glowed like living things in the stillness of the picture.

She had the absurd notion that she wished she could step into the picture and straight into his protective arms. With a hard mental shake, she tore her gaze away from the warrior and noticed a banner flying over the city in the background. It was clearly labled Troy.

Her scalp prickled.

“Interesting.” She tried to sound offhand. “My middle name is Helen.”

Genola’s eyebrow went north. “Is that so? You should see the queen of this suit. It is, indeed, Helen of Troy.”

A woman who brought disaster down on an entire kingdom for loving the wrong man. Carey’s stomach started to feel funny again, and she forced herself to relax. “But I don’t know any blond men. At least not well enough to consider them part of my personal life.”

Genola smiled, serenely confident again. “If there isn’t one now, there will be. And I daresay his entrance won’t be subtle.”

“Hm. If you say so.” Maybe Kyle was going to bleach his dark hair or something. Then she laughed to herself. Not bloody likely.

“I certainly do say so.” Genola nodded and reached for the third card. “Well, then let’s see what all these changes and this mysterious blond man will mean for your future. At least we know the card won’t be…” she flipped the card, “…blank.”

Now Carey’s heart really did turn over. What the…?

Genola’s calm demeanor vanished, and she turned white.

The card was blank. Again.

“Impossible,” Genola whispered. “I just put that card back in the box. You saw me put it there, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Carey, reaching for the box and popping off the lid. “Maybe it stuck to your hand.”

But the first blank card still lay inside. She looked up at Genola. “Is there more than one blank card in this deck?”

Genola shook her head. “Only one.”

“Do it again.”

“What?”

“Shuffle the cards and let me draw again.”

Genola seemed to come back to herself. “Of course, of course.” She gathered the cards and began to shuffle them, then her fingers slowed. “Let’s try a different deck. This one’s new—I haven’t worked with it much.” She leaned back in her chair, reached into a half-open kitchen drawer, and extracted a small, battered wooden box. Sweeping the offending deck off the table and back into its own box, she spread the well-used deck face up on the table, so they could both see that no blank cards lurked. Then she quickly shuffled, humming softly to herself as she worked.

“Now,” she said confidently, her face relaxing into another smile. “This deck has never failed me.”

Again Carey went through the ritual of drawing three cards, wondering why she was doing this when she ought to be telling Genola “t’anks, but no t’anks”.

“Here we go.” Genola turned over the first card.

Carey gave a bark of surprised laughter and nearly fell out of her chair.

The Death card grinned mockingly up at her.

“Ehm…” Genola turned the middle card. Knight of Wands. Again. “I, ah, don’t know what to say, Miss Magennis. I truly don’t. This has never, ever happened before. To draw the exact same cards repeatedly? From different decks…” She reached for the third card, her hand visibly trembling.

Carey reached out and gripped her wrist. “Let me.” If the woman was indeed doing a sleight of hand, she was going to make darned sure it didn’t happen again. Not that she believed in this stuff, not at all. But she’d rather sleep without nightmares, thank you very much.

She turned the card. Blank. She let it drop from her numb fingers.

Get a hold of yourself, girl. It’s a trick. Just a trick.

She forced a laugh and quickly gulped the rest of her tea. “You’re very good. Ever thought of going on the road?” Her laugh trailed off when the other woman said nothing.

Genola didn’t look at her, but down at the cards, her face pale and still. Then she looked up at Carey, her eyes seeing something beyond the here and now.

“I tell you, miss, these cards have never lied.”

Carey gave the woman what she hoped was a bright smile that hid how rattled she was. “Thanks, Mrs. McCarthy. I…think I’ll take a little walk down to the headland. Kyle should be finished re-planning our schedule, thanks to me and my rebellious tummy.”

Genola nodded and began picking up the cards, one by one, examining each one as if she’d never seen it before. Carey rose from the chair, uneasy and unsure what to say next. Genola touched her arm as she passed, eyes troubled.

“Just be careful, miss. Be very, very careful.”

Carey chuckled again, trying to put the poor woman—and herself?—at ease. “Oh, don’t worry. My fiancé plans everything down to the last detail. I won’t have time to get myself into trouble. Trust me.”

Copyright 2008 Carolan Ivey, all rights reserved

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Whew! Wasn’t I just here a few days ago? LOL Last week’s blog was promo for my upcoming releases, but today’s just for fun.

I need fun in my life right now…having had two surgeries so far this year (foot reconstruction and some minor female fixing-uppage) and anticipating a third in December (hand), I’m looking forward to doing a little something just for me.

My fun comes in the form of performing music. All kinds. And I’ve been lucky enough in my life to perform on all kinds of stages, from community theater to symphony orchestras to just me and my guitar in front of a festival crowd. It’s funny – sometimes I wonder where that girl with the crippling stage fright went! Somewhere around the time I got published and had to self-promote-or-die, she went away and never came back.

Earlier this year I auditioned for and was asked to sing with a local Early Music ensemble. This is new musical territory for me and it’s a challenge I didn’t expect – but relish. Medieval and Renaissance music may sound simple, but I can tell you it’s more difficult than it sounds. I’m the kind of girl who says “put the music in front of me and I’ll sing it.” But this genre isn’t music you can just effortlessly toss off. It forces you to sit up and pay attention. It begs to be studied, lived with, live in.

And that means performing in costume. So I asked my Mom to make a dress for me, which she did and mailed to me. It fits beautifully, but needed a couple minor alterations which sent me to the fabric store.

There’s something about a fabric store that feels like home when I walk in. Not that I sew. Oh, no. That gene skipped me, much to my mother’s chagrin. But I feel the generations of fabric workers in my veins when I enter a shop and smell the new fabric. Ah yes, that smell – the aroma of possibilities. (Never mind that I’m hopeless at matching thread to fabric color, and need even more help choosing which hooks-and-eyes to buy.)

This morning I stopped by the shop for a marking pen, and noticed a used book store down at the other end of the plaza. So of course I ducked in. It struck me the instant I walked in how similar it felt to walk in here as it did to walk into the fabric store. The fabric store is full of raw material; the book store is full of finished products that were once the raw material of the authors’ imaginations. Both shops are staffed with people who love being there, love helping people find exactly the right thing. The myriad colors of book covers on the shelves remind me of a quilt.

It occurred to me that, in a way, I’m not so different from the many quilters in my ancestry. I piece together characters, plots and scenes that eventually turn into an entire “quilt” called a book. My ancestors quilted and sewed because they had to – their families’ winter warmth, the clothes on their children’s backs, depended on their skills. I write because I must – or go crazy from the voices in my head.

So anyway, I’ll wrap up this stream of consciousness by inviting anyone in the northwest Ohio and southeast Michigan area to come hear my group, Musica Antigua de Toledo, perform at 3:30 p.m. Nov. 9, 2008 at St. Andrew United Methodist Church, 3620 Heatherdowns Blvd. at Colony Drive, Toledo. For ticket info, visit www.musicaantiguatoledo.org.

Even if it’s only for the entertainment value of watching me turn blue from lack of oxygen during Dunstable’s “Sanctus.”

Carolan
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Available now in print: Legends, Book 1: Beaudry’s Ghost

Coming Dec. 30: Legends, Book 2: A Ghost of a Chance