The
old lady closed her eyes and the breezes wafting through the trees
overhead grew very still. She chanted softly. Despite himself,
Cameron listened, astonished at what the woman could do with her
voice, and completely enchanted by the rhythm of it.
"The
flower is a lady, small, fragile, delicate, coaxed to grow by
tender hands. Petals as white as virgin snow will bring health
and life to the one who cultivates its beauty. Maturity will bring
sweet laughter and the cadence of life to this woman as well as
the planet. Together, minds set as one..."
Aisling
stopped. Her eyes were opened now and were as wild as the wind-swept
mountains. She was staring at Cameron.
"What
on earth? Fine, Aisling, come on spit it out," Cameron demanded.
But her words had shaken him. They reminded him of a time and
a place he'd tried hard to forget. Reminded him of a girl, no,
a woman now, but someone he'd learned long ago to avoid.
"I
see pain," Aisling murmured.
"So
do I," Cameron muttered. "Get on with it. Finish your story."
Aisling
moaned. "I see agony, a horrible suffering anguish. Only the slightest
fraction of hope is there. An opponent, offering help. It is not
what she wants to do. She is innocent, but...but betraying you."
"Hell!"
Cameron ground out irritably. "You're talking nonsense. One minute
you speak of a fragile white flower and the next it sounds like
a lover's betrayal. Pain and hope. That's all there is any more.
Aisling, it has been a long day..." But deep inside he knew her
words could easily be true. After all, if he wasn't mistaken,
she was speaking of Victoria DeMontville.
"She
is the one that holds the flower, fragile, like a delicate porcelain
doll, strong as her ancestors before her. He has located her,
after all these years of banishment, for there is discord surrounding
her; she creates it even as she breathes and her heart beats against
her breast. She works passionately for the good of others. They'll
come for her, again and again, seeking more than her knowledge,
more than her beauty, seeking fortune and name, and all material
things."
"A
rebel without purpose," Cameron muttered, tiring of her mad ravings,
yet knowing full well whom she spoke of.
"But
a rebel that could be nurtured into a blossoming flower with the
proper care," Aisling prompted.
"Water
and fertilizer?"
"You
purposely jest."
"Aisling,
I know that I must see Drake, and I do not intend to keep him
waiting longer."