Autumnstorm (The Celtic Circle #1)

Prologue

Prologue

She was born at twilight with the moon full and high. Fall was in bloom with rusty oranges, bold reds and vibrant yellows. The smell of burning leaves, roasting marshmallows, and fresh turned hay followed a heaving and panting mother-to-be on the drive to the hospital.

With her first breath into the world, she tasted the birthright that was hers—the power, rich and seductive. Her birth was one that spanned centuries, a circle of four to each generation. Though the knowledge of that circle was lost down the lines, the magic still burned bright and true in her blood. Summoned by the ancient power, she was touched with magic.

There were other places that welcomed the cries of childbirth far beyond the rocky coast of Hidden Harbor, Vermont. None were as unique and mystic as the fair skinned babe. Deep in the green valleys of Ireland, buried in the stone castles of Wales, through the windswept mystical isle of Avalon, secrets and hushed whispers of magic still flourished. The tiny baby’s lusty cries echoed down the hospital corridor, swaddled in pink cloth and her mother’s love.

The stars burned brighter and the winds sang in joy, through a mother’s willing pain, a witchling was born.

Not just any witchling, one with the gift to call upon the earth’s virtue, to command and control what Mother Nature willingly gave. But the gift was hers to decide, after all a gift was given and could be refused, ignored, or cherished. With the declining acceptance of such a gift, it would be up to her to learn, harness, and wield. For her magic was bound to three others—water, wind, and fire.

Now she was just a little girl, with downy rich sienna hair like the earth’s soil and big hazel eyes like the blending of wheat and wild grass. Her tiny fist beat against her mother’s warm embrace, twin dimples winked on her cheeks as she smiled involuntarily at her hovering father.

Sage—born of wisdom and health.