Chapter 6 The Mission
THE MISSION
Iwas in my studio when she came to call again.
This time, she was the young redhead Robbie must see—the one who still haunted him after all these years.
Her copper hair tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders, and she wore a pale sundress and leather sandals, as if she'd stepped straight out of a summer daydream.
“Hello Mira.” If it weren't for those strange, light brown eyes—too flat, too uniform in their color—I might not have recognized her as Sorcha.
But the voice was unmistakable: low, calm, and laced with that same quiet authority I'd heard on her first visit.
I couldn't help but wonder why she'd changed her appearance this time.
Was it meant as a subtle display of her power?
A test to see if I doubted her? Or simply a reminder that she could be whatever—and whoever—she chose.
“Have ye made a decision?” Sorcha asked as I swung open the bottom half of the yellow Dutch door to my studio to let her in.
I gestured for her to sit in one of the two chairs in the studio—though this was hardly a space I used for entertaining.
I had to move a box of supplies off the other so I could sit down.
“I don't know.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Before I could find a better way to explain what I was feeling.
Not that it mattered—maybe she already knew I was afraid.
My fingers curled tighter around the arm of the chair.
“I worry…about the power it holds. It feels dark somehow. Wrong. Evil.” Even saying it made my chest tighten, a heavy pressure settling over me.
The thought of shaping the ruby into a piece of jewelry sent a cold shiver down my spine.
Sorcha's eyes seemed to peer through me—beyond me.
“What ye feel is the power,” she said, her voice slower now, resonant, as if she were reciting something written in an old text.
“But power itself carries no will,” she said.
“It is neither good nor evil—it simply is.” She lifted her hand, fingers curling in a slow, deliberate arc, as though she might pluck an unseen thread from the air—an ancient truth drifting down to her palm like an invisible feather spun from shadow and light.
“Goodness and wickedness are born in the soul of the one who wields the magic. The ruby is but a vessel, holding what was placed within it long ago. That is why I told ye—it cannae harm ye. Nor anyone else. Not unless ye give it leave to do so.”
“You said I know magic, but I don't. I don't know anything about it.”
“No, Mira,” Sorcha said evenly. “I did not say ye knew magic,” using my American English in gentle mocking.
“I said ye possess it.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her voice slipping into the steady cadence of a teacher correcting a student who hadn't bothered to listen closely.
She continued, “There are two kinds of magic. One is learned—anyone with discipline may grasp it, though some are more adept than others. The other is inherent. It is born in the marrow of your bones, the blood in your veins. That kind of magic is rare…and it cannae be taught.” She tilted her head, studying me as though she could see it flickering beneath my skin like Baird had claimed to see.
“The magic inside ye is inherent, Mira. It has always been there. I, too, was born with magic, different than yours, but still born with it…and I learned the other kind. Ye could learn it as well, if ye choose.”
I wasn't sure I liked this detour. She'd come to talk to me about the ruby—that was the task at hand.
Deciding whether I would, or even should, heed its request to create something that could fulfill some magical purpose seemed pressing enough without wading into the murky waters of my supposed natural-born magical talent. That could wait.
I shook my head, hoping for some clarity, “Back to the ruby—what specifically does it want me to make? What metal do I use?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to something tangible, something that might actually guide me.
“Have ye asked it?” Sorcha inquired gently.
“Asked it?” I echoed, tilting my head like she'd just suggested I strike up a chat with a piece of flagstone.
Her lips tightened into a slight scowl, irritation flickering across her face. When she spoke again, her tone was slow and deliberate, as though addressing a small child. “How do ye know what to make for any stone ye set? How do ye come up with the design?”
I gave a little shrug. “I just…picture it in my head, I guess.”
“Exactly,” Sorcha said, her voice softening but still edged with that patient insistence. “The stone speaks to the maker, sending an image of what it wants to be. And the maker—ye—receives it. Then ye shape it into being. It's no different with the ruby.”
“But those stones…they aren't enchanted. Or magic. Or…whatever this is.”
“Correct.” Sorcha inclined her head slightly. “In those cases, all the magic lies with ye. But the ruby? The ruby may be…more opinionated.”
I let out a shaky breath, thinking back. “I don't know. I did see it—just for a moment—set in a gold ring when I held it the first time. I assumed maybe it was set as a ring at some point long ago.”
“The ruby would only show ye what it needed ye to see. So there ye are,” she said brightly.
“That,” she said, nodding once, “is what it wants to be. A ring.” Sorcha said, like it was just that easy.
“Remember—it chose ye for this task. It knows ye are the right one, or it never would have found its way to ye.”
I didn't know if I wanted this—if I was ready for what it might mean. But I supposed the choice had already been made for me. “Okay,” I murmured, my stomach tightening just knowing the words that were about to come out of my mouth. “I'll do it.”
“Now, that wasnae so hard, was it? I'll return when it's finished,” Sorcha murmured, her gaze turning distant, as though seeing something beyond this moment.
“It's not often a witch bears witness to work like this—work that will be recorded in our tomes and whispered of for generations.” And she stood, preparing to walk out the door.
This wasn't just a magical jewelry repair job. This had somehow escalated into the sort of thing that would be etched into witchy history and talked about for centuries. I was tempted to ask how she'd know when it was finished, but I didn't.
Of course she'd know. She was a thousand-year-old witch who could shapeshift at will and was, apparently, still sexually active. “Thank you, Sorcha,” I said with a small nod of goodbye, my stomach in knots. The moment she left and I closed the bottom of the Dutch door, the studio felt smaller.