The Crone of Burning Shadows

  MYRTLEWOOD CRONES 6

  IRIS BEAGLEHOLE

  Contents

  1. Delia

  2. Ingrid

  3. Marjie

  4. Delia

  5. Declan

  6. Gwyneth

  7. Cedric

  8. The Chosen

  9. Delia

  10. Agatha

  11. Cedric

  12. Delia

  13. Covvey

  14. Elamina

  15. Mephistos

  16. Sister Breag

  17. Mephistos

  18. Marjie

  19. Delia

  20. Delia

  21. Cedric

  22. Declan

  23. The Vessel

  24. Delia

  25. Breag

  26. Marjie

  27. Delia

  28. The Vessel

  29. Declan

  30. Breag

  31. Ingrid

  32. Elamina

  33. Delia

  34. Covvey

  35. Delia

  36. Marjie

  37. Delia

  38. Jerry

  39. Covvey

  40. Delia

  41. Declan

  42. Breag

  43. Marjie

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Delia

  Delia wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and breathed in the morning – bacon from the cooker, wet dog from the living room, and that faint metallic scent from the dragon egg on her kitchen table. Through the doorway, she could see her sweet beagle familiar, Torin, suffering the indignity of being crowned with tinsel that had been appropriated into the children’s toys after Christmas, despite it now being February.

  “He's the dragon king,” Merryn announced solemnly.

  “Dragons don't wear tinsel,” Keyne protested. “They wear gold.”

  “This IS gold. Dragon gold.”

  Delia smiled into her mug. The egg pulsed faintly on the table before her, its deep red surface shot through with veins of gold. She was no closer to understanding it than she'd been the moment she'd pulled it from the heart of that volcano.

  The other Crones had found their dragons in full elemental form. Ingrid's earth dragon had been huge and ancient even though it spent most of its time pretending to be a puppy – whether for cuteness or convenience, it was never entirely clear. Agatha's dragon might have been hardly more corporeal than the breeze, and like Marjie's water dragon it seemed to spend most of its time in a pendant, but at least they were grown dragons. The fire dragon remained stubbornly encased in shell, refusing to hatch.

  Perhaps, she thought, turning the warm mug in her hands, the egg was protecting everyone from being burned by a fiery force. Perhaps hatching it would be dangerous. But she couldn't stop her mind returning to the problem, worrying at it like a loose tooth.

  Declan glanced over from the cooker, catching her eye with a look that said he found her grandchildren as entertaining as she did. It was dangerously domestic, this little morning scene. She took another sip of coffee to avoid thinking about how natural it felt.

  “Oh good, food!” Kitty appeared in the doorway like a glamorous ghost, silk dressing gown billowing. “I'm absolutely famished. Do you know what vampires consider fine dining?”

  Delia sighed. “I’m still adjusting to the fact that my daughter is one, but do go on.”

  “Blood temperature!” Kitty cried. “That's it. That's the whole conversation.”

  “Sit,” Delia said, shaking her head and pouring her friend coffee. “You look like death.”

  “Flatterer.” Kitty collapsed into a chair and immediately focused on the egg. “Still playing possum, I see.”

  “It just sits there, being ostentatiously decorative.” Delia sat back down, grateful for the familiar rhythm of Kitty's dramatics. “I've been through my grimoire a dozen times. Nothing about dormant dragons or reluctant hatchlings.”

  “Aren't we all waiting for something?” Kitty asked. “Though I must say, at least the egg has an excuse. It doesn't have to make small talk with immortal beings who think the 1960s were recent.”

  The egg pulsed again, warmer this time, and Delia found herself reaching out to rest her palm against its smooth surface. The warmth was comforting, like holding a mug of coffee on a cold day – though considerably larger and more likely to eventually breathe fire.

  “Maybe she's cold!” Merryn had abandoned the Torin game and materialised at Delia's elbow with the uncanny speed of a child who'd spotted something interesting. Without waiting for permission, she grabbed the chenille throw from the sofa and carefully wrapped it around the egg. “There. Now she'll be warm.”

  Delia and Kitty exchanged glances over the child's head.

  “Darling, I don't think – “

  “Nanna doesn't know everything about dragons,” Merryn informed Kitty seriously. “Nobody does. That's why we have to try things.”

  “Sound logic,” Kitty murmured.

  “Can I see?” Keyne scrambled onto the chair beside her, already reaching for the grimoire that sat at the corner of the table.

  “Careful – “

  “I know, I know. Older than dinosaurs.” His small fingers turned the pages with surprising delicacy. “Oh! There's an egg!”

  Delia leaned over to look. “That's a seed, darling. See the little roots?”

  “What's it say?” Merryn crowded closer, still clutching the edge of the throw she'd wrapped around the egg.

  “Something about soil and stillness for germination.”

  “We should plant it!” Merryn's face lit up with the fierce conviction of a child who'd just solved an adult problem. “Like a seed! Let’s plant it in the back garden.”

  “I don't think dragons work quite like plants – “

  “How do we know?” Merryn challenged. “Have you ever hatched a dragon before?”

  It was a valid point. Delia found herself genuinely considering it. The grimoire was full of metaphors about growth and patience, about magic needing the right conditions to flourish. Perhaps there was something in Merryn's idea after all. Not planting the egg literally, but... the right environment.

  “Should we water it too?” Keyne asked, clearly warming to his sister's agricultural approach. “Plants need water.”

  “Fire dragons might not appreciate that,” Kitty said dryly.

  “What about sunshine?” Merryn pressed. “All growing things need sunshine.”

  Delia looked at the egg, wrapped now in its chenille blanket like a particularly ungrateful houseguest. “I suppose we could try moving it nearer the window.”

  “And singing to it,” Merryn added firmly.

  “Can we go back outside?” Keyne had already lost interest in magical horticulture. “We're building Torin a fort.”

  “Coats,” Delia said automatically.

  “Five minutes until breakfast,” Declan called from the cooker, and Delia tried not to notice how well his voice fit in her kitchen. How right it felt, this strange little household they'd assembled.

  “So,” Kitty said, glancing back at the unhatched dragon on the table. “Eggbert here isn’t giving us any clues, is he? Surely he’s part of the puzzle of your whole magical crone legacy palaver.”

  “I keep thinking there must be something I'm missing.” Delia pulled her grimoire closer, flipping through pages she'd already memorised.

  “Perhaps it's theatrical,” Kitty suggested. “Waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance.”

  Delia laughed despite herself. “Gosh, I hope not. I've had quite enough dramatic entrances lately.”

  The egg pulsed again, stronger this time, and for just a moment Delia could have sworn she felt something stir within. A consciousness, perhaps. Or just her imagination, conjuring movement where there was none.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked.

  Kitty leaned closer, coffee forgotten. “Feel what?”

  But the moment had passed. The egg sat quiet and warm, keeping its secrets.

  “Never mind.” Delia shook her head. “I'm probably just hoping too hard.”

  “Hope isn't a terrible thing,” Kitty said, unusually gentle. “Though I do think you might be overthinking this. Dragons are ancient creatures. Surely they know how to hatch without the help of worried witches and grimoire research.”

  She put her index finger on the garnet crystal embedded in the side of the egg, trying to make a connection. Nothing.

  “I'm not worried,” Delia said, then immediately undermined herself by adding, “I just want to make sure I don't do anything wrong.”

  “There's the theatre director I know and love. Always rehearsing for disaster.”

  Before Delia could protest, Declan appeared with plates of bacon and eggs. He'd been staying here for weeks now – ever since they'd tumbled back through that portal, singed and triumphant and carrying an impossible egg.

  “Breakfast,” he announced, sliding plates onto the table.

  “Marvellous.” Kitty inhaled deeply. “You're a prince among men.”

  “I'll remind you of that next time you complain about my coffee,” he said mildly.

  “Your coffee is adequate,” Delia said, then softened it with a smile. “Your bacon is exemplary.”

  The children burst back through the door in a whirlwind of cold air and only s
lightly damp shoes. “Torin knocked down his fort but we're going to rebuild it better!”

  “After breakfast,” Delia said firmly.

  “With fortifications,” Keyne added, sliding into his chair. “And a moat.”

  “Very practical.” Kitty helped herself to eggs. “Every snow fort needs a moat.”

  Delia looked around her kitchen – her best friend discussing architecture with her grandson, her granddaughter carefully adjusting the blanket around the dragon egg, Declan moving through her space like he belonged there – and felt that familiar tug between contentment and foreboding.

  As she reached for her mug, her gaze drifted to Declan. Something about the set of his shoulders made her pause. He'd been quieter than usual this morning. Slower to smile.

  She studied him more carefully now, noticing what she'd missed in the bustle of breakfast. His face seemed drawn, the skin beneath his eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with poor sleep. He was pale – too pale.

  Something cold settled in her stomach.

  “Declan,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Are you feeling...”

  He glanced at her, and for just a moment she saw it – exhaustion so deep it seemed to come from somewhere beyond mere tiredness. Then he smiled, and it was almost convincing.

  “You look tired,” she pressed gently.

  “I'm fine.”

  It was a lie. She could feel it in her bones, the same way she'd once known when actors were hiding something to avoid being pulled from a production. Something was wrong with Declan, something he wasn't telling her.

  Chapter 2

  Ingrid

  Ingrid woke to sunlight painting golden stripes across the quilted bedcover. Beside her, Gwyneth's breathing was soft and steady, her silver hair spread across the pillow like moonlight on water.

  For a moment, Ingrid simply watched her sleep, marvelling at the impossible gift of this ordinary morning. How many decades had she woken alone, reaching across cold sheets for someone who wasn't there? Now Gwyneth lay beside her, close enough to touch, real as the earth beneath the cottage.

  The morning light shifted, catching Gwyneth's face, and her eyes fluttered open. Those same eyes that had captured Ingrid's heart in the herb gardens all those years ago – still holding that blend of wisdom and mischief, though now lined with the beautiful evidence of time's passage.

  “You're staring,” Gwyneth murmured, her voice rough with sleep.

  “Can you blame me?” Ingrid traced a finger along Gwyneth's jaw. “Sometimes I think I'll wake and find this was all a particularly vivid dream.”

  Gwyneth caught her hand, pressing it to her cheek. “If it's a dream, we're sharing it.”

  They lay there as the sun climbed higher, neither willing to break the spell. Through the open window came the morning chorus of birds, the rustle of leaves, and – if Ingrid listened carefully – the deep, rumbling breath of the earth dragon curled around the elder tree in the garden.

  “It's strange,” Ingrid said finally. “We've lived entire lifetimes apart, and yet lying here with you feels like no time has passed at all. Like we could walk out that door and find ourselves back in the Clochar's herb gardens, young and foolish and certain we knew everything.”

  “Mmm.” Gwyneth's fingers ran through Ingrid’s silvery hair. “Though I rather prefer us now. We were so serious then, so desperate to prove ourselves.”

  “Speak for yourself. I was wild and irresponsible, if memory serves.”

  “You were magnificent.” The words came soft but certain. “Questioning everything, refusing to accept 'because we've always done it this way' as an answer. You saw what the Sisterhood was becoming long before I did.”

  A shadow passed over Ingrid's face. “Not soon enough to save Mathilda.”

  Gwyneth pulled her closer. “She made her choice, love. As we all did.”

  “I know.” But knowing and accepting were different creatures entirely. Ingrid buried her face in Gwyneth's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of herbs and moonlight that had always clung to her. “I just... I keep thinking about her down there, trapped beneath all that crystal and stone.

  “She's not dead,” Gwyneth reminded her gently. “The crystal sustains even as it feeds.”

  “A technicality that brings little comfort.” Ingrid's voice was muffled against Gwyneth's nightgown. “She's my little sister. I was supposed to protect her.”

  They held each other as the morning brightened, the weight of Mathilda's sacrifice settling between them like a third presence in the bed. Finally, Gwyneth stirred.

  “Come. Let's make tea and watch the forest wake properly.”

  They rose together, moving through the familiar dance of morning – Gwyneth filling the kettle while Ingrid selected herbs from the drying bundles hanging from the rafters. Chamomile for calm, mint for clarity, a touch of honey for sweetness. Their movements synchronised without thought.

  They carried their cups out to the covered porch, settling onto the worn bench that overlooked their wild garden. The earth dragon had indeed abandoned her preferred puppy form, her massive body coiled around the old elder tree like a child clutching a beloved toy. Her scales caught the morning light, shifting from deep brown to gold to green as she breathed.

  “She's been restless,” Ingrid observed. “I can feel it through our connection. The earth itself is... unsettled.”

  “The birds speak of strange winds,” Gwyneth added, cradling her tea. “Migration patterns disrupted, seasons shifting in ways they shouldn't. Change coming, whether we're ready or not.”

  As if summoned by her words, a small sparrow alighted on the porch railing. It cocked its head at Gwyneth, chirping a complex melody that made her frown.

  “What does it say?” Ingrid asked, though she suspected she wouldn't like the answer.

  “Storm clouds gathering in the east.”

  Ingrid smiled as Gwyneth thanked the sparrow with a small handful of seeds from her pocket.

  But Gwyneth’s eyes were solemn when she turned back. “I’m afraid the signs don’t point to peace.”

  Ingrid shrugged. “Forced peace is just another kind of war.”

  “Indeed,” Gwyneth said. “The Sisterhood isn't done with us.”

  “Let them come.” Ingrid's grip tightened on her cup.

  “Always so ready for a fight.” But Gwyneth's tone held fondness rather than reproach. “Though I suppose that hasn't changed either. Remember when you challenged Sister Carrington to that duel over the proper way to harvest mugwort?”

  “She was doing it wrong! Ripping the poor plants up by the roots like some common brigand.” Ingrid's indignation flared fresh despite the decades. “And I didn't challenge her to a duel. I simply demonstrated the correct technique. Forcefully.”

  “With earth magic that sent her flying into the compost heap.”

  “A happy accident.”

  They dissolved into laughter, the sound startling a pair of robins from a nearby branch. It felt good to laugh, to remember the girl she'd been – all righteous fury and passionate conviction. That girl lived in her still, Ingrid realised, just tempered now by time and loss and the deep wisdom of the earth.

  “I should tend to breakfast,” she said eventually, but made no move to rise. The morning was too perfect, Gwyneth too warm beside her.

  “Ever so practical.”

  “In a moment.” Gwyneth's hand found hers. “Tell me what the dragon teaches you. I see you out there each dawn, listening to her ancient songs.”

  Ingrid considered how to put it into words. “She speaks of cycles. Of mountains becoming valleys and valleys becoming mountains. Of fire cooling to stone and stone grinding to soil. Everything changes, she says, but nothing is truly lost. It only transforms.”

  “Like us?”

  “Like us.” Ingrid squeezed Gwyneth's fingers. “We're not the girls who kissed in secret beneath the lavender hedges. But we're not strangers either. We're... something new. Built on the foundation of what was, but shaped by all that came between.”

  The earth dragon stirred in the garden, one great eye opening to regard them with patience. She rumbled something that might have been agreement or might simply have been contentment.

  “Your grimoire has been glowing at night,” Gwyneth observed. “The earth magic is trying to tell you something.”