without.
But such sharp longing pierced her that she could hardly breathe.
“It doesn’t matter.” She put down the card, her denial breaking her heart. “I know you mean well and I love you for it. But I still can’t take the money. My own hundred dollars will have to do. That’s a lot of raffle tickets and—”
“There will be thousands of visitors at the Scottish Festival.” Ardelle frowned at her. “They’ll all be buying tickets.”
“Which”—Margo stood straighter—“is another reason I shouldn’t snare more than a hundred chances to win. The other people will be just as keen to—” Marta snorted. “Name one person who loves Scotland more than you do.”
Margo couldn’t.
Dina Greed came to mind. But her passion for the Highlands came when Braveheart hit the movie theaters. Margo had been born loving Scotland.
“It still wouldn’t be fair.” Her principles made her argue.
“Hah!” Patience came around the counter and laid her arm across Margo’s shoulders. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? There could be ten, even twenty thousand visitors to the festival and the winner would still be the person meant to win.”
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional chances won’t make a difference.” Margo wriggled free. “You’d be wasting good money.”
“We’d be investing in your energy.” Patience tutted.
“You’d have confidence knowing you’d bought so many tickets. That boost would go out into the cosmos, increasing your chances of winning.” Margo bit her lip. She knew Patience was right.
So she used her strongest objection. “It’s still a lot of money.”
“Oh, sure.” Patience waved a dismissive hand.
Then she turned away, looking to Marta. “Madame Zelda”—she used Marta’s tarot-reading name—“how much money have you brought the shop with your weekly readings from clients who live at the Fieldstone House?”
Marta smiled. “Thousands of dollars, I’m sure.
Maybe more, as old Mrs. Beechwood comes twice a week, sometimes more. She doesn’t lift a finger without first stopping in for a consultation.”
“And I wonder where the Fieldstone House residents heard that you’re so good at reading the tarot.” Patience rubbed her chin, feigning ignorance.
Margo felt her face warming. She did praise Marta’s skills to everyone she met, especially her neighbors at the Fieldstone House.
“I see you know where those clients come from.” Patience surely saw Margo’s flush. Not finished, she glanced at Ardelle. “And you, dear”—her voice boomed—“didn’t you tell me a while back that you heard Margo suggest to an Aging Gracefully customer that we carry an excellent blend of moon-grass tea?”
“The woman had a bad cough.” Margo recalled the day at Ardelle’s vintage-clothing shop. Silverweed, called moon grass at Ye Olde Pagan Times, did soothe aching throats. “I couldn’t help but offer a tip.
The woman was popping industrial-strength lozenges that weren’t helping her at all.”
“And now that woman, Octavia Figg, orders our moon-grass tea by the case. She’s been doing so for over six months, claiming the tea also calms her nerves. I could take a Caribbean cruise on the money she brings the shop.” Patience smiled triumphantly, her point made.
Marta and Ardelle grinned like fools.
Margo knew she’d lost.
There wasn’t any point in further argument.
She was going to purchase 350 of Donald McVittie’s raffle tickets.
Centuries away, in a distant place even Donald McVittie had never been, Magnus came instantly awake and frowned into the shadows of his bedchamber. He thought about punching his pillow, rolling over, and returning to sleep. But his entire body tingled with a warrior’s knowing and he was on his feet, reaching for his sword with the speed and agility his enemies knew to dread.
For weeks he’d been waiting, trying to guess where
But such sharp longing pierced her that she could hardly breathe.
“It doesn’t matter.” She put down the card, her denial breaking her heart. “I know you mean well and I love you for it. But I still can’t take the money. My own hundred dollars will have to do. That’s a lot of raffle tickets and—”
“There will be thousands of visitors at the Scottish Festival.” Ardelle frowned at her. “They’ll all be buying tickets.”
“Which”—Margo stood straighter—“is another reason I shouldn’t snare more than a hundred chances to win. The other people will be just as keen to—” Marta snorted. “Name one person who loves Scotland more than you do.”
Margo couldn’t.
Dina Greed came to mind. But her passion for the Highlands came when Braveheart hit the movie theaters. Margo had been born loving Scotland.
“It still wouldn’t be fair.” Her principles made her argue.
“Hah!” Patience came around the counter and laid her arm across Margo’s shoulders. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? There could be ten, even twenty thousand visitors to the festival and the winner would still be the person meant to win.”
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional chances won’t make a difference.” Margo wriggled free. “You’d be wasting good money.”
“We’d be investing in your energy.” Patience tutted.
“You’d have confidence knowing you’d bought so many tickets. That boost would go out into the cosmos, increasing your chances of winning.” Margo bit her lip. She knew Patience was right.
So she used her strongest objection. “It’s still a lot of money.”
“Oh, sure.” Patience waved a dismissive hand.
Then she turned away, looking to Marta. “Madame Zelda”—she used Marta’s tarot-reading name—“how much money have you brought the shop with your weekly readings from clients who live at the Fieldstone House?”
Marta smiled. “Thousands of dollars, I’m sure.
Maybe more, as old Mrs. Beechwood comes twice a week, sometimes more. She doesn’t lift a finger without first stopping in for a consultation.”
“And I wonder where the Fieldstone House residents heard that you’re so good at reading the tarot.” Patience rubbed her chin, feigning ignorance.
Margo felt her face warming. She did praise Marta’s skills to everyone she met, especially her neighbors at the Fieldstone House.
“I see you know where those clients come from.” Patience surely saw Margo’s flush. Not finished, she glanced at Ardelle. “And you, dear”—her voice boomed—“didn’t you tell me a while back that you heard Margo suggest to an Aging Gracefully customer that we carry an excellent blend of moon-grass tea?”
“The woman had a bad cough.” Margo recalled the day at Ardelle’s vintage-clothing shop. Silverweed, called moon grass at Ye Olde Pagan Times, did soothe aching throats. “I couldn’t help but offer a tip.
The woman was popping industrial-strength lozenges that weren’t helping her at all.”
“And now that woman, Octavia Figg, orders our moon-grass tea by the case. She’s been doing so for over six months, claiming the tea also calms her nerves. I could take a Caribbean cruise on the money she brings the shop.” Patience smiled triumphantly, her point made.
Marta and Ardelle grinned like fools.
Margo knew she’d lost.
There wasn’t any point in further argument.
She was going to purchase 350 of Donald McVittie’s raffle tickets.
Centuries away, in a distant place even Donald McVittie had never been, Magnus came instantly awake and frowned into the shadows of his bedchamber. He thought about punching his pillow, rolling over, and returning to sleep. But his entire body tingled with a warrior’s knowing and he was on his feet, reaching for his sword with the speed and agility his enemies knew to dread.
For weeks he’d been waiting, trying to guess where
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