I swore under my breath as I ran for the tent, cursing and muttering the same thing over and over again—“It’s too early, it’s too early.”
The ghost at my side eventually made an annoyed sound as I neared the flap. “Stop your fretting,” she said sternly. “It’s not too soon and you knew full well that your calculations were likely off regarding when she conceived. You know that all will be well, so just stop.”
“How dare you speak to—” I rounded on her and stopped dead in my tracks, suddenly realizing that for the first time, I could see her clear as day, as clearly as I might see Thom or Jacqueline or J.T. standing next to me. Before today, before this moment, I’d only caught fleeting glimpses, only been able to hear her voice or see her as a wavering shadow or a faint and fading outline, an eye, a smile, then nothing. She stared back at me, her fine-boned jaw set stubbornly, a fire in her ghostly eyes that felt achingly familiar.
“Speak to who?” She whispered. “To my mother? To you?”
I rocked back a step, feeling sick. I knew what I had been to her in a life long gone, but I didn’t always like to be reminded of that past life. My soul’s residence in the body of a strong-willed chieftain of ancient Ireland had certainly made a small difference in my continued survival, played some small role in my relationships with the people around me, but it didn’t define me. “That’s a low blow.”
“But one truly struck,” she said quietly. “You remind me of her so greatly—right down to the fretting over things that are well beyond your ability to control.” The ghost stepped closer to me. “She will be fine and you know that in your heart, in your gut—your visions have shown you that, haven’t they?”
“They’re not always right,” I whispered, giving voice to the awful truth that I avoided as eagerly as I occasionally embraced it. “They’re not always right.”
Thank you for the post of latest developments.