The Prophecy
The Lady Margaret’s steps never faltered as she paced from one end of the captain’s cabin to the next. The ship had reached calm waters and would be docking soon.
A weak ray of sunlight caught the light of a pear-shaped crystal sparkling on its silken bed by the curved, stained-glass window. She snatched it up and held it tightly in her fist.
“He will pay,” she cried. “Though by the Beginner’s hands, not mine,” she promised, holding the crystal close to her heart. “Be safe, my beloved friend. I will keep my promise. I will ensure the prophecy is fulfilled. Through time and distance, I will not forsake you.”
To reinforce her pledge, she firmly restated the prophecy of the seers spoken on the night of their departure from the old country:
Three are chosen, guide them well.
Three will come of Dinsmore blood, ill prepared and unaware.
Three will come upon the morrow of many morrows hence.
Three will come to heal the rift restoring life to Whimsy.
Three are chosen, guide them well.
She gently kissed the crystal and returned it to its intricately carved wooden box. With renewed faith, she resumed her preparations for her family’s arrival in the new world.
