Jack watched her disappear into the forest. His breaths were ragged as he walked down the hill. He came to a gradual stop in the valley. The river lapped at his ankles when he stepped into its currents. He stared toward the west, where the sun illumined the Aithwood, catching the rapids of the river.

He knelt in the cold water.

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps splash behind him. Small thin arms came around him in an embrace. Frae held him as he grieved.

The lush green of the hills turned into withered grass. The bracken was tinged in brown, the moss like patches of amber, and trees beyond the Aithwood grew crooked, bent to the south. The wildflowers and heather flourished only in sheltered places, where the wind couldn’t break them. The mountains rose, cut from unforgiving rock, and the lochs were low and stagnant. Only the river ran pure, coming from a hidden place in the hills.

Adaira rode at her mother’s side, into the heart of the west. The clouds hung low, and it smelled like rain.

She gave herself up to a hungry land where music was forbidden. The place where she had taken her first breath.

A gust rose, drawing its cold fingers through her hair.

“Welcome home,” the north wind whispered.

Acknowledgments

I remember February 22, 2019, was a cold bleak day. It was also the day when I sat down and began to write about an enchanted isle and the people who called it home. I was writing for the first time in months, at last breaking what had been a long, miserable creative drought, and I had no idea what this story was destined to become. I owe my eternal gratitude to the people who each invested in my work and in me, and who lent their magic to make A River Enchanted what it is today.

To Isabel Ibañez, for reading this book chapter by chapter as I wrote it, for spending hours with me brainstorming, and for encouraging me when I felt like giving up on it. Without you, this book would still be a messy draft on my laptop. I will always be so thankful for your friendship and the tough love you give to my stories.