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    They Stole My Love Last Night
    They Stole My Love Last Night
    They Stole My Love Last Night
    Ebook43 pages34 minutes

    They Stole My Love Last Night

    By Alexandra Brandt

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Jessamyn and her grandmother, Marie, return to the Isle of Skye for one purpose only: to lay Granmarie's personal ghosts to rest.

    But confronting old memories of her lost love sends Granmarie into an odd sort of reverie, one that soon catches Jess in its grip as well. Why do they both hear the same haunting melody? 

    And what secrets lie in the heart of the woodland behind the White Skye Inn?

    In this short story, Celtic fairies, music, and ghosts collide, turning the bitter sweet.

    "As hauntingly lovely as the Gaelic melody that inspirits it." —J.M. Ney-Grimm, Fantasy Author

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTangled Sky Press
    Release dateJan 3, 2017
    ISBN9781386261162
    They Stole My Love Last Night

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      Book preview

      They Stole My Love Last Night - Alexandra Brandt

      They Stole My Love Last Night

      They Stole My Love Last Night

      Alexandra Brandt

      Tangled Sky Press

      Contents

      They Stole My Love Last Night

      Also by Alexandra Brandt

      About the Author

      They Stole My Love Last Night

      Please understand: this is not my story.

      (Although for my part in it, I have no regrets.)

      Where to begin?

      Ah, the Isle of Skye. Of course. Everything begins and ends there, at the White Skye Inn.

      First, let me tell you about the rain.

      Imagine:

      It’s late spring, and the rain drums all around us, a steady, iron-gray blanket that obscures my vision from the backseat of our taxi. I can only assume it is also the reason for the excruciatingly slow progress we are making on the country road. ‘We’ includes myself, my grandmother Marie, and our taciturn taxi driver, whose name I don’t know and haven’t thought to ask.

      The silence is heavy on our heads in this moment; beside me, Granmarie grips her purse in her lap, her wrinkled hands white at the knuckles, her face pale. She stares straight ahead, seeing only whatever images — memories, ghosts? — are playing inside her head. She’s grown progressively quieter as we finish the last leg of our journey through Scotland: from tour-guide vivacity, to wistful nostalgia, to silent introspection.

      I can’t know exactly her thoughts, but you can be certain they center around Grandpa Mac and his death ten years ago. Here, on this very road; perhaps in weather just like this.

      The rain picks up its tattoo on the roof of the taxi, on the windows, on our psyches. As the gravel crunches and our driver pulls into the courtyard of White Skye Inn, I can’t make out a single detail to touch my childhood memories of the place. The curtain of gray is too thick.

      The rain is important, you see, because of what comes next.

      Once we’re stopped, I flip the hood of my coat up and stumble out into the mud and the downpour. Our driver, still silent, goes for our bags, and I go for Granmarie. My insides are a churning mess of emotions, running the gamut from anticipation and nostalgia for my favorite childhood holiday place, to annoyance at the rain, to deep worry — or perhaps even dread — for Granmarie, who hasn’t said a word since we crossed the bridge to Skye.

      This trip is all for her, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a mistake.

      I open her door on the other side and muster a cheery smile for her as I offer my arm. All right, Granmarie? Her eyes are glistening with tears as she turns her head up toward me, and I swallow a sudden lump in my throat.

      "I’m all

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