Читать книгу The Dream Weavers онлайн | страница 35

Gently putting the stone down on the floor in front of her, Bea sat for a long time without moving, deep in thought. She had hoped that, if it worked at all, her meditation with the stone would take her to the past of the cottage on the ridge, to see its origins, the people who had lived there, the scenes of anguish that had led to the loss of Elise, but it had taken her straight back to the story of Offa’s daughters. It had continued where her dream had left off.

Elise?

Not a lost pet, not a woman, a man. The puppy from Powys. Eleezeth, they had called him. The name came back to her with sudden clarity, as did the strong angry faces of Offa the king, and Eadburh, his daughter, their eyes locked, their body language combative. Is that what this was all about? A Celtic prince, an Anglo-Saxon princess and a modern day historian who had inadvertently conjured up the past? Hardly able to breathe as the full realisation of what she had seen dawned on her, Bea scrambled to her feet and reached for her notebook. Never trust your memory; memory is the most fallible part of what you do. First impressions and recall are vital. Always write things down. She remembered the words she had learned at her first lecture on psychometry, what her teacher had referred to as time travel. Meditation with the stone she had picked up from Simon’s front garden had taken her to a royal palace on the flatlands near a river, in the shadow of a long low hill. The stone had taken her back to the presence of Offa and his family, into the heart of the nest of vipers.

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