For a moment, she went still, looking around the room as if in search of those whisperers. But of course, there was no one there.

Straightening her spine, she unfolded the letter. A scent of lavender wafted from it, touching her face along with what felt like the slightest breath of a breeze. Impossible, of course. Her emotions were heightened, and the long sense of dread and fear of curses were making her imagination play tricks on her.

Adjusting her focus, she read the letter.

My Dearest Mary,

I write you in this, the month you are to be wed, to beg of you, child, do not make this mistake. Do you not recall how your own ma, my own dear sister, met her end? The way her poor, drowned body washed up on the rocks below the cliffs? And how your Da disappeared, never to be seen again? And never still, not to this day. The curse of the MacLellan brides is real, Mary. You cannot run away from it, even if you run halfway 'round the world. It will find you, lass. And you'll die at your husband's hand. Please, listen to me. Come home, dear Mary, and resign yourself to living the life of a spinster. 'Tis the only way to ensure you'll live at all.

Your loving aunt,

Iris MacLellan

Blinking slowly, Kira lowered the paper to the bed.

Her mother hadn't been hallucinating or out of her mind as she'd been breathing her last. She'd been speaking of something that was real—at least to her it was. Maybe she hadn't believed in this curse of the MacLellan brides before the accident. But once that car had rolled over her body, crushing the life out of it, she must have believed then.