Thank you so much, Houston, for helping me celebrate the release of my latest book,
Marked for Magic, published by Lyrical Press, a Kensington Imprint, on the 28th of April 2015.
I decided that as palmistry was the initial inspiration for this fantasy romance I’d offer you and the readers a little something on palmistry marks.
This image is of the main lines most people have on their palm:
1: Life line – 2: Head line – 3: Heart line – 4: Girdle of Venus – 5: Sun line – 6: Mercury line – 7: Fate line
These main lines above and their meanings are fairly well known, but the lesser lines are not quite so well understood and it was these I was studying when I got the idea for Marked for Magic.
For this post I have chosen the small half moon line which can appear on a palm. These are some of the lines that come and go. You may find one has appeared and later it will vanish. These crescents can be vertical or horizontal and you can find them in several places. If you discover a half-moon sign on Jupiter finger, the forefinger finger, you have some good luck coming to you, while a small crescent at the base of your thumb shows progress in your life.
Thanks so much for reading. I’d love to know if any of you discover any crescents in your hand. Let me know.
The witch mark on Nin’s hand is a curse. She has no magic powers, whatever the lore says. But the village believes. The old crone’s wisdom is to see her banished. Ragged and hungry, she must serve the Mage. Alone in his tower, she is his chattel. But Mage Thabit is not what Nin expected—the bright green eyes and supple form under his cloak are not the stuff of nightmares, and kindness hides in his brusque heart. Thabit senses that Nin is more than she seems, too. When true nightmares haunt the land, it is precisely her elusive powers that might deliver them…
Once Nin no longer heard his tread on the stairs, she opened the heavy black drapes. A shaft of light hit the table to reveal a collection of pot marks. Smears of grease shone with rainbow colors. Beyond, sat the hearth, not cleaned in months, maybe years, judging by the pile of cinders, soot, and ash. Cobwebs hung high in the corners where the spiders didn’t feel the heat of his low fire. The flagstone floor resembled the one in the village barn. Uncertain she’d made a good bargain to stay here, she stood and moved to the cupboard to look for a cleaning rag to begin work.
Behind the loose door of the cupboard he’d opened, she found two more of the large wine jugs. She corked the one still on the table before putting it back with the others. The depth of the cupboard made it impossible to see what lay at the back. She closed the door, uncertain of what she might find should she slide her hand deeper into the darkness.
Beside the cupboard stood a door with a black metal latch that squeaked when she lifted it. The open door revealed a large space cut deep into the wall. Many curving shelves could house a wealth of stores, but only a huge, lush, black winter cloak hung from a hook. She bit back another bitter memory. They’d not allowed her to bring her own from the village. The ancient creed for those cursed with the mark held no mercy.
She examined her palm, could scarce see the mark in the gloom. To dwell on the sign was foolish. They’d found the mark, and since legend sat weighty behind its meaning, it must be true. She needed to live, and right now, she must stay here.
The hearth caught her attention again. She gave a snort of disgust. He was stingy with the firewood. How did he expect to keep the place warm, or her to cook? Even Aunt Jen, who had so little, burned a brighter fire than this.
Beside the hearth, a broom leaned against the wall, two buckets stood near, one stacked inside the other. A pan hook, slung away from the fire, held a small copper cauldron. Hopeful of something to eat, she studied the contents. In the bottom of the pot sat a thick, congealed, brownish mess. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor. Unfortunately, it wasn’t porridge. Her empty stomach growled.
A smaller cupboard, low in the wall, yielded a board and a knife for chopping. A bread crock made her mouth water. She tore off the lid. Inside the glazed pot lay half a loaf, the sort baked in the village. Unappetizing green mold covered bits of the thick crust, but still she broke off a piece and chewed it.
There wasn’t much for her to work with. A pity he had no cheese. She’d so welcome a chunk of cheese. Her mouth watered at the memory of the sharp tang. She pulled another piece off the loaf and swallowed the bread. She glanced again at the grubby hearth and greasy hooks. She’d have to clean before she could cook. This being the only pot, she’d tip out the mess before she looked to find things to go in it. Later, she’d clean the rest of the room.
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Daisy Banks writes sensual and spicy romance in the Historical, Paranormal and Fantasy genres. She is an obsessive writer and her focus is to offer the best tale she can to readers. Daisy is married with two grown up sons. She lives in a converted chapel in Shropshire, England. Antiques and collecting entertain Daisy when she isn’t writing and she occasionally makes a meal that doesn’t stick to the pan.
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