Three Fates

laugh, raked a hand through his hair. “I thought I would, it being agreeable with you. As it happens, I was on the point of deciding on a ring when Cleo rang on Gideon’s mobile.”
    “Go back and get it.”
    “Now?”
    “Tomorrow.” She wrapped her arms around him and sighed. “Tomorrow’s just fine.”

Epilogue
     
     
     
     
    Cobh, Ireland
May 7, 2003
    T HE Deepwater Quay at water’s edge was unchanged from the time of the Lusitania, the Titanic and the great, grand ships that once plied the waters between America and Europe.
    Here, tenders from those ships had come to get mail and passengers from the Dublin train, which often arrived late.
    Though the Quay still functioned as a train station, the Cobh Heritage Centre, with its displays and shops, ran through its main terminal.
    Recently an addition had been added to serve as a small museum. With security by Burdett. The focal point of that museum were three silver statues known as the Three Fates.
    They gleamed behind their protective glass and looked out at the faces—perhaps the lives—of those who came to see, and to study.
    They stood, united by their bases, on a marble pedestal, and in the pedestal was a brass plaque.
    THE THREE FATES
    ON LOAN FROM THE SULLIVAN-BURDETT COLLECTION IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. AND EDITH WYLEY LORRAINE AND STEVEN EDWARD CUNNINGHAM III FELIX AND MARGARET GREENFIELD MICHAEL K. HICKS
    “It’s good. It’s good that his name’s on there.” Cleo blinked back tears. “It’s good.”
    Gideon draped his arm over her shoulders. “It’s right. We did what we could to make it right.”
    “I’m proud of you.” Rebecca hooked her arm through Jack’s. “I’m proud to stand here beside you, as your wife. You could have kept them.”
    “Nope. I got you. One goddess is enough for any man.”
    “A wise and true answer. It’s time we went to the cemetery. Cleo?”
    “Yeah.” She laid her fingers on the glass, just under Mikey’s name. “Let’s go.”
    “We’ll be right behind you,” Malachi told them. “Button up.” He began doing up the buttons of Tia’s jacket himself. “It’s windy out.”
    “You don’t have to fuss. We’re fine.”
    “Expectant fathers are allowed to fuss and fret.” He laid a hand on her belly. “Are you sure you want to walk?”
    “Yes, it’s good for us. I can’t sit in a bubble for the next six months, Malachi.”
    “Listen to her. Not a year ago you were barricaded against every germ known to man.”
    “That was then.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s a tapestry. Threads woven in a life. I like the way my pattern’s changing. I like standing here with you and seeing something we helped do shining in the light.”
    “You shine, Tia.”
    Content, she laid her hand over his. “We made justice. Anita’s in prison, probably for the rest of her life. The Fates are together, as they were meant to be.”
    “And so are we.”
    “So are we.”
    She held out a hand and felt unreasonably strong when his linked with it. They caught up with the others and walked up the long hill in the May wind.

TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF
    Key of Light
    THE FIRST BOOK IN THE NEW KEY TRILOGY FROM
    Nora Roberts
    coming in November 2003 from Jove Books
    T HE storm ripped over the mountains, gushing venomous rain that struck the ground with the sharp ring of metal on stone. Lightning strikes spat down, angry artillery fire that slammed against the cannon roar of thunder.
    There was a gleeful kind of mean in the air, a sizzle of temper and spite that boiled with power.
    It suited Malory Price’s mood perfectly.
    Hadn’t she asked herself what else could go wrong? Now in answer to that weary, and completely rhetorical question, nature—in all her maternal wrath—was showing her just how bad things could get.
    There was an ominous rattling somewhere in the dash of her sweet little Mazda, and she still had nineteen payments to go on it. In order to make those payments, she had to keep her job.
    She hated her job.
    That wasn’t part of The Malory Price Life Plan, which she had begun to outline at the age of eight. Twenty years later, that outline had become a detailed and organized checklist, complete with headings, subheadings and cross-references. She revised it meticulously on the first of each year.
    She was supposed to love her job. It said so, quite clearly, under the heading of CAREER.
    She’d worked at The Gallery for seven years, the last three of those as manager, which